Deku Tahn got his credits, and his crew got their platinum coins. They were sent off to Dark Side, with instructions to ask around about the Andorrans.

  The gate ship left not long after this. One moment it was there: a little pale disc in the daylight, like a tiny, distant moon. In the next moment it was gone. There was no flash of light or crack of thunder to announce its departure. The Ancient reactor at its core merely charged up, slowly and quietly: a rising crescendo of energy that at its penultimate conclusion, cracked the very fabric of the cosmos, and so opened a door through matter, space, and time, on the other side of which was another world, and another star. Or so claimed one of the many crackpots Sinsin and Grigori cited in their long conversation.

  The two academics carried on with their heretical, scientific musings for days. Grigori practically moved in, so as to give no ground in an ongoing debate as to whether or not the Ancients really were beings of light, or corporeal in form. Even as they debated, they went over the research data of Dana Sky.

  “She really was onto something, wasn't she?” Dallas asked, when he saw how interested Grigori had become.

  “Of course,” Sinsin replied. “She wasn't murdered for nothing.”

  “And Evolution wouldn't deploy a cruiser to Ar Suft because of a rumor,” Grigori agreed.

  “So you both think there's something to find now,” he observed dryly.

  “I never said there wasn't,” Sinsin said cheerfully.

  “I didn't either,” Grigori added, gloating.

  “You're both full of crap.”

  Grigori laughed, and Sinsin's mouth parts tapped and clattered with mirth.

  “You never were good at listening,” Grigori said.

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that neither of us believed the Ancients came to Ar Suft,” Sinsin began.

  “But that doesn't mean that Ancient technology didn't find its way here,” Grigori finished.

  The two 'cog heads' stared at each other in mutual satisfaction.

  “How then?”

  “The New Dawn. They were adepts at repurposing Ancient metamaterial and devices, including gate cores.”

  “Are you saying there's a stellar gate on Ar Suft?”

  “Almost certainly not,” Sinsin said, and his excited gyrations paused as he reflected a moment. “In all probability their experiment failed.”

  “Experiment?” Dallas prompted.

  “It seems the New Dawn was trying to build their own stellar gate,” Sinsin explained. “The reports are circumstantial but there's no reason to disbelieve them. There's a possibility that there's something to be found, if we can only find the site where they were working.”

  “That's making a lot of assumptions,” Grigori cautioned Sinsin, and not for the first time. “Just because there are no records of the experiment's failure, or it being moved elsewhere, doesn't mean that didn't happen. New Dawn record-keeping is never wrong, but it's often incomplete.”

  “You're quite right, of course,” Sinsin agreed. “But it bears further scrutiny.”

  “Agreed,” Grigori said.

  They returned to scrutinizing. By way of the Evolution cruiser, they were connected to the galactic hub, and so they were able to access records and archives off-world. They delved into obscure hoards of antiquated data scattered around the galaxy:, vestigial troves of information known only to themselves. They searched tirelessly for references to Ar Suft and the remarkable, ambitious project that Dana Sky had stumbled upon. Dallas helped as much as he could, and even Aunt Kay contributed a little, in her few hours of spare time; she had a little more of it once her other guests had moved on.

  “Damn all governments!” Grigori exclaimed after many hours of work and nothing to show for it. “Of course it has to have been a secret bloody project! Why publish knowledge with the wider galaxy for the betterment of everyone? Heaven forbid anybody but your own petty faction benefits from scientific discovery!”

  Dallas and Aunt Kay happened to be near, and they shared a smirk. Grigori saw it, and snarled wordlessly.

  “Maybe you should take a break,” Aunt Kay suggested.

  “Your efficiency is impaired by your mood, brother,” Sinsin agreed, cautiously. “The work will ultimately have gone faster if you pause, and then resume in a more harmonious frame of mind.”

  “Bugger efficiency!” Grigori howled, and sullenly buried his face in his omni.

  Dallas was sent to the star port not long after. The terminal was ghostly quiet. He was the only living thing to traverse its expanse, and his footsteps echoed sadly. He had been in many empty buildings like it; exploring and vandalizing abandoned structures was a popular pastime for the youth of Ar Suft, but he had never gotten used to the strangeness of the emptiness. He felt like a trespasser in an eerie, inverted world.

