She knew something terrible had happened to the Marine years before, something horribly unfair. He’d been forced to resign from the Corps, she’d gleaned that much. He’d come close to telling her the specifics on a couple occasions—always in the middle of a Blast stupor—but he’d never been able to talk about it, not beyond disordered snippets that didn’t make any real sense to her.

  She had discerned his weakness, at least to her way of thinking, the thing that had broken him, consigned him to a life of poverty and drug abuse as a desperate attempt to manage the pain. He believed in the Corps, he’d believed in the Confederation. He still did, in his own fashion, even then. But Andi saw only that his devotion had not been returned. He’d been cast aside, left to die in grim obscurity. His faith had been his undoing, his blind loyalty.

  Andi didn’t believe in anything, and her cynicism and dark outlook protected her like a shield. The universe was harsh and cold, and above all, it was corrupt. Her father had died because he’d clashed with someone more powerful. He’d never even lived to see his daughter born. Her mother had died after years of pain and misery and giving all she had to give to protect her child.

  Now, she saw the Marine, a good man, even to her jaded perspective, lost and thrown away, killing himself slowly as he tried to dull the ache inside him. No, Andi had promised herself, she might believe in people—very occasionally—ones she knew well, ones who truly revealed themselves to her, proven themselves, but systems and governments? No way. Not ever. They were all foul and twisted, jammed full of the worst of humanity, driven by lust for personal power and for privilege out of reach of most of those they purported to represent. They were dangerous monstrosities, and most of humanity’s worst nightmares had been brought on by its ruling bodies, by the actions of its leaders. The failings of such institutions had led to the Cataclysm, to uncounted deaths and unimaginable suffering.

  The closer, more focused viewpoint was no less discouraging. She’d watched what loyalty and devotion to such ideals had done to the Marine, to one good man, and she’d sworn then and there.

  Never. Not me.

  The powers out there might defeat her, they might kill her. But she would never kneel before them, never trust in them or give them that part of herself that made her unique. She would not obey, not become a slave to those who would rule her life, her actions…her very thought.

  She wandered around the market, carefully choosing her items, and taking care not to let on how much coin she had in her purse. The Fairmont wasn’t the Gut, but it wasn’t a place where it was wise to advertise anything worth stealing.

  Is there anyplace where that is wise?

  Her last stop was at a small baker’s stall. She looked around at the assortment of items, and she bought two large pastries. The Marine had a wicked sweet tooth, and she smiled as she reached out and took the bag. It would be a nice surprise, one that would make him happy.

  For a fleeting moment, at least.

  She made her way back to the Gut, back to the tiny corner of hell she called home. She went the longer way, as usual. The section of the Strand that cut through the Gut was more direct, knocking maybe a quarter of a kilometer from the route, but it also passed by Bannon Street, where her mother had died. Andi always avoided the place. She’d run that terrible day, half in panic and half because she couldn’t bear to see her mother lying there, dead and bloodied. She’d left the body where she’d found it—an action that had always troubled her—and she hadn’t been back since.

  She made her way back, and she walked into the warehouse, past the same lineup of empty, vacant stares, and through the hole in the back wall, the entryway to what passed for home.

  “I’m back,” she said, setting her sack down on the old crate they used for a table. “I got us a true feast!” That was an exaggeration, of course, but she had gone a bit crazy, at least by the standards of thrift that usually governed their meager existence.

  She looked across the room, toward the half-collapsed box they used as a shelf. Among his handful of weapons and meager personal possessions, the Marine had something else Andi had never seen before she’d met him. A stack of books.

  Not data chips, not electronic tablets, but actual paper books, about a dozen of them. They were old technology, ancient really, rarely used anywhere save as curiosity pieces, but they didn’t require power to use, and that made them ideal for squatters in the Gut. At least the few of them who were literate and had any real desire to read.

  The Marine had taught her to fight, to survive…and he’d taught her to read as well. Sometimes she wondered what that was worth in a place like the Gut, but then she sat and read one of the books—working her way fitfully through at first—and she escaped from the cold dreariness of her existence. At least for a short time.

  “Maybe we can read together after dinner,” she said. She walked across the room, reaching down and scooping up her favorite of the books. It was old, how old she couldn’t even guess. It was in pretty rough shape, nothing but the title legible on its worn cover. But most of the inside pages were still readable, and she’d loved the fantastic stories in it from the moment she’d first read them with the Marine, him teaching her with every word, pulling her from illiteracy and ignorance.

  She didn’t know where it had come from, nor of course, did the Marine, save that he’d found it years before, paying a few centicredits for it. Even its title was a mystery. Favorite Myths. She had no idea what a myth was, but she’d reasoned it had to be some kind of fiction. The stories told of fantastic settings, with gods of all sorts and superhuman heroes engaging in wild adventures.

  She’d read it a dozen times, savoring each of the stories, and, in her favorite of them all, there was something truly fantastic, at least to her imagination. A white horse, with wings. A horse named Pegasus.

