Pan stared out into the
rain pelting the library’s boudoir windows, her head clearing when Krillin
walked through the double doors.
“Looking stately,” she
observed.
Krillin grinned, although
his face looked weary. “Figured I would impress someone today. Didn’t think it
would be you, though.”
Pan laughed. “It’s not
like you don’t have tons of opportunities to look your best.”
The ceremonial declaration
of Chikyuu sovereignty of Serulia was still weeks away, but dignitaries would
be crawling all over up until then, so of course Chikyuu’s Foreign Affairs
Minister had to look the part. With the majority of the Council on Serulia on
diplomatic mission—negotiating the last vestiges of the planet’s government
into oblivion, Pan thought sourly—everyone else was on call in the instance
something went wrong. Not that anyone in power on Serulia was stupid enough, or
suicidal enough, to try and stop what was inevitable.
Still, Pan had the grace
and good sense to dress conservatively. Serulians were proud. And she didn’t
hold all of them accountable for the
deep scar that vivisected her chest.
“You always come here when
you want to get away from people,” observed Krillin.
“Reporters are vultures.
They feed on your soul if you have one.”
He rapped his cane on a
nearby desk, as if to test the sturdy oak. “So I’m told. Why this room, though?”
Pan paused. “I don’t know.
It’s peaceful in here, for some reason. Isn’t it historic?”
The older man nodded. “The
foundation was moved from ruins in a cluster of islands, somewhere in the West
seas. Some ancient civilization or other. Trunks felt it was appropriate for
building a library as it was clearly a seat of learning.”
“That sounds like Trunks,
doing that,” Pan mused.
“Old things make you feel
good. The past comforts you,” Krillin said in a tone that indicated a
statement, not a question.
“There’s a lot that has
changed about the universe. Even during my lifetime. It’s good to
have...things...that stay the same no matter what comes.”
Krillin allowed himself a
tiny smile. “You are still young, Pan. Think of me. I’m beginning to think
people like me do not have a place in the here and now.”
Pan returned with a grin.
“I also like places where there are no ears to hear.” She turned her head
slightly to the French doors. “Some conversations aren’t meant for everyone.”
Krillin’s eyes narrowed,
and he had time to make a confused noise before Pan stopped him in his tracks.
“They have moved him. I
don’t know where, but they have moved him.” Her words were hushed, muffled by
the rain. If someone were to try and listen with a device, the weather would be
enough to distort her voice. It was then that Krillin noticed how she was
standing near the windows, head turned towards him but at an angle where the
reverb would hit books instead of marble. Now he knew why she liked this room.
No echo.
Smart, he thought. Smart
girl.
“You are sure you went to
the same place?” Krillin asked.
A short nod. “He said that
he had other visitors. Other people that knew where he was being held. Who
could he mean?”
Krillin turned his head,
then thought better of it and straightened his posture. If he was careful, even
if they caught his side of the dialogue, it would be vague at best.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps
better minds than mine decided caution was best. I’m sure our mutual friend is
in good hands.”
She successfully read
between the lines on that one. “You think the Kaio moved him without a reason?
It doesn’t make sense. Naturally they are still watching him...and I was sure I
wasn’t seen. Something else is going on.”
“It would be best to let
sleeping dogs lie for now, Lady Pan.”
He never called her that
in private, she thought.
“...Is there something
you’re not telling me, Krillin?”
Silence. Pan could make
out light beads of sweat above Krillin’s brow.
Yamucha didn’t wait for
the automatic doors to open completely before he strolled inside the library.
“Two of my favorite
people—Wow, it’s pouring outside!”
Trunks wasn’t far behind
him. He smiled, making a beeline for his wife.
“Another day, another
boring banquet. Sorry my love,” said Trunks, taking her into his arms. “I would
be much happier if you were my only dinner guest.”
The residual silence in
the room made Yamucha frown. “Something wrong?”
“Pan and I were talking
about Seiben’s case,” replied Krillin, his casual tone belying his speeding
heart rate.
“Well, we don’t need to
make this evening anymore unpleasant than it needs to be,” Yamucha said,
sighing.
Trunks wrapped his arm
around Pan’s slender waist. “Don’t think about him. Justice is slow, but it is
firm. The people need it, just as much as you do.”
She began to reply, but
stopped suddenly.
“…My father’s here,” she
said, puzzled.
The three men all turned
to her in surprise.
“I didn’t sense him—are
you sure?” Yamucha asked.
“Positive,” said Pan.
“He’s keeping his power level down, but I can feel him psychically.”
