Elite: Lave Revolution Second Edition

By Allen Stroud

AD 3174 - One man's world.

AD 3265 - Not any more.

Lave.

A single planet, orbiting a dying star. For centuries, spacefarers have visited, docked at the space station and left, with no thought for the people on the planet below.

Bad luck at cards means bad luck all round for Pietro Devander, who journeys half way across human controlled space to this ancient planet, whose name is barely remembered.

What he finds is resistance. What it becomes, is revolution.

The second edition of Elite: Lave Revolution. The official Elite: Dangerous Novel. This version, published by HWS Press, comes with more than eleven thousand words of additional material from the appendices produced for the Kickstarter.

"Stroud has a rare way with words that really engages and disarms the reader."
- Antony Jones: SFBook.com

10% of the cover price on any purchase of this book will go to EDS UK which is a charity that helps, advises and informs people with Ehlers Danlos Syndrome (EDS) and actively campaigns, educates and supports research on their behalf. EDS is a genetic connective tissue disorder that can have a debilitating and disabling affect on peoples lives.

Quotes from reviews of the first edition:

"cracking piece of science fiction." - B. Sugden.
"a taut, coherent, excellently written political adventure thriller in the Elite Sci Fi universe." - Twrchuk
"the first of the new generation of books that lives up to the legacy of The Dark Wheel." - Kandere.
"This book totally delivered on everything: gripping story, wonderfully vivid characters and enough detail about the Elite universe to enhance the story without boring the reader." - Jon Baker
"If you like Elite you'll love this - if you like Sci Fi then you'll love it more!" - Ben Woodward.
"Absolutely love this book." - Darren Healy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Allen Stroud
• Release date: Jun 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9781910987018

Allen Stroud

Allen Stroud (Ph.D) is a university lecturer and Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror writer, best known for his work on the computer games Elite Dangerous by Frontier Developments and Phoenix Point by Snapshot Games. He was the 2017 and 2018 chair of Fantasycon, the annual convention of the British Fantasy Society, which hosts the British Fantasy Awards. He is he current Chair of the British Science Fiction Association. His SF novels, Fearless, and Resilient and titles in The Fractal Series are published by Flame Tree Press.

Book preview

Chapter 2: The Prefect

The prefect of Ashoria was the most important person on Lave.

Bertrum Kowl did not like standing. A genetic disorder had weakened his legs in his teenage years and the necessary cybernetic enhancements had always been problematic. His walk remained stiff and mechanical, his movements accompanied by the clicks and whirrs of the servos supporting him, a thin exoskeleton, clipped into sockets on his hips, knees and ankles. Imperial doctors would regrow and replace limbs, but the Empire was far from Lave. So he sat behind a desk whenever he could.

There, he looked the man he wanted to be. He had a large head, with a wide, nearly lipless mouth, broad nose, and pointed, cleft chin; the image of a leader. His hair, slicked back and close cropped, was blue-black, untouched by grey. He stared at the screen in front of him and rendered his face into a state of passive relaxation.

The prefect of Ashoria; the most important man on Lave, but he didn’t rule Lave.

Bertrum was posing, a necessary task. He allowed his hands, broad, strong and short-fingered, to remain loosely clasped on a desk whose polished surface remained unoccupied. Paperwork or a dataslate would mar perfection. By simple unadornment, the prefect’s presence emphasised.

The screen flickered and came to life. The most important man on Lave renewed his acquaintance with the most important man of Lave.

Doctor Hans Walden.

Round features with little expression, hair, short and styled; the eyes dominated this face, liquid dark and their scrutiny pouring out of the screen, as if it could barely contain them.

‘I presume both sides accepted?’

‘They have, Doctor.’

Bertrum had been prefect of Ashoria for fifteen years. In all that time, Walden had never aged. Today might have been the first time they had met, for all the difference it made.

‘Well done,’ Walden said, the words empty, spoken in a lifeless tone reserved for mechanical appliances.

The case they were referring to was a disagreement between two town primes over legal jurisdiction. A man had been murdered, the victim from one settlement, the perpetrator another. Kowl had settled the matter by dragging both officials into the city and taking it out of their hands.

