Warning/Reminder: The mirror universe is a very bad place. And there is (a little bit of) sex, drug use and violence (in that order).

Author's Note: Coming back to what I've said in the first chapter, I'm happy to announce that I've got something like a plot. It's going to be the most epic thing I've ever written, if I can pull it off. If not, well, at leas the disappointment will be big, sort of like canon.

Chapter 3: Difficult Positions

Staring at the bed in the guest room, Lorca's resolve crumbled. The bed, as well as the room, was large and clean, dark sheets gleaming like genuine silk, smoothed out flawlessly by Culber's kelpien slave. It was foolish to let his guard down in enemy territory, he'd resolved to not rest until he had an idea of where he was at and what to do about it, but something as commonplace as a bed completely ripped his resolution to shreds.

The fresh food and real coffee had been bad enough, never mind that he'd had his first shower with actual water in months. In the cell, they got sprayed every other week by ultrasonic blasts and some sort of badly-smelling disinfectant. It did maintain a level of hygiene, but nothing else.

Stepping into the guest room, he asked himself what difference it would make. He'd been sleeping in enemy territory for months, though on a cot barely his own size inside a cell not much bigger. He'd been lulled to sleep by the filtered, but still very much audible wailing from the agony booth. He'd woken to some other prisoner being dragged out of his cell to be shot and left there for several days in plain view. There was no good excuse to be timid over some inviting bedsheets.

Culber had locked him inside the house, the doors and windows locked and the computer completely unresponsive to any of his commands. He got it to briefly respond when he told it to re-enable his access and identify him by voice print. For a moment, he thought he had something, but then the computer simply announced its failure. It was the only time he got anything at all from it.

He suspected a concentrated blast from his sidearm would tear a hole somewhere, but he was loathe to consider wasting his charges, especially because he had a much simpler option.

Irsa had avoided him throughout the day, smarter than he had given her credit for after their first conversation. She knew, or at least suspected, that he might try to pressure her into doing something she wasn't supposed to. Culber had been too flustered this morning to properly brief her, which put her untrained decision-making skills entirely at Lorca's mercy.

Lorca sighed to himself, gave the darkened window pane a long look. It filtered the sunlight to what would be comfortable to terrans and was a soothing gloom to him. He hadn't slept at all the night before, preferring to make use of the computer access while he had it, giving himself at least the illusion of a head-start. Now that was gone and all he had was to decide between the bed and the well-equipped gym room in the house's basement.

Later, he decided. He needed to keep himself functional.

He slipped the shirt off and slipped a hand over the sheets, feeling no friction at all. His eyes fluttered closed for just a second and he pulled himself together again. He stood for a moment, feeling an unwelcome flash of dread closed down his throat at the unexpected prospect of real sleep and whatever nightmares his mind could conjure if given free rein.

He pulled the sidearm from his trousers and checked the charges, unnecessarily. He took the sidearm with him, carefully tucking it away under the pillow before he crawled between the sheets, the mattress fit itself to his body and he was asleep almost instantly.

The moaning was loud in the mostly unoccupied barracks, filling the empty spaces. Stalking the noise quietly, Tyler's distaste for the sorry state of his command dropped his mood even more than it already was since the arrival of Maddox.

Maddox had let him off far too easily. Lorca's loyalists had been able to built and maintain a starbase right under his nose and judging by how large it was, it was likely to have been a major hub of operations for a good long while. Yet, Maddox had made no threats, however veiled, had not questioned Tyler's own loyalty, had not insinuated incompetence at the very least, nothing. Just a hand-wave at the difficult situation, because Tyler objectively had not had the capability to spot the base this far out.

Tyler found the row of rooms currently occupied. The sliding door's sensor had been unreliable for some time, so he pushed it open himself to the sight he had expected.

Cadet Moreau was enjoying herself on top of Lieutenant Leighton, who was no more vocal during sex than he was in other parts of his life. The frantic way they traced their hands over each other, the harsh, accelerating breathing and the slight tremor in Moreau's bare thighs betrayed how close at least she was.

Tyler leaned his shoulder into the doorway, waiting for them to notice him.

It was possible Maddox really didn't have the capacity to care, some persistent rumour went around about how he had some personal reason to be after Lorca. Personally, Tyler suspected it had more to do with securing his position. Although nominally Lorca's successor, Maddox didn't have the same widespread influence and reputation Lorca had enjoyed. Maddox didn't have the emperor's ear — or anything else, for that matter. Bringing the traitor to heel would be a major feather in his cap, making his position that much more secure.

