Stars of Iron Snakepit Vol 2

by Dark Schtroumpf

This is the continuation of Snakepit, a Draka-SG crossover. AU, Earth here is Drakaverse Earth post-Final War. Consider a distant parallel universe to the original SGverse. Will earn its M rating.

8. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 – Queen of the Starways

Hebridean System, Milky Way Galaxy, late December 2017

Ann Rayner's short message flew across the ether and a response came back near instantly. Gone was the lightspeed delay! An icon sprang out – the other side was requesting a video channel.

Drakensis or not, Rayner felt a small butterfly flap its wings in her stomach – this was First Contact, and she was the one doing it. And at the same time, she wasn't supposed to bring too much attention to herself, or her originating polity. It was the whole point of her flying in a Goa'uld-built Alkesh, albeit a refurbished and modified one. According to intelligence estimates, the System Lords were churning them out like hot cakes for their civil war and even lower ranking Goa'uld having access to fleets of them. In fact, they might be even more numerous than the smaller Tel'tak transports, the latter being of low value as a front-line war asset. So the odds for one of them going missing were plausibly high.

She'd given it a lot of thought, and was relatively confident that she could spin a sufficiently convincing tale. Hopefully.

She hit the receiving icon and the display reconfigured, providing a window into a distant place – well, onto a different person, at least. She resisted widening her eyes in surprise. She expected… well, she didn't expect a… a lizardman to stare at her through the two-way link. The Tollan data she had access to did not mention that.

And she realized, too late, that she'd forgotten to change outfits before she answered the call. The self-image inserted in a corner of the videocall display showed her exactly what the lizardman could see, which was an unkempt woman in a dirty apron, somehow sitting in a starship.

Which explained why lizardman's eyes did widen noticeably. For his scaly skin and reptilian growths, his face was surprisingly human-like, she thought. He was wearing some kind of uniform jacket, with markings that probably denoted the organization he belonged to and his rank or function within, she reasoned. Characters encrusted in a corner of the picture spelled out something that translated as "System Control, a subsidiary of Tech-Con Group".

Way to make a good first impression, she railed at herself.

"Who are you, and what are your intentions?" came out of the lizardman's mouth, seamlessly translated by the ship's compsystem.

Straight to the point, she had to give him that. She took a breath and glanced again at the navigation display showing thousands of markers, every one symbolizing some ship scurrying about the system. A fair number of them showed the typical signature of a Goa'uld drive to her sensors. Anyone of those, she hoped, would lend credence to her story.

"My name is Rayna and I escaped the Goa'uld who was holding me as a slave. I wish for a new life."

Her conversation partner stayed silent for a while, then: "And who would this Goa'uld be? The Hebridean Trade Republic is at peace with the System Lords. We do not wish for conflict following you into our borders."

"I understand. I do not mean that. My former captor was called Bar'shan, he was not a System Lord. And he's dead."

Lizardman raised one of the scaly ridges substituting for an eyebrow. "Dead? By your hand?"

"Yes. His domain was under attack by another Goa'uld. He was trying to flee. I killed him and took his ship."

"…I see." The translator didn't miss the undercurrent of skepticism. "And you knew how to fly it here."

"Rayna" allowed herself to look indignant. "I wasn't a stupid slave! I came from an educated family. I never believed he was a god, and I used the years as a personal servant to learn everything I could, hoping to escape one day."

"A personal servant, you say. What exactly did you do for him?"

She dropped her eyes, as if in shame.

"I belonged to his harem. I was one of his concubines." Her gaze straightened up, feigning a sudden burst of pride. "But as I told you, I was also smart. I assisted him in running his House!"

Lizardman nodded thoughtfully. "Supposing you speak the truth. What guarantee do we have that his overlord will not try to find and punish the runaway slave who killed one of his underlings?"

Rayner grinned. "As I told you, I killed him. And took care to destroy his symbiote, the vile little thing. As to the rest… His domain was under attack. His death must have thrown his forces in disarray, the last thing I witnessed before I left his world was his palace going up in a massive explosion."

"A commendable precaution." The lizardman flexed his fingers, hands joined, in a very human gesture. "Then, after you escaped with a starship, didn't you try to find your homeworld? Go back to your family?"

"I thought about it, yes. But I felt it would only put them in danger."

"So you decided to put this system in danger instead" lizardman prodded her in reply, so she shook her head and stared straight at him. "I would be known on my homeworld. Some other Goa'uld could…"

"Right, right" the official cut her with a look of annoyance. A universal look of "what am I supposed to do with this crap", Rayner inwardly cringed. The man's follow-up sentence only confirmed her bad feeling.

"Frankly, and don't take it personal, Miss 'Rayna', when we received your signal, indicating that someone had decoded our first-contact package, we believed we were about to deal with the representatives of a previously unknown power, not some escaped slave… don't take me wrong, the Trade Republic and Tech-Con Group are committed to the ideal of freedom for all sentients! We're happy you managed to escape servitude. But it seems I'm dealing with a refugee situation, not a true first contact."

"Are you going to turn me off?" Rayner interjected.

"Of course not!" lizardman replied with a tone dripping in righteous indignation. "Your case is a specific one, that's all, with different procedures. We're prepared to grant you asylum, naturally… but there are prerequisites to that, I'm afraid."

Why don't I like the tone of this, thought Rayner.

"First, you can't bring in an unknown ship, one you stole technically" lizardman said pedantically. "System Control will impound it and search it for illegal or dangerous goods, biological contamination, any of which would mean confiscation of the whole. That's the law."

Rayner felt her system heat up. The asshole was talking about stealing her ship and the trade goods she'd brought? For all she knew that gecko-faced alien bureaucrat was as corrupt as they came and looking forward to pad his bank account!

"…Moreover, we cannot ignore the possibility of Goa'uld biosabotage. It is a known method of theirs, even though we're not at war with one of them as far as we know. Things are not exactly stable out there. Therefore, you will have to submit to a full medical examination and stay in quarantine as long as needed."

Bad, bad, bad, was the immediate reaction in the Drakensis woman's brain. The possible implications of those people delving into her rather unique physiology and DNA were not to her liking. Especially if they thought they could keep her isolated for however long they fancied.

This whole mission was heading straight to the shitter, she feared, and felt like beating herself. That "woe, I'm a poor escaped slave, please take me in" shtick sounded so good in theory. I guess I thought too much like one who grew up under the Protracted Struggle! And I was so taken in by the challenge of the first-contact package that I didn't stop to ponder that it might be intended for opening full-blown diplomatic relations… crap! Loki's balls on a stick!

Yet the video was still on and she kept stone-face rather than allow her palm to slap her face as she really wanted to.

A beep competed for her attention on the tactical display. Where nothing but empty space had registered before, several power sources had suddenly appeared, neatly bracketing her ship at a light-second range… and they were starting to accelerate toward her ship.

Right on cure, lizardman called out. "System Control crafts will dock and board your ship. Please comply with their instructions. Really, it's the best option for you" he added with a fake smile. Or be fired upon, was the unsaid alternative.

Ann Rayner's mind churned, sifting through potential alternatives. Sure, she could comply and let herself be taken by some alien bureaucracy whose motives, regarding her person and her ship, were nothing if uncertain. She might spend an untold number of days, weeks, months even in a quarantine cell, being poked and prodded by lizard-faced doctors, then be let out with nothing more than the clothes on her back, out in an utterly foreign society. She couldn't even be sure that relying on "woman's oldest profession" might be an option if the locals were really into scaly skin.

Or she could escape in hyperspace out to her preplanned backup coordinates… and be back to square one, only with a "Wanted" poster with her face on it.

Lizardman was still droning about regulations and compliance when a text-only message arrived, tight-beamed to her ship across a communication laser. Meaning she had no accurate indication of its origin – a bearing only and it led to one of the populated areas of the outermost asteroid belt. Anyone of the habitats, stations and ships in the volume of space between it and her ship could be the sender.

WE CAN HELP YOU, it said. DON'T TRUST TECH CON. SENDING COORDINATES.

The message was over a minute old, which meant whoever sent it did so right when her conversation with System Control started to go down the drain.

Could she trust those newcomers? At the same time, it gave her an alternative… she remembered that old story about the horse that could sing. She shrugged.

"On second thought, I'm feeling disappointed by your sense of hospitality, Mister System Control. In really expected something better. I think I'll try my luck in another system. No bad feeling, eh?" she cut off Lizardman, all the while sending the received spatial coordinates to her navigation system.

As the formerly stealthed gunships burnt full power toward her position, her hyperdrive engaged.

An hour later AL-7X emerged from hyperspace into a neighboring star system. She wasn't alone, she could see as soon as her sensors rebooted. While massively less busy, there appeared to be substantial traffic. The coordinates had her emerging in close proximity to a Saturn-like gas giant, the jewel-like orb sprayed across her field of vision out the side window, and her ship appeared to hover like a mote above – or was it below? - the vast expanse of frozen rocks that ribboned around the massive planet.

Right as the question "what now?" bubbled up at the surface of her mind, did another text message appear with a new set of local coordinates. For a second, she reflected that while a "System Control" might be a bunch of unpleasant asses, without their first-contact package, those coordinates would have been as much unreferenced gibberish. As it was, her compsystem was now able to "think" in various geometric frames of reference, be it the one from its Goa'uld builders, or the Tollan, the Domination's or the Hebridean, along with the various units they used. Fortunately, the speed of light was the speed of light in every set of measurements.

The new coordinates were taking her deep inside the rings. As she flew through the demarcation, the blackness of space and the reddish expanse of the giant disappeared behind a maelstrom of dust, ice and tumbling rocks. The smaller fragments she didn't care about. She was moving at a low velocity relative to the ring – it wouldn't be more dangerous to her bare hull than hail on a flying aircar. The larger rocks, from boulder-sized all the way to those with dimensions rivaling city blocks, she could and did fly around. She piloted by hand, the exercise a welcome change from the routine of "input destination in computer, get there in a boring, predictable way".

It took her another hour of careful flying to reach her final destination. It revealed itself as she flew past a particularly large flying mountain, the overlay on her head-up display pinpointing an opening in a city-block sized mass of dirty rock, gently rotating on itself. From any further distance it wouldn't stand out from the billions of fragments making up the rings. A perfect hiding place? Then, what kind of people would operate from such one…? Rayner couldn't spare herself the irony of, maybe, getting help from a clandestine organization specializing in assisting runaway slaves. If that was what it was. She suspected that it wouldn't be so simple.

She flew closer and closer to the opening. Its shape was an irregular circle, from any angle looking like another impact crater, but the bottom continued inward, dark, until she spotted the guiding pattern of red lights inside it, beckoning her to fly in, like an insect heading down a carnivorous flower's gullet. AL-7X flew past the rim and darkness fell, though her augmented reality display allowed her to see the surroundings clearly enough. The entrance tunnel was vast, easily wide enough to take a three of four Alkesh-sized ships side-by-side, and it bored in for several hundred meters till it tapered to bottom. Near the end, alcoves and smaller tunnels were marked in subdued lighting as landing bays of sorts, dozens of them, and she wondered where she was supposed to land – the message hadn't told her so. Nor did she get any actual docking instructions as she would have expected. It looked like she would have to pick a spot and be done with it. She eyed the weapon turrets highlighted on her display warily – they didn't appear hot, but they were tracking her in an unsubtle "please behave" manner.

She found a landing platform, as close to the bottom of the shaft as she could, that wasn't already packed with ships. Now that she could actually see the other crafts, she could spot a couple ordinary Tel'taks, but the rest were unfamiliar designs. Indigenous ones, she reasoned. The designs were evidently based on advanced space technology such as artificial gravity, for they eschewed the old-space looks predominant in the Solar System up until Contact.

She guided her own ship to a wide circular landing platform, having successfully passed through the boundary of the local artificial gravity plane. AL-7X landed like a feather despite the Earth-like gravity – she noted that particular piece of data in passing, and she ran through post-landing checklists without hurry, waiting to see if anyone was coming up to greet her on the metal-grating ramp leading to the platform.

Minutes passed as she finished setting up AL-7X for an armed standby state – sure, the message promised help, but she wasn't leaving without taking precautions. Then she pulled out a suitable attire from her wardrobe – there was a breathable atmosphere, evidently held in by a force-field near the entrance, and air temperature was a cool, pleasant 19 Celsius outside the hull. Having mulled the question for some time during the journey, she decided on a Domination-made set of climate-controlled undergarments, which could, in a pinch serve as an emergency pressure bodysuit in case of sudden depressurization. Her improved Drakensis body did include some mods, beginning with her integral subdermal armor to mitigate such effects, but adding another layer was only sensible when you were going to visit an utterly alien space station. For the outer layer, she decided on clothes that could pass as stylish, but not flamboyantly so. After all, she should fancy herself a space adventurer now, she smirked to herself. Even with her "escaped slave" story, she was supposed to have served, assisted and out-thought a Goa'uld, and everyone knew how those tended to dress.

She settled for an outfit straight out of an expensive Archona boutique, a dark burgundy python leather jacket, cinched enough on the waist, with burnished gold accents and fittings, smirking at the irony of wearing snakeskin on such a first encounter. On a more down-to-earth note, it had a rather elaborate set of protective features as well. Matching trousers followed, with a pair of boots whose soles could be set to a gecko-like stickiness in a zero-gee setting.

She mulled whether to arm herself, and decided that it would only be sensible to appear wary. She eyed her collection of side arms critically. Armor-piercing stuff was generally frowned upon in a space setting where it could puncture pressure hulls. And it wasn't really a Goa'uld thing. Shrugging, she grabbed a first-generation plasma pistol from the Domination and slotted it in a quick-release holster on her hip. Like the rest of her gear, it didn't sport any marking that could betray its non-Goa'uld origin and point to Earth. It was also a custom job, replacing the indigenous superconducting control circuitry and power cells for a naquadah and crystal based one. In addition to being more authentically-Goa'uld-ish, it also made it near maintenance- and reload-free. Somewhere on Earth, Ann reflected, a Jaffa staff rifle had been stripped of its power cell and firing mechanism to build her pistol – fortunately the transplant didn't go so far as the Jaffa weapon's atrocious accuracy and ergonomics. The actual shooting part was entirely based on Domination research and development, essentially being a downsized plasma rifle. With it, she could accurately hit and blow a limb off someone at a hundred meters. It was good enough for covert government work, she sniggered.

A good old layer knife in a boot holster, and she was done – finishing by putting her hair in a tight bun and locking them with a stiletto-like pin that could easily count as a weapon in her hand.

