The gunfire had died down, and Urle had lost track of the combatants.

“Someone else joined in, shooting back at the larger group,” he said. “Reinforcements for the chop shop, maybe?”

“Allies,” Kell replied. But he still seemed distracted.

They had found the main part of the operation itself. It was more professional than he had expected – at least as much as it could be, given the grisly nature of the work. Limbs were kept in plastic bags, and bodies cut apart inside sealed chambers to keep the blood contained. Only once the parts had been fully cleaned were they brought out.

But that foresight in the operation did not mean the rooms were clean now. Gunfights had happened here, and the corpses of the guards, techs and butchers of the operation still floated, their blood turned to crimson spheres that floated in the air, turning everything the same disturbing pink as they had seen earlier. And just like the men from earlier, these ones had been shot repeatedly.

He had to keep wiping his visor to see clearly.

Urle had identified at least half a dozen bodies of victims so far, all in pieces.

He doubted that all of these people had cut deals for digital immortality, and he dared connect to a few pieces that seemed like they might be intact.

Most had no data – but in two he found snippets of old information.

“Debts,” he said to Kell. “These guys borrowed money from the wrong people. Fisc, I’ve heard of repossession but . . .”

Off to the side, he saw something that appeared to be an office. The small room looked out upon most of the workshop, and he saw that the security on the door was high.

It didn’t appear that anyone was in there, and neither had the lock been forced.

Or attempted, he thought, studying the security. It seemed there were explosives in the room, and after that it would vent into the vacuum . . .

“Stay back,” he told Kell. “This might be important.”

Carefully, Urle connected to the system. Its security was good – but he was better.

Two minutes later in real time, the door opened, welcoming him.

“It thinks I’m the owner,” he told Kell.

Kell was still remaining silent, and Urle glanced back to make sure he was all right. Perhaps the sight of the chopped bodies bothered him . . . ?

But Kell only seemed to be gazing off into the distance, and Urle dismissed the possibility.

Going into the office, Urle found a treasure trove.

The data went back months. It was explicit, with names and dates and transactions. Many of the specifics were locked behind tighter layers of encryption, but he even saw that there were more scheduled deliveries for the next few days . . .

If he clued in the right people, this entire network could be rolled up.

He downloaded everything, backing it up and stuffing hard data and hard drives into bags.

The system in the room started to get suspicious and he put it into a loop, telling itself to trigger the security protocols without actually doing it.

“Kell, you won’t believe all of this-” he began, leaving the room.

Kell turned, but behind him, a door opened, and a live person entered.

They wore an opaque white mask, buffed to a mirror shine, and a hood-like spacesuit that covered his head.

He had splatters of blood on him, and he held a carbine. The man noticed him, and was startled, before trying to heft his weapon.

Urle was faster.

He shot three times, each shot taking the man in the chest.

He didn’t make a sound, simply crashing back into the door frame, his carbine slipping free to float away.

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Others pushed his body, shoving in, pointing their own weapons.

Urle’s heart raced as his sensors told him there were over a dozen more out in the hall. He did not even have enough bullets for them all, nevermind the odds-

Kell put his hand over Urle’s weapon, pushing it down.

“No,” he said calmly.

Urle watched him, his jaw dropping.

More of the strange figures forced themselves into the room, pointing their weapons, but not yet firing.

Finally, a taller man, his mask clear, came in. His face was weathered by space, a dark orange from radiation exposure. His eyes were cold and pitiless as he beheld Urle, but they did not linger long.

They then moved to Kell.

“I see,” he said, his voice strong, “that we find in our midst a Lesser Lord.”

Kell turned sharply. “Do not ever call me that.”

The man smiled, but inclined his head. “I mean no offense, Great One. Only honor. Even given your cursed nature . . . we offer you homage.”

As one, the men lowered their weapons, placing their boots to the floor and connecting magnetically – then bowed.

Urle’s voice had caught in his throat. Kell – Lesser Lord?

“I will kill all of you,” Kell said, his body almost shaking with rage. He began to move forward.

Urle grabbed his arm, watching the men, but they still had not moved from their bows.

“Kell stop!” Urle snapped. “You can’t just kill them!”

The being moved like a rolling boulder; Urle could not even slow him. Yet after a moment, he did stop, looking down to Urle.

“You truly wish me to spare these men?” he spat.

