What Haunts a Demon?

Introduction

Gabel Nevin, the Demon, wasn't always the suave, polished Fastest Man on Three Worlds, best martial artist alive. In fact, he wasn't even always Gabel Nevin...

Setting

Pragasus 38. The story covers a time period of about 1970 through 1973

Terminology

Here are some terms that are used in the story...

Planets and Cities in the Imperium

Trystany - one of the Imperium's farm planets, a peaceful oasis in the Imperium. It had no native inhabitants so Georwell didn't need to invade it.

Pragasus 38 - a world conquered by the Georwellian Imperium almost 200 years ago

Negundus - capital city of Pragasus 38 on the East coast of the single continent

D'Engalad - city on pragasus 38, on the West coast of the single continent

Fauna of the Imperium

skizzerat - a small annoying hard to kill animal of Pragasus 38, very similar to a rat with scales instead of fur

dinophant - largest native land animal on Pragasus 38

razortooth - the most dangerous land predator on Pragasus 38, an animal like a cross between a black and white tiger and a Komodo dragon

logi - a small animal from the planet Georwell, similar to a weasel, which smells bad. Calling someone a logi is an insult

Language (slang) from several sources

bistup – Pragasus 38 slang for jackass

nelix - Pragasus 38 slang for someone you think is stupid

chlon - Pragasus 38 slang for a street gang

Krazers, Maelstrom, Psybol and Davubari - 4 most powerful chlons in Negundus

Brontides - the chlon that robbed Jerek Renain's house, formerly the most powerful chlon in D'engalad

ruftuffs – chlon slang for chlon warriors

warrines - female rufftuffs

infegon - chlon slang, derogatory, often used to refer to members of other chlons

offile – Imperial Terror Trooper slang for someone you hate

bratart - colonial slang for guy

Unfriendlies - Imperium slang for Uncle Friendly, which is what the police are called.

subby - Imperium slang for sub-citizens, the vast majority of the subjects of the Imperium.

Kild'Rel – the (former) martial are taught to the Georwellian military, now made obsolete by powered battle armor

Chapter 1: The Boy

Challenger's eyes snapped open. He was strapped into a seat that was tilted at an odd angle. When he turned his head, he realized that he was surrounded by several slowly deflating airbags, a sign that he'd just come through a bad crash. As the balloons deflated more, he could see around him the shattered, twisted wreckage of an orbit to ground to orbit combat flier. The air was misty and the world he could see through the shattered windows and torn fuselage of the flier was a riot of bright colors, predominantly green. He could hear no sounds from outside, but he could hear the sizzling of electricity and the crackling of a fire from inside the devastated cabin.

He unhooked his safety harness and made a rapid inspection of the interior of the flier. No one else had survived the crash, and if he didn't get out in a hurry, he wouldn't be a survivor much longer either – half the passenger cabin was already engulfed in flames. Challenger donned his own pack, grabbed a satchel that had been carried by one of the dead soldiers in the flier and ripped a first aid kit from the wall. At that instant, a swarm of small walking appetites poured through one of the rents in the fuselage. Challenger adjusted his pistol to fire a wide-angle energy beam, burning a path through the pack of disgusting vermin. He pushed through the rent in the hull, ignoring the surviving scavengers as they began to tear at the bodies of his former teammates. He stopped on the wing for just a second, orienting himself. Somewhere to the East, his teammates Giant, the Flame, Friction and Steadfast were being held in a Rizzard prison.

The flier was partially sunken in the murky slime of a fecund swamp. As Challenger took a step along the stubby wing, a long, thin snake dropped from an overhanging tree and wrapped itself around his shoulders. Challenger pushed a tooth with his tongue; there was a crackling sound and the snake fell into the muck, stunned by an electric shock delivered by the hero's costume. Something Challenger couldn't see pulled the snake beneath the muck. Before he could be attacked again, Challenger ran across the wing and leaped, managing to land on a small hummock of solid ground, and quickly picked out a path away from the burning sinking craft behind him. When he'd gone about a hundred yards, he dropped to the ground, shielded behind the largest tree he'd seen yet. A few seconds later, the flier exploded, rocking the surrounding swamp like an earthquake. Slimy mud spattered down around him, but the tree protected him from the worst of the shock wave.

