S2, 09 The First Strike Part 2 (FB) (August 27, 2017)

**30 May 2097**

Kühnluft Airfield, Germany

Earth

Brody’s breathing was even and his pace was as neat as he could make it. The grass parted silently as he and Blaze flitted from shadow to shadow, avoiding any beams of torch or spotlight that occasionally spun their way. He felt exposed on the flat of the grass near the runway, but he didn’t let that thought overpower his movements.

The crew here had never encountered a raid before, and Vohilla’s gang weren’t expecting anyone to know about their operation. Despite his best efforts, old Core training floated through his brain.

People only saw what they expected to see, and no one expected ex-assassins to be ducking around their radar.

Moments later, they were at the foot of the communications tower, a tall cylinder of steel with four heavy support beams branching off like gigantic legs. A high fence surrounded the tower, humming gently with electricity. The airport may have been forgotten, but no one would have been stupid enough to leave the tower that ran their coms completely defenseless.

But it wouldn’t be nearly enough tonight.

Blaze nodded and went to one end of the fence, whilst Brody went to the other. He stepped forward and withdrew a small device from one of his many pockets. Blaze did the same and, with a ‘thumbs up’, they activated them in unison. The machines beeped twice and the section of the fence lost its hum as the devices directed the deadly current elsewhere.

Once Brody had tapped it with his mechanical leg to discharge any remaining static, the pair moved, scaling the fence in seconds. Once inside the field, they went to work temporarily disabling the communications array. Brody went to the computer terminal as Blaze placed another instrument to one of the wires running up the leg of the beast. They worked in silence, dodging the occasional automated spotlight, until Blaze piped up with his gruff voice.

Blaze: “Just like old times.”

Brody: “I suppose. At least the cause is right this time.”

Blaze: “This time?”

Brody: “Well…yeah. No assassinations or anything.”

Blaze: “We weren't just assassins, Brody.”

Brody: “I know, I know. Still, we never had to stop a plague, did we? Feels a bit more...I don't know, righteous.”

Blaze: “Suppose it does. But….look, I didn’t agree with a lot the Core did, what it was and who they put at its head. If we'd had the IIA, I wouldn't have bothered staying. But it got the job done. Look at Australia. That country would’ve torn itself apart if it wasn’t for the Core.”

Brody: “Yeah, look at what we made. The Skarr. A boy an orphan. Some great things there.”

Blaze: “Still, a lot of the guys we took down were hurting people. I wasn’t kidding earlier, that’s the only reason I stayed. Up until Firelight…”

Brody: “Well…yeah, I guess.”

Blaze: “All I’m saying is that the Core had its moments...though the IIA’s a hang of a lot better.”

Brody: “Oh?”

Blaze: “Of course they are. People know they exist for starters."

Brody: “Suppose that’s true…”

Blaze: “I almost joined up, after the Shift. Seemed like a good crowd. Besides, Duke runs the show. He'd keep everyone in line. Watch your head.”

Brody ducked quickly and stood motionless as a spotlight whipped over where his head had just been. After it passed, he jumped up and continued, his fingers jumping over the keys. He’d never been much of a hacker, but he knew the basics. He eyed Blaze fitting the module and beginning the start-up process. A moment later, Sal’s voice crackled over the radio in their earpieces, his low tone losing none of its gruffness.

Sal: “Alright, Rose and Strum are at the fence. What’s your status?”

Brody: “Almost got it. Blaze?”

Blaze: “Hang on….yep. Ready for your mark.”

Brody nodded and concentrated on the lines of code in front of him. He had the program running smoothly, just one password left. A few moments later and he was in. He grinned and dug through the options, selecting the maintenance shut down. The instant the screen popped into view, he spoke again.

Brody: “Alright, codes are in the green. On your mark.”

Sal: “Mark in 3…2…1…Mark.”

Brody activated the terminal just as Blaze flicked the switch on his own machine. The monitor in front of him beeped and turned off as the tower’s hum slowly died, leaving only the crackle of Blaze’s scrambler to fill the night. Sal’s line was silent as the various feeds realigned in the air, before coming back clear and strong again.