Shaking, Moreau folded herself over her partner, gave him a sloppy kiss while he continued to buck under her. She reached up for something on the bed. Tyler traced the line of her finger to a small, flat bowl. It looked to contain small pins. She picked one up and gently pressed the tiny needle into Leighton's neck. Immediately, it wrenched a howl of absolute pleasure from him with a full body spasm that had him capable of nothing more than cling to Moreau while it lasted.

Tyler arched his brows in mild curiosity. That drug doctor had some interesting things on offer, it seemed.

However, Tyler didn't like how his favourite candidate for a command position seemed so easily overwhelmed by just a cadet. He was clearly far too willing to hand over control to her. Tyler wouldn't particularly mind if it was just a bedroom game, but he'd observed Leighton do it in many other aspects of his life, too. Would it be particularly scandalous to promote a cadet all the way up to second in command? Tyler doubted the brass would care what he did down here, but right now, he was under somewhat close scrutiny.

The best explanation for Maddox's odd behaviour was that he was setting up Tyler. If they caught Lorca and brought him back to the emperor a broken man, then Maddox would bask in the glory of it. If it was a failure, then Tyler was a convenient scapegoat who could be framed as a collaborator and traitor without much effort.

The couple finally rocked to a close and an errand glance by Moreau landed on Tyler. She stilled immediately and Leighton turned his head in the commander's direction, blinked away the daze to make way for shock.

With fake mildness, Tyler said, "Is there no need to stand to attention?"

The two of them detached from each other and scrambled to their feet untidily, half-dressed and dishevelled after their twist.

"All three of you," Tyler added sardonically with a pointed look down Leighton's body.

To his credit, Leighton made no attempt to cover himself and didn't even blush at his own sorry state. It was the lingering smirk on Moreau's pretty face that Tyler found aggravating.

"We're in the middle of a manhunt," Tyler snapped. "But you somehow have time to indulge yourselves. Do you know what time we don't have? For me to properly discipline you. So I'm going to make this short."

He turned a hard gaze to Leighton.

"Lieutenant, I want you to strike the cadet."

Leighton opened his mouth and Tyler already heard the pathetic objection in his mind. Leighton didn't realise the favour Tyler was doing him by driving a wedge between him and Moreau.

Tyler just looked back at Leighton steadily and the man had enough sense to realise that an order had been given and he better follow it.

Leighton turned towards Moreau, hesitated for a second as their eyes met, but then drove his fist into her stomach, she doubled over and shifted back into a defensive stand.

"Cadet Moreau, I didn't say you could fight back," Tyler said and nodded at Leighton. "Again."

By the time Tyler called it quits, Moreau's stomach was starting to show the bruises, a few hits and slaps to her face had caused swelling around her cheekbone and her lip had split.

She had borne it stoically, but Tyler hadn't missed the fire in her gaze as she tried to straighten back to attention.

Tyler said, "We've tracked a suspicious network access to a node into the residential area of the city centre. We're calling a lockdown and detaining the residents. Lieutenant Leighton, you're to command the gunship. Go."

Leighton gave Moreau a quick look, but remembered his place and saluted stiffly, snapped a clipped "yes, sir!", gathered his strewn clothes and left the room hurriedly.

Tyler looked over Moreau, "Cadet, get yourself cleaned up, stat. You're with me today."

Despite its remote location, the research institute of New Anchorage had some of the best equipment available. After the famine and the subsequent unrest, much of the cities on the planet had to be rebuilt and it stood to reason to do so with the newest technology available. Far away from the smouldering cauldrons of the Empire, scientists on Tarsus IV were under less strict oversight from Imperial institutions, allowing for a much more relaxed atmosphere. Some schemes were always brewing away somewhere underneath, but it rarely went beyond petty theft, demotions and black eyes. Two interns had decided to knife each other a month ago over a coveted assistant posting, but that was the most excitement anyone's had had since.

Culber, for his part, supplied most of the town with recreational supplements and was considered too important by everyone to do any serious harm to. His actual work was fairly dull and left him with enough mental capacity and spare time to pursue his hobby.

Nevertheless, he wasn't having a very good day. The mere thought of his guest being out of his sight made his stomach queasy, although that could be the comedown, too. He had only been very tenuously briefed on the nature of this man and his origin. Given what Landry had said, Culber had expected him to be quite docile. Landry had said they hadn't had much trouble with him during his captivity, but Culber was beginning to suspect that either Landry had been lying about it, or the man had just been biding his time.