‘You are looking tired, my friend.’

Involuntarily Kowl blinked twice, the barest hint of registered surprise. ‘I am fine,’ he answered.

‘Even so,’ Walden said, his gaze unwavering and his tone, low. ‘Perhaps you should rest, take a break from all this.’

Bertrum stared at the image. The hypocrisy was blatant. Walden never ‘took a break’. The prefects of Ardu, Neudaal and Kadia, wouldn’t do so either. The work demanded they be cogs in the machine. Bertrum had no illusions; he would be replaced should he fail to turn.

As a high-ranking official from a good Interstellar family, he was entitled to all sorts of benefits; his grandfather had been Lave Station commander a long time ago. A chartered trip to Imperial space and an operation to fix his legs would take moments to organise, sending him off planet within the hour.

Bertrum suspected he’d be dead minutes later.

‘Something else you wanted to discuss?’ he asked.

Walden smiled; the barest trace of an expression that never reached his eyes. ‘There is talk of problems in the northlands.’

Bertrum didn't flinch, it was a familiar game. ‘I hear nothing,’ he replied.

‘Well, so long as you have things in hand,’ Walden’s tone implied if they weren’t he’d better get them in hand. ‘I’ll leave you to your work.’ The transmission cut off.

A trickle of cold sweat ran down the side of Bertrum’s face. He remained motionless, slowly counting out three minutes, in case Walden’s screen reappeared. When the count ended, he allowed himself to breathe, wiped away the perspiration and glanced up at the chronometer, whose tiny powering spark of radioactivity had not failed or faltered in all the time he’d been prefect.

Seven forty-three.

He stood up; wincing as the gears and mechanised servos clicked and whirred into place, supporting his weakened legs, barely audible to anyone but him.

He walked to the door and it slid open, returning him to the world and its responsibilities, the prefect’s office in Ashoria, his office.

‘... We reach through the curtain of terror and mythology to hold the hands of our brother’s and sisters, to guide them in darkness and give them light ...’

The words came from a viewscreen on the wall, the image that accompanied them, Doctor Hans Walden, mid speech, a stirring oration from fourteen months ago on a visit to a textiles factory in a town somewhere in Neudaal. Every room in Ashoria had a screen and broadcast a collection of Walden’s speeches and documentaries continually. For those who preferred the outside, more screens were on every street intersection and walkway. Lave belonged to the Good Doctor and he wanted to make sure people remembered that.

Always.

Alongside Walden’s image, further screens lined the office, each showing different regions of the Firstfall continent, trade prices across regional boundaries, updates, new feeds and more, much more. As prefect, Bertrum was the absolute authority over this entire domain. Twenty million people, one million in Ashoria alone, but still a small number across the vast planetary expanse.

‘Niamh, display northern border territory.’

‘Acknowledged.’

Three city views winked out then returned, showing a vast dirt plain bathed in orange light. Here and there knotted tree stumps, disappearing into the distant mountains.

‘Niamh, correlate local datanet; scan for life signs.’

‘Working,’ replied the soft voice of the computer. Niamh v12.03 was a standard audio response system built into most advanced digital station units on Lave. Refined from a program originally developed on Leesti, the dulcet female tones held a permanent place in Bertrum’s life, running a close second to the recordings of Walden.

‘Results calculated,’ Niamh announced.

‘Let’s have them.’

Numbers and percentage calculations flashed across the screen, data collations from the entire northern territory of Firstfall. The region, a thousand miles from Ashoria, the nearer settlements linked to the city by hyperrail, but no one ventured into the north. A century ago, the whole expanse had been a forest. Now, no living tree remained.

Because of Walden.

Bertrum scanned the numbers. The correlation indicated minimal life signs, consistent with a virtually uninhabited dustbowl. He frowned, this wasn’t the first time he’d checked the data. If there’s nothing, why did Walden mention it? The Good Doctor wasn’t above using paranoia as a weapon. Bertrum wondered if this was another cruel joke to waste his time.

Servos whirred again as he walked around the desk and seated himself.

‘Niamh end scan and unlock the doors. Signal meeting over.’

‘Acknowledged.’

