009: MARINA- EQUATORIAL DISTRICT - NIGHT 2

  Marina felt the explosion rather than heard it. The Bevy Room shuddered slightly, barely noticeable. At first she thought it was her own alcohol-riddled senses off-balancing her slightly and paid it no mind, she was too busy focusing on the glass of water in front of her that she desperately needed but couldn't bring herself to drink. It was Travis who noticed that it was something else.
  "You feel that?" he asked. The Bevy room had started to empty out, as had the rest of the tavern. It was a little over an hour until the tavern officially closed and it had started to quieten down as people left or fell asleep or started to lose interest or track of conversation. The music continued to play in the dance hall though, the soft vibrations humming occasionally throughout the rest of the building. Which is what made the distant explosion even harder to detect.
  "What?" Marina responded. She looked up at the rest of the table: Holden was asleep, Garvey was nursing a final tankard of mead, and Graves was toying with her datapad.
  "That rumble," Travis said. He looked around, and Marina followed his eyeline; a handful of people had paused briefly, unsure if they'd felt the same thing. Most continued on as normal.
  "I thought I felt something," Marina responded. "It's the music. Isn't it?"
  Suddenly a commotion started out in the main bar. Raised voices, screams, footsteps hurrying to the exit.
   "I assume not," Travis said, and he was up. Marina, Graves and Garvey followed. Holden remained slumped in an armchair, fast asleep.
  Marina and her companions pushed their way through the slowly thickening crowd, she could already feel the adrenaline sobering her up, it was incredible what the possible threat of conflict could do to one's body chemistry. She finally hit the night air, looking through the panicked crowd until she spotted the great plume of smoke and fire in the distance.
   "What is that?" she demanded of a young man with his arm around a girl.
   "We don't know, people are saying it's the Court."
   Marina looked around and saw various hoppers and comrades dotted around the crowd. 
   "Travis!" she yelled as the big man approached her. "Is that the Court?"
   "I think that's the barracks," Travis replied, all colour draining from his face.
   A knot like a lead weight dropped in Marina's stomach. She felt sick, and not from alcohol. It couldn't be...could it?
     Kal!
   She shoved her way through the rabble towards the entrance host.
   "You!" she demanded of the man.
   "Ma'am?" the host said, fear in his voice. Despite the pillar of fire in the distance and the collective of scared and concerned citizens surrounding him, the man had maintained his formal and upright position in the exact spot he was stationed. A flare of anger flashed through Marina, for what reason she couldn't be completely sure.
   The sounds of distant sirens gradually appeared, barely carried by the gentle wind.
   "You have carts here?" Marina demanded.
   "Yes, Ma'am."
   "We'll need as many as you can spare."
   "Ma'am -"
   "I'm Commander Marina O'Reilly, Equatorial District Hopper Force. Me, and my troops here need to get to the source of that explosion now, so give me every vehicle you have. Now!"
   The flustered host pulled out his datapad and began frantically speaking into it. Marina was already turning away back to the crowd.
   "Hoppers! To me!" she yelled, waving them all to the thoroughfare. She tried not to think about Kal, and what she may find when she inevitably arrived at her lodge. Where was Kal tonight? Would he be at home after their fight? Or would he be out drinking like her, ignoring their disagreement in the hope it would wash away. There was a chance that the explosion might not be the barracks, and if it was it might not even be anywhere near her sector.
   She pulled out her datapad and tried calling him. No answer. The connection didn't even go through. That knot dropped again, she ignored it and tried to swallow the bile that had risen in her mouth.
   "Can anyone contact anyone at the barracks?" she yelled to no one in particular. A couple of hoppers were fiddling with their datapads. Graves came to her, holding her own device limply at her side and shook her head.
   "I'm not getting anything, Ma'am" she said.
   Before Marina could respond, her own datapad started blinking, a small alarm pinging out of it periodically. Graves' pad matched her own. They slowly heard various other pings chiming around them. Marina looked around as the handful of hoppers in the crowd examined their devices, their expressions grave. Marina couldn't bring himself to look at her own, as she knew what she'd see. A fresh wave of nausea washed over her.
  Graves held her datapad up to Marina, revealing the Capital Coat of Arms on the screen pulsating with a red light in sync with every ping. A priority one alert. The Outer Court was indeed compromised. However, whether through attack or malfunction would not yet have been determined.
  "What do we do, Ma'am?" she asked.
  The first of a line of carts pulled up alongside them on the thoroughfare. More quickly arrived in succession.
   "Get everyone in them, now! We need to get back to the Court."
  Marina ran to the first available cart and jumped inside. She had to get to Kal. She had to know he was okay. If he wasn't, she would never forgive himself.
   "Commander, wait!" Graves shouted.
   "Go." Marina said simply to the nav control. "And ignore the speed limits."

  She frantically thumbed through the information on her datapad. The movement from the auto and the alcohol in her system made focusing on the glowing screen difficult, so she increased the font size before linking to the secure military channel and entering her access codes. The media outlets were already ablaze with speculation and conflicting information. But Marina needed facts - up to the minute facts - and thus the emergency military channel updates were exactly where she needed to look. According to the scrolling intel the explosion had originated somewhere in the South quadrant of the barracks complex, caused by an as-yet-undetermined source. It had spread outwards, most likely through the power and service grid, ripping all the way through to the western quadrant and obliterating all of the south. The West, where her own lodge was. She quickly tried to mentally map the geography. Her courtyard was in sector eight, the middle most area of the west quadrant. Depending how far the damage had reached there was a fifty-percent chance that her lodge had escaped the destruction. Of course there was also a fifty-percent chance it had not. Apparently over a quarter of the barracks square mileage was in ruins. With every update and statistic she read, it looked more and more likely that she should expect the worst. She tried not to think about it and instead focus her mind on the facts, the threat assessment and the state of the field. Two of the Capitals defence turrets, which would have been positioned in the west and south of the Outer Court - in the perimeter of the barracks complex, were confirmed to have been destroyed - and her mind kept oscillating between the attack at First Province and the destruction she was believing more and more likely to encounter at home..
  There's a chance. Even if we've been hit, there's a chance he wasn't there. There's a chance that he's okay.
Yet her mind refused to let her believe it.
  "Drive faster, damn you!" he screamed at the cart.
  But of course, the automated vehicle maintained a safe and steady speed within legal city limits. 

  I'm coming Kal. I'm coming. Hold on! 

