Petra Rising

By Matthew S. Rotundo

The Prison World stands alone.

In the ten years since they seized control of Petra, now called Haven, Kane Pythen and his allies have struggled to build a civilization strong enough to withstand the backlash they know is coming from the Petra Compact.

But an eleventh-hour betrayal leaves them defenseless, and old wounds threaten to tear their community apart. Kane forges a desperate plan—one that might brand him as a criminal, if it doesn’t get him killed first. Enemies thought long defeated re-emerge, war with the Bone Tribes brews in Mainland, and Kane’s wife Tayla is about to arrive with a warning that the Compact is right behind her.

The battle for freedom reaches its climax. Kane, Tayla, and their friends face the ultimate sacrifice. Will they will rise...or fall?

Petra Rising is the third and final book in The Prison World Revolt series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew S. Rotundo
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781370228720

Matthew S. Rotundo

Matt wrote his first story—”The Elephant and the Cheese”—when he was eight years old. It was the first time he had ever filled an entire page with writing. To his young mind, that seemed like a major accomplishment. It occurred to him shortly thereafter that writing stories was what he wanted to do with his life.Matt gravitated to science fiction, fantasy, and horror at an early age, too. He discovered Ray Bradbury’s “The Fog Horn” in a grade school reader, and read it over and over whenever he got bored in class. (Needless to say, he read it a lot.) Other classics soon followed—Dune and Lord of the Rings and Foundation, the usual suspects. As a boy, he often pretended his bicycle was Shadowfax, and that he was Gandalf, riding like mad for Minas Tirith. Yeah, he was that kind of kid. Half the time, his family and friends didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.Matt’s story “Alan Smithee Lives in Hell” placed second in the 1997 Science Fiction Writers of Earth Contest. In 1998, he attended Odyssey. The workshop led directly to his first sale—”Black Boxes,” in Absolute Magnitude. In 2002, Matt won a Phobos Award for “Hitting the Skids in Pixeltown.” He was a 2008 winner in the Writers of the Future Contest. He has since continued to publish in various magazines.Matt lives in Nebraska. He has husked corn only once in his life, and has never been detasseling, so he insists he is not a hick.

Book preview

Petra Rising

The Prison World Revolt, Book Three

Matthew S. Rotundo

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

PART ONE: IN THE LAND OF THE DEAD

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

PART TWO: CONTAINMENT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

PART THREE: JUSTICE DELAYED

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY MATTHEW S. ROTUNDO

Copyright © 2021, Matthew S. Rotundo

All Rights Reserved

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and incidents described in this publication are used fictitiously, or are entirely fictional.

Cover design by Ad Astra Book Covers.

For exclusive content, freebies, and news from Matthew S. Rotundo, sign up for his mailing list at http://www.matthewsrotundo.com/?p=2265. Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.

In memory of my father, Anthony John Rotundo, 1931-2015.

PART ONE

IN THE LAND OF THE DEAD

CHAPTER ONE

They planned to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of the Liberation with an all-day feast, with music and dancing, and, as evening settled over Purgatory, with fireworks. Kane Pythen thought the latter in the poorest of taste.

Loren Roman, head of the leadership council, had implored him days previous to avoid making any kind of scene. She needn’t have bothered. Kane had no interest in fighting a battle long since lost. If they wanted to celebrate their freedom, let them. Never mind that their fireworks reminded him too much of another explosion in the night sky—the one that had torn him from his family and forced him to forge a new existence on what had once been a prison world named Petra, now called Haven.

Of course, he had hardly been the only one separated from all he had ever known and loved that night. But if it bothered any of the others present, they hardly showed it—likely because many of them were not celebrating the Liberation at all, but something else entirely. And none of them gave any hint that they bore the slightest concern about the trouble that was inevitably coming their way, very soon.

But he had promised Loren he wouldn’t say anything. Not on this night. Not until the skies above were filled with enemy bombers. Maybe then they’d be inclined to listen.

At least the weather cooperated. The rainy season would be upon them soon, but only a northerly breeze swept the grassy plains around the settlement. A cloudless night sky stretched overhead, and it seemed to Kane that more stars were visible than usual.

The celebrants gathered at the western edge of town near the banks of the Rock River, seating themselves on chairs brought from their huts or sprawling on rough blankets or fiber mats laid on the grass. Some were still eating—fish and roasted game bird remained from dinner—but most contented themselves with sipping water or wine and waiting for the fireworks.

