The station was fully abandoned, as far as the public data said. The companies with stakes in it had formally withdrawn them, the large fusion reactors had been gutted, and rumors and stories Urle found on the net said that much of it had been picked apart for scrap by scavengers.

Yet that was not the case upon approach.

Urle used every passive scanner he could to probe the area, seeing several other small skiffs near the station. When they noted him, they quickly moved out of line of sight, behind the station.

Which could be scavengers, but there were lights on the station, and heat signatures. The main reactor was gone, but other smaller reactors remained.

“People are definitely here,” he told Kell. “I was skeptical, but . . .”

“Your people lie easily,” Kell said, looking out the glass at the station. “Such a secluded space seems obvious for criminals to use.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I guess we only see it rarely in the Sapient Union, no one is stupid enough to go live in abandoned wrecks. Space is hostile enough.”

He pointed. “I see a docking port there. It’s a small one, probably in use by smugglers. We can attach there and force the airlock. I think there’s a spacesuit in the back-“

“I do not need one,” Kell said.

“There’s a lot of radiation and no air,” Urle warned. “None at all.” He could only hope Kell truly understand what this meant-

“I lived before the oxygenated atmosphere existed,” Kell told him. “Before the atmosphere.”

Well, that was that, Urle thought.

They docked, the clamps on the station showing no signs of functionality, but Urle was able to use the skiff’s electromagnets to create a firm seal. Still, the tunnel was not pressurised.

And as Kell had said, he seemed untroubled.

Urle only need turn on his own air storage for the crossing, putting rad-reflecting sleeves over his exposed real skin.

After they were in, he brought up the map of the station – no true map existed, but he’d cobbled one together from all the bits of information he’d found on the nets. It seemed coherent enough.

“I’ve marked the heat sources that could be people,” he said, pointing. “Let’s head to this one first.”

Kell was looking around, his head upraised, eyes partially closed.

“I feel something . . .”

“What?” Urle asked.

“I do not yet know,” Kell replied.

Urle did not like the sound of that. He wished that he’d thought to bring some small drones to scout for them.

“This way,” he said, having to take lead himself. “I think this is the most likely location . . . though I did detect a lot of air leaks in that area.”

After ten minutes of travel they had found the site. Urle had guessed right, but the cause of the air leaks was not something he had expected.

The flickering lights and holes in the walls made pretty clear that a gunfight had happened in the room. Some of the bullets had pierced the outer hull, letting the station’s limited air leak out.

No one had come to patch the leaks, he saw.

Urle approached the door carefully, but he detected only low heat signatures inside. Nothing in the range of the living.

He gestured for Kell to stay back, but the Shoggoth ignored him.

“They are all dead inside,” he said, approaching the door.

“They could still be trapped- Kell, stop!”

The Shoggoth had reached up, slipping his fingers into the space between door and frame. The power was out, but he forced the door easily.

“There are no traps,” Kell said.

Urle cursed. “Well, there could have been damn it. Maybe you’re not worried about them, but I am.”

“Don’t worry,” Kell told him. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

Urle could feel the mocking in it, but ignored it to peer into the room.

He had detected the blood that had seeped through the holes in the wall, but now that the door was open he could see just how bloody a fight it had been.

The whole room had a pink hue from the floating droplets, much of which had settled onto surfaces.

“Oil amongst the blood,” Kell said. “These men were like you.”

“Yeah . . . were,” Urle said, seeing the dead.

The bodies still floated, their limbs moving freely as they tumbled slowly in the microgravity.

They had not simply been shot, he could see, but nearly shot to pieces. So many rounds had been put through their bodies and heads that no details remained, only a splattered mess of blood, bone, and augments. On several, their limbs had been severed completely, floating around on their own.

A quick scan showed no active major components, and looking closer at a body it appeared that someone had even gone through the effort of putting a round through such parts.

“Someone was sending a message,” he murmured.

“The bodies have not cooled much,” Kell noted. “This occurred only a little over an hour ago.”

“I agree,” Urle replied.

He did not want to enter a room and get covered in a blood mist, but he really had no choice.