Culber wouldn't be especially surprised to find him gone when he came home and he wasn't entirely sure if that would be a bad thing. Landry would be angry with him, but she was currently thoroughly occupied with keeping herself out of an Imperial agony booth. The captain wanted his double alive, whether to torture him or for the re-enactment of some masturbatory fantasy, Culber didn't know. Thinking of what the captain might do was its own little version of hell, but currently, it seemed removed enough to be relegated to a nagging anxiety at the back of his mind.

The heart of the institute was a large, transparent dome inside a larger hall. The dome was capable to simulate various atmospheric conditions and compositions and was used to test the dispersal of aerosol agents. Culber's office and lab were set apart from it, inside a glass cubicle that allowed him full few of the surrounding area and similar labs all around the hall.

Assistants were currently busy cleaning out the bodies of the last test subjects while Culber reviewed their medical data as they had been gathered during testing. He didn't much like the results. Releasing of any agent in the upper layers of the atmosphere had been a problem for most interesting biological agents. The subjects did die, at this stage, but none of the data looked like it might be applicable to a planet-wide deployment.

Still staring at the data, he reached for the pastry on the plate on his desk. His fingers sunk through the sugar crust and into the delicate dough underneath.

The door behind him opened, which was nothing unusual of itself and he didn't expect anyone to backstab him out of the blue, so he was slow to react. He put the pastry back down and started to turn around. By then, the Imperial soldier was on him. He gripped the back of his neck and smashed it down into the table. Culber uttered a grunt, flailed his hands in reflex rather than any kind of coordinated defence only for a suppressant baton to be stuck into his side, releasing its charge and he howled in pain as his body twitched inelegantly from the chair.

"What the hell?" he slurred, caught between the chair and the desk and giving the two soldiers a frown.

"Don't play dumb, quackhead," the soldier said, Culber vaguely recognised the voice and didn't much like the mocking leer in it.

It didn't exactly help his case that he already had a fairly good idea of what was behind this intervention, even if the exact details were unknown to him. He suspected an interrogator would soon be going after them, anyway. It wasn't going to be fun.

The soldier reached and dragged Culber to his feet, none-too-gently, and manhandled him around to cuff his hands behind his back. He couldn't see much, but he heard the door open again and the low, tinkling of measured footsteps on high-heels.

What Culber didn't see, was as the shoes' wearer crossed the space quick enough to give the soldier no time to react. She hammered a syringe into his neck and then stepped back to watch him crumble.

Culber struggled back around, still feeling the remnant echo of the baton beating in his side to stare at his colleague.

"Dr Ferasini," he said formally. "You have excellent timing."

She pulled a grimace. The left side of her face had been burned in a lab accident and the reconstructive lattice was still visible under a thin layer of transparent, newly growing skin. The expression pulled on it and made it even more humourless and lopsided than it otherwise would've been.

"I really don't," she said as she unlocked Culber's handcuffs.

As if in agreement, all computer screens in the hall suddenly went dark, only to come back on displaying the Terran emblem and the word [Lockdown].

"Oh fuck," Culber said.

"I'm too late," she finished, unnecessarily. "Let's move while we still can."

Culber felt himself a little unsteady on his feet but decided he was going to walk it off, hurrying after her. The lockdown had thrown the institute into certain disarray, making two more scientists hurrying through its hallways inconspicuous.

"I've got a message from Marlena," Ferasini explained as they walked. "The ISS Defiant under Captain Maddox is here."

"Oh fuck," Culber said again.

"Indeed," she agreed with thin humour. "It also seems like they've got a lock on Captain Lorca, or at least on who they think is him."

If there was a ship in the Imperial fleet that could stand up to the Buran and her spore-powered weapons and drive, it was the Defiant.

"Oh…" Culber began and clamped his mouth shut before he could make things awkward.

"How the fuck did they find him so fast?"

"Marlena didn't have time for a proper report," Ferasini gave him a quick glance. "You did secure him, didn't you?"

"I locked him up," Culber said, but there must have been something in his voice that gave him away because he caught a spark of disdain in her eyes.

For many reasons, Ferasini should've been in charge of their operations on Tarsus. She was the more competent of the two, the deadlier fighter after ten years of membership in the Imperial forces. What she also had was publicity. Known to be ambitious, she only had the institute's director above her and had all the skills she needed to get off this rock any time she pleased. Culber suspected the position had gone to him because of this. Ferasini was reliable, but she was under close scrutiny and might not be staying on Tarsus for long.