INTERLUDE

  She watches him until she is sure he is asleep. Poor fool.
  She knew it would be easy, but not this easy. She doubts if she even needed the pheromone spray at all. She has played the part perfectly, every step of the mission executed flawlessly. Was he the easiest mark she's ever had to target? Possibly, she'd have a think about that on her drive to the coast. She leans over and feels for his breath against her cheek, it's slow, docile. She clicks her fingers in front of his face. Nothing, he is out cold.
  She stands, admiring the shape and musculature of his body, she is in a hurry, but a moment admiring him won't hurt. She's never been a fan, has no interest in who he is or what he's done, but she can't deny he is a beautiful specimen. Good in bed too. 
  She turns and admires herself in the full length mirror on one wall, as always, she likes what she sees. She offers herself a very small round of applause. The target is neutralised, the location has been breached and she's done it all without breaking a sweat...figuratively of course. She laughs and blows the target a kiss. 
  She dresses quickly, yet precisely; skirt, blouse, jerkin, belt - never forget the belt - she buckles up her boots. The whole outfit was chosen with precision, hidden under her earlier ensemble. 
  She steps over the target and picks up her purse. Now the final work begins. She scans the ceiling and walls, nothing she needs here. She heads through to the kitchenette area, it's too cluttered with fittings and amenities. The bathroom, that's where it'll be. She makes her way towards it, pausing to take a quick snapshot on her datapad of the target's naked, exposed body. She chuckles. She'll save that for later. 
  The bathroom is of medium size. It's the messiest, dirtiest room in the lodge. It smells of various colognes - too many in fact - it's overpowering. She quickly uses the lavatory, spotting what she needs as she does so. A core access panel in the centre of the ceiling. She removes the allure-lenses from her eyes and drops them in the bowl before she flushes. 
  She takes a chair from the kitchenette and places it under the panel, then searches in her purse, removing her makeup brush. Unscrewing it with ease she reveals the motorised multi-tool within then uses it to unscrew the two panel bolts. She catches the panel as it falls. It takes her seconds. 
  She looks up at the exposed pipes and circuitry, an open rectangular map of machinery she instantly understands. Working deftly, her fingers and movements precise, she removes one of the primary power modules from its track. The lights immediately go out in the lodge, but she is ready, multi-tool already in mouth, torch lit.  
  Inside the false lipstick she carries is a modified power module. Custom made. Completely indistinguishable from a standard one. This one is special though. Its internal construction is adjusted with micro-circuitry. Its discharge rate is directly controlled by a long distance signal emitter built into her belt buckle. She inserts the modified module, and is instantly bathed in light once more as the lodges power flow is restored. The removed module is placed into the hollow lipstick. 
  She doesn't bother replacing the panel cover or chair but she does pause to do one last sweep of the living area. Nice place, shame it won't last. 
  A small obsidian and crystal ornament rests on the mantle - a pyramid. The streaks of black and reflective clear panels are ugly but it looks expensive. It won't fit in her purse, but that's not an issue. She may get something for it from a buyer - an extra, unexpected bonus on top of her fee for this evening. She picks up the pyramid and notices a trio of gold medals hanging directly opposite the front door. Definitely worth something, tempting but too traceable. Besides, they are encased in a block of lucite or similar. Too impenetrable, too cumbersome, too obvious. 
  She takes one last look at the target, leans down and runs her tongue up the length of his torso - navel to neck, tasting the salty residue of his sweat. 
  'Idiot,' she says to herself. She heads to the door and stops just after opening it. She turns back. The target lay there helpless. A nude embodiment of the Capitals decadence and hypocrisy.     
  She considers carefully, she's in no rush, but knows she must be swift. 
  She wants him to know what he's done, leaving him here to die would be a mercy. Living with the guilt and the shame of his own arrogance and self importance would be kind of funny. It has a poetry to it. Ashe Marvel - the naked treasonous fool. The word has just occurred to her. Treason. She supposes this could warrant the label. He has, after all, led an un-vetted, unknown civilian into a high security military complex. Treason. She likes that. Treason leads to execution more often than not. Collateral damage. A public scandal. That she could certainly watch with relish. If he survives what happens next, of course. 
  He's sprawled on the rug, she grips the edges tightly and pulls him towards the front door. He bumps over the threshold and barely stirs. There are few lamps in the courtyard, but just to be safe she keeps to the shadows, eventually leaving him in the centre of the cobblestoned yard, under a tree. The moon is now obscured by cloud cover and his shape disappears into the shadows of the foliage.  
   She's done here. She closes the lodge door to prevent the glow of light alerting anyone to anything out of the ordinary and makes her way back to the Southern watch gate. She's memorised the route before her deployment - and during her walk here with the target - just in case anything has changed since her acquired blueprints were copied.    
  As she approaches the gate she acts drunk, but not too drunk as to cause concern - she is, after all, a young lone woman - but just drunk enough to seem merry, personable even. 
  The guard lets her pass without concern. She hands back her visitor's key card.  
  "Will you get home safe, madam?"
  "Yes, I've called a cart, it should be here soon though. Thank you!" She gives him her best smile, with a dainty finger wave and a little stumble for good measure. She exits the gate and turns back to him. 
  "Have a good night," she waves again. He returns it. 
   She rounds the corner and immediately shakes off her drunk performance. There is no cart waiting, but she will find one. Sooner or later somebody will drive past. For now, she walks west, towards the coast. Her datapad reads four hours past midnight. Perfectly on schedule. 
  She walks briskly, the heels of her boots clip-clopping in a soothing rhythm on the causeway. The air is cool, but not too cold. It feels good against her still slightly clammy skin. The night will be turning to dawn soon and she doesn't see many people on her journey aside from the very occasional cluster of revellers or lone walker. She isn't worried, she can defend herself if necessary. Although she is aware of how conspicuous she is, how exposed. After all, her hair and outfit were deliberately assembled to attract attention.  
  It's been around twenty minutes before she hears the first distant hum of a cart's engine, she turns to see the lights approaching in the distance. There is no one else nearby, how fortuitous. It really has been too easy. 
  She ruffles her hair, tears the sleeve of her shirt and scratches herself on the face using her fingernails, she ignores the sting. She starts to cry. It comes as naturally to her as breathing.
  She takes a deep breath, lets out a scream and runs into the path of the cart. She waves her arms, wailing and crying in what she hopes is abject terror. The cart comes to an abrupt halt, she runs to it, hammering on the nose of the vehicle. Inside is a suddenly terrified looking woman. 
  "Please! Please, help me!" she screams to the driver. "Help me!"
  The woman does not respond, she is understandably shocked. That doesn't matter, she'll come around.  
   "Please! I don't know where he is!" she screams, putting as much desperation and anguish into her voice as she can. "Help! Help!"
  The driver opens the door and steps out. 
  "Are you hurt?" the driver asks, calming down enough to help a young, vulnerable stranger. 
  "Someone attacked me," she says, playing on the vulnerability. "I managed to get away, but I'm scared. I need to get home. Can you help me please!"
   "Of course, or course," the diver says, she puts a comforting arm around her. "Take a seat. Oh my poor dear, you poor thing."
   "Thank you. Thank you!" She climbs into the other seat. The woman clambers into next to her, shuts the door and activates the locks.
   "What happened? Who was he?" the driver asks.
   She merely sobs, playing the hysterical young girl.
   "Where are you going -"
   The driver's words are cut off as four knuckles connect with her throat, applied at exactly the right point, and at the right speed they crush her windpipe. The driver gasps for air, struggling to breathe, already suffocating.   
   Through the tears and the feigned hysteria, she lashes out again, slamming her fist into the driver's neck once more for good measure.
   She keys in an override code on the carts terminal and transfers the steering control to her side.  She has shut off the tears and hysteria as easily as she would a tap. She is focused again, clam. Jovial even. She turns on the radio to see what she can find. Something upbeat, something that goes well with victory.
   She sets off, driving fast, but never breaking the speed limit. The driver's corpse stares at the console through glassy half closed eyes.
   Once she reaches the coast, and boards the boat waiting for her, she'll torch the cart. Destroying the body and all evidence of her presence in it.
   She's a good ten miles out of the Capitals borders when she presses the button concealed on her belt buckle. She has the window open, and although she's too far away to see the ball of flame that rises into the sky, she can just about hear the boom as the modified power module overloads, setting off a chain reaction that destroys the hopper barracks complex. 
  She smiles, savouring the wind and the music as she drives towards freedom.

