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Reality had a strange way of making itself unreal. Yesterday Vaahn had been declared six years old for the seventh time in his life. Going by birthdays he was now sixty, if not older, and the orbits of Icara and Urokon were close enough that the difference didn't matter much. The thought sent chills up his spine. "[Sixty!]" he cried aloud. "[That's two lifetimes for a voider!]" "[Everything straight?]" Matt asked from the door. He had been taking lessons to learn Ruljig so that Vaahn could more freely converse in his own language, as well as letting his parents spot when he was using it to sidestep their rules about not using bad language. "Everything's fine dad." Vaahn smiled at his father, amused by the terrible pronunciations that resulted from his lack of familiarity with the language. Matt did not seem convinced. He stepped into the room and sat down on the desk stool. Vaahn settled onto his bunk. "You sounded quite upset." "Not upset, just ..." Vaahn absently played with his tail. "It kind of snuck up on me, The big Six-Oh." "The big Six." Matt corrected with a smile. "No dad, I'm sixty. Give or take about six months I was born sixty years ago. I've never heard of a Kyyreni who made it past fifty. Heck, the oldest known Kyyreni was fifty three and that claim's been disputed by doctors every day for the better part of two centuries." As he spoke, Vaahns fingers moved more roughly through his tail fur, fingers clenching and unclenching to the point where Matt expected him to start pulling tufts out. "[It feels like I'm choosing between the frost and fire.]" "Which means...?" Matt prompted. Vaahn finally let go of his tail and bothered his pendant instead. "I feel like I'm turning into the Lord Eternal." Matt sighed impatiently and hated himself for it immediately. "Vaahn, I may be learning your language, but I still don't understand half of what you say. What is a 'Lord Eternal' and why is it a bad thing?" "It's sort of a 'be careful what you wish for' story." Jas added from the doorway. He took one step inside, hesitated and said, "Sorry... you don't mind me being here, do you?" "[Yes. Get the hell out.]" Vaahn said with words, but his body language was welcoming. He smiled as Jas settled down next to him. Jas ran a hand down Vaahns back to try and soothe him a little. "Okay," Jas said, turning his attention to Matt. "The Lord Eternal is a fairytale evil from Urokon. Long story short, the moral is "don't obsess about life and death"; everyone dies, and you shouldn't waste your life trying to run from it. Try to do so, try to live forever and cheat death, and you'll become a paranoid monster." Matt nodded slowly. "Alright, so you're afraid that because you could live forever via Rejuvenation you're going to become... evil? Well, I'm sure your mother and I can make sure that doesn't happen!" Vaahn went to speak but halted before the first syllable passed his lips. He glanced to the floor, blinked a few times, and then gave Jas a quiet look that made it clear he didn't want Matt to hear what he had to say. Matt acted on it before Jas did. "Vaahn, if you need to say something, you can say it to me. Whatever it is, I want to hear it; if you don't talk to us, we can't put things right." The Kyyreni boy clenched his eyes shut. His jaw set into an expression he normally wore when he was about to punch someone. His hands even curled into open fists. Flicking his eyes open he said to the room in general, "[Maybe you're already corrupted. Maybe you're already evil.]" Jas winced. "He said-" "I got it, thanks." Matt interrupted. "Do you think we're evil, Vaahn?" "Forget it." Vaahn replied, not making eye contact with his father as he hopped off the bed. As he tried to walk out the room Matt's hands closed around his upper arms and held him in place. "Oh no you don't!" Matt scolded. "You don't get to ignore me and walk away. Sit down NOW." The boy winced, whole body hanging limp as he sat back in his spot. Matt let the air clear a little before he spoke again, keeping his voice calm and neutral. "Vaahn, do you think we are evil?" The fire caught in Vaahn's eyes. He was officially beyond the point of no return now - he knew he'd be lucky to get out of this without one hell of a punishment being inflicted. Faced with the inevitable, Vaahn resorted to his oldest instinct; the urge to go down fighting. "Yes!" the boy growled, the word devolving into a long, feral sound that rolled on for several seconds. "Yes, you're evil! Every last one of you! How could you be anything else?" Vaahn's whole body shook as anger and fear waged war through his system, the clash of his body's desire to run and hide and the core of his mind - the part of him that was still the warrior Noble - was almost too much for his body to take. He jumped to his feet, whole body trembling as he fixed eyes with his father, who sat unmoving in the chair in front of him. When Matt spoke his voice remained just as calm as before, seemingly unconcerned with the boy's sudden outburst. "Why do you think that? Has something happened we don't know about?" Off balance, the boy did not reply immediately. His eyes made sharp, darting movements as he scanned Matt's face and body, looking for some clue as to why his father had not reacted the way he'd expected. By right he should be over Matt's lap now, yet there was no threat of punishment. "Is it about your birthday?" Matt prompted, doing his best to read Vaahn's body language for tells that would indicate when he'd hit the mark. "Or is it something that happened on your birthday a long time ago? Is that why?" There was a flicker of movement in Vaahn's ears. "Something like that," the boy conceded. "Tell me. Please, Vaahn, I want to help you, I really do, but I can't help you if you lock me out." "You can't help me at all." Vaahn replied. The anger had begun to drain away now that it had nothing to earth itself into. "You know, it seems to come as a shock to Humans when I tell them this, but I don't want to live a Human life. I want to live my life, but at every turn I'm told that it's wrong and evil and that I should never want that life again..." Somewhere behind his eyes the embers of an old, long-fostered fury began to flare once more. "Nobody on this world has the right to tell me that." Matt shrugged. "So why not just ignore them? Play along for a few more years and you'll be Completas, then when you're fully grown you can do whatever you want." Both Vaahn and Jas stared at Matt with equal amount of surprise and confusion. "I mean it." He added. "Once your sentence is over you're free to go back to Urokon and rejoin your family if that's what you want. Nobody on Icara will have any right to stop you. You can pick up your life right where you left off if you want to." There, Matt saw, was the weak spot. Vaahn's gaze drifted toward the floor and he blinked several times, his fingers making awkward, absent movements. "No I can't." The boy answered, his voice now drained of anger and replaced with deep frustration. "I can't go back to what I was; I'd never be strong enough." "So that's what this is about! What is it that makes you weak, Vaahn?" "What they did to me." The boy replied. "When I was first Rejuvenated they... they changed me somehow. I didn't spot it until years later; I was about eight years old and I realised I hadn't begun to develop the way I should. Whatever they did stops my body growing right, so I can't put on mass and build up muscle right... even if I was allowed to." "The Fujikawa Treatment? That's a fairly common procedure, Vaahn. Most people have it done voluntarily." "But I didn't!" Vaahn answered. "I never gave them permission to violate me like that!" "Ah..." Matt did his best to exert a calm, patient authority in the face of Vaahn's see-sawing mood. "Did you tell your parents how much it upset you?" "They didn't listen!" Vaahn replied, clenching his eyes to push back a tear. "Nobody ever listened. Nobody ever cared." "Well we do, Vaahn." Jas said. Matt nodded in agreement. "Tell you what, why don't I request your medical records and go through this with Corrections? I'll also see about getting you enrolled in some programs that will help you." "I don't want more counselling." It came out more as a whine than a statement. "I meant martial arts, or maybe wrestling - sports that play to your strengths, teach discipline and encourage self growth. I think you would really benefit from that." Now the Kyyreni boy was completely lost. "You really want me to fight?" "No, Vaahn, but I don't have an issue with you knowing how to defend yourself and others. I'm thinking that's part of why you've been upset, right?" Vaahn nodded. Memories of the Daysiders passed across his inner vision, coupled with the hesitation of pulling the trigger... "I was afraid to do what had to be done even knowing what was at stake." The admission was clearly a weight of his mind. "I'll get right to this." Matt said, excusing himself from the room. "Oh, and one last thing; keep your temper in check, Vaahn; we both know you crossed the line back there." Vaahn stared at the now closed bedroom door, still lost after his sudden change of fortunes. "Jas... what just happened?" The Aspatrian boy simply smiled back at him. "This is why I said you should talk to people." He answered, his voice a little more smug than he intended. He smacked Vaahn's backside playfully and added, "let's head downstairs; mom made pancakes." "So... do you think I could... meet with my family again soon?" Jas smiled at the idea. "I'm sure mom and dad would allow it; your family seem like great people."