The outer office door opened, standing beyond, a perfect example of Lave’s divided society. One of the three Colonial citizens employed as his aide, a woman, pale and dull, as if her personality had been beaten out with a whip.

‘Come in Anna,’ Bertrum said. ‘What news do you bring?’

The woman stalked forward, he envied the sway of her hips, more by comparison than any sexual desire. ‘The prefect of Kadia said that the press of previous business arrangements prevented him attending this year’s council earlier than seventeen hundred hours.’

‘And you told him?’

‘I stated the nature of the present business made any delay inadvisable.’

‘The result?’

‘He will be here, sir. Although he has requested a private conference beforehand, the rest agreed without reservation.’

Bertrum scratched his chin. ‘What else?’ he asked.

‘A development in the Darahk system,’ Anna said in a flat emotionless tone, but Bertrum saw her eyes flick towards the viewscreen playing out Walden’s oration, a pointless consideration. The Good Doctor found out everything, eventually.

‘Development?’ he asked.

‘Yes, the factor did not make his scheduled appointment to begin negotiations this morning,’ Anna explained, ‘as a result the grain contract went to Arteman from Olgrea.’

Betrum frowned. Perhaps this was Walden's message, so long as you have it in hand, the implication being that he hadn’t. The Darahk deal had been entrusted to him personally. Working through intermediaries, the Lavian Government had been selling exported produce from the opulent farm world of Diso to Imperial systems for years. Darahk was an important Federation market.

‘Do we have anyone in the system to find out what happened?’

‘Unlikely, Prefect,’ the woman replied. ‘It is a long way—‘

‘Then get someone out there,’ Bertrum said, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘Post a bulletin at the Castellan mining complex and on Lave Station, minimal information, briefing en route when they accept. I’ll record the detailed instructions in a moment.’

‘Yes Prefect.’

The door clicked shut, leaving Bertum to wonder and wait. He keyed up another screen and a camera light winked on. His own face appeared in the monitor, a mask of calm and poise.

‘Commander, thank you for accepting this mission, one of our operatives is missing and we require information as to his whereabouts and return ...’

* * *

-----Original Message-----

From: Turgan Devante

Sent: Fourthday Day 202. 3286.

To: Shulton Kaspet

Subject: The Disappeared. Items for Publication

Administrator, Archive documents found in the prisons and caverns have now been collated by my archaeologists as being of significant historical interest to our people. The first I submit to your committee was written on cloth in the writer’s own blood.

* * *

I am the last of my kind.

Here in the darkest place I remain and survive. If you are reading this, count me astonished. No one has brought light here in more than twenty years.

Why am I the last? Simply put, I opposed Walden.

My name? I doubt you’ve ever heard it, so it means nothing.

I am forgotten and lost.

As they dragged me away, I remember the noise of the celebrations, the smiles and excitement of what the future would hold. 3174, Walden; an intelligent man, to bring strong leadership where the Galactic Co-operative had failed. A man to return Lave’s glory and bring back the heady days when the galaxy revolved around us.

The climb down was long. I recall steps and ropes. I could have resisted. I struggled a bit at first, but I knew they would just kill me. Life or death, even when life means darkness eternal, to continue existing brings with it a glimmer of hope.

Pointless hope.

This place is far beneath Ashoria. No one comes here, except to deposit more unfortunates. No light reaches us and there are no bars or cells. They don’t need any. The darkness is prison enough.

The last stretch is a four-hundred foot drop directly into this cavern through a hole in its roof. They leave no rope and no one could climb that in return.

So we are left, left here to cling to life; or die. They call us the Disappeared

Many have starved. You find their corpses with your fingers. Clothes and belongings quickly vanish, acquired by our silent nation. The flesh takes longer. We have grown accustomed to raw meat.

There is water in this place. Moisture coats the rock, it must come from somewhere, but I have never found it.

Perhaps others have escaped? I would never know; I have never seen them.

We share whispers here; news and knowledge of the world beyond. We compare betrayals and then when the hunger comes, betray each other.

Now I am the last that remains and I am alone.

