“Hey, Clayton,” Henry Nicholson whispered from his rack. He turned his head toward the other man in their shared quarters. The man just grunted, doing his best to stay asleep. “Clayton, come on. This is important.”

“What do you want, Nicholson? I’m trying to sleep.” Well, that was fair. They had another 24 hour shift in the labs in just a few more hours, and time spent sleeping was invaluable. Still, something was bothering Nicholson.

“Just listen!” Nicholson’s eyes expressed a slight sense of paranoia, which was not in small part due to the nature of the dream from which he had just awakened. Silence followed.

“I don’t hear anything, Nicholson. What am I supposed to– Wait.” Clayton sat up and looked at Nicholson, who gave him a ‘told you so’ look. “What happened to the engines?” The engines were loud enough to be an annoying sound wherever one happened to be on the Leviathan. Their silence could not be good news.

“I don’t understand. It’s Tuesday. What are the engines doing off?” In order to avoid being spotted as unusual, the ship remained in constant movement all days but Saturday, which was a work-free day for the Thorlinthians. That meant any movement on the sea for anything other than storm avoidance was not permitted on Saturdays, so even the Leviathan stopped, again in an attempt to avoid detection. This had been the pattern for four straight years, since the ship had headed out into the ocean and faked its own disappearance.

So why were the engines silent? This could only mean one thing: Thorlinthians were onboard. “How many do you think there are?” Clayton asked with a worried expression.

“If we’re very lucky, a lot. If we’re very unlucky, one.” Clayton’s eyes widened at this comment.

“You don’t think they’d send a Dragon Rider here, do you? I mean, they’re for taking down government facilities and being highly visible. Nobody even knows we’re still out here except top tier Resistance members…”

“I don’t think they’d send a Dragon Rider, no, but before we left, there had been stories on the radio about a Valkyrie called the Angel of Death. She doesn’t have a copilot, though. Some say she died, and others say she’s just that good. Either way, she’s supposedly been taking out Top Secret facilities single-handedly since Phoenix Day seven years ago. If there’s not a raiding party here, it’s got to be her. And if we’re very, very lucky, we won’t all die.” Nicholson grimaced at the thought as he sat up and began to dress. Clayton was doing the same.

“Well,” Clayton said with a slight, half-hearted smile, “I guess we’d better make sure we send as much information back to the Muffin Man before that happens, then.”

Nicholson nodded, and they both headed out. When they got to their lab, they immediately started the ERT protocol, which released a virus that would hack all the other computers on the ship and send their data to the Muffin Man, the leader of the Resistance. They didn’t know what all was being researched there, but they knew it wasn’t all oxygen production. They had heard rumors of a secret weapon being developed in the area beneath the lab decks, which could only be accessed through special hatches that remained closed at all times. The people down there must have their own way of getting food.

“Hey, Clayton,” Nicholson called out from one of the computers. “Why is he called the Muffin Man? You’ve met him, right?” Clayton nodded.

“It’s got something to do with his name. Before he joined up, he was CIA or Secret Service or something like that, but he was declared dead when all those organizations were taken out by the Dragon Riders. He’s still got a pretty nice scar from it, too. Anyway, if he uses his real name, they’d probably figure out he was alive and start looking for him, so he calls himself the Muffin Man.”

Nicholson made a sound that made it clear he understood and dropped the subject. Everyone knew the Muffin Man, which was kind of the joke. Since it was a children’s rhyme, you could ask anyone if they knew the Muffin Man, and they’d respond, which was also normal. What was not normal was that instead of replying with Drury Lane, a local who was part of the resistance would say the location of the nearest Resistance safe house.

“Talking about the Muffin Man always makes me so hungry,” Nicholson said, patting his belly in a way a larger man may. It was a habit he had gotten into before Phoenix Day, and his weight loss over the years hadn’t been able to end the tic. It was an amusing sight on such a thin man, but it reminded Clayton how much things had changed since the Thorlinthians arrived.

“I heard they legalized a standard trade system a couple of years ago. Apparently the trade freeze was just to stabilize the world economy. I wonder what else is legal again.” Clayton didn’t actually care what was legal anymore, but it was a common topic of conversation.

