THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER

THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER

CHAPTER ONE

ASN DarkFire

87.09.854PD

0475

Megan Moroney was trapped, and she knew it. Trapped by orders, by circumstance, by the bracelet around her left wrist, and by the stare of the wide-shouldered, middle-aged man standing in front of the main viewscreen of the frigate DarkFire.

"We have discussed this before," he said, frowning down at her from his elevated position. The Captain's podium normally remained flush to the floor except during battle, but Pablo Flores preferred it at its full metre extension. Surrounded by the half-light of the bridge, with its flashing displays and blank-faced officers, he reminded Moroney of a half-finished statue -- so full of self-importance that, had she not been so frustrated, she would have found the whole situation laughable. "Has anything changed since then?"

"No, sir," she replied. "All I ask is that you reconsider your decision."

Flores shook his head. "Call me inflexible, if you like, but I see no reason to entertain the whims of my passengers."

"It's more than a whim, captain," she snapped.

"No, Commander," said Flores, the ghost of a grin hovering at the corners of his mouth. "It is not. What you request is clearly outside your jurisdiction."

"Not necessarily." Her free hand betrayed the half-lie by adjusting the tight-fitting neck of her uniform, making her look nervous. When she realised what she was doing, she immediately returned the treacherous hand to her side and straightened her posture. The chain leading from the bracelet to the valise at her side jingled faintly, but she had learned long ago to ignore it.

"Without access to the relevant information, I am unable to determine where my jurisdiction lies in this matter. Perhaps if you would explain your reason for denying me access to the capsule, then I might understand."

Flores' frown deepened. "I am not required to explain anything to you, Commander. Need I remind you who is the commanding officer of this vessel?"

"No, sir." Moroney gritted her teeth on an angry retort.

"Then I think that concludes our discussion," he said, turning to face the viewscreen.

Moroney remained where she was, unwilling to let the matter rest there -- although she knew that technically he was in the right. But there was more than the life capsule and its mysterious contents at stake. There was a principle.

"Captain ... "

Flores sighed. "Yes, Commander?"

"Forgive me for saying this, but your manner seems to indicate a resentment of my presence aboard this ship. I hope you have not allowed your feelings to cloud your judgement."

Flores faced her once again, his narrowed eyes displaying an indignation which told Moroney her remark had hit home.

The Captain of the DarkFire might have outranked Moroney, but her superior officer -- and, therefore, her mission -- outranked his. In the course of their voyage, the unassuming valise she carried had become a focus for every slight, real or imagined. That she carried it because of the chain and bracelet ensuring its permanent attachment to her person rather than out of any real choice, he seemed to have forgotten. Orders were orders, and she had less choice than he did, if only in the short term. But the fact remained: Flores was just a donkey for the courier on his back.

The situation might never have become a problem had it not been for the length of time available for circumstance to rub shoulders with resentment. In six weeks, the gentle but constant friction had generated enough heat to spark flame. The matter of the capsule and its mysterious occupant, although trivial in itself, was the catalyst of a much more significant reaction.

"On the contrary," replied the Captain, responding to her comment with frosty politeness. "It is not I who has allowed emotions to interfere. Frankly, Commander, I would say that your curiosity has gotten the better of you."

"I'm an active field agent for HighFleet Intelligence," she retorted. "It comes with the job."

"Nevertheless." Flores folded his arms. "The most intelligent thing for you to do right now is let the matter rest."

"With respect, sir -- "

"Commander, the simple fact of the matter is that I am not permitted to allow you to place yourself in a situation which is potentially dangerous."

"I'm quite capable of looking after myself."

"I don't doubt that, Commander. But I think you underestimate the risk -- "

"How can I underestimate him if I know nothing about him?"

"'Him'? You seem to have learned too much as it is."

She ignored this. "If you would simply let me view the science officer's report-- "

"Which is classified."

"My security rating is as high as yours, Captain." It was higher, in fact, but she didn't press that fact home. "At least give me the opportunity to use my position as I have been trained to do."

Flores sighed again. "Very well, then. I will consider letting you view the report, but only after we have arrived at Longmire's Planet and off-loaded our cargo. In the meantime, your mission -- and mine -- is best served by you returning to your quarters and remaining there."

"But -- "

"Shields detecting micro-impacts." The voice came from somewhere behind Moroney, but Flores didn't take his eyes from hers to acknowledge it. "Captain, we are brushing the halo."

"Please, Commander," he said evenly, gesturing at the exit from the bridge. "Or will I have to have you removed?"

Moroney fumed silently to herself. Flores' promises to 'consider' or 'review' the situation had proven worthless before, and she doubted that this time would be any different. But she had to admit that he did have a point. The DarkFire was about to insert itself into orbit around one of the most hazardous planets in the Colonised Galaxy; he and his crew needed to concentrate on their work without distraction.