Floating in, he carefully avoided the surfaces. “Kell, it’ll be best not to leave traces of our presence. Try not to touch-“

He turned as he spoke – and saw Kell wiping his hand along the wall.

“. . . nevermind,” he said.

“I will leave no trace,” Kell said. But he seemed troubled.

Urle couldn’t blame him, seeing the fate of these bodies. Approaching one, he analyzed the man’s hand, and saw signs that he’d been firing a weapon.

Which was gone now – stolen, most likely, by the ones who had shot him.

Tracking the holes and estimating calibers, he got an idea that the attackers had started firing from the outside, opposite the door that he and Kell had entered through. The firing pattern appeared planned, but blind – not just random spraying, but they had lacked the ability to pinpoint the targets through the wall, which suggested they were not Augs themselves.

The Augs inside had fought back, but so much lead had been poured in that they’d been massacred.

Approaching the back door where the attackers had been, he saw that it was mostly shredded. Poking a scanner through, he saw very little blood outside, and no bodies.

So the attackers had taken their own wounded or dead with them . . . it made sense, but something was still wrong here.

Looking back around the room, seeing how devastated it was, it was hard to figure out what purpose it might have served, but there were still some clues.

A box of electronic components was floating by, its contents spilled. Grabbing one of the wafers, Urle saw that it was a specific type he knew – a type used in augments.

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“This was part of the chop shop,” Urle said softly. “These were parts from people . . .”

Kell was looking at his hand that he’d wiped on the wall.

“Someone did not take kindly to their work,” he commented, frowning. “And I may know who.”

“You do?” Urle asked, dumbfounded.

Kell moved, not pushing off anything, simply moving forward, towards a hole blasted in the window and went out through it.

Urle moved hurriedly to follow him, tucking in tightly to fit through a shattered window, and saw Kell stopped at a wall.

It appeared blank, but Urle could tell something was odd about it. Static began to tinge the edges of his vision. Errors were creeping in, and he felt his hackles rising.

“Kell . . . what is it?” he asked.

“Without intent, a mark was left,” he said.

Holding his palm up, Kell brutally slashed his own hand with his nails, gouging the skin easily. Dark red blood, too dark to be human, welled up in it. As Urle watched it seemed to grow darker still, until it was nearly black, no tinge of red left.

Kell took his bleeding hand and pressed it against the wall, wiping it across the surface.

His blood spread across it like a living thing – and a shape emerged.

It was a symbol that Urle could not place. Almost like an eye.

“The Esoteric Order,” Kell said. His voice was void of emotion, his face set in sharp lines.

He turned to Urle, as if to say something, but then they both heard it.

Gunfire from deeper within.

“They are still here,” Kell said.

He turned and went deeper.

Drawing his sidearm, Urle followed, his eyes drawn to the symbol on the wall. The blood appeared to be fading already, or perhaps the mark itself was, but as he looked at it, he could not help but to shiver.

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

“Do you hear those shots?” Brooks asked.

To his flank, the human mercenary nodded. The Latarren said nothing.

The man had introduced himself as Brecht, and his companion as Tol.

Brooks knew that in the Laterren language that meant ‘zero’, so he took it that the alien did not wish to give away much. And he had not said a single word.

“Follow,” Brecht said, turning and heading swiftly down another route. He pushed off the wall and through a hatch, and was gone.

Tol watched Brooks, clearly not trusting him.

Which meant little, most mercenaries trusted no one.

Brooks followed Brecht.

They’d landed twenty minutes ago, and Brecht had informed him upon arrival that the faction that wanted Rem dead were already here.

“How do you know?” he asked. His face mask fogged up slightly as he spoke, and he longed to take it off – there was air in here. But it was thin and a leak could take it out, leaving one stunned – and soon dead.

“They leave behind signs,” Brecht had replied, but added nothing else.

“We don’t have much time, then. We need Rem alive.”

Brecht had not replied to that, and Brooks still wondered if the man was truly here to help him find Rem – or to make sure he didn’t take him in alive.