“Clayton, you’ve been using that line for two years now. I haven’t heard anything you haven’t heard.” Nicholson wasn’t in the mood to talk about the Thorlinthians, which was understandable. A few hours passed without much more conversation.

“Wow,” Nicholson said, surprised. “That’s everything. I guess we may as well go get something to eat since we aren’t dead yet. Maybe there’s no Thorlinthian here, after all.” He chuckled, hopeful.

“Yeah,” Clayton agreed as they headed out of the lab into the passageway. “Maybe they’re just performing maintenance on the… engines…” They stopped in the middle of their walk to the galley as they looked first at the open hatch, then at the blue-haired woman pointing a pistol at Clayton.

The woman, haggard and beaten in appearance, speaks in a voice that seems to have taken a few blows to the vocal chords, “What is this place, who are you, and where are we?”

There are times in a man’s life when he
is forced to question the very essence of his existence. In fact, it
may be more accurate to say that there are times in a man’s life
where he is not forced to question the very essence of his existence,
as this is the rarer circumstance in these times. The arrival of the
Thorlinthians on Phoenix Day three years ago shook the world to its
core, but it was the strange reaction the Americans had to the
situation that likely doomed us all.

I am Wilhelm Johannes Baker. My friends
once called me Wil, but those times are long gone now. In these days,
a man like myself has no friends. It’s not that friends would be
unwelcome in a time like this. Friends are just too hard to keep
alive when you’re silently heading the underground resistance against
an enemy that’s everywhere you turn and seems to be able to see into
your very intentions without even waiting for you to speak or even
look upon them.

I used to work for the Secret Service.
No, that’s not entirely accurate. I still work for the Secret
Service. I just happen to be the only one who knows that I’m still
alive and continuing my mission of protecting our sovereign nation. The hardest part wasn’t even faking
my death, to be honest. That part was painfully easy when compared to
trying to evade Thorlinthian raids. I didn’t even mean to do it,
either. I still remember that attack.

I was playing chess with my partner,
Jim. He always loved chess, but he never had any skill for the game.
Every time we played, I beat him without even having to pay
attention. It made for something better to do during down time than
reading the paper, though. Even in the early days, it seemed like the
Thorlinthians had a complete vice grip on the media. I’d never seen
so much good news. It made me a little nauseous to think that not one
of those stories was even fabricated. For once, the media was
focusing on the positive, trying to keep the masses calm, and it was
disorienting to see what happened when every job became volunteer
work.

One of the very first policies put
forth by the so-called Peace committee was to eliminate all currency
trade systems. Not only that, but bartering was outlawed in the same
policy. If you needed food, you went to work. When you got home,
there would be a daily ration for your family outside your house,
delivered by people who’d previously been on welfare. If you got
sick, you reported to the nearest Peacekeeper Station, and they’d
treat you. If for some reason you needed bedrest (which with the
Thorlinthians’ medical technology usually meant you had just been
treated for cancer or something), your daily ration would still be
provided to your home. If anyone capable of working in the family
didn’t go to work, the daily ration would not be supplied, and no one
in the household would eat. It must have been a joke, shoving all
that Commie crap down our throats while pretending to allow us to
govern ourselves.

The worst part of the deal was that
each country’s military was pulled from wherever it had been and
returned home to serve as Peacekeepers. And yet there I was, part of
the puppet government. I was “serving the President” and charged
with protecting him. So I couldn’t handle the papers anymore. I
started concentrating on the easiest chess games of my life as if
they were championship matches. But then…

A siren bellowed out into the empty
air, screaming to be heard. Someone was on the premises that didn’t
belong. Another assassination attempt? If only people realized that
POTUS didn’t actually have any power. Somehow, the American people
continued to convince themselves that these new policies and all this
news of alien invasions was somehow a government conspiracy intent on
deceiving the American people into sitting by and being trampled on.
But that didn’t matter. There was an intrusion on my facility, and
that meant someone was out for blood. Who would it be this time?
Rednecks? Yankees? Mercenaries?

