“...how could you do this to us?” Baba demanded. “To your family?”

“It’s my choice,” Liva said defiantly, “my life. Not yours.”

“Bao-bao,” her Mama wailed, “you would abandon your Clan? Let yourself be experimented on by...them?” She couldn’t bring herself to say the name.

“Look at me!” Liva shouted, lifting her spindly, shaking arms. “Every day I get worse, and there’s nothing anyone can do. I can’t live like this anymore. I won’t.” She sighed, collapsing in on herself. “Not when there’s another choice. Can’t you see that?” she begged.

“All I see is that you’re turning your back on everything we taught you, everything we are!” Baba shouted. “If you do this...then you are dead to us.”

Liva could only stare at him in shock. “Baba...I’m your daughter,” she whispered, as tears filled her eyes.

“Not if you do this,” he answered, pulling his wife to his side. “If you become one of those...things…then you are no daughter of mine.”

She pushed her cart towards them. “Mama, please, make him understand!” she wailed, but her mother only buried her face into her husband’s shoulder and sobbed as he led her away, leaving her to weep all alone in the corridor. How could they turn their back on her? They knew how much pain she was in, and this was the only choice left for her….unless she chose the airlock option.

This had to be better than that, right?

Right?

But they couldn’t accept it, for whatever reason. They’d rather think her dead than listen with their hearts, to try to understand why she was doing this. All they’d managed was to harden her resolve, for now she truly had no option. Wiping a dirty sleeve across her face, she took one last look, hoping they’d changed their minds, that they were running back to her...only there was nothing.

They’d really abandoned her.

...fine, then.

Liva set her jaw and pushed off, aiming her cart for the rising Phoenix symbol of the Protean Clan...and whatever the future held.

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

It was as forbidding a system as Samara had ever laid eyes on.

Xi Persei was a blue giant star, a mere child compared to other suns at only a few million years of age. Far too young to have full-fledged planets orbiting its massive body, the system instead comprised a chaotic mix of rocky and ice planetoids, crashing into and careening off one another in a dizzying display of carnage. Navigation through the system required Rook’s full attention, leaving the business of making contact to her.

Following Remi’s instructions to the letter, they made their way closer in, seeking the camouflaged beacon that would guide them to their ultimate destination. Samara kept a close watch for booby-traps or unwelcome guests, but so far their scans were clear.

“I don’t care for this place,” Xeno told her. “My senses tell me this system is far too dangerous to tarry here for long.”

“Care to be a little more specific?” Samara asked.

“I don’t think I can,” he admitted. “The reports I rely on are nonexistent here, as if this were some information vortex, sucking data in but allowing none to escape.”

“Sounds exactly like what we need,” she replied.

“Perhaps,” he conceded, “but I am left wondering how they are managing it, and what that means for us.”

Samara had to admit that was a valid point. She was about to reply when something pinged on her sensors. “I’ve got the beacon,” she confirmed, checking the plot on the display. “We’re closing in. Time for you and the others to get out of sight.”

Given their situation, they’d all agreed it was best to keep their real numbers secret from their hosts, especially after Remi’s warning. “I’ll pass the word,” Xeno nodded, before reaching out to touch her arm. “Stay safe, Samara,” he said gently.

“You should tell them that,” she chuckled, though she appreciated the sentiment. As Xeno departed, she settled into her chair, guiding Rächerin to the hidden port called Star’s End.

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

The crew that awaited her at the bottom of the ramp were a motley bunch, the dregs of half a dozen races. Weapons were worn prominently, though she herself appeared to be unarmed.

She carried a cylinder with her as she went to meet them, coming to a halt a few meters away from their leader and setting it down in front of her. “Ten grams of antimatter, as promised,” she informed them, stepping away so it could be inspected.

One of the crew moved to the container, plugging in a sensor and double-checking the readouts before giving the boss a curt nod. He turned back to Samara. “State your business,” he growled.

“Just need some repairs,” she answered. “Remi said you were the best.”

He grunted at that, as the one holding the antimatter carried it away. “Might go higher,” he warned her.

“Just let me know before we’re in your debt,” she told him. “We’ll work it out.”

She earned another grunt in response. “He tell you the regs?”

“Payment in advance, no questions asked, and we never met,” she nodded.

A third grunt she interpreted as an affirmative response was his only reply. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted movement; one of his thugs sidling around to her left, looking for a clean shot. She waited until he committed, and then with a blur of motion plucked the dagger she’d been hiding and hurled it at him, the blade going deep into his arm. His weapon fell onto the crushed gravel as he clutched the wounded limb, keening in pain.

