I am very sorry to disappoint you...

Arianne Simons sipped her tea delicately and avoided making eye contact. Her thick, brown hair was tied tightly back and her soft, silk business suit whispered as she shifted in her chair. At long last she answered, her voice as smooth as the clothes she wore, “I do not recall owning a hand-maiden, Mr Evans,” she said, quickly moving her cup to her lips to hide her trembling. “And I’m not sure I appreciate the inference you’re making.”

Iskrin looked at her easily, his usual jeans replaced by a suit of equal craftsmanship. He flashed his best smile, “Come now, Miss Simons, I’m not suggesting you did wrong by the girl. I’m asking only whether you might recall someone like that in your employ. It is rather important that I find her. My father is soon to leave this world and I’d so like him to meet his daughter one last time.” This lie had slid all too easily off his tongue when he’d introduced himself over the cortex. Arianne Simons was a woman of refinement and respectability. She wouldn’t give out information to some freighter captain; but to a wealthy Sihnon merchant’s son looking for his long lost sister – perhaps.

Arianne drained her teacup and set it firmly back in its saucer. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said finally, the word somehow indicating she suspected Iskrin was no noble, “but I cannot help you. Good day.” With that she rose in a hush of silk and strode from the tea palour.

Iskrin sighed and set his own teacup down, drawing the attention of a waitress and handing over enough credits to cover the bill for them both. He glanced around the room carefully, looking for anyone suspicious and dismissed the other customers as rich dandies and the spoiled offspring of wealthy businesspeople. Satisfied that the meeting had been as innocuous as he’d hoped and that no one was likely to remember that Arianne Simons had had lunch with a nondescript, well-dressed man, he made his way out of the tea house and down the alley to its side where Sam was standing with the now-unconscious Miss Simons in his arms.

“Don’t feel right,” Sam grumbled. “She’s respectable.”

Iskrin flashed him a cold glance. “We ain’t gonna harm her, Sam.” He reassured his friend. “But she has to talk.” He could see in Sam’s eyes the memories of making Joriquos Bos talk. “The nice way.” He affirmed. “Well, nice-ish.”

***

Arianne Simons came to in a small bunk, her head resting on a hard plasfoam pillow and her back sore. She could hear the thrum of ship engines and recognized immediately from her many spaceflights the uneven artificial gravity generated by ill-tuned gravity systems and inertial dampers. She sighed. The fool. Why had he not just let her be?

Sitting up slowly and holding the side of her spinning head, she reached down inside her shirt and drew out the necklace that she always wore: a chain of simple gold links carrying a ruby set in micro-platinum. She lifted the ruby from its setting and depressed the button underneath, activating the SOS beacon. A moment later she was on her feet, leaning against the bulkhead and getting her bearings. Once she felt steady, she pulled the door access lever and, to her surprise, the door rumbled open with a groan.

The hallway outside was dimly lit in soft yellow light. Small markings on the walls indicated the direction of the bridge, engine room and mess, so she headed for the last of these. Her footsteps rang out on the metal gantry beneath her, almost certainly alerting the crew that she was up and about, but she didn’t much care who knew. If they’d planned to kill her she’d be dead. If not then her people would be here soon anyhow.

A dark, cold world

The artist's blood dripped quietly onto the steel deck of the Unlikely To Fly's cargo hold. His nose was broken, seeping red; his left hand was missing a finger, dripping red; his legs and arms were bound with molecular wire that had lacerated the skin, leaking red.

Iskrin set a bowl of soapy water down at the man's feet and dipped a sponge into it. Joriquos Bos eyes him suspiciously through swollen, black eyes. "I told that fat bastard everything," he snarled as Iskrin began to mop at his wounds and Bos winced in pain, his words turning to a strangled scream of agony.

"I know," Iskrin replied calmly.

"I'll have you both hanged for this," Bos sneered as Iskrin wiped more blood away from the cuts on the painter's wrists.

"You won't," Iskrin replied evenly, his eyes focused on his work. "I'm going to remove these bonds." The captain took out a small device and disrupted the molecular contacts, which caused the wires to unwind from Bos' wrists and fall to the floor. For a moment, he thought that Bos' might try to do something stupid, but the sound of Sam cocking the hammer of his pistol caused the artist to sit still.

"You owe me a fucking finger," Bos growled at Sam.

"And you owe my friend for a fiance and ten years of pain," Sam said evenly, wiping sweat from his brow.

"I told you that was not my fault," Bos replied, his clipped, accented voice shaky with pain as Iskrin continued to clean him up. "Captain Charleton did not tell me what they were going to do to that godforsaken town. When he brought the girl onboard I tried to help her."

Iskrin slapped him hard across the face. "Lie again and you'll lose your tongue," he said quietly.