As the slimy rain stopped, something erupted from the brackish water in front of at him, leading with a mouthful of teeth as long as his dagger. A stream of explosive pellets from his pistol, fired into the beast's gullet, blew a hole through the back of its neck. Before the mangled body sank back into the muck, it was shuddering under the impact of hungry creatures racing for a meal. This was definitely not a safe resting spot! Challenger adjusted the optics and electronics in his combat helmet for optimum vision and hearing in this environment, then headed cautiously to the east, pistol in one hand, survival knife in the other.

Almost instantly, he heard the muted roaring of incoming aircraft. He found a spot where he could see the sky, and counted ten fliers buzzing around the crash site like flies around a corpse. The fliers looked like large flat-bottomed bowls, with controls and a windscreen at one end, and each was packed with about a dozen Rizard warriors. Challenger carefully surveyed the terrain nearby, picked out and instantly memorized a path across what passed for solid land in the swamp, screened from the sky by the thick foliage, leading east. He adjusted his pistols and fired 3 shots from each, then ran as fast as he could along his selected path. 6 miniature guided missiles sprouted fire, and instants later, two of the fliers were destroyed in explosions. Another was damaged and started falling out of control and a fourth was rocked so violently that most of the occupants were spilled over the side.

As he ran, Challenger armed some small explosives from the satchel and dropped them behind him. He turned once to look back, then picked out a new path and ran some more. Two of the surviving fliers were already hovering over the spot he'd fired from, vaporizing the vegetation with energy beams to create a clearing where they could land and disgorge the dozens of angry hunters who still lived. Before long, a swarm of raging 8 foot tall lizards would be on his trail. The little surprises he'd dropped might kill a few of them, but he needed to come up with a better plan, fast!

Challenger was startled by the loud slamming of a door, a noise that was definitely foreign to the swamp around him. A blossom of dread exploded in his head and his stomach started churning. Something slammed into his combat helmet, stunning him, and then the helmet was torn from his head. A second blow, more powerful than the first, knocked him tumbling, and he crashed into a wall and slid to the floor, too stunned to move. He looked up into the face of the Fiend, who was roaring at him. The Fiend dashed his virtuality gaming helmet to the floor and then stomped on it until it was flattened, while he raged curses at the cowering 8 year old Boy.

"Traitorous slimy logi turd! I gave you that helmet so you could play the Terror Trooper game! Even customized the interface so you could pretend to be ME. But instead of respecting your father, you pretend to be that phony hero hot-snot ass-wipe Justice Machine offile Challenger?" The Fiend was a Terror Trooper, currently on leave, and Troopers were not noted for their restraint. He drew back his leg and kicked the Boy in the side of the head, spinning him around. A woman ran into the room, the Boy's mother, and tried to protect her son. The Fiend casually swung a crushing backhand, smashing her across the face. She tottered backwards and crashed into the Boy's desk, then fell on his chair. The chair shattered and dumped her painfully on the floor where she lay, twitching and moaning feebly. "Take care of her, you freepin' logi turd!" the Fiend screamed at the Boy. "It's your fault she's hurt. I'll be back later." He kicked open the front door of the small apartment, breaking the latch, and stomped off to the lift, screaming curses.

The other residents of the small, cheap apartment building cowered in their rooms; they'd seen this kind of action before, whenever the Fiend got a pass. Nobody dared complain; what if the Fiend brought a couple fellow Troopers home with him the next time, and held a grudge against one of the locals? The Uncle Friendlies would do nothing, as most of them were ex Troopers.

