BY JASON TOGNERI

    "Damn you stupid Groigans!" swore the young man as he stormed toward his ship in a rage, kicking viciously at an innocent cargo handler on his way past. "Can't you do anything right?"
     The Groigan being abused backed away, bent almost double and exuding humbleness, and ran down a connecting corridor into the bowels of the station. The young man snorted and headed back toward his ship.
     Sitting in the brightly coloured plastic command chair, he pressed a button and the screen in front of him buzzed into life. He scratched his chin, and studied the information before him. Pressing a button to call up a pre-stored frequency, he typed and sent a brief message.
     My friends tell me everything, the message read. I'll know where you're going.

     Commander Mark Taine looked in the mirror and wondered who was staring back at him. The hard eyes, the wrinkled skin, the greying hair - this wasn't what he remembered seeing the last time he had looked in the mirror. He scowled at his reflection and realised that he couldn't remember the last time he had looked in a mirror.
     Turning away, he looked at the small, sterile room he had purchased for the frankly extortionate sum of eighty-four credits. It was a room clearly designed for short-term occupation, those not rich enough to take the fancy hotels or those too wary to stay long. Money wasn't really a problem for Mark, but old habits died hard. There was once a time when he wouldn't even have been able to afford a basic room like this.
     Of course, that was because all his money had gone on ship upgrades and equipment, with whatever was left split evenly between cargo and bar bills. But those days were gone, and there was little more he could fit onto the battered old Mk III. He even had a few non-standard extras, like the yaw boosters and the Missile AutoLock... now that had been an interesting period in his life.
     A knock at the door signalled dinner time. This was a typical pilots' place, and meals were held at stated times in a large canteen on the ground floor. In lieu of an electronic system, which many battered old traders distrusted, the establishment employed a bellhop to knock on all the doors. A Groigan of course, since you could get away with lower wages. Things hadn't progressed much in the last fifty or so years.
     Mark decided not to attend dinner. Not in the mood.

     The next morning, he awoke to find a pair of smartly-dressed men looming over him. They were typical corporation-types, Armani suits and Rayban glasses - indoors - and shoes you could see your face in. The first was short and looked tired, while the second carried a briefcase and an unreadable mask on his face.
     "Commander Taine?" said the first. It was only half phrased as a question. "Good morning."
     "Aaahhh... who the hell are you?" demanded Mark, his head spinning as he sat up but his pistol held unwaveringly at the two men. Too much of that Riedquatan whisky last night.
     "There's no need for that, Commander Taine. May I call you Mark? My name is Reay Setti. We work on behalf of Ostic and Slengr Concerns. Our employer would like to have a word with you."
     "Wait, wait, what? Ostrich and what?"
     "Ostic, sir, and Slengr. They're a trading company."
     "Christ. What do they want with me?"
     "I'm afraid that's a question you'll have to ask them yourself sir. They would like to see you tomorrow, 1600 GST. I assume you'll be there?"
     "Be where?" asked Mark, suddenly suspicious. It wouldn't be the first time he had been set up by an assassin or disgruntled pirate clan.
     But the man Reay Setti simply replied, "Tiraor. It's about 70 light years from here."
     Seventy light years! Mark wondered what could possibly be so good as to entice him to travel seventy light years, and said as much to Reay. "Not my concern," the man replied. "My job is just to tell you where to go."
     "And since it's my room, I'm telling you where to go," growled Mark. "I am tired and hungover and my hand-eye coordination's not what it used to be." He raised the pistol level with Reay's gut in a threatening manner. The man's associate inched his hand toward his pocket, but a gesture from Reay stopped him.
     "I think we'll leave Commander Taine alone for a little while to think about this. And before you ask, a suitable inducement has already been transferred into your account. Good day, Commander."
     And with that, they left.

     After he had showered and dressed, Mark checked out of the cheap little hotel and made his way back to his ship. He paused, as he almost always did, as he rounded the corridor into the docking bays and saw his faithful old Cobra sitting there, scarred and dusty, dented and worn, with bolts and hull patches standing out a bright silver against the various blues of the hull. He strolled over to it and patted the hull affectionately, stroking the panels across which was faded paint spelled the name Karina.
     He held his thumb up to the scanner and waited while a needle shot out and - owowow damn - stabbed him in the palm. Still by far the best way to avoid theft, DNA security, but damn painful. Mark supposed there must be fancy modern ways of painlessly extracting blood but hey, it worked, and he felt too comfortable with it to change.
     Entering the bridge of the old Mk III, he reflected briefly that one thing modern ships didn't have was more room than the old ones, sat down in the battered but still brightly multicoloured multidirectional seat, and punched in the details.
     Tiraor, the screen told him, was a rich industrial Communist state about 70.2 light years away. It had a high tech level, an annual turnover of 26.7 billion and a population of 4.5 billion on its main planet. The entry in the Encyclopaedia Galactica read, quite simply, "Tiraor is a revolting little planet." Ah well, can't have everything. Some planets had worse entries, and many simply stated "boring". At least the authors had an opinion on this one.
     Ostic and Slengr were another matter. There was even less information on them, and aside from a few meaningless business reports which really said nothing of any value, they seemed to keep quite well hidden. Not that it was rare for that to happen - god knows the black markets are a lucrative field - but usually, there was a little more than this. Oh well.
     And as for the 'inducement' in his account - four thousand credits. Quite an inducement indeed. This whole affair was looking curiouser and curiouser.
     Mark was skimming over some more data when he noticed the 'Incoming Message' light flashing; he hadn't checked his messages for some days now, not since docking here and hitting the bar. Inquisitively, he pressed the button and ten words appeared on the screen.
     My friends tell me everything. I'll know where you're going.
     He shrugged, and pressed delete, assuming it was merely another crank.

     A distant streak of red and brown. A continuous stream of incoming and outgoing data, and an angry pilot, quiet, dangerous anger boiling away, just and no more kept held under the surface. Angry for himself, angry for the past. Angry at one man, for two reasons.

