ALIEN SAFARI: UNDERWORLD

By Robert Appleton

Copyright @ Robert Appleton 2025

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

* * * *

Reach the dizzying heights of adventure ... kilometers below.

When an old acquaintance arrives seeking refuge on Hesperidia, Vaughn and Jan reluctantly give him sanctuary. Trouble follows wherever he goes, but he’s also custodian of an extraordinary alien secret that he’s used to save countless lives across the colonies. This time, however, his own nine lives may have run out. Diurnal, the most feared hit squad in the galaxy, has tracked him all the way to the Hesp. And once that posse has the scent of its prey, it never leaves empty-handed ...

Vaughn’s personal grudge against one of the assassins threatens to combust an already heated manhunt. Jan realizes their only chance for survival is to hide somewhere no one can find them: the largest subterranean cave network on the planet, recently discovered. A tense hide-and-seek soon becomes a deadly chase into the underworld, where Vaughn, Jan, Stopper and their companions must use their combined skills to outwit a foe that possesses almost supernatural tenacity.

In that mostly unexplored realm, unimaginable life-forms have flourished where no sunlight can reach. And as the pursuit delves ever deeper, the mysteries of this subterranean ecosystem provide shocking and wondrous discoveries in equal measure. The new threat from without meets ancient ones from within as Hesperidia witnesses the ultimate contest between technological cunning and the awesome potential of alien nature unleashed.

Buckle up for a breathless thrill-ride as Alien Safari ventures into timeless depths of the unknown.

​ALIEN SAFARI: UNDERWORLD

Robert Appleton

BOOK 6

​Chapter One

Chunks of smashed moon, large and small, hung in orbit high above a gunmetal grey sky, invisibly tethered to the wake of their mother rock as it sailed around the perpetual twilight of Rurapenti, the notorious penal planet.

Vaughn skulked in a shadowy alcove of the cemetery quadrangle, eager to avoid being seen by those in attendance at the day’s only funeral service. His duster was damp after the sudden downpour that had caught him unawares during his stroll earlier that morning along the rocky trail circumnavigating the perimeter walls of the main prison complex. A solemn stroll to plug the bitter leaks from a heart long buried in cement, now cracking, crumbling as the day he’d feared had finally arrived.

Why in the hell did I come here?

It had shocked him to see so many of his family again in one place. Almost all of them were convicted felons serving multiple life sentences. He ought to know; he’d personally made the arrests. But here they were, and there they stood, decades older than when he’d last seen them, arrayed in a haphazard horseshoe formation around the coffin of Cleitus Vaughn.

Dad.

Those acres of sodden soil inside the quadrangle constituted the entirety of the dark soil on the planet. It had been imported from somewhere, God knew where, and was now used to inter the remains of dead prisoners. Strange that such rituals and customs were still observed this far out into space, for unwanted and forgotten miscreants no less. But it was also oddly touching. Quaint sentiment at the heart of such a harsh, unforgiving place.

Rurapenti was a barren, lifeless rock, pocked with empty seas and dusted with chalky silt, never brighter than dusk and never warmer than tepid. But its atmosphere held oxygen. Mining colonists had tried to terraform and settle it well over a century ago; that project had gone into liquidation. So ISPA had bought out the lease and used it as a catch-all penal dumping ground for the worst offenders from an increasingly unmanageable diaspora of humans across occupied space.

Vaughn had sent many of them here. Including the man now being lowered into his grave. The man whose DNA he carried. He shuddered, the nausea swelled; realizing how unfathomably unnatural it was what he’d done; that he had the gall to be here after that—in their presence. It was straight-up freaking ghoulish.

He sucked in a few awkward lungsful of salty air. The atmosphere was meagre. It didn’t serve his craving for full, nausea-quelling breaths. But it was natural, unfiltered air. The first he’d tasted in a long time. It had subtle aromas he wasn’t used to: the rich, peaty smell of wet earth, traces of oven-baked food from the kitchen, the lingering, electrified charge of a passing storm. Hesperidia might be his favorite world in every other way imaginable, but he had never smelled its exotic, Eden-like scents, and never would be able to. This planet of prisons and funerals, however, made him feel oddly alive in that sense. Damn it! Smells were well known to excite memories. And in the one place he didn’t want his past triggered in ways he couldn’t control, an insolent scentscape began to wrap around him, touching forgotten emotions, drawing out vapors of longing, regret, bittersweet tugs and pushes near the gravity of a close-knit family that had once been.

Sondra glanced his way. He recoiled, slid out of view behind a stone arch column. His little sister was a middle-aged woman now: dumpy, she walked with a pronounced limp, possibly a hip or knee replacement, and clung to her husband’s arm for support. The last time Vaughn had seen her in person she’d been an athletic girl barely into her teenage years. The shocking alienation of his skew—the nineteen years he’d skipped over with his interstellar detour through the Star Binder—piled into the rotten detritus of self-hate he’d dragged behind him all these years. How could he have done that to his kid sister? Ripped everything she’d known, everyone she’d loved away from her like that? Sure, he could hide behind the law all he wanted. And he had! The law was his refuge, his fortress. He’d clung to it through the most immolating bouts of self-doubt.

But there was nothing between them now, him and them. Nothing but artificial earth and a squall of scent-memories. Prayers uttered or mouthed by people he had been close to once. They’d bounced him on their knees, a few of them. Had taught him to hunt, play games, speak the slang of scattered colonies.

Hell, even Mom was there, with her back to him, saying goodbye to Dad. A small, grey-haired woman wearing a warm overcoat over her prison fatigues, bent-backed—but not frail—God no, she could never be that. How the hell had the authorities allowed her to be here? One of the most notorious criminal couples of the past half century, reunited like this. If the press ever found out about this ...

It made no sense. None. And yet here they were, there they stood, in a haphazard horseshoe around the worst of them all. The man Ferrix had once looked up to as the best of them, a god among men.

The chunks of smashed moon, the grieving gathering, the scent-memories he couldn’t escape: they were all orbiting around the legacy of Cleitus Vaughn. Soon he would disappear forever, but what he’d wrought on the galaxy never would.

Terrorist. Murderer. Husband. Father.

Which would be his epitaph?

Hell, what would be the epitaph of Ferrix Vaughn?

As the prison’s resident parson droned on, the system’s dim trinary suns, orbiting each other a long distance away, took turns peeking through the mottled clouds that sailed overhead like ice floes on a wintry river. Just enough warmth got through to stir Vaughn out of his chilly reminiscences. It tugged his heartstrings with a much gentler vibration, reminding him that his family name wasn’t his only legacy. No, that warmth he felt was Jan, Stopper, his new life in the sub-tropics of Hesperidia. A place where one didn’t simply exist; they lived, free from judgment, and all that counted was what they did, daily, in the service of science and alien Nature.

Then the clouds thickened and darkened. Some wept over the vast wastelands. And it was miserable again.

He’d noted the small chaperdrones hovering over the attendees. A security measure no doubt, to make sure the prisoners behaved. The AI sentry cannons mounted on the guard towers were extraordinarily vigilant, of course. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill anyone who made a break for escape. But even so, it struck Vaughn as reckless, dumb even, to let this many maximum security inmates convene for a private ceremony with so few human guards in attendance. He only counted three, all armed. What if his relatives rushed them, took one or both of them hostage? The prisoners appeared neither shackled nor otherwise restrained.

He shook his head. Prison protocol had clearly evolved in ways he didn’t understand during his long skew. Maybe he should have researched it before coming here? But damn it, he’d had almost no notice. ISPA’s condolence message had arrived on Hesperidia while he’d been out in the field with Jan and Stopper. Repairs to the sat net had reduced comms to a patchy intermittence, and he hadn’t received the message till two days ago.

I wish I’d never read it.

Whatever residual guilt or family pull had brought him here, it had brought him unprepared. When the service ended, he watched them congregate away from the grave, their chaperdrones following them like mute pearlescent thought bubbles flashing colored warnings instead of language. One of the armed guards escorted the parson from the quadrangle. Another escorted Uncle Remus. Which left one to watch the remaining six—no, seven prisoners? Insane.

An alert flashed on his wrist pad, meant for all visitors: NEXT SHUTTLE DEPARTING FOR AMPHITRYON WARP GATE IN 1 HR.

It didn’t affect Vaughn; he had his own private ship. But if he didn’t leave now, he might find himself bottlenecked alongside already emotional, potentially vengeful relatives at the various security gates.

Eager to remain invisible, he slinked his way back toward the exit by way of the stone-paved passage between the alcoves and arches. Not quite in the shadows, but his family was too far away to recognize him.

“Ferrix.”

Aw, crap. She must have left the service early; he hadn’t noticed.

“Sondra?”

She was standing on the lawn, a few feet from the archway up ahead, still hanging on her husband’s arm. He was quite a bit taller than her, gaunt but distinguished-looking, with a full, trimmed red beard, and small, intelligent blue eyes that had that snapshot way of reading a situation fully and quickly with a single jerking glance. Vaughn guessed he was either in the emergency services, maybe an ER doctor, or in education. Too skinny to be in the military, unless he was retired.

“I never thought you’d come here,” she said.

“Neither did I.”

She looked him up and down, her swollen eyes flashing wonder and a barely disguised pain. Regret? Too much time had passed; they’d been close once, and he’d recently saved her daughter’s life, at Sondra’s bidding. Surely no real enmity remained between them.

“Why did you?”

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Something made me.”

“How much did you hear?”

“Nothing. I didn’t come here for words.”

They both scrutinized him, waiting for a follow-up. He didn’t give one.

“This your husband?”

“Uh-huh. Tyrone, this is the famous—”

“Ferrix Vaughn, yes. Our Kyra’s told us all about you.” The man almost offered his hand in friendship, but perceived his wife’s frosty will just in time and fisted it instead. “You’ve traveled a long way, Detective.”

“That’s all there is out here, like the song says: ‘voids and asteroids’. Good to meet you, Tyrone.”

“Likewise.”

“How’s Kyra?”

“A long way off the grid, right where you left her,” answered Sondra with a touch of insolence—an uncalled-for rebuke, which she acknowledged by looking away with pained indignation.

“But she’s safe and well, thanks to you, Detective,” added Tyrone, nudging his wife.

“Yeah, just don’t expect any Christmas cards, Uncle Ferrix.”

As cold as she was forcing herself to be—and perhaps had every right to be—Vaughn saw through it easily enough. Mom’s bonnie, girlish features; Dad’s charismatic brown eyes. Sondra still had a kind face after all these years, and, from what Kyra had told him, a kind, if guarded, nature as well. Life had hardened her around the edges, but not in any fundamental way, it seemed. The trauma of her childhood had not killed that part of her he remembered best—the cheeky part that came alive in the company of others, but more than that loved to test the limits of what that company found appropriate.

“But I never did thank you for that,” she managed, looking him squarely in the eye with absolute sincerity. “For saving her life like that on Mars. I told Dad about it, you know, and there was no hiding that secret smile he gave when he thought I wasn’t looking.”

Vaughn swallowed, fought the urge to look past her to the grave site.

“I think you should know,” she said, “he was always a little bit in awe of you—after, you know, that night. I don’t think he ever imagined anyone would have stronger principles than him. But you sure showed him. You showed us all.” Again a note of rebuke, but this time not quite as sharp. “He never forgave you for what you did, never really understood it; but I could tell he admired the guts it took. I was going to say the nerve, but we both know it’s too complex for a cheap finger-wag like that.”

“Like I said, I didn’t come here for words,” he lied.

“Well, you’ll get them whether you want them or not.” She narrowed her eyes, tightened her grip on the crook of her husband’s arm. “Dad’s gone, but that’s not the end of his story ... or yours. You see, I was going to write you anyway after today. I have it—sorry, hun—” to Tyrone, “—we have it on good authority that Dad didn’t die of natural causes.”

Vaughn ghosted outside of himself for a moment, as though reality were out of phase. He supposed he should feel a prick of anger at this news, or some further self-reproach. Instead he just wished he’d never heard it, that he’d never come here. It had been a mistake to reconnect in any way to his family like this. All it would bring him was more heartache, more bitterness. And now, irony of ironies: was he actually being asked to use his law enforcement credentials to investigate the death of the father he’d incarcerated in the first place, the arrest that had launched his meteoric detective career?

No, he told himself. She isn’t asking the detective. She’s asking the son.

His gaze flitted between hers and Tyrone’s. The latter jumped in with “It’s circumstantial at the moment, but there’s been a pattern. You see, I’m a private security consultant, used to be an image analyst. I have contacts across the colonies, mostly corporate security, some in law enforcement, a handful in penology. A few weeks ago a colleague messaged me with a rumor about a series of connected deaths within the penal system—none on its own high-profile, but when linked together they’re undeniably suspicious.”

“In what way? What does that have to do with Dad?”

Here Sondra cut in: “Jerome Donaggio, Almater Havers, Sun-Joon Kwok, Emil Lapchik, Sammy Vaughn-Killick ...”

“Wait! Cousin Sammy?”

“Uh-huh. The same, who you also arrested that night. All told, nine of Dad’s inner circle have died in prison in the past few months. He’s just the latest. They were all in good health, apart from Jerome Donaggio, who was diagnosed with an incurable lymphatic disease a few months before he died. Even then, his last medical assessment said his disease had gone into complete remission. So it’s doubtful whether even he died of natural causes.”

“Wait! Jerome Donaggio was never caught. I oversaw the manhunt myself, across a dozen systems. He was the one that got away.”

“He was taken while you were ... absent,” replied Tyrone, shifting his weight. “They finally caught up with him on Enceladus, I think it was. Shortly after he was incarcerated here on Rurapenti, that’s when the deaths started to occur. He was the first. Then several others in quick succession. When your dad found out about it, he apparently cut some kind of deal with the authorities. We don’t know what it entailed exactly, but we can surmise. The very next day, your mother was transferred off Rurapenti to an undisclosed location.”

Vaughn’s pulse rapped on his jugular. “You’re saying he gave up some intel in exchange for that transfer: to get her out of harm’s way?”

Sondra nodded emphatically.

“It sure looks that way,” agreed her husband.

“And it got him killed,” she said.

“Wait. Back up.” Vaughn rubbed his chin stubble. “Men and women from his inner circle were being knocked on the head, and it was made to look like natural causes? Why weren’t the others put in isolation as soon the pattern was apparent?”

“They were,” answered Tyrone. “They all were. All the remaining members of the circle. But the deaths kept happening anyway. That’s when your Dad cut his deal. He seemed to know she wasn’t safe here, that it was the only way to keep her alive. He made the deal not to save himself, but to save her.”

Against his better judgment, a hurtful heart swell of pride and sadness almost choked Vaughn up. The old man had been loyal to the end. Loyal and principled, in his own stubborn way. And his last meaningful act in this life had been a selfless one—one of love, for the wife he’d neither seen nor spoken to in over thirty years.

Husband. Father. Terrorist. Murderer.

Just who in the hell was Cleitus Vaughn?

“Okay, that’s one hell of a eulogy,” said Vaughn. “But the Bureau must be aware of all that. They’ll have people on it already. Why should I get involved?”

“Because you’re you,” answered Sondra with a steely glare. “You might be a lot of things, but corrupt isn’t one of them. No one can accuse you of that. This prison, on the other hand, has allowed nine inmates to be murdered—”

“Allegedly,” he cut in.

She shrugged. “Prove it, disprove it: that’s your wheelhouse. You chose this line of work—you chose it over me and everyone else. And because you’re you, we both know you won’t be able to walk away from this. You need to find out who’s behind it, and fast, before anyone else gets lowered into the dirt. I was going to say ‘innocent people’, but they’re a long way from that, aren’t they. Still, prison or not, no one has the right to pass death sentences when the law has given life instead. Am I wrong?”

He didn’t respond. Thirty-odd years apart and still she knew him too well.

Their chaperdrones both flashed a turquoise blue light and sounded an identical treble-beep alert. Vaughn hadn’t paid them any mind before, had barely noticed they were there. So it wasn’t just the prisoners. Visitors had them, and the last remaining guard, too, boasted a remote overseer.  Was everyone outside the cell hubs supposed to have one? Funny that he hadn’t been assigned one. Or maybe he was exempt. Omicron-level visitors and above?

“Well, that’s our cue,” said Sondra, responding to the alert. And to her husband: “I just want to have a quick word with Mom before we go.” Facing Vaughn, she added, “Will you do me a favor, Ferrix?”

“If I can.”

“When you’ve got to the bottom of—all this—come and see me. Don’t just message me like one of your bureau family liaisons. Give me the news in person. And who knows, maybe we can catch up properly, like Kyra said we should ... like brother and sister.”

“I’d like that.”

“And you can tell me all about Jan and her wonder dog.”

He smiled. “It’s a promise.”

“Take care, Detective,” said Tyrone, again twitching for a handshake and again deciding it wasn’t quite appropriate.

“You too, Tyrone. Have a safe trip.”

As they turned back toward the grave site, and Vaughn strode away for the exit, he didn’t know what to feel outside a gentle relief that swept him, buoyed, like the sudden lightness of low-g after a prolonged press of gravity. All he knew was that he didn’t want to meet another family member. He’d gotten more than he could have hoped for, and to glance back would only jinx it, Lot-style, leaving a bitter aftertaste.

“Detective Vaughn? Detective Ferrix Vaughn?”

Aw, hell. Why can’t they let me be invisible for once? Just once.

He turned to face the speaker. It was the last remaining guard, who was approaching from the section of the quadrangle where Vaughn had hidden during the service. That was odd. Why had he circled round like that? Politeness? Not wanting to interrupt a sibling reunion?

His chaperdrone flashed its amber proximity alert when he got to within a couple of meters. The male guard halted. “I thought that was you. You weren’t on the guest list, but I’d recognize that profile anywhere.”

“Have we met?”

“No. But everyone who swears the justice oath knows your story, sir.”

“Ah.”

First impression: this screw was a bad actor. His words had the inane flummery of a starstruck rookie, but Vaughn noted irony, a sly, self-mocking delivery that said this guy regarded the role he was playing with contempt. He could shrug it off just as easily as the uniform jacket he wore that was a couple of sizes too big for his already-considerable frame. Six-two, built, with slicked-back brown hair, darkly intelligent eyes and an aquiline nose that had been broken at least once, he oozed confidence and go-for-broke forwardness in a way that did not tally with the average prison screw.

“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary this past week or so?”

“What do you mean?” asked Vaughn.

“I mean have you received any unusual visitors or messages, relating to your father’s ... how does one say ... inner circle?”

Vaughn mentally shuffled to get his footing, but couldn’t find an anchor. “Who are you?”

“ISPA Corrections Officer Tamerlane Pike, sir. I’ve been tasked to investigate the suspicious deaths that have taken place here over the past few months. No doubt you’ve heard ...”

“I’ve heard they’re alleged to be suspicious. No more.”

Pike bunched his brow into a half-amused, half-concerned frown and looked at his feet. “Pardon me for saying so, Detective, but I assumed that your coming here at all was more about the conspiracy surrounding these deaths than the actual funeral. Of course, if I’ve spoken out of turn ...”

“You have.”

The man glanced up to meet Vaughn’s glare, again without a trace of real humility or contrition. “In that case, my apologies,” he said. “And I won’t keep you much longer. My internal investigation has so far revealed—”

“Just a minute. Your internal investigation ... into suspicious deaths taking place inside a corrections facility ... conducted by one of its own officers? Since when was that allowed? Surely it has to be an independent inquiry.”

Pike smiled a superior, knowing smile. “Ah, I forgot. You’ve been away, haven’t you, Detective.”

“Not from basic common sense! It’s a conflict of interest for any organization to investigate itself for suspected major crimes.”

“Indeed. That’s why my role is more along the lines of, shall we say, Internal Affairs.”

Vaughn blinked a few times: skeptical, but did it warrant an official challenge? He had been out of the loop for a long time. He glanced across the quadrangle, saw that it was empty. All the guests had left. It behooved him to linger a bit longer, though, to give them time to clear security.

“Very well. What did you want to ask me?”

“About Jerome Donaggio.”

“I haven’t seen or heard from him since the manhunt over thirty years ago. I didn’t even know he’d been captured, let alone that he’d died inside, until a few minutes ago. So I don’t know how much help I can be.”

“Well, it can’t hurt to ask,” said Pike with a supercilious edge that left Vaughn secretly gritting his teeth in anger. This man did not have the chops to be an interrogator or any kind of lawman. He was playing his role with disdain, and that chafed. It chafed because Vaughn, and those like him in the Omicron Bureau, had worked long and hard to cultivate and project a respectful, non-judgmental demeanor when conducting this kind of inquiry.

This clown was an amateur at best. At worst, an imposter. Vaughn decided to let it play, so he could maybe trip Pike up, find out what his real angle was.

“Did you hear about Donaggio’s miraculous recovery shortly before he died?”

“Yes, just now,” said Vaughn. “What do you think that has to do with his death?”

Pike shrugged his eyebrows. “We’re suspecting some sort of contraband, something smuggled into the prison from outside. Something Donaggio was reportedly trying to sell to his fellow inmates, those from his former terrorist cell.”

“What sort of contraband?”

“We’re not sure. But he was heard to be bragging about it—about how it made him feel—as though it made him superior somehow—better than everyone else. That’s when he tried to sell it at exorbitant prices. Have you any idea what it could be, Detective? Have you ever come across anything that could have that effect on a—”

A tiny projectile zipped through Pike’s chest, triggering a maroon alert on his chaperdrone. But there was no entry wound, and Pike didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, some sort of forcefield protecting him stuttered a rapid distorting wave that flickered all around him.

But—but his entire being seemed to flicker—a blink of complete transparency. The divot in the lawn some distance behind him showed where the bullet had torn into the ground. It had passed straight through him?

No, it’s not a forcefield, thought Vaughn. It’s a hologram. The sonofabitch isn’t really here!

Pike grinned at him, then looked up to where the projectile had been fired from: high behind Vaughn. Somewhere on the crenelated roof between the sentry cannon and the quadrangle—a very narrow angle.

As Vaughn dove for the cover of the archway, the absurdly convincing image of Officer Tamerlane Pike flickered out of existence. His chaperdrone hurtled away into the sky over the perimeter wall and was blasted apart by an ion cannon.

A frantic call to security. A panicked check to make sure he hadn’t been hit by a sniper round. Then Vaughn drew his Kruger, set it to maximum yield, and cradled it on his knee while he sat there, stilling his whacking heartbeat, his back to the cold stone wall, and gazed out at the empty grave site. The coffin-sized hole in the foreign soil that had not yet been filled.

Apart from the parson, Uncle Remus, and a couple of the guards, none of those people attending the funeral had physically been here, he realized. Even Sondra and Tyrone had been here, a few feet in front of him, only as holograms.

It made absolute sense from a security standpoint—beaming in their avatars from a safe place, so that they didn’t have to congregate in person—but no sense whatsoever for a so-called detective to be completely hoodwinked by it. It hadn’t even occurred to him that the chaperdrones were there for that purpose.

It was new technology. Utterly convincing. And, once again, he found himself on the back foot as a lawman. Out of sync, out of step. Out of time.

Hell, was that bullet meant for him? His gut told him no, for what that was worth. There’d been no follow-up shot when the hologram had revealed itself. But that only triggered further questions. Why didn’t the sniper know he was shooting at a hologram? And who the hell tries to kill a prison guard in broad daylight in the secured grounds of a prison facility?

One thing was for sure: he was no longer the Ferrix Vaughn of old. He’d lost his edge. His insight. No way would the old Vaughn have been blindsided so thoroughly on so many fronts as he had been here today.

What would Jan say? he thought, in his mind swapping the quadrangle lawn for that of Miramar green. Like an instant tonic it began to dispel his despair, and he started to see his situation through her wry humor, with a touch of self-deprecation.

Why, Detective Vaughn, you’re telling me you didn’t predict an assassination attempt at a funeral? Remind me again what family you’re from ...

​Chapter Two

“It’s not even like I was outwitted,” said Vaughn, still licking his wounded pride three days after the funeral. “I wasn’t even in the game.”

He’d touched down on Hesperidia hours ago, and he’d sweltered ever since. An uncommonly fierce heatwave was baking Miramar and the surrounding forest. His and Jan’s automatic glass-wipers worked overtime to keep their visors demisted while they lazed together on the porch seat at the front of their cabin, a panting Stopper sprawled out on the decking beside them. Even in the shade, it was borderline unbearable. But Jan had developed a touch of cabin fever these past few days, trapped inside their airconditioned home with only reading and a modicum of research to keep her busy. Besides, while she was in there, she was without Stopper, who only breathed Hesperidia’s natural air.

“You’re just behind the curve,” she replied. “It’s like we talked about: those holes in your tech knowledge, they’re going to put you at a disadvantage wherever you go, including here, when you’re dealing with slippery perps. Remember, criminals are always the first to adopt new tech.”

“Yeah, I’m seriously thinking of going back to the academy for a refresher course. I mean it. It’s embarrassing, but I feel like I can’t do this job any more. Christ, I’ve never felt this low, even as a rookie.”

Jan curled a sympathetic maternal smile that, while clearly meant to reassure him, to convey that she felt his concern, somehow had the opposite effect. His frustration twisted it into a patronizing gesture, and he had to bite his tongue to strangle an off-color remark. He’d been testy ever since the funeral, on the verge of snapping at someone. And he hoped like hell poor Jan wouldn’t be the one to bear the brunt.

The heat wasn’t helping, he knew.

“I think you should use what we’ve got here,” she said. “They might not be law enforcement, but between the techs and the rangers in rotation, there’s nothing you couldn’t learn from someone here. They’re all over-qualified in fields that overlap precisely those you’ll be looking at. I’ve seen their resumes. And every one of them would jump at the chance to help you out. Trust me, nerds thrive on opportunities to show off what they know. Start with your own team. You’re already relying on Desiree Labeau’s naturalist knowledge. Spiros is your tech officer. Leif Whitsun’s your PR guy and personal protégé.” She chuckled at his crooked eyebrow. “I see more than you know,” she added. “Their training’s coming along well. You’re a good teacher. But if you want a bit of advice: when there’s something you’re not qualified in, instead of just letting them do their specialist thing and leaving them to it, get involved. Ask questions. Learn from them. We’re all teachers and we’re all pupils out here. The more you guys share, the more overlap there is between your specialist skills, the more effective you’ll be as a unit. I might not have been the model team player in my time here, but I’ve always shared what I know, and I’ve always gone out of my way to learn things I didn’t know. The most extraordinary skills and knowledge have a habit of visiting the Hesp. You just have to be receptive to them when they show up. No need to take refresher courses in off-world academies. It’s all here, in one form or another, in our merry little band of misfits.”

Stopper yawned as she said that last part. He got up to stretch, and eyed a low-flying flock of greenarrow geese over near the tree-line. Rather than chase them, though, as he normally would, he flopped back down, panting, one eye looking pleadingly up at Vaughn.

“It’s okay, boy,” he said, eyeing the twinkling gems of sunlight on the river. “We’ll go for another dip soon.”

“Right, that settles it!” Jan sprang to her feet, and with a towel swabbed the film of sweat glistening her neck. “How about a dip a bit further afield?”

“Further?”

“Away from this scorcher. Somewhere a little more ... temperate. It’s not doing any of us any good, being cooped up here. I know just the place. You can bring your team along if you like, carry on with your field training or whatever, and I can do some research. There’s an occidental marsh plant I’ve been dying to catch up with; it’s in season now. Come on, we can make a day of it, maybe stay a couple of days. You grab your gear and round up the guys, I’ll steal us a few field hampers so we can picnic like kings.”

There was no resisting her when she was on this kind of form, Vaughn knew. And he’d already cottoned on to her ulterior motive: it wasn’t just a getaway from the heat; she wanted to distract him from the dark, brooding thoughts he’d brought back from Rurapenti. If she could keep him occupied with something he was good at, things he had control over, he might not feel so ... derelict.

He didn’t question it. Didn’t question her wisdom or her spontaneity. For he was lacking both right now. He was uncertain of too much, and it gnawed at him, that feeling that he’d never again be what he’d been, tall and proud and uncontested. Master of his enemies. The past few days had undermined him in ways he couldn’t entirely fathom. Things he’d buried. Things he shouldn’t, as a lawman having upheld the law, have to square with his conscience, but was absolutely being forced to by immutable laws much older and deeper.

You never forgave me, Dad. You forced my hand with your bullshit crusade, and you never admitted you were wrong. But you heard what I did for Kyra. You smiled when you heard it, you old bastard. So on some level you must have been proud of me. I’ve given the Vaughn family that shot at a future, at least. We can never square things away, you and me, but at least you smiled at what I did for her—your granddaughter. You left me with that much ...

Stopper grabbed his rubber ball and trotted off toward the river, but soon bounded back when he saw they had another excursion in mind. Fifteen minutes later, Vaughn emerged from the cabin fully armed, toting his field kit, but with a strange, blank expression that denoted neither playtime nor eager adventure nor his usual purposeful swagger. Stopper hadn’t seen his master like this before, and whined when Vaughn ignored the ball dropped at his feet.

Jan, on the other hand, seemed to know something was up and thus lavished extra attention on her canine boy, even rolling around on the lawn with him, despite the baking heat. She had on nothing but her swimwear, and brought the rucksack with the stiff frame she always carried her shiny, not-for-chewing toys in when the two of them went off alone to faraway places.

But it wasn’t just the two of them. Vaughn flew in the shuttle with them, and Stopper was even allowed in the cockpit. A second ship followed, with three other humans he’d grown fond of lately. They spent a lot of time with Vaughn, and were obedient to him when he showed them his tricks. It promised to be a fun outing, provided they gave him, Stopper, plenty of puzzles to solve in between swims. The more puzzles he could solve for them, the better they’d think of him, and that might help Vaughn to feel like himself again, so he could smile and laugh and say “Attaboy!” or “Who’s a smart fella?”

But in the cockpit, all he did was give Stopper’s scruff a gentle massage while he gazed blankly out at the scenery.

“You said there was more to it,” said Jan, glancing at Vaughn askance. “You were going to tell me what happened?”

“Huh?”

“What happened to your dad. The investigation.”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I did. They sent a solid guy when I got Omicron involved—a real inside-out pen’ hound—I mean prison investigator—bloke named Fawcett, a specialist, seconded to the Bureau from the military police.” He thought for a moment. “Sorry, where did we get up to earlier?”

“The sniper who shot at the imposter and didn’t know it was a hologram. You said the prison went on full lockdown, but neither of them was found.”

“No, we drew a blank on both. The sniper had found a blind spot in the surveillance coverage of that rooftop. He got there disguised as an in-house janitor. Used forged nano-ink to gain entry. No facial recognition.”

“So he went to all that trouble to take a shot at someone who wasn’t even there?”

“It’s got Fawcett stumped, too. He has a theory that our sniper could be a pro who’s been out of the game for a spell. He knows his craft, but had to improvise this hit at the last minute. Hadn’t done his research. Holographic avatars haven’t been allowed in prisons till fairly recently. Rurapenti was the first to beta-test them for visitors, so relatives don’t have to physically enter a maximum security facility. Then some do-gooder had the idea to let inmates use them for virtual visitations, a reward for good behavior. The virtual funeral is the latest thing. No way would they ever allow a family of lifers to gather in one place like that. But remotely, via holographic avatars, it’s a different story. They all had to be either on the planet or in orbit around it—Sondra and her husband were on the VR deck of a shuttle circling high overhead the whole time.”

“Which means the bogus corrections officer—Pike, was it?—had to be nearby too.”

“Correct. He was up to all kinds of tricks in there. When Fawcett and I dug through the vidfeeds for each of the dead inmates, we discovered that all of them had received an unscheduled visit from a member of staff the day before they’d died.”

“Pike?”

“He was there for four of them, in his capacity as an internal affairs officer. That’s the part that really stumped us. His credentials were genuine. He really was employed in that role. So we ran his profile through all the agency databases to see if he had any aliases—we call it ‘ghosting’—sometimes criminal outfits use ex-servicemen as career infiltrators, knowing their background checks are often protected. Anyway, it turns out this Pike does have an alias, only it’s Rho-level classified. So we can’t touch it without a say-so from someone higher up. Fawcett’s put in the request, but we’re not holding our breaths.”

“So he gets away scot-free?” She gave a cute little growl of frustration. “Man, I don’t know how you put up with all that classified crap.”

“Tell me about it. Okay, so we know Pike is a pro, probably ex-military. He’s one of the assassins that was sent in to dispose of Dad’s inner circle. The other two were resident medical staff—no priors, no known connections. Fawcett thinks they were likely blackmailed. He has them in custody.”

“But how did they kill the prisoners?”

“We’re pretty sure it was by lethal injection. Some slow-acting poison that stopped the heart less than twenty-four hours later. During each of the visits, Pike or one of the medics would touch the prisoner just once. Make it look like an accident. Any kind of physical contact is against protocol, of course. But when we cross-referenced those points of contact with the autopsy footage, we saw tiny injection marks. In every single case.”

“Your dad, too?” She swallowed.

Vaughn sighed. “Dad too. He was the last.”

“But why, after all this time? It’s been decades. And why was that sniper trying to assassinate Pike? None of it makes any sense.”

Vaughn didn’t argue; he let the mystery circulate on the silent wafts of cool air from the aircon. It was better out, as an objective puzzle they could share and poke holes in, than in, as a subjective bottleneck choking his grief. That made him feel a touch better, looser, before he hit her with the final twist.

“There’s one more thing,” he said. “Remember how I said we viewed the autopsy footage?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s ’cause we had no choice.”

“You mean because the bodies were cremated?”

“No. Because the bodies were stolen before burial. Nine empty coffins are buried in that quadrangle.”

“Nine—” In her rush to switch to autopilot, Jan let the yoke slip from her grip. It damn near stalled the impetus engine, and she had to stay in manual to correct the attitude and pitch. Stopper barked his concern, reading her sudden panic, while Vaughn rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

“We’re good, we’re good,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“Freak me out? You just found out your dad was murdered and his body snatched. No wonder you’ve spun off your axis a little. I mean ... really? Qué diablos está pasando? Mierda!”

“It’s a lot, right?”

“There’s an understatement,” she said. “Have you got any theories as to why they’d do that? My first thought was organ harvesting, but not if they waited till after the autopsies. And what purpose can it possibly serve to steal whole bodies from a prison morgue?”

“I’ve no idea. Nor has Fawcett. But it was systematic: after each murder, they somehow snatched the body between the autopsy and the funeral.”

“An inside job, then. It has to be. You don’t just smuggle dead bodies out of a high security facility without multiple people turning a blind eye or being actively involved.”

“My exact words to Fawcett. It had to be a carefully orchestrated operation, with Pike at the center of it.”

Jan held the yoke with one hand in order to pet Stopper, who was still staring up at her with a worried doggie sneer.

“Okay, let’s backtrack to the events that started it all,” she said. “I know you’ve done this already, but let me play catch-up for a minute. I’m involved now. I’m sharing this nightmare with you whether you like it or not. So I’m going to get to the bottom of it for both our sakes. If it was my family, I’d be going supernova over all this.”

“I’m sure.”

“So, the latecomer—Donaggio. He goes around spouting that he’s invincible, drawing too much attention to himself, to something he’s taken. Some kind of stimulant? An amphetamine, maybe? And he tries to sell it on to those he knows. I’m just trying to put the whole thing together. The common thread tying the nine murder victims ... maybe isn’t just that they were in your dad’s inner circle all those years ago ... perhaps the substance itself, the amphetamine or whatever, has something to do with it. Donaggio smuggled in something rare, a top secret pharmaceutical drug. It didn’t kill him. But his possession of it, his bragging about it, that’s what sealed his fate. And those he’d be likeliest to sell it to or even give it to—your dad’s old comrades, your dad himself—they also had to be got rid of, because ... I don’t know, just because ... a substance so rare, the effects it has on those who inject it are worth so much to keep secret, that, yeah, a company would go to any lengths to keep something like that under wraps. To remove any trace that it even existed. So they infiltrated the prison, found the pressure points of vulnerable employees, pressed hard, and set up a ghoulish conveyer belt of execution and disposal. All to protect a product. A drug patent. In one of the most secure facilities in the colonies. Almost impossible to escape, unless you’re dead. And from what you’ve told me, it’s far from impossible to break into it.”

She sniffed a quiet note of victory. “Well, how did I do?”

“Oh, you’re deputized, on the spot. I forgot I’m with a pair of puzzle-meisters. We let you two loose in Rurapenti, you’d probably solve this thing before elevenses.”

She playfully stuck her tongue out at him. “Is it close to what you came up with, though, you and Fawcett?”

“Well, we’re not supposed to speculate so far ahead. But I tell you what—I’ll take your theory over the official one.”

“What? Empty coffins and holograms? You astonish me, Detective.”

Vaughn warmed to her sudden injection of sarcasm. It reminded him of the first time they’d met. She’d been cranky then, deliciously irreverent, and it had been her natural fallback ever since during tense moments.

“It’s worse than that,” he said. “The official mortuary reports list ‘accidental cremation’ as the reason for the empty coffins. That’s right. As in they burned the bodies by mistake, one after another, over a period of weeks, and kept making the exact same mistake. Only no cremations were ever scheduled, no incinerator activity was ever logged on those dates, and no ashes were kept for the families.”

Jan shook her head. “They honestly though they could get away with that?”

“I don’t think they cared. There appears to be extreme care and subterfuge on the one hand, and sloppy inattention to details on the other. But that’s usually the way of these infiltrations. Professional people get used, forced to act against their will. They do the bare minimum to keep the wheels of the operation on track without running afoul of their abusers. They hate that they have a weakness that’s been exploited, and they calculate that when the shit hits the fan later, they’ll be able to point to the sloppy details in their work as proof that they were being forced to do it. They likely don’t know or care why they’re being made to do it.

“Those in charge, on the other hand, if they’re mercs, are extremely careful because their profession demands nothing less. To them, the primary objectives are holy writ. Anything that could jeopardize them must be neutralized. I’ve no doubt Fawcett will find dead or missing personnel in the coming days. But to Pike—if he was the ringleader—removing those nine bodies from the prison without being caught in the act was all he cared about. Everything and everyone else was expendable.”

“Jesus, your family really does know how to make enemies,” she said, then immediately cleared her throat, realizing her facetiousness had struck a sour note. “I mean you’ll probably have to go back there at some point, but I’d much rather you didn’t.”

“Yeah, me too. What say we talk about something else.”

“Like what?”

“Like this marsh plant you’re flying all this way to see.”

Jan’s grin slowly sprouted and blossomed like one of her loveliest orchids. It was worth travelling light-years of brooding space to witness, he thought.

“It’s a one of a kind,” she said. “I’ll have to show you.”

He smiled. “Those phrases, right there: that’s how I know I’m back on Hesperidia.”

* * *

The temperate spot she’d chosen, a few hundred miles northwest, was ostensibly a secluded beach: acres of fine white sand flanked by low, sheer cliffs. But its shape, in relation to the sea lapping at its shore, and the debouche from a narrower, winding canyon inland, suggested it was in fact a dry river estuary. The only animal tracks belonged to amphibious waders that had scoured the tidal deposits of seaweed and lichen bulbs on the off chance that eggs had gotten tangled up in them. It was otherwise inaccessible but for that narrow canyon, formerly a river. Without that freshwater, the estuary was worthless real estate to local land animals.

But it was ideal for training new recruits in the various arts of combat, the soft sand providing a cushion for bodies sent sprawling by powerful takedown maneuvers or swept off their feet. Vaughn had them practice each move in rotating pairs, over and over until it was a part of their muscle memories. At the end of every class, he engaged each recruit for a one-on-one bout, utilizing a medley of the moves they’d learned, in random order, to sharpen their improvisation and consolidate their new skills. He’d started this practice weeks ago, so they were now all pretty apt pupils, none of them a natural but each competent enough to make the grade.

At this stage, competence was all he was looking for. Competence and a positive mental attitude. He’d already seen the personality traits and the judgment he was looking for in each individual; the rest was about building the necessary skillset to be effective at the job.

Marksmanship, on the other hand, using close, medium and long range targets, had immediately separated them in terms of ability. Whitsun’s aim was wild; as often as he pipped the ace, he sent two or three wide of the target completely. Desiree Labeau, while ruthlessly efficient and methodical at medium to long range, struggled at the quick draw for close shooting. She had that same apprehensive drag of expectation some amateur sprinters are afflicted by on the starting blocks—they react late to the gun because they’re trying too hard to predict when it’s going to sound. A fraction of a second’s difference, but life or death hung on that fraction. And Spiros was different again. He drew his sidearm as smoothly as anyone Vaughn had ever seen, hitting the center target more often than not at close range. But at distance he was ponderous, so afraid to miss that he spent way too long correcting his aim. “Press the trigger early and with confidence, or don’t bother,” Vaughn kept telling him. “Imagine there’s someone shooting back at you who’s more accurate than you. Do you want to give him time to blow your head off?”

It was still early evening when he ended the exhaustive combat session. A few hours of sunlight remained; that slippery orb seemed to slide across a waxy haze over the emerald sea. He was hungry, but Jan hadn’t returned from her botanical excursion to the other side of the estuary. No use firing up the barbecue until she was on her way back. So he called the others in for a team huddle in front of the mobile arsenal bench rest.

“Well, you’re a ways into your training now,” he said, “and I’ll shortly be writing up my first assessment reports—COVEX is insisting. They’re still pissed that I rejected all their candidates except Desiree.” He picked up a fistful of sand, and let it fall in a measured flow. “Like I said, I know what it takes to do this job far better than they do, and so far, you haven’t let me down. But this won’t just be a one-way learning curve. Jane reminded me I’m not the only one with skills the team needs to learn. There are gaps in all our knowledge, mine included. Hell, especially mine. Nineteen years’ catch-up is no picnic. And I’ve come to realize some of those gaps are precisely that—holes in my effectiveness as a modern-day lawman. I’m talking specifically about new tech. Surveillance. Holography. Personal defense. All the little gizmos that have been invented or perfected while I’ve been away, that could be used to get past our security. So I think it’s time to get your input. Any impressions you have regarding what I’ve been teaching you. Ways you think we can improve. Any new tech you’re familiar with that I might not be, that could help our security.”

They were all gazing at him intently, rifling through the history of a generation—their generation—that he’d skipped over. “Speak freely,” he reminded them. “There’s no rulebook for what we’re attempting here. Hell, we’re writing it as we go. So come on, let’s have it. Leif, you’ve traveled more than practically anyone your age. You must have some ideas.”

The young podnet journalist raked a hand through his blond hair blown wild by the balmy breeze. “I wouldn’t presume to tell the great Ferrix Vaughn how to fight crime, sir. But I have had a little experience with high-end personal security. Someone who does what I do, you kind of have no choice. Colonial life breeds crazy; it just does. And crazies jump out from the shadows everywhere you go, especially if you’re well-known. I don’t have to tell you that, sir.”

“Go on,” said Vaughn.

“Well, there are a couple of gizmos, as you call ’em—man, I haven’t heard that word in ages; it seems to come and go, like clobber and chump—have you heard that one lately?” he put to his fellow recruits. They both responded with a knowing chuckle. “Anyway,” he went on, “my first private bodyguard gave me a crash course in personal security. He said it could save my life. And it has. More times than I can count. Some of it’s attitude, like you’re always saying, Chief. But the gizmo that’s protected me more than anything else—damn, I love that word now—is one I haven’t heard mentioned once on Hesperidia. So I’m thinking you might not be familiar with it.” He waited for a reaction, got none. “Have you heard of a Hail Mary?”

Vaughn glanced at the others, noted their sparks of recognition. “No,” he replied. “What’s that?”

“A Hail Mary Plasma Shield. It’s a last-ditch protection against a lethal attack. It’s about the size of a medallion. I usually wear it that way, around my neck. What you do is hold it out in front of you, close but not too close, and activate it at the moment you’re in greatest danger, say from a gunshot or a knife thrust or some other imminent direct hit you’re about to take. I used one to block a hammer to the face one time. Then someone detonated a germ in midair right in front of me. The Hail Mary absorbed the explosion; I wasn’t even grazed.”

“Sounds good. How does it work?”

“Magic, as far as I’m concerned. My own personal guardian angel. Spiros, you’re our tech guru ...”

“Yeah, comms maintenance,” grunted the big guy in playful protest, “not plasma weapons. But I’ll take a stab. From what I remember from the academy, the principles don’t vary much. So I’m guessing multiple jets of plasma aerosol shoot out and collide, and a focused laser beam ignites them. The reaction expands as a trans-substantial energy mass for a few moments, neither solid nor liquid, pure tight-knit energy, from a tiny transient singularity, absorbing anything that touches it. As a shield it’s pretty much impenetrable. But after several seconds it collapses and dissipates as plasma gas. It’s highly localized, from what I’ve seen. Enough to shield your face and torso?”

“Yeah, thereabouts. You have to angle it to meet the attack directly,” explained Whitsun. “And whatever you do, make sure it’s facing the right way!”

Spiros snickered. “And the device will only be single use.”

“Yes. I’ve got a bunch in my locker. They’re expensive, but I’ll be damned if I’m going out anywhere in public without one with me at all times.” He massaged his bare suprasternal notch, where the Hail Mary usually hung. “Didn’t bring one today because there are only friends here. Tourists, though, we can’t afford to see them that way, right, sir? I mean we should be friendly to them, don’t let on that we’re here to watch them as well as watch over them; but it’s a trust thing. I assume that’s the kind of tech you’re interested in?”

“It is,” said Vaughn. “How do you activate it?”

“Nano ink and voice command. You grip its edge with your fingers, and speak the personal activation word.”

“How many have you got with you?”

“Eight or nine, I think. I figured to stock up—no offence—this is the Hesp, after all.”

“None taken.” Vaughn curled a wry smirk. “Hell, I’ll take a couple.”

“Sir?”

“Hail Marys. I suggest we each have two, one for use in the field, one for backup. If that’s okay with you, Leif. The company will buy them off you.”

The youngster lit up, hiked a blond eyebrow. “Why do I feel like a shady arms dealer all of a sudden?”

“What?” Desiree elbowed him. “You think we weren’t onto you all along? Celebrity podder moonlights as safari cop. You had to be up to something.”

Whitsun held up his hands in surrender. “Then you’d best take me in, Officer Labeau. Promise me you won’t be gentle.”

She playfully shook her head. “Over fifty light-years from high school jocks and still no signs of intelligent life.”

The men laughed.

“We do come second best here, there’s no denying that,” replied Vaughn. “If it weren’t for Jane, we’d have probably binned this whole enterprise long since.”

“Oh, Jane’s awesome,” said Labeau. “But if you don’t mind, I wanted to ask you—specifically about you, sir—you and this job.”

“By all means.”

“Well, it’s common knowledge that Jane is the best at what she does, and everyone can plainly see why. But we also hear about the great Detective Vaughn, how you’re the best at what you do. Only we haven’t seen that in action—I mean we haven’t yet had that privilege. On the job, I mean, watching you work an actual case.” She was choosing her words carefully, very carefully, and he found himself tensing with apprehension, hoping she didn’t stray into the recent events on Rurapenti. Events he still hadn’t fully processed. Events that might shake their faith in him as some kind of crime-fighting paragon.

“Go on,” he said.

“Well, sir, I just wanted to know—what made you so good at being a detective? There has to be a high bar for officers to reach Omicron level. But your reputation stands above all of them. I just thought it might be helpful for us to hear a bit about it, about what sets you apart.”

He indulged a private sigh of relief. “In other words, you want to be the best you can be. I get that. I totally get it. I was the same way. Out to prove myself every chance I got. But I’m sensing it isn’t my arrest record you’re interested in, or even my M.O. You want to put your finger on that something only Ferrix Vaughn was born with and no one else, that unique something that can’t be taught, that recipe for fame, or infamy, right?”

She swallowed but didn’t reply.

“All I can say is, in my experience, the best lawmen and women are the ones nobody’s ever heard of. They stay out of the public eye because they know all that crap gets in the way. So it’s the analysts, the lab geeks, the career interrogators, the details people: they’re the ones I think of first when I think of what makes or breaks a case. People like me, who live on the front line ... we’re there for the hunt. Jane always says that about me. She saw it the very first day she met me. It’s no coincidence I ended up here, right? On the ultimate safari?”

They were all rapt in his explanation, but he didn’t want to go any deeper. It was a can of worms Jan would occasionally open with him—because her brain was always on and she craved intellectual stimulation, and was fascinated by what made him tick—he sometimes felt like a puzzle she was trying to solve—but they would both invariably end up wishing she hadn’t opened it. In truth, the crux of Ferrix Vaughn was a tangle of contradictions, forever knotted by that fateful decision he’d made on that fateful night. The birth of his career. The death of his mercy.

A hunter had emerged, that for years could not be sated.

Until Hesperidia.

And even then ...

“So in answer to your question, Desiree, I found out what I was best at and I pursued it relentlessly. You’ve all done that to some extent. No one who gets this far out into space rests on their laurels. But there’s a burn-out factor to every obsession, isn’t there. At some point you have to find another outlet. Fall in love. Have a family. Become a celebrity podder safari cop and an interstellar arms dealer all in one.”

They laughed, and Spiros and Labeau slapped Whitsun on the back.

“My advice to you,” he went on, “is to find out what you’re best at within this job and specialize at it. Become awesome at it. While also working hard to bring your other skills to a high level. But it’s that hunger to excel at something, and being able to demonstrate it, and receive positive feedback for it: that’s been the magic recipe for me. More than that, though, maybe the most important part of law enforcement for me, is the opportunity to exercise judgement. The big, tense moments, or the small, ephemeral details: if I can steer them onto the right track, and get a result, there’s nothing more rewarding.

“Also, you need to be two people at all times. The safe, predictable, reliable security officer the public sees and trusts; and somebody willing to throw all that out if the occasion calls for it. If a situation turns south, and the odds are against you, you need to become unsafe, unpredictable, unreliable—in the eyes of your opponent—and a total sonofabitch. Remember, a hunter must always outwit his prey. If that means bending the rules, or improvising, don’t hesitate, because your opponent won’t. My old friend ‘Crash’ Kraczinski used to say it’s rock ’n’ roll. Be a rock for the public, and each other, but be ready to roll at a moment’s notice, be a bastard for the bastards. And when you roll, be sure you don’t roll over. Your teammates will never trust you again. Other than that, just enjoy it, knowing you’re keeping people safe.”

After a lengthy pause, Vaughn asked, “Any more questions?”

Spiros sprouted a huge, boyish grin. “Only one, sir. When do we start our rock ’n’ roll training? ’Cause my ’pod’s got a stellar vintage playlist. Just saying.”

“Oh, I love vintage,” replied Desiree. “Mid-twentieth?”

“Sure. It’s got all sorts.”

“Share.”

“’Kay.”

While Spiros used eyecraft to find the digital song list, Desiree pulled him up onto his feet. No sooner had the golden oldies begun to play on their communal radio channel than she started to dance, and baited him into joining her. It was a spirited, very specific routine they both knew inside out, perfectly in time to the rhythm of California Girls by The Beach Boys. Vaughn guessed it must have been a school or a college thing everyone their age had practiced, maybe copying a performance that had gone viral over the podnet. Whitsun added fuel to that suspicion when he leapt up to join them, and even pulled off a backward somersault in the sand, eliciting whoops and cheers from the others.

Vaughn sat there and watched with a genuine grin on his face. It was great to see his new recruits bonding like this. It augured well for the years to come. But a vague, creeping sadness welled up inside him when he remembered why this routine, like so many other cultural curios he’d come across recently, was not in his repertoire.

The missing years. The skew. That irreconcilable chasm in his experience of the myriad ways humanity had progressed. This might be a silly one, but it strangely stung him deeper than the others. It triggered a cascade of alienating emotions, spilling into those dredged up by his dad’s funeral, the family he’d forsaken, how old he suddenly felt next to these youngsters, what old age would mean for him and Jan, as she and Stopper were ageing slowly, while he was not.

Her voice broke into his bitter thoughts, overriding the music: “Vaughn? Vaughn, you there?”

“Roger that. Go, Jan.”

“You need to come and see this.”

He scanned across the bay, saw the orange light of her breather she was flashing for him. She was near the foot of the cliff, some distance offshore.

“You’ve found one?”