* * *

The entourage of dignitaries wore permanent sneers of disgust, as if Ryyksaad offended them. The Kyyreni were all Dawnsiders; eight men and four women all dressed in the colours of prominent Houses from Yvenik and Oraahnaj. Their hosts, Prince Axol of Ryyksaad and his honour guard, were unable to hide their anxiety at what was to come. "Prince." Jasat of Tu'ri said with a nod, managing to give the word the same connotations as 'prey'. One by one he made the introductions. "Jasat of Tu'ri, Tror of Vahkyr, Drozma of Kyrogarrfr." "I know why you are here." Axol replied. He was much younger than the three Nobles stood before him, and whereas they projected an air of quiet, self-assured power, he projected only fear. They could smell it on him. Tror stepped forward. He was squat and pug-faced, ugly by the standards of any race and a stark contrast to the beauty of his wife, who stood at his side. "Axol, things have gone too far; the Cartels of Ryyksaad are out of control and must be brought to heel!" "Do not presume to tell me how to run my world!" ... is what the prince wanted to say, but the words died in his throat. The unannounced female, Tror's wife, added her own contributions. "In recent months the number of smugglers operating out of this world has trebled. Icara and her sister worlds is a valuable market for us, and indeed all merchants. Your smugglers are breaking the laws of this world, but that is not our business. They are, however, cutting into our profits..." Tror grinned like a pit-bull in heat. "That is our business!" Jasat cleared his throat, adjusted the long plaits of hair that hung across his shoulders, and took a selection of documents from his aide. "Prince Axol of Royal House Ry'fyr, I formally present our intent to blockade." The documents were handed over, followed almost immediately by another set of documents. "I also took the liberty of preparing formal letters of surrender, should you not wish to contest the blockade." Axol read them carefully. He looked into Jasat's eyes and saw little hope of mercy there; where Tror was a boorish thug, Jasat was another breed entirely - a high-born killer. Axol had been brought up to believe you could tell a lot about a man by his eyes, and Jasat's said, in no uncertain terms, that he would burn Ryyksaad to the bedrock for the sake of a hold full of tea. The Prince signed the documents and handed them back. "Thank you, Thrall." Jasat said. His voice was genuinely grateful, but somehow that made it worse; the gross insult had passed his lips as a matter of fact. Tror had clearly been anticipating the surrender. No sooner had Jasat taken the documents did he announce, "I nominate Drozma of Kyrogarrfr as the new Royal Prince of Ryyksaad." "Seconded." Jasat added. Axol hung his head, realising now what his last act as a member of the ruling classes was to be - his own disinheritance. "Witnessed." He said weakly. Prince Drozma now stepped forward, his chest swelling with self-importance as he contemplated his newly granted role. "The House of Ry'fyr has been found wanting - I hereby disband it and strike its name from the books of law; no man may claim its titles for a hundred-score years." Now young Axol was fighting back tears of rage - being forced to stand there silently and listen as off-worlders destroyed everything his family had worked for was too much to bear. If any of the Urokoni saw his pain they did not care. Jasat once again fixed Axol with his murderer's stare. "Now, Axol, tell us where to find the New Empire Cartel."

The gates to the Palace of the New Empire were twelve feet high and made of reinforced steel. The walls surrounding them were thick, built of masonry and strengthened with an armoured core to resist attack from even modern projectiles. At a moment's notice the entire compound, which itself was the size of a football stadium, could be sheathed in a bubble of raw energy by means of shield pylons placed at regular intervals. The Cartels may have been criminals, but their hideout was in plain sight and more fortified than the Royal House and Enforcer Yards combined. As such, when Drozma's herald had demanded that the leaders of the Cartel open the gates and surrender, no-one took the demands seriously, nor the threats that followed. "I believe I was promised the honour of the vanguard." Jasat said quietly, watching from the far end of the town's main street." "You were, Noble." Drozma agreed. "By your leave." Jasat smiled and quietly issued orders into his helmet mic. A few seconds later the reply came back. "I think we should seek cover. This will be quite loud." Loud did not do it justice. The artillery guns were positioned eight miles outside of the city walls, so that when the shells came screaming through the blue-green skies of Ryyksaad the Cartel would have no warning. They did not aim for the compound itself despite the shields being down; they were aimed at the gates. One shell hit each of the wall supports, burrowing to the titanium cores before detonating. The last shell, a fraction of a second late to arrive, was entirely unnecessary; the gates would have fallen over under their own weight. The third shell was also different in that it did not burrow - it had no penetrative cap. Instead, its proximity detector set the explosives off two inches away from the surface of the door. The resulting airburst smashed every pane of glass within three hundred metres and lifted the ten ton doors into the air. The Cartel's occupants didn't even have time to scream; a dozen were killed by the concussive force of the explosion and a dozen more died when their gates, moving at near super-sonic speeds, scythed across the courtyard at head height. They slammed into the sandstone walls of the main building and carried on going, burying themselves deep into the main structure and piling many more lives onto the growing tally.

Jasat rose from cover, scanning the carnage his men had wrought. Armoured transports now rolled up the streets, filled with mercenaries and the soldiers of the three Noble Houses who had come to bring Ryyksaad to heel. The Thralls who lived close to the Cartel were now flooding the streets, many of them walking wounded, deafened or injured by the fury of the assault that was now entering its second wave. He took them in with a quick, disdainful glance, offering them only a hateful sneer by way of compensation for the nightmare he'd unleashed. You all knew. He said to himself. You knew the law was being broken and you did nothing. You deserve no pity. As he watched the lead carrier crunched through the crater that was once the Cartel gatehouse, turret laser chattering as it went. Some of the Cartel's members had chosen to mount a defence, but against military-grade hardware their small arms meant nothing. A rocket-grenade spanked against the prow of the tank, its gunner's howl of fury turning to terror as the vehicle failed to register the impact. A moment later its scything energy weapon turned on the would-be tank hunter and atomised him. The ramps dropped. From the dark interior of the vehicle a dozen men in the colours of House Tu'ri burst forth, each bearing an old-pattern Federation energy weapon and wearing the finest Urokoni combat armour. They killed quickly and ruthlessly, shooting men and women, old and young alike; any who fought back or tried to flee were slaughtered. Only those who had thrown themselves to the ground in surrender, or else had been blasted down by the attack, were spared their wrath. Behind them came the other transports filled with similarly-equipped Noble House infantry, and the less impressive mercenaries. The latter began to fan out around the Cartel building, under standing orders to kill everyone who tried to leave. Even as they took position their front men had targets, hard rounds executing Cartel members who tried to climb over their own walls to reach safety. "Should we offer them terms?" Drozma asked, watching as a trio of shells struck the Cartel motor yard with surgical precision, cremating their vehicles and anyone foolish enough to try to use them to escape. "These are my terms." Jasat answered. He clicked the comm. channel to a different frequency and stated calmly, "Ank, bring me their leaders, their book-keepers and their money men." "If they resist, Lord?" the young man asked back, his voice giddy from his first taste of real combat. "I don't need them intact, Ank, just alive. Be inventive, and make it permanent." Ank's acknowledgement was cut short by a sudden, eye-watering blast of energy. One of the transports bearing the colours of Oraahnaj was struck by a beam of pure energy and hurled over onto its side. The cutting beam pulsed arhythmically, pumping more and more energy into the vehicle until its power plant was ruptured and it vanished in a dark red fireball. Mercenaries scattered from their stricken vehicle, several of them flailing desperately at the flames that clung to their clothes and armour. From their vantage point the Nobles could not see the shooter, but the results were clear. "Ank!" Jasat barked, ignoring the panicked orders of his peers. "What is happening over there?" "Blood and Iron! Baahl's hurt! Damn beam took his arm off! Akryyr's just gone!" Jasat took a deep breath, steeling himself and projecting a deep, confident calm into his voice. "Focus, Ank. Give me information. What hit you?" "Some kind of laser cannon!" there was a pause as the weapon flared again, this time punching a hole through the Cartel's own curtain wall and demolishing the front of a house beyond. "Shit but that thing is big!" "Stay calm and push on; reinforcements are coming." Jasat turned to his honour guard - soldiers raised from Common Houses of Yvenik who sought to carry favour with their leader by funding his campaign. "Ready your weapons and get us a transport; we're joining that fight."