All of them knew the process of shutting down enemy communications. Activating the maintenance procedure prior meant no one would be suspicious when their coms died, and once they took the scrambler away, no one would be able to trace the hack. All the history would say was that the tower was shut down for a check-up and that would be it. Plain and simple.

Rose: “Alright, Vohilla’s guards are distracted, thanks guys. Moving out.”

Sal: “I see you. Strum, watch your left.”

Strum: “Please, he’s muy bebida.”

Rose: “And for those of us who don’t speak Spanish?”

Strum: “Very drunk, señora. You really need to expand your linguistics.”

Rose: “Hey, I can speak Idiot when I’m with you. That makes me bilingual, right?

Brody switched off their channel and ducked again to avoid another spotlight. Blaze followed suit, before retrieving the scrambler from its connected wire. The tower didn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

Once it was secure, Blaze climbed back over the de-lectrified fence, powerful muscles hauling his body up remarkably quickly. Brody was a step behind, his mechanical leg propelling him with ease. There were times when it had its uses.

Once safe, they disengaged the twin devices and let the electricity flow back through the fence, leaving the dead tower as their only evidence. With that, they began moving back to Sal to dump their equipment, ready to join the others in the fray. Blaze had to fuel his weapons.

**Moments Later.**

Zorack Stonhiyk didn’t like Earth. He didn’t like the plants, didn’t like the atmosphere, didn’t like the way the temperature made his skin crawl like beetles had filled his bones. However, here he was, in some airfield in some country, all because of a simple reason. He loved money more that he hated Earth. And Ygrid Vohilla provided him with that money. And that was good enough for him.

His three-fingered hand gripped one of the rocks before him, turning it over, admiring its many angles. Ossillium. Too many in the system saw it as a weapon, or a defence system, or a disease. Few knew how to appreciate the gem in its purest form. Zorack was one of those few, a gemologist born in Rerador.

Zorack spun the pebble, gently reflecting the light. Of course, he'd known about the rock that had saved humanity from Collective destruction long before they’d gotten their grubby fingers on it. He knew what the rock was and, more importantly, knew which pieces were the best, the purest.

His eyes skimmed the stone once again, picking out a small imperfection on one side. He brought his other hand around and broke it off gently, not wanting to damage the whole stone.

Satisfied, he strolled over and placed the rock in a crate with hundreds more. Straightening, he let his eyes fall over the area around him. They were tucked away in a nook in the shipping container maze, hidden well away from any prying eyes. Spotlights had been positioned and guards stationed for protection. He had scoffed at that. Whoever had said he needed protection didn’t really know him.

He cleared his throat and addressed one of the guards, an alien of some description that he didn’t recognise. In fact, most of the people in Vohilla’s crew he didn’t know. He was here for money, not brotherhood. His skin was a bright pinkish colour though. That was enough for him to go on.

Zorack: “Oi, anything out there?”

Pinkface: “Tijytjd jnicie qwuiio Zorack llijwi.”

Zorack: “Can’t understand a bleedin word you just said. Do ya speak Qoterian, slintcrank?”

The guard turned away. Apparently, he knew enough to be insulted. Zorack shrugged and turned back to the workbench, where a few rocks remained. He was almost finished, could almost see the credits streaming into his account. His mouth began salivating at the thought.

He reached for another stone the same instant that another guard strode up. He was pretty sure he knew this one, all beard and no smile.

Zorack: "O'right, what's the matter Vince?"

Vice: "That's Vice to you dlug-brain. Tol' you that before."

Zorack: "Whatever. What d'ya want?"

Vice: "Coms went down. All I'm getting is a maintenance warning."

Zorack: "And I care...why?"

Vice: "I dunno, rock lover. Just telling you, is all."

Zorack: "Fine, now get out of here. I don't want you disturbing the stones."

Vice frowned beneath his massive beard and opened his mouth to retort...

...and the night went black.

Instantly, the guards raised their weapons as the pair of spotlights that had been illuminating the yard fell with a clang. Zorack scowled as he glimpsed the bulbs, both of them shattered and smashed. He pulled out his own weapon and glanced in every direction he could think of. Whichever gang member thought it was funny to mess with him was a dead man.

He turned to the other three and began throwing out orders like rotting food, hoping some of them would stick.