Trunks and Yamucha
exchanged quick glances.
First to recover, Trunks
smiled. “We should go to him, so we can all go into the dinner together. As a
family should.”
“Shall we?” Yamucha said,
leading the way out of the library. Trunks outpaced his wife to walk beside
Yamucha, ahead of their companions.
“Good show with Pan there.
I see you have resolved your…previous issues,” Yamucha whispered.
“Not now, Yamucha. If
Gohan is here, keeping his ki down—”
“It means he wanted to get
the drop on someone. I know.”
Trunks hissed. “If this is
about Bra, I swear…”
“Whatever it is, we know
he’s not here for the free food,” Yamucha said, his eyes cutting away.
Trailing behind, Krillin
held his cane in both hands as he hovered a foot off the floor. It was the only
way he could keep up.
“No matter what happens
today,” he said next to Pan’s ear, “Just know that everything I have done…I did
it for you, and for your family.”
She didn’t respond.
Krillin frowned. “Tread
carefully, Pan.”
“…You haven’t given me
much of a choice,” was her terse reply.
“Gohan!”
He was in mid-stride when
Yamucha’s voice rang out in the corridor.
And when Gohan turned,
Forest-brown eyes immediately locked with cold, blue ones.
Yamucha started forward,
then stopped. Something in the boy’s stance was…wrong.
“Father,” said Pan.
Krillin was holding onto her. He had felt it only a split second after Yamucha
had spoke.
Gohan’s ki had risen from
nothing to just short of Super Saiyan the moment he saw Trunks.
And when Pan’s father
finally opened his mouth, the voice that came from within was so quiet…so enraged…Pan didn’t even recognize it
until he said her name.
“…Go with Krillin, Pan.”
His eyes never left Trunks, who in turn had let his own ki rise steadily.
If Trunks was the
slightest bit afraid, he was doing a spectacular job of hiding it.
“Krillin, take my wife to
the banquet. We’ll be right behind you.”
He turned to give Pan an
encouraging smile, another one of those
smiles that never reached his eyes.
As Krillin and Pan moved
away, Trunks let his grin fade. He turned back to Gohan, his ki still tickling
below the surface.
Yamucha had been stunned
into silence by this development, but it wore off quickly.
“Gohan, what is the
meaning of—”
“Data analyst named
Movahr. File 05T77,” was the gravely reply.
Silence.
“I’ll ask you this only
once, Trunks,” Gohan’s face twisted with suppressed fury. “Where is my father?”
Yamucha put out his hands,
as if to fan the fire of Gohan’s rage to tempered flame.
“Gohan, we don’t know what
you are talking—”
“Just stop it, Yamucha,”
Trunks cut in. “Look at his face.”
Another long, quiet
moment.
“What do you want?” Trunks
asked simply.
Gohan sucked in a breath,
and let his ki die down. His hair settled back into place, and the heat that
had almost certainly risen every alarm in the hall faded. He walked closer,
determined to talk in a low tone.
“In an hour, a shuttle
leaves from West Capital Hangar 4, en route to a large carrier bound for
Serulia.”
“For the Arbatsu-jin
Commerce Secretary, and his envoys to Serulia City,” Yamucha noted, his voice
hesitant.
“I’ve already had them
informed to expect guests: Myself,” said Gohan. “And Trunks.”
While Gohan had let his
power level fall, there was the slightest hint of a flare in his aura when he
said the Throne-son’s name aloud.
“We’re going on a trip?”
Trunks, who had also relaxed, tilted his head to the side. Yamucha knew that
this—the Briefs boy playing the innocent, hapless inquisitor—was his way of
mocking Gohan. Emulating Gokou. Rubbing salt into a fresh wound.
Yamucha also knew, looking
again at Gohan, that this was a very
bad thing to do at the moment.
The Lord Secretary thought
for a split second that the Firstborn had heard his thoughts, because by the
time he raised his eyes again, Gohan was almost standing on top of them both.
He was nose to nose with Trunks.
“…You are going to tell
the Council everything,” he was
saying. “About the Invasion, about your ‘research’ on Colony Eight. About
keeping my father in stasis. Everything.”
And Trunks…dropped his
head, holding Gohan’s gaze with his own.
“This is a very bad idea
you are proposing, Gohan.”
“Worse than keeping a man
a prisoner for 20 years?”
“What is going to happen,
do you think, when you drag me in front of the Council? Your father goes free?
Everything is okay, everyone goes home!?” Trunks snapped.