Kane spent his time on the fringes of the crowd, making occasional small talk and drinking too much. He was already a touch lightheaded, and the fireworks hadn’t even started yet. He poured out the remainder of his wine into the grass and set the cup next to a stack of dirty plates on a nearby table. When he looked back toward the river, he spotted Kaleen Maro, Purgatory’s chief systems tech, standing near one of the canopies erected for the celebration, a plateful of food in one hand, a fork in the other.

Finally, someone he was happy to see. Kane approached her. Glad you could make it.

Maro—everyone referred to her by her last name, for reasons Kane had never understood—raised a forkful of meat to her mouth. She paused and nodded. Me, too. It was a near thing. She stuffed the forkful into her mouth.

Despite her slight build, and the fact that she stood shorter than Kane by a head, she had never struck him as small—perhaps due to the circumstances under which they had met. She had stopped Tomas Mehr from raining fiery death on the heads of everyone in Purgatory and had been shot in the gut for it.

Supremely competent, she had almost single-handedly kept Purgatory’s systems up and running for the last decade, a job that only got harder with each passing year. She toiled long hours in the underground bunker that housed all of Purgatory’s essential hardware.

You were able to reconnect to the satellite network? Kane said.

She wiped her mouth. Had to replace a module.

Where did you get a replacement?

Maro cleared her throat and looked away.

Kane suppressed a groan. What did we lose?

I took it from the surface surveillance grid.

He slumped and settled his weight against one of the posts holding up the canopy.

It was the least essential system we had left, she said.

He couldn’t argue with her logic. The surface surveillance system was, for the moment, useless on Haven. The only real threat remaining on the planet was the Cassean base in Farside, and they appeared to lack the resources—and the will—to attack Purgatory again. Their last attempt had resulted in the death of their commanding officer, among others, and the loss of a bomber and a lander—the latter of which still sat, effectively useless, on the landing field north of Purgatory.

It was after that victory that Kane had sent a radio message back to Ported Space, declaring Haven’s independence. That message, he mused, might have just reached Land’s End, the nearest world to Haven.

As for the defeated Casseans, they seemed content to live out their lives in Farside, and Kane was content to let them.

But he would need the surveillance system soon. The Compact was coming. This ten-year anniversary everyone was so keen to celebrate was, to Kane’s mind, more like a countdown. Sleepships coming at full speed from Ported Space could arrive at Haven—well, anytime.

Any chance you can repair the bad module? Kane said, though he feared he already knew the answer.

Not without parts. She took another bite. Sorry.

No. He put a hand on her shoulder. You did what you had to do. We still have communications.

And the missile platforms.

He withdrew his hand. And the missile platforms. Kane glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the bunker, and forced a smile onto his face. There’s always a way. And you found it. Glad you could get things fixed in time for you to make it tonight. He knew from experience that she would have worked through dawn to re-establish the connection. She understood the importance of the platforms. They were Haven’s first and best line of defense against the Petra Compact.

Thanks, she said.

"Thank you. Enjoy your dinner. And the fireworks."

Will do, boss, she said around another mouthful of food.

A tired chuckle escaped him. Boss. Maybe not for much longer. His tenure on the council might end in a week if certain factions in Purgatory had their way.

Maro took her leave of him, headed toward the river, where rows of seats had been set up for the display.

The pyrotechnics would be crude, Kane knew, fashioned by hand from some sulfur and phosphorus deposits in the distant hills to the west. The celebration organizers had asked permission from the leadership council first. Kane had voted against it, arguing that it would pose a fire hazard, but the other four members had overridden him—even Cromberg, whom Kane could usually count on to back him up. Ah, the river’s right there, Cromberg had said. Let ’em have some fun.

Kane contented himself with the knowledge that the display would be mercifully brief. Afterward, Loren was scheduled to say a few words, and then he could retreat to his hut in peace. He settled himself into a chair on the fringe of the crowd and waited for it to be over. He nodded and smiled at the few passersby who deigned to notice his presence.

Wine?

The familiar voice came from behind him. He turned in his chair. Emma Goring stood there, a glass in each hand. She held one out to him. She’d let her red hair grow past her shoulders over the years; it had been cropped short when they’d met, the day he’d landed on Petra. Even by the flicker of light from a nearby bonfire, her features were noticeably more lined and weathered than they’d once been—but then again, so were his.