“A perfect specimen. Full house, and it’s ready to open. You’ll have to get a sprint on if you want to be here in time. Bring those dancing dune bugs with you. This’ll be good for them to see.”

“Copy that. We’ll be right there.” He sprang to his feet. “Guys, Jane’s just called us over. She’s got something important she wants to show us. So we’re going to have a race. You can dance all right, but can you beat an old lawman in a flat sprint and a swim?”

“Just give the word, sir, and we’ll show you,” said Labeau, jogging to the start line, with the others right behind.

“Okay. On your marks ... set ... go!”

Vaughn got a terrible kick-off, lost ground right away. He soon hit his stride, though, that true, propulsive hunter’s rhythm that had run down many a desperate perp over the years in a variety of gravities, terrains, climates. It had always been, and remained, an undervalued facet of crime-fighting: the ability to outrun or at least keep pace with an opponent.

He breezed past Whitsun, overhauled Spiros, but Labeau was a swifter, rangier prospect. She trended toward the surf, too, knowing the sand was harder there where the tide had been. A familiar, welcome bark in the distance made him look out over the water. Stopper had seen them running and was swimming back to shore to greet him. A surge of bonhomie rose inside Vaughn: a happy-to-be-alive exuberance so unlike the melancholy funk from a minute ago that he actually felt young again. He managed to find another gear, lengthening his stride. The closer he got to Stopper, the harder he sprinted, until he inched past Labeau and flung himself into the surf with a powerful running dive.

It almost ripped his breather off. He took a moment to readjust it and then swam on. Stopper was so excited to reach him that he tried to clamber onto Vaughn’s back. It would have torn his skin to ribbons, so Vaughn caught the big rascal by the forelegs instead and pulled him close for a swim-hug. Stopper licked his master’s ears and neck and visor, then they swam on together. But when he saw the others in the water, the dutiful Boxer went back to round them up and make sure they weren’t in distress.

Jan’s discovery stood partway along the channel of a narrow inlet cut into the cliff. It was sheltered from the weather and the breaking waves; the litter of the sea had gathered there, a weedy, spongy mass nudged to and fro by the sea’s rhythmic lilt. Standing tall on either side, almost like sentinels, were reed-like plants boasting large, blue bulbs dotted with peacock spots.

Jan had stuck umpteen spotters to the rock walls overlooking these plants. She beckoned Vaughn toward one set of bulbs in particular—a couple of them appeared to fidget independently of the sea’s sway.

“As quiet as you can,” she whispered. “Everyone gather round.”

“What are we looking at?”

“Refugium fidelis—the sentinel flower. A stalwart life-giver of the marshes. It’s the only flowering plant we know of on the Hesp that gives sanctuary to the insects that pollinate it, throughout the hibernation season. You see that movement inside? Those are the insects waking up. There’ll be dozens of them in every pod. Refugium provides them with the succor they need to last in a kind of coma, but it’s more than that. Its nectar has regenerative properties. The lifespan of these insects is very short. An abundance of predators, the advent of the cold season, the lack of sustenance once the flowers close up: none of these insects would last outside their already overcrowded hive. So this is literally their last refuge. Any lucky enough to find sanctuary inside refugium not only live to enjoy another season, they’re kept young and healthy. It’s perfectly reasonable to assume some of these lodgers we’re about to see have been restored multiple times, far extending their natural life cycles.”

“It’s their elixir—their fountain of youth,” suggested Whitsun. “Kind of like our cryo-pods, but with full-body regen to boot. That’s outland, man. That’s next-level outland.”

“Yep. The more remote the location, the more lodgers a refugium tends to harbor. It’s the old Hesp maxim again,” she said to Vaughn.

“Symbiosis, yeah. The plant has adapted to literally protect its pollinating agents. Out here, where chances of survival are slim, reciprocity will be key. They can’t defend themselves any other way, so they outlast the season ... together.”

“Gotta love evolution,” remarked Labeau.

“Some biologists have theorized it may be setting a dangerous precedent in the ecosystem,” explained Jan. “Once an organism figures out a way to cheat death, others will learn from it. And if that happens, and it proliferates, then the entire food chain is in jeopardy. The delicate balance is undone.”

“What do you think?” asked Vaughn.

She moved in closer with her omnicam, ready to film the auspicious blossoming. “Every creature has a right to stay alive as long as it can, by whatever means it can,” she whispered. “It’s only cheating death if you’ve determined it must die. But who are we to do that? What would we say if some alien overseer determined our synthetic drugs were unnatural, or pacemakers were cheating death, or gene therapy was upsetting the natural order? We’d tell them to mind their own beeswax. Just as these little beauties have every right to tell us where to stick our meddling proboscises.”

Vaughn noticed his recruits sharing an amused aside. When Jan was on this kind of no-prisoners, mistress-of-the-marsh form, all they could do was nod along and admire her pluck. Labeau in particular beamed hero worship, before they all leaned in for the tiny, momentous event.

“Here they come,” whispered Jan, breathless. “Let’s give them a bit more room. It’s a new season. A new life. Anscom grayback, one of the busiest pollinators north of the equator, reorients himself in the outside world for the first time after a months-long hibernation. He’ll have to search for his hive for that crucial social reorientation, or even find a new one. But at least he knows there’ll be one trusted port waiting for him at the end of each day’s shift. When the sun goes down and the petals fold in tonight, how many of these graybacks will return, ready to be tucked in? And how many will still be here at the end of the dry season when the storms arrive?”

They watched in mute fascination as dozens of tiny winged crawlers filed out of the folds of fleshy plant tissue. The insects were alike in every respect except for the individual patterns of gray adorning their red-brown carapaces. One by one they crawled up the plant stem to its highest platform, a sturdy frond, and then, oblivious to their audience of giant aliens, took off from the edge and rose in a steep, unbroken formation, up to the top of the cliff.

Refugium was soon empty, but resplendent in full bloom, its sky blue petals warming to a marmalade-like orange transparency near the stamens. It was like a proud mother sending its infants off to school for the new term, all the while holding its arms open expectantly for their return after their busy day of pollination, her scent a constant beacon and guide for their homecoming.

Cheating death? Vaughn rubbished the notion. This was life at its best: a caring, nurturing give-and-take, even across species, to ensure not only mutual survival, but mutual thriving.

Bottle this and sell it to the galaxy, he thought, and you’ll have a future worth having.

He looked up to glimpse the last of the graybacks. An alert flashed in the corner of his visor, telling him he had an urgent private message. He waded away from the group to access it. Stopper swam beside him, churning the pesky sea litter out of his way.

It was a priority alert from Miramar. A sat net relay. Someone up there in orbit was trying to reach him personally? Irregular. Damned irregular. He called Jan over.

“Yeah, I’ve just had the same alert,” she said when they were alone. “Who do you think it could be?”

“No clue. We can’t decrypt it without a satellite uplink console. Can you leave your spotters here for a while?”

“Um, yeah, if I have to. As long as I can fetch them before dark.”

“Okay, then let’s head back to the shuttle. If this is urgent, and it concerns us both, we’ve no time to lose.”

“Go!” she said with a slight note of irritation. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Vaughn’s return biathlon, though less adrenalized than the outward leg, seemed to pass even quicker. A flurry of thoughts mingled and overlapped, blurring the duality of his new role. On the one hand, the infinitesimal intricacy of Jan’s natural world, fascinating enough for a hundred lifetimes. On the other, his sought-after secrets for fighting crime, insights that had poured out of him on the beach just now. These youngsters were dying to learn from him, and he realized he was just as excited to impart his knowledge.

Was that what he was becoming? A teacher? If it came this naturally to him, why not? Maybe the answer to his feeling obsolete in this new age wasn’t so much the struggle to catch up, but to give what he already had, that considerable expertise, to others worthy of it.

What if my time really has passed? If I can no longer cut it with the best, I’ll just have to give my best where it’s needed.

And right now that was Alien Safari, this vital enterprise teetering over obsolescence. Without it, Jan’s custodianship of the Hesp would be severely diminished. With it, and a sturdy security outfit to keep it safe, these intricate wonders would not fall into unscrupulous hands.

It was a noble pursuit. Not so much the protection of human life he’d always clung to as his raison d’être as a lawman, though there would still be that. It was certainly more romantic than that. But it was the connectedness he felt here that made him want to draw a line under his old life and quit trying to prove himself. The galaxy had moved on. It no longer needed Ferrix Vaughn.

But Hesperidia did. Jan and Stopper did. His new recruits did.

Is this what retirement feels like?

The shuttle’s powerful satellite uplink quickly engaged the interplanetary distress signal from orbit. It was in the form of a digital message, addressed to DETECTIVE VAUGHN & DR HOPPER, but the main body text was blank. An attachment file required an encryption key to unlock it. The sender had included a hint:

‘She’s more reliable than any woman I know, but she still needs a new paintjob. Oh, and you still both owe her for saving your lives down there.’

“Here, come and look at this!” he called to Jan as she entered with Stopper. “Is this who I think it is?”

She pulled a face, and her gaze darted minutely, away from the screen, unseeing. For her it was more of a reach into memory; well over twenty years had passed. Vaughn remembered it from a few years ago. He had the name of the sender, but he couldn’t get the name of the vehicle being alluded to—it was on the tip of his tongue.

Jan clicked her finger, locked his gaze. Recognition flashed between them. “It can’t be ... Finnegan?”

“It can’t be anyone else.”

“What the hell is he doing here? You did tell him it was a one-way ticket away from here, right? Off the radar for good?”

Vaughn sighed. “A guy like that’s never gonna stay incognito for long. We guessed that much.”

“Yeah, but whether we’re talking real or hypothetical, if there is such a thing as off the radar, this is the total freaking opposite. I mean we told everyone he died here! What can he be thinking?”

“Only one way to find out. That damn hoverbike of his—I’m thinking a short name, something catchy. The kind of thing you’d call a mare. A sleek, black mare.”

Jan paced around the cockpit. “Horsepower ... sleek ... mare ... black ... gah, I almost had it ... black ... Bess? Black Bess?”

“Bess! That’s it!” He grabbed her by both arms. “Jan, you’re a genius. That’s what he kept calling it. Bess.” After typing in that four-letter encryption cypher, he hit ENTER.

A video playback file filled the screen, began automatically. The outlaw known as Finnegan was almost exactly as Vaughn remembered: middle-aged, scruffy, silver-haired, as grizzled and stubbly as a sun-dried cactus, but handsome in that rugged and dangerous way certain types of women couldn’t resist. He wore a bloody bandage around his shoulder and across his chest. It looked like a gunshot wound.

But he was alone, and with his uninjured hand he propped up a cylindrical metal container on the dash.

The last time Vaughn had seen him with one of those in his possession, Finnegan had hidden it inside Bess. For its contents had recently brought Jan and Stopper back from death. If the powers-that-be had known it still existed, they’d have hunted it to the ends of the universe.

“So a funny thing happened on the way to nowhere ...” the outlaw began.

​Chapter Three

His cryptic monologue, delivered with a sardonic edge despite the pain that creased him repeatedly, somehow conjured all the mixed feelings Jan had had about him during their dramatic acquaintance all those years ago. Like her, Finnegan had barely aged. That meant he’d used the ‘Golden Fleece’ on himself, perhaps numerous times, to heal whatever injuries or illnesses he’d suffered. So why, if he still had it in his possession, had he not used it to heal this gunshot wound?

It was a rambling speech, and he was still completely full of himself, she thought. It would have meant little to anyone else, but, knowing his shady background, and having heard Vaughn’s account of Rurapenti, she got the gist of what he was trying to tell them. The reason for his oblique delivery was obvious: he was in trouble, urgent trouble, and he didn’t want anyone but Vaughn and Jan to know his true identity.

He'd been on Rurapenti, but not as a prisoner, as Jan’s first thought had surmised. No, he’d gone there “to settle a score.” She didn’t need Vaughn’s explanation to conclude that Finnegan was the rooftop sniper. But why had he risked so much on such a fool’s errand—shooting at a hologram? And why had he come back here, the last place he ever ought to go? Yes, he’d clearly spotted Vaughn at the prison and had followed him here, but for what purpose?

“There’s no rest for the wicked, eh, Detective?” was his smarmy way of saying he’d never truly been off the radar, had likely been hunted off and on for a long time, and was now returning to collect some kind of life debt he thought they owed him. That was Jan’s interpretation, anyway.

She felt a pang of remorse for being so hard on the guy; he had, after all, brought her and her beloved Stopper back from the dead. But he’d also brought hell with him to Hesperidia all those years ago. He was the type that seemed to bring it wherever he went.

Hell, yes, but also a miracle, she thought, and with a gasp of wonder imagined what the contents of that metal cylinder had wrought across the galaxy. What had been his true legacy since the Hesp? His personality hadn’t changed much, but what was he now? A heel or a healer?

“What do you think?” she asked Vaughn when the video clip ended.

Stopper gave his verdict first: an enthusiastic bark and a full-body tail wag. Did he recognize Finnegan? Did he associate him with their miraculous resurrection on that misty isle in the hydra’s lake?

“Well, I don’t have your conviction,” Vaughn told the excited Boxer; then to Jan: “but my gut’s telling me we need to let him through. For him to come here like this, with the Fleece, he must have no other choice. He’d never risk it otherwise.”

“You know him better than me,” she said. “I didn’t see what he did for us at the end, but you did; and you trusted him to keep possession of that thing. You let him go free. That was a helluva thing for any lawman, especially you. So it’s your call.”

He nodded with slow, inscrutable deliberation. “We’ll have to handle it carefully. The alias I gave him, we can use that again. It’ll be on the passenger database at Saint Jacques, so if anyone checks, there’s a record of his having visited here before.”

“What was the alias?”

“Campbell. Geoffrey Campbell. His wife was Rosemary Campbell.”

“She was a piece of work. Polotovsky, right? I wonder what happened to her.”

“We’ll find out soon enough,” he said. “And all the rest. What does a notorious outlaw left in charge of a priceless biotech healing device do on the run for twenty-odd years?”

“Not open up his own pro bono pharmacy chain, I’m betting.”

“Who knows? Maybe they really did turn over a new leaf?”

“More like someone turned over the rock they were hiding under,” said Jan.

“Yeah. Flip a coin and you’ll get the same odds. But we have to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’s come for our help.”

“What do we tell the others? I don’t like lying to David.”

Vaughn thought for a few moments. “We can tell David, but not yet. First we find out exactly what Finnegan wants, what kind of trouble he’s in. He’s Geoffrey Campbell for now. I’ll speak with David. Get him to grant a temporary visa. He’ll trust what I tell him. Doc Cochran can see to his wound. Then we can take Finnegan someplace else. Someplace private. Figure out what to do next from there. How’s that?”

She hmmed. “Just make sure your Kruger’s good and charged. That’s all I have to say. Once an outlaw, always an outlaw. And be sure to check what else he’s brought with him. God knows what contraband they smuggle these days.”

“Don’t worry. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

Jan sighed. “I trust you all right. It’s him I’d check for moonbeams when the sun comes out to play.”

“Come on,” he said, ushering her out with a paternal smile on his face that made her feel girlish and silly. “I’ll make the call to David, get him to let the ship through. Then we’ll stow our gear away, while you go fetch your spotters.”

* * *

It was the middle of the night when the outlaw’s vessel descended toward Miramar’s landing zone. A sleek, early model Menander cruiser, it didn’t match Jan’s memory of him at all. Those fliers were popular among rich retirees and corporate warp-hogs who covered more space miles than the average comet in a year. Six-to-eight berth. RAM propulsion. All the amenities one could wish for.

The landing zone lights betrayed its secrets, though. Its underside, as well as its entire port side, looked as though it had flown too close to a star: the outer layer of its shell was heat blistered and in some places completely charred. The primary forward landing gear was missing; an emergency stabilizer had to be deployed instead to keep the ship relatively level. Pulse energy scoring on other parts of the vessel, including the windshield, told of a lucky escape from a serious barrage. Surface to orbit flak? Enemy ships? Or he really had flown too close to a sun.

On second thought, this Menander fit her memory of Finnegan to a tee.

She glanced round to see who might be watching. At this late hour, apart from a lone sat net tech on his night shift and one security officer to police the site, Miramar ought to be asleep. Yet it didn’t surprise her to see umpteen lights on in the hotels and staff apartments. The circadian rhythm was notoriously obdurate in humans, and it could be difficult to adapt to the cycle of a longer or shorter day on another world. Most journeymen space travelers, like Vaughn, subscribed to Earth time (or Core sol) no matter where they were. That was fine when you weren’t subjected to a different day-night rhythm for an extended period—between worlds, for instance, the only cycle was your natural one. But settling anywhere meant adapting to a new environment. Cycles of alertness and sleepiness responded to light changes in that environment, but the human internal clock had a deep ancestral tick. The further you strayed from it, the greater the psychological effect could be. Indeed, many rangers and staffers on Hesperidia never got used to its twenty-eight hour day. They either relied on sleeping pills and stims—carefully monitored by a medical professional—or they wound up being shipped home for health reasons.

Jan hadn’t had that problem. Not once had she ever felt out of tune with the Hesp.

Hmm, if only she could say the same about its latest visitor. Nothing about Finnegan belonged here, except in the shadow of some of her worst memories.

His heavy steps rattled the rear access ramp, but he wasn’t in a hurry. No, that wouldn’t be manly, despite the pain he must be in. She remembered that about him—the innate macho swagger. Neither performance nor affectation, it was simply who he was. Vaughn had a more reserved version of that.

Finnegan was taller than she’d remembered, the only hint of a hunch forced by his shoulder pain. Otherwise he’d be as straight-backed as a trooper on parade. He was still dressed in prison staff fatigues, his disguise for the botched assassination attempt on Pike, but he’d removed his shirt and wore the jacket as a cape instead. Dark blood had blotted his bandages. Much of the color had drained from his sun-grizzled face, but his squinty eyes retained their fierce alertness and intelligence.

“Wait right there,” Vaughn told him. “Security protocol: I’m gonna have to search you.”

“Knock yourself out.”

As Jan watched their interaction, she found herself fascinated by the male dynamic between them. Most guys were intimidated by Vaughn, if not by his reputation then by his laconic sangfroid demeanor. They tended to project their insecurities with macho body language or banter. It was quite comical sometimes, because the harder they tried, the more they projected, the less Vaughn did and said. Paradoxically, this diminished them and only served to increase Vaughn’s standing.

She’d seen that kind of behavior many times across many species. Credible challenges to alpha dominance were necessarily met with aggressive responses, but a wise alpha also knew when to let the blowhards and the insecure posers make fools of themselves.

The interesting part of this reunion was that both men had the same approach. They were both tough, seasoned alphas who didn’t feel the need to project onto one another. No hint of aggression or posturing. They couldn’t be less alike in so many ways, but in this they saw eye to eye: they were not rivals. Not enemies. No, rather than intimidation, there was a mutual respect.

Stopper, too, stayed surprisingly neutral. His sense of smell was phenomenal; he must have associated Finnegan with those indelible memories from twenty years ago—the death of his mistress in the jaws of the hydra, her miraculous resurrection—but he neither growled his displeasure nor wagged his tail. He just watched, with a slight pant and head tilt, while Vaughn patted the big outlaw down and inspected the contents of his pockets.

“All right, you’re clean,” came the verdict. “Before we get that wound seen to, tell us how you got it?”

“Escaping Rurapenti. I was shot during a firefight on the flop-port. Bastards had me flanked.”

“Who? Prison security?”

Finnegan gravely shook his head. “You’re missing a step, Detective. Maybe more than one. I was afraid of that.”

“You—afraid?”

“When you’ve been chased half your life, ask me that again.”

“Who’s chasing you?”

“Questions, questions. I tell you what, help me with this—” Finnegan winced as he turned his shoulder, “—and I’ll help you nail your father’s killer. Hell, your other relatives too. Every one of them who’s still inside and had any contact with Jerome Donaggio is living on borrowed time.”

Vaughn shifted his weight, then paced around the sweaty outlaw. His fists clenched and unclenched several times before he returned to his original position. “Answer one last question. Why did you come back here?”

Finnegan looked over Vaughn’s shoulder at Jan. She saw only pain in his otherwise steely gaze. Pain and recognition. But she didn’t soften one iota. No, his presence had brought evil forces to the Hesp once before; why shouldn’t the same thing happen again? He was on the run. He had priceless contraband with him—hell, the exact same contraband as last time. And he was still being hunted.

You’re not wanted here, she felt like blurting out. Nothing about you belongs here.

“I came here because you’re the last two people I can trust, and this is the safest place I could reach in time. All I need is somewhere to hide out for a couple of weeks. Somewhere remote, off the radar, so I can figure out my next move. A couple of weeks is all I’m asking, then you’ll never see me again. I swear.”

“Were you followed?”

“From Rurapenti? What do you think?” He gestured to his battered ship. “After Saint Jacques, I can’t say. The man who’s tracking me, he’s dangerous. And the people he works for have a long reach.”

Vaughn turned to Jan and sighed, shaking his head. “Déjà vu, huh.”

“Tell me about it.”

He faced the outlaw again. “All right, you can lie low for a while. The difference this time is we have complete control over who comes through the sat net.”

Finnegan didn’t say anything, but stole a sneaky glance at Jan, as if he knew another step or two Vaughn was missing and wondered if she’d twigged what it was. The only thing she gave him was a look of mild disgust.

“Your medic knows I’m coming?”

“He’s waiting in the hospital,” replied Vaughn. “You’ll have to use your old alias—Geoffrey Campbell.”

“Got it. I’d appreciate it if no one went aboard my ship. No one except you two, that is—or you three,” nodding to Stopper. “You understand why.”

“I’ll say it’s being quarantined,” replied Vaughn.

“That works.”

It was pretty much the only thing about the Menander that did, Jan decided after a cursory inspection of the interior. Stopper found plenty to keep his olfactory sense occupied—God knew how far this vessel had traveled, how many worlds and moons and asteroids and space stations it had touched. But Finnegan hadn’t personalized it at all. No liquigraph of his paramour, Polotovsky. No sign of his beloved hoverbike. Not even a chunk of rock-hard chewing gum stuck to the dash. No, it was clearly not his. And the only thing that even remotely interested her was the thing she couldn’t find.

The Fleece (or what remained of it). Wily smuggler that he was, Finnegan had probably hidden it in the last place anyone would look.

Good, she decided. That’s the only reason he’s managed to keep hold of it all this time. Maybe only a smuggler could have.

Doc Cochran kept him for the best part of an hour, after which Vaughn and Finnegan came straight back to the L.Z. The latter’s bullet fragments had been removed from his shoulder, the wound sewn up and properly bandaged, and he’d been given a few blister packs of pain pills.

“Any ideas on where he can hide out?” Vaughn asked Jan.

“I was thinking Outpost X-ray. It hasn’t been used in a couple of years, not since Natasha Karpova finished her rotation. I remember being impressed by what she’d done with it: food stock for years; water filtration repaired; she’d even built a storm shelter. It’ll be overgrown now, but that’s what we want, right? Somewhere livable but not frequented?”

“It’s remote, I’ll give it that.” He thought for a moment. “I can’t think of any reason why not. If you say it’s in decent-enough shape ...”

Jan shrugged. “It’s not exactly the Constellation penthouse—” She eyed Finnegan crouching against the battered shell of his ship, indifferent to his arm being in a sling, as though he were a wounded soldier on a cigarette break. “—but he’s not exactly a celebrity patron, is he.”

“He’s a patron saint of the moral gray, if ever there was one.”

She snickered. “Not quite the ringing endorsement he was hoping for, Vaughn.”

“Well, he’ll have his chance to change our minds at X-ray.”

Two craft lifted off from Miramar and flew east without logging their official flight plans. First Ranger David Carlisle trusted his Security Chief and his star ranger enough that he was willing to turn a blind eye to this irregular behavior. He knew the stranger’s alias—Geoffrey Campbell—that he’d visited the Hesp previously, a long time ago, and that he required sanctuary. As long as this didn’t turn into an interstellar incident, he’d promised to leave the rest to Vaughn’s judgment.

Finnegan’s Menander followed Vaughn’s Pitch Hopper II, a Borealis-class light cruiser four generations advanced from its predecessor, but without the quirky personalized comforts ... yet. It was to be Vaughn’s pet project in his spare time. He’d already ordered several custom parts and fixtures, and was going to hire Spiros Papageorgiou to install a new tri-sensory system complete with holographic interface and scent simulation for the lounge.

‘A man cave with wings,” Jan had called his first Pitch Hopper. She reckoned this would be more like his black hole—a time-sucking aberration into which he’d disappear from existence for long stretches and come out as something different on the other side each time.

It was like Finnegan with his old hoverbike, and Spiros with his electronics workshop (aka toyshop): men were lost without the things they owned and imprinted upon.

Flying so far east at night was unusual on Hesperidia. The ocean they had to cross to reach the Manassas continent was notoriously prone to waterspout clusters and typhoons, so they flew above 9000 meters at supersonic speed all the way. Stopper dozed in his kennel in the cargo bay. Vaughn napped in his cot while Jan took her turn at the helm, flying the second half of the crossing. Even at this high altitude there were snatches of turbulence, while stutters of blue lightning and grumbles of thunder chattered amid the murky layers of cloud high above.

It was still dark when the Varos Cape beacon’s five-mile alert told them they were approaching Manassas. It was more for low-flying or sailing craft, to warn of the treacherous high bluffs that stood sentry over the coastal reefs. Jan guided Finnegan over the peaks and down into a misty vale where only the straggly crowns of a few thousand taut stems pierced the ground fog. At the far edge of the vale, abutting a very shallow rocky rise, stood Outpost X-ray.

Large orange blisters covered the ribs of its roof—seeds of a type of sea sponge blown in by prevailing winds, gathered here to drink channeled runoff rainwater from the cliff slope. As the mist parted in the thrusters’ descent wake, it revealed a sea of pale yellow grass that streamed under the turbulence but clung stubbornly to its roots. Jan hovered there for half a minute, knowing the creatures that foraged there would vacate if given time to flee; they weren’t all speedy critters. Then she set the ship down, fetched Vaughn from his cot and Stopper from his kennel, and set out to assess the condition of X-ray, with a tranq rifle slung over her shoulder.

It was as she’d guessed: overgrown outside, but its airtight integrity remained intact. Stopper’s tail wagged, signaling he didn’t sense any threat—it precipitated another whole-body wag when he saw he was being allowed inside, a rare treat in non-vehicular interiors. Dusty, gloomy, spartan, and the light strips’ flicker would need mending, but otherwise nothing appeared untoward. Karpova’s prepper philosophy had been even more generous than Jan had remembered. Not just the tinned and powdered supplies in the larder; the surplus water tanks full-to-brimming; the over-stocked stash of O2 bottles in addition to the installed air tanks; digital entertainment to last for years; a weapons locker the equal of anything at Miramar Central; tools enough to fix or build or mine anything for survival purposes; it also had a satellite uplink terminal, an omnipod, a lab and greenhouse primed for botanical research, and gym equipment in the storm cellar.

“I take that back about the Constellation penthouse. Hell, you can have my cabin,” she told Finnegan. “I’m moving in here.”

He drank it all in, sporting a wry grin. “No room service?”

“Only the kind you won’t like,” replied Vaughn. “I hear they toss your cell twice a week on Rurapenti. A career scrounger like you, you’ll have to get creative with the hiding places, if you get my drift.”

“Jesus, Vaughn. It’s almost breakfast.” Jan pulled a face. “Don’t make me yuck it up before I’ve had it.”

But her lawman boyfriend wasn’t amused. Instead, he’d loosened up in that way she always found unnerving—loose in the sense of a boa constrictor sliding into position before it starts to squeeze. It was his professional interrogation guise, in which he’d probe for his opponent’s weaknesses and then subtly, cruelly apply pressure. To a stranger he’d appear relaxed, even jovial at first, but there was something off-kilter about his humor, the ways it cut to the subject he was aiming for. It was all learned, practiced and perfectly horrid: techniques to wrongfoot a person who was reluctant to give up information.

“I’ve seen the inside of a cell,” said Finnegan. “Have you, Omicron? ’Cause if this goes sideways, we’ll be bunkies, you and me. And you wouldn’t have to worry about room service. They’ll be lining up round the block to get a piece of you, the man who put half of ’em in there. But not before I’ve kicked your Bureau ass for getting us caught.”

Stopper growled as he stalked back from the kitchen, and stood in front of the outlaw, teeth bared.

“Okay, okay.” Jan grabbed her boy by his collar. “There’s way too much testosterone in here. I’m saying ‘Down boy!’ to all three of you. I’ve got a tranq rifle and I’m not afraid to use it. Now let’s keep this polite and civil. Everyone take a seat.”

Two identical sofas flanked the plastic coffee table. Jan and Vaughn sat on one, Finnegan took the other, while Stopper stood there like a clay statue protecting his mistress, ears back, big eyes wide and unblinking, trained on the stranger.

“Rurapenti,” said Vaughn. “Why were you there?”

“To kill the man who’s been tracking me for two years.”

“Pike?”

“That’s his cover name. One of a hundred he’s used.”

“Who is he really?”

“His birth name? No one knows. But if I said to you ‘Diurnal’, would that mean anything?”

Jan shivered as though her veins had been flushed with liquid coolant, and again when she saw Vaughn’s blank expression. No controlled tension, no attempt to master his fear. He was unafraid because he just didn’t know. He’d been away for so long he’d never heard of it. Something in that notion caused her own shuttered fear to bloom like refugium fidelis, exposing, rousing the dormant lodgers inside.

“The word describes daytime activity,” answered Vaughn. “Other than that, nope, I got nothing.”

“The lady knows,” said Finnegan with a horrible twinkle in his eye. “Tell him, Doc. Tell him what Diurnal is.”

She swallowed before her sharp reply: “It’s a death squad. Like nothing there’s ever been. A unit of killers-for-hire that just shows up one day, marks you for death, and nothing has ever stopped them. All you can do is run. But they always catch you, and it’s always broad daylight when they make the kill.”

“Sounds hokey,” said Vaughn. “I guess vampires must be out of vogue. Always broad daylight, huh? What about colonies where there’s never more than twilight? Or space stations where there’s only starlight? Always broad daylight. Next you’ll be telling me to pack silver bullets.”

“It’s just what I’ve heard,” she replied. “But you’ve said it yourself: legends only grow in fertile soil.”

“I meant in the minds of the people who spread them. Legends can spring out of nothing but rumors. It’s the need for them that keeps them alive. And this sounds concocted. Sheiker propaganda to keep the colonies on edge. They’ve been doing it since before I was born.”

Finnegan groaned in pain as he set his elbow down on the sofa arm, forgetting it was in a sling. “You’re missing the point, Detective.”

“What point?”

“The one that skewers you, no matter how many lumens you can count. Diurnal is real. It operates anywhere inside the hundred-zee radius, and even ventures beyond, if the price is right. It works for corrupt governments, corporations, wealthy individuals, well-funded terrorist cells: anyone who can afford its fee. And here’s the point you missed that the doc just made: Diurnal never misses. It takes out a contract on you, you might as well pick out a plot and blow your brains out.”

“And yet you’re still here.” Vaughn removed his mask to rub his tired eyes, then reaffixed it—the fsshh of oxygen confirmed the seal. “If Pike is part of this Diurnal, and he’s been hunting you for two years, doesn’t that rather dispel the legend?”

“He’s not finished. I missed, didn’t I.”

“So that put him back on your tail? Tell me, why would you do something so boneheaded?”

Finnegan snorted black mirth. “My epitaph, right there.”

“I’m serious. If Pike was busy murdering prisoners, he wasn’t tailing you. So you’d clearly given him the slip, if only for the time being. A veteran outlaw like you, you could have been hell and gone past a hundred-zee by now.”

“You said ‘for the time being’. That’s the thing with Diurnal—they never do what you expect. They can turn up anywhere without warning, and all you’ve got by running is weary. The light finds you eventually, no matter how far you go. The light, then the darkness. That’s the meaning of Diurnal.

“I’ve been on the hop for most of my life, in one form or another. That’s why I’ve been able to stay one step ahead of even these grid-lickers. But they’re relentless. Sooner or later everyone runs out of juice. That’s why I’m here.”

“Where’s Polotovsky?” asked Jan.

The outlaw sprouted a shifty grin with one half of his mouth. It bunched his weatherworn cheek-skin and drew out the crow’s feet around that one near-winking eye. “Right now? She’s safer than any woman who looks that good has any right to be.”

Jan twitched a frown of disgust. “Forget I asked.”

“Let’s backtrack,” cut in Vaughn. “Rurapenti. How did you know Pike would be on Rurapenti? He’d been tracking you across the galaxy, but then he got sidetracked, went into deep cover as a corrections officer. How in the hell did you know to find him there to kill him?”

“I have my contacts. People like me, we’ve got to share the shadows, lawman, more than you’ve got to share the light. It’s symbiosis, until it isn’t. There’s more at stake when we lose.

“All right, what you really want to know is how did the two things collide: me being hunted, and your dad being murdered. And I’ll tell you in two words: Jerome Donaggio.”

“Him again,” said Jan.

“He’s a real piece of work—or was. Long story short: he got me out of a tight spot when Diurnal had me dead to rights. Saved my life on Enceladus, no question. And Linds’s. They’d have the Fleece right now, along with our corpses to dissect, if he hadn’t done what he did. So I owed him a life debt. I kinda got the impression he lived his whole life that way—the old Japanese way—doing favors for people in order to store up credit, so he could call in those debts when he was in a jam. It’s a dicey strategy. It got him further than anyone thought possible after the boom got lowered on his outfit. On your dad’s outfit. He was on the lam even longer than I’ve been. Anyway, he said he’d let me know when he wanted his life debt repaid.

“He finally got word to me a few months back, not long after he’d been transferred to maximum security on Rurapenti. Some kind of lymphatic disease had hollowed him out; he weighed about seven stone, didn’t have long left. He said he needed a big favor, one only I could give him. One of those miracles he’d heard I could dole out. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but he knew I had something that had the power to heal. Linds tried to talk me out of it, of course—looking back, it was a no-brainer—but in my world a debt is a debt, and those that welch find that the shadows lose their shade real quick. That’s never truer than when it’s a life for a life. Call it superstitious, but karma in the underworld is a spiteful bitch.

“So I sent him a gift. Smuggled it in, of course. Cost me a goddamn fortune. It’s not the first hot item I’ve gotten inside max security, but it’s by far the most precious. A very small amount of Fleece ‘plasma’, or whatever you’d call it. Enough to eradicate his kind of incurable. You see, we’ve learned a lot about the effects of the Fleece on human physiology, and also about the potency of its plasma. We used it a lot in the early days—helping out where we could—pro bono if you like. But after a time we discovered that it wasn’t inexhaustible.”

“The plasma depletes?” asked Jan, unable to contain her scientific curiosity. The alien substance had fascinated her at the time, even before it had been used to resurrect her and Stopper. And its legacy was still with her; both she and her boy had aged almost imperceptibly, if at all, since that day over two decades ago.

“It depletes, yes. We had to isolate those compartments that no longer had any effect. Its miracles were finite, we knew. So we changed our strategy, and only administered it to those who wouldn’t survive without it. Only those under sixty, and who couldn’t afford to pay for life-saving treatment elsewhere. But we had to figure out a way to earn a living ourselves, one that would allow us to fly under the radar without extorting those we wanted to save.

“Linds came up with the idea of not charging for the treatment, but instead asking the patient to make a donation in the event it worked. Whatever they thought it was worth, whatever they thought they could afford. I’d like to say we didn’t discriminate between rich and poor, but whenever the credits ran low, we visited the primo hospices, pretending to be Samaritan soothsayers, and Linds picked out someone she thought deserved to be saved. Our ‘experimental’ treatment always worked, of course—for them, at least. You’d be surprised how many stiffed us for that donation after we’d cured their incurables. Funny how that works, right? In fact, the most generous donors—by far, in terms of what they could afford—are the poorest of the poor. If we thought they were giving too much, we’d send it back. Hey, even scumbags like me have scruples.”

Vaughn slowly shook his head, amused, fascinated. “So the Fleece is running low now, I take it?”

“Low? It’s practically gone. A biologist we know—he’s been studying it with us for years—says there’s enough left for one more life-saving dose. Just one.”

Jan thought of the miracle she still carried in her blood, that was also inside her beloved canine companion. Then she considered how many people and animals out there who deserved a longer life would now never get that chance. “I don’t know why, but that might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. No more miracle cure. Ever. For anyone.”

The outlaw, so remote from everything she knew, seemed to appear on her wavelength for the first time, and only for a moment. He managed a tender, heavy smile, then he said, “One more.”

“That’s why they’re so desperate to catch you,” concluded Vaughn. “This final dose is their last chance to get their hands on the miracle cure. A couple of things don’t add up, though. The body-snatching at the prison, and Donaggio’s role in all this. You said everything hinged on him. Why?”

“Because he did two things so galactically stupid I couldn’t have dreamed them up in a bootleg lucid fever. The first was that he only took a fraction of the dose I sent him. I know because the total amount I sent was the minimum required to cure his type of disease. A strange thing happened, though. That insufficient amount did cure him, completely, with plenty left over.

“Which leads to the second moronic thing he did ...”

“We’ve heard he tried to sell something to his former colleagues,” interrupted Jan. “I’m assuming you warned him to keep the cure quiet.”

“Of course. I even left a short note on edible rice paper for him to eat as soon as he’d read it. ‘TELL NO ONE ABOUT THIS. EVER. F.’ So what’s the first thing he does after he finds out it’s cured him? He tries to flog it on the black market. First to his old terrorist buddies, then to anyone with deep pockets. After I’d gone to all that trouble to save his life, the rotten sonofabitch does the very thing I told him not to. And it opens Pandora’s Box. In more ways than one. Because that dosage I mentioned, that we’d carefully worked out ... turns out we were way off. Not because we’d miscalculated based on our experience, but because we’d underestimated the effect the plasma’s depletion has on its potency.”

“Don’t tell me.” Jan leapt to her feet. “The lesser the volume, the greater its concentration.”

“Top marks, Doc.”

“It’s a cluster effect we’ve seen in organisms up and down the scale,” she explained. “The more isolated they become, the sharper their individual survival traits become. The most evolutionary changes occur when the need is greatest. So the organisms in Fleece plasma could be a microcosm of that. As their number dwindles, they’re forced to improve their performance, their potency, for survival. The more efficacious their healing effect, the longer they last. Makes sense, biologically.”

Both men looked at her admiringly. But while Vaughn’s gaze was wide open, unfiltered, proud, Finnegan’s had a cold calculation behind it, as though he intended to make use of her scientific prowess, one way or another, before he left Hesperidia.

“Which means ...” Vaughn hung fire to calibrate his thoughts, kept skipping his finger back and forward over the buttons of an invisible keypad. It was a cute thing he did when he was tired and struggling to contend with a difficult problem. “Which means that a) the remnants of the Fleece plasma you’ve brought here have the most potent healing properties of all; and b) those people healed recently will have been exposed to more concentrated doses. If that’s traceable in the body somehow, that might explain the body-snatching. Diurnal figured out who bought doses of the plasma from Donaggio, had them killed, then stole their corpses for dissection. You mentioned Pandora’s Box. So something about these latter doses is significant—a biochemical phenomenon that isn’t traceable in the older, more diluted doses but appears in these newer, concentrated ones. Am I close?”

“Hmm. Not bad, lawman. You’ve learned a lot from your chica médica here since we last met.”

“Don’t call me that!” snapped Jan. “You don’t get to sass anyone here. Not now. Not ever.”

Stopper backed up her threat with a menacing bark.

Finnegan shifted position, winced through the pain once more. “Maybe we should do this another time. We could all use some shut-eye. Am I right?”

“When we have it clear what’s at stake,” replied Vaughn. “Diurnal aren’t just coming for the Fleece, are they? They’re coming for you. The phantom healer himself. You’ve been dicing with death for two decades on the run, you and Polotovsky. They figure anyone who survived that long with so many powerful enemies has to have used the Fleece to heal himself many times. Maybe the plasma is so concentrated inside you by now that it’s worth more than the final remnants of the Fleece itself.”

Finnegan coughed when he tried to lift his elbow to demonstrate how unhealed he actually was.

“Yes, but they don’t know that,” countered Jan. “Vaughn’s right. As far as Diurnal knows, you’ve used what’s left of the plasma to heal yourself. So for all intents and purposes, you are the Fleece. What they weren’t able to find in those bodies they snatched, they must be banking on finding inside you.”

Finnegan coughed again. “But they won’t. I’ve only ever been healed by it once. After an ambush on Glaucus Prime. I was shot six times, left to die in the mud. A good thing Linds had the Fleece and not me. I’d almost bled out when she got to me. It brought me back, plugged those wounds, removed all my old scars. I was reborn, like you were, Doc. But that’s the only time. This concentrated plasma, it’s something else. Our biologist thinks it’s potent and long-lasting enough to render a recipient practically immortal. If you think we age slowly, Doc, you ain’t seen nothing yet. That’s what the people who hired Diurnal are after. Not just the healing properties. It was that at first, sure. Like your De Santo and his asshole mercs. They wanted an industrial healing agent for their own ends. But this new plasma, it’s the goddamn fountain of youth in an IV fluid bag. Think about that. If they could get hold of it in its most concentrated form, and figure out how to synthesize it somehow, think about the power that gives them.

“The power of life over death. Made to order.”

“Jesus,” said Vaughn.

“Wait!” Jan’s sharp tone startled them all, including Stopper, who spun to face her and reared up, pawing at her until she hugged him. “It’s all right, boy. That wasn’t aimed at you.” Rubbing the big Boxer’s back, she frowned at Finnegan. “Why didn’t you use it? You could have died from that gunshot wound. If we hadn’t given you permission to land, would you have used it?”

He considered it for a moment. “I don’t know. I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“You knew we’d let you through,” said Vaughn.

“I knew you’d do the right thing. But this last piece of the Fleece, it’s the ultimate gift. Maybe there’s nothing else like it in the whole universe. Why would a sonofabitch like me ever deserve it?” He shook his head gravely. “No, that immortality thing, it’s too big for me. I’ve taken the Fleece this far. I’ll guard it for as long as I draw breath. But someone else will have to make that call when the time comes.”

“Like who?” asked Jan.

“Beats me. I just stole the fucking thing.”

“You’ve done a hell of a lot more than that, Finnegan.”

“And now I’m saying I’ve done enough. I want off this merry-go-round. Once this final dose is administered, I’m taking Linds so far away from here that no far-reach mission will ever find us. They’d die of old age chasing us, ’cause we’ve got the more ... how shall I say ... enduring qualities.”

His smirk had the sinister silkiness of someone who would always naturally veer toward a life in the shadows. How many lives he’d saved she could only guess, but it hadn’t cured his misanthropy. She could only surmise that he cared deeply for innocent lives on an individual basis when he met them personally, but otherwise, taken as a whole, he didn’t much care for mankind and the way it meekly submitted to authority, no matter how far it ventured into the stars.

Once an outlaw ...

“Putting the Fleece aside for now,” said Vaughn, steepling his fingers under his chin, “what else can you tell us about Diurnal? You said it’s a death squad. How many does it comprise?”

“Between eight and twelve, as far as we know. One or two Sheiker veterans. At least three disavowed Phi-and-above ISPA operatives. But it’s not all humans. Two Finaglers travel with them—elite shock-troopers—the deadliest fighters they have. And there’s a creature they take with them whenever they’re hunting someone. A guytrash.”

“Ugh! Those things were banned as pets across all colonies,” said Jan. “Not their fault. They’re apex creatures on their home world. They don’t play well with other animals ... or people.”

“I’ve had run-ins with a few,” added Vaughn.

“Not like this one,” replied Finnegan. “It’s rumored to be the keenest tracker alive. If you’re on the same planet, there’s nowhere you can go it won’t find you.”

Jan waved the notion away. “Nothing beats my Stopper when it comes to tracking. Nothing. I don’t care how jacked on sensory stims it is.”

“That may be, but he’s never left this world, has he.”

“No.”

“Diurnal’s guytrash has hunted on a hundred worlds, and he’s never failed to find his quarry. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Tell us more about this Pike,” said Vaughn. “If he’s the brains of the outfit, he’ll be—hang on, just a second—” He got up and strode into the adjacent room to listen to a voice message on his omnipod. Jan and Finnegan didn’t share so much as a glance. When Vaughn returned a few minutes later, he announced: “That was David Carlisle at Miramar Central. He says the sat net has picked up some sort of atmospheric anomaly. It’s intermittent—there’s interference—but the signature appears to be an object traveling at supersonic speed.”

“How big?” asked Jan.

“Big enough to trigger a series of meteorite alerts. Only it’s not descending. It’s traveling laterally, circling the skies. So it must be under power.”

Finnegan shot to his feet, sending an already heightened Stopper into a barking frenzy. Jan had to use her whistle to make him stop and sit.

“Get your people to go over the scans of the sat net corridors during subsequent entries—all shuttle entries after mine—any time the net’s been open,” suggested Finnegan, as pale as he’d been since his hospital visit. “If I’m right, we’re gonna have to act quick. You might have to destroy my ship and leave me here.”

Vaughn took a threatening step toward him. “You think something stole through?”

“Sounds like it.”

“But those speeds. To avoid detection ... to brake in time to avoid a surface crash ... we haven’t seen anything like that since the Battle of ... Altimere.” He instinctively palmed his holster. “Finaglers!”

“Not just Finaglers, Vaughn.” The outlaw closed his eyes and let his head sink forward. “Diurnal.

“They’re here.”

​Chapter Four

There were no contrails in the pastel orange sky; not much cloud either except at very high altitude. The intruder likely hadn’t flown over this area yet. But when it did, it couldn’t fail to spot the two ships parked here. Finnegan’s Menander had a very distinctive shape and even more distinctive battle damage. They’d swoop down and flush him out of his bunker long before any sector law enforcement arrived.

Vaughn ran his hands through the wispy ears of tall grass, releasing delicate sugar-stealer-like seeds into the breeze as he weighed the two options available to him. Jan’s versus the outlaw’s. Either they destroy Finnegan’s ship and leave him here alone, like he wanted, or they all find somewhere else to hide out—somewhere with cover for the ships, and an escape route in case they were discovered.

“The Mazaris caverns,” she suggested. “They’re not on any official maps, and some are so big the probes had to turn back before they ran out of power. We could hide in there for months if we had to, and there’s no way they’d find us.”

“Are there any with entrances big enough to hide the ships in?”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t think so—not that I know of.” Then her face lit up and she clicked her fingers. “The Caproni Causeway! It bridges the tip of the northern Mazaris peninsula to a chain of volcanic islands. The probes marked an entrance to a vast underground cave network inside one of those crumbling craters. It’s linked to the Mazaris caverns, but it stretches far out under the shallow sea. No one’s explored it yet, not properly. Louisa Elliot and I went for a walk inside, just to see what it was like, and we discovered three new species of crustacean. It’s massive inside, but you can’t see the entrance until you’re right in front of it. A portion of the crater has collapsed around it.”

“Where would we hide the ships?”

“There’s a pronounced overhang where the tide has eroded the rock. We could hide them under that. A ship flying overhead would never see them.”

“The tide wouldn’t be a problem if we left them there?”

She shook her head. “You’ll see why when we’re there. Just trust me. It’s our best bet.”

“Okay, you’re on. That’s our play. But I’m not taking any chances. I want the rest of our people off-world before these assholes start taking hostages. I’m triggering the emergency evacuation.”

“What about your team?”

“They’re just rookies. And even if they weren’t, we’re not equipped to fight a professional death squad.”

Jan crouched to pet Stopper, whose intense doggie-sneer and furrowed brow communicated what his mistress and master were trying, and clearly failing, to hide from him: their anxiety. If his protectiveness was this heightened already, what would he be like in a brand new cave, with death circling the skies above and untold dangers awaiting them inside?

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy and Vaughn are going to take you on a little adventure. Let’s see what we find, eh?”

But despite his wagging tail, the big rascal’s concern wasn’t so easily assuaged. He kept eyeing Finnegan, as though he knew this stranger was the root cause of their growing fear. But he also knew better than to growl or show aggression after Jan had used her whistle to quieten him earlier. Still, he’d watch the outlaw as carefully as he would any sly interloper in his mistress’s vicinity from now on, and woe betide Finnegan if he did anything to put her in harm’s way.

“Anything I can do?” the injured man inquired.

“Supplies,” answered Jan. “You can help me load the ships with everything we’re gonna need for however long we’re underground.”

Finnegan had the temerity to show her his arm in a sling.

“You’ve still got one good arm to load with, and you can sure as hell guide a grav trolley.”

“She always this pushy?” he asked Vaughn.

“Only when grid-lickers don’t pull their weight.”

The big guy curled a cruel smile before turning to mutter to himself. Vaughn called after him: “Finnegan?”

“Huh?”

“Where’s the Fleece—or what’s left of it?”

“Why?”

“’Cause right now it’s the only thing keeping me interested in what happens to your sorry ass. The only thing. That, and what you did for Jan and Stopper. So hand it over.”

Finnegan turned slowly, moving his free hand toward his sling—did he have a weapon stashed in there? “Try and take it, lawman. See what happens.”

The fingers of Vaughn’s gun hand twitched over his holster. “This is the second time you’ve brought death to this world. There won’t be a third.”

“You have my word. But you’re not taking the Fleece. Nobody is without my say-so.”

“I have your word on that too?”

The outlaw nodded.

“Good. ’Cause the moment you lose it, or it’s used up, that’s when you lose my protection, and you’re on your own.”

“You drive a shitty bargain, Vaughn.”

“You throw a shitty party, Finnegan. Someone else always has to clean up your mess.”

“We lie low enough, there won’t be a party this time.”

Jan cleared her throat. “Party or not, we still have a lot of shopping to do. And if you two have finished yacking, maybe we should get to it? Before the interstellar assassination committee shows up? Just an idea.”

Vaughn spun on his heels and strode away to the Pitch Hopper II. Partway there, the urgency of Jan’s words got to him, and he ran the rest of the way through the field of tall grass.

The general consensus from a somewhat panicked Miramar Control seemed to confirm what Finnegan had suspected: a rogue ship of undetermined size and class had sneaked in through the open sat net corridor behind one of the cargo shuttles earlier that morning at a crazy sub-light speed, had somehow managed to decelerate to a mere supersonic velocity in the upper atmosphere, and was now performing a sweeping search of the planet. It was also using some kind of atmospheric disruptor to befuddle any attempts to scan it. But Spiros and the other techs had worked fast to figure out a system to at least track it using its disruption. Not perfect, but they had a rough idea of where it was in the sky at all times.

Based on its current search pattern, it would be over western Manassas in a couple of hours. The Pitch Hopper II’s cargo bay was fully loaded in a fraction of that time. It and the Menander were airborne and flying east toward Mazaris well before the intruder’s ambitious sweep had even left the prime continent. Vaughn and First Ranger Carlisle also coordinated the evacuation of all personnel from the planet during this same window, while the intruder was venturing across the ocean.

“But if it ignores all fleeing shuttles, isn’t that defeating the object of its search?” Carlisle pointed out over the encrypted sat com channel. “The person they’re looking for could be on board any one of them.”

“He has a point,” Jan told Vaughn.

“True, but the alternative is to leave everyone on the surface just waiting for the ship to exhaust its search. When that happens, and it’s still empty-handed, Diurnal’s next play will be to take hostages, force the administration to give up Finnegan’s whereabouts. They know that we know where he is. We let him through the sat net, so we’ve proved our complicity. We’re harboring him, and they’ll do anything to get him. Trust me, that does not end well for anyone left on the planet. No, I want everyone off-world ASAP.”

“My question stands,” argued Carlisle. “Why would they let shuttles leave Hesperidia unmolested?”

“We have to assume they’re monitoring all traffic and all comms to and from the planet,” explained Vaughn. “That’s a given. They’re a professional outfit, well-funded. They’ll have backup, probably in high orbit, definitely at the warp gate. They’ll see where every shuttle goes. As per our evacuation protocol, all shuttles rendezvous at the same location on L-11’s second moon. So any craft not heading there will be suspicious. Then you’ll see action. But if everyone follows procedure, Diurnal will go on monitoring from a distance. They’ll watch the rendezvous closely, and when I don’t show up, they’ll know I’ve stayed on the Hesp. And they’ll conclude I’ve stayed on the Hesp to protect the same man I gave sanctuary to in the first place. It’s a process of elimination.”