  At docking bay four, he found a squad of Evolution drones on guard, where there hadn't been before. A few of Deku's crew sat on the catwalk overhead and amused themselves by spitting on the drones. They were drinking bottles of cheap swizzle and occasionally, they dropped one of those instead of a loogie. Dallas briefly made for a more challenging target, being on the move. Their spit missed him and went unnoticed. The bottle they hurled down also missed, but the shattering glass made Dallas jump out of his boots, and that was all kinds of hilarious.

  The interior of Mission Adventure was quiet, but not like the star port terminal. She had that cluttered, lived-in feel, and though her reactor was powered down, her alternate power unit was always on and in a perpetual state of recharge, by way of the star port cradle. She hummed with electricity and sighed with moving air, and felt almost like a living thing.

  “If Deku finds you in here he'll kill you,” a voice said. “I'm serious,” the voice went on, when Dallas didn't immediately reply, or turn around and leave. “He's just looking for an excuse.”

  “Uh,” Dallas said, not sure where to direct his speech. “Sinsin Cu sent me.”

  There was a clatter from overhead. Dallas looked up just as an ugly, bearded face appeared in an open access panel above him. The face belonged to the ship's engineer: Ogden Bloom. “Oh,” he said. “I thought you were one of ours. Deku kicked them all off the ship an hour ago. Murderous bastard is going to kill them all, but they're too dumb to listen. Hand me that bag there, would you?”

  Dallas did as he was asked. Ogden leaned down to take it, fished out a metal can, then dropped the bag carelessly. Tools clattered and scattered all over the place, and Dallas stooped to pick them up. As he did so, Ogden awkwardly poured rotgut from the can into an empty flask.

  “Oops,” he said, when some dripped on Dallas's head. “Sorry.”

  “That burns!” Dallas said, wiping at his scalp.

  “Yeah,” Ogden laughed. “It's pretty good.” His flask full, he twisted and turned to sip the last dregs of fluid from the can, and then he dropped it and its lid as well. They clattered and rolled away, and Dallas had to suppress the urge to chase after them.

  “You're looking for Deku,” Ogden said, after some awkward silence and staring.

  “Yeah.”

  “He's on the bridge. Head forward and take the ladder up. Mind your manners kid. He's in a mood.”

  Whatever mood Deku was in, it didn't seem to apply to visitors. He scowled murderously at first, but upon recognizing Dallas, his face relaxed to a more neutral expression. “What's this?” he asked, reading the data slate that Dallas proffered in lieu of a greeting.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “Uh, places outside of Goodenough where the Andorrans might be hiding,” Dallas said.

  “Got you running errands huh? Some research assistant.”

  “I don't know why he said that,” Dallas replied. “I don't even work for him.”

  “You just pass his notes.”

  “I do him favors,” Dallas agreed distractedly. His gaze wandered around the bridge, registering what was familiar, and lingering upon the strange. There wasn't much of the latter. There were hundreds of ship classes and designs in the galaxy: maybe thousands, but they all relied on near-standardized components to function. Most navigation computers were produced in a single super factory for example. Nobody knew how they worked; they merely knew how to use them, and some very, very few, knew how to make their own copies.

  “Sinsin Cu, the professor” Deku half-said, and half-sang. “Tell me something kid, did he put on his little show for you, with the map and everything? Haha! He did!”

  “So? So what?”

  “Nevermind. Just tell him this is pointless,” Deku tapped the data slate. “The Andorrans are here in Goodenough.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I know they're not at Yana Basin or Lynchton. Where did he even get the idea?”

  “Bulk purchase orders for food and water,” Dallas said, somewhat defensively. It had been Aunt Kay's idea to try and find them this way.

  “Yeah, the Greystone outfit is at Lynchton and another syndicate is at the basin. I'm not sure who they are, but they've been here longer than I have.”

  “Greystone isn't the name they gave to-”

  “Greystone is a mining syndicate. They're not going to risk their legal contracts by letting everyone know the illegal ways they pad their margins. Most of the big outfits in this business are like that. They're all 'sponsored' by syndicates and noble houses and what have you.”

  “And Evolution,” Dallas said.

  “Exactly,” Deku flicked the data slate onto a console in disgust. “I don't like it either you know.”

  “You didn't have to take their money.”

