It all started with the war.

Humanity had been a late addition to the galactic community, an unwelcome one to most races. There was more than enough competition for power and resources as it was, and the aliens mankind encountered in their travels were no more interested in sharing than Man himself. Earth had hoped to secure new outposts and colonies, expanding its position in the cosmos, only to learn those that came before had already laid claim to the available real estate. Even worthless rocks belonged to somebody, even if nominally, and claim-jumping was just as ruthlessly dealt with out here as it had been in the old American West.

Still, they’d hoped they could manage something. Perhaps some sort of trade, or a provided service could earn them a system or two to call their own. So humanity focused on building relations, though even managing that much proved to be an uphill battle. With all the varied races constantly jockeying for position, the children of Terra found themselves repeatedly shoved to the back of the line.

The Yīqún changed all that in the blink of an eye.

They were the bête noire of the Perseus Arm, a nightmare long feared by the various races, one they hoped was merely an ancient memory. Only the dreaded machine race proved to be very much an active threat after all, attacking the other species and laying waste to all who stood in their way.

For the first time in countless eons the elder races knew fear, and Humanity saw their chance at last. If there was anything mankind could claim expertise at...it was war.

Old hatreds and feuds were soon forgotten as a coalition was hurriedly thrown together, one encompassing every known race of the region. Earth eagerly signed on, using every available resource to create Task Force Odin, the largest and most advanced military force humanity had ever seen. Sent to bolster the line, they hoped for the chance to finally prove themselves worthy in the eyes of the other races.

Only Fate had a cruel trick hidden up its sleeve. The Yīqún launched a surprise attack against one of the most powerful races, who barely turned their frenzied assault aside...sending them directly towards Earth itself.

Earth, Mars, Luna, all were wiped out in a matter of days. Those in the Task Force could only listen...and weep.

Without a home, humanity struggled desperately to survive. Internal pressures and a lack of resources turned them against one another, the Task Force fracturing into Clans and Factions. Wanted by none, despised by all, the children of Earth made their way as best they could, finding new niches in which they could eke out a living. Barely.

Yet Man still dreamed of finding a new home, one they could call their own...and a long-buried report from the war seemed to offer a chance at just that. They put together a mission to locate the planet, this New Terra...only to have it end in disaster. Their hopes dashed, humanity surrendered to the inevitable, focusing once again on simple survival.

Forty long years passed before the sole survivor of that doomed mission stumbled onto a series of what appeared to be random events, holding out the possibility of finding that long sought for Promised Land. They hastily threw together a second mission, and this time they discovered a few tantalizing clues, clues that might...just might...lead them to that new home after all.

And for her sins, they chose Samara to be a part of it.

Samara hadn’t set out to become a revolutionary, as she’d learned early in life how the universe really worked. Taking on the status quo held zero appeal for her...right up to the point when the issue stopped being theoretical and became personal. Even then she’d held back, until circumstances forced her hand.

Well, circumstances, and a certain too-clever-for-her-own-good Tinker.

Not that she blamed Maggie for the way things turned out. They had both made their play, and Maggie came out on top. It was her own fault for underestimating her, though in her own defense the woman consistently underplayed her strengths. Which was smart. Which was why she harbored no ill feelings towards Maggie Al-Hajjah.

But should the opportunity arise to tweak her nose a bit…

…anyway, after getting drafted for the mission by Jibril at the behest of Troika, to whom they owed so much...sarcasm intended...it didn’t take long for things to go off the rails. Between the Aggaaddub assault, attempted mind control by the Tu’udh’hizh’ak, while the Eleexx hung in the background jerking her strings, it was amazing things held together as long as they had.

Unfortunately for the Troika, they’d overplayed their hand. They were desperate for information regarding the Precursor planet, making rash decisions and counting on their strength to deal with any potential fallout...only they hadn’t factored in one minor detail.

Humans don’t take well to bullying.

After Maggie’s impassioned speech almost everyone had signed on for her little crusade, doomed though it may be. She’d made all the right sounds, pretending to join the cause, while lying in wait to steal the data and pass it on to her Masters. It should have worked.

Oh well, no sense crying about it now. And it wasn’t all bad, since they’d gotten that annoying little Kill Switch out of her skull. For the first time in a long time, she was free. Really, truly free.

She’d discovered since that actual freedom really, really sucks.

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You’d think she’d have been in better spirits, despite everything, only it was difficult mustering up a cheerful smile when most of the galaxy now wanted you dead. Preferably by some slow and hideously painful process...which would have been fine if her shape-shifting abilities hadn’t gone haywire after her surgery.

Lose the Time Bomb, gain a disability. Tough call.

What she was doing was ultimately futile. She knew that. A one-woman crusade against the Troika and their Terran lap dogs? It was ridiculous. And yet here she was, once again taking out a valuable...if not critical...target, and living to tell the tale. Of course, there was always tomorrow.

And how do you feel about that? her mind whispered. That...was a damn good question. A few months ago it would have never come up. She was a professional; she completed the mission and then slipped away, never worrying about things like whether her actions were justifiable. She followed orders and got the job done. Simple as that.

Or maybe not so simple. She needed to sit down at some point and figure a few things out, starting with the classic, “What makes Samara tick?”, though it wasn’t something she looked forward to. Luckily, she had other things on her plate that took precedence. Introspection would have to wait.