* * *

We estimate it is an account from the earliest days of Walden’s reign, a period for which there is very little accurate record, particularly of this nature. My colleagues will investigate the tunnel and cavern system further over the ensuing weeks and let you know what we find.

Turgan Devante – Archaeologist. Ashorian Historical Society.

Chapter 3: The Agent

‘What do you want with me?’

The Gallant emerged from hyperspace on the edge of the Solati system as Pietro finished asking the question. Heldaban Kel wheeled around in his chair, his lips quirked into a smile. ‘You’re wasted on trade. After a getaway like that, you’d be better outside the law.’

‘You’re still not answering my questions.’

Kel’s smile disappeared. ‘No I’m not.’ He leaned forward. ‘You ever think I might be trying to protect you?’

‘Protect me?’

Kel waved the gun at him. ‘The more a person learns about why, what and who, the shorter their life expectancy.’

Pietro flinched. ‘I’ve seen your face. I’m dead the minute you have no use for me.’

Kel shrugged. ‘Might not shake out that way.’

‘It will.’

Kel stared Pietro in the eye. ‘You close to your late friend?’

‘Finch? He traded out of Sirius. We met regularly for cards and did some runs together a few times.’

‘How long you been meeting up?’

‘Four years.’

Kel sighed. ‘People don’t buy me to kill cargo haulers.’

‘So, I was in the wrong place and I had the faster ship?’ Pietro asked and frowned when Kel nodded. ‘Pretty cold,’ he said.

‘Yeah, I guess,’ Kel said.

‘Who were you supposed to kill?’

‘You want to know?’

‘Better I die with answers than without,’ Pietro replied.

‘Suppose Finch wasn’t your friend?’ Kel said. ‘Would you still want to know?’

Pietro shrugged. ‘Like you said, corporations don’t hire assassins to kill cargo haulers.’

‘No but they do hire them to kill criminals and spies.’

‘What?’

Kel laughed bitterly. ‘Atticus Nathanial Finch, born in a test tube, manufactured by the very best scientists, raised for twenty years as a proper little prince. All fake, whatever he told you, all lies.’

Pietro realised his mouth had fallen open. He closed it and swallowed past the sudden dryness. ‘That’s not—’

‘Possible?’ Kel shrugged. ‘Well, you go ahead and believe what you want. Maybe he was collateral and I was after someone else on the station?’ He leaned towards Pietro until their faces were an inch apart. ‘The one thing I’m not is a liar.’

An awkward silence, Pietro flinched and looked at the floor. ‘Suppose I believe you,’ he said, ‘means you've a bounty to pick up.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And I'm a witness to your crime.’

‘Indeed,’ Kel replied. ‘My employers’ll make sure there’s no record. Your friend’s life will just disappear. Once we were off station, the incident logs were changed, written up the way they want it. I go on to the next target and next pay cheque.’

‘And you’ll get rid of me?’

‘Can’t be helped now, you asked too many questions.’

* * *

Now what?

Pietro spent the next twenty minutes staring at the front viewscreen trying to work out a plan as they got closer and closer to Solati Reach space station. Every so often he sneaked a look at Kel. The assassin was absorbed by the contents of a datascreen. The gun still lay on the console. Kel kept his hand ontop, to prevent it floating away.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Pietro asked.

‘You so eager to die?’ Kel said, without looking around. ‘We’ve a few minutes until we’re close, no sense in rushing.’

‘I want to know how long I’ve got,’ Pietro said.

‘Plan to make peace with your maker? Don’t worry, you’ll get fair warning.’

Moving as fast as he dared, Pietro disabled the ship’s audio alerts. He snuck another glance at Kel, but he didn’t react, next job, venting the air in the loading bay. ‘How do you plan on doing it?’ Pietro asked, trying to sound casual.

‘Well, you’ve been helpful, so I’ll give you a good send off,’ Kel said. ‘As we orbit the planet I’ll pack you in the escape pod and drop you into the atmosphere, nice little cremation. I’ll need your thumb and eyeball to operate the ship of course, but you won’t miss them, after.’

The pressure indicator reached zero. The hull creaked a little, but Kel didn’t react. ‘What about my ship?’ Pietro asked.

‘She stays in dock and I’ll take another ride,’ Kel replied. ‘Happens a lot more than you’d think.’