Five minutes after landing, she stepped down the ship's access ladder as the entry hatch closed silently behind her. She took her first breaths of the alien air, methodically analyzing the scents it bore. Mostly those were what she expected in a space station – faint lubricant traces, ozone, and assorted smells out of machinery, then the organic ones exhaled by living, walking organisms. Missing were the smells she associated with nature and greenery. She shrugged. It probably wasn't high on the owners' priorities. At least there was no obvious imbalance, meaning the environmental system was operating efficiently.

Still, she was a bit miffed at the welcome committee, or rather the lack of one. Not that she expected to be greeted as a celebrity, but still… it felt a bit unsettling. Her sensitive hearing did pick up distant voice tones coming from other landing bays, so at least it wasn't a ghost place. Shrugging again, she walked down the gantry toward the hatch set in the rocky wall.

She went through an airlock, easily identifying the simple, fool-proof controls and interpreting the labels. By now, the uploaded linguistic knowledge had permeated throughout her cortex. To her mind, it didn't feel like parsing it through a translator anymore, but an innate command of it, as if she'd spent years learning and practicing the Hebridean tongue.

She emerged into a dim access tunnel and oriented herself by the distant, almost inaudible rumor of life and activity. Her eyes narrowed as they picked bits of discarded detritus, their erstwhile purpose unidentifiable. There were markings on the wall as well, handmade and crude, the kind she expected to find in the less-policed corners of an industrial serf compound. What the hell was that place, she wondered. The undertext of the graffiti was quite clear in its defiance of established authorities.

She walked a length of the gently curving tunnel as the sound of discordant… music, she guessed she ought to call it, grew louder, along with the organic smells she associated with dubious body hygiene. That and an undertone of fine lubricants, the kind used in precision machinery. She went forward through a larger, open airlock into a wider section of tunnel, and found herself facing the sources. A half-dozen persons, standing or in the process of standing up from over crates and improvised furniture as she appeared in their field of vision. She came to a halt. Some of them appeared to belong to the lizardman species, the rest appeared human, but what caught her attention was the chrome. Every single one of these people sported some sort of… cybernetic augmentation, be it replacement eyes or shiny metallic limbs. And now they stared at her appraisingly, and she didn't like how they did it. Her sense of danger went up a notch as she heard a couple more characters slide in behind in an obvious play at cutting her off from escape. A quick backwards glance confirmed it. Two more chromed-up thugs were smirking, negligently cradling weapons in their hands. She recognized a zat'niktel pointed at her back. Well, that confirmed it. As much as she was prepared to allow for differing looks and tastes, those people held themselves in a distinctly ungentlemanly way to her eyes. She sighed and took an encompassing glance at the ones arrayed in front of her.

The apparent leader – in a most characteristic manner, it was the biggest and most brutish looking one, she noted with amusement – spoke out of a mouth that was apparently the last biological feature on his face, the rest of it being a grotesque array of reddish glowing optical arrays on his unsettlingly hollowed-out skull. She picked up the slurred, slang-laden words and the derisively threatening tone.

"Why hello, you cute little piece of meat" guffaws followed from the rest of the gang. Rayner felt like rolling her eyes. This was straight out of a bad sci-fantasy holodrama. "Is it true you were a fuck-slave for some Goa'uld? Guess you were, you look like something I'd like to fuck" the head thug went on, staring at her and obscenely leering even though he didn't have eyes to speak of. He took a step towards her, flexing the pair of oversized piston-driven arms that protruded from his overalls.

She returned the stare, having to look up at the mountain of a… being trying to intimidate her, and replied calmly, hands on her hips.

"And that Goa'uld's dead." She left the underlying threat unsaid, her attitude making clear that she wasn't frightened.

"Stole his ship, huh? Nice of you to bring it here. I'll make good use of it. As good as I'll make of your body!" the cyborg went on, dismissing her calm answer. His head made a tiny nod and Rayner knew what was coming.

The thug behind her fired his zat'niktel at her back and lightning splashed over her, tendrils of specially-phased energy crawling along her garments… all along the superconducting microfiber blended into the lining weave. She felt a strong tingling and fugitive dizziness as her exposed skin caught a fringe fraction of it, but didn't collapse as the shooter expected. A fraction of a second passed as her attacker obviously processed how it didn't go as planned, then she felt his flesh hand roughly grab her shoulder, intent on throwing her back and zatting her face pointblank.

By then, his fate was sealed as the improved Drakensis' combat physiology kicked on. She pivoted in place and drove her elbow into the man's exposed face. He didn't have time to react – from his point of view, one moment he was about to pull his prey down, the next his visual input fizzled out as a piledriver smashed his facial optics. Pain-blockers instantly clamped on his nervous system, but it made no difference as Rayner's follow-up fist strike hit again with the impact of a wrecking ball. There was a loud snapping sound as the thug's spine was shattered backwards and a wet crunch as the rest of his face was caved in. He was already flatlined when the finishing kick caved his sternum in and hurled him backwards to crumple on the fused-rock floor.

The zat'niktel spat again twice in quick succession, but out of the Draka's hand this time, and the second thug at her back collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut out, a comical O face look of incredulity having had barely time to plaster itself on his face before death claimed him.

Ann Rayner whirled backwards again to face the main group. They stood mesmerized by the sudden, intense burst of violence and its unplanned outcome – one second their two comrades were alive and cocky, a breath later they were dead on the floor. Some of them were actually gaping. But their leader seemed made of sterner stuff, for he bellowed in anger.

"YOU TWAT! I'M GOING TO FUCK YOUR GUTS OUT AND WEAR YOUR SKIN OVER MY SHINY COCK!"

My, this guy's mind's pretty focused on one thing, isn't he? Rayner had time to reflect as she aimed the Goa'uld weapon at the towering thug. Then her brow rose in annoyance, for the blast dissipated ineffectually over the cyberized body. Ah, so I'm not the only one with a countermeasure.

"I'M GONNA CRUSH YOUR SKULL! KILL HER!"

Time slowed further in the Draka's perception as her entire body and mind went into full overdrive, the labor of love and dedication by the brilliant minds of Virunga Institute into designing her next generation combat biomods, her old body slow as molasses in comparison.

She threw the zat' at one of the thug underlings, hitting the reptilian head and disabling his facial cyberware. The discarded weapon was still flying in the air as she started her next sequence of moves, flowing from the arm throw into a side-moving cartwheel with an economy of motion that ended with her heel striking upwards at an opponent's chin. She heard a satisfying snap as the neck broke, then dodged a bladed strike coming from her side, warned by the air displacement. A wicked machete-like blade swiped centimeters past her nose – this new opponent was fast, but the miss had him overextended for a fraction of a second and she took advantage of it, her peripheral sight keeping track of the rest of them. Her gripping soles gave her the purchase needed to move lightning-fast, a couple quick steps aside and into the attacker's range, her right hand clamped over the mechanical arm holding the blade and her other hand found purchase at the junction of neck and shoulder, steel-like fingers digging deep into metal and flesh. She pushed and tugged with all her body's might, releasing a primal shout as she did. The attachment interface between cyber limb and flesh body tore with a snapping of bones and metal rods. Blood sprayed out, droplets fanning out of the ripped arm socket. The amputated cyborg swiveled away, fleshy remaining arm flailing.

And Rayner counterswing hit him in plain face, using his own metal limb like a club.

PARTICLE ACCELERATOR EMISSIONS DETECTED

The warning rose in her mind, thrown up by her implant interfaced with the low-profile sensors hidden in her vestments. A vector came along and she instinctively threw herself aside and low. A ruler-straight line of blinding light bisected the air right where she had previously stood, casting harsh black shadows across the room. Her own eyes, built for nuclear warfare adjusted to the unbearable brilliance that would have seared ordinary, unshielded ones.

She rolled away as the beam tracked towards her, leaving a red-hot trail of molten rock on the wall, then sputtered out, the weapon's capacitors drained. A loud coil whine rose as the particle cannon began to recharge, the sound coming from the boss cyborg's bulging right arm. She took in the sight of the forearm, split open to allow the integrated weapon components to telescope out, red-hot dissipation strip blurring the surrounding air around the glowing, gaping maw. It was extended in her direction, the mechanical fingers curled back around the open palm that doubled as a gunport.

The fast-moving Drakensis came to a firing position, one knee on the ground, plasma pistol extended in a two-hand grip. It took a fraction of a second to fine-tune her aim. At such a close distance she didn't need the computerized sight that her implant could show.

A second lightning strike illuminated the widened tunnel in actinic blue, accompanied by a sharp, loud thunderclap as the superhot plasma charge travelled downrange through the vacuum path carved by the pistol's collimating laser. The cyborg arm was thrown back by the impact that melted the particle cannon aperture in a shower of sparks and molten droplets of alloys and composites. The thug staggered back.

A second shot followed, aimed at his torso. He staggered again behind a cloud of acrid burning fabric and synthskin, a glowing shallow crater gouged in the armor plating that protected his vital parts, then his other arm swung forward and spat a three-round burst. The smart bullets zipped downrange, then after a couple meters arrowed upwards as tightly as their miniature control surfaces could grip the air in an effort to follow their target. As soon as she'd seen the arm swing toward her, Rayner had pumped her legs up and sprung in the air like a jack-in-a-box, and she was in the middle of twisting herself to point her feet at the ceiling when the smart munitions exploded a meter away from her body.

Tiny razor-sharp flechettes shotgunned out, intent on burying themselves in her body and ripping her organs apart. The one-shot personal shield in her belt buckle activated instantly, throwing a protective plane of polarized planar gravity between the projectiles and herself. The small Tollan-procured device was designed as a last-resort VIP protection and worked as intended. The hypersonic flechettes expended their energy cutting through the field as it deformed them, and the blunted projectiles merely hammered on Rayner like angry hailstones.

Fuuuuck those things are nasty, she remarked to herself in a corner of her mind even as she landed upside-down on the ceiling and launched herself back down towards her target, pistol extended in front of her. Another plasma shot cracked across the narrowing distance between herself and the boss cyborg, disabling his other weaponized arm as she somersaulted in the air. She landed an instant later, feet first in a powerful kick aimed at the weakened torso armor. She felt it give with the tell-tale snap of breaking ceramic composites and somersaulted again backwards, landing on her feet a few paces in front of the staggering thug. The pistol barked again, driving shot after shot inside his massive chest until a shower of molten parts erupted from his back, then she moved her aim upwards and did the same to his head.

At last, the towering cyborg toppled over on his back, acrid smoke rising up from the glowing hole in his chest and the crater between his shoulders.

A retreating patter of running steps told Rayner that the remaining thugs were fleeing the scene, evidently cowed by the brutal demise of their chief. She took the time to walk up to each corpse and making sure they wouldn't rise up, more actinic flashes cutting through the room.

Then she stood alone among the cooling bodies, and spoke aloud to herself.

"Now, that was a strange welcome."

She didn't expect a reply coming from unseen speakers.

A deep, feminine voice chuckled then spoke with an amused tone.

"Well, it turns out you're weren't the lost, vulnerable prey Gamron believed you would be. Not that he was ever the brightest bulb in the box, so to speak. Anyway, after watching this, I believe I might have been right in extending a hand to you, Miss 'Rayna'. I think there's more to you than just another escaped slave. Welcome to Terminus Station."

Ann Rayner reflexively looked up, trying to find a source to the voice. She was still flush with combat hormones and panting to force oxygen into her bloodstream to replace what she'd exhausted in her intense burst of activity. "Fine, who are you?"

Another chuckle. "Why don't you come and see? Just follow the drone."

A little hovering orb zipped in Rayner's view, pulsing white and blue light, did a little bob-like gesture, and started to slowly fly back up the direction it came from. Shrugging, the Draka agent followed.

It took her further up the tunnel, past several intersections and airlocks, then it bent "up" and the gravity followed so what looked like an incline became another flat stretch of tunnel. Lighting strips were still the sole illumination, keeping things rather dim if it wasn't for her enhanced vision. She walked past several other mixed groups of people, but there were no further tries at her – sure, she got looks and stares as the went past, but either the demise of "Gamron" had everyone thinking the better of it or everyone here wasn't an aggressive thug to begin with. She caught whiffs of conversation, leading her to conclude that many were ship crews staying around for whatever they needed taken care of. Then the surroundings became a bit livelier as she approached what was the main concourse, and finally she stepped off a cargo lift into it.

It was like walking into some small town's main street, although the vaulted rock overhead made it feel constrained. She estimated that it was a hundred meters long at most, with both sides taken by… shops of some kind, going by the garish neon signage. There was a faint thrumming background of electronic rhythms. She followed the drone down the length of it, head swiveling left and right to take in the sights. She sighted armories, or at least shops claiming to peddle in guns and weapons. Another advertised cybernetic enhancements, chrome-plated limbs on display behind a reinforced glass window. Another claimed to be an information broker, and she made a note to stop by later.

She walked past what looked like a bar of sorts, glimpsing a small crowd of patrons through the reflective windows. She reflected again how vastly separated societies still tended to birth their own variation on common patterns of behavior. After all, needs were needs everywhere. Here was a small community, if she could call it, and however fringe she suspected it to be, given how rough the locals appeared even to her foreign eye. From the sights and sounds, this was not a gentle, refined and urbane place. Whether she might fit in… she'd do her best. She suspected she already made some strides towards that.

The drone guided her to the other end of the concourse. She found herself standing outside a flight of neon-lit steps leading to a mirrored glass doorway, a large illuminated sign above proudly spelling "The Crossroads" in red script. The bass thrum was louder, evidently being kept in check by the closed doors. She noticed what looked suspiciously like concealed panels on both sides, and deduced that they must hide weapon emplacements. There was a tell-tale thermal signature, very much apparent in her wide-spectrum vision.

Less concealed and very much conspicuous were the muscle arrayed in front of the door. Two hulking males of both species, one human and one reptilian, sporting apparent cyber limbs, even mechanical legs that hinged bird-like in the reptilian's case. They were holding massive rifle-like things in a relaxed, but wary posture, and tracked approaching Rayner with obviously enhanced eyes, though not as grotesquely altered as Garmon's thugs.

They shifted stance as she came to the bottom of the stairs, not quite pointing their weapons at her, but close enough that the meaning was unmistakable.

The reptilian spoke.

"Lucky you. Charo's waiting for you. You're going in, but you'll have to check in your weapons inside. Club policy, you're not being singled out." Seeing the obvious question coming, he added "And if you refuse, you can always go back the way you came from."

Ann shrugged. "Fair enough. I'm not here to start a fight… unless the fight comes to me."

Both bouncers grinned at her words. "Well, just don't, at least in here. Garmon was an ass, but you don't get to shit in Charo's territory and get away with it."