     By the time Mark Taine had reached the Tiraor system and sped toward the planet, he was deep in thought. A pair of pirates had challenged him soon after emerging from hyperspace; an Adder and a Gecko. He had made short work of them, and was now reflecting on the many times over the years he had challenged the Boltzman equal pressure rule; that any pilot will respond to hostile action with hostile action. There had been one or two rough scrapes, but for the most part he had got through. More than once he had been on the receiving end, although things had always swung his way.
     But he was getting old. Although he ranked Elite, that was a younger man's Elite. Even his red Elite pilot's jumpsuit was faded to a dark orange. He knew his reflexes were beginning to slow, his muscles beginning to feel the effects of too much zero-g. What was it his old mentor had told him? Deadly is as close to dead as it is to Elite, and Invincible does not exist, either as a rating or as a state of mind.
     And it wasn't just pirates. A number of times he had encountered the Viper's sting, but never was it lethal. Viper pilots at frontier trading posts usually had better things to do that sit and watch as their squad was decimated; the ones who lasted until promotion were the ones who knew where justice ended and survival began. They didn't care about anything much outside the station zone, where they had massive backup from their fellows and the odd few traders based at the station, protecting their homes.
     Once, Mark recalled, a pilot had smoothed up in a Fer-De-Lance Lightspeeder - about the same size as a Viper and half the size of a Cobra - and started attacking him with all it had. Whoever was in that ship had put up one hell of a fight - a seasoned bounty hunter in a state-of-the-art ship - and it had been very close. Had the Cobra not had a higher OffRat and a tighter turning circle, the Fer-De-Lance would have had him for sure. And killing the bugger had made him a fugitive, too. One illegal kill too many.
     Mark sighed. He had read somewhere that they were talking about scrapping the Fer-De-Lance. A fine old ship like that. What on Raxxla did they have that could replace it? Sometimes it seemed like the past was slowly slipping away, and that Mark was slipping with it. A couple of times he had considered going out in a blaze of glory, but something kept dragging him back. Maybe he should just go out to the old graveyard at Tionisla and open the airlocks...
     No.
     He glanced at the sensors once more briefly, but this was a fairly safe system. Rich Communists, who don't tolerate fools - or pirates - gladly. Jabbing a finger onto the interspace button (for some strange reason, labelled with a J instead of an I - maybe J for Jump rather than I for Interspace), the Karina shot forward toward Tiraor's main planet.

     On board Johnson's Gate, the sparkling nuclear-powered Dodo station orbiting the planet, Mark took the opportunity to stretch his legs for what felt like the first time in years. Even with a 7 light year capacity fuel tank, it had taken him thirteen jumps to reach Tiraor - the bloody planets weren't nicely spaced at 7 light year intervals for ease of travel - and for the few stops between here and there, mostly to sell the cargo he had scooped from pirates he encountered, he hadn't had much opportunity to stroll around. He also suspected he ought to have a wash.
     Just as he was pondering how to locate a hotel, Reay appeared from around a corner, tall silent accomplice in tow.
     "Ah, Commander Taine! Glad you made it, at last. Mr Slengr has been waiting to see you, I believe he is up in the Hub Restaurant now-"
     "Well, tell Mr Slengr I said hi, but I think I'm going to get washed and have a drink first. If it's all the same to you." Reay smiled at him, seemingly oblivious to the pilot's hygiene. Mark began to get irritated. "Look, why don't you just piss off and tell this Slengr that I'll be up in - oh, I don't know - how's half an hour sound?"
     Reay nodded. "That should suffice. Good day, Commander Taine." The two men turned and strolled away. Mark shook his head, and went to find a shower.

     Half an hour later, Mark found himself standing outside the Hub Restaurant. It was without a doubt the finest place on the station, and among some of the most impressive-looking places Mark had visited in his rather extended lifetime. Strolling uneasily inside, he took in the smartly-attired waiting staff, the plush red carpet and velvet drapes, oil paintings - undoubtedly reproductions, but convincing nonetheless - and the general air of old-Earth decadence.
     Then he realised he didn't know who he was looking for.
     He grabbed a passing waiter - some sort of feline whose name badge was unpronounceable - and asked in a low voice if he knew who Mr Slengr was and where he could be found. The waiter raised his eyebrows.
     "Is Mr Slengr expecting you?" the waiter enquired.
     "Damn right he is," replied Mark. "You just be so kind as to take me to him, hmm?"
     The waiter clearly didn't appreciate Mark's tone, give him a brief look of contempt, and muttered, "This way, sir."
     They found a table toward the back of the room in a private booth, where two men and a woman sat finishing off a meal, and another man stood nearby, obviously deterring passers-by from interrupting or getting close enough to listen in. Mark recognised him as Reay Setti. That man seemed to be everywhere. Maybe he was a clone, like those Tiorgans you heard about.
     Reay stepped forward and dismissed the waiter. "Good evening, Commander. Allow me to introduce Mr Gerfast Slengr. Mr Slengr, Commander Mark Taine."
     The larger of the two sitting men - although also evidently the younger - looked up at Mark and extended a hand, which Mark glanced at suspiciously before shaking. The other man made an apology and excused himself, while the woman remained sitting.
     Gerfast sat back, picking on the remains of a rather tasty delicacy, Betian mountain lobster. The young and surprisingly attractive woman continued to sit opposite him, in a well-cut suit, her short-cropped dark hair spiked in what Mark assumed were the latest Galactic fashions. He silently dubbed her the porcupine, recalling a similar fashion many years ago. She was reading from a palmtop computer.
     "Are you hungry, Mark? Order yourself anything off the menu."
     Mark looked sceptically at the menu. "Bit expensive, isn't it?"
     Gerfast smiled a broad smile. "Oh, don't worry about that. On the house. You see," he added with a conspiratorial grin, "I own this place. So just help yourself." He snapped his fingers and a waiter materialised. "Commander Taine will have a-?"
     "Riedquatan whisky."
     "-a Riedquatan whisky," finished Gerfast. The waiter vanished. "Interesting choice. You didn't go for something more, ah, refined?"
     "I like the Ried."
     "Fair enough, Mark. Now, I expect you're wondering what-" The waiter sat down the glass of whisky, and Mark lifted it and sniffed experimentally. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Fifty-seven?" Gerfast nodded. "Well damn, I didn't know you could even get this stuff. I thought it was illegal, the whole batch from fifty-five through to sixty-two. How'd you get your hands on this?"
     "Ahh, trade secrets, I'm afraid. But I can probably spare a bottle or two if you'd like. But first, there's a little matter of business that I was hoping you could help me with."
     The porcupine leaned forward and coughed, then sipped from the glass in front of her.
     "Ah, my associate, Soora Ostic," said Gerfast, by way of introduction. Soora nodded at him, then returned her attention to the palmtop. "Please excuse her, I think it's her time of the week." He winked and grinned. Soora didn't even bother to look up, but crumpled up a ball of paper and tossed it playfully toward him. Gerfast laughed, while Mark looked on impassively.
     "You were saying, Mr Slengr," prompted Mark curtly. These people were beginning to get on his nerves.
     "Yes, yes, yes. Of course. Have you by any chance ever heard of the Herald of Justice?"
     Mark nodded his understanding. The Herald of Justice was, or at any rate had been, a Navy cruiser being used in their campaign against the Thargoids. Trying to set a trap, it had been sucked into witchspace and mobbed by Thargoid warships, like so many traders and travellers before it. It was rumoured to have been captured and its secrets revealed to the Thargoid Invasion Force. A large offensive took place soon after the disappearance of the Herald, but nothing more was ever heard.
     "Well," continued Gerfast, "I assume you have also heard of the Ophidian generation ship?" Again Mark nodded, confused. "And of course you've heard all the stories of space stations in witchspace and roving stations available on comms?"
     "Please, Mr Slengr, what in the name of Raxxla is this all about?"
     "That's what I'm getting at. These are all funny myths, right? Like, as a matter of fact, the Raxxla you mentioned just now. Wrong. Well, I don't actually know about Raxxla, but as for the Herald and the Ophidian generation ship - well, we think we have information as to where they are. And that's where you come in." Mark leaned forward, curiosity and incredulity now clear on his face. Soora looked up.
     "We have had information on these two historical mysteries," Gerfast whispered in a conspiratorial voice. "But so far, all of our best pilots have been, ah, killed." Mark looked dubious. "Oh, that's why I need someone of your immense talent and experience, my dear Commander. I think you're the man to get in where nobody could before. After all, aren't you the man who stopped a massive slaughter by stopping the Thargoid informant, Zartid? And aren't you the man who gathered the pieces of the cure for the Groigan plague?"
     Looking troubled, Mark leaned back, and said "That was a long time ago. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm getting old..." As if to illustrate his point, he stretched his arms out in front of him, showing the aging skin on his hands and arms.
     "But surely, one last mission, Mark? Go out in a blaze of glory, then you can easily retire on the assets you've saved up? That must be worth something, surely? Don't tell me you've never wanted to own a small moon somewhere, I have several I could lease out to you in exchange for this one mission..."
     But Mark was no longer listening. The words one last mission and blaze of glory were spinning around inside his head, behind his eyes, banging at that part of him that was still the hunter, still the brash young man striving for the elusive goal of becoming one of the elite.
     "...and for, say, just a small percentage of that, we could maybe work out some sort of a-" Gerfast continued, oblivious.
     "Alright," said Mark abruptly. "I'll do it. But I'm taking my own ship."
     "Ahhh, Commander, thank you so much. I knew you were the right man for the job. Soora, won't you take Commander Taine down to SysCon, and give him all the relevant details? Thank you so much, Mark. I'm sure you'll come out on top." He smiled, and reached out his hand. Mark took it and gave it a brief but firm shake.
     Soora stood up and beckoned Mark toward the exit. Mark followed, and Gerfast watched them go, the smile frozen on his face before vanishing altogether.

