We were hauled out of the transport in the courtyard of some monstrosity of a mansion - one of several I knew from the briefing populated the countryside surrounding the city. Before the Machine Wars these had been owned by the elite.

Nothing had changed. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss - just in a new chassis. And a few nastier kinks on account of leaving your soul behind with your body.

The less said about the processing the better. By the time we were divested of our now soiled clothing and shoved into a communal shower with about fifty other people, I was getting sick and tired of being poked, prodded and pushed around by smug assholes with body-image issues. I also had screaming pins and needles in my thumbs and the whole thing was making me very cranky.

'Easy tiger,' the captain told me as we tried to get the smell of the alley out of our hair. 'There's a fine line here between "interesting" and "trouble". And trouble gets doped into the middle of next week and sits on a chair drooling onto his chest.' Water ran off his unmarked back down over a firm ass I eyed up with more envy than lust… under the guise of soaping off my stomach I prodded the softer muscle there, gave the muffin-top a pinch and reflected that twenty years ago, I could have given the kid a run for his money. And that maybe I should change to baggier sweaters...

'Never mind Ali,' he said without looking round. 'Doc tells me she likes something to hold onto in the clinches.'

I eyed him up, taking in the scars Doc had left in place - the long surgical scar on his thigh was the only one I could see - he was being careful not to disturb her handiwork in his scrubbing, since his usual catalogue of weapon injuries would have been much harder to explain away in our cover roles than a couple of compound fractures. But if there was a flaw I could pick on to rub his perfect, aristocratic nose in, I couldn't see it.

'Maybe you should eat your veggies a bit more,' I sniped. 'Poor Kei must get prodded in some sensitive places by your skinny hips.' A couple of the young ladies in our group brushed past, there not being much room in the showers, and my most impressive attribute shot to attention just as Harlock turned around to wash his back off under the showerhead. The cocky bastard didn't even turn to watch the two curvy, gently swaying backsides sashay past and his attribute didn't so much as twitch.

'You are just sooo pussy-whipped,' I whispered into his ear.

I probably deserved the wet towel that smacked against my ass when I turned away from him, whistling.

I wasn't quite so smug when I held up the tiny little posing pouch and loincloth for inspection a few minutes later. 'Are they serious? We're supposed to wear these?'

The captain eyed his up with a wide, slightly wild eye. 'Well the ladies are in something similar…' he dangled the offending article between thumb and forefinger. 'Man up, Ali. I've seen you in less. A lot less…' He pantomimed a shudder. Theatrical little prick.

'My boxers covered a damn sight more than this, and I was bleeding all over an asteroid at the time,' I shot back snarkily. 'Besides, that's not my problem…'

He gave me one of his biggest theatrical sighs and leaned against the wall in that faux-casual way he has, arms folded across his chest, dangling that scrap of fabric so it hung down over his belly-button, waiting for the punchline. 'I know I'm going to regret asking but: go on…'

'I think this one is in your size - it's too small for me.'

I was treated to the long-suffering sigh this time.

Now…

'The least they could do is turn on the heating,' I grumbled as they led us through the draughty pile towards the banqueting hall. We were somewhere in the middle of the gaggle of semi-naked prisoners, guards on every side, although the rest of the group were mostly too numb to pull anything. The couple of guys who did look as though they might be up for a rumble were bringing up the rear, under separate guard and in shackles.

'Machine bodies don't feel the cold. I'm just wondering if I should be pleased or peeved that we don't merit the extra precautions…'

'That's what you get for pulling that pretty-boy-top routine leaving me as the whimpering bottom,' I replied out of the corner of my mouth. 'And since when do you whinge about us catching a break?'

'When I'm trying to take my mind off that…'

We were walking through the massive double doors - dark wood, two inches thick and ten feet tall (seriously - who needs to protect the roast turkey with that kind of home defence?). Whoever had owned - or still owned - this ancient heap had had a real hard-on for medieval architecture. We'd already walked down a corridor lined with the stuffed heads of various large animals, mostly with big horns. If you ask me that's some serious overcompensation.

