Okay. I’ve had some time to think it over and concluded that I must be losing my damn mind.

Why, you ask? After all I’ve risked to unmask the Brotherhood, making a potential enemy of Chris, exposing a vulnerability that threatens the entire Avatar Clan. Why else would I even consider trying to form an alliance with them? They’ve already murdered fellow Terrans, so how can I just let that go?

Sigh

Pragmatism, of course… bloody-minded, survival-oriented pragmatism. Before they were just some nebulous threat, a name given to a band of deadly phantoms, but now? With what the Chell know, how well they’re positioned, they could shatter the Tu’udh’hizh’ak Empire, leaving the Aggaaddub and Eleexx to fight over the remains of the Troika. This could change everything.

What a difference a day makes.

But with a decision like this, I didn’t dare rush into it. I needed to know more, get a better handle on what the Brotherhood really was, their goals and their temperament. Were they terrorists, or were they something more? Could they align themselves with the Terran clans? Were our goals even compatible? And more importantly, did I have the right to decide something of this magnitude on my own?

Any other time and I’d be making a beeline to bring Chris up to speed, but obviously that was impractical at the moment, seeing how I’d been sent packing and all. She needed to know what I now knew… and I didn’t dare tell her.

Fuck my life.

Well, at least I knew where to dig, but getting close to the Chell wouldn’t be easy. The Tu’udh’hizh’ak Empire controlled a sizable chunk of the Perseus Arm, and the Chell were its customs officers, military force, and constabulary, as well as every other vital role that kept the trains running on time. We’re not entirely sure what the Tu’udh’hizh’ak themselves do… swim around in their swamps and munch on grubs all day, for all we know. We suspect they live lives of idle luxury, with the Chell to cater to their every whim, waiting on them hand and foot. When you can control any being around you with just a thought, why wouldn’t you make them your slaves?

Suddenly, their nom de guerre made a lot more sense. You’d have to live in the shadows to survive in the Empire if you were one of the few free-range free thinkers. Having to hide who and what you really are from those around you; from your friends, family, and loved ones, watching in silence as their will was bent to serve the Masters?

Not going to lie, it sounds like Hell. And they’ve been enduring it for millennia.

I’m not sure how I’ll be able to contact the Brotherhood, let alone whether I should. Infiltrating an organization designed to survive constant scrutiny from telepaths had to be a stone-cold bitch, and right now I didn’t have a single idea how to manage it. If I approach a Chell that isn’t part of the Brotherhood, they’ll turn me over to their masters faster than you can say, “I am royally fucked.” I didn’t have to worry about their mind games, but they could easily order one of their servitors to smash the hardware housing my program. Adios, muchachos.

What the hell was I going to do?

I’ve found over the years that when I get caught in a feedback loop like this, I need to take a time out and focus on something else for a while. Otherwise, I just end up driving myself nuts and accomplishing nothing. Some time spent on familiar ground was just what the doctor ordered.

I popped back into my office and put my feet up as I pondered the last name on my list. Indra Alkeides had been a Corsair, copilot of the Katabasis. She’d died from Tuhlaa Syndrome 13 years ago, Tuhlaa being one of the rare contagions that could jump species. Most diseases indigenous to a particular race stayed there, unable to make the leap to another race because their physiology was simply too different. Tuhlaa, however, had proven itself quite malleable, with a long incubation period and delayed onset of symptoms. Most infected individuals weren’t aware of the fact until it was too late.

Another example of an interspecies-transmission-capable disease is the dread Ipqi Mutagenic Contagion, currently ravaging half a dozen worlds in the Tu’udh’hizh’ak Empire’s border region. It’s currently just barely contained, requiring a massive influx of ships and personnel to man the infected systems. It’s believed to be part of the reason the Troika’s response to the fledgling Alliance based on Sonoitii Prime has been so anemic. They have thoroughly razed Ipqi itself, burning out the contagion by burning the planet down to its crust. The other systems aren’t faring much better, only by the most draconian measures possible are there any survivors there at all. The death toll is in the billions and still climbing.