"I guess Charo's territory doesn't extend to where the likes of Garmon make their burrow, then?" Rayner answered with a raised eyebrow, trying to gauge the power dynamics of the place.

The human bouncer made a dismissive gesture. "Charo's territory is where it matters. Beyond that, it's a free system." Then he gestured at the door. "And I'm not paid to play information broker, so in you go."

Past the thick sliding doors was a corridor lit in red neon. A counter lined it on one side, and she spotted rows of lockers behind. An attendant in garish clothing greeted her, talking loud to overcome the suddenly increased sound level.

"All weapons get checked in. You get them back when you leave." He pointed to the open case waiting on the counter.

The plasma pistol went in.

"The blade too."

Ann raised her leg and made a show of extracting the layer knife from its boot holster, and deposited in the box with a flourish. "Satisfied?"

The attendant cocked his head in a gesture pointing at the top of her own skull. "That too."

The Drakensis resisted rolling her eyes. She couldn't blame the man for doing his job right. The pin rejoined pistol and blade as her hair cascaded freely on her shoulders. It was her turn to cock her head aside, hands on her hips in a "are we done now?" attitude. In return, the attendant closed the box and gave her a small metal chit. "Don't lose it" he said as the token changed hands. She nodded a thanks and left him to store the box in a locker.

She went through another door, and the music hit her full blast, deafening. It was nothing like what the Domination produced – not even close to the stuff produced by the late Yanks. There was some commonality with the edgy scene on Tolla… but this took the artificiality to another level. There was no trace of sounds created by "real" instruments – all her ears could separate were artificial, electronically-generated notes crafted into tune loops and underscored by heavy, thrumming bass – she could feel the waves physically, going through her body, raw, alien and energizing in a brutalist way.

She stepped unhurriedly, observing with naked curiosity. The place wasn't full, but there were still enough patrons milling around between the booths and the scattered raised dais where dancers – physical of holo-projected – did languid, erotic motions, and the vast bar and its aura of glowing neon. She made a note of the rows of beverages displayed on shelves. She did have a selection of chosen bottles in her ship's hold. Maybe she could negotiate some of them later.

Her eyes caught the flight of stairs leading up to an overhanging balcony, the contents of which were blurred by a privacy field. I bet this is where I'll find this 'Charo', she told herself. She ignored the stares from closer patrons and began climbing the blue-lit steps.

Another heavy cyborg stopped her at the top of the stairs. He stared her from behind a mirrored visor rimmed with sensor arrays, and she felt herself under scrutiny. Then, obviously satisfied with his scan, he stepped aside and beckoned her to go ahead. As he did so, the visible forcefield blocking the way vanished, allowing her onto the balcony.

She took a few steps in, then stopped in front of the deep sofa lining the balcony's outer wall.

A half-dozen being were lounging on the red velvet-like material, sophisticated-looking drinks strewn on low tables among sundry items. Rayner scanned them and committed their appearances to her memory, but she found herself focusing on the figure reclining deep, arms resting flat on top of the backrest, legs crossed in a picture of affected nonchalance. And did a double-take. Charo – had to be! – was a hybrid, her features and skin blending the reptilian and human which she'd taken for two entirely different species. Her mind went into full analysis mode. Charo appeared female in the metallized dress leaving her arms and legs bare, showing ample cleavage with a hint of fine, opalescent scales between her breasts. Delicate ridges seemed to complement her facial features rather than make them monstrous, disappearing up her scalp under a lustrous mane of white hair kept in check by an assortment of jewelry. Most remarkable in fact was that she didn't seem to sport the kind of heavy mechanization her minions exhibited – whether she entirely eschewed such or used more subtly integrated hardware, Rayner wasn't prepared to decide yet, until she caught the luminous blue, and definitely artificial glint in the eyes. Her nostrils flared to better take in the olfactory scene. Subtly differentiated body scents seemed to distinguish both species, or races, and Charo was again minutely different, and subdued. She exhaled far less of an organic trace than expected, even accounting for the layers of perfume. And her thermal trace was off… she stared more intently and caught the near-invisible seams that denoted artificial additions.

Ah, so she is enhanced too. Probably with a better grade of that stuff, or at least less crudely artificial-looking.

Charo's face suddenly broke into a wry grin, and spoke, with the same deep throaty voice as back in the tunnel.

"Well, Rayna, my turn to stare and dissect, as is only fair."

Obeying an unseen command, a robotic arm descended from a recess in the ceiling, bearing an array of scanning apparatus that powered on with a loud humming sound. A flat beam of whitish laser light erupted of an aperture, and it swept down the length of the visitor's body from head to toe, turning around her body as it went down then back up, visibly going for a full body examination.

HIGH POWER MULTISPECTRAL SCAN DETECTED; the implant helpfully informed her. At least it didn't seem harmful. No ionizing radiation save a small, harmless amount of X-rays. Nothing that would rattle even ordinary human DNA.

The arm disappeared back into its holding place, and Charo's eyes seemed to unfocus, as if she was looking away at something only she could watch – which was certainly the case, Rayner thought. Probably had an internal display just as she did with her own implant.

"Interesting." Charo let out after ten seconds were elapsed, eyes still staring at a point light-seconds away. "Not a trace of cybernetic augmentation in your body. Even that thing in your cranium, interfacing with your brain, appears semi-organic. Yet you were able to handle Gamron's crew."

Her eyes focused again, boring into Rayner's. "And your genecode? My best forensics programs have never seen anything like it. Though some fragments do match known Goa'uld DNA patterns." Charo chuckled. "You're definitely not what I'd call strictly human, girl. Far from it, actually. And I don't think your physiology appeared naturally somewhere."

She caught the unspoken challenge in Rayner's subtle change of stance and continued smoothly. "I mean, evolution's a thing. Even though Serrakin and Human being genetically close enough to be cross-breedable – marginally, but I digress – point to some convergent force, there are still basic principles. Such as, nature being lazy. In every known ecosystem, organisms only get good enough to survive in their niche. Traits tend to disappear if their cost outweighs their usefulness. And you? You're full of stuff that doesn't make any sense, evolutionary speaking." Charo shook her head. "The level of strength you showed, ripping a cyber-arm off? The speed at which you reacted? Say, those microstructures in your bones that look very much like customized carbon nanotubes? And all the other things that jump out from a cursory scan?" Charo's head nodded emphatically, as if to underline how she was stating obvious conclusions. "Any one of them might – might! Be explainable in isolation. All of them? No way evolution would have gone to such craziness. Girl, you're overengineered as fuck.Therefore, someone must have designed you as you are. And if that someone was Goa'uld, it rings all kinds of warning bells to me!"

Rayner almost took a step back, the last sentences from Charo like a sudden physical blow.

"Uh, no, I'm not…" she stammered, and Charo cut her. "I'm going to give you a chance to put me at ease. I'll ask you a few questions, and you'll answer me with yes or no. Only to make sure you're not a danger to me or this place."

The Draka nodded.

"And I've got sensors focused on your brain, with a good baseline profile. If you lie to me, I'll know it, even if your pulse stays steady or other anatomical tricks. Understood?"

Ann nodded again, feeling un-Drakaishly nervous now. Is this Charo making me nervous? Shitspawn, if Archona was looking at me. I'm the superpredator, supposed to strike fear and awe among other mortals, her inner voice mocked her. Hey Archon, sir, Decurion Rayner reporting, the rest of the galaxy apparently isn't stupid as the Yanks were!

"Good. Let's get this over with. Is Rayna your real name?

"Yes." There was no difference phonetically, after all.

"Were you created by the Goa'uld?"

Straight to the point. "No."

Charo paused, stared into her eyes, then went on, apparently satisfied that she wasn't lying.

"Were you a prisoner of the Goa'uld?"

"Yes."

Another pointed stare. "I guess there's a story here, but I'm not asking you to tell."

"Why?" Rayner dared asking.

Charo made a shrugging gesture. "Without delving in a long-winded philosophical presentation on the founding values of Hebridean society… individual freedom is our shared ideal. Absolute, unmitigated freedom. Sink or swim, get rich or die trying, that sort of thing. If you can't measure up, too bad, so sad. The real deal, not that Tech-Con travesty in control of everything yet saying you're free. And that means you're also entitled to your secrets, and to what you choose to share. After all, information's the only universal commodity."

Rayner digested the short speech and what it implied. Assuming she passed Charo's little exam… everything she'd come for would be ripe for taking. For a price. She had no doubt of her ability to trade in kind.

"Are you here on a mission?"

Rayner hesitated, then reasoned that truth was better. "Yes."

Charo's painted lips widened fractionally, as if hearing some naughty story.

"Did a Goa'uld, or anyone working for the Goa'uld, send you?"

A firm "No" answered that.

"Were you sent here by Tech-Con?"

"No. Unless indirectly, since they kinda pushed me into your arms" Rayner felt emboldened enough to comment. Charo's lip curled ever subtly upward. Impishly, almost.

"Is the goal of your mission to harm me or this system?"

"No" came with a fractional delay of hesitation. So tiny, yet Charo picked up on it.

"Bit smudged here, aren't we? Yet not lying – something else." The alien woman made her enigmatic smile again. "Let's rephrase it. Does whoever sent you here… consider the Hebridean systems as an enemy?"

"Not unless they become one" Rayner answered as truthfully as she could and got a chuckle in return.

"As good an answer as I'm entitled to get", the hybrid woman laughed, and patted the sofa next to her with an accompanying "come here" gesture.

Ann Rayner breathed in what she could only confess as relief. Oh sure, she knew her abilities and was confident about them… but she didn't relish the idea of discovering the full extent of this place's martial abilities if she had to fight her way out and escape for her life. From what she could piece together, Gamron's thugs were just a fringe gang preying on the weak. Charo obviously didn't consider them a threat to her interests. And whatever made her so confident was probably nothing to be trifled with, the uncharacteristically cosmopolitan Drakensis reflected.

She sat down next to her host with the unsettlingly perceptiveness and alien beauty, and an attendant magically materialized – well, not actually magically, but with consummate unobtrusiveness, to place down an elaborate-looking drink in front of her. She brought it to her nose and inhaled the alcohol-laden fumes. She wouldn't put it past her host to have found out her system's high tolerance to liquor in addition to the rest. She then took a sip as much out of curiosity as politeness. It went down her throat with a fruity aftertaste she couldn't place. Not an Earth cocktail, it was. After the high-stake questioning, the smooth burn was also welcome.

She reclined against the backrest, glass in hand, half-turned towards Charo, and waited for her host to go on.

"So. As I told you, information is a commodity, the only one you can be sure will be sought after everywhere in the galaxy. Doesn't mean nothing else can be traded for, of course. And you've given me some valuable information." She paused and waited for Rayner to say "how", which she did wordlessly with a batting of her eyelids.

"See, here's the picture I'm getting. From what you told that idiot at System Control – by the way, yes, I was listening in, and he didn't know it – to your answers here, and your own person as it is." Charo leaned closer towards her, and the Draka agent almost felt like releasing a whiff of pheromones, yet caught herself before she went through. By now, she wasn't at all confident that her Drakensis behavior-bending molecules would even have an effect and wouldn't be detected and identified as what they were.

"Somewhere, there's a world that's advanced enough to design something like you, that encountered the Goa'uld and survived the encounter somehow, and that sent you learn more about the surrounding galaxy. And this is valuable information in itself. Say," her eyes twinkled mischievously "would you be willing to disclose your world's stellar coordinates? Or even better maybe… a stargate address?"

Rayner stayed silent, at once respectful of her host's perceptiveness and wary for it. A few seconds passed. Charo reclined backwards, smiling. "Pity, though I didn't expect you would. Such an information could set you up for life, you know. Worth millions of credits. Straight to the cream of Hebridean society, if you felt like it." She waited to see if her guest would rise to the bait. "Well, I guess this means you're loyal, another valuable piece of data on its own."

Charo fiddled a bit with her own drink, took a long sip, then bore straight into Rayner's eyes, her tone back to business.

"You'll need documentation if you want to operate in Hebridean space, not just the… less policed systems out there. I'll take care of that as payment for the information you brought me. Part of, anyway. The rest…" she snapped her hands, and the attendant appeared back with a tray. On it was a small datachit. Rayner took it, cocking an eyebrow. "A few thousand credits, untraceable, naturally. Use this to get saddled up, so to speak." She made a wide outward gesture. "Get acquainted with how things work here. Visit the shops. Buy stuff you like, get a drink, get a fuck, whatever you fancy. Go to Erman, the information broker, he'll set you up with the basic stuff that's far beneath my level" she grinned. "Then when you're ready, we'll talk some more. Good?"

Ann Rayner nodded emphatically, eyes meeting her host's gaze levelly. "Good."

The hybrid woman waved her hand in dismissal. "Off you go then, Rayna."

"…since you're a complete newcomer, I'd recommend taking the Hebridean Common Omnipedia, built and maintained independently of Tech-Con Group. Of course, the complete one is rather expensive… maybe you don't need the very basic stuff such as how to make steel and build windmills, haha" Erman the information broker had a mechanical-sounding laugh, as if he was in the routine of laughing at his own jokes, Rayner commented to herself. He was shorter than her by a head, and his visible cyberization was limited to a replacement mechanical hand and an integrated monocular in place of his left eye.

"How much?"

"For you, I'll round it down to hundred thousand credits, because Gamron was a nuisance and I'm happy he's dead?" Erman grinned.

Rayner whistled. "That much?" After all, the Tollan equivalent was free.

The broker made a "can't help it" gesture with his hands.

"Got to reward everyone who's ever contributed to it. Which is a lot of people – most contributors would only get a few credits, since the share is based on the amount of work done and the selectivity of the subject matter. But it's the principle of it. Any work deserves a payment, small as it be."

"Must be a pain to keep track of everything, no?" the Draka asked with genuine curiosity.

"Actually no. The distributed ledger ensures that everyone's contribution, after it's evaluated and judged fit for inclusion, is accurately tracked down the line. And that specific chain's built-in financial programming interfaces with the Hebridean global accounting ledger, while the integrated rights management ensures you can only access what you paid for."

"I see… so the more it grows, the more expensive it gets?"

"Indeed! Well to be accurate, there's also the balancing mechanism that rewards recent contributions more, but yes."

"A hundred thousand is too much for me, I'm afraid. For a start, I'd like to learn first about the history of the Hebridean systems, cultural files, things like that?"

Erman nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, yes, knowledge to get you accustomed, I understand. Well… you can get the "cultural primer" tailored package for only two thousand credits, since none of it is highly technical or particularly difficult to find. Which includes my fee for explaining all of this to you."