     The pilot of the red and brown Cobra sat back and looked at the message on his screen. Taine was where he wanted him, and would soon be finally within his reach. The pilot smiled, but there was no warmth behind the smile, no humour. It was a twisted smile, full of hate and rage. The green light from the screen lit his face from below, giving him a devilish appearance.
     If only you knew, he thought. If only you knew how long I've wanted this, and if only you knew how close I was. But patience was the key; if there was anything he had learned from his father, it was the virtue of patience.

     "Commander Taine? Commander, a strange looking ship has just left, flown by a very young fiery man. He was ranting something about a Cobra with markings similar to yours. He was very bad tempered and we had to throw him off for kicking young Groigans around; although he just seemed to be passing through anyway. I'm afraid that his IR profile wasn't available to me."
     Mark looked around the docking bays. "Thank you," he said to the tech who had informed him, and dismissed the man. Curious that he should have so many people looking for him in so short a time span. But from what Soora had told him, he was about to become the centre of attention.
     How Ostic and Slengr had gotten access to such privileged information was a mystery to him; they had shown him classified Navy footage of the Herald of Justice, as well as the ill-fated vessel's final few log entries before she vanished. They had also, even more strangely, had footage of the Thargoid battleships in action, something that was rare in the civilian world; only a skilled percentage of traders ambushed in witchspace by the Thargoids returned to tell the tale, and of those an even smaller percentage had been able to bring a Thargon or two back as a souvenir.
     As it turned out, however, they had found an encoded message within the Herald's last transmission - which gave her final destination. This was apparently a Coriolis space station hovering in witchspace - in witchspace! - where the Navy cruiser had been docked. Unconfirmed mystery frames encoded in the log along with this seemed to hint at the additional presence of the Ophidian generation ship - another relic of a long-forgotten past.
     It was an incredible tale. And now they were asking him to track down this supposed Thargoid station, and confirm positively the existence of both or either of these infamous vessels. Why they actually wanted this information, Mark didn't ask - after all, he was getting paid, and he was getting a little too old for heroics.
     During his musings, Mark had found that he had wandered onto his ship's bridge. He sat down in his multicoloured seat - an original Zacariah Design Inc chair, the company having long gone out of business after the failure of the aesthetically albeit lethally designed Moccasin Mk II - and fell into deep thought.
     He was awakened from his deep thoughts by a scream of pain from outside. Stretching, he hurried to the entrance ramp to find Soora standing cradling her hand, a few curious Groigan cargo handlers watching from a respectful distance. "Your damn ship just stabbed me," she growled.
     Mark couldn't help laughing. "It's a theft deterrent - and I can see it's working fine. It's a DNA tracer and you'll have to be careful, three wrong matches and it fries whoever's using it. Now can I help you with something?"
     "Yes, you can help me aboard." She indicated a young female - or possibly male, it was hard to tell - Groigan carrying two large suitcases. "I'm coming with you."
     "Sorry, lady, but I travel alone. I don't work well with a backseat driver. I suggest you run back to your office and get comfy with Mr Slengr, because you're sure as damn not coming on here."
     "Actually, I am. I'm going to make sure you do what you're told, and to make sure that whatever information you gather gets back to the right people. Us." Mark opened his mouth to protest again, but Soora interrupted him. "There's something else we've not told you about getting near the station."
     "What?"
     "Ah, and I'm not going to tell you. That's why you have to take me along. Chicken out and you're a fugitive, stripped of your assets; try to get rid of me and you're a dead man, because I alone know what the secret is." Soora grinned smugly, while Mark glared at her.
     "This is blackmail," he muttered, then after a moment's consideration, deactivated the security lasers and let her aboard.