The Boy was torn with indecision and almost incoherent with pain and panic. He had to tend to his mother, but if he didn't get the door fixed before the Fiend returned, the treatment the two had just endured would be like gentle caresses compared to the punishment the Fiend would mete out. She tried to say something; he moved closer. "Whiskey…" she whispered hoarsely, then gasped in agony and closed her eyes. To the Boy's untrained but not inexperienced eye, it looked like his mother would survive, and his panic abated slightly as he remembered their plan. He pulled a blanket from the bed and covered her, slipped a pillow under her head, and then made the preparations to put their plan into action.

The Boy moved painfully to retrieve a small bottle of whiskey and a plastic bag containing about a teaspoon of brownish-gray powder from a secret compartment under the floor. He dumped the powder into the whiskey bottle, then set the bottle, a glass and a bag of finger snacks on the table in front of the sofa in their small common room. When the Fiend got back, they hoped that he would take a drink before resuming his abuse of his family. The powder was a powerful narcotic that would keep him pacified until his leave was over, and he would go back on duty feeling as if he'd just returned from a satisfying 3-day bender that he couldn't remember (a pretty standard condition for Troopers returning from leave). The Boy wished they could use poison instead of a narcotic, but the death of a Terror Trooper on leave would trigger a military investigation and a reprisal.

Satisfied that they would be safe when the Fiend returned – or at least as safe as anyone could be, in the slum section of Negundus, the capital of Pragasus 38, the Boy returned to tending his mother.

About a year later, the Fiend's battalion of Terror Troopers returned to Pragasus 38 from the Golding Occupation, a minor military action in the Wyndham system. His mood was more foul than normal, and he was screaming at his mate and the Boy from the instant he walked in the door. "Your offile hero, Challenger, cost me a promotion and a medal, you freepin' slimy logi turd!" he snarled at the Boy. "If that freepin' nelix had stayed outta my way, it woodah been me who made the freepin' rescue." He slammed the boy in the head and knocked him down. The Boy managed to roll with the blow and it stung but he wasn't hurt.

The Boy's mother stepped closer to the Fiend. "I'm really sorry, sir," she said quietly. "Can I get you something to eat?"

"Yes, and can I put your things into your room, sir?" the Boy asked, equally softly.

It usually calmed the Fiend when they called him 'sir'. He was here on a one-week pass, but they knew that his next deployment would be as part of the force that was to conquer and occupy Burgess, one of the former Rim Worlds, and that he would be gone at least 4 years and likely longer than that. They didn't plan to be here when he returned, and they had agreed that they would do everything they could to placate him for the next week. What was a week, when they expected to soon be free for the rest of their lives?

Even with their best efforts, it didn't go well, and both the Boy and his mother were severely battered within only a couple of hours. The more they tried to please the Fiend, the more abusive he became. Finally, she couldn't stand to see her son being abused any longer.

"Ya PUNK! You think you're better than me?" the Fiend growled when the Boy offered to help him with something. "I don't need you! I don't need NOBODY!" He picked the boy up by the hair, head-butted him, and dropped him to the ground. He lifted his foot, planning to grind it into the Boy's face, but his mate screamed and dove forward, wrapping her arms around his waist, driving him backwards just enough that his vicious stomp missed the Boy's head. As the Fiend attempted to pull her away from him, the Boy attacked. He stood up, driving upwards with all the power in his young legs, slamming his shoulder up between the Fiend's legs. The Fiend screeched in pain and fell to the ground, wrapped into a fetal position.

"Run!" the Boy urged his mother. "He'll kill us if he catches us!"

"But he might be hurt," she sobbed. The Boy was pulling on her arm, trying to drag her out the door, but she pulled back, her determination to escape warring with her concern for her injured man.

Suddenly, the Fiend lunged and grabbed the Boy's ankle. As his mate screamed again, the Fiend yanked the Boy off balance. He fell and was knocked unconscious when his head bounced off the common room table.

When he awakened, his mother was dead and the Fiend was gone. An hour later, the Boy was racing through the streets, seething with anger and searching desperately for a place to hide.