Ank dragged Baahl into cover as the weapon roared again; evaporating a trio of soldiers and the cover they were clinging to. The gun was mounted on an armoured platform designed to withstand anti-vehicle weaponry. The only thing the Tu'ri soldiers had that might hurt it were their own vehicles, but in the cramped compound they could not be brought to bear. Ank had tried calling in an artillery strike on the weapons, but the Cartel had raised their shield and the shells impacted harmlessly. The gun crews had stepped up their efforts, loading bunker-busters to try and overwhelm the shield, but thus far all attempts had failed. Ank considered requesting Mammoths, but decided against it - if one of those broke the shield, the resulting blast would no doubt kill them all anyway. "How you doing, Baahl?" the half-breed asked, knowing the older Kyyreni was in bad shape. His left arm was gone completely, reduced to a blackened stump at the shoulder. The heat of the weapon had cauterised the wound on impact, but the boy knew enough to suspect serious internal damage. "Sir!" Ryd called out, moving through the carnage with head low and weapon held close. The Kyyreni was barely sixteen years of age, but he moved like a ten year veteran. "Sir!" He called again, "The Noble is coming to aid us! I'd like to see that gun taken down before he arrives!" Ank swore as the weapon roared again. "Wouldn't we all!" He risked a glance up, taking in one of the wrecked side buildings that had been gutted by a combination of Tu'ri lasers and friendly fire. He recalled the Cartel thug with the RPG and a plan began to form; it was desperate, if not outright crazy, but it was all he had. "Stay here and watch Baahl." Ank ordered, taking a deep breath and waiting for the moment. Weapons fire shrieked over his position as the troops behind him tried to drive back the gun or buy time for their vehicles to get into position. Either way it wasn't working; the last shot had claimed a second tank. "Go!" Ryd yelled as the gun opened up again. Ank vaulted from cover, firing from the hip to pin down a pair of Cartel troopers holding the building. He jumped through the shattered window, rolled and brought the rifle up. There was a sharp pop-crack of energy and the first Kyyreni went backwards with a hole in his chest. Ank span around, swung his weapon like a club and connected with the second opponent across the jaw. He didn't hesitate, remembering all he'd been taught. His knife was drawn and brought across the man's throat in a single fluid motion, spilling hot blood across the floor. Ank took his fare share as well, spitting out the sticky crimson liquid as he searched for the weapon. It was slumped atop a pile of burnt meat. He didn't care to take in any more detail than that. Raising the weapon, Ank found his mark. The gun crew had seen his dash and turned toward him, lowering the glowing barrel down toward his position. He didn't run or try to hide; he stood firm, aiming down the kick-sight of the weapon and resting his finger on the firing button. "Father, ancestors... watch and be proud." The Tu'ri warrior was staring down the barrel now. Ank could see the white-hot glow, the pinprick of energy that at any moment would flare up into an unimaginably destructive beam. He adjusted his aim, shifted his footing, and depressed the firing key. There was very little recoil; the rocket flew clear of the tube and ignited its own propellant, bathing Ank in a sudden wave of flash-cooked air. It was a perfect shot, one that would be recounted by Tu'ri warriors for years to come; the projectile arced into the barrel of the cannon, rattled down the focusing tube and smashed into the emission lens just as the weapon's capacitors reached full power. The resulting explosion was amplified tenfold by the unleashed energy of the misfiring cannon. The entire vehicle was consumed in a sphere of white light, machinery and crew alike reduced to their component atoms as the power of a new-born star was unleashed upon them. The shockwave smashed Ank to the ground and toppled what was left of the structure's north wall. Groggily he regained his feet, dimly aware of the great roar of victory that had risen from the throats of the attackers. He swayed drunkenly, turning his head toward the approaching shape of Ryd, who grappled him in an overly enthusiastic bear hug. "You are a bloody madman!" Ryd laughed. "And by the gods I love you for it!" Ank smiled weakly, "You should see me when I'm drunk."

There was no resistance after that. With their best hope of victory destroyed the Cartel had surrendered. The surviving members were dragged into the courtyard and forced to their knees, surrounded by armed men who bristled with anger and longed for blood. The senior members were taken to one side and placed under a much heavier guard composed primarily of Tu'ri soldiers. Jasat stood before the field medics tending to the wounded, his face betraying no emotion whatsoever. "My brother, Baahl. How is he?" The medic shook his head. Jasat strode past to where Baahl lay, coldly examining the wound that had killed him. The lost limb had been burned over, but the Noble could see blood trickling from the old Kyyreni's lips. "There was severe internal damage. His heart failed before we could stabilise him. We tried-" Jasat held up a hand for silence. "Leave me." He knelt down carefully, placing a hand on his older brother's forehead. "No tears, brother. Mourning is for the winter; today is for murder and tomorrow for glory. Save your tears for the cold nights to come..." Jasat closed his eyes and remained frozen in place for some time. When he rose from his trance his eyes burned with inner rage. His breathing ragged, Jasat headed toward the bound Cartel leaders, fighting with all his strength to keep himself in check. "My brother is dead." He said as calmly as he could. "This has upset me. All that I have done so far has been done whilst I was calm. All that I do from this point on, I will do whilst being calm... unless any of you are damn fool enough to cross me. Make no mistake, if you anger me now I will ensure you feel my displeasure, and that you feel it for a long, long time. You will not beg for death from me, because before I have you tortured I will see to it your tongues are ripped from your heads!" The Noble took another calming breath, his hands trembling as he pushed down the urge to take hold of those responsible for his brother's death and squeeze the life out of them one by one. "I have many questions, but foremost is this; who armed you? Where did you get that cannon, or the energy weapons my men took from you?" The Cartel leader, his muzzle bloodied where someone had struck him with a rifle butt, raised his head to answer. "It was years ago; a pair of humans who smuggled arms for us. The bastards cheated us out of-" "Silence." Jasat growled, leaning in close to the fallen crime lord. "I want names and locations; who are they and where do I find them." The captive Kyyreni swallowed. "They went to Icara. We tried to kill them, but one survived; Jakob Romanov. He... she is protected by the Icarans." A wicked grin crossed Jasat's face. "Not anymore."