008: ASHE - EQUATORIAL DISTRICT - NIGHT 2

  Ashe swayed and stumbled his way to the bathroom. The tavern was swimming in a blurry swirl of raucous inebriation. The sounds of revelry - cheers, music and laughter assaulted his ears in a comforting sea of noise. He was drunk, of that he had no doubt. He'd lost count of how much he'd had somewhere around his tenth tankard of mead. Were there some short measures in there somewhere too? He thought perhaps there was, he was dimly aware of a slight feeling of heartburn in his chest, a regular symptom if he'd had too much whiskey.
  His bladder was fit to burst, aching in fact. He'd gotten so swept up in the tales and yarns and laughter that it must have been hours since he'd last urinated. Besides, he didn't want to miss anything, this was his night. His celebration, his party. Appearances may have dictated it was a memorial for the fallen, but in reality it was a selfish blend of ego massage and therapy session for himself. A chance to flaunt his wealth and his status, and to gain favour among anyone who would give it to him. He was buying friends, buying respect and trying to erase all thoughts of the previous day's massacre from his mind. Six months left and counting; that's all he had left on his service and then he was done.
  The corridor spun in front of him like a carnival illusion. He steadied himself against the wall and closed his eyes in an attempt to right the tilting ground. He heard vague whispers addressing him as he tried to focus. 'Ashe!' 'Look, it's Ashe Marvel.' 'He looks drunk!' 'Typical, just like him.' He was, however, for the most part left alone. The Swan was no stranger to people of status, it was one of the most exclusive bars in the Capital and a frequent favourite of his, he was no outsider here.
  "Ashe!"
 He opened his eyes, squinting for the source of the voice, trying to focus the surrounding blur into some semblance of clarity. A flowing streak of gold appeared in front of him. A woman, smiling, leaning casually against the wall, matching his own position.
  "Ashe?" she asked again, moving her head to catch his eye.
  He concentrated, and noticed a passing server carrying a tray and asked him for a glass of ice water to be brought to where he was standing. The server nodded in acknowledgement and disappeared. Ashe returned his attention to the woman in front of him, her face slowly began swimming into focus, but it took him remaining perfectly still to achieve the effect.
  "Are you okay?" she asked.
  Suddenly, his focus required no effort. Her face appeared through the haze, her eyes locked onto his. All feeling of needing to urinate vanished, and he could have sworn he even sobered up a little. She was beautiful, and her aroma was intoxicating.
  Her eyes were almost turquoise, a piercing mix of blue and green that seemed to grip his attention and refuse to let go. Her full lips framed an immaculate set of teeth in a smile that made his heart race, and he could already feel the rising wave of primal desire below his waist. He couldn't look away from her, he both knew her and did not; his alcohol-addled mind was struggling to find the familiarity in her beauty but it was the smell that made it hard to think. Her scent was an intense mix of sweet floral, and sophisticated musk; both every aroma, and none of them, and every time he thought he could name an ingredient it would slip away from his mind as if it were the remnant of a dream. He'd never felt this before, normally after a quick scan of a person's body he'd make his decision there and then if it was worth a ride but this one - Ashe couldn't remove his eyes from her gaze, and couldn't concentrate for the smell.
 "I'm sorry...have we met before...?" He was confused, uncharacteristically so. His head was foggy, but no longer from alcohol.
  "I'm sorry, I just assumed... I'm sure all your fans blend into one," she said, suddenly bashful. "We met this afternoon, at Primrose Strip. I took a photo with you....we kissed."
  She briefly looked away, a shy smile touching the corners of her mouth.
  I want her, Ashe thought. Now. He knew he could, he could have almost anyone he wanted, it was just a case of playing the game. But this particular woman? Ashe had never felt desire like it before in his life. It was primal, uncontrollable.
  Her reminder had finally jogged his memory. Of course. She was part of the group he'd met that very afternoon. He'd signed autographs and taken pictures, the kiss was harmless fun, but definitely not unpleasant, although he didn't recall feeling like he did now at the time. Perhaps his focus had been elsewhere, soaking up the group's attention and publicity.
  "Of course, of course," Ashe said. "My apologies. Ashe Marvel."
  He held out his hand, she took it, and shook. "I'm Polly." Her voice was light, playful. Confident yet hesitant.
  Ashe lifted her hand and kissed it. "Tis a pleasure to meet you properly, Polly."
 She giggled, breathy, and took a sip of her drink which Ashe had not noticed until that point. It was something lilac with ice and spices. He flashed her his most dashing smile.
   "It compliments your eyes," he said, then started laughing. She joined in. "I'm sorry, not my best line. Doesn't even make the list if I'm honest."
   She waved away his self-depreciation, still giggling. She took another sip, never removing her eyes from his. He touched her hair. He barely noticed he was doing it.
   "Wow," she said, looking around awkwardly. "I can't believe it. I'm in The Swan of all places...having a drink...with Ashe Marvel!" 
   "I get this all the time. It's perfectly normal," Ashe said with forced modesty.
   "Could I, maybe, buy you a drink?" Polly asked.
   "That's very kind, I would love -"
   "Your water, Mister Marvel."
    The server had returned, holding out the ice water on a tray.
    Ashe fired a quick look of embarrassment at Polly, fumbled for a moment then took the water with a shrug.
   "Thank you,' he said. The server left and Ashe raised the glass. "It's important to stay hydrated. First rule of competing."
   He downed the water in one and felt the cold liquid hit his stomach. It protested the invasion of any non-alcoholic liquid with a sickening rumble. He suppressed a belch and focused desperately on trying not to vomit.
   "Are you okay?" Polly asked with a concerned smile.
   There it was again, a waft of that aroma, it seemed to instantly soothe his stomach and clear his head.
   "I'm fine...." he searched for her name again.
   "Polly."
   "Polly! Of course. I'm sorry, sorry. I'm absolutely fine."
   She sipped her drink again, her eyes peering at him over the rim of her glass. He reached for her hair again, ran his fingers through it. It was like silk.
   "So, what brings you here tonight?"
   "Mister Marvel, is a girl not allowed a little mystery?"
   "Oh she's allowed some, but someone as...alluring as you must have at least something she can tell me? What is Polly about? Who is she?"
   "Not much to say," she said with a flirtatious shrug, once more briefly looking away. She raised her eyes and locked them on his with an intensity that made his groin ache. "I'd rather show you."
   This is a sure thing, Ashe thought. He didn't even try to hide his increased swagger, or his excitement.
   "Are you always this forthcoming?" His voice quivered with anticipation, he barely noticed.
   "Only with the men I want," she said, her face serious. Her eyes burned with desire. 
    Ashe could no longer contain himself. "How about this," he took her glass from her and downed the rest of the drink in one gulp, not even paying attention to what it was. "We'll just put this here glass down and you can have the undivided attention of Ashe Marvel for the rest of the evening."
