Part II

Prowler pilot.

Prowler pilot… indeed.

Lairn Tristis, the Peacekeeper, no longer existed. He was now something far worse. He now only existed on a primitive default, moved by instinct and desire. Once there may have been hesitation, made more out of fear of retribution than the failsafe of morals. That particular weakness was now gone. The things that had kept Tristis's dark appetites in check were erased forever.

He wanted. He sought. He craved. And he would have. These were the energies that triggered synapse and sinew. Little existed in his memory of Scorpius's procedure. It was a mass of dismembered sensations best left unattached. Yet there was one image, tinged in red, that dominated the incongruent snarl of thoughts: that of the nameless prowler pilot.

She.

Her.

Dark haired. Pale, delicate fleshed prey.

#

"No!" Her voice was a hoarse plea that echoed through the hangar. Even the huddle of Zenetians stopped their raucous banter to regard the girl. Crichton sank to her knees in front of the vacant mouth of the Jocosta's propulsion compartment.

"This is not happening," she said in a tortured whisper.

Only Asher Korbyn heard it as he leaned over her shoulder, peering into the ravaged interior of the space. There were few remaining components within that he recognized. Korbyn, as a Peacekeeper, had always been part of ground combat detachments. Prowler tech had nothing to do with the brand of killing in which he had been trained. But his present lifestyle had afforded him enough education to know that this prowler had been stripped of anything remotely useable. All that remained was a lifeless shell.

"I've seen enough. Get us out of here." He said, turning to Spivey. His second left quickly. The others had faded into the shadows of the hangar. They were just as eager as he to leave Ixian space. Their history was long and colorful with the locals and never was it pleasant.

Asher tugged Crichton to her feet. "Come on, little girl."

She came with him, compliant. Her eyes did not leave the battered silver outline of the prowler.

"It can be anywhere," she muttered cryptically. "Anyone can have it."

"What can be anywhere, Crichton?" he demanded. He was growing increasingly impatient. "Just what is so frelling important about this prowler?"

"Why don't you tell him, half-breed?" Across the bay, Vedit Corsair growled. The Peacekeeper officer was clearly enjoying the girl's distress irregardless of his own questionable fate.

"You!" Crichton tried to rend herself free of Asher's grasp. "I hope you're satisfied, Vedit! You arrogant bastard! It's your fault! You have no idea what you've done here!"

"You would have done the same thing, Crichton." Vedit shook his head slowly, condescending. He adjusted his black captain's tunic, squaring his shoulders as if he still stood on a command tier. "If you were in my position."

"You are a coward, Corsair!"

"That's enough! I've seen the act before and I was sufficiently impressed the first time." Asher barked.

He gripped her upper arm and led her back to the habitation deck. Her movements were sluggish. Her head bowed. But he knew she was not so easily defeated. It was written in the line of her spine and in the way she took in each detail of the corridors on the route back to his quarters. She was saving her strength, planning.

#

The stealth class marauder was a beast of humming wires and idiot pulses. It was much more like its pilot; a machine with a purpose. Heartless and cold. Only one of them was made of metal. The marauder's operations: Tactical. Navigation. Comms. They were distant concerns. Things that did not matter. Inconsequential.

Target Acquired
Tracking
Range: 018.029.738

At the new reading he felt the distant rush of excitement. For she was near. And he would find her. The prowler. Then the prowler pilot.

Scorpius did not need to know. Scorpius only required the sphere. Scorpius could have the universe, if he so wished. The prowler pilot belonged to Tristis.

And oh the things… the lovely things he could do.

#

Trouble. Her image would be listed on a data-spool with the definition of the word. But since when did Asher Korbyn avoid trouble?

Crichton stood in the center of his small chamber, her expression unreadable. A deceptive calm surrounded her. This was a different creature than the one he had witnessed moments before in the hangar. She seemed older than he first thought, perhaps just over twenty cycles. The chestnut hair had fallen from the tight plait at the base of her neck, partially obscuring her pale features. Her haunting emerald eyes fixed on his every move.

He had seen more attractive women in his life. That was not what made her stand out to him. No. She was different for other reasons. Unique was the word that came to mind. And if there was a constant to the Uncharted Territories that Asher Korbyn understood, it was that unique was always valuable.