“Hardly foolproof,” said Jan. “You could smuggle him out on one of the shuttles while you stayed here.”

“Ah, but they know I’d never take that risk. Not with something so valuable at stake.”

“Then maybe you should take that risk. Do what they don’t expect for a change.”

“I don’t need to,” he said. “They’ll never find us where we’re going. Those are better odds. No, all we have to do is buy time until local law enforcement gets here.”

“Well, you’re the expert,” answered Carlisle. “If you give the word ...”

“I do. Full and immediate evacuation. I’ve given my team their instructions. They’ll get everyone to the rendezvous and go into lockdown in our facility there. When it’s all over, I’ll come get you.”

“Understood. Look after yourself, Vaughn. Jan, I’ll see you soon.”

“God speed, David,” said Jan. “We’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Just bring yourselves out safe.”

“Will do,” said Vaughn.

“Miramar Control, out.”

When the static ceased, a bracing loneliness spread through the cockpit and the sky all around them, and Jan began to feel, for the first time in a long time, not without a flush of anger, that Hesperidia was being wrested from her. That she was powerless to protect it. It might only be temporary, but it was a stark reminder that Alien Safari’s stewardship hung by the slenderest of threads in a galaxy riven by war. This kind of thing could happen again at any time, she realized. Even with a famous lawman as its Security Chief, their operation held no claim but what the sat net could guarantee—a sat net that had been breached, circumvented, nobbled, and even disabled during her tenure on Hesperidia.

It was a sobering feeling, to be usurped from her life’s calling so easily, overnight, without ever having seen those who now possessed dominion over this world she loved.

A sobering feeling, and a frightening one.

Perhaps fitting, though, that the only way to avoid Diurnal was to go where daylight could not.

Into the underworld.

A colony of diaphanous green bellodoma Murietta had nested in the contours of the volcanic rock over which the ships were to be left. It was a shame to disturb them, but it couldn’t be helped. That overhang provided ideal cover—actually, the only cover on this low-lying archipelago. And though the thousands of belladomas all took flight at the same time, thrusting their jellyfish-like domes up and away in powerful strokes, their gaseous jet washes leaving behind a liquid haze that waxed the sky, they were hardier creatures than they looked, Jan knew. They would be back in their nests before long.

The cave entrance lay a short way up the inner wall of the island’s crater. It was a tricky little climb to reach it, but the benefit of its concealment more than made up for that. As Jan had said, no line of sight from the outside would find it; you had to know it was there.

Jan and Vaughn were on their way back to the ships after their brief recce when an emergency call alert flashed on his visor. It was from Leif Whitsun.

“Chief, Mister Carlisle told me to contact you as soon as I was in orbit. He said our direct radio encryption may have been compromised. Only satellite encryption is safe to use.”

“Copy that, Leif. What’s the status of the evac?”

“By the book so far. It’s just as you said: whoever this intruder is, he appears to be hunting for a specific target. He’s not interested in the rest of us. But there’s been a development, and that’s why Mister Carlisle said I should give you the heads-up. The intruder is heading directly for your position. Don’t ask me how, but Spiros is certain they’ve figured out how to track you. They abandoned their search pattern somewhere on the east coast of the prime continent and headed straight out over the ocean. Spiros had the idea of mapping your flight paths since you left Miramar, using the sat net surveillance footage. And here’s the spooky part. The intruder made his sharp turn precisely onto your flight path. He’s been following it ever since. After a brief landing at Outpost X-ray in Manassas, he continued eastward, again, exactly on your flight path.”

The color drained from Vaughn’s face. He slammed the rock with the side of his fist. “How long do we have?”

“Spiros estimates no more than ninety minutes. Their velocity’s increased. Mister—”

“How in the hell did—sorry—go on, Leif.”

“I was just saying, Mister Carlisle is on his way to you as well.”

“What? I thought he was with you.”

“Negative. He changed his mind when we told him what I’ve just told you. He’s a good man, Chief. He said he swore an oath as First Ranger to be the last man to leave Hesperidia whenever there was imminent danger to its personnel. That’s old school, sir. That’s boy scout. You could use a man like that.”

Vaughn sighed. “Roger that. Just ... carry on, Leif. Get your people to the rendezvous.”

“You sure you couldn’t use some more backup, Chief? Me and the guys, we talked it over, and we can—”

“Absolutely not! Your job is to get those people to safety and stay with them at all costs. Is that clear?”

After a slight hesitation: “As a bell, sir. I’ll let Mister Carlisle know you’re expecting him.”

“How far out is he? We can’t wait long.”

“Ah, let me see ... ETA approximately thirty, thirty-five minutes. He’s punching it. And he’s bringing extra supplies.”

“Okay, copy all that, Leif. Thanks for letting us know. I’ll see you in a day or two. Vaughn, out.”

He didn’t need to spur Jan into action. She was already clambering down the rock ledge ahead of him.

“We’ll have to go deep,” she said.

“As deep as we can go. We have the advantage.”

“We’ll just outlast them.”

“Oxygen is time,” he said. “We’ll carry all the air we need, but not too much. We have to have enough to outlast them, but not so much that it slows us down. We get that balance right, there’s nothing they can do.”

“No, I guess not.”

But the more Jan considered the intruders’ uncanny tracking abilities, the less sure she was that time alone would defeat them. They were the best at what they did. God only knew what state-of-the-art tech they’d bring with them on this manhunt.

Manhunt.

Her breath hitched, and she shuddered from head to toe. A chill flush of adrenaline diffused in sobering waves that tingled her extremities as she climbed. Everything became clearer, more immediate, more urgent. It was the primal blade of her ancestral survival sharpening itself, she knew. Fight or flight was an overused term to describe an instinct most civilians rarely encountered. But on Hesperidia, she’d grown accustomed to it. The fiercest predators had all either threatened her, or outright hunted her, many times. A dart or two from a tranq rifle had usually been sufficient to deter them.

This was a new experience. A new kind of dread. Technology was no longer a safety net; the hunters would have greater firepower and more advanced tech. No, it was purely a battle of wits, then—wits and endurance. Her legendary knowledge of Hesperidia’s plants and creatures ought to give Jan the clear upper hand, but deep underground would be a brand new ecosystem, likely full of hazards no human had ever encountered.

Still, the ace up her sleeve was Stopper. Thank God for his finely-honed—borderline precognitive—ability to sense danger from the life-forms around him. Subtleties of smell and vibration and atmosphere no human could detect were the hidden language of his sensescape. He would have to be their guide through the underworld. And she would have to read his barks, growls and body language like only she could.

Their pursuers would not have that intuition. They might be able to follow tracks, but they wouldn’t have anyone or anything that could breathe the natural air of Hesperidia. So they would rely completely on sight and instrumentation. They were alien to this world. Stopper, on the other hand, by his heredity but more importantly through his shared experience of so much of Hesperidia with its indigenous denizens, belonged here.

This was his birthright.

As she helped load the supplies into the two grav trolleys, she kept reminding herself how lucky she was to have been blessed with such a loyal, loving companion. And to still have him with her, in rude health, long after his expected lifespan. There was a touch of destiny about their partnership, no question. And now it had fresh purpose, urgent purpose: to keep the man they both loved alive and ahead of the competition for as long as they possibly could, so that he could in turn fulfil his promise—to protect the life of the man who’d saved both of theirs, years before.

Yes, there was definitely a touch of destiny about all of this.

But it would take all their combined experience, cunning, stamina, and no small amount of luck to survive this assignment. Not to defeat Diurnal—hell, as assassins they had a perfect record; not to hide—the ultimate team of trackers had locked onto their whereabouts already; but to run like none of them had ever run before.

By the time David Carlisle flew his light cruiser in to land next to the other ships, Jan, Vaughn and Finnegan were geared up and ready to start jogging. Stopper was beside himself in anticipation, barreling around in the surf of a nearby pebbled beach. 

It would be his last free playtime, and daylight, until this was over.

Vaughn neither chastised nor thanked Carlisle for turning up. The First Ranger was subordinate to no one, and he had every right to get involved. He was also an accomplished field man with a considerable reputation as a wildlife conservationist, rifle marksman and anti-poaching specialist on the Indian subcontinent back on Earth. His work on Hesperidia had also been impressive. Even before his promotion to the top job, he’d managed some of the most difficult tag-and-trace studies on wildlife behavior patterns Jan had seen in years. And he’d intervened decisively during several crises, not least when he’d used the sat net’s weaponry to fire down onto the planet’s surface to destroy the rogue tenax, a measure that was still controversial to this day, being absolutely prohibited in the COVEX charter for alien biospheres.

Then he’d done the same again in the Mazaris isthmus rainforest, sending a hell-blast down from orbit in order to give Jan and her VIP tour group a chance to escape the insect swarm besieging them. In short, he was an ideal First Ranger: willing to bend even the most adamantine rules when the situation called for it.

Hesperidia needed him. At this critical juncture in its human stewardship, the Hesp couldn’t afford to lose someone so practical, knowledgeable, brave and diplomatic, who also cared deeply about its conservation.

No, far better for him to sit this one out.

But that wasn’t who he was. Just like Vaughn, who couldn’t abandon the shady outlaw who’d put his entire existence in jeopardy. Or like Jan, who’d rather die than let the man she loved go through this ordeal alone on their world. Or even like Finnegan, whose nature was driven by its own unique paradigm of necessity. Their entry into the underworld marked each of their characters by how much they’d risked to be here. Even before a single shot had been fired, this rendezvous was lit by rare quality.

“I say we booby-trap this whole entrance,” suggested Finnegan, guiding the first floating grav trolley up the steep ascent to the lip of the cave. Carlisle had brought a trolley of his own, but when he’d seen that the others already had one, he’d transferred his indispensable items into Vaughn’s, and brought his own along to use as a booby-trap instead. The hope was to lure their pursuers in with the bait of a couple of oxygen bottles—too good a prize to pass up. When they reached into the trolley to fetch them, it would trigger an explosive detonation. Could easily kill a few if not all of them.

“Let’s not get carried away,” replied Vaughn. “We’ve got the element of surprise, but we need to use it parsimoniously. Pick our opportunities. If these guys are as good as you say, they’ll be sweeping for anything electronic as they go. They’ll have seen it all before.”

“No shit. But we need every advantage we can get. I say we blow the entrance as soon as we’re inside. Create a cave-in. Sure, it seals us in, but it also seals them out. And we can always find another way out. Right, Doc?”

Jan shrugged. “A blast big enough to cause a cave-in ... could bring down more than the entrance. This crater’s already crumbling. David? You’re the geologist.”

“Jan’s right. We don’t know how stable these caves are. Igneous rock is very hard, but the sub-ocean fault is deforming this entire island chain. It’s seismically active as it is. We probably shouldn’t go blowing holes in any structure points.”

“Neg-heads!” growled Finnegan. “I’m surrounded by goddamn neg-heads!”

Jan and Carlisle shared a wry aside.

“Smart wins out every time when you’re some place new,” said Vaughn. “That’s my experience anyway.”

“Okay then, smart those grid-lickers,” Finnegan retorted. “Be my guest. Let’s hear your master plan for stopping them, lawman.”

Vaughn retrieved his ‘germ’ containment unit from his utility baldric, mounted it onto his wrist. “We don’t do anything right off the bat. They’ll be expecting that, so we keep them guessing instead.” He activated the touchscreen console and out flew his trusty five-strong squadron of mosquito-sized AI drones—old tech now, and no longer standard issue for Omicron agents, but Vaughn was one of the finest adepts of germ-craft anywhere. He put great stock in the germs’ versatility, agility and stealth capabilities. Other than his Kruger, they’d saved his life more than any other accessory.

He marked the cave entrance as a visual cue and tasked them to find the farthest possible vantage point to it from inside, one that would give a reasonable resolution for the transmitted vidfeed.

“Why not leave a spy-cam nearer the entrance?” asked Finnegan. “I want to see the whites of those bastards’ eyes. Then you could explode it, take one or more of them out first thing.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna try that last part. But I’m pretty sure they’ll be ready for it.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Jan.

“The Sixsmith I was pursuing on Mars, he somehow knew one of my germs was following him. With a click of his fingers he disabled that germ and all the others linked to it. Some kind of focused em pulse that also infects the uplink. That’s why these are obsolete now. The bad guys figured out how to detect and immobilize them. Like me, they’re a relic of another time.”

“So Diurnal won’t be expecting them,” said Finnegan.

“They’re expecting me, and they’ll know how old-school I am. Pike saw firsthand how out of touch I am with modern tech. He’ll expect me to use what I’m familiar with.” Vaughn curled a sly grin. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”

No one responded.

“It’s such an obvious attack, he’ll think I’m out of ideas,” he explained. “So he’ll feel confident. But from then on, we’ll mix it up. For every obvious trick, we’ll throw five that he won’t see coming. That will eat away at his confidence. He’ll spend more time watching for surprises than he will on tracking. And when he loses time, we gain it. He has no idea how deep these caves go. Unless he’s got some way to haul heavy bulk at speed, his team won’t bring anywhere near the amount of oxygen we’ve got. So we can go deeper, last longer, and he’ll have to turn back first.

“So everyone get thinking,” he said as he positioned the booby-trap drone out of sight behind a stalactite on the cave roof, a few meters from the entrance. The second, lookout drone, perched a couple of hundred meters inside the spacious, downward-trending cavern, would let Vaughn know when the hunters arrived. He could then remotely fly the first germ out of hiding and detonate it in their midst, hopefully killing a few.

“Get thinking. Use what you know.” He set out, ushering Jan and Stopper ahead of him. They would be the point duo from now on, the best equipped to predict and judge whatever the cave threw at them. “We all have expertise in different fields. But also try to think of ways we can use the terrain and the environments as we go. Jan and David, this is your playground. You know geology and botany and zoology better than anyone.”

Carlisle, the next in line, switched off his helmet’s torch beam as he guided the grav trolley behind Jan. He suggested Finnegan do the same. Their beams were redundant in the formation. One at the front and one at the back were all they needed to light the passage, and underground, that resource—light—might prove crucial before this ordeal was over. Why waste it?

“How can we use this place to our advantage?” Vaughn went on. “What do we do to slow them down? Think outside the box. Be bold. Be aggressive. We’re not conservationists now. We’re prey doing whatever we have to do to escape a predator. Whatever it takes to stay ahead and stay alive. If that means being destructive, just remember it’s the right of every life-form to fight for its own existence. Every plant or creature we encounter would do the same.”

He heard Jan scoff at that, but knew she wouldn’t openly defy his attempts to motivate the group like this. As much as she did to protect indigenous life on the Hesp, she had never, and would never, put alien life before human life. That was the difference between her and the zero-contact zealots, who regarded the sanctity of alien biomes with a quasi-religious reverence. Jan saw life on exoplanets as mankind’s neighbors—to be respected, yes, and protected if needs be, but not as complete and absolute alien strangers.

“Ah, that reminds me,” said Carlisle, reaching into his backpack. “Your boy Whitsun asked me to give you these. He said you’d know what they were for. And he warned me to handle them with care.”

He retrieved a pair of medallion-shaped objects couched inside translucent gelatinous sleeves fastened with magno-clasps. When he opened one, he found the medallion inside, made of a light metal alloy, was attached to a bowflex chain, the strongest flexible carbon-fiber material in use. The intricate bas-relief design on one side of the medallion depicted a pair of dragons battling one another. Tiny holes in the opposing mouths and nostrils were where the plasma aerosols would shoot out from, combining at a specified distance. Ignited by a laser beam, they would create an extraordinary localized energy event—a transient singularity that would act as a shield against any attack. But he couldn’t see where the laser would fire from. Somewhere in the center? Where the flared dragon wings met?

“A Hail Mary!” said Finnegan, the slight inflection in his tone practically a scream of approval from him. “And you’ve got two. How the hell did you get two Hail Marys?”

“They’re a gift from ... somebody with influence.”

“Who gets the other one?”

“Who do you think?” Vaughn offered the second medallion to Jan, but noted her hesitation. “That’s if she wants it.”

“No thanks. I don’t want that thing anywhere near Stops. I’ve heard the horror stories, how the users have lost their grip or held them the wrong way round in a panic, and ended up melting themselves and people around them. No. Too volatile. Too much can go wrong. Besides, I’ll be busy helping Stops pick a safe way through this place. That’s my job, out front. You guys need to handle security at the rear.”

Vaughn nodded, then pocketed the second medallion. “I’ll just keep it in reserve, then, as a last resort.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Carlisle.

“Hope, yeah,” added Finnegan, reaching over his shoulder to grip the stock of one of his twin cannons couched crosswise in their back holsters. “But hope’s never a tactic. We all need to be packing, just in case. If this place is unmapped, sooner or later we’re bound to hit a dead end, then we’ll have to shoot our way out.”

“Not necessarily,” argued Jan. “The probes didn’t report an impasse. That’s why I chose this cave. It’s massive. We don’t know how far it goes.” She narrowed her eyes at Finnegan’s skeptical frown. “But I take your point.” Fetching a rifle from the trolley, she slung it over her shoulder by the strap. “There, I’m packed. Now let’s move out!”

The big outlaw’s cracked lips receded from a clutch of grinning teeth, most slightly discolored, a few broken. They were perhaps the best illustration of his true age and mileage without the rejuvenating effect of the Fleece.

It was the grin and bite of a born survivor.

“You reminded me of Linds just now, Doc,” he told her as she marched away. “Different accent, same sass.” Then he mumbled, “Tighter ass.”

She ignored him, and so did Vaughn. But something in Finnegan’s irreverence, his arrogance, bristled the authority of Vaughn’s old, sharpened experience of lawless places. Where one had to bring the virtues and means of justice along with him, and embody them, and back them up with lethal force if needs be. Hindmost in the company, he strode after them down the gritty, silty slope with an ever-hardening purpose.

To keep alive everyone in front of him. To kill anyone who followed.

​Chapter Five

They’d already jogged a few klicks through a vast sanctum rendered something of a maze by the colossal stalagmites that had grown there, many linked to their hanging counterparts to form structures as big as temple columns. It had been slippery underfoot ever since the grit had given way to bare rock. Water seeped through the porous ceiling and ran as myriad tiny rivulets down the walls, or dripped from the tips of stalactites. The temperature had grown surprisingly warm, too, over the past ten minutes or so. Condensation formed a fine cloud of mist that kept every surface and every visitor utterly soaked. The only signs of life so far were the crustaceans, molds and fungi back near the cave entrance, and a peculiar winged creature with an incredibly long thorax—so long that it required several sets of wings to keep it airborne, almost like a flying barge. They could hear it flapping about in the upper quarters of the sanctum.

Even Jan admitted she had no idea what it was.

Stopper thrust his snout up into the wispy draught and was about to choose one of several branching tunnels when Vaughn’s germ console beeped its motion sensor alert.

“Everyone stop!” he ordered. “They’ve arrived.”

The others quickly gathered around him as he switched to the sentry germ’s vidfeed. The signal strength wasn’t great from this distance, but the image was good enough, even at long range, to discern a small aerial probe scouting the area just inside the entrance. Vaughn didn’t recognize the device’s design. Intermittent bands of interference, though, were clearly electromagnetic waves emitted to scan and map the interior. It didn’t have the nimble reach and triangulation of his germs, but it would be generations more perceptive in what it reported.

“You think it knows it’s being watched?” asked Jan.

“Probably,” answered Vaughn. “Expect an em pulse to follow. Once they’ve retrieved the probe, they’ll send something in to knock out any devices we’ve left behind.”

“Insurgency 101,” added Finnegan.

“I just want to know who we’re dealing with,” said Jan. “Until I can actually see them, these hunters might as well be figments of our imagination. Or machines.”

Finnegan sighed right beside her. “They’re both of those things, Doc. They’re whatever your instinct is to run away from. Most times you won’t get a chance to see them until they have you cornered. So if this works and we get more than a glimpse, count yourselves lucky. Or not.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve stared them down a few times. Trust me, they ain’t pretty.”

They waited in silence while the probe completed its exploration. But it didn’t about-face and fly back out as Vaughn had expected. It hovered there instead, awaiting its masters. He surmised it was going to be an important tool in Diurnal’s hunt, constantly scouting ahead, plotting the quickest route.

Two can play at that game, he thought, remembering he still had three germs at his disposal, and a fourth he would recall after its spying mission was complete.

“We could do with taking that thing out,” whispered Carlisle. “I don’t know how yet, but if we get the chance, we need to down that little shit.”

“Agreed,” said Finnegan. “Without that, they’re tracking the old-fashioned—ah, finally—here they come! Okay then, which one of you bastards wants it first?”

A human male crept inside, training the laser-sighting beam of a lightweight combat rifle on the trail ahead. His weapon bore all manner of fetishized attachments, while he was also loaded to the gills with combat gear: heavy body armor, ammo belts, grenades, accessory pouches, even a portable maghammer for digging through rock. All that would weigh him down, but Vaughn took note of his meager oxygen bottles either side of his face mask. That suggested they’d anticipated a long pursuit, and, like their quarry, were going to use some kind of transport to carry their spare air.

“You recognize him?” Vaughn asked Finnegan.

The outlaw leant closer to the screen. “No. Typical merc, though. Probably paints his toenails when he thinks no one’s looking.”

Next were two hulking alien creatures, caped, broad-shouldered, with nothing above the shoulders. Finaglers had always preferred to leave their true forms to the imagination. While they were indeed headless, they lacked none of the organs humans associated with a head, apart from a vocal cord. Eyes arrayed along their many-limbed shoulder comb; brain, hearts and other internal organs in the armored, trunk-like torso; auditory receptors at various points on the tough rear hide of their shoulder frame, and some out front, giving them extremely good surround-sound hearing. They were notoriously fearsome and fearless warriors, but ever since the Sheiker-Finagler alliance had conquered Earth, Mars and the Core worlds, the alien half of that force had been strangely scarce, leaving the actual governance—most would say overlordship—to their equally treacherous human counterparts, those former border-hogs, the Sheikers.

In the years since then, few outside the Sheiker hierarchy had had direct dealings with the Finaglers. Conquest itself was their goal, apparently. To neuter the human expansion, to assimilate human tech into their own furtive star-bridging enterprise. The result was that these sneaky aliens had passed somewhat into shadowy myth, only the older generations of human combatants having had the chance to glimpse them firsthand.

Vaughn had tangled with them before. He knew their propensity for the unexpected. Hive-minded problem-solvers by nature, they were nonetheless adept at acting and fighting solo. The appearance of two of them here was ominous. They would be able to make use of both those instincts: telepathic coordination and individual prowess. A formidable hunting unit.

“How many of you have seen a Finagler before?” he asked.

“I’ve worked for them once or twice,” replied Finnegan. “Had to kill one once. I’ve seen more personality in a coffin nail.”

“Jan?”

She shook her head. “Don’t care to either.”

“David?”

“Nor me. I’ve heard enough, though—my uncle fought them at Altimere. Wouldn’t want to get any closer than I am right now.”

“Good call,” said Vaughn. “I’ll tell you all I know once we’re moving again. It’ll be more incentive for us to keep our pace up.”

The others began to pour inside the cave—Vaughn counted four, five, seven more, all armed to the teeth—and still there appeared to be more outside. One of the men was talking to someone, or something, that blocked the sunlight across the aperture. The speaker, he saw, was Pike, but the other man, for whatever reason, didn’t enter. Then the sunlight returned to the rock outside.

They’re up to something. Either he’s sent him back to fetch more supplies or they’re plotting some devious gambit for later. But what?

No sign of a grav trolley or other haulage transport for their spare oxygen either. Surely they couldn’t be hunting only with what they were carrying. If so, escape was a done deal. Diurnal would have to turn back long before they had a chance of catching up.

They’re up to something, his instinct kept nagging him. Maybe they want us to think they’re ill-equipped. What if this is all for show?

“That’s the sonofabitch, right there.” Finnegan pointed to Pike. “I had him dead to rights in the quadrangle, but the cuck used a hologram.”

Compared to his prison officer uniform, Pike’s combat dress was shockingly informal: khaki trousers, T-shirt, lightweight flak vest, and a purple-and-green neckerchief—the colors of Jötnar, a football team expelled from the ICFL decades ago when several of its players and coaching staff defected to join the Sheiker militia.

“You recognize anyone else?” asked Vaughn.

Finnegan leant in again. “That’s Gil Aspian. He was on Rurapenti. I’m pretty sure he was the one who winged me. Couldn’t have done it face to face. Had to have an entire crew backing him up, the grid-licker. And I’m pretty sure that’s Foucault—a dropship veteran turned rogue, worked as a bounty hunter out past 100z. Let me see ... Mace Conners, fought on the Forjorean moons after Cardie and Brink bought it. He’s a pilot, though. Worked as a high-end border runner a while back. I know someone who crewed for him—or used to, she’s dead now. But Conners is no manhunter. Too long in the tooth. He’ll be the one who zipped the Finagler ship in through the sat net. We can take him.

“Don’t know the squat guy. He’s a solid unit, though. Jesus. And the one spiking his boots, I can’t quite ... oh, shit. That better not be who I think it is!” With that the big outlaw shot up, stumbled back a few steps, his good hand clutching for a sidearm that wasn’t there. The color had drained from his face. “Lorca,” he whispered.

Vaughn dredged his memory of known perps. “Mateo Lorca? The cartel boss?”

Finnegan slowly shook his head. “You’re a generation out, Omicron, as usual. Mateo Lorca had two sons: Ignacio and Lorenzo. Both worse than him in just about every way. Several years back, I was forced to take a job hijacking a shipment of pyro. What I didn’t know was a rival outfit had also been given the same rendezvous. Shit hit the fan, we both lost over half our guys in a shoot-out. Their leader turned psychotic, started firing at the pyro tanks we were hiding behind. Luckily those tanks can withstand small-arms fire, but if he’d used anything bigger, he’d have blown us up all right, along with every damn thing in that quadrant! So I had no choice. I got my people to flank him using bulkhead panels as shields, then I sneaked across the tops of the tanks and blew his head off from above. Little did I know it was Ignacio Lorca. And ever since then, his brother, Lorenzo, his sworn a blood oath to get even.”

“So it’s purely personal for him. He’s not usually a part of Diurnal.”

The big guy shrugged. It hurt his shoulder. “He must’ve joined when he heard who they were hunting. That puts a whole new spin on this thing. He’s not here for the Fleece. He’s here for my blood—the getting of it—as slow and as painful as he can make it. It’s revenge he’s after, pure and simple, and he’ll die before he gives up this manhunt. That’s who we’re up against now, Detective. That’s who’s going to be tracking us.” He looked down at his boots, then up at each of them in turn. “Maybe it’s time we parted ways. This has gotten way out of hand. It’s all on me. The doc here shouldn’t have to face what’s coming. None of you should. Christ, I should never have come here.”

Vaughn’s pent-up frustration had been piling throughout the outlaw’s whiny little speech. Now it crashed, like a wave against an invisible cliff, and his barely suppressed growl almost tore the lining off his throat. It was as though vinegar had shot from his core to his extremities. If he could have hit Finnegan without maiming him further, he’d have whaled on him till there was no vinegar left.

“Vaughn, don’t—” Jan could see he was a hair’s breadth from unleashing violence on the outlaw. She took him by the arm, led him away, with a growling Stopper extending the hostilities back toward the cowed Finnegan.

“Wait!” Carlisle stopped them, and held Vaughn’s arm horizontal so he could watch the germs’ vidfeed. “There’s something else. Something just dashed in ahead of them. A creature of some kind. Quite big—a bit bigger than Stopper, if I had to guess. Look, there!” He pointed out a masked, black-and-dun-striped quadruped slinking low across the ground, almost spider-like, before it reared up on its powerful hind legs and clawed at thin air, as though it were shadow-boxing. But it appeared to be gesturing to Pike, who knew exactly what it wanted. He crouched beside it, and removed a cap over a sensor on the side of its breathing mask. The creature then brushed its claw across the sensor. This retracted the visor with a snap, revealing a hideously scarred head that bore asymmetrical features. It had a damaged bony crest, long whiskers, a mouth that irised open into a rictus of non-breathing disgust, and myriad gill-like slits for its eyes, hearing and olfactory senses. The central rows of slits flared open as it thrust its head out in the direction of the trail Vaughn’s party had broken.

“A guytrash,” Jan and Carlisle said at the same time.

“It’s locking onto our scents,” she explained. “It can’t breathe this air, but it can sniff for several moments without needing to respire fully—long enough to scent-track—before it touches that sensor again to put its mask back on. See. It’s well-trained. This is what it’ll do at regular intervals, anytime they lose our trail.”

“It’s how they can track you across entire worlds,” added Finnegan. “Guytrash never loses his quarry.”

“It’s actually male and female,” she corrected him. “The hermaphrodite caste has the heightened senses—they’re the hunters and protectors on their home world.”

“Whatever it is, we need to be where it isn’t,” said Vaughn. “Get ready to move. I’m going to try and take Pike out.”

“You think that’ll work?” asked Jan.

He shrugged. “Either way, we’re gonna have a pissed-off pack of mercenaries on our six. So we’ll need to up our pace whenever there’s even footing. Okay, here goes nothing.”

Using subtle germ-craft, he maneuvered the tiny explosive agent out of its hiding place in the nook above the hunters. He immediately zeroed in on a target—what he took to be a combustible fuel tank lying on the ground between the two Finaglers. He guessed it was either a flame thrower unit or some kind of jetpack, origin unknown. Vaughn held his breath as he inched the germ around the shoulder of a passing merc; its automatic collision avoidance kicked in when an erect rifle muzzle almost smashed into it. He glanced at the other germ’s panoramic vidfeed and couldn’t believe his luck. The tank was perfectly situated to wreak havoc on the posse when it exploded. Over half of them were likely within the blast radius.

Yes, this conflagration would be a thing of beauty ...

It might even end the hunt before it even started.

He picked his spot on the underside of the tank, where it appeared to be most lightly armored, and programmed the command for immediate detonation upon contact. The mercs were oblivious as it hovered between them, locked into its suicide run.

Vaughn anticipated the lag from the actual moment of detonation to the sound of it reaching them through the cave. The echoes might reverberate for miles into the underworld.

But there was something awry. A jump in the attacking germ’s visual feed seemed to trigger some kind of rewind, making it seem as though it was reversing its path and flying backwards, ascending instead of descending. It made no sense. None. Until he looked closer at the other germ’s feed and noticed Diurnal’s drone was hovering over his own assassin. It was controlling it somehow, drawing it back from its target.

With bitter chagrin, Vaughn sent the command for manual detonation. If he couldn’t take out any hunters, he could at least cripple their bastard drone.

Nothing happened.

He sent the command again, tried several others. The germ would not respond.

Son of a—

A vivid flashback to the Big Red theme park on Mars cut short his vent of frustration. Sixsmith had somehow disabled all Vaughn’s germs by deactivating one with a click of his fingers. No way could he let that happen again. Not here.

He isolated the captured germ and firewalled its feedback uplink, then recalled the second sentry from its vantage point farther inside the cave. No sooner had it about-faced and begun its recall flight than a grinning man’s face filled the captured germ’s visual feed. Close to, it was distorted, but Vaughn recognized him instantly.

Tamerlane Pike.

“You’re not even trying, Detective.”

Vaughn swallowed when he realized even his attempt to sever the connection had failed. The live feed was open from both ends—Pike had initiated a two-way conversation. Yet, Vaughn still had complete control over the other germs, so he had managed to isolate this captured drone, just not fully disconnect it.

“A few more moves like those and this hunt won’t even be worth the boot leather. You disappoint me, Vaughn.”

Jan slowly shook her head at him, as if to say, Don’t engage with this grid-licker. It’s exactly what he wants.

But Vaughn had encountered every type of psyche warfare, had studied its foundational theories. In his experience, the first to engage in it were usually compensating for something. They tended to be the least prepared for an actual physical contest. In this unknown alien environment, Pike was arguably at a disadvantage. Time was against him, and he knew it. So he was projecting an edge he probably knew he didn’t have.

“Save it, Pike. You’re a long way from Kansas, and you’ll never catch us.”

“You reckon? I have a posse of professional trackers here that says otherwise. We’ve hunted everywhere there’s an atmosphere and someone dumb enough to run. And we’ve never missed.”

“No? That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Then you’ve heard wrong, lawman.”

“From what I’ve seen you’re all brand and no guts. You can scare the average loner into cornering himself, but when you’re up against someone who knows what the hell he’s doing, you’re just another posse pretending to piss in the tall grass with the big dogs. I’ve known bullies like you all my career, Pike. You’re nothing special. If you were, you wouldn’t need to be here now. You’d have had what you came for months ago. Instead, you’re on a trail that leads to a dead end, in a place you don’t know the first thing about, on a planet you could never hope to understand.”

Pike’s lips receded, leaving a death’s head grin of too many teeth, most polished, a few capped with precious metals. “You’ve really no idea what you’re up against, have you.” It wasn’t a question. “How quaint.”

Vaughn just grinned right back. “This is the second time we’ve spoken, and we still haven’t met face to face. A pity it’ll never happen. The call’s gone out, Pike. Local law enforcement will have you in custody before this chase even gets interesting. Face it, you picked the wrong cave to get trapped in.”

Pike faked a gormless expression as he shrugged. “The law, you say? Ever wonder why it’s never caught up with us?”

Vaughn didn’t reply.

“Well, chew on that while you run, Detective. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“Last chance, Pike. Leave now and none of you needs to die.”

“Okay, and here’s my counter: hand Finnegan over and the rest of you can go free. You have my word. One less outlaw sonofabitch at large has to be a net gain for the species, right?”

“It depends on the species.”

“Touché.”

Vaughn’s finger hovered over the command to kill the feed, but he hated the feeling that he’d been bested in this exchange. Diurnal’s exit strategy was now a crucial factor. Pike didn’t appear at all fazed by the fact that his posse would be trapped underground when the authorities arrived. Was he really that arrogant? Was he feigning indifference? Or did his people have some sort of immunity from arrest—a kind of black-ops carte blanche, the way privateers used to carry letters of marque from the governments who sponsored, in all but name, their illegal piratical actions. Pike had hinted at that. He’d planted that seed. And now Vaughn was unsure about everything, including himself—his ability to outwit an opponent he may have sorely underestimated.

No way could he quit this exchange on the backfoot like that.

“I’d fire up that field guide if I were you, Pike. So much to learn, so little time to practice.”

“Don’t worry about us. We have our ways.” Pike nodded to someone in his posse, then started walking. Still he kept the vidfeed open. “Well, I guess the race is on, Detective.”

Jan kept tugging at Vaughn’s arm. Though he was determined to get the final word, nothing cutting or witty sprang to mind, so he left with: “It’s on, all right. Hope you like the surprise. Vaughn, out.”

A feeble seed of doubt compared to the one Pike had sown, but it was better than nothing. And over the course of the coming pursuit, it would not be an idle threat, he vowed.

“Okay, this is it—”

His companions were already jogging ahead—borderline sprinting, in fact—as he sealed the returning germ in its containment unit and kicked into a tense but steady run after them, down, down into the warm, peppery spray of a headwind that whistled through the catacomb darkness of Stopper’s chosen passage.

​Chapter Six

The steady, tepid headwind breeze that had streamed through the cave nonstop for the best part of four hours suddenly gained force, a hot, raking force, as they ventured out onto the most perilous section so far: a narrow rock ledge that overhung a fathomless gorge. A natural, fibrous canopy, almost skin-like in its thinness and tautness, stretched across the drop, swelling and billowing upward in arrhythmic waves that rolled the full length of the gorge. It appeared to be respiring, but they were just flexes powered by a hot wind determined to rise from beneath it. Through the translucent material, a reddish-orange glow hinted at a river of molten rock far below. At sections where the canopy was frayed, especially at the sides, strange fronds were visible underneath. They hung and swung in double-helix couplings, basking in the heat from below while catching moisture and tiny organisms brought in by the wind.

“You wouldn’t know it, but there’s an entire ecosystem under there,” Jan told them. “Fragile to us, but amazingly durable. The conditions are just right. It’s an untouched little kingdom that has no conception of the outer world.”

“How fragile?” asked Finnegan.

“One step and you’d fall right through. And it’d probably take years to repair the damage. The canopy itself is one giant living organism.”

On hearing this, Carlisle insisted they all be roped together, with Stopper on his lead out front. The two grav trolleys wobbled under the constant buffeting from the wind, but even that sideswiping action couldn’t capsize them. Vaughn was glad now he hadn’t sacrificed one for an inane booby-trap. They were true marvels of colonial technology; as long as their power cells lasted, they would hover at any desired height and speed, and bear any load with a self-corrective balance any living creature would kill for.

Finnegan, suffering from his loss of blood and the drowsy effect of his pain meds, had earlier ridden in one of the trolleys for several miles downhill. He’d quickly balked at the turbulent passage on entering this gorge, however, had taken one look over the side at the molten glow below and had hopped out with the agility of someone half his age.

There’d been no sound or sign of their pursuers since the exchange with Pike, but Vaughn’s hindmost position kept him hyper-vigilant at all times. The creaking swells of the canopy increased the tense air of uncertainty. No way Diurnal could have made up that much ground so soon, yet there was always the threat posed by their bastard probe, or something smaller, sneakier getting past, mapping the route ahead, or setting a trap. So Vaughn had deployed a brace of germs to trail him, to alert him to anything or anyone that approached.

Also, he’d re-run the recording of the exchange, to try to figure out what Pike’s strategy might be, by reading his body language. Even for a psychopath, the guy’s cocksure demeanor didn’t add up, not with the resources his posse appeared to be carrying. Either he was hiding supplies to give Vaughn a false sense of security—possible, even likely—or he knew something about this cave system that Jan did not. Possible but unlikely. They were deep under the sea bed by now, and these caves had never been officially mapped. Scouted preliminarily by probes, yes, but unless Diurnal had managed to hack the Alien Safari database and knew precisely which records to look for, and how to translate those detailed coded schematics ...

No, that was far-fetched. He was overthinking this, overestimating his opponent. Pike had played his part well, that was all, had got Vaughn looking for angles that weren’t there.

This would play out as it was always supposed to: a straight chase through unknown terrain.

So why was he so uneasy? Why didn’t he trust this head-start they’d had?

“We’ve got a steep climb up ahead!” Jan warned them. “The shelf ends, but there’s another cave higher up the cliff wall facing us. We’ll have to take turns riding the second trolley. It’s not that much farther up, but it’s over a sheer drop. Vaughn, you can use your tasker. Go up there first, see if it’s a viable route. Stopper’s nose is pointing him there. It is where the wind is coming from. Otherwise, we’ll have to double back, try to find another tunnel.”

Not exactly a textbook job for the tasker—he’d have to swing across once the harpoon had dug in—but there was no other way out of here that he could see. Plenty of nooks and cavities far along the cliff wall where the gorge wound to the left, but they were impossible to reach without stepping out onto the canopy, or chancing a recce flight in the grav trolley.

Vaughn took aim with his tasker, zeroed a spot about a meter below the lip of the cave opposite. As he was about to release the harpoon, he glimpsed Stopper’s agitation in the corner of his eye. The rascal was straining against his leash, pulling Jan toward the edge of the shelf. But he wasn’t focused on the cave above; something to the left, out across the canopy, had got him worked up. But what? His barks weren’t angry or aggressive. They were more expectant, solicitous, as though he was ready to play but impatient because his mistress and master were otherwise engaged. Only here he was barking at nothing. There was just a gently flexing canopy, the same uniform warm glow from beneath, a jagged turn into gloomy nothingness beyond.

Jan reached into her jacket pocket for her dog whistle to calm him, but another high-pitched tone beat her to it. Almost too high for human hearing, it slid up and down the octaves of upper harmonics with an unnerving control. This was no whistling of the wind. It had a musicality, as though an utterly alien instrument was being played somewhere in the lofty caverns of the underworld, out of sight but not out of hearing range.

Stopper sensed its origin was close by. He stood tall and proud, his mouth quivering in an intensely curious doggie sneer. Then the high-pitched tones ended and a series of lower staccato clicks emerged. A large dashing creature streaked across the canopy from unseen entrance to unseen exit. Vaughn couldn’t tell its exact shape, only that it had more than four limbs, was slender, kept low, and moved far quicker than Stopper, with light footfalls that barely depressed the fibrous surface.

Again, Stopper let loose a solicitous bark. He didn’t sense danger; quite the opposite. This creature had made itself known to him before it had appeared—announcing its intentions weren’t hostile? Or was it some alien ploy designed to charm foreign interlopers with its music, before luring them into a deadly trap?

Damn it, thought Vaughn. Why is Pike living rent-free in my head? Why am I so paranoid?

So he deferred to Stopper, who was the best barometer for danger here. His instincts were king, and he was not alarmed.

“What was that?” Vaughn asked Jan.

“Too quick to make out. There’s probably more than one. It was communicating.”

“Looked pretty big. Is it dangerous?”

“Too soon to tell,” she replied. “Stops doesn’t think so, but we should still be on our guard.”

“Solo shyness is easily overcome by pack aggression,” added Carlisle.

“Exactly,” said Jan. “It’s a new species, a new ecosystem. They might fear intruders on the outskirts, but if we wander into their domain, that’s likely a different story. Don’t worry,” she noted Finnegan’s sharp glance askance, “Stops will steer us on the safest path. It’s what he was born for.”

The same could be said for Vaughn, but here he had no insight into the sensescape around him. Its sights and sounds were alien, its smells denied him. As he swung onto the opposite wall and let the harpoon’s cable hoist him up, an acute alienation gouged him deep inside. It left a keening suck in his gut. He realized there could be literally anything waiting for him up there, ready to strike.

Anything. Or nothing.

The way of the underworld.

The upper cave was a barren wind tunnel that stretched for about half a kilometer before debouching into a vast sanctum honeycombed with smaller caves and covered with hairy vegetation that swayed under the swirls and punches of the hot wind. This dominant plant clung so tenaciously to the stalagmites that it had managed to smother all of them to the last inch save the very tips. The stalactites, however, it didn’t touch, except where counterpart rock growths had merged into columns. The ground all about was a spongy bed littered with what looked like animal droppings, though there was no sign of the excreting creatures. Vaughn imagined herds of migrating grazers feeding on the hairy plants, or a colony of flying creatures that lived in the upper vaults of the cave.

Stopper followed his nose to a warm water spring in the heart of the sanctum. The spongy carpet gave way to a silty grit around it, and the tracks of myriad creatures were evident. Jan and Carlisle were beside themselves recording the print patterns with their omnicams for later study, while Stopper treated himself to a nice long drink.

It seemed a decent enough place to rest for a while, so Vaughn and Finnegan broke out the blankets, flasks and snacks for a makeshift picnic. When he saw it, Carlisle shared an amused aside with Jan. They both regarded the two non-scientists with a kind of paternal affection, like they would any wayward children on a class field trip who’d made an endearing, innocent faux-pas. When Vaughn smiled back and inquired as to the source of their amusement, the First Ranger pointed out that “in the wild, a watering hole is the last place you want to linger. It’s somewhere every creature comes to drink. Some of these tracks will have been left by the apex predators, whatever they are. I’d rather not be around when they come back, would you?”

But Finnegan, yawning as he cradled his wounded arm, was stubborn at the best of times. “I’m not going another step until I’ve noshed up and recharged. Anyway, you’re forgetting,” he said, with a pat of his gun’s stock over his shoulder, “our bark is louder than theirs, and we bite harder. So chill, Doc, and Doc. Let’s we be in charge for a bit. What do you say?”

Jan rolled her eyes. “Ten minutes, then we move.”

Meanwhile, Stopper glared at an errant shape that kept flitting between the runners of ground mist at the edge of the lamps’ reach. It was a form low, slender and agile, capable of astonishing leaps from one vertical rock to another, or dashing across the sponge bed without so much as a whisper. One morphing eye caught the glare of lamp light again and again, but seemed to be a slightly different shape each time. And every now and then a sliding musical tone would echo like a snippet of distorted melody from some distant fairground steam organ lost in the mists of time.

The deeper they ventured, the more prodigious the alien flora became. Heat from geothermal vents, combined with a constant inflow of mist saturated with water vapor, produced a sweltering tropical environment resplendent with new plant species and the tenant lifeforms that thrived among them. But in a place devoid of sunlight, how could anything flourish with such variety so abundantly? After much nerdy debate between the two scientists, it was Jan who lucked on the answer. When brushing a stray insect off her visor, she accidentally caught the off switch on her breather lamp, plunging the way ahead into darkness.

Only it wasn’t dark—not really. A dusky natural light emanated from all quarters of the cavern. The vegetation and the bare rock itself were dusted with a phosphorescent light-emitting material. Jan and Carlisle quickly agreed on a theory to explain it. The fact that the incoming breeze was so moist suggested a large water source deeper inside. As the oceans of Hesperidia were eloquent of bioluminescent organisms, it stood to reason, they said, that there might be a sizeable subterranean river or even sea, fed by the upper ocean, that had supplied this colony with all manner of aquatic life-forms, including the crucial light-emitting infusoria that had in turn adapted and evolved to become a kind of elemental power source for all life in this hidden realm.

Pretty soon they began to see creatures hiding in the undergrowth. Small at first, about the size of gibhusks or rodents, but more and more larger scurrying forms rustled the vegetation, some climbing up and around the braided vines to caves higher up. Long, segmented albino creatures trailing bulbous sacs. Tumbling forms that snatched up fronds or leaves to camouflage their hasty retreats. One sneaky lizard-like hopper kept trying to snatch up the light-emitting organisms with its long whip of a tongue, until the local denizens, some kind of thorny, ambulant mollusks that dragged spiked tails behind them, swarmed it with such sudden ferocity it was like watching antibodies react to a threatening invader.

But even where life was at its most profuse, there was always a thoroughfare, well-trod, joining one cave section to the next. This occurrence Jan attributed to “a hierarchy of the underworld. It’s a path of least resistance. When the bigger creatures pass through, the little ones will know to stay out of their way, and the bigger ones, unless they’re hunting, won’t want to go out of their way to cause disruption. So it’s a kind of live and let live resulting in an unmolested highway for the big boys. Like us.”

“Until we meet one coming the other way,” Finnegan pointed out.

No replies to that, other than a few hard swallows.

As the natural light grew stronger, its emitters larger, more profligate—bright enough for the company to switch off all their lamps and save power—Carlisle theorized that they were getting closer to the elusive water source. “It’s a diffusive phenomenon,” he explained. “The further the luminous organisms spread from the source, the weaker they become. We must be nearing the epicenter. My guess is an underground lake.”

“Let’s hope there’s a way around it, or it’s not too deep to cross,” said Vaughn. “I’d rather not—”

“Shh!” Jan halted them all, and crouched beside Stopper, who was standing rigid, sniffing up into the breeze. “Was is it, boy?”

The big Boxer growled.

Vaughn palmed his holster. “Jan, is something coming?”

“I’m not sure. He’s caught a scent he doesn’t like, but ... it’s odd, he’s usually like this when ... okay, let’s try something. I’ve got an idea.” She held out her flat palm in front of him at about knee height. He looked down at it, thought for a moment, then pawed her hand. Jan immediately announced, in a low voice to the group, “It’s what I thought. He can smell someone—a stranger—up ahead.”

“Someone?” asked Finnegan. “You mean something.”

“No. I mean a person. There’s a human somewhere in this cave ahead of us—how close, I don’t know. Stops can detect a smell from hundreds of miles away. But this is close enough to halt him in his tracks. So we need to go carefully from now on.” She whispered, “Vaughn, maybe you should send a germ on ahead.”

He considered it, then shook his head. “That might give away our advantage. Right now, whoever it is doesn’t know that we know. If it’s an ambush, let them think we’re oblivious. Then when we get closer, we can figure out how to turn the tables. Can you keep Stops quiet?”

“Yes, he knows not to give the game away when we’re hunting.”

“One question,” said Finnegan. “How do you know it’s a human? How did he tell you? How did he know how to tell you?”

“It was an early lesson he learned. His parents learned it too. We used it as a shorthand when we were hunting for a missing person. Without a specific scent sample, we needed some way to differentiate between alien wildlife and humans. So if he’s found a human scent, he paws my open hand. If it’s an alien threat, he paws away at thin air. Simple. We’ve not used it for a long time, though.”

Finnegan quirked an eyebrow. “Next you’ll be telling me he plays poker.”

“Well, you’ve already seen his straight flush.” She shot the outlaw a wink. He sniggered, shaking his head.

“Funny you should mention it, though,” he said. “I’ve not seen him cock his leg up in a while. He was marking his territory every few minutes on the way in.”

“It’s his way of being diplomatic. Scent-marking can provoke local creatures, and he knows that. He’s learned it through bitter experience. So he won’t risk it, not till we’re somewhere a little safer.”

Finnegan squeezed the grip of his trolley, ready to guide it on. “He should run for Congress. He’s smarter than half those feckless, war-mongering sons of bitches.”

“Lead us on, Jan,” whispered Vaughn, drawing his sidearm as he strode just behind her, slightly to her side. “We have to keep moving—steady pace, but cautious. Let me know when we’re getting close.”

“D’you hear that, Stops? We’ve just been deputized.”

The big rascal’s ears twitched at that remark, but he was so focused on his quarry ahead that he didn’t even turn to show his affection.

Now the unspoken question permeated the company’s silent advance, but Vaughn found himself strangely reassured by this new discovery. Yes, a trap had been set for them. Its strength and design were unknown. But if this was Pike’s ace in the hole, the reason he’d been so confident during their exchange, then he’d just lost that element of surprise. Also, the ambush couldn’t involve lethal force because they wanted Finnegan alive. They wanted what he was carrying, so they couldn’t use explosives. And tranquilizer gas wouldn’t answer; they were all wearing breathers.

No, Pike’s big gamble was far from the slam-dunk he’d hinted at.

The pressing question, though—how the ambusher or ambushers had gotten ahead of them in the cave like this—was a puzzle Vaughn really wanted to know the answer to. It was wide open to speculation, but he was almost certain they hadn’t overtaken him via some other tunnel.

No, they’d found another way in. Maybe Pike had sent his ship to scout ahead from the air, following the lie of the volcanic island chain in the hopes of spotting another ingress point. The cave network so far had descended quite a long way beneath the ocean bed, but not so far as to be unreachable from, say, a fissure in another volcanic crater.

A speculative gambit, then, but it had worked. Diurnal had got lucky. And shortly the outcome of the hunt would be decided.

They won’t have risked many personnel on such a long shot, he thought. And there won’t have been time for the posse to double-back and then fly on ahead to reinforce this ambush. No, there’ll be one or two at most. I play this right, we’re home free.

The runners of ground mist changed shape like the rags of ghostly sheets streaming taut in the wind. A cooler current undercut the warm breeze; it was as though two competing draughts, one from outside, one from volcanic depths, were jostling shoulder to shoulder as they raced through the cavern.

Finnegan strode out alone, guiding his grav trolley ahead of him at a slightly more elevated line than usual. With each step, his sidearm nudged his hip in its unclasped holster. He was quick on the draw, always had been, but this posse out to get him featured killers even more lethal. He had a fair chance, he reckoned, of snapping off a shot first. If not, well, getting hit with a tranq dart wasn’t the end of the world. At least the ambusher would have given away his position. But how certain was he that a tranq dart would be used, and not something deadlier?

Not certain at all. But it was worth the risk.

Hell, he’d gotten them into this mess. In a few moments’ time, one way or the other, he might be able to tip the odds back in their favor.

A couple of feet off the ground, the trolley wobbled like it had while rising over the canopy back in the gorge. The more it defied gravity, the more power it used, the less stable it became. But it was all that hovered between Finnegan and his fate.

He saw the end of the bottleneck ahead, where the passage opened into a large, barren cave, a sort of junction: an intersection of umpteen tunnels in multiple directions. He knew all this because Vaughn’s germs had already scouted it. Not directly, of course. They’d ferreted through the maze of cracks and crevices until they’d found a circuitous route to the junction. Careful scans had revealed four arterial passages were already being surveilled by sophisticated spotter devices. The ambusher didn’t know which way Finnegan and his party would come, only the general direction they would be heading in. So he’d set eyes on the likeliest tunnels. Luckily, the germs had found one he’d missed, probably because it was higher up, and far too small for the trolleys to fit through.