Zorack: "O'right, some slintcrank's having a laugh. Split up, find the bugger. Vice, over there. You, long hair, what's ya name?"

Long-Hair: "Don't matter."

Zorack: "Whatever. You and Pinkface are with me. Move up and search the area. He can't be far."

The men reluctantly followed the orders, fanning out and scanning the blackness around them. Though the spotlight from the terminal proper occasionally drifted past, the shipping containers blocked most of the useable light. Still, the guards used what light they did have to search for attackers, nearly firing on the breeze a few times. Zorack sighed. He'd better let Vohilla know. He fired up his earpiece.

Zorack: "Oi, Ygrid? It's Zorack, you there? Helloooo?"

Com: "Sorry. The communications array is currently inactive due to mechanical maintenance. Please try again later. We apologise for the inconvenience."

Zorack: "Bleedin garbage."

Vice: "I told you, numskull. Coms are down. We'll have to report this to Vohilla the old fash-hurrk!"

The brief cry echoed in the night as the trio spun to where Vice had been moments ago. But there was nothing there but silence. It was as if the man had never existed in the first place. Zorack's scowl went up a notch. Vohilla's crew held few friendships, but everyone, himself included, agreed to a ceasefire. No fights could break out during a job.

This then was no prankster. Vice had been attacked.

Zorack: "Get your eyes wide! There's an intruder!"

Pinkface: "Uhnrnf iiwmo!"

Long-Hair: "We need to let Vohilla know. Now."

Zorack: "And leave the Ossillium behind? Not a chance."

Long-Hair: "This is only the scraps! Vohilla's got the rest."

Zorack: "Do you know how expensive it is to move Ossillium? No, we are not leaving it! We gotta catch this bugger and skin him alive!"

The others grimaced, but eventually nodded and began searching again, their guns raised and their senses heightened to adrenaline bursting levels.

Rose: "Alright Sal, I've found the gem-guy you mentioned."

Sal: "Good, and there's been no contact?"

Rose: "That would be a negative. Am I clear to take him out?"

Sal: "Subdue him and keep him down. Without that last crate, the operation should stall. Plenty of time for us to intercept."

Rose: "No worries. Moving out."

Rose flipped down her helmet visor and took in the small yard below here. The guards were running around like headless chickens, and yet not once did they think to look up. She briefly eyed the one they'd called Vice, unconscious on the container with her. Amateurs, the lot of them. And with that thought, she leapt.

Long-Hair: "AHHHH!"

Zorack spun just in time to see Long-Hair smack into the ground with a started yelp. Pinkface snarled as his eyes adjusted to the sudden movement, pointing his gun in the direction of the cry. Zorack's curse filled the night as a cloaked figure straightened from crushing Long-Hair into the dirt. The figure locked eyes with the duo and seemed to nod once.

Pinkface would have none of that.

Pinkface: "Yhwind qinblt deiom!! Stop still, slintcrank!"

The figure moved before Zorack had time to blink. In milliseconds, they'd leapt onto the table, rotated into a fighting stance and slammed their foot into Pinkface's skull. The alien yelped and pulled his trigger instinctively, illuminating the night with muted gunfire.

Pinkface hit the ground. Hard. He managed a moan before going silent. The figure, who Zorack now saw was a woman, turned and stepped off the table without any display of effort. She seemed to flow, rather than step. Zorack raised his pistol, suddenly aware of the sweat that dripped from his brow. His hand was shaking, the barrel of the gun moving up and down.

The woman, for her part, smiled beneath her visored helmet. He growled loudly as she stepped forward, though he may as well have squeaked for all the good it did. He tried again, adding some words into the mix and did his best to regain his old confidence in the face of this force of nature.

Zorack: "Whoever...whoever you are, you'd better leave. I work with Ygrid Vohilla. She works for the Storm. Trust me, you don't want him after ya! So back off!"

The woman paused and appeared to consider, before speaking with a grin in her voice.

Rose: "Aw, but I like it here. I could spend ages, just...getting lost. Who knows what I'd find?"

Zorack: "Wait...did...did you hear me?! I'm backed by the Storm you slintcrank!"