He'd gone to the local police station, but the officer to whom he'd reported the murder had been apathetic. The Fiend was a well-known troublemaker, but his mate had been a sub-citizen, something the Boy had not been aware of. Regardless of the Fiend's prior reputation, the death of a sub-citizen at the hands of a citizen was not a crime, and there was nothing the police would do. Their 'conversation' had been interrupted by a televid call from the Fiend, who was searching for the Boy. When he overheard the officer promise to detain him until the Fiend arrived, the Boy had instantly slipped out of the building.

With nowhere to go he'd wandered the streets aimlessly, until he'd been approached by a girl, several years older than he was, wearing the colors of the Maelstrom chlon.

"T'Stroms kin help yah," she said quietly. He looked at her again, more closely. Her speech identified her as a sub-citizen. "She were Strom too, yah know."

He hadn't known. His mother had never talked about her family or her background, and the Boy had never thought to ask her. "How do I know I can trust you?" he asked weakly.

"Tont matter none, neh?" she asked in reply. "What elsayah got? Foller me. Least, will giyah summat tasleep tonight." He followed her passively as she walked away: she was right.

The girl led him to a safe place to sleep (though it wasn't very clean), and made him an offer he couldn't accept – to join Maelstrom. Chlons were the lowest of the low, the very dregs of Georwellian society. Not only were they composed of criminals, revolutionaries and anarchists, but worse than that, to join a chlon was to voluntarily become a sub-citizen. Even after the shock of what he'd just discovered about his mother, the Boy wasn't willing to give up his own citizenship.

The boy was chagrined to realize that in some way, this girl knew more about his mother than he did. His mother had secretly remained in contact with her chlon throughout her 'marriage', and now that she was gone, they had planned a memorial service for her. The next day, the Boy decided to go home and get clean clothes for the service. He figured he would slip in and out undetected, as the Fiend would either already be out drinking or would be sleeping off last night's bender.

Instead, after he had cautiously opened the door, he surprised a woman in the process of serving breakfast in the small common room. She was wearing his mother's clothes, and for a heart stopping-instant, the Boy thought that yesterday had been only a bad dream. But she wasn't his mother, she was younger and prettier. She screamed when she saw him, and the door to the bedroom slammed open. Before the Fiend could see him, the Boy was running. The door to the apartment slammed closed, and that was the last time the Boy ever saw the Fiend.

The service was short. The Boy couldn't even see his mother one more time – the Fiend had simply disposed of the body with the rest of the household rubbish, and it was probably buried in a landfill by now.

"It's what happens to all sub-citizens," the girl whispered to him.

"Why are you here?" he whispered back. "She lived with my father for at least 10 years; she wasn't a Strom anymore."

"But she was!" the girl insisted. "All we have is each other, and we don't ever let go."

"So what do I have to do to be a Strom?" he asked. Being the son of a citizen had brought him nothing but pain. He didn't even have clean clothes for his mother's memorial service, and he hadn't even had a chance to say goodbye. The desire to be part of something – anything, even a criminal chlon of sub-citizens – was just overwhelming.

His initiation ceremony occurred shortly after the memorial service ended. As part of the ceremony, he renounced his birth name – he would be known as 'the Boy' until he earned his Maelstrom street name.

Chapter 2: Street Shadow

Four years later, the Boy was gone, replaced by Street Shadow. As he had gone through his adolescent 'change of life', Shadow had developed speed, coordination and reflexes vastly superior to a normal human. With a little training, he became the best thief Maelstrom had ever seen. He also had a natural aptitude for dirty fighting, but Strom needed thieves more than they needed ruftuffs. Even with his special aptitudes, life as a Strom was hard. They were always on the run from someone, usually the police or other chlons. Sometimes an influential citizen who felt particularly wronged would even hire someone to come after them. And the clashes between internal cliques was sometimes more vicious than battles between Maelstrom and the Krazers, their chief street rival and greatest enemy.

