Chapter One

"So you're the man who killed Roj Blake."

She was a beautiful woman. Thick black hair, cropped at the jawline, and a tight purple dress straining in all the right places. Out of my league. Out of most people's league, if I'm being honest. The louche ruffian she had picked couldn't believe his luck. She was pawing him and he, the poor fool, was loving every minute of it. I was tempted to warn him off, then he made his first mistake.

"Yes, I did that," he said.

Too pleased with himself, by far. Bolstered by the cheap spirits he had been drinking for the last couple of hours and looking to impress his attractive companion. Any sympathy I had for him evaporated right there.

The woman smiled, all teeth and feline green eyes. She liked what she was hearing.

"So brave," she purred, rubbing her hand across his chest. Her fingers dipped inside his shirt and lingered there. He twitched appreciatively. "Tell me, how did you do it?"

He caught her face in his hand and caressed the soft angle of her jaw. "Turn you on, does it?"

"I like the details."

Details being important, of course. I'd heard every variant of the story. Every villain these days liked to claim he was the man who had killed Blake. They thought it gave them a certain rough charm. Everyone, that is, except the man who everyone said had actually killed him.

Looking at this dissipated specimen, I wasn't expecting to be surprised.

"Well then, I shot him, straight through the heart."

Exactly as I thought. Unimaginative. I've heard better. This fool wasn't even trying.

"Did you?" she said, wide-eyed with awe and admiration. "And the others?"

"Shot them too. No problem."

She pressed closer, her lips seeking his. "Did you get your reward?"

He gave a short laugh as he wrapped his arms around her. "I'm hoping to get it now."

I caught myself wincing. I knew what was coming. So should he, if he hadn't been distracted by a pretty face. I saw the glint of polished steel in her hand, saw when she raised it and slipped it between his ribs. The look of lust on his face contorted in turn into confusion and horror and agony. Mouth gaping, he slid from her grasp and fell to the floor.

The other patrons of the bar chose to ignore him. They kept their eyes averted when she wiped the knife on his torn jacket and buried themselves in their glasses when she started to rifle through his clothes. I knew what she was looking for and knew where she could find it, too.

Because I had it, in my shirt pocket, against my heart. I tell myself I keep it there for safety, but really it's there to remind me of what it cost. A disc, loaded with five million credits, one for every death. That's the reward she's looking for. The reward for killing Blake and Avon and Tarrant and Soolin and Dayna. A kill fee, in every sense.

I don't want it, never asked for it. I hate the smooth feel of it, the slight weight of it. Yet I can't get rid of it. If I do, they'll know who I am.

Vila Restal. The man who betrayed Blake. And Avon. And Tarrant. And Soolin. And Dayna.

I hadn't meant for it to happen. It started out as something that could have done me a good turn. One of the guards, pulling me aside, telling me about another prisoner who they didn't want to reach the penal colony. The worst of crimes, he'd told me, the lowest of the low. Befriend him, encourage him to make a bid for escape, and let him meet with a convenient accident. In return for my help, I would have my conviction overturned and enough money to keep me out of trouble for the rest of my days.

I had no problem with that. But then I learned that the charges were false and he'd been framed because he was one of those political agitators the Federation don't want the likes of me to know about. That's when I started having my doubts. The more I learned, the more my conscience started bothering me. Worse of all, he came back for me after he had managed to escape.

After that, I felt I owed him. And I liked him too. It made telling him what I had done difficult.

The more time went on and I got to know the others, it became impossible. I kept telling myself it didn't matter, it was all in the past. But it wasn't.

As part of the deal, I had had to swallow a tracking device. They wanted to keep an eye on me, in case I had got ideas about ducking out of the deal. Temporary, they said. It will pass out of your system eventually, they said. How long that would take worried me. Every time the pursuit ships picked up our trail, I had a twinge of guilt. Every time we were almost caught, I wondered if it was my fault.

Eventually, I convinced myself it must have gone. But at the back of my mind, the thought remained entrenched. It would wake me up at night, from dreams where I saw my friends dead. On those nights, I would get up, take a walk around the ship to make sure everything was all right, pour myself a drink and let the soma do its work. And, if sometimes I noticed when I was a little worse for wear, that the pursuit ships seemed to lose us for a while, well, then having another drink was less an indulgence and more a duty, a sacrifice that needed to made if it deadened the effects of the tracking device.