Rose: "You know...I really don't like that word."

Zorack: "Well, you slintc-"

He didn't even get to finish. She'd already moved, a wraith in the night. He screamed, and managed to get two shots off. Both of them missed completely, and then she was on him. Zorack cried out as her elbow cracked against his chin, spittle flying from his lips. He raised his hands, but she battered them away with ease and sent a blow to his ribcage, followed by a knee to his groin.

Air suddenly rushed from his lungs as he pulled the trigger of his gun again, sending a bullet skyward as tears filled his eyes. The woman grinned, moved closer and thrust her palm into his nose. His eyes lolled and filled with tears for the briefest of moments before she followed up with an uppercut to his jaw.

He blinked, suddenly very confused. A headache flared and his body staggered back before collapsing in a heap. He managed a sort of snarl before consciousness left him behind, grateful to take him out of the fight.

Rose stepped back, her work finished. With the gemologist down, the last crate wouldn't be with Vohilla. And after watching the trio below, she could already tell that very few in the gang were friends. Vohilla's first thought wouldn't be an ambush, it would probably be disloyalty. Perfect for gaining time.

She flipped up her visor briefly, feeling the cool night air on her face. Her hand taped the side of the helmet, switching on their personal coms again.

Rose: "Alright Sal, gem-guy's down."

Sal: "Good. And Strum?"

Strum: "Not to worry, your backup's nearly here, señorita."

Rose scoffed and signed off as she rounded the corner that led back into the world of containers and freight. She waited for a moment as Strum came round the opposing corridor, a grin on his lips. His green cloak was gone, but he didn't seem to mind. Idiot.

Strum: "See? I'm here. Now, is there anyone left to punch?"

Rose: "Nah, afraid they're all sleeping at the moment. But I'm sure their cousins'll be along soon."

Strum: "Sí, and I suppose I'm waiting for them?"

Rose: "Of course! Who doesn't love big uncle Carlos?"

Strum: "I am quite huggable."

Rose: "Exactly. Alright, I'm off. Gotta get in position."

Strum: "Understood. Take care señora, I don't want to be dragged away from my loving relatives."

Rose grinned and bolted, her visor clicking back into place and illuminating the world in a haze of green night vision. Briefly she saw Strum remove his guitar and rest his back on the wall, prepared to wait until the gem-guys reinforcements, or prosecutors, came to get him.

Her smile widened. They'd certainly be in for a surprise.

The wind was cold tonight, Ygrid Vohilla thought to herself as she pulled her bandana tighter around her nose. She was sick of waiting, sick of this whole operation, if she was honest. Uek had already pushed this shipment back a month, and she’d already and to deal with a thousand other, smaller problems.

She tapped her side arm thoughtfully as her watchful eyes observed the remainder of the Ossillium crates being loaded into the container. Despite the shuttleport being the ideal place to ship the cargo off-world, it hadn’t been easy getting the Ossillium here, or dealing with the increased number of crew-members she needed for this operation. Every little gang she'd used to bring the Ossillium here wanted to see it fly off, their work finished.

She locked eyes with a woman directly across from her, one of the few she actually trusted. Ovasa met her gaze had nodded, hearing the unspoken request. She glanced down the line of shipping containers to a distant lookout and gestured. A few moments later she nodded to the unseen face and shook her head in Vohilla’s direction.

Damn it. She knew Zorack was the best she had at getting the purest product, but he only ran on his own time. Still, he was only here for money. What more could be said?

A series of flashes lit up the night, coming from Zorack’s direction. Vohilla sighed to herself as she processed the information, gesturing to Ovasa once again. The idiot must’ve opened fire on one of the guards.

Again.

They already had two bodies to hide, she didn’t really want any more while she was here. Hiccups only increased the chances of being caught. The coms being down for maintenance had been enough to deal with, besides the rock-loving moron.

Ovasa flagged down a few more crew members and sent them on their way. The group stepped into the maze, jostling each other for the lead position. A few spewed insults reached her ears, but she barely registered them. She wanted the operation as clean as possible, and that meant a bigger crew.

She didn’t give a scrim what they thought of each other.