   He handed the glass to a passing patron, who ignored it. The glass plummeted to the floor and shattered.
   "Oops," Ashe said. They burst out laughing together.
   "Let's pretend that never happened," he continued, holding out his hand. She took it as he shook off excess glass fragments from his boot.
   "Have you ever been to the Outer Court?" he asked.
   "Never," she said, excited.
   "Well, allow me to show you." He led her through the tavern and through the crowd. He ignored the occasional whisper of gossip and the looks of envy from other women. Polly gripped his hand tighter as they made their way through the throng until they finally emerged into the night air.
  The breeze was like a cold slap to the face. A fresh wave of nausea rolled over Ashe from head to toe and he wavered, stumbling. Polly was there, holding him upright. He shook his head, a brief moment of intoxicated clarity washing over him - he realised how sick he felt. He needed to vomit urgently, and he could feel the wave turning into a storm.
   "Would you excuse me, I just need to -"
   She was on him. Polly turned him around and pressed her lips to his, parting them slightly. She held the back of his head and put her other hand on his shoulder. He held her waist, breathing deeply of that intangible smell as he kissed her back. They remained that way for a few moments, under the glow of The Swans entrance light. Her lips and tongue explored his and with every second that passed Ashe felt better; clearer headed and less nauseous.
  Polly pulled away, and he noticed under the soft light that her skin was flawless, almost glowing with its own light.
  "Take me," she said simply.
  "I intend to," he replied.
  They clasped hands and turned back towards the tavern. The entrance host, who had attempted unsuccessfully not to watch their entire exchange, smiled and stood up straight, failing to mask his awkwardness.
   "Can you call us a cart? And make haste." Ashe handed him a folded Chroma bill.
   "We already have several waiting nearby, Mister Marvel, one will be with you imminently," the host tapped away on his datapad, inputting Ashe's details into the cart's auto-nav booking system. The cart rounded the corner less than three minutes later. Polly stroked Ashe's neck and hands as they waited. Her touch was electrifying.
   He remembered little of the ride back to the barracks. It was a blur of kissing, caressing, petting, and the nauseating driving motion that somehow never quite reached his brain. 
  He had no idea how long it took the cart to reach the Southern watch gate of the barracks, but before long Ashe had checked them both in past security and they were strolling towards his lodge. They laughed, talked, touched, and stopped every few metres to taste each other once more. The night was clear and the moonlight from Yang - Lemuria's primary moon - shone down creating artful shadows and shapes of darkness that the two of them flitted between, taking advantage of the occasional patch of blackness to playfully fondle each other or kiss. In his intoxicated and infatuated delirium, Ashe became aware of how incredibly romantic the entire evening had become. A statement he repeated blearily to Polly on several occasions during their stroll, prompting laughter and gropes of agreement.
  They reached his lodge and after fumbling with the thumb lock, Ashe pulled Polly inside. It was expensively decorated with pieces of art and abstract sculptures and ornaments that sat at odds with the utilitarian design. Lush throws and rugs covered the floor and lounge area. The display of wealth was somewhat tasteless and unnecessary, although it was positively humble compared to the condo he owned outside the city, on the Katoa Bluffs. Ashe was used to a certain standard of living, and if the Capital insisted he live on site, then he certainly wasn't going to sacrifice any of his comforts.
 They crossed the threshold, hungrily kissing and clawing at each other. Polly had already pulled off his jacket when he managed to pull away briefly to slur out a few words.
  "Can I get you another drink -"
  She silenced him with a kiss. "Shut up," she then said, dropping her small shoulder bag and pushing him to the floor.
  They didn't make it to the bedroom. Polly straddled atop him, unlacing her jerkin. Her toned and lithe legs clasped his waist. The short skirt she wore revealed everything she wanted to show him, and everything he needed to see.
  His delirium mixed with his desire in a hazed frenzy, and he ran his hands up her legs, grasping the smooth roundness that was hidden under her skirt.
  "You know," he said, now entranced by the smooth, curvaceous torso that was being revealed above him, "I'm writing an autobiography..."
  "And I'll be sure to read it cover to cover," she lowered her bare breasts to his face before kissing down his neck and tearing his shirt open, seemingly ignoring the small belch that he couldn't hold back.
  Their sex was passionate and adventurous. Although for Ashe it was like a dream. He felt an uncharacteristic distance from his own body and among the moans and gasps he felt somewhat detached, despite never taking his eyes off the beautiful, flawless flesh that was atop, in front or under his body. Her skin was flawless, her hair shone in the lamplight, and that aroma - her scent was pure bliss.
  She's like a goddess. He'd never experienced a woman, anyone for that matter, like her. She caused repeated waves of pleasure to course up and down his body with her skill and confidence.
  "I can't believe I'm here," she gasped under him at one point.
  "Well, dreams can come true," he said, distantly aware of the words and their shameless arrogance, but he didn't care. He'd lost track of himself and of all passage of time, he had no idea how long their love-making lasted. 
  When they were done, they lay entwined in each other's arms, breathing heavily, slick with sweat. Even by his own standards, Ashe was extremely pleased with his performance and how the night had unfolded.
  "That was amazing," he said. Unaware that all need to urinate or vomit had long since vanished.
  "Who wouldn't want to savour every moment with the Ashe Marvel," she said, rolling over and propping herself up on her arm.
  He laughed. His head was still foggy, and the room was spinning. The waves of drunken exhaustion seemed to wash over him again. His lids were heavy and he knew he was ready to pass out.
  "I expect you to be here tomorrow," he said confidently.
  "Oh, I'm not going anywhere. The rest of the girls aren't going to believe me. I'm going to get as much as I can."
  There was at that moment, a brief flicker in Ashe's subconscious, something he was unable to grasp or articulate. The thought was hidden under layers of alcohol and endorphins and was gone as quickly as it came, buried once more.
  "As long as I won't just be a trophy like all your other girls." Polly's eyes were suddenly wounded, her voice sweetly innocent. Ashe's heart skipped a beat as his mind finally started to shut down.
  "No...no...." he murmured. "You....you're something special....." his voice trailed off into a snooze. As he drifted off into unconsciousness, breathing deeply of Polly's musk, the thought once again tried to rear its head over the tide of inebriation. If Ashe had been able to recognize the thought, swimming around the rim of the soup of his subconscious, it was that he didn't recall any of Polly's supposed companions being anywhere in the tavern. No tag-alongs, no goodbyes, and no other young women clamouring for a slice of his attention. He would have known it was unusual in a clearer state of mind, but all he could think about as he fell into sleep, was of he and Polly's passion and the comforting thought that she would be there when he woke.