It seemed impossible to think that Dawn could be involved in an operation murdering and chopping Augs, but it was always possible that the man knew too much about other things.

He knew, deep down, that she was not a member of the Sapient Union. She had her own agenda.

He’d asked Brecht what he knew about Rem, his operation, his enemies, and this station, but he’d gotten little useful information.

“The ones who want him dead are a new player in Gohhi,” Brecht had said. “The breakup of Rem’s operation was always something we had wished, but he was untouchable – until this faction arose.”

“Who are they?” Brooks had asked.

Brecht had ignored the question. “We suspect that their issue is simply over power – Rem’s organization was connected to a great power outside of the system, and has worked his way into the confidence of many of the wealthy in the station. That makes him a threat.”

“What power?”

Brecht had ignored that, too.

Perhaps he actually didn’t know.

“The enemy are striking at Rem now,” Brecht said, moving quickly. Brooks was falling behind, and he had to rush to try and catch up.

“How do you know? Do you know how many there are?”

Brecht paused, as if thinking. “Thirty-two,” he said. “They are coming from the outer layers . . . moving inward to trap the man. He has fallen back. He is bleeding.”

He looked to Brooks. “We must move swiftly.”

The time for stealth was over, it seemed; the man activated thrusters, jetting along quickly, and Brooks had to turn on his own emergency thrusters to keep up. He had precious little fuel, and if he got blasted out into the vacuum without any, he’d have very little chance of survival.

Tol passed him and Brooks was almost glad, as now he could follow the Latarren – Brecht was out of sight already.

Though soon he’d lose the alien, too.

He couldn’t call out; someone might hear, and he could only redouble his efforts of keeping up, pushing off every surface he could, grabbing and pulling at every chance to supplement his meager thrusters.

The sound of gunfire was growing closer, the thin air making it seem more distant.

Taking a left, his system lit up red warnings as it detected rounds piercing the walls.

Tol had already crossed but was slowing down – which was fortuitous, given that Brooks’s thrusters were already out of fuel.

Brecht had stopped outside of a door, clearly listening. Another round ripped through the hall, between him and the two mercenaries.

Tol attached some kind of sensor to the wall, connecting it to his system.

Random bullets were still going through the wall, but Brooks felt he had no choice but to risk the crossing. Bracing, he crouched against the bulkhead wall to push off, aiming low.

Brecht waved him to stop.

Brooks paused, and the other man made a rapid display of hand signals – spacer’s code.

He wanted Brooks to shoot through the wall. From their different positions, they’d have good angles on one of the parties.

Brooks couldn’t be sure who he was going to be shooting at. He could just hope that it was not going to be Hoc Rem.

He nodded to Brecht, and the Mercs pulled their assault carbines, while he took out his pistol.

Tol gave him the sensor feed and now Brooks’s system could hazily pick out figures and movement through the thin wall, though with little detail. He aimed for center mass and pulled the trigger.

Tol and Brecht fired, shooting bursts of rounds through the walls at the targets.

There were muffled screams, shouts of confusion, targets moving. A smattering of shots returned, but mostly the figures seemed to be moving away.

Brooks looked down at the mercenaries, and saw Brecht had opened the door, going in low, weapon still ready.

Brooks pushed off the wall carefully, watching Tol. The Latarren watched him back.

Reaching him, Brooks finally tore his gaze from the mercenary and looked through the door.

It led to a small foyer of what had been a laboratory. Brecht had stopped inside, watching the far wall for the enemies they’d driven away.

Brooks moved forward carefully, and a shot went over his head.

“Who are you?” he heard a voice call out.

He recognized the cold voice of Hoc Rem.

There was pain in it, and Brooks ducked out of the door, moving to the right of the man. It would put him in a bad position if the attackers returned, but right now he had to keep Rem from gunning him down.

Reaching a sturdy metal counter, he peered around cautiously. Blood droplets splattered his face mask, and he saw Hoc Rem.

He had shoved himself into a corner of the room, bent over, droplets of blood floating from his body. He was not moving, but Brooks’s system suggested he was still alive. For how much longer, it couldn’t say.