"Here." He tossed the heavy jacket at her. It landed at her feet. Crichton did not move to touch it. She merely looked at it then up at him, an eyebrow arched in caustic surprise.

"You're cold. I've seen you shivering," Asher said, latching the door behind him. He leaned against the metal frame, arms folded across his thick chest. "If you become ill, I have no use for you."

She tossed the hair from her face, obviously aware of the inviting image she presented to him: vulnerable, defenseless. She lifted her shackled wrists toward him.

"If you undo these… I can put it on." Her voice lowered into a carefully sculpted purr. "I can do whatever you want."

"I'll bet that pout worked on many an officer." Asher smirked. "Nice try, little girl."

Her expression crumpled into a defeated frown. She lashed out, angrily kicking the jacket away.

"Are we done playing games for now?" he asked, stalking across the small room to her.

She constantly kept her body at an angle to him, ready for a possible attack as she backed away. This was yet another earmark of standard commando training that she bore.

"Whatever you're going to do… just get it over with," she said finally. The distain was pure in her gaze. She looked him up and down, appraisingly. "I'm sure it won't take you long."

Asher snorted at the barb, amused. Quickly he lashed out, snagging the front of her jacket in his fist. He heard her emit a startled grunt as he retracted his arm, drawing her closer.

"Do you think I'm an animal?" Asher tilted his head, pushing his face into hers. "Like Spivey? Like the rest of those jackals down there?"

Whatever surprise he had triggered in her had vanished. He saw only a hardened dare etched in its place. Physical pain and threats were probably useless on her. He had glimpsed enough of the scarred skin on her arms to sense that much.

"You know a thing or two about survival, little girl." He relaxed his grip, allowing her weight to fall back on her feet. "Otherwise you would not have made it this far."

"I was right. You do enjoy the sound of your own voice," she returned, pulling away. She tugged indignantly at her clothes, straightening them. The bravado was weakened as her voice cracked. For a moment she seemed to sway on her feet, visibly suppressing some errant wave of pain.

"Survival, Crichton. That is what it all comes to," Asher explained, studying her. "If you cooperate with me, you can continue your survival… and on your own terms."

Her eyes remained on his. The pale features without affect. He may as well have been talking to a statue. The question is what will you do to survive, little girl?" he prodded, edging even closer.

"What haven't I done," she muttered under her breath. With this, she fixed her gaze on a distant corner of the room. Then, hesitantly, her trembling fingers, made awkward by her bound wrists, journeyed to the fasteners of her jacket, opening the staunch black collar.

"No." Asher grabbed her hands, halting their progress. "Although, I'm flattered by your… offer. That is not what I meant."

Brow furrowed, but shoulders relaxing with a silent relief she stared up at him. She jerked her hands away from his.

"Then what do you want? You've already got the Jocos- the prowler," she caught herself. Her eyes moved hungrily over his face, trying to glean answers. "What more is there?"

"Information." He toyed with the string of the identchip around her neck.

"Why? What has Vedit told you?" she asked, slapping his hand away. He could nearly hear the tick and whine of her cunning brain racing through possibilities and scenarios.

"Wormholes. Very interesting topic, no?" Asher replied.

"What about them?" She feigned an unconvincing disinterest.

"Imagine the price someone would pay to have the ability to make them."

She said nothing, her face stoic.

"Whatever was in that propulsion compartment means a great deal more than any phased plasma converter. It could make wormholes, couldn't it?"

"Why should it matter? It's gone now." Her voice was low, weak.

"Because, I just may know who has it," he said. "And I don't think he knows its true value."

"And what would you do? Steal it from them?"

"Leave the details to me, little girl," he said, planting his hands on the bulkhead behind her, blocking her in. "You going to play along?"

She drew her chin up. An incredulous sneer found her mouth. "And you'll just…let me go? Just like that?"

"I give you my word."

"The word of a criminal," she seethed. For a moment she seemed impossibly older, worn. "How fortunate for me."

"Little girl, that's the best option you've got right now." Asher leaned closer, predatorily. A lecherous smile moved over his mouth. He pushed a thick hand inside the open collar of her jacket. "Of course… I could always consider your initial offer-"

"Fine! Yes. I'll tell you what you want to know." She blurted, squirming away from his touch. Her face flushed.

"That's a smart girl," he said, running a thumb over the arch of her cheekbone.