No, thanks, he said, hoping the tensing of his shoulders didn’t show. I’ve had enough for tonight.

Oh, for God’s sake, Kane, take one. I don’t need two of these.

He took one of the glasses and sipped. It was a young wine, locally made of course, with more tannins than he preferred.

Emma stood beside him. I saw you talking with Maro. Everything OK?

She restored the network connection.

Thank God.

Yes. He saw no need to discuss the price they’d paid for the latest fix.

Emma gestured to the organizers of the fireworks show, gathered in a knot on the riverbank. They know what they’re doing?

I have no idea.

She glanced around. It’s gone pretty well, I think.

There haven’t been any brawls, anyway. Or Bone Tribe attacks.

Bone Tribe attacks? Seriously? That’s what’s on your mind?

The Bone Tribes, cannibal marauders that had been for long years the bane and terror of Mainland, had become scattered and impotent over the last decade. The swells plague had wiped a lot of them out. But Kane had to admit that the outreach programs he had championed had done their part to inch the surviving tribes toward civilization. Some Bone Tribes were still as hostile as ever, but most of those huddled in the Stonegate Highlands far to the west, posing no serious threat to the settlements dotting the plains.

As for their nomadic preacher, Walkerman, Kane hadn’t seen him since the night of the Liberation. The man could be dead, for all he knew.

No, Kane said. We have far more important things to worry about than what’s left of the Bone Tribes.

Yes. Emma took a drink of her wine. Listen, Kane, I—

Don’t.

Beg pardon?

I know what you’re going to say, Emma, and it’s not necessary.

I don’t like this tension between us. I’ve always considered us friends.

What did you expect? Political campaigns are like that. You argue hard for your point of view, and I argue hard for mine. When it’s all over, we’ll shake hands, one of us will graciously concede, and that will be that.

The next leadership council election was only a week away. Of the five seats, three of them seemed secure. Loren, the longtime leader who had taken over after the death of Halleck Ellum, remained as popular as ever. The two newest members, Serona Ab and Luis Rios, had come from the ranks of former Petra staffers and had solid backing from that bloc of voters. That left Cromberg and Kane as the two most vulnerable incumbents. And Emma’s unexpected candidacy had split the ranks of Kane’s traditional supporters.

She moved so that she stood in front of him, blocking his view of the river. Is that what this is? Just political differences?

What else? I still disagree. But in a week, it will all be settled, one way or another.

Kane, she said, a pleading tone creeping into her voice, this was never personal. You know that, don’t you? I represent a point of view that has been casually dismissed for too long by the council. We can’t—

Kane held up a hand. I assure you, Emma, I have never casually dismissed that point of view. I just think it’s wrong.

She gestured to the crowd. "No one—and I mean no one—is here because they want to be, Kane. It was forced on all of us. Can you really blame people for wanting to go back to their homes? Their families?"

The mention of families made him wince. I don’t blame them at all. I’m just not willing to jeopardize the freedom of those who have no home to go back to. I didn’t want to be here, either, but here is where I’m staying. Where a lot of us are staying. He downed half of his wine in one swallow. We declared this ten years ago. Remember? You were in the bunker with me when I said it. You agreed on the wording. No more Portals. Those who want to leave can wait until a Sleepship gets here.

Whether in Sleepships or not, Ported Space would arrive sooner than Kane would prefer. When he had declared Haven’s independence, ten years had seemed like plenty of time. To be sure, they had made some strides over that decade, had accomplished things to be proud of. But Winter Tarpen’s death, just over a year ago, had become a glaring indictment of the policies Kane had worked so long and hard to implement.

Ten years, and still the best they could do to fend off the Compact was a set of orbiting missile platforms—some of them nearly depleted, having fired twice in the last ten years—controlled by antiquated, increasingly glitchy software housed in an old bunker. It was better than nothing, but not as good as it might have been.

Emma shook her head slowly. I thought it could work, once. Now I know that it can’t. And so do you.

It’s not ideal. But it will work. They’ve waited ten years already.

"Kane, if a Sleepship arrived today, the return trip would take at least a year, ship time, to reach Ported Space. That’s ten more years for the rest of Ported Space. Twenty years total. Think about that. When they get back, their loved ones will be twenty years older than when they left for Petra. Assuming the loved ones live that long."

Haven, not Petra. We haven’t been Petra for—

Don’t lecture me on the history, Kane. I’ve lived it. We all have.