Rayner had the urge to roll her eyes again. This man was like a lawyer, nickel and diming for the privilege of merely talking to them. She'd have to get used to it. At least, she reasoned, the man was saving her the trouble and time of finding the information herself, which was worth something.

"Deal" she said.

"Perfect! Let us make the transaction then…" A section of the counter illuminated into a checkout display. Following Erman's instruction, she set down her credit chip onto it, then tapped the pulsing confirmation prompt. The corresponding sum was subtracted from the chip, and she pocketed it again.

"Now for the data transfer…Wait. You don't have a deck, do you?" A glance at Rayner's face was all the confirmation he needed. "…'Course. Not even a e-terminal, I guess. Hmmm… do you have an e-identity at least?"

Rayner shook her head. "I think Charo's taking care of the latter."

"Hrmmmph. Should be a good one, then. But until you're set up with an e-id and a fitted terminal, you're out of ledger. You couldn't even access the files. Tell you what, go to Lorgan, his shop's two frames down the concourse, tell him I sent you and he'll give you a good deal on a 'deck. Then soon as you've got your e-id, come back to me and I'll set you up with the data."

"Fine" said Rayner without showing impatience. This was turning into a game of fetch, she thought.

She came out of Lorgan's boutique a further thousand credits lighter, having let the reptilian-faced electronics dealer convince her of splurging for a top-of-the-line, last-generation Tech-Con external deck-terminal and its wearable peripherals, after she explained that no, she couldn't, and wouldn't get herself an internally implanted one like most people did. Even if they somehow came up with one fitting her not-human-norm brain, there was no way she'd let some foreign piece of neural-interfacing tech inside her.

She sat down on a stepped part of the concourse floor and powered up the device. She watched the built-in pseudo-holographic display turn from a matte, light-devouring black to a soothing blue background overlaid with a progress bar – the illusion of depth was uncanny on such a thin device, on par or better with the latest productions from Earth that took entire walls. It was like looking out a window into an electronically-generated realm.

The first-time set-up interface sprang out next, and she quickly ran through it, then found she already had a waiting call request. Frowning, she accepted it and a holovid appeared. She recognized one of the human faces from Charo's entourage staring at her in miniature.

"Ah, Rayna. So you finally got around to buying a deck. Should have told you to do so, first thing out of the Crossroads. And yes, we knew it was yours as soon as it came up" the woman made a knowing grin. "Not too hard to guess. Anyway, got your docs. Sending them now."

Rayner accepted the file transfer prompt and the datapacket filtered in instantly.

"Just open it and it will self-install on your device. Standard format. No hidden surprise" Charo's partner winked "that would be a bad way to start a trusting working relationship, wouldn't it?"

Rayner found herself grinning in reply. "Sensible policy. I agree."

"See you then" her supplier said with another wink. The videomessaging window collapsed on itself, and Rayner wondered if she'd mistaken the come-hither tone in the woman's parting words. Ah, maybe it's just the horny Drakensis in me.

She then went through the straightforward process of associating one of the provided identities with her terminal. Charo'd been good to her word – she'd even provided several sets of ids. The Draka woman examined their structure with interest. Apparently, the name was of no actual importance. She could change it at will. There was little actual physical data to fill, which she reasoned made sense in a setting where you could routinely replace parts of your body. No face picture unless she set one up, but several methods of authentication through codes and passphrases and security questions. She carefully set each of them up, heeding the cautionary instructions.

At the end of the process, her actual identity was a generated cryptographic pattern stored on the device. She made a note of making a backup as soon as she could.

She smiled as the set-up concluded, enabling "Rayna" with a valid electronic identity. She verified it against the global ledger, then transferred half her remaining anonymous credits onto her associated financial profile. Now she could do business everywhere in Hebridean space, and she felt like celebrating it. Preferably with something solid. She hadn't eaten anything since she'd set foot off her ship.

The empty food container joined the precariously-stacked pile of discarded "Food-Tech Easymeal"-labeled boxes on the table. Ann Rayner finished chewing on the mouthful of synthmeat and beans – a local variety, though quite similar to Earth's black-eyed ones – bathed in a spicy sauce that wasn't quite pepper, but something with a zingy enough bite, enough to satisfy her African-bred palate. Gourmet food she couldn't call it – it had all the hallmarks of mass-produced, long conservation dishes – but tasty enough. The portions were just too small, hence the stacked boxes.

She swallowed, and seconds later belched discreetly, as befitted a lady. She dropped the recyclable spoon in the empty container and pushed it aside. She glanced at the room from her corner seat at the back, where she could watch anyone entering. A few other patrons came and went, nobody seemed to give her more than a passing glance. In a manner it was reassuring. The place somehow reminded her of the Domination in that everyone seemed to carry as routine – mostly sidearms, though some did walk around with slung rifle analogues, not including whatever weaponry was hidden in cyberlimbs.

She tapped the tablescreen and ordered dessert. Ten seconds later, a small drone hovered out of a wall hatch and brought her order. She picked it up, freeing the little mechanical servant, then scooped a first spoonful of local ice-cream, her eyes still mostly focusing on her e-deck's screen. The Omnipedia data was fascinating. She reflected on the Hebridean history as she summarized it in her head, pseudo-dictating a condensate to her implant.

The Serrakin home system was located a dozen light-years away from Hebridea. The reptilian-looking species believed itself to have evolved there – certainly the archeological traces supported this – and ended up going through an industrial age, having developed their particular philosophy of individual freedom and worth. The name Dran Nya was as significant to them as Elvira Naldorssen was to the Domination, as the mind who'd conceptualized their encompassing Weltanschauung.

Unfortunately, the ensuing rapid and unfettered industrial expansion of the Serrakin home world ended in an increasing ecological crisis. Various negative feedback loops later, an increasingly unbreathable atmosphere and a mass extinction of the original ecosystem, the writing was on the wall, and the Serrakin left to settle another planet, leveraging their industrial power to build a fleet of generational colony ships.

They made the sublight journey to Hebridea ignoring that it was already populated. After a two centuries flight, the exodus fleet decelerated to its final orbit over the verdant planet… and discovered they weren't the first to settle. The small agrarian human community was centered around the planet's stargate, since they were subjects to a second-rate Goa'uld lord. The Serrakin, finding another sentient species, and soon discovering they were genetically related despite the difference in appearance, logically decided the local humans deserved to reach their Dranian potential as well, and over the following generations both races, settling Serrakin and uplifted Human, built a new civilization. It was still based on Dran Nya's principles, however the Serrakin didn't forget the lesson from their home world, and care was taken to ensure Hebridea's ecosphere didn't collapse as a result.

There never were forests of factory chimneys belching smoke from burning carbon, never ocean-killing spills of dangerous chemicals. Solar collectors and clean industry provided a golden century of economic and population growth.

Then the Goa'uld came back, and to his surprise walked out of the stargate into an orbital containment facility. To his credit, discovering a technologically advanced population, he didn't push for the "worship me as your God" act, and was allowed to leave peacefully.

He nevertheless came back a decade later, having mustered a couple early motherships from his overlord to try and reconquer his territory. Rayner's stare did linger over the pictures. The parentage with the Ha'tak of today was unmistakable as golden pyramid hulls, except devoid of the modern dark grey superstructure.

A battle later, the vindictive Goa'uld was dead, vaporized along with most of his command ship by a swarm of fast and agile Hebridean armed spacecraft. His overlord – a proper System Lord this one, namely Apophis, was none too pleased. Alas, he couldn't properly punish the dead underling. An attempted show of force in the Hebridean system backfired when a Serrakin expedition through the stargate, cued by intel acquired from defecting Jaffa, rampaged through one of his core worlds, demonstrating that the beleaguered Republic could strike back. As other System Lords got wind of his setback, Apophis was led to settle for a truce that eventually led to a proper peace treaty. The core Republic systems – Hebridean and the dead Serrakin homeworld, where space-based industry still thrived - were recognized as such, with a buffer zone of systems where neither Republic nor Goa'uld had written ownership.

The ensuing peace held thanks to two factors. The Republic's geographic location at the rough intersection of several System Lords's main dominions led it to become a convenient place where the Goa'uld could trade services and favors they couldn't, or wouldn't get do elsewhere. The Hebrideans in turn made it clear that they didn't intend to overthrow the Goa'uld order, even reasoning that Dranian principles of "reaching one's true potential" did after all apply to them as well.

Yet trust only went so far, and the second pillar of the peace was the Deterrence Squadrons, heavily automated warships fitted for long duration missions. Half the squadrons were always on patrol, never staying in the same location for long, playing dead in the deep void between systems or hiding inside asteroids, gas giant atmospheres, abyssal oceans. They were kept updated with the known locations of Goa'uld domains and their basic standing orders were simple: in case the Republic was attacked, whatever the outcome, find the attacker's worlds and burn them to the ground. It didn't matter if it took centuries to achieve. Their interfaced crews could wait in accelerated virtual time. Even if some backstabbing System Lord managed to destroy the Republic, he would then spend the following centuries in fear that the Deterrence Squadrons would appear out of the black void and incinerate his most prized planets.

There were two important lessons to be found there, the Draka agent reflected. One, the System Lords could be reasoned with as long as the cost, for them, of crushing you would be too high. Second, they'd happily backstab you if you let your guard down.

So, she already had a trove of useful information to report back. Now, the maps of Goa'uld domains included in the 'pedia were old and fragmentary, reflecting the era when the geography of their empires was shaped primarily by stargates being the fastest way of interstellar travel. The result was a bit like confetti empires… with the first-rate Goa'uld lords trying over the centuries to consolidate their holdings into more contiguous domains that could be crossed by ship in reasonable times.

Even the most recent maps were likely obsolete due to the Goa'uld civil war, and the best recent intel being kept private to the Deterrence Squadrons. But still, they would be a valuable comparison point to cross-reference with Tollan intel, and whatever the Domination managed to acquire itself.

She'd have to find a stargate, for the local one was held by the Hebridean military and there was no way she'd get to use it to send a message home. And for that, getting Charo's support seemed like the best bet right now.

Charo wasn't available now, she would have to wait, the big human bouncer told her at The Crossroads entrance. She didn't feel like going back to her ship, so she went in anyway.

She was sitting on a tall stool at the bar, a fluorescent drink in front of her and a trade proposition in hand from the bartender. Whenever convenient, she'd bring him samples of the fine selection of Earth liquor laying in her ship's hold. As exotic, novelty items, she might be able to earn thousands of credits for each if their quality was up to taste. This she was quite confident about. Serrakin and Human shared the same taste buds and affinity to alcohol.

Her idle gaze went to the show, or shows. The music made it hard to filter the conversation despite her excellent hearing, but she enjoyed watching the patrons – even more, watching the live dancers plying their trade on pedestals and wearing very little. It'd been some time since she last… well, battery-powered devices were handy, but she could do with some live company.

"Liking what you see?" a playful voice said to her ear, and she almost jumped out of her seat. She'd been distracted enough not to notice the woman who'd quietly walked up to her back. Her head snapped back, and she recognized Charo's aide, the woman who'd sent her the identity packet. Her heart rate went back to normal, her system back from the threshold of combat mode. The woman grinned and put a gentle hand on her knee. "Hey, sorry. I'm often told I'm too quiet creeping up on people." The grin widened. "Of course, sometimes it's on purpose. But you, I didn't intend to stab in the back."

The hand lifted as its owner sat on the next stool, then rose in the local form of salute, brushing her forehead. Rayner found herself missing the touch and smiled back demurely.

"Oh, by the way, name's Aria." The woman made a self-directed gesture then leaned forward, her left elbow propped on the bar's surface. The impish grin didn't leave her face. "You know," she said, her other hand making a sweeping gesture toward the dancers, "with that physique of yours, you could make a load of credits that way."

Contrary to what some believed in the old Alliance for Democracy, a Draka could blush. Though it could be said that a Draka was accustomed to making others blush. Ann Rayner was momentarily taken aback by Aria's unabashed comment, but quickly regained her composure.

"Mmmm, I'll take this as a compliment." She undressed Aria by sight in turn. Face and arms showed pale white skin, betraying a life spent in space stations and other UV-filtered environments. Regular features which might or not be entirely natural, Ann didn't care. Aria's eyes were large and dark, watching her with unconcealed wit twinkling in their depth. Her cyberware was discreet enough – a brushed metal plate at the left temple, artistically overlaid with filigreed motifs and visible beneath the carefully coiffed hair. A gossamer sleeveless blouse and a short skirt pointedly failed to cover much of the rest. This alien woman exuded brash sensuality. Was her interest spontaneous, or was this a way to gauge the newcomer? Whatever, Rayner's mind decided. If this was a test, she'd go all the way to pass it.

"And I'll return it. You're gorgeous." She winked back. One like you would command her high price in Archona, her Draka mind peeped. "You would definitely fit on one of those dance-stands. And I'd even pay to watch it." Brashness for brashness.

Aria laughed, tilting her head back as she did. Rayner felt the urge to kiss the exposed neck, the analytic corner of her mind commenting that it must be what people felt when Drakensis pheromones hit them. Or more like, she was already horny after a long journey and a fight, and here was a beautiful alien woman overtly flirting with her.

"Actually, I did that kind of dancing when I was younger. Paid for my studies and my first high-end deck."

Now that reminded the Draka of her nation's vanquished enemy. Higher education was free for a Citizen, not so for a young feral in the Alliance. Except none who'd gone through the expedient of stripping for money would later admit it to a stranger, the stigma of shame was so ridiculous.

"Is such a practice common here?" she asked, eager to compare.

"Why yes" Aria shrugged back, looking as if the question was funny. "Dancing is a skill, beauty can be purchased, why wouldn't it be? I'd do it again if I didn't have even higher-paying skills now."

"Such as?" Ann enquired with an unconcealed expression of interest.

Aria grinned wryly. "Let's say I'm quite good at wreaking havoc in cyber systems."

"I see". Wonder what she'd say about the Yank dataplague. Not gonna broach that subject yet, in any case!

"But you, Rayna, have no cyber to disrupt, do you? At least, as far as I can see." A flick of her tongue at the corner of her mouth underscored the heavy-handed sexual undertone of her comment. Rayner answered with a knowing stare, her expression a challenge to go further. A couple seconds ticked by. Then she spoke in a slow, measured cadence that belied the increased beat of her heart and the warming in her loins.

"Would you care to… examine me further, then? Just to check, of course, out of professional interest," she ended with a daring turn of her lips.

"Ah, tell you what, Charo's won't be back for an hour or so. Business to take care of elsewhere, you see. Why don't we wait 'til her return together?" her hand made an upward-pointing gesture. "There are quieter alcoves up there."

"Lead the way, then."

