One moment the hilt was in Natalya’s hand. The next, it tilted away and swung across her face, slicing a gash that ran from her left eye to her cheekbone. Natalya cursed, drew her pistol, and fired at the Prophet.

She hit his leg, but the Prophet ran as if he’d suffered no more than a bee sting, racing out the cargo bay and onto the landing zone.

“Oh, that was a mistake,” Natalya threatened, wiping the blood out of her eye and chasing the Prophet.

She raised her pistol to shoot the fleeing man in the back, but a fighter-sized shuttle landed between her and the Prophet. Natalya cursed, dove beneath the shuttle’s fuselage, and emerged on the other side, losing only a few paces in her pursuit.

The Prophet ran toward the Tidepool, shoving aside a line of people in front of the cable car that would take them to the other side. Natalya smiled, watching the doors close before the Prophet could make it inside the rocket-shaped car. But the Prophet leapt at the cables, sinking his glowing sword into the car’s metal roof and holding on as it shot over the Tidepool.

“What a jerk!” Natalya said. Then she shouted, “Out of the way!” to the people waiting for the next car.

The people parted for her, the sight of a bleeding, armed woman in pursuit enough to make all think it best to wait for the next car.

Natalya boarded the car and kicked the glass, punching the frustrating seconds away before the doors closed and she jetted over the water.

The golden light of the Prophet’s sword shimmered over the Tidepool as both cars shot across the cables toward casinos and shops on the other side. Natalya counted the time away to keep her cool, ignoring the blood that dripped from her face to stain the royal purple-carpeted floor.

When the car reached its destination, the doors dinging and welcoming her to “Han Kingdom Shopping Mall,” she ran through the crowd.

It wasn’t hard to spot the Prophet. Natalya just followed the screams, people pointing in wonder at the man who’d ruined a cable car.

A black iron walkway made up the promenade from the cable cars to the shopping mall, polished to an onyx sheen and leading to the mall’s arched doorway.

“What are you running from, Prophet?” Natalya shouted as she pursued the swordsman.

Bright lights and holographic strippers waved greetings at the Prophet and the captain, the Prophet diving through the naked projections and shoving his way past a line of slot machines.

A fountain sprayed neon mist into the air in the middle of the mall’s rainbow-tinted atrium, clothing and shoe and weapons retailers going up a dozen floors. The Prophet raced over the shimmering fountain toward a pair of glass elevators. These were completely clear, pill-shaped, and led up and down the mall’s many levels.

Shoppers screamed and leapt out of the way, though some applauded the show and fired weapons in the air in encouragement. Natalya actually caught someone pointing at the Prophet and exchanging a plat with a friend, betting on his escape.

The Prophet reached the elevators and punched a floor going down. Natalya arrived at the elevator just as the doors closed, the car descending to the deep basement levels. Natalya jammed her fingers in the outer doors, wrenching them open.

She looked down, saw the pill-shaped car descending, and dropped a plat chip of her own onto the elevator, as if she was making a bet herself.

The clinking coin made the Prophet look up. He saw Natalya holding her weapon against the elevator cable with her right hand, and three raised fingers in her left. She showed two fingers. She caught the Prophet’s brown eyes, two floors down, and raised an eyebrow as she held up one finger. She didn’t know if the Prophet’s healing powers could survive a ten story fall down an elevator shaft, but she started to lower her last finger, ready to find out.

The elevator stopped.

A moment later, it started ascending.

Stolen story; please report.

Natalya stepped back, gun trained as the glass elevator stopped on her floor. The doors slid open.

“Ground floor; happiness awaits,” the elevator chimed.

The Prophet stood with his sword at his side, blinking at the pistol in Natalya’s hand.

“Drop it,” Natalya ordered.

“You’ll want me to heal that,” the Prophet replied, stepping out of the elevator.

“Not another step. Drop it.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hurt you.”

“Why did you run?” Natalya asked, trying to keep her cool as she kept her gun steady.

“You don’t know?”

“I didn’t know, and I didn’t care who you were. You were just another refugee, one I’d paid for. But you cut me. Now I want answers.”

The Prophet took a deep breath, and exhaled.