Bos prepared to speak and then stopped himself, breathing for a moment. "OK, perhaps I didn't try to help at first."

"Maybe you did a bit of raping, you mean?" Sam cut in.

"No, she wanted to... I mean."

Iskrin drew a knife from is belt and pushed the blade into the artist's mouth in one fluid movement. Bos sat staring in shock and horror, his eyes crossing as he tried to focus on the metal in his mouth, desperately attempting not to move. "Go on," Iskrin offered.

The artist shook his head very slightly and Iskrin withdrew the blade, a small trickle of blood leaking from the side of Bos' mouth. "OK. Yes," the artist agreed finally, licking at the blood on his lip. "I raped her. But when we got back to Sihnon, I tried to help her."

Iskrin moved the knife. "Seriously, I swear," Bos said desperately, watching the blade swing up in front of him. "I felt sorry for her. I tried to get her to a hospital. But they wanted to know what happened and I was not about to tell them."

"So you ran?" Sam asked, his gun pointing lazily at Bos' chest, a sour look on his face.

"I left her, yes," Bos agreed, grimacing as Iskrin applied a salve to the stump of his little finger. "But I am sure they took care of her."

His ministrations finished, Iskrin stood up, wiping his hands with the cloth and then chucking it back into the bowl with a splash. He stood staring at Bos for some time, noting the artist's fine clothes, his fashionable hair style, manicured hands, brilliant white teeth. "Let me tell you what I don't understand," the captain said, his voice quiet and calm. "Captain Charleton is dead. You'll be pleased to know he never mentioned your name, despite what I did to him."

Bos nodded. "I heard."

"But the thing is this: he always swore that keeping her wasn't his idea. That he'd planned to kill every gorram girl in the town to teach us a lesson about power. Not that doing so would o' saved him mind, which is why it always struck me as an odd thing to say." Iskrin glanced up at Sam, who had moved from leaning on the lockers to standing behind Bos.

"It is odd," Sam agreed.

"He said that one of his crew had asked him to keep the girl, but he wouldn't say which, even when I took out his eye."

Bos stared at Iskrin, mesmerized by the captain's words, panic and fear plain on his face as Iskrin spoke.

"Now I figure that member of the crew was you, Mr. Bos. So I know you ain't bein' straight with us. What do you think?"

Bos stared up at the captain, rubbing his mutilated hand and breathing hard. "I don't know," he whined, his usual, formal speech patterns lost to terror. Sam hit him in the ear with the butt of his pistol and Bos screamed. "OK, OK," he said quickly, clutching the side of his head. "I asked him to keep her. I wanted her but she was too fucking scared, too fucking stupid to know what was good for her."

Iskrin wanted nothing more than to beat this miserable excuse for a human to death, but he needed one specific piece of information that Sam still hadn't gotten out of Bos, despite the torture. "Go on," the captain said.

Bos took a steadying breath. "She kept crying and when she wasn't crying she was trying to escape. So we dumped her," he said, and then saw Sam's hand move out of the corner of his eye. "Alright!" he wailed, raising his hands protectively. "We sold her to a mercant at the Fengjin Downport. Said she'd take her as a handmaiden."

Iskrin took a moment to accept this information. Not dead, at least. And not sold for sex, if Bos could be believed. Life as a handmaiden might have been bearable for her, he thought, and then checked himself and the excuses he was making. Nothing was excusable about what had been done to Lys. "What was the merchant's name?" he finally asked, looking into the artist's frightened eyes.

For a moment it seemed as though Bos was going to refuse to answer, as he had done with Sam. But something seemed to click within him and he groaned, hanging his head and talking to the floor. "Simons. Arianne Simons."

Iskrin looked up at Sam for a reaction. The art dealer shrugged. "I know her," he said simply. "Haven't ever seen a girl in her service though."

Iskrin looked back down at Bos. "It is true. I swear it," the artist said, looking up at the two men. "I do not know what Arianne did with her, but your fat friend is right. The girl is not in her service now."

Iskrin stood in the familiar surroundings of the Unlikely To Fly, eyes closed and listening to the gentle thrum of the idle engines reverberating through the deck plating. He was so close to finding Lys that he could practically smell the gentle perfume of her hair, almost feel the warmth of her soft skin and the taste of her lips. And yet he was still so far. Arianne Simons could have done practically anything with his beloved. Finally he took a deep breath and looked down at the battered form of Joriquos Bos. "I ought ta kill ya," he said softly, watching the fear in Bos' eyes. "Or give you to the authorities. But I'm guessing the first would bring me trouble and the second would do you no harm, given who your da is."

"You are already in trouble, sir," Bos said defiantly. Iskrin slapped him again.