She recoiled, stumbling against the bulkhead. Her eyes squeezed shut in pain and she doubled-over sharply, coughing.

Asher took a cautious step back, uncertain if this were more theatrics or something genuine. Finally, she straightened, absently wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. It came away streaked with red. She rolled huge eyes up at him.

"But… I am cold," she said in a pained whisper.

He regarded her, measuring. She leaned weakly against the wall looking defeated and haggard. Another shiver shook her shoulders. A greater fear, more real than the situation that brought her to this cramped little room, now surrounded her like a color.

Cautiously Asher turned to the discarded jacket on the floor. As he stooped to retrieve it, he realized that he had made a serious mistake the moment he took his eyes off the girl. There was a swift blur of motion out of the corner of his vision as she sprang away from the wall. He could not dodge her strike in time. Her thick-soled boot collided solidly with his chin.

White-hot light dazzled his vision. The pain was instantaneous and immobilizing. Asher collapsed to the deck on his knees. Another kick was delivered to his groin. A horrid nauseating pain trampled up his abdomen. He flopped onto his back, temporarily paralyzed with agony. Instantly the girl was standing over him. Her face was pinched with fury.

"Don't call me 'little girl'," she hissed. "I hate that!" She descended upon him with all her weight, throwing her knees into his chest. Clumsily, she began to rummage through his clothes, no doubt looking for the key to her shackles.

His hands snapped shut around her wrists. He pulled her forward, off balance. Without her hands to support her, she landed gracelessly on the deck. He lumbered on top of her, pressing her into the toothed grating of the deck. She was a sudden frenzy, seeking to lash out at him and free herself at the same time. Asher flipped her over to face him, pinioning her wrists above her head.

"That's it… little girl," he growled. He drew a hand back to strike her, but paused. A part of him knew she was doing this to deliberately. This behavior was meant to draw out his fury. If she were dead or unconscious at his hand, he would not get the answers he wanted. This was not going to be as easy as he first thought.

Suddenly the air was split with the sound of a proximity klaxon. The deck bucked beneath them. He heard the distinct protest of groaning metal. Korbyn dragged his captive to her feet and reached for the com panel.

Irritated, he opened the link. "Report."

There was no answer. He did not need one. Korbyn had been in his share of ship to ship battles to know that they had just been fired upon. He turned to his bound prize.

She glared at him straining against his grip. The blood from her split lip stained her chin. Added to her disheveled hair and pale skin she looked like a wild-eyed Vladic wraith.

"You're being fired on, Asher." She sneered through bloody teeth. "Good. I hope they kill us all."

"No you don't." Asher returned, pulling the door open. He tugged her into the corridor with him. "You may be a lot of things, little girl. But you're not insane."

#

She stood on tip-toe to peer over his shoulder at the remote access panel. The information gleaned from the readings, however sketchy was not good. Whoever had fired on them had superior firepower. Red dangerous tell-tales blossomed across the board like a cancer. The ship was succumbing to it deck by deck.

"Blind on main deck. Command's cut off," Korbyn muttered. "Frell."

He pushed her ahead of him in the direction of the darkened corridor. "No time. Let's go. Hangar."

"What about your men, Asher?" she said, sarcastically, purposefully slowing her stride.

"You don't honestly think the Zenetians are asking the same of me." He snorted. Asher shoved her forward again. "We might be able to out run our visitor in the scrub runner. We're still in the debris field. That should give us some cover."

"Us?" She turned on him, standing in the middle of the corridor. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

He grabbed her shoulders, throwing her into the wall. "Now. Listen. Up. You have no choice. You say on this ship. You will die with it. I need you alive."

"Oh. That's very touching." She rolled her eyes, regardless of the painful grip on her shoulders.

"No. I want that prowler tech. And for that, I need you."

"Covering your losses?"

"Exactly."

Ellie fought the bitter knot of dread at her core. It felt too much like fear. She dealt with it the only way she knew; turning it inward, fueling her weakened energy. The trick she pulled on him in his quarters had left an impression. He would be much harder to fool now. She was running low on options. Regardless of the adrenaline that spurred her heart, a struggle would end badly, she knew with deadly certainty.

Live through this. Then deal with him.

"I hate you," she hissed.

Asher laughed. "Oh, Crichton. I'm crushed."