He tucked his blade into the sheath on his back, and said, “Let me help you.”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“I won’t run. On my honor. I just want to make amends.” The Prophet held out his hand and took a step toward Natalya.

Natalya kept her gun trained on him, but allowed him to approach. He kept his hand extended, moving slow and careful. When he got within arm’s reach, Natalya stepped back a moment.

“I only want to help,” the Prophet said.

“I don’t need your help,” Natalya countered.

“Then let me undo my mistake.”

The Prophet brushed his hands against her face. Natalya caught his eyes, and he bit his lip, losing focus a moment before closing his eyes. The hilt of his sword once more glowed with a golden light, and Natalya felt a cold energy flowing through her face.

When the Prophet pulled his hand back, Natalya rubbed her cheek, feeling dried blood and undamaged skin.

“I am Jasper, Prophet of Gold,” the Prophet said.

“Did he just make a pledge to his honor?” Ptolemy asked, racing through the mall. Co and Augustus were beside him, Co leveling her weapon at Jasper. “Because that’s worthless as a plastic plat.”

The eyes of several thousand shoppers and intoxicated revelers were locked on the five near the elevator. The sounds of hooting and applause suddenly echoed in the vast mall.

“Take a bow, Natalya,” Ptolemy said. “You put on quite a show. But I think we’d better get out of prying eyes before the authorities arrive. Mr. ex-Prophet, would you care to join us?”

“I’m not an ex-Prophet. I am Jasper, Prophet of Gold,” the swordsman countered.

“You and I both know that’s not the case. And you should also know that I wasn’t making a request.”

Ptolemy tilted his head toward Co, who trained her weapon at the Prophet’s head.

Jasper nodded.

“I know just the place,” Augustus declared, leading the way through the mall as he blew kisses at the whistling audience.

As they followed Augustus out of the mall, Co with her gun at the Prophet’s back, Natalya spotted the man who’d exchanged a plat with his friend.

“Never bet against me,” Natalya threatened, to the laughter of the man who’d won the exchange.

Ptel hurried them to a casino, acting as if all of this were normal and nothing worth noting. No need to alert police or anything, thank you very much. Those on The Moon accepted this, and soon the group was embraced inside the bright lights and distractions like a gemstone embraced by the tide.

“You consider this a private place?” Jasper asked over the cheers of the players.

The low ceilings were decked in glistening royal purple and gold, mirrors showing the smiles of winners and the stoic faces of those waiting for their luck to turn around. It was one of many casino floors on the Great Whisper of Fortune entertainment complex. Polished steel sculptures of purple waves decked the richly carpeted floor.

No blinking slot machines or clanking holo-chancers were in this casino, just cards and metal chips on purple felt. Each table was set in its own sunken floor, golden steps leading down the shallow indentations like gilded craters in a royal asteroid.

“The best place to find privacy is where no one is looking. Here, eyes are only on the pits,” Ptolemy explained as Augustus collected the golden dice that were shoved in front of him.

“Why would you look anywhere else? Who needs an eight!” Augustus asked, raising a glass filled with a thick, red drink.

“You is roll dice, not disrupt play, is good for health,” cautioned the table’s dealer.

Cheering players packed the craps table. Some called out for an eight, tossing clinking metal onto the oblong bowl, others sweating as they placed money on the double-four, hoping Augustus really meant he’d get the roll he wanted. Others grinned coyly at the man, placing their bets on the craps line.

“What is this? Oyster?” Augustus asked a waitress who’d delivered his third drink. She held a tray of steaming shellfish. Augustus plucked one with his thick fingers and dunked the meat down his gullet, clacking the shell back on the tray. “I don’t care what it is, it’s delicious! Bring a plate for my — hold on…”

Augustus threw the dice. Two fours came up on the other end of the table.

As the players cheered, Augustus tossed chips onto the waitress’s tray and said, “Bring a whole table full of them!”

“Ivan give you back dice, but not before player what wipe seafood grease off fingers,” the dealer said, sliding the dice back to Augustus.

Natalya couldn’t help but smile, even with the Prophet standing at her elbow. She collected her modest winnings and tossed another chip on the table.

“What is it you want?” Jasper asked as Augustus cleaned his hands and downed his drink, shaking the dice for another toss.

“I want to know why you ran,” Natalya answered.