     One week later, Mark and Soora had entered the Artear system and the Karina sped through the void toward its destination, the low-tech Coriolis station orbiting Artear 3. The computer flashed up a GalCo-op profile of the system; poor agricultural economy, under a dictatorship, population of just under three billion, turnover of only 55346 credits per annum. Not surprising as it was only a tech level four planet, colonials from years ago who had cut themselves off when forming their dictatorship.
     A blink of green light on the scanner, and seconds later, the proximity alarm sounded.
     "What is is?" asked Soora, in a worried voice.
     "Dunno. Pirates, probably. We are in a dictatorship you know, they don't exactly have much in the way of GalCop resources. You won't see many Vipers outside of the station zone." The Vipers, medium-sized, agile defence craft, did not patrol much away from the planets in systems like these.
     A missile warning klaxon sounded as Mark jerked the Cobra round to face his attackers, and he accelerated to full speed toward them.
     "What are you doing!?" yelled Soora, watching the dots on the viewer resolve into ships, rapidly growing in size as they closed distance in their interstellar game of chicken.
     "Nothin' to worry about... running toward them cuts the distance down quickly and gives them less time to fire at me... now shut up, so I can concentrate. Hey, these are only Caimen, they have the most pathetic ships..." he was cut off by a dreadful whine and scraping sound as the lead Caimen splashed off his shields and the ship slowed abruptly and turned. But where did that missile come from? Caimen don't carry missiles...
     He carefully picked off the other four Caimen one by one, and just as he was tracking the last and pressing the fire button, he saw the Fer-De-Lance swing into his field of view. "Damn!" The Fer-De-Lance was a much more worrying foe than and Caimen could ever be. The Caimen Ni-L8 lasers were frankly a joke, but the Fer-De-Lance could pack some serious firepower..
     The Fer-De-Lance - smaller than a Cobra with poor manoeuvrability and pretty poor lasers - should theoretically be an easy target, but it also sported ParaVee helix shields which were much stronger, so that although its OffRat was lower than that of the Cobra, its DefRat was higher, one of the highest for a publicly-available ship.
     Mark used the Cobra's superior manoeuvrability to his advantage, spiralling around the Fer-De-Lance before it could target him, firing for a moment, then angling off once more. But the other vessel was still managing to fire on him, and was launching a continuous stream of missiles. Between the residual damage from the Caimen impact, the ECM drain on the energy banks, and the pitter-patter of the lasers, Mark's shields were having little space to recharge.
     A sudden shudder and a harsh bang signalled the death of his forward shield, and the drain directly on the energy banks. The Cobra lurched to the side, and Mark heard a shout of surprise as Soora was thrust into the bulkhead, and then slumping onto the floor. He didn't have much time to check her, though; just a few more shots and...
     The Fer-De-Lance exploded in a cloud of superheated plasma, hull fragments and cargo canisters. Deciding not to scoop the cargo, Mark checked the scanners and left the shields to recharge, instead crossing the cramped space to see how Soora was. She moaned and had her hand clutched to her head. Mark could see blood oozing out from between her fingers.
     "Let me see that," he said gruffly. Soora refused to move her hand, and winced when Mark grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away. He wiped her forehead with a rag, studied the gash for a moment, then reached for the first aid kit.
     "Just a skin cut," he said, handing her a sterile wipe and some skin closure gel. "It'll heal in a couple of days."
     "You could have at least warned me of that little manoeuvre," Soora said angrily.
     "You didn't ask," Mark replied. "Well, if it means that much to you, I'll buy you a Diso MegaBeer when we get to Artear. I've never seen such a fuss over a little scratch..." he walked to the console, shaking his head, and sat down in the command chair. With a world-weary sigh, he motioned Soora to sit, and hit the interspace button again.

     "Cobra Karina, this is Artear Orbiter SysCon. You are granted clearance to dock. Welcome to the Artear system."
     Mark's ship was second in a cue to dock; a battered and rusty Moray Starboat had slipped in quickly while he was manoeuvring into position to dock, and he had had to stop and wait for clearance. As soon as it was granted, he lined up with the letterbox docking slit, hit full thrust, and said to Soora, "Do you believe in God?"
     Soora shut her eyes and wished she did. It was quickly over though, as many years of practice brought Mark's vessel to an almost smooth stop at the end of the docking bay. As she ship was towed into a parking space, Soora muttered "Bastard," and disappeared toward the umbilical.
     On board Artear Orbiter, Mark had been informed, was a man with some information regarding their mission. What the nature of that information was, Soora hadn't seen fit to share. Mark was annoyed but refused to show his irritation, and so they had coexisted in a no-compromises truce. Now, at long last, he would be able to find out why they were in this dingy little system.
     Soora walked into the Blasted Hullplate bar, Mark following just a pace behind. A number of conversations and arguments were going on at once, and Mark picked up some bits and pieces as he walked among the bar's somewhat mixed clientele, which was mostly lone commanders, the occasional group of uniformed crew, a Belter standing alone in a corner, a shifty-looking guard, and about half a dozen prostitutes of various species and sexes leaning against the near wall.
     "We think it's parts per billion."
     "It's more a matter of direct assault."
     "Hey baby, forget those human women, wait 'til you see what I've got..."
     "What does 'necessary' mean?"
     "The pastrami? That's the type of sandwich you just ate."
     "Don't be silly, Wet Pup is on four-to-one odds..."
     A tall, stocky, vaguely-humanoid creature in worn flight fatigues stopped their progress to the bar. He looked Soora up and down, who continued to stare straight ahead.
     "Well, what we got here, a pretty lady. Hey mister, she your daughter?" The creature said in a harsh, gritty voice. "I'll buy her for twenty-five creds an' a free blaster inta the bargain!" It laughed, revealing a double row of sharp, yellowing teeth. A cloud of fetid breath hit Soora point blank, who blanched and turned pale.
     Mark stepped forward. "Listen, friend, we don't want trouble..." He moved his hand pointedly toward the holster on his belt.
     "Friend?" The creature roared at Mark. "Friend? Who are you calling a friend? I offer a fair bargain, and you insult me!" Mark began to get worried. The bar had gone quiet and all manner of eyes were fixed on him and Soora. Somebody at the back shouted an insult.
     The creature reached a hand for Soora; as it touched her, and before Mark could react, Soora ducked, kicked the creature in the general area of what he assumed were its armpits and, as it doubled over, kicked it twice in the face. The crowd took a collective step back. Soora pushed the creature gently, and it fell over, moaning. Mark's face was a mask of confusion.
     "Alright!" shouted Soora, glaring. "Anyone else want a piece of me?"
     The crowd turned back to what it had been doing and the noise level rose again.
     "Why the armpits?" asked Mark.
     "Didn't you know? That's where they keep their genitals." She walked to the bar, leaving Mark, with a pained expression on his face, to hurry after her. He bought the promised Diso MegaBeer - an old Academy favourite - and they sat down at a table which had been reserved in their names. Mark was rather suspicious about that, but Soora assured him that it was her contact's doing.
     "Well, we've got time for a quiet drink at least-" began Mark, when a burst of plasma fried through the air, and hit a man in the back, who crashed into their table. "What the-"
     "Shit," shouted Soora above the noise. "That was my contact!"
     Mark stood up, weapon out, and scanned the crowd. But it looked like the assassin had vanished again. He turned back to Soora, who was cradling the man in her arms. "Anything?" he asked.
     "I got some coordinates... and a warning..." Soora shook the man. "Oh, come on, come on... damn." She looked up at Mark. "He's dead."
     "Come on," said Mark. "Station security'll be here in a minute. We have to leave!"
     They hurried out of the bar and back to their ship. When they had got there, Mark pushed Soora roughly into the chair. His face was incandescent with anger, and he had his fists balled.
     "Right, Soora. What the hell's going on? I signed up to recon a missing ship, not to get shot at in a bar! If I'd wanted that, I could just have gone back home to Lave or Riedquat! Now you tell me who that man was, what he told you, why he's dead, and what the hell we do next!"
     Soora sighed and glanced over toward the bank of monitors. Mark made a sound in his throat, and she looked back at him. "Alright," she said, in an exasperated tone of voice. "His name was Richard Starkey, he was one of the station administrators. He gave me the system coordinates where we should be to be taken into witchspace by the Thargoids-"
     "Thargoids!?" shouted Mark. "Nobody mentioned anything about messing with damn Bugs."
     "Surely a few bored Bugs shouldn't be too much trouble for a renowned pilot of your stature, Commander Taine?"
     Mark sighed. This dreary old line again. "Yes, I'm sure I can handle a few stray Bugs. But that's not the point, is it? What happened to recon? What happened to a simple mission? What happened to knowing what the hell's going on?" Soora opened her mouth to object. "And you know something else," growled Mark, "I don't know if you get it or not but this is my ship and as its commander, I need to know what we're going to be flying into. Not knowing can often mean the difference between surviving, and being so much thin red paste across the hull."
     Soora's expression changed. "Alright," she muttered. "Starkey told me those coordinates, right, and he told me as well that the Thargs would be expecting you."
     "How in the hell could they be expecting me? I've not even decided to go into witchspace yet!"
     "Don't ask me how, ask Starkey. Anyway, he told me that, and he told me that you've to watch out for someone with a vendetta against you. And then he died, so that's all. And don't ask me how he knew this or how accurate this information is, because he's damn well dead! Okay?"
     "Vendetta?"
     "Some pilot was here. He's hunting you down. Starkey told me he'd just been here causing havoc."
     Mark sat back in the second chair, cradling his head in his hands.
     "So what the hell do we do now?" he asked, exasperated. "Your contact is dead. What's next?"
     Soora gave him a cold stare. "We do what we came here to do, Commander. We go into witchspace."