They’d seen roughly where he was hiding. Ahead to the right, behind a stumpy stalagmite with an odd humplike growth. No evidence of explosive booby traps, but Vaughn’s germs were relics of a bygone era; in terms of artificial intelligence, they were wasps hunting hawks.

Finnegan could be about to step on something that brought the whole cave down on him. Or something that atomized him, and only him, so suddenly that he’d never know it.

Hell, when have I not been in the crosshairs? This shit gets old ... old man.

Only it didn’t, and he wasn’t ... at least he didn’t feel old. Adrenaline was high-octane blood fuel that always seemed to replenish its full tank, no matter how many times he’d ignited that fight-or-flight instinct. It gave him his edge, kept him sharp, agile. A survivor.

Okay, make your move, suck-bait.

He was in the open now, striding out into no man’s land. His side glance caught the humpbacked outcrop behind runners of ground mist. No movement other than those diaphanous streaks coasting by on the breeze. Still the trolley wobbled. Still there was no sign of a booby trap: tripwire, landmine, stripper, crossbones—nothing.

It felt more and more old-school ... the way Vaughn would want it.

Maybe the ambusher was waiting for the others to appear. Maybe he himself smelled a trap. If he was indeed on his own down here, he might not make his move until there was—

“Now!”

Carlisle’s voice over the comm channel shocked him, even though he’d been expecting it. Finnegan saw two figures appear in quick succession. The first popped up from behind the humpback rock, dusty, heavily armored. He was aiming a one-handed gun right at Finnegan. The instinct to dash and duck for cover behind the trolley needed no further impetus. But the sudden appearance of the second man so close to Finnegan—absurdly close—a little over a meter away—spurred him into an urgency that seemed to slow time itself while he dove to ground.

That visceral image of Vaughn leaping up from inside the trolley, throwing out his Hail Mary in a brilliant plumed shield of plasma light, seared itself onto Finnegan’s retina, half-blinding him for a few moments.

The whole thing was over before he had chance to fumble his pistol from its holster. But, though dazzled, he saw enough. The ambusher’s first tranq dart had sailed inches past Finnegan’s bandaged shoulder as he’d dived. The second dart, trained on Vaughn’s sudden erect form, was swallowed by the plasma shield—a small, brief singularity that absorbed or sucked in anything in the direction it faced, including light.

He may or may not have fired a third dart. It made no difference. The ambusher dropped that weapon and drew his twin-barreled pulse cannon instead. At that range, with a high spread, its blast might have knocked the trolley out from under Vaughn if he’d aimed low. That would have been disastrous for the lawman, as he wouldn’t have been able to hold the Hail Mary in its current position if he’d fallen out; it might have atomized him.

An explosive sniper bullet ripped into the ambusher instead. It caught him in the collar, center neck, and blew his windpipe and spinal cord out between his shoulders. The runners of mist nearby were briefly sprayed red. The man fell back, dead.

“Tell me you got him,” said Vaughn, unable to see through the oily haze of dissipating plasma ahead of him.

“Roger that—he’s down for good,” replied Carlisle, perched high in the nook of a cave a long way behind Vaughn—the germs’ own hollow. It had been too narrow for a trolley to fit through, but not for a crawling man.

“Finnegan? Are you hit?” asked Vaughn.

The outlaw shook his head. “Wouldn’t relish being bait again, though. He missed me by a whisker.”

“Me too. He was fast—too damn fast.”

“But not fast enough,” Jan reminded them, trotting out of the passage with Stopper straining on his lead. “Do we knew who he is ... was?”

“No idea,” replied Finnegan. “But we need to search him thoroughly. Take anything that might give us an edge. If we have their decrypted comms frequency, we might be able to listen in.”

“Good call.” Vaughn jumped down from the trolley, and kissed the back of the Hail Mary pendant before pocketing it. “That’s one I owe you, Leif.”

Then they all went to examine the gruesome remains together.

​Chapter Seven

Blood and fuel.

So those were how Diurnal had managed to track Finnegan with such unerring accuracy ever since Rurapenti. Some kind of radioactive signature they’d tagged both him and his ship with. The ambusher’s supplies didn’t exactly provide a trove of intel, but three items were of note. A long-range spectrographic tracker, mounted on his helmet, gave regular updates on its target’s rough position and proximity. At close range, it corresponded precisely with Finnegan’s. That meant the big outlaw had to be carrying something which emitted that trackable signature. Most likely the bullet that had pierced his shoulder had released tiny nano-tracers into his bloodstream. Not enough for pinpoint tracking through so much solid rock, but it had transmitted enough of a signal to give the ambusher an idea of Finnegan’s general progress. Using that trend as a guide from the surface, he’d gambled, and lucked into, an ingress point somewhere up ahead. His device also utilized magnetic resonance imagery to find hollows and tunnels in the rock.

This was state of the art hunting tech.

Even more impressively, his omnipod held the tracking data for Finnegan’s Menander ship all the way from Rurapenti to Hesperidia. Each time Diurnal had encountered that radioactive trace signature, its coordinates and rate of decay had been logged, allowing them to join the dots of his escape journey.

“They must have injected it into my fuel system somehow, those sneaky bastards.” Finnegan spat on the dead body of his enemy as a parting gesture before they moved on. “In the landing bay—I bet they tagged every ship there, just in case. I was out of there pretty quick after I’d taken a shot at Pike, but I guess it wasn’t quick enough.” He rolled his sore shoulder, nursed his arm in its sling.

“Well, at least now we know,” said Jan. “They’ve still got that edge, but it won’t do them much good if we keep the pace up, right?”

“That’s right.” Carlisle slung the ambusher’s rucksack into the grav trolley. “Unless they’ve sent more than one person ahead, the status quo hasn’t changed. It’s still a foot race.”

The rucksack contained a small arsenal of adaptable firearms, mini explosives, spotters, and enough food, water, and spare oxygen to last one person a couple of days. His omnipod’s comm channels remained encrypted, however, so they couldn’t listen in to or read Diurnal’s messages. The final item of note was a triple-thruster jetpack, identical to those Vaughn had seen the two Finaglers tote into the cave. He placed that inside the grav trolley as well, not so much for its intended use—none of them were rated to pilot it, despite Finnegan’s claim that he’d used one during a heist getaway one time—but maybe they could rig it as another explosive? Or at least take it apart, figure out how to disable the Finaglers’ own jetpacks somehow.

Thus equipped, they jogged on into the gusty headwind. After passing through another couple of tunnels and antechambers, they each switched on their visor’s automatic wipers; a spray of fine droplets had begun to pepper them. The gusty draught still blew hot and cold, only more so, its extremes no longer comingled, hinting at an imminent bifurcation.

A series of fast-flowing rivulets cut across their path. Stopper sniffed at them but didn’t drink. Given how thirsty he must be, that suggested it wasn’t safe to imbibe. Jan’s guess of seawater was proved right with one little sip. She spat it back out with disgust.

“I think we’re nearing the source,” said Carlisle, pointing out the bioluminescent flecks that twinkled on the water’s surface when he switched off his lamp. Pockets of vegetation began to appear around catchments of water in sheltered grottos, together with glimpses of scurrying, slithering creatures in the cracks and crannies nearby.

Sounds of babbling water, a whumping of what might have been wings or another natural canopy up ahead, and howls of wind: all now echoed through the faint-glowing upper reaches of the cavernous passage they traversed. Its shape was no longer severely flanked. Rather the smooth walls splayed outward as they climbed on either side, as they would out of an ancient, well-worn river bed. The rivulets, too, no longer crossed their path. There was only a single gentle stream, ankle-deep, running head-on against them.

Stopper hopped onto a fallen boulder, thrust his snout high, sniffed, then peered round at the rest of them, as if to ask why they were so non-responsive when he’d been such a good boy in discovering—

“Ah, so that’s how he got in!”

Jan, at least, had been alert enough to look up. There she pointed out, maybe a kilometer or so above, a sliver of tan light—daylight—at the top of a large chimney in the rock. The ambusher had to have flown down through that, using his jetpack, and scouted for his ideal ambush spot.

Her omnipod’s internal compass and pedometer estimated her position at roughly the coordinates of one of the outermost islands in the archipelago. So she had to be looking up inside an ancient volcanic chimney, its opening accessible from the island’s crater.

A clever move by Diurnal.

But not clever enough to outwit Stopper. She lavished him with praise, and he jumped down, excited that he’d pleased her, his animated tail lashing the water, and rolled around in the stream while she tickled his belly.

When they’d finished, Finnegan took his turn, giving the Boxer’s flank a grateful pat and rub. He might be a gruff mean outlaw, but he wasn’t ignorant of the fact that he’d likely be unconscious in the enemy’s custody by now, if not dead, if Stopper hadn’t sniffed out the ambush.

A small show of affection, then, but it seemed to thaw the frostiness between them. At the very least, Stopper no longer growled at Finnegan.

The channel wound through the bedrock for at least another two kilometers. Rashes of lilac light wavered in intensity like fiber-optic bleeds blotting static clouds in the upper reaches of the cavern. They revealed silhouettes of intense winged agitation, as though pockets of frenzied feeding or aerial mating balls were passing across the glows in midair. Jan described the acoustic effect, in her live recorded commentary, as “a spastic batwing thunder roll with screeches of rodent-like distress. I’m glad they’re staying up there, whatever the hell they are.”

Carlisle remarked that the rashes of light seemed to become more widespread, and ever-so-slightly brighter, with the appearance of curious braided fronds that hung from the ceiling and twirled in the thermal updraughts, hogging those sources of luminance without smothering the light. Indeed, the skin of alternate strands appeared to reflect said light, while the others absorbed it. A curious phenomenon with a magically decorative effect.

Finnegan’s pace started to flag again, but rather than call another rest period, Vaughn suggested he ride the trolley instead. It was important they gain as much distance as possible from their pursuers. But the big outlaw declined, and grimly lengthened his stride. He’d apparently decided his ego had taken enough of a bruising already.

No sooner had he caught up to the others when the promised bifurcation of the winds arrived at last. The walls of the channel disappeared altogether, and it debouched into a kind of shallow delta: acres of wrinkled silt pocked by sea pools and webbed with a thousand twinkling rivulets. Despite the sudden wide expanse, an eerie claustrophobia reigned here. Vaughn couldn’t tell what caused it right away. It was just an oppressive feeling, an invisible weight that somehow crushed the relief of being free from the confines of the channel.

As usual, Jan didn’t settle for such vague impressions. Her scientific mind investigated right away, and the infrared visor overlay unlocked the secret: She told them all to switch theirs on, and explained: “It’s a hanging forest—absolutely massive. The roots must grow deep into the ceiling to hold all that weight. Look at it! How low the fronds reach, to a few meters above the water. And those vines that hang down from them like whiskers, touching the water: they must drink it up, feeding the entire forest. I wonder how far it stretches, and why it hangs down instead of standing upright. I wonder what else lives in there! David, think about it—an entirely new subterranean arboreal ecosystem, completely self-sufficient, with no ties to the upper world.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” replied the First Ranger. “Look across the water. See the swirls of the eddy. It’s a moving current—a river. There’s something feeding it. And from the direction it’s moving, that something has a cooler origin; the tailwind is noticeably colder than the headwind.”

“You think it’s fed by some cataract from the upper ocean?”

“Probably.”

“Then it will be full of upper ocean lifeforms,” she concluded. “So not isolated at all. It’s a hybrid ecosystem: whatever’s evolved on its own down here, continually fed by the upper ocean. No wonder it’s so vigorous. There’s a—”

Finnegan cleared his throat. “This is all fascinating, Doc, but maybe we should get vigorous. Right now I only care about practical science. So come on, what do you eggheads advise? Cold wind one way, hot wind the other: which way do we go from here?”

Jan sighed, and scanned the river delta in either direction. “I haven’t a clue,” she admitted. “David?”

Carlisle shrugged. “It’s pure speculation. It’s a blind gamble either way.”

“That settles it,” said Vaughn. “Stopper, lead the way.”

Jan flashed her lawman boyfriend a secret smile, and winked. “Do you hear that?” she addressed Stopper. “That’s how much they all trust you, ’cause you’re a good boy!”

But the big Boxer’s delighted bounds in his chosen direction—left, into the hot wind—were soon cut short when he spotted a gathering of creatures at the riverbank. They were a little smaller than him, with veiny jellyfish-like domes, and many supple, jointless legs that gave their sidewise motion a slithering glide. Through incredibly long proboscises, extended upward, they were sucking a mucous substance off the undersides of the giant hanging fronds. No more than several seconds to drink each frond exterior dry, then on to the next, and so on, with a gentle give and take that let each member drink his fill in turn.

It might have been Stopper’s approach that startled them. For a moment they were dead still. Then with a snap reflex they all retracted their appendages into coils and shot off across the shallow pools and silt wrinkles with shocking speed toward the cave wall. Only the rashes of glow-light traced their rapid ascent up the vertical rock and into some unseen private hollow where no one could find them.

Then the true cause of their panic made itself known. It wasn’t Stopper, who’d kept his distance. Rather, from the opposite direction, another agile creature raced across the delta at a frightening speed and leapt up onto one of the fronds, an astonishing six or seven meter jump, where it clung for a few moments, watching them with a single, narrow, wide-angled eye, before leaping back down and dashing around in playful rings through sea pools and the river shallows.

It was a wiry hexapod that clearly possessed considerable strength. Apart from its one big eye, which changed shape depending on how close it was to the object of its vision, its most notable features were six flexible rib pipes. At rest, they wrapped around its underbelly and interlocked, becoming rigid. When active, particularly for climbing, it used them as suckers, grapplers, or additional limbs for purchase, whatever the creature needed.

A few times it veered closer to Stopper, as if testing his demeanor. But the big Boxer wasn’t easily rattled. He stood his ground, watching intently without reacting. No growl or bark of aggression. His was a well-honed poise of diplomacy, the canine equivalent of Vaughn’s: give nothing away, let his opponent reveal its own character, its own intentions first, then take the appropriate action.

It spun round and round in tight circles on a dry sandbar, and appeared to be curling up to rest the way a hyperactive puppy does when hit by sudden overtiredness. But that wasn’t the case. It seemed to be some sort of ritualistic display. One by one the rib pipes unfurled and adopted erect, rigid forms. Jan saw that each was attached to its own tough, bag-like respirator at the base, and each pipe boasted gill-like apertures along its tentacular length. When the respirators flexed, independent of one another, and a sprightly atonal melody emerged, she was fascinated.

“Now what have we here?” she commentated her live visual recording. “Sonorous communication? It’s able to suck in air through the apertures and then blow or whistle a variety of musical tones across the octaves. We heard them earlier, back at the gorge. And again, near the watering hole. But what is it trying to say? It appears to be aiming those notes at us—at Stopper. Is it hoping he’ll respond in kind? First all the darting about, to demonstrate its agility, its physical prowess, and now the ritual alien-song. Is it attempting to elicit a reaction? Good ol’ Stops is keeping his cards close to his chest—still weighing this thing up. He usually responds in one of three ways: mostly he ignores the poseurs, creatures that are just trying to impress him; or if he likes the energy presented, he’ll play; otherwise he’ll sense deception or aggression and thrash that creature until it retreats. My hunch is that he’ll ignore this one. It’s a bit too fast, too agile, altogether too showy. On the other hand, it’s kinda sweet. Musical communication isn’t that rare on the Hesp, but I’ve never seen external organs quite like these, or heard anything with such musical range. In evolutionary terms, it’s phenomenal. If only we had more time to interact, to study...”

She began to discern repetition in the phrasing, as though it was developing a musical signature, or motif, to mark the occasion. It played in different octaves, and Stopper’s ears pricked as the melody hiked into the uppermost harmonics of human hearing and into the higher-pitched canine realm. The creature stood up when it saw his reaction, and, holding that same frequency, continued whistling its tune.

Stopper’s tune.

“This is amazing!” she whispered to the men gathered round her. “It’s sounded him out using a system of scales and frequencies. It’s figured out which frequency he likes best.”

“How smart is this thing?” asked Vaughn.

“I don’t know. But Stops is certainly intrigued. No way he’s going to ignore it now.”

True enough, the big Boxer took a few cautious steps, scanned the terrain, in seconds working out a dry route through the maze of sea pools, then trotted over to greet the interlocutor. It furled its rib pipes, bunched itself into a protective posture. Stopper halted. The creature then slunk back with a sly crawl, almost out of sight into a nearby pool, and waited. It seemed to be teasing Stopper to follow. But was it setting some kind of ambush instead? Were there others like it hiding around the cave, and in separating Stopper from his pack like this, were they isolating him for the kill? He was clearly the sense prodigy leading the human intruders through the underworld. Without him, they’d be that much easier to pick off.

But when it saw he wasn’t taking the bait, the creature exploded out of its watery hiding place and raced around him. Stopper spun to keep an eye on it. After a few laps it veered closer, almost within striking range. Stopper lunged, missed it by inches. The thing bounded off toward the river with springy hexapod strides that gave it cheetah-like speed.

Engaged, Stopper launched after it, nowhere near as fast, but in his lumbering gait was the unmistakable ripple of play. He splashed into the eddy and gave a feint to his right, forcing his opponent to switch direction. Stopper then barreled left and caught the creature by surprise with a bulldozing ram, flipping it onto its back. No follow-through, only excited bounds around it, told the creature this was what Boxer-play looked like. The flip didn’t hurt it. Indeed, from the way it righted itself, with a somersault, and proceeded to spring up and over Stopper several times, twice with a deep, taunting musical blow from its rib pipe, anyone could tell it was delighted by the roughhouse play.

Stopper, too, relished the game of cat and mouse. After his early feint, the creature refused to fall for it again, and made sure he had no chance of catching it. Umpteen times it almost let him, to keep him keen, but each time it would leap up onto the giant fronds where he couldn’t follow. Then without warning it upped the ante, returning the favor of his bulldoze-flip with a force that shocked him. Stopper’s limbs flailed through either a double or triple somersault. He landed heavily in the water, scrambled to his feet, dripping and crestfallen, and growled his displeasure.

The creature didn’t seem to understand what it had done wrong. A flip for a flip? Little did it know the baldness of canine pride, or the savagery that lurked just beneath the surface. The line where rough play becomes something more is singular to every species. To Stopper, being shocked, overpowered and unmanned in front of his beloved mistress was not something he was prepared to tolerate. It had issued a primal challenge.

Jan’s frown eased to a proud maternal smile when she saw the creature slink low into the water, blowing plaintive bubbles through its rib pipes to produce a faint rendition of Stopper’s tune—a conciliatory, supplicating gesture, or so it seemed—and Stopper lowered his guard to let his new friend rub against him, even returning the gesture.

“He always was a big softie,” remarked Vaughn. “If only we could make friends with strangers so easily.”

A curious exchange of gestures followed. Stopper pawed at thin air, like he had away from Jan’s open hand earlier, to identify the creature as new in his experience. Then he turned to bark at his human companions, at the same time pawing the water’s surface as though to differentiate them as human.

In return, the creature repeated Stopper’s musical theme, and then turned its gaze upon the humans. As they were farther away from Stopper, its single eye changed shape, narrowing and stretching horizontally. Jan noted the subtle flexing and contraction of muscles controlling an eyelid that surrounded the eyeball. She theorized, in her whispered commentary, “It’s another dexterous feature that probably has multiple uses. It doesn’t blink fully often, but when it does, the skin of the eyelid is tough, scaly, and appears to inflate a little when deployed quickly, for protection, like an airbag. It did this when Stopper flipped it, and again when he growled.”

“The change of eye shape is probably a kind of lensing: the ocular equivalent of a camera using different shapes and widths of lens to focus on objects at different distances. For long distance its shape becomes wide-angled, panoramic, or visor-like. For close range it switches to a rounder vertical shape. It’s watching us, but it hasn’t approached us like it did Stopper.

“I don’t know if the omnipod’s microphone will be able to hear the melodic sounds its emitting. They’re quieter, higher-pitched, not as defined as Stopper’s tune. Almost like it’s unsure how to articulate its impression of us, and doesn’t want to risk offending Stopper. I think this is all for his benefit, not ours. It still hasn’t approached us, whereas it took a shine to him right away. I’ve seen it time and again. A species he’s never encountered before becoming comfortable around him, even familiar with him, after remarkably little interaction. There’s just something about the big rascal that many Hesp creatures seem to be able to intuit. Something he radiates. An integrity maybe. A well-adjusted temperament. A natural curiosity backed up by a gregarious disposition. Whatever it is, he’s the best ambassador Earth has ever had on Hesperidia. Even when he’s—”

“What are those flecks in its iris?” interrupted Vaughn.

“The luminous flecks? What about them?”

“You haven’t noticed? They’re communicating.”

“You said what?” She intensified her gaze into the alien eye. “Communicating how?”

“See how the rashes of flecks lighten and darken. At first I thought it was random, but it’s not. It’s in sequence,” he explained. “Listen to the melody while you watch. The changes in tone and pitch match exactly.”

“He’s right,” said Carlisle after several seconds. “It’s a two-tiered communication. Light and sound together.”

Jan whistled quietly. “That’s remarkable. And well-spotted! I don’t know if I’d have ever seen that. Someone’s been eating his Wheaties.” She nudged Vaughn.

He smiled. “It’s the job, babe. It’s all about the details.”

“I reckon that pattern of flecks will be individual to this one creature,” said Carlisle. “The others of its species will each have their own unique pattern.”

“Like a fingerprint,” added Finnegan.

“Exactly. When it’s pitch black, they’ll be able to tell each other apart by those luminous flecks.”

“And the musical voices,” said Jan. “They’ll likely be individual too.”

No sooner had she said that than another sound, much farther away, drew their gazes to a faint blueish glow deep inside the cavern. It was a shrill ululation, like the din of a smoke alarm, but it didn’t last long, and was replaced by a sequence of rapid, heavy clicks that echoed with the distant crash of an avalanche.

Stopper stood tall, facing its origin. Strangely, the creature did not. It ceased its music-making and its eye-fleck signaling, but continued watching Jan and the others until the echoes tapered to silence. Then without warning it dashed away at top speed in a line so deliberate and straight it was as if it was being guided by some magnetic device.

“It’s a timely reminder,” said Vaughn. “We need to get moving too.”

Jan hmphed. “Poor Stops. No sooner has he made a new friend...”

“Something tells me it’ll be back. From the shape of this shoreline, we’re in for one hell of a trek.”

Stopper trotted back to them, and held his paw up for Jan. When she crouched and showed him her flat open palm, he pawed away from it and wagged his tail.

“Good job. Yes, that’s your new buddy, ’cause you’re a good boy!”

And he trotted on up the beach, proud and expectant, leading them along the wrinkled shoreline of the subterranean sea.

Jan and Carlisle engaged in lively scientific debate over the next few hours while they walked, or occasionally jogged, parallel to the shoreline but at a safe distance from it. A plethora of animal tracks led to and from the water, and though sightings of creatures were scarce, brief, and always from a great distance, the two zoologists knew better than to risk interrupting a drinker or a feeder close to its source of sustenance.

The only contribution Finnegan made during that time was a winning one. While the others had tied themselves in knots trying to name Stopper’s new friend, using XZ nomenclature and comparing it to other known Hesp creatures, the outlaw deflated their pomp with a single word, uttered to Stopper himself:

“Juke.”

The big Boxer’s ears pricked. He looked up at Finnegan with wide-eyed wonder, and gave an approving bark.

“Where’s Juke, eh, boy?”

Again the same reaction, this time with a giddy tail wag. Finnegan flicked Jan an insolent wink. She responded with a playful pout.

They all got the reference to ‘jukebox’, but Jan and Carlisle had never heard that ‘juke’ also meant ‘a quick turn’, as in ‘to juke around a corner’. It was a bit of obscure slang Finnegan and Vaughn had picked up in the gutter colonies. Before long they were all taking turns asking Stopper the same question, knowing how much he liked it: “Where’s Juke?”

Every so often he’d look away to the dark recesses of the cavern, perhaps having heard a distant note emitted at a frequency too high for human ears. But Juke didn’t reappear.

They trudged on well into the night—the omnipods’ internal clocks were the only measures of actual time in this disorienting, rhythmless netherworld—but weariness finally caught up with even the fittest of them, Jan and Stopper, who curled up together on a blanket for one of their customary power naps they relied on out in the field. They normally slept in a tent, but here it seemed neither appropriate nor an efficient use of time to put one up. Instead, the grav trolleys at rest made excellent windbreaks for shelter.

They all took turns at watch. And after an uneventful four hours, enough for a full REM sleep cycle, which none of them quite managed, they set out again.

The long, level, arcing sweep of the shoreline gave an impressive vantage in either direction using infrared. There was no sign of Diurnal so far, but Vaughn had a hunch the hunters had gained a lot of ground since their colleague had been killed. Finding him like that would have angered them, spurred them on, and they wouldn’t have paused for a second to admire the local flora and fauna. Not that Jan and Carlisle had indulged their scientific curiosities in any way that had slowed the escape, but they were in their element, and they were distracted by it and away from it. Not exactly a recipe for utmost speed.

Juke had cost them time, too. Finnegan had struggled to keep his energy levels up. Jetpacks were much quicker than grav trolleys in ascent. And breaking trail was always slower and more taxing than following a known path. Those small things would have added up over the course of a long day, to Diurnal’s benefit.

“Okay, guys, I think it’s time I left them that surprise I promised,” Vaughn announced.

“What you got in mind?” asked Finnegan, forcing himself to walk as upright as possible despite his shoulder pain hunching him.

“I’ve got a few ideas. But I want you all to pitch in. You’re all creative under pressure; you’ve proved that time and again. So, using what we have, how can we inflict the most damage on our enemies without them seeing it coming?”

An unexpectedly long silence left Vaughn a little worried. Were they overtired? Had the relentless pace taken its toll? There was no telling how long the chase would last, and it was far too soon to be thinking about an endgame, holing up somewhere in order to fight Diurnal off in some kind of last stand.

“I tell you what we should do—” said Jan at last, “—bury those suck-baits! We were worried about a cave-in when we started out, but this sanctum is huge. We need to pick our spot, somewhere we can trigger a roof collapse, where we know they’ll follow our trail, but that won’t trap us on the other side and prevent us from coming back this way. So it will have to be somewhere with more than one access. Maybe another cavern with multiple passages leading to it, so we can return here by another route. Then collapse a huge stalactite on top of them. A bunch of stalactites. Hell, the whole damn roof of that one passage. We bury them, then we double-back and head for the ships, and this will all be over.”

It sparked a lengthy brainstorming session, in which it was obvious, to Vaughn’s immense relief, that in fact none of them had lost a step. They were lucid. They were devious. And even when the ideas they spit-balled weren’t practical, they were aimed at inflicting the maximum number of casualties. Not just to slow Diurnal down, but to stop them, trap them, obliterate them.

Respective careers in science, law enforcement and law-breaking combined to throw up some surprising—and surprisingly vicious—means of execution. The most ingenious belonged to First Ranger Carlisle, whose backgrounds in chemistry and geology, combined with an aggressive decisiveness honed during his anti-poaching days, made him a uniquely dangerous foe here among the primal elements. He proposed to create pyronitric acid by a crude process combining ammonium sulfate, found in the dry alcoves of fumaroles (or volcanic vents)—they’d passed several of those already, and there were bound to be more—and pyrofluvium, the powerful liquid accelerant found in these illegal jetpacks. With sufficient quantities of nitric acid, oxygen and water, and using the empty, flushed-out chambers of the jetpack as a mini laboratory, he claimed he could make a pyronitric acid bomb that would be so corrosive it would melt anything it came into contact with. And it would be especially destructive if exploded under the Finaglers’ jetpacks in mid-flight. The acid vapor would be sucked into them and would eat the metal from the inside out.

But how practical was all that? How much time would it take to prepare?

“It wouldn’t be quick,” Carlisle admitted. “And I’d need to do it in isolation, somewhere with a light but steady draught to keep the fumes away.”

“You could store the nitric acid in one of the empty food containers,” said Jan. “They’re polyethylene.”

“Yes, that’s what I was thinking. Anything else it will just eat its way through.”

But even without counting preparation time, the obvious dangers of creating and handling a volatile, corrosive chemical, and the odds of them finding enough ammonium sulfate any time soon, the plan had another drawback. A big one. It was the same problem most of their offensive tactics faced: how to get close enough to attack Diurnal without being detected well in advance.

The plastic acid container was an advantage in that probes and scanners might not detect it. But to explode it they’d need a detonator, and those would be detected. To launch it as a projectile they’d need to be fairly close—too close.

The beach was simply not a good place for an ambush or a booby-trap. Finnegan wanted to lay an explosive mine. But even if they buried one of those in the sand, Diurnal’s probe would more than likely detect it. Anything mechanical or electronic was no good.

Adding a dose of nastiness to her cave-in idea, Jan suggested loading a grav trolley with rocks, explosives, and the acid-filled container, perching it on a ledge high up in one of the passages—so that the probes wouldn’t see it—and then using one of Vaughn’s germs to remote detonate an explosive charge to collapse the whole shebang onto Diurnal when it spotted them below.

“Bury them, melt them, blow them to bits. I’m for putting all our eggs in one basket, and scrambling the bastards.”

The men all chuckled at that, but she held a wry half smile, half sneer, letting them know she really did mean business. Their mirth soon subsided.

Vaughn still hadn’t told them what he had in mind. He didn’t want Jan in particular dwelling on its implications. And it was more of last-ditch option anyway, something he hoped he wouldn’t have to rely on when all else failed. But he did consider it, and dread it, and plan it out in as much hypothetical detail as he could without knowing precisely where or when he would have to implement it.

Then Carlisle picked up a stray, dark volcanic rock from the sand. He turned it over and over in his hand, as if weighing it up. And from the way he kept looking away into the shadows of the cavern, to the faint, variegated rock strata illuminated by pockets of wall-clinging vegetation, his face alert one minute with flashes of boyish excitement, wrinkled the next with grave concern, the First Ranger appeared to be contemplating a nuclear option of his own. Something big. Something elemental.

Something that would summon forth the full wrath of the underworld, as perhaps only a geologist could.

​Chapter Eight

The first glimpse of their pursuers since the cave entrance the previous day was another remote one, courtesy of Vaughn’s trailing germ. It positioned Diurnal many kilometers behind around the arcing sweep of the beach, but they were gaining. Not as much as Vaughn had feared, but seeing them on the same silt, hogging those same tracks he, Jan, Stopper and the others had made, gave him a jolt of urgency that cleared his mind for the task ahead.

“They’re coming,” he warned the others, knowing it would increase their pace.

“How close?” asked Jan.

“Closer than when we started.”

“When will this damn beach ever end?” She and Stopper kicked into a jog and a trot, respectively, in perfect unison. The sand had softened over the past few hours, making running difficult. Jan veered to the left until she found a harder vein. In glancing all around, Vaughn noted that this whole area was in fact flatter and at a lower elevation. The water channel was much wider, and the beach itself had to have drained more slowly than at previous sections.

It didn’t occur to him there was anything unusual in that, just as he hadn’t questioned why the delta was so much wider than the current water channel all along, or why the forest hung down from the cave roof as opposed to growing up from the bed. He wasn’t attuned to natural environmental cycles, or to the scale and patterns of their extremes.

Even the two scientists hadn’t predicted what was about to happen. They’d each had an inkling of a natural drainage from the upper ocean that fed water to this hidden ecosystem. But quite how it happened, or how often, they had only guessed.

As usual, Stopper was the first to notice something was awry. He sniffed the air umpteen times, and darted after several critters that crawled up from the sand and either scurried or flew away. So she put him on his lead. But he was still agitated. Little whines suggested he was uneasy or confused. The whumping of wings and a distant, shifting cacophony high above, like the dragging of a huge net of shells, undercut by a chorus of shrill, unearthly whistles, echoed far and wide. And when Stopper barked at the giant hanging fronds over the water, Jan knew an event of some magnitude was probably imminent.

It was a confluence of disquietudes, each on its own unremarkable but together forewarned a happening. Quite what that happening would be wasn’t clear. But the fronds had begun to furl. Their motion was almost imperceptible. It was the creaking sounds they made, more than anything, that called her attention to it. That and Stopper’s reaction.

But if the forest itself was curling up, absent of any change in heat or light, what was prompting it?

A skittering across the millpond surface of the water created a chain of ripples. Fresh piles of sand littered the banks of sea pools, and more were being made where creatures dug down to find shelter inside cavities in the bedrock. A vicious encounter between two animals—one a leggy grazer with a long, coiled neck, a relative of the Mazaris boacollum; the other an awkward amphibian that flapped sailfins on all its limbs—produced a horrendous shrieking din. Each inflicted wounds on the other before they dashed apart to their respective milieux, clearly having crossed paths by accident.

Stopper pulled hard on his lead, forcing Jan into a faster jog. His instinct still seemed to be guiding him up the beach, but was it strategy or blind fear—fear of this change in the atmosphere? A change more and more of the local life-forms were reacting to. From the troglodytes in the walls to the hanging vegetation, the underworld was growing restless.

No change in the hot wind or the temperature. Jan had known spore migrations to cause disruption across ecosystems; some caused intense skin irritations, others severe respiratory conditions. But there were no signs of anything unusual carried by the wind.

“Okay, I don’t know squat about the natural world, but tell me how, in any way, that’s normal.”

Finnegan pointed as he remarked, but the others had already stopped to gawp at the colossal skeleton of a beached megabyzus ahead. Easily as big as a skybus, its real shape, Jan knew, was somewhere between an enormous sea snake and a whale, with an incredibly long, sweeping tail and several sets of flukes on its flanks and tail. There were no flukes left here, though, because they were made of cartilage, not bone. This megabyzus had died and its bones had been picked clean long ago.

Several anomalies struck Jan in quick succession, beyond the obviously outsized presence of something so big. The more she pondered them, the more unnerving their ramifications became. First, the skeleton lay at a puzzling distance from the main channel. It had almost reached the cave wall; thirty meters of dry silt lay between it and the outermost sea pool. Megabyzus was not amphibious, so it had to have been deposited there. Its position was also elevated above where any logical high water mark would reach, at least according to the sparse traces of uneaten seaweed. Ten meters or so beyond the sloping bank that overlooked the delta. Finally, it was in almost pristine condition. The effusive vegetation on or around the cave walls and the upper banks had not clung to the skeleton’s upright shape with anything like the same tenacity. Why not? Such an obvious den inside the giant ribcage: why wasn’t that home to a mini ecosystem by now? Or even overgrown?

As this was already an extreme survival situation, she decided it was better to voice her concerns to the group.

No sooner had she finished than David Carlisle tilted his head back and began surveying the upper echelons of the cave walls again, using the range of his omnipod’s spectral filters. Jan copied him. By now she trusted his scientific instincts, his insights, almost as soundly as her own.

“What are you thinking? A flash flood?” she asked.

“Something like that. But not random. Not force majeure.”

“Cyclical?”

“Uh-huh. Life here seems to be attuned to it. Tell me if I’m wrong, but I’ve been racking my brain trying to come up with a reason why a forest would hang down so far from the roof to reach water instead of growing up out of it. It makes no sense. Not unless—”

“It’s escaping a violent flood!” she finished. “A periodical surge that would destroy anything rooted in the channel bed. So it hangs above it, and recoils whenever a flood is imminent.”

“Check out the lines of discoloration up there.” He pointed to umpteen horizontal marks of sedimentary deposits over half way up the massive cave wall. “This whole cavern must flood at periodic intervals. That would explain how the megabyzus got beached so high.”

“And how it got down here in the first place,” added Jan excitedly. “A massive tidal surge from the upper ocean, maybe a rogue wave, must have heaved it into whatever deluge brought all that seawater—enough to surfeit a chamber this big, with this volume. That’s just ... incredible. There are no words.”

“Wait, you’re saying we’re about to be hit by a flood of that magnitude!” As surely as the carcass before them, Vaughn’s sharp words instantly stripped the phenomenon to its bare, urgent reality.

The signs were all around them. The underworld knew what was coming.

“What do we do?” asked Finnegan. “We couldn’t be more exposed here if we tried.” His furious gaze darted for a solution. “Two grav trolleys, but there are four—five of us. And we need those supplies. No way they’d lift us high enough and keep us up there long enough to escape a flood that big. No way! What else?”

Jan clicked her fingers. “Vaughn, your tasker!”

He considered it, even made a move for it inside one of his baldric pouches, but shook his head. “It can’t hold that much weight. I could shoot up enough harpoons to create enough platforms for us, but we’d still lose all our supplies. There’s no telling how long we’d be stranded up there, waiting for it to subside. A torrent that big, that powerful, we wouldn’t be able to touch it. No, we’d run out of air while we waited.”

“What else, then?” said Finnegan. “Come on, you people have all the theories. Either you come up with one but quick or I’m making for one of those high caves. There’s got to be one big enough to fit a grav trolley in with us.”

“He has a point,” replied Jan. “As long as we’ve got our supplies with us, we can outlast anything this place can throw at us.”

Vaughn slapped the outlaw on the back, making him wince. “Okay, let’s scout out a cave to hole up in. Bear in mind it’s got to be above the highest high water mark.”

Several interesting prospects loomed across the upper reaches, but they were almost certainly occupied; glow-light emanating from inside fidgeted, as though creatures were busying to and fro in front of or among the bioluminescent plants. The lower third of the wall was honeycombed with scars and hollows, but they would offer no harbor from a flood. Jan considered asking Vaughn to send his germs to scout for an upward-trending passage—maybe one of those lower caves led to another section of the underworld entirely, one that might lead back to the surface. She was mindful now of how deep they’d gone, and how difficult it would be to return the same way if severe flooding did hit.

She’d barely begun her eyecraft to inspect the upper caves at high magnification when a sonorous chord pierced the distant scraping and rustling. It progressed into that short, playful melody they knew as Stopper’s tune. But it wasn’t sweet like before. It soared with a strength and urgency that drew all their gazes to the boulders strewn behind the megabyzus skeleton. Juke piped his message like a shepherd would blow his horn out over a valley to warn of approaching wolves.

Stopper barked back. That, in turn, spooked a nearby colony of shelled crawlers that had been busy burrowing in the sand. They all fled inshore away from the big Boxer at once. But their panic led them directly into the onrushing Juke’s path. With astonishing speed and savagery the musician smashed them out of his way, breaking several of their (hermit) shells and scattering the others in all directions. Then he sprinted straight for Jan and Stopper.

She reached over her shoulder for her tranq rifle. Vaughn had already drawn his Kruger, and the other two men were arming themselves. But the big Boxer stood his ground in that resolute, non-committal way that said he was watchful but not alarmed. Despite the brutal attack he’d just witnessed, he wasn’t preparing to lunge and fend off a foe.

Juke veered slightly ahead of them and dashed across the beach. From the shallows he leapt even higher and farther than last time to reach the nearest receding frond. Then he turned to face them and, perched on the wrinkled inner loop of its coil, called down to Stopper again.

Stopper barked up, tail wagging, and pulled Jan toward the alien creature.

“He’s telling us that’s where we need to go!” she cried. “Juke knows what’s coming. He’s saying we’ll be safe if we copy him. The fronds will lift us out of harm’s way.”

Vaughn looked at her like she was some kooky mystic tree-hugger, but only for a flash. His life before Hesperidia had been neither trusting nor in tune with the wonders of nature. Then his new ranger awareness caught up with him, and he curled a boyish grin with one side of his mouth, as if to acknowledge the fantastical new reality he’d found himself a part of.

She beamed back at him, for a fleeting moment fully aware of the objective absurdity of what she was proposing. Of where they were. What was happening. How a normal person elsewhere would view their predicament. Then it was gone, and her smile dropped as she saw how quickly the fronds were now coiling up all across the suddenly expansive shallow lake.

“Jan, I’m gonna clip Stopper to my belt and lift him with me,” said Vaughn, affixing a harpoon to his tasker. “You’ll need to clip yourself to me and hold on, okay?”

“Gotcha. But what about—”

“Carlisle and Finnegan, couple the grav trolleys. You’ll both have to ride up in the empty one. It’s gonna be a close call, but I reckon you can fit both trolleys inside one of those loops. What do you think?”

“I think we’ve no choice,” said Finnegan. “We’ll make it work, right, Doc?”

Carlisle slung his rifle into the supply trolley. “We’ll balance them up there somehow. I’ll pilot.”

“Yeah, unless you want a one-armed bandit flying that thing.”

The clank of the trolleys coming together seemed to shake the ground under their feet. Jan knew that couldn’t be the cause. When the tremor continued, and Stopper glanced out across the eerie Stygian lake, she heard a distant rumble.

Juke reprised Stopper’s tune at a distressed, almost desperate pitch.

“I hear ya, buddy,” was Vaughn’s calming response to Stopper’s whines. “Come on, you’re riding with me.”

He clipped two stay cables to the end of the tasker, handed the other end of one to Jan, and clipped the second to Stopper’s harness. He aimed and fired the harpoon bolt with the cable attached to a spot about two hundred feet up. It arced away from the stem of the nearest tree before about-facing and slamming through the leathery bark. Vaughn tested the strength of its purchase, didn’t seem a hundred percent convinced it would hold. But it was only water underneath, and a fall from the frond’s current height wouldn’t be fatal.

“Make sure you’ve got a good hold,” he told Jan.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him. He clipped the tasker to his belt, then heaved Stopper up into his arms as the harpoon cable lifted them all off the sand and swung them out over the water.

They were still swinging as the distant rumble grew to a cavernous roar. The beams of Carlisle’s and Finnegan’s helmet lamps darted and crossed umpteen times through the gloom below. The trolleys’ twin pilot lights nodded from side to side as though they were adrift on a rolling sea. But it was the unequal distribution of weight, the awkward coupling, and the strain of maintaining higher and higher altitudes that forced them to compensate constantly.

Still the fronds retracted. By now they were between fifteen to twenty meters above the water. Vaughn kicked off the fleshy vine and managed to swing into the loop of the coil. The layer of mucus made the surface slippery. He tried lifting Stopper onto it first but found he couldn’t do that and untether the poor dog at the same time. So Jan volunteered to get off first. She used her knife to stab a sure purchase, and held onto it while she unclipped Stopper from the tasker and onto her own belt instead. Then she helped Vaughn clamber onto the frond beside her.

The wrinkled surface under the mucus was firm and fleshy like a watermelon’s. The loop, no more than three meters wide, was furling around them all the time—slower now, though—so they had to continually shift position. On the next frond but one perched Juke, his single eye squinting to watch their every move through the darkness, the flecks inside pulsing an utterly alien message.

Several fronds away on the opposite side, the twin trolleys slid and jerked into position as their slimy host slithered about them. The men’s lamp beams briefly searched their new surroundings, before the roar of the approaching tumult became impossible to ignore.

A blast of cool air quelled the hot wind from the opposite direction. All the fronds creaked as they shivered and swung. Jan stabbed her knife into the surface again. Vaughn did the same with his. Between them they held Stopper while he whined and cowered. He’d been a tower of strength up until now, but here he was powerless and his instincts were of no use. A thing that had never happened before in all his and Jan’s experience of Hesperidia was suddenly barreling their way, and all they could do was hide from it and hope it didn’t reach them.

The noise was deafening now. It hurt Stopper’s ears, and he began to panic. So Jan covered one of his ears and Vaughn the other. Their own helmets had automatic mufflers to suppress dangerously loud sounds, but they did little to quell the shock of seeing a ghost tide crash on some unseen shelf and suddenly rear up in ranks of spitting, fuming cavalry. It was an enormous squall, pearlescent white and luminous, driven by an unimaginable tidal surge. It piled seawater more than fifty feet high over the hidden shelf for as far as they could see across the lake. A gale of displaced air rocked the fronds into severe, bouncy motion. If Jan and Vaughn hadn’t anchored themselves, they’d have been throw off into the torrent that raged by below with a force that would have swept the deepest-rooted rainforest before it.

Jan’s mind, overwhelmed by the scale and ferocity of the flood, nonetheless clung to inklings of secret scientific delight: the phosphorescence gushing by resembled packed shoals of sea creatures caught and churned in the hydraulics of the surge, but she knew it was a kind of plankton, protolux, that gathered most profusely on the gulf stream north of Mazaris at and around the spring tide.

So the highest of the high water tides had heaved this volume of water over the neck of some volcanic vent and poured it down into the underworld. Presumably it occurred every time there was a spring tide. Protolux, a staple food source for so many creatures of the upper ocean, was also the guarantor for this ecosystem. It brought light, and probably sustenance, that fueled the impressive biodiversity they’d seen thus far.

When the surge slowed and spread into the network of adjoining chambers, and the water level lowered, would it spark a feeding frenzy? What alien creatures unknown to human science would emerge from their dens to eat their fill of whatever food the tide brought here every cycle? What was the pecking order? By what processes were those light-giving morsels absorbed and integrated into the bleed of bioluminescence that had given this realm such remarkable and far-reaching incandescence?

She was dying to know more, to study more closely. But she saw that Vaughn was looking away in the opposite direction, back the way they’d come, using his professional eyecraft to discern ...

“Diurnal!” she whispered with a gasp. “What’s happened to Diurnal?”

The realization shook a strange cocktail of emotions: first hope, then relief, then a swell of giddy excitement at the prospect of being free from that persistent threat. If the hunters had been swept away by the flash flood, the odds of any of them surviving were miniscule. It would then just be a waiting game. Slack tide only lasted a couple of hours, then the water level would start to drop as it emptied into the other chambers and caverns. Already the violent initial surge had lost much of its spume; the torrent was fluid and frothy instead, gushing past at a frightening speed around the sweep of the bay, but it had also begun to surfeit to higher levels. It was inching up the frame of megabyzus, and in a matter of minutes would completely submerge it.

But Vaughn didn’t appear to share her optimism. Was he concerned that this flood had somehow shifted the status quo in Diurnal’s favor? Yes, they’d have had less time to escape the wave, being closer to it, but they also had a lot more sophisticated gear with them. If they’d managed to find sanctuary, what would they be doing right now? Waiting idly? Hell no! They’d use this opportunity to find out the state of their prey, maybe inflict damage if they could during this forced pause in the chase.

That’s what Vaughn was looking for now, she concluded. If he’d spotted them rushing by in the flood, he’d have signaled her. But he hadn’t, so he’d be on high alert right now, expecting something he would try if he was in their shoes.

A sneak attack!

Jan sighed and slowly shook her head. I really am starting to think like him. “Is that a good thing?” she whispered as she hugged Stopper. “Is it good that he’s rubbing off on me, and me on him?”

* * *

The flood light changed the game, Vaughn knew. For one thing, he could no longer use infrared; the phosphorescent glow blinded his vision. And the constant churning motion of those light-emitting organisms in the currents threw clusters of them to the surface, projecting dappled chaos onto the walls of the cave. It was difficult to discern actual physical movement from those phantasmagorical effects. But he was quite sure he’d seen a small object glide through the air on a steady course wholly unnatural in this choppy gale.

Where was it now, though? He hadn’t seen it since—a few minutes now. Maybe it had been some kind of flying creature, and he was just paranoid.

His gut told him no. That first intuition had perceived it as manmade. Its sure flight path, its wingless hover, the fact that Diurnal did have probes and would absolutely use them to gain any advantage at a time like this.

So he watched, on tenterhooks, and tried to ignore the enormity of what was unfolding all around him. In a war it wasn’t the million tons of explosives that got you; it was the single bullet, the stray piece of shrapnel that hit you when your guard was down.

Megabyzus was underwater now. The water level was already a third of the way up the cave wall—an astonishing volume in so short a time. He reckoned there must be an aspect of this cavern they hadn’t seen: some kind of natural partition, like a row of giant columns or a higher tier of rock, trapping the floodwater to some extent, so that it surfeited here first before draining into the rest of the system. Otherwise there was no way it would rise so fast. No wide-open sea or lake would flood like this.

He kept an eye on Finnegan and Carlisle’s position. Their trolleys would be easiest for any probe to spot, and the outlaw was, after all, Diurnal’s only target. He thought about messaging them, to warn them to be on the lookout, but any kind of radio communication might be picked up and triangulated.

If only he could have Jan’s eternal optimism. She’d be hoping right now that the bastards had been swept away by the wave and smashed against the rocks, and that she and Vaughn had somehow missed seeing their bodies rushing by. She’d be thinking ahead to when the water drained ... how long they’d have to wait for the passages they’d traversed to be traversable once more. How many of them would be submerged, and for how long?

But no, she would also know not to underestimate such a dangerous enemy. They might very well be dead, but odds weren’t evidence, and they were smart, wily survivors who’d triumphed on dozens of hostile worlds. Cockroaches were great survivors, too. Cockroaches with all the tech.

A gradual rotating of the frond as the tree groaned and warped in the changing atmosphere, forced Vaughn to shift position in order to see where he needed to see. He had to inch farther out near the lip. It grew uncomfortable, but he had no choice. The germs would give away his position, so he’d recalled them into their unit for the time being.

The roar of the torrent, the treacherous lightshow, the swaying of the fronds, the relative positions of the others, including Juke, who was as still as a growth on his perch: Vaughn absorbed them all in his peripheral awareness while he scoured the empty space.

His thoughts drifted back to Rurapenti, to that unlikely graveside gathering on a lawn where no grass or soil or spouse should be ...

... when he glimpsed it. A dark spot rising in silhouette against babbles of light. A straight vertical flight path where nothing else was even remotely linear. It was Diurnal’s probe, no question. It was reconnoitering the fronds a few trees beyond Finnegan’s refuge, but would not stop there. In moments it would have him. What then? Transmit his location to Pike? Or try to inflict damage—maybe take out Carlisle, or cripple Finnegan so that he couldn’t go on. Likely both. If Pike and his crew weren’t operating these things remotely, they would have the ability to do so if required. It would be a bloodbath if someone didn’t intervene.

Vaughn drew his Kruger, dialed the yield to its second narrowest pulse spread setting. It left a little margin for error in case his aim wasn’t perfect, but it had enough oomph to obliterate its target at long range. He’d have one shot at this before the probe reacted with deadly force.

He timed the swing of his own frond with that of Finnegan’s. He was farthest out, the outlaw’s was farthest in. That way the explosion would be less likely to affect the two men and the trolleys.

The probe shone no lights, its surface was non-reflective. But Vaughn had the ideal way to target it: its stark relief and uniform motion against that backdrop of swirling phosphorescence.

He took careful aim, mindful of the frond swings and the probe’s proximity to the other men. It was at the next tree now, a matter of meters from spotting them. Owing to their frond’s hanging position, neither man would be able to see it coming. So he took his shot.

A heartbeat later the dark orb flew apart. It flung out an oily ringlet of energy that seemed to pulse across the gulf in a flash. Then two things happened in quick succession that told Vaughn his little victory might not be a triumph at all. First, shrapnel from the exploded probe clanged against the trolleys, and for all he knew had injured one or both men. Second, his omnipod shut down. Nothing he did could restart it. His germs, his helmet lamp, his electronic readouts: all were kaput.

A goddamn em pulse!

He signaled to Jan for her to check her equipment. She soon signaled back that hers were down too.

Sonofabitch!

Not a terminal issue. Their breathing apparatuses were analogue. Vaughn had glow-sticks he could use to light their way, and if those ran out he could always fill something transparent with water that contained the phosphorescent organisms. All the natural light they’d need.

But it was a setback nonetheless. Comms, spectral imaging, germs, GPS, and all the other edges tech had given them, were now lost. They’d have to be extra careful, and extra devious, from now on if they wanted to—

Oh hell!

He spied the second probe hurtling his way at a ridiculous kamikaze speed across the water almost too late for him to react. His instincts took over. The first was to fire a snapshot at maximum yield. It spread a barrier of energy so destructive at close range that nothing could get through intact. The moment he’d fired, his second instinct threw him across the edge of the frond. He spread himself in front of Jan and Stopper, his back to the outside, ready to bear the brunt of whatever got through.

He felt the detonation, the explosion. A searing heat. A sickening punch that seemed to crease all the way through him and then yank back, rattling his organs. It winded him, hurled him sidewise. A sharp, excruciating pain bloomed across his lower back. His helmet slammed into the side of the frond. He realized his head had, too. On the verge of blacking out, he began to fall.

The last thing he remembered was unclipping himself from Jan. A last, lonely inkling of protection. Unconscious of everything else, he still somehow knew that if he went over, he’d drag her and Stopper with him.