“I will testify on your
behalf…to allow everyone aligned with you two free passage out of Chikyuu. No
one will suffer because of your crimes.”
“…My ‘crimes’…” echoed the
Throne-son. He paused. “There are religious cults on Shikaji who believe
Chikyuu-jin are cursed beings. More than thousands of people work for Capsule,
both on and off-world.”
“Yamucha will be given
adequate time to square away your affairs when we are on Serulia,” said Gohan.
He sneered at the fair-haired Saiya-jin. “Capsule employees will be
safe…although I doubt they are your main concern.”
“You are right. My main
concern is my family: My sister, my wife. Nothing is more important to me than
my wife. A sentiment I’m sure you share about my lovely mother-in-law.”
The situation had gone far
enough out of control, Yamucha thought. Guards and various attendants and
workers had begun to gather at the far edges of the corridor.
The note in Gohan’s voice
told anyone within earshot that he was through with talking. “Unless you want
to really make a scene…you will come with me, Trunks. And once the Council is
informed…you will take me to where
you are holding my father, and you will
release him.”
He turned on Yamucha, who
had slowly moved to Trunks’ side.
“The journey to Serulia
takes 46 hours. You have 46 hours to put a temporary command structure in
place…and leave Chikyuu. Unless you want to stand trial as well.”
“Gohan,” Yamucha began.
“It will take more time than that. And Madran…Arbatsu…you don’t understand.”
“I have ‘understood’
you…too much, and for too long, Yamucha. You set up this false religion, I
‘understood’. You took my daughter from me, I ‘understood’.”
His hand shot out from his
side, grabbing the older man and lifting him until just the balls of his feet
stayed on the ground.
“Now, understand me: You have 46 hours.”
A force faster than
Yamucha could see yanked him back, and his breath went out of him like a sieve.
“That’s enough.”
They looked like giants
above him—above? Yamucha shook his head to clear the fog. He was on the floor,
and Trunks was where he had stood moments before. His hand was locked around
Gohan’s wrist, unyielding.
The gleam in Gohan’s eyes
carried the promise of violence.
“Let me go, Trunks,” came
the low, calm voice.
“I didn’t think you had it
in you, hurting an old man.”
“‘Hurting’?” Even through
the deep, red haze of his anger, Gohan paused. “I could’ve broken you both in
half for what you have done!”
“But you have not,” Trunks
mused. “Is this the way Son Gohan fights
his battles?”
The breath that left
Gohan’s lips was almost a snarl. He snatched his arm from Trunks’ grasp.
“You think I won’t go
through with this?? You think that I’ll
back down!?”
Trunks set his chin. “…I
think you’ve been backing down all
your life.”
The tiniest of moments,
and a new pulse of rage-filled ki stung Yamucha’s senses so badly his eyes
squeezed shut. Then there was a gust of air…then nothing.
Opening his eyes, the Lord
Secretary was being pulled to his feet. When Trunks was satisfied he had no
wounds, the Saiya-jin turned in the direction that Gohan had left through the
foyer’s skylight. Yamucha could make out a distant white streak in the cloudy
sky.
“You beat him back once
again,” Yamucha said, finally finding his voice.
“No.”
“What?”
Trunks turned away from
the windows.
“He’ll be back in an
hour.”
And a cold knot of dread
laced itself into Yamucha’s throat. “You can’t go with him, Trunks. If he gets
you off planet, it’s all over.”
“I won’t be able to avoid
it next time, Yamucha. Next time, he will find a place much more public. And…”
Trunks broke off.
And, Gohan will get you on that shuttle—even if it
means beating you to a pulp, Yamucha
finished his thoughts silently.
“Even if he takes you to
the council, does everything he promised…” Yamucha pleaded. “He means blood,
Trunks. Your blood.”
Trunks held Yamucha’s
shoulders, facing him now. A small, sad smile was on his face. His eyes…Oh God
of Gods, his mother’s eyes…were full of fear.
“I’m going to Serulia,
Yamucha.”
“No, Trunks. NO. I lost
the mother: I won’t lose the son!”
The words came from Yamucha’s mouth faster than he could stop them.
A moment’s surprise took
Trunks, but he shook his head to refocus.
“Take Pan and Bra, put
them on shuttles and send them into Chikyuu orbit. Just in case. The rest of
you, and Capsule’s board members, are to go underground. Do exactly what Gohan
said.”
It was really happening,
Yamucha thought. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair. But things were falling
apart. In minutes, everything they had built…
Trunks squeezed his arms,
and gave him a shake.
“We planned for this,
remember? Stick with the plan.”