The overhead lights winked uncertainly before dying altogether.

"Come on. Move that flat ass, Crichton." He steered her toward the hangar. "The generators are failing and I don't want to stick around for that."

They soon reached a junction she recognized, regardless of the dull yellow glare of the hazard lights. Kemper side was the hangar. Hammond side led to the habitation deck.

Suddenly the floor bucked viciously. Asher fell backward. She landed on top, using the momentum of her fall to drive her elbow into his solar plexus. She heard him release wounded grunt. Before he could make a grab for her, she was on her feet, running in the direction of the hangar.

"Bitch!" Asher hissed. It was followed by the sounds of his heavy tread in pursuit.
She pushed past the painful protest of her sick body, forcing herself to run faster. She had to beat him to the scrub runner.

Live through this. Live through this…

Keeping low she slid into the hanger, heading instantly for the hulking scrub runner. She surveyed the foreign shadows and felt an icy wave move over her.

Peacekeepers! They were the mysterious attackers. The Zenetian ship had been boarded. A stealth marauder was rested, poised in the center of the deck, like a dozing spider. It nearly dwarfed the sad wasted remains of the Jocosta. She felt an ugly barb tear at her heart.

Jocosta… my ship.

As she watched, a dark figure moved beneath the Jocosta's wing encompassed by the shadows. Ellie quickly drew back into her hiding spot, behind the scrub runner.

The boarding party must have left a sentry at the marauder. That was standard protocol in hostile territory. Yet a simple commando raid on Zenetians would not be bothered with such precautions. She felt the hair rise on the back of her neck. Something did not feel right.

Ellie crept along the back of the scrub runner, keeping its bulk between her and the sentry. At this new hiding spot, she could see the him in better detail. Her heart stuttered. Instead of the red and black fatigues she expected, he wore the dark uniform of special ops. Ravstar.

The deck shimmed. Distracted, she fell, momentarily thrown into plain view. Quickly she scampered back into hiding. Had he seen her?

The thud of boots, headed in her direction. Frell! Darting into the open space of the hangar would make her an easy target. Going around the runner would send her back into Korbyn's path. Cornered, she squirmed beneath the low slung belly of the runner. She watched the sentry's heavy boots approach in a purposeful stride. He slowed as he reached the runner, drawing a path along its side.

Ellie felt around in the darkness, trying to find something, anything that could be used as a weapon. Her hand met some wet, sticky substance. She squinted in the dimness. Blood. She shuddered. A pool of it had spread beneath the runner. Mere denches away, she saw the still body of Spivey, his body twisted like a broken doll. Beyond him she could make out the shapes of two other fallen Zenetians. It had been a butchering.

Breathing in shallow gulps, she turned back to watch the sentry. The boots paused. Then they took up stride again, heading around the back of the runner. A brief flutter of relief washed over her.

Forced to lay on her stomach in the confined space, she could not turn to watch his progress. The plodding pace continued to her left then along her flank. And somewhere at her back was another pause. Moving her lips in silent prayer she struggled to listen over her pounding heart.

A dreadful silence followed.

Then, slowly, another footfall. And another. The spring of panic nestled in her chest uncoiled. She cautiously exhaled the breath she'd been holding.

That was when the rough hands latched around her ankles, dragging her into the open dim of the hangar with undeniable strength. Stunned she stared up into the face of the sentry and felt her reality crumble.

"No," she heard herself mutter. "You can't be here."

Lairn Tristis, a beast whose dreadful physical and mental torments she had suffered for seventeen cycles, glared down at her. But always, she had known him as callous officer with cragged features as withered as his soul. The Tristis that stood over her was impossibly young. The flat brown eyes told of ancient hate, barely housed by their mortal frame.

"Prowler pilot," Tristis growled. Then his mouth contorted into a cold smile.

"No," she tried to force the word from her throat. She shook her head, more in denial of his presence than of his observation.

He took a lumbering step closer.

Move! Run! But her weakened limbs refused to work in harmony. Instead she scrambled back, clumsily propelling herself with her hands and feet away from him, only to be cornered against the hull of the runner.

A pulse gun round struck Tristis in the center of his chest. He stumbled backward, but did not fall. Brow furrowed with dull-witted surprise, he turned to the direction of the shot. A second and third round rocked him back, stumbling.