Kane looked at the ground. As I said, it’s not ideal.

It’s a damn sight less than ideal. It’s unworkable.

It would stand a much better chance without outside agitation.

He regretted the words as soon as they’d slipped out of his mouth. Emma sucked in a breath as if he’d punched her in the gut.

Kane raised his gaze, looking left and right to see if he’d been overheard. Everyone nearby carried on conversations of their own in hushed voices, without so much as a glance in his and Emma’s direction.

I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t—

That’s what you think of the Petra staffers? As outsiders? That’s what you think of me?

Funny that she would lump herself in with the staffers, given that her betrayal had been a key link in the chain of events that had led to their exile. Many of them still bore a grudge against her for that, Kane knew, though they would never speak of it openly.

No, of course not. That’s not what—

Yeah, I can’t imagine why they feel marginalized.

There are two staffers on the council now.

Soon it will be three. Maybe even four. She headed toward the river.

He called after her. Emma, I apologize. I didn’t mean it.

She spun to face him again. I’m not so sure of that, Kane. You might want to reflect on your own words. If you lose on election day, you might want to consider that what you said tonight is a big part of the reason why.

I said I’m sorry, and I mean it.

Bully for you. She stormed away.

Kane glanced at the wine she’d given him and dumped it. Had he been alone, he would have hurled away the cup.

What a mess.

And as if his mood wasn’t foul enough, the abortive exchange with Emma had gotten him thinking about Winter.

Her death had hit the entire settlement hard. Her adoptive father, Jon, had died a few years back, and so had mercifully been spared the heartbreak. Albred, Winter’s mother, had not been so lucky. Kane imagined that she was the only one in the settlement who felt worse about it than he did.

He scrubbed his face with one hand. That line of thought would lead nowhere good. He needed to get out of his head.

A loud report startled him. The fireworks display had started.

They were better than he’d expected. The rockets gained impressive altitude before bursting overhead in a surprising variety of colors: reddish-orange, white, even blue. The crowd cheered and applauded. The breeze brought with it the scent of sulfur.

Kane had feared that the display would remind him too much of the destruction of the Petra Portal, and it did—but the pain didn’t sear his soul as it once had. He and Cromberg had gotten a better view of it than anyone else on Petra, as they’d been airborne at the time. He’d known in an instant what had happened: he and the rest of Petra had been cut off from Ported Space. His wife, Tayla, and his little daughter, Shamlyn, were back on Juris, suddenly separated from him by—well, more light-years than he cared to think about.

The ache of that loss still stirred in him at the sight of the fireworks, but it seemed duller, blunted somehow. He wondered when that had happened. Gradually, he supposed—the slow work of long years. So gradually that he hadn’t even noticed it.

Or maybe he had just gotten so used to living with constant pain that it no longer bothered him as much. Or maybe he’d simply had too much wine.

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or saddened.

Certainly no one around him showed any such melancholy. They whooped at every fresh explosion, growing louder each time—if that were even possible.

The Liberation celebration had been an annual event from the first. Initially, it had been sparsely attended. Haven’s independence had come at a terrible price for all of them, and like Kane, few had enjoyed being reminded of it.

But that had changed. Each year, attendance had improved, and Kane felt sure the reason had little to do with the quality of the celebration itself. No, they had simply done the math. They knew, just as he did, that the Compact was coming, and soon. But unlike him, some of them looked forward to it. They dreamed of rescue. Of home. They expected the Compact to construct a new Portal when it arrived. And once activated, the new Portal would end their long exile in an eyeblink.

Kane thought they were right about one thing, at least: the Compact would indeed attempt to reconnect Haven to Ported Space. And he would do everything in his power to prevent it.

The flashes of light from the fireworks momentarily bathed the gathering in brilliance. He caught sight of Loren standing on the far side of the assembly, near the front row. She cut an unmistakable figure, dressed in a white outfit that contrasted with her dark skin, her posture at ease, but her chin tilted slightly upward. She was smiling.

Her gaze drifted toward Kane. He gave her a wave. She nodded acknowledgment, still smiling, and turned her attention back to the fireworks.

In a moment’s lull between shellbursts, a stray report sounded, much fainter than the others. Kane would have dismissed it, except that it had come from the wrong direction, from somewhere behind him. He turned in his chair, just in time to hear shouts of alarm.