"I hope you mean in the basement," she said in a tone of voice that implied she already knew better.

"In the house," Culber admitted but found some of his own anger. "Suck it up, okay. I don't have a jail in my house and couldn't know Landry would drop that on me like that."

Ferasini turned to look ahead. "Well, at least we know how they've found him."

"Actually, we don't. I locked him inside the house without access to the computer or any comm devices. He has a sidearm with one full charge. That's all."

"Captain Lorca took down the Rigellian uprising like that," Ferasini said, much to Culber's chagrin.

It had been one of Lorca's earliest military triumphs in what would become a long string of brilliant victories. Now, of course, all purged from public record, with only backups stored away in the Imperial archives on the Charon, for the emperor to marvel over in private.

"Well, first, he had help on Rigel and second, we aren't talking about the captain here."

"He must have done something," Ferasini insisted.

"Look, I know you'll hate taking advice from me, but, if you're going to compare this one to our captain, he'll notice and he'll use it."

Despite their hurried walk, Ferasini took the time to gave him a long look. They had left the busy areas of the institute behind by then, avoiding the controlled entrances and any potential other forces sent to detain Culber.

"That's why you didn't shackle him up?" she asked sceptically. "Because he found your weak spot?"

She paused for a moment as they had to file through a narrow gate. "I mean," she added. "One of them?"

Culber sucked in his breath sharply at her tone.

"I'm sure you'd have done so much better," he said. "That must be the reason you're in charge of Tarsus… oh wait." He feigned surprise, then continued with a scowl. "You aren't."

Ferasini gave him an angry look, but either she decided it was useless arguing or — Culber barely dared to finish the thought — she realised he had a point. Most likely, though it was because they reached the garage where various vehicles were parked.

Ferasini stopped at a wall console, overrode the lockdown for one of the gates and the computer automatically drove an overland buggy towards them.

"I'd go for manual control," Culber said. The colonial administration, as well as the security forces, could take control over any vehicle at any time.

"I'll drive," Ferasini said, but her tone had slightly changed after his brief admonishment. He thought there might even be a question in there somewhere.

"Yeah, I'll call the house," he agreed and swung himself on the front passenger seat. "And we'll need Kodos' override privileges to get out of the city."

In the time it took Ferasini to walk around the vehicle, he had already opened the small console in front of his seat and quickly installed the encoding programme they used for their communication. It was permanently stored in a ghost-cloud account for just this sort of emergency.

The garage door snapped open with a hiss and Ferasini pushed the accelerator.

Terran training mannequins didn't much differ from those used in Lorca's own universe. Some general setting, same responsive movements with a surface able to emulate any kind of armour, clothes or skin plating. Lorca had suspected any attempt to power himself down against one of these wouldn't be nearly as satisfying as he would have preferred. Briefly, he longed for his younger self, who had found extended training would empty his mind. After nearly a decade of command experience, most of it in the captain's chair, his mind would never entirely shut down. A part of his consciousness would always parse additional information, map his movements, his opponents' capabilities, the next few steps he needed to take to get where he wanted. Nevertheless, there was something gratifying about the hard resistance hitting his knuckles, travelling up the bones of his arms. The slowly spreading heat in his limbs with each blow, the way his heart-rate and breathing spiked at first at the newly unusual exertion but eventually began to level out as they should do.

What the terran mannequin lacked was a clear indicator of whether his blows were inflicting any damage and no tally for him to track. He found himself missing it at first, until he realised a life opponent wouldn't beep, either, but physically respond, bent and buckle and slow down, even to a standstill to mark a kill.

It had been only mildly surprising to find the doctor had a fairly sweet setup in his basement, complete with a holo-projection option, padded floors and walls as well as a multi-functional gym machine, able to assemble itself into anything at the push of a button.

Part of him told him he should be doing the smart thing and set up a proper training regime to get himself back in shape, but the moment he had seen the mannequin, it had been far too alluring. It was, he supposed, a little odd in a way. He expected to be facing off against any number of human opponents soon enough, yet here he was, wasting his frustration on a dummy.

A punch for every crew-member of the Buran, for Mirak and Pentawer and Miranda Bell, his chief engineer who he had never even spoken to that night. His last words with her something so trivial he couldn't even recall them now. Two punches for Basora saving his life even while dying. Lieutenants Mah and Renaud, such perfect complements of each other and of him, going down in the chaos.