Refusing to conceded defeat by speaking, she turned away from Flores and moved across to the exit. The door slid aside with the grind of metal on metal, but instead of stepping through, Moroney stopped on the threshold and turned to watch the goings-on of the bridge. It was as much a show of strength as it was a demonstration of her independence.

The main screen displayed an amplified image of Longmire's Planet. The grey-brown orb floated in the centre of the screen, with the ring of densely packed moonlets that girdled the planet's equator glistening in the light from the system's primary. With the occasional explosion flaring from some of the larger rocks, the miniature asteroid-belt looked deceptively attractive from the DarkFire's distance. Moroney knew how dangerous it could be. Some of the moonlets were over ten kilometres in diameter; one slip near something that size would rip a ship like the DarkFire in two.

Apart from the belt, what really struck her about the view was something that might have been lost on the average deep-space tourist. Few people outside military service would have noted the absence of orbital towers girding the planet; if they had, it was doubtful they would have understood the significance of the fact. To Moroney, the planet appeared completely uninhabited, with nothing but a handful of navigation stations in orbit and the pocket asteroid belt to keep it company -- like a reef holding all but the most determined at bay; a shoal around a desert island.

<They call it the Soul -- not the shoal,> said a voice deep in her skull, intruding upon her subvocal surface thoughts. <The origins of the name are clouded, but one recurring folk-myth from the planet's inhabitants asserts that the band of light -- as the asteroid-belt appears to those living on the planet -- is comprised of the souls of people who have died in captivity. The myth of transubstantiation from the mundane to the sublime is common to many repressed societies -- but the image is still evocative, don't you think, Megan?>

The voice fell silent. No-one else in the bridge had heard it speak, apart from her.

"You can go to hell too," Moroney whispered, and walked out.

The frigate DarkFire, one of the few ships to survive the Kresh Wars, had been built around the sixth-generation warp drive common in the years 512 to 586PD. Shaped like a fat sausage, with a shaft containing the drive mechanism running along its axis, she had five levels of concentric decking to house its 450-odd crew, two freight-locks and enough storage space to hold five independent fighters. Artificial gravity, produced as an after-effect of the 6-gen drive, had resulted in a sense of down being inwards rather than outwards as was the case on centrifugal ships. This feature also gave her a degree of manoeuvrability far superior than that of other ships of her day -- which is one reason why she survived the Kresh Wars relatively unscathed.

The three hundred years since, however, had left her behind, despite numerous remods and even complete refits in dry-dock. Her drive systems had been replaced in 755PD, upgrading her to 9-gen and full battle status. Her most recent overhaul had been after the Amran-Telmak war of 827PD, in which she had received new viewscreens and anti-E shields but little in the way of either fundamental or cosmetic changes.

To Moroney's eyes, as she left the bridge and headed through the cramped and dimly-lit corridors to her quarters, the DarkFire looked more like a museum piece than an active frigate. Doors clicked and hissed, elevators shuddered, manual systems still operated where in recent ships crude but efficient AIs had taken over. Current Warp technology in the Cogal -- kept homogenous by the all-pervasive Nadokan trading empire -- stood at eleventh-generation, two orders of magnitude more efficient and responsive than that propelling the ancient frigate. The discrepancy between the DarkFire and other HighFleet vessels didn't surprise her, however; prison ships were renowned for being poorly-fixtured, outdated relics fit for little more than so-called 'cattle' runs and other routine jobs.

The uppermost level housed officers and command stations; levels two to three were the crew quarters. The lowest levels contained cells for the transportees heading to Longmire's Planet. Moroney's room -- her cell, as she thought of it -- was the last on the first floor, sandwiched between the drive shielding and a water reclamation plant. Straining engines kept her awake during manoeuvres; bubbling pipes provided a constant counterpoint. She doubted that the room was used often, it being too uncomfortable for either a regular officer or an important guest. As she was neither, it was her dubious honour to be its occupant.

The bulkhead leading to her section slid aside with a noise like tearing metal, jamming as it always did when it was only three quarters opened. Set into the wall opposite the door was a security station inhabited by a single crewman. He saluted as she approached, recognising her on sight, and she returned the gesture automatically. Behind him, a battered flatscreen followed the progress of the DarkFire.

The view of Longmire's Planet hadn't changed much. The DarkFire's contingent of fighters, standard escort for a prison ship, had adopted a defensive configuration more out of habit than any real need.

Catching the direction of her glance, the crewman nodded. "Almost there," he said. "Not that we'll see much of it."

Moroney felt compelled to respond, although her anger at Flores still burned. "We're not landing?"

"No, sir. We'll simply dock at Klarendi Station to offload the cattle and to refuel." He shrugged. "No-one goes down; no-one comes up. That's the rules."

"What about staffing changes?"