  Chapter Three

  “The Gut”

  Vulcan City

  Planet Parsephon, Obliesk II

  Year 298 AC

  Andi jumped up, hurling herself over the fence and landing with practiced grace. She was tall, her legs long, well-suited to leaping over obstacles. She’d grown more than five centimeters in the last twelve months, and three years of constant training under the Marine’s instruction and watchful eye had turned her into a razor…fast, strong, alert. Deadly in a fight. Far more dangerous than many people expected a seventeen-year-old girl trailing a long ponytail behind her to be. Which was good. Surprise, also, could be a deadly weapon.

  She was pleased with herself, with what she’d become over the past three years, but there was a dark side there as well, a grim comparison that troubled her greatly. As she had risen, as her abilities had grown and expanded, the Marine had fallen, his health and vigor fading with each passing day, it seemed. His Blast habit had gotten worse and worse, his binges more and more frequent, driven ever more by a growing physical addiction he was powerless to resist. She’d long since learned to look the other way, but it tore at her guts to see him weakening, failing, deriving pleasure from fewer and fewer pursuits, save only the drug that enslaved him, the one he was taking almost every day.

  He was in trouble for money, too, she was almost sure of that. He’d never had much, mostly because what retirement pay he’d gotten from the Corps, whatever pension he’d managed to cling to after the shadowy conditions surrounding his discharge, had gone almost entirely to support his habit. He’d been edgier than usual of late, even scared, so much so that she’d offered him her own money to pay for his drugs, something she’d sworn she would never do.

  She would help him anyway she could, with food, clothing, medicine—but the idea of supporting the habit that was killing him was anathema to her. Still, she would have done it. Anything to help him, to pull him back from the precipice she could see up ahead, and not too far down the road.

  He’d refused, though, as she knew he would, insisting he was fine. Still, she was sure he was in trouble. She just didn’t know what to do about it.

  She climbed up a rusted old ladder leading to the roof of a large warehouse. It was a shortcut of sorts, one she’d been using for about six months, a way to avoid the crowds, and the unsavory types hanging around the main road. She’d been afraid of many of them once, but now it was more a desire to avoid problems. The fear was gone, for the most part, but killing someone in broad daylight in the middle of the street could lead to entanglements she didn’t want. Even in the Gut, killings were best kept in dark alleys and crumbling buildings.

  The warehouse she used as a cut through was actually an active storage facility, unlike so many of the abandoned buildings in the Gut. Still, she’d only been given a hard time once. A foreman or some kind of supervisor tried to chase her away one day, but she’d looked him right in the eye and told him if she ever so much as heard his voice again, she would cut his throat for the sheer pleasure of watching him bleed to death. She didn’t mean it, not really, at least not if he didn’t try to harm her first—she wasn’t a sadist—but she thought it sounded right, almost poetic. If scaring the fool could keep him away from her, it would also keep him safe.

  And, so it had. The man’s face had turned white as a sheet, and he’d spun around and rushed back to the ladder. She’d never seen him—nor heard his voice—again.

  She climbed back down the other side of the building and raced through the depressingly familiar streets. They were the same as always, but she barely noticed the usual misery and squalor. She’d been out for hours, since before dawn, and she was nervous. She didn’t like leaving the Marine alone, not for so long. Not in the state he’d been in. It was well past time to check on him.

  She patted her hand down at the small purse hanging from her belt as she turned the corner, doublechecking that her score was still there. She’d snatched it with practiced, almost ludicrous, ease, pulling it right from her victim’s bag. It had been a personal indulgence or a present or something of the sort, she guessed, and no doubt, it’s former owner would pull her hair out wondering where it went.

  And then she’ll just buy another one with money she won’t miss, and this will feed us for half the year…

  Andi had become quite adept at snatching things from unsuspecting marks, a far safer and simpler pursuit than her old tactic of robbing well-protected homes. She could escape pursuit if necessary—she’d done it dozens of times—but it was far easier to avoid it entirely.

  The bracelet was valuable, she was sure of that. She’d developed quite a good eye for picking out her marks, especially since she’d found that the depreciation was a bit less severe when she fenced items of true quality. One bit of precious jewelry was worth far more than a sack full of lesser items.

  Of course, she was pretty sure Argus had been giving her better deals the last year or two, anyway. She wondered how much had to do with the quality of the goods she’d brought in, and how much with the increased chance that she might slit his guts open if he tried to cheat her.

  There was a lesson in that, too, one she would be sure not to forget. She was developing an understanding of how things worked, how the universe functioned, one far more accurate than the lies most people willingly believed.

  She turned the corner onto the street that led to the dismal abode she shared with her companion…and she saw three men walking toward her.

  For an instant, she tensed up. There was something about them, something sinister. More so than the typical Gut inhabitant. It took her a few seconds, but then she realized. They reminded her of the thugs who’d almost run her down three years before, the day the Marine had saved her. They were laughing, a foul, guttural sound, and one of them held a rag. He was wiping blood from his hands.

