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            F  I  C  T  I  O  N  A  L  *  R  A  M  B  L  I  N  G  S

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This appeared first  on Sewer Software Disk 11. It was typed for Sewer SoftWare
by Mezzo! Thanks to those guys and to Mr Orb for sending us the disk!




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                The Dark Wheel - A novella by Robert Holdstock

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                                  CHAPTER ONE

From the moment that  the  trading  ship,  Avalonia,  slipped its orbital berth
above  the  planet Lave,   and  began  to   manoeuvre  for the hyperspace  jump
point, its measureable life-span, and  that  of  one  of  its two-man crew, was
exactly  eighteen  minutes.The   space  station  gently  span   away  into  the
shadows and the small Ophidian class vessel  shuddered as its motors angled  it
round towards the faraway jump.  The  planet  Lave,  below,  rotated  in  blue-
green splendour. There were   storms  moving  across  the  Paluberion Sea,  six
great   whorls   of  pink  and  white  cloud.   they   were   approaching   the
continental  mass that was  FirstFall,   and  promising  a  bleak and  wet  few
days  to  the swathes of  forest  and  the  deep,   snaking  valleys  that  cut
through the rugged land.  The  cities  of  both  Humankind and Lavian glittered
among the verdant blanket below, like bright shards of glass.
    Watching the lush world from  his  seat  at   the astrogation console, Alex
Ryder  expressed  an audible sigh  of  regret  that  he  had not  been  allowed
down to the world himself.   next  to  him,   fingers  moving expertly over the
keys of the trader's  ManOp  console,   his  father  grinned.  Jason Ryder knew
well  enough the frustration of  only  being  allowed  to  observe a  rich  and
fabled  world  like  Lave  from  orbit.   he  had   been  planetside  once,  an
unforgettable  experience...But the rules and regulations of the  Galactic  Co-
operative of Worlds  were  strict  -  and  sensible.   Lave,   like  any  other
planet,  was  not  a holiday  resort,   not  a  curiosity.   it was  a  living,
evolving  world,  and  there were  folk  down  below  to  whom that  world  was
everything  that Old earth  had  once  been  to  the  Human  race.  Protection.
Mother. Home.
    Another time,  another year,   Alex  thought.   You  earned  your visit  to
Lave,  and he had hardly begun his professional  life. he still had so much  to
learn.
    The  Ryders had been  a  trading  family  for  three  generations.  it  had
begun  with  Ben Ryder,   who  had  traded  almost  exclusively  using  shot-up
pirate ships. Ben had lived life  on  the  edge,  and,  one day, one night, one
star  year,  he had not  returned.   Out  in  the  void between the  stars  his
grave was as remote as it was private,  and would probably never be found.  his
son,  and his  grandson  -  who  was  Jason  Ryder  -  had  follow  the  family
business.  Alex  would soon  have  to  make  the  final  decision:  whether  to
sacrifice  his life to shuttling cargo between the worlds of the  Galactic  Co-
operative, or to train for a different profession.
    Let's be clear about trading.   trading  between  worlds  is no game for  a
youngster  with  ideas of  getting  rich  quick.   you  can  spend  a  lifetime
carrying food,  machinery and textiles,  and  at  the  end  of that life you'll
have  enough saved up to buy  you  a  patch  of  coastal land on an  Earth-type
world, and spend the rest of your days in quiet, isolated comfort.
    That's all.
    A lifetime of sweat and combat  for  an  orbital  shuttle,  a home, and the
clear blue  of an alien sea  at   your  doorstep.  If  you want more, there are
ways of getting  it:   narcotics,   slaves,   zoo  animals,  weapons, political
refugees  ...  trade in any  of  these  things  and  wealth will tumble  around
you.
    And corsairs, and privateers, and pirates...
    And the police.
    The strain of the years  of  honest  trading  was already telling on  Jason
Ryder,  but  he   had  invested   wisely,   and   this  small,  cargo-carrying,
pleasure  yacht was his pride  and  joy.   he  could  get away from  the  trade
lanes for a while (although  he  always  respected  the  trader maxim that  'an
empty hold means an empty head',   and never travelled freight-less;  today  he
was carrying thrumpberry juice,  an  exotic  flavouring).   He could  show  his
son what space was really like, and whet the lad's appetite ... or let  him see
that a life in hard vacuum was one of the hardest lives of all.
    For his part,  Alex ryder  would  need  a  lot  more convincing.  he was  a
tall,  fair-haired  young   man,   wiry  and  athletic.   He  was  atmo-surfing
champion on the Ryder homeworld,  Ontiat,  and very bright. Like all young  men
of his age he was reluctant  to  switch  his  status  from that of  student  to
professional,  with  all  that  that  meant  in  terms  of  settling  with  one
particular girl,  one job,   and  beginning  to  plan  for when, eventually, he
would buy his own land.
    He still had a year  to  decide,   a  year of surfing,  free-fall baseball,
cloud barbecues, hi-falling, partner selection and Sim-Combat.
    He was in no hurry.
    Except  that he loved space.   Loved  the  flash  of the  sun  on  duralium
hulls, the clutter and confusion of the space ports.
    Loved the idea o other worlds, of exploration, of path-finding.
    The voice of SysCon, which  controlled  all  traffic  flow in Lave's orbit-
space,  murmured  softly,   'Avalonia,   make  a  four-minute  drift-flight  to
Faraway jump point.'
    'Understood',  Alex called back,  and  adjusted  the  auto accordingly. His
father sat back and smiled, his job done for the moment.
    SysCon said, 'Enter Faraway  jump  along  channel  two seven, at forty-five
orient.'
    'Affirmed,' Alex said, and his  father  rolled  the  ship along its central
axis, ready for the dangerous hyperspace transit.
    Everything looked good.
    On the rear monitor,   where  the  planet  shone  brilliantly as it  slowly
moved  through the heavens,   a  dark  shadow  drifted   into  vision:  another
ship, lining up for the Faraway jump.
    It was quite normal.   Alex  took  no  notice,   more concerned  about  the
impending  transit through  hyperspace.   His  father  scrutinised   the  other
vessel for a moment, the relaxed.
    He had no way of knowing that he only had fourteen minutes left alive.
    Making a Faraway jump in a  system  as  complex   and crowded as Lave is no
simple  business.  A  hundred   eyes  are  watching   you   for  the  slightest
mistake. Make a mistake in orbit-space and the next time you go to dock at  one
of the world's Coriolis space stations a big NOT WELCOME  sign  might  flash in
the vacuum before you.
    You slip your C-berth  under  the  instruction  of  Station Space  Monitor.
Perhaps  twenty  ships are doing  the  same.   You  go   when  it's  safe.  You
rotate,  accelerate,  decelerate and  spin  to  the  absolute  second,  both of
time and arc. That way  you  get  clear  without  two thousand tons of duralium
trader rammed into your hyperspace jets.