"Oh, DAOC sends a shuttle every year or so, independent of us. This is the third time I've been this way, and it's the same every time. Occasionally we bring supplies to trade for service credit, but not this time. I wouldn't let it worry you though, sir," he added quickly, mistaking her dark expression for concern. "It's all very routine."

Moroney nodded distantly -- the last thing she needed at the moment was more routine -- and continued on her way. The entrance to her room lay at the end of the corridor. Half-way there, the voice inside her head spoke again. She ignored it. It wouldn't do for the crewman to hear her talking to empty air. Rumours had spread as it was.

With a sigh of relief, she keyed the palmlock and opened the door to her room. Stale air gusted past her face as pressures equalised, indicating a faulty valve somewhere in the life support system. Nothing serious; just an irritation. No doubt it was on a maintenance list somewhere, awaiting repair. **When the door slid shut behind her, she ran a hand across her close-cropped scalp and vented her frustration on the empty room.

"Damn him."

<Who?>

"Flores. Weren't you listening?"

The voice in her head chided her gently. <You know that I am unable to study information to which I have no direct access. Besides, it would be immoral to eavesdrop without your permission.>

Moroney doubted both statements but kept her thoughts to herself, not wishing to encourage conversation. A short corridor led from the doorway to a small work-space; the far end of her quarters housed a toilet, bathroom and sleeping chamber. In cross-section, the space was shaped like a narrow triangle with the door at its apex, its size dictated by the space available rather than comfort or aesthetics. Nowhere within it was there room for someone of her height to lie fully outstretched, let alone swing any sizeable mammal.

The voice remained silent, perhaps considerate of her mood for a change. Before it could begin again, she walked to the work-space and put the valise on the desk. The cuff was made of monofilament chain wrapped in black leather, and ended in the bracelet that fitted her left wrist tightly enough to prevent it slipping loose -- or being removed by force -- but not so tight that it caused her discomfort. Tiny contacts on its inner surface matched nodes on her skin, which in turn patched into a modified ulnar nerve leading up her forearm and into her spinal column, thus enabling data to flow in either direction. The voice in her head -- intrusive, mellifluous, and so often unwelcome even though it was her only company -- travelled along this path, from the valise to her aural centres.

Flipping open the valise's grey lid, she studied its interior with an emotion bordering on hatred.

"Oh, for an axe," she whispered out loud, although she had no need to.

<It wouldn't do any good, Megan,> said the voice.

" -- a tactical nuclear strike from one hundred metres." She nodded wearily. "I know, I know, but if it wasn't for you I wouldn't be in this mess. Can you understand how frustrating it is to be cooped up in here with nothing to do?"

Moroney bit her lip. Of course it understood. The AI's previous environment had been the massive information workshops of Beltiga, the planet of its birth. There, secretive technicians produced the AIs of the Cogal -- rare and precious mind-machines lovingly crafted by carefully-guarded techniques. Few people were allowed onto the planet itself, and she had been no exception. As she'd waited in orbit for the envoy from the manufacturers to arrive, then for the DarkFire to collect her on its way past the system, she had had almost a week to watch the world below, but had learned little. Only a handful of cities were visible above the smoky-orange surface of the planet; apart from a ring of five uplinks circling the equator, there was little sign of advanced life. And yet ...

The valise's imitation cover fitted over an ebony rectangular box with a small keypad of touch points and recessed nodes along its top. The heart of the valise was a densely-packed mass of complex micro-technology, crammed neatly into the small space available, both shielded and camouflaged by the shell of briefcase itself. Moulded in superhard composite along the inside of the lid was the AI's identification tag: IX000101001, one digit longer than usual. Without a name in the usual sense of the word to fall back on, Moroney resorted as billions of people had before her to popular slang.

"The sooner we're back in HQ, Brain, the better."

"Only six weeks ... " She forced a short-lived smile. "If it wasn't for Flores being so pedantic, I'd probably enjoy the break from routine."

"I sense -- "

"I don't want to talk about it." Swivelling the room's only chair to face the work-station and placing her left palm on the contact pad, she activated the console and called up the ship's General Information network. GI granted her access to all non-restricted data, from the number of articulated tubers in the DarkFire's holds to current affairs on any of the worlds in the Cogal. Raw data coursed up her arm into the small processor at the base of her skull, where it was interpreted as visual and audio signals and routed to the implanted systems in her left eye and ear. Her implants were by no means the most sophisticated available -- lacking three-dimensional clarity and line-of-sight commands -- but set her above ninety percent of HighFleet employees. Such subtle means of communication were sometimes required of Intelligence operatives, so these basic implants were standard to all of her rank.

A virtual screen appeared over her field of vision, seeming to hang two metres from her, impossibly deep in the bulkhead before her. Skimming at random through the channels, she found a station devoted to general Amran news and settled back to find out what the rest of the universe was up to. Try as she might, however, her mind kept returning to Flores and his reasons for denying her what she wanted, while the patient, steady voice of GI murmured into her ear, an incessant counterpoint to her thoughts.