"You don't seem to understand Mr. Bos. None of this ever happened. An' if it did, then I may as well kill you. Are we clear?"

Bos stared at the captain for a moment before nodding slowly. "We are clear," he said finally.

Somehow Iskrin doubted that was the case, but he had no intention of returning to Sihnon once this was over in any case. "Good," he said. "So I ain't gonna kill ya, despite the pain you caused me and mine. But I am gonna leave you a measure of Three Hills justice." He glanced up at Sam who took hold of Bos' narrow shoulders in his meaty hands and held him still. Iskrin took his knife and knelt in front of the artist, unlacing the man's britches. Bos' watched him, abject terror etched into his face, his breathing ragged with fear. "This is how we deal with rapists where I come from," Iskrin growled, setting to work as Joriquos Bos screamed.

The guttural sounds of agony that rang out of the Unlikely To Fly would have turned the stomachs of any passers by had the boat not been parked on a remote patch of land some miles out of town. Later, as her atmospheric engines streamed plumes of smoke and lifted the metal hulk into the darkening sky, anyone in the area would have seen a man staggering away from where the boat had been parked, the front of his trousers bloody and tears of pain and rage streaming from his eyes. Had they been there to hear him, they would have heard his sobbing, choking whispers of "No, oh god no." But there was no one around.

Four days later, Joriquos Bos returned to Sihnon high society clad in the finest golden lace, deftly flattering and complimenting his way through an ambassadorial reception; graciously accepting praise and agreeing to paint over a dozen portraits; blaming his unfortunate broken nose on a skiing accident and wearing gloves to hide his missing finger. He hid the pain well, and the rage. Not a one of the ambassador's guests noticed any change in his demeanor or his charm. None, at least, except the ambassador's wife, who found him outside the party in the gardens, bent over and holding his groin.

"Are you OK, my dear?" she asked sweetly.

Bos looked up, trying to straighten. "Oh yes, quite alright," he said kindly, flashing her a smile. "I was just looking at the ground here."

"Oh," she said, concern in her voice for the dashing young artist. "Have you lost something? I'm sure the girls would be glad to help you look."

Bos smiled weakly. "More than you know," he answered, a grimace of pain and loss on his face and murder in his heart.

I have known tranquility

[image credit: http://www.williamlewispaintings.net/oil-painting-valley-view.html]

“You’ve gained weight,” the fat man sitting idly across the table from him intoned over his beer. “Going soft?”

Iskrin looked up and shook his head briefly, smiling. “No, Sam. Not soft.” He took a sip of his own beer and glanced around the small tap room one more time to check that he hadn’t missed anything in the last three or four glances. “How about you, Sam? You’re looking a little well-fed yourself.”

Truth be told, Sam had gone from being stocky to being plump. The man must have been in his late thirties or early forties, but almost a decade on Sihnon had taken its toll on his body. Altogether too much pleasure had been had. “I have gone soft,” Sam admitted, grinning. “Trading fine art, antiquities and furniture tends to make a man lose the edge, you know?”

Iskrin nodded, apparently agreeing but fairly certain that Sam would have gone to fat whatever trade he’d found for himself. He took another sip of his beer, trying to ignore the knot of anxiety in his stomach, trying to keep the conversation light for now. He hadn’t seen Sam in three or maybe four years. Sam was a war veteran who had found that trading art stolen during the war was a darned sight easier than trying to make an honest living. He’d gone honest since, but it was his dishonest side that had thrown him and Iskrin together originally.

When the 18-year-old Iskrin had arrived on Sihnon all those years ago with fire in his heart and a desperate need to track down the boat captain and find his lost love, Sam had taken him under his wing and offered to help. Looking back, Sam’s generosity at the time had probably had more to do with the fact that Iskrin claimed the boat had been full of rare art (unusually true) than that he wanted to help a fellow human being. Yet, somehow Iskrin’s plight had managed to find that last shred of humanity the war had left Sam and from that day to this, he had kept his eyes and ears open for sign of Lys.

And now he had called.

“I’m guessing you want me to get to the point?” Sam asked finally in a smooth Londinium accent with a hint of Sihnon, fingering his beer glass nervously. “You aren't going to like it, Isk. Trust me.”

Iskrin nodded, controlling the knot in his stomach with an iron will. “Quit with the dramatics and just tell me,” he growled quietly, barely able to remain calm in this very public setting.

Sam nodded, taking a gulp of beer and then sitting up straight to look Iskrin firmly in the eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “I know this is hard.”

Iskrin managed to restrain himself from reaching across the table and shaking the man screaming ‘just tell me’. Instead he nodded and clasped his hands together tightly on his lap.

“It’s the darndest thing,” Sam began, his rich voice carrying across the small space between them. “I bought a painting by Joriquos Bos last week. You know him?”