    It isn't over.
    Now you're under supervision  of  HSA,   Home  Space Authority, and they'll
jockey  you  safely  about  among  the  traders,   and   the  yachts,  and  the
ferries,  and  the  shuttles,   and  the  star-liners,   and  the  arrow-shaped
police  patrol  ships.  All   of  these  vessels  slip  and  slide  about  you,
streaks of silver in  the  darkness,   flashing  green  and blue lights, sudden
walls  of grey metal  that  pass  across  your  bows,  winking  yellow  warning
beacons.
    You  move  through  this chaos  and  a  new   voice   begins  to  call  for
attention.  Now  you're  with  the  Faraway  Orientation   Systems  Controller;
FOSC  - or SysCon - sets  you  up  for  the  big jump.  You're going  to  cover
maybe seven light years in a few minutes,  and you might think that's a lot  of
space to get lost in, but that isn't  how  it works. Faraway is a tunnel,  like
any other tunnel. Inside that tunnel is the realm called Witch-Space,  a  magic
place,  a  place where the normal  rules  of  the  universe  don't  necessarily
work.  And every few thousand par-secs along the  Witch-Space  tunnel there are
monitoring  satellites,  and  branch  lines,  and  stop  points,   and   rescue
stations;  and passing by all of  these  are  perhaps  a  hundred  channels,  a
hundred  'lines' for ships to  travel,   each   one  protected  against the two
big  dangers  of  hyperspace   travel:    atomic    reorganization,   and  time
displacement.
    Jump  on your own  through  hyperspace,   across  more  than half  a  light
year,  and  you'll  be lucky  to  make  the  same   universe,  let  alone  your
destination.
    You  might emerge from  Witch-Space  turned  inside  out  (which is  not  a
pretty sight).
    You might be stretched in  all  the  wrong  angles,  and although the  ship
keeps  travelling,  that  jelly  mass  of  broken  bone  and flesh  inside  the
cabin is you.
    According to legend,  you might  come  through  okay  and breathe a sigh of
relief,  only to go into Earth orbit and wonder why that big lizard,  with  the
teeth and the long tail and the green scales is roaring up at you, and  warning
you off his nice Jurassic patch of prehistoric desert.
    To go Faraway is a killer, unless you obey the rules.
    So for a few minutes,  on  that  fateful  day,   Alex ryder was content  to
let the robot voices of  SysCon  guide  his  family's  ship through  the  space
lanes,  towards the jump point for the planet Leesti.  He relaxed,  beside  his
father, and watched the bustle of the space port.
    The shadow behind them,  the  ship  that  was  following their path towards
Faraway, was a Cobra class cargo freighter.
    No-one knew how or when  the  designation  of  space-going vessels had been
linked  to the names of  snakes.   The  Ryder's  own  vessel was  a  relatively
harmless Ophidion,  capable of two hyperspace jumps, armed very basically,  set
up,   really,   only   to    destroy    imminent   dangers,   like   asteroids,
meteoroids,  or 'crazy craft',  the  name  given  to  vessels  that were out of
control, or ridden by juveniles out for kicks.
    The Cobra was a bigger vessel by far.
    A common trading ship,  most  Cobras  are  buried  beneath the weaponry and
defences that their  hard-bitten,   tough-talking  captains  have  accrued. And
with good reason...
    To be a trader is  to  be  two  things:   dangerous,and at risk.  Dangerous
because  to survive as a trader you have to know your weapons and  how  to  use
them in space combat  you  need  to  be  able  to  recognise  a  pirate,  or an
anarchist,  or  a  Thargoid invader,   or  a  police  trap  when you  might  be
carrying any one of a thousand prohibited materials.
    And  at risk for the  same  reason.   A  juicy  Cobra,  weighed  down  with
minerals or rare textiles,  or furs,   or  ore,   is  as  tasty a target for  a
freebooter as any in the Galaxy.
    To  be  a trader  means to  shoot  first  and  pray that  you've  read  the
warning signs alright, and that your victim was a pirate.
    Make a mistake and not  even  two  shells  of time-stressed duralium and  a
belly full of missiles is going to save you from the vipers.
    Vipers.  Police ships.   Small,   fast,   deadly.   And most  particularly,
tenacious.  The pilot is a  man,   certainly,   but  kill  the man and the ship
will keep coming at you.  Kill the ship  and it's missile will keep  coming  at
you. Kill the missile and watch for the shadow.
    When a viper bites, it clings.
    Eleven minutes...
    'There's a sight you'll not often see...'
    His father's words broke  through  Alex's  silent,   concentrated study  of
the  planet they were  leaving.   To  the  right,   running a  parallel  course
towards the Faraway tunnel,   was  an  odd-shaped  ship,   with powerful lights
flickering on and off.  It was catching the sun and Alex could see how  it  was
slowly spinning about it's central axis.   Fish-like fins  opened  and  closed.
Across it's sleek hull a rapid pattern of coloured lights rippled.
    A  Moray.  A  subaqua  vessel,   designed  for  both   space  and  undersea
voyaging. The Moray was rare ship indeed  to see in space, especially about  to
undertake a hyperspace transit.  On  worlds  like  Regiti and Aona,  where  the
only land was the tips of  volcanoes,   rising  above  the  oceans,  the  Moray
was both freighter  and  public  transport,   a  vital  ship-link  between  the
undersea cities that were developing in such hostile environments.
    The Moray's frantic  colour  signalling  ceased.   Alex  noticed  that  his
father was watching the  animalistic  display  (the  coding  had been developed
from the signalling of  a  terrestrial  aquatic  creature,   the squid) with  a
frown on his face.
    'Something up?'
    Jason shrugged. 'Not sure. Probably not'.
    Alex watched the Moray with  renewed  interest,   then  turned back to  the
rear view, where the Cobra had nudged a few kilometres closer.
    'Shall we warn him to stay back?'
    Jason shook his head.  For  the  first  time  Alex realised that his father
had been as aware of the trader as he,  and had been studying it curiously  for
some minutes.  There was a tension on  the Avalonia's bridge that  was  unusual
and unpleasant.
    Something  wasn't  right.  Alex  had  no  idea  what,   but  he  sensed  it
powerfully.
    Something was not going according to routine.
    Then  the  go-signal  for  entry  to   the   Faraway   tunnel  flashed  on,
accompanied by a gentle audio prompt.
    And as it did so,   the  Avalonia's  life  expectancy  had shrunk  to  just
nine minutes.