Ellie watched, mouth agape. The first shot would have taken out anyone. He should not be standing. The smell of his sizzling wounds wafted to her. His chest was a scorched wound. One of the other shots had struck his face, blinding one of those baleful eyes.

Tristis's reactions were sluggish, as though he were moving through thick fluid as he reached for holstered pulse gun. He seemed to reticently to turn for cover, his attention split between his attacker and Ellie. Then he crumpled to his knees, falling face first to the deck to lay still.

"Crichton!" Korbyn was suddenly kneeling over her.

She did not take her eyes from Tristis. The moment telescoped, as though she watched these events from far away. Korbyn was asking her a question and pulling her to her feet. His mouth moved. The words made no sense. Thick gray tugged at her edges, accompanied by a strange falling sensation. For the moment, she allowed its pull, falling into the gray. Gladly.

#

"Stop it. Let go," she muttered. Her eyelids fluttered as she began to shiver. Asher stood over her, uncertain. He looked around at the silent stone walls of the cave as though they would provide an answer. She had not stirred until now.

"Crichton?" He grasped her by the shoulders and righted her. Her head rolled listlessly on her neck.

"You'll be late for your duty shift," she slurred.

He frowned. The girl was delirious. Her skin was hot; he nearly recoiled. Even through her jacket he could sense the fever. Given his Sebacean physiology, Korbyn could not imagine the agony that such a state would induce. His brief career as a field medic had never exposed him to anything more than sutures and pulse gun wounds.

"Crichton," he shook her shoulders. "Hey… wake up."

Her eyes opened. The vision clearing. To his mild astonishment, she did not seek to move away from his touch. Another convulsive shiver shook her.

"How?" Her voice quivered with the chatter of her teeth. She sat up from the rock wall, looking around. "How did I get here? Where are we?"

"What is wrong with you?" he asked, ignoring her question.

"I asked you first," she droned. "Where are we?"

"Exactly where I shouldn't be," he said, rising and striding back to the small campfire. "Not much I could do about it. That marauder's systems were encrypted. I had to take the scrub runner. It only got us this far. Keurig."

"Never heard of it."

He shrugged. "That's probably a good thing."

She moved slowly, painfully and slouched toward the fire, cautious to keep her distance from him. Her right hand crept to her mouth and she distractedly began to chew on the pad of her thumb, her eyes fixed on the fire.

"What's wrong with you? You're sick. Aren't you?"

She looked at him, swallowing. "It's nothing."

Asher canted his head, studying her. Her skin held a delicate sheen of perspiration. Her features were flushed. Her eyes had the glassy glint of fever. "You're lying. Is it contagious?"

"No."

"Then what the frell is it?"

"Nothing to concern you, Korbyn. I'll be dead; it's the way things should be."

Asher suddenly burst into laughter. It was a rich with ridicule, bouncing off the stone walls. He watched the flush of blood spread over her face. "Crichton, I'm disappointed. Are you feeling sorry for yourself?"

"Don't you dare presume to know me! If you knew me... if you knew of what I've destroyed, you would not be so sure." Instantly enraged, she stood. But he was quicker, pulling her back down.

"Don't flatter yourself," he said with another amused, sarcastic laugh. "In the great scheme of the universe, it takes more than you, little girl, to destroy."

"Stop that! Stop calling me that!" She spat. Her hands balled into fist as she tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp. "I'm twenty-two cycles old. I am not a little girl."

"Then act that way," he said flatly, finally pushing her away. She edged from him and sat in seething silence.

He regarded her for a moment. Then reached over, seizing her bound wrists. Asher unlocked the shackles. The girl looked up at him, wary of some trick.

"Go," he jerked his chin at the entrance to the cave. "Go on. Before I change my mind."

She rose, uncertain. Swaying on her feet, she took shambling steps toward the open air.

"Of course, I'll still find the wormhole device before you do," he said. "Because I know who has it."

As he had expected, the girl stopped. Her back straightened. She turned, granting him a side-long glance.

"Oh. You are singular," she hissed. "You think this some sort of game? There is a serious situation here that you are not aware of, Korbyn."

"Everything is a game, Crichton," he replied. He dug the canteen out of the ration kit and took a long sip, purposefully taking his time. "Don't forget that."