Up on the ridge, Sal eyed the group drawing closer to Strum’s position, the binoculars revealing his heat signature through the walls of corrugated steel. The man was slumped against a wall, moving his instrument to a more comfortable position.

He removed the binoculars and grunted to himself. He needed to get himself a pair.

The sound of footfalls made his ears prick up and his body to tense. But he waited, unmoving in the dark, until he, recognised the soft whirr with every second foot fall. Grunting, he gestured to the bags at his side.

Sal: “Blaze, your stuff’s over there. Be quick about it. We’ll need to go loud soon. Coms dark?”

Crutch: “Yep, all good. Only the maintenance warning coming up now.”

Blaze strode over and reached into one of the bags, pulling out a pair of long metallic cylinders. They glinted briefly, before he secured them to his sleeves, clicking them into place with the weaponized nozzles already strapped to his wrists. Sal nodded to himself as he began hooking up fuel tubes through various patches tailored into his uniform. His earlier assumption about the colour had been correct; Blaze had indeed customised his clothes.

Sal: “Good. From now on, maintain radio silence with each other. We want confusion once I give the signal. I don’t want the guards thrown into this mess.”

Blaze: “Roger that. Anything else?”

Sal: “No. You know the plan. I’ll wait until you’re in the compound. Don’t keep me waiting, lad.”

Blaze: “Of course. Any sign of their shuttle?”

Sal: “Not yet. We’ll be done before it gets here."

Crutch: “So long as the shuttle’s on time. If it’s early…”

Sal: “Then we’ll deal with it. Now get going.”

Blaze’s wrist clicked one last time as the last fuel hose was connected. He shook his arms and rotated his wrists, but the twin assemblies stayed secure. He nodded and turned to Crutch, who had just finished depositing the used scrambler and electrical re-directors and was now loading up on bandages. Crutch straightened when he was done and the pair dashed off into the night, their footsteps vanishing moments later as the gentle breeze snatched them away like leaves.

Sal grumbled as he raised his back, doing his best to ignore the aches that had sprang up. He really was getting too old for this kind of thing, but someone had to do it. He raised the binoculars, marveling once more at the clearness of the image. The scanner beeped once, picking out Strum’s nearly still form, spare his fingers.

A loud sigh escaped Sal's lips. The idiot was playing guitar.

Strum heard the gang members long before he saw them. In fact, he smelt them long before he saw them. Why was it that gang members seemed to detest hygiene? What was the point? He sighed to himself and plucked his guitar a few more times as he started playing a tune.

The Chaos it was called, written by one Peter Pratt in 2056, the year Strum was born. It was a nice song, with a slow build-up to a grand chorus. He found himself whispering the lyrics as his fingers began to move over the frets, quiet chords filling the little space he’d made himself. He was still humming when the gang scrambled round the corner.

A bald woman was in the lead, her face covered completely by a spiked helmet, a club in her hand. Judging by her posture, she probably thought it made her look cool.

It really didn’t.

The group glared at him as they approached, a bunch of oddities in various scraps of clothing. Two had guns, and all four looked like people who didn’t want their time wasted.

So he kept humming.

Strum: “…and the chaos filled my eyes. I tried to stand, but my feet were-”

Woman: “Oi, you there! Who the scrim are you?”

Guard 2: “Yeah, what are you doing here punk?"

Woman: “Shut up Tinz! I’m asking the questions, not you!”

The man named Tinz mumbled behind a scowl but he did nothing except point his rifle in Strum's general direction. His companions sniggered behind his back. Strum sighed to himself and concluded the song, his head filled with disappointment. No taste for good music, the fools.

He uncurled himself and straightened, causing the group to tense at his height. Internally, he shrugged, but he answered their question with a voice brimming with confusion.

Strum: "Who am I? Sí, now that's a difficult question?"

Woman: "What?"

Strum: "I mean, I'm me. But am I really who I think I am? In truth, do any of us know who we really are?"

Woman: "Wait...what? Are you...are you makin fun of me?!"

Strum: "Señorita, not in the slightest. I wouldn't dream of it."

Woman: "Shut up, or I'll bash your head in, dlugbrain! I want to know who the scrim you are, and what you're doing here! Are you with Vohilla?"