Like most things, it was an illusion. Like thinking I was free. We had outrun trouble so many times you get to thinking the worst will never happen. And then came Gauda Prime.

Getting shot was bad enough. I had three cracked ribs to show for it. Blunt force trauma, they called it, what you get when a low energy bolt hits you in the back. The troopers had been given those same non-standard issue weapons, like the ones they had been using when we rescued Avalon all those years ago. Unlike that time, they hadn't wanted us to escape. Capture was what they had in mind.

I could have lived with that. A short existence probably, but better than what I got. It certainly wasn't what I had been expecting.

For a start, I hadn't expected to be helped up when I came round and clapped on the back and told what a good job I had done.

I hadn't expected to see that hardened look of hatred on Avon's face when they were dragging him away.

I hadn't wanted to hear what he was calling me, over and over, when he was hauled from the tracking gallery out of my sight until his distant voice was the only reminder of his presence.

Traitor.

Traitor.

TRAITOR.

Because I was.

Not intentionally. I had said nothing to them and the Federation had been following us all that time, waiting to pounce. The tracking device had never left me, like they said it would. I had been a fine undercover agent, they told me, a credit to the Federation. All those years, and Blake and Avon and Tarrant and Soolin and Dayna never knew.

They gave me a handful of nanobots to swallow to make the device release the hold it had on my insides. I threw it up five minutes later. Since then, a feeling of nausea was my constant companion. I knew it had nothing to do with any lingering effects of the device.

Then they gave me the disc. Five million credits, all for me. Rich beyond the dreams of avarice. Just one more thing I could do for them, and then the money was all mine.

When they told me what it was, I would have done it for nothing. Orac, they said, get Avon to tell us where he had hidden him. He was being difficult, they said. I knew, I could hear what they were doing to him. So I told them. Anything to stop the screaming.

And it was over. I was free to go. Money in my hand and passage to the planet of my choosing. It was the least they could do, for an agent of my standing. Because I was, wasn't I, one of their best? And because I am a coward, I said yes.

They let me leave after that. My last memory of Avon was the sight of him on a trolley as I passed by in the corridor. Blood trails from his nose and ears had left red streaks across his face. He was insensible and I was grateful, for his sake and mine. I already had his final words impressed on my mind. I didn't need to hear anything else.

I ended up back on Freedom City. All those worlds at my disposal and I had nowhere else to go. The news of Blake's death had beaten me there. The fear set in when the Federation announced the other rebels had been executed and a super computer was under their control. No one was safe, me least of all when my name started being bandied about as 'The Hero of the Federation', the man who had finally ended Blake's petty rebellion.

Blake, as it turned out, still had a lot of friends. I wasn't so worried about any of Avon's friends; he had done a good job of killing most of his. But Blake continued to command a loyalty that had seen a bounty placed on my head and a whole galaxy of people out looking for me.

Some days, I wished they would find me. It was a miserable existence. I had lost the luxury of the Liberator and the security of Xenon base. I had a fortune I could not spend and I never stopped looking over my shoulder. I spent my nights huddled in corners, hiding from bounty hunters and assassins like the woman in the purple dress.

Slovenliness was a good disguise. She hadn't given a second glance in my clothes that had seen better days, my matted beard and hair that hadn't known a comb for months. I was just another member of the human flotsam and jetsam that rolled into Freedom City and never managed to leave its shores. She had set her sights instead on the only man in the bar wasting his money on foul liquor. He had learned to his cost that associating yourself with Gauda Prime could be fatal.

Now she was on the prowl for another victim. The fact that a man lay dead under the barstools didn't seem to bother anyone. The barman, a greasy moon-faced individual, threw a towel over him and went back to his work, leaving the disposal of the remains to the next shift. Several patrons left in a hurry, stepping over the corpse on their way out.

Following their lead, I downed the last of my drink and made for the door.

I almost made it. In my haste, I tripped over the outstretched foot of a drunkard slumped by the door. Rudely awakened, he wanted to make a fuss about it. I made my apologies and started to back away, aware that we were drawing attention. And then, within reach of the threshold, I heard the one name I dreaded above all others.