The truth chilled my bones faster than
liquid nitrogen. In the courtyard, two stories beneath me, was a
single man. It’s amazing how long the human brain can refuse to
register crucial information when it’s just the last thing you want
to see. Instead of seeing the bloody pile of bodies, I saw the young
man’s strangely colored natural green hair. Instead of seeing the two
lone blades he held in his hands with which he had just slain so many
of my men, I saw his piercing violet eyes looking directly at my own
blue ones. Instead of seeing the dark red kilt and wool-like cape
over a red plaid shawl, I saw his gentle face, somehow tainted by
something distant and indiscernable. Indeed, when I should have been
noticing that the men below me were dead due to the sudden appearance
of a Dragon Rider, I was only noticing that there was a man standing
in the courtyard, looking at me.

But soon, the world came to crisp
detail once more as Jim screamed, “Get down!” and fired his
pistol down into the courtyard. But it was too late. As soon as the
window had broken, the Dragon Rider had somehow leaped two floors up
to that very same window. Still shaken, I drew my pistol, too late to
stop the strange Thorlinthian blade that had reached into Jim’s heart
but not too late to hit the Dragon Rider square in the chest.
Normally, this would barely faze a Dragon Rider, as they wear
advanced armor beneath their uniform, but this was a .50 AE Desert
Eagle, and it packed a hell of a bigger punch than standard issue M9.
While not being enough to go through the armor and kill the
Thorlinthian, it was enough to knock him back and to his knees for a
moment, though the latter, in hindsight, was likely due to simple
surprise.

Nonetheless, I managed to bring myself
to a more upright position and move to the door. Then, everything
went wrong. As I called out into the hallway for assistance, I
realized my mistake. I had just turned my back to a live Dragon
Rider. My body soon felt the brunt of that error as the
Thorlinthian’s blade ran its way up my spine. Instantly, I fell to
the ground in agonizing pain but managed not to scream. Somehow, I
was alive, and I planned on keeping it that way.

I don’t know how long I lay there,
praying to God that the enemy wouldn’t notice that I wasn’t dead and
that I wouldn’t bleed to death, but eventually the Dragon Rider must
have left. It felt like an eternity, but somehow I still wasn’t dead
when a small group of men came through, looking quietly for
survivors. As one of the men approached me, he stepped right over me,
not even bothering to check for a pulse, which gave me a pretty good
idea how bad I looked. I tried to speak or even groan, but I couldn’t
produce a single sound. Then another man approached me, and I started
to think that I may actually be dead, simply observing the world near
my place of death.

At the very moment I was certain this
man, too, would simply step over me, he crouched down and checked my
temple for a pulse. Later on, after learning just how near death I
was at that moment, I’m not sure how he felt my pulse at all, but he
did. “This one’s alive. Don’t worry, sir, we’ll get you to help!”
It was at that time that I realized the people searching for
survivors were not men. They were children. I had just been saved by
a boy who hadn’t even started middle school.

The boys placed me carefully on a
makeshift stretcher and piled some pillows on me and covered it all
with a cloth as a disguise to get away from the scene. Before
leaving, however, the children took an iron from one of the rooms and
burned away my fingertips. They then took me to the Peacekeeper
Station, where they told an incredible story about an uncle who had
saved their lives from a pedophile with a sword and whose hands had
been burned on the stovetop as he held his arms over them in
protection. In panic, of course, the pedophile had left, and the boys
had brought me here, bringing that painfully obvious lie to a close.

What happened next baffled me
ceaselessly for the next year: The Thorlinthian healer believed their
story, as the Peacekeepers had just brought in a suspected pedophile
who had been carrying none other than a sword. In the most ridiculous
stroke of luck, my life was saved. Actually, as I discovered a year
later, the Peacekeeper who had brought in the pedophile had told his
son about it only minutes before the boys had gone in to look for
survivors. Still, it had been impressive.