Street Shadow's own natural arrogance did little to make his life easier. He made no attempt to fit in, couldn't be bothered to join any of the cliques, and wouldn't let a clique grow up around him. He knew he was the best and he made sure everyone around him knew it as well. Based on his successes, he often broke chlon rules and frequently claimed privileges reserved for those far above his station, and those around him grew resentful when he escaped punishment.

"So, that's how I single-handedly stole the Magneutronic Power Ring from Balmoso, Militar of the Krazers" a preening Street Shadow boasted to the admiring crowd of teenage Stroms sitting nearby. Most were girls, but he had some male admirers as well. "The Duke himself gave me this as a reward," he touched the chain of thick gold links around his neck. The Dukister of Storms was Maelstrom's leader. Few Stroms as junior as Street Shadow ever got to meet the Duke.

Shadow had recently gone through a growth spurt and reached his full adult height of 5' 10". Though he was still almost painfully thin, he was as strong as most adults. He was handsome in a dark, slightly sinister manner: swarthy with a square face, pointed chin and dark, curly hair. Even at 13, he had a full handlebar mustache. His clothing was a riot of black and blue, boldly showing the Maelstrom colors, with accents of red and yellow.

"Freepin' grangles, Shadow, you must'a told that story a thousand times, just since yesterday!" one of the guys at a nearby table said loudly in disgust. This was Flat Screen, one of Strom's most accomplished computer hackers. Flat was jealous that computer hackers had lower status in the Maelstrom than thieves. Several of his friends laughed at his wit, and even some of the girls gathered around Shadow tittered. "If the stupid ring is so damn powerful, why didn't you keep it for yourself?"

"Yeah, and when we gonna hear `bout another big score?" asked another of Flat's friends. "You been milkin' that one for weeks now."

"I get more action in an hour than you two do in a month, put together!" Shadow bristled in response. He was mentally cursing himself for not even thinking about keeping the ring. Nobody had even known he'd stolen it until he'd told Strom's Master of Thieves. Supposedly the Ring gave the wearer the vitality of 3 men. Not that he needed it, but years from now, who knew? "Why don't YOU tell us a thrilling story? Like maybe how you hacked into that 5 year old girl's pocket Brother Kindly game yesterday. Aren't you worried she'll be coming after you?"

Flat Screen growled as he reached down below the table to pull his ankle knife from its sheath. He started to rise, but his friends held him back. Flat Screen was one of Strom's least skilled fighters, and his posse knew that even the knife wouldn't be enough of an advantage against Shadow. The young thief would easily take it away from their leader and then hack him to ribbons. And with so many witnesses who would say that Flat started the fight, Shadow wouldn't even be punished.

"That's what I thought" Shadow smirked with satisfaction as Flat Screen said nothing. "Now where was I?"

"We… were just leaving" a girl maybe 3 years older than Shadow spoke up, loudly. She took his hand and pulled him to his feet, then slipped her arm possessively through his. "You had something you wanted to show me in private, remember?" She smirked at her rivals as she and Street Shadow slipped away.

Hours later, Flat Screen and his friends were lounging in an empty room in the abandoned building where Shadow and the girl had gone for privacy. Flat was excited and speaking loudly. Shadow had planned to walk through the room, rudely interrupting them, but what he heard caught his attention and he stopped in the next room to eavesdrop.

"So, what's got you so excited?" one of the Stroms asked Flat Screen. "I saw you talking to Yudi last night - did you finally get lucky? I heard she's really hot for Shadow."

"This is even better than that!" Flat snapped, more than a little annoyed to be talking about his lack of success with girls. "Girls I can get any time." In the other room, Shadow snickered silently. "But meetin' the Duke is way more important. Tell you what, by this time tomorrow, the Duke is gonna know who I am!"

Of course, the other guys had to hear the story. "I hacked into the Research Central computer network yesterday," Flat boasted loudly. "They've got a new invention they've just finished testing, and tomorrow they plan to send it back to Georwell. Except they won't be able to, because I'll have it." He continued with his story.