Iskrin shook his head. “No. Does it matter?”

Sam laughed. “Yes it matters. Patience my friend; you need the story.”

“Your stories take hours, Sam. I need to find Lys.”

“And you will,” Sam said, taking another gulp of beer and gazing nervously about the room. “Anyway, Joriquos Bos,” he continued, “is an extremely famous portrait painter here on Sihnon. He’s painted everyone who’s anyone. But what most people don’t know is that he started out doing landscapes.”

Iskrin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I ain’t seein’ how this is relevant,” he growled.

“You will.” Sam took another gulp of beer and Iskrin wondered what was making the man so nervous. He couldn’t be that worried about the news he had to deliver. Whatever the truth, it couldn’t be any worse than the horrors Iskrin had imagined as he lay listening to the rumble of the Unlikely’s engines, dreaming of the nightmares his lost love had suffered.

“OK, you were talking about landscapes,” Iskrin said finally, urging the fat man to go on.

Sam smiled nervously and then continued. “Yeah. And he made a tour of the less salubrious core planets in his younger days – some of the border worlds too. One of them was Three Hills.” Sam paused, watching Iskrin’s face for a reaction. “He painted a landscape there called I have known tranquility. It’s a pretty simple piece – depicts a valley with a town nestling in the bottom of it. Usual stuff.” Sam paused for another gulp, gathering his courage before continuing. “The town," he said slowly, studying Iskrin, "was called Bartholomew."

And this time, Iskrin did react. At the mention of the name of his hometown he tensed, his muscles going stiff and his heart racing. “You’re sure?” he asked, almost breathless with fear.

Sam nodded. “Yes, he painted your home town.” The fat man paused to signal a waitress that he needed another beer. Iskrin sat staring at his own glass, his mind turning over and over. Of course, he thought to himself, a painter painting Bartholemew could mean nothing, just coincidence.

“When?” Iskrin asked at last.

Sam's eyes flicked back from scouring the room. “When what?”

“When did he paint it?”

Sam looked a way for a moment, anxiously searching again for sign of the beer he’d ordered as he muttered, “where’s that damned waitress?”

“When did he paint it Sam?” Iskrin leaned across the table, his eyes fixed on those of the war vet-turned-dandy sitting across from him.

“I ain’t sure, mind,” Sam began, his original accent coming briefly to the fore as his nerves got the better of him. “But it all fits. You know?”

Iskrin placed his hands very slowly on the table, palms down. The willpower he used to control his nerves shocked even him and as he spoke, his voice was flat and calm. “Tell me what you suspect, Sam, or so help me God I will beat it out of you.”

Sam looked at the disheveled captain sitting in front of him. His eyes were red with lack of sleep and worry. His clothes looked not to have been changed in some days and he smelled as though he hadn’t bathed in even longer. Sam sighed inwardly. The information that he had discovered in the past week had nearly broken his heart, so what it was about to do to Iskrin he couldn’t imagine. For more than a decade he’d searched for a sign of Lys to no avail. His art dealings had taken him to most core worlds and some beyond and he’d never so much as found a trace of her. And now he knew why.

“Iskrin,” Sam said reluctantly, “I will tell you, my friend. But I have to explain it my way.”

Iskrin nodded, forcing himself to relax back into the leather-upholstered seat beneath him. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Sam looked at him for a long moment before continuing. As he began speaking, the waitress arrived with his beer and Sam swigged near half of it down like a man fresh out of the desert.

“The painting is of Bartholemew," he began quickly, wanting to get the tale out now. "It looks pastoral because Bos wanted it to be so, but he has always been a stickler for detail, so he couldn’t help but include the radio mast, despite his best intentions." Iskrin nodded. "Thing is, Isk,” Sam said carefully, “the mast has three aerials.”

Iskrin let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his mind suddenly afire and his belly feeling like a stone had just been dropped into it. “You’re certain?” he asked urgently and then shook his head irritably. “No, of course you’re certain.”

Sam nodded. “So here’s what we know,” he said, his voice slower now. “The Bartholomew radio mast had two aerials up until two days before the Merry Bitch landed on Three Hills; the day the boat landed the town was celebrating its new triple-link to the Cortex."

"My da was mighty proud of that third arial," Iskrin confirmed, his mind slipping back for a moment to the memory of the shindig the town had thrown to celebrate the increased bandwidth.

Sam smiled. "So you told me," he said before continuing, counting off his points on his fingers. "We also know that the boat was loaded with rare art the likes of which no boat should ever hold. Least not a boat like that.” Sam made a sour face. “Two days after landing, the captain and his crew raped and pillaged their way through your town, destroying everything, including the radio mast. Yet somehow," Sam continued, his voice punctuating the facts, "Joriquos Bos managed to paint Bartholomew at some point within the two days that it had a three-aerial radio tower.”