Strum: "Hmm...just to clarify, if I answer you, will you bash my head in?."

Woman: "Stop messing with my, punk! Answer the damn question!"

Strum: "Very well. I'm with Vohilla."

Woman: "Right, OK. What's the code?"

Strum: "There's a code?"

Woman: "What? Of course there is!"

Strum: "Oh. In that case, I'm not with Vohilla."

The woman cursed and stepped forward, her gang following the move. Guns were thrust forward and weapons raised, but Strum blocked it out for the moment. Calmly, he raised his hand and held it in front of him. Instinctively, they stopped, anger and confusion flaring.

My my, these were fools.

Gently, he placed his guitar on the ground behind him as his hand went to his coat pocket, fished around for awhile, and withdrew a pair of cordless earphones. He pocketed the com in his ear and replaced it with the buds, one at a time, allowing the material to sit comfortably. He'd had them shaped specifically to his ears, and they needed to be just right to make sure they didn't fall out.

Once that was done, he tapped the device attached to his belt as he took in the gang members. All wore puzzled expressions, but none had shot him yet. But it was only a matter of time. So he made his intentions known.

Strum: "Look, as I'm not with Vohilla, and obviously no guard, would I be right in saying you're going to kill me?"

Tinz: "That's right, ya damn punk! Sticking your nose where it don't below."

Woman: "Shut it. We'll kill him only when I say so."

Strum: "Ah. So you are killing me?"

Woman: "Er, yeah. Yeah, that's right!"

Strum: "Very good. Would you mind if I said goodbye to my guitar then? I'm sure she'll miss me."

He didn't wait for a response as he crouched down and leaned over his instrument, leaving the group even more bemused then before. But he tuned them out again as he pulled out the device on his belt and selected the shuffle mode. Music filled his ears immediately and he began to bob his head to the beat.

It was a classic, of course it was. The 80's, the original 80's. Impressive instrumental work, long before the computer and the DJ's had beaten them out. He grinned to himself as the woman with the stupid helmet loomed in his peripherals. His finger touched a specific knot of wood in the guitar, unlocking the hidden compartment. His hand reached in as his whole body tensed, alive with the music and adrenaline already pumping.

Just as the woman raised her club to, as she had promised, bash his head in, he spun from the crouch with a weapon in his hand. The long bladed sabre gleamed in the spotlight, knocking the club aside. The woman gasped his surprise, but Strum had moved again, his motion synced to the rhythm in his ears.

Dueling had never been mere fighting to him. No, it had always been a dance. And this, this fight, why it was merely a dance with more partners.

Though they obviously weren't very good.

His blade stuck out, opening the woman's shoulder in an eyeblink. She howled and fell back, but Strum had already moved on. He saw an alien with a crowbar behind him and sent his leg flying backwards, knocking the air from its stomach. The alien fell backwards, cracking its head against the container wall and going silent.

At the same time, he ducked his head, avoiding the rifle round that was sent spinning his way. The ugly one named Tinz scowled as he reloaded. He'd almost hit Strum's hat.

How dare he.

Strum leapt forward, his blade thrusting like a whirlwind, leaving a series of tiny holes in Tinz's bared chest. The man grimaced and raised his rifle as some sort of club, but Strum met his swing and parried left. Tinz grunted in pain, both from the injuries and the sudden jarring from his wrist.

The sabre struck again, but this time it was the hilt as Strum brought it up and crunched it against the man's jaw. His head rocked, his eyes lolled and he went down like a sack of bricks. Or potatoes. Whichever one was more slack-like.

Strum spun and whipped the sabre against the air, hurling the blood from the end. The remaining gang member had lost his pistol. Perhaps he'd been smart enough to know that it wouldn't do any good at this range. He spoke, but Strum focused on the music. It was just getting to the good part.

The other man pumped his chest up, his face obscured by the mask he wore. He was clearly shouting something. And he wouldn't shut up. Strum decided to humour him, and paused the music with a tap to his ear.

Man: "-think you can kill me? I'm a cyborg, slintcrank! Qoter steel, baby! You can't kill jack!"

Strum: "Oh, is your name Jack?"

Man: "Wait...what?"