Some Research Central investigators had recently recovered a small amount of a previously unknown metallic compound from a meteor crater. They had named the compound Georwellium. Georwellium had a number of unusual properties, but the team had only a very small amount to experiment with. They had used their entire supply to build this new invention, and were sending it directly to Council Central on Georwell. Hopefully, the Council would be impressed enough to provide them with funding for an expedition to locate the source of the meteor.

"Boring!" "What's a meteor, anyway?" "If there's no chicks, I ain't interested!" were the least of the rude remarks Flat's friends made by this point in the story. One of them had just got up and walked out of the room, and the others looked like they were ready to follow. Flat hit them with the punch line.

"When a properly modulated signal is transmitted through an antenna made of Georwellium, it can 'warp' nearby space, producing several interesting effects."

The remaining 3 Stroms headed for the front door. "OK, ok!" Flats shouted, desperate to regain his audience. "They built a belt that can make the wearer invisible and invulnerable! And tonight I'm going to steal it!"

This got their interest back. With access to Research Central's security computer, Flat had downloaded the blueprints for the building, schematics for all the security systems, and all the entrance codes and passwords, and come up with a foolproof plan. Tonight he was going get into the compound by posing as a sub-citizen on the overnight cleanup crew. His stolen codes would let him into the room where the belt was stored, and once he donned the belt, nobody could stop him!

Now his friends' reactions were more to his liking. "Fantastic!" "You must be the smartest guy on the planet!" "You'll get all the girls now!" "Don't forget us when the Dukister makes you Chief Scientist!"

In the next room, Shadow almost got sick listening to those wimps kissing up to Flat Screen. "I'll be the one to steal that belt," he promised himself. "And this time, I'm not gonna give it to the Duke. I'm already the best, but once I've got that belt, I'll be invincible!"

Flat Screen had actually been working on this plan for months, not just a few days as he had implied to his cohorts. He'd built an exact duplicate of the Invincibelt (as he'd come to think of it), using an aluminum alloy in place of the Georwellium antenna. He'd inserted subroutines into the Research Central security computer that would mask him from discovery as he moved through the Research Central complex. In order to enter the complex disguised as a sub-citizen on the overnight maintenance team, he'd created a phony id in the computer's personnel database, and programmed the same phony id into a sub-citizen identity chip transmitter, encased it in an ingestible capsule.

Everything was in place; everything was perfectly planned, and he KNEW the risk was negligible, and yet, his fear of capture was so overwhelming he knew he would never be able to carry out his plan. Every night, he tried to convince himself to move, to go out and win his proper place in the world, and every night, he sat on his bed, trembling and nauseous and disgusted with his cowardice. When he'd realized that Research Central was going to send the belt away, and he'd lose his chance and wind up a cowardly failure for the rest of his life, he'd had a flash of insight, he'd come up with another brilliant plan. He would get his greatest rival to take the risk for him!

'Now, THAT was a boring caper!' Street Shadow thought as he made his way back to Maelstrom territory after his quick visit to Research Central. 'Gotta admit, though, that Flat Screen jerk sure did a good job of planning!'

Tonight's first challenge had been bypassing the security systems Flat Screen had installed in his makeshift electronics lab in the basement of one of Maelstrom's 'abandoned' buildings. Shadow had almost been impressed by the computer jerk's thoroughness, but Flat had failed to consider the single biggest flaw in his own system. Maelstrom stole their power from the utility grid, and all Flat's security devices got their power from a single conduit. A quick snip with an insulated wire cutter, and all his secrets had been revealed for Shadow to take.

He'd quickly gathered up everything Flat had prepared for the heist. The replacement belt was heavy and awkward to carry, so he put it on. The plans looked solid; once he was inside, he would have to pass through 3 security doors and he had the access code for each. Once he reached the Research Central complex, he'd swallowed the capsule, and, now broadcasting a sub-citizen id, he'd walked boldly through the maintenance entrance.