Up the stairs and past the vigilant guards, Aria led the pheromone-leaking Drakensis to a small alcove opening on the balcony. And without further words, demonstrated that kissing was done the same way in her corner of the galaxy as everywhere else.

An hour later, she laid reclining in Rayner's lap, a sheen of sweat cooling on her skin as the taller woman idly caressed her cheek, both of them basking in the afterglow.

"No cyberware indeed" she said dreamily. "Tho' I'd dare say you don't need it."

"And yours low-profile enough that I didn't feel like fucking a machine" Rayner teased. Aria raised her hand to playfully slap her, smirking. "Behave, will you. Or I'll make sure to flood your e-deck with offers to swap for a bigger, mechanical penis."

"Oh please no, I beg you. This sounds awful!"

The sound of laughter echoed in the velvet-covered alcove.

Quiet fell again and Rayner continued idly stroking Aria's flesh as her mind quietly wandered. How strange was the world? Her previous life seemed so far away, like the proverbial dream. Or should she say, her previous lives? The passion that burned her on Tolla was but a warm glow in her memory, yet it didn't happen that long ago. Was it because she went again through death and resurrection, each time somehow washing away her past attachments? Was it her own sense of loyalty that kept her going like a good soldier of the Domination? How sure could she be that it would forever hold true? She almost shuddered, the mere idea of… treason? Or merely abandoning her past lives for good and striking off to fend for herself in the galaxy? It was as if her very nerves rebelled at the thought. And yet… her frame of mind was not what it was a decade ago.

With a conscious effort, she banished the fraught train of thought. Just live day to day, keep her duty in mind, and enjoy the rest, she reasoned herself. And this was thoroughly enjoyable, just pure pleasure between like-minded beings, none of that guilt crap. If that was how Hebridean culture did things, she didn't mind, didn't mind at all.

Her lover suddenly stirred and raised her head.

"Charo's back. Recreation's over, sweetheart."

Sweetheart? She's nice. Or is it some devious play again at making me more loyal to her boss and organization? I barely know them all. Don't get carried away, girl, the Drakensis mentally chided herself.

"Ah. And here I was thinking about going for another round" she playfully answered, then gave Aria a boost as the woman rose up. She watched her bend down to retrieve her discarded clothes on the floor – a very pleasant view it provided.

Then she rose as well and did the same.

"Ah. I see you two were getting acquainted" Charo teasingly addressed the pair as they exited the alcove, back to her sitting place and nibbling food out of a plate. Wherever she came from, she wasn't wearing a flimsy dress but a snappy pantsuit that still complimented her frame despite covering her body. "Careful Rayna, this one's a heartbreaker… in more ways than one" she grinned.

"Ah, but she doesn't have a mechanical heart I could hack to a stop" Aria bantered in response. "Though I did manage to make it beat a little faster" she winked.

Rayner raised a brow and put her hands on her hips, playing mock-outraged. "Talk about my heart. I gave you a lubricant leak." The trio guffawed at the crude image.

These two would fit just right in a Draka locker room, Rayner commented to herself. Tollan society, as secular as it was, did have some lingering coyness about such. Hebrideans apparently didn't have organized religion – ousting the Goa'uld, who masqueraded as gods, must have colored their views as to that. With their materialist philosophy and the ease with which they modified parts of their body, it stood to reason that modesty wouldn't be high on their scale of values.

"Now, now," Charo picked up again as the laughter died, in a back-to-business tone, and stared at Rayna. "I'm told you managed to acquaint yourself a little more with our cosy little place in the galaxy?"

"I did pick up some things", Rayner conceded "but I can hardly pretend to learn an entire new civilization in a day."

"Yet you're already speaking our language to perfection… and getting to joke in it. Pretty good translation tech you have in that little implant of yours."

Well, that's not just due to the implant. But it makes things faster, the Drakensis commented in petto. She shrugged. "I can thank that first-contact package for that."

"Hmmm." Charo watched her with an inscrutable expression. "That was a big investment for Tech-Con, to make sure they were the first to talk with another power, put them ahead to do business. In your case though, I got to benefit from it. Anyway," she put the empty plate down and took a sip out of a glass, "there's something you may be able to help me with. Oh, and sit, both of you."

Rayner found herself obeying – it hadn't even occurred to her that she might sit down on her own volition. This Charo does have a commanding personality, huh?

She sat on the edge of the deeply cushioned sofa, in a posture of alert attention. She felt the warmth from Aria's body close to her side, but kept her attention on Charo.

"You see, I do trade in information, but I also like to help others start their own business." Rayner nodded in understanding and she went on "Usually ends up benefitting both parties, since I don't pick losing propositions as a rule. Anyway, some time ago I agreed to lend a would-be entrepreneur a sizable sum of credits – he came recommended by an old trade partner, and his plan was serious. A resource-extracting operation, it was. And it did succeed. Except he then decided he didn't need to repay his debt."

Ann stared back. "I see… I take it this was a reasonable debt?" After all, loan sharks were a thing and her Citizen-bred values didn't exactly hold those in high esteem.

Charo made a wry smile of understanding. "Of course." She made a flicking motion and Rayner's e-deck emitted a notification sound. "Not that I'd expect you to believe me without proof. Sent you a copy of the contract. Feel free to peruse the terms, but I trust you'll find them sensible – allowing that it concerns a business in the buffer zone, hence Tech-Con Financing wouldn't even touch it in the first place. Not that anyone willing to strike gold in a buffer world would want to depend on Tech-Con in the first place."

"I thought the Buffer Zone didn't belong to the Hebridean Republic?"

"It doesn't, nor does it legally belong to the Goa'uld… therefore, it's a land of opportunity. With the afferent risks."

"Let me guess. No laws and nobody to enforce them?" Rayner thought of old America's Wild West.

"Few laws and all of them unwritten. And enforcement's whatever you pay for."

"I think I see where this is leading."

Charo smiled coldly. "Roblanis was successful, even wildly so, He's surrounded himself with competent mercenary guards, including a very skilled cyberwarrior. Which came as a nasty surprise to the team I first sent. Yet I can't let him get away with it – my own credibility is at stake. He can take the hit to his own reputation if he ends up making me look weak."

Rayner stayed silent. Of course, Charo wouldn't want to look weak, in her position there were likely others who would jump at the perceived opportunity.

"Why me, then? Surely you didn't send amateurs the first time?"

The white-haired woman shook her head. "No, but that cyberwarrior hit them bad, disrupted them enough that the rest of the mercenaries only had to mop up."

Rayner glanced back at Aria in silent questioning. On cue, the hacker picked up the accounting. "I was remote monitoring the team and nearly got fried. Whoever this cyberwarrior is… he's supremely good."

"And I, on the other hand, have no Hebridean cyberware inside me." Rayner stated. Charo made a gesture with her closed fist in an open palm. "Bingo. Everyone here is cyberized to a degree – anyone who isn't, back in the core system, would be useless for such a task anyway. But you… you're not vulnerable to that."

Aria piped up. "I did some scans on your implant" the Draka stared at her cross-eyed "back when you first came here, I mean" she added quickly, with a hey it was nothing personal expression. "It's a wildly different tech-base. There's no way to attack it with our existing tools and techniques. Heck, it's semi-organic to begin with, nobody's seen anything like it before. There's no way anyone could hack it without actually dissecting your brain and taking the thing apart atom-by-atom to study it. Which" she added sheepishly "I'd rather not do, just so you know."

Rayner nodded and gave her newest lover a we're good, don't worry smile. It made sense enough. After all, the Domination scientists who designed it were acutely wary of cyber-sabotage and included multiple, redundant and overlapping safeties to ensure the implant couldn't be taken over by an attacker. Including the very basic option to shut down any outside connection. Which was, she supposed, harder to do with cyberware as pervasive and connected as the Hebridean tech. And the rest of her Earth or Tollan-built hardware would be similarly hard to attack wirelessly. She doubted even the very best Hebridean hacker could devise on-the-fly attacks against something they'd never ever seen before.

If she had to go in guns blazing, no magical hacking trick was going to stop her.

"A straight smash-and-grab, then" she summarized.

"That's the general idea" Charo acquiesced. "With a few important remarks. I'll send you the complete data package if you accept. But of note… the mercenaries themselves are fair game, getting killed is part of the job for them" goes for me as well, I suppose, Rayner thought "but Roblanis' other employees are innocent. Especially since their families live on-site. Yes, collateral damage happens, but I'd have to pay litigation for each casualty and that would come out of your reward" she stared at Rayner pointedly. "Second, I need Roblanis alive, though not necessarily in one piece. Dead men can't pay their debt."

Ah, Rayner's inner voice said. Can't just kill everyone then. But then, a Ghouloon could do that, she thought, picturing in her mind one of the gene-engineered warbeasts in full armor ripping cyberlimbs apart in its massive hands.

And of course, if she accepted such a task, her "I was a poor little slave of the Goa'uld" persona would only get less convincing. But, she told herself, Charo already saw through it, so nothing would really be lost.

"Go ahead then, send me the details."

Two days later, Hebridean-Goa'uld buffer zone

As AL-7X tunneled its way through the alien dimension of hyperspace towards its destination, the Drakensis agent turned mercenary calmly and methodically prepared herself. She'd spent the previous days with Aria in the latter's apartment, cramming her mind with schematics and specifications for everything she could think of, from standard defensive hardware down to connected light switches. She wouldn't fight this battle on the cyber plane, but she expected to react adequately to anything she'd find. She would have an audio-video link back to Aria on Terminus Station, relayed through the ship's subspace communication array. The lovely woman had proposed to accompany her on-site, but truth was she didn't quite trust a self-professed hacker alone on her precious ship… as pleasurable as her physical presence otherwise proved to be during the intervening night.

Of course, Aria would not open herself further in support until the other side's cyberwarrior was neutralized.

Rayner had already uploaded the enemy facility's schematics to her assault armor's navigation system. This time she wasn't going to walk out in plain clothes, so to speak. No, this time called for cracking out the very best. An evolution of the recon armor she wore on the first outworld missions along with Polignac's command, it included all the refinements and additions the Domination's weapon designers came up with during the following years, with the Kull Warriors as a likely opponent in mind.

Including the ability to fight in a wide range of environments, from deep space to a Venus-like planet, and according to the data on her destination, this was going to be handy.

Roblanis's operation was located on a very large moon, large enough to otherwise qualify as a planet. A kilometer-thick water ice crust covered a global ocean. Down in the depths, the planetoid's intense tectonic activity enabled a complex ecosystem to thrive around hydrothermal vents and black smokers. Exotic abyssal creatures and organisms were a boon of complex and useful molecules, and so were the vast fields of polymetallic nodules laying on the ocean floor.

Most extraction operations, of which the target was but one of, were located in the so-called temperate zone across the planetoid's equator, where distant sunlight somehow managed to raise the temperature to minus sixty Celsius averages, not accounting for wind effect. Fortunately, a quirk of the planet's ecosystem resulted in a breathable atmosphere, though the chemistry of the micro-organisms responsible for it had nothing to do with ordinary photosynthesis. Large fracture zones delineated the vast icy tectonic plates that made up the surface crust, through which the ocean-based ecology interacted with the outside atmosphere.

Roblanis' base was a neatly organized collection of support and habitat buildings surrounding the large operations dome. From the closed dome environment plunged the mining well linking the surface to the work platform, sitting on the oceanic shelf eight kilometers below. A lift system, reminiscent of an orbital elevator went through, the actual lift cabins being large pressure-proof cylindrical vessels, looking on the schematics like oversized pills.

The abyssal platform acted as a support base for the fleet of robots sweeping up nodules and waterborne lifeforms.

Defenses were less well identified. The first team had engaged and destroyed a couple anti-air turrets of the cheap, thrown-up from off-the-shelf components kind. Charo expected those to have been replaced with better stuff, how much better she didn't know.

There was a transit station in orbit for freight as well as people, catering to every business and settlement on the planet, and it did have some hefty defensive systems, including some manned and unmanned fighters, but they shouldn't be a factor as long as Rayner didn't attack the station itself.

She was as ready as could be, she told herself as she ran through her armor's readiness checklist for the umpteenth time. Its onboard intelligence was linked to her implant through the secure, contact-only induction interface at the base of her skull. Capacitors were full and the customized naquadah power cell was delivering a steady charge. She needn't worry about running out of juice any time soon. Smart bullets and micro-missile magazines were full, the ship's onboard fabricators already busy producing replacement stocks.

She sighed again. It was always the worst part of a mission: the moment when you were ready, prepped and eager, and the clock just wouldn't tick down faster no matter how much you wished it to, so your mind only wanted to think of what could go wrong.

Only fifteen minutes to go… fifteen minutes to kill. Shitspawn, I can't even masturbate with the armor on, she grimaced. She reached for her e-deck and spun up a game. The familiar little geometric shapes materialized out of nowhere and started to fall at a leisurely pace. She reached with her hand and began to spin them so they slotted seamlessly into the ones collecting down the bottom border, allowing a whole row to disappear. It was deceptively simple in concept, yet she found the bright colorful shapes and upbeat accompanying music addictive enough.

The shapes became predictably harder to slot as the game's difficulty increased with time, but her Drakensis brain was more than up to the task and she almost frowned in annoyance when the navigation computer beeped its proximity alert, forcing her to interrupt her game. Then she made an almost gloating sound when she saw that she was in the top hundred players in the system. The satisfied smirk didn't leave her face as AL-7X catapulted out of hyperspace high over the destination planet. Its local name translated as "Frozen bounty", which she found rather unimaginative, but she supposed it was fitting at least, seeing it through the front window. Fluffy white clouds over expanses of white, only interrupted by darker patches and spots where the underlying, energy-rich ecosystem broke through the ice.

The space station was but a bright dot, helpfully pointed out by the augmented vision system. But someone out there must have been keeping a close watch on incoming ships, for a communication prompt arrived seconds later.

"Incoming ship, state your identity and intentions", a male, alert voice asked in a tone that was demanding rather than requesting. Straight to the point. She sent her response back in a matching manner, along with a transponder reply identifying her ship.

"I have no business with you. Only passing through the orbitals on my way to Roblanis' base. He's the one I have business with."

There was a pause, then "Ah. Another one of those." Over the radio, she wasn't sure if the voice was amused, alarmed or resigned. An audible sign seemed to validate the latter. "Fine. Whatever happens, keep it far away from this station, or we'll be forced to take sides" came as a clear warning to wash the dirty laundry in private, so to speak.

"Understood."

The voice must have been satisfied by her answer and the fact that her ship's vector was evidently heading away from the station, for it kept silent. She imagined its owner must be monitoring her progress, maybe making bets as to the outcome with his colleagues and friends. Her mouth curled up. Right, maybe I'll give them a show.