Iskrin’s face was grim, his teeth clenched and his jaw hard as was his custom whenever he was seeking to control the rage inside him. “It’s not a coincidence,” he growled; statement rather than question.

“No, it’s not,” Sam confirmed, his eyes cast down, his sweaty hands gripping his beer glass like a life preserver. "Here's the thing, Isk. Bos was planet hopping on the Merry Bitch, doing paintings while the crew extorted the border worlders. In return for passage, he was offering them his personal protection should any of the worlds complain. His father is high, high up in Alliance central command."

Iskrin furrowed his brow, a look of disgust on his face. “How do you know?” he asked flatly.

Sam finally looked up, meeting Iskrin's gaze. “I spoke to Bos," he said, wringing his hands nervously. "He’s outside in the trunk of my car.”

Return of the Unlikely

There she was. A dark, grey box with engines, sitting on the pad two hundred feet ahead of him. Not pretty by any measure of the word, but the most beautiful sight he'd seen in quite some time. Well, except for Imrhien, maybe.

He pushed that thought out of his head. He'd spent two days planning this, thinking how best to do it. But if he was to rescue Lys, then Vivienne was not enough boat to get the job done. He needed his old friend back. He needed the Unlikely To Fly.

Iskrin had kept an eye on the boat's flight plans ever since he sold her to Jian'Fo Gray's daughter, Lian. Some part of him had wanted to be sure that the old boat was being looked after. Lian seemed to be using her to run between Sihnon and Londinium on a two-weekly basis, and here she sat in the Bristol Docks on Londinium, where her flight plan had promised she would be. He shook his head, his eyes gazing with longing at the old boat. It would be so easy to just take her, he thought to himself. But he'd already decided not to steal her; decided that the last thing he needed if he could get to Lys was the law on his tail for a stolen boat. So he'd resigned himself to buying her back, likely at more than what he sold her for.

In that sense, the spice he'd brought from Al Raqis had truly been a gift from the Fremen god, Shai Hulud, the great sandworm. Iskrin had already sold it for a small fortune to the same merchant who'd taken Med's 'medicinal' tea off their hands a few weeks a go. Now, credits in hand, he was waiting for Lian.

All this, he thought to himself, for a girl who won't even recognise me. The flight from Al Raqis to the Core had given him ample time to go over and over his choices, his decisions, his mistakes. The further he'd flown from Imrhien, the worse he'd felt, both because the comforting touch of her mind faded to nothing, and because his heart was broken in two. Plain and simple. But Lys had been his focus for more than a decade and the message from Sam could not be ignored, not at any cost. He doubted Imrhien would ever understand.

And in the same vein, he wondered whether Lys would ever understand. Would she remember the boy she'd known; would she see him in the man he'd become? And would she forgive him for taking so long to come for her if she did? The day that the spacers had taken her, he had screamed to her, promising that he'd come for her even as the ropes tying him to the post rubbed his wrists raw in his struggles against them. He'd thought to keep that promise, but it had taken too long. Far too long.

Breaking him out of his thoughts was the vision of Lian Gray storming out of the Port Authority, cursing in Mandarin about port fees and stupid fat little jobsworths. Not a good start, Iskrin noted to himself as he stood up and made his way across the hot tarmac towards her. She took a moment to recognise him and then unleashed her pent up fury.

"You!" she shouted. "You scumbag! You ought to be ashamed of yourself selling me a boat like this," she said, her nostrils flaring. "Do you know the third fuel ventricle leaks?" she asked, barely pausing for breath. "And the attitude jets need regular adjustment. And she stinks like a spacer's toilet. She's a gorram rustbucket."

Iskrin nodded, smiling apologetically. "She has her troubles," he agreed. "Boat's old. I warned your da."

"Don't talk to me about my da," the half-chinese girl said, hands on her hips. "Old fool bought me the cheapest hulk he could find. My girlfriends hate this heap of junk."

Iskrin bristled at the venom in Lian's voice and her obvious hatred for his beloved Unlikely. He apologised silently to the boat in his head, promising that he'd save it from this spoilt little rich girl. He thought again for a moment about how to broach the subject of buying the ship back, and then decided that perhaps directness would be the best approach, given Lian's feelings. "Well, then I guess this might be your lucky day," he said, smiling warmly, hoping to charm her into agreement. "I want to buy her back."

Lian did a double-take, her eyes flicking to his, then away, then back again. "You want to what?" she asked, suspicion and hope mixed in her voice.

"Buy her back," he repeated. "Things didn't work out on the crew I joined. I need her back."