His arms and shoulders hurt, the wraps were soaked through with sweat, beginning to chafe just slightly, but the minor discomfort only added to the ferocity.

He kicked the mannequin in the stomach hard, twisted back around into a crouch to avoid any possible retaliation from such a sweeping move. Instead, the mannequin doubled over, quivered and went still, its colour changing to blood-red to indicate a kill. Ensign Narang, dead in his arms.

He flexed his fingers and stepped back, shook out his hands and considered going another round.

As he stepped back from the mannequin, considering his options and waiting for the sharp edge of exhaustion to retreat from his limbs just a little, he caught movement from the doorway leading upstairs. Irsa was clutching her fingers in front of her, gaze flitting this way and that, avoiding his gaze while simultaneously seeking it out, looking for a way to interrupt him without offending.

"What's up?" he asked.

"You need to come."

"On my way."

He began unfurling the hand wraps as he followed Irsa upstairs and into the living room, where the computer was finally on, projecting Culber's worried face into the air. The screen of the computer itself proclaimed a lockdown.

"What's going on?" Lorca asked.

"You moron did something stupid and now they know where you are," Culber snapped.

Lorca arched his brows, flicked his gaze at the lockdown notice.

"What happened?" he asked, even though he already had a good idea and a bad feeling about it.

"What did I just say?" Culber snarled. "They know where you are. You…"

He turned his head and looked at something or someone else, his expression becoming even more agitated as he bared his teeth like an angry dog.

Culber brought his head back around and stared at Lorca.

"We're still ahead of them…" Culber said after a moment of silence in which he had regained some of his composure. The call picked up a second person's voice and Culber glanced to the side again, nodding at someone.

"We'll be there in two minutes," a woman said. The hologram continued to display Culber's scowl, but the woman's smoky voice turned Lorca's spine to ice, ready to melt or shatter at any moment.

"You better be ready," Culber added, nodded again and switched the connection off.

Lorca rocked back in the chair, staring a hole into the empty space where Culber had been a moment ago. In two minutes he could be ready for a fight, though he was likely to lose it. Two minutes were more than enough to survey the house and get Irsa to part with some essential information. If two minutes was the absolutes of his advance warning, he could make it work.

But he was never going to be prepared to meet that woman in two minutes. If he had two years it wouldn't be enough.

Irsa hovered uncertainly behind his shoulder, pinned there by her own curiosity, Lorca guessed. A snarl crawled into his mouth, wanting to get rid of her and her abject scrutiny. It'd be too easy to shoo her away with a caustic remark, no doubt she was used to it and expected to be shown her boundaries in that way. Perhaps she would even prefer him to treat her like that because her world made more sense that way.

He turned his head towards her and said, "Can you fight?"

"No!"

"But you're strong," he insisted. "Much stronger than a human."

She fidgeted and looked down at the hands clutched in front of her, embarrassed by the assertion. She didn't answer and flinched a step back when Lorca got to his feet and walked past her. He stopped again to look at her.

"Stick with me," he told her. "Do what I tell you."

Whatever misgivings she had about his budding plans, she nodded and followed him as he made a quick tour through the house in the two minutes he'd been allotted, looking for any obvious weapons he might have missed, but mostly to familiarise himself with the layout in case this was where he would have to make his stand.

Due to the lockdown, the streets outside were deserted, the window panes of the neighbouring houses only reflecting back the emptiness. If anyone was watching, they were well hidden. Lorca didn't like the prospect of going outside. The Imperial complement had a gunship, which was more than capable of maintaining control of a section of the neighbourhood and with nothing else moving, they would be easy targets.

He caught sight of the buggy as it careened around a corner and stopped in front of the house. He snatched up the jacket he had replicated for himself earlier in the morning, managed to catch and hold Irsa's gaze for a moment. It made sure she kept following him outside without argument.

"Are we really taking the crippled kelpien?" the woman said as Lorca climbed into the backseat and scooted over to make room for Irsa.

Lorca stared past her, at the side of Culber's face he could see, who'd craned his neck to watch them get into the car.

Lorca said, "Are we really going to pass up someone able to punch a hole in the wall?"

The woman huffed and Culber sniggered to himself.

"He has a point," the doctor said. "She's useful. Let's go, what are you waiting for?"

The woman didn't argue as she hit the accelerator and the buggy slid along the well-kept, empty street smoothly.