// in the wake of crippling solar flares, which destroyed asteroid mining facilites and a hydrogen purification plant in orbit around the system's innermost gas-giant. Blaire Atoll's Presiding Minister today released a statement exonerating two members of her advisory staff who yesterday committed ritual suicide, after it was revealed that corruption within the Traders' Guild had been conclusively linked to //

Ship and Captain: for better or for worse, their destinies and characters were intertwined. The post of ship's commander, contrary to popular opinion, offered not liberation but a lifetime of snail-like confinement. With a prison strapped to his or her back, unable to shrug free even for a moment, every Captain had the power to travel vast distances but in reality no more freedom than any of the convicts down on Longmire's Planet.

Few deep-space commands led to promotions in HighFleet; Captains quickly learned that the chance of achieving advancement via success in battle was slim, as battles themselves were rare and usually fatal to all involved, and most missions were more concerned with redistribution of resources across the Colonised Galaxy than the expansion of the NAR -- the New Amran Republic. If they failed to die in space, Captains inevitably retired to one of the bleak Space Command planets (whose very architecture mirrored deep-space engineering) and spent their remaining days reminiscing on imagined glories. Meanwhile their ships, unfaithful lovers at best, flew on, piloted by younger versions of themselves who were no less doomed than their predecessors. Doomed to a life of confinement, first in their ships and later in retirement or death.

In a very real sense, then, Pablo Flores was the DarkFire, but only for a little while. Jealous of his small command he would resist any attempt to undermine it. And therein lay the problem.

Moroney didn't want to take over. She just wanted something to do. Intelligence training had prepared her for a wide range of combat scenarios, not months of being cooped up on a clapped-out frigate acting as nursemaid for an artificial mind. She knew she should be patient, and perhaps even grateful for the undemanding task, but it wasn't in her nature to sit still for long. She wanted to move, to act, to investigate.

// suprise victory awarded to Berthold of Bingen, hinging on a controversial reading of the Neck Injury Rule. Critics of the decision have bemoaned the sport's increasing violence in recent years, saying that in a short space of time Arena and its more violent, but still officially-sanctioned, counterpart, Prey, will become practically indistinguisable.

In other news, famed M'Akari coach, Quolraad Hung, has retired from the blood-sport, citing irreconcilable differences with SwordWielder management //

Feeling the tension knotting her muscles, Moroney shifted in her seat and unbuttoned the tight collar of her uniform. Brooding on it wasn't going to do her any good, and talking was better than nothing. The Brain wasn't the confidant she would have chosen, but she had no choice. It was either that, or go stir crazy.

"To be fair, Brain," she said, picking up the conversation where she had ended it earlier, "it's partly my fault. You remember that derelict we picked up seven days ago?"

"Well, I've been hearing rumours among the crew -- "

An all-stations announcement interrupted her, warning the crew and transportees alike of imminent deceleration. The DarkFire had come out of warp seven days earlier at the edge of the system; this final manoeuvre would bring the frigate into an inclined equatorial orbit around the penal planet, dipping through the belt of moonlets once every two hours. Within moments of the announcement, the engines groaned through the bulkheads of Moroney's room, and a wave of rattles and clatters shivered through the ship.

"Hang on." She adjusted the work-station to bring up a view of the planet, overlaying GI. "It's nothing, really. The derelict was just a life-support capsule with one man inside."

<Alive?>

"Apparently. No-one knows who he is, though, which makes me curious. The other eight capsules we picked up coming here all contained survivors ejected from the wreckage of the Painted Lady, the passenger cruiser that broke up near Jendillao. They don't recognise him. I asked Flores if I could interview the man, but he told me to mind my own business." She shrugged. "That's it, I guess. Just me being nosy."

She didn't mention the other snippets of gossip she'd heard: that the capsule had been drifting through space for over three hundred years before being detected by the DarkFire, and that it's design was far from orthodox.

<Your curiosity is understandable, Megan,> said the Brain. <And commendable.>

The AI's praise surprised her. "It is?"

"That doesn't seem likely."

<Nevertheless, it is a possibility. The capsule might contain a bomb, or some sort of communication device. Or a virus. I am, after all, an information-retrieval device -- albeit one of spectacular sophistication.>

"Not forgetting modesty," Moroney cut in.

The Brain ignored her. <The point is, Megan, that the plan may not be to destroy me, but to corrupt my function.>

Moroney rubbed her chin thoughtfully. She hadn't considered this possibility before. The DarkFire had been chosen as the vehicle to carry the Brain because its route to HQ was circuitous, not the direct route one might expect for such an important cargo. If the man in the capsule was a spy, all he had to do was ascertain that the Brain was definitely aboard this ship, instead of the many decoys, and notify his superiors. Plausible, if not likely.

