“Some people are never satisfied.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. This next bit is pretty satisfying. C’mon.”

  He indicated for Webster to follow him as he started up the steady incline. Webster didn’t rush to catch up. He’d already learned the hard way that the heady mix of air that they were breathing didn’t lend itself to sudden bursts of physical exertion. Slow and steady would win the race here.

  He’d only progressed thirty metres when he had to stop and catch his breath, his skin already filmed with sweat.

  “What is it you have to show me, anyway? Some kind of alien lab? Human brains in pickling jars – that kind of thing?”

  “Not quite as weird as that. It’s a bit of a head scratcher though, I’ve got to admit.”

  Before he set off again, Webster looked back the way they’d come. There were a couple of damp handprints still visible where he’d inspected the wall and he was struck by just how steep the incline was that they’d just scaled. If he lay on the ground and pushed himself off, he’d invariably roll all the way down there again. But then if he did start rolling, at what point would he stop?

  It seemed as if very little of the ship’s interior lay-out made much sense from a traditional perspective. And he didn’t even want to think about the issue of perspective as the area of space the ship appeared to inhabit was much greater than the ship’s exterior had seemed to suggest.

  He decided to focus instead on Dalbiri’s progress. The corridor had split into three separate ventricles and Dalbiri had taken the one to the right and was signalling for him to follow. Begrudgingly, Webster began picking up the pace, anxious not to be left on his own again.

  It was stupid, but for some reason, these corridors reminded him of the Dardelion and how anxious they’d been to get off that ship. And then, of course, that led him back to thinking about Joanna. Perhaps if he’d gone back for her, he’d have been able to persuade her to leave with him?

  Perhaps not. She could be extremely determined when she wanted to be.

  But still the thought kept coming back to him.

  Could he have done more?

  As he got closer his eyes seemed to be bombarding him with contradictory images.

  The path ahead of him seemed to narrow although, when he drew closer, he realised that this was an optical illusion. The walls were roughly the same distance apart, it was just that it grew darker as you went further in. It was an illusion further exacerbated by the fact that there was a bright rectangle of light at the far end of it, almost as though they were inside a dark cavern looking out into bright daylight. He could see Dalbiri, in silhouette, approaching the end point and he was filled with a sense of anxiety akin to something you might experience watching someone standing on a cliff edge.

  He called to Dalbiri to try and get his attention but the other man didn’t seem to hear and Webster started to jog along the path, waving his arms and calling.

  Halfway along he stopped and stared as the sense of being ‘inside’ gazing out at a totally clear alien sky became too clear to deny. Dalbiri stood at the entrance, as if perched on a precipice, dangling one leg out into the void. Webster cried out, hoping to get his attention but he was wasting his breath.

  Dalbiri crouched slightly, as if assessing how far he’d have to drop before suddenly disappearing from view.

  By the time Webster had sprinted to the open doorway and was able to look out, he was drenched in sweat and struggling to breathe. He’d been expecting to look down a vertical cliff face, to see Dalbiri’s body lying hundreds of feet down, broken at the bottom. Instead, he saw that Dalbiri had dropped about eight feet onto a rocky plateau and was kicking at some loose shale. Beyond this, lush green hills fell away to the valley below.

  Webster reeled back, having to steady himself against the wall to stop himself going over. For a couple of seconds, he was completely disoriented, and found himself checking behind to reassure himself of where he was before daring to look out again.

  Dalbiri for his part, seemed to be suffering no such sense of dislocation. He was squatting down, picking his way through a handful of stone fragments.

  He said, “Are you getting all this?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. The valley and everything? You’re seeing all that?”

  “I think so,” Webster said, pushing himself out onto the rocky incline and then having to run all the way to the bottom. “Can’t be real though, can it?”

  Dalbiri held up the handful of skree as if they were precious stones. “If it’s not then they’ve gone to an awful lot of trouble to get the geomorphology right.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for that,” Webster strode past him, expecting at any moment to see some aspect of their surroundings that was ‘off’, which would reveal the deception in what they were seeing. But at every step, his sense of disbelief grew.

  It all looked so real.

  They appeared to be on the top of a rolling hillside with rocky slopes all around them. About thirty metres further down, all this changed transforming into a golden upland with grasses caught by the breeze. Spread out amongst the rocks was a coarse silvery plant, not dissimilar to bracken, which grew in close clumps. When he started to look for them, they seemed to be everywhere with some of the plants sporting tiny yellow flowers.

  Webster took a few cautious steps forward and poked at one of them with the toe of his boot. It had a fibrous quality to it and sprang back into shape when his boot was removed.

  “What do you think?” Dalbiri inquired. “Some kind of attenuated VR experience? The sort where they plug straight into your cerebellum.”

  “If it is, it’s very convincing,” he ripped off a few of the yellow flowers and held them up. “What about this?”

  He nestled the petals in the palm of his hand before blowing them into the air.

  “I don’t know. Excellent detail mapping, though.”