    Around the entry point to  Witch-Space  is  always  to be found the biggest
cluster of transit vessels, most  of  them  moored  in  groups at orbital buoys
while  mechanics  and  repairmen  crawl  over  them,   checking  and  servicing
their external systems.  At such  a  point  in  any  advanced system like  lave
you'll see every ship  of  the  line,   every  type,  subtype and  artificially
mocked-up version of every snake-ship ever built.
    As they approached  the  jump,   Alex  practised   ship  identification,  a
crucial talent in  any  space-faring  profession.  The  unarmed, unmanned orbit
shuttles  were easy enough to  spot,   as  they  ferried  cargo all around  the
system.  He noticed two  Asps,   Navy  ship,   small  manouevrable and  deadly,
well protected against  attack,   and  with  highly  advanced military  weapons
systems.  He also saw a  single  Krait,   the  so  called StarStriker, a small,
one-man ship much favoured by pathfinders and mercenaries.
    To his right, space-docked,  and  still  unloading  her passengers, was the
immense,  cylindrical  mass of  an  Anaconda,   a  massive  freighter that  had
been adapted to passenger transport.  It  was  an  ugly  ship, and it's yawning
ram-scoop  gave it the  appearance  of  being  a  squat,  blind  creature  with
it's mouth disgustingly agape.
    The catalogue was  endless.   Boa  class  cruisers;   Pythons;  the  bounty
hunters'  favourite,  the  Fer-de-lance,   packed  out  with  weapons,  and  no
doubt decked out inside  like  a  palace;  landing  craft called Worms; Mambas;
Sidewinders ... large craft  and  small,  all  winking  brightly and reflecting
sunlight in brilliant blue-grey sheens.
    And of course,   the  were  advertising  droidships,   their  catchy  light
displays blinking out information about ROHAN'S  REAL EARTH ALE WITH HONEY,  or
KETTLE'S CLONE-YOUR-OWN FUNGAL CURES.  Or  even  offering the 'last  real  food
before  Witch-Space',  small restaurant  ships  designed  to  dock  and  supply
instant   nourishment   (PRIEST'S    PERFECT   PROTOPOLYPS,    TUTTLE'S   TASTY
THERAPSBLADDERS) to space-weary travellers.
    'Here we go ... Hang on to your seat...'
    Jason Ryder always said this, and Alex always fell for it. he tensed up  as
if the ship were about to plunge over  a gravity roller.  In  fact,  the  entry
to Witch-Space was accompanied by an almost negligable  accelerative  surge,  a
moment's dizziness,  and then the spectacular  sight of the stars  brightening,
spreading   out   and   suddenly    streaking    in   multi-coloured   circular
patterns,  so that the  ship  seemed  to  be  passing  down  a  spinning  tube.
Almost  as soon as the surge of  acceleration  had come it had  gone.  The ship
drifted into 'Witch Light',   in  the  non-place  in  space  and  time.  It was
crossing the void between stars in seconds,   but for those  seconds  it was in
a twilight world whose existence was beyond imagination.
    They  say the Witch-Space  is  haunted.   Maybe  that's  why  the  call  it
'witch'.  Time turns all  around,   and  atoms  turn  inside out,  and  gravity
waves billow up,  and things move there,   lifeforms, or shadows, or atoms,  or
galaxies,  who knows?  No-one has ever  stopped  and gone outside to find  out.
Only robot remotes exist  there,  switching  stations, monitors, rescue  Droids
and  the  like.  Whatever lives  in   Witch-Space,   in  the  Faraway  tunnels,
will remain a mystery always.
    But there are ghosts there,  the  ghosts  of  early  ships that went in  to
Faraway, and didn't come out again.
    Ghosts...
    And shadows.
    The shadow of a snake. A Cobra ... Rising over them ...
    'What in God's name...?'
    Jason Ryder had gone whiter than white light.
    Trapped in Witch-Space,  there  was  nothing  he  could do to out-manoeuvre
the other vessel.  Alex said,   'He  doesn't  know  the  rules.  Perhaps it's a
rookie pilot-'
    'Perhaps,' his father said.  Jason  Ryder's  eyes  never left the scanners.
His face had beaded with sweat. Alex watched the shadow of the Cobra...
    Well-equipped ...  a fuel-scoop,   missile  silos,  extra  cargo holds, the
squat dome of an energy bomb  housing  ...   a  rich  ship indeed and a  deadly
one...
    'They can't be intending to attack us.'
    'They hell they can't!'
    Three minutes...
    And they came out of Witch-Space!
    Immediately,  Jason's  hands began  to  fly  over  the   key  console.  The
Avalonia surged forward, rotating on it's  long  axis. The planet Leesti was  a
small,  greenish disc in the far distance.   Alex  saw his father arm  the  two
missiles that the Avalonia carried,   then  reached  to  rest his hand  on  the
multiple laser-trigger.
    It was a pirate then.  And  as  Alex  came  to accept the inevitability  of
combat,  his mouth went dry  and  his  mind  sharpened.   He had never been  in
combat  before,  not for real,   only  in  the  SimTrainer.   he had heard  his
father talk about it, of course. And combat did not sound glorious...
    A pirate ship,  disguised as  a  trader,   pursuing  its victim into Witch-
Space itself...for their cargo of...
    Thrumpberry flavouring?
    An uneasy voice whispered  in  Alex's  mind.   This was untypical behaviour
for a freebooter.  They  normally  waited  at  the  edge of planetary  systems,
watching for their  prey  with  long-distance  scanners,   picking and choosing
carefully.  Pirates could be  found  everywhere,  of  course,  though rarely in
space around Corporate State  worlds,   or  Democracies  (the  police were  too
efficient).  Planets  run   by   anarchistic  or  feudal   governments  were  a
pirate's favourite haunt.
    This behaviour was wrong...
    Not a pirate.
    Alex looked from the slowly rotating planet to the grim,  grey features  of
his father.  They were  a  long  way  from  safety.  'What  the  hell are we up
against?'
    'Put on a RemLok and get  to  the  escape pod,' Jason Ryder murmured.   'Do
It!'
    'I'll say and fight.'
    'The hell you will.  Do as  I  say,'  As  he spoke,  Jason thrust a  small,
black face-mask - the remote-space-locator - at his son.
    The first missiles struck  the  Avalonia's  shields,  and Jason punched the
launch buttons on his own defences.  The  small ship veered and strained as  he
looped it in an escape run,  activating its ECM as the Cobra launched a  second
wave of missiles.
    But  through the brightness  the  sombre  grey  shape  of the  killer  came
on...
    It happened so fast,   then,   that  afterwards  Alex  was uncertain as  to
what exactly had happened.  The duelling ships span and circled in towards  the
planet.  Space around them blazed  silently  as  their weapons struck and  were
deflected.
    Then the whole universe rocked. Air screeched into the void. the lights  in
the  Avalonia  blinked  and  dimmed.   Warning  lights  shot  on   across   the
console:  laser temperature in  the  red,   screens  down,  energy  low,  cargo
jettisoned, cabin temperature dropping...