Then two objects detached from the station's docks. Her system automatically zoomed in, scanning them with an active sensor sweep. Two ships of local design, each smaller than her Alkesh and maneuvering into an intercept course. She spat an angry curseword. Not taking sides? What the-

"Those two departing ships are registered with Roblanis. This station has no control over them" The voice called back.

"Fine, so yo' won't be peeved if I shoot them down" Rayner found herself slipping a hint of her homeworld drawl into her reply as things appeared to heat up.

"Not our business" came the defensive answer. She almost pictured the faceless man holding his hands apart in a matching "can't help it, deal with it" gesture.

Well, she had to trust the station's owners to keep to their word. If they decided to add their firepower to the pair of interceptors, she might be forced to abort. Otherwise, she estimated as she quickly ascertained the threat, she was going to fight it out. Roblanis' ships appeared to be civilian designs, not military ones, small freighters according to her local shipping database, albeit with weapons slapped on. Not an unreasonable thing to expect in the Buffer Zone.

She ran through tactical options quickly. Her own vessel was flying down a shallow reentry vector but she was still far out of the planet's atmosphere, and the enemy pair was burning for her hard. Better to fight it out in vacuum where her shield operated at maximum efficiency, she decided.

The range decreased and things began to happen. Four missile-like objects launched out of the lead ship, then four more from the other one flying in a loose echelon left formation. Rayner watched the eight projectiles scream in while her defensive system assessed their performance envelope and sensors. Eight countermissiles spat out of the box launchers wedged inside her hull. On her displays, the symbols began evasive maneuvers, corkscrewing like ferrets on crack to throw off their opponents; electronic warfare displays told of a complex dance of blind partners – both sides highly skilled but playing two different styles of music, none gaining enough of an advantage on the other as they groped for vulnerabilities in their multispectral targeting logic in the short time allowed. Five small stars blossomed as the two formations crossed paths. Not bad, thought Rayner.

Next her point defense opened up, the quick-firing plasma guns adapted from reverse-engineered Kull blasters, streams of brilliant gold tracers arcing away. One by one the three remaining missiles died, not one of them coming close to even tickled her shield.

Seconds later, the three counter-missiles, having missed their initial targets and continued on their way to attack the launching vessels, suffered the same fate as the combined autocannon fire from the two-ship formation tore them apart.

Rayner mentally shrugged. The small projectiles wouldn't be much of a threat to properly armored and shielded ships anyway. There was no point launching more when they were rapidly reaching gunnery range anyway. Not worth it when fabricating replacements would take days and precious feedstocks.

Muzzle flashes. Here it comes, braced the mercenary, putting AL-7X into her own defensive maneuvers. Rail-launched tungsten projectiles zipped by, followed by plasma shots. She managed to evade the first salvo, but the next landed hits as her opponents closed range and refined their targeting solutions. The shield indicator flashed, integrity holding on but decreasing steadily under the follow-up barrage.

Think yo' have me on the ropes, huh? Rayner bared her teeth in a reflexive rictus. The two attackers were bracketing her six now, yet taking care to stay in the fringe of the firing cone they expected of a standard Alkesh's rear turret. She allowed them to congratulate themselves on their smarts, making a show of firing the rear guns ineffectually at them. They were close now, reaching knife fighting range. If she wanted, she could spot every detail of their hulls, down to the registry markings. But above all, she was flying a space ship. She didn't have to keep taking it up the ass.

My turn now!

AL-7X suddenly swiveled around her axis in glorious Newtonian motion, ending up facing Bogey one, the closest, even as she continued flying on her initial vector. It was something her Jaffa operators were never trained to do, indeed their flight interface wasn't even designed to allow for maneuvers beyond endo-atmospheric-like dogfights, their Goa'uld masters wisely – or not- decreeing that slaves should not believe in something like "science" and "aerodynamics" and "fluids mechanics" as opposed to "godmagic", so godmagic-powered craft should fly the same way in any setting.

The Domination engineers who'd refitted the prize spacecraft, on the contrary, had entertained different beliefs.

To their credit, the Hebridean crew of Bogey one was not Jaffa and recognized Rayner's maneuver for what it was… but their reaction time was off. AL-7X's forward facing heavy batteries barked a hail of railgun slugs and plasma bolts. Bogey one's shield flared and flashed as Rayner's gunnery held it unerringly inside her crosshairs and the distance between both ships rapidly melted away.

A few seconds of full-on fire eventually confirmed what Rayner had learnt skimming the indigenous technical literature: Goa'uld shields were still better pound-for-pound, and those ships weren't even military-grade to start with. Bogey one disintegrated into rapidly separating fragments and hot gas while her own shield held under the answering battering.

Bogey two tried to disengage, its crew either frightened or deciding they weren't paid enough for this proverbial shit. Not that a battle-lusted Drakensis would allow them to. The pursuit reversed, the fleeing Hebridean craft couldn't generate enough acceleration to escape in time, and suffered the same fate a minute later. Mercy was never even contemplated in Rayner's mind – she couldn't afford to leave a hostile ship behind her.

"Not exactly a bog-standard Alkesh, your ship" Aria's voice commented a couple minutes later over the subspace comm. "I watched the battle through the station's sensor view" she explained a second later.

"Huh. Did you know Roblanis had a pair of gunships docked there?" Rayner answered the ceiling, not bothering to hide the slight irritation in her voice as a "so why didn't you tell me in advance?" subtext.

"Sorry Rayna, no" the answer came with a chastised tone, "separate systems, the space control network's somewhat open, necessities of navigation, but internal manifest is off-limits."

"I understand" said a mollified Ann Rayner. "Back on track."

"I'll be monitoring."

After an uneventful reentry the modified Alkesh flew across the vast icy plains, dotted here and there with settlements, tiny from altitude and non-threatening, though active sensor sweeps told its owner that people down there were keeping an eye on what happened up in the sky. But she'd made clear what her intended destination and intent were… and everyone else seemed content to just watch from afar. Hell, maybe some were actually looking forward to seeing a competitor get in trouble. Who knew? Given the local philosophy, Rayner expected such considerations.

As she closed with her target she dropped lower, keeping the ground between her ship and the base's line of sight. She flew in a curving approach. Assuming Roblanis' people didn't have more eyes in the sky, she might keep them guessing as to where she'd appear from.

Twenty kilometers from target AL-7X flew barely a dozen feet from the snowy, gently undulating ground, the speed of her passage raising a low trail of powdered snow. Active sensors primed and weapons on autonomous standby, she prepared to crest the last ridge.

Rayner's craft came from the south-east rather than the western approach her opponents had expected from her reentry vector. Active sensors swept ahead of the ship, highlighting the distant buildings, picking up power sources and emitters. The ship's Goa'uld brain chirped as it recognized the distinctive shape and signature of a pair of staff cannons set on towers, bracketing the northern and southern points of the camp. Yet they were pointing where the operators had expected her to come from. A fraction of a second of reaction time was all she needed to take the advantage. Railgun slugs and plasma bolts raked the southernmost tower, collapsing its shield in a crackle of static lighting, then blowing off the top in a shower of sparks and incandescent debris.

The remaining tower spat fire in her direction before it finished aiming. Bolts zipped past her port side as she adjusted the ship's flight path and returned fire. A heavy plasma bolt crashed across her forward shield quadrant, dropping its integrity by half, but her return fire was already finding its mark.

A second defensive bolt crashed through and AL-7X's protective forcefield collapsed on itself. Star-hot plasma washed over her forward hull, fortunately expanding into a cloud already rather than tightly focused inside an intact containment bubble. The damage control display warned her of elevated temperatures, but no permanent damage. Another such shot landing onto her unprotected hull would have penetrated and very possibly crippled the ship or worse, if it hit the flight deck.

She banked in a tight right turn, releasing a cloud of multispectral decoys as she did, then congratulated herself on applying old Earth attack craft procedures to this alien setting when a pair of hypersonic anti-air missiles streaked from the base, intent on finishing the job started by the burning and smoking wrecks of the cannon towers.

Their seekers blinded by the dense, opaque clouds saturated with radar-concealing metallic particles, they flew way past the ship and self-destructed harmlessly.

By doing so the launcher had revealed itself to the assault ship's sensors. As Rayner's machine flew downrange, breaking line of sight, a single missile detached itself and streaked back. Its imaging head scanned the target location and coldly analyzed the scene. A pair of operators were frantically working to reload the launcher mounted on some kind of utility tracked vehicle – the kind adapted to drive through thick snow. The small guidance computer, as sophisticated as it was, didn't have by far the kind of intelligence needed to think something like "got you, suckers!" as it drove the missile to the point overhead for optimum warhead activation.

But the end effect was similar enough in intent. The adaptive warhead, a dozen meters above the launcher, selected the optimal detonation mode for antipersonnel and light anti-materiel effect. A loud bang resonated like a New Year firecracker, but the real damage was driven by the shower of razor-sharp tungsten flechettes. The patch of ground where launcher and operators stood appeared to erupt in pulverized ice and snow with streaks of red. The misty cloud appeared to hung in the air for several seconds before the omnipresent wind carried it away, revealing the broken husk of machinery and shredded meat.

A minute later the tactical recon drone launched by Rayner cautiously peeked over the ridge, then made its silent way towards the base, its stealth coating blending its small body with the sky-blue backdrop.

Rayner watched the screens as AL-7X hovered in a dip in the ground, its shield gradually recharging. The destroyed towers had already stopped burning, with just a faint whiff of electrical smoke still wafting up. She wondered how Roblanis had managed to acquire those Goa'uld-made weapons. Probably smuggled, she supposed, and certainly expensive. So much the better for her. Another one of those would have been real bad news.

The drone didn't reveal anything else – its sensors couldn't see through the building's thickly insulated walls. Nobody seemed reckless enough to go out in the open and face a space ship after what happened to the missile crew.

And she couldn't just fly and flatten the whole place from above. There were the workers and their families, for a start. Then if she killed Roblanis, he'd have trouble paying back his debt. No, she'd have to disembark and get hands-on. But first and just to be sure, she'd offer him a chance to settle this without further bloodshed.

"This is Rayna, acting on behalf of Charo, calling Roblanis." The message went out, carried by the radio waves on the standard proximity frequency.

A short moment passed, then a burst of static, but no spoken reply. Rayner rose an eyebrow in annoyance. She'd just destroyed expensive pieces of hardware – maybe worth a significant fraction of what the guy actually owed Charo. Couldn't he see the logic in settling?

"Look, there's no need for further bloodshed. I mean, you signed a contract with the woman. Paying up one's debt is good business practice, no?" she added in her most reasonable voice in a last-ditch effort to appeal at the man's common sense.

Another moment passed. Then "Screw that bitch Charo! If you want the money, come and get it!"

The anger in the voice made Rayner's features screw in puzzlement. Was there more to that story than her sponsor had revealed? The man's tone reeked of personal conflict. She shrugged. Whatever it was, she wasn't paid to dwell on it. And she frankly didn't care. She contemplated sending a pithy reply and shrugged again. It wasn't her role to get emotional here.

The drone maintained its vigil as she jogged toward the settlement, her legs sinking in the snow up to her crotch at every step. It would have been an exhausting journey for an ordinary human playing snowplow. For her, it was merely tedious. Halfway through the winds picked up as the sky turned a grey overcast and heavy snow began falling. Encased in her armor, it made no difference to her.

She dropped on her belly as she reached the last ridge. Faintly visible through the murk, three hundred meters ahead was the industrial compound's perimeter. She scanned the length of it through her battle rifle's long-range optics. Nobody was moving. The windows were obscured by storm panels. There was no way to know what awaited over there. But the drone had marked the location of surveillance cameras and perimeter sensors for her.

Shots barked in quick succession and Rayner's bullets shattered the exposed sensors facing her general direction. As soon as the last round was downrange, she rolled back into concealment and leopard-crawled to another position a hundred yards away. And she listened.

Still just the wind.

She rose and ran toward the compound, zigzagging erratically, all senses, biological or electronic on alert. Her armor's electronic warfare system told her of complex signals and waveforms being directed at her in the electromagnetic bands. They were analyzed as sophisticated electronic attacks aimed at indigenous computing architectures – her systems were wildly different. But the attacker seemed to recognize that and switched to another level of deviousness, sending a dizzying stream of signals coded analogically, aiming to find out how her sensors processed external input then push malicious data packets through.

It was something the Domination designers had anticipated – the Alliance had deployed conceptually similar techniques in the last years of the Protracted Struggle – but their brute-force way of defending against such was based on simply closing off each avenue of approach as the attacker tried to exploit it. While effective in the short term, it would inevitably start to degrade her sensors' effectiveness soon. Whoever the cyberwarrior was, Rayner briefly allowed herself to think, they were good enough to find ways to attack a system architecture they'd never known about before.

Therefore, she had to stop it. At least her armor could track where the signals came from and targeting carets blossomed in her synthetic vision. She didn't waste time allowing a fire mission and the flat-pack micro-missile launcher mounted on her shoulder blade spat a salvo of homing projectiles. A couple seconds later, small explosions blossomed across the complex, toppling antennas and smashing solid-state emitter panels. The wave of esoteric induction warfare attacks slowed to a trickle that her armor could safely compensate for.

A visual alert, a zoomed window springing in her display – an aperture on the tall operation dome had just opened – a muzzle flash – Rayner ducked instinctively – she felt the shock through her gauntlets as a heavy bullet smashed through her rifle between stock and trigger, narrowly missing her trigger finger. She swore, dropping the useless halves of her long weapon and rolling through the packed snow. The armor provided an estimation of the projectile – something akin to an Earth-built twenty-mil antimateriel rifle. Had she not ducked when she did, she would have caught the explosive armor-piercing round straight on the chest, and she had no wish to find out who, armor or sniper shell, would have won the fight. A mental command, another micro-missile streaked out in the couple seconds it took the distant sniper to work the bolt of his massive weapon. The small self-guided projectile punched straight in the chink between helmet and chest plate and detonated. The helmet flew backwards – still containing the owner's head and the decapitated body sagged forward on the railing. Blood pumped down the dome's side, tainting the snow red.

Behind her own opaque face-plate, Rayner made a savage grin, savoring the rush of adrenaline. This was a proper fight.

There was some sort of loading dock ahead and according to the layout it connected to the operations dome through a low narrow building. It was as good an access point as another. She rapidly ran up the ramp and crouched. She strained her senses. All she could hear was a distant background hum of machinery and a faint whine of electrical circuitry. No shouts, no breathing coming from the other side of the steel curtain. A shattered surveillance camera dangled from above the door. The freezing air carried a barely perceptible human tang, probably permeating from the crew quarters located in another building. Nothing betrayed a presence on the other side of the loading door. She decided against using her wall-penetrating radar – it wouldn't pick much through the metal obstacle, and would risk alerting defenders to her exact location.