Strum: "I've know a few Jack's in my time. Sí, even one that I think was a cyborg. So if your last name's Brickton, then you'd be right, I can't kill you. You're too much fun."

Man: "Brick-ton? That name's fake as scrim!"

Strum: "I take it you aren't him them. Ah well. But I prefer not to kill if I don't have to."

The man gestured to his team mates, groaning on the ground. None where screaming at least. Their brains were too muddled with shock and pain to think clearly enough for that.

Man: "Not killing? That's what it looks like! But you won't get me, ya hippocrot!"

Strum: "That's hypocrite, and they aren't dead. You don't need all of your blood to survive. In fact, you don't really need your eyes either."

The cyborg cocked his head, confused, and Strum stabbed him in the eye. The man cried out in pain as a spark of electricity filled the air and he slumped over, fingers twitching in reflex.

Strum whirled and withdrew the blade, noticing it had been drenched in oil rather than blood. He shrugged and hit play and the music filled his ears once again. He glanced around at his handiwork. Only the woman was barely conscious, grasping her shoulder with a bloody hand. Tinz was still passed out, pinpricks of blood showing on his chest. He'd live though.

Which was good, at least for him.

Strum turned with a twirl and picked up his guitar, his head swaying to the beat. He pulled a rag from the hidden compartment, wiped away the oil, and returned it. He decided to keep the sabre out though. Who knew what would be coming round the corner?

He grinned to himself. It had been a while since he'd felt the rush of a fight, a dance. He'd never liked the killing, though he'd never placed himself above doing it. Some lives needed to be taken, he reasoned, but often those lives were the best kind of dancers to fight.

He turned and walked away, back into the maze of a thousand containers, moving to the next position. The song kept going and he stepped to the beat, aware that to anyone watching he probably looked ridiculous.

But he wasn't anyone watching. So he didn't really mind. Besides, it was a good song, and good songs needed someone to dance to them.

What was the point otherwise?

Ygrid Vohilla tapped her foot angrily, her sidearm comfortably in her hand, hungry for blood. She didn’t know whose blood, but definitely someone. Zorack most likely, for causing the delay. The sooner the last crate was in, the sooner she could get the container checked and the sooner she could get the shipment underway.

She was a smuggler, through and through, and any good smuggler knew that efficiency and speed were the keys to success. Why her hired crew didn’t understand that was beyond her.

More gunfire flashed briefly, in Zorack’s direction. She mumbled angry words to herself and strode over to Ovasa. Her long hair flitted gently in the breeze as she spoke, her voice high, but not annoying.

Ovasa: “What’s the matter boss?”

Vohilla: “Any words from the idiots? Have they spoken with Zorack?”

Ovasa: “Hard to tell without the coms. I’ll pass the message along.”

The woman looked down the hallway of containers, passing down a series of coded gestures. The man on the end nodded and passed it along so that it would eventually meet up with the Guard watching Zorack. The pair waited for the reply as her own guards finished hooking up the bulk of the supply. The container was brimming, spare the last crate.

A minute later, they got their response. The man at the other end shook his head, a confused look on his face. Ovasa translated, though Vohilla got the gist.

Ovasa: “Zorack's man isn’t responding. Which is odd in itself. The pink guy isn't in the habit of ignoring us for this long. What do you want me to do?”

Vohilla: “Hmm…so no word if those morons reached him?”

Ovasa: “Nothing.”

Vohilla rubbed her temple to disguise the sudden nerves that had filled her system. Zorack was an idiot, but he wouldn’t flat out ignore her. He loved his money too much. Something else had happened. Maybe a brawl between the two groups of guards? Maybe more security had found them, too many for them to handle? With the coms down, it was impossible to know for sure. There was only one thing she could do.

Vohilla: “Call them all back. I’ll do a head count, see who’s missing, knocked out or dead. The shuttle should be here soon, and I want all the Ossillium on it. The Storm won’t be happy otherwise.”

Ovasa nodded and let of a flurry of gestures, which would be repeated for all the stations she’d spread around the maze to avoid and confuse security. By a rough count, eight men wouldn’t turn up, which hopefully would mean they’d knocked each other out.

And if that was the case, she really wanted to be there when they woke up.