"Here, I know you," said the drunkard, stabbing his finger idly in my direction. "You're Vila Restal."

Hesitating was a mistake. Looking back was my next. Silence had descended on the bar. All eyes were fixed on me. The woman with the green eyes worried me most of all. Her head had snapped round at the mention of my name. In her eyes, I read renewed determination. Vila Restal, dead or alive, worth ten million credits to the person who could find him.

We stood there, staring at each other, waiting for someone to make the first move. It took the drunkard to break the spell.

"I remember you," he slurred. "Vila Restal."

"I-I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered.

"Yes, you do." He lurched to his feet and swayed unsteadily. "We shared a cell, oh, about 10 years back. I was doing a stretch for punching a trooper and you were in for petty theft."

"No, I wasn't!" I said, backing away. "You've got the wrong man!"

The drunkard chuckled. Actually, I think I did know him, a lifetime ago.

"Now I might be a few plasma bolts short of a full complement," said he, "but I'd know that face of yours anywhere. I had to look at it for long enough." He staggered over and slapped me on the back. The woman was growing impatient, but anything that put a barrier between her and me was welcome, even this old inebriate. "What have you been up to lately?" he wanted to know.

"Killing Roj Blake," said the woman suddenly. "He's a traitor to the cause of freedom."

At the rear of the bar, several men got to their feet and started in our direction.

My friend's eyes rolled. "What, him, Vila? He couldn't shoot a hole through a ladder."

I couldn't wait any longer. I slipped his grasp and pushed him at the woman. They collided and her curses followed me as I took to my heels. I knew these corridors like the back of my hand, every filthy nook and cranny, every sheltering doorway and storage locker in which to hide. I ran and kept running. Once word got out I was here, it was only a matter of time before one of them found me. I had to find the deepest, darkest service duct and stay there until the excitement died down. The lure of ten million credits would take a long time to dull their interest.

In an ill-lit corridor behind the picture house, I found a trap door set into the floor. Half-concealed by bins heaving with waste, I had to haul the debris away before I could lift the handle. Rust had seized the hinges and, despite my best efforts, it refused to open, even a crack. It was too late in any case. When I glanced up, she was there.

"On your feet," she said, nodding to me. "Up against the wall."

She had the blade in her hand again. I tried to not imagine what it was going to feel like when she got close enough to use it.

"Wait," I said. "If it's money you want, I can give you five million credits right now."

Her lip curled. "You dare to offer me your 'kill fee'? I don't want your blood money, Restal."

"What then? I know the reward is more–"

"Killing you is my reward. Blake was a good man. You might not have pulled the trigger, but you killed him." She advanced. I fell backwards amidst the litter, feeling my palm press against something wet and clotted. "On second thoughts," she said, smiling down at me, "stay where you are. It's a good place for a coward to die."

I had shut my eyes, waiting for the fatal thrust of the knife, so I didn't see him when he first appeared. The slight cry that escaped her when the blow fell across the back of her head made me look up. And there he was. A figure shrouded in the shadows, his arms still raised and hands clasped in a double-fist.

I wasn't hopeful that he was a passer-by doing a good deed. More likely, he was another bounty hunter, removing the competition to claim the prize for himself. My mind started to race, covering old ground as it dredged up the many of ways to die that the rebels might invent for me when they took their revenge. On reflection, a quick death at the hands of a pretty woman had some appeal.

I lay where I was, hardly daring to move. The figure slowly lowered his arms, surveying me from the darkness. It was unnerving. I was so far from being scared that sheer terror alone made me bold.

"Who-who are you?" I asked.

"Don't you know me, Vila?"

I did. I heard his voice every night in my dreams. I had started hearing it in the daytime too. That same reproach, over and over.

Traitor.

Traitor.

TRAITOR.

I recoiled from him, finding my escape blocked when I came up against a hard metal wall. Somewhere behind it, vibrant music was playing. My heart was racing to keep up with the beat as he stepped into the slash of yellow light coming from the flickering overhead fitting.

Kerr Avon. Alive. This time he was going to kill me.