I was treated, and my spine was
repaired for the most part. I would never again be able to move my
right pinky, but that was hardly a price to pay, in my opinion. As I
was being discharged from the station, the Peacekeeper Captain came
into my room and asked for privacy. There, he told me about the
resistance and how to find a man named Larry Denton, who was leading
the organization at the time. I asked if there had been any survivors
from the assault. He informed me that only hours ago, the last of the
three thousand men and women who had worked and lived at that
facility, including the President, who’d been hiding there, had been
declared dead. This included me, which meant I was a dead man on
record.

I spent the next two years working my
way to the top of the resistance, building our ranks the entire time
while watching my world fall apart. When Larry Denton disappeared on
the second anniversary of Phoenix Day, I was placed in charge of the
resistance, and I’ve been moving from town to town ever since,
staying as close to the enemy as possible to avoid being noticed.
Recently, we’d heard word of a research vessel called the Leviathan.
It’s purpose is to attempt to duplicate Thorlinthian weapons
technologies without being noticed. It’s to be launched tomorrow, and
I’m placing some of my most trusted men on its crew as guards and
scientists.

Unfortunately, we aren’t the only ones
to be supplying crew members. Most of the guards are heartless
mercenaries out of work. The Leviathan’s front cover is that it’s a
cargo vessel which will be lost at sea in a few months. We’re putting
a lot of hope into it, and we’re looking forward to some results.
Clayton’s going to be sending me all results as soon as they’re
finalized, just in case they’re discovered, but we’re putting all our
prayers into the hope that what we get back from the Leviathan will
be enough to make a difference in our little war.

That ship is our best hope of actually
pushing away the Thorlinthians. We can’t afford to lose it.

339020-138-394-47

Your story begins with a fist. If you’re wondering whose fist it is, then it ceases to matter after the fist hits your face. The cold air must have lowered the sensitivity in your face, however, since you feel only pressure and a slight warmth on your skin. You hear a crunch. Your nose is likely broken, but you pay it no matter. Now, your fist has made contact with the face of another. This is the face of a bearded man. His hair feels soft in comparison to the bone with which your fingers soon become well-acquainted. A howling grunt emanates from the man. One down.

You open your eyes again. A blink has been completed. You make note of the 0.3 millisecond timespan of the blink itself. That means it has been 0.5 seconds since your nose broke. You count your adversaries. They count five. The man you just struck is still falling. When he hits the ground, they will count four. That’s still too many. Your eyelid begins to lower again. Your nose broke 0.9 seconds ago. Your leg extends upward to one of the slimmer men. You twist your heel toward his collarbone and pull your leg down. Contact has been made. Your foot feels warm against the man’s collapsing frame. You are barefoot. This is strange, but you are not swayed. Two down. Your arms swing out toward a common point: the center adversary’s temples. Contact has been made here, as well. His skull begins to collapse. Your eyes open. Your nose has now been broken for approximately 1.2 seconds. Three down.

The other two men are beginning to realize what they are witnessing, but it’s too late for them. Their guns are 0.4 seconds away, and your fingers reach their eyes just as your foot contacts the ground only 0.2 seconds later. Your fingers hook into their sockets, and your arms pull them to the ground. You now register that the ground is metal grating. Contact has been made. Adversaries down. Your nose has been broken for 1.6 seconds. You reach toward your face and correct the misalignment of your nose. This is painful.

You take time to assess your current situation while retrieving your adversaries’ clothing and weapons, both of which you seem to be lacking. You are crouched on a catwalk inside some sort of warehouse. There are no windows. The walls are metallic. The temperature is approximately ten below zero centigrade. Your extremities are lacking any damage due to the cold. You haven’t been here long. Odd. You cannot recollect anything prior to the fist 45 seconds ago. You are fully clothed. It is time to move. But where do you move?

Up seems like a probable choice. Heat rises. You do not wish to expose yourself to unnecessary cold, and these clothes fit loosely. The men were rather large. You begin to wish that you had kept one alive to question regarding your current predicament, but the past is itself, and you cannot undo it. You head up the nearby stairwell, not knowing what you hope to find at the top.