Lian was clearly relieved and Iskrin could almost see the cogs of possibility turning in her mind. "It'll cost you," she announced, crossing her arms over her small breasts. "Price I paid, plus some for the trouble you put me to, plus the price o' your need."

Iskrin nodded. "I'll pay you fair," he said. "But don't try too hard, Lian. Boat's a boat and sentiment has a limit."

She nodded back. "If you say so, Captain. Sixty thousand."

Iskrin's eyes widened. "That's twice what you paid me," he said carefully. "Thirty-five thousand."

She laughed. "Be serious, Captain. Please."

"OK, fourty thousand."

"Fifty."

"Fourty five."

"Done."

"Agreed."

They went back in to the Port Authority together to transfer the money, the paperwork and the port fees - Iskrin grumbled at this last, but it was his boat now sitting on the pad - and simple as that, the Unlikely To Fly belonged to Captain Iskrin Nightfire once again.

Lian said a terse farewell and went off to find friends who would put her up until her father could send a shuttle for her. Iskrin walked out to his old boat. He felt as though he were in a trance, the papers clutched tightly in his hand as he ran his other across the rough metal of her hull, tracing the blocky lines of her industrial construction, almost lovingly, tenderly. His access codes had been reinstated and as the ramp hissed down into position, that old familiar smell of grease, ozone and fuel came drifting out of the cargo hold. He made his way up the ramp, past the cargo that Lian had never bothered getting rid of. Seemed she hadn't really been doing much more than ferrying her girlfriends about. No wonder she hated the boat so much. The Unlikely was a working ship, not a pleasure cruiser.

Iskrin took the steps two at a time, entering the cabin and smiling as he cast his eyes about the familiar room. The fitted furniture he'd had installed on Sihnon was still there, though with a few feminine touches that he figured he do away with. The bookshelves stood empty, but he'd taken his books with him and would transfer them from Vivienne as soon as possible. In short, it was like he'd never really left.

For a moment, guilt stabbed at his heart - an agony to remind him of what he had done and what he had left behind for this boat; for this past. The past always wakes, he heard his father's voice saying. Face it and be strong. He thought of Chrysalis and her captain, of Imrhien Fargis who had turned his world on its head and woken him from the slumber of misery in which he'd passed the last ten years. Oh Imrhien, he whispered in his mind. Will you ever forgive me?

Shaking his head, the bitter pain of leaving his new friends and the woman he loved behind mixing with the excitement of owning the Unlikely To Fly again and the possibility of finally keeping his promise to Lys, he made his way down to the cockpit, easing himself into the flight chair, caressing the control stick, his heart hammering in his chest. I shouldn't be this fond of a ruttin' boat, he thought to himself and then laughed. For just a moment, nestled in the safe and familiar cockpit of the boat that had seen him through so much of his broken life, he felt sort of happy, sort of content. The calm before the storm through which he would pilot the Unlikely To Fly to the future; whatever that undiscovered country might hold.

The Parting of the Ways

He stood watching the freighter struggling against the gravity of Al Raqis, making one last ascent to Chrysalis to bring down the last of the cargo. The white bulk of the ship shone hotly in the Alraqin sun and Iskrin could imagine the determined set of Imrhien's jaw line as she held the metal hulk steady on its trajectory out of the world. As the boat passed through the path of the system’s star in the azure blue sky, Iskrin was forced to turn away. He adjusted his collar against the heat, trying to keep that sun off his neck and then walked slowly away, down a gantry to the desert floor and then across the hot sands to where Vivienne was parked in the shade.

Imrhien. Oh Imrhien.

Was it two or three months since they had met? His memory of the whirlwind that had been his life with her was hazy. So much had happened. So much said. So much done. She had changed his world and he’d felt for a time that he could finally leave his past behind. For the first time in years he had been part of a crew, made friends, made a home, made love. Love. Oh Imrhien.

He stood on Vivienne’s ramp and cast his eyes back over the endless dunes, watching the air dance and shimmer in the heat. A line from an ancient film from Earth That Was came back to him, and it seemed apt for his life. Someone had been asked why he liked the desert so much. “It’s clean.” Clean but dead, Iskrin thought to himself, like my life was before I met Imrhien. And now?

He hadn't told any of them what he was about to do or where he was about to go. The pain of leaving friends was bad enough and he'd said too many goodbyes in his lifetime. The pain of leaving Imrhien was so great that he was afraid that if she asked him not to go, then he wouldn’t. Yet he was more afraid that in her own, stubborn, noble way she wouldn’t ask him to stay; and that would be worse. He also didn't know what to say. He couldn't imagine himself explaining the situation to any of them, least of all Imrhien.