The cause of the plague is a tightly held secret in the Empire, though they’ve “accidentally” leaked a memo theorizing the disease escaped from some Eleexx laboratory. You’ve gotta love how they never miss a chance to take a shot at their fellow Troika members. Actually, though, they’re not far wrong, if only by one remove. It just so happens I know the actual story, and I’m not surprised the Empire is trying to bury the truth. Admitting a single Terran ship with a handful of freedom fighters wreaked such havoc would be seen as a massive sign of weakness, especially now with support for the Alliance growing every single day.

I hope you can see what you accomplished, Persephone, and take some measure of comfort from it.

Anyway, I digress. I was talking about the copilot, Indra Alkeides, and how she contracted Tuhlaa Syndrome. Corsairs travel to all parts of the Arm, and come into contact with many people, so she could have picked it up almost anywhere.

But here’s the kicker: Terrans are naturally resistant to Tuhlaa Syndrome.

Now resistant isn’t the same thing as immune, and there have been several documented cases of Terrans being infected with the disease. But it is rare, rare enough that her death was noted in several publications. Again, it was one coincidence too many, in a string of coincidences that defied all rational explanation, let alone belief.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

And the Brotherhood was guilty of all of them.

So the question is simple: how much Terran blood on their hands am I willing to overlook?

God, I need a drink.

----------------------------------------

I’ve already introduced you to Laura, but this wasn’t a Laura-type situation. For times like this, I conjure up Raven.

Laura is my girl, my best friend, my confidant, the one I can truly be myself with. She’s the girl next door, sweet and wholesome, the kind you bring home to meet your mother and start thinking about raising a family with. She’s the one I tell about my hopes, my dreams, my fears, who’ll hold me close when I need it, and yet give me space when I need that as well.

Raven… isn’t any of those things. She’s less my girl, and more my partner in crime. When I need to drown my sorrows and go on a bender, Raven is there matching me drink for drink. When I get the urge to just haul off and punch something, she’s in there swinging right beside me. And when I need to just get freaking laid, she’s down for that too. She’ll do all the things you dream about in your darkest fantasies, but you’ll pay the toll.

I’ll wake up the next morning alone, handcuffed to the bed, with the key tantalizingly out of reach, sporting bruises and red marks in places I didn’t realize I had. My head will be pounding, my mouth will taste like a dragon crapped in it, there’ll be an angry call from the management about the five thousand credit bill I now owe for damages, and staring me in the face will be the word “Bastard”, scrawled across the mirror in black lipstick.

And once I finally drag the bed over far enough to unlock myself, there’ll be a note that simply says, “Call me”, with a heart. Not a cute heart, mind you, but something more akin to a blood-drenched organ ripped from one’s chest. Raven is complicated like that. She’s the one I call when my Id needs scratching.

This was definitely one of those times.

“So what are you gonna do?” she asked, throwing back a tequila shooter and chasing it with a lime wedge before nudging my elbow. “Come on, drink up.”

I did the same, feeling the raw booze burn my throat. “God, I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I started this investigation to take them down, but… if we could make a deal with them, bring them into the Alliance, they could be the secret weapon that breaks the Troika’s grip on the Perseus Arm.”

“Uh-huh… and just how do you think your boss lady will react when you advise her to sweep those murders under the rug?” She grabbed the bottle from behind the bar and poured us two more shots, ignoring the bartender’s scowl. A couple of nearby patrons noticed and started muttering under their breath as I gave them a quick once over. We were in a dive bar near the docks of Nome, Alaska, reveling under the midnight sun. It was 1957, a couple of years prior to statehood, and the rough and tumble crowd looked… itchy.

Perfect.