He had to crane his neck to see past the crowd. Several others, mostly toward the rear, were looking in the same direction as him and pointing. They had heard it, too.

Kane stood, frowning. Whatever it had been, it had been a bit further away than the fireworks display. He saw it instantly: a gout of flame stabbing at the darkness, highlighting black, billowing smoke. People began running toward it. Only then did he realize where it was coming from—the bunker.

Kane started running, too.

CHAPTER TWO

Erec Bine knew something was wrong from the moment he rose to consciousness in his sleep pod.

The first thing he should have seen was the Portship’s medical staff, monitoring his awakening sequence. Instead, the Portship captain, a Land’s End military man by the name of Ander Solkin—graying and thin, dressed in pale blue utilities adorned with a twin seashell, Land’s End insignia—stood over the pod. His face bore a slight frown. With long, bony fingers, he worked an allcomm, glancing from its display to Erec’s face and back again. Mr. Bine, can you hear me?

Erec’s tongue felt dry and inflexible, as if his mouth had been stuffed with cotton. Muscles in his shoulders and back ached. He tried to raise his head but couldn’t; it might have weighed a hundred pounds. He shuddered involuntarily from a chill that went bone deep. His thoughts were sluggish and laborious. All he knew in that moment was that something was off.

A moment later, another thought formed: he’d been warned that awakening from a Sleep wouldn’t be pleasant, and he could now report that he’d been correctly informed. Though a veteran traveler throughout Ported Space, he’d never Slept before. Very few had, in this day and age.

Mr. Bine?

Yes, I hear you. The croak in Erec’s voice shocked him. He’d never heard himself sound like that.

Something tugged at his left arm. Something else tugged at his right. A series of tugs moved down the length of his body. Belatedly, he recognized the sensations as the pod’s sensor leads automatically withdrawing.

Breathe deeply, Captain Solkin said.

Erec complied. The air burned going in. More shudders wracked him.

Staring at his allcomm display, Solkin said, Your vitals are looking good, but they’ll take several minutes to rebound fully. Take your time. Don’t try to move just yet.

What— He cleared his throat. What’s wrong?

Solkin glanced at him. It can wait until you’re fully awake. He stepped back, allowing Erec to take in the ship’s Sleep section. Soft lighting came from recessed units in the overhead. Beyond Solkin, a row of pods extended as far as a gray bulkhead some five meters away. They were all dark and sealed, the red lights on their displays indicating that they were still occupied.

Erec had been informed prior to departing Land’s End that he would be among the last passengers awakened. The rest of Solkin’s crew took priority. Erec wasn’t actually needed until the Sleepship arrived at Petra. That he should be awake so soon served as further confirmation of some crisis on board.

The name of the craft came back to him: Oceanus Aeternus. Named for Land’s End’s planet-wide ocean, it was a military vessel, and heavily armed.

He wondered how long Solkin had been awake. The man seemed so much fresher and crisper than Erec felt.

The captain put away his allcomm. You remember the briefings about waking?

Erec nodded. His head felt a little lighter now.

Let me help you sit up. Solkin bent, slipped an arm behind Erec’s neck, and pulled. Erec groaned.

The captain straightened and tugged at the front of his utilities to smooth them. Any light-headedness?

No. The shudders subsided.

Good. Just sit there for a few moments. Get acclimated. If you feel dizzy, there are handrails to either side.

Erec saw them. Thanks.

I have to get back to the bridge. He pointed to a row of lockers across from the Sleep pod, on the other side of a long metal bench. You have a change of clothes and your allcomm in there. If you’d like to shower, there are stalls on the other end of the section. When you have your strength back, you can climb out and get dressed. He raised a finger. Again, take your time. You can expect some unsteadiness for up to an hour or so. Do you understand?

"Yes.

Message me when you’re ready, and we’ll talk.

Thank you, Captain.

Solkin left him then. Silence descended on the Sleep section.

A wave of light-headedness swept through Erec. He grasped one of the handrails, swaying a little until it passed.

He had gone into his sleep pod calm and confident in his ability to carry out this rescue mission. Petra, apparently, would waste no time in testing him.

He focused on his deep breathing. The extra oxygen invigorated him and helped him shake off some of the Sleep-induced muzziness. He released the handrail and stretched, reaching for the overhead. His sore shoulders protested.

Slowly and carefully, he worked himself out of the sleep pod and attempted to stand, gripping the handrail again to steady himself. His legs quivered and his knees threatened to buckle. He bore down and remained on his feet.