* * *

The Johansson family were preparing for a day out to take advantage of the good weather whilst it lasted. A hot sun beat down upon the street, which Vaahn did not seem to approve of one bit. Matt raised a hand to shield his eyes and looked around, curious as to how their neighbours planned to spend their day. It seemed that gardening was the activity of choice, with several Penitatas being roped in to help. Whether that was a reward or a punishment would only become clear once the paddles came out. The whole neighbourhood was filled with a quiet anticipation; school would start again in a few days, and every child wanted to make the most of their last days of freedom. He was about to order the boys into the hovercar when a strange sound filled the air. Friends and neighbours joined him in looking toward the end of the street as the distant rumble became a rising roar. A vehicle took the corner at speed, moving just above head height. It was a ramshackle creation; a one-man vehicle with a trapezoidal air intake on the front and a pair of exhausts that belched blue-tinted flame out of the rear. The craft seemed to steer by means of repulsors fitted at key points along the hull. The pilot was a Kyyreni, bent low over the machine and grinning like a maniac. He gunned the throttle, pitching the nose toward the ground and building up a shocking turn of speed. As quickly as he'd begun to accelerate the pilot fired the retro-thrusters, causing the craft to pitch its nose up alarmingly. The rider settled the bike and brought it to rest outside the Johansson household, letting the engine idle whilst the landing struts uncurled themselves from the belly of the machine. With all eyes on him, the rider turned to smile at Matt. "That cannot be legal," Matt said, staring at Wodka's bike. It looked as if it had been built in a scrap yard. Wodka shrugged. "Why shouldn't it be? Ah, Sire Vaahn! I have a message for you!" "Another message from home?" Vaahn asked hopefully. He too had been looking at the hoverbike, but his expression was one of admiration rather than shock. The battered rider nodded. "Indeed! It's fresh as well; the last data-packed was sent via a live feed a few hours ago! I was told you should access it as soon as you got it!" Vaahn took the pad and, not waiting for confirmation from his parents, accessed the first file. It was an audio recording with no description as to its contents - even the name was just a default allocation of seemingly random letters and numbers. "[Father... this is Jasat. I have sent this as a priority coded transmission to be added to the data packet. This... this you have to know...]" The gathering could sense the pain and frustration in Jasat's voice. Vaahn paused the recording, which his parents recognised as a desire to hear the contents further. Wordlessly the family returned indoors, with Matt pausing to thank Wodka. The Kyyreni nodded and remounted his vehicle. Vaahn waited until the engine noise died away before playing the rest of the message. "[...Father, Baahl is dead. He died in battle... and I led him to his death. Forgive me...]" The words hit Vaahn like bullets from a gun. The datapad dropped from his trembling hand as if red hot. "Are you alright, Vaahn?" Chloe asked, her question prompting a thin whine of pain from the child. Vaahn slowly curled up in pain, tears of grief flowing down his cheeks. "My s-son is dead." The boy managed, biting his lower lip to try and hold in the sobs. His shoulders shook erratically and his breathing came out in sharp snorts and gasps. Wordlessly, Chloe knelt down and held her Penitatas child close to her. Almost unheeded, the datapad's message continued playing where it had fallen. "[...the Arbiters were dispatched to Icara some time ago, and we have been transmitting them updates as to our progress here in transit. By the time you receive this they will no doubt have already begun their investigations. If you know anything that may help them hunt down the Cartels or their suppliers, I urge you to help them. In particular, I want their arms dealer; the one who supplied them with Federation weapons. I'm told she went by the name 'Jakob Romanov'...]" Vaahn's eyes widened at the name. Thoughts of grief were pushed from his mind at the mention of his friend's name. "Jakob? How is she..." his mind raced faster than his lips could keep up, throwing together fragments of memories and creating chains of thoughts to link them to one another. Matt picked up the pad and listened to the entire audio file again. "Your son is after Jakob? Is this to do with your son's death?" "I knew that girl was trouble." Chloe announced in defiance of all evidence to date. "I knew it the moment I saw her!" Jas made a half-hearted attempt at neutrality, but Vaahn didn't hear it; by then the only sounds rebounding through his head were Jasat's grim announcement, and Jakob's name. They repeated themselves over and over like some dark summoning ritual, bringing forth a primal fury that set Vaahn's insides ablaze. "I want to see her." He growled. "I want to find out just how she's connected to this." "You aren't the only one." Matt added. He was looking down the street at a pair of approaching hovercars bearing the colours and insignia of the Icaran police force. They touched down outside the house and uniformed officers disembarked, approaching the family in an open, yet authoritative manner. "Mr & Mrs Johansson? I'm Constable Spooner. We'd like to have a talk with your son regarding an ongoing investigation. Our off-world associates suggested he may have some information that might be of help." The aforementioned associates stepped out of the second vehicle. They were obviously Kyyreni, though it was impossible to make out any details about them; both were dressed in ceremonial costumes made up of tanned leather and cloth. One wore crimson, the other deep green. Their faces were hidden behind complicated wrap-masks that showed only their eyes. They looked utterly outlandish compared to the Humans escorting them. "[Vaahn T'rol I presume,]" the red-clothed Arbiter said. "[You know why we are here?]" "I just found out." Vaahn replied, nodding to the pad in his father's hands. "I want to know about Jakob's involvement in all this." Behind his mask the Arbiter smiled. "[As do we. That's why my companions are interrogating her as we speak.]"

* * *

Jakob was no killer. She was self-assured, self-centred and not above destroying people's lives for the sake of her own advancement, but she drew the line at killing people. She understood, in a vague, ill-defined sort of way, that should she ever die her soul would be judged and, if found unworthy, she would suffer for eternity. She'd never truly believed that sort of thing, but still it never hurt to be safe; if there was an almighty - and right now she was hoping there was one, and that he was on her side - it would be much easier to justify unsporting, yet technically legal business practices than it would be wholesale killing.

The Arbiter in front of her was most definitely a killer. He hadn't said so, he hadn't threatened her or drew a weapon or laid a hand upon her. He hadn't needed to; she'd known he was a killer the moment he entered the room. It was the way his eyes took in the room, scanning every surface and texture to assess its potential as a means of inflicting harm. He did the same to people; Jakob could feel his eyes work over her body, calculating the minimum force required to break a bone, dislocate a limb or crush a windpipe. His stare was ruthless and totally lacking in mercy; the Arbiter was a man who would kill you for the sake of his own advancement. The Kyyreni was a man who looked at a problem, worked out the simplest solution, then applied the solution regardless of who or what stood in his way. He had been in the house ten minutes and had yet to speak to anyone, though he had spoken at people a few times. Thus far he'd decreed that he was to be given a large cup of tea (black with honey), that he was to be shown to Jakob's room, and that nobody was to enter until he told them to. He spoke surprisingly good Panglish, although Jakob could recognise a Daysider's accent underneath the ceremonial costume.

The Arbiter squatted down in the middle of the room, rocking gently on his haunches as he un-wrapped his face. Jakob stood with her back to the wall, trying hard to keep her panic under control. The last time she'd been this close to a Daysider he'd been trying to kill her, and this time she didn't have Vaahn or Lucy to protect her. "There. Much better." The Arbiter announced while placing the coiled cloth on the floor. With great care he slipped the leather helm from his head and placed it on top, creating a small shrine in the middle of the bedroom. His orange fur had been cut short so that his pale flesh beneath showed through. Most of it had been severely burned, though judging by the symmetrical patterns the wounds made it had been done on purpose. Black dye had been applied around his eyes to frame them in a swirling tribal pattern. He shifted himself onto the floor and sat cross-legged in front of his headgear. With a nod he commanded Jakob to do the same. "Little Miss Jakob." The Daysider smiled unkindly. "Oh such things I have been told... you were quite the busy little boy, back when you were a boy. Tell me; just what was your relationship with the Cartels on Ryyksaad?" "I don't know what you're talking about." Jakob knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment she said it. The Arbiter's eyes hardened instantly. He leaned closer, his lips parting just enough for him to hiss out the words, "you are dead, Jakob Romanov. You were convicted of murder by proxy, by means of supplying alien weapons to criminal elements, resulting in the death, among others, of a family member of the High Noble of Yvenik. That High Noble intends to drag you back to Urokon and bury you alive. First, however, he's going to drag you back to Urokon and make you beg to be buried alive, because what he'll do to you beforehand will be far, far more terrible..." Jakob's heart tried to leap out of her chest. She wanted to say this wasn't right, that he couldn't threaten her like this and that this was Icara and she had rights... but the Arbiter's eyes killed every word as it tried to flee past her lips. "Of course..." the Arbiter leaned back, his hostility suddenly vanishing from sight. "I suppose, if you were co-operative and able to provide us with useful information, we could rule that death by prolonged torture, which would shatter your mind long before it killed you, would be an excessive punishment for your crimes. Perhaps we can have you burned alive instead. If you're very co-operative, given the various attempts by the Cartel to kill you themselves, we might consider it unnecessary to pursue you further. You'd like that, wouldn't you." The final statement was certainly not a question, but Jakob nodded mutely anyway. "Excellent. Now, let us start at the beginning..."

Jakob lost all track of time as the Arbiter's questioning continued. He probed her constantly, making her repeat details out of sequence or demanding minute details on seemingly unimportant topics. He dragged out of her the means by which she'd smuggled weapons from Icara to Ryyksaad, the warfleets she'd supplied to aid the Kyyreni against Starfleet. He dug deeper, uncovering the smugglers who'd given her safe harbour, the launderers who'd helped her purge Starfleet's security and tracking systems from each weapon as it passed from their control and then extracted the names of Cartel members who'd done the rest at the other end. When she said she didn't know anything more, he made her remember more; the lesser gangs she'd duped into doing her dirty work, how the Romanov brothers learned and exploited the colony's legal system, how Osip had bribed and bought his way through the planet until he was practically running it... ...then she spoke of the downfall. She told how the New Empire Cartel had blackmailed her, set her up on false charges and sent her into a labour camp for six months. She recalled how Osip had used his links to evade the same fate, knowing that their business rivals intended to use the technicality of their imprisonment to force deportation. She remembered how Osip had bought her out of prison, sold off his holdings and paid good money to the Price of Ryyksaad so they could be 'released' back to Icara and set up home in the lap of luxury...