“We are here to help,” Brecht said, moving closer, his weapon holstered.

Brooks scanned for signs of the mysterious enemy, but saw none at the moment. They might feel they had already trapped him . . . perhaps even knew he was wounded.

Brooks came closer as well, to get a better look.

The man’s face had been surgically altered, but his height was unchanged, and Brooks’s system estimated a 98.9% certainty that it was indeed Hoc Rem.

“He’s crashing,” Brecht said. He had had nearly reached him-

Then Rem raised his gun. His eyes shot open, and he grabbed Brecht by the collar.

“Who are you?” Brooks heard him hiss. “No games, give me names. You’re not with these bastards, are you?”

Brecht’s hands went up, his face through his mask calm. “We are not. We are your only chance of survival.”

“Yeah? Well who are you with-“

The man’s words cut off as he looked over and saw Brooks.

Even with his own disguise, he could tell the man’s system figured out who he was. He froze, shock on his face, and Brecht’s hand darted in to grab his weapon.

They wrestled for a moment, but Brecht punched Rem in the side, causing him to groan, and lose control of it.

“As I said,” Brecht now continued calmly. “We are your only chance of survival.”

Rem looked back to Brooks. “If I flip I’m dead.”

“If you don’t come with us you’re dead now,” Brooks replied flatly.

The man cursed, throwing a hateful glare at Brecht.

“I want full amnesty,” he told Brooks, not looking at him.

“You’re in no position to deal,” Brooks replied.

“You want me alive. I know it. So I get amnesty.”

Brooks considered. He did not want the man to walk, but he also did need him.

“I’ll promise you that the death penalty is off the table,” he said. “And your sentence can be commuted based on how much you assist us, with protection and a new identity.”

Rem cursed, hawked, and spat out blood.

He looked back up at Brooks, his face contorted in anger and pain. “Seems I have no choice.”

“Let’s move,” Brooks said. “Before our enemy-“

“Behind,” he heard a hissing, strange voice call. It was Tol, who was now in the foyer, but looking outside.

Shots came down the hall – the enemy had found their way behind them.

“Cover!” Brooks called. He moved to cover Rem, and fired pre-emptively at the far wall. Shouts and return fire came back, but Brecht got to cover and fired out more bursts from his carbine.

But the fire was concentrating on the corner where Brooks and Rem were.

It had been a mistake to keep shooting from here, it had made them think Rem was in the same spot, and now the bracketing of fire was forcing Brooks to keep his head down.

Rem had no such option; wedged in as he was, he could not go any lower, and Brooks rose marginally, braving the fire, to shoot as fast as he could back out, giving Rem a path under him to crawl away.

“Go!” he shouted, barely able to be heard over the fire.

A round hit Rem, passing through his arm. The man grimaced against the pain and moved, forcing himself under Brooks, trying to hug the floor.

Rounds still flew around Brooks, some so close he flinched

The next piece of cover was only a meter away from Rem, and despite his wounds he was floating quickly. Then a stray bullet went through his head.

Brooks’s jaw dropped, and the fire coming at them slackened almost instantly.

He looked to Brecht, who had grabbed Rem and pulled him closer.

Brecht shook his head. Rem was dead.

Looking back out, Brooks did not know why the attack had ceased; they clearly did not have a good view into here, or else they would have been putting out far more accurate fire.

Yet they knew he had died.

Tol leaned in, his voice low, hissing. “Rear attackers gone,” he said.

Brooks moved to better cover.

“Bring his body,” he told Brecht. “Maybe we can still learn something.”

The man said nothing, gazing at Rem. His face was twisted into impotent rage.

“For months I have wanted him dead,” he said softly. “But Dawn told us that even if we could it was better to know who our enemy was. Now he is dead, and it isn’t by my hand.”

He turned and spat.

“If you want his corpse, bring it yourself. I will not touch him.”

Brooks holstered his sidearm and grabbed a strap on the body.

The data in his mind would be gone, he knew. The bullet would have done a lot of work, and a man as important as he would have mind-wipes set up in case his life signs ceased.

But maybe they’d get lucky.