You make it up several levels without further contact. Upon the tenth level, you encounter a hatch. It’s fully dogged, and you begin to wonder whether this is actually a warehouse. Suspicions rising, you open the scuttle in the center of the hatch slowly. You begin to hear footsteps and voices. You cock the smaller of your weapons, slinging the other over your shoulder. There will be no time for mistakes. You rise from the scuttle to find yourself in a narrow passageway. You already have your weapon trained on one of the approaching men. There are two. The chances of them being armed seem slim from their panicked reactions, but you don’t risk an underestimation. Keeping them beyond arm’s length, you speak. “What is this place, who are you, and where are we?” Your voice comes out ragged. You haven’t spoken in quite some time. The men seem even more shocked now. The man without a gun pointed at him speaks.

“This is The Leviathan. It’s a top secret research facility. I’m Nicholson, and this is Clayton. We’re scientists. I can’t tell you where we are because I don’t know. I do know, however, that that hatch is supposed to stay closed.”

This man is being oddly open for being held at gunpoint. His heartrate hasn’t changed since he saw the gun, which means he’s either experienced with this type of situation or he’s telling the truth. You try speaking again. “Why is it supposed to stay closed?” Perhaps this will yield more answers.

Nicholson just stares at the open scuttle from which you just came. The man Nicholson identified as Clayton speaks up this time. “There’s supposedly some sort of killing machine down there. Some new weapon.” Nicholson looks away from the scuttle, which you begin closing. You may have just been down there, but you don’t want to take your chances. You’re careful to keep the weapon trained steadily at Clayton. Nicholson speaks again.

“You know we aren’t supposed to talk about what’s down there, Clayton! And that’s just a rumor. Nobody up here actually knows what’s down there. What’s down there?” The question is directed at you.

“I don’t know what’s down there,
either. It’s too dark. I just know that it’s really cold, and that people down there tried to kill me.” Well, there are multiple lies hidden there, of course. You were down there. You know that the temperature is about ten below zero centigrade and that the room is a large cargo hold or hangar of some sort about fifteen levels deep. You also don’t know for certain that the people who attacked you originally intended to kill you. Interesting. You hadn’t intended to lie, but there it was.

“Do you know me?” Maybe that’s why they’re being so compliant. You don’t hear footsteps yet, but you’re sure you don’t have much time.

Clayton speaks. “No, we don’t. But I don’t want to die, and neither does he. Please let us go.” Go? You pause to contemplate your own stupidity. Where are they going to go? As soon as you let them go, they’ll tell someone that you’re here. In fact, someone may already know that you’re here. Claytons eyes move away from the gun and toward Nicholson. They’re both clearly afraid. People in fear are stupid people. They get brave too quickly. You can see that running through their minds already. The golden blur of neural pathways firing is all too prevalent in their amygdalae. They’re planning an escape already. You can’t take that chance. While the two men are looking at each other, you quickly open the scuttle, grab Clayton and Nicholson, and pull them into the hold. On the way down, you close the scuttle. The whole process takes approximately 4.8 seconds.

You quickly unsling the larger gun from your shoulder and train it at Nicholson. Your smaller weapon is still trained at Clayton. You’re kneeling on the men’s chests now. It’s a much more controllable scenario, only now it’s cold again. It was so warm in the passageway, which had been twenty degrees centigrade. The men are gasping and gaping at the weapons only inches from their faces. At this distance, you don’t actually need the guns, but you don’t think they realize that. Appearances can be deceiving. The golden blur has dimmed away. Good. They’ve given up on escape.

“Now, perhaps you’d be so kind as to tell me what you’re researching here.” Your words are coming more readily now, but your voice still sounds foreign to you. You haven’t recovered yet. That’s an interesting thought. Recovered from what? The answer is hidden from you.

Clayton seems to enjoy speaking more than Nicholson. “Well, I don’t know about everyone else here, but Nicholson and I have been researching the psychological effect of having guns pointed at us. Obviously, we can’t tell you. It’s top secret.” This man is remarkable. Even under threat of death, he maintains a sense of humor. Or, perhaps, that sense of humor is a result of the danger. Either way, he’s funny. You suppress a smile. Nicholson looks at Clayton like he’s ready to kill the man himself.