Finally, the Arbiter seemed satisfied. Tired and scared, Jakob slouched over, not noticing the Daysider draw a weapon from his back pocket. He held it up until she spotted it, smiling at the look of horror that spread across her face. It was a weapon of ancient earth design; a 20th century revolver, heavily customised by its owner. "Ego Requiro Solus Unus Sagittae," the Arbiter read aloud the ornate inscription on the handle. "Your family motto, I believe. This was recovered in the ruins of your former home here on Icara. It turns out you don't have a licence to possess firearms. Nor did your brother." He smiled to himself, turning the weapon over a few times. "It's a nice piece. I suppose you kept it for its appearance, not for its killing power. Yes, I think that's the excuse you will use; you had no bullets for it and it was retained purely for its historical significance. I wonder... yes, yes I think I will believe that excuse." The Arbiter put the weapon away and began adorning himself once more, slipping the helmet back in place and reapplying the head wraps. "You have been very helpful, Miss Romanov. We will make our judgements in due course... but I think it is safe to say that I at least do not plan to turn you over to Noble Jasat." Jakob took a deep, gasping breath and let it out slowly, shivering at the sudden endorphin-rush flooding through her body. "Thank you." She managed. The Arbiter nodded toward the door. "Come; let us inform your family of the good news. I'm sure you'll be glad to hear that you will not see me again." The Medicalos realised that she was genuinely glad of that; if she had her way, she'd never lay eyes on a Daysider again.

Six days later, Jasat of Tu'ri arrived.

* * *

The audience, which was made up of a mix of Arbiters, Icaran police and various representatives from the Ryyksaad taskforce who had accompanied Noble Jasat to Icara, had expected more from him. They had all heard of the vows he'd made; the promises of a bloody and cruel retribution for the losses suffered during the punitive assault on the Cartels. His warships, because there was no other way to describe the half-dozen vessels that had translated into the Icaran system, had raced to the planet as quickly as Starfleet permitted, delivering their cargo with a speed and single-mindedness reminiscent of a planetary assault. Everyone had expected the armed escort that disembarked with him. Everyone had expected him to come in combat armour. Everyone had expected, upon hearing the Arbiter's words, to fly into a rage. Instead, he simply replied, "[Repeat that.]" The Daysider, head bare, squared up to the Noble and said, "[It is our ruling, based on all evidence given, that there is no gain in pursuing Jakob Romanov any further.]" Jasat and the Arbiter stared at one another for some time. The animosity between Dawnsiders and Daysiders was legendary; they lived together on many worlds, or on the fringes of either nation's territory, but the clans of the Deep Day had an eternal hatred of the Dawn, and the inner city Dawnsiders returned the sentiment. Jasat had been born and raised in one the Dawn's largest cities, and the Arbiter was rumoured to have been born in the Desolation - the most barren and scorched region of Urokon. Those familiar with the racial hatreds wondered whether that had factored into the Arbiter's judgement at all. Finally, the Noble spoke again. "[You have good reason to make that choice, of course...]" The Arbiter nodded. "[Her links to Ryyksaad severed, and her former comrades have already murdered her brother and stolen everything they didn't burn. She has had two attempts on her life herself already. Based on what I have learned, she is no longer a threat to us.]" Jasat scowled. "[Of course she is no threat, but that does not excuse her actions!]" "[Correct,]" the Arbiter agreed. "[However, she did supply our military to a small, but not inconsequential degree during the war. In light of her services to several major nations, I feel it only fair to be lenient on this occasion. Your revenge, Noble Jasat, will have to wait until she commits some other crime worthy of death by torture.]" To Jasat's surprise, the Daysider lowered his guard. He broke eye contact, and when he spoke again his voice was far less confident. "[You are not the only one with personal motivations here, Noble. It shames me to admit it, but many in my family have been involved in the criminal underworld of Ryyksaad. It is why my father fled back to Urokon, and why I became an Arbiter. Unlike you, however, I cannot act in the name of vengeance. Where she still on Ryyksaad you could have her head, but she is here now, and she is protected by Icaran law. I vowed to these people that the Arbitration would respect their laws; whatever judgement we make must be agreed by the Icarans as well. They will not deport her to an execution no matter what we say.]" The Noble's teeth ground together as he took in the watching Humans. He knew some, if not all could speak Ruljig. The gathered Kyyreni certainly could. As he looked from one face to the other he saw in some of them a curiosity beyond simple amusement at the fight unfolding in the embassy; some of them had taken note of what had been said, and were thinking it through carefully. "Excuse me, but could I ask a question?" A young officer voiced. Jasat and the Arbiter both nodded. "You said Miss Romanov supplied you with weapons during the Icaran War... was that as a citizen of Ryyksaad, or of Icara?" The two Kyyreni looked at one another. The Arbiter's face split into a wicked grin. "My my my... I do believe we have her! Leifyr, do you have the complete records for Miss Romanov's activities during the war?" The green-clothed Arbiter, a Nightsider female, nodded in acknowledgement. "[I do, sir. I also know what you're looking for..." she thumbed through a datapad quickly. "Here it is. Jakob Romanov arranged her first smuggling run while she was living on Maribahl. She also arranged her defection just prior to the planet's invasion, and sold information on local troop moments and planetary defences.]" Jasat let out a cruel laugh. "Tell me, Arbiter, did she ever actually become a recognised citizen of our realm?" The female checked the documents. "[Not that I recall. She was, strictly speaking, a prisoner of war. So was her brother.]" The Daysider turned to the Human officer and grinned triumphantly. "Good news my friends! I've just discovered you have something better to do than stand around looking important! Come, I think we should all retire to your police station and discuss Miss Romanov in greater detail..."

* * *

The first day back in school was proof enough that there was something wrong with Jakob. Her classmates had noticed the change in attitude the moment the welcome spankings began. Normally Jakob would have watched the proceedings with barely-concealed enjoyment, savouring the sight of the other boys and girls getting their backsides warmed. Today, on a day that she had been looking forward to all year, she was distant and inattentive. Vaahn and Jas had heard second-hand accounts of her interview with the Arbiter, and it seemed that, despite his assurances, she was still nervous about the outcome. At lunch, Jakob's friends were finally able to get an explanation. "It was horrible!" Jakob announced, waving her spoon for emphasis. "The Arbiter was a Daysider. He hounded me for hours, asking question after question. He even threatened to kill me if I didn't co-operate!" That, at least, got Jakob some sympathetic words. "He can't do that, surely? Isn't that illegal?" Rebecca asked. Jas shook his head. "Not by Kyyreni law." Vaahn's attention was drawn to other aspects of the story. "A Daysider Arbiter? I didn't know such a thing could exist; those cannibal freaks tend not to like the idea of law." "Still, it's over now, right?" Simon looked to Jakob, who nodded. "Yeah... he said it was over. Still, I don't know..." the girl shivered despite the warmth of the room. "I just don't feel safe anywhere now. I won't feel safe until that... that thing is gone!" Vaahn gave Jakob a humourless smile. "Welcome to my world."