  Andi got a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her hand went to her side, hovering just over the knife. She wasn’t that fourteen-year-old waif anymore, vulnerable, uncertain. She figured she had a chance, even against all three, at least with surprise on her side.

  But she didn’t know why they were there. She had fears, concerns, a bad feeling…but was that enough reason to kill three men?

  They deserve it, you know they do, whatever they’re doing here. Just look at them.

  The thoughts were there, swirling around, urging her to strike, but there was one thing that overruled them all. She had to get back. She had to check on the Marine.

  She raced down the street, abruptly breaking into a dead run, and she burst through the main entrance of the warehouse, shoving aside anyone who got in her way.

  Her heart was racing, and the fear was choking her, making each gasp of air painful and difficult. There were millions in the Gut, thousands even in her tiny section of it, and no small percentage of them were in some kind of trouble with the rackets. Those men could have come for anyone.

  But, somehow, she knew they’d been there for the Marine.

  She slipped through the small opening in the wall, her eyes darting back and forth as she did. Then, she saw him. Lying on the floor, blood all around. Her worst fears had been realized.

  For an instant she thought he was dead. Then she heard a forced, raspy breath.

  She ran over, dropping to her knees next to him. She reached out, put her palm against his face. “Can you hear me?” She was sobbing even before the words left her lips.

  Her eyes moved over him, evaluating his condition, his wounds, and with each passing instant, what little hope she’d had slipped away. His clothes were soaked in blood, and she could see half a dozen knife wounds, at least. A cold realization sunk in as she knelt next to her only friend in the all the vast universe.

  He hadn’t just been attacked, she realized with growing anger. He had been tortured.

  She leaned down, bringing her face closer to his. “Can you hear me?” She spoke softly, trying to sound as soothing as possible. She wanted to cry, to sob uncontrollably, but somehow, she held it back.

  “Andi…” His voice was weak, and she could hear a fluid sound. Blood in his lungs…

  “Just lay back. I’m going to get help. You’ll…” She was going to say he would be okay, but she didn’t want her last words to him to be lies. And there was no help to get. There were no hospitals in the Gut, and no ambulances would come into the lost ghetto.

  “Andi…I’m sorry…fell behind…owed too much…”

  Andi’s fury hardened as the Marine’s words confirmed her suspicions. She’d seen his Blast habit worsen, and she’d wondered how he was paying for the drug. Now, she knew. He was going into debt to his suppliers, and finally, they’d lost patience with him.

  She looked down at her friend…the only one she’d ever had.

  And now you’re going to watch him die.

  She pulled out her knife and cut a slice from her tunic. She set it down over a gash on his chest. She pressed hard, trying to stop the bleeding, but even as she did, she knew there was no point.

  “Andi…we both…know I’m…done.”

  “No,” she said, the sobs she’d held back starting to escape. “No…you can’t…”

  “Listen…you have…to get out…not sure…safe here.” He gasped hard, his struggled breathing a sickly rattle.

  “Don’t worry about me. We have to do something about these wounds. I can’t let you…” Her words trailed off to silence.

  “Andi…” His voice was softer, fading even as he spoke to her. “…you have to…let me…go…” He sucked in another breath, clearly with great difficulty. “Go…leave here…now. Go to…spaceport. Freighter…Belstar. Find…”

  “Please…you have to rest…” She kept her hand on his face, doing all she could to sooth him.

  “No…listen! Important. Find Captain…Hiram…owes me favor…show him…” He held out his hand. His arm was shaking, and it was clearly taking all his strength. “Take…” He sucked in another breath. “Take,” he said again, and he opened his hand.

  There was a small steel chain, and a set of ID tags. Marine ID tags. She’d seen them around his neck a thousand times. This was the first time she’d seen them off.

  “Show…to Hiram…tell him…want him…take you off…Parsephon…”

  Andi reached out, took the tags, pausing for a few seconds, holding the Marine’s hand. The tears were streaming down her cheeks by then, all pretense at control gone.

  Her mind raced, things she wanted to say to him, words she knew should be—had to be—spoken between them. He had saved her life, taught her, protected her when she needed it. He was the only father she’d ever had.

  But she just knelt there, his hand in hers, silent as she watched him draw one last breath, and then she felt the last strength fade from his arm.

  A fresh torrent of tears poured from her eyes, and she set his arm down gently. She knelt where she was, for how long she could never remember, but finally, it was his words echoing in her mind that drove her to move. She had to leave, he’d been right about that. There was nothing she could do for him, nothing anyone could do. Still, the thought of leaving him lying on the cold cement floor, alone and untended, was almost too much for her. In the end, it took everything she had to drag herself away, to gather her meager possessions, and her favorite book—the thing she knew she would always remember him by—and to take one last look at her friend, her mentor, before slipping out into the main warehouse, and onto the street beyond.

  She was morbidly sad, overcome by a grief that stabbed at her like a jagged blade, but there was something else there, too, even stronger, building up inside, pressure growing, pushing to blast out like a violent eruption.

  Rage.

  Andi was wildly, uncontrollably, desperately angry.