Yamucha remembered nodding
absently, Trunks’ words disappearing in an echoed miasma in his brain.
Everything they had built. The worlds they saved. Their perfect planet. Billions
of people. Her sweet, beautiful blue eyes.
It wasn’t right.
But Trunks just gave him
another heart-rending smile, and walked away.
It was cold, even for
winter in Farole. The cityscape didn’t have that many lights to enjoy a view,
except here and there where the nightlife hotspots sprouted signs in neon
orange, yellow, and blue. The remainder of Shank Town, however, was dark.
Residential buildings rose up beyond the central district, closing around and
meeting where the rocky mountaintops loomed in the sky.
“Let’s go already, man.
I’m tired.”
The voice was petulant, as
expected from a 12-year-old. His friend was no older, the youth putting his hands
behind his back.
“Whatever, Amal. I’m
tryin’ to wait for her.”
“She’s not coming,” said
the boy named Amal. “If she even exists. A girl from Stonewater wouldn’t talk
to you anyway. Wouldn’t even give you the time of day.”
“Shut up. I told you,
she’s real. And rich, too,” The other boy looked around the rooftop.
“You said midnight. It’s
100 hours. She obviously stood you up.”
“She said she had strict
parents,” came the reply. “They probably didn’t let her go out, or somethin’.”
Amal snorted. “That’s code
for, ‘I don’t wanna see you.’”
His friend had been
craning his neck around, as if he expected his date to pop up between the
narrow alley space between the housing facilities.
“You sure this isn’t some
girl you’re stalking?” Amal teased, smiling cruelly.
The boy punched Amal in
the arm. Hard.
“I don’t have to stalk
girls. Maybe you do,” he retorted.
Amal was the kind of boy
who angered quickly. “Hit me again. See what happens.”
Soon enough they were
rolling around the roof, tussling and throwing wild punches and unconcerned
about the noise they were making. What they should have been most concerned
with was the rapidly approaching figure that was bounding through the air, its
body whistling with speed.
It landed with a thud
against the malleable steel rafters. Two lasers unfurled from its center, like
intestines falling out of a severed abdomen. The lasers scanned and found the
two young boys, who were now frozen in place. Amal’s mouth was open in a
gigantic, silent O.
There was a sizzle, a hiss
of overheated circuit that came from the drone, a threatening war cry. Then a
hollow, piercing ricochet…as two rounds hit it from the side.
She placed her weapon,
unsupported, on the nearest beam. Climbing up almost leisurely, the woman
smiled.
“Hi there,” she said. “You
were chasing me, remember?”
Amal and his friend
suddenly regained the street senses two boys from the ghettos of Farole should
have: They ran for cover. Jostling each other, Amal ducked behind a large
cooling unit before daring to look back.
The young woman—lithe,
masculine—was circling the drone, mimicking its clumsy robotic step with her
own wide stance. She had her weapon back, but it didn’t look like any gun Amal
had ever seen. It was long and skinny, a metal pole, and in the inky night air
he could just barely make out the handle and bolt chamber.
“Let’s make this fast,”
the woman was saying. “I’d rather not deal with your buddies that were chasing
me earlier—Just you.”
As though it was reacting
to the taunt, the thick insect legs rushed forward, lasers firing. Amal’s
friend gasped and covered his ears.
But the woman twisted to
the side, out of firing range. She aimed the long pole, and it morphed in her
hands, the skinny neck folding down onto itself. The barrel twisted and fired
off a burst. The scattershot hit the drone, leaving small imprints of buckshot
in its steel.
The robot staggered, but
returned fire in kind. The woman was already moving, jumping behind an up-torn
rafter that jutted out of the tarred roof. It was small, but so was she. Ample
cover.
The machine surged left,
trying to regain position. And she rushed in, making her way to an air vent.
She’s not firing, Amal
noticed, as another volley sailed over her head and the building’s ledge.
Finally, the woman stood.
And instead of rolling, she make a break-neck run for another tall vent. Not
fast enough to out-run a security drone.
Amal tried to close his
eyes in time, so he more likely heard, rather than saw, the three fatal blaster
shots hit their target. She grunted, landing in the shadows behind a steel
girder. The drone hesitated, then whirred forward to confirm the kill.
“She’s dead,” Amal’s
friend whispered sadly.
Its front leg seized the
metal, pulling it back and making a horrible sound as it did so—
And found nothing.
The woman, with a yell
from the drone’s flank, jumped in the air. She had a small pen-light in her
hands.