     Why did the Groigan dance?
     That was the message that flashed onto Mark's screen, beamed from one of the attacking ships.
     Hyperspace Failed.
     That was the message that appeared a fraction of a second later, in frightening blood-red letters, as the computer took stock of the ship's location and informed its pilot of a mis-jump into witchspace. The Thargoid warships closed in from below and behind and to the sides, whipping quickly past his viewscreens, the shield-voiding lasers of the remote controlled Thargons hammering into the ship.
     Mark heard Soora gasp, and guessed that she had never been pulled into witchspace by the Thargoids before. Although, judging by her face at the moment, he wouldn't really guess that she'd ever seen combat. Huh. So anxious to get out here. It was that sort of impatience that got a lot of young traders killed early on.
     The first warship flew into his viewer, flanked by two Thargons. The Thargons started firing away while the larger and slower warship manoeuvered into a good position to use its more powerful alien lasers to good effect. Mark ignored the Thargons and concentrated his fire on the warship; he stuck to his target and was rewarded a moment later with its disintegration. The Thargons immediately powered down and began drifting harmlessly. They were so swift that shooting active ones was far more trouble than they were worth, when destroying the mothership stopped them in their tracks. The bonus was that you could scoop the Thargons after the battle and sell them to GalCop as alien items, easily fetching up to 70cr in some systems.
     Rumour was that elements of the GalCop and private industry were working on a mycoid virus to attack the Thargoid organic ship technology, but that was years, if not decades, away. For now it was a case of fighting and wearing them down, one by one.
     Another mothership swept past, belly exposed, a flat dark octogon of immense power and strength. His lasers flashed across the void and pounded against the larger ship's shields. His laser temperature was getting dangerously high, and the firing rate was noticeably slower. Still Mark picked off Thargoids.
     One final ship was coming in from a distance behind him, the edge of scanner range and closing fast. The old Cobra spun to meet its enemy, and a burst of acceleration sent the two ships hurtling toward each other, lasers playing against each other's shields. The Cobra's energy banks were starting to feel the effects of the fight, but its military lasers were just cutting through the Thargoid's shields when the two ships collided.
     Because of its weakened state, the Thargoid crashed into Mark's shields and splintered, alloys and plastics spewing into the vacuum. But a fault caused by the ram made the Thargons continue firing, and the grating whine of abused energy banks cut through the bridge.
     "Shoot them!" yelled Soora. Mark didn't take his concentration from the scanners, but shouted back at her in a terse voice, "Just sit down and shut up. Do something useful, grab that coolant spray and make sure nothing catches fire."
     A shrill beep signalled a missile lock on one of the two surviving Thargons, and Mark's arm shot out and stabbed the missile launch button. A red streak flashed by as the missile tracked the Thargon, which was too small to have an ECM or shields and soon was so much metal dust. The second Thargon circled behind Mark and he twisted his Cobra round sharply to follow it. Soora, having not learned from the last time, was thrown into the bulkhead again. A moment later it was over, as the remote ship flew into Mark's crosshairs, and he hit the fire button. A smirk of satisfaction crossed his face as he cut engines to nil and let the ship drift.
     "You okay?" he called over to Soora, who was pulling herself to her feet. She nodded, looking dazed. "I'm letting the shields recharge before we jump again. Got your coordinates handy?"
     Soora took a piece of paper out of her pocket, and consulted something she had scribbled on it earlier. "Two-five-eight by zero-six-nine by three-zero-one. That's the direction." Mark programmed the coordinates in, and watched the navigation computer angle the Cobra until it was facing in the desired direction. Then he pressed the interspace button.

     The red-brown Cobra sat before the station. Its pilot glared at the stream of data coming in from the other ship, then smiled grimly when it revealed the ship to be heading in his direction. Revenge is sweet, he thought. My father was a good man. You will pay.

     The 'mass locked' warning sounded, and Mark immediately cut speed to nil. There was nothing on the scanner, but away in the distance on the viewscreen, he could just make out two small dots, one green, one grey.
     One of those must be the station, thought Mark. Damn. They had been right. The green one must be the generation ship; those were the only two things likely to make the mass lock warning snap on at this distance. Cautiously, he sped up the Cobra and watched the dots resolve into yes, a station and a ship so massive it might as well have been another station. They were at the extreme range of the scanner now, three green dots clustered tightly together...

     Three?
     The incoming missile warning pheeped through the cramped space just as the message appeared on his screen: Commander, the end is nigh. What the hell? It couldn't be Thargoids, could it? His question was quickly answered; a red dot resolved into a Cobra, firing wildly at him. ECMing the missile, he broadcast Who are you?
     It took a few moments before he received a reply - not by message, but by radio.
     "You don't know me, do you, Commander Taine? But I know you. And I know you knew my father, and my grandfather before him. Do you remember them, Commander? Or do they just blend together as two of the hundreds of lives you have claimed over the years?"
     "Who are you? Maybe if you told me I might know what the hell you were on about."
     "I've been waiting a long time for this, Commander. My name is Kifri. Kifri Pino. My father was Zurid, and my grandfather was Rantan. Do you remember now?" Pheep-pheep pheep, three more missiles. Well, thought Mark as he stretched for the ECM button, at least he's used up all his missiles. Zurid Pino had a son? That was news to Mark. Just as he hadn't known Rantan had a son, all those years before.
     The two ships streaked toward each other, firing, and broke off, then began spiralling, cutting between the two huge constructs that were the generation ship and the space station.