First on her list...track down Princeps Jibril. Sit down for a friendly chat and get some answers.

...and then make him pay.

She’d hoped to find him on Chrysalis, but the odds had never been great on that score. Hypatia had been her primary target, and she’d hoped with a little convincing she’d tell her where to find their glorious leader. With her now gone, it left her with a nagging question; had she been telling the truth?

Her gut said yes, but it had played her false before. Rarely, granted, but it was a possibility she couldn’t dismiss out of hand. Though the question was moot now, with Hypatia dead she was back to square one. For simplicity’s sake, assume she’d been honest with her, otherwise the trail would be impossible to pin down.

If she hadn’t known his whereabouts, then obviously he wasn’t on Chrysalis. So where, then? And doing what? Samara replayed the conversation between her and Hypatia back in her head, looking for clues and inconsistencies, and came up empty.

Then let’s turn it around. If she were Jibril, what would she be doing right now...and why?

Well...the Troika had to be pressuring him for answers, answers he didn’t have. He’d try to dodge and stall, and it might buy him a little time, but eventually he’d run smack into a deadline he couldn’t ignore. So it only made sense that he’d put all his efforts into finding her and learning what she knew and then pass that on to his alien masters.

Which made her Enemy No. 1 of her own Clan. Lovely. They’d be out beating the bushes for her, meaning any Protean ship or location was off limits, other than quick raids for intel.

Would he seek refuge with the Eleexx, or one of the others? Maybe, but then the question became, would they have him? Samara doubted it, despite their proven usefulness to the Troika they had no more respect for Terrans than any other race...less, even. If laboratory mice got together and formed a union, demanding to be heard, would humanity listen? Of course not.

So, not with the Troika, some place instead where he could direct the hunt against her. Somewhere off the beaten path. Someplace safe. Safe, and hidden.

Put that way, the answer was obvious. Alnitak.

Alnitak was an anomaly, an aberration of the system. Humanity owned no land, had claims in no systems, held no grubstakes on frontier worlds, and by the strictest definition Alnitak was in fact claimed jointly by the three races comprising the Troika...off the books. A massive blue-white supergiant locked in the embrace of a blue subgiant, blazing and crackling with radiation and stellar winds over a handful of barren rocks, it was as worthless a piece of real estate to be found anywhere in the Perseus Arm.

And inside one of the hollowed-out planetoids was where fledgling Proteans were born.

Not born so much as created, molded, and forged, Alnitak was the first stop in the process for those deemed worthy for the more advanced therapies. For some, it was also the last. Not all treatments were successful and tinkering with DNA would occasionally cause side effects even the Troika could not prevent. It was hidden safely out of sight for just that reason, with access to the system strictly controlled.

Getting in was impossible. Getting back out again would take a miracle.

Samara sighed as she considered the task before her. There was no way she could do this alone. She needed help, allies, individuals crazy and desperate enough to risk everything. But where does one even find people like that, especially when you’re already being hunted yourself?

She toyed briefly with contacting one or two members of her recent mission to Earth. Remi Hadad could be useful, having his own ship, and they had enjoyed a certain intimacy during the trip. The Avatar Alphad could sneak into places forbidden to her...but she rejected the impulse almost immediately. It was certain everyone from that mission was being watched, and any attempt by her to contact them would lead to some rather unfortunate results.

No, she had to look elsewhere. But where? Who would have a big enough grudge against the Clan they’d be willing to sign on for what had all the earmarks of a suicide mission? Who would be angry enough? Desperate enough? Crazy enough? Who could possibly…?

Her eyes went wide as the answer came to her.

It took only a few minutes searching to locate her target...the KHS St. Jean Baptiste. Currently, she was located a few dozen light-years distant, and a quick examination of the shipping schedules proved to be no help. If she wanted to get there, she’d need a ship of her own.

Right then. Step one...acquire a ship.

Obviously, she couldn’t buy a ship. That required funding and paperwork, neither of which she possessed. Oh, she could forge the latter, given time, but that still left the slight matter of funding unresolved.

So, step one, modified. Steal a ship.

Also not as easy as it sounds. You can absolutely count on a lively pursuit...“lively” meaning being shot full of holes...and once the word goes out no legitimate port or yard will touch you. There’s a hundred distinct ways they could track a stolen ship, and even a Tinker with Maggie’s skill might not find every little bug and booby trap. It was a gigantic risk, but she’d settled on her mission. It was either this, or surrender...and she had no intentions of surrendering.

Back to the charts, then. Someplace off the beaten path would be preferable, yet high enough in traffic she wouldn’t have to wait six months for a likely prospect to drop by. Far from any major alien hub or ports. Someplace accessible…

Roughly a week’s travel distant there was a colony of the Kikush, an avian race. They were a third-tier power at best, certainly not in the same category as the Troika, though much more powerful than humanity...not that that was saying much. If she swapped ships at the next port of call, she could be there in ten days.

That took care of where. How was still to be determined. Samara needed to see the layout for herself before she started making any serious plans, there were just too many variables to come up with something workable sight unseen.

But now she had a plan...and in her mind that was halfway to a victory.