Then I saw what the captain had seen. As I walked through the doorway, the banquet hall was laid out in all its fake splendor - a thirty foot ceiling arched over us, roofed with massive beams and lit with a dozen massive chandeliers. A dais at the far end dominated that part of the room, and the central area was filled with what must have been a half-a-dozen large banquet tables.

But it was the walls that grabbed the attention. Or rather, what was on them and in front of them.

The room was filled with trophies. Posed dioramas in glass cages lined the sides of the room, and other, partial items were displayed on the walls from the traditional wooden shields. Only these weren't animals.

They were all human.

Men were posed in various martial positions - either singly or in groups. One large case near the door contained two naked men wrestling each other. Another tall narrow case contained a guy dressed in the uniform of a Fleet captain from the time of the homecoming War, half kneeling, firing his pistol - the mass-produced version of the one the captain had been given by his predecessor

Creepily, another had been dressed and made up to look horribly familiar. Dark haired, one eyed, and dressed all in black with a long black cloak, some taxidermist's attempt to recreate the old Captain - standing at a replica ship's wheel - glared out over the dining tables.

'Too short,' I whispered hoarsely to my captain.

'Looks nothing like him,' he murmured back. I had to agree - the poor bastard posed for all to see as the Gaia Coalition's Most Wanted looked more like a dyspeptic accountant in fancy dress. And he was several pounds too heavy to carry off the look.

Other cases had mixed poses - naked or scantily dressed girls of all types posed in someone's sick idea of provocative allure; some alone, some in what I could only delicately refer to as in congress - and one or two positions were anatomically unlikely unless you wanted to pull something. I should know - I'd tried a couple in my time. The overall effect wasn't titillating. It was nauseating.

It was even worse, if that was possible, on the walls, where the trophies - heads, and heads and torsos - of several people - stared out over the room through glass eyes. One lovely young blonde woman was posed as though exiting the shield she was displayed on, her arms behind her, hands pushing against the wall, her lovely body brutally truncated at the pelvis, her head thrown back and her back arched in her moment of escape that would never come. Her long hair covered her breasts and moved eerily in the draft.

Some even had legends on plaques under them to denote (presumably) the date, place and sick bastard responsible for turning living, breathing vitality into a monster's sick display. I just didn't want to look closely enough to check my theory. I felt physically ill, and by the retching and crying and moaning around us, I wasn't the only one. Thankfully they hadn't fed us so the only thing I needed to swallow back down was a mouthful of bile. The guards had to move in to hustle their charges along - the horror of what they were in for had hit home hard and some had to be dragged towards the platform at the far end.

One of the idiots grabbed the captain's arm when he didn't move fast enough, and I only caught a brief glimpse of the look of tranquil fury on his face as he turned to glare at the moron who'd dared to lay a hand on him. The damn thing recoiled slightly, then raised a metal fist to take a swing at his face.

'Hold!'

The leader of the pack strode over and pulled his lackey's arm down. 'You know the rules - you don't mark the merchandise - bruises take a week or more to fade, and this one might bring a fair price.'

Instead we were pushed and shoved over to the far end, and that's where I was standing when our target made an appearance at last, with a cold draft heading right up into the unknown.

As the first victim was hauled up onto the block, I turned slightly to Harlock so we could talk quietly. 'I knew they were hunting people for sport, but I never guessed they were serious about that whole stuffing and mounting thing…'

'There were rumours,' he pointed out.

'Yeah - but I figured it was exaggeration - not… not this…'

'There was talk on the underground a few years back. Never found any proof until recently, when Emeraldas turned something up when she went after some associates of her mother. As it happens, Promethium does not sanction this - it's illegal and strictly underground. After all - humans are either future citizens, or…' he nodded to where several only slightly less scantily clad men and women were serving the guests who'd started to arrive. The expensive crystal goblets they carried on their silver platters all held a glowing substance which hand wispy blue flames dancing through it. The Flame of Life they called it - catnip for Machinners - the distilled life force of living beings. 'She hates waste.'