Why did the Groigan dance?
     That was the message that flashed onto Mark's screen, beamed from one of the attacking ships.
     Hyperspace Failed.
     That was the message that appeared a fraction of a second later, in frightening blood-red letters, as the computer took stock of the ship's location and informed its pilot of a mis-jump into witchspace. The Thargoid warships closed in from below and behind and to the sides, whipping quickly past his viewscreens, the shield-voiding lasers of the remote controlled Thargons hammering into the ship.
     Mark heard Soora gasp, and guessed that she had never been pulled into witchspace by the Thargoids before. Although, judging by her face at the moment, he wouldn't really guess that she'd ever seen combat. Huh. So anxious to get out here. It was that sort of impatience that got a lot of young traders killed early on.
     The first warship flew into his viewer, flanked by two Thargons. The Thargons started firing away while the larger and slower warship manoeuvred into a good position to use its more powerful alien lasers to good effect. Mark ignored the Thargons and concentrated his fire on the warship; he stuck to his target and was rewarded a moment later with its disintegration. The Thargons immediately powered down and began drifting harmlessly. They were so swift that shooting active ones was far more trouble than they were worth, when destroying the mothership stopped them in their tracks. The bonus was that you could scoop the Thargons after the battle and sell them to GalCop as alien items, easily fetching up to 70cr in some systems.
     Rumour was that elements of the GalCop and private industry were working on a mycoid virus to attack the Thargoid organic ship technology, but that was years, if not decades, away. For now it was a case of fighting and wearing them down, one by one. Some talked of peace, but that was just a dream.
     Another mothership swept past, belly exposed, a flat dark octagon of immense power and strength. His lasers flashed across the void and pounded against the larger ship's shields. His laser temperature was getting dangerously high, and the firing rate was noticeably slower. Still Mark picked off Thargoids.
     That was the funny thing about them, he thought as he fired. Thargoids, aside from being bloodthirsty, literally fearless and at war with the GalCo-op, were renowned for their indecipherable sense of humour. The last time they had attacked him, one had come on comms and asked Why did the kangaroo dance? Then it fired on him, and he never got the answer, because moments later it was just so much dust and battered alloys.
     One final ship was coming in from a distance behind him, the edge of scanner range and closing fast. The old Cobra spun to meet its enemy, and a burst of acceleration sent the two ships hurtling toward each other, lasers playing against each other's shields. The Karina's energy banks were starting to feel the effects of the fight, but its military lasers were just cutting through the Thargoid's shields when the two ships collided.
     Because of its weakened state, the larger Thargoid crashed into Mark's shields and splintered, alloys and plastics spewing into the vacuum. But a fault caused by the ram made the Thargons continue firing, and the grating whine of abused energy banks cut through the bridge.
     "Shoot them!" yelled Soora. Mark didn't take his concentration from the scanners, but shouted back at her in a terse voice, "Just sit down and shut up. Do something useful, grab that coolant spray and make sure nothing catches fire."
     A shrill beep signalled a missile lock on one of the two surviving Thargons, and Mark's arm shot out and stabbed the missile launch button. A red streak flashed by as the missile tracked the Thargon, which was too small to have an ECM or shields and soon was so much metal dust. The second Thargon circled behind Mark and he twisted his Cobra round sharply to follow it. Soora, having not learned from the last time, was thrown into the bulkhead again.
     A sudden whine cut through the bridge, followed seconds later by a klaxon alarm and an Energy Low warning blinked on and off on the screen. Glancing swiftly at his instrument panel, Mark saw that he was on his last energy bank and every time it tried to recharge, the Thargon swing round and resumed firing. The Cobra twisted this way and that, its pilot staring grimly at the radar, trying to outmanoeuvre the little robot craft, but its special Thargoid pulse laser kept shredding his fragile shields.
     Soora started to chant something from her place on the floor and Mark was about to tell her to shut the hell up, and then suddenly it was over, as the remote ship flew into Mark's crosshairs, and he hit the fire button. A smirk of satisfaction crossed his face as he cut engines to nil and let the ship drift.
     "You okay?" he called over to Soora, who was pulling herself to her feet. She nodded, looking dazed. "I'm letting the shields recharge before we jump again. Got your coordinates handy?"
     Soora took a piece of paper out of her pocket, groaned, clutched her head, and consulted something she had scribbled on the paper earlier. "Two-five-eight by zero-six-nine by three-zero-one. That's the direction." Mark programmed the coordinates in, and watched the navigation computer angle the Cobra until it was facing in the desired direction. Then he pressed the interspace button.

     The red-brown Cobra sat before the station. Its pilot glared at the stream of data coming in from the other ship, then smiled grimly when it revealed the ship to be heading in his direction. Revenge is sweet, he thought. My father was a good man. You will pay.