Amal realized it before he
could mouth the words. “She’s not tryin’ to kill it! She’s—”
She landed on the drone’s
back, the pen-light—a geo-thermal scalpel, the boys now saw—coming down onto
its neck. The bot screamed as if it could feel the pain. Gritting, she wrapped
her legs tighter around where she had saddled herself, wedging the scalpel in a
joint-space and prying it to dislocation.
The drone thrashed about,
its neck and tail straining and shooting stray laser bolts out of its line of
sight. Missing its mark.
The crunching sound got
louder and louder, then there was a pop,
and the robot’s legs gave out like wilted grass. The woman fell with it,
rolling off its back.
Out of the cacophony, the
woman stood, holding a baseball-sized sphere in her hand.
She smiled at it, nodding.
“You can come out now,”
she raised her voice to say.
Silence for a moment.
Slowly, the two boys stood behind the cooler where they had hid, walking out
with fearful steps.
The woman (who wasn’t that
old now that Amal could see her clearly) didn’t even look away from the prize
in her hand.
“What did you see?”
They were both struck
dumb. She repeated her question.
“What did you see here,
boys?”
This time, there was a
little more impatience in her gruff tone.
“…Nothin’,” answered Amal,
after a moment. “We didn’t see nothin’.”
And the woman replied,
“Good answer,” with a smirk.
“Phaizon Khri!”
The warehouse was one of
Farole’s few with easy air and sea access. With the usually choppy waves that
accompanied the planets rainy season, it meant the meeting place Rakha had
picked was easily defensible. She didn't have to wonder why he chose it. Farolian
smugglers had a penchant for caution before violence. It attracted less
attention. Not that the police cared, or made any arrests. There was a saying
on Farole: On Farole, you are the thief, or you are the thief's customer.
Phaizon stepped through the room, shifting her weight to one side as she moved.
Cold stares bounced back at her. About 20 men. Some Madrani among them.
Probably the “interested parties” Rakha had mentioned when he sent her on this
wild goose chase. Other faces she knew, others looked like they had just walked
out of grade school study hall.
All of them, killers.
She hooked her thumb in
her belt and focused on the scraggly-bearded man that had called her name.
“It is good to see you
made it," Rakha’s thick accent sounded sugary sweet. "I trust it
wasn't…too difficult?”
“You said there would be
15 drones, new models, activated by Public Works today, with 10 on patrol.”
Rakha looked perplexed.
Smugglers were also good actors. “I did? How many were there?”
“… I counted 32. Can't be
sure-- I stopped counting when they started shooting.”
“I see. And the tracking
system?”
Phaizon hesitated, feeling
eyes on her. She locked gazes with a Madrani, a big one, who hadn't stopped
staring at her since she arrived. He stood up straight. Had tats on his hands.
Former Madrani security forces. He was older, maybe 40 standard years. Didn't
look like he was enjoying retirement.
Phaizon reached into her
satchel, pulling out her prize from earlier. She tossed it to Rakha, observing
his on unadulterated joy at having such a thing is possession. Farole was
feeling the heat from neighboring colonies about its role in the market for
counterfeit goods. The “Pirate’s Paradise” had cheaper tech for sale, which was
hurting profit margins. So they made a stink about it until Chikyuu stepped in.
The new drones contained codes that could tag knockoff or stolen tech with a
special resin indistinguishable to the naked eye or run-of-the-mill scanner. Now that
Rakha had one of the prototype drones, he could trick the system, or go tagging
a competitor’s merch as hot.
Phaizon frowned. More and
more, Farole was being taken away by Chikyuu influence. Times were hard now,
even for criminals.
“Very good,” purred Rakha.
“Yes. And then comes my
end.”
Phaizon wasn't surprised
when Rakha looked up from his new drone with a waxed-on, confused look. He
wouldn't have been a true Farolian if you didn't try to renege on his word.
“Maybe you could come work
for me instead, Little Sister. Safer work, and pays good, too.”
“You can’t afford me.”
“I can offer you a 12% cut
on my take from dicing halls—”
“I am too tired to want to
shoot my way out of here, Rakha…” Phaizon began. During their back-and-forth,
the older tattooed Madrani had moved to flank her.
One deft move, and the
click of her rifle’s hammer snapped through the quiet warehouse rafters.
“…But I will if I must,”
she finished.
Rakha paused. Finally, he
smiled.
“Ambassador’s sons pay
good, no? Or are you working pro bono now?” he asked mockingly.
Phaizon didn't react. “The
disc, Rakha.”