But no: it didn't make sense, not if the capsule was truly as old as she had heard. Still, it would be an interesting point to raise when she and Flores were next at loggerheads.

// until the vector has been isolated and the outbreak contained, all scheduled traffic in- and out-system -- including that for the purpose of trade and Fleet activity -- is either severely restricted or cancelled indefinitely. Anyone attempting to break the blockade will be in violation of the New Amran Republic Security Act, and liable to face the severest penalty. Repeat: Piermont System has been declare a no-go zone as a result of a Class Three Medical Emergency //

The DarkFire's engines roared again, swinging its ponderous bulk around to the correct attitude for polar insertion.

"You've really thought this through, haven't you, Brain? I mean, this isn't the first time you've wondered about what might go wrong."

"Such as?"

Before it could answer, a red light flashed in the virtual screen, indicating a deviation from the mission plan. She returned her attention to the view of the planet and its attendant asteroid-belt -- 'the Soul,' she reminded herself. The halo of moonlets had grown in size dramatically; individual motes of light now stood out against the indistinct glow of dust and pebbles. Nothing seemed immediately out of the ordinary, so she superimposed a navigation overlay across the view. Multicoloured lines defined the vectors and mass of the largest rocks, while bold green angles indicated the DarkFire's orbital approach. The latter should have been clear of all obstacles larger than the frigate's shields could handle, but it wasn't.

Four red circles -- ships, judging by their mass and velocity -- occupied the exact centre of the DarkFire's path.

"That's strange," Moroney mused, more to herself than to her artificial companion. "The corridor should be clear by now."

replied the Brain.

"Any ident?"

<Surface scan indicates Nadokan ore-freighters, although their size suggests otherwise.> The Brain hesitated for the briefest of moments, as though scanning data. <Captain Flores has received a communication from the commanding officer of the largest ship. It is this woman's opinion that she has right of way in this corridor, and that the DarkFire should adjust its course to compensate. We will over-take the nearest vessel in approximately fifteen minutes. A course-correction is required shortly. Captain Flores has denied her request.>

"Typical." Moroney could well imagine the DarkFire's captain fuming at the woman's impudence. All HighFleet manoeuvres were booked well in advance; there was no question that Flores was in the right. That didn't mean, of course, that he couldn't do the courteous thing and oblige her, but it wasn't in his nature to deviate from the regulations one iota. Not for HighFleet Intelligence, as Moroney knew well, and especially not for a civilian.

<A compromise has been reached,> announced the Brain shortly. <The commander of the freighter will instruct her ships to spread their formation. The DarkFire will pass between the three smaller vessels without need for course-correction in ... fourteen minutes and seventeen seconds.>

"Between the freighters?" Moroney frowned, concerned.

"That's not what worries me. What if they're pirateers? We'll be at a disadvantage should one of them take a shot at us. It goes against everything I learned in Tactics."

<It would seem that Captain Flores does not share your concern.> Something in the Brain's tone suggested that it was playing devil's advocate, rather than honestly defending the Captain.

"Captain Flores is ... " A fool, she had been about to say, but then thought better of it. He had travelled this route many times, after all, and knew its dangers better than she did. A course-correction would cost them energy and delay their docking at Klarendi Station. Why should he give way, when he was so obviously in the right? Besides, fears of pirateers and other forms of treachery seemed naive even to her.

" ... just doing his job, I guess," she concluded with a sigh, and settled back into the chair to watch the approach. The red circles on the navigation display drifted apart, widening like a mouth to swallow the DarkFire. Although no longer protesting, she was unable to quell the flutter in her stomach.

// as recompense for the system's current use as a research and development site by Cogal Allied Space Industries Corporation (CASIC). A spokesman for the Namburg Protectorate vividly described the effects of "frequent interactions" between uncontrolled warp-effects and his homeworld at a Justice Tribunal hearing this morning. No statement has yet been issued by CASIC, although one is expected //P

PPPPA brisk rap at her door startled her from both the view and GI's incessant patter. She stood automatically and straightened her uniform. The moment her hand left the contact pad without cancelling her link to GI, a previously inactive screen mounted in the wall above the work-station flickered to life, continuing the display of the DarkFire's approach.

"Who is it?" she called into the intercom.

"To be honest, I was hoping that you might be able to tell me." The voice was male, deep and articulate.

She hesitated, her hand hovering over the switch that would open the door. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"No." The man on the other side of the door paused before adding: "One of the guards referred to me as 'John Nine'. I guess that's as good a name as any."

Moroney removed her hand from the switch. Mysterious visitors at her door in the middle of a potentially dangerous manoeuvre didn't constitute standard military procedure. Although no rigid stickler to form, like Flores, there were some basic rules she simply wouldn't break. Admitting a stranger to her room while on a priority mission was surely one of them.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm going to need a positive ident before I let you in. Come back later, when we've docked, and maybe we can discuss it."