     The Mass Locked warning sounded, and Mark immediately cut speed to nil. There was nothing on the scanner, but away in the distance on the viewscreen, he could just make out two small dots, one green, one grey.
     One of those must be the station, thought Mark. Damn. They had been right. The green one must be the generation ship; those were the only two things likely to make the mass lock warning snap on at this distance. Cautiously, he sped up the Cobra and watched the dots resolve into yes, a station and a ship so massive it might as well have been another station. They were at the extreme range of the scanner now, three green dots clustered tightly together...
     Three?
     The incoming missile warning pheeped through the cramped space just as the message appeared on his screen: Commander, the end is nigh. What the hell? It couldn't be Thargoids, could it? His question was quickly answered; a red dot resolved into a Cobra, firing wildly at him. ECMing the missile, he broadcast Who are you?
     It took a few moments before he received a reply - not by message, but by radio.
     "You don't know me, do you, Commander Taine? But I know you. And I know you knew my father, and my grandfather before him. Do you remember them, Commander? Or do they just blend together as two of the hundreds of lives you have claimed over the years?"
     "Who are you? Maybe if you told me I might know what the hell you were on about."
     "I've been waiting a long time for this, Commander. My name is Kifri. Kifri Pino. My father was Zurid, and my grandfather was Rantan. Do you remember now?" Pheep-pheep pheep, three more missiles. Well, thought Mark as he stretched for the ECM button, at least he's used up all his missiles. Zurid Pino had a son? That was news to Mark. Just as he hadn't known Rantan had a son, all those years before.
     The two ships streaked toward each other, firing, and broke off, then began spiralling, cutting between the two huge constructs that were the generation ship and the space station. Great walls of metal loomed up on either side of the small Cobra, a sudden group of antennae materialising in front of the ship then shearing off as it crashed through them. Kifri's ship shot round the station and toward the Karina, with little warning, and - pheep - another missile sped from his racks.
     Mark had no time to react this time, wondering how the hell Kifri could have more than four missiles and then remembering that his father had had a modified Cobra, with eight missile pylons rather than the normal four. Stabbing the yaw booster controls, Mark yanked his ship sideways and the missile, slow to react in the tight space, slammed into the side of the station. Shards of alloys sparked against Mark's shields.
     Six, thought Mark. You've only got two left. He was aware of his still rather depleted energy banks, which frankly needed an overhaul by this time, and he found himself wishing he got his ship maintenenced more often.
     Kifri's ship rounded the generation ship and came at him again. The other man fired a missile, and Mark fired one of his own, forcing Kifri to ECM both incoming and outgoing missiles. Mark took his chance and fired his lasers, slowing almost to a stop in order to track the red-brown Cobra. That was almost the end of him, as the station rotated round and almost on top of the little ship. Mark was so intent on his firing that it took Soora's scream of warning to make him fire up the engines and move the ship to safety.
     Relative safety. No sooner was his ship out of the shadow of the station, that Kifri appeared from behind the generation ship again and began firing.
     "You're going to pay for my father," spat Kifri's voice over the radio. "I've inscribed your name on all my missiles, Commander." He burst into laughter then cut the link.
     Mark decided not to respond. Let Pino distract himself from combat by making pointless chatter. That would just make things easier for him, and besides, if the idiot was too busy talking, he wouldn't be concentrating so much on flying. Maybe he would make a mistake...
     And he did. Kifri had ran his ship between the generation ship and the station, and was stuck in a narrow alley of fire with himself at one end and Mark at the other. Mark saw his opportunity and took it, firing his laser until the temperature became dangerously hot, and still not stopping. He even fired his last two missiles, to force Kifri to use his ECM and drain his energy even more.
     Kifri saw the danger and spun his ship, clipping the station in the process and his craft shuddered as the energy banks strained to keep the hull from buckling. Mark was speeding up now, heading for the kill.
     "No!" shouted Soora, and threw herself at Mark.
     "What the-" the breath was knocked out of the old man as Soora ploughed into him and hit him in the face, hard, before hitting the escape button. She sat in the command seat and Mark staggered to his feet, blood dripping down his face, just in time to see the seat decend and Soora vanish into the floor. The floor hatch slid closed behind her. Seconds later there was a shudder as the escape pod shot out from underneath the Cobra and away.
     Mark dived for the controls; in order to launch the pod, the shields had to be dropped. The thing was constructed on the basis that anyone having a need to escape the ship wouldn't be wanting to go back to it in a hurry, and so shields would be of little use. Unfortunately Kifri also knew this.
     Shots from the enemy vessel slammed against the Karina's hull, tearing through the stressed metal and scoring long carbon marks across the faded paint. Mark swore and returned fire, simultaneously re-engaging the shields with his free hand. The Energy Low warning was flashing again, and impatiently he switched off the alarm klaxon and turned the Cobra away from Kifri, to hide behind the station.
     "You didn't know, did you, Commander? She gave me the information to track you and find you. You are such a fool, such an old, trusting fool. Your death will be such a benefit to the universe as a whole." Another volley of shots shuddered against the weak shields. "You know what you are, Commander Taine? Apart from a murderer. You are an anachronism, an old man, a relic of another time. You don't belong in this time and place, and I'm going to make sure this is the last the universe sees of you."
     Soora gave him the information? What the hell was going on? Mark frowned and tried desperately to think of something to do. He glanced at the scanner, but the two small ships were too close to the massive generation ship, and he couldn't distinguish Kifri's signal from the mass of green. He therefore couldn't tell where Kifri was, and assumed that they were circling each other on opposite sides of the-
     That was it! Mark took the damaged Cobra into a quick dive toward the generation ship, searching for a docking port. After a few minutes he found one, and angled through the small slot. His undercarriage was damaged so he bellyflopped to the ancient PlastUminium decking, the Cobra skidding along before coming to rest rather ungraciously against a wall.
     Mark ran his hand along the instrument panel and a tear gathered in the corner of his eye. She had been a good ship, for many long years now, and he had quite literally lived in her for a long time. It would be a shame to leave her here to an uncertain fate, but there was nothing for it.
     "... scared to face me, Commander?" Kirfi's voice issued faintly from the radio. "Is that what you did to my father too? Hid and then ambushed him? Come on out, Commander, and face me like a man." With a twisted grimace, Mark hit a button and the ship was once more silent. He sat for a moment, reflecting on the plan that was taking shape in his mind. Mostly reflecting on how absolutely bloody stupid it seemed...
     He suited up and opened the external hatch, climbing out onto the centuries-old deckplates. His ship had ended up beside a defunct Thargon, half open for never-completed repairs. A pity to see such an amazing historical enigma in the hands of Thargoids and pirates. He shook his helmeted head and scanned the bay for an exit.
     It took him a while, but eventually he found signs written in a strange language. He remembered seeing similar writing before, on the ancient probes occasionally floating in interstellar space and transported to the GalCo-op's museums. It was the ancient language of Earth, now long forgotten by all but academics and historians. However, Mark could understand enough to locate the bridge.
     He followed the signs for a long few minutes before arriving in the bridge. When he finally levered open the massive doors, he gasped in shock - the vaulted roof rose far above him, a huge circular window took up most of the front wall, and to either side were banks of montiors on either wall. An array of consoles and seats, which looked as if they ought to accommodate humans, were positioned on the floor, covered in a fine film of dust. In the centre of the huge circular room sat a much larger, dominating chair. That, Mark decided, must be the comander's chair. He was awestruck at the scale of the place, and stepped reverently forward to the command chair; turning it gently, he jumped back in shock.
     A pilot sat in the chair. Possibly the ship's commander, possibly a total stranger, it was difficult to tell. It appeared to have been female, as the level of decay was low in this mostly sterile environment. Rotting eyes stared vacantly out at the screen, dead for maybe a thousand years, the tight flesh rigid over sunken cheeks.
     The pilot's chest was blasted open in the typical pattern of a Thargoid laser. Obviously they had found this vessel a long, long time ago. Mark briefly wondered what had become of the rest of the crew, then shuddered and decided he didn't want to know.
     And I thought I'd seen it all...
     But there was no time for that. Whoever had been here was obviously here still, somewhere on this immense ship, because there was a narrow trail through the dust to the navigator's station, and all the systems were emitting power-down signals. Mark tapped a button, and with a distinct whine the systems powered up and the lights brightened. A computerised voice babbled at him, and he realised this must be what the language of ancient Earth sounded like... amazing.
     Realising he was distracting himself, Mark shook his head and ignored it. Kifri would no doubt be getting suspicious by now, and it was only a matter of time before he figured out what Mark had done, and spied the Karina lying crashed in the docking bay.
     Fortunately the controls were simply labelled, and Mark was able to quickly work out the relevant ones. Switching on a bank of monitors, he discovered that most of the external cameras were working, and he could even see Kifri's distinctive ship, in grainy low-res colour, slowly circling the generation ship. Mark's plan was simple. He waited for Kifri to circle round the back of the leviathan vessel, then pressed the button he had worked out to be 'main engines'.
     The engines rumbled to life, and a blast of super-hot exhaust gas belched out the rear of the vessel, just as Kifri was completing another orbit. The heat and flames blasted the fragile Cobra, and Mark watched its shields glow an impressive cobalt blue - they must be pretty powerful shields, for a ship of its size - before disintegrating and spinning away into the vacuum in tiny, glowing fragments.
     "Goodbye, Kifri. Say hi to your family for me when you get there." He laughed, but there was no humour in his voice.
     What next? Ah, yes.
     The ship began to move, ponderously, gradually building up speed. Its systems were primitive and archaic, yet effective and still operational. A flickering hologlobe shot into the air and Mark watched with interest as a small green pulse was displayed, its position relative to his own. Soora.