'That ain't much of an endorsement,' I told him pithily. We shared grim smiles, but had no time to exchange reminiscences regarding the evil bitch-queen of the Machinners - or as Emeraldas is forced to call her: "mum". There was a commotion near the stage, and two tall figures appeared from the wings. One was a tall human form machinner apart from his face - or more accurately, his head, which was a weird combination of human and dial-head, since his body was fully realistic, but his face was a standard single-gauge oval topped with very real-lookin' brown hair. He affected the dress of a pre-atomic age country squire - breeches tucked into knee boots and a frock coat - and a damn cravat tied into a natty waterfall. Seriously freaky. And from the way even the bossy goon deferred to him, probably the guy we'd come for.

The figure next to him was a total mystery - tall, and covered from head to foot in a long hooded mantle. From the glimpses I could see when he moved and the mantle swished open, he was human or human-form at least. Well built from the width of his shoulders, and he was light on his feet - moved gracefully and with little to no flourish. Restrained, was one word that came to mind. I couldn't see his face, covered as it was by the deep hood, and he took pains for some reason to stay out of the light.

Then we were up, being prodded towards the auction block, and I looked to Harlock for orders. He shook his head with the tiniest of motions. No action. I sighed inwardly. This hadn't been the plan, but then, we'd had no opportunity to get to our weapons and gear, since we hadn't been left alone since getting here. I could only hope Harlock knew what he was doing.

I had my foot on the first step, just ahead of the captain, when the hooded man leaned over to whisper something into the dial-headed chimera's ear. Dial-head raised a hand. 'Wait.' He called to our guard. 'Not these two - take them back to holding. They're to be reserved for Count Lazarus.'

'As you command, excellency,' the head goon bowed and jerked his head towards our guards, who pulled us both back and away from the stage. I looked back over my shoulder, to see the dark shape inside that hood staring straight at us, and although I could blame the cold drafty room and zero clothing, all of a sudden I got goosebumps all over.

'What is it?' the captain asked me in an undertone as we walked back through the hall, under the interested stares of the guests.

'Well either we've pulled - and I don't fancy your's much - or we've got trouble,' I whispered back. 'That hooded guy had his attention fixed on you, boyo. Maybe we've been made?'

'They haven't killed us yet. If they have rumbled us, they probably want to interrogate us first. That gives us time,' he replied calmly. 'We have eyes on the murdering bastard we came for - let's play this out. I don't plan on hitting the panic button just yet.' But I noticed him sneak a look back over his shoulder as we left the room, and I did the same.

The hooded guy was still watching us - or more likely Harlock - intently. And for all his carefully studied aplomb, the captain had a tiny frown forming on his forehead as we stepped through those massive doors again, and was nibbling slightly on his bottom lip.

'What's got your thong in a twist?' I asked as we walked, taking advantage of the total lack of interest from our guards, who were discussing amongst themselves the oddity of such a reservation of such ordinary specimens as us.

'I don't know,' he replied, sounding really puzzled. 'For a moment there I had a feeling I know that guy… the way he stands, the way he was looking at me...'

'Well if he gets in our way, add him to the shopping list,' I said quietly. He shot me a look but it wasn't one I could readily decode.

'Quit talking!' One of our guards gave me a shove in the back and I gave him the stink eye by return of post. From the corner of my eye I saw Harlock give me his keep-it-down headshake, and I piped down. We'd caught a break finally - maybe. I wasn't going to be the one to blow it.

We caught a second break when they shoved us into a small room all on our own and slammed and locked the door behind us. After waiting a few minutes to be sure our guards had left the area, We got to work checking the place for surveillance devices.

Once we were sure we were in the clear, it was time to really get to work...

.