Symbolically turning her back on the door, she switched off the intercom.

With a hiss, the door slid open behind her. Moroney's left hand was instantly on the cover of the valise, slamming it closed, while her right reached across the narrow work-space for her service pistol. The grip slid smoothly into place as she snap-turned to face the intruder.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His skin was very dark, almost chocolate-brown, and he was tall, a full half-head taller than herself, with strong shoulders, wide chest and powerful hips and upper legs. He was dressed in a simple grey shipsuit, and its narrow fit accentuated the impression of power. He reminded Moroney of an oversized Felin war-dancer -- exuding a rare physical presence that went beyond simple strength -- except that he was completely hairless.

The perfectly smooth dome of his skull cast a shadow over his face as he took one step forward, into the room. The flow of muscle beneath his shipsuit was powerful, oddly graceful, and potentially very dangerous.

Moroney stepped back in alarm. "Hold it right there," she barked, gesturing with the pistol.

"I don't understand ... " he started, raising his hands placatingly. "Why did you let me in if -- "

"Me let you in? I told you to go away. The door was locked."

Despite the pistol being trained upon him, his eyes betrayed not even the slightest hint of fear.

"I swear I didn't open it." He glanced over his shoulder at the door, then back to her. "If you want me to leave ... "

"No, wait." She grasped the handle of the valise and lifted it off the desk, closer to her. "I want to know what you're doing here."

He lowered his hands slightly, and took another step inside. The door slid shut behind him. "You know nearly as much as I do, I'm afraid. I was told to see you."

"Who by?"

He shrugged. "Somebody spoke to me through the security intercom in my cell. He told me that when the doors opened that I was to come to you -- to these quarters. He gave me directions, but no name." His face, when the light caught it, displayed a genuine puzzlement. "I'm sorry I can't be any more specific than that."

"You said you were in a cell," said Moroney. "What happened to the guards? Didn't they try to stop you?"

"Under normal circumstances, I suppose they would have. But when the door opened, there was no-one there."

Suspicion made Moroney apply slightly more pressure upon the trigger. "Conveniently allowing your escape."

His eyes dropped to the muzzle of the pistol; when they met her own a second later, he was smiling. "If 'escape' is the appropriate word. After all, no-one ever told me why I was locked up in the first place."

"You're not a transportee?" she asked, although something about his manner had already convinced her of that. He didn't seem like a petty criminal: too self-possessed, perhaps, or too confident, despite his apparent ignorance of everything. And despite the absurdity of his tale, he didn't seem to be lying.

"I don't know what I am. All I know is that I awoke seven days ago and have been confined to a cell ever since." He shrugged. "I was told that you would be able to help me."

"In what way?"

He offered his hands, palms-up, to demonstrate that he had no answer to that question either. If she wanted answers, she would have to deduce them herself from what scant information he had to offer.

Moroney swallowed her frustration with difficulty, kicked the chair to him and gestured that he was to sit. Keeping the pistol trained carefully on his chest, she retreated to the far corner of the room to think.

>John Nine<. The name was too contrived to be real; if his guards had given it to him, she reasoned, then it had to mean something. 'John' because it was anonymous, perhaps, the name usually assigned by NAR spacers to anyone lacking an identity, voluntarily or otherwise. That seemed reasonable. 'Nine,' then, referred to something specific about him ... but what? The years he had spent in confinement, perhaps? Or the number of people he had murdered? It could just as easily refer to his shoe-size, she thought.

A possibility nagged at her, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Before she could pursue the notion, the Brain broke her train of thought:

<Megan, that freighter has just -- >

She blinked, and subvocalised: <Not now, Brain. I'm busy.>

Moroney swung her gaze to the screen. It showed an overhead view of the DarkFire's bridge, from cameras mounted above the access locks at the rear of the chamber, and took in most if not all the hemispherical sweep of work stations.

Flores was standing on the podium, his First Officer, Tsgouris, with him; both were studying the forward displays. There was a superficial impression of calm about the scene, but Moroney saw at once the tension in their stances, knew from the studied application of all personnel that they were operating under pressure. As she watched, Kotis, the tactician, turned from her station to face Flores and Tsgouris. The expression on her face told Moroney everything she needed to know. Kotis' words simply confirmed it.

Bad news.

"Ident confirmed," the tactician said. "Telmak warships. Four of them."

Moroney slipped her hand onto the contact pad to overlay the navigation display in one corner of the screen, hardly believing what she was hearing. Telmak ships? From where?

A moment's glance showed her what had happened: the three 'freighters' had deactivated the sophisticated cloaking systems that had camouflaged them as Nadokan ships, revealing the truth beneath. A Telmak dreadnought and three raider-class warships, plus at least a dozen tiny fighters, swooping free of their motherships even as she watched.