We both did another shot as I shook my head. “Not well,” I admitted. “She’s the one that brought me in on this, and she might have been willing to look the other way, but that was before…”

“... before you told her you were going to sell out the clan for collateral,” she finished, pushing me back as she poured a stream of rotgut down my throat, cackling with delight as I came up sputtering. Her leathers creaked as she shifted in her seat, ostensibly worn for protection while riding the Harley panhead parked out front, but that wasn’t the real reason. They were fitted to accentuate every curve, and when she walked into the bar, every male eye followed. A trio of Longshoremen were giving me dirty looks, eager to push me aside and move in for themselves, which Raven was doing her utmost to encourage by tossing the occasional wink or blown kiss their way. Someone was gonna get cut before the night was over.

What can I say, my Id isn’t very complicated. Drink, fight, and fuck, not necessarily in that order.

“I didn’t have a choice!” I snapped, slamming my hand on the bar. The glasses clinked as the barkeep reached for something. A bat maybe, though a sawed-off 12 gauge was a real possibility in this locale. I held up my hands in apology and set a twenty on the wood countertop, which seemed to quell his ire for the moment.

“Bullshit,” she snorted. “You had a choice. You could have walked away from it. Dropped the investigation.”

I shook my head. “I’m not built like that, and you know it.”

A leering grin came across her face as she licked her lips. “I know,” she said with a throaty chuckle, “it’s the quality I like best about you. You’ll keep at it til the bitter end.” A lingering downward glance suggested she wasn’t talking about fisticuffs.

I rolled my eyes. “If we could stay on topic for the moment?”

“I thought I was,” she purred, sliding off the barstool and moving in close. Raven slipped into my arms and molded herself against me, pressing her lips against mine as she marked her quarry with a fiery kiss. She tasted of jalapenos and cinnamon and all things forbidden, biting my lip hard enough to draw blood before finally pulling away. I probed the wound with my tongue as I sat there, taking her in. She knew exactly how to push my buttons, which only made sense. I’d programmed her to.

The sounds of scraping chairs announced the Longshoremen’s decision to make their play. Raven gave me a playful wink and whispered in my ear, “Showtime, lover.”

Right then. Time to get to it.

The biggest of the trio was leading the pack, with the other two guarding his flanks. I slid off the barstool and flashed him my most disarming smile. “Something I can do for you, gents?” I asked.

“Yeah, you can…” he began, only for his eyes to widen as I grabbed the tequila bottle by the neck and smashed it upside his temple. The glass shattered as he went down as I lunged for the one on the right, slashing the punk across the face as he pulled back screaming, while Raven opened up his partner’s arm with the stiletto she carried in her boot. The rest of the bar sat stunned at this sudden display of carnage except for the bartender, who was already moving. I spun around and clamped down hard on his wrist, yanking it up and dragging whatever he’d been reaching for along with him. Turns out I was right; it was a shotgun. It was all over in less than five seconds.

Fair fights are for suckers.

Snatching the scattergun from the bartender’s grasp, I broke it open and extracted the shells, tucking them into my pocket. “I believe we’ve outstayed our welcome,” I told her, as I started edging towards the door.

“Pity, it was just getting interesting,” she sighed, as we made our retreat, hopping on our bikes and roaring out of town before the locals could arrange something unpleasant.

Half an hour later we found a secluded spot near an icy stream and off the beaten path, stopping for the night to make camp. I bagged a marmot with the shotgun, dressing it out with Raven’s knife before roasting the meat over the fire. It was gamey, but filling, especially when washed down with a bottle of Jack we’d snagged on the way out of the bar. We laid out our bedrolls and stared into the fire as the sun hovered near the horizon.

“Have you decided?” she asked me, rolling over on her side.

I nodded slowly. “I have to check it out,” I told her. “Maybe nothing comes of it. Maybe I decide it’s a terrible fit. But I’ve got to know.”

“Good,” she said amiably, as she started shucking her leathers. “Now that you’ve got that out of your system…” she grinned, crooking her finger as she tossed them aside.

I stripped off my own clothes and joined her, pulling her close and covering my mouth with hers, her talons raking my back… while off in the distance, a lone wolf howled at the sky.