    In the same moment  of  the  Avalonia's  death,   Alex Ryder found  himself
being struck by his father,  the remlok mask being forced into place about  his
eyes,  nose and mouth.  Then  his  whole  body was physically  manhandled  into
the escape pod.
    The ship shuddered and screamed. Fuel spilled into the void.
    Father and son faced each   other  for  a  last moment, each  watching  the
other through a mist of tears and confusion...
    'I  don't understand...' Alex  screamed  above  the  noise   of  the  dying
ship, meaning: Who's trying to kill us?
    'Raxxla!' Jason said.  'Remember  Raxxla!'  Then,   as  he pushed Alex back
into the cramped escape  pod,   he  shouted,   'Remember  me,  Alex! I wouldn't
have wished this on you. Raxxla!'
    The escape pod was  jettisoned.   Alex  tumbled.   The  sleek shape of  the
Avalonia was  above him, and then just white light -
    White heat.
    Cold space!
    In a second it had gone,  the  ship,   his  father,   a part of his life  -
obliterated  by  a  single burst  of  fire  from  the  hovering  shape  of  the
pirate.
    And  as Alex watched,  so  a  yellow  tongue  of  fire licked  towards  the
tumbling escape pod. He felt heat, then pain, then cold...
    The  tiny  survival  vehicle  was   blasted   apart,   sparkling  fragments
falling towards the green world of Leesti.
    Alex hit space,   arms  flailing,   mouth  opened,   conciousness and  life
draining from him with every second...



                                  CHAPTER TWO

In space, everyone can hear you scream...
    As long, that is, as you're equipped with a RemLok survival mask.
    An instant after Alex Ryder hit the hard vacuum,  a skin of  plasFibre  had
been shot across his body from  nozzles  on  the face piece,  keeping him  warm
against the cold, tightening  and  protecting  him,  securing  him against  the
void. The oxygen flow in his body was cut  off to all but his heart and  brain.
Needle-doses of adrenalin and somnokie were  held  ready, just within  the skin
area of his mouth,  ready to alert or depress his body  functions  according to
circumstances.
    And the RemLok screamed through space for help.
    It was a standard  survival  device,   an  instantly recognisable  distress
call indicating that it was  being  sent  out  from  a small, remotely located,
dying body. The alarm  screeched  out  on  forty  channels, shifting wavelength
within each channel four times  a  second.   One  hundred  and sixty chances to
catch attention...
    A cumbersome Boa class  cruiser,   loaded  down  with industrial machinery,
slowed  its  departure run from  Leesti  and  turned  to  scan  space  for  the
source of the signal...
    Two police  vipers came  streaking  from  their  patrol  sector,  near  the
sun, scanning for the body in trouble...
    An adapted Moray Starboat, a vast  glowing  yellow  star  on its hull - the
sign of a hospital ship - came chugging out of the darkness...
    Messages  from  ships  to  both  the  planet  and   its  ring  of  Coriolis
stations  were abruptly broken  as  the  split  second  message came  streaming
through.  TV  programmes   were  interrupted,   the  screen  disolving  into  a
permanently  recorded  display  of  the  space-grid  location  of  the  RemLok.
Every  advertising space module  changed  its  garish  display   to  flash,  in
brilliant green, the same information.
    In the orbit-space  around  Leesti,   a  million  heads  turned  starwards.
That  split second of panic,   that  moment's  cry  of  distress,  was a  sound
they  knew  too well to  ignore,   and  were  too  frightened of  to  take  for
granted.
    Within twenty seconds, two  autoremotes,  tiny  vessels  just big enough to
carry  an hour's oxygen,  one  dose  each  of  forty  drugs,  and a variety  of
other stimulants,  were hovering  around  Alex  Ryder's  spinning  body. One of
them  shot  out  a  stabilising  cable  and  dragged   itself  to  his  corpse.
Blinking  through its solitary  monitor,   it  hovered  over  his face  like  a
squat,  legless,  dachshund  hound  and  pumped  adrenalin,  oxygen and glucose
into  his bloodstream.  Alex  opened  his  eyes  and   panicked  slightly.  The
autoremote calmed him down with a quick pumpsurge of tetval.
    The robot's voice whispered  in  his  ears,'Brandy?   Scotch?  Vodka?  I am
equipped  with  a full  range  of  miniature  stimulants  to make  the  waiting
easier.'
    'What ...  happened ...  ship?  ...  Avalonia  ...  ' he gasped through the
tight face mask.
    The autoremote blinked  at  him  sympathetically,'Brandy,   then,' and  hit
Alex with two shots of Qutirian SynCognac.

    An hour later he was  aboard  the  Moray  hospital vessel,  in parked orbit
above the grey-green face of the world Leesti. Burns to his hands and face  had
been taken care of.  Minor blood  vessels  that  had  ruptured in his skin  had
been knitted back together.   he  was  bruised,   stunned, but essentially  fit
physically.
    The image of the ship  exploding  had  begun  to  haunt  him,  however.  He
stood by the wide, sloping window of his hospital room, staring out across  the
bright of space to the  slowly  rotating  world  below, watching the flash  and
tumble of  shuttles,  and  small  freighters  as  they  either  glided  up from
worldDown,  or  struck   the  atmosphere  on  their   descent,  leaving  brief,
brilliant flares of red in the thin planetary atmosphere.
    Wherever he looked he could see  the  shadow  of  the Cobra,  rising up  in
the Witchlight, a great killer beast, closing on its prey.
    And his father's face ...
    The sudden alarm, the sudden anger,  and  yet  ...  and yet Jason Ryder had
known.
    His grieving,  mind-stunned son just  knew  that  his  father had been more
aware of the danger than he had  let  on.   It  had  been in his face,  in  the
tension  in the cabin,  in  the  slow,   deliberate  words  that he had  spoken
during the approach run to hyperspace.
    Jason had known that his life  was  within  danger.   He had been ready for
it, ready to save his son in the event of attack ...
    It made no sense. But for the  moment  Alex  felt  only loss, the loss of a
man he had loved.  Both  his  parents  were  gone,   now.  His homeworld  would
seem an empty, uninviting place.
    Behind  him,  the door  opened  softly  and  the  grey-suited figure  of  a
nurse appeared.  She reproved him  mildly  for  being  out  of bed,  but seemed
please by his apparently calm mental state.
    There followed what seemed like a constant stream of  visitors.  First  the
doctor, scanning him for tension  and  psychic  repression.  The medic was  not
pleased.  he more or less said, 'Young  man,  your father is dead and it  would
do you no harm to shed a few  tears.   Its all there,  all the  grief,  all the
sadness. It'll do you no good to deny it.'