“We’ve been working on oxygen production for long term space flights. We’ve managed a great deal in the four years we’ve been here. But we really don’t know what everyone else has been researching. We only know that all our research is both sponsored and outlawed by the UN.” That doesn’t make any sense. Why would this “UN” outlaw research and then sponsor it? Or did they sponsor it then outlaw it?

“I need somewhere safe to stay. Are your quarters private?” The scientists look at each other, and their brains light up like supernovae. Odd. They were afraid only moments ago.
They speak together. “Yes. We’ll take you there.” Wonderful, it seems some progress is being made. The three of you return up the scuttle, and you follow them down the passageway, regularly hiding in supply closets and laboratories. This facility is massive.

At last, you approach an area that says “Quarters”. There are several doors ajar here, but the lights in the passageway are a dim red to allow for sleep at all hours. A sign next to one of the doors says, “Nicholson, H. and Clayton, W.” The three of you enter the room. Inside, there are two twin-sized sleeping racks, two armoires, a closet, and a head. You aren’t entirely impressed, but it’s no pittance of a living, either. You tie the men to one of the beds to prevent them from escaping or trying to kill you while you sleep. You also lock the door for good measure. You use the head to take a shower and utilize the toilet. Afterward, you fold the stolen clothing, set the weapons beside your rack, and tuck yourself away to sleep.

You awaken to the sound of Nicholson and Clayton trying to wriggle free of your bonds. Indeed, they would have done so by now if you hadn’t thought to tie their necks to one another so tightly that they had difficulty breathing if they tried to move or call for help. You smile at your own brilliance. Of course, they also can’t swallow like that due to the immovability of their throats, so they’re also covered with drool, which you find disgusting. You sit up over the edge of the bed and stretch. Now to deal with these two. You don’t think Clayton will be much of a problem, but Nicholson will invariably become trouble quickly. Gagging them both, you cut the cords holding their necks together and spin Nicholson’s head around 180 degrees. A satisfyingly loud crack emanates from his spine, and he goes limp. A stifled scream comes from Clayton’s weakened throat. Looking at you, his eyes beg for mercy. You simply pat his shoulder gently. It’s not his
day to die today.

You sort through Nicholson’s belongings and find a clean pair of underwear and socks in his drawer. You then proceed to put on an assortment of less conspicuous clothing than the gaudy clothes of yesterday’s attacker. You find a pale brown turtleneck sweater and a pair of dark blue jeans. Luckily, Nicholson was a fairly small and thin man. These clothes fit you much better than your previous had.

You put on a few extra pairs of socks to make your boots fit better and a stocking cap to hide the fact that your hair is longer than the typical cropped cut in this facility. You then untie Clayton and warn him not to speak loudly lest he suffer Nicholson’s fate. He nods in agreement, and you ungag him.

In a panicked whisper, Clayton worked through his tears a few quiet words. “Why’d you kill him?! He didn’t do anything to you!” Odd. For some reason, this actually bothers you. You are compelled to answer Clayton’s question.

“I did what I had to do. Nicholson would have incited trouble, and I don’t need any undue attention.” This is true enough, but you don’t want to admit that you would just as soon have killed Clayton if you hadn’t been impressed by him so much.

Clayton buys it, but he clearly isn’t pleased. “Well, you’re going to get plenty of ‘undue attention’ anyway if you don’t hide those.” He nods toward you and looks at your chest for a very brief moment before his eyes dart away.

“Hide what?” You don’t understand. You haven’t picked up your guns yet, and you had planned to keep them under a leather topcoat. You look down. Are there bloodstains? No, there isn’t anything on your chest. You’re even more confused than before you thought about it.

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’re the only woman in the whole facility. Your, uh, breasts are… are rather obvious. And trust me when I say that anyone would notice those, even if they hadn’t been unable to see a woman in years.” You hadn’t thought about that. What’s the difference, anyway?  Nonetheless, there’s nothing you can do to hide those without constricting your chest, which may affect reflexes and free motion. You pick up the guns, sling the larger one low, and place the smaller one into your boot. You tuck your knife into your sleeve and put your excess cords around your waist. After you’ve put on the topcoat, you look to Clayton.
“Is this any less conspicuous?” You give him a look that implores absolute honesty. He shrugs noncommittally and says it will have to do. “Good. Now, how do I get out of this facility?”