Closing the hatch and retracting the ramp he then made his way to the comfortable pilot’s chair. This small shuttle had been a good purchase, on reflection. It was old and well-used, but it suited his needs and he’d finally fixed the stardrive engines, so it would make the trip to the Core that he needed to take now.

He eased himself into the leather of the chair and brought up the Cortex on the main display, the wave open from when he’d last read it this morning.

ID.40665.FFa Whizenhunt, Samuel. Message: Isk, I found her. Sihnon, like you thought. Sorry it took so long. TRANSCODE ENCRIPTION/aa45-FYEO

He sat staring at the screen, the ‘reply’ button blinking quietly, urging a response. His nerves were still numb no matter how often he read the message. It seemed impossible that Sam would have found her after all these years. Iskrin had given up ever hearing from the man again, letting the last of his hope die in his heart, certain that Lys was lost.

And there was the lie.

He’d told Imrhien that the spacers had raped and murdered Lys. That he’d hunted them down and killed them in revenge and that he’d lived his life alone in homage to his family and his lost love. It had almost been true; was true enough in his head, where he’d convinced himself that Lys was dead and that he’d never find her. But in his heart, in that block of ice that Imrhien had melted, the secret had lain - poisonous, dangerous.

The crew that murdered his family 15 years ago had raped every girl in the town, including Lys – that had been true. They’d also murdered every girl in the town, except for Lys – that Lys was dead had been a lie he told Imrhien because he’d reconciled himself to her being so. Lys, in fact, they had taken. It was saving her - not revenge - that had set Iskrin on the dark path that culminated in the murder of the boat’s captain. But Lys had already been discarded, too frightened and tearful to be any fun, the man had said.

Mustering his will and his thoughts, Iskrin tapped the reply button, sending Sam a message that he was on his way to the Core and that they should meet in the usual place, usual time on Sunday. The wave sent, Iskrin fastened his harness and set Vivienne to spin up her engines. The ship shuddered and complained as she vented sand from her intakes before finally grinding the atmo drive into action and cycling the fuel through the new stardrive filters, preparing those engines for their first and only flight.

By now the water is loaded and they’re on their way back down, he thought to himself as he took hold of the worn control stick. Imrhien won’t panic if I’m not there. Not immediately. Maybe not ever. He pulled back on the throttle and Vivienne kissed the sand goodbye, sending clouds of it billowing up in little jet eddies as the atmospheric VTOL engines pushed her into the sky.

Iskrin watched the dull red of the shimmering desert grow fainter through the lower porthole as the cerulean blue of the atmosphere turned to black through the main window. He’d set a trajectory to leave atmo well away from Chrysalis and to make use of the main Coreward shipping lane that Chrysalis was likely to avoid. He didn’t think Imrhien would be like to chase him – she was too sensible, too strong for that – but he didn’t want to risk one of the crew persuading her.

As Vivienne’s stardrive engines belched golden plasma flames and the ship hurtled into the blackness of space, Iskrin leant back into the leather of the pilot seat and closed his eyes. So much pain. So much emotion. In only a few months he’d learned to open his heart; learnt that he could still love someone. And now he was leaving her without even saying goodbye. His old da had used to say: The past ain’t ever done nor forgotten, son. It just rests a while. Sometimes you’re lucky an’ it don’t wake until you sleep your last sleep. Othertimes it’ll come back at ya an’ you gotta face it, or you won’t ever rest easy. One past had come back to him now, screaming for attention, begging for his help. This new past that he was leaving would rest a while, he was sure.

But it was going to be a short and troubled sleep, no doubt.

The Unlikeliest of Turns - Part II

... I forget what I said to her first, exactly. I think I asked what was in the crates she was sitting on and she said she didn't know. I confess I tried to show off and work out what was in them, tryin' to dazzle her with my piercing intellect. Yeah. Turns out I was wrong, but she didn't seem that interested. Least, not in the content of the crates. She watched me like a cat that ain't sure if'n it wants to purr or scratch your eyes out. She did say that she didn't get on with the mayor, Moonshine, I think, which seemed strange to me - but what did I know about it my second time on the Drift.

It was her eyes that I couldn't get over. Somehow they seemed to sparkle. Yeah, I know most every fool with a romantic heart will tell you that 'her eyes sparkled', but with Imrhien, it's literal. I don't know what causes that twinkle - and I ain't never thought to ask - but her eyes get me every time. It's like looking into a still pool with sunlight dancing on the surface. And it's a deep pool, mind. Like to be bottomless if I'm any judge, and I don't know how far the sunlight goes down.

That day, though, I had other things on my mind, like delivering Cody's scrap to the barracks at Eavesdown and finding Miss Suzanne, so I just thought to pass the time o' day again and offer my apologies for my strange antics with the Unlikely earlier. I guess I also hoped to see her again, which led to me trying to act a whole lot more confident than I felt.