    'I'll grieve for my  father,'  Alex  said   back   angrily,  coldly.  'I'll
grieve among the ashes of the pirate that killed him. And not until.'
    'Will you indeed.'
    'Yes,' Alex stated defiantly. 'I will. Indeed.'

    After  the  doctor had  gone,   the  man  from  the  Galactic  Medical  Co-
operative came,  fussily  checking  up  on  Alex's  medical  insurance,  making
sure that he was covered  for  all  aspects  of  the treatment,  including  his
Faraway transit home.
    Then the police, two lean-faced  men,  wearing  the  grey cloaks and silver
waistcoats of the  Narcotics  Investigation  department.   What  cargo had  the
Avalonia been carrying?  Why would  a  pirate  be  so  interested in him as  to
follow  him to a  Corporate  State  world?   Had  his father  ever  transported
drugs?  Firearms?  Slaves?   What  about  alien   substances:   Manjooza,  fear
glands,  Marswurt?  What was said in  the moments before destruction? Would  he
recognise the ship again? What were its markings?
    Alex  told them  everything  he  could  remember.   Everything  he'd  seen.
Everything he'd heard ...
    Except for the fact that his father had clearly known the danger.
    And except for the word Raxxla.
    The police left.  they were  not  satisfied.   Alex  had just received  his
solo pilot's license, so he could make his own way back to his homesystem,  but
he should notify them of what route he was taking.
    Raxxla...
    Alex  watched them go,   their  viper  a  slim,   evil-looking ship  as  it
rolled and sped away from the hospital  vessel.  His mood matched the  dim- lit
room,  matched the gloom-grey of  the  storms  that  were  building up  on  the
world below.  Leesti's oceans looked wild  and  cold,  now,  its  clouds  great
charcoal  coloured swirls of anger above  the  ragged,  mountainous  land.
    Raxxla.
    What could it be? What could it mean?
    At  midnight,  still  resting   and  recouperating  (care   of  the  Leesti
Medical Authority), a small green  light  winked  on  in  his room. alex, still
awake, frowned then realised that he was being monitored.
    'What is it?' he asked  the  empty  room,   and a nurse's voice  whispered,
'There's  a holoFac message  coming  through  for  you.   They've  requested  a
tightbeam. Will you receive?'
    Alex sat up in bed.  No-one  knew  he  was  here.  Did they? He frowned and
said, 'Sure.'
    'Will you accept the charge against your CR?'
    Curiouser and curiouser.  Since he was broke,  and without credit until  he
sorted out his GMC insurance, it was easy for him to say, 'Yes.'
    In  the middle of  his  room  the  air   suddenly  shimmered  white,  small
bright particles flying off  in  all  directions  around  the gradually defined
shape of a man. He was  tall,  but  slightly  stooped.  As the whiteness of the
image resolved into colour,  the  whiteness  of  the  man  stayed. His hair was
long and snowy, his beard ragged.  His  face  had  a  touch of colour. His eyes
were small,  gleaming points among  the  wrinkles.  He  was  smiling. he wore a
tattered  trader's uniform,  and one  arm  hung  limp  by  his side.  even  his
boots were worn down,  and the toes were split.  The handlaser at his side  had
seen the same better days as the rest of his equipment.
    'You the Ryder Boy?' this  apparition  of  run-down  age asked.  the  voice
creaked,  a gruff, battered tone,  the  voice  of  a  man who had breathed hard
vacuum.
    'That's me. Alex Ryder. And you?'
    Alex  climbed  out  of  bed  and  went  to   stand  before  the  life-sized
holoFac.  The old man watched  him,  and  chewed.  Then  he spat. The gobbet of
stained  spittle  seemed to  fly  straight  towards  Alex's   shoulder  and  he
winced  and  jerked slightly  to  one  side,   before  realising  that  nothing
could travel into real space from the holo.
    'You don't remember me,' the  old  man  said.   'That's clear enough. But I
remember you.'
    'Give me a name.'
    'Rafe Zetter.  Trader of old.   Traded  with  your  father for many  years,
till we parted company on account of a certain issue which,  you might say  ...
caused a difference of opinion between us.'
    'Slaves,' Alex said quickly.   He  remembered  Rafe,   now.   But what  had
happened to the man?  he was  old  before  his  time.   He was the same age  as
Jason Ryder would have been, but looked twenty years more.
    'Slaves is right,' Rafe said.  'I  ran  my  life  on the edge of a  Viper's
sting  ...' trader parlance for  'one  jump  ahead  of  the law'.  'But my  the
time I indulged that little whim,  my ass  was hard iron. I somehow made it  to
hell 'n' back. That's where I am now.'
    'In hell?'
    'Broke.'
    Alex nodded, picking up slowly on  the  trader  slang.  An 'iron ass' was a
ship that was well enough  defended  -  shields,   missiles,   and lasers -  to
make  a skim run through  any  system  at  all,   even an anarchist's  paradise
like  Sotiqu.  All  hell and then  some  would  come  at  you if you  tried  to
trade in such a chaotic system. 'Hell 'n' back' meant that Rafe had tasted  the
good life, bought with the profits of his illegal trading, but that it  had all
gone wrong.
    It always went wrong.
    Rafe said,  'I was damn sorry  to  hear  about  Jason.  A good man.  A good
friend of old, and a man I still respect.'
    'It didn't happen but eight  hours  ago,'  Alex  said coldly. 'How the hell
did you get to hear about it.'
    Rafe Zetter chuckled,  then  spat  again,   and  again  Alex couldn't  help
ducking.  The Spittle vanished at the holoFac's  edge and Alex felt a chill  of
irritation.  'You got your father's  temper,   young Alex.  Maybe  you've  even
got some of his skills.'
    'Answer  my question,  old man.   How  do  you  manage  to  know  about  my
father? How did you find me?'
    Watching him from the  holo,   Rafe  chewed,   smiled and considered.  Alex
tensed, waiting for the next high-velocity spit-transmission.
    Rafe said,  'I repeat,  Alex.   I  had  great  respect for Jason Ryder. For
what he was, and what he was doing.'
    'He was a good man,' Alex said. 'And an honest trader.'
    'He was a damn sight more  than  that,'  Rafe  said loudly,  and spat. Alex
dodged. The ghostly holoFac image shimmered and blurred slightly.
    'What does that mean?'
    Rafe Zetter leaned forward  so  that  his  grizzled features seemed  almost
able to kiss the younger man.  'He was  a combateer, Alex. One of the best.  No
way should he have died like he did...'
    'My  father was a trader,   not  a  combateer,'  Alex  said,  startled  and
disturbed by what Rafe was implying.
    'Guess again, sonny.'
    'But it sickened him to fire shots in anger.'