// archeologists still studying the remains of an ancient spacecraft rumoured to be over one million years old, discovered by the Metron Corporation in the Shekara System in 682PD //

Moroney irritably killed GI and swore softly to herself. Nine leaned closer; out of the corner of her eye she saw him echo her frown.

"Trouble?" he asked.

"You might say that," she said. "We've just cruised straight into a Telmak ambush."

"Is there conflict between your people and the Telmak?"

"Are you serious?" She glanced up at him but saw no indication of irony in his composed features. She had never met anyone who wasn't at least vaguely aware of the political machinations of the Cogal. "How long have you been in prison?"

"For seven days, as I said."

"This really isn't turning into a very good day for me," she said, shaking her head. Then, returning to the screen before her, added: "Officially we're at peace, but I get the impression that this isn't official business."

"Could it be a mistake?"

She glanced down at the valise, realised that she had unconsciously tightened her grip upon it.

"Unlikely."

She directed her attention at the Telmak ships on the screen. They had assumed a tight arrow-head formation and were powering-up their drives to meet the incoming frigate. Alert strips above the door to her room flashed to amber simultaneously with the light in the tank. A sterile voice announced an order for provisional Battle-Stations.

"Three against one," mused Nine, studying the Telmak formation intently. "Not insuperable odds. Why hasn't the Captain -- " He stopped in mid-sentence and glanced at Moroney quizzically, as though suddenly remembering her presence. "You're an officer. Why aren't you on the bridge?"

"I'm just a guest, non-combat." She turned to study him in return. His voice echoed the easy strength and confidence of his physique. Amnesiac or not, the impending battle didn't faze him. "What were you about to say?"

"Nothing." Flores' voice brought his attention back to the screen.

"Any communication?" spoke the Captain.

"None, sir." The officer glanced up from his console. "They are not responding to our signals."

"Kotis: ETA?"

"Three minutes, sir," replied the tactician without looking up.

"Broadcast full battle-alert," announced Flores, his voice booming. "Seal the bridge and all compartments. Prepare for defensive manoeuvres."

"Too late," mumbled Nine. "Much too late."

"What is?"

"The Captain should have attacked the moment he saw them."

"Not Flores." She grimaced bitterly. "He'd never risk a diplomatic incident on the off-chance there'd been some sort of misunderstanding."

"What do you think?" The approaching Telmak ships glinted in Nine's eyes. "Does this look like a misunderstanding to you?"

"They haven't attacked us -- "

"But they will," Nine interjected calmly. "And if the Captain waits any longer -- "

A groan from the bulkheads interrupted him. The view in the telemetry display shifted suddenly as the DarkFire's mighty engines kicked into life, thrusting the ship along a different course. Life support dampened the violent shift in momentum, leaving a lingering sense of disorientation in its wake.

Moroney blinked and shook her head. Nine seemed entirely unaffected, although she realised with alarm that he was standing much closer than he had been before. If he had wanted to overpower her, he could have done so easily during the manoeuvre. The fact that he hadn't did not reassure her. That she had let him get that close in the first place --

Another disturbance rolled through the ship, more violently than before. Nine's hand came down on her shoulder. She brushed it aside with the hand holding the pistol before realising that he was only steadying her.

He raised an eyebrow at her confusion, then turned back to the screen.

Flores had sent the DarkFire angling along a path heading below the approaching triangle of Telmak ships, demonstrating an initial reluctance to engage but without placing the ship in too vulnerable a position. Its contingent of five fighters peeled away to draw fire. Instantly, the arrow-head formation dissolved, with the dreadnought swooping to intercept the DarkFire and the three raiders at the rear peeling away to pen the Amran frigate in a potential cross-fire.

The DarkFire turned again, to port, disturbing the deadly symmetry of the pattern. The dreadnought followed, while the raiders jockeyed for new positions.

Flores ordered the raising of disruption and anti-E shields. The DarkFire's armoury targeted and tracked the Telmak ships, waiting for the order to fire.

Moroney's hands gripped the valise tightly. Nine's observations had been acute: she did want to be on the bridge, instead of watching the action, impotent, from her room; and Flores had indeed waited much too long to act. Her heart beat faster; she was afraid to take her eyes off the screen unless she missed the crucial moment.

When it came, however, it surprised her. The Telmak raider to starboard of DarkFire was the first to fire -- not the dreadnought. A single bolt of phased plasma lashed out towards the green dot at the centre of the telemetry screen, burning with vicious hellfire.

The torpedo struck the aft anti-E shields, making the ship shudder. Moroney flinched automatically.

"Lucky," said Nine, as Flores finally ordered the firing of the DarkFire's pulse cannon. The power in Moroney's room flickered at the same time as spears of lights moved across the telemetry screen in the direction of the dots representing the Telmak ships. "If the trailing ship had fired first, the bolt could have passed through the afterwash shields and blown the engines."