Lookin' for a way to ensure that we met again, perhaps even get to know her, I told her about the fights they were setting up at the Eavesdown Docks on Persephone. I'd seen enough of Imrhien to know that she'd be able to handle herself - hell, that she probably liked to go a round or two - an' it seemed to me she was looking to be outta the Drift if she could.

I offered her what, in retrospect, was the crummiest date any guy ever offered any gal. Still, I guess it was so crummy that it probably didn't seem like I was clutching at straws - I mean, who would offer such a crappy business deal? Who am I kidding, I reckon she saw straight through it - not that I mind.

The way I laid the plan out, I wanted her in the ring at the Cockpit fight club to distract the business folks watching while I settled a deal. She's lithe and supple. Not rangy or skinny, but she's got muscle tone that comes with years o' living and working hard and curves that a man would likely kill for. In fact, in retrospect, the idea might o' worked. Doin' business in a noisy place like the Cockpit is hard enough, let alone if the girl in the ring is hotter than a summer weekend on Al Raqis. She might just have distracted them and I might have gotten a better price than if they'd been thinking straight. And if I'd offered for them to meet her... well, I reckon I'd o' gotten a few gold teeth out o' the arrangement too, if you get my meaning.

Anyhow, it was a lame attempt and I felt like an ass; but against all reason, logic and natural laws, she said yes! I ruttin near pissed my pants I was so surprised, but we agreed that the next time I was on the Drift, I'd come find her and take her back to Persephone. With that, I bid her a good day an' wandered back to the Unlikely, my heart racing like some fool schoolboy after his first kiss.

O' course, our next meeting didn't quite work out as I'd suggested, but that's to come. For now, all you need to know is that I gave up on Suzanne and left the world, heading for Persephone and my lonely docking pad.

**

I find as I write this that the memory is fading. I should have put these thoughts down long ago, but time and events sought to keep me from my diary for a time. What I do remember is that from the very first moment, distracted though I was and angry at the dusty ball o' rock that is the Drift, I knew Imrhien was different. Something just clicked inside me when I saw her and I guess, lookin' back, it might o' been the same for her. I don't know for sure. I ain't sayin' I knew how things would end up, but it felt like my life was poised on a precipice and she was either the bridge across, or the gravity pulling me down - and I didn't know which. All I knew was that the life I'd constructed out o' sorrow and fear, alone and isolated in the Unlikely To Fly, was not the life I was meant to have. She opened a door for me. Simple as that...

The Unlikeliest of Turns - part I

[I'm catching up with events that took place in February of this year. I'll let you know when I'm at the 'present'... if I ever make it there!]

I left MacLaren's Drift last week, unable to wait any longer for Miss Suzanne. She's since waved me, telling me that she's fine but that it will be some time before she's ready to fly back to Persephone; though she reassured me that our business plan still stands. O' course, I may no longer be able to hold up my end of the bargain... but I'm gettin' ahead o' myself.

While I was waitin' for Suzanne - killin' time so to speak - I decided I may as well run the Unlikely through a few calibrations. Figured folks might think me strange - takin' off and landing, then checking round the ship to take readings from the external sensors, then doin' it all over again after some tweakin' - but the old boat needed it so I figured they could jus' take me for a fool.

I found a quiet spot a little away from the main dock area so as not to disturb folks and began the tests. Turns out the internal gyros were way way off, so I guess I'm kinda lucky I didn't crash when I arrived. I reckon all the ferrying to and fro on that godforsaken dust-bowl, picking up cargo probably screwed with them. Anyhow, I got them to where I figured they should be and thought I should try a more controlled landing on one of the pads. As it turns out, that was a mighty fine idea.

I set the Unlikely down lightly, the atmo thrusters screaming at the fine control of her bulk, but the gyros were true so I was pleased. I got out and took a look around the hull, looking for the kinda micro damage that can turn into huge great holes and cold, dead captains on reentry, but everything looked pretty true, so I was about to pack up and see if Suzanne was around at all.

That's when I met Imrhien...

O' course, at the time I was so absorbed with the Unlikely that I barely gave her a second thought, 'cept to say hello and make polite. I mean, I noticed her - it's impossible not to - she's like a blazing white light in a world o' shades o' gray - but men like me don't get far with women like her and I had to find Suzanne an'... well, there was a lot o' other stuff on my mind. So I made nice and then left.

Next day... still no Suzanne. So I set the Unlikely down in the desert and went for a walk to stretch my legs and get some fresh air... not that the air is ever that fresh with so much gorram dust in it.

There she was again... sitting on a crate o' something or other, seemin' to hide away from the bustle of the docks, so I figured this time I'd take a little time out, see if she was as impressive as she seemed to be...

... to be continued