  As they descended further, the view became even more impressive with grey hills over to their right partially obscured by silvery cloud. Further over to their left, falling away into the valley were row upon row of short stocky trees.

  “That’s interesting,” Dalbiri said, pointing. “Suggests some simple farming skills which suggests some rudimentary social structure. Perhaps even a basic subsistence economy.”

  “You can tell all that from a few rows of trees?”

  Dalbiri looked surprised by the question. “Pretty obvious, really. Someone’s planted and tended to these trees and not just for their own use either. There’s at least seven acres here so they’ve cultivated them with the clear intention of harvesting a crop. Which suggests there’s some kind of trading system: a local market, that kind of thing.”

  “Oh? Okay.”

  “Yeah,” Dalbiri said, turning his feet sideways as he descended the slope. “My first doctorate was in Agricultural Studies. Didn’t I mention that?”

  Webster went after him, taking care not to over-exert himself. He was still struggling with the quality of the air.

  “I thought you said you were an engineer.”

  “That’s right. That was my second doctorate. I doubt that Project Tigris would have taken me on based simply on my engineering skills. Too much competition. It was only when they saw that I had a doctorate in agriculture as well that they decided to give me an interview.”

  “That because of all the hydroponics?”

  “That’s right. It costs a lot of money to transport someone halfway across the galaxy. They wanted to be sure they were getting their money’s worth.”

  Webster gave him a quizzical look. “Makes sense I suppose.”

  “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “I’m still getting my head around the fact that you’ve got two doctorates, that’s all.”

  They spread out as they approached the trees. The ground was uneven and riddled with hidden divots and trip hazards. At one point, Dalbiri’s ankle twisted under him and he went down in a heap. He laughed at his own clumsiness and, when he finally managed to regain his feet, he stood staring at the soil marks on his knees. When he rubbed at them and the dirt came away, he stared at his fingertips, marvelling at what he saw.

  Webster knew how he felt. All the detailing made it seem real enough but there was something off about the place. Maybe it was the lighting or the way that noises failed to carry, seemed stifled in fact, as if they were exhibits in some sort of enormous display cabinet.

  Dalbiri went over to one of the trees, produced a penknife and started slicing off some of the berries that were hanging there.

  “You’re not thinking of eating that, are you?” Webster warned.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Could be poisonous.”

  “You’d rather we starve to death?”

  “No. But chances are that whatever that is it won’t be compatible with your digestive system. It could make you very ill.”

  Dalbiri held up one of the berries and looked at it.

  Webster said, “If you die, I’m leaving you here.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Besides, I think I know what this is. Or at least, what it’s supposed to be.”

  Dalbiri popped the thing into his mouth and cautiously began to chew. Almost immediately, he pulled a face and spat it out.

  “Bitter?”

  “Quite the reverse. Here,” he cut off one of the berries and held it out to Webster. “Try some.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “I’m not asking you to swallow it. Go ahead!”

  Webster took the berry he was offered and examined it. He put it into his mouth and rolled it around with his tongue before biting into it.

  He spat it out. “Doesn’t taste of anything.”

  “Texture’s all wrong, too.”

  “What were you expecting?”

  “Olives. You see, these are all olive trees. Only they’re not.”

  *

  “What you think they’re going to do to us?” the woman next to LaCruz asked.

  LaCruz didn’t reply. It was Kate Marsh, the woman Markham had been speaking with earlier. She was looking for reassurance, that was all, but LaCruz was in no mood to provide it. She was too busy scoping out the situation. And it didn’t look good.

  Once they’d taken full control of the ship, the raiders had divided up the survivors from Tigris. They were split into four groups with roughly twenty people in each. She didn’t think it was a coincidence that they’d separated her from Markham.

  Markham was in the group which had been led out to the first shuttle. They weren’t told where they were being taken but the assumption was that it had to be to Peter the Great. Though LaCruz wasn’t so sure. What was to stop the raiders from waiting until they were out of sight of the Motar before de-pressurising the main cabin and then dumping the bodies out into space? That way, the raiders could sit in the cockpit secure in the knowledge that their prisoners couldn’t get to them. Then it would just be a question of heading back to the Motar to pick up their next group.

  Except, what did they have to gain from such a scenario? As far as she could tell, there was no profit in it for them. Yet, at the same time, she was more than a little nervous when it came their turn to embark.

  It was the same shuttle Markham had departed in and she went over and squinted through one of the portholes. She was looking for signs of a possible fight, any suspicious marks or bits of graffiti which might provide a clue to what was going on. Only there weren’t any.

  The seats were laid out in regular rows and everything inside looked neat and tidy. A little on the small side but serviceable, nonetheless. For some reason this made her even more apprehensive and she went back to stand with the rest of her group.

  There were five women in LaCruz’s group including the Marsh woman. The others were made up of scientists and a couple of rough necks who’d been on the original Tigris mission, but no Marines that she could talk to.

  She was still trying to make sense of what was happening when the back of the shuttle began to cycle open and one of the female raiders motioned them forward. A mixed-race woman with dread locks trailing down her back.