Slowly, Pietro powered down the engines. The next part was the tricky bit. He turned around in his chair to face Kel, who remained absorbed by the datascreen.

The assassin’s bald head finally moved. He locked eyes with Pietro and frowned. ‘We’re not moving.’

‘No,’ Pietro said. ‘We’re not.’

‘You decided to grow some balls?’ Kel said. ‘Or got more questions?’

‘Well, if these are my last minutes, I want to end right,’ Pietro replied, ‘like you said no sense in rushing.’

He hit two buttons on the console, took a deep breath and gripped his chair, hard.

There was a hiss of escaping air as the cockpit door started to open.

Kel’s gun was snatched away. He snarled and made a grab for it, but Pietro was already moving; a forearm into Kel’s throat while he depressed the harness, then the magboots, they gave with a sudden huff and Kel slithered helpless across the floor. Pietro saw the man’s fingers curl desperately round the edge of the chair. For a fraction of a second, it seemed he might regain equilibrium. Then the door gaped wide and his flailing body flew into the loading bay.

Pietro clung to a handful of harness, trying to brace against the howling wind, his magboots helped, but he’d disengaged the safety locks. That meant seconds until the reserve air tank emptied. He strained towards the door engage, watched his finger creep along the console against the tremendous pull. Come on! His eyes lost focus. He saw spots dance in the air. He lost track of how far ...

Come on!

Then a shriek, changing to a hiss as the wind eased and stopped. He slumped forward, got his breath and glanced over his shoulder.

The doors were sealed and the cockpit repressurised.

Pietro sighed and the knot in his stomach relaxed. He managed to grab the arms of the chair and reseat himself.

He took a moment to check everything else before repressurising the loading bay and restarting the engines, slowly. No point in smearing Kel all over the interior. He opened the internal comms.

‘Kel, can you hear me?’

No answer.

‘Kel?’

Still no reply.

Pietro switched off the link and opened the external transmitter. ‘Ship Ident 546, requesting Blue Cobalt.’

The line beeped twice, another holoscreen appeared and a series of numbers filed across it as the retina scan swiped his eye once more, then it beeped again.

‘Pietro that you?’ said a voice.

‘Yeah,’ Pietro replied. ‘Cargo’s secure, any trouble your end?’

‘Clean up was a chore, but we’ve everything we need. Shame you couldn’t save the target.’

‘I know,’ Pietro said, ‘he was too quick. If I’d intervened, we’d have no leads.’ He keyed up a remlok, dropping it into the loading bay beside the unconscious body. ‘I’ll dump the prisoner and proceed to the rendezvous in his place. Just make sure you pick him up.’

‘Will do. Any problems?’

‘No, but he took a swab for DNA and picked up a metal chit. I’ll take the chit, you’ll want to process the swab. Check for a clone signature.’

‘Understood, maybe worth putting the chip in the analyser for us? Coordinates sending.’

‘Received,’

The controller on the other end cleared his throat. ‘You sure about this?’

Pietro smiled. Pietro Devander Alliance navy veteran and independent trader might not be able to manage, but Pietro Devander, Federal Intelligence Agent, would cope. ‘Not a lot of point catching the gun if you don’t catch the money,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, I handled him, I’ll handle them.’

‘Okay, I’ll inform Miranda.’

‘Thanks.’

* * *

[Edit: The following message was extracted from a relay transmitter and sold to the Historical Society by an independent trader in the 3280s. It was encrypted, but decoded by Government authorities.]

-----Original Message-----

From: Central Control Supervision

Sent: 0815.60.3265.

To: All Points

Subject: Further Mission Details

Data files received ... Initialising ...

Reliable intelligence indicates a contract has been accepted in your quadrant.

Agent,

One of your contacts is a target. An altercation is imminent.

Task summary: - Arrange contact meeting on open band.

- Rendezvous and observe.

- Identify perpetrator.

- Apprehend Perpetrator. Find links to illegal network and employer.

- If possible, protect target.

Your filed datacard has been swept and modified for access. Profile 6# has been uploaded.

