The gold-striped drone led him deep into the station.

The lack of gravity made it hard to tell that he was moving towards the center of the station, and he found that his access to the local digital map had been blocked. Normally that would leave his system with no way to orientate and he’d lose track of his own position – but he’d expected this, and disconnected it, instead having it merely track his direction and velocity. He could match it back up to a digital map later.

The areas around him became more and more run-down, more abandoned. When he saw people, they were huddled around blazing spherical cages tethered to walls, a mockery of the beautiful sculpture of the children, just used for keeping warm and cooking.

Most of the computers and amenities in this station had been shut down, and the heat of it had leached into space over time, leaving it colder than most stations ever were – waste heat was so often the big enemy in space that it was easy to forget just how cold it was in the void.

None of the people he saw looked like they wanted any trouble, and if they saw him they moved away, into shadows, to watch nervously. He kept his guard system on full alert, wishing he had a few drones of his own with him.

The golden drone finally brought him to a structure, not much different from any of the others, but he estimated he was only a few tens of meters from the central spine of the station. Very deep in . . . which would make it hard to get out if he needed a fast escape.

The drone stopped outside the doorway of the structure, the actual door itself long-gone, taken off its tracks and hauled away for some other purpose.

The room beyond was dark, and Brooks did not step through that doorway until his eyes had adjusted.

The walls were close; it was a small room. They were dusty, dirty, carbon-scored – it looked like the area had burned recently.

But signs of habitation lingered past that. Crates bolted to the floor for strorage, wrappers from meals and the discarded injectors of mindshots floated about. A drug den for the most destitute.

Though now abandoned. From the looks of things, not even long ago.

Keeping his sidearm ready, he went through the door.

The first room was entirely empty, and his system didn’t locate any secret weapons or surveillance equipment, though there was some kind of hot device in the next room.

The ‘door’ was just a rotting cloth, strung up in the opening. He pulled it aside and went in, covering the corners.

This room was cleaner than the other, with no piles of junk. But hanging from the ceiling from a series of cables, was a headset.

A virtual reality visor.

Some users didn’t trust letting outside connections into their systems, and used visors instead. It wasn’t quite as convincing – but it was more secure for everyone.

Approaching, he saw that it was on, and on the lenses were two simple words;

‘Wear me’.

It wasn’t without risks. There were a lot of ways to potentially harm someone, from them simply being rigged to being used as a distraction to more esoteric forms like harmful visual data or subliminal mnemonics. His system could filter out many – but he couldn’t be sure it could get all. There were always novel forms of attack.

He put the headset on.

‘Connecting’ appeared on the screen. Then it loaded in.

He was no longer in an abandoned drug nest, but a vast and dark circular room.

The bulkhead walls were sheet metal, precisely made, with regular vents that blew in cool air. Running servers were arrayed in short stacks coming from the floor and ceiling a meter from each surface, radiators glowing dully on the tops of them, providing a dim light.

Cables came from all directions, piercing through the walls and running down, across floor and ceiling, weaving between the servers, to the center.

In the middle, like a spider in its web, sat a woman.

Her chair was nothing more than a metal stool, yet she sat with a perfectly straight posture, turned away from him.

Long strands of hair flowed down her back, nearly to the floor, glinting and sparkling with such light that they seemed to be spun from actual silver.

Her skin likewise glinted, in smooth, perfect curves of gold, artificial in nature yet taking the shape of skin and even a hint of its texture, crafted to perfection.

Her two arms were held up, from each finger a cable connecting into her body.

As he watched, the cables disconnected, and her arms moved out of sight, onto her lap. Her stool turned slowly so that she could face him.

He’d had a feeling that he would know the face and was right. She still made his breath catch in his throat.

Her face was also in gold, yet it was a perfect facsimile of how she’d looked all those years ago.

“Captain,” she said softly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?”

Brooks found that his throat was dry.

“You are Vermillion Dawn?” he asked, knowing that she had to be.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

The woman did not blink, watching him with a detached serenity that was almost unnerving. She inclined her head a fraction to confirm his question.

“A new name and a new skin,” he said. “I had wondered if it would be you.”

“I am curious,” she said, “if you hoped for or against that possibility?”

“I’m still not sure,” he replied evenly.

“Cold words,” she said. “And here I believed I was the one who was more machine.”

“Would you rather me lie?” he asked.

“Touche, my intrepid Captain,” she replied smoothly. “Yet you do not come here to band pleasantries, I imagine. You have been seeking information for some time, have you not?”

Brooks was not quite sure that he wanted to get to his real questions yet. There was too much at stake for him not to be sure.

“It’s a great risk, seeing me – even virtually,” he said.

She laughed musically. “You know me better than to think I take a foolish risk. This signal is routed through 3200 different servers in pieces, and each of those connected to 3200 more, and so on. Through more layers than necessary, I assure you.”

“And no one notices something that big?” he asked.

“This is not the Sapient Union,” she said pointedly. “This is Gohhi, where corruption is the oil of the system. It is a curse, but a useful one at times. Money changes hands, and no one who matters will act as if they notice.”

“More than money, I’d imagine. Blackmail?”

She looked down, demurely, yet he knew she was anything but. “Your bluntness never served you well in these matters, my intrepid Captain.”

Her eyes lifted, staring at him, and he knew that she would not delay any longer. “What is it you seek?”

“I am trying to find a man, a mercenary by the name of Hoc Rem – currently known as Joh Dak. He’s wanted for crimes on New Vitriol.”