  Looking at the woman’s hair, LaCruz couldn’t help but feel annoyed.

  Why didn’t she have it tied back? They weren’t at some festival.

  She knew that she was being irrational even as she was thinking these thoughts because, really, she knew why the woman made such a feature of her hair, it was stunning.

  Lacruz didn’t like what was happening. She had problems with tight spaces at the best of times but the idea that once they were on the shuttle they’d be totally at the mercy of their captors, filled her with dread.

  Kate Marsh must have seen the anxiety in LaCruz’s eyes but she raised her eyebrows at her as if to say, ‘Well, what other choice do we have? ’

  LaCruz scowled at her refusing to move as the others moved off. She watched as they took turns ascending the ramp until eventually, she was on her own.

  “Heay, bitch!” the woman with the dreadlocks was shouting at her. “Get your ass inside or I’ll drop you right here. Capiche?”

  LaCruz didn’t react.

  The woman came over and stood directly in front of her. LaCruz recognised her from earlier.

  She’d been checking over the female prisoners earlier when someone had referred to her as Deetz. The woman unclipped her blaster and swung it up until it was level with LaCruz’s chest.

  “Got a problem?”

  LaCruz locked eyes with her for a second and saw that this Deetz meant what she said. She’d rather kill LaCruz in cold blood than be seen to back down in front of the others.

  That told LaCruz all she needed to know. And, besides, what did she have to gain from confronting her now? This fight had been lost the moment they’d been double crossed by the Motar’s crew. If she wanted to do something about that, now wasn’t the time. She would have to wait and pick her moment.

  Slowly, she started over towards the shuttle where people were still crowding to get up the ramp.

  She was the last to enter, having to squeeze past the guard who’d wedged himself in the doorway, eyeballing everyone as they came in as a way of keeping them in line. She pretended to ignore him.

  Once inside, she looked around to see the others locking the restraints around their ankles and then waiting for their wrists to be bound to the back of the seat in front. They went about this as if it was the most natural thing in the world offering absolutely no resistance while a member of the Peter the Great crew went round checking that their wrist restraints were secure.

  She conjured up an image then. Of all these people struggling against their restraints as the rear ramp cycled open. With the subsequent loss of atmosphere, she could picture it as all the loose fixtures and fittings were sucked out into space. It was so clear to her that it seemed like something that had already happened. Something ineffable and unescapable.

  Still, she kept her calm, moving down the rows, refusing to be hurried, trying to reassure those around her. Let them think that everything was normal: just like a regular transport. Except on a regular transport you weren’t shackled to your seat.

  These were raiders, after all. What interest did they have in the day-to-day safety of their charges? These sorts of people dealt only in misery and pain. Their every action determined by the likelihood of it turning them a profit.

  Her instincts were telling her she had to get out of there, so she quickly assessed her odds of over-powering the guards and making a run for it. The guy checking the wrist restraints was distracted so it’d be easy enough to deal with him but then she’d have to get past the guy on the ramp. He’d have the advantage of seeing her coming and could be counted on to make things difficult for her, though it all rested on how quickly he was able to activate the disruptor hanging from his belt.

  However, when she turned to take a look at him, she saw Deetz was standing there, blaster in hand. The woman watched as LaCruz sat down and then motioned for the other guard to come over and secure her wrists.

  LaCruz was forced to sit still while all this was going on. She felt stupid but felt that there was no other option. At least, not with Deetz keeping an eye on her. Besides, it was already too late. If she were going to make a move, she should have done it earlier when she might have had more success garnering the support of the other Marines. They might not have had much of a chance but at least they’d have gone down fighting. Now it was too late even for that.

  Once the guy had finished with her, the guy with the disruptor came through to double check that they were all secure. Wrists and ankles. Ankles and wrists. It was like being back in high school with the teacher checking that you were belted in. Only this guy wasn’t interested in their in-flight safety. If he had been, he’d have made sure they were all wearing their breathing masks from the out-set. That way, if anything went wrong with the oxygen supply, they’d still have a chance of making it. This way, even if the masks did drop out of their over-head lockers, the passengers wouldn’t be able to reach up to secure them to their faces. They’d just dangle there - slightly out of reach. The odd whiff of oxygen reminding them of what might have been.

  Deetz leaned out through the rear ramp and waved. Then something odd happened. The central partition, which separated the two halves of the room, started to rise.

  LaCruz looked about her to see if anyone else had noticed. Nobody had. But she could see the partition through the side windows being winched into the air.

  Which made no sense. There were still another group in the cargo bay. Another twenty or so, waiting.

  Were they going to leave them behind?

  She watched as six of the raiders came forward. They were all armed and seemed to be in the process of checking their weapons. Unhurriedly, they formed themselves up into a line and turned to face the remaining prisoners.

  LaCruz threw herself forward in an attempt to rise to her feet but all she managed to do was to drive her wrists against their restraints. She couldn’t even straighten her legs, her ankle restraints prevented it.