007: MARINA - EQUATORIAL DISTRICT - NIGHT 2

  Although popular amongst the city's elite and cosmopolitan, The Swan Tavern was a very traditional looking watering hole. Its décor was heavily influenced by 19th century Old Earth with heavy woods and dark grain finished off with comfortable armchairs and ornately carved benches and statues. Although somewhat old fashioned, it was clean and spacious. The tavern was no stranger to hosting famous faces and many politicians, actors, musicians and athletes were known to regularly frequent its doors. Ashe was of course known to the venue, as he was to most of the city, and he had booked out one of the taverns private rooms - which bore the clever double meaning name of The Bevy Room - and it was now full of laughing, jeering members of the capitals military, which is how Marina found herself in the exclusive VIP area that evening. It was an experience she was not sure if she was entirely comfortable with .
   The Bevy was full of sofas and armchairs, large tables, small personal tables and a private bar with three dedicated servers in addition to self service table terminals. In the corner was a roaring fire, but the Bevy's ventilation system was built in such a way that the staff could directly control the heat and smoke output, and so even though it was a warm night, the heat of the fire did not intrude or make the temperature uncomfortable. Instead, the smell of wood smoke mixed with the aromas of tobacco, beer, mead, spilled spirits, and cooking to create a cosy welcoming atmosphere.
  After leaving Ashe at the Primrose Strip, and after some internal debate - which involved more directionless wandering - Marina had decided to stop in on the Corporal's intoxication session, promising herself only one drink. Two maximum. She was happy to show face and perform the social niceties, fulfilling the invitation offered. She knew she needed the distraction as she was only driving herself into a frenzied spiral or rage and confusion with her own thoughts. Two drinks maximum, a temporary escape, and then she'd head home and try to put things right with Kal.
  On her arrival, Marina had been directed to the Bevy by the tavern's host and was embraced by a beaming, enthusiastic and already drunk Ashe who made a point of showing her off to the already assembled hoppers. Marina was pleasantly surprised to find a good number of her own troops there, amongst the numerous other soldiers of various ranks and battalions. Within minutes she'd found himself at the larger of the corner tables with Ashe, Travis, Graves, and two other hoppers she was unfamiliar with. They introduced themselves as Privates Holden and Garvey; Marina vaguely recognised the larger of the two, Garvey, from numerous formal events and training sessions. Holden, she assumed, must have been a rookie - part of a fresh intake.
  Her one drink limit was quickly ignored, turning into three then four and eventually to more. Seven drinks in and three hours later Marina had finally started to relax and was surprised to find that she was actually enjoying herself. This thought only occurred to her when the briefest flicker of concern for Canhos and the suspension tried to rear its head and her unexpected merriment and cheer shoved it aside as quickly as it had come. It was tomorrow's problem. Kal too. It was a very Ashe way of thinking, which made her smile and shake her head. She had to concede that maybe, perhaps, Ashe's idea to invite her was exactly what she'd needed.
  Marina drifted back from her own thoughts to the current conversation, Travis was midway through relaying a story about Corporal McKenzie. McKenzie was a prankster and a trickster, with a playful disregard for authority that he'd somehow managed to always get away with. He'd been well liked amongst the battalion and had been one of first lost at First Province, taken out by the initial mortar explosion.
  "- so Captain Tatarian, he's assembled the whole company, and he's pacing up and down the line waving this birthday card in the air, and he's screaming! The man is so angry!"
  "So it actually had the whole -" Holden asked gesturing to an imaginary pair of breasts on his chest.
  "Oh the whole thing!" Travis continued. "Happy Birthday, Captain TITARIAN! With..."
  He was unable to finish through laughing.
  "The biggest pair of tits you've ever seen bursting out of his uniform," Graves was choking through laughter. "I mean, I'm proud of what I've got, but these were something else. Just sitting there under his big bearded face."
  Another round of laughter, Ashe was wiping away tears. Marina was dimly aware of her ribs crying out in pain with every outburst of cackling, but the combination of beer and regrowth hormone had created a numbness. The pain was there, but wasn't quite reaching her brain.
  Travis continued after a large gulp of mead. "So the Captain demands an explanation and a culprit to come forward. He doesn't even have to ask twice, McKenzie is there, front and centre, kitbag at his feet. Now Tatarian, he's a predictable piece of work, a man of habit - you'll find out soon enough no doubt," Travis addressed this last part to Holden. "Anyway, his standard punishment was always two hundred push ups, always. He just yelled it out on autopilot. Mckenzie... McKenzie was ready though. Titarian...Tatarian I mean -" They all burst out laughing afresh. "Tatarian, says, as expected, 'Private' -  MacKenzie, he was a Private then, I think I said - he says 'Private, drop and give me two hundred.' McKenzie, without a beat, says 'Aye Sir' and drops to his kitbag..."
  "Oh no," Holden said. 'Oh no...he didn't have -"
  "Shhhh shhhh," Graves waved him quiet eagerly, still giggling.
  "McKenzie opens that bag, turns it upside down and out comes two hundred more copies of that damn birthday card!"
  The entire table erupted in fresh bouts of screaming laughter, this time Marina did have to hold her chest. She hadn't been there to witness the event in question but had heard about it shortly after as it spread around the barracks, but hearing Travis tell it now, after so long, now the culprit was gone, just brought home the absurdity of it all.
  Ashe was struggling to breathe as he was mid-gulp at the story's climax, Garvey whacked him on the back which created a burst of saliva ridden mead that erupted from Ashe's mouth. Amongst the laughter, Travis yelled.
  "And that's not even the punchline!"
  The rest of the table erupted once more, knowing what was coming, all but Holden.
  "Oh no, what?" Holden asked, chuckling but curious.
  "What can the Captain do? He just looks at the pile of cards, finally cracks, sighs and just says, 'Well Private, it's the most cards I've ever received on my birthday, so thanks for making a girl feel special.' "
  That was it, the whole table erupted into a final fit of laughter, Ashe was doubled over slapping the table, he was perched so far on the end of his chair that he nearly slipped off of it entirely. This caused Graves to knock her drink over and she just laughed even more. Travis however, looked suddenly sad.
  "He was a good lad. A good lad."
  "To fallen comrades," Marina said, raising her tankard.
  "To fallen comrades," the table said in unison. They drank, Graves just managing to salvage a sip out of her near empty glass.
  As if on cue, one of the servers approached the table, she was a voluptuous woman with a mass of voluminous chestnut curls. Her uniform, in keeping with the décor was a traditional skirt, blouse and corset combination that could barely contain her. Ashe had joked that the uniforms were the reason that he came here.
  "Can I get you more drinks, Mister Marvel?" She asked, datapad in hand.
  "Another round of the same please, and what are you lot having?" Ashe laughed at his own poor joke.
  "Very funny, Marvel," Garvey said.
  "I'm serious, another five for me please and whatever my friends here are having."
  "The same," Travis said. The rest gestured in kind.
  The Server started to enter the drinks into the datapad with barely hidden disapproval.
  "Will that be all, Mister Marvel?" she asked.
  "For now, thank you."
  The Server turned to leave, Marina reached for the servers arm.
  "Just one more round of the same, please. He's had enough, he won't notice. If he does, he'll answer to me," Marina smiled with a reassuring nod.
   The server returned the smile. "I trust he will, Miss...?'
  "O'Reilly. And you are?"
  "Naomi, Miss O'Reilly."
  "Thank you, Naomi."
  Naomi left with a warm smile.
  "Excuse me ladies and gentleman, the proverbial piss needs to be pushed out!" Ashe promptly let out a loud belch after his announcement and stood up precariously. Garvey reached for him. "I'm fine Garvey, I'm fine." He waved Garvey off and stumbled towards the bathroom.
  "Is he okay?" Marina asked Travis. "I think he needs to be cut off soon."
  "It's always the way, Commander. I've drank with Ashe a few times before, he goes hard and fast. Even worse if he's lost someone he was particularly close to."
  "I'm not sure what you mean, Lieutenant?"
  "Freeman," Travis said simply. "They...bedded down together once, I think Ashe is...struggling."
  "We're all struggling with yesterday, Ma'am," Graves said. "Some worse than others, but Ashe...he's not cut out for this."
  "Not everyone is, Lieutenant, but we have a duty and we have a calling and we have to adhere to it," Marina responded coldly. "Doesn't mean we drink ourselves into oblivion."
  The table went quiet. The good mood soured.
  "Tis fortunate we weren't on rotation yesterday," Garvey said, gesturing his tankard to Holden, who smiled wanly and looked uncomfortable.
  Marina's good cheer had evaporated also. She swirled the remains of his beer around the bottom of her tankard and downed it in one.
  "If you'll excuse me, nature calls also." She pushed her chair back and left the table.
  With her good mood gone, everything that had happened in the preceding hours rushed back to the forefront of her mind with a suddenness that was alarming. She paused in the hallway to the lavatories, steadying herself against the wall. She felt dizzy, short of breath, sick. She wasn't sure if it was the beer or the last two days' events overwhelming her. The thought of her possibly mutating into some hideous beast was enough to tip her over the edge - she dashed into the lavatories, barged her way into the nearest cubicle available and ejected the evenings revelry in a stream of burning bile. The sudden stabbing pain in her chest from the strain on her ribs made her choke on the final eruption. She collapsed against the cubicle wall, breathing deeply and trying to focus.
  I should never have come, blocking it all out isn't the answer.
 She sat, head in hands, unsure of how many minutes had passed.
 BANG BANG - she was jerked upwards by a pounding on the door.
  "Too much to drink, girl" the unknown voice on the other side jeered. There was a cacophony of laughter. "Come on! We all gotta piss!"
  "And shit!" somebody else yelled.
  Marina stood and opened the door, wiping her mouth.
  "It's all yours," she said without a smile or courtesy, she sidled past the man and his companion without even looking up. She left the bathroom and once again took a moment to gather herself in the hallway before returning to the table, she hesitated.
  What am I thinking? she chuckled to himself. I should leave. I'm done for the evening.
 A familiar laugh brought Marina out of her thoughts, and she turned to see Ashe further along the corridor, back turned towards her, leaning against the wall and casually talking to someone. A young woman whom Marina couldn't see clearly.
  He's busy anyway, I've done my niceties. Marina stood straight, swaying slightly and made to leave, but then she caught sight of the woman as she laughed, her hand upon Ashe's arm. She was blonde, very attractive and her full attention was intensely on Ashe and nowhere else. Marina recognised her, and squinting, it took her a few moments to place her. Had she been clearer headed and entirely sober she would have recognised her immediately.
   It was the woman with the datapad, one of the group who'd accosted Ashe that afternoon. The one who'd kissed him and posed for the photo. She, or the group, had most likely followed him here and without access to the VIP area, had waited for the most opportune moment to talk to him.
  Marina looked around, but could not spot any of the woman's compatriots, although she wasn't sure she could recall any of their faces if she tried. The datapad kiss is what had caused the blonde to stand out, had drawn Marina's attention - Ashe's too, clearly. She watched as Ashe ran his fingers through the woman's hair. They were flirting, laughing. Ashe was all drunk swagger and unsteady cockiness.
  No surprise, Marina thought. The decision to go home was now cemented. She was drunk, sick, in pain, and distracted; and now with Ashe preoccupied with another gushing fan, Marina's social anchor for the evening was out of commission. She turned and made her way towards the exit, bypassing the Bevy and not bothering with goodbyes. She was happy to slip away into the night and deal with her hangover tomorrow -
  "Where are you going!" Graves appeared at her side, another drink in hand.
  "Home, I've had -"
  "Oh no, Commander, we're not done with you yet. Come on." She threaded her arm through Marina's and escorted her back to the table, ignoring Marina's protests and the small patch of vomit on her shirt. Marina turned back, trying to spot Ashe through the crowd but could no longer see him.
  Marina was placed back in her chair and another beer appeared in front of her. She took it begrudgingly. One more wouldn't hurt - the famous last words.
  Giving one more final scan for Ashe, Marina thought she saw a familiar blond head escorted by much longer blonde locks bobbing through the crowd, but her vision was swimming and she couldn't be sure. And so, she drank.