Clayton furrows his brow. “You don’t. This place isn’t exactly a part of the daily cityscape. I still don’t get how you wound up way out here.” Clayton looks at you questioningly, expecting you to explain just how you did wind up in the facility.

“Well, I don’t remember how I got here. I can only remember the past 6 hours, 4 minutes. I just know that this place is mobile. I can feel it.” This apparently comes as no surprise to Clayton.  He shrugs.

“Ok, then. Should we go up, then? I haven’t been to the main deck in a few weeks, myself. I could use a little sunlight.” Clayton seems to be forgetting that he’s a hostage. That’s just as well. A happy hostage is a compliant one.

“Yes, I think I’d like that, as well. Maybe I can figure out where we are.” Clayton gives you a look that says he doubts it, but you show no sign of wavering. You place Nicholson’s body in a sleeping position facing away from the door and step away. “Let’s go.”

Clayton leads you into the passageway and toward a ladderwell. You follow him up the ladder three decks until you approach a hatch. Clayton opens it, and the ladderwell is flooded with light and warmth. You catch a familiar scent, though you cannot place it. There is a saltiness to it, but it is brisk and pleasing. The two of you step out, and you cannot contain a gasp. You’re on the weatherdeck of a large ship in the middle of the ocean. From the looks of it, you’re near one of the poles. That explains the cold and the winterwear, but what –

A loud burst of sound, a thudding sensation, and you find yourself short of breath. You’ve been shot. You look to Clayton. He’s holding a shotgun. He must have picked it up from one of the bodies on the deck. Why are there so many bodies? Clayton begins to pull the trigger again, tears coursing down his face. You won’t allow it. Your foot reaches the barrel before the hammer falls. The shotgun blasts shot into the air. By the time Clayton realizes you aren’t dead yet, your larger gun, a modified battle rifle, has proven to his face that he is. He drops. You swing the gun round. Just as you suspected, someone has come up to inspect the situation. He soon falls to the deck as well. You run as best you can to the superstructure. Your chest is in great pain, but you had been careful to conceal from Clayton the plates you had placed in the topcoat, which you now shed.

You head down the main ladderwell, exterminating any opposition you find along the way. You get to Deck Four and find the nearest hatch to the cargo hold. You hurry through the escape scuttle and run to the ladderwell you originally came up. When you reach it, you bolt down the ladder until you get to the place where your nose was broken six hours and forty-two minutes ago. You look about searchingly. There! On the deck of the hold below you, a small electronic device is laying innocently. You know better now. You leap down the remaining distance and pick it up. You run to the door nearest you. It’s ajar. You go through it and find the room where your clothes had been stripped away in search of the explosives you had already planted. In the hands of one of the dead men, you find your bag. You take it and run up to the weatherdeck as fast as you can, dispensing of all witnesses.

Your legs lead you to the side of the ship. Looking down, you can see the line to which your boat is tied from over a mile away. You climb over the rail, cross your arms over your chest, and jump feet first to the cold water far beneath you. The cold envelops you instantly, but you remain calm and keep your breath as you rise to the surface. You follow the line to your boat and pray that the device is as waterproof as you had been told as you cut the line to the ship. You squeeze the spring-loaded switch on the electronic device, and the facility which had been performing illegal experiments on particle beam weapons and privatized graviton propulsion for the past four years collapses upon itself as a small, controlled black hole forms inside it for twelve seconds before you release the switch.

You ensure that the black hole has died before putting away the device. You take your keys and open the cabin of your boat. Stepping inside, you grab your comlink. As you remove your stocking cap, you depress the side switch and speak into the com. “TAS Dragon King, this is Operative #33920-138-394-47. Mission accomplished. I could sure use a ride home. And a medic…”

A familiar voice emanates from the com. “Copy that, Terira. We’ll send your husband down with a Dragon 73C. You’ll be home in no time. A medic will be standing by on your arrival. Good job.”