Elsewhere, a small group of Kyyreni were lounging in the embassy, killing time until they were able to leave again. Some were more patient than others; in particular, the hybrid boy seemed unable to sit still for any length of time. He kept rising from his seat, pacing the room, peering out of windows and lurking by the door. "Ank!" One of the escorts from House Ordihr fixed the Tu'ri youth with an impatient stare. "Would you mind sitting down and staying down? The carpets in here look expensive, and you're going to wear a hole in them pretty soon." Ank sat in a chair near the door, rocked back and forth a little, then got up and went to find another chair. The older Kyyreni rolled his eyes. "Blood and iron, boy!" Before Ank could reply the door opened to grant Jasat entry. The assembled Kyyreni rose to greet him and he acknowledged them with a nod before turning to Ank. "Walk with me." He said. The two took a slow circuit of the building, heading out via the closest exit and proceeding anti-clockwise. For some time Jasat did not speak and, though he had many questions, Ank chose to respect his lord's desire for silence. Eventually, Jasat said simply, "[you want to see more of this world.]" Ank nodded a little more eagerly than he meant to. "[Glass and diamonds look the same at a distance.]" Jasat added, giving the boy a sidelong glance. "[You might not like what you find.]" "[I'd rather learn a hard truth than cling to a fantasy.]" Ank replied, earning him a smile from the older Kyyreni. "[Well said,]" Jasat replied. "[I suppose you'd also like to see my father?]" Another eager nod answered. Jasat came to a halt and threw his hands up in surrender. "[Fine! Go! Roam the city to your heart's content! Throw aside all thoughts of duty for the sake of your own childish obsession!]" "[That's not-]" Ank paused, catching the look in his lord's eye. His concern turned to eager understanding. "[Thank you, lord! I promise I will do nothing to sully the honour of our House!]" The Lord of Tu'ri raised an eyebrow. "[Truly, Ank? Please, don't break the habit of a lifetime on my account.]" Jasat grasped the young man's shoulder in an almost fatherly gesture. "[In all seriousness, I want you to enjoy yourself. I plan on visiting my father myself when time permits, but first I have to finish things here; there are extraditions to acquire, for one thing. You go and learn about the world in my stead. Go now.]" Ank needed no further encouragement; he'd turned toward the garage and broken into a run before Jasat had time to wish him well. The aging Lord looked up into the clear blue skies of Icara and snarled at them. "[Blue's a terrible colour for a sky,]" he muttered, shaking the thought from his head and walking back into the embassy.

The Arbiters had, for the most part, discarded their formal robes in favour of more practical clothing. The male Arbiters wore a loose fitting crimson uniform, their female counterparts favouring dark green. All of them wore armbands that denoted their ranks, and most had chosen to retain some degree of body armour, which was far more effective than the ceremonial leather breastplates they'd worn on arrival. Only one Arbiter chose to keep his traditional clothing; the Daysider leading the party. Constable Spooner didn't like dealing with the Arbiter; he had a way of alienating people. The other Kyyreni referred to each other by name, or perhaps "sir" or "ma'am" as the situation demanded, but the Daysider was simply "Arbiter", nothing more. He was currently slouched on a desk filled with empty coffee cups, staring unseeing at a formal looking document on his datapad. "Arbiter?" The constable announced his approach with care. The Daysider reacted by picking up the pad and dropping it into a drawer before turning his head up at the Human officer. "Yes?" "I need you to countersign these documents; the chief's approved the extradition of three of the suspects." The news brought a flicker of a smile to the Arbiter's face. "At long last!" He sighed, taking the document and reading it carefully. "My my, they really are concerned we'll harm these men, aren't they?" Spooner risked a glance at the pad. Three Kyyreni faces were displayed at the top of the datapad. An inset scrolled automatically through the charges that had been filed against them, with the court's recommendations in the next column. The main data segment was a detailed set of terms and conditions that set out what had to be done for the extradition to be legal. The Arbiter caught him staring. "Would you prefer to read it from my side of the desk?" He asked innocently. "Sorry sir... Arbiter." The Arbiter ignored the correction. "This all seems acceptable. Personally I'd rather let you turn them into children and beat some sense into them, but the Council wants to make an example of them; every last one brought to the Supreme Court to answer for their actions." He signed the document and handed it back. "Three more down, eighteen more to go... I suspect that your superiors still won't give us the non-Kyyreni elements of the Cartel structure?" "Wouldn't know, Arbiter." Spooner replied. "That's a 'no' then." The Arbiter answered bitterly. "Oh, would you have someone go and fetch more coffee? Ideally with honey this time." Fifteen minutes later, with the coffee still absent, Spooner returned. The Arbiter looked up from his paperwork, which in this instance was paper as opposed to a datapad, and gave Spooner an ill-tempered sneer. "What now?" "Chief said you'd want to know that our people just finished compiling evidence for the Romanov case; we've got enough for a solid conviction." The Arbiter's ears pricked. "Extradition?" "No." Spooner answered firmly. "No Human, Drakonian, Jalaxian or any other member-species of the Federation will be handed over to your jurisdiction." "Damn. Well, that's still good news! How long until we can bring her to trial?" "Our justice is swift - we've handed all the information over to the courts already. They'll give us the preliminary evaluation tomorrow and then-" "Please, constable," The Arbiter held up a weary hand. "How long until Miss Romanov is stood in a court of law?" Spooner, irritated by the interruption, answered bluntly, "A week, tops." The Arbiter once more gave a viper-quick smile. "Excellent. To think I once thought your justice slow and feeble... tell my first to man the gates while I'm gone; I'm off to have an argument with Noble Jasat."

For the Rejuves, their lives seemed unchanged. A week went by without any further word of the Kyyreni Arbiters. Nither Jakob nor Vaahn, who had both met with them, heard anything more of their investigation. And then, all at once, the world came rushing in all at once.

* * *

There was a knock on the door of the Johansson household. Matt stepped out into the hall from the kitchen, leaving behind the discarded envelope from the corrections council, whose contents had sparked off a tantrum from Vaahn that had ended with predictable results. He glanced at the security display to the right of the door to see two figures waiting outside; one clearly a Kyyreni dressed to a high standard, the other a bodyguard mostly obscured from shot. Though confused by his visitors, he let the door slide open. "Can I help you?" he asked. The visitor stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. "Mr Johansson, I am Jasat T'Rol. I am here to see my father." "This is not a good time!" Matt replied more sharply than he meant to, shocked by the rudeness of Jasat's entry into his home. The Noble gave Matt a quizzical look. "I'm sorry, did I give the impression I was asking permission?" With that glanced upward toward the figure that had appeared at the top of the stairs; an Aspatrian boy of seven. "Ah, they're upstairs. Hello, Jas." "I don't think-" Matt began as Jasat ascended. "That much is self evident." The Kyyreni answered without breaking stride or even looking back, pausing only to give Jas a slow, warm smile; a look that spoke of vague, yet comfortably familiar memories of a childhood long since left behind. His ears caught the quiet sniffling of a child in misery and he headed for the bedroom, eager to meet with his father.

Downstairs, enraged by the insult Jasat had delivered, Matt made an attempt to pursue the self-assured Lord. As he moved the bodyguard laid a hand upon his shoulder to restrain him. Matt reached up automatically to throw off the grip and realised, to his silent horror, the man had drawn a weapon. From behind him came a strangled cry of alarm as Chloe entered the hall to see the standoff. "Mr Johansson... Noble Jasat had made it clear to me that he does not wish to be disturbed. I have explicit orders to, and I quote, 'kill anyone who interferes' with his visit. Please... do not make me do something I would deeply regret." Slowly, Matt's hand fell back to his side. Satisfied, the bodyguard holstered his weapon once more. "Perhaps we should sit down?" The Kyyreni warrior gestured toward the living room. As the humans moved as indicated he reached up to his helmet and removed it, revealing a young man of mixed descent. "Ank?" The name surfaced in Chloe's memory. "You're Ank, right? Matt, what's going on?" "I don't know." Matt replied, still giving Ank a distrustful stare from his place of forced rest. Ank settled himself into a chair and looked around the house with an air of genuine interest. "I like it," he announced, "It's a very nice home. Cosy. I like the colours, and the open plan through to the dining room." He became aware that his conversation was, in fact, a monologue. "I'm sorry, Matt." He said with genuine remorse. "I take no pleasure in threatening people, but I cannot disobey my Lord's edict. I cannot believe he would do anything to harm you or your family, but he has been... unsettled." "Unhinged more like." Matt answered a little louder than he meant to. Ank's ears fell a little, as did his expression. "I think the strain of his position has taken its toll; he's not the man I used to know. Not since poor Leif was-" He halted; biting back the words and locking the memory back down inside him. With a sudden smile and a forced perk of his posture he added, "Perhaps we should start over, seeing as we made a mess of things first time around! Oh, and is there any chance of a cup of tea?"