 
  Often, in the days, weeks, and years that followed, Marina's thoughts would turn back to that moment in The Swan Tavern, watching Ashe as he stroked a stranger's hair. How easy it would have been for her to step in and interject, to usher her comrade back to the table. How easy it would have been for Marina to prevent the disaster that followed. 
  But alas she did not, and she would wear the regret like a noose for the rest of her days.

006: LOCKE - THE FLOAT - NIGHT 2

   Sunset gradually fell over the Float. For five square miles the cluster of ramshackle trading and repair outposts stretched out across the rippling liquid gold. The slowly waning sun pulled at the shadows of the workshops and outhouses until they resembled the black tentacles of some ancient beast exploring the water's surface.
   The Float was one of the few places on the waters where the sounds of combat and war were but a distant echo. It was neutral ground, a place for ships and tribes to go about their business freely, to parlay and lay down their swords and guns for treaties and alliances to be forged, however temporary. 
  The docks were quieter than usual, although still too busy for Locke's liking. Tider ships in all sizes and classes came and went, and the noises of repairs and aggressive bartering disturbed the otherwise peaceful ambience. There was too much activity, too many sets of eyes and mouths. Even with the quarter mile square perimeter that Knight and Chen had spent two weeks emptying and securing with the unwilling help and constant protests of current Season Wardens - a ramshackle collection of Foamers - there was no way that meeting Jackson could be done discreetly, as the grandeur of the man's vessel and his penchant for showmanship would make such a thing impossible. It was a sacrifice Locke had to make. Even with the banners of several Tider tribes swearing fealty to him and his vision, Locke could not afford any overheard piece of confidential intel, as the oceans were rife with spies and traitors. The nature of the Float meant that strategically speaking, it was still the safest place to meet and exchange the bondboxes - the final customary union of inter-ship collaboration. Neutral ground with the risk of danger was better than no parlAying ground at all.   
  The Ocean Ghost was docked at the Western most quay, dock twenty-seven. Locke stood in the shadow of his hulking ship, staring out at the fiery horizon, looking for the telltale outline in the clouds that would indicate Jackson's arrival. On his right, Woody stood, occasionally shuffling out of impatience. And behind them stood three crewmen whom Locke did not recognize, with the exception of the larger of the three who's mangled left eye was hidden under a patch embedded with a fake pearl. All three men had been handpicked by Woody for the meet and thus Locke had no cause for concern that things wouldn't run smoothly on his side of the proceedings. He had the utmost confidence in his Bo'sun. It was why there were after all. Knight and Chen were nearby, radios in hand coordinating the workers they'd enlisted to maintain security. 