She punched her rigid fingers through the metal sheeting of the door, curled them, and heaved, forcing the curtain door up with a metallic screech. She was committed, and she quickly rolled through the gap inside the bay, flowing inside and scanning the space ahead. Empty, save a couple crates on the side quays – air displacement behind her, she automatically duck-rolled away – a loud muzzle crack, impact shattering the concrete floor inches away - a ground shock as something heavy landed – she cursed inwardly. Bastard had been hiding overhead, gripping the ceiling beams, had to be. And waited until she was in, hoping to backstab her, a plan that almost worked. Now as to why she didn't get a hint of it through her enhanced senses… the man – the face at least had rough, masculine traits- was more machine than flesh. Facing her, he looked rather more like a bulky humanoid robot with a human face. No wonder that an almost total-conversion cyborg didn't give off pheromones, nor audibly breathed. The scents hitting her nose now were mechanical, ozone and lubricant and warm metal. She barely had time to process her adversary's appearance before his arm moved in a blur, machine-fast. She recognized a gauntlet weapon, analyzed its aim-point, willed her own body to dodge with her own enhanced reflexes, her armor working in unison with her muscles and nerves – another loud bark, the concussion of a supersonic shockwave millimeters away from her chest, a corner of her mind barely bothering to process the impact on the back wall of the projectile that narrowly missed her, her own response in the form of a volley of small-caliber bullets from the gauntlet gun mounted in her right vambrace, the whine of the flexible ammo-feed bringing rounds forward from the flat side magazine, the sharp thuds of ricochets on the massive armored chest facing her. The cyborg took a step forward with a speed that belied his bulk, whipping out a monomolecular filament out of his right wrist that vibrated with a sinister finality. Rayner parried the strike with her right vambrace and sparks flashed as she felt a concussion travel through her arm bones. Damage warnings sprang up in her integrated combat consciousness, a quick step back, she glimpsed a dull red gash in the vambrace, the gun was out of commission, cleanly sliced through.

Instinct aim from her left wrist, three-round burst from her rapid-fire plasma blaster – the Kull-derived one, flashed of impact on the cyborg's arm, the dangerous filament weapon turned limp and fell away, damaged and automatically discarded. Less than a heartbeat's time was elapsed yet, more in combat-accelerated perception, enough to classify her opponent as a major threat. Confirmation as the giant stepped inside her guard, intent on bringing his mass to bear on her, a fist like the piston of an industrial press impacted her helmet before she could dodge or parry again. Her front optics shattered under the impact, hairline fractures on the face-plate – neck armor instantly turning rigid to protect her spine, kinetic gel absorbing the remainder of the energy, saving her from a concussion. She flew backwards, felt her momentum arrested as a metal hand closed on her right wrist, the suit retracted the damaged faceplate and she could see again. No time for fear, even as the cyborg foot kicked the side of her knee in a vicious, bone-shattering move. The flash of pain was just information, like the feedback from her suit – the metalloy exoskeleton frame supporting the armor there was bent and cracked, damaging its integrity, but her Drakensis bones and redesigned joint held against a strike that would have pulped a human knee, even armored.

Rayner's mind didn't have time for complex thought, even to say Fuck! to herself. Now she was inside the cyborg's guard as well and – she twisted her torso aside, fighting the cyborg's grip, and the cherry-red blade telescoping out of his right arm merely glanced against her chest plate, carving a glowing gouge through the metal-ceramic composite. More damage warnings, heat expanding from the impact point. She fought to free herself, kicking with both feet, and the twin impact made a dent on her enemy's torso armor, yet the grip held fast, grinding her wrist bones as the vambrace assembly cracked under the relentless pressure.

No way something so big oughta move so fast- the incandescent blade stabbed again like a cobra, a mere blur in her vision- a tremendous jolt felt throughout her body, burning pain, red condition warnings, a spray of blood trailing the blade as it retracted, priming to strike again.

"I'M GOING TO GUT YOU ALIVE" the cyborg bellowed in a screeching metallic voice, red eyes boring into hers. "BITCH!" he added as an afterthought. What is it with those metal guys and lack of subtlety? The whimsical corner voice mused in Rayner's mind, memory of Gamron resurfacing in the background – but the active part of her mind was only thinking should not have stopped to gloat, asshole, as she felt the valves in her major blood vessels reconfigure and her secondary heart kick in, sidestepping the man-killing damage in her chest.

The cyborg's ugly, cruel grin froze as her left palm rose with a charging whine and the Bruiser discharged point-blank in his face. As were all the Domination's reverse-engineered Goa'uld devices, the Bruiser was cruder and more energy-intensive than the Kara'kesh it was modeled after, lacking the more exotic modes of operation that allowed the Goa'uld owner to torture foes and prisoners with excruciating pain. But the kinetic shockwave it produced was just as effective as the original.

The cyborg dropped Rayner and staggered backward, his remaining organic brain stunned by the blast.

"AND I'M NOT DYING AGAIN TODAY!" she bellowed in turn, jumping forward. She landed on top of the mechanized mercenary, closing her thighs on his massive shoulders, her left fist striking down with all her mind towards the top of the cyborg's head, integral bayonet snapping out of her intact vambrace, the sharp point punching through the cranial armor like a knife through an eggshell. She didn't retract it as he'd done with her chest, but levered the blade inside the brain-case, holding herself with her right hand, a savage rictus on her face, tearing biological brain matter and implanted circuitry into mush and fragments, not stopping until she felt the massive body underneath her become inert. She jumped out as the 'borg crashed down on the floor with a resounding thud, then stood panting, watching like a hawk for any sign of life as a mixture of blood and brain matter seeped down onto the concrete.

A minute passed, then two, and the defeated cyborg remained motionless, its body cooling in the frigid air. Then Rayner fell on her knees and dry-heaved, the strain on her metabolism catching up. More pain from her ravaged chest, but her self-sealing lungs were still working, and so did her secondary cardiovascular system. Repairing the damage would wait until she was back to her ship.

By all that's holy or not, I hope this guy was alone, she allowed herself to think in relief as she brought her breathing under control. White Christ, he would have killed me. Fuck. If I ever thought those people were pushovers, I stand corrected.

Rising up, she unholstered the plasma pistol tucked in the small of her back and jogged to the door waiting at the back of the bay.

She kicked it open, moved through in textbook tactical maneuver, then froze, weapon extended. Between two rows of crates and canvas-covered machinery, a man stood clad in light armor, obviously caught on his way to the loading bay. His hands instantly rose up above his head as he caught sight of Rayner staring at him down the length of her pistol and the submachinegun he'd been carrying clattered on the floor.

"Don't shoot! I yield! I yield!"

Rayner's eyes widened in surprise, and she held the man in her sights.

"Explain" she ordered tersely. He gave her a are-you-kidding-me expression back.

"Look, I saw you fighting Crusher through the bay's cameras, okay? Nobody ever, ever… shit, you're the first person to fight him hand to hand and win" his gaze went to the bloody gash in her chest armor "whatever chrome you have in there, it's good, real good" he added.

"So you came in to try and help him?"

"Err…" the man nodded with an embarrassed expression. "Didn't think it through much – look, you got me, I know I wasn't going to shoot before you did, and I'm a merc, okay? I'm in for the money and fame, not to fight to the death for a losing cause!"

"You the last one?"

More frantic head motions. "Yes! Well, except Maïkan. Our e-warrior" he explained. "And she didn't slow you. Can't believe it either. She crippled the previous guys, the ones who came before you, Crusher only had to finish them…"

"Where is she? And where's Roblanis?"

"In the ops room!" he gestured toward the back of the room, toward the dome. "Can't miss the signs. Just don't kill Maïkan, please? She's a friend. It's business, not personal, right?"

"Do you expect me to just leave you here?" The man nodded in understanding. "Look, I'm yielding, I just broadcasted it, it's on my honor now" As he explained, Rayner's communication subsystem caught a relayed transmission from Aria, subvocalizing it to her auditive nerve pathways. He's telling the truth; I caught the local net-traffic broadcast. Everyone on the circuit will know he yielded to you, he can't go back now. It's inconceivable, he's honor-bound. And that Maïkan's dropped the glove as well, she's clearing out of the local net, that's why I can talk to you now.

"Fine. You better behave" she told him as a warning.

"I'll gather my belongings in the hab. Not going to bother you again, sooner I'm out of here, the better."

She nodded at him and he walk – gingerly – past her and through the loading bay. She watched his reaction of mixed disgust and awe at the dead Crusher, waited until he'd gone through the partially open loading door. Then she resumed her own journey.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, drop it!" she snapped at Roblanis. The man had a look of stubborn defiance on his cosmetically-altered face – supposedly he'd gone under the scalpel to enhance his looks, Rayner judged, but it only made him look doll-like, artificial. Not that it mattered to her. His eyes darted again to the gun laying on the floor where she'd kicked it earlier, storming inside his office after a brief, wordless exchange of stares with Maïkan, lying motionless and purposefully unthreatening in the couch-like cradle that connected her to the cyberwar gear surrounding her among the ops room's own industrial control hardware.

She gave the target a don't even think of it, you idiot expression.

"It's over. Enough people died for your bloody money. Just do the sensible thing!"

Roblanis reddened, appeared on the verge on launching into an angry tirade, and she cut him off.

"I. Don't. Care!" she shouted at him, as much for his benefit as for Charo, who was undoubtedly listening through the link to Aria. She was satisfied to see his recoiling motion. Apparently a shouting Drakensis was still frightening. Especially a bloodied Drakensis with a metaphorically smoking gun. She pointed at the screen extruded from the executive-tailored desk, then caught the man's wrist and twisted, raising a cry of pain.

"This is the only choice you have: either you transfer the money now, or you transfer the money after I torture you. And the more you waste my time, the more painful I'll make it!"

She watched emotions flash through Roblanis' eyes. Fear, anger, defiance, fear, pain – another astutely timed twist on his arm – emptiness, then, at last, surrender. Whatever train of thought had just rumbled through the man's brain, she hoped reason was the last carriage leaving the station.

An exhalation of breath from Charo's debtor, like the deflating balloon of his pride.

"Fuck you, fuck Charo, but I'll do it. All right. You won."

"Finally!" exclaimed a thoroughly relieved Rayner. She hadn't relished the prospect of torturing someone for money. Oh sure, she would have gone through if he'd kept resisting… but this outcome was best. She just wanted it to be over with, go back to her ship, fly out, enter hyper, put the ship on autopilot, then take a much-needed long nap in the autodoc.

An hour and several credit transfers later – one of which added a sizable sum to her ledger, this was exactly what she did.

/

/

/

"We're leaving, now!"

The small Serrakin male gave her a look of… annoyance? Desperation?

"But I-" "NOW!"

Rayner picked him up and threw him over her shoulder, then broke into a run out of the small laboratory. The scientist she was paid to extract was still babbling indignantly, apparently finding his new role as a potato sack undignified. She didn't care a bit. His "hosts", if they could call such the gang who'd kidnapped him and forced him to churn out hallucinogenic drugs for them, would be hot on their heels. And while she didn't fear fighting them, the guy was unarmored. So, run she did, retracing her steps through the small asteroid station's rock-carved tunnels and barely sparing a glance at the cooling bodies she'd left there during her ingress.

She entered the main hangar bay, where she'd landed Alix (after a while, she'd taken to naming the ship by this convenient take on her hull number) under the pretense of bringing supplies and reaction precursors. Of course, the station's denizens were now aware of the deception and shouts rang out from the other side. A mental command later, small panels snapped open on the ship's sides and the point-defense guns telescoped out. The characteristic whizz-snap sounds of the blasters silenced the shouts an instant later.

A minute later the temporarily repainted Alkesh masquerading as a pirate vessel burst out of the bay, smashing the flimsy doors, blasters still raking the interior and leaving no functional ship behind to give chase.

/

/

/

The hapless cargo ship hung in space, looking for all watching as if the sudden electronic attack had disabled its systems. The pirate ship – the genuine item – approached to dock, closing with the assembly of struts and tanks and cargo modules artfully disguising Alix' original shape.

The gathered pirates, a motley crew of Serrakin and Humans, waited in their airlock as the two vessels connected, eager to cut through the prey's lock and subdue the undoubtedly cowering crew.

They didn't expect the Drakensis buzzsaw that came out of it.

/

/

/

Rayner counted the credits on the bundle of chips, nodded, gave a last glance at the collection of crates just unloaded from her ship. Dockworkers in load-bearing harnesses were busy stacking them onto a wheeled carrier, to carry them from the isolated landing pad to the small mining colony.

Food delicacies, the manifest had said, and she'd checked out the contents. The kind of fresh stuff that went stale quickly and didn't take well to freezing. The kind of stuff only a fast hyperdrive made worthwhile to deliver out in the boonies. And apparently the upstart mining company's boss was of the "treat my workers well and they'll work well" school. Rayner smiled indulgently. The same attitude worked for plantation serfs back in the Domination. But here the workers were free and looking for fortune, far from the stifling embrace of Tech-Con. They just had to deal with the relative isolation.

All in all, it was a milk run for her.

/

/

/

Fuck it, you must be cheating! Nobody can be this good at the game!" the heavy-auged punter blew out, sweeping the table angrily. Betting chips and game tokens flew aside, then the table itself followed with a resounding crash as it shattered on the wall.

Rayner made an annoyed face, still sitting. True, she'd cleaned them off… but she never forced them to raise the stakes in the first place. Suggesting that she'd strip naked on the table if they won? It was just betting banter, right? The music still blared in the spaceport bar, but the usual background of loud conversations died out. She felt every pair of eyes – in some cases, not technically pair of eyes, but close enough – turn in her direction with curiosity and anticipation. The four other players felt emboldened enough to close on her, flanking the angry stevedore. All of them wore worker coveralls and sported cybernetic limb replacements, like most patrons in this place.

Ah well, to say I just wanted to have a drink. Why did I have to… Rayner's inward monologue stopped as a fist pumped towards her face. But this wasn't a combat-oriented mod like that Crusher merc. No, this was a bar brawl. She slid out of the chair in a controlled fall, effortlessly avoiding the hit, then swept her leg in a circle. A man fell on his back with a surprise cry. More shouts rose from the background as the other punters cheered the starting fight.

She grinned as more fists came her way. This time, she was going to hold back. It wouldn't be a good show if it was over too quickly, after all.