Upstairs, sat on his cornerstool and feeling miserable, was Vaahn. He didn't look around as Jasat entered, though the pattern of his breathing changed, his posture becoming more focused and attentive; the rise of his fur, the stiffening of the shoulders and the notable inhalation of breath. He took in the simple room, designed for two with a bunk bed, single desk, wardrobes and a large box placed under the window. The Noble lingered in the doorway, his keen senses taking in the aura of the bedroom; the almost imperceivable cocktail of smells that invariably form in a room where someone lives. He had imagined that he would know his father by smell, though there was nothing familiar in the air. He felt a pang of sorrow at that, despite the childishness of the notion. Sensing something amiss, Vaahn twisted in his seat enough to see the visitor. An unfamiliar heat-shape filled his vision, enough to prompt him to turn his head from the corner and rely on true sight. The Kyyreni in the doorway was at once strange and familiar; similar to his adult self, yet slightly shorter and far gaunter in character. His muzzle was on the long side, with a sunken chin more commonly found in western peoples. His eyes, however, were unmistakable. "Father." Jasat breathed. Any thought of punishment abandoned, Vaahn removed himself from the corner stool and, pausing only to restore his pants to this proper position, approached his estranged son. The two stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, each simply staring at the other and both struck by the same realisation that their own fancied dreams were being shattered. Vaahn had imagined Jasat would embrace him, announcing his joy and excitement at the long awaited reunion. Jasat had pictured Vaahn to beam with pride, knowing his youngest son had equalled and exceeded all he himself had done as Lord of Tu'ri. In that moment, both men were met with an uncomfortable truth; they were meeting with a stranger. Vaahn had been absent from virtually all of Jasat's life, and Jasat had been too young to make any real use of the time they had shared. Vaahn swallowed down a leaden ball of pain and, as if ashamed, tried to blame it on his sore backside by rubbing the seat of his pants. Jasat tried to smile, but found no will behind it. False humour felt pointless. Instead he asked, "what happened?" "The Correction's Council refused to reverse the Fujikawa Treatment. I got... upset." Vaahn answered, breaking eye contact and seeking comfort elsewhere. Hesitantly, Jasat settled into the desk chair whilst Vaahn sat on his bed, tail curled around himself protectively. "I am aware of that procedure. This has been applied to you as well?" "Without my consent." Vaahn felt the need to add. Jasat nodded humourlessly. "I see." That seemed to be all there was to say on the matter. That seemed to be all there was to say. Jasat tried desperately to find something more, to make use of the time he had, but there was nothing; he was sat in a stranger's bedroom trying to pretend he'd known him all his life. He felt a fool, and found himself wondering just what it was he'd come here for, or what he'd ever hoped to achieve. "I'm sorry." Vaahn and Jasat said at once. Both looked at the other, off guard and confused by the apology of the other. Jasat pressed on first. "I should have told you I was coming. I was here... you know why I was on Icara. I just felt that if I came to see you I could... I would..." The Lord let out a frustrated growl. "What is wrong with me? I'm stammering like a damn child!" Vaahn let a weak grin play across his features. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here; I've wanted a chance to explain myself for a long time. When I wrote to you I never imagined you'd reply. I was so sure I'd be disowned..." "Why?" Jasat's shock was clear in his voice. "Because I surrendered - because I was captured. I failed our House and our people..." Jasat gave his father a harsh glare. "Never, ever say that again." There was no shred of doubt in the Noble's voice. "I do not know how you wound up here, but I do know this; people still speak of you, father. The name Vaahn T'Rol carries considerable respect, particularly amongst the veterans who fought beside you in the war, few as they may now be. People often forget that dying is easy, yet men such as we cannot always enjoy that luxury - sometimes we have to live on for the good of others." Vaahn found himself nodding in agreement. It was clear in his mind who the 'other' was in his case. "Thank you," he whispered. "Do they treat you well?" Jasat pressed on, relieved that he had suddenly found the means to speak with his estranged father. Vaahn nodded and replied, "As well as a Penny can expect." "That's good. I know you probably want to get to know me again, and I certainly want the same, but for now we will have to wait; I have so much to do, and so little time to do it. Your sentence is over in a few years isn't it?" "Hopefully." Vaahn answered, knowing that by rights he could still serve four more cycles as a Soft Timer or even, gods forbid, return to Hard Time! "You'll make parole." Jasat returned, stating the opinion as fact. "When you do, we can both look to the future. We can work together to achieve all that we deserve." The Kyyreni boy gave his son a warm smile, one filled with pride at the man he had become. "I look forward to it."

About an hour after he had arrived, Jasat descended the staircase. Ank rocked himself upright, thanking his hosts for the drinks and falling into step behind his Lord, who hesitated to take stock of the gathered family. "Chloe, Matt." He nodded to each of them. "You have been gracious hosts. I am sorry for any trouble I have caused you. Please..." For a moment, the diamond-hard stare of the Kyyreni softened. "...take good care of my father. He speaks highly of both of you." He looked now to the last member of the household, kneeling down and beckoning the Aspatrian boy closer. He gently gripped Jas by the shoulder and said, "I still remember sitting on your lap, listening to bedtime stories." "I remember too." Jas answered, though the hard-faced man before him was nothing like the glowing, bouncy child he'd one known. "You will always be welcome in the House of Tu'ri. You all will." With that, Jasat headed back outside to the waiting vehicle, leaving the family more than a little shaken by his coming.

* * *

Two days after Jasat's visit to his father, the Correction's Council of Icara was in session. The nine senior members of the Department of Corrections, the highest authority on all matters regarding Penitatas and their sentencing, rarely met as a group. Most of the time matters could be dealt with by the day to day operations of their organisation, or by the intervention of a single council member. Today, however, the Council had been called due to a most unexpected arrival; a senior dignitary from Urokon. Jasat T'Rol, High Noble of Yvenik, had requested to meet them as part of an ongoing operation to crush an interplanetary crime syndicate, and with the Lord due to leave the planet any day now he could not afford any delay.

The chamber was an unusual mix of the old and the new. It was circular with walls made of sea-blue Resiplas with silvery support struts at regular intervals. The struts were entirely cosmetic; the walls themselves provided far more structural rigidity than would ever be required. The sloping dome of the ceiling had a circular opening at the apex, secured not with glass but with a constantly active deflector shield that solidified the air. It was a grand display of Icaran technology; an almost frivolous use of their scientific marvels. The actual furniture was archaic. There was an arcing bench made of rosewood, with nine seats of the same set around it. The seats were cushioned with black leather that had been moulded into the imprint of the user's back and buttocks over the decades, if not centuries of use. The data terminals each Council member possessed were portable, rather than sunk into the desk as one would expect. There were even drawers full of pens and paper documents.