The night's only tense moment had come when he'd keyed in the code to open the safe holding the belt. Had Flat set him up by providing a wrong code? The monitor above the keypad was flashing a warning; he had to key in the correct code in the next 13 seconds… 12 seconds… 11… or this entire area of the building would be blanketed with stun beams. He realized he couldn't get outside the target area in the time he had left, so he carefully entered the code again. He had to concentrate to keep his fingers from shaking, but he finished with a second to spare, and the warning stopped, and the safe slid silently open. He relaxed; even if there was a silent alarm going off somewhere else, once he donned the belt, no one would be able to stop him!

It had only taken a second to don the real belt, replace it with the duplicate belt, and press the stud on the buckle to activate the force field and invisibility shield. The world around him began to waver slightly, as if he were standing in a rising column of hot air. It was an annoying effect, but he could easily adjust. Shadow could still see his body, but when he looked into the reflecting surface of a metal cabinet, there was nothing! He did some cautious checks to establish that he was really protected by the force field, and then made his way back out of the building. The stolen access codes continued to open locked doors, and he was outside in no time.

So what should he do now?

A crew of sub-citizens, on their way to their nightly assignment, had been forced to evacuate their battered, dingy, poorly maintained bus when it caught on fire. As they milled around in the street, two 'Uncle Friendly' officers (what they called the police on Pragasus-38) had roared up in their prowl car, leaped out, and were using their electrified stun-sticks to beat these unfortunate sub-citizens as punishment for illegal assembly and violating the sub-citizen curfew.

A heavy chunk of debris smashed into the helmet of one officer, knocking him off his feet. As he fell to the pavement, his partner drew her sidearm and started looking for a target. Somebody who wasn't there laughed loudly in her ear.

"What's the matter, baby, can't you see me?" Shadow mocked the cop. He grabbed the barrel of her gun and twisted it back towards her. "Why don't you shoot now?" he asked coldly. She could feel pressure on her trigger finger and she struggled to move her arm, to drop the gun, to move out of the way, anything at all to escape being shot by her own sidearm. She was forced to pull the trigger, and she fell to the pavement, howling in agony as every nerve in her body screamed in pain, triggered by the gun's beam.

"Lucky for you I switched it from 'kill'!" Shadow sneered at the writhing figure. The gun fell to the ground where something crushed it. "Not much fun being on this end of the beam, is it?" He'd felt the 'agony' setting more than once in his career as a Strom, and he'd vowed he'd get payback one day. The other cop was trying to get to his feet, until an invisible foot smashed him between the legs. A couple of seconds later, the Uncle Friendly cruiser lifted under autopilot, lined up on Uncle Friendly's Castle (the police station, about 5 miles away), and rocketed forward on emergency acceleration. It would be moving like a missile by the time it reached its target.

Back in the mostly-abandoned section of the city that was considered Maelstrom territory, Shadow headed towards his own room, then he hesitated, turned, and moved off in a different direction. What he'd heard about Yudi earlier intrigued him. He'd long coveted her, and if she really thought he was hot, perhaps she'd be willing to help him celebrate tonight's success.

Deep beneath Maelstrom territory, in a room that had once been a control room for the long-abandoned local subway system, Random Sampling, Strom's Master of Thieves smiled in cold satisfaction as he watched a video of Street Shadow stealing a heavy belt made of hand-sized slabs of silver, gilded with gold and encrusted with gems and jewels, from Flat Screen's lab. He now had the evidence he needed to run Street Shadow out of Maelstrom; theft within the chlon was one of the worst things one could do. Despite his earlier acceptance of the boy as an apprentice and something of a protégé, Shadow's rapid success, growing arrogance and obvious ambition had begun to make Master Sampling uneasy about the prospect of 'forced retirement' in the near-future.

As well, the growing number of unsolved spectacular thefts in the local city was starting to draw unwanted attention from the Planetary Council. Soon they would commission agents more competent than the bumbling Uncle Friendly cops, who were reliable at using brutality to control the sub-citizen population, but