He returned her frowned
this time, and exchanged a glance with one of his men.
Something to be said,
Phaizon thought, of pirates and honor.
“Phaizon! Phaizon!!”
The sound that had started
off as faint buzzing in her ear was in fact, she realized, someone calling her
name.
The young girl she
approached—Arbatsu, from the look of her-- jumped as she tossed the disc up
into her grasp. Her fumbly hands caught the same before it hit her makeshift
workbench.
“The second part of the
encrypted data! What--?”
“Don’t ask me,” said
Phaizon. “Unencrypt it.”
“Phaizon,” came the
nagging voice.
She chose to ignore it
further, but the source bucked in front of her, out pacing her stride through
the noisy clatter of their base camp.
“Phaizon, did they work?”
Silence.
“Phaizon, sir—I mean,
madam…the upgrades on your rifle. Did they work?”
Phaizon eyed the boy, who
couldn't have been any older than 16. His issued boots were too big for him.
Despite this, compared to the majority of their recruits, he was an elder.
“I thought the revolving
bolt chamber would change too slowly with the additions to the muzzle
hydraulics—”
Phaizon looked at another
soldier, one she recognized as a mechanic.
“…Who is this?” She asked
the girl.
“He’s Quenten. One of the
new recruits,” The mechanic answered, barely looking up from her work to speak.
“Ah. Right,” Phaizon said.
“The last bloke in your job got both of his hands blown off. Welcome to the
Resistance.”
She started to walk away.
“You should be giving me
feedback! Reloading time, overheating, trigger fatigue…”
Phaizon turned, almost
genuine in her annoyance.
“The damn rifle works,
what do you want? A cookie?” She sighed. “This generation, always looking for
approval.”
“Phaizon,” Another older
one, a plasma rifle slung across his back, pointed up the stone steps behind
him.
“Your weapon should be
firing with less fatigue between rounds, with the muzzle hydraulics affecting
chamber dialation. Admit it—it’s the fastest it’s ever been. Retraction time
should be about .08 seconds less,” Quenten was saying.
But Phaizon was looking up
the steps as the artillery technician spoke. Finally, she drew the skinny
chrome rifle and tossed it to him.
“The sights are off two
points. Fix it,” she said, distracted.
Without another word, she
climbed the old stair to the alcove above.
Quenten looked on after
her, then back to the mechanic.
“Don’t worry. She’s like
that with everyone,” said the girl, her voice deadpan.
The lift after the stone
staircase was designed for the original inhabitants of the mill. A decrepit old
Farolian sharecropper; and his wife, who had a wooden leg. Phaizon forgot how
they came to have the house-- the couple had died years before. Natural causes.
Most of the others downstairs were newer additions to the fold and didn't know
anything about the mill nor the couple. That was before even Phaizon's time.
But she had heard tales about the old farmer, how he railed against backsliding
Farolian politicians who considered allowing Chikyuu transport into orbit
around the planet. He would curse them as cowards. Phaizon's lips curled into a
small smirk. If the man was alive today, he'd be having a coronary.
The iron brake screeched
to a stop, and she had to push open the wire gate with her hands to exit the lift.
He was standing at the window, looking over the tar black treetops and
early-morning fog. Having a cup of tea. He didn't move as she entered and
flopped into the nearest chair.
“So you got the disc,” he
said, still turned toward the window.
“Mission accomplished,
more or less.”
“The tech team?”
“They’re working on it
now, but…”
He turned on his heel, the
way Serulian aristocracy did when meeting a guest or leading a lecture on
cultural anthropology. The only son of Seiben, the Serulian ambassador to
Chikyuu—a man currently charged with treason and assassination. He was so
young. Every time she saw this Young Seiben, she forgot how young he was.
“…But you don’t think they
will pull anything without the other parts of the data.”
Phaizon shook her head.
“We are still working on the third piece, but we really don’t know where to
start looking. Trail’s run cold.”
Young Seiben frowned. “Not
reassuring. Have our comm and surveillance teams pool their resources. After
Arjun, things get fuzzy. They can start from scratch.”
“What do we have on your
end?” asked Phaizon.
“…Our legal team got a
hold of itineraries, transport routes from Rikon 8. That’s it. We know where
they go, where they stop—”
“But how do we get in?”
“Horse before the
carriage, Khri,” replied the Serulian. “We need the first encryption before we
make any more on something as dicey as a data-shuttle.”
“Well, we know where it
is. And we think we know what’s on
it,” she said.
“The techies say the
encrypted files recycle themselves when they run with the other parts of the
data. More data, and the files recycle to nothing. We have one piece of three.”