Her eyes filled with a squelched pride. She knew she was being manipulated and hated it even more so that he knew it. She looked to the mouth of the cave, hesitant. After a long moment, she turned back to him.

"Alright, Korbyn," she sat down at the campfire, snatching the canister from his outstretched hand. She finished off its contents. "You've made your point. I'm not going anywhere."

#

Pain. It was a color. A banner of yellow that rippled across the dull gray that suspended him. Spivey stirred, unaware of the groan that he produced. He felt the graceless bind of gravity embrace him. The pain was worse here. He was back in the waking realm where it thrived in vivid intensity.

He was vaguely aware of the floor's vibration. An engine purred beneath with deadly efficiency. Faster. More powerful than that of any Zenetian vessel. He opened his eyes. It was the dimly lit interior of a marauder. Fear blossomed in his center.

Peacekeepers. Frell.

He thought about sitting up, but the pain would have none of that. A figure moved in the dark making its way towards him.

Boots. Shiny black duty boots. Above that the black Peacekeeper uniform. A pale white face seemed to float above it. Recognition filtered through Spivey. The bastard that had boarded his ship!

"Frelling… bastard." Spivey slurred. He watched the soldier kneel beside him, hiding something in one hand.

The youthful face that regarded Spivey was devoid of emotion, one side of it was marred by a pulse gun blast. It had apparently robbed him of one eye. All that remained was the puckered scorched socket. Spivey felt a smug wave of satisfaction.

Good. Glad someone got a chance at you, freller.

"Remain still." The officer said. The voice did not sound right. It was sluggish, drugged.

Spivey felt the sting of an injector high in his neck. A tingling warmth spread across his face and down into his body. The pain disappeared beneath it. But he was unconvinced of any mercy on the Peacekeeper's part.

Frell you!

Spivey tried to demonstrate his rebellion by squirming, but found he could not. A sharp panic set in. He could not move. His muscles were paralyzed. He found he could only manage to swallow if he concentrated on the action.

There was a glint of metal in the overhead light. Spivey's felt ice water pool along his spine. Hefted in the peacekeeper's hand was a surgical blade.

What… what the frell is that? All that Spivey managed to produce were a series of wet gurgles.

"You have…what I.. require." A cold hand pressed down on his forehead, forcing his head to the side. He could offer no resistance.

Frell! What? But Spivey knew the answer, on the same level he knew he would not live beyond the next few moments. Out of the corner of one eye he saw the blade loom closer.

#

"Mutagenic what!? Zhaan, for chrissakes, she's only seven! This cannot be happening. Tell me you're wrong-"

"John, I've repeated the tests four times. I can come to no other conclusion."

"That Tarf… that fucking witchdoctor on N'Dex… he said she'd be fine. Of course he said the same thing about Aeryn too."

"John-"

"Not her too. I couldn't take that, Zhaan. She's all I've got left of her… of Aeryn."

Their mingled hectic voices found her as she stole along the quiet mutter of the corridor. Moya's smooth deck was warm beneath her bare feet. Her father and Zhaan would have chastised her for wandering about with out shoes, but that was the least of her worries. The arn was too late for little girls to be out of bed.

"The condition is not necessarily fatal, John. It seems to operate in stages… perhaps separated by many cycles in between. I cannot be certain. With the proper double helix therapies, she can-"

"Oh, Christ. Where have I heard that one before?"

"I will do what I can now to ease her discomfort. But we will need to find a means to control the mutagenic contagion. Aeryn was a pure Sebacean stock, inoculated intentionally to avoid contamination of the bloodline."

"But the test."

"A mass-produced genetic compatibility test is hardly the basis for a decision and I doubt they had humans in mind when they designed it."

A soft yellow patch of light fell out of the open door of the galley.

Ellie crept along the copper archway and stole a brief glance inside. Her father sat on the low bench his face thrust into his up-turned palms. Zhaan was a pensive shimmer of blue hovering over him.

It suddenly felt wrong for Ellie to be there. She was torn between entering and returning to her room with its frightening lurk of shadows around her bed.

"Ellie." She started. The spy had been found out.

"What are you doing out of bed? Come here." Her father held a beckoning arm out to her. His eyes were liquid. A sad smile moved over his mouth.