    'Maybe,' Rafe said drily.  'But  it  didn't  stop  him.   How else  do  you
think he made it as a  trader  all  those  years?   Dammit Alex,  even if  your
cargo  is sour-cream and pickles  there's  someone  going  to  try and take  it
from you. Your father was a combateer of the highest calibre ...'
    Alex swallowed heavily,  staring  at  the  quizzical  features of old  Rafe
Zetter. 'The highest calibre ...?'
    Rafe nodded.  'That's right, Alex,'  he  said  softly.  'You can be deadly,
you  can be dangerous,  and you  can  end  up  as  pet food in orbit  around  a
dog's ass-of-a-world like Isveve.   But  if  you're  elite,   and you die, then
there's a reason for your death ...'
    What was this old man  saying?   Elite?   An  elite combateer?  Alex's head
span.  He  knew  all about  the  space  pilots  who'd  earned  that  title,  of
course. few of them did. To be  elite  in  combat  was  to be ... well, as near
invincible  as made no  odds.   A  great  many  pilots  were  'dangerous';  you
didn't  last  long as a  trader  if  you  weren't.   Many more had  earned  the
classification  'deadly'.  So had a  lot  of  mercenaries.   So  had a  lot  of
pirates.
    But elites. Few and far between.
    And his father, Jason Ryder, had  been  elite,  and  none of his family had
ever known!
    'Jason was one of the very best.  You probably never saw his ship,  but  it
was like a  fortress.   He  traded  places  that  most  of  us  would have  had
nightmares about.' Rafe shook his head admiringly.  'One of the best. A man  of
the highest calibre ...' His gaze hardened on Alex.  'The question  is  ... Can
you be the same?'
    'What makes you doubt it?'
    'Jason never said anything about  you.   I  guess  he was trying to protect
you.  The  trouble is that it  gives  me  nothing  to  go on:  you're going  to
avenge  your father's death - I  can  tell  that  from  the look  of  you,  and
your tone, and your anger -  but  for  all  I  know, that'll just mean one more
Ryder will be stardust before he even manages to target a missile.'
    Not liking Rafe Zetter's tone,   Alex  said  bitterly,  'I've done hours of
Simcombat. I score highly...'
    Rafe laughed and spat voluminously, then became serious.
    'Alex, there's something I've got to know. Maybe you're going to end up  -'
    'Pet food in orbit around Isveve!'
    'Yeah.  Maybe  that.  The  only  person  who  knew  your talents  was  your
father.  Tell me,  Alex,  and tell me true, now ... Did he say anything to  you
...  you   know  ...   in  the  moments  before  he  died?   Did   he  indicate
anything, or say anything?'
    'He said a lot,' Alex murmured,   and  felt  a  strong pang of grief as  he
remembered the look in his father's eyes,  the greyness of his cheeks, and  his
desperate words, remember me, Alex... 'I  think  he  knew he was going to  die.
The last thing he said was the  word  Raxxla.   I don't know what  that  is. An
alien, I guess ...'
    Rafe smiled,  shaking his head.  Suddenly there was a brilliant sparkle  in
his eyes:  'Raxxla's no alien,  Alex.  It's a ghost world.  A planet. A  legend
...' He hesitated,   staring  quizzically  at  the  younger  man   through  the
distant link between them, 'Jason really said that to you?'
    Alex nodded. 'Moments before ... It was the last thing he said.'
    'Then he knew,' Rafe said with  a  nod.   'And  that's good enough for  me.
Alex, get your frail shell  to  Tionisla  and  take  a visitor's shuttle to the
orbital  cemetery  there.  Say  you've  come  to  see  the grave  of  Starpilot
Fleischer.  And take a good look around.   You do that, boy. Tomorrow. I'll  be
waiting for you.'
    'Waiting to do what?'
    Rafe chuckled.  'How're you going  to  hunt  a  Cobra?  You going to hitch-
hike?  Or use a big stick? You'll need a ship. Hunt like with like. get to  the
wreckplace at Tionisla.  I know  just  the  vehicle  you  need. Don't speak  to
anyone. Just get to Tionisla.'
    'But - '
    'Au'voir, Alex!'
    And Rafe Zetter spat for the last time before the holoFac faded.
    Alex didn't flinch.  Something whistled  past  his  ear  and struck the far
wall behind him.



                                 CHAPTER THREE

The best way to see the wreckplace at Tionisla is to approach it from  the  Sun
(a reasonably safe thing to  do  since  Tionisla,   being a Democracy  has  few
pirates in its system).  Tionisla  itself  is  a  bright yellow world, and  the
cemetery is always between the planet  and  its  star.   As you fly close,  the
whole strange graveyard seems to be  expanding  from  the circle of  the  world
behind.
    The first thing you see is a shimmering,  silver disc,  a double spiral  of
tiny bright points.  It slowly turns:   it's  a  galaxy in miniature, with  the
same intense blur of light at its  centre,  because here is where  the  biggest
tombs are to be found.
    Come  closer and soon you  can  see  that  the  stars in  this  galaxy  are
markers,  great  lumps  of  metal,   heavily  inscribed  with   the  words  and
symbols  of  a thousand  religions.   The  cemetery  is  a bizarre  and  moving
sight.  The markers are rarely  less  than  a  thousand  feet across. There are
chrome-alloy crosses,  titanium Stars of David,  duralium henges,  and all  the
strange symbollic shapes of the worlds,   and  the  minds and the  faiths  that
have come to die in this Star traveller's special place.
    Tethered below this vast,  rotating mausoleum is the dodecahedral shape  of
a 'Dodo' class space station,   the  home  of the  Cemetery  Authorities.  Here
you go through security checks and get your visitor's visa.  And  as  you stand
in the queue,  staring up through the translucent ceiling of the  Customs Hall,
you can see the battered, broken ships of  many of the dead,  still attached to
the silent tomb that contains the body.
    It's  a good enough  reason  to  come  to   Tionisla.  There  are  pickings
aplenty among the wrecks.   The  treasures  of  centuries  might be revealed by
pressing  the right panel on  the  right  cube  of  black,  alien metal  as  it
floats silently by.
    Or maybe not treasure, just the tomb's defences...
    A pit with a laser.
    A robot guardian with knives where its hands should be.
    A hyperspace vacuum that sucks  you  in  and  throws  you out into  another
time.
    You  tread carefully among  the  wrecks  in   orbit   about  Tionisla.  The
creatures  buried here - human  and  alien  -  had  money enough to  buy  these
prized  resting  places,  and   more  than  enough  wealth   to  protect  their
property after death from the mercenary fingers of bounty hunters.
    Formalities completed,  his  newly  issued  pilot's  license checked,  Alex
Ryder was given a small tour-ship, and  oddly shaped and cumbersome vessel.  He
drifted quickly  among  the  tombs,  seeking  the  resting  place  of Starpilot
Fleischer, following co-ordinates on the ship's cemetery plan.