“The Blue Woman has the
first piece, Seiben.”
“Wrong,” he answered, his
eyes shining.
“Our people on the inside
say it changed hands.”
“To whose hands?” Phaizon
quipped, skeptical as always. Young Seiben only smiled in reply. “Of course.
Your White Knight.”
She stood, her body tense
as she walked to the window opposite Seiben.
“The Old Man hasn’t
betrayed us yet,” he noted. “He told us they would be our way to win. He told
us they were different. He’s never wrong.”
“There is no way to get to
him—”
“The one person who, if we
can get him on our side, would turn the tide of all of this. The strongest of
them all,” Young Seiben said, slight awe in
his voice.
“We have no extraction
plan—”
“Not to mention his
daughter could clear my father’s name! Phaizon, you must see—”
“—See that this is suicide!?” She exclaimed.
A pause.
“The Old Man has always
been truthful, has risked so much,” Seiben whispered.
“The same ‘Old Man’ who
stood by while your father took the fall for a crime he didn’t commit,” Phaizon
noted sharply.
“It doesn’t matter. If Son
Gohan is sympathetic to our cause…”
“The Resistance won’t
survive another raid, Seiben,” Her voice was flat. Barring reproach. “If we let
them in, and they turn on us…it’s all over.”
Seiben’s next words were
hesitant, tender. “I know…you have had bad experiences with Saiyajin in the
past. But in war you have to take a risk to gain an edge.”
“I don’t believe in
‘risk,’” answered the mercenary. Phaizon exhaled, watching her breath steam the
glass pane. “How’s your mother?”
“As well as could be
expected,” was Seiben’s reply. “She sleeps. She eats. She sleeps again.”
Phaizon never felt
comfortable in conversations like these, so she just nodded, taking note of a
metal briefcase near the door.
“What’s that?” she asked,
already knowing the answer.
Seiben smirked, feigning a
sigh. “It’s your pay, of course. For a job well done.”
Phaizon looked at him,
silent.
“You said you didn’t work
for free. I’m assuming that still true,” Seiben rejoined.
The Farolian merc let her
gaze turn to the case, and then back again, saying nothing.
“Give it to the new guy,”
she said finally.
“What? What new guy?”
Phaizon was already moving
to the lift. “His name is Quenten. New artillery techie.”
Young Seiben looked at her
retreating form in the lift cage. Phaizon pressed a button, and it creaked to
life.
“Tell him to buy more
bullets,” she yelled over the turning gears.
An hour had passed, and as
Gohan stood in the hangar, the last thing he had thought was that he had given
them too much time. His ship had been cleared for sortie 20 minutes ago.
Other ‘last things’ he
expected—to add to a list—was for Trunks Briefs to be early for his own arrest.
He had come to the hangar
with an intelligence consort on either side of him. Gohan had opened his mouth
to express his disapproval, but before he could Trunks shooed them away. The
Throne-son had taken time to change clothes, and to shave. And there he stood.
Alone, smiling, waiting patiently for Son Gohan to take him prisoner or punch
him through a wall or sit down with him for a nice dinner.
“All right,” Trunks had
said simply. Still smiling.
Trunks always had this way about him. He was good at eliciting
emotions from everyone. But Gohan thought of his father’s face, and dull anger
burned away any intention of being civil.
Calling his crew forward,
and making sure the hangar was clear of prying eyes, Gohan stepped forward,
producing a pair of metal cuffs. The power wasn’t on, but Gohan felt the
prickly pull of the kill dampening apparatus built inside of each shiny ring.
Trunks frowned. “Ki
dampeners?” He looked like he wanted to laugh. That’s how he did it. That
disarming charm. Like the boy next door. A cub scout. How many people had heard
him laugh before they died? Gohan thought.
“Put them on, Trunks.”
The fair-haired Saiyajin
resisted for that smallest of moments, but he lowered his shoulder just enough
so that it would look like surrender.
“As you wish, then,” he
said quietly, slipping them over his hands. A click, and they tightened around
his wrists, humming with energy.
“This way,” said Gohan,
leading him onto the cruiser.
When they reached the
privacy of Gohan’s chambers, Trunks dropped all pretenses of humility. Gohan
half-shoved him into a chair, closing the hatch door behind him.
“You are making a very big
mistake, my brother,” Trunks leaned back to get comfortable in his seat.