She swaggered to the bar with a ferally satisfied look, savoring the heat spreading throughout her body after the little scrap. Even the dull pain she allowed herself to savor, pulsing from the handful of bruises she'd let them land onto her just for the fun of it. Her cheek was chafing and probably turning a nice shade of blue, but she knew it would quickly pass.

Not like the guys lying on the floor behind and moaning dolorously. She'd tried not to break anything, but hey, a fight was a fight and shit happened.

She grabbed a stool, sat on it, legs widely spread in a space-dominating way to go with the cocksure expression she wore, found a glass of amber spirit sliding in front of her, downed it in a long gulp, then bothered to look where it came from. A Serrakin male was sitting next and eyeing her with the kind of look one gave to someone who'd just proved they ranked high among the tough guys. Then his strange eyes went down on their own volition to her torn shirt. She realized she must be giving off a ton of pheromones. Fighting did make her horny… and well, she'd read that the two species were sexually compatible, weren't they?

Well then, she was going to spice up her night and find out for herself.

/

/

/

Finally, Ann Rayner told herself. There it was. The stargate was standing on its lonesome in the middle of nowhere, on a planet that was also nowhere – an otherwise uninteresting and empty star system where nobody would go without a reason. The world was barely habitable, the local ecosystem apparently struggling to keep itself above survival level; the stargate stood on a vast tundra analogue of grey-green mossy grass. There wasn't an animal to see save a smattering of tiny insects.

It was closer to the Goa'uld borders, really at the edge of the Buffer Zone, adding to the reasons why nobody would settle down. A star among thousands in short FTL range. A needle in a haystack. Rayner had received the coordinates after she accepted the job from her anonymous customer – she did have a fast ship and a growing reputation, she'd reasoned. It was a delivery, nothing out of the world at first sight. But it had to be done with a Goa'uld ship, and with the utmost discretion. She fit the description enough.

Alix was quietly hovering in the background. She'd arrived early, but there was no accurate time for the meeting. She was told to wait until it happened.

What she did have was space. Hence, she grabbed the opportunity to exercise in the open, running in circles around the gate, pausing for calisthenics, relishing the fresh air on her skin. It was a nice change of pace.

She'd paused to munch on an energy bar – she'd stocked on Food-Tech before leaving – when the stargate began to rumble.

She stood aside arms crossed when the visitor materialized out of the event pool. Tall, broad, alert-looking, so square-jawed it was almost a caricature, short off-blonde hair, middle-aged in look. He wore a camouflage-grey, fitted overall, on top of which a harness supported pieces of hard armor along with device and weapon holsters. The right-thigh one was empty, as its corresponding weapon was in hand and loosely pointing at her. She recognized a Goa'uld design, though unfamiliar.

She raised an eyebrow. The scent was unfamiliar as well. Neither Goa'uld nor Human or Serrakin.

She waved slowly, careful not to make a sudden motion. "Hey!" she called out "I'm the deliverywoman!". The newcomer stared at her. She repeated her greeting in standard Goa'uld.

"Then where's my delivery" came the answer in a flat monotone. Not a big bundle of fun, are you? Her mind sarcastically commented.

She pointed her thumb backwards over her shoulder. "In my ship. No tricks."

"Bring it to me."

"Fine." She stared pointedly at his still extended gun hand and he seemed to take the hint, lowering it grudgingly.

She turned on her heels and walked back to the ship – her implant relaying the surveillance view so that she still had eyes on the visitor. She didn't expect him to shoot her in the back, but she didn't come all this way through being careless. But there was no backstabbing. She brought out the long, grey, unmarked and sealed hovercrate, then pushed it away from the ship, its own counter-grav mechanism ensuring she only had to fight inertia to move it.

The man watched her approach and nudge the floating box in front of him.

He took it from her, turned it sideways, applied his thumb on a patch in the smooth cover, then opened it so that it blocked Rayner's view of the contents. She saw his face twitch, but stayed silent as he took something inside. She remained neutral when he put an oblong injector onto his neck and activated it. Through a small transparent part of the device, a whitish substance appeared to be injected into his bloodstream. Then his features relaxed, and he closed the lid.

"Good" he merely commented, acknowledging her with a head gesture.

"Glad to see that" she replied neutrally.

"You can never speak of this transaction, you know that?" he checked. She spread her hands.

"Yes, it was in the contract. And I'm not going to ask what this was."

He made a curious, sinister little grin. "Trust me, the less you know, the better for you. You don't want to end up on the Goa'uld shit-list."

"What makes you think I'm not already on it?" she said lightly. He stared at her in response, obviously considering what to make of her question.

"This is no joke." He finally answered with a dour expression. "I've seen worlds burn only because it pleased some Goa'uld lord to. The Hebrideans?" he glanced at the sky, then stared back at Rayner. "They're doing what they need to do to keep the Goa'uld happy enough with the statu quo. Though" he glanced at the box "some of them are doing what they can. And I'll leave it at that."

He started to pull the box toward the stargate, then called back over his shoulder. "Your payment should land in a few days. Consider this stargate's location is your bonus. Now leave before I dial out."

She nodded her understanding. He wouldn't want her to see what combination he'd type on the pedestal, naturally.

Aris Boch watched the Alkesh take off and speed upwards. He waited until he couldn't see the tiny spot any more, then waited some more. Only then did he dial out and leave the planet with his smuggled baggage.

Two days later, Alix landed back onto the spot in front of the stargate, and minutes later Dante Base on Luna received a burst data packet containing everything Rayner had learnt in the year since she'd arrived in the Hebridean sector.

Unnamed planet, Goa'uld-Hebridean Buffer Zone, 36 hours later

The spider drone skittered out of the horizon pool, its mimetic skin instantly taking the shade and texture of the tundra, so effectively that even Ann Rayner's eyes had trouble keeping it in focus. She waved in its general direction nonetheless. A minute later, the first tracked sled rolled out of the stargate carrying strapped cargo crates. It rolled downrange to clear the way for the following sleds. Eight of the vehicles in total found themselves arrayed in a crescent formation in front of the parked Alkesh.

Then a man crossed the shimmering surface, alone.

Anton de Polignac's eyes swept his surrounding before coming to rest on the waiting agent. Then a huge grin cracked his composure and he strode forward. With an answering joyous laugh, Rayner did the same, and the two Drakas clasped hands, adding a hearty slap on the shoulder for good measure.

"Ann! Or should I say, Queen Mercenary of the Starways?" he greeted her teasingly, and she replied with a modest hand flutter that contradicted her own grin. "Me? Ah come on, I'm just delivering packages and killing some people, nothing extraordinary."

Anton held her at arm's length, hands on her shoulders, peering into her face. "You look good. Really."

"Well, you know, I've been doing stuff instead of moping. Works wonders for morale."

"Doing people too?" he winked mischievously at the lewd double entendre.

Ann's face made a "Seriously?" expression, and she playfully smacked him with a finger. He raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Anyway, reading your report was enlightening. You're bringing in a treasure trove of intel as it is." He started walking to the first sled. "Come on, I'll help you loading that stuff on your ship while we talk. I can't stay around too long, you know."

"For the same reason you sent automated cargo sleds and nobody else?"

"Uh-uh." Anton grunted affirmatively, shifting a large box of printer precursors onto the ramp. "Your identity and mission are still very much confidential."

"So… no reinforcements coming?" she asked with more than simple curiosity. If she told herself the truth, she wasn't too keen on watching more Draka -pure Draka- pour out of the gate into "her" corner of the galaxy. And what this told about her own mind and self, she didn't feel too comfortable pursuing. She got a level stare in return, as if her own deep interrogations were reflected in the blue eyes of her nominal commander.

"No, but you seem to have things well in hand anyway. Except that fight with the combat-modded cyborg. The after-action report and suit telemetry were… well, harrowing, I'd dare say. Though" he grinned "it's good to know there are things able to give us an actual challenge."

"So… not considering opening an official diplomatic channel to the Hebridean republic?"

A snort preceded the answer. "The Tollan case was… special, in that the circumstances afforded us an optimal way to approach them, gave them reasons to trust us, even. Those Hebrideans on the other hand?" he shook his head emphatically. "They're far too reminiscent of the Yanks. Besides, our means aren't unlimited and we're already heavily involved on the Tollan side. Opening a new front – even a peaceful one – right now isn't considered a priority by Archona. But the tech and intel sure is welcome."

"About that, the Tollan… what's the news?" Rayner asked in a light tone, as if merely asking for the weather, knowing it wouldn't fool Polignac. He shrugged despite hefting a bulky refrigerated box to a corner of the cargo hold. Rayner would have to unpack it later and shift it to the stasis freezer.

"Well, I brought you a condensate of the general news if you want to check what those upper society folks you used to rub with are doing." Rayner's cocked her face at him in a familiar, stop kidding, way.

"More seriously. The business side is healthy. We still have a good working relationship with their government and military, though they're progressively weaning off our tit, so to speak. Had to be expected, of course. But we've built some solid relationships on all levels and that's not going away. Actually, the War Directorate's considering sending one of the new generation cruisers over for joint training."

"Ah, those are coming out of the docks then?"

"Indeed. The first batch is working up nicely, got the usual teething problems, but nothing fundamental. Design's sound, as far as we can tell, and the new fabrication techniques worked out."

"Still, I would have expected Castle Tarleton to keep them all close, just in case" Rayner mused, alluding to the War Directorate's famous supreme headquarter.

"Of course, but that would be just one ship, and frankly, given the scale of solar system defenses now, one ship, even a cruiser, wouldn't make a lot of difference… at least that's the rationale."

"That good, huh?"

Polignac didn't try suppressing a proud grin.

"On a force level basis, we're now far surpassing the pre-War strength, and that's including what the Alliance had. And it's almost all new-built or refitted stuff. Frigate patrols, drone fighter swarms, heavy missile batteries, plasma, railgun, particle cannons, the works. We're confident enough that Earth could repulse a Goa'uld fleet equivalent to the one Tanith used against the Tollan. At least according to simulations."

Rayner wasn't quite sure what to think. On one hand she felt pride in her Race's accomplishments. On the other, she'd seen that the Goa'uld could be a lot sneakier and vicious than originally credited. And Tanith, while dangerous, wasn't even a first-tier System Lord.

"Its… good to hear."

"But?"

"I hope Archona isn't getting complacent, that's all."

"Don't worry about that. Those eggheads in the deepest levels of the Directorate keep having nightmares trying to imagine worst case scenarios. And so do I whenever I imagine cosmic horrors coming out of the 'gate."

"You do?" Rayner asked with a skeptical expression.

"Well, minus the actual nightmare part. I sleep soundly enough, praise Thor."

"Speaking of things coming out of the 'gate… did you resume exploration?"

"Yes, very carefully, if you see what I mean. Ended up finding a couple low-tech planets whose inhabitants were Goa'uld slaves. Didn't prod further. We don't want to stick our fingers too far."

"That all?"

Anton made a curious expression. "Found something else too… Old artefact on an abandoned world. Can't tell you more, they whisked it to a blackest of the black Krypteia facility as soon as we got an inkling of what it might do. And that's all you'll get. Just… it is the kind of thing that might give me nightmares."

"Goa'uld stuff?"

"No, Ann. Much, much older…"

"Ah. The Precursor species?"

"Likely. As little as we know about them. The first Gatebuilders."

"The same ones the Hebrideans believed created their species."

"That would make sense. Skimming your data, there's no way simple convergent evolution would have produced two genetically related, yet cosmetically different species on widely separated worlds. It has to be an intelligent design. Just like the way Earth-compatible ecosystems are disseminated throughout the galaxy. There's no logical way it can be a spontaneous phenomenon."

"Just like us, then."

Anton laughed and clapped his thigh.

"Well, let's hope one day our great works will span the galaxy, and we'll still be around to enjoy it!"

"Us and the Tollan, maybe?" Ann commented slyly, stretching what would be considered acceptable to say in a traditional Draka setting. Her superior shrugged, unconsciously demonstrating how… cosmopolitan he'd become, as a Citizen, she remarked to herself.

"If they last so much. Not talkin' 'bout us yoking them, even. Just…" his gaze became shadowed "their society's fracturing. Our presence's a factor, but… Anyway, I'm not sure what to think of it. Part of me wants to rejoice at seeing a feral state weaken" Ann didn't miss the implied quotes about the "feral" adjective, itself a telling clue as to Polignac's feelings, and as to the level of openness he felt could afford with her, and her only.

"There weren't any more attacks on us, at least. Things are quiet… a little too quiet. Something's brewing. It might even be another Goa'uld attack… to the Tollies' credit, they are preparing."

"They were already expanding their fleet…"

"That, and something else they haven't told us, but we've inferred from other things. We believe they're using the captured Goa'uld phase jammer as a stepping stone to try and develop an hyperwindow inhibitor. Something to prevent hyperspace transition in the vicinity of their planets. "

Rayner's eyes tried to imitate a pair of saucers, and she whistled. "Damn. If they manage to do that, they can actually make any invasion have to fight through a defense in depth."

"Exactly. And they very much don't want to so much as acknowledge they're doing this. It might be technically against our R and D treaty… but since the research doesn't officially exist…"

"I suppose our own scientists are trying to do the same?"

"Of course they would, but we're so far behind the theoretical science curve we can't even be sure it's actually feasible. And such a device would certainly have obscene energy requirements."

Ann nodded her agreement. The Hebrideans didn't have anything like this, she was quite sure. It was part of the rationale behind the Deterrence Squadrons, too.

The last crate went into her hold. At last she stood close to Polignac as he prepared to dial Earth.

The Draka officer eyed her. His idea had panned out well, he thought. Not only did his old comrade look well, but she'd delivered precious information and would continue to do so, loyal to the Domination. He tried no to think of the microscopic mirrormatter particles encased in stable cage molecules, ensconced deep inside her implant. It had been the price demanded by the Headhunters to agree with his plan. He could understand their rationale, as distasteful as he'd felt hiding it from her. If she was captured by a hostile power with the technology to pry information from her brain… they couldn't afford her to spill secrets like Earth's location against her will. If she found herself in such a situation, and her will began to fail, or the implant detected the relevant engrams being accessed by invasive probing, it would initiate the specific biochemical process that would break down the cages' integrity and allow the imprisoned mirrormatter to interact with the surrounding atoms… ensuring the irretrievable destruction of Rayner's brain, beyond the capacity of any sarcophagus to reconstruct.

He'd managed to extract a concession, at least. In a few years, the microscopic boobytraps would be excreted out of Rayner's body, one molecule at a time. The cages were unbelievably tough – even burning Ann's brain wouldn't break them – but in time they might still break down. An isolated mirrormatter atom would be less dangerous than a kid's firecracker, making the disposal process safe enough.

"Time to go back. Stay safe, Ann."