The roof of the buggy was transparent, filtering the glare of the sunlight, but without obstructing the view of the sky. Lorca scanned it for the gunship, but everything still seemed deceptively peaceful.

"Are you going to give me a rundown?" Lorca asked after several minutes of silence.

"I really want to know what you did," the woman said.

"Messed with the computer," Culber said. "I bet."

At his words, Lorca realised he was right. It stood to reason that a draconian regime would have monitoring in place to scan for any suspicious network activity. Asking the thing to identify his voice print would have raised red flags all over the place. In the Federation, privacy laws wouldn't permit this sort of universal tracking.

Lorca dipped his head back and sucked in a hard breath. He'd forgotten where he was for just an instant and he'd tripped lose an avalanche.

"Should've used the handcuffs," Lorca said dismissively. Admitting a mistake would be weakness to these people. It was much better to let them believe his planning was two steps ahead of them. All he had to do was keep the charade going until he made it out the other side, or everything collapsed and nothing mattered anymore, whichever came first.

As they drove, Lorca spotted the gunship slowly circling above the district. It was a small, two-person saucer with weapon batteries set in rotating rings on the top and bottom of it.

"Here's the plan," Culber said. Lorca saw he had tactical display hovering in front of him, while a similar display was laying down their route for the driver. Some of her patterns looked familiar and Lorca recognised them as the sensor sweep pattern he had memorised the night before.

"She drives, I jam their targeting and you use the mounted drill."

Culber swiped through his display and a portion of the roof folded back to reveal shoulder straps and the handholds of what amounted to a laser drill, presumably to allow for precise cuts in rock-face or similar.

The woman hissed and swerved sharply around a corner, dislodging Lorca who had just started to pull himself upward. He caught hold of a strap and angled himself into the harness, stealing a quick look at the driver controls and spotting a bright alert sign. They had touched the sensors range, albeit briefly. Above them, the gunship suddenly dipped to the side.

Lorca swung the drill a few times, trying to get a sense of its responsiveness and found it slow and sluggish.

"It doesn't aim upward," he called down as the drill jarred against his attempt to aim at the gunship. A moment later, a hard impact cut open the street just beside and threw the buggy off course before the woman steadied it. The shot had taken off the side of a house, tossed crumbling debris into a cloud of dust right behind them.

The driver took them around a corner and into a narrow alley running between two long lines of garden walls. The gunship punched another hole into the ground right behind them.

Lorca wondered how long they would take to figure out that if they were targeting them manually, they needed to give a lead and aim in front of the target.

Their buggy shot out into a wide avenue, tall, slender trees planted between them. It led to the city centre and the administration offices, he recognised it — almost — there had been a lovely ice cream parlour just over that way.

Lorca brought the drill the other way to survey the city around them. It was still entirely empty to the naked eye, with the dust and debris kicked up by the shots from the gunship being the only source of movement.

They dipped back into another alley, this time the gunship dipped low in an attempt to keep them in sight, just low enough for it to appear in the drill's crosshair. Lorca fired, finding at least the trigger responsive. The drill's servos kicked into action, absorbing the rebound from the energy surge to nothing but a slight vibration in his hand. The drill's energy sliced along the side of the gunship just before it climbed out of range again.

They took several corners and Lorca lost sight of the gunship for a time. He glanced down for a glimpse of Culber's or the woman's display, just in time to see several warnings flare up in front of Culber. He heard the doctor curse, "shit, chariots," and focussed on his surrounding.

The points of alarm on Culber's display manifested on the street behind and on the side of them as Imperial soldiers on fast-response scooters, chariots, Lorca guessed. They were hovercraft, with no wheels and ground contact friction to overcome, fast and manoeuvrable, especially compared to the overland buggy. Each scooter had two soldiers, the rider and the gunner.

The drill wasn't a weapon. It could be devastating just the same, but in addition to its slow turn-rate, it had a tiny delay in firing that Lorca found difficult to compensate against the fast-moving target. The drill's energy beam did more damage to surrounding houses and trees, just about failing to hit the chariots.

"You need to get rid of them!" the woman shouted from the driver's seat.

Lorca felt like answering in a quip, seeing as he was self-evidently trying to do just that, but he recoiled from engaging her in any way and besides, tactically it wasn't smart to waste time on such a thing.