    He soon found what he  was  looking  for.   Whoever Fleischer had been,  he
was monstrously egocentric:  his  tomb  was  a  great  crystalline structure, a
puff-ball  of diamond-bright needles,  literally hundreds of feet  across.  His
body,  dressed in the red uniform  of  an elite combateer,  hovered  in  stasis
at the centre of this great  construct,  illuminated by focused light  from the
sun.
    Tethered  to  the simple monument  of  the  grave  next  to  this  was  the
battered,  blistered  shape  of  a  Cobra  class   ship,   its  insignia  still
proudly displayed,  but all  its  vital  equipment,  its  fuel-scoop, its extra
cargo bays, its aft missile and laser banks removed.
    Alex stared at it.  It  looked  nothing  like  the Cobra that had destroyed
his  father's  ship.  That  vessel  had  been  bristling  with  all  the  extra
things that good money could buy,  to  defend  and  to  attack, and to make the
trading game an easier prospect for the elite trader.
    A light on the Cobra winked on.
    Alex blinked,  then looked again.   Sure  enough,   a  small, red light was
flashing on and off, a brief sequence of code.
    LAND ON DOR PL
    'Land on the dorsal plate' - That was clear enough.
    Alex manoeuvred his tiny craft  above  the  arrow  shape of the Cobra,  and
touched  it  gently   onto  the  heat-blistered   hull.   He  looked  guiltily.
Touching  monuments  wasn't  permitted  and  the  cemetery   was  patrolled  by
Kraits,  small and deadly security craft,  with instructions to blast away  any
man, woman or child seen tampering with a mausoleum...
    But  the  graveyard  was  huge,   and  the  shadows   of  the  great  tombs
transferred  this miniature world of the dead into a place  of  hide-outs,  and
shifting, occasional safety.
    An entry port opened,   and  a  green  light  quickly blinked  the  message
'Come aboard'. Alex flew the tour-ship into the hull space and when he got  the
'pressure green' signal stepped out  and  walked  cautiously towards  the  main
control area.  He opened the  sliding  door  and  blinked  for a moment at  the
bright control displays and scanners.   Ahead  of  him,   the main  screen  was
wide, and filled with a view of Fleischer's crystal tomb.
    Silhouetted  against the  gleaming  brightness  of  the   crystal  was  the
shape  of  a  man,  wearing  a  full  space  suit.   One  hand  rested  on  the
navigation console, the other hovered above the laser button.
    'I'm aboard,' Alex said, and  walked  up  behind  the silent pilot. The man
made no movement, said nothing.
    For a moment Alex stood  beside  him,  staring  out into the wreckplace, at
the slowly shifting monuments, at the stars glimpsed in the background.
    Then he turned to greet his host.
    And nearly died of shock, taking a quick horrified step backwards!
    It was the drawn, mummified face  of  a  corpse  that half looked up at him
from  behind its visor,  the rictus smile of death stretching wide  across  its
lips.
    'Do you think we should take him with us?' a voice asked  from  across  the
cabin. Alex started again with suprise  and watched the  figure  which  emerged
from the shadows. 'As a sort of totem. A lucky charm.'
    Alex tried to smile,  but  neither  relief  nor  the new arrival's charming
grin could relax him enough.   too  much  had  happened  too fast, and he stood
rooted to the spot, watching as the woman came over to him.
    She was quite small.  He skin  was  olive,   her  eyes dark.  She wore  her
hair in a fashionable series  of  spikes,   like  a  porcupine.  Dressed in the
light  green coveralls that  most  traders  sported,   she  seemed  swamped  by
clothes.  her hand-touch was cool and confident,   and she kept the contact  as
she looked up at Alex Ryder, still smiling disarmingly.
    'So you're the man that  Rafe  has  chosen.   Well  Alex.  So far it  seems
that  star-riding with you is at  least  going  to  be  quiet.  You do  ...  er
...' she frowned. 'You do have a speech function?' She turned him slightly  and
felt  up  his   back  for  the  switch.   'or  are  you   one   of   the  early
'semaphore and gormless grin' models?'
    'Sorry,' Alex said. 'You took me by suprise.'
    'Oh God,' the woman said.  'Where's  the  off-switch?  I think I prefer you
silent...'
    'Who are you?' Alex asked, irritated  by  her  levity  and keen to find out
why Rafe Zetter had summoned him here. Where was the old man?
    'Trader Fields',  she said,  and  touched  the  heel  of her right hand  to
her  left shoulder by way  of  salute.   'My  given  name is  Elyssia.  Elyssia
Fields.' She smiled again.   'My  brood  mother's  little  joke. She discovered
Greek mythology at age 9 when she was incubating her first cluster.'
    Brood mother?  Greek?   Incubating  clusters?   That  meant   that  Elyssia
Fields  was from  Teorge,   the  so-called  'clone-world'.   Alex struggled  to
remember  what he'd been  taught  about  Teorge  ...   an inhabited  world  ...
settled  by two colony ships that had proceeded to clone a select  few  of  the
crew and colonists,  killing  the  others.  For  centuries  Teorge  had been  a
world apart,  cut off from the normal flow of trade and  commerce,  and  banned
from sending representatives into space.
    Elyssia Fields was clearly a fugitive.
    'I'm Alex Ryder,' Alex said.
    'I know,' the woman said  back,   breaking  the  gaze with which she'd been
fixing him.  She patted  the  corpse  on  the  shoulder, and oddly affectionate
gesture.  'This is - or rather was -  Space Trader Henry Bell.  We're going  to
purloin  Mister  Bell's coffin.  Of all the people who  are  going  to  object,
he's going to be the  most  objectionable.   This  rust  bucket is set  up with
holo-projections of our man here,  warning  of  dire consequences for  invading
his sanctity.  I've turned most  of  them  off,   but  I expect  I've  missed a
few.'
    'We're  going to steal  this  ship?'  Alex   said   quietly,  checking  the
flickering control display panel.  Witchlight fuel registered enough for a  0.1
light-year jump, hardly sufficient to clear the Tionisla system.
    Elyssia stared at him,  a  half  smile  on  her  lips.  'We could pass  the
time  chatting  if you prefer.   Plant  some  flowers,   clean  the tomb  up  a
little ...'
    'I meant,' Alex said drily, 'How  the  hell  are  we going to get away with
it?  He found himself staring at the pert features of the humanoid female.  The
shadow of gloom and grief that had haunted  him for the last few  hours  seemed
to fade a little.  The girl interested  him.  He  added, 'And just why  are you
helping me, anyway? Where's Rafe?'