Chapter 4: The Prefect

2230 hours. Lave’s feeble sun began to set on Ashoria’s skyline.

Bertrum watched on a viewscreen. In his mind, the benefits of ‘fresh air’ were vastly outweighed by the sidelong glances and whispering his presence caused amongst the staff.

So he stayed in his office.

It wasn’t an unusual decision. He had a sleeping compartment, which saw frequent use. The job demanded irregular hours far beyond any work quota given to Colonial citizens. Three aides rotated in shifts to assist him. The prefect’s position remained a prestigious one, but job was hard; few held the post more than eighteen months.

Bertrum had outlasted them all.

Lave’s Interstellar upper-class had little interest in such work. They stayed inside their gated communities dreaming of their glorious past in the Galactic Co-operative. Nearly a century living in the bubble of Walden’s dogma, shaped former starfarers into pointless parasites, apart from the few who preserved the lies.

Men like Bertrum Kowl.

Four prefects ruled the planetary regions, supported by primes and factors, who managed each settlement and territory. Firstfall and its capital, Ashoria remained the most important cog in the wheel of the Lavian machine. More than anyone else on Lave, Bertrum knew Walden had a plan. The viewscreens on street corners and in offices reminded people continually.

But, like everyone else, Bertrum didn’t know what the plan was.

He stared at the battered plaque on the wall, opposite Walden’s continual speechmaking. The rusty robot griffon stared back, the symbol of the Elite Federation of Pilots. In the time of the Galactic Co-operative, trainees had received their ‘wings’ from Graduation Hall on Lave. Now, that room housed broken machinery. One of Bertrum’s predecessors had retrieved the plaque and hung it in the office.

Bertrum hated that plaque. It was a perennial reminder of failure, a failure he could never redress, but he couldn’t take it down. If he did, the people in his staff would ask why. A question not easily answered with half truths and lies.

So it stayed; a symbol of shame and powerlessness, to keep him working.

‘Appointment pending,’ said Niamh’s soft familiar voice. His gaze returned to the main screen on his desk, a new alert. He keyed up the message and the tanned face of Karsian Brunan, prefect of Kadia appeared.

‘Kowl! Long time since we spoke.’

‘Our last communication is logged from sixty four hours ago, Brunan. How can I help you?’

‘More a question of how I can help you.’ Karsian's lips peeled back in a wide grin, displaying his bright white teeth, printed replacements, another off-world vanity. ‘I heard the factor in Darahk disappeared.’

Bertrum didn’t react. ‘How does that concern you?’

‘Well, I may have a friend or two in the system,’ Karsian replied. ‘They might prove useful.’

‘What do you want for this favour?’ Bertrum asked.

Karsian rubbed his face and grimaced. ‘Well, the energy supply quota for this month ...’

‘You think you will miss target again?’ Bertrum frowned. A vast oceanic region, Kadia supplied the majority of Lave’s power through hydroelectric and wind generation. The vast network required constant maintenance. ‘Something to mention?’

A flicker of irritation wiped away the easy smile. ‘No, nothing we can’t handle,’ Karsian said, ‘however, since your family lives here ...’

An appeal of familial solidarity, laced with implied threat. With an effort, Bertrum kept the scowl from his face. ‘You also have relatives in the city,’ he countered.

Karsian’s smile widened. ‘Distant relatives,’ he said.

Bertrum leaned forward. ‘If you find anything, then I’ll look into a power curfew. We may need to reserve energy for a new public works effort later in the year.’

‘Thank you,’ Karsian replied. ‘I’ll speak to my people.’

The connection terminated. Bertrum sat back and sighed. All conversations between prefects were the same, a mixture of trade and threats veneered with small talk. Karsian was usually the most pleasant of his peers, the others tended to be blunt.

‘Niamh, display full view.’

‘Acknowledged.’

The wall-mounted viewscreens brightened as the sunset appeared on each. Figures and images vanished, leaving Walden murmuring alone amidst the orange glory of Lave’s horizon. From his chair, Bertrum could almost pretend he was looking through windows at a patchwork vista of the sky outside. Lave’s dwarf star, in the last few million years of its life, a feeble candle in the sky. ‘Gaze out on an Earth-like sunset’ – a phrase used in the Astrogator travel guides. Bertrum had never been off planet, but the warm glow was a novelty for Federation holidaymakers. The brisk trade in the resorts on the Kadian Sea, a vital source of income for the region’s prefect.