   In the centre of Locke's group sat a large plain wooden chest with a heavy lock bolted to the front. The bondbox combination code had been transmitted to Sky a few hours before.
  "What time we on?" Locke asked, turning slightly to Woody.
  "Two minutes past," he said, checking his timepiece.
  "He's late," Locke replied simply.
  "He'll be here," Woody replied. "It's part of his...er... how'd you say, image?"
  "He's flashy, and I don't like it. Flashy often means disrespect. We agreed a time."
  "He's keen, Captain," Woody chuckled. 'Ain't nobody turnin' this down."
  Locke merely grunted in response, it was full of disdain and anger, more growl than grunt. There was still so much that could go wrong, and at this late stage when he was so close, it was hard to keep a cool head. Every fibre of his body seemed to vibrate with a barely controlled mix of anxiety and impatience. The way of life on the waters was built on mistrust, betrayal, and brutality; and here he was, violating his own mantra and putting his faith in strangers. Trusting the word of pirates. He felt a fool, but he needed what Jackson could offer, without it, they had no hope of succeeding.
  Reaching out to tribes of sky-tiders would have been unthinkable even a few months prior. Despite being a slowly dying culture, they remained somewhat detached from the water folk below them. They had their own codes and customs, laws and practices and yet still waged war against each other as much as they did the water folk. It was a universal tider mentality. Violence, crime, deception. It was the culture that bound them. Sky and sea. Wind and water. Two opposing sides of the same coin and the closest thing their kind had to a class system. But times were changing, and Locke was the one changing them. He'd spent years cultivating tenuous relationships with tribe heads and captains, building reputation and notoriety that would allow him to approach a sky-tider of Jackson's status without instant fear of his ship being blown to shrapnel. 
  He knew Jackson must be laughing at him though, knowing that he could bring Locke to ruin with a change of mind as sudden as a change in the wind. If he went back on his word, or caused Locke any undue fuss then Locke would make it his new life goal to kill the man - if he survived the betrayal. And after Jackson was dead, Woody would be second - or maybe before, depending on what he could offer as recompense - he'd recommended the arrogant wind-waif after all. 
   Locke pushed the thought from his mind and tried to stay focused on the task at hand. The negotiations had long been complete, the bulk of the correspondence happening over network messages and broadcasts. Every ship had to keep moving, keep sailing or flying. For safety and for profit. It made any long term negotiations almost impossible, hence their rarity. Now, all that was left was to exchange payment and look his temporary ally in the eye, each man examining the other. Then the final stage of the truce would be agreed, with nary a word spoken. Or, they would slaughter each other on the spot. 
   The minutes ticked by and Locke's impatience grew, his increasing anger simmering underneath. He could hear the slow, almost inaudible shuffling of boredom from the three crewmen behind him. It was distracting, and irksome.
  'Hold ya positions,' he said, not even turning around.
  The minutes continued to tick by and just when he thought he would give in himself and pack up to leave, Locke saw it. A shape on the horizon just above the surface of the water. A small black silhouette that had appeared and was growing gradually larger. Locke shielded his eyes against the setting sun and squinted.
  "Ah, this looks to be him now," Woody said from behind him. "Told you Captain, he ain't stupid enough to pass this up, no one is. Besides, he put his name to the truce charter. Ain't no going back on that. "
  "Until we're sailing west with her in my hold, I ain't gonna relax. Fingers on triggers at all times." Locke released the safety on his own weapon as the sounds of the skyship's great generator grew steadily louder. The rhythmic chopping and roaring of the vessels rotor engines would have already been causing commotion at surrounding docks had they not been cleared. He could imagine further out on the Float attention was already being turned towards dock twenty seven. He'd bet a whole ship's of worth of loot that every single pair of eyes and ears would be splitting attention between their own duties, and the meeting that was about to happen. He tried to push his agitation aside. Agitation, not nerves. Never nerves.
   There were, comparatively speaking, very few skyships left traversing Lemuria's atmosphere. Many had been early transport designs, symbols of status and wealth, with only the richest and most powerful tiders being able to acquire and upkeep the craft. Their size, relatively slow airspeed, the possibility of bountiful loot within, and the fact that there were almost no docks left suitable for landing them safely made them easy and high priority targets among both Parliamentary and tider forces. Only the most well armed skyships and the most well connected captains stood any chance of maintaining any sort of longevity. Like their inhabitants, the ships were a dying breed, and consequently many tiders - or continent dwellers for that matter - could go their whole lives without ever seeing one, hence the current rubbernecking and wave of chatter that would be spreading along the quays. It made him all manner of uneasy.
  The vessel grew closer within the orange clouds. The Crimson Sunrise was of standard skyship design. Its open boat-like hull was lit from underneath by four glowing engine nodes and navigation lights. Its solar-wings, currently retracted, created dark shapes of bulky intimidation running along its port and starboard sides and its two main sails, facing edge on to the stern were at full mast, displaying the ships sigil, which Locke knew was a flaming sun with it's bladed beams extending left-to-right in a fan of crimson red.
  The ship settled into a controlled hover over the Ocean Ghost's adjacent dock. Four crewmen emerged from the hull, abseiling downwards harnessed to heavy ropes. In one smooth motion they descended, detached and began tethering the ship to docking posts, communicating to each other in surftongue hand signals over the roar of the ships engines. The updraft created by the generators made it impossible to speak normally and the wind threw up any nearby scraps of detritus, blowing them asunder in a snow storm of litter.
  When the ship was tethered in position, it gradually lowered its stern ramp which rather than a single hinged platform was a series of telescopic interlinking steps. The ship hovered inches above the quay, barely moving up or down or side to side. Locke couldn't help but admire the altitude control of the vessel and its helmsman. It had been many years since he'd laid eyes on a skyship, and even longer since he'd been up close with one. He took in the vessel's details with the keen eye of an amateur historian.
 As the four abseiling tiders took up casual positions nearby, two more tiders came lumbering down the ramp, heavily armed in quality armour and carrying top of the range rifles. The immediate and overt show of wealth and status did nothing to alleviate Locke's simmering anger and his admiration of the ship was quickly over. It was down to business. He watched the two guards take up position at either side of the ramp, facing him and his small contingent.
  From behind them, swaggering down the ramp with an arrogance that made Locke physically clench his fists came Sky Jackson. A slight man of ancient oriental descent, his neatly cut hair and clean shaven face framed a pair of reflective sun-lenses. His long leather coat swayed in the updraft and the two platinum plated pistols that hung around his shoulders on dark purple ribbon glistened in the sunset. Although Locke had never before met the man face to face, he hated him on sight. Two more armed guards trailed behind him, completing the flank of protection.
  Eight escorts. As cowardly as he is rich. Locke could not hide the sneer on his face. Woody sensed the man's building fury and stepped in closer, both as a gesture of support and an effort to calm his captain.
  Jackson gestured in flamboyant, exaggerated surftongue, the growls and whistles of the intonations barely audible over the sounds of his ship's engines. It was still nonetheless far clearer than actual speech had any hope of being.
  "Captain Locke Goodman! What a pleasure it is to finally be in your company. How fare you? I must say, when I got the call to say the most infamous and disreputable tider on Lemuria wanted to meet me, I was, well, I was -"
  "You know why you're here, Jackson," Locke cut him off, responding with surftongue in kind.
  Sky smiled, paused for thought. "Nothin's final until I get my Chroma."
  "Chroma ain't the be all of the situation, you signed a truce charter, sent over by my Bo'Sun here. Don't make me regret havin' him by my side."
  Sky looked at Woody and fired over a nod. "Woody. How's the lung?"
  "Still breathing," Woody responded with the barest flick of the hands.
  "He tell you I stabbed him in the lung once?" Sky said with a laugh. "Bondbox. Please."
   Locke gestured over to the three men behind him and they carried the chest over and settled it at his feet, directly between him and Sky. 
   "As per your terms on the charter." Woody gestured. Sky clapped his hands and two of the unarmoured tiders came running, one held a grubby datapad and bent over the chest, entering the combination. After a few moments, the lid popped open with a hiss.  