Jasat entered with some ceremony; it was hard for him not to. He was surrounded by six fully armed and armoured soldiers, their expressions unreadable behind the mirror-surfaced visors of their combat helms. They carried snub-nosed energy weapons and moved like they expected to use them. The two security guards, stood either end of the sweeping council desk, tensed and placed their hands a little closer to the stun-guns they carried. "" the captain of the honour guard barked. The rear two broke off and took up position by the doors, weapons held to attention. The others spread out a little and tried to look a little less threatening. "Thank you for seeing me on short notice." Jasat said with a bow. "It is most gracious of you." "The Council is aware of the operations you are a part of, Jasat T'Rol, Noble Lord of Tu'ri." The speaker was the de-facto head of the Council; an old man who looked to be in his early seventies, though in truth was many hundreds of years older than that. "Indeed, we have already convened regarding your efforts; we are eager to see all those who supported this criminal 'Empire' brought to justice." Jasat nodded solemnly. "Most commendable. However, I confess that I have brought you here under false pretences - I wish to speak not of my official duty, but of a personal matter." A low murmur rolled through the assembly. Their figurehead held his hand up for silence. "This is most irregular." He grumbled. "I am a most irregular man." Jasat replied. "I believe where a problem exists, one must go straight to the source. You represent the highest authority regarding the treatment of Penitatas, and thus you are the source of the problem." "Go on." The old man said, eyebrows raised in a mix of annoyance and interest. "As you may already know, you have in your custody my father; Vaahn, Son of Brahlt, Son of Garo, of the line of T'Rol." A younger woman on the right edge of the table spoke up. "We are aware of your father-" there was a pause as she considered just how to address their visitor. "-Lord T'Rol." "I would prefer 'Noble Jasat', or just 'Noble', if that is not inconvenient." Jasat corrected, remaining carefully polite. Another voice piped up. "We are also aware of the request the Johansson family put forth on his behalf. I suspect that is why you are here?" Jasat nodded. "That, and to politely remind you that you are holding a member of Urokon's nobility, captured during a military operation and yet afforded none of the rights his standing, nor those of a prisoner of war. Such things have a way of coming back to haunt us if left unresolved." "Was that a threat?" the Council head asked, leaning forward in his seat and fixing the guest with a stone-faced glare. Jasat met it and returned one of his own. "No, that was a statement of fact. I do not threaten, sir. Threats are for criminals and petty thugs. I deal in facts; cold, hard and often unfortunate. The facts, ladies and gentlemen of the Corrections Council, are that you violated an interplanetary accord, which by our law should result in your extradition and execution. Since we have no formal means to demand extradition, in practice justice would most likely be met by way of military action. To be blunt, we would subject this city to orbital bombardment until such time as we are satisfied that you are dead. That is fact. That is what would happen if we felt, for whatever reason, that Kyyreni Law should be enacted." He looked at each member of the council in turn, weighing them up one by one; some were stern, humourless characters, others made fat, bordering on sedimentary by age and luxury. One, a man, was barely out of his teens by the look of him - a sure sign he had served the Council over many lifetimes. "Now, with the tone of the meeting properly set, I am here to discuss terms." Jasat pressed on, his eyes locking on to whichever member of the Council seemed most likely to speak out against him. None were willing to do so directly to his face. "Vaahn T'Rol is to be granted parole at the end of this cycle. He is also to have the Fujikawa and Kensington Treatments reversed immediately. In return, I will ensure that the crimes against him committed by your organisation are quietly forgotten about." Once more the speaker loomed forward, his ancient jaw set in a disapproving scowl. "Noble Jasat, whilst I appreciate your desire for justice, I cannot condone your methods. You are not at liberty to simply storm in here as you will and demand 'justice' for the sake of personal feelings! Vaahn T'Rol is to be dealt with as any other Penitatas would be, irrespective of how wealthy or influential his family members may be! Frankly, I'm tempted to have you ejected from this building by force!" Jasat's expression, thus far rock hard, softened at the words. He spoke - no, pleaded - with the council once more. "Please, do not dismiss this. All I ask is a compromise; a way that both of us can contrive a solution that is amiable and equally fair. You have to answer only to yourselves - I have to answer to my people. Millions of citizens still speak of my father as a war hero. If they learned what had happened to him the result would be outrage! They would DEMAND war with Icara again! It would be an end to the peace we have both enjoyed! Please... for all our sakes... I ask so little. Just this, just enough that a looming disaster can be swiftly averted, sparing both sides the consequences. I beg you to see reason!" The Council shared a few words between themselves. When the speaker addressed Jasat again he did so with much less anger, but no less authority. "Noble Jasat, I realise that this is not an easy choice to make. However, the simple truth is that we will not change our minds on this. To do so would potentially undermine our entire system - the law is the law, and it must not bend or bow to any one person. All of us, from the man on the street to the President herself, must be dealt with evenly. I know this must be difficult, and you have my sympathies, you truly do, but we cannot change our verdict." Jasat let out a long, pained sigh. "I understand." He said and took a moment to compose himself. Then, returning to his cold, stony voice he said simply, "lock it down."

Two bolts of energy screamed through the air. The first security officer was struck in the throat, the discharge bursting open his throat and refusing the flesh into a solid, clotted knot. He tumbled to the ground, trying to breathe through a windpipe that wasn't there anymore. The second guard was hit in the abdomen, his torso staying put whilst his legs swung upward from the recoil. His whole body hit the floor at once with a dull slap. He did not rise again. By the door, the waiting soldiers moved instantly, one locking the access pad down with a strange device that blipped and chirruped excitedly the moment it was activated. The other pulled strips of self-fusing adhesive and opened the door a fraction, slamming it in place and ripping clear the protective tape. The doors slid closed again and began to scream, spitting white sparks as they were flash-fused together. The whole scene lasted fifteen seconds. Jasat waited patiently for the choking guard to suffocate before addressing the council once more. "As I said, I believe in going straight to the source of the problem. You are the problem, and so I intend to kill you all one by one, in inventive and horrifying ways, until I get what I want." "You're a madman!" The speaker screamed. "Do you honestly think you can get away with this?" "Yes." Jasat said. As an afterthought he added, "Burn him." The captain drew his weapon - a long, thin pistol with a cylindrical tank - and squeezed the trigger. A thin dart of translucent gel jumped from the weapon, covering the space between them faster than the human eye could follow. It ignited seconds after launch, splashing across the face and chest of the council member and adhering to his body. He toppled backwards, screaming and flailing in panic as the blue-edged flames consumed him. One of his companions quickly threw a nearby jug of water over the elder, but the fire continued to burn regardless. Helpless, the council could only watch as their leader was slowly, agonisingly consumed by the fire. "Military issue pyro-gel." Jasat explained calmly. "It contains its own oxygen supply so it can burn underwater. Very clever stuff." All eyes turned back to him now; the alternative was too grisly to bear for any length of time. "My demands are simple, ladies and gentlemen of the Council, such as it remains." "We cannot!" the words came from an elder woman, and were screamed rather than said. She leaned on her desk, her whole body shaking with mortal terror as she struggled to keep her voice in line. "This is barbarism! We MUST have law! We cannot do this! Please, please see reason! This cannot be how justice is done!" With a dismissive wave of his hand Jasat sentenced her to burn. When her screaming had ceased he spoke again. "Know this; if I do not get what I want, I will remove Vaahn from this planet by force and order my ship to fire bombardment charges before breaking orbit. Each one has an eighty kiloton yield - a single explosive will destroy most of this city. We have thirty aboard. There will be no sign your city ever existed." "P-perhaps..." all eyes now turned to the youngest man on the Council. "Perhaps, in this exceptional circumstance..." he looked to his peers, seeing his own fear clearly displayed on their faces. "All in favour?" It was unanimous.

Jasat ordered his men to stand down, a cruel smile playing across his lips. "Much better. Now know this; I will be watching. If I have any reason to believe you are not keeping your end of the bargain, I will kill you. I will kill ALL of you - every last man, woman and child on this planet! I will BURN THIS WORLD!" His anger subsided. "No doubt some of you believe there will be a retaliation, that if you go to your leaders they will bring me to account. They will not. Speak to them regardless - contact your President, the Admiralty of Starfleet and whoever else you wish. Contact them and tell of how I so boldly murdered two of your number for the sake of personal gain. Tell them, then watch as our merchants keep on trading with you, how our kind continue to migrate here, how life goes on just as though this never happened. Watch all this unfold and then ask them why. The truth will break your hearts." With a nod to his captain, Jasat ended the visitation. Men were banging on the doors, but it seemed not to concern the Kyyreni. They assembled in the centre of the room as a static charge filled the air, growing until it became a white-hot spec of light in the centre of the delegation. In an instant it expanded, becoming a maelstrom of energy that disappeared just as quickly as it had come. The Kyyreni were gone, leaving carnage in their wake.

* * *

The surviving Council members sent their reports to the police, to Starfleet, and to the highest government offices. Within an hour they were given their reply - the police were not to investigate. Specialist teams, operating on behalf of the President herself, took down all the information, cleaned up the mess, produced cover stories for the families and span lies for the public media. The victims of the attack, and all who had witnessed it, found themselves threatened with the most severe Penitatas sentences imaginable if they ever spoke a word of the truth to another living soul.

Then it all went away, just as Jasat had said. Life carried on as if nothing had happened, with most being completely ignorant of what had transpired. The surviving Council members demanded answers. At first they were ignored, and then they were silenced. When one of their leaders suddenly chose to retire from the position and go back to live on Earth, the rest knew they were beaten, particularly as their colleague had retired so quickly he hadn't had time to pack.

Defeated, the surviving Council members relented. Their hopes crushed by their own government, and all notions of justice dead along with their cremated companions, they surrendered to the will of the invaders and their shadowy allies within Icara itself.

Jasat T'Rol's will was done.