    With a quick laugh, Elyssia said, 'Funny thing about Rafe. Wherever you  go
in the galaxy,  he's always there,  a  shimmering white holoFac ...  but  where
he really is ...  that's something you're about to find  out.'  She  glanced up
at Alex. 'Why am I helping you?  Who  says  I am? We'll be helping  each other,
in fact.  You have a father  to  avenge.   I  have some things to  avenge  too.
Maybe I'll tell you about them one  day.   But  without  you  I  can't fly this
ship.'
    Suprised, Alex said, 'Cobras were made to be flown by a single pilot.'
    'But I'm a single Teorgeon. I'm  not  supposed  to  be here. I can fly this
bucket with my eyes closed,   but  your  face  fits.   Listen, Alex, this craft
wouldn't survive the first attack by a pirate with a peashooter, no matter  how
good  we are behind the laser  button.  We  need  shields,  missiles,  defences
and cargo space.  How d'you think we're  going  to get  them?  They  don't grow
on silvery moons, you know.'
    'Trade for them,' Alex  said  gloomily,   and  the  vista of  his  family's
long life trading through the stars swept before his eyes.
    Elyssia was right.  He  couldn't  go  hunting  a  Cobra without the  proper
equipment, and it would take too long  to sort out his inheritance, bearing  in
mind the circumstances of his father's death.
    He felt utterly overwhelmed with  frustration.   A  part  of him wanted  to
kill right now.  A part of  him  wanted  to  rip  out onto the space-lanes, and
hunt  his father's killer.  But the  best  part  of  him  knew that would be  a
recipe  for  disaster,  that   patience  was  called   for,   that  a  tactical
appraisal of how he would set  about  the  hunt  was  essential ...  and that a
protected ship was a barest necessity!
    'I've got a hundred credits  in  all  the  world,' Alex said,  referring to
the  Galactic  Emergency Services loan  that  he  had  been  given to  get  him
home.
    'It's a start,' Elyssia said.  'It's  a  start  in the trading business. As
Rafe would say,  we'll give  this  old  lass  an  iron ass.' Her face darkened,
though  the  flickering lights  from  the  console  were  bright in  her  eyes.
'Then we'll go to a place  that  I  suspect  only  Rafe Zetter knows, and we'll
watch  a  lot of heartache  burn  up  courtesy  of  some fine shooting  by  the
both of us. We'll get the ship  that  put  an  end  to your father. It's a ship
that has a lot to answer for ...'
    But she would say no more than that.

    For anyone reckoning on beginning a space trading career from  scratch  the
hardest task is finding a ship.  Each  planetary  system has its floating  junk
yards,  its second-hand craft,  its  impounded  vessels,  eventually  auctioned
by the police.  Most places  advertise  for   co-pilots,  to  work  without pay
for four years with the guarantee of  a  ship  at  the  end of it -  if they're
still alive.
    But ships are expensive, even if they're from the scrap heap.
    Alex was impressed and startled  by  the  audacity  of  the theft that  was
being proposed.  In response  to  Rafe's  plan,   the  fugitive,  who had  been
hiding out in the dead craft for nearly a year,  had managed to accumulate  the
fuel,  food   and   power   to   make  a   brief   hyperspace   jump   to   the
interstellar junk yard.  All  that  had  been  missing  was the right co-pilot,
someone who could actually do the trading without arousing suspicion.
    They hauled the mummified body  of  Henry  Bell  to the small tour-ship and
set the craft adrift.
    'Whatever  happens now,' Elyssia  said  as  they  took   positions  at  the
bridge consoles,  'You're going  to  get  an  'offender'  status tag.  But Rafe
thinks  if you respect the  body  they'll  just  post  it at  Tionisla  itself.
Destroy the body and they'll probably notify most worlds in the  vicinity,  and
we can't afford that. Here goes ...'
    On  the  screen the  small  tour-ship   drifted   away,   and  the  crowded
monuments  of  the cemetery swung  past  in  a  dizzying  array of  bright  and
shadowy surfaces.  Alex  studied  the  scanners  and  monitors  carefully.  The
only had a tiny energy supply  to  fore  and  aft  screens.  A blast or two  of
laser power.  No missiles of  course.   The  craft  was  still locked on to the
Dodo space station,  whose position was shown  by the darting bright  point  in
the tri-axial grid map.
    Slowly the Cobra turned, and  began  to  move  gently, silently towards the
edge of the spiral grave-field.
    The scanner scanned,  and  Alex  watched  it  hard,  alert and apprehensive
for  the tell-tale wink of its moving green light.  The duller-colours  of  the
tombs and stationary craft crowded the scanning screen,  moving slowly  past.
    'There's something I  ought  to  tell  you  about uncontrolled  Witch-Space
jumps ...' Elyssia said, and Alex felt a moment's irritation.
    'I already know. Thanks. besides, wherever  we're going we're only going  a
tenth of a LY. And that's reasonably safe.'
    Elyssia sniggered. 'What god or goddess do you believe in?'
    'Randomius Factoria ...' Alex muttered.
    'Me too ...'
    They looked at each other.
    Alex laughed and said,  'repeat  after  me:   Lady  of Fate,  we adore  you
...'
    'Get us to Rafe's, we implore you ...'
    The monuments and monoliths drifted  by.  The  star  field widened ahead of
them.
    'Nearly there,' Elyssia breathed. 'Get ready for the jump ...'
    Alex watched the scanner.
    And two bright points of light appeared, moving rapidly towards them.
    'Company!' he said, and Elyssia swore loudly.
    'Use our laser,  and any  chance  of  trading  goes. Those are police. They
may not be Vipers, but they're police nevertheless. Damn!'
    Ahead of the the  starfield  was  almost  clear.   the two  security  craft
veered  apart, to close in  from  the  sides.   Elyssia  began to  count  down,
finger resting on the simple trigger that would despatch them faraway.
    'Ten seconds...'
    The Cobra vibrated and whined,   unused  to  activity  after many years  in
stasis.
    'They're closing - fire coming in!'
    'Five seconds.'
    The Cobra screeched as a  laser  shot  glanced  off  its hull.  The  shield
energy,  low  as it  was,   vanished!   The  attacking   craft  overshot.  It's
colleague  fired and  missed,   manoeuvring  with  difficulty  around a  large,
henge monument that slowly revolved at the edge of the cemetery.
    'Three ...'
    'Lining up ... fire coming in!'
    The two craft were together  again.   Their  laser  fire played in the void
around the Cobra.
    'Two ...'
    There was a strike,  a scream  of  pain,   the  vessel almost rocked out of
control. And then -
    Star tunnel!
    Elyssia flopped back in her  chair.   Alex  cheered.  When he looked at the
woman  he  saw that she  was  drenched  with  sweat.   When he reached  a  hand
towards her, his fingers were shaking uncontrollably.


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