She did try to help him, though, by taking the buggy through a series of narrow alleys in the hope the chariots would follow them there and line themselves up for a decent shot. Unfortunately, the layout of New Anchorage favoured a smaller grid-like structure, allowing the chariots to simply swerve into a side-street and find them again on the next junction.

All the while, the gunship was hovering above them, occasionally taking potshots that destroyed a portion of the nearby city structure.

After some observation, it became clear the chariots were trying to herd them towards a certain location, but their own shots had been aimed at the wheels or the hood of the buggy, to disable not destroy.

Lorca pulled a face. Seemed like someone still wanted him alive, not that he felt especially privileged by the restraint.

"Slow down!" he shouted.

"What?!"

"Slow down! It's a damn drill, not a precision gun, I can't get it to turn fast enough for these midges. Get us somewhere with some cover and I'll handle them."

She had enough sense to see the merit of his idea, took several fast turns to gain a little breather, they crossed the main avenue again further away from the city centre, where a small plaza was home to an assortment of large metal sculptures, the shape of giant swords, as if tossed from orbit by gods. There was just enough room for them to manoeuvre, but the metal might stand up to the bombardment better than walls had and give them better protection from the gunship.

The chariots appeared side by side, the parted to drive in a wide circle around them.

By going slower themselves, Lorca had more time to drag the drill in the direction he needed it while the chariots dropped into a much more predictable pattern, surrounding them like a pack of predators before closing in for the kill.

The slow energy beam of the drill crossed empty space, cut through a dust cloud kicked up by an impact from the gunship's weapons and sliced into the back of a chariot just before it was out of range. The hit tipped the chariot to the side, its back dragging over the ground before its stabilisers got it back up. Lorca yanked on the drill, upward and to the left without releasing the trigger and sliced through the bottom of the chariot and into the leg of its gunner.

The shot neither damaged the chariot nor incapacitated the rider, but the gunner's foot was hanging by a thread and his clothes, bleeding profusely and the man himself looked unconscious. The rider swerved the chariot, trying to get away from the energy beam, gaining enough speed to outrun the drill's slow turn-rate.

Lorca cursed and a shot snapped past him, made him flinch and drag the drill around towards the second chariot. The chariot had circled closer in the time Lorca had been occupied with the other chariot and the gunner seemed to have finally selected its most chosen target: the mounted drill.

The machine had been well-built, it would likely withstand quite a few blasts, but after even that first impact, Lorca felt the grip and trigger heating up. A few more hits and he wouldn't be able to touch it.

The two chariots fell back again, wove around them and each other, picking up speed in an attempt to confuse Lorca and make sure he couldn't pick a target and couldn't tell the difference between the chariot without a gunner.

At some point, the gunship had ceased firing, only hovered ominously above, casting a dark shadow.

Lorca pulled the trigger, dragged the drill and aimed at a chariot, knew he wasn't going to hit it, but also knew that the other one would be coming around the other way. He had circled close again and took another shot at the drill. It hit the side, heat travelling into his Lorca's hands and snarled. For a moment, he held on and did his level best to move the drill, but realised the chariot was very close now, close enough to see the faces of its rider and occupant.

Lorca dropped his hands from the drill, pulled the terran sidearm and fired. He hit the rider in the face and the chariot swerved out of control instantly. The chariot dug itself into the ground, kicking up dust and pavement shrapnel.

"Time to move!" Lorca shouted at the driver and glanced up at the gunship.

The crashed chariot lay still for a moment, but its gunner managed to struggle free and bring her own sidearm back up, landing several harsh shots into the roof and back of the buggy as they picked up speed. The other chariot hung back, stopped next to his downed companion. The gunner dragged the dead one from the chariot and climbed on it.

It took too long for them to do it, more than enough for Lorca to take aim with the slow drill. He used the beam to cut into the still functional chariot, up into its rider and then to the side to slice across the gunner's stomach, cutting her in half smoothly.

The gunship continued to hang over the site as the buggy sped away.

Lorca scanned the surrounding city, didn't quite dare to hope it was over and it wasn't. They barely made two turns when the low whine of more chariots made themselves heard.

"Could use some help!" Culber shouted and Lorca frowned, not sure who he was talking to.

The chariots appeared caught up to them from side streets, keeping pace, it made them easy targets, but there were twelve of them now, herding them. Lorca picked off what he could, but even though they were closer, they had the speed and agility to avoid them.

Several more shots landed close enough to the drill to begin heating it up again, finally forcing Lorca to take his hands away from it. He drew the sidearm again. It wasn't powerful enough to take out the chariots, but at least he had some precision and speed of his own.