“I figure you had to try it once,” Samara said affably, as another knife magically appeared in her hand. “The next time, however, it’ll cost you.” Their leader said nothing, merely jerking his head to the rear as the injured man slunk away from the others.

“The engine compartment and any other section where work needs to be done will be under surveillance at all times,” she informed them, “and any attempts to get…creative, with the repairs will make me unhappy.” She paused and smiled. “You do not want me unhappy.”

The two eyed one another, taking each other’s full measure, and then nodded almost in unison. “We’ll get started first thing,” he said at last, before gathering up the others and returning to their shelters. Samara watched them leave, waiting until she was alone, before heading back up the ramp and locking the hatch behind her.

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“...and I thought your team was disreputable,” Rook said from a nearby monitor, shaking his head. “Are you certain we can trust them?”

“I’m certain that we can’t,” she fired back, “which is why we watch every move they make. Despite my warning, I guarantee they’ll try something, so don’t take your virtual eyes off them for a nanosecond.”

“You can rest assured of that,” he agreed, “though I have reservations regarding your decision to have me appear to them as a flesh-and-blood being as opposed to an Avatar.”

“The instant they realize your personality is housed in the mainframe, they’ll try to disable it,” she warned him, “and if they pull that off then we’ll be at a major disadvantage. Not to mention the possibility they’ll either try to isolate your program so they can sell it to the highest bidder, or else they’ll delete it altogether.” She gave him a wry look. “I imagine neither of those options appeal to you.”

“You imagine correctly,” he grimaced. “I am uncertain, however, how believably I will impersonate a live human.”

“Hmm…” Samara paused, considering the problem. “Well, none of the ones we saw are human, so that helps, though if they know Remi then they’re at least somewhat familiar with our species. But if you’re asking me how you can improve your performance…” She regarded him for a moment and nodded as she came up with a plan.

“First off, you need to change up your look. You’ve always worn the same virtual clothing every time I’ve seen you, so change that. You also might consider coming up with a simulated daily routine for yourself, one that a real live human might have, and then use that information to enhance your appearance. If it’s early or late, look as if you just stepped out of the shower, or rolled out of bed. You should also use that mealtime simulation you showed me, as long as you change up the menu each time.” She peered at his image more closely. “Some beard growth and unkempt hair wouldn’t hurt either. Dirty yourself up a little. And vary your expression more while you’re at it. Lose the monotone and throwing in some vernacular wouldn’t hurt either. You do all that, and I’m certain they’ll buy it.”

Rook seemed to weigh her words, his virtual brow furrowing as he processed what she’d said. “Then, perhaps something like this?” he asked, the image on the monitor flickering briefly to be replaced by a much scruffier version of the faux-human Avatar. A wet towel hung around his neck, his hair mussed and uncombed, while he sported both a grimy undershirt and a three-day-old growth of stubble. “Yeah? Whadda you want?” he sneered at her.

Samara threw back her head and laughed. “Perfect!” she chortled. “No Avatar I’ve ever met looked like that!”

The image disappeared, replaced a moment later by the version she was familiar with. “If it is all the same to you, I will save that variant for the local inhabitants. Even though it is merely an illusion, even after a brief application I feel...unclean.” He shuddered in disgust.

She laughed once again. “Suit yourself,” she shrugged, “though it wouldn’t hurt to keep it in a file somewhere. You never know when a good disguise might come in handy.”

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

Despite their appearances and proclivity towards villainy, the mechanics and wrench-turners of Star’s End knew their way around an engine room. Although Rook had thwarted half a dozen attempts at least of theft or sabotage, once they realized they wouldn’t be sneaking anything past him they buckled down and got to work. Their efforts might not have been as refined as the Kikush avian might have preferred, but they were robust and functional, which ultimately was all Samara really cared about. One or two replacement parts needed to be fabricated on site, adding to the bill, but after ten days of diligent labor they announced the job was finished.

“I for one will be thrilled to get off this rock,” Kalypso sighed. “If I have to spend one more second locked in my cabin, I think I’ll go mad. At least the Knights allowed us day room privileges.”

“Speak for yourself,” Persephone said somewhat pointedly.

Kalypso blushed. “Sorry, Sephy. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s all right,” she smiled. “I’ll be glad to leave this place too.”

“I think we all will,” Samara agreed. “Even though we’re off the beaten path, being in one place this long makes me nervous.” She glanced over at Xeno’s image on the screen. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard anything?”