So he fell alone, and their desperate lunges weren’t quick enough to save him.

​Chapter Nine

With soundless steps he steals, barefoot, through caverns older than time, where memory delves deep into the mortar of cyclopean pillars, ruined temples—the forgotten megaliths of youth, now the bones girding the Underworld. Fumes billow from unseen fissures. They should scald and choke, but he neither feels nor breathes as he winds his phantom way through this shadowy realm lit only by nostrils of flame and the molten glow from adjoining caverns.

As isolated and alien as this place seems, he is not alone. Someone or something is following him. Watching him. It has the elusive form of a dislocated shadow almost out of sight—a doppelganger. It halts when he halts, and moves when he moves. If he were to fling himself into a nostril of flame, would it follow suit?

An eerie familiarity, beyond the mimicry, marks his pursuer as an entity not to be trusted. One that has betrayed his trust before, with unfathomable cruelty. It has left a scar he can never escape. That scar runs the length of the Underworld; he can see through it, through the rock wall to a river of magma. Along this river glide vessels ferrying the souls he’s condemned to punishment. Most have deserved it. Some do not: the collateral damage of his attempts to mete out justice. They are adrift on the fluid laws of lava. They have no eyes, but they watch his every soundless step from inside the rock scar as they sail by, on their way to ...  no place.

Shrill creatures flap and wail in the upper vaults of the cavern. There is no vegetation here, no water, only molten or original standing rock. Stalagmites reach with once-mighty purpose, while stalactites loom with loose, precarious poise—reminders that for every ambition grows an opposite fate it is destined to meet, perhaps to ruinous ends.

Etched into the ancient masonry every now and then are symbols of his old family home. The Vaughn residence. Each glimpse of one stirs a wound that has never fully healed. As the pain and regret from those wounds accumulate, they give definition to the figure of his pursuer. A very real presence now. Godlike, wise, protective, but still, strangely, not to be trusted. A guide that has led others astray, that now wanders purgatory seeking guidance itself. What does it want from him?

He feels the urge to run but he cannot. He craves a weapon for self-defense, but the laws of the Underworld forbid aught but what one’s spirit form possesses. So he traverses the bone-shored caverns as a man stripped to his essence. Not naked, though. He wears formidable experience, compassion, wisdom of his own, and a yearning more vital and precious than all the others’ here combined.

He yearns to return to Jan and Stopper, to the only home he belongs to now. The past is a ghostly passage. Unwanted apparitions stalk him whenever he roams there. For the first time in his life, he’s found a place he no longer needs to run from or to. Where he can be still, contented. Not safe exactly; far from it; but on Hesperidia, though there be dragons, he has found solace in being beyond the edge of the map. Where the phantoms cannot follow. He’s happy to be an alien among aliens, to live his life on safari. That measure of anonymity in the eyes of foreign nature is a salve his celebrity law enforcement guise didn’t know it needed.

There, at least, he has a future untethered from the past.

But his pursuer is tethered to him here in the Underworld, by some invisible bond. It won’t let him escape. It has unfinished business, and it will not leave him be until it has delivered on its dark promise.

The skeleton of megabyzus lies ahead, only a hundred times bigger. A colossus. The spectral forms of twisted creatures stampede around inside its giant ribcage. They blindly follow the herd in a forever circle, trapped by fear and superstition. Within the shape of the skeleton is the only place they know, the only place they feel safe. If one were to venture outside, of its own volition, just one, would that dispel the mad curse? Inspire the others to break free?

He pulls and pulls with all his might and manages to heave one of the giant ribs loose. It makes an opening hitherto unknown to the herd, one that several could fit through abreast if they wanted. Is that what they’ve been waiting for—a way to leave without having to do so one at a time, alone? Once a herd ...

But they don’t leave. They continue on in their mad forever circle. Then Stopper appears from the shadows. He gives an excited fully-body wag that stirs forgotten joy through every inch of purgatory, before he dashes inside the ribcage and with breathtaking ingenuity proceeds to shepherd the uncooperative creatures out through the new opening. They stream ahead up the cavern in ragged ranks. Some bound and leap with ebullient hope experienced for the first time.

His job done, Stopper disappears. But the pursuer remains. Closer now, but never close enough to let its true identity be known. It’s just an immutable lurking presence, as near or as far as it needs to be to distract him from ... whatever it is he’s here to do. Find a way out? Outwit his pursuer?

The difference now: his pursuer is itself being chased by something monstrous and ravenous. A predator that has their scents and is savagely territorial. It will not stop until they are either out of its domain or dead. But still he can’t speed up, and still his elusive chaperon won’t make itself known.

As he ventures on, the ground and the cavern walls become overgrown with patches of spongy moss. Rich veins of precious mineral ore shimmer on protruding contours of rock. Water trickles down meadow-green stone and the slick orange of clay soil. It’s becoming more natural, more earthy, more like the secret grottoes of Hesperidia’s mountain caves.

He’s hit by a sudden awful feeling that he’s leading his pursuers into a precious place he doesn’t want anyone to know exists. A private place he doesn’t want sullied or destroyed. A place his past must not gain access to.

Desperate not to lead his pursuers any further, he conjures a phrase he’s not heard for years:

CRAZY IVAN.

It’s an old Soviet submarine tactic designed to wrongfoot a sneaky chasing vessel. You make a random unexpected turn and wait for your pursuer to make a mistake and reveal himself.

The trickles of water quickly grow to cataracts on either side. Behind, the monster’s pounding gait shakes the cavern. The ground itself begins to crumble under the weight.

From the corner of his eye he spots a narrow passage in the rock, behind the waterfall. With infinite stealth he vanishes like a stolen breath into the spray. Oblivious, his dark pursuer passes by.

He sneaks out, defiant, and accosts the mysterious figure from behind. It’s a man, strong but not as strong as him. They grapple, and he feels strange pity for his opponent, who’s not as godlike as he seemed. He’s quite frail, in fact, though too stubborn to surrender.

The ground beneath their feet begins to fall away into a bottomless black chasm. Huge chunks crumble under the shattering impacts of the predator’s gait. Both men stop fighting, and turn to face the encroaching monster.

Before them teeters a derelict clock tower, centuries old, on the edge of the precipice. It used to stand atop the administrative HQ building in the colony hub where he grew up. A replica of Great Britain’s famous Big Ben, it was built by AI navvy-bots using rocks mined from a local quarry. He remembers its ornate architecture and its dulcet chimes before the earthquake damaged it beyond repair. Here it’s even more of a ruin. The hands on its face are twisted and mangled; they could point to anytime or to no time. The Roman numerals around its dial have faded to inconsequence. But this isn’t some quaint relic. Its gong-chimes rock the foundations of the Underworld. The mortar in its masonry aches with deep, unfulfilled purpose. Cracks of regret seethe throughout its shambling structure. When it topples, it will take them and the entire floor of the cavern with it into the abyss.

He feels the tug of a tether on his waist, and he starts to rise toward where the waters weep from. His opponent strides out instead toward the teetering clock tower and, before they’re out of contact, looks up.

It’s the face of his dad.

“It’s not your time,” the old man says with a shrug, so wryly Ferrix can’t tell if it’s a joke or not.

The water cascades onto them. Soon the old man and the clocktower disappear beneath it. Into the abyss? Or will they remain there, forever in contention, pursuer and pursued?

He wishes he could have told Dad ... something. Anything important. Anything he’s wanted for so long to get off his chest.

But not all reunions are cathartic. He keeps on rising up the waterfall, diverting a torrent of forbidden tears, until his shoulder nudges something hard...

It felt real. Like rock that didn’t give quarter. The roar of the cascade was real, too—it brought with it a wind with real bite.

The pain in his lower back was no figment either. A pallid glow reflected off the wet, coarse rock wall the wind kept nudging him against. He was off the ground, but he wasn’t rising. The cable holding him above the floodwater was attached to his tasker, which was in turn attached to his belt. But who fired that grappling harpoon?

He remembered falling from the frond, unclipping himself to spare Jan and Stopper. But nothing after that. Somehow, someone had to have aimed the tasker and fired it up from underwater while he was being swept away by the flood. But who?

For a terrible moment he imagined Jan had jumped in after him, and in a last-ditch effort to save him she’d fired the tasker that had then reeled him like a fish on a hook out of the water, where he dangled still.

No, that was unlikely. She’d never leave Stopper, even for him. And she would never let Stopper jump in without a breather; he’d have drowned in a flood of that force. No, the only explanation his flailing mind could find was that he—Vaughn—must have woken to semiconsciousness whilst underwater and had a lucid moment. He must have had the wherewithal and the instinct to fire a hopeful harpoon up, up toward the roof of the cavern.

Whichever cavern this was.

Too many questions, too much bleed from nightmare into reality and vice versa. He had to get practical. He had to think smart.

Diurnal were still at large, and Jan’s position was known to them! Somehow, he had to figure out how to get back there before they could reach her, then figure out how to eliminate them. Once and for all.

It was up to him now. The colonial authorities would not reach them in time.

But as he swung there, waiting for the flood to subside, he couldn’t help but wonder: was he alone here? He had no memory of firing the tasker. None. But in his dream he’d begun to rise at the exact moment Dad had made himself known. Was that a coincidence?

And if he hadn’t fired the tasker, who had?

* * *

After hours of gripping her knife plunged into the frond’s flesh, Jan’s hands no longer had the strength to squeeze. So she perched precariously instead, hugging her knees and rocking her weight to counteract the frond’s arrhythmic sways. The movement had grown a lot less severe as the flood had eased and its accompanying gale had given way to the underworld’s own familiar thermal draught. Dried tears crusted the corners of her eyes as she gazed sidewise at the chaotic lightshow, not really seeing any more. Like the afterglow of a hurtful blinding flash, the phantasmagoria was now nothing more than a constant, unwanted scar-scape on her soul that she’d become accustomed to. It had only one association in her mind. The awareness of it seeped into every distracted thought and every attempt to summon a defiant emotion.

Vaughn was gone.

But the more she refused to face that fact, telling herself he was a man of unfathomable resources—the most capable lawman of his generation—the more reality insisted, with those mocking waves of bioluminescence that danced over his watery grave, that this was the end of their adventures together.

Nonetheless, she continued to refute it. To hold that dire likelihood at bay with everything in her character she held dear, as well as everything he’d brought to the Hesp and shared with her. Formidable bravery. Ingenuity. A willingness to seize a chance to start a new, better chapter in life when the old one was going nowhere. Also, that incontrovertible center of gravity he had, and somehow maintained, despite the horrific things he’d endured.

She and Stopper demonstrated that for him now as they shifted their weight to stay anchored in the middle of the slimy frond. Whatever happened, they would keep going until they found him, keep improvising until this nightmare was over.

Wherever it took them.

The hanging trees began to unfurl their fronds back toward the subsiding water almost in concert. It was slower than their ascent. The outer layers creaked and flexed, as though the absorption of new light brought by the flood was having an invigorating effect. A kind of upside-down photosynthesis. Each new flood replenished the ecosystem with life-nurturing light, food, and the myriad other resources the ocean of the upper world contained.

It came as no surprise to Jan when the walls of the cavern stirred, and those creatures that had climbed for the refuge of the upper caves now migrated back down to fish and forage. The water level had fallen substantially. The top of the megabyzus skeleton was visible. Dozens of sleek, billed amphibians with frog legs and tentacles took turns diving off its spine to retrieve fish and seaweed. The others helped them climb back out to evade attacks from vicious aquatic rivals.

It wasn’t long before larger land predators, not nimble enough to engage in such agile snatch-and-grab activity, arrived to take advantage of the shallow water. They hunted the early-bird feeders, but quickly found themselves ambushed by craftier pack-hunters, who in turn had to use their strength in numbers to fend off the apex predators that stalked the profuse perimeter vegetation in order to relieve any and all unwary punters of their hard-won gains, not to mention their lives.

It seemed like the entire food chain had gathered at the shores of this subterranean flash-sea, to demonstrate the astonishing variety, and viciousness, of life down here.

Jan would have given anything for her omnicam to record it all.

Stopper barked at the most savage shrieks and roars, and looked at Jan whenever he heard a noise he didn’t recognize. Not that she had any answers for him; it might as well be feeding time on another world, a cousin world, primal and unprecedented.

That savagery was partly why the fronds only reached down so far, after which they lowered their vines instead to drink, feed, whatever else they could do. Jan and Stopper’s perch hung about ten to fifteen meters above the water. It kept them safe from harm. But it also reminded her of the unintended service this alien feeding frenzy was providing. All the while the killing spree lasted, Diurnal—or whoever was left alive of Diurnal—would similarly be confined to their (presumably elevated) refuge.

It was a temporary cessation of the manhunt. The bastards couldn’t make a move, but they would be plotting. They knew where Finnegan was, and that he, too, was confined. That now gave them the advantage, because their own whereabouts remained a mystery.

Damn it, she needed to confer with David Carlisle and the outlaw. Brainstorm a way out of here, figure out their next move. How to search for Vaughn with no electronics through an underworld that had just gone ape, and somehow elude the death squad that had them in its sights.

Christ, she was parched. A few gulps from her canteen slaked that thirst, but her next instinct was to offer it to Vaughn. Habit. It stung. She poured some into her cupped hand instead and let Stopper lap it up. Not nearly enough, even after he’d drunk a dozen handfuls. She gave him a few Rip ’Ems, which he devoured.

Jan panicked for a few moments when she couldn’t locate David’s frond. The grav trolleys had rested there on the same spot for hours, like garden furniture. Though she’d only glimpsed both men a few times—from the frond’s position, the angles of the trolleys and the precarious perch, it was perilous for them to reach out far enough to signal her—she’d known they were still there. Still alive.

But the trolleys weren’t there now. They were no longer in sight. What did that mean? Had they been spilled off their perch? Were they in the water? Just the trolleys, or the men too?

She scanned the water below for a sign, taking into account the current, which was still strong. The spring tidal pour had ended a while back, so it was now a question of drainage. In which direction or directions was the water being pulled? Several, she concluded. There were passages all around the perimeters, secondary cave systems siphoning off volumes. But the primary sweeping arc of the channel appeared to hold true: the trolleys would be swept, as Vaughn had been, in that direction. Around the edge of the forest.

There was no sign of them.

“Maybe they’ve floated to another frond,” she said to Stopper. “They’ve realized we need to make a move, so they’re working their way to us.”

He wagged his tail, then pawed her arm.

“No, no, no. We’re on rations, I’m afraid. No more treats till we’re out of this tree and way the hell from here.”

He cocked his head to one side, and curled a doggie sneer.

“Yeah, well, none of us are having a good time.”

Stopper spun round a few times, eyed her slyly, then lay down, dejected. The water babbled by below, while the snarls and cries of alien creatures grew scarcer along the lakeside.

“Your limousine, ma’am.”

Jan jumped around at the sound of Finnegan’s voice. He and Carlisle rose into view behind her, right next to her frond. They were riding the coupled trolleys.

“You scared the crap out of me!” she shot back. Stopper offered them a somewhat friendlier bark. “Wait! How are the trolleys still floating? The EMP ...”

“These industrial grav trolleys don’t just rely on electricity,” explained Carlisle. “Too susceptible to interference. Whole mining operations would grind to a halt. No, they’re powered by a small nuclear isotope. Each one has a redundant system that kicks in when the electrical circuits fail. Basic functions only, but they’ll stay afloat for a while yet.”

“I never knew that,” she replied.

“Yeah, we were lucky it was just an em blast. A bigger detonation would’ve knocked us all into the flood.”

“By the way, we’re sorry about Vaughn,” said Finnegan. “We heard the explosion. Neither of us saw him fall, but Carlisle clocked him as he was being swept away.”

“We think there’s a decent chance he could’ve hooked onto the cave wall somewhere,” added the First Ranger, “if he wasn’t injured too badly.”

Jan swallowed. “It was his lower back, I think. He didn’t want to drag us down with him, so he unclipped himself right before he ... but you saw where he went? Did it look like he was still conscious?”

“I couldn’t tell,” said Carlisle. “The current pulled him under, then he was visible again. Bobbed up like a cork. I didn’t see his arms waving, but he could’ve been rummaging in his belt, or his baldric. You know how many pouches he’s got in that damn thing—all those accessories. He’s like the ultimate Boy Scout.”

Jan twitched a smile. She liked that idea of him, and for another man to say it, a respected colleague no less, gave her hopes a much-needed lift. Vaughn was a survivor in the profoundest sense. If anyone could—

“We’ve decided to get a head start,” said Finnegan. “We figure if we float at low alt over the water, we’ll save power, and we should be relatively safe. The frenzy seems to have moved inshore.”

“So what’s the plan? Just keep going till we reach dry land, and take it from there?”

“All the while looking out for Vaughn, of course,” said Carlisle. “But yes, our key priority hasn’t changed. Keep moving, any way we can.”

Jan grabbed hold of Stopper’s lead when he moved to jump into the trolley at Finnegan’s bidding. “Then I suggest we let the current take us,” she suggested. “Grav trolleys deploy emergency flotation bags as they submerge—I know that much. We’ll save power and the current will be swifter than if we hover. And we’ll also be taken where Vaughn was taken, or thereabouts. All objectives catered for. What do you boys say?”

The two men looked at each other. “Always do what the doctor orders,” said Finnegan.

Carlisle gave a gentle nod, and beckoned her and Stopper into the trolley. “I never did get to take one of your White Water tours, Jane.”

“Count yourself lucky.”

Running on their primitive backup power systems, the trolleys were obdurate—any kind of course-correction or change in altitude was greeted with automatic resistance, their brakes permanently half-on. The moment they dipped into the water, the turbulent flow sent them into a thrumming, shimmying fit, as though they were being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment contrary to their design. This initial resistance to the powerful current also threw spumy water up against the panels. Some of it splashed inside the trolleys.

The emergency flotation tubes deployed before they were fully submerged. This bobbed the trolleys higher, but didn’t solve the problem of splashing—much more of that and they’d soon fill up. So Carlisle and Jan pulled the manual power levers, switching the trolleys to idle mode. All resistance ceased, and they were instantly swept away on the shoulders of the wide-arcing river.

​Chapter Ten

The gentle rush of warm steam coaxed him on like a tailwind along the gloomy trough-like stream bed high above the level of the main flood. Vaughn had used his tasker to scale the rock wall, having spotted a steady waterfall spilling from a slot cavity in the roof. It hadn’t made sense for water to be pouring out from so high unless there was another passage up there. And he’d surmised that it would trend back the way he needed to go, past the upside-down forest, toward the source of the flood. The tidal overspill clearly branched into multiple cave networks at various levels. Over epochs, these floods had systematically eroded the rock of the underworld with deep penetration, honeycombing it with river beds and seeding them with life.

Good for access: there were multiple ways in and out of every large chamber. But it also meant that life down here was profuse. Tenacious, too. Food and nutrients replenished by each spring tide would be hot commodities, vied for at every level. He guessed the quid pro quo prevalent between species during emergencies in the upper world would be scarcer down here because of that rhythm of replenishment. It would be a free-for-all in the immediate aftermath of each flood, with the natural checks and balances settling slowly thereafter.

But that was all theory. He was more concerned with the alienness of the plants and creatures he came across. Some retreated from the glow-sticks’ pink light. Others bristled, or showed their full regalia, or gestured in ways he couldn’t fathom but which he instinctively understood as unfriendly. A few bore striking similarities to semi-aquatic creatures and flora he’d seen on and around the West Equatorial Keys, but most of the life-forms were utterly new. He steered clear of all of them. Tricky, with such narrow confines—the tunnel was less than two meters high and six wide—but Vaughn’s clumsy, dripping bulk and steady chatter proved ample deterrents in the reddish light.

His own alienness made them wary.

“Bed-head,” “prawn onion,” “blind mantis” and “hairy ball-sack” were just a few of the life-forms he named out loud as he resolved to familiarize himself with the more common watchers in the nooks and hollows—a way to soften his fear. Did it work? Not really, but it was a distraction, and it kept him talking, kept him amused with a kind of gallows humor.

A half hour’s crawl on his hands and knees saw the water flow ease to a trickle. The occasional gap in the left hand wall afforded him glimpses of the phantasmagoria still underway around the main course of the flood. He reckoned the water level in the big sanctum below would probably still touch the megabyzus skeleton, but it was draining quickly. Soon he’d be able to climb down and traverse the dry bank with more room to spare. The larger predators down there would not be perturbed by his pink light and nervous banter, but he had plenty of firepower to see them off.

How long had he been gone? The em pulse had knocked out his ’pod’s internal clock. Not only all electronic tech, but time itself had slipped into irrelevance. All he had was his progress, slow, and his heartbeat, quickened whenever he thought of Jan. Did she think he was dead? What would she have done after watching him drift away? What could she do? Trapped between the flood and Diurnal and the precariousness of her frond perch, she’d be problem-solving like crazy, he reckoned. So he did, too, vicariously on her behalf and from her position, as a way to feel closer to her.

It didn’t take him long to theorize the best course of action available to her: use the buoyant trolleys to float downstream. That would give her and her companions a head-start in the cat-and-mouse with Diurnal, and would also ostensibly send them after him, Vaughn, on the same current. Two birds with one stone.

But what else had happened in his absence? Another probe attack? What if the trolleys, damaged by the em pulse, had fallen off their perch? Maybe the Finaglers had flown across the gulf with their jetpacks to try to abduct Finnegan. Maybe there’d been a firefight. Or Diurnal had fallen afoul of a pack of predators, or been stung by insects or plant barbs or worse.

Theories. Guesses. They were not helping. His progress and his heartbeat were at least measurable, reliable.

“No-neck goo thing” and “leaky penis” were his last efforts at naming the more indescribable denizens of this upper passage. No doubt they had as much difficulty articulating to one another the features of this mumbling, bumbling human trespasser and the things that clanked and scraped as they hung from it.

The trickle of water through his tunnel and the plops of droplets falling from pores in the ceiling were the only immediate sounds, apart from his own. The life-forms were almost all silent up here. Below, the rumble of the flood was voluminous, absolute, but also expectant somehow, as though its imminent cessation would release some nasty surprises. Only the force of its flow was holding them at bay. When emptiness and silence returned, so too would the untrammeled wiles of predation.

Then he saw the trolleys borne on the current below as clear as any silhouette he’d ever seen. It wasn’t a glimpse; it was a great, unimpeded view through a sizeable break in the rock. Strings of phosphorescent plankton lit just enough of the occupants for him to tell there were three people and one canine riding the trolleys. He leapt upright to a crouch and waved the glow-stick out through the gap, willing them to look up as he yelled, “Jan! Up here! It’s me! Jan—Jan, look up!”

But they didn’t. The phantasmagorical lighting effect on the walls of the cave would be drowning his own meagre signal. And his voice would not carry above the blanket roar of the flood. If his helmet’s speakers had been working he could have amplified his voice to a reverberating echo that might—just might—have got their attention.

He considered jumping, but he was too high. He considered firing the tasker at an anchor point and swinging down. But there was nothing close enough on which he could feasibly gain purchase with a harpoon. What else?

Think, you sonofabitch, think! A baldric full of tricks and you’re waving your arms like a stranded suck-bait.

He let his head sink as he watched them sail out of sight. It wasn’t despair, though. It was a rote acknowledgement of a momentary disappointment. Moreover, he knew exactly what he had to do now, where he had to go.

Back the way he’d come...until the flood subsided.

Then he would climb down and chase them on foot.

To have to crawl all that way back should have weighed him with bitter futility—hell, if he’d stayed where he’d woken, dangling at the end of his tasker cable, they’d have floated right to him. But he had a course now, and his hope was buoyed like those unsinkable trolleys. It made him somehow lighter and sprightlier as he gave his unnamable spectators an encore performance of Earth’s finest slithering through gunk on his blistered hands and knees.

For some reason he couldn’t explain, the number of watchers had grown in his wake. Maybe the strange pinkish light was attracting them rather than deterring them? Or was it some shared instinct reacting to the presence of an alien intruder? Perhaps it was simpler still: his smell. Crawling was already hot work, and the underworld had grown steamy again as the flood had subsided. His body odor had to be reeking right now.

He didn’t like the poise or the positioning of the various gatherings; where they’d been shy and jittery, hugging the shadows, they were now lining the stream with a kind of pregnant curiosity bordering on defiance. He might have been misreading it, but the vibe reminded him of a time he’d escorted a group of non-local high-g miners into work through a crowd of striking local union workers. The charged silence at first, that combustible tension, had finally exploded into a riot when one of the foreigners had spat back at someone in the crowd who’d spat at him. Only a mad dash through the gates of the mine moments before they’d closed had saved Vaughn and those in his protection from being lynched.

He didn’t like all this new attention.

He considered firing a warning shot with his Kruger. That would send them scurrying for cover. But it would also be calling even more attention to himself, and might draw more creatures to the commotion, possibly bigger predators. No, he needed the opposite of that approach. He needed to become invisible. Or if not invisible, then at least ... camouflaged.

A cluster of the “bed-head” creatures—bald, fat little critters with shocks of hair resembling tufts of grass on their heads and backs—gave him an idea. The flood had washed all kinds of seaweed and slime through the channel. Some of that had been deposited. Vaughn knew little about marine exobiology, but he had lived for a short time with Jan and Stopper on Avalon Key. She’d shown him which flotsam to avoid and why, like the spotted bulbs attached to the gelatinous fingers of a certain brown weed. They emitted a mucus, when touched, that was toxic to most land animals, and could be deadly to humans and canines. He’d crawled past a few here, had given them a wide berth.

But he’d also seen numerous latigo fronds. They clung to anything and everything, by way of their thousands of microscopic hooks. It made them hellishly difficult to remove once they got attached. The “arms” of a carnivorous ocean plant, latigo fronds hooked any unsuspecting prey that accidentally brushed against them, then curled inward toward a hidden mouth, delivering food for a particularly nasty digestion.

Unfortunately for latigo, one species had figured out its weakness. Something like a squid—Vaughn couldn’t recall the name—knew that only the edges and the outward-facing side of each frond had hooks. If it was quick enough to avoid the plant’s defensive cinch, an errant squid could swim underneath to the unprotected part of the frond, and, with a scythe of its beak, sever it completely from the plant. That would leave the hub of the plant exposed for a tricky but bountiful meal.

Its only natural enemy, then, but that canny predator had decimated latigo numbers. Those severed fronds littered the west equatorial ocean. A lot of them had washed down here into the underworld. Sticky, hardy, unwanted nuisances. No doubt some life-forms saw them as exotic delicacies, but most would know from experience not to touch them. And for now they were fresh, intact.

They would stick to him, stiff, whole, and nothing would come near him while he wore them.

Vaughn gathered umpteen, using handfuls of the non-stick slime-weed to pick them up, and attached them to his left shoulder pad, one by one, in a fanned array that more or less hid him from the spectators. They clung so stubbornly, and so stiffly, that not one frond worked loose during his traverse. And despite the fidgety commotion in the nooks and hollows above the trough, no creature stood in or crossed his path.

He smiled as he imagined Jan’s reaction when he told her about this ruse. The quirked eyebrow. The proud glint in her eye. Then the wry follow-up: If you’re wanting a pat on the shoulder for that, think again, Bub.

He did have one spiky shoulder pad from then on—even after he’d sliced the fronds off with his knife, the skin and the hooks remained. Before he reached his starting point, the floodwater below had almost drained to the level of the regular gushing river channel. He would still have to wade a little and watch his footing. It was a powerful downhill flow: a matter of inches of surging current was generally all it took to sweep a grown man off his feet. But he had options now. Freer movement. He could pick his way through the adjoining passages if need be, as long as he kept his bearings.

Follow the main river until you reach a dead end or it becomes too dangerous. That’s where Jan and the others will have disembarked.

After slicing off his camouflage, Vaughn climbed out through a cavity in the rock, shot a tasker harpoon attached to a cable into the cave roof, swung out and then lowered himself over a hundred feet to the floor. The current gushed, but he found he could keep his footing on the bank.

The strings of phosphorescent plankton constantly streaming by meant he no longer had to use his glow-sticks. Those organisms had also been deposited in the rough texture of the cave walls, and in catchments of water wherever there were rock deformations. The colors resembled oily soapsuds caught by twinkles of twilight. Wherever a significant volume of floodwater had reached, this same eerie lighting effect was evident. He quickly regarded it as a good rule of thumb in order to keep his bearings: the more concentrated the phosphorescence, the closer to the main river flow he was.

To find Jan, follow the light.

With the amount of slime weed deposited in the higher channel, Vaughn expected the damp rock to be more slippery underfoot. But the tidal surge had also left behind a layer of grit that made walking, or even jogging, easier. Despite the nagging throb in his lower back, he made good progress. Visibility diminished during the gradual descent through a series of tall, echoey chambers. Steam exhausts billowed up from unseen depths through fissures too numerous to count; combined, they formed a constant, choking mist blown back by the same headwind he’d faced since the early stages of the underworld. He could only imagine the violent eruptions of gas when the floodwater had met any magma flows in its path.

Encounters with wildlife were fleeting and (mostly) easily dodged, neither he nor them wanting to provoke an unnecessary set-to with an unknown species they could barely see. Deterrent noises were kept to minimal volume because any reaching sound here echoed with a clattering reverberation; no creature wanted to give away its position. Inevitable scuffles, too, were brief and muted compared to what Vaughn was used to witnessing on the surface world.

He noted the prevalence of luminous flecks on the hides of many species down here, particularly the grazers. They weren’t striking enough to shine through the mist for more than a few meters, at least to his eyes, but each creature’s pattern of freckles was unique. Was it a quick way to identify them to one another in these gloomy, soupy regions? It reminded him of the flecks in Juke’s eye, except these didn’t flash that he could see.

On the bank of an eddy he came across a large herd of quadrupeds. Similar to the black-and-tan-striped albapac that grazed across the sub-tropics of the prime continent, these were paler, had almost no mane, and bore the luminous flecks only on the darker stripes running diagonally down their flanks. They packed the flat stone bank, and shuffled to take turns feasting from a thick tangle of seaweed trapped in the eddy. Good for them, but they were blocking his way. He couldn’t see another route. The river current was too strong for him to risk a crossing, especially with the downhill rapids he could hear roaring ahead.

So he gathered a handful of rocks, backed away onto a ledge, and lobbed one close to the nearest creatures. The noise of it striking the stone floor made them flinch. But it didn’t spook them like he’d hoped. So he lobbed another a bit farther back, closer to the center of the herd. Again, several of them flinched, quick-shuffled but no more.

Hmm. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt one of them. Who knew how they’d react? They might go crazy and gore him or stomp him to death or both. On the other hand, he had to spook them into leaving somehow.

Their hides looked pretty tough. The rock he held probably wasn’t big enough to cause an injury. But its impact might sting for a moment. More importantly, it would shock the animal.

He aimed at the largest creature on the near side of the herd. His throw, while not powerful, hit it flush between its shoulders. The thing gave off a godawful squeal, reared up onto the backs of those closest, and proceeded to scrabble over them. It caused a ripple of panic that spread through the herd with shocking swiftness. There was none of the coordinated collision avoidance displayed by those acrobatic grazers V-cross and E-pex. These poor brutes barged, harried and otherwise crushed each other in a bid to get away from ... whatever they imagined was attacking them.

They fled in the right direction, at least—away from Vaughn. And surprisingly, despite the muscular melee, there were no casualties left behind. Tough creatures indeed. The thunderous cacophony crashing around the echoey cavern as they stampeded away down a dark, misty passage away from the river forced Vaughn to cover his ears. He hated that he’d had to terrify them like that, but they could always come back later.

A web of weeds left by the panicked feeders who’d fled mid-munch, spilling their feast on the way, covered the flat stone bank. It quickly drew little chancers out of their hiding places in the cave walls to snatch whatever they could carry before their larger counterparts arrived. Vaughn picked his way through the slick mess, then started jogging along the river bank toward the sound of the rapids.

He was hoping to see a waterfall. Jan and the others would have had to disembark, or at least slow to float over any dangerous sections. Anything that slowed them would assist him in catching them. Counter-intuitive in the overall manhunt—Diurnal would also want its quarry’s progress impeded as often as possible—but Vaughn’s priorities were now split. He knew Jan would have a better chance of making it out of this alive if he was with her. Whatever it took to—

He stopped dead at the sound of a gunshot. The crack seemed to ricochet off the walls all around him and above him in a resonant blitzkrieg. From the initial noise, he guessed it was pretty close, had come from somewhere ahead. He listened carefully. The final echo told him that, yes, its origin had been down near the river course ahead, but not quite at the river. Off to the left somewhere, in another passage.

Roughly where the stampeding herd would be about now...

He palmed his Kruger, scowled as his ambivalence forked, and tapped the holster while he weighed the implications.

Someone had fired a shot to ward off the panicked herd. But which party did it belong to? Jan’s or Pike’s? He’d seen the trolleys float by, but he hadn’t seen any sign of Diurnal since his fall from the frond. Might they have found another way to this point? Possible. Had one or more of them become separated from their group like he had, or were they still hunting as a whole unit?

Damn it, he had no way of knowing until he caught up with them. And unless visibility improved, he wouldn’t know when he’d caught up with them until he was practically on top of them. Dicey. One wrong move and this could go sideways in a hurry.

But he had no choice. He had to know who that was up ahead. One way or another, he had to rejoin this pursuit, either as protector or hunter.

He finally drew his sidearm and picked his way down over the boulders that pinched the river to a bottleneck before the white water section began. It was treacherously slippery, so he stayed low, crabbed forward or outright slid on his butt where feasible down the sides of the boulders.

After about ten minutes of intense, precarious progress, he decided this way was fast becoming a hunter’s nightmare. The roar of the rapids drowned his ability to hear anything else; the incessant splashing kept him soaked, added to which the draught backtracking against the river’s flow was stronger and cooler than the choking mist in the adjoining caverns; he was starting to shiver, and that was not good. What finally made his mind up for him was a glimpse of the herd he’d scattered. It had crossed the river, probably after its frantic escape from the gunshot, and now lined the opposite bank around another eddy. Vaughn couldn’t be certain it was the same herd, but its position tallied on a lateral vector away from where he’d guessed the origin of the shot would be; they had fled to the river, crashed across it, and now stood dripping, wary, as they took turns feasting. No way was he going anywhere near them again.

He took the first slot cave left of the river. It led to a branching network of passages of various heights and girths. The broadest and tallest of these appeared to be the main thoroughfare. Its rock floor had been worn to a smooth polish, but not by water, he reckoned; millions of heavy footfalls over eons had made this path. Flakes of dry skin and tangles of hair stuck to the damp walls in a kind of pasty line at a roughly uniform height, as though a number of like creatures had brushed against the rock, or been pressed against it by kin jostling to squeeze through in ranks too broad for the narrow gap. This had to be the way the herd had come, and where it had met the human, or humans, who’d fired that shot.

Damn this mist! It kept steaming his visor, forcing him to wipe it clear in streaks with his fingers. He no longer shivered—that was something—but if anything visibility was worse in here than it had been at the river. Still he pressed on. The bizarre silhouetted form of a bipedal hopping creature, bigger than himself, met him head on. Its mass of tentacles streaming behind it stiffened when it sensed it was not alone. A warning gesture? Vaughn darted into an alcove for cover, and crouched, pistol aimed. The creature took a few more measured hops before it stopped, stooped low, and appeared to sniff the ground with those appendages. Then it bounded away with huge strides and disappeared. Before Vaughn could get up, he felt something lithe and elastic draw across his collar and touch his chin. He threw it off in disgust. Scrambled away. Didn’t look back. For the next few minutes he remained paranoid that something had clung to him ... somewhere. Every itch fed that suspicion. Each panicky brush-off left him relieved to be wrong.

The patches of scraped skin and hair on the walls discontinued at the entrance to a junction sanctum that stretched as far as he could see to the left, away from the river, and also ahead, parallel to the river. Bubbling gray pools of cement-like mud dotted the left-hand quarters. Sleeves of sludge dripped from fissures in the ceiling, feeding the pools. But there were also ranks of sweaty plant shoots, shaped like tall, elongated rubber bullets, that had taken root in veins of silt between the pools, and seemed to cleave to those bubbling cauldrons. Vaughn couldn’t help but think of giant gray firecrackers.

The way to the river itself was through a broad, well-lit antechamber lined with reflective moss. That had been trampled underfoot recently, which suggested the gunshot that had rerouted the herd had been fired somewhere in this branching sanctum.

He surmised the human party would be travelling, as he was, parallel to the river. So he chose the passage dead ahead. Try as he might to look for a boot print or a canine paw print or a sign of human litter, there was nothing to give the intruders away. It could absolutely be Jan, but it could also absolutely be Diurnal.

Vaughn crept on, listening for a voice ahead amid the white noise of the river rapids. He guessed half an hour had passed since he’d left the river. Parched, he drank from a trickle of water that had seeped from the cave roof. It was fresh, cool, pure. He guzzled over a dozen cupped handfuls. Then, famished, he indulged more bites of his beef jerky survival rations than he probably should have. But they were instant morale boosters, and he set off again with renewed vigor.

He made his way across another spacious chamber—at least it felt spacious, with no visible evidence of its dimensions through the mist. Bioluminescence was scarce at ground level, but an eerie rippling glow lit the cave from the bright upper quarters, as though there was another significant water flow up there, full of phosphorescence that reflected off some form of glassy volcanic rock.

A rhythm of heavy bipedal footfalls ahead startled him because he knew instantly they were human. The pacing. The padding of boot leather. It was likely a man approaching fast, with no hint of caution evident in his stride.

Vaughn dashed back the way he’d come until he found the cave wall. Then he crept along it to one side, venturing further into the foggy unknown. He came across a row of the tall, gray, bullet-shaped shoots, crouched behind it, and waited. The footsteps continued toward him. He heard a deep grunt. It sounded like frustration. The man stopped, shuffled, stepped around a few times. He seemed to be looking for something. Or someone.

A gentle impact behind Vaughn’s left shoulder spun him round. He glanced up. The shock of seeing a large creature perching there close enough to lash out at him with its claws instinctively drew his Kruger in self-defense. He’d have fired without hesitation if the thing had so much as twitched a hostile digit in his direction. But it just sat there, watching him with one big, friendly eye flecked with musical recognition.

Juke!

His heart mag-hammered as he gazed up, willing Stopper’s friend not to make a move, nor a single musical note, until the man in the mist had left. More grunts of frustration, now a few cuss words spat into the misty void. Juke looked out toward the ghostly silhouette of the stranger who was fumbling around between shadow and milk. For a horrid moment Vaughn was sure the trusting creature was going to leap out and try to befriend the new arrival who would appear so much like Stopper’s companions from the beach. And if it did ... and tried to bring him together with the friend he’d already made ...

Don’t do it! Don’t give us away. You’re brighter than that. Why do you think I’m hiding here in the first place?

Whether or not Juke perceived something wasn’t right, or whether he merely trusted Stopper’s association with Vaughn and chose not to extend it further, he decided to stay by the lawman’s side. No sound emerged from those prodigious pipes. He just sat there, watching, waiting.

The man finally gave up his thankless search and, after kicking a stone across the cave, marched back the way he’d come. He spoke a few unintelligible words. But the thing that piqued Vaughn’s detective’s brain also triggered a sudden flush of dread. A crackle of static, followed by a double beep.

Electronic beeps.

The only people down here who had working electronics were Diurnal.

Jesus.

To reach Jan, he now had to somehow get past them. Or through them.

​Chapter Eleven

Juke seemed to take it all as one big game: Stopper’s lost two-legged companion, Vaughn, stealing forward like a burglar through the mist, only to stop abruptly at frequent intervals and dash for cover. The playful hexapod mimicked his every movement, and delighted in finding a better hiding place each time, often higher up with a deft, near-silent climb. That was an incredible ability it had, to instantly locate the best local spot for cover and figure out how to reach it in a flash. It made Vaughn seem like a clumsy toddler who sucked at hide-and-seek.

But while he kept careful tabs on Diurnal’s progress, Vaughn also knew he had to keep his alien companion amused. He had to keep him by his side. The moment Juke got bored of this game, there was a distinct danger of him seeking entertainment elsewhere; he knew there were other humans ahead—he’d heard them, seen their silhouettes through the mist, and was aware that Vaughn was following them. But he didn’t appear to know why this game-playing straggler was behaving this way. It was just amusing, that was all.

A weird hybrid of hide-and-seek and charades had ensued ever since they’d set out together in pursuit of the grunting mercenary. Juke was a bit of a clown, in fact. As well as mimicking Vaughn’s tensed, light-footed creeping motion and sudden darts into the shadows, the hexapod demonstrated an impressive repertoire of imitations. Some were creatures Vaughn didn’t know—slinkers, belly-crawlers, or a stiff, long-necked marching animal—but when those elicited no reaction, Juke cycled back to his tried and tested routines that always raised a smile or a chuckle or a silent golf clap from his human audience. One mimicked Finnegan’s heavy, rather ungainly one-armed carriage. The one-armed bit was genuinely funny; Juke even rolled the shoulder joint of the forelimb he held stiffly perpendicular, and gave a shuddery, wincing motion, mocking the big outlaw’s tendency to do just that. Or he’d scratch that “sore” limb and do a little dance, making fun of the time Finnegan had lost his footing and slithered on the wet moss like Bambi on ice.

The other pose he adopted, with obvious affection, was Stopper’s. Hind and middle legs crooked together, forelegs stiff and splayed slightly apart, neck upright, mouth lopsided and quivering in a doggie sneer: it was as close to the canine rascal as Juke’s own physiology could manage. This was a highly intelligent, impressive creature, no doubt about it.

To further keep it amused, Vaughn tried imitating some of the species he himself had seen in the underworld: the grazers, the “bed-heads”, the scurrying jellyfish-domed amphibians Juke himself had rammed on the beach. But he wasn’t as adept or as expressive as the supple hexapod. Juke spun round and his eye went big and bright whenever he seemed to recognize a trait or feature of an animal he knew—at least, that’s what Vaughn took from those gestures. It could have been mocking criticism for all he knew, Juke’s way of saying, You might have fancy toys, but you suck at this game, buddy!

Between these bouts of entertainment, though, he had to ignore the antics of his alien companion in order to glean information about the mercenaries he was tracking. They didn’t stop often, so Vaughn was almost constantly on the move. Occasionally he’d spy the shape of the hindmost merc through the gloom, but he was careful not to press closer than that. After all, if he could see their silhouettes, they could see his. But sound carried surprisingly well through the larger chambers. He was able to discern snippets of dialogue they shared. No one could accuse them of being radio hogs, but simply by listening from a safe distance Vaughn learned more than he would have if he’d had eyes on them at all times.

Pike, it seemed, was caught in a quandary. He’d brought a grav-pod with them containing spare oxygen for the humans, whatever gases the Finaglers combined to make their own air supply, and a backup canister for the guytrash. But he’d underestimated the distances involved, the sheer scope of this cavernous underworld. He’d banked on a rugged but short-ranged contest. A stakeout. A battle of wits. Not this marathon. So he was continually hurrying them on, abbreviating their rest stops and snapping at any dissent. His main concern was the river itself, how far it had carried the floating trolleys and also Vaughn himself, whose fall they’d seen. Pike had guessed that the trolleys held more oxygen than his pod—a correct assumption. And also that he would soon reach a point of no return, when venturing any further would tip the odds so far in Finnegan’s favor that it would be suicidal for Diurnal to continue.

The crafty merc, though, was willing to take that gamble. Sooner or later the trolleys would reach an impasse, and their occupants would have to continue on foot. If that happened soon, or had already happened, Diurnal would still be in business. They were downwind of their prey. Several times Gil Aspian, Foucault and Lorenzo Lorca had suggested “sending the little bastard out” for what Pike called “a cutting-out jaunt”. Apparently it was an ace up their sleeve, something that had flipped many manhunts in their favor over the years.

Vaughn guessed they were referring to the guytrash. Those vicious creatures had a phenomenal prey drive, he knew. They were lightning quick, like Juke, but far more aggressive. If it sniffed Finnegan’s scent in the breeze, they could cut it loose to wreak havoc. Even Stopper, roughhouse that he was, might struggle to fend off such a well-trained and murderous guytrash.

That was all the more reason not to let Juke anywhere near it. This was Juke’s home turf. He might have an olfactory sense every bit the equal of Stopper’s and guytrash’s. Who could say where he might lead guytrash if it chased him off. Perhaps somewhere the little bastard couldn’t follow. But maybe, just maybe, to Stopper and Jan. Hell, he’d found Vaughn here in this misty labyrinth. He might know exactly where the others had disembarked from the trolleys and were currently trekking.

For all these reasons and more, Vaughn had to keep Juke with him in the shadows, until he could figure out some way to make his move.

A killing move.

Maybe several killing moves in one.

Yes, one way or another he was going to have to slow Diurnal, and if possible, end this manhunt once and for all.

But opportunities for attack were few and far between. Vaughn daren’t go around them to get ahead because then he’d be upwind of his enemies; guytrash would sniff him out in no time. He couldn’t see ahead of them to gauge the terrain and set any kind of trap, like a cave-in. No, Vaughn’s one advantage was the element of surprise, and he would only get to use that once for deadly effect. He had a firm idea for what that crucial assault would look like, but, again, the inability to see ahead meant he had no way of knowing where he could attempt it. Geography was critical for its success: a cave with just the right features: high roof, quick egress, defensible retreat. He would just have to hope visibility improved.

Making matters worse was Juke’s persistent friendliness. As well as shadowing Vaughn’s every move, he began to pipe up at inopportune times, first with Stopper’s melody, then with another, longer one that evolved into a more complicated tune, less catchy, that he played whenever they were on the move. Vaughn’s theme? Juke alternated that with Stopper’s, and seemed to be building a sort of symphony for his new friends, with a motif for each. But it also meant they had to hang much farther back during the pursuit. It might only be a private music session, not much louder than a hum, but Vaughn had heard how loudly Juke could play, back at the beach. A sudden urge to broadcast his voice far and wide, perhaps to reach his fellow musicians, might prove disastrous.

Vaughn couldn’t attack yet, but he did find a way of becoming a pest without letting on he was there. The flying creatures of the underworld rarely ventured below the safety of their upper vaults; they were content, instead, to crap on those below. And this crap was highly prized by the insects down here. They swarmed it wherever it landed, often fought over it with other species. Vaughn noticed that the most common and vicious of these crap-feeders bore a striking resemblance to erkunden, the insect that had bitten him and the two rookie rangers just before the Mazaris mass swarm event last year. Its coloring wasn’t exactly the same, but it was clearly a nasty cousin. And it was obsessed with a particular type of semi-hard gray dropping that clung like mulch to whatever surface it fell upon.

The next time he spotted a fresh, untenanted deposit, he scooped it up, rolled it into a gooey ball about the size of marble, and ran ahead until he saw the silhouette of Diurnal’s back-marker. He curled a cruel smirk. It was, as usual, the merc with the bare arms. Vaughn tossed the crap-ball with an arcing trajectory at the man. It struck his backpack and stuck. Shortly after, the lawman found and tossed another. He repeated it several times. All but two projectiles hit their target and clung. The merc didn’t know what had happened, but even if he had felt an impact, or found the offending splat, he’d have just looked up and cussed out the dirty bastard who’d shat on him.

Vaughn washed his hands in a catchment of tepid water, and followed at a safe distance, listening. It took a matter of minutes for the hungry insects to take the bait. The merc spat his first grunt of pain, then followed it up soon after with an audible “Again! What the fuck is that? You little son of a bitch!” Another couple of angry winces. A growl of frustration. Then he fired a shot with his pulse weapon. Its wide spread rippled the mist. It would have vaporized any offending insects in the vicinity, but it also brought the ire of Pike down on the vexed merc. They exchanged furious words, and Pike threatened to stove the man’s skull if, short of his life being in imminent jeopardy, he ever again fired without permission.

About ten minutes later, he was stung again. He told the others, and they realized something about him must be attracting the insects. One of them noticed the crap stains on his backpack and shoulders, then wiped them off for him using a wet cloth. No one seemed to suggest it was anything other than bad luck.

But that bad luck had a consequence, as Vaughn had hoped it might. He followed at a slightly closer range in order to watch the faint outline of the bitten merc. In the space of the next hour, the man stumbled no less than a dozen times, thrice falling heavily on the uneven rock floor. He always got up again and carried on, but the result was clear. The venom from those stings had affected his balance. It had left him woozy.

Vaughn held a fist in celebration. It was a small victory, but it was a victory all the same.

They entered a hot, gusty region where the swirling mist seemed to be fed by a confluence of air currents and outgassing. Strong crosswinds punched unpredictably in the open spaces, while the narrower passages became wind tunnels that growled and shrieked. A profusion of vegetation drank its fill from the condensed humidity that streamed down the walls and soaked the bed of silt. Muted colors among the undergrowth were nothing at all like the riot of hues found in the rainforests of the upper world. In this perpetual twilight, he figured scent-attraction would be more successful than any visual stimuli. But the plants themselves were every bit as bizarre in form and modii operandi.

Juke grew more subdued as he passed through these caverns. He stopped his mimicry, and kept a careful watch on the undergrowth. Vaughn couldn’t tell what it was exactly that made the creature nervous, but he guessed it was probably a combination of factors: the increased heat, the chaotic winds, life-forms he was wary of, and the occasional vicious snarl or gunshot that sounded ahead. The snarls were from guytrash, Vaughn knew—he recognized that ungodly noise that struck fear into any animal in its vicinity. It was Diurnal’s first line of defense in warding off any unwanted attentions from the local wildlife. If that didn’t work right away, they would fire a warning shot. And as a last resort, a kill shot. Vaughn found very few animal corpses in their wake, however. The life-forms down here, like Jan had said of most life on the Hesp, was wary of intruders.

It was perhaps a good thing that those same defensive measures Diurnal utilized to scare off any interlopers, was also frightening Juke. Anything that kept him away from them was a bonus.

But the thing that finally convinced Juke to abandon his human companion was a horror of Vaughn’s own making. It happened not long after Pike and his posse had set up camp in the mouth of a sheltered cavern. No draught flowed into that space. It was damp with seepage from the porous rock, but far drier than anywhere else they’d passed through recently. A recce inside had satisfied Pike that there were no immediate local threats. Plenty of vegetation, and likely creepy-crawlies galore, but a perimeter of red-hot, pulsing sentry orbs would deter anything that slithered their way. All in all, it was a sensible resting place Pike had chosen. The cavern was tall but quite narrow, and appeared very settled and serene.

That was ... until Vaughn, creeping just out of sight through the mist, scouted around and eventually found what he’d been looking for.

Another way in.

It was through a slot cave over a meter off the ground, and led through to the back wall of the cavern. Juke didn’t join him inside; he waited behind, the rash of flecks in his big eye blazing in sequence—warning? curiosity?—as he watched Vaughn disappear into the shadowy interior.

A faint bioluminescence emanated from the undersides of sagging vines heavy with seepage water. These webbed the left-hand wall (from Vaughn’s perspective, looking toward the mouth of the cavern). A thicket of leafy shrubs grew beneath them, bathing in the meagre light and a mucus-like sap that leaked from the vines and spread over the leaves. None of this would have been of much interest to Vaughn if he hadn’t also spied a shape inside the thicket that triggered alarm bells in his detective-ranger’s mind.

It was a large, cone-shaped hive. Again, not exactly like erkunden’s, but close enough for him to bet heavily on it being a related species. There was movement all around it, but sluggish; a glancing eye would not catch it. Pike and his men had no idea it was there because they hadn’t known what to look for. They hadn’t spent time on this world, learned any of its secrets.

The hive’s occupants were at rest.

Tine for a wake-up call.

Now, this could backfire spectacularly on him if he got it wrong, he knew. But Diurnal’s security orbs might ironically be the guarantees of his safety. They would be the first things the incensed insects would see after emerging—foreign, invasive lights with a livid pulse, and therefore the likeliest aggressors. The swarm would fly out of the cavern in a rage, not inward.

Hmm. He needed more surety than that. He needed something tried and tested to guide their frenzy.

Vaughn slipped back out through the slot cave, gave a cartoonish, hunched impression of a tip-toeing bank robber to amuse Juke—no reaction, tough audience all of a sudden—and hunted around for fresh droppings. There were none close by. It stood to reason the erkunden would have eaten anything in their vicinity already. So he wandered farther afield until he spied what he took to be a semi-fresh pile of the muck he’d gathered earlier. Same color and consistency. There was a lot of it, too—the flying crapper had to be a monstrous size. He managed to scare the feeding insects off by beating it with a rock, then rolled it up into a ball.