“And do you know who Hoc Rem serves?” Dawn asked him, her mechanical eyes narrowing.

“We have our suspicions. If you have any evidence-“

“Evidence? No. But as much as you know is from my own sources. While Sapient Union intelligence are second to none, in this there is much working against them learning the truth.”

“And who do you believe it is?” Brooks asked.

He was thrown off balance as his view moved, while he felt no motion of his actual body. Dawn had summoned the camera drone through which he saw closer, and as her face grew in his sight he could tell the subtle curling of her lips. At this close a range the actual mechanisms under her pseudo-skin were nearly visible.

Up close her golden skin and clockwork features beneath seemed to render her both more beautiful and more unnatural, and he was not even sure how he felt about it.

“You’re asking me for a gift, my intrepid Captain. I do not err and give where I might profit.”

“What do you want?” Brooks found himself speaking in an intimate whisper.

Her eyes seemed to sparkle. “If I were to tell you that, Captain, it would ruin the surprise.”

Brooks felt his heart beat harder for a moment, but his rational mind knew that he was now in her web with no way out. “You want a favor,” he said, his lips dry.

“Yes. You will simply . . . owe me.”

“That is a deep debt to take on,” he replied. “If you make a specific request, I can oblige, but without knowing?”

“My, you are dramatic today. Do you truly think any favor I’d ask of you would violate your ethics or endanger your ship? Or the Union? No, Captain . . . my request may come at an inconvenient time at worst, but it will be nothing you would balk at.” She tilted her head, a mocking smile gracing her lips ever so briefly. “Unless it offends your sensibilities to help me at all.”

“No, that’s not it,” he replied. “But I . . . so long as your request is not endangering the crew or the Union or violates the law – I accept.”

However strong his conditions, he knew he’d just lost to her. Yet he needed the information.

“Where is Hoc Rem?” he asked, knowing that she would know.

She plucked two strings and looked up at him. “He is a dead man walking,” she told him. “He has angered a group of people who call themselves the Silent Hand. While I doubt you know of them, they hold similar beliefs to the Esoteric Order. You have heard of them, I presume?”

He wracked his memory. “An obscure cult, who believe that Leviathans are gods. I’ve never heard of them being violent, however.”

“Gohhi has a strange effect on people. I know little about the Silent Hand, but I understand that Hoc Rem has been involved in acts that have displeased them. And so they have determined he must die.”

Brooks took a deep breath. “Can I get to him first?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “You are already closer than you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your Executive Commander, Zachariah Urle, is already seeking Hoc Rem, though he does not know it.”

Brooks felt an iron grip on his heart as he realized that meant she had been leading Urle by the nose. “Are you using my first officer?”

She looked amused. “Our interests aligned and I have helped him without his being aware, though I admit that has been somewhat difficult. His . . . companion is interesting.”

It had to be Kell, Brooks knew. His stomach joined his heart in rebelling.

“Where is he?”

“You do not want to go where he is, Captain. You wish to go where he will go.”

“And where is that?”

“You will be shown,” she said, playing a few more chords to punctuate her words. “Consider it a gift, for old time’s sake.”

Brooks saw a countdown for a disconnect appear in the corner of his view.

The numbers ticked down, and he took a deep breath to calm himself as much as he could.

“It was good to see you again,” he told her.

She did not echo his words, but smiled again, her eyes half-lidded. “I trust you will give my greetings to Siilon when next you see her.”

The connection ended, and Brooks found himself alone, back in the drug den.

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

Brooks floated out of the abandoned structure at speed.

“Craton, come in,” he messaged.

Until now, he’d kept radio silence. Messaging out, even on a secure frequency, was going to draw attention, and it wouldn’t be hard to triangulate the position of someone trying to beam a message to the only Sapient Union vessel in the area. He had to try, though.

But he couldn’t get through.

“Are we out of range?” he asked his system, grabbing a pole as he floated and turning himself around a corner, following the same route he’d taken in here.

SIGNAL JAMMING PRESENT, his system told him.

Was it Dawn, or someone else . . . ?

Movement ahead of him caught his eye and he grabbed a bent metal bar poking from a broken wall, pulling himself into the partial cover.

There were people approaching him.

Everyone local had kept their distance, which meant these people probably weren’t local.

Taking out his sidearm, he took aim as they came into the light of a bent lamp.

“Stop there,” he ordered. “Identify yourselves.”

The two men were strange figures. One was tall and lanky, his joints and angles not human, and he was covered from head to foot. Around his head was a single strip of black cloth, wrapped around it with only a single large eye piece, tinted black, piercing through it.

The positioning in the middle of its head made Brooks feel certain; it was not a human, but a Latarren. The isolationist species let none of themselves show, at least to outsiders.

Knowing the species did not put Brooks anymore at ease, as the Latarren were not typically friendly, and those outside of their home territory often mercenaries.

The other figure was clearly human, but no less worrisome; broad of shoulder, a furred hood covered part of his head, and underneath Brooks saw the glint of light off armor. It appeared to be a powered suit, which was unusual – most people just used augments.

The armored man spoke.

“We are sent by Dawn,” he said. His voice was surprisingly soft.

Brooks did not lower his pistol.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you will need more than one set of hands where you are going.”

“. . . and where do you think I’m going?”

The man tilted his head back, and Brooks saw that his eyes glowed with an internal light.

“To find Hoc Rem,” he said.

Brooks took a deep breath and lowered his pistol.

“Let’s go, then,” he said to the two.