Ignoring him, Gohan turned
at a knock. His captain—and most loyal of his personal guard—whispered about
the travel itinerary. In order to reach Serulia faster, the cruiser was to dock
with the Shining Saber, an Arbatsujin battleship near lunar orbit. Using the
gravitational pull, the Saber would slingshot out to Serulian-controlled space.
Then they would meet the Council’s personal escort ship.
It wasn’t the details that
made Gohan feel uneasy. He trusted the crew, even trusted the Council’s escort.
But he could tell Trunks believed he controlled them completely.
No. It was something else.
“Yamucha is already on the
ball,” the other demi-Saiyan was saying. “Restructuring Capsule, sending out
alerts to Madran, Arbatsu, Shikaji. All over.”
Gohan gave him a chilly
not-smile. “If there was one thing I could never accuse you two of, it’s being
unorganized.”
Trunks scanned the room,
the only sound the buzz of his ki cuffs. Gohan leaned against the wall, taking
a breath. Testing the waters.
“You were…such a good man,
Trunks. A smart man. My brother’s best friend. A good warrior.” The Firstborn
walked closer, staring Trunks in the eye. “What…what happened to you?”
The other man was silent.
Finally he stuck his chest forward, raising his nose up in a look that sent a
chill through Gohan. He looked so much like Vegeta it was uncanny.
“I grew up,” answered
Trunks.
Gohan paused, hearing
another short rapping at the hatch. The crewman who entered gave a clipped,
hushed message in his lord’s ear. The Firstborn nodded, closing the door again
with a guarded look on his face.
“The Council is declaring
martial law.”
The words were from
Trunks, and they weren’t a question. Gohan glared at him, and Trunks raised his
shackled hands in front of him.
“Oh, no…not because
Yamucha nor I told them to. I just know they are doing it.”
Son Gohan crossed the
room, trying to control the festering anger that had begun to take hold the
moment Trunks boarded the ship. The tail end of Capsule University Satellite
floated by the nearest window.
Trunks leaned forward.
“So, what’s your plan? Expose me, try to talk the Chikyuujin government down
from implosion? Of course they’re declaring martial law, Gohan. They’re scared.
The two most powerful people in the universe on a ship for an impromptu
meeting. Yamucha sending thousands into bunkers and off-planet safehouses. For
all your efforts, you’re inciting a panic.”
The lines in Gohan’s face
deepened. “Once we stand in front of the Council, it won’t matter, Trunks.”
“Capsule will be ruined.
Shares will plummet. The revenue stream into the planet will stop and people
will be in the streets.”
“The Madrani and Serulian
merchant circles were the primaries for logistics, import and travel long
before Capsule,” Gohan rejoined. “They’ll pick up the slack.”
“They’ll pick up the
slack—while Chikyuu itself crumbles, you mean,” shot back Trunks.
“You’re not going to worm
your way out of this on a half-baked idea of ‘saving Chikyuu from economic
death.’ If that was your real concern, you would have handed power over to Capsule’s
board and stepped down ages ago,” Gohan hissed. “Now we have no choice. The
galaxy will turn to Madran and Serulia and we must rely on their kindness.”
“You really think the
Serulians will be kind?” Trunks spat
the word out as though it were toxic. “There will be riots. Large-scale
demonstrations. Half of the universe hates them, as I do—For putting a hole
through my wife’s chest. Your daughter, remember that?”
“Madran—” Gohan began.
“Madran will turn on
itself. And their government will fall in a week,” The Throne-son finished.
A pause. “You must be very
proud of yourself, tying the fate of this entire corner of the galaxy directly
into your own survival.”
Trunks looked genuinely
appalled. “My survival? No.”
Then he leaned forward,
and any trace of the suave, smooth-talking charisma that he wore like a coat
for the past 15 years vanished.
“This is the survival of
our race. Our people.”
Gohan eyed him.
“Chikyuu-jin…or Saiyajin?”
“Both,” the other man
answered, without hesitation.
“We don’t need fear and
lies to survive, Trunks.”
“Says a man who grew up in
his father’s protective shadow. Who never had to worry. Who grew up in a bubble
of love and relative safety,” Trunks stood, trying to brush a hair from his
brow through his cuffs. “That bubble was backed up with strength. With power.
Son Gokou’s power.”
The Throne-son took a step
forward. “You have no idea, Gohan. The trouble it would cause if he came back.
The absolute chaos.”
Gohan steeled his jaw. “Things
would go back to the way they were.”
“…The way they were,” replied
Trunks, his tone cynical. And the younger man’s voice lowered to a whisper.
“Tell me, Gohan…have you
told Pan that the Arjunians don’t exist?”