Vaughn lobbed it gently onto the ground not far from Diurnal’s camp, far enough away that they wouldn’t be alarmed by the sound, and even if they did see it fall, what was one more crap splat in a prehistoric realm full of flying creatures? The mercs were now directly between the hive and this bait.

He returned to the slot cave, shrugged at Juke, who just blinked, nonplussed, at all the to-ing and fro-ing, and readied the handful of stones he’d gathered. The farthest position from the hive from which he could still see it, was a little too near the entrance for his liking. But he was in the shadows on the opposite side from the light-emitting vines, so he couldn’t be seen.

He started throwing. The first two stones missed the hive but didn’t strike rock. They merely rustled the shrubbery. No one outside seemed to notice. The third stone clipped the top of the hive and then clattered against the rock wall. A figure sprang up outside, towered over the warning lights, and peered in.

Damn it, if he shone a flashlight inside he might catch Vaughn red-handed ...  and cornered.

Vaughn back-stepped softly against the cave wall and crouched behind a protuberance, not quite out of sight if the cavern were to be suddenly illuminated. He waited, breathless. No beam disturbed the gloom but he could feel the merc’s watchful gaze. It was nowhere near as misty in here as it was in the main passages—if Vaughn could see out, his opponent could see in. Only the subdued bioluminescence lining the wall opposite kept his secret. It allowed the merc to see just enough to assuage him without having to switch on his flashlight. Trickles of water and the distant howls of wind kept Vaughn even more on edge.

He wished he hadn’t tried this. It was too big a gamble.

But the watcher seemed satisfied. He lay back down, and there was a brief exchange that Vaughn couldn’t quite make out.

Another tossed stone rustled the shrubs. The next swung one of the droopy vines. Vaughn rolled his shoulders to relax, took a long, steadying breath, and tossed his sixth and final stone.

It struck the hive dead center. The impact not only caved the front of the cone in, it dislodged the entire structure from its waxy anchor, spilling it onto the silty floor.

Vaughn was already vaulting up onto the ledge when the hive burst open and the swarm went berserk in the secluded cavern. The frenzied buzzing sounded like a drill dialed up to manic revs. Juke had already vanished altogether by the time Vaughn emerged from the slot cave. Not much perturbed that gregarious creature, but the noise of a rampaging swarm had signaled game over, even for him.

Even from a safe distance, the blizzard of human cries and Finagler squeals and frantic pulse blasts as Diurnal fled the attacking swarm was a chilling thing to witness. Vaughn didn’t celebrate; he wanted to know exactly how much damage had been done first. But a quietly thrilling thrum of vengeance coursed through him as he circled his way back to the river. It produced a metallic tinge of bloodlust on the tip of his tongue. He’d been chewing his lip, had drawn blood.

It tasted warm like ... like a first sip from the rim of a flask ... before a hot reckoning.

The pursuit resumed almost immediately. None of the mercs had received fatal bites, but from the snippets Vaughn could discern, most of them were experiencing the symptoms of toxic venom in their bloodstreams. Disorientation. Hot and cold sweats. Fever. Nausea. Awful itching around the bites. The hot, sweaty climate had previously persuaded a number of them to strip to their T-shirts. Not smart, especially after what had happened to their crap-magnet colleague at the rear of the column. Those men had naturally suffered the most at the hands of the swarm. Their stubborn macho pride precluded any overt confessions of discomfort—they’d much rather suck it up than let their comrades see weakness—but even Pike wasn’t stupid enough to force more than an easy forward progress. He called frequent rests. Administered meds and stims to those that needed them. But they had no antivenom to counteract this particular toxin.

If slowing them to a crawl like this was all he’d achieved, Vaughn would have gladly taken the win. But he had momentum now. He had the bit between his teeth. And he’d deflated the myth of this incontestable death squad. Diurnal could be hurt like any other band of bullies. You just had to believe you could outsmart them.

He picked his moment to strike again with careful precision. The back-marker of the group was, perhaps inevitably, the same merc Vaughn had targeted last time with his crap balls. That man still had the venom from those first bites in his system. His second round of bites, from the bigger swarm, on those same bare arms and neck, had reduced him to a woozy, stumbling straggler who could barely stand, let alone keep up with his colleagues. But he was probably aware that anyone who couldn’t go on would be left behind—to be retrieved on the return journey, yes, but who was to say what would happen in the meantime? So he forced himself to continue, until Vaughn felt sure the merc was ripe for the plucking.

He chose a spot near a direct passage to the river. It was particularly misty and gusty, and the woozy straggler—Salvo was his nickname—was not coping well with the gradual uphill climb against a stream of water. Vaughn stole in behind him, knife drawn. In one deft fluid motion he yanked Salvo’s mask off, covered his mouth, pulled his head to one side by the jaw, exposing his neck, and plunged the knife into the carotid artery behind his ear, all the way through to his brain.

Salvo struggled and convulsed, but it was just a death rattle. Vaughn dragged him down the slope, reasonably sure that the stream would wash away any traces of blood. The side passage to the river was flat, however, and merely damp, so he flung a large evidence bag over Salvo’s head and cinched it around his neck to catch any further blood-flow. He didn’t want to leave any evidence of murder. Then he dragged the body to the river, behind a boulder. Vaughn rummaged through the man’s backpack and pockets for anything he could salvage.

Food rations. A small oxygen canister. A pair of grenades. Portable tracking equipment. A working flashlight. A state-of-the-art omnipod headset with more functions than you could shake a stick at. And a strange-looking tablet-shaped device Vaughn had never seen before, sealed in a cushioned case and labelled ‘DOPP. MIR. MK V’.

He packed them into his own rucksack. Then he ripped Salvo’s rucksack open with his knife and put it back on him. Finally, he slid the merc’s body into the gushing river, removing the evidence bag from his head at the last moment. That way if Pike and the others found him, they’d think he’d had an accident: a fall onto rocks, perhaps, or killed by a creature. They knew he was unsteady. And if they never found him, well, maybe he’d just gotten himself lost in the mist and had succumbed to his toxic fever.

In any event, Vaughn now had one less bastard to contend with. And a few more tricks up his sleeve.

One of these he used to spy on Pike’s men through the swirling mist as they backtracked to search for their missing comrade. Salvo’s state-of-the-art omnipod had custom functions up the wazoo. Most of these were inaccessible without his unique retinal ID, but emergency functions were never encrypted on omnipods. An eye injury from exposure to unfiltered star-glare, say—star blindness, as it was known, a common, painful accident during interstellar travel—would make eyecraft impossible and the device therefore inoperable. Dangerous, if the user needed to broadcast a distress signal. So the basic emergency functions like vision filters and enhancement, single-channel radio transmission, stellar cartography, public service database, flashlight, etc. could be accessed by anyone at any time.

Vaughn used his tasker cable and harpoon to swing across the river. The boulder-strewn terrain was rougher on the other side, but it had far more hiding places. And Diurnal would have no need to search there for Salvo. They covered an impressive area systematically in two-man teams, but there were no indications that they’d found so much as a drop of blood. Vaughn watched through one of the spectral filters on the merc’s omnipod. The almost non-existent heat differential between human bodies and the steamy atmosphere nullified infrared, which left only pre-set light band 15, whatever that was, as the one useful option. It showed dense moving bodies as oily silver blotches through a scratchy monochrome blizzard. Crude, but it penetrated the mist and allowed him to keep tabs on the various teams.

That was a terrible way to see the terrain while he was mobile, though, so when Pike finally called off the search and led Diurnal on after Finnegan, Vaughn returned to tracking them with his regular unfiltered vision.

They jogged, marched, scrambled for another couple of hours, traversing a series of spacious caverns through which the wind eased to a steady breeze and the mist began to thin. But the venom had taken its toll. Their pace was half what it had been. So Pike called for an extended rest, setting up camp well away from any hint of creatures or vegetation, on a raised, sheltered ledge with their backs to the wall and a good vantage. They even lit a campfire using a bundle of bracken and dead weeds one of them had gathered earlier.

Vaughn used the opportunity to sneak past them by darting from column to column on the far side of the cave. He scouted ahead for a possible ambush site, but despite a solid half hour’s search, didn’t see one that met all his criteria on the path Diurnal would likely take.

The getaway was the key. He could strike anywhere, but he had to be able to cover his retreat afterward.

Disappointed, he returned to Diurnal’s cave and rested behind one of the large columns about half a football field away from their camp. The warm breeze was pleasant here. It had begun to dry him for the first time, he realized. So he took off his jacket and his T-shirt, and let the airflow soothe his battered, briny skin. He thought about hanging his clothes up to dry on the column, but didn’t entirely trust that a sudden gust wouldn’t blow them off and cheaply blow his cover. Instead, he used his jacket as a pillow and took a power nap.

A percussive beat woke him. It was wrapped in a guttural melody of sorts, a tasteless meathead music track someone’s ’pod was playing from across the cave. Vaughn was surprised Pike allowed it. Not only would it keep his men awake, robbing them of much-needed restorative naptime, it was also announcing their presence at a time when surprise might be a crucial advantage. If Jan and the others heard this, they’d only redouble their efforts to outdistance it.

But morale was a factor here, too. Diurnal had lost a team member, had been weakened by the swarm attack, and it was fast approaching the point of no return in terms of resources. Perhaps a little entertainment would help keep their chins up. Perhaps this savage beat would get their blood pumping again.

Not nearly as much as the savage beat I’m gonna serve them.

A dark streak caught his eye as he slung his baldric over his head. It zipped by between the columns and stalagmites. Low to the ground, agile, it dodged every obstacle as it made a beeline for ...

Oh Christ!

He adjusted his baldric and gun belt, slung his backpack onto his shoulder and peered round the waxy column, poised for action. This couldn’t end well. Not if—

To the inane beat was added a cacophony of far more savage bestial snarls. The encounter unfolded exactly as Vaughn had feared it would: Juke’s sweet gregariousness leading him to fresh music and new potential friends, only for Guytrash to head him off at the last moment and set about him with primal violence. Vaughn had few clear glimpses. The hyperactive savagery instantly became a tumbling, driving ball of fury, hard to gauge. Juke kept his eye closed during combat—a protective measure? How could he “see” his opponent? What other sense or senses did he engage to compensate? Echolocation? But it looked like he gave as good as he got. That was until Guytrash lost its footing and was flipped onto its back. When it got up, and looked round to its masters, momentarily crestfallen, the note of humiliation seemed to incense the creature even further. It emitted a weird syncopated clicking sound, then flew into a roaring berserker rage that terrified poor Juke.

Juke bolted away through the cavern Vaughn had scouted earlier, with Guytrash in murderous pursuit. They were evenly matched in terms of speed. Juke’s greater agility and knowledge of the geography would probably see him to safety, but there was another possible outcome to this chase that filled Vaughn with dread.

What if Juke took them to Jan and Stopper?

​Chapter Twelve

The end of the river, and the trolley ride, came swiftly as the current swept them around the bend of a canyon flanked by imperious cliffs. Seeing the abruptness and absoluteness of the fall into nothingness after so long a passage sent Jan into momentary shock. A surreal dislocation held her apart from time in that instant. A cloud of mist hung over the abyss ahead like a sleeping breath. The smooth, yawning mouth of the pour had a touch of the impossible about it, as though they were sailing over the edge of the world in a long-lost Viking saga. The sudden sense of height and rush of vertigo also had a dream-like quality to it. Surely this was a waterfall high, high up in the clouds, not deep underground. How on earth could it plummet like that when it was already kilometers beneath what she knew as terra firma?

Then it hit her and wrenched her back into the moment: this was not Earth; there was no terra firma. It was Hesperidia, and the Hesp always found ways to surprise you.

The rumble of the cataract grew louder.

She responded to David Carlisle’s call for her to yank her trolley’s manual power lever. Jan’s fist was already gripping it, had been for the last few kilometers. She pulled. The trolley shimmied to life and wobbled against the forceful current. Stopper squirmed beside her as the water splashed in. He reared up and placed his forepaws on the rim, as though he was about to jump out.

“No! Stay!” she scolded him, and grabbed his harness to make sure. With her other hand she activated the control for emergency safe descent. There was no telling how high it was, how far down they would have to float. But the trolley would see them safely to—

No?

David was motioning strongly to the right. He’d seen something she hadn’t; he and Finnegan were a little ahead of her, had a better view of that side. Jan trusted him. She switched the safe descent toggle to OFF and instead activated the manual high-alt function. It would not be as responsive as the standard electrical directional controls but she had no choice. The heavy, waterlogged trolley continued wobbling as it rose out of the water over the lip of the pour. She didn’t dare look down. Nothingness hissed all around her and roared up from far below. Jan locked the trolley into its extreme power-sucking hover over oblivion, and rolled the hemispheroid guidance wheel to follow David’s lead.

There was a ledge to the right. He’d clocked its edge during the approach, had made a good call. Their sluggish trolleys clanged together as his slowed and hers didn’t in time. Finnegan held them together. They floated over the down-sloping ledge and, at David’s prompt, both pilots lowered them gently onto the rock in tandem.

All told, a neat little maneuver given the circumstances: a hair-raising glide at the end of what had been a white-knuckle ride. They’d all kept their heads under pressure, had successfully gained many miles, and precious hours, on their pursuers. Three humans and one canine climbed out onto the broad, damp ledge.

“Okay, what now?” asked Finnegan after popping another couple of pills for his shoulder pain.

But unlike him, the two ranger-scientists were hardwired to never take the wonders of the natural world for granted. They’d seen so much already on this trek, but nothing could have prepared them for what the underworld now displayed in the immense cavern below.

It was at least ten or fifteen times as voluminous as the Big Red theme park dome on Mars, and that was only what she could see. A plethora of waterfalls at various heights and distances crashed upon the boulders of a colossal rock-slide or cave-in that had piled against the cliff wall hundreds of feet below. The myriad rivulets webbed their way between the rocks to feed a gushing river. This in turn spilled into an enormous lake in the middle of the cave that stretched as far as the eye could see. That phosphorescent concourse brewed a brilliant shimmering lilac glow, as if the sudden reuniting of so many disparate organisms after a turbulent voyage had excited them beyond measure. This effusion of light was then dispersed and diluted in delightful patterns as the river debouched into the lake. Some of those strands stretched around its circumference, and were tugged ashore and beached by the rippling current as the water level ever-so-gradually lowered. Others drifted off to join rafts or reefs of plankton-lit flotsam offshore.

The rest, however, joined the most remarkable feature of all: a spiral current powered by a gigantic whirlpool in the center of the lake. It didn’t seem possible at first, how something so geometric and eye-catching could exist all the way down here. But Jan’s sense of wonder was always girded by the shape of logic. There was a physical explanation for every seemingly magical occurrence.

In the end, a mundane everyday comparison unlocked the secret of the whirlpool for her, but that didn’t make it any less impressive. She pictured the water in a bathtub swirling in a vortex as it drained through the plughole. Which meant that the underworld didn’t end here. There had to be an even deeper realm the floodwater poured into. Maybe it went on and on, delving into the planet’s crust until it was finally boiled by geothermal heat.

No wonder Smokestack Archipelago and the volcanic vents of the western land masses belched out so much steam. The underworld was one giant, labyrinthine kettle on the boil after every spring tide!

Stopper’s tail wagged like crazy as he watched Jan. The big rascal seemed to perceive her girlish excitement at this fresh discovery. She knelt beside him and hugged him close. “Let’s just wait here a while,” she absently answered Finnegan’s question from before. When Carlisle handed her a snack, she added to it a treat for her canine companion, and whispered, “Dinner and a show, Stops. What do you think of that?”

He gave a happy little bark of acknowledgement.

Clouds hung high over this strange, twilight sanctum. To the right, from far below, three pale beanstalk-like plants had grown to an immense size. Hollows in their buttress roots were miniature caves unto themselves. The upper branches clung to the cave ceiling. Near the tops, the stems flew masses of streaming vines out into the steamy airflow that billowed thickest from a vent quite high up in the cliff wall. She guessed the vines were catching that dense water vapor before it dispersed, and that that was the reason the beanstalks had grown so high—to reach up into the steam cloud and drink their fill.

At the foot of the beanstalks was a sickly-gray forest, stiff and seemingly lifeless, dotted with soupy, gurgling pools. It looked like a pyroclastic flow had cremated it in the manner of Pompeii and Herculaneum, and then centuries of precipitation had kept it damp, clayey. Fascinating.

Beyond that, a second, larger forest boasted a little more color. Nowhere near as vibrant as the rainforests of the upper world, it nonetheless appeared every bit as diverse, with species of flora and fauna unknown to human science flourishing with protean vigor in a bed of silt kept moist by a wispy ground mist.

Away to the left, on the far side of the lake, a bizarre, gelatinous, segmented canopy bulged from the roof and the upper walls of the cliff. It bore countless blisters that sagged and shimmied, as though colonies of sizeable creatures were crawling about inside. Some sort of cocoon or hive? A good thing it’s way the hell over there, thought Jan.

The discussion over what to do next was a short one. The ledge skirted the cliff wall for a kilometer or two to the right before it delved into the valley below at a fairly steep gradient. It was traversable for both descent and ascent, but why risk venturing into another potentially dangerous ecosystem if they didn’t have to? Why go any further when they’d only have to make that distance up on the return leg? And anyway, they had a great vantage from this position. It was exposed, but they were so high up that nothing would bother them unless it flew.

No, staying put was the only sensible option.

Once they’d decided that, there was nothing much to do apart from tend to their supplies and equipment. Jan and Carlisle bailed the seawater out of the flooded trolleys, then took inventory. One of the small crates of food had been damaged under her and Stopper’s weight. Seawater had got in and spoiled most of the contents. Ditto two of the water bottles. But the rest were fine. They had weeks’ worth of consumables, and more than enough spare oxygen to keep them alive for an extended stay before their long trek back to the upper world.

Bored, Finnegan engaged his male companion with a terse get-to-know-you session that was more like an interrogation. It quickly evolved into blokey banter, the sarcastic, deprecating type she normally enjoyed but which for some reason she found hard to join in with here. It wasn’t David Carlisle’s fault. She always got on famously with him.

It had to be the big outlaw. Something about his demeanor, his facetiousness, just rubbed her the wrong way.

The longer she sat alone with Stopper, excluded from the men’s conversation, the harder she thought back over everything that had happened, trying to make sense of it. All it did was focus her many insidious frustrations onto a single point of contempt, and intensified it with irrational hatred ... for the bastard who’d brought all this to Hesperidia. Twice.

It may have been the blokey banter itself, the fact that he was indulging in it when Vaughn could not. It may have been the absurdity of their predicament finally catching up with her. It might have been the impotence she felt at a time of great discovery—a scientist unable to record or even comment on the wonders she was seeing. It might even have been jealousy; the one person she could happily geek out with about all this—David Carlisle—was being kept from her. It was undoubtedly a gnawing fear she’d tried to suppress but which she was all too aware she would soon have to face head-on: Vaughn’s absence. They’d seen no sign of him whatsoever during their river journey. Either they’d missed him or ... no, no, she mustn’t look down at the rocks below.

It was all these and more besides, raging away inside, dying to vent. To explode.

She wouldn’t let it. The ranger with going on thirty years’ experience told her to get busy. She had that one, and only one, sure-fire way to defang these pent-up demons. To find a distraction. The constructive kind.

An overwhelming urge to write her observations down on something took hold. She leapt up and began rummaging through her backpack, then the supplies. No paper. No pen or pencil or marker. No labels. No cardboard that wasn’t sopping wet. But she was determined, and her rechanneled focus held that same intensity.

No traditional means to write? Fine then. She searched the ledge. It was littered with fallen rocks, most no bigger than her fist, and clumps of dead vegetation. She found chunks of pumice, a light form of solidified lava, and other igneous rocks. She guessed there’d been a volcanic flow through one of the adjoining chambers higher up at some point. There was evidence of burnt plant matter as well, and attached to several of the pumice chunks she found a dark, semihard substance a lot like charcoal.

After gathering these, she raced back to camp and knew exactly what she would do. First, she dried an outside panel of one of the trolleys with a blanket. Then she sketched a crude picture of the valley below with the charcoal. Next, Jan began annotating it with her observations, using her own long-practiced shorthand and nomenclature. It would have read as gobbledygook to anyone else, even Carlisle, but she was in her XZ/XB groove, and was as oblivious to the men’s amused comments tossed her way as they’d been to her a few minutes ago.

By the time she’d finished, the flank panels of both trolleys resembled a troglodyte savant’s fever dream.

“Interesting hobby, Doc,” said Finnegan as the two men came over and sat beside her and Stopper when she finally stopped to rest. Carlisle had used the portable stove to heat a pan of soup. He now poured it into three cups and handed them out.

“I have a low boredom threshold,” she admitted. “It’s like an itch I have to scratch or it drives me nuts. And I like to record everything new I come across. Always have.”

“Let’s just hope we don’t have to go for another swim,” replied the big merc. “Be a shame to wash away all that hard work.”

Carlisle took one of his boots off and tipped it upside down. Seawater poured out. “Anyone remember what dry feels like?”

“Not really,” said Jan. “Even back at Miramar, it was total humidity. I’m thinking we need a complete change of scenery. All of us. I mean it.”

“A staff retreat? Anywhere specific in mind?”

“No, just somewhere completely different, where we can start a new chapter.”

“Relocate, you mean?” Carlisle took another sip of broth while he considered that. “Interesting.”

“And not just the location,” she went on. “I’m thinking a rebrand as well. Alien Safari is in a rut, has been ever since tenax. I don’t think we’re ever going to escape that unless we make some big changes.”

Finnegan tossed the remainder of his soup out over the edge. “I see what you mean about not switching off, Doc.”

“Got a problem with that?”

“Not a one. Linds is the same way when she’s all grit. I just tell her, ‘You’re dynamic, darlin’, right before I kick my boots off, crack open a four-pack and watch the IC sportscast.”

“Oh wow. The age of chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

He playfully flicked his eyebrows up at her. “What can I say? I’m a man of simple pleasures.”

“You got the simple part right.”

“Speaking of chivalry, I’ve been meaning to ask—” Finnegan turned to Carlisle, “—what possessed you to muck in like this? Don’t get me wrong, it’s a helluva thing, way more than any bureaucrat I’ve ever met would do. But it’s still a helluva thing. Vaughn I get. He’s a Boy Scout. And the doc here, she’s a tigress. But I’ve been trying to figure you out, First Ranger Carlisle, and it’s bugging me that I can’t. Where you’ve gotten to, the traits you’d normally need to get there; no offence, but you seem like you should be more of a sonofabitch than you are. What’s your secret? What drove you to conquer the stars but didn’t go to your head? Didn’t bring out the bastard in you? I mean that’s rare. Decent folks are usually not ambitious. So how about it? Was there a Rubicon moment back there somewhere?”

“You don’t think it was just a sense of duty that brought me here?” Carlisle poured himself another cup of soup, and set it down beside him.

“There’s never just a sense of duty. There’s always something significant behind it, that gives it the kind of spine yours has. Just between us, what was it, Carlisle?”

The First Ranger took a careful sip, looked out over the twinkling cavern, then poured the remainder back into his flask for later.

“Vaughn said you made a name for yourself as an anti-poacher back on Ole Blue,” the big merc pressed him. “That can’t have been easy, choosing between people and animals.”

“Easier than you’d think,” Jan cut in. “The right and wrong of it that are not complicated. Not for someone with a shred of decency.”

“That the way you see it, Carlisle?”

The First Ranger stretched his arms, and sighed. “I tell you what: you must have been a headshrinker in another life, Finnegan. Either that or the galaxy’s first homicidal agony aunt.”

Jan snickered.

“Guilty as charged,” said Finnegan.

“To which one?” she asked.

He shrugged, and slanted a cheeky smirk.

“You really want to know?” began Carlisle. “It’s no great secret or anything. It’s right there in my dossier, black and white. The inquest lasted three days, and I was exonerated.”

His audience, including Stopper, watched him, unblinking.

“Very well,” he went on. “If you want to know what I think ... I agree with Jane. The right and the wrong of it are not complicated. Poaching is a slam-dunk binary choice. But the decency part of it can be muddy. It happened one cool afternoon on a misty plateau in the Ethiopian highlands. I was mentoring a junior park ranger, a local lad: Jember was his name. A quiet guy, good listener, took care to get everything he did just right. Maybe a bit too careful if I’m honest. But he’d learned everything I’d thrown at him and he was getting used to the patterns of animal behavior out in the field.

“We responded to a call that said a party of poachers had been spotted flying a ground-hugger under the radar, heading up toward a mountainous area in the highlands not far from our patrol route. I guessed right away what they were probably after. There were less than a hundred Walia ibexes left in existence, and the trophy collectors were paying insane amounts of money to procure them. As it is with most things, the rarest species are always the most valuable. And collectors hate being denied what they covet most.

“There was a big area to cover and not enough manpower, so Jember and I split up. Not long after, Jember spotted a small herd of ibexes. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he’d seen people in the mist near the edge of the plateau. I told him to stay put and watch the herd, to not engage with any intruders until I got there, not unless the ibexes’ lives were in imminent danger. The rules of engagement are clear, and he knew them by heart. If an armed poacher approaches or aims his weapon in the direction of a protected animal, the ranger is obligated to shoot him dead on sight. No warning shots. No attempts to wound. If the threat to the animal is clearly established, the protocol is kill first, ask questions later.

“But Jember always was a little too careful. A touch indecisive. I’d hoped he’d grow out of that after a few engagements with hostiles, when he understood the urgency of deadly force as deterrent. Well, he did fire his shot. It wasn’t quick enough to stop the poacher’s first shot that clipped an ibex on its hind quarters, but Jember’s response hit the shooter square in his chest. Right where he’d been trained to aim for.

“His next action should have been to assess the poacher’s condition. If he was dead, wait with the body for retrieval. If he was still alive, incapacitate him, make sure he was no longer a threat. But Jember found himself caught in two minds. He could see the injured ibex was lame and losing a lot of blood. It couldn’t escape. It might easily fall prey to a hyena, or would make a tempting target for the other poachers, if there were more. On the other hand, he had an emergency veterinary field kit with him, and had the basic skills to patch up the ibex’s wound. He couldn’t make it walk, but he could prevent it from bleeding out.

“So he hesitated. Which was more urgent? Removing the threat or treating the animal’s wound? His decency proved to be his liability. When he saw the poacher get up and make a run for it, he made an incorrect assessment that the man was no longer a threat. It might have occurred to him that the poacher wore body armor and wasn’t badly wounded. But all he saw was an enemy fleeing. He didn’t have the heart to finish him off. Instead, he fired one more warning shot, and turned to tend to the wounded ibex. Before he got there, the poacher, safely shrouded by the mist, took careful aim and blew Jember’s head apart.”

“God, that’s awful,” said Jan. “What did you do?”

“I hunted the bastard down and did the same for him.” He paused, a subtle ripple of anger narrowing his lips, his eyes, and finally knitting his brow. It was so unlike him, but Jan felt she’d glimpsed for the first time that fearsome bane of poachers he’d somehow managed to bury beneath his nerdier qualities on Hesperidia. “Saved the ibex, but I couldn’t save Jember. And ever since then, I’ve never liked leaving anyone else to do a dangerous job I know I should be doing. I’ve had to learn to live with it over the years, especially here. I can’t do everyone’s job for them. And the people here are as good as, if not better than me at what they do. But I just couldn’t leave you all here to face an imminent threat when it was absolutely in my power to back you up. Call that reckless if you want, but I just see it as my responsibility. I’ve dealt with killers for most of my career. The difference is I didn’t arrest them, most of them. I shot them dead on sight. That makes me uniquely qualified to help you survive this. That’s why I’m here. And because I trusted Jane and Vaughn when they said you needed our protection, Finnegan.

“A rather long answer to your question, but it was a long question. An important one. And now you know that about me. But there’s something I want to know. You came here once before. What happened? How did the three of you get thrown together?”

Finnegan stared at Jan. “How much do you want to tell him? He has put it all on the line for us.”

“Yeah.” She gave Carlisle a gentle pat on the back. “You really out to know what you’re going through all this for, boss.”

“I figured you and Vaughn would tell me when you’re ready.”

“We would ... we are. But unlike your anti-poaching incident, this one is not recorded anywhere. Only six people alive know about it. Three of them came down here with you. Another is Finnegan’s woman, Lindsay. And the other two are members of Core Congress.”

Finnegan grunted his disapproval. “So now the whole freaking galaxy knows.”

“No,” she replied. “Believe it or not, there are some politicians you can trust. Those two owed us a personal debt—Stops and me. And they’ve been true to their word ever since. For going on two decades now.”

“I’ve always suspected ... there’s something extraordinary about you two,” said Carlisle. “At first I just assumed you were who everyone said you were: Juanita Corbija’s daughter. And that Stopper was a third or fourth generation GenMod. But I’ll not lie; I’ve suspected for some time now that you’ve both been here a lot longer than your official records suggest.” He watched her reaction closely, and smiled at her attempt to suppress a knowing grin. “I was right!” he went on. “You are Juanita Corbija! And Stops really is in his third decade. Only you haven’t aged a day since ... whatever it is you’re about to tell me about. Something Finnegan was also witness to. Something he’s brought with him?”

Jan and the big outlaw shared a glance.

“It can’t have been that hard to figure out,” said Finnegan, somewhat deflating the moment. “Woman can’t lie worth a damn. Vaughn’s as deep as Black Hole Bertha, yeah, but the doc here, she’s about as tactful as a maghammer to the nuts. No offense.”

“Some taken. Asshole.”

“But it’s not just a manhunt, right?” added Carlisle. “Diurnal hasn’t gone to all this trouble just to kill you. That would make no sense. They’re risking too much for an assassination. It’s either to capture you alive and get information from you, or to take hold of something in your possession. I’m guessing the latter. It’s something that slows ageing, isn’t it. Some kind of alien panacea or elixir?”

“Not bad, David,” said Jan.

“So that’s what brought you three together in the first place ... here on the Hesp?”

“Uh-huh. Have you ever heard of the Golden—”

Stopper sprang up from under her arm with shocking force and slipped her attempt to grab his harness. He raced back toward the river, where he found, to Jan’s genuine surprise, a slender, panting hexapod creature curling up to rest against the cliff wall. It looked remarkably like Juke, except its big eye was almost shut. The scaly eyelid bore a scar that appeared to be recent, made of three claw marks. There was a similar wound on its back that had drawn blood, and bite marks high up on one of its hind legs. Juke contorted himself to lick these.

Stopper stood near him, tail wagging, and appeared to want to help his poor friend out, perhaps to join in with the licking. The big rascal always had been generous with his saliva when showing affection—an instinctive slobber machine. But he wisely let Juke tend his own wounds, while Stopper stood guard for moral support.

“How the hell did he find us?” asked Finnegan.

They all looked across to the other side of the river where the ledge continued on, broken here and there, delving under at least two small cataracts, far into the gloom.

“So there’s more than one way here from the beach,” said Jan. “Good news for if we get lost. Bad news for if ... well, he found us, didn’t he.”

“From downwind,” replied Carlisle. “He was able to track us. So Diurnal might be able to as well.”

Finnegan strode out to the neck of the waterfall and peered down into the roaring torrent, as though he was watching his own life’s trajectory in that thrilling, unapologetic rush over the brink. Then he gazed along the ledge, in the direction Juke had come, and finally made his way back to Jan and Carlisle.

“Doubtful they can get this far on foot,” he said. “Juke can jump across chasms and rivers; they can’t. And even if they could get here, it’d cost ’em too much in oxygen. They’d waste days crossing the same distance we did in under an hour. Right?”

“It’s unlikely, I’d have thought.” Carlisle massaged his neck while he weighed the odds. “Unless the bends in the river disoriented us and we wound back in a southerly direction ... then it would be a different story.”

Jan shook her head. “I didn’t get that sense. The constant headwind. The downward trend. I think we flowed on pretty much the same heading.”

“Me too,” admitted Carlisle. “But as scientists, without instruments, we have to permit the possibility that we’re not where we assumed.”

“So you think we should continue on?” she asked.

“Not necessarily. But there’s a good argument for either choice now. The fact that Juke found us at least raises the question of how far from the beach we actually are. Hmm, let’s put it to a vote.”

“Okay.” Jan noted the amount of heat evaporating from Juke as he applied his gentle natural salve. It pointed to extreme exertion, probably over a long distance. Together with his wounds, it suggestion he’d endured a real ordeal to get here. “Who’s for moving on?”

No one put a hand up.

“Who’s for staying put?”

All three voted. Stopper added his bark, though whether it was an aye or a nay Jan couldn’t tell. Time would do that, she reckoned, their most persistent enemy down here, whose menace would only grow while they waited, even though it could no longer be measured.

It was a riddle. A conundrum. Which would reach them first? Diurnal ... or the urge to head back.

Juke ceased his licking after a while, and greeted Stopper in a friendly if more subdued manner than he had at the beach. He was much less guarded around humans this time, though. So gregarious, in fact, so easy in their company and so proactively communicative, despite the violent altercation he’d suffered recently, that Jan began to suspect Juke had encountered Vaughn somewhere along the way. Not Diurnal—the guytrash would never have allowed him to get close. But Vaughn would have been a more receptive audience. He would understand the value of friendship with an intelligent, indigenous creature that knew its way around and, more importantly, might know where to find Stopper.

That was all hopeful conjecture, but the more Juke interacted with them, the more she found herself glancing away to the distant, narrow gaps behind the waterfalls. Vaughn was alive and on her trail; she could feel it. He’d know to follow the river course as far as he was able. But so, too, would Diurnal.

Damn it. Guesswork was nothing but fretwork. She had to stop dwelling on the unknowable aspects of this hunt. Especially when she had a remarkable creature right in front of her, practically begging to be studied.

Stopper’s patient respect for its boundaries while it had licked its wounds had earned Juke’s trust. That same tactfulness—not pressing for unwanted play, letting Juke initiate physical contact—had drawn the injured creature out of its uncharacteristic timidity. It was just a way the big Boxer had with the more sociable animals of the Hesp. It wasn’t unlike Vaughn’s own laconic, steadfast persona, that naturally made friendlies feel safe and hostiles insecure.

Juke was less hyperactive than he’d been previously, but he circled Stopper several times before brushing against him and making the dog jump with a tickle of his flank pipes on Stopper’s ribs. Those same pipes whistled up a jaunty rendition of Stopper’s tune, and the big Boxer wagged his tail in recognition. It was sweet, like watching two kindergarteners bond over a theme song from a cartoon they both liked.

Then Juke mimicked his canine friend’s form and posture to the best of his ability. Stopper didn’t know what to make of it at first, and barked his confusion. Luckily he didn’t attempt to return the favor; he’d have done himself an injury trying for ‘slinky hexapod with retractable rib pipes’. But the humans all laughed.

Finnegan coaxed their alien chaperon closer with a strip of beef jerky. He wasn’t aware of Stopper’s Artful Dodger-like skill at mugging any food within reach, and didn’t even realize what had happened when the jerky vanished from his hand and Stopper slinked away behind him. Jan mashed her lips together to stifle a belly laugh. When the big merc finally spun round and saw the Boxer munching, and the victorious glint in his eye, he shook his head and told Stopper: “You need to decide whose side you’re on, you little grid-licker.”

The winning side, from the way Stops licked his lips and continued devouring his prize.

So Finnegan tried again with a fresh slice of jerky, this time watching the dog’s sly approach from the corner of his eye. Juke, too, seemed to understand the snack was meant for him and that Stopper again intended to deprive him of it. The Boxer’s tact and chivalry didn’t extend to the coveting of food, it seemed. No surprise to Jan, who’d once seen him rob three hot dogs and two burgers from their buns, straight from the hands of toddlers at a farewell launch party.

Juke took the jerky in his mouth and, after examining it with his tongue, carefully perforated it with several presses of his tunnel of teeth, before swallowing it whole with a gluttonous spasm.

“I’d have said his eye’s got to be bigger than his stomach,” joked Finnegan, “but I guess not. No wonder these two hit it off. They’re both fast food junkies.”

Carlisle waited till Juke had finished, then said, “He likes making music. Let’s see how he responds to it.” He whistled several bars of ‘Ode to Joy’ from Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. The creature blinked his eye, tilted his head in Carlisle’s direction, twitched his rib pipes and seemed to be making ready to spring up and investigate. But he decided to slump down instead, preferring to watch Stopper savor his jerky.

Finnegan shook his head. “Too high-brow. You don’t start kids off on opera. You get them with tunes they can hum. Let me try.”

Jan vaguely recognized the melody he whistled from a popular podnet commercial—for one of the all-ages omnipod models that had sold like hot-cakes all across the colonies. To her genuine surprise, Juke leapt to his feet and reared up in front of the big merc. Mimicking his arm held in a sling, and the big merc’s tall, broad-shouldered figure, the creature then recreated the melody he was hearing, note for note. He even transposed it up and down the octaves as he repeated it, adding percussive clicks in a weird, syncopated rhythm that didn’t match the tune but gave it layers of complexity and interest it otherwise didn’t have. All the while Juke’s phosphorescent eye flecks phased and flashed in keeping with the modulation of his own music, not Finnegan’s.

It was a curious duet, not in sync but definitely interacting, Juke’s expressive variations twisting and twining around Finnegan’s stolid melody like an advanced intelligence playfully embellishing the basic syntax of a lesser one. Musically, at least.

When they’d finished, Finnegan crouched to pet his fellow musician, and Juke not only let him, he rubbed against the big merc just as he’d rubbed against Stopper.

“Junk food, junk tunes. Next you’ll be buying him booze and taking him to a brothel,” said Carlisle.

That made them laugh. When Carlisle walked away toward the river, to take a leak, from the looks of it, Juke followed him partway. But though he piped up again, he only played a couple of bars of Beethoven before launching into another rendition of Finnegan’s lowbrow-but-catchy jingle.

“Oh, you’re hopeless,” Carlisle shot back with a smile.

Juke ran back to the group, where Stopper had finished his snack and was pawing Jan’s pocket—a gesture that meant he wanted her to throw his rubber ball.

“Um, something’s telling me this might not be the best place for that,” she told him. “Unless you want to parachute down about a thousand feet to fetch it.”

A bark of defiance, then one of insistence. Juke, too, stood beside him, watching her expectantly. He seemed to have intuited from his canine buddy’s attentions that Jan possessed some secret that wouldn’t just rival the jerky or the jingle; it would surpass them, and its appearance was imminent.

“You two are going to be a handful, I can tell,” she said. But instead of the ball, she retrieved a single Rip ’Em apiece. It appeased Juke, but not Stopper. “No!” she told him when he continued scratching at her pocket. He knew the ball was in there—he could see its bulge and smell its trace scent—but she had to be firm. “Stops, no! No ball. Not here. It’s way too—”

A full-throated cry of pain spun everyone round to face the river’s edge. Carlisle was on the ground, clutching at his blood-soaked leg. The dark, rapid form of a quadruped creature hurtled away along the ledge. Jan and Finnegan both drew their weapons, but the thing was almost out of sight before either of them could aim.

Stopper sprinted over to Carlisle, stood tall at the river and issued his loudest bowowow across it. If he’d been able to leap across he probably would have, to give chase, but he was no Juke. This new attacker had that agility, though. It had struck with such stealth, cunning and surgical precision that Jan guessed what it was right away.

Juke confirmed her suspicion when he give off a series of short arpeggio clicking sounds in a very low octave. The way he kept repeating it, with his eyelid almost closed—a defensive gesture, she concluded—conveyed a nervousness and a fear he hadn’t displayed before.

“Guytrash?” whispered Finnegan, barely able to intone the name for what it might portend.

Jan fetched the med kit from the trolley and tended Carlisle’s wound. A deep, scything cut to the back of his right knee had severed his hamstring and posterior cruciate ligament. There was a lot of blood. She managed to suture the wound and seal it with a resin patch, but the tendon and ligament repairs would require surgery. He would not be able to walk on that leg for months.

Pale, clammy and nauseous, the poor guy couldn’t tell her what had happened. He’d just finished urinating, and had turned to make his way back when he’d felt the pop and the snap and, immediately after, an excruciating swell of pain that had blanked out everything else. Jan administered steroidal anti-inflammatory injections, and gave him some antiemetic pills for the nausea.

“We’re almost certain it was the guytrash,” she told him after he’d sat up to take several deep breaths to try to compose himself. “Dashing in like that to inflict a debilitating injury, it’s Guytrash’s M.O. Right, Finnegan?”

“It’s what they’ve trained it to do. It sneaks up on you unseen, and strikes so quickly it can be in and out without anyone even noticing. But it knows which injuries to inflict, the crucial points to hit in order to cripple you or bleed you out. We’re lucky it didn’t go for an artery. The femoral in the dark is its favorite target, or so I’ve heard. Whichever is easiest to get to with the least risk to itself. That’s the key. It doesn’t want a confrontation. Its quarry is usually armed. So it’s purely a stealth combat tactic to slow an opponent, and by extension the group if there is one.

“The second thing it’s achieved is it now knows exactly where we are and what shape we’re in. Diurnal will have trained it to show them what injury it’s inflicted. And it’ll be able to lead them right to us. No telling how far ahead of them it came to find us. I’m betting it tracked Juke—”

“His injuries tally,” Jan cut in. “He fought it at some point and fled. Unfortunately, in following Stopper’s scent, he led it right to us.”

“So we need to move—now!” exclaimed Carlisle, wincing as he attempted to climb to his feet using Jan as a crutch. Finnegan supported him as best as he could with his good arm, and between the two of them they managed to help him hop to the trolley. Climbing in knocked him sick again. He passed out and collapsed, leaving Jan to climb in after him and try to prop him up in a more comfortable posture.

This sudden shift in the momentum of the chase had a discombobulating effect on Jan as she rushed to pack the other trolley. An injection of urgency into her forward planning tumbled reason into fear and bound the two together as an unstoppable boulder of progress along the downward-sloping ledge. She guided the supply trolley, Finnegan guided Carlisle’s. The two were coupled but not electronically; each had its own impetus that would tug the pair off course if they weren’t manually kept on vector.

Stopper trotted beside Jan, while Juke kept pace a meter or so behind Finnegan’s heels. Scurrying movements across the massive knots and branches of the first beanstalk drew Jan’s curiosity, but she knew she had to be steadfast at the trolley controls, to not get distracted. Still, the pale trunk loomed enormous. It was wrinkled with distended veins of hardened sap, like a giant candle.

Far below, a herd of lumbering grazers comparable in size to arbogrades or mammoths made its way between the colossal buttress roots.

The scale and uniqueness of it—no other plant on Hesperidia grew so big without sunlight—hit her with a humbling alienation she hadn’t felt in ages. It was somehow more mythic than scientific. An aura of primal awe lowered her one giddy step at a time into a page of discovery utterly unwritten.

​Chapter Thirteen

Guytrash’s return to its masters triggered an almost immediate mobilization. Vaughn watched in horror as the monstrous tracker communicated its accomplishments through a series of rehearsed gestures. First, it bent its right foreleg double and held it aloft. Vaughn hoped it was demonstrating an injury it had sustained, but no, it stood on that leg with its full weight, and even skipped around, relishing approbations from all its hunting comrades.

To determine who, or what, it had inflicted that injury on, Pike held out his flat palm for Guytrash to paw at. It was identical to how Jan had trained Stopper to communicate the distinction between human and non-human. If it had maimed Juke, Guytrash would have pawed at thin air. Instead, it touched its master’s hand without hesitation.

The notion shot a chill through Vaughn. One of his party had received a potentially crippling wound. He couldn’t imagine Stopper would let anything get close enough to Jan for her to be the casualty, but he couldn’t rule it out.

Jesus!

An image of her crying on the floor in a pool of her own blood, clutching a serious wound, potentially a life-threatening wound, clenched him all over. Christ, he should never have let her come here. He should have insisted she not put herself in harm’s way against an interstellar murder squad. She was a science nerd, not a cop. Her job was to protect the animals and plants of this world she loved, not a bastard outlaw with a bounty on his head.

When he saw Guytrash turn to face the way it had come, and raise its mask, ready to resume tracking on this final leg of the manhunt, lashings of hate and vengeance stirred Vaughn into decisive action. There was no mystery separating Diurnal and Jan anymore. No vague or hopeful odds to weigh. They knew her whereabouts, and their tracker had been there—drawn blood—it had covered that distance and returned in a shockingly short period of time. How long exactly? He couldn’t be sure. No more than half an hour, though, since its scrap with Juke.

With Guytrash’s top sprint speed, roughly 50 kph if memory served—probably less than half that when adjusted for uneven terrain and long distance—he guessed they were about 8 to 10 kilometers away. Tired. Injured. Breaking trail in an unknown region.

Okay, it’s now or never.

Vaughn once more used the columns for cover as he stole ahead along the cave wall. But this time he couldn’t risk trying to outwit them on their level; the mist was too thin to hide him, and there were only so many columns and stalagmites he could dodge behind.

No, he needed to think three-dimensionally. The only successful angles of attack against a superior force bristling with artillery and heightened awareness would be from either above or below. They would not expect those. But hiding in a hole in the ground, waiting for them to pass over him and not sniff him out, was too big a gamble. Which left an attack from an elevated position—his plan all along, in fact.

Easier said than done. There were umpteen ways out of this cavern, but none that trended in the same direction. There were fissures in the roof through which water trickled; none were complemented by any sort of a quick, defensible egress on the ground nearby. Without that he would not survive.

The only possibility he found was a chimney climb up the right-hand rock wall. It occurred just before much of the cave roof disappeared; from there on the path wound gradually to the right along a tier ledge of an enormous stepped canyon. It wasn’t an abyssal drop, but the volume of open space beyond each step as it delved ever deeper into the gloom took Vaughn’s breath away. Drapes of vegetation flexed as the breeze filled them. They coughed out millions of spores that were carried on whirling gusts and channeled into the myriad honeycombed caves of the lower canyon.

As he looked along the arcing ledge, Vaughn could see that one of the tiers above him, two “steps” up, appeared much wider. It was some sort of plateau. He hoped it would provide a shortcut across the canyon’s curve, so he could scout ahead, gain some time on Diurnal, and maybe find a suitable location for an ambush. But the only way to reach it was by climbing this chimney—a jagged cleft in the cliff wall. A tricky, technical climb. Too high for even Juke and Guytrash.

He cheated, fired a tasker harpoon up at the summit and raised himself up by the cable. In seconds, he was running over a flat expanse of wishy-washy moss. Colonies of pink, chute-like fliers with gossamer wings and spotted frills took flight as he approached. They sprinkled the moss with a glittering spray as they ascended. It could have been pixie dust for all he knew, or, more likely, they were pissing themselves in fright.

This cross-country shortcut shaved between a fifth and a quarter of a mile off Guytrash’s route, he reckoned. After that the tiers began to gradually merge into one precipitous cliff face with no ledges. The way through led back inside, into another series of caves. He picked up the rumble of the river once again. It was here that Vaughn realized the routes were beginning to converge: Jan’s circuitous river ride on one side of this cliff, somewhere to the right, and Guytrash’s arcing path around its opposite side. They were bound to join soon, wherever the trolleys had had to disembark.

This next section, then, would have to be where Vaughn sprung his trap.

Luckily, he still had the higher ground ...

Whatever time he’d gained on Diurnal he’d lost in prepping this assault. The spot he’d chosen to launch his attack from was far from perfect; the cave roof was higher than he’d have liked, meaning he would have to start his abseil early, descend over the heads of half the passing mercs. In his favor, a scarcity of bioluminescence: the cave was a veritable wind tunnel, running parallel between two large canyons, one tepid and humid, the other hot and dry. Plant life only grew in the sheltered nooks. The patches of light they emitted were a fraction of the luminance of, say, candles dotted around the Great Hall of a castle. But Vaughn’s eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom.

He perched over the gap, tasker cable in hand, and peered down. Runners of ground mist shot by. A snarl filled the hollow howls of wind. A pair of little winged creatures, no bigger than albino bats, flapped up into the wind in an attempt to escape whatever had issued that warning noise. They struggled to gain distance against the air current, then parted with shocking swiftness, one up through Vaughn’s aperture in the roof, its wing brushing his visor, the other out through the passage he’d marked for egress.

There was no time to lose. Guytrash was here already.

It loped into the cave, lit from behind by a brilliant flashlight. Its preceding shadow, pitched over the walls and floor at a monstrously elongated size, appeared frenzied as the torchbearer shone his light quickly from side to side. The creature halted for a moment to let his masters catch up. If it had gazed up, it would have caught the light reflecting off Vaughn’s visor. But it was locked on the trail it knew. If it had lifted its mask to sniff the air, it might have hit upon his trace scent. But it had already located its quarry, Finnegan; everything in the meantime was scenery.

Pike led the company. No surprise there, though Vaughn had secretly hoped that scumbag would take a turn at the rear. Ah well, the treacherous frontman would get his eventually.

Next was Lorenzo Lorca, and the pilot, Mace Conners. Apart from Pike, they were moving in two-by-two formation, with a generous distance between pairs: precisely what Vaughn had observed ever since Salvo’s ‘disappearance’. They were cautious, ready for anything.

Yeah? How about this?

Vaughn eased himself down through the gap and swung gently on the cable that was already attached via harpoon to the cave roof. Looking down, he gauged the height and rate of descent to coincide with the passing of the hindmost pair. Timing was everything. A split-second would make the difference between victory and ... the other thing.

He didn’t take a deep breath. Didn’t believe in them when a smooth progression favored the body’s natural rhythms. A focus not on himself but on what he must do. Lower the cable with one hand on the tasker, whilst at the same time aiming the small device he’d been carrying round his neck ... until now.

The two Finaglers lumbered by below, tethered to the grav-pod that hovered along behind them. That left only the hindmost pair: Foucault, the dropship veteran gone rogue, and a dark-skinned, short-tempered man they called Mako.

Vaughn’s boots were only few meters above their heads when a device belonging to one of them bleeped twice. Immediately afterward, to Vaughn’s horror, something in his own backpack made the same noise. It was muffled, but he heard it. Salvo’s omnipod!

“Boss, I’m getting a signal here that makes no sense,” Foucault spoke into his radio. “A transponder proximity alert. I’ve had it on standby ever since Salvo went missing. It says he’s close by.”

Pike replied, “What? How’s that possible, when we’ve all—”

“Mako, heads up!” someone else yelled. “Look above you!”

But Vaughn was already on the ground behind them by the time the black man looked up and saw the cable. In a clinical, unhurried sequence he unclipped the cable from his tasker, primed a grenade he retrieved from his baldric, and crouched as he held the Hail Mary out to the backs of the two mercs.

“Adios,” he said, activating the plasma shield.

The men spun, drew their weapons. Vaughn’s crouched position and close proximity startled them for a beat, long enough to provide that vital split-second he needed.

The ignited plasma folded in on itself with a sudden gravitational rip. That tiny point of singularity drew into it a livid churn of matter that mushroomed through the torsos of Foucault and Mako. It literally ate them inside out. The longer Vaughn held the Hail Mary in place, the more of them it vaporized. Their screams, too, were swallowed in a lightning helter-skelter of cracked bones and pulverized metal and flash-boiled blood sucked, swirling, into nothingness.

It all happened so quickly, the others could do nothing to stop it.

Vaughn daren’t wait for it to disperse before he inflicted further damage. He rolled the grenade under the shield, aiming it at the grav-pod.

“Get back!” screamed Pike. “Grenade! Clear the grav-pod!”

Dark figures dashed apart toward the flanking walls of the cave. Vaughn drew his Kruger and picked one off. He was about to nail a second when the entire cavern flared like a sunburst. A deafening blast hurtled around the chamber. It hurt Vaughn’s ears. Searing heat enveloped him, funneled away only by his protective shield. Shards from the exploding gas canisters ricocheted off the rock, a few even piercing it.

He couldn’t tell how much damage it had done to the other mercs, but he knew it was a devastating blow to their ability to continue this manhunt.

Vaughn backed away at a crouch, the Hail Mary shield’s integrity waning but still able to absorb the shots fired at him. He shot back, more to force them to take cover than anything. When he was almost at the egress, the shield faded and collapsed. He had to fire a max-yield pulse spread from his Kruger to deflect the next few shots sent his way. Then he was inside the passage, and the rock bore the brunt for him.