  “Oh yes I did. You know what the operating costs for a ship and crew are? I have debts the same as everybody else. Not everybody has a Prefect for a daddy.”

  “He's not my father,” Dallas said stiffly.

  “No, he's just banging your mommy. Step mom. Whatever. It must be nice being royalty.” Deku looked Dallas up and down in apparent disgust.

  “It's not like that.”

  “Whatever you say princess.”

  Dallas turned to go.

  “Hey, wait a second kid.” Deku jumped up and stopped him with a hand on his arm, when Dallas didn't appear inclined to stop. “I was just kidding around. I didn't mean anything by it. Come on, let me get you a cup of coffee. I want to talk to you.”

  “No thanks. Your coffee is awful.”

  Deku laughed. “We'll use Ri's stuff. It's good. Come on.”

  Deku went down the ladder like it was a slide. He tucked the railings under his arms and threw his ankles over top, and down he went. At the bottom, he looked up at Dallas with a grin that challenged him to try it. The younger man did, landing somewhat hard and gracelessly, but with all his bones and dignity intact. Deku laughed again, clapped him on the back and steered him forward.

  The ship's pilot was just getting out of the shower when Deku steered their guest through the airlock. If Ri was at all embarrassed to be caught wearing just a towel, she didn't show it. Deku offered her coffee, and she inclined her chin; that was all she had to say. She left her cabin door open as she got dressed, and Dallas had to force himself not to watch her.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “I want to offer you a job,” Deku said.

  “What kind of job?” Dallas asked warily.

  “I hear you're a pilot. I can use another pilot. Me and Ri, we get by with just the two of us at the helm, but there are reasons most ships run three watches.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I'll pay you an even share: the same as me and Ri. You'd have your own bunk, that one right there, all the excitement you want, or the all the boredom you prefer – you'd never have to leave the ship if you don't want to. Ogden doesn't. Did you see that little bastard on your way in?”

  Dallas grunted in the affirmative. He tried to appear neutral: to not let Deku know what a poor impression the ship's engineer had made, or give any hint what he had said about the danger to the crew, but he had very little experience hiding his thoughts from strangers. Deku read his uneasiness like an open book.

  “It's not a bad life you know,” Deku said. “It's decent money in good times and I make sure we have plenty of opportunities to spend it. I'll even buy a new coffee pot if you can tell me how the professor is planning on screwing us over.”

  Dallas listened with keen interest, but his boyish, space-faring fantasies came to a screeching halt at this last remark. “What do you mean, 'screw you over?' Your credits cleared didn't they?”

  “Yeah. Credits. That's a retainer for services, not a share.”

  “It's what you agreed to,” Dallas reminded him.

  “You're a bit of a dope, aren't you?”

  “Na etgha,” Ri interjected, speaking with the forced patience of long-familiarity with Deku's temperament.

  Dallas glanced at the pilot. She was still dressing: pulling black stockings up over her slender calves and buttoning them to the hem of her maroon leggings, just above her knees. Tall, high-heeled black boots waited their turn. He couldn't tell if Ri was speaking in his defense; there was nothing to read in her profile except unconscious grace. She had the air of a dancer -not the kind to be found gyrating naked in a Dark Side club, but a performer of the classical and artistic sort, favored by the prim and sophisticated of high society.

  “He's an idiot,” Deku shot back. “Who wasn't paying attention when the professor made promises on behalf of the Prefect and the Andorrans. Oh, you remember that now, do you?

  “Don't tell me you're falling for his act.”

  “Act?”

  “The professor act. The academic. He's geel diplmotic caste. He's bred to lie. Literally. He couldn't tell the truth except on accident. He was born to be a politician and a spy.

  “There it is,” Deku said with triumph, seeing the doubt come over Dallas's face. “You can see what I mean now. He hasn't exactly been honest with you, has he?”

  “No, but-”

  “He's a tech hunter kid. The same as me.”

  “Maybe,” Dallas admitted. “But I haven't ever seen him kill one of his own people in cold blood.”

  “There was nothing cold about that,” Deku said. He had been leaning against the counter of the small kitchenette, but he straightened menacingly, and took two steps forward. “That piece of garbage stood right there,” Deku pointed. “And tried to kill me.” He wanted to say more, but it would have sounded like whining. The anger and frustration he felt choked him into silence.