They noticed the change in his attack right after he'd hit two riders in the head and the rest of the pack fell back from them, but still keeping up and clogging the side streets.

The gunship shot back into place above them, dark like an eclipse from one moment to the next. It came down very low, close enough so Lorca could make out the details on its underside and the weapons' batteries preparing to fire. He stared up into the, saw the light at the ends of the barrels.

Nine precise blasts took out the remaining chariots.

"Yes!" Culber shouted.

Lorca scowled, slipped from the harness and climbed back inside the buggy.

"One of yours, I take it?" he asked.

"Lieutenant Leighton," Culber explained and gave Lorca a wide grin over his shoulder, then gave the woman a glance. "I told you I got it."

"You didn't and hadn't," she said. "And we're not out of the city, yet."

Lorca agreed.

"Well, when has Kodos ever not been reliable? It's practically his second name."

Lorca felt himself drag in a hard breath, but there was something here he needed to confront and he might as well get past it while his companions were somewhat distracted.

"What's he like?" he asked. "Kodos, I mean."

"Huh?" Culber made, unsure what to make of the sudden interest. "Like I've said, he's a member of the governor's staff, the quiet type no one ever really notices, but who does really good work. He's very neat, doesn't like it when things get chaotic. This whole thing is probably going to give him a headache for a week."

"Why did he join with you?"

The woman interrupted. "Why do you even care?"

If Culber had asked the question, he might have been inclined to answer, perhaps even truthfully. We have a history where I'm from. But her? Opening up to her? How would he know to stop himself once he started?

He looked past her and out the windshield as he forced himself to settle in his seat. There was an uncomfortable heat still lingering in the palms of his hands that he was unable to flex away.

"The less you tell me, the worse you're off," he said and adjusted the sidearm so it didn't press into his back. He'd lost half its charge in the fight and the terrans would make him fight for more.

She huffed at his assertion, but neither she nor Culber picked up the conversation again.

Lorca watched silently as they drew up to an automated gatehouse at the outer sensor perimeter. Red energy lines cordoned off the city, their warning glow making it clear that much more than an alert would go wrong if they were touched, even briefly.

Contrary to Culber's morose description of Adrian Kodos, he was a slender, red-haired man, carrying himself with an elegant poise and dressed in tailored clothes that suited him well, collar pulled fashionably up. He waited for them, leaning back against the gatehouse, one leg hoisted up and pressed against the base, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were shielded by a set of darkened goggles, which he didn't take off when the overland buggy came to a stop next to him.

Culber and Ferasini climbed out and walked to meet him, Culber briefly turned to frown at Lorca, who made no attempt to follow. Part of him took note of the behaviour. Culber was getting used to Lorca insinuating himself into any given situation, even taking charge and giving orders. Something that Culber didn't seem to mind quite as much as it should have. It was something to work with, certainly, but not right then.

Lorca studied Kodos through the dusty window. He'd expected a surge of rage, or at least resentment or disgust. Instead, there was just a numb calmness he didn't like, it kept him rooted to the spot, a strange, roaring white noise in his ears that dulled every other sound.

He wondered. If in this universe, the massacre had been ordered and enacted by Ribiero herself, what need for a Kodos would they have had? Did he help her? Was he in charge of preparing the death lists? Or, could it be that things were turned entirely on their head in this universe? What if this Kodos wasn't the villain?

Balayna was alive right now. A sneering, needle-sharp version of her, willing disciple of a man ten times worse than Kodos had ever had the capacity to be. Even now, her scent hung subtly in the buggy's cabin, making Lorca breath as shallowly as he could to avoid it.

Lorca turned his head away from Kodos and Balayna, looked back at the silent city behind them. It had made no attempt to spew any more pursuers their way. In a few moments, he'd have enough control of himself to think about the implications of that and come up with a way to put the knowledge to use.

In a few moments.

Balayna and Culber returned to the buggy. Kodos stepped into the gatehouse and the cordon went down right ahead, allowing them to drive through without incident.

End of Chapter 3: Difficult Positions

Somewhat unrelated note: I've finally looked at the Succession comic and I'm feeling a little queasy. That's almost the exact same scene (except for the Lorca being pussy-whipped bit, I'd never do that.) I'm so happy I published mine before Succession, otherwise I'd have to completely change the epilogue. Dammit. Canon keeps throwing me curveballs in this franchise, it's terrifying.