For his final trick, Vaughn primed the second grenade with a five-second timer and set it inside a small hollow in the rock roughly at head height. Then he sprinted as fast as he could down the passage. A bullet nicked his thigh as he darted out onto the riverbank at the other side, and dove to one side for cover. Before he landed, the grenade exploded. It shook the entire area, and while he didn’t see the cave-in, he heard and felt the heavy rumble of falling rocks.

He scrambled over umpteen boulders on the riverbank, heading upstream, and peered back often. One of these glimpses caught the cloud of displaced rock dust curling out of the collapsed passage.

Vaughn repeated “Adios,” as he swung across the river once more to find a hiding place among the labyrinth of boulders on that side—boulders and debris long ago washed down by the flood surges. It would take Diurnal a while to pick themselves up after this. If they were in any shape to continue on at all. “Adios, bastardos!”

He decided to ditch two things while he waited in an elevated position overlooking one of the branch passages further upriver. The first was Salvo’s omnipod. It had almost given him away during his abseil, and he no longer trusted it. The next proximity alert might lead them to him in a place he couldn’t escape from. Yes, it had its advantages, but it was now too much of a liability. He hurled it as far as he could down the river. The current swept it away, and it sank.

The last thing he was forced to ditch, reluctantly, after long and careful observation, was his assertion that Pike would be forced to head back to the surface. Surely with the loss of that spare oxygen, going any further was suicide. But Vaughn felt sure he would have seen the beams of their flashlights illuminating the passage below, if only to make sure he wasn’t waiting there with another ambush. No, they had not backtracked the way they had come. And there was no other way they could pass him. So they had pressed on regardless of their fatal disadvantage?

A bold move. Borderline insane. They were staking their lives on this final rush to catch up with Finnegan. If they did, they could seize the spare oxygen in the trolleys, seize him, and make it out alive. If not, they would suffocate down here.

An all-or-nothing gamble on the most basic of commodities: air.

He thought of Guytrash, the specific gas mixture it would need to breathe. The trolleys had none of that. So someone in Diurnal had to be carrying enough to resupply their tracker. Ditto the Finaglers, who breathed yet another combination of gases. Maybe they insisted on carrying their own backup supply, not trusting even their colleagues.

Vaughn had swung across the river victorious, certain that he’d checkmated his enemies. But the more he considered what he’d done, the bitterer that victory became. He’d forced Pike’s hand here. He’d left him no choice but to dice with death.

And there was the tactical swing to consider. Diurnal now knew for certain that Vaughn was stalking them, and would have to stay downwind of their guytrash. Behind them at all times—they would be watching. So he would not be there to protect Finnegan. It would make the endgame that much easier, that much more enticing for a posse of killers.

Desperate, knowing he’d wasted too much time here, he weighed his odds of jumping into the river. It was his only hope of getting ahead of those bastards. But he didn’t know what obstacles he might hit in that narrow, fast-moving flow—sharp, hidden edges beneath the surface that could easily kill him. And what would the final obstacle be, the one that had persuaded Jan to continue on foot? Would he be able to avoid it in time?

No, it was too much of a risk. He climbed down, swung back across, and reentered the cave which led to the site of his ambush. Just as he’d feared, the mercs hadn’t waited around to lick their wounds. They’d pressed on, incensed, along the only path now available to them.

A straight shot into the depths of madness.

​Chapter Fourteen

The roots of the giant trunks were home to countless peculiar life-forms whose characteristics strayed well beyond the known xenozoological classifications. Of particular interest to Jan was a pale, phasmid-like creature that could walk around erect on the razor-sharp points of two serrated legs in order to reach pockets of a milky sap that bled from the main stem and pooled on the elevated shoots. The creature was over nine feet tall, incredibly slender, and segmented like an insect. It moved with languorous grace, and because of its low body mass was able to climb by pulling itself up with ease on the points of its limbs, often using only one limb. But its most interesting feature was its camouflage. Its skin had evolved exactly the same hue and wrinkled texture of the milky substance it drank. When threatened, it clung to the stem of the beanstalk and contorted itself in such a way that it really did look like a trail of sap oozing from the plant, or, from a distance, to human eyes, a drip of melted candle wax.

She named it lacteus ceracuti—‘milky sharp wax’. Remembering Vaughn’s disdain for Avrillic words, she smiled and nicknamed it ‘milkman’.

It, like most of the other indigenous, kept their distance from the trolleys and their human guides. Stopper stayed by Jan’s side except when he felt the need to ward off a curious animal or to scout ahead and sniff out hidden dangers ahead. He was understandably wary of the herds of huge, furry, migrating quadrupeds that journeyed on well-worn paths between the buttress roots. They traveled in both directions, and seemed to just be passing through this valley. They disappeared into a cave about half a kilometer from where the waterfall from Jan’s river fell onto the boulders, and another the opposite way, behind the roots of the middle beanstalk.

The latter cave was Finnegan’s choice for a way out. “It’ll get us out of sight quicker,” he argued, “and it’s a known thoroughfare for big animals. So it’s not going to lead us to a dead-end.”

All sound logic. But Jan also noted an increase in temperature as they approached that fork in the road. The environment, too, showed evidence of intense geothermal activity: the flat rock grew baldest around the cave; little vegetation grew inside it; vents in the ground coughed up hot gas, while a hazy miasma wavered the air with an oily gloom.

But it was Carlisle’s contribution—his first since passing out—that finally clinched it. “Keep straight on,” he said. “Follow that path into the forest.”

“Why?” asked Jan, though she was already inclined to go that way. “Are you worried about the heat too?”

“Partly.” He demonstrated by lifting his mask to swab the sweat from his pale face with an already-damp handkerchief. “I suspect this is going to be the last temperate cavern. Beyond it, we’re going to run into magma, and soon. So I think we should head up again, up there on that rocky rise past the forest. And I’ll give you another reason. These worn paths follow veins of magnetite and iron. The rock there is highly magnetic. Maybe that’s how the herds and fliers navigate such large caverns in such poor light, by following the veins.”

Jan nodded her emphatic approval. “More than likely, I’d say. Well done, David. I hadn’t noticed that. It’s a brilliant deduction.”

“Easy when you know what to look for. And there’s a vein running into the heart of the forest. My guess is it carries on up that rocky rise beyond. If we’re lucky, it’ll give us an edge over our pursuers.”

“How’s that?” asked Finnegan.

“Sauce for the goose. Highly magnetic rock will interfere with electronic targeting and other instruments. They won’t be able to pick us off from long range. As long as they follow these veins—and why wouldn’t they—they’re ready-made paths—they’ll hopefully be as tech-blind as we are.”

“Okay, whatever was in those drugs you took, I want a magnum dose,” joked the big outlaw. “Seriously, where do you come up with this shit?”

Carlisle shrugged. “It’s the old adage about the marooned man. What once was trivia is trivial no more. It’s the little things he’s learned that make the difference. His chances of survival are the sum total of what he’s learned, so it’s not how much you know; it’s what you know. I just happen to know geology.”

“They always said the geeks would inherit the galaxy,” replied Jan. “We’re living proof of that. Right, David?”

“That’s our new advert slogan for Alien Safari, right there,” he said. “The meek will inherit the Earth, but the geeks get the galaxy.”

She chuckled, and petted Stopper. “I’ll settle for just this one world, thanks.”

The path wound through the outer limits of the region she dubbed ‘Crematoria’. A scar pool of boiling mud gurgled across its center. Petrified trees ringed it. Plants with hangdog bulbs sulked in isolated patches of scorched silt. Meanwhile, flakes of what looked remarkably like ash had been blown into drifts against rows of thorny bracken. It really did look as though the whole area had been burned, or slowly roasted from beneath. Jan theorized the boiling pool had erupted or overflowed its banks, killing all but the hardiest plants. Perhaps it did this periodically, and these stubborn survivors had become accustomed to it, even thrived because of it in the absence of competition. She saw evidence of symbiotes on or around almost every upstanding plant: rummagers in the silt, epiphytes on the stems and bulbs. It might appear anemic compared to its arboreal neighbors higher up, but Crematoria, especially microscopic Crematoria, clung to life in its own impressive way.

Juke trotted ahead as they crossed the field of short, dew-soaked sturmgrass between Crematoria and the larger, pastel-colored forest beyond. Here the ground mist took hold. It didn’t rise more than a meter above the grass, but blanketed the entire floor of the forest. They followed Juke’s lead as he guided them along what appeared to be one of several lightly worn paths. A faint orange glow blotted the fog in a fat line parallel to the main path, less than a stone’s throw from it. It had to be a river of lava at the bottom of a deep fissure, and appeared to bisect the forest. Slicker, silver cousins of wraithulia cronogenus had grown either side of it, bending across the gap to bask in the direct heat from below, but not so low as to get scorched by it.

Once more the noticeable rise in temperature forced Jan to voice her concerns. “David, I’m not sure about this. We’re heading right into a hot zone. What do you make of that fissure?”

“It’s like I said: we’ve seen the last of the temperate regions. Take a look at the flora clinging to the upper walls.” He pointed his finger, traced it right to left. Note the patterns—the long, thick rows, and the brighter luminance. I’m guessing those are magma chambers on the other side giving off all that heat, probably two flows at different heights.”

“You think we should turn back?” she asked.

“I don’t see how we can. We’d only be making Diurnal’s job easier.”

“Then it’s time we split up,” Finnegan cut in. “You guys have done enough. I can’t ask you to face what’s coming when we’re outnumbered like this. Not without Vaughn. Listen, I’ve been thinking, it might be time to spring that trap we’ve been talking about for the last ten thousand fathoms or whatever the hell it’s been. We’re running out of wiggle room, we can’t hide, and we can’t shoot our way out of this. So we need to go on the offense some other way. Carlisle, I know you’ve been cooking something. Your voice gets all sharp and incisive whenever you mention geology. It did just now. And I’ve caught you studying the cave walls ever since the beach, but not as a scientist. I know a hunter’s gaze when I see it. So come on, what have you been plotting?”

Carlisle spun around to face him—a painful pivot, but he somehow knew they had to lock eyes. It was a peculiarly male thing she didn’t quite get: a fatalistic acknowledgement perhaps, or a meeting of the minds only seasoned warriors would understand.

“It’s high risk,” he said. “No guarantee it’ll work. But if we can find just the right spot, in a confined space, with a magma chamber on the other side, I think we can blow out the cave wall and bury them with hot lava.”

Finnegan threw a fist with his good arm. “Fuckin’ A. That’s exactly what I hoped you were gonna say!”

“We’d need to be able to get back here some other way,” Jan pointed out. “A stunt like that could go so, so wrong. It could destroy this whole forest, burn out half the valley, leave us marooned on the wrong side.”

“Yep. I’ve considered all that. Like I said, we’d have to find just the right spot. But we’ve already found one deep fissure. I’m betting there are others ahead. We needn’t flood anywhere we don’t have to; if we could just reroute it with a precision explosion so that it traps Diurnal and then flows down into one of those fissures.”

“That’s a whole lot of ifs, brother,” she said.

“This whole chase has been one big fucking if,” added Finnegan. “I say we end it with one big fucking off! And if we can’t find the perfect spot for a lava bath, I vote for a good old-fashioned cave-in. Bury those suck-baits one way or another. Let this be our Alamo, our redoubt. If they want me, they’ll have no choice but to come get me—and that’s when they get what’s coming to ’em.”

“All right. Then we all need to keep our eyes open as we make the climb on the other side of this forest,” answered Carlisle. “Those caves are where we’ll set the trap, if we’re lucky to find one that suits.”

Juke was nowhere to be seen. He’d scampered ahead while they’d been talking, and Stopper in particular didn’t like that his new buddy had left the company. The Boxer took point, but kept halting to peer along the trail, his head held high, snout barely above the ground mist.

During one of these stops he began to growl at something on the path ahead—a deep, guttural warning growl that could easily explode into either a baying howl or a savage snarl of attack. Jan knew the growl’s pitch well. It meant Stopper sensed a threat, but that he wasn’t sure if it was imminent or not. New creatures tended to elicit that response, especially if they stubbornly stood their ground.

These were smaller than him: fat, bald, hairless tripod animals that stood there across the path, their pair of knuckled claws pressed into the silt out front in an impish show of territoriality. To a layperson they would have looked comical: little Humpty-Dumpty blobs with folds of wrinkled skin, heads facing slightly to one side, dozens of sly, slitty eyes watching their opponents askance. But Jan saw what Stopper had seen. The powerful, clawed limbs, the strength in numbers—there were over twenty of them dotting the road—the refusal to budge despite facing creatures that towered over them. This was not a species to be underestimated.

“Jan, what do you advise?” asked Carlisle, readying his sidearm. “Should we try to go around them?”

“Not yet. Stops will know best. He’ll take us when and where we need to go.”

“He seems to want to psych them out,” observed Finnegan.

“Then we wait,” she replied. “No more talking. Let him do his thing.”

Stopper ceased his growling and took a few careful steps forward. The foremost of the creatures, also the biggest, leaned even further forward on its knuckles and rhythmically stamped the ground with one of its clawed feet. Another show of defiance. Stopper barked. His opponent leaned back, ceased stamping. The others all leaned back in unison.

It was a subtle form of communication through body language, brinkmanship in its most natural form, derived from gestures if not universally shared then at least quickly intuited across Hesp species. By now, Stopper had an encyclopedic memory of such encounters, in every environment the planet had to offer. His was a diplomacy learned the hard way, with scars given and received, but it had not left him psychopathically aggressive like Guytrash. He would take the path of least resistance every time if that guaranteed his mistress’s safety. But he was always, always ready to pounce if diplomacy failed.

While he waited, another cohort joined the standoff. Winged, snakelike things with bluebottle coloring and eagle talons glided down from the treetops to perch on the boughs and watch, overlooking the scene. Jan reckoned they were carrion creatures sensing a bloody encounter. They likely wouldn’t intervene until they had easy wounded prey.

Stopper’s ears twitched at their arrival, but he didn’t take his gaze off his Humpty-Dumpty opponent. He took another step forward, stood even taller, and barked again. Before the other could reply, Juke bounded back onto the scene from behind the road-blockers. Those closest to him spun round, adopting the same stubborn, impudent pose as their leader.

Juke didn’t wait around, though. He piped up a high-pitched, reedy tone, then struck another, otherworldly note, not quite making a chord. The winged onlookers flew off without ceremony. Meanwhile, Juke sauntered up to the lead Humpty-Dumpty, nonchalant as you like, and gently spun him around to face the undergrowth away from the path. The stubborn creature kept its leaning-on-knuckles pose but otherwise didn’t resist. Nor did it remonstrate when Juke coaxed it off the path with repeated nudges of his rib pipes that still played the reedy tone. Something in that musical vibration seemed to just charm it, leaving it susceptible to Juke’s instruction.

The other squat creatures followed their alpha in concert, clearing the path. They all disappeared into the shrubbery, and were not seen again. Ambling back to greet Stopper, Juke gave another rendition of the big Boxer’s theme—jauntier, livelier, and louder than before. Both animals walked on together, side by side, and Jan couldn’t help but marvel at the potential of that partnership.

“He’s a regular pied piper,” said Finnegan.

“More like a shepherd, I’d say,” she replied. “A shepherd of the underworld. He seems to have adapted his musical ability to interact with multiple species. I wonder how many of his kind there are.”

“I wonder where their lair is—where they congregate,” mused Carlisle. “Their domain must be enormous; he’s followed us across a huge area, and still seems perfectly at home.”

As they continued, Juke played a medley of the curious motifs he’d composed for each of them, along with a couple Jan hadn’t heard before.

What an awesome research project he’d be, she thought, forgetting for a moment the dire straits they were in. Poor Juke had no idea the evil they’d brought with them ... though he’d had a taste of Guytrash’s savagery. His was a special soul in a world untouched by mechanized slaughter. A kindred spirit to Stopper, but the big Boxer knew not to trust humans indiscriminately. Juke had not had that conditioning. Not yet, at least. Hopefully he never has to. I’d rather him remember us as we are right now.

Stopper looked round at frequent intervals to check on Jan. While Juke’s natural walking speed was twice that of the Boxer’s, Stopper didn’t like getting too far ahead, so he purposefully lagged behind Juke to slow him down. It worked, and the Boxer thus became the pace-setter. Juke kept up his traveling minstrel performance, repeating the medley of musical motifs he’d composed all the way through the forest. No more creatures crossed their path. The upper branches, though, swayed and creaked under the weight of unseen occupants passing from tree to tree in an attempt to keep up with the company’s progress.

Was it Juke’s voice they recognized? Did the music fascinate them? Or were they biding their time, waiting to strike?

The mist was thickest in a shallow dell before the ground sloped up at the far edge of the forest. After that, the trees thinned, while the mist rolled wispily down the damp incline. Juke’s voice carried further into the valley and even echoed when he added a few higher-pitched, ululating notes. Then he paused. Turned to face the great lake. There was a breath of silence as everyone gazed out to see what had caught his attention. Jan caught the broad edge of the whirlpool’s incandescent vortex through a haze of fog, but not much else that moved.

High above the rustling grass and the hisses of geothermal outgassing, a faint, ear-tickling wail emerged. It was another high-pitched ululation, but distant and insistent, like a faraway smoke alarm. Beneath it, an almost imperceptible pattern of clicks. Juke bolted. In moments he was nothing but a blur streaking through the low-lying fog between the forest and the lake.

Stopper’s tail wagged expectantly, but this time his friend didn’t dash back. It was another of those instant summonses Juke had responded to back at the beach. Was it a warning? A gathering call from his kin?

“Don’t worry, boy. We’ll see him again,” Jan assured Stops as he walked forlornly to her side and brushed against her. “He’s just a busy guy.”

“Yeah, and that’s what we need to do—get busy,” said Finnegan. “Look! Up there on the ledge, this side of the furthest waterfall. Either my eyes are playing tricks on me or that’s a flashlight. And another ...”

Jan had to squint to focus on anything that far away. No more than a pixel of light through the gloom. But it was moving—not much, but the pinpoint glow kept stretching and shrinking, as though the bearer was aiming his flashlight in different directions.

An icy flush ran down her spine. She shivered. “Nothing wrong with your eyesight. Let’s just hope they can’t see us!”

“Their batteries are working. We have to assume their omnipods are, too,” Carlisle pointed out. “From here on up, we’ll be exposed. They’ll almost certainly see us.”

“And they might be able to pick us off with rifles. They’re not at the magnetite yet, right?”

“Not yet. That starts lower down.”

“Then let’s all ascend in the trolleys, for protection,” suggested Finnegan. “Might as well use that panel shielding.”

“Agreed,” said Carlisle.

Jan affirmed. “Then let’s get moving. If we want to find an ambush spot, we’ve got no time to lose.” She crouched to let Stopper use her back as a step so he could jump into the supply trolley. Finnegan climbed in the second trolley beside Carlisle. They guided both vehicles onto the slope.

“David, you need to delve into your bag of tricks while we climb,” she added, handing him his rucksack. “We’re not going to have any time to waste up there. You need to be ready with the fuse and the explosive charge.”

“I’m on it.”

“And hope to God this works.”

“Yeah, he’s on it, too.”

​Chapter Fifteen

The clanks of bullets hitting the metal panels, and the abbreviated little catcall whistles as they missed and ricocheted off the rock, had ended a while ago now, perhaps the best part of an hour, but Jan still found herself shrinking in anticipation of the next as she inched around the cave entrance to peer down at Diurnal’s progress. She flinched at the latest false alarm. Her heart maghammered. Those impacts, fractions away from ending her life and Stopper’s, echoed through her senses like phantom scars. Tactile snips and jabs that shocked with chilling immediacy.

But they weren’t real this time. Diurnal had traversed the high ledge and were almost at the valley floor. She saw the tiny red-hot perimeter lights of their camp on the penultimate flat section of the slope. A reminder that they were human after all—well, most of them—that they needed to rest. Jan was not superstitious as a rule, but the insane lengths they’d gone to in this pursuit couldn’t help but conjure an aura of supernatural imperturbability. It was also a product of their reputation, she knew. The idea of them feeling tired, hungry, thirsty, perhaps even battered and bruised, dispelled at least part of her irrational fear. And one of them was dead. David Carlisle had killed him.

So David Carlisle could kill more of them.

He and Finnegan had almost finished their booby trap. It was a narrow passage they’d found, longer and more inclined than Carlisle would have liked, easier to escape if the magma didn’t flood the cave quickly. But it was connected to branching slot caves at the top—multiple opportunities for elevated cover and retreat. The magma, too, ought to pour into a deep scar fissure that trended in the same direction as the one that bisected the forest below. It was probably the same lava river, in fact.

The timing of the explosion was key. Too early and the mercs might be able to flee. Too late and a few of them might end up on the wrong side of the blast, safe from the lava. Then they’d be in a fire-fight. And they were better armed, better trained killers than a pair of ranger-scientists and a one-armed smuggler.

The power of the blast was also crucial. Too weak and it might not even breach the rock. Too strong and it could bring the entire cave down and maybe the adjoining ones with it. They could all end up buried or chargrilled or worse.

Jan sighed as she sat against the warm rock of the slanted cave entrance, hugging her knees. Stopper lay a safe distance away inside the cave, watching her intently. He would be able to sense her fear and know she was close to danger, but he was also an obedient boy when she insisted.

“It’ll all be over soon, darling. Mommy will get us home soon.”

He gave a little whine in response, to let her know she had no right gambling with her own safety when it was his job to keep her away from harm.

She made extra sure no part of her could be seen from Diurnal’s camp, whilst maintaining a good vantage over the rest of the valley. This wide open space after the claustrophobic heat trap that was Carlisle’s ambush cave had a soothing effect. Not enough to relax her—nothing short of a tranq dart to the neck could achieve that—but at least here she could watch for signs of Vaughn. Forlorn hope maybe. There’d been no concrete evidence that he’d survived the flood. None. The only inkling she’d had, and had secretly clung to ever since, had come from Juke’s sudden, inexplicable ease in human company after his altercation with Guytrash. She couldn’t get over a nagging suspicion that her boyfriend had befriended him somewhere along the way, had interacted with him, and that one of the unfamiliar motifs included in his human-canine musical medley might be Vaughn’s theme.

It was a sweet notion, and she smiled as she imagined how that meeting might have unfolded. Awkward. Full of amusing misunderstandings but also insights—they were both quickstudies and intuitive.

Once more she swept her gaze across the rising, ragged line of the great ledge, to successive waterfalls and beyond. But he was not there. He had not followed Diurnal.

There was always the chance he’d used his tasker to descend to the valley floor and hunt them from down there. She tried to think like him. What would a professional lawman do? Keep his distance. Stay on track. Not take unnecessary risks.

No, he would not have put obstacles like the colossal boulder pile and Whirlpool Lake in his way if he didn’t absolutely have to. If he was tracking Diurnal at all, he would do so in their footsteps.

She sighed again. The worst part of all this was not knowing. That was the essence of the underworld, Jan decided. Delving into mystery on a tether of time and fate, at the end of which a noose would inevitably tighten. This was that place, and its moment was fast approaching. The only question was: who would be left in the noose when it—

A tiny blossom of yellow light drew her gaze back up to the ledge. It only lasted a moment, then it blinked out. She squinted to focus on that spot this side of the first waterfall. It was the spot where they’d set the trolleys down after the river ride. The exact spot. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Could it?

A deeply nurtured longing stirred inside her. She sprang to a crouch and hugged the warm stone in breathless anticipation. Jan’s thrumming heartbeat slipped its cage when the yellow light blossomed again in exactly the same position. Again it flicked out. A series of flashes followed—not perfectly rhythmic but sequential.

“It is you, Vaughn! You absolute genius!” She damn near screamed for joy as she rummaged in her backpack for a glowstick with which to communicate back. “You always said it would come in handy. You always said the Boy Scouts were right. Relying on tech is for suckers. It’s the simple things that don’t let you down!”

So she used the angle of the cave edge to shield her glowstick from Diurnal, while making it perfectly visible only to Vaughn. His, too, could not be seen from the merc’s camp below; he’d deliberately hung back and chosen that position, low against the wall of his ledge, to try to get her attention—or whoever in her group might be watching. He’d somehow figured out this was the way they’d choose, and that now was his last chance to make contact.

JAN THIS IS VAUGHN

He kept repeating the phrase. A horrible thought occurred to her that it might be a trick, that it wasn’t him but one of the mercs sowing disinformation, to gain intel, compromise her endgame.

No, that didn’t fit. First, no one but Vaughn called her Jan—she was Jane Hopper to everyone else. And he was using an old audiovisual code the emergency services and military had relied on once but was no longer in use; it had been retired decades ago, replaced by AESOP binary standard signals. Vaughn knew it, and he’d taught it to her. No one in Diurnal would know that.

“Morse it is,” she said, and began flashing her reply. “Let’s see how well you taught me, lawman.”

JAN HERE.

Jan thank God. Are you hurt?

NO IM FINE. ARE YOU HURT?

No. Back wound has healed well. How are S, C & F?

C HAS BADLY INJURED LEG. OTHERS ARE FINE.

Was it guytrash?

YES. HOW DID YOU KNOW?

Explain later. Why you not moving?

SETTING AMBUSH FOR DIURNAL. C PLANTING EXPLOSIVE IN CAVE TO RELEASE LAVA. STAY WELL BACK.

Will do. Be careful.

HOW MANY ARE DIURNAL?

Seven left. I killed four.

A swell of pride in her breast was choked off by a sickening realization of how close to death he had to have been in her absence—the dangerous risks he’d taken, dicing with professional murderers. Odds she would shortly have to face.

WELL DONE. HOW IS YOUR OXYGEN?

Enough for return trip. Borrowed some from ex-merc.

She snorted a gallows laugh. Then Vaughn messaged:

Underworld really something, huh? So many new species. I even named some.

SAME HERE. LETS WRITE A BOOK TOGETHER.

Nightmare fuel. Keep tourists away for life.

SOUNDS GOOD TO ME.

We need vacation after this. You me and Stops. Somewhere far away.

WAS THINKING SAME THING.

Okay Jan you go help others. Diurnal will be moving soon.

WILL DO. SEE YOU SOON BABE. LOVE YOU.

Love you too. Stay safe. Say hi to Stops for me.

She waved goodbye and blew him a kiss across the valley, knowing full well he couldn’t see it. The exchange had been brief but quietly thrilling. Just knowing he was out there, on her trail, was a prayer answered. And he’d managed to take out four more of the enemy singlehanded. That proved the mercs were not unbeatable. They were as mortal as any other creatures on the Hesp. As she led Stopper back up to the ambush cave, she told him, “That was Vaughn, sweetheart—our Vaughn. He says hi, and we’ll be with him before we know it. But first Mommy has to take care of a little unfinished business. You won’t like it ... but neither will they.”

By the time she returned, all was set. Finnegan had reached up to jam the plastic explosive into a nook about eight feet up. The rock was hottest there; Carlisle reckoned it was the thinnest section of the cave wall. Behind it, a lake or a river of molten magma, set to be unleashed.

The old-fashioned analog fuse stretched along a jagged diagonal cavity that led to a narrow slot cave higher up. That was where Jan would have to be to light the fuse, at Carlisle’s signal. Any further away and the fuse would simply be too long; any closer and she would be too close to the blast. Meanwhile, Carlisle would be hiding in the alcove opposite her cave. He could see further down the passage from there, and was thus better positioned to gauge the enemy’s approach and the timing of the blast. Lastly, Finnegan would be behind Jan, ready to add his firepower to the ambush if the lava trap didn’t do the job. Stopper would have to be tied up close by; this was not dog’s work, and he would obey Jan’s instruction to keep quiet.

That was the plan of action. The trap was set. Both men threw fists in celebration when she brought the news of Vaughn’s return, and again when they heard how many of Diurnal he’d killed.

“I knew I was right to come here!” said Finnegan. “It’s turned out shitty for all of you, I know, but I’d have been dead or on the operating table long ago if I hadn’t followed Vaughn here. He’s old-school, not a relic, but he is from another time—a better time, if you ask me. A time when a man’s word still meant something.”

“Hear! Hear!” replied Carlisle.

“That includes you, brother,” the big outlaw added—from him, the gushing bonhomie did not sound right. But it was genuine. He really was grateful. “And you, Doc,” he added almost begrudgingly with a slight nod to Jan, not because he didn’t like her, but because his kind hated showing emotion, especially to women.

“Well, if we’re into thanksgiving, how about a little shout-out to our animal guides,” said Jan. “Stops has led us this whole way, even though he’s never set foot here before. And Juke has gone above and beyond to look out for us.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” answered the First Ranger. “Whatever happens, we’re living proof that humans and animals, alien or otherwise, can be simpatico. I wish we could have recorded more of Juke and his interactions.”

“Yeah, but I hope he doesn’t decide to come back before we spring the trap.” Finnegan’s words rather soured the mood. “I don’t want him to have any part of what’s coming.”

“Me neither,” they both replied in unison. Stopper added his own little bark to the consensus.

They had time before final preparations. Diurnal still had to cross the valley: Crematoria and the pastel forest, then the rocky slope up to these caves. So Jan decided to take Stopper for a swim in a warm spring he’d found in a low-roofed chamber a few levels up. It was fed by seepage through the porous rock, and heated geothermally. Pretty much the perfect temperature for him ... and her. She stripped to her underwear and jumped in with him, then treated him to one of their patented serenades as they swam together in the clear, balmy freshwater.

They’d earned it after their long ordeal, she felt. A last chance to relax and restore a semblance of tranquility before the endgame that was to come.

Carlisle spent his time in mad scientist mode, clearly his favorite kind of distraction. He had the jetpack in pieces in a gusty passage. Cooking chemicals with such crude equipment came naturally to him, and he directed Finnegan to collect specific types of rock from a collapsed volcanic vent nearby, as well as other materials he needed from the trolley, for what he cryptically called “a surprise package”.

After the swim, she went to check on Diurnal’s progress across the valley. She couldn’t see them at first, and likely wouldn’t have for some time. It was only the retort of a distant gunshot, and a brief pandemonium in the treetop canopy a third of the way into Pastel Forest, that pinpointed the trespassers. She shuddered at how much ground they’d covered. Soon they’d be at the incline, and the countdown would begin.

She scanned the faraway ledge for a sign of Vaughn. He wouldn’t risk signaling with the enemy in view, but she hoped to catch one last glimpse of him before she retreated for the final time.

Nothing.

He was hiding. Biding his time. A professional tracker. He remained the wildcard in this imminent showdown between predators and prey.

As she ran back to tell the others to get into position, it occurred to Jan, in a sudden cold shower of trepidation, that there would be no more running after this.

​Chapter Sixteen

We still have moves we can make, Jan had to remind herself as she lay still, staring out along the narrow passage that bellied to the right before it pinched to its dark, craggy entrance. There are other ways out of here.

That was true, but it wasn’t really the point, and she knew it. If this snare didn’t wipe the mercs out completely or at least decimate them to one or two in number, then the odds still favored Diurnal. Even so, a part of her wanted to light the fuse and immediately look for another way out through the honeycomb of higher chambers Stopper had found. If the magma took out the mercs, great. If not, at least she’d have a head start on them.

In short, she hated being confined, and waiting around in silence for an end unknown was pure agony.

She shifted position so her ribs weren’t pressing on a ridge of rock. Her flint and firesteel, so reliable over the years, had dried sufficiently in this baking heat; it would have worked anyway, even when wet, but conditions here were optimal for creating a spark on cue. Carlisle’s clever idea to run the fuse high along the cave roof until just before the explosive was critical in maintaining the element of surprise. A spiny protuberance in the rock there meant they could run it down the last few meters hidden from the interlopers’ view. If all went as planned, Diurnal would not see the lit fuse until the last moment before detonation. By then it would be too late.

“Anything?” whispered Finnegan from behind her.

Carlisle, perched in the alcove opposite, had a decent vantage of the belly of the passage—the approach to the blast site—an area Jan couldn’t see. He would give the signal for her to light the fuse. But he shook his head for now, and winced as he changed position. Meagre painkillers would not quell his hacking wound, but nor could he risk taking anything stronger. He had to remain lucid for what came next. Whatever he’d cooked up in his jetpack laboratory now lay beside him in a small polyethylene container taped to some kind of explosive charge with a short fuse.

Mad chemist. Mad geologist. A good thing he’d decided to come.

A muffled rash of clicks emerged from ... somewhere nearby. She pivoted her head to listen intently with her good ear. Definitely not a random rockfall or stone cracking under intense heat. The clicks were syncopated but structured. Communicative. It was the voice of a creature.

Guytrash.

The steady, gentle hisses of fuming gas released through geothermal vents were so numerous they had become a uniform white noise. But Jan twitched a wry smile as she became conscious of them again. It was pretty much the only noise in this region, and it would help hide the fizz of the lit fuse.

She readied her flint and steel. Positioned the end of the fuse so that it would catch the spark.

The gloomy passage ahead, lit only by heat-hugging fungi with bioluminescent peacock spots, suddenly blotted with a spidery shadow that danced up the walls with monstrous abandon. A smaller, solid, backlit form slinked across the opening. The guytrash lifted its mask to sniff the ground, then danced a malignant little jig for its masters. It clawed at thin air to demonstrate the direction in which it had smelled its prey.

But when the flashlight beams converged on it, Guytrash hesitated. It didn’t rush down the passage. Instead, it sniffed the ground again and carried on.

Oh crap.

Jan swallowed the urge to panic as she realized their trap had not worked. Had the little bastard sniffed out an ambush? Were their scents too close by, too stationary, the chemicals Carlisle had concocted too strong ... for it to risk dashing into the fray? Yes, it was clearly whip-smart and well-trained to the nth degree, but was it that clever? Would Stopper have smelled a rat? Possibly. He’d certainly have been cautious in his approach. But to circumvent an ambush like this ... for it to know to go around and find another way ... that would require a supernatural talent that she didn’t—

No, it returned and performed that same demonic jig at the mouth of the passage. Jan heaved a sigh of relief that hitched half-fulfilled when Pike grabbed hold of Guytrash’s harness and led him to one side. He motioned for another two of his colleagues to take the lead instead.

She surmised the creature had been trained to differentiate a decoy scent from the scent of active prey. It had tried the next passage to see if it could detect a stronger one there, but had returned to confirm that this was the way its masters needed to go. They had not been tricked into tracking a discarded item of Finnegan’s clothing, say. No, Finnegan himself was somewhere down this passage.

Taking measured but purposeful strides, the merc on point was armed with an assault rifle bristling with hi-tech accessories. He followed his green tracer beam into the passage’s belly, where Jan couldn’t see. The next man roved a scanning device ahead of him, and whispered updates into his headset. Then he, too, disappeared from view.

Jan’s dry throat flaked as she swallowed. The firesteel in her hand trembled while she watched for Carlisle’s command. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a pair of headless lumbering figures, bedecked in ornate armor, so broad-shouldered they were almost winged: utterly alien to Hesperidia.

Finaglers.

The first she’d ever encountered. A keening dread paralyzed her, left her feeling heavy and lightheaded at the same time.

Carlisle lowered his hand, the signal for her to light the fuse. Jan struck the steel against the flint. It sparked first time. But the fuse didn’t catch it. Crap. She struck it again, harder this time. Tiny imps of fire spat out—one of them licked the fuse. It hissed to life, its sparkling glow threading out across the dark rock, now up it, following the seam. It was a miniscule fizz of heat and light so harmless one could extinguish it with a pinch of one’s forefinger and thumb. But its potential for destruction had shaped entire colony worlds.

Its hiss blended with the steady undercurrent of outgassing from hidden regions beyond the passage. Jan lost sight of it as it snaked high against the roof. She mouthed a silent Hail Mary in Spanish, her birth tongue, and readied her sidearm. Finnegan inched forward into position beside her, cupped a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

The explosion hit earlier than she’d expected. A lot earlier. It shocked her, how unprepared she was. The force of the blast vaulted her a finger’s breadth off the rock, moved her an inch. The ridge underneath bit her ribs again. Her breather’s muffler dampened the thunder crack, otherwise the noise would have damaged her eardrums. She instinctively looked round to Stopper, whose silhouette recoiled away down her slot cave, a safe distance from harm but the poor boy would be beside himself until the shock subsided. Nothing she could do to comfort him until this was over.

Screams and a heavy, perdition-orange flare flooded the passage ahead. She imagined the two mercs melting under a magma-fall. A moment later they were swept into view as the lava gushed out of the belly of the cave and shot downhill in livid molten pursuit of the others. What was left of the first two men quickly disappeared along with their screams.

The Finaglers, cut off from retreat by the magma flow, managed to leap onto the only available ledge opposite. It was precarious, though, and unsustainable because of the heat of the passing lava. They shared no sounds, but the way their many arms gesticulated across their broad shoulder spines suggested a feverish communication, probably extra-sensory as well.

The nearest one powered up its jetpack. Jan knew it was aiming for her section of the tunnel beyond the lava even before it lifted off. She shot a glance at Carlisle opposite. He’d anticipated this move, and now was his chance to act.

The other mercs had managed to escape, but they’d unwisely fled downhill the way they’d come, where the lava river would follow, as opposed to the left, where the honeycomb of tunnels and chambers trended upward. They’d had no time to choose. And their decision would also take them toward Vaughn. If he wanted to strike, he would soon have his chance ...

As the Finagler’s great bulk lifted off its rock perch, the jetwash cratered the lava river as it passed over, throwing red-hot spume at its fellow. That only lasted a few seconds until the jetpack gained sufficient poise and elevation to allow its pilot to guide it.

Carlisle burst into action. He lit the short fuse and hurled his device out at the Finagler. It exploded directly under the monster’s legs, showering it with pyronitric acid from beneath. The Finagler let out a horrid mewling sound as its lower quarters corroded. But the most devastating effect was the aerosolizing of the acid. The jetpack sucked it up into its air intake system. Immediately there was an electrical short inside; a pop of compressed air and a cark of twisted metal; flames spat out of one exhaust, while smoke coughed out of the perforated manifold. One of the thrusters cut out. It spun the pilot off course, wheeled him shoulder-first into the magma. The pyronitric acid continued melting the guts out of the jetpack just as the magma melted it, and the Finagler, completely from the outside in several horrifying seconds. The reinforced fuel chambers exploded whilst submerged, blistering the lava into a huge yellow bubble that finally burst, spraying the entire cave with hot liquid.

The other Finagler hadn’t even tried to save his doomed comrade. He’d jetted off in the opposite direction, and was almost out of sight when Finnegan shot a volley of concentrated pulse blasts after him.

A gurgling, crackling hiatus in the action was not much of a reprieve. Jan’s heartbeat pounded in her ear as she watched lava wad against the wall before more of it—a possibly unending amount—continued to pour out of the breach and sweep away any stubborn clots with gluttonous slurps. We’ve done this, she thought. We’ve broken this dam. We’ve rerouted the gut-juice of the planet and created a new hellscape.

It astounded her for a several moments, the absolute destructive power of something so hot and primal. No living thing could survive in its path. It had taken three of the enemy—three more. She tried to think how many that now left. Vaughn’s four. These three. The loner Carlisle had shot through the neck. Eight dead. Which left what ... three? Four? Enough for them to be able to—

Shots zipped by down the passage between her and Carlisle. They scored the rock wall beyond her position, striking at oblique angles, lower down. Finnegan saw where they were coming from and returned fire: to the left of the lava flow, in the direction Guytrash had briefly reconnoitered. She guessed it and Pike had been on that side all along. The others had instinctively fled downhill to escape the hot rush, but he’d backed away to an elevated position, and was now testing his opponent’s defenses.

Pike’s next few shots were too close to the mark. Jan yanked Finnegan back before one thunked into the rock right where his gun arm had been. A surgical sniper shot that would have dismembered the big outlaw, rendering him easy prey ripe for the plucking.

“Don’t be so stupid!” she told him. “He can see where we can’t. He was waiting for you to give away your position.”

Finnegan thought about that, and gave a reluctant nod. “Thanks, Doc. I owe you one. What say we regroup someplace else?”

“I think we’d better.”

He waved to get Carlisle’s attention, said in a voice too low to carry any further, between enemy shots: “We’re retreating. I’ll make my way round to you and carry you back to the trolley. If we stick to your side of the passage, he won’t be able to see you. Then we’ll rendezvous with Jan at the Alamo.”

Carlisle gave the okay signal.

“All right, Doc,” he turned to Jan. “Now let’s see what tricks your boyfriend has up his sleeve.”

More than a few, was the answer. In fact, Vaughn reached the rendezvous site, a tall dome-shaped cave flecked with diamonds and mica, a matter of minutes after they did. Four passages branched from it, two trending up and two down. Surprisingly, Vaughn had entered it from one of the upper passages.

He immediately threw his arms around Jan and held her tight; neither of them minded the over-eager Boxer dog who muscled between them and demanded his share of affection. On the contrary, Vaughn lifted the big rascal up in his arms—impressive after what had to have been a long and arduous pursuit. But the way he beamed and locked his overtired but fiercely grateful gaze on hers, and the way Stopper licked him, as if they’d been years apart; for one brief shining moment, all was right with the cosmos.

“We’ll continue this later,” he said, setting Stopper down and holding him there by the harness—otherwise the Boxer would rear up and slobber on indefinitely. “We haven’t got much time.”

“Did you get any more?” she asked.

“No. I tried picking them off at the top of the slope, but they used smoke grenades and sonic disruptors to shield their retreat. They must have anticipated an attack from behind. I managed to scattered them so I could get through. But they’ll regroup. The only question is: which direction will the attack come from?”

“We’re no good here,” said Carlisle. “Too many ways in and out. What’s the best option? Ascent at speed? I know the trolleys are sluggish, but they’ll get us where we need to go.”

Vaughn shook his head. “I think we’ve fled far enough. We’re liable to hit a dead end if we keep risking these unstable caves. No, we need to pick our spot and defend it. It’s four against four. If we can find somewhere where we can triangulate fire from covered positions, we can lure them into a death trap, finish them off.”

“Who’s left?” asked Finnegan.

“Pike and that little bastard guytrash. One of the Finaglers. Mace Conners. And Lorenzo Lorca.”

“Lorca!” The big outlaw growled his hate and frustration. “Why won’t that grid-licker just die!”

Vaughn explained, “He’s been canny throughout the chase. I never saw him take point or bring up the rear. He protects himself, lets others take the big risks.”

“Yeah, well, he’s running out of human shields. The next time any of ’em shows his ugly kisser, I’ll crater it. That’s a promise.”

Vaughn rolled his eyes at Jan; she knew instantly what he meant. Finnegan had talked tough this whole time, but he’d yet to follow through with any of his murderous vows. Meanwhile, Vaughn and Carlisle had taken the initiative; between them they’d eliminated two thirds of the most feared hit squad in the colonies. The big merc had to up his game.

“It was cramped the way I came. We might have better luck through there.” Vaughn motioned Jan toward the other, untried, upward-trending passage. He guided Carlisle’s uncoupled trolley, while she guided the supply vehicle. It was a novelty having his flashlight shine the way. There were still faint rashes of bioluminescence across the walls and ceiling, even this deep into the lava-baked bowels of the underworld, enough even for their dark-adjusted eyes to see, but barely. Vaughn’s new light made the going so much easier, and rendered brilliant the many gemstones spangling the remnants of volcanic tubes.

It was indeed less cramped this way. However, it trended left as it rose, skirting the most active geothermal chambers. The heat from one tributary passage was so intense it would have charred their flesh if they’d lingered. Magma gurgled, hissed and cracked as it inched by along a trough in the adjoining chamber. Beyond it, at a lower level, an immense lava lake spat and seethed as one side of it stirred in a slow, agonizing churn.

They found a more promising cavern higher up. There were only three ways in and out, and one of those was several meters above ground. A hot through-draught carried noxious fumes from the other ground-level passage, but only across one half of the cavern. The higher, larger passage was a natural wind tunnel; it acted as an extractor, leaving the other half of the cavern relatively clear and calm. A decent place for a redoubt.

“I don’t like all that wide open space above us,” Vaughn admitted, demonstrating how little of the darkness up there his flashlight could penetrate. “But it’ll have to do.”

Jan didn’t care for the constant howl of the hot wind blowing through either. It meant they wouldn’t be able to hear approaching footsteps unless they were exceedingly clumsy.

They positioned the trolleys as shields along the far edge of the cavern, facing the two exposed ground-level entrances, and took shelter behind them. Then they took inventory of their weapons and ammunition. Carlisle’s sniper rifle. Finnegan’s twin pulse cannons. Vaughn’s Kruger and backup Hodiak. Jan’s tranq rifle. And an extra pulse pistol for each of them. Plus four more grenades. No match for a bristling Diurnal at full or even half strength, but it would take a crafty attack to gain the upper hand on them here, in this covered position. Especially as Pike had no probes left.

“You don’t think they’ll call it quits?” asked Jan, petting Stopper as he lay across her lap. “This far in, for them to keep on coming like this ... it’s beyond insane.”

Vaughn shook his head. “Pike’s all-in. He crossed his Rubicon back when I blew up his spare oxygen. If he’d have quit then, he might have made it out, but he gambled everything on catching you and taking your oxygen. So whatever happens now, he has no choice but to keep coming.”

“Oh Christ, give me some good news. Anything. Finnegan, come on, help us out. You’ve doled out some happy endings along the way, right? Tell us about your interstellar healer dealership. Yours and Polotovsky’s. That’s the reason you’re here. Who’ve you saved in the past twenty-odd years. Give us some of the highlights.”

“What? Names? I ain’t never been good remembering names. Linds keeps a scrapbook of the names and faces. Sometimes I’ll catch her trawling the podnet looking for news of her favorites, especially the kids as they’ve grown up. But most of ’em never make a headline after that miracle healing. That’s ’cause they’re mostly dirt poor, limited prospects. It’s enough that we gave ’em that second chance, but I can tell Linds feels it deeper than that. We never had kids ourselves. Too dangerous on the run. But I think she sees those we’ve saved as belonging to us in some way. Not me. I do what I can and then move onto the next. Hindsight’s a reverse gear, does no good when you have to stay ahead of what’s chasing you.

“But there was one kid I remember. A redhead boy, a busker, used to perform in the market on a backwater moon we lived on for a while. He had this popular routine where he’d rise up off the ground unpowered, no lines lifting him, nothing like that, and fetch assorted items from a pylon. Called himself The Levitator. Folks could never figure it out, thought he was something special. It earned him a decent living. Then one day a local gang got jealous, they demanded he tell them his secret. They took him into a back alley, robbed him of his earnings and tortured the truth out of him. He was almost dead when Linds found him. She’d seen the gang running off with a pair of expensive tech boots and figured they’d just mugged someone for them. So she fetched me, and we administered the Fleece right there in the alley. Brought the kid back to full health.

“Turns out his dad had made matching grav boots for them both before their ship had crash-landed on that moon. He’d been an engineer on an OC world. A bit of a maverick. He’d got his hands on Vartikkian tech at an arms bazaar someplace, and had adapted it to make a new line of human footwear that could defy gravity. Would’ve probably cornered the market, gone supernova, but he had no capital. So a big corporation persuaded him to sell his patent in exchange for a share in profits from any future revenue generated by any application of that tech. No promises, but the potential was huge. Only the kid was too young to know any of that. His dad died in the crash, leaving him an orphan to fend for himself on a strange moon.

“So he used the only advantage he had to earn a living—his prototype grav boots. Camouflaged them under slip-ons a few sizes too big, and pretended he could fly. Smart kid. Had his dad’s ingenuity. But he was stuck in that shithole colony living on busker wages. So Linds and I decided to help him get on his feet. The kid had hidden his dad’s grav boots and his research files and his personal belongings in a cave not far from the crash site. When we went through that, we found the corporate shares agreement and realized the kid was heir to an absolute windfall. In the few years since the crash, grav boots had become quite the craze in the more affluent colonies, especially for extreme sports.

“We got him in touch with his dad’s agent on Gilpraxia, and she took care of the rest. That boy became a millionaire many times over through his dad’s invention. Studied engineering. Years later he went into partnership with one of the Cuvier brothers, and helped revolutionize grav technology for high-g mining. But for the life of me I can’t remember the kid’s name. One too many blows to the head, I reckon.

“So there you go, Doc. That happy enough for you? We salvaged at least one successful life from a cruel death in the gutter. That’s been the Fleece’s legacy if I’m honest. For the most part, it’s healed folks who never had much of a chance, and it’s given them a second shot. That kid was a rare exception in that he already had a winning ticket. But there’ve been others, too, who’ve gone on to do good. Some we’ve saved have gone the other way. A miracle cure is no guarantee of a happy ending. That’s why I never like to look back. Consequences can haunt you as much as they can make you smile. We’ve saved lives, yeah, but that doesn’t mean all those lives have been worth saving.”

“No, but your actions had positive intent,” replied Jan. “That’s where your responsibility ends. For what it’s worth, I think the Fleece ended up in the right hands. Vaughn and I were right to trust you two.”

“Thanks, Doc. That means a lot. We’re no saints, but neither are those who claim to be. We did the best we could. Which reminds me ...”

He unzipped his jacket and lifted his shirt. Some kind of translucent material was wrapped around his torso. As he unfastened the Velcro cinch and peeled it off, four times around his trunk, a note of quiet reverential awe gripped the group. It was as supple and durable as plastic polymer sheeting, but segmented. Each segment had been inflated at some point but was now vacuum-sucked flat and wrinkled. The last segment was protected by some sort of airtight, magno-locked Kevlar sleeve. Finnegan prized it open as he peeled it off his torso. The slightly inflated segment still contained liquid, and only a thimble-full of that: viscous, speckled with thousands of tiny particles that never quite touched, twinkling independently like stars in a microscopic firmament.

Jan gasped when he handed it to Vaughn. “Is that ...?”

“That’s the last of it,” Finnegan confirmed. “I’ve tried not to waste it, but my part’s over now. I’ve done all I can. I’ll let you guys decide who gets the final dose.”

Vaughn flashed Jan a wild look she hadn’t seen from him before, equal parts wonder and terror. It only lasted a moment, but it conveyed the full gravity of Finnegan’s gesture. This thing he was handing over was both miracle and curse. Those last remnants of its healing power were also its most potent. Governments, criminal cartels and alien empires would kill to get their hands on it. Whoever possessed it would have a target on his back. The big outlaw might be retiring his healer dealership with a shrug, but those milliliters he was passing on came with baggage no one could pick up lightly.

She could tell Vaughn didn’t want it. In that wild glance he’d shown her two different people: the most important courier in the cosmos, thrilled to have that power of life over death; and someone who’d much rather toss it into the molten rock and be rid of it, so it wouldn’t draw the kind of trouble its previous custodian had had to deal with for decades.

Despite all that, he took it.

“Whew! Linds said I wouldn’t be able to do it when the time came,” said Finnegan.

“How does it feel?”

The big outlaw shrugged his good shoulder. “About the same. How does it feel to finally have it?”

Vaughn shrugged. “About the same.” He flicked Finnegan a wink.

Jan sighed and shook her head. “Men.”

Her boyfriend magno-locked the Kevlar sleeve with the final segment inside. He rolled up the Fleece and was packing it carefully inside his rucksack when he halted. “Shh!” he quietened the others. A noise had spooked him. He cocked an ear to listen, to try to discern where it was coming from. Stopper did likewise. The acoustics in the cavern were chaotic; the howling through-draught made it even harder to separate sounds. But Vaughn’s hearing was acute. Nowhere near as prodigious as Stopper’s, but the lawman was accustomed to unnatural noises the GenMod canine had never encountered.

Now Jan heard it too. A faint, rippling roar with seemingly no origin. The only thing she could compare it to was a really strong and gusty wind whumping in her ears, but that was not the case here. The through-draught didn’t touch them, and anyway it didn’t sound like that. This was something else. A cold, goosey shiver rushed from the base of her spine all the way up to her neck. She swallowed, and drew her sidearm like the men around her. Then they all watched the passages.

“Ugh!”