“Nothing that helps us,” he replied. “To the best of my knowledge, Jibril remains on Qiqougii, ostensibly conferring with the Aggaaddub.”

“Are we still heading there next?” Kalypso asked. “It’s where I want to go next,” Samara admitted, “but the situation hasn’t changed. Azrael’s certain to be waiting for us there.”

“Perhaps if we disguised ourselves somehow...” Xeno mused...only to be interrupted by a warning klaxon that was cut off almost as soon as it began. “What the…?”

Rook’s image appeared on the screen. “Danger, Samara! They have infected me! I missed it…” The frame froze, stuttering for several seconds, before dissolving into a chaotic display of electronic noise.

“Samara, what’s happening?” Kalypso said in sudden panic.

She scowled, cursing under her breath. “It seems our new friends have double-crossed us,” she snarled, as she pulled up an exterior display. Dozens of beings from across the Perseus Arm were approaching the ship, armed to the teeth, while others were busy forcing the hatch open. Once that happened…

“We cannot hold them off for long,” Xeno stated, “though I believe they will avoid using heavy weapons.”

“How can you be sure?” Persephone asked, clutching at her pillow.

“Because they want the ship intact,” Samara answered, her eyes gone hard and cold. “The must have slipped a worm into Rook’s program, and once he was down, so were our defenses.”

“What are your orders?” Xeno asked softly.

Samara gazed at each of them. “You said when you came here you wanted to escalate the fight. Do you still mean that?”

The other nodded, one by one. “Good, because I only see one way of dealing with this that gives us a chance at survival. Here’s what I want you to do…”

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

The ship’s main hatch had proven more difficult to break into than they’d expected, since they wanted to avoid damaging the ship they had invested so much time and effort into restoring. It would fetch a fine price, but to collect they first had to eliminate the previous owners.

The locking mechanism gave way at last as the hatch slid open, as the brigands of Star’s End poured into Rächerin, seeking the passengers and crew. The Avatar that had kept such a close watch on them had been good, but they had long experience with travelers and their various security measures. Once identified, it had been a simple matter to infect the electronic systems during a routine software patch. With the Avatar disabled, the rest of the ship’s company would be easy pickings.

The ship appeared to be deserted, but they’d had the craft under constant surveillance since it had landed, and it was impossible that the crew could have slipped away. They fanned out, checking the various compartments, but it wasn’t until they reached the mess deck that they finally located a passenger.

The female flinched as they burst into the compartment, her hands raised in surrender. “Don’t shoot!” she pleaded, as they looked to their leader for instructions. There was always a market for sentient beings, though the price depended on the species and general condition of the subject. Terrans weren’t especially valuable, and this specimen did not look very promising. In fact, she appeared to be rather…sickly.

The boss looked at her, calculating her probable worth with a jaundiced eye. It was doubtful she’d fetch much at sale, but perhaps one of the genetic cartels might find her worth studying. He turned to give the order to take her prisoner, only for his eyes to widen in shock as his lieutenant fell to his knees, as thick viscous blood poured from mouth and nose. The individual beside him collapsed in convulsions, with muscular contractions so violent his very bones snapped under the strain.

A piercing shriek whipped his head around as another of his men’s flesh began sloughing off in puddles of slimy goo, before his throat finally dissolved and the horrendous noise was silenced forever.

Those still able ran, desperate to put as much distance between themselves and this ship of death as possible, but he knew what was causing this, what had to be the source of this madness. He turned back towards the human, his eyes blazing with fury as he lifted his weapon...only for a ragged cough to tear at his lungs, quickly followed by another. Suddenly it became impossible to breathe, as he dropped his weapon and tore at his clothing while gasping for air. Again and again he tried to clear his lungs, but even as he fell he could feel his chest tighten as he lost consciousness.

Considering what happened next, it was a small mercy.

Samara stepped out of the corridor, going to Persephone and giving her a quick once over. “You all right?” she asked, her voice distorted from the suit helmet.

The other woman nodded. “I’m fine,” she said, gazing over the dead and dying. “Better than they are,” she said in disdain.

She avoided looking at the bodies. There were countless ways to die, and she’d witnessed...or implemented...most of them over the years, but these bastards had died as hard as any she’d ever seen.

Not that she mourned them. She’d given them fair warning, and they ignored it. Too bad for them.

“We need to get you back to your quarters,” Samara told her, “so we can start decontamination.”

“And after that?” Persephone asked.

“After that,” she smiled, “I look forward to discovering what trinkets and baubles our good friends here just bequeathed us.”