   Sky examined the three heavy sacks of coin nestled among various bottles of booze, all wrapped in cloth and foam sheeting. 

"Seven thousand, as agreed," Woody said. "We've thrown in some extra bits of bounty as a good will gesture. You won't find them in the inventory."

  The tider with the datapad was already working through the chest, checking off the items against the pre-provided inventory list.

  "Oh, you shouldn't have," Jackson said with mock sincerity. 
  "The other ships loyal to our cause?" Locke asked. "I ain't seen any verification yet."
  Sky reached into his jacket and removed a datapad, he handed it to Locke. The screen was already glowing with the electronic truce charter.
  "You'll see the thumb print verifications of the captains are all present and accounted for. Starr and the Angels Hurricane, Montana and the Cloudhammer. As requested. Both agree. Both eager."
  "And they'll be there? Agreed time and place." Locke never moved his eyes from the man, never gave him the window to make any disagreeable look or hand gesture that would undo their agreement. He was pleased to see that Jackson not only returned the stare, but maintained it in kind, even removing his sun-lenses to prove a point.
  "You'll find tracking signatures on the charter there. You can keep an eye on them yourselves, but I promise you, they'll be there. I've dealt a few deals, bargained a few bargains, boxed a few bondboxes. You'll have your ordinance, men and carrying space, however you want to use them."
  "The understandin' is thirty percent of their plunder," Locke confirmed. He'd cover every detail of the charter and its agreed exchanges before even setting foot on the Sunrise for Capital airspace. He was leaving nothing to chance.
  "I've read the terms and so have they. They've agreed. You can't see the thumbprints or something?"
 Locke's hand went to his pistol in an almost unconscious reaction to the implication of any issue with his intelligence. Woody's hand came to rest gently on his arm. Locke relented. This did not go unnoticed by Sky.
  "Look, Goodman, you got nothin' to worry about. No one would be churlish enough to pass up this opportunity. Not nobody. Oh, and as a little gesture of good faith..." He turned - finally breaking the mutual glare that Locke was so determined to win - and briefly whistled back towards his ship. Two of the armoured guards returned with a bigger, more ornate chest, which thudded on the deck at Locke's feet.
  "Tis a gift. Think of it as a proposal for potential future business arrangements."
  Locke looked at Sky, unwavering. He had no intention of going anywhere near the supposed 'gift.'
  "Fine!" Sky cried aloud, breaking the surftongue exchange. He threw up his hands. "I'll open it. It's perfectly safe." He knelt down, pressing his thumb to the lock, then kicked the box open in a gesture too dramatic for the current situation.
  "Just a few items I picked up," he said, reverting back to surftongue.
 Inside the chest was a small banquet. Fresh fruit, fresh vegetables, prime cuts of meat, and quality cheese and bread. Locke thought he could see a bag of coffee and some rare spices in there too. It was at least three times the worth of the bondbox he'd prepared. He had to one up. Had to go one better. On my own truce. 
  "Thank you," Locke said through near-gritted teeth. Glad that any disingenuous tones that may have slipped through were obscured by the Sunrise's engines.
  Jackson merely smiled a sickeningly cocky smile. He was pushing boundaries, testing his limits and enjoying every second.
One day, when this is all over, I'll kill you for this, Locke thought. 
  "My treat," Sky said, still smiling.
  After a moment of stillness, each man debating how to end the meeting cleanly and without hostility, Sky finally spoke.
  "Now, about the hoppers. Their military complex sits at the heart of the city, the defence turrets are -"
 "Taken care of. A need to know basis," Locke replied sharply. "As agreed, you get us over the Capital, we'll do the rest."
  "Does this have anything to do with that stunt you pulled at First Province? That was impressive. It's all over the broadcasts you know. I think you just went up a few places in Parliament's most wanted."
  "I believe I'm already at number one," Locke said coolly. "They know who I am and what I can do. And what I do to those who dishonour me." He made the threat clear. 
  "Tis an admirable statement," Sky replied, picking up on the threat. All semblance of his shit-eating grin gone. "But if I'm flying my men and my ship into Parliament airspace with what they have available, I think I have a right to know."
   Locke turned to Woody, his anger now morphing into a rage that was about to burst. He sighed in an effort to calm himself, his fingers twitching for his pistol. He rubbed his eyes, exasperated.
  "We have someone on the inside," Woody gestured, breaking the tension "That's all you need to know."
 Sky seemed satisfied with that, at least for the time being. He flicked a look to each of them.
  "Well gentleman, we have an hour or so before we take off and a long day ahead of us tomorrow," he knelt down and rummaged in the banquet chest and emerged with a bottle of clear, thirty-year vintage rum. "So what say you both to a drink to toast our new found friendship?"
  Locke looked at the bottle meant for him as a gift and turned to Woody, who merely gestured with a shrug. Locke managed a pained smile and held out his large, grubby hand, the other still hovering over his holster.
  Just one, I suppose I can manage that.