Lucky bastard, Bertrum thought and keyed up the next task in his diary.

* * *

-----Original Message-----

From: Turgan Devante

Sent: Twelfthday Day 210. 3286.

To: Shulton Kaspet

Subject: Letters for Publication

We recovered several print-out letters from a strongbox found in the rubble of a former residence known to belong to Walden’s security officials in Ashoria. They have been authenticated to date back to the early part of Walden’s regime, sometime in the late 3170s. I have included one here.

* * *

Yesterday, I saw my wife murdered. It seems, despite his inauguration speech, Walden intends to break us into obedience by taking those dearest to us.

I will not accept this.

I’m flying to you now. Prepare a meeting of the Councillors on Sark. We need to organise quickly and find a way to undermine these plans before he wipes out all those with authority who would resist him.

We must establish an exit route and safe houses for those in danger. You have assured me you have contacts and connections to get people off planet, we will need these resources.

Yours in faith,

Torvalod Hexian – Neudaal Minister of Agriculture.

* * *

It would seem the news reports of an accidental mid air collision causing the deaths of several government officials at the time, was in fact a, cover-up for assassination. I can only assume these copies were kept for future leverage and forgotten.

Turgan Devante – Archaeologist. Ashorian Historical Society.

Chapter 5: The Child

Harry was lying on his bed, book in hand when someone knocked on the door.

He got up quickly and opened it.

Henry stood in the corridor a wide smile on his face. ‘Hello Harry.’

‘Hello Henry.’

Harry liked Henry; seventeen years of age, nine older than Harry. When Harry grew up, he wanted to be just like him. ‘How can I help you?’

‘The Elders sent me. They have a task for you.’

Harry straightened his shoulders and raised his chin, trying to minimise the eight inches of height difference between them. ‘I’ll help of course, what do they want me to do?’

‘Come with me.’

Henry took him by the hand and led him out of the room through the dorm corridor towards the classroom. The artificial lights clicked on as they walked.

‘Shouldn’t we be asleep?’ Harry asked.

Henry looked down at him and smiled. ‘No, we have permission, we’ll be fine.’

They went past the classroom and kept going. In the eight years of his life, Harry hadn’t been this far from his bed. ‘Are you sure it’s okay?’ he said.

‘Relax,’ Henry urged. ‘When you’re bigger this won’t be such an adventure. Only a little further ... ah, here we are!’

The corridor opened out and there was a door at the end, with a window beside it. Henry touched the control plate on the wall and a light came on, revealing the room beyond.

Another boy sat alone on a chair, with an empty chair next to him. He glanced up, looking surprised. Harry flinched and stepped back.

‘It’s all right, he can’t see us,’ Henry said reassuringly.

Harry sighed with relief and moved forward again, peering at the boy curiously; older, but not as old as Henry. ‘What’s wrong with his face?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s strange, not like us,’ Harry raised his hands to his own cheeks and nose. ‘It’s not right.’

Henry laughed. ‘Oh! No, he’s fine, not everyone’s like us.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they aren’t,’ Henry said. ‘You’ll get a dataslate soon and you’ll see lots of strange faces.’ He pointed at the boy in the room. ‘The Elders want you to talk to him.’

Harry took another step towards the window. The boy had strange hair, a lighter shade of brown than Henry’s or his. His eyes were odd too, a different colour. ‘Why?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Henry said. ‘They just told me what they wanted.’

‘What would I talk to him about?’

‘Anything,’ Henry smiled again, but seemed irritated. ‘He’s very clever. The Elders say he’s the most intelligent boy they’ve ever met. They want him to stay, but he’s different and shy, so they asked me to get someone to talk to him, someone near his age.’

‘Me?’ Harry said.

‘Yes. You.’

Harry stared at the boy. He didn’t seem shy, but his eyes roamed all around the room. ‘Where will you be when I go in?’