"So why didn't it?"

"I would have thought that was obvious," he said. "They don't intend to destroy us." He glanced at her and the valise in turn. "There's something aboard the DarkFire they want."

She ignored the unspoken implication. On the screen, the battle was proceeding rapidly. The lights flickered again, followed by wave after wave of subtle nausea as the DarkFire dodged and weaved for position. Two of the five fighters vanished as they engaged the Telmak; outnumbered by ten to one, the DarkFire's contingent would not last long.

The Telmak dreadnought had not fired once. Under combined fire from the two raiders -- either one of which was more than a match for the frigate -- the tiny single-ship fighters were little more than target practice. A steady stream of plasma torpedos lashed at the DarkFire's anti-E and missile shields, gradually weakening them. It was only a matter of time before the shields failed entirely, leaving the frigate open to direct assault -- or a boarding party.

Flores was no master-tactician, but Moroney doubted she could do any better herself. Besides, she had other priorities to consider.

The lights went out entirely for a split-second, then returned in emergency red. A tang of smoke filtered into the room, and the pit of her stomach rolled disturbingly. The last Amran fighter fell with a flash of light. On the screen, the Telmak raiders swooped nearer, harrowing the beleaguered frigate.

Moroney came to a decision.

"Okay," she said, swinging the valise into a more accessible position. Nine watched curiously from his position nearby, and she reverted to subvocals. <Brain, we're in trouble, aren't we?>

<Great,> said Moroney dryly. <But what about me?>

<Patience, Megan. Remember your own orders.>

she snapped impatiently. Then, more calmly, added: <Look, is there any way out of this?>

<Perhaps, if things were totally hopeless.> The Brain seemed almost be enjoying her discomfort.

On the screen, one of the Telmak raiders loomed, occluding the bulk of Longmire's Planet.

<Do it.> She glanced at the screen as plasma bolts barraged the frigate's struggling shields. <Just do whatever it takes to get us out of here.>

<Very well.> The Brain fell silent, then returned a moment later, sounding faintly surprised. <It would seem that somebody else has thought along the same lines. The doors to Lander Bay Three are already open, and all approaches to it have been sealed off -- except from the Brig. The bay is two sectors away. I have opened the corridors between here and there.> After a further pause of a few seconds, the voice spoke again inside Moroney's head: <Haste at this juncture would be prudent, Megan.>

"Right." She stood to leave, the valise gripped tightly in her hand. Nine, forgotten during her exchange with the Brain, startled her as she turned to face the door.

"You're leaving?"

She hesitated briefly. "I'm sorry," she said. "I have no choice."

<Take him with you, Megan.> The Brain's words broke across her thoughts like the voice of a guilty conscience.

"What? Why?" Startled by the Brain's request, she spoke aloud. Nine frowned, but didn't speak.

"What about it?"

Her eyes widened as she stared at John Nine, her curiosity reawakened.

"Of course," she said. "That explains his name."

<Exactly,> said the Brain. <'Nine' refers to the number of capsules collected by the DarkFire while en route to Longmire's Planet.>

Confusion briefly wrinkled Nine's brow. Moroney belatedly realised that she'd been talking to the Brain out loud, rather than by subvocalising. What he made of her side of the conversation, she couldn't guess.

Torn between her mission, curiosity, and basic human compassion, she tried to decide what to do with him. If she left him behind, he would surely be captured by the Telmak -- at best -- and she would never learn who he was, nor why Flores had not wanted her to see him. On the other hand, she knew too little about him to risk him coming along; having a total stranger in tow at a time such as this could prove a threat to her mission.

"Okay, okay." Nine's stare hadn't faded, and she returned it with one of equal intensity. "My name is Commander Moroney of HighFleet Intelligence," she said quickly, collecting as she did an armful of magazine clips for her pistol and slipping them into her belt. "I'm going to try to escape in one of the Landers. You can tag along, but only on the understanding that I give the orders. Clear?"

"I understand." His smile was slight but genuine. "And I agree."

"Are you sure? Cross me once and I swear I'll shoot you instantly."

"That won't be necessary."

"Good." She wrapped the belt loosely about her waist and keyed the door with her palm. "So let's move it."

The ship lurched as they stepped out into the corridor. Moroney swayed, steadying herself with the walls. Ahead of her, Nine hardly missed a step. For the second time she shrugged away his helping hand.

"That way," she said, gesturing with the pistol.

Nodding, he obeyed, and Moroney followed a pace behind. His steady pace displayed no concern at the gun at his back, and neither did he stop to question her plans. That sudden -- and unreciprocated -- trust bothered her more than anything else about him. Whoever he was, he seemed quite content to place his fate in her hands. Perhaps, she thought, the only alternative open to him was worse than mere imprisonment by the Telmak.

The Brain might have chuckled softly at that, but she couldn't be certain.

<Aren't I always?>