When he felt steady enough, he moved toward his locker, focused only on putting one foot in front of the other. He retrieved the pack inside and seated himself on the bench. Even that minimal effort caused him to breathe harder. The chill vanished; he broke into a light sweat. He sat with his hands on his knees for long minutes.

When he felt energetic enough, he opened his pack and looked inside. His allcomm was in there, as promised, along with the singlesuit he’d worn when he’d boarded the ship a year ago. The rest of his personal effects would be stowed in his quarters, though he couldn’t recall how to get there for the life of him. As he rummaged, he couldn’t help wondering why Solkin had awakened him, but his Sleep-addled brain had difficulty focusing.

He pushed it aside and concentrated on awakening fully. A shower would be just the thing he needed.

An hour later, showered, shaved, and dressed, Erec emerged from the Sleep section into a long, dimly lit passageway. A placard indicated that the command center was to the left and crew berths were to the right. Such directions were hardly helpful at this point. The Oceanus Aeternus was huge. It had to be, to accommodate not only two landers, but also ten long-range bombers, and to quarter a small security force, essentially a company of infantry. Erec had not had time to familiarize himself with the ship prior to departure.

The rest of the vessels in the small fleet that Oceanus escorted, six in all, were huge construction ships, filled with the massive hardware necessary to assemble a new Portal, and reconnect Petra to the rest of Ported Space.

Erec dug out his allcomm and placed a call to Captain Solkin.

Mr. Bine.

I’m ready now, Captain.

Let’s meet in your quarters. Solkin disconnected.

Erec sighed. He was hungry, but that could wait. He accessed the ship’s deck plans. With a few taps on the screen, a graphic displayed the fastest route to his stateroom, two levels up.

He followed them and arrived at his quarters in only a few minutes. The passageways were sparsely illuminated, likely to conserve energy, with so many still Asleep.

Solkin had gotten there before him and stood waiting in the corridor outside his door. Erec went in first. Lights came on automatically as he entered. His quarters were luxurious by Portship standards, with room enough not only for a sleep harness, but also his own desk, a separate couch, and a private shower and bathroom. Not even Solkin had such spacious accommodations. This was where a High Commander in the Land’s End fleet would sleep.

That the Compact would entrust him with such a ship…it was a measure of their confidence in him. After this mission, he would have his choice of duties with the Compact. He might even return to New Xizang, make a home there. Not that he had much holding him there. Erec was estranged from his parents. The last thing his mother had said to him when he’d left to seek his fortune on Land’s End was that he should never darken their door again. Still, the Icefall Mountains along the coast of Coldoron had their charms.

He’d been seeing a woman socially on Land’s End, but he’d broken it off with her before departing for Petra. She’d said she would be willing to wait for him, but he doubted anyone could hold to that kind of commitment for ten years. It was madness.

So when he returned to Ported Space, his options would be as wide open and full of promise as a university graduate’s. Wider, actually, as he would be a rich man.

Assuming, of course, the mission went as planned.

Erec gestured to the couch. Please have a seat.

I’m fine, thanks.

Erec shrugged and sat. All right, Captain. Tell me.

Solkin stood with his hands behind his back. He cleared his throat. Mr. Bine, as you’ve surmised, we have a problem. We’ve had to awaken you early.

Erec nodded. Have we even arrived at Petra?

No, sir. We’re still about two weeks out.

He blinked, surprised. If they were still that far away, Solkin must have pulled Erec from Sleep shortly after he himself had awakened. Solkin’s job at this point was supposed to be checking all ship’s systems and making any needed repairs before entering Petra orbit and awakening the soldiers under his command.

Trouble with the ship?

"No, sir. Oceanus is fine. So, as near as I can tell, are the rest of the ships in the fleet. But we picked up a general transmission in transit. It originated from Petra."

A distress signal?

No, sir. Solkin pulled out his allcomm, tapped it once, and turned it around so that it faced Erec.

The audio was scratchy, but clear enough: This is Kane Pythen speaking. I repeat, my name is Kane Pythen, formerly of Juris. Six months ago, while on a fact-finding tour of Petra, I became trapped when Rolf Ankledge destroyed the Portal. Now I am speaking in the name of all who have been wrongly imprisoned here.

Erec sat back on the couch, as if the words had physical force. Kane Pythen,