     Soora watched the battle as she shot away in the escape pod. It wasn't exactly to plan, and even with the sleepfreeze it would take a long while to get to the nearest station from here, in this thing. But she couldn't let Mark destroy Kifri or she would be found out. It wasn't ideal, but it appeared to be working. She strapped herself into the sleepfreeze unit and watched as it sealed her in. A monitor shone through the clear plastic lid, and a small controller by her right hand could send commands to the pod's computer from here. She watched the station drop away, and the generation ship slowly grow.
     Slowly grow? She increased magnification. Shit. The damn thing was closing on her. Somebody must be on board it. Realising the danger she was in, she tried to command the pod to change course, but the generation ship was closing too fast, was too large. She ordered to computer to use extra fuel in a bigger burn, but it was too late, and the massive vessel was bearing down on her...
     The impact could be felt even inside the sleepfreeze, as the fleeing pod almost got out of range, and skipped off the hull of the larger vessel as it passed her. An alarm sounded and the emergency program activated, a needle shooting out and stabbing her in the arm. The drowsiness of sleepfreeze began to creep over her, and she was vaguely aware of the screen printing power failure... main thrusters destroyed... initiating emergency program... prepare sleepfreeze for indefinite period.
     Then she lost consciousness.

     Mark watched the damaged pod spin away into the distance, knowing that it would be millions of years, if ever, before it was found in the vastness of interstellar space. Perhaps she would be found by the Thargoids and experimented on. Perhaps she would never be found, or the pod would crash onto a stray asteroid. Mark didn't care. She could rot in hell for all he was concerned.
     He had a problem on board the generation ship. It seemed he had unwittingly hijacked a Thargoid invasion vehicle; they had gutted most of the interior and there were rank upon rank of warships docked, waiting for god knows what cue to launch. The activation of the engines had activated a pre-programmed navigation program which Mark couldn't override, and it was working on coordinates for a hyperjump.
     He looked around at the antiquated vessel and sighed. So much history, so much lost knowldge, and for what? An invasion ship, a launch point to attack and - judging by the number of warships on board - destroy the Galactic Co-operative from within. After all, the bulk of the GalCop large ships were in interstellar space already, fighting most of the Thargoid fleet. They obviously didn't know about this.
     But Mark had not survived by being stupid. There had to be something he could do, and he would find it.

     One week later the generation ship emerged from hyperspace in the Tiraor system. Slengr's station, of course. Mark suited up, and returned to the Karina. He had repaired most of the damage by salvaging those parts he could recognise, or guess at, from the disabled Thargon. Most of his systems were working and the Cobra was at least capable of the short hop from ship to station.
     He had tried hacking into the navigation computer, and that hadn't worked. He had tried a distress signal, and hacking into the communications array, but nothing had worked. He had no way to warn the GalCo-op or to stop the generation ship from emerging into normal space. He was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the situation, and had resolved to go and see Gerfast himself.
     As soon as the generation ship had taken up position around the planet, parked next to the blue shape that was Johnson's Gate station in a parallel orbit, Mark took the Karina out of its landing bay and shot toward the station. Seeing him emerge from the generation ship, SysCon granted him an immediate landing, and as soon as the ramp was down he was striding past the bowing Groigans and up to the Hub restaraunt.

     He found Gerfast sitting at his usual table. Reay stepped in his way, and Mark was about to punch him, when Gerfast stood up and said, "Don't worry, Reay. I think I know why Commander Taine is here."
     Mark growled at him. He had deliberately come unarmed, so as not to provoke any of Gerfast's bodyguards, but there was a fine thread of control preventing him from attempting to throttle the smarmy businessman.
     "You bastard," he spat. "You set me up. You wanted me to do your dirty work for you, then you set me up to be killed."
     "My dear Commander Mark," said Gerfast in a cheerful tone of voice, "Whatever business Ms Ostic got up to, is absolutely none of my concern. I shall, however, recompense you handsomely for any trouble you may have encountered. Is, say, fifty thousand credits and a holiday moon on Leleer? There's a rather nasty disease on the planet right now, but you could set up a nice little business exporting the rare Leleerian Itonthbi tulip..."
     "Stop messing me around, Slengr. I don't want your tainted goods. I know about the Thargoid warships on that vessel. What did they promise you, eh? Make you a lord of the universe, give you a few systems to rule? You really think they'd spare you once they'd destroyed everything from here to Raxxla?"
     Gerfast's face became an expressionless mask, then he reached inside his jacket and produced a gun.
     "I think you talk too much, Commander. It's about time you left."
     "You're not going to shoot me, Slengr. It's not your style. You don't like getting blood on your hands."
     Gerfast stared at him for a moment, then blinked as if the thought hadn't occurred to him before. "You're entirely right, Mark," he said in a superior tone of voice. "I'm not going to shoot you." He placed the gun in his pocket and turned to pick up his drink. "After all," he added, almost as an afterthought, "I employ people to do that sort of thing for me."
     Mark sensed the movement behind him almost before he heard the high-pitched sizzle of superheated plasma burning through the air. He started to spin toward Reay, and as he did the bolt of energy hit him in the chest, and he spun and crashed heavily to the floor. His vision ran red and his head was spinning.
     Gerfast crouched down beside him. "Not such a big hero now, are you, Mark, hmmm? You should have taken the money." He chuckled.
     "There's... one thing... you forgot to... check..."
     "What?" asked Gerfast, not catching the words. He grabbed a handful of hair and jerked Mark's head up into the air. "What was that, Mark? I didn't quite catch it."
     Mark took a ragged breath, winced in pain, and held up his left hand. In the hand was a small box with a single red LED. "You forgot... this... I wired the ship's drive... to a... dead man's switch." A bloody grimace passed across his face, while Gerfast stood up and shouted something incomprehensible. Mark's face relaxed suddenly, and he whispered "See you in... hell..."
     Then he dropped the box and the LED went out.

     A while afterwards, the GalCop had caught up with a trader who had been heading to the station and had witnessed the whole thing. The shaken trader described how the generation ship was bigger than the station itself, and how its drive had suddenly and inexplicably started to detonate, jerking the massive vessel against the station.
     The ship had ploughed through the station's massive shields as if they were butter, and smashed into the primary hull. Oxygen and Quirium fuel from the station had began to leak out and mixed with the fury of the explosion, creating a greater and greater series of explosions until the trader's systems had crashed under the huge EM pulse as the station collapsed.
     When the trader's computer backup had kicked in, he hurriedly tried to get the external cameras working. There was nothing but static on the radio, and the station's automated beacon was silent. Even the small S indicator had vanished from the scanner map.
     After about an hour the trader had got his external cameras operating, but there was not much to see. Where a station and a leviathan of a ship had been sitting, was a cloud of glinting, shining metallic debris. Nothing larger than a few meters wide had survived from a station that had once supported several tens of thousands of creatures from various species.
     The investigating officer looked at the trader, looked back down to his notes, and shook his head. He motioned for the trader to leave, and when the man had gone, the cop turned to his colleague.
     "Generation ships?" he laughed. "I think our friend there has been out in space for a little too long." The second cop nodded, and filed the report under 'Industrial Accidents'.

This story (if you can call it that) is © Jason Togneri 2002-03. ArcElite is © Warren Burch and Clive Gringras, and Elite is © Ian Bell and David Braben. If you've got a problem with that, or if for some strange reason liked the story, email the author because I'm desperate for emails. Last update: 17/09/03 1432 GMT +2.000