  Ri emerged from her cabin then. Gliding between the two men, she went to the kitchenette and took over the coffee's preparation. There was something almost ceremonial in how she went about mixing boiling water and coffee grounds in a press: menial tasks done with such grace and delicacy, that it could only be called a performance. Though she poured the resulting brew into a battered old thermal carafe, she handled it as though it was made out of the most expensive and delicate crystal.

  “I'm a bad man,” Deku admitted. “I don't deny it. I steal, and I hurt and I kill, but I don't bring that to anyone's door who isn't asking for it. You understand?”

  “And you think the professor is asking for it?” Dallas asked.

  “Maybe,” Deku acknowledged.

  “Zguysh,” Ri said.

  “This isn't the first time we've bumped into him you know,” Deku added. He cast a sidelong look at his pilot, as if there was guidance to be had from her.

  “Pakashy ezhat,” she said softly.

  “Less is more,” Deku translated for Dallas with a wan smile. “She's got a funny way of telling me to shut up.”

  Dallas grinned fleetingly, liking Deku a little, in spite of himself. Ri came over and filled his cup for him, and this too was a performance: more deft little movements and an exaggerated pour. Dallas hesitated to even drink it. He felt like he had stumbled into a dance, and he didn't know the choreography.

  “You do that beautifully,” Dallas mumbled uncertainly. Surely, a compliment was correct? It wasn't like she had just made and poured coffee. He braced in anticipation of mockery and scorn, but none was forthcoming.

  A ghost of a smile flitted across Ri's face as she sat down. She primly turned to Deku and gave him an arch look.

  “You didn't make me any,” Deku muttered.

  Ri had only one disdainful and disinterested word to say to that, and she uttered it in perfect Combine Standard: “balls.”

  Having promised that he would consider their offer, Dallas left Mission Adventure feeling frustrated and conflicted, not knowing who or what to believe -exactly as Deku and Ri had wished. On closer inspection, they were not the monsters he had believed them to be. The goons perched atop the catwalk and their second gauntlet of jeering and phlegm undid some of their captain's work however; Deku might have scattered them with gunfire if he saw or heard them. Dallas therefore only doubted Sinsin Cu, much the same as he had before, and couldn't bring himself to go so far as to entirely suspect him, as his competitors had intended.

  “All we want is an even split,” Deku had said. “That's not too much to ask. It's fair. And I'm not asking you to spy on him, or do anything else you don't want to do. Just keep your eyes and ears peeled, hey? He's going to make some kind of move to cheat us all: me and Ri, Evolution, the Prefect and even the Andorrans too. You'll see if you're watching for it. Just let me know what's coming when you figure it out.”

  “And if I don't hear or see anything?”

  Deku's face had clouded with irritability and impatience, but only for a moment. He had sighed. “Well,” he had said in resignation. “We'll still need another pilot.”

  The pirate's apparent reasonableness was chaffing. Dallas was overwhelmed by an almost childish sort of petulance at the murkiness of it all. His frustration worsened outside the star port, when he discovered that his car was missing.

  As he set off for home on foot, his shock and indignation slowly receded. He found that he could almost laugh at the absurdity of his worthless junker having been stolen. What kind of miserable, misguided soul could want such a worthless thing as his air car? He had pulled it out of a scrapyard for nothing, and got it running with a minimum of work in just an afternoon; anyone else could have done the same.

  The hot, rising winds and the first stinging gusts of the sandstorm changed his frame of mind however. The dust storms of Ar Suft were frequently dangerous. The wind gusts usually weren't very strong, but the storms frequently traveled over irradiated zones: remnants of a brief but horrific civil war, fought more than a century ago. Without access to the hub and the planet's weather service, there was no way to know if the silicates that pricked his hands and neck were contaminated or harmless, so Dallas did the prudent thing and donned his mask and raised the hood of his dust coat: accessories of necessity rather than fashion, and so universally in vogue with all sensible residents of the planet. He had left his gloves in his air car however, so he protected his hands by stuffing them deep into his pockets. In this way he was safe from the storm's potentially ill effects, but he was defenseless against his attackers.

  They came at him through the gloom unseen and unheard. Dallas never knew what hit him. The first blow, aimed at his head, stunned him; the second swept his legs out from under him, and the third finished what the first had started. He was made docile, with little more than a muffled cry of pain and protest.