Finnegan stood up suddenly, dropped his weapon and clutched at something cinched around his neck with both hands. Veins in his neck cabled taut. He spat onto his visor through clenched teeth. The cinch-noose had a finely-woven metallic thread that glowed cobalt blue. It was lifting him off his feet from above, pressing deep into his neck. High into the darkness it stretched, straight, adamant, alien blue. Twin flames roared like upside-down gas jets up there. Their glow reflected off something shiny and metallic right beside them, and lit what resembled a pair of uprooted tree trunks with clipped roots dangling down ... suspended in mid-air?

Nonsense. Unless ...

Something dropped into the supply trolley before she could conceptualize her theory. It clanged as it hit. Vaughn yelled “Grenade! Everyone clear the trolleys!” just before he stepped back to take aim at the blue tether cord and fired, severing it a third of the way up. Finnegan plummeted back to ground.

Jan helped wrestle Carlisle to his feet and supported him while he took several furious hops to get away. Stopper unleashed a worried bowowow! as he dashed around them. Meanwhile, Vaughn, dragging a barely alive Finnegan away, realized they couldn’t get clear in time, so, with almost supernatural sangfroid, he pulled the empty trolley a few meters from its cousin, tipped it onto its side, and pushed the big outlaw inside. Vaughn dove in after him a split-second before the shocking blast ignited the supply trolley and all the oxygen and explosives inside. It rent the armored vehicle apart into white-hot steel petals. A colossal yellow-orange explosion filled half the cave with blinding heat. It hurled metal shrapnel in every direction. One small but jagged piece dug into Stopper’s hind quarters. He yelped and spun wildly in an attempt to bite it out, but he couldn’t quite reach. Jan burned her fingers when she touched it—it was scalding hot. So she loosened it with her knife instead and used her sleeve as a glove to pull it out.

Meanwhile, the force of the blast had destroyed a section of the cave wall itself. It had punched a jagged hole through the rock, wider than the trolley and twice as high, exposing a fiery chamber beyond. Another lake of magma boiled a few stories below.

The other trolley, dented by heavy shrapnel, had been spun and thrown several meters by the explosion. Vaughn, bruised but uninjured, dragged Finnegan out and propped him up against the cave wall. Then he came over to check on the others. His Kruger was drawn as he eyed each of the passages in turn between frequent glances up into the darkness. Gone was the cobalt blue cord, as were the twin jet flames. But the threat of ambush only intensified in their absence.

Where would Diurnal strike next?

“Are you okay?” he asked Jan.

“Me? Yeah. Stops got a nasty wound, though.”

“Will he be okay?”

“He’ll be fine. I’ll shoot him up with a spectrum antibiotic so he doesn’t get infected.”

“We lost all our supplies!” A note of self-reproach only seemed to intensify his furious resolve.

“Not all,” she replied, patting her backpack. “I always carry the important stuff with me.”

“Good. That’s good. Then we can—”

“Look out!” she cried as the dark, winged form of a Finagler fell out of the darkness above Carlisle. Its twin jetpack thrusters roared to life seconds before it hit the ground, catching its descent with a perfectly timed hover. It swooped to snatch Carlisle with its array of comb-like limbs hanging from a stiff shoulder spine. Carlisle spun to fire his weapon up at it. The Finagler kicked the pistol from his grip and moved in to complete its abduction.

Vaughn fired instead, hit the monstrosity just to the left of center-mass. It shaved off part of its trunk armor and took a couple of inside limbs with it. The Finagler flinched, then flung its cobalt tether at Vaughn. He rolled to one side, dodging its cinch.

“Jan, go!” he yelled. “Get behind the trolley with Stops! I’ll take care of this bastard!”

She spun to obey, but found no shelter. No reprieve. Diurnal’s attack happened on three fronts at once. While the Finagler engaged Vaughn and Carlisle in a desperate fight to the death near the noxious passage, Lorenzo Lorca climbed down from the higher wind tunnel that extracted those same fumes. He made a beeline for the injured Finnegan, who was on his own on that side of the cavern. The latter stirred to panicked life when he saw his old nemesis approaching. They both drew their knives at the same time, ready for a deadly duel.

Jan’s first instinct was to take Lorca out before he could get his revenge. To hell with mano v mano. Finnegan had almost died, and he didn’t deserve any of this.

But before she could take aim, the third attack blindsided her and Stopper from behind. It must have rushed in from the same passage they’d used to enter, and hit with such sudden wicked force, it sent them both sprawling across the rock floor. The top of Jan’s head smacked against a chunk of fallen rock. It resounded with a dull ringing thud, left her disoriented, almost senseless as she crawled for something upright to rest against. A blur of a wall she didn’t seem to be gaining on. The present, too, remained out of reach, a slipstream of reality rolling ahead. She heard rashes of unearthly clicks. Felt something sharp prick her ankle. Her mouth contorted into a scream but nothing came out, as though the wrench into semiconsciousness had severed the link from her larynx to her brain. She was somehow aware that parts of her weren’t working, and that that was not okay, but that there was nothing she could do about it except crawl—or imagine herself crawling, a hair’s breadth ahead, away from the dull throbbing pain in her ankle.

Something dragged her back. Her clawed fingers raked rock dust into wads as she tried to resist. An instinct acting apart from her, on her behalf. Then a heavy pressure pushed her backpack, holding her down. Facedown. Those rashes of clicks were closer now. Hot, snorting breaths descended on the back of her neck. A stray impulse, dear and sad, like a baying dog at the grave of its dead mistress, pierced the fog. It acted like a lightning rod as it channeled a blitz of emotions reality around her had been desperate to connect.

Jan erupted into something like awareness just as Stopper rammed the guytrash off her back. She crabbed away from the vicious, snarling melee that ensued, then turned to watch. The curtain of her daze fluttered and wavered, letting through appalled feelings of horror and helplessness. Her boy was in trouble. He might be outmatched here. Guytrash had flown into a murderous rage and was savaging poor Stops with even more violence than Stops was meting out against it.

But she couldn’t see her gun. She couldn’t think constructively around that. A vague, sickening impotence welled inside her. She lifted her mask just in time to throw up, then quickly replaced it afterward so she could suck in an almighty breath. Yes, she had the wherewithal to do that. Why the fuck couldn’t she think of some way to help her boy?

And where was Vaughn? Somewhere inside the noxious wind, fighting an alien hunter.

She propped herself up against the wall she’d finally managed to reach. It was a spot inside the blast area, not far from the mangled trolley. Heat from the hole in the rock nearby was intense, its glow a brooding sunset in cavernous night.

Guytrash made another lunge toward her. Stopper leapt onto its back and locked his jaws onto a spot between its shoulders. He drove it, thrashing, through the debris pile toward the open hole. He might even have forced it in there and ensured its fiery end, but Guytrash had not earned its reputation for nothing. It flipped itself onto its back, with Stopper still attached, and writhed until the poor dog had to let go and squirm out to escape a hurtful pincushion of sharp rocks.

Guytrash then grabbed hold of Stopper’s harness and flung him over half the length of the cavern. It lowered its cracked visor into a sealed position, and stood there for a moment, panting. It then gave each of its victims a glance: Stopper, motionless on the ground, ripe for the kill, and Jan, equally debilitated and helpless, even closer, easier to finish off. She’d been its first target after all, its main prize.

But the little bastard had been challenged, and its instinct was to eliminate that challenger once and for all. Guytrash turned toward Stopper and hunkered low as it stalked the littered ground between them, savoring its victory before its meal.

Jan struggled to her feet, but no sooner was she standing than her vision wheeled. She overbalanced, tried to soften her fall with an outstretched hand. Her palm pressed onto hot, sharp metal. She sucked in a gasp of pain, looked down at the twisted object stuck to her hand. It was the barrel of her tranq rifle, or what was left of it, warped, half-melted. The backup iron sight had pierced her skin. It drew blood as she plucked it out. But rather than toss it away, she decided to use it as a weapon—the only one she had.

The guytrash, though, had halted in its tracks. It was looking up past Stopper, to the higher passage Lorca had climbed down from. Up there, perched on the edge, an imposing creature poked its all-seeing eye through the streaming gas. Narrowed to medium-wide lensing, that eye seemed to take in all the separate vignettes of combat in a single static gaze. Climbing down with infinite slinkiness, Juke exuded a fearsome menace they hadn’t seen before. His approach to Guytrash had the low-creeping slyness of a big cat combined with the self-possessed power of a crocodile. He’d chosen his enemy, and who he must protect. Between Stopper and Guytrash now, Juke bristled his rib pipes erect in opposing forty-five-degree ranks, and shuttered his eye ready for combat.

He unleashed a booming foghorn sound instead. All his pipes sang at once. It was exhilarating and terrible at the same time: an intimidation, a call for help, an alien note both savage and magnificent. It filled the cavern and likely carried throughout the lower realms of the underworld.

Guytrash recoiled half a step, then the black cartilage crowning its bony skull crest flexed and flared, and the vile creature’s muscles rippled all over, as though in a paroxysm of disgust at its own fear.

Jan was certain this next fight would be to the death.

Both creatures flinched, however, when Lorenzo Lorca spilled onto the ground between them. There was a Bowie knife stuck right through his thigh. He’d suffered umpteen other wounds, including a belly stab that trickled blood. What he found where he landed, though, changed the nature of his contest. A pulse pistol. Jan’s Hodiak she’d lost during her own spill.

Lorca snatched it up and aimed it at the first hostile he saw—Juke, who was crouched, ready to pounce. The merc didn’t know he’d stumbled into an animal-on-animal grudge match; he thought, wrongly, that he was Juke’s target.

“Noooo! Don’t touch him!”

Finnegan, blade in hand, leapt in front of Juke just as Lorca fired. The energy bolt ripped into Finnegan’s solar plexus. His mouth froze open as a copper coin, already bloodied by an earlier blow, as was his nose. He puzzled a look at his enemy, then down at his wound, then across to Jan, as if asking why he’d done something so monumentally stupid. For a creature he barely knew.

Lorca couldn’t believe his luck. He let off another shot. It drilled through Finnegan’s belly and rocked him with an absurd full-body spasm. The big outlaw’s eyes bugged, blazing conduits for all the hate and confusion he somehow summoned into one last insane attack. He screamed and charged Lorca like a mad bull. Took a third energy bolt, this time to the chest.

He was dead but didn’t care as he punched the pistol from Lorca’s hand and ploughed into him shoulder-first, forcing him back, back toward the hole in the rock. Toward gaping hell. With frothing berserker rage he lifted Lorca off his feet and threw him—both of them—through the gap. Lorca’s cry was offset by Finnegan’s manic gallows laugh as they fell and fell and fell. Then there was nothing.

Numb to the pile-up of shocks by now, Jan spun back to the brutal dust-up that had flared between Juke and Guytrash. They were rolling and writhing in a savage fury ball under the stream of noxious fumes. She couldn’t tell who had the upper hand; both scored painful blows and bites that only seemed to up the ante of mutual punishment.

She’d recovered a touch more lucidity. Enough to remember Lorca’s pistol—her pistol—had been knocked out of his hand. She fetched it and, though still woozy, stumbled her way toward—

No, Stopper was not where she’d supposed. Instead, to her dismay, he was stalking the combatants under the gas stream. Another wave of nausea creased Jan. Her thwarted maternal instinct—to protect her boy at all costs—gouged her insides to mush as she mouthed, Don’t go near it, Stops. Don’t get involved. It’s a demon. A trained killer.

But he was not incensed like the two fighters. He bided his time while they scrapped with banshee ferocity. Then, when an opportunity presented itself, he dove in and locked his jaws not on any part of Guytrash, but on one of the straps anchoring its breather. He warried it until it snapped loose. Then he attacked the sister strap with even greater vigor. Finally, he yanked the entire breather away from its harness and tossed it away.

Panicked, Guytrash immediately kicked and squirmed out of its clinch with Juke. It made straight for the breather on the ground, pressed its muzzle to the visor, perhaps hoping the straps would somehow mend themselves and the rig would miraculously reattach. But its lifeline was broken. Whether it fought on or retreated to lick its wounds, Guytrash was on borrowed time. It had held its breath in order to fight with its jaws. But that would be its last breath unless someone reattached its rig.

It was the alien here, and Stopper had exposed its Achilles heel.

Jan felt a pang of pity as she took aim. There was something pathetic in its forlorn attempts to salvage that broken human tech—tech that had kept it alive on so many worlds. Then she remembered how it had mauled Stopper, and maimed Carlisle, not to mention the countless victims, human and animal alike, it had injured or slaughtered across the colonies. For its masters, yes, but it had a bloodlust of its own, a craving for the kill. Her own throat would have been ripped out, or worse, if Stops hadn’t intervened.

She was forced to lower her sidearm when Juke and Stopper rushed Guytrash from either side. They were coordinated, on their feet and thinking. They were also both roughhouses, a credit to their respective species. But she saw a different tactic now: rather than heedless assaults, the two were timing their strikes, taking turns to distract it while the other drew blood. Jan stood well back as they combined to systematically wear their wily enemy down. Stopper understood that Guytrash was weak without its breather, just as she and Vaughn and every other visitor to the Hesp required one of those in order to function outdoors. He’d somehow communicated that to Juke. Or had Juke realized it independently? Either way, they were on the same page.

To harry Guytrash was the key to beating it. To provoke it into attacking and then dodge that attack, so the other could inflict a wound on its blind side. To tag-team it into exhaustion. A sound strategy, one she would attaboy Stops for later, if they ever made it out of here alive.

Guytrash was no pushover, though, even on the verge of suffocation. It had its pride, and a fighting intelligence second to none—apart from Stopper’s, of course. She’d never seen her boy this wary of a similar-sized opponent, nor had he displayed such quick-footed agility. It was as if he was learning from Juke and vice versa. They taunted Guytrash until its gills shriveled into spastic gasps, its tongue hung limp between its teeth, and it began to choke on Hesp air. With one last defiant lunge it went for Stopper. He feinted left, then dodged right, letting the wretch spend its reserves chasing thin air.

Juke took his chance. He jumped onto his enemy’s back and impaled its gills on either side of its head with stabs of his foreclaws. Guytrash brayed as it reared up in agony. Juke leapt off, leaving Stopper a clear view of its most vulnerable spot—the underside of its neck. Without hesitation Stopper bit down and locked his jaws on the bulging cable of its windpipe. A death bite. With extreme savagery he shook it and thrashed it until Guytrash’s oak-brown blood gushed onto Stopper’s muzzle.

The wretch fell limp, but Stops didn’t let go. He flipped Guytrash onto its side and held it up by the throat, showing off his trophy to Jan ... and Juke. The latter prodded the dead creature several times to test whether it was actually dead. A new life-form. Not one he wanted to give any chance of recovery. Satisfied, he then trotted over to the fiery hole and, eye wide open once more, peered down into the lava.

Finnegan’s grave.

Jan swallowed a lump in her throat as she listened to Juke’s plaintive rendition of the big outlaw’s catchy advert jingle. It had a touching simplicity to it, as though he was fondly remembering the first time he’d heard it, from Finnegan’s own lips.

The man had given his life to save this animal he’d only just met. Did Juke know that? Or was he just missing his new friend, the human he’d gotten closest to in the short time they’d been acquainted.

He was trotting back to Stopper when the shots rang out. They came from the noxious passage opposite. Pike was the shooter, and he didn’t miss. His energy bolts cratered Juke’s segmented body, one after the other, with sickening accuracy. The poor creature’s rib pipes fluttered as they retracted, whistling hoary, tuneless gasps. All his orbital flecks blazed at once; his full eye beckoned to Jan and Stopper in terrified disbelief.

He didn’t know he was dying, but he would have felt his life slipping away.

Jan snapped off a shot with her Hodiak, missing Pike by a couple of feet as he darted back inside the smoke. “You cruel bastard! What did he ever do to you?” she yelled, and continued firing behind her while she grabbed Stopper by the harness and guided him across the cavern to the cover of the second trolley.

“Payback!” came the sinister reply when she stopped shooting. “You killed my pet, I killed yours. Next I’m coming for that bastard dog.”

Another man’s voice shot back from the passage opposite: “You’ll have to go through me first!”

Vaughn!

She’d completely lost track of him and his fight with the Finagler. A vague recollection of the latter bounding into jetpack-powered flight across the cavern, chased by Kruger blasts, and Vaughn sprinting after it in that direction, into the passage, was like a fragment of a dream she’d tried desperately to forget.

“That’s exactly what I had in mind, lawman.”

“Let’s finish this, Pike. Just you and me.”

“You know where to find me.”

“Yeah, the last place you’ll ever see. Right next to the other place, where your kind always end up. Temperature’s about the same, too.”

“You should know, when I’m done with you, I’m coming for the dog, and your other bitch. I can’t have Finnegan, but I’m betting she’ll pay out plenty in other ways, if you know what I mean. And it’s a long way back to daylight. I can use her up real slow.”

“You’ve seen your last daylight, Pike. Diurnal’s done. Buried. And I did it. Do you hear that? I fucked up your entire legacy, and now I’m coming to bury you.”

“Like I buried your dear old Pop—”

Vaughn fired a pinpoint blast that sheared a slate edge off the cave opening opposite. It had to have missed Pike by inches. The latter didn’t follow up, and when Vaughn burst into the cavern, blazing away with lethal accuracy as he sprinted along the far wall, nursing an angry, bleeding wound in his side, Jan guessed Diurnal’s leader was already a long way down the passage. He’d enraged Vaughn deliberately. She sensed a trap, and her stomach knotted as she watched him disappear into the noxious fumes.

The final game of cat and mouse, then. It had started in a cemetery quadrangle light-years away. It was bound to end in hell.

​Chapter Seventeen

The sharp smells of burnt hair—his own—and hot rubber still dominated inside Vaughn’s breather as he jogged down the smoky passage in pursuit of Pike. The way had branched several times already, but the heat from each of those caves had been extreme. Pike had had no choice but to continue straight on. He’d probably deduced by now, as Vaughn had, that he’d picked the wrong direction in which to flee. If he’d been as agile a climber as Juke or Guytrash, he might have been able to pick his way up one of the vertical chimneys; faint bioluminescent glows lined the upper reaches, hinting at heights of hundreds, if not thousands of feet straight up, with gaps here and there providing access to other levels of the underworld. But Pike was committed to a blind maze. Sooner or later he’d find himself cornered. And like any desperate survivor, that was when he’d be at his most dangerous.

The burnt hair smell wouldn’t quite let Vaughn forget the frantic sequence of events that had led to the second Finagler’s demise. Nor would the creasing pain in his side—a stab wound—one of the Finagler’s blades had pierced right through. Nothing vital hit, he hoped, but it still leaked, despite his hurried application of sealant resin, and wouldn’t stop bitching.

The treacherous alien’s fatal mistake had been to flee into a confined space rather than use the cavern’s immense volume. It had negated the Finagler’s jetpack advantage. Vaughn and Carlisle would have eventually picked it off with their pulse weapons if it had flown around in the cavern, true, but trying to navigate the narrow network of adjoining passages whilst airborne was a disaster waiting to happen. That disaster had occurred when it had attempted a vertical thrust up toward a higher chamber. A smart tactic ... if the slot cave had been wide enough for a creature that broad, bearing a jetpack, to fit through.

It hadn’t.

Vaughn had fired once, straight up. The jetpack had exploded, rocking the cave and knocking Vaughn off his feet, so that he’d been unable to dodge the flaming debris and chunks of alien flesh that had rained down. A fiery piece had landed on his head. It had melted the edge of his breather’s rubber suction seal and singed his hair through to the scalp. After diving to escape the rest of the debris, he’d removed his breather to check the damage—thankfully nothing major. But that had let the acrid smells in ...

“Finnegan’s gone,” Carlisle had said on Vaughn’s return. Words that might have haunted him more if he hadn’t been locked in aggressive, unfeeling combat mode. He’d been more concerned about Jan, out in the open like that. And the conspicuous absence of Pike from the fighting. But those words lingered, like the smells he couldn’t escape. Finnegan’s gone. An unfair result at the end of an insane pursuit.

He couldn’t afford to let it distract him. Pike’s trail finally did branch off—left, down a fairly steep decline. The marked increase in temperature in the main passage had undoubtedly forced his hand—it was fast becoming unbearable, and the orange glow ahead was molten, not bioluminescent. This alternate path looked and felt ... not exactly cool, but less intense. It also delved deeper, however. Deeper into the volcanic maze. Vaughn followed, using every angle and outcropping along the way to provide cover from an ambush.

His suspicion that they were running out of road came to fruition when he saw the glow from Pike’s flashlight suddenly flick out in the next adjoining cave up ahead. If its power cell was exhausted it would have dimmed gradually. So he had to have switched it off on purpose. The only reason to do that would be if he was planning an ambush. Hiding in the darkness.

Right, you bastard, I’ve got you.

Vaughn set his rucksack down. He didn’t want any encumbrances.

“Pike! I know you’re in there. Let’s end this. You and me. Two tired gunslingers at the end of the road. What do you say we settle this the old-fashioned way?”

“Bullshit. You’d never risk it!”

“Look where we are, how far we’ve come, the reasons why. Now ask me if I’d risk it.”

Pike didn’t reply.

“I can wait here till doomsday,” said Vaughn. “You can try rushing me, but you’ll have no chance. Or we can face off like professionals. Let skill decide. It’s you and—”

“You’re on, lawman.”

Vaughn hesitated. “Any tricks and I’ll blow this grenade and seal this cave for good.”

“No tricks. Hell, I’ll even let you draw first.”

The gap was twice as wide as an airlock hatch but left almost no headroom. Vaughn didn’t enter; he just stepped across it, filling the vertical space from outside. Pike stood about seven or eight meters away toward the back of the small cave. A dead end lay a few steps behind him: an abyssal drop into absolute darkness. He had to have shone his flashlight into it and seen there was no way down. That flashlight was blazing again now, but across Pike. He’d set it down on the floor, angling it slightly toward his opponent, perhaps hoping its glare in the corner of Vaughn’s eye might distract his aim.

Sly, right to the end.

Vaughn had likewise set his own flashlight on the ground, but out of sight of his opponent, aimed at the rock wall behind where Vaughn stood.

“Your move,” said Pike.

The fingers on Vaughn’s gun hand twitched inches from his side holster. A faraway crack and crunch of falling rock made both men flinch. A wispy veil of smoke dappled the light between them. It was one of the few places in the underworld where not a single organism lived, and would shortly be so again.

Vaughn’s draw was quick. Pike reacted quicker. A bolt of energy broke the sound barrier; Vaughn didn’t see it before it tore right through him, center-mass, and punched into the cave wall behind. He didn’t even feel pain, it happened so fast, only a strange vicarious shudder, as though it had happened to someone else.

He clutched his diaphragm where the bolt had hit. Glanced down. His jaw hung loose on its hinge as he gasped aloud. Then he glanced up at his enemy. The beaming gloat cast back through the gloom was hideous, demonic. Pike unleashed a high-pitched “Wooow!” of delight as he punched the air with his free hand, and with the other shot three more bolts into the stricken lawman. All found their target. Stomach, chest, neck. A devastating combo. A killing combo. Vaughn staggered to his left, collapsed to one knee. The wall behind him was a mess. A cloud of rock dust enveloped him, enwrapped him ... wafted through him.

Pike’s rictus of pleasure sank as he crept forward. His sharp facial features began to scrunch instead, into a confused scowl. “No shadow,” he uttered. Scanning the ground and the wall, he added, with a gasp, “No blood?”

“Be careful what you wish for,” a voice from his left answered. It came with a shocking blast of energy that ripped into Pike’s guts and flung him staggering back. He dropped his weapon in order to fumble at his wound with both hands, to keep his insides ... in. When he next looked, Vaughn was still there, knelt in defeat. Only he wasn’t beaten. He wagged a finger at Pike, then stood, tall and proud, not a single bolt wound anywhere on him. His only injury was the one he’d brought with him—a blade wound to his side.

Pike shrank farther back inside the cave as he realized his colossal error. There were now two Vaughns facing him, a few meters apart. The one he’d shot flickered and froze with its Kruger aimed away to Pike’s right. The other, who’d just stepped into view outside the cave from the left side, aimed his Kruger directly at Pike. As he entered the cave and approached, a small object floated above him. It looked like one half of a digital tablet.

Vaughn was carrying an empty cushioned case in his other hand. He tossed it at Pike’s feet. The label on it read: ‘DOPP. MIR. MK V’.

“Old dog, new tricks,” said the lawman.

“Hologram!” Pike spat blood onto his visor, then burbled, “Salvo.”

“Now we’re even.” Vaughn’s second shot was a textbook stopper—it hit the middle of Pike’s chest, splintering his sternum on its way to blowing apart his spinal cord. The impact also threw him back off the ledge into abyssal blackness.

No scream, but the sound of his landing, a couple of seconds later, was satisfying enough. A heavy crack and a rip, like a bag of bones breaking open.

Vaughn cracked a glow-stick and let it fall. It bounced, rolled, and finally settled in a groove of rock not far from Pike’s mangled body. Three of his limbs were bent the wrong way, but the bastard was still alive. He managed to turn his head slightly to look away from the pinkish light. As he did, the shadows around the edge of the glow slithered to life. Dozens of reflective eyes flecked with luminous patterns converged on Pike. The hexapod creatures’ bodies, lithe and segmented, were almost identical to Juke’s, though they varied in size. Some were lighter or darker in color, while the skin of others bore elaborate swirls and spots.

One crushed the glow-light with its claw, rendering the lower cave completely dark again. There was a few seconds of gently scuffed and padded silence. It occurred to Vaughn that they, like him, were here to settle a score, though he couldn’t imagine how they would know Pike was to blame for Juke’s death. Unless the poor creature had identified him by some extrasensory means of communication. Or maybe they were just hungry.

Either way, Vaughn didn’t hang around to find out. The reckoning below threw up such horrific sounds of bestial savagery that even he didn’t want to imagine Pike’s final end.

He raced back to Jan’s cavern and found her on her knees, sobbing over Juke’s dead body. Carlisle had his arm around her, while Stopper’s mournful howl carried high and far.

The pain from Vaughn’s own wound—it was leaking even more after all that running—flared and bit as he rummaged through the contents of his rucksack. He unfurled the Golden Fleece to its full size, about as big as a deflated airbed, and unfastened the Kevlar sleeve that sealed the final viable contents.

Jan spied his bleeding wound, then saw the Fleece. She flashed him a completely unguarded look in which he saw, or imagined he saw, a dearly and deeply held yearning she’d long hidden from him. It had stirred some mixture of awe, girlish excitement, and hope undimmed by decades passed. It told him that she didn’t want to age so slowly alone. She wanted them to age slowly together. And that this was their chance, their last and only chance to be together on Hesperidia for an unknowable stretch of lifetimes. If he used the Fleece to heal himself.

It stopped her sobs like a warm sun parting the curtains of a stormy drizzle. Vaughn smiled back at her, acknowledging that he knew what was on her mind, and that it was on his, too.

But the unspoken moment passed. She watched him spread the Fleece over Juke’s cratered body instead, carefully tuck it under his lifeless limbs, so that the ends touched and every inch of him was covered. When he was done, Vaughn looked up at her again and saw that the awe, the girlishness, and the hope were gone. In their place, something altogether less selfish: a proud smile, from a woman, a partner, a custodian of an alien world.

“It’s what Finnegan would have wanted,” she reassured him. “He gave his life to protect him. Let this be his legacy.”

Vaughn said nothing, just held her hand as they stepped away to let the last drops of immortality, perhaps anywhere in existence, breathe life into a worthy creature.

Meanwhile, from the shadows of three passages, an entire flock of Juke’s kin, fresh from tasting human flesh for the first time, closed in.

​Chapter Eighteen

“Don’t look them in the eye,” whispered Jan. She demonstrated by fixing her gaze on the ground between her and Stopper, who’d taken up a defensive position—neither aggressive nor provocative, but resolute—against the encroaching pack. The big Boxer didn’t blink as he faced down dozens of the alien hexapods arrayed in a semicircle around him. His presence halted their advance; like Juke back at the beach, they seemed to be attuned to his wavelength somehow, his cool steadfastness, his loyalty, that unique combination of instincts and character traits he possessed that had bridged the gap between humans and so many creatures of the Hesp.

Vaughn and Carlisle followed Jan’s example. But it was a stomach-churning sensation, to pretend indifference while a powerful tug-of-war vied for their gazes. On one side, a horde of creatures out for revenge, poised to strike. On the other, a rousing storm of static and invisible weather heaved and gravitated as the flexing Fleece summoned heat from the rock itself, and from the exposed bowels of the underworld, where Finnegan had fallen.

It had been a dazzling, almost sorcerous spectacle last time, all those years ago, in the crater lake, with the Fleece at full capacity. Now, practically empty, it was a much diluted affair in terms of brightness and color. But there was also a greater potency in its final transference. An exponential charge in the atmosphere, heightening with a pull of gravity that rocked Vaughn and Jan, and caused Stopper to shift about and widen his stance. It even tugged the smaller rocks and dust toward it. Carlisle hugged his good knee and leaned against the pulling force.

The hexapods, either fearful or mesmerized or both, slowly backed away in unison.

Vaughn couldn’t tell how long he and Jan and Stopper stood there, fighting to keep their balance. It was more like a shrinking of time than a dilation, an experience abridged somehow, befogged between lighthouses of lucidity, awash in wishfulness but aware of the harsh rocks of reality—like the slipstream of a dream. Jan and Carlisle admitted the same when they came to discuss it later.

But when Juke emerged from under a limp, empty, wrinkled Fleece, the atmosphere settled with a long and easing sigh. He opened his eye wide after a few heavy blinks, but couldn’t decide which shape to settle on: narrow, to focus on his kin, or fully rounded, to focus on his new friends. He tested all his rib pipes at once, like the cacophonous tuning of an orchestra before a concert. That concert would play later. For now he was just glad to be alive and fully restored. Vaughn couldn’t imagine what Juke thought had happened since he’d succumbed to those fatal shots. Maybe he thought it was all a bad dream, and that he was back in happy reality again.

He bounded around Stopper, and brushed against Vaughn and Jan and Carlisle. Then he leapt over the ranks of his brethren still arrayed in that ominous semicircle around the humans and their canine guardian. With astonishing ease he gained the upper passage—the one he’d entered from to fight Guytrash. He stood there, wide-eyed and imperious, taking in the whole cavern like he had upon his arrival earlier. His ocular flecks blazed in a sequence known only to his kind. Jan later speculated that he might have been recounting the story of the final fight with Guytrash and Diurnal. An intricate and nuanced visual communication, possibly even more complex than his musical broadcasts. He’d been summoned away at various intervals during the journey. Perhaps he’d been updating his pack with news of the human interlopers, their canine leader, and the enemy pursuers. He may even have described to them in detail exactly who was friendly and who was not. The musical motifs he’d composed for each of them could very well have been profiles packed with subtle details only his species could read, like the nuances of whale-song.

None of this was ever proven, but it did seem plausible.

When he’d finished his regalement, or whatever it was, Juke climbed back down and trotted straight to Stopper. The two of them brushed against one another like old friends. Stopper whined a little as Juke played his tune, as if he knew it was a bittersweet prelude to their final parting.

All eyes now beheld the humans. There was a concerted flashing of ocular flecks, each creature’s distinct in pattern and distribution but uniform in intensity. Exactly what they were saying would never be known. Vaughn liked to think it was a gesture of gratitude, for restoring their lost brother. But it could just as easily have been a warning telling them never to come here with their strange magic devices ever again. Yes, one device had restored life, but most of the others had brought nothing but death and destruction.

A hexapod with one of the most decorative skin patterns led the pack out, without ceremony, at an unhurried pace. They chose Juke’s favored upper passage. When the last of them had climbed up and disappeared, Juke followed. He didn’t look back.

Stopper whined as he watched his friend vanish, then came back for a reassuring hug from Jan, lovingly given.

It was hard to believe it was all over. Even harder to swallow was how far they still had to hike in order to reach daylight again.

There wasn’t a moment to lose. The oxygen they carried was all the oxygen they would have until they reached the ships on the Caproni Causeway. Luckily the three of them were veteran survivalists who subscribed to the redundancy axiom, a.k.a. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Each had a portable cylinder in his backpack; Vaughn’s was actually Salvo’s. They ought to be sufficient for the return journey.

The second grav trolley, battered and upended during the explosion, was still operational. Its military grade design continued to be a source of marvel. After all it had been through with them—it had literally saved their lives countless times—the trolley felt like a member of the expedition. Carlisle suggested they name it.

“See what you can come up with on the way,” Jan told him, pointing out that one of its panels still bore her charcoal scribblings made the previous ... however long it had been since the river. A memento of a place she’d likely never see again.

That magnificent sanctum impressed once more as they wound their weary way back through the misty forest, around Crematoria, and between the giant white beanstalks, where Jan introduced Vaughn to the remarkable ‘milkman’, lacteus ceracuti, who ascended the branches with supernatural deftness before contorting to camouflage itself on the stem, like a slender drip of waxy sap.

Up the never-ending slope they clambered, to the ledge hundreds of feet above the valley floor. It was there, roughly on the spot where Jan had made her notes in charcoal, and Vaughn had signaled to her in Morse, and Juke had visited them after his first fight with Guytrash, that the farewell concert began. Distant, lilting hornpipe notes drew first Stopper’s gaze, then everyone’s, to the valley below. Juke’s kin were drinking from a spring not far from Whirlpool Lake. He stood beside them on a rocky outcropping, and pealed his medley of friendship far and wide across the valley. It carried to the upper reaches with an eerie reverberation, the cavern’s acoustics lending it a primal tremolo that only served to enrich and endear the themes they recognized, to moving effect: Vaughn’s, Carlisle’s snippet of Beethoven, Finnegan’s catchy jingle, and lastly, Stopper’s theme, the simplest and sweetest of them all.

It was the anthem of the Underworld, and none of them would ever forget its haunting, mysterious quality that soared like a cloudrider and conveyed the majestic inter-connectedness of a cor’arkhis in his fief. Juke played it as they crossed the river, and as they ventured behind successive cataracts, and continued playing until the valley and Whirlpool Lake were lost in the mist. Its faint echo played them through several subsequent caves and passages parallel to the main river, until the white noise of that flow finally drowned it, and strange emotions gripped the company.

Vaughn refused to ride in the trolley with Carlisle, against the two scientists’ sound medical advice. His wounds and his tiredness plagued him, but he was determined to see the expedition out on his feet. Maybe it was an Omicron thing, she thought, or a macho thing.

Or maybe, in his own private way, he was celebrating being alive, pain and all. To have defeated a foe deemed unstoppable, and to be able to walk out afterward: there was a defiance in that, she realized, a primal defiance after a week spent in the shadow of death. His dad’s. Diurnal. This was Vaughn at his proudest and most introverted. It was probably best to let him navigate it in his own way, until he felt he needed her.

Stopper guided them with unerring accuracy over Vaughn’s tracks. Encounters with local animals were frequent but brief, apart from one persistent carnivore, a relative of venator tenebrarum, who stalked them with clear deadly intent for several kilometers before finally chancing its strike. Jan had no choice but to kill it. Then they quickened their pace before the smell of blood attracted other predators and carrion feeders.

The main river was still in spate, but its banks were now safe to traverse. Herds that had come to drink fled from Vaughn’s flashlight; likewise any flying creatures when he aimed his beam up at them. They were comfortable in perpetual twilight and shadow; anything bright either repulsed or frightened them.

Around the crescent shoreline, lichen and seaweeds and endless lengths of those rubbery sea-vines that the tide washed up onto Avalon Key had been deposited by the flood. Most of the dead fish and other sea creatures had been picked clean already. It was now the turn of the littlest critters, the scavengers, to sift through what remained and eat their fill. Stopper navigated the path of least resistance along the damp beach, his preferred sweet spot neither too close to the perimeter vegetation—covetous eyes lurked there—nor too close to the water’s edge, where the silt was soft and sank like quicksand.

They’d traversed around three quarters of the crescent, had long passed the megabyzus skeleton and those life-saving fronds where they’d perched to escape the flood, when Carlisle broke the silence of their trudge with “Vaughn, kill your light! There’s someone up ahead!”

The lawman did as he was told. And sure enough, well over a kilometer away through the wavering gloom, tiny beams of yellow light fidgeted across the beach toward them.

“Should we take cover?” asked Jan, already scanning the shadowy undergrowth for a hiding place. “Diurnal wouldn’t have sent everyone down here after us at once. They’d have left one or two behind to cover their exit, right?”

“Possibly,” answered Vaughn.

“You’re not worried?”

“I’m too tired to worry. Let’s just stay behind the trolley as we go, use it as cover if we have to. My gut’s telling me this isn’t Diurnal.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It’d be pointless them coming this far in. The flood would have wiped out all our tracks, so they’d just be guessing blind. That’s not a strategy. It’s putting themselves at unnecessary risk for no purpose. Mercs don’t roll that way. No, whoever this is, it’s hope guiding them, not mercenary loyalty.”

“Local law enforcement?” queried Carlisle.

“That’d be my guess.”

A tense, silent march toward an uncertain fate eventually brought them face to face with the latest expedition into the underworld. But Vaughn had only been half right. Local law enforcement had come, but four familiar faces led the dozen-strong company. Spiros, Desiree, Leif Whitsun and Isherwood ran to greet Stopper’s powerful sprint. They lavished him with praise, and he repaid it with generous slobbering all round.

“How did they know we’d come this way?” asked Jan, while the rescuers were still a stone’s throw away. “Our tracks were washed ... oh, I know. The second Diurnal ship! The ambusher’s. He descended a volcanic tube with his jetpack. Our guys must have spotted that ship on the surface, found the chimney, and figured this was as good a place to start the search as any.”

Vaughn grinned. “You sure you’re not Omicron?”

“Omega, babe. Ten times over.”

“Ouch!” said Carlisle with a chuckle. “Poor Vaughn.”

She replied, “No, not poor Vaughn. When word of this gets out, that he beat Diurnal, he’ll be the most famous lawman since Wyatt Earp all over again. And we’ll be over-qualified lab geeks with too many letters after our names.”

“Amen to that, sister.”

Vaughn sighed. “Wyatt Earp never had a hologram, or a Mach IV Kruger, or a grav trolley, or someone who could divert a river of lava, or the smartest dog who ever lived, or the fiercest zoonygaloonyologist alive. Nah, science gets the win this time. Science ... with a handy and sometimes musical assist from a certain Hesp creature.”

“Science, the Hesp, and Boy Scouts,” added Jan. “Diurnal never had a chance.”

Too much information and too many vignettes were exchanged, seemingly all at once, for Vaughn to take it all in. Exhaustion washed over him like a fever: jelly muscles, aching bones, sore feet that had to have blisters by now, a struggle to keep his eyes open and his vision in focus: for the first time in his life he felt old, truly old, like those shockingly aged lawmen he’d seen at the Salutation Dinner last year. But still he refused offers of assistance from his team, preferring to use the grav trolley—that glorious, trusty vehicle that was practically a member of the family—as a support while he walked this final leg of the trek.

He let Jan and Carlisle tell the tale of their ordeal. Some parts he hadn’t heard before, like piloting the trolleys out over the waterfall and onto the rock ledge. Other parts they skimmed over or skipped altogether, like Juke’s death and resurrection, and any mention of the Fleece. That would have to remain undisclosed, to protect the secret of Jan’s and Stopper’s agelessness. Those parties that had hired Diurnal to capture Finnegan and the Fleece would stop at nothing to get their hands on two Hesp residents that had been present at the disappearance of the hunters and their quarry, and had also been recipients of that miraculous healing. Those paymasters might think Jan and Stopper were the last two to have been given the elixir—the most potent doses!

No, they must never admit they knew anything about the Fleece, or Finnegan’s legacy, or the real reason Diurnal had come here. To kill a man named Geoffrey Campbell would be the official explanation. Exactly why, or what Campbell had done to warrant such an expensive execution, would always remain a mystery. He was dead, the executioners were dead, and the survivors had brought nothing back that would lead anyone to suspect they weren’t telling the truth.

“So what happened on L-11?” Vaughn asked Spiros. He’d already heard snippets of it, but he was weary and punchy and the gist of it hadn’t sunk in. “Something about a saboteur?”

“Yeah, Diurnal had already sent an agent to the Command Array on L-11. I’d suspected something wasn’t quite right when they weren’t responding to our hails. We landed okay, but the station personnel told us the same thing: they’d been broadcasting ever since their satellites had picked up our approach, but we hadn’t responded. A good thing they don’t have a sat net, or it might have blasted us to bits for non-compliance. Anyway, I figured someone or something was jamming signals sent to and from L-11. If they could do that, I reasoned they’d want to do the same to the Hesp. Kind of like throwing a comms blanket over Diurnal’s whole operation, keeping us radio dark until they got what they came for.

“So we checked the visitor log and discovered a maintenance shuttle had landed earlier that day to repair an external cable. No need to access the facility itself, or the array. No authorization required. The woman had the proper ID and digital documentation, so no one thought any more about it. But when I asked, none of the personnel had seen her since. Her shuttle was still there, but there was no sign of her. The timing of it, the nature of the comms blackout: it stood to reason she was a saboteur working for Diurnal.

“Mr. Isherwood caught her in an ops conduit under one of the main dishes. She was recoding the signal encryption so that only a specific frequency would be allowed to and from the array: hers and Diurnal’s. They could speak to one another from L-11 to the Hesp, and to another agent on Saint Jacques. When we interrogated her, she admitted they’d been tracking an outlaw ever since Rurapenti. They’d injected his ship’s fuel with an inert radioactive trace chemical that, when exhausted, had left a trail for them to follow. When they’d seen which warp gates he’d used, and the destinations logged for those jumps, it had led them to this system, then to the Hesp. That was how they were able to pick up his trail here and fly straight to you. Once they’d found its signature, it was like following breadcrumbs in the atmosphere. And it was a no-brainer that he’d be coming to see you, sir, because of his links to your father’s fraternity, and the fact that you’d both been on Rurapenti at the same time. We haven’t gotten all the details yet, but it’s looking like he had something they wanted, something he needed to hide. This ties into your own investigation, doesn’t it, sir? Into what happened to your dad ... and the others in prison?”

“I’m sure it all ties in,” Vaughn replied vaguely.

“Then there was the matter of how they were going to track their mark underground. Turns out the bullets they’d fired at him on Rurapenti were also tipped with a similar radioactive chemical. That then circulated in his bloodstream, giving off a very specific radioactive signature they could track, provided they could get close enough—even through solid rock. That’s what convinced us to come straight back here. That and the comms blackout. Your strategy involved hiding and outlasting them, waiting for local law enforcement to show up. But Diurnal blocked our broadcast. I’m still trying to figure out how. I suspect they infected our sat net once they were inside it—nanites, maybe—but I’ll have to run full diagnostics to be sure.”

Vaughn had phased out at the tech talk, so he answered the last thing that had stuck: “Yeah, we figured out they’d tagged him with something. I’ll explain how later. It’s all a blur right now.”

“I’m sure, sir. It’s not far now. The beach ends up here, then it’s just another few caverns. We’ll have you winched out of here in no time.”

“Be good to see sky again.” Vaughn indulged an almighty yawn. “Hey, is it day or night?”

“Night, sir. Very, very night.”

“Sure feels like it.”

“So how did you do it, sir? Desiree and Leif are dying to know. How did you take out half of the baddest death squad the colonies have ever seen, singlehanded?”

Vaughn could barely remember, and wouldn’t have relived it in casual conversation, even if he’d had total recall, until they were all safely above ground. “It’s like I keep telling you guys: learn what I give you, to the letter, then when you’ve mastered it, you’ll be ready to throw it all out the window. Preparation unlocks improvisation. And improvisation is nine-tenths of what you’ll need to survive. ’Cause nothing unfolds the way you expect ...”

By this time Desiree Labeau and Leif Whitsun had moved close enough to listen in; neither wanted to miss any pearls of wisdom the great Ferrix Vaughn might want to impart after another of his legendary conquests. But he had only one last piece of advice for them: “You might not know it, but you’ve all passed an important test today.”

“Which test was that, sir?” asked Desiree.

“You disobeyed my direct order. And you were right to do so. Improvisation, reassessing the situation, thinking outside the box: bring all of that with you, and apply it to everything you do.”

“We will, sir,” said Whitsun. “But can you tell us—I mean how is it even possible—that you took all those bastards out on your own?”

Vaughn glanced round and saw that everyone was listening in now. He smiled a cryptic smile at no one in particular as he answered, “Crazy Ivan.”

Their puzzled faces amused him, and he said no more. The trickling stream was gentle and soothing as it filled his boots and cushioned his sore feet. Almost imperceptible ripples of lilac light danced over the damp walls and the banks of the trough. The entire passage’s recent wetness gleamed, and Vaughn was suddenly very aware of the enduring quality of those bioluminescent organisms that had evolved to sustain life down here. They’d survived a mother of a flood not only intact in the nooks and hollows and grottos, but in fine fettle. With the reflective watery coating, it was brighter here than before.

It was still night-time when they reached the volcanic shaft. Where last time there’d been a sliver of daylight at the top, now there was only a tiny flashing amber light, where the pulley stood over the gap. A caged seat attached to a winch cable awaited them at the bottom. While the EMS rescue crew and local law enforcement officers organized the logistics of retrieval—Jan insisted she and Stopper be hoisted up together, so a single chairlift would not suffice—Vaughn had one last wander around.

No sign of the dead ambusher remained where they’d left him; he had to have been swept away by the flood. Indeed, apart from their ships, there was no evidence whatsoever, no reachable evidence, that Diurnal had ever been on the Hesp. And no audiovisual proof to back up most of what he and Jan and Carlisle had to say about their ordeal. The authorities would just have to take their word for what had happened in these strange alien depths.

Vaughn insisted on being the last one to be hoisted out. He was, after all, Hesperidia’s Security Chief, and their maimed First Ranger had been the first one lifted out. It felt only right and proper that he saw this whole subterranean misadventure through to its conclusion. And by unanimous consent among the survivors, their grav trolley lifeboat, which Carlisle had named Cristobal, also had to be spared. After much grumbling from the EMS personnel—they were here to save people, not appliances—it was agreed that a four-cable extension would be sent down, to be attached to each of the trolley’s four guide bars, so that Vaughn could ride it up. The final lift of the operation.

When he’d got it all ready, he climbed in, and radioed for them to start the hoist. One last look around the gloomy cavern triggered a bittersweet flush of emotions: relief that he’d got Jan and Stopper out safe, and that the Hesp was a sanctuary once more; but also, for reasons he couldn’t entirely fathom, a deep sense of loss, of emptiness, delayed perhaps by the heightened stakes of the last few days, but here laid bare before him like a glimpse of a childhood refuge once dear and delicate, now desolate and decayed, where not even memory would smile again.

As Cristobal rose off the ground for the last time—it was decommissioned on its return to Miramar, and became a popular museum piece, with Jan’s charcoal scribblings preserved—Vaughn peered down into the darkness as he rose. The sensation reminded him of his dream, where he’d risen up inside the waterfall, and his dad had looked up after him and said, “It’s not your time.”

He imagined the old man down there now, watching him leave and wondering if they’d ever get to meet again. Then he was sure he heard a distant, once-cherished sound echo and then fade for the last time. For this was a place where memories came to die.

It was the final chime of Big Ben.

* * *

Dusk on the estuary sands, where a week ago Vaughn had been training his team in the various arts of combat, and Jan had studied refugium fidelis—the sentinel flower—that stalwart life-giver of the marshes. They’re alone here now, the two of them and Stopper. It’s an ideal retreat, a place to convalesce for a day or two. Few land creatures visit here because there’s no freshwater—the canyon river that once fed this estuary has long dried up. And the only waders and sea creatures they’ve seen since arriving this morning have been harmless, solitary.

Jan has left him periodically to inspect her beloved orchid in its various stages of photonasty and nyctinasty, and to observe the pollinating behavior of the Anscom graybacks. Stopper usually gets bored with all her waiting around and swims back to engage Vaughn in play, hopefully in the surf. Though the big rascal sometimes gets a little too boisterous—Vaughn’s wounds, sore muscles and aching joints still haven’t fully healed—it’s hard to refuse such a loyal dog. Such a special dog.

But the two of them, Jan and Stopper, are together now near the western cliff, her evening stint observing refugium having just ended. She throws his rubber ball out into the sea for him to fetch. Then after a half dozen throws, without warning, she bursts into a sprint through the surf, knowing it excites him, and just before he catches her she darts into the water and bulldozes into the waves at full speed until she trips and has to swim. Then he swims rings around her, and she serenades him, and he fetches the ball she throws farther out each time.

Globular embers of sunset dip into the horizon behind mottled cloud. Vaughn hugs his knees while he sits on the white sand, watching the woman he loves and their beloved canine companion. He imagines watching them like this fifty years from now, when he’s old and gray and truly decrepit. They’ll be pretty much as they are now, perhaps slightly more worn but otherwise vibrant and full of vigor.

What will that feel like when the day comes, when he knows he’s about to die of old age while they’re still very much in the prime of life, when he had a chance to join them in agelessness and didn’t take it?

Jan’s question she asked during their conversation earlier—a weighty conversation, unresolved—returns to haunt him now:

“Would you have done it? Would you have used it on yourself if you didn’t have a fatal wound?”

The Fleece.

That blade wound in his side, while not fatal, had been a perfect excuse to use the Fleece’s restorative healing power on himself. Only he hadn’t.

Now, Jan knew full well all the practical reasons he hadn’t: Juke’s need was greater; the encroaching pack would not have taken kindly to finding him dead; and the final healing dose ought to be reserved for the saving of a life, not the sealing of a non-fatal wound. She knew all that. And she’d never rebuke him for so selfless an act. Indeed, she’d admitted how proud she was that he’d given up so much to save the life of an alien creature he’d likely never see again. It was the most human thing anyone had ever done on the Hesp, she’d said. But there’d also been something about the way he’d avoided the topic ever since that had made her wonder ... did he even want what the Fleece offered?

Did he want a life extended beyond its natural expectancy?

And he hadn’t had an answer for her. Not one that would satisfy her. But as he watches them frolic in the surf, and the splintered dusk light fritters and dissipates in the dark sea while the sun vanishes, he feels a mortal pull of a tide that doesn’t exist here on Hesperidia.

An ancestral tide.

He is from Earth. Divorced by distance and opportunity but never by Nature. Jan has become a creature of another world, but Vaughn still feels the strong roots of his heredity grounding him with the given shape of a life. Of a lifetime. A natural span allotted each mortal creature, beyond which perhaps only the most worthy deserve to explore.

It would be an adventure like none in the history of humanity, were he by some miracle to reach that natural expiry date assigned to him. On so savage a world.

But that hour will chime for him one day. And when it does, it will be a satisfying, and human, time to go.

​About the Author

Robert Appleton is a British science fiction and adventure author wild about survival tales in far-flung locations. Many of his sci-fi books share the same universe as his popular Alien Safari series. His rebellious characters range from orphaned grifters on Mars to a lone woman gate-crashing the war in a fabled biotech suit. His sci-fi readers regularly earn enough frequent flyer miles to qualify for a cross-galaxy voyage of their choosing. His publishers include Harlequin Carina Press, and he also ghost-writes novels in other genres. In his free time he hikes, plays soccer, and kayaks whenever he can. The night sky is his inspiration.

He has won awards for both fiction and book cover design.

Website:  https://www.robertappletonbooks.com

Twitter:  https://twitter.com/robertappleton

Also available in this series, the adrenaline-fueled prequel to Alien Safari...

BORDERLINE

Alone. Double-crossed. Pursued across thousands of miles of alien desert on his beloved hoverbike, Finnegan is holding onto two things dearer than life itself: the priceless biotech prize he’s stolen, and the opportunity for revenge against the treacherous employer who left him for dead. He’s never met her, but he knows all about her family, the most ruthless criminal syndicate of the inner colonies.

But when he finds a beautiful stranded woman badly wounded in the middle of nowhere, claiming to be Lori Malesseur, his employer, he has to make a choice. Either take her across the border and accept her offer of a huge reward, or leave her for dead. She claims she was on her way to warn him when she was ambushed and shot. But can she really be who she says she is?

Trusting one’s enemy is not something either of them knows how to do, but when the stakes are this high, going it alone might not be an option. The race for survival is on in this high-octane action adventure that puts the pedal to the metal and doesn’t look back.

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A selection of standalone books set in the same universe as the Alien Safari series, also available as eBooks:

Star Binder

Sparks in Cosmic Dust

Angel Six Echo

Cyber Sparks