She moved obediently towards him. Ellie felt herself swept up onto her father's knee. She leaned against his chest. Zhaan placed a soft hand on her face. She sensed the two adults exchange some tense glance above her head.

"Daddy… I'm cold."

"We're gonna get you some help, hon. You'll feel better."

"Am I sick like momma was? Will I die?"

"Oh, by the goddess, no, child." Zhaan hushed, stroking her hair away from her forehead.

"Hey… look at me." He prodded Ellie's chin with the tip of his finger. "You're gonna be alright, El. Daddy's gonna take a trip soon find someone to fix you right up. You'll see."

#

On the verge of a feverish sleep, Ellie startled. She sat up from her hiding spot near the mouth of the cave and surveyed the foggy terrain beyond. She was certain she had heard a noise. But the mist made the sounds behave oddly here. A cold rain had begun to fall. It seemed to permeate her flesh, penetrating to the bone. Briefly she regretted not taking the thug, Korbyn, up on his offer of the jacket.

Satisfied that there was no danger, she settled back against the damp rocks. Muttering a small tirade of useless curses beneath her breath, she peered back into the cave. Inside Korbyn dozed like a cat, curled at the warming fire while she maintained a vigil against any possible intruders that may have traced them from the wasted scrub runner. He had been vague about his history with the locals or the need for such precautions; enough to make her question her decision to stay. At the thought of his bald-faced manipulation, she felt the indignant anger seep through her veins.

Live through this… then deal with him.

A bout of coughing attacked her, off guard. She recovered finally, swallowing the copper taste of blood. It grew worse with every arn. The fever. The pain. She could no longer deny her illness. But she tried not to think about it, to consider the fear that permeated each new wave of pain.

That was easily done, replaced by another worry. Tristis. She was certain of it. The Peacekeeper that had attacked the Zenetian vessel was Lairn Tristis. The officer's features were unmistakable. Each beating she had received as a child, each "lesson" at his hand had permanently etched that hateful visage into her mind. It was him. A truth she felt in her very soul.

Dead. He's dead. Don't dwell on it. But what hell had dispatched him to claim her? How did he even know to find her?

The final wormhole the Jocosta triggered near Scorpius's command carrier had been composed in normal space. There could have been no temporal distortion. She was certain that the regime of this time, her own past, had no knowledge of her. Her presence in this time-line had altered much more, she feared, than her brief encounter with the occupants of the Leviathan.

So how? How? Had they found a means to track the Jocosta? Tristis had been near the propulsion compartment. Could it be they knew of the Ciax spheroid as well?

"This is your doing," she muttered in misery to the rock walls. "Send your pet demon Tristis after me? Is that it s'duhar?"

She shut her eyes and for a moment imagined she could hear the cool echo of her former master's voice, oily with dreadful intellect.

"You were set on high, young Sun. Far better than any hybrid could hope for. You sat at my right hand. And now… look at you. Pathetic creature. The cycles wasted on your education."

But he was a mere phantom now. So much had happened to her. Light cycles of space and decades made his pull so faint. The only times she imagined its power, was on the edge of sleep, when the walls of reality crumbled and the absurd had reign. A part of her soul would remain conquered by Scorpius. That was the canker at her core.

"Lies… lies," she slurred. "I was a pet. A curiosity. Nothing more. Meant for revenge at my father when even his death failed to satisfy you."

"Not true, my dear. I regarded you as my own. But you'll never know for sure, will you now, young Sun?"

"Lies…"

"Had you remained obedient, you would not be here… under the petty control of a common thief… shivering…on this primitive rock…dying."

"No more." She turned her head, seeking to lose his voice beneath the steady patter of rain. The shade spoke the truth that hovered in the dark corners of her tired brain. It was an icy finger to her heart.

"Yes. You are dying. You do know that. After all, it was my intervention that kept your genetics from unraveling… killing you… as they are now."

She gave a derisive chuckle. "Then I shall die. I will be grateful for it."

"Young Sun," he chided, a false pity in his tone. "Now… who is the one that lies?"

Ellie drifted onto the seamless edge of sleep, her aching body no match for the dual onslaught of exhaustion and her raging illness. The vigil was forgotten. Her head slumped down to her chest. She did not hear the low murmur of the ground car. She did not see the shadow figures unfold from the mist beyond as they stole upon their camp.

Part 3