“Who are they?” Urle asked.

“We are the Silent Hand,” the leader of the group said. “We are the knife of the Infinite, excising that which It Wills.”

The others spoke, their voices low. “Praise the Infinite, the most Perfect.”

Urle’s eyes swept over the group, and he saw that many were wounded. Bullet holes, rimed in blood, covered their suits. Droplets of blood still floated from many, showing that they had not even sealed their wounds. Yet none seemed concerned.

“If you wish to kill us, we accept your decision, Lesser Lord,” the man said. His face was calm. “We will call it the Will of the Infinite.”

Kell tensed again, and Urle grabbed onto his arm tighter.

“You truly wish to spare these men?” Kell asked Urle again, tearing his gaze away from the group.

“You owe me,” Urle told him. “Yes. They’re not attacking us. I can’t justify-“

“They are your enemies. They are my enemies. Why would you not strike them?” Kell asked, so emphatically that he seemed to writhe.

Urle could sense on some level he could not quantify that something else was moving. Something invisible, beyond his comprehension, was writhing, pulsing with anger and impotent bloodlust.

He felt his stomach churn, suddenly wanting to vomit. All strength left his arms, and all he had left was his voice.

“This is how we are,” he told Kell. “We are not killers.”

Kell closed his eyes, and for a moment Urle had no idea what he would say.

But as they opened, his face was once more calm.

“I owe you,” he said.

Urle looked back towards the group. The leader went to the body of the man he had shot.

“He should not have raised arms against you,” the man said. “It was the heat of the moment, and none blame you, Zachariah Urle, for what you did.”

“How do you know my name?” Urle demanded.

The man did not reply, instead arresting the slow tumble of the dead man, bringing him back upright. He pressed his head to the man’s chest.

“Rise, my son. If you wish.”

Then the dead man coughed.

He moved, his arms coming down, his legs moving to the floor.

“No,” Urle breathed, as the dead lived.

The leader looked back to them. “We thank you for your mercy, Lesser Lord,” he said, offering another bow to Kell.

Kell jerked his head, telling them to leave.

The group unlocked from the floor and moved together, out the door and away.

Urle looked at Kell.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded.

“A miracle,” Kell spat. Urle had never heard him sound more disgusted.

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

Brooks was exhausted by the time they made it back to the skiff.

Tol entered without a word, but Brecht stopped in the hatch to look back.

“This is where we part,” he told Brooks calmly. “You will find your compatriot Zachariah Urle elsewhere on the station. He will take you from this place.”

Brooks hesitated, a thousand questions on his mind, but there was one he had to know.

“You’re a Seer, aren’t you?” he asked Brecht. “You could feel the location of the people on this station, their disposition, without technology.”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“You are as perceptive as Dawn told me,” he replied. He ducked into the tunnel, pausing.

“I wish you luck, Brooks. Even if you are not on our side.”

He closed the hatch.

Brooks turned away, now alone with the body of Hoc Rem.

He did not doubt that Urle was here, if the man said it. Dawn had said it, and he knew the man was seeing. Nor would Dawn abandon him here . . .

If she had ever decided she wanted him dead, he knew that he would not see it coming.

The skiff of the mercenaries detached, and Brooks turned on his alarm beacon, turning the power down to only reach through the station’s local area. If Urle was here, he would pick it up.

He didn’t think there was anyone else alive in the place who would care.

Ten minutes later, Brooks saw a new skiff signalling from outside the airlock. Brooks sent back a coded burst.

It docked, and the hatch opened, with Urle looking up at him.

“Almost don’t recognize you, Captain,” he said, forcing a smile.

He looked as exhausted as Brooks felt.

“I’ve had a hell of a trip,” he said.

“I had some interesting times as well.”

“Is Kell in there with you?” Brooks asked, peering past him.

“Yes, he joined me on my outing,” Urle said. “Why?”

“I’ll finally get to talk to him . . .”

Urle’s eyes went to the body that Brooks was still pulling along. “Is that who I think it is?”

“It was,” Brooks replied. “I’m hoping he might be more useful in death than he was in life. Though I’m afraid he probably won’t be.”

“It’s okay, Captain. I got his data backups.”

Brooks felt the tension leave his chest. “Oh thank fortune.”

Urle moved back down into the shuttle. “Come on, Captain. Let’s get home.”