‘Out here,’ Henry said. ‘I’ll make sure you’re safe.’ He opened the door and the boy immediately glanced up. ‘In you go.’

Harry walked through, over to the empty chair and sat down. ‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ the boy said, staring. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Harry, what’s yours?’

‘James.’

‘How did you get here?’ Harry asked.

‘I don’t know,’ James said. ‘I was asleep. I woke up here.’

‘Where were you before?’

‘With my Mum and Dad.’

Harry frowned. Mum and Dad weren’t words he understood, but he guessed they were titles of people who James thought were important. ‘They told me you were clever,’ he said.

James shrugged. ‘Dad says I am.’

‘They want you to stay,’ Harry added, ‘because you’re clever, even though your face is weird.’

James’ hand touched his cheek. ‘What’s wrong with my face?’

‘It’s weird,’ Harry repeated. ‘Not right, different, not like everyone else.’

James frowned, his forehead crinkling with lines, like one of the Elders, making Harry smile. ‘What is this place?’ he asked.

‘It’s the school,’ Harry said, ‘where we learn.’

‘Learn what?’

‘Tone and inflection,’ Harry explained. ‘We do memorising too, remembering the speeches.’

‘Speeches?’

‘Yes,’ Harry was puzzled. Henry said James was intelligent. Why didn’t he know what the speeches were? ‘They’re important,’ he said. ‘I’ve memorised thirty-seven of them. You’ll have a lot of catching up to do.’

James bit his lip and his gaze went roaming around the walls again. ‘I don’t think I want to stay here,’ he announced.

‘Why not?’ Harry asked. ‘We’d have lots of fun.’

James stared at him. ‘I don’t think we would,’ he said.

Henry came in after that and took Harry back to his dorm. As he walked away Harry remembered the strange look on James face. He’d stared at Harry as they left, until the light went out, leaving him in the dark.

The next day, the boy was gone and no one spoke about him. When Harry asked Henry quietly he just shook his head. ‘We don’t talk about that, Harry,’ he said.

Harry never saw James again.

* * *

‘Ident please.’

Pietro put down his briefcase, fished in the pocket of his acquired leather coat and handed over his freshly modified ID chit to a bored security officer who dropped it into the reader without looking. Pietro held his breath as the retina scan flashed, bleeped and spat the chit back into his hand. The officer waved him past, her eyes already on the next in line. ‘Ident please,’ he heard her say again in the same bored tone.

Pietro walked from the docking bridge and towards the station interior. The generated gravity made him unsteady for a moment, but that quickly passed. His hands gripped the briefcase hard. Finch’s dead eyes were still fresh in his mind, with the gaping hole in his forehead. Pietro had never met a clone before and hadn’t expected to care about one dying but ...

Damn they were real!

He walked into the hub, straight past the trader’s lounge he usually frequented and into the bazaar, a maglock for tourists in Solati Reach, habitually crowded and noisy. Perfect place to meet someone who—

‘Nice coat.’

He turned, a girl stood behind him, pale face with a mop of purple hair bringing her up to his shoulder in height, dye or a modification? He couldn’t tell.

‘I like it,’ he replied, her eyes were purple too, modification then.

‘You’re to give me the gun and the box,’ she said and held out her hand.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

The girl’s porcelain forehead creased. ‘Why not?’

‘There’s been a complication.’

‘What kind?’

‘The worst kind,’ Pietro said. ‘I haven’t been paid.’

The crease deepened. ‘You must follow protocol, otherwise ...’

‘Otherwise what?’

The girl glanced around and stepped in close, her lips inches from his. ‘Or else they kill you and me,’ she whispered.

Pietro smiled. ‘Take me to your contact.’

‘Doesn’t work that way,’ she said. ‘You can’t just—’

‘Change the rules?’ Pietro shrugged. ‘You need the gun to show up somewhere and the DNA wipe I took as proof of the kill. The way I reckon, I’m safe so long as I have them.’

The girl stepped back. ‘You realise they’ll shoot us both.’

‘They can try.’

Chapter 6: The Ambassador

‘Thank you for agreeing to speak with me Ambassador,’ Bertrum said.

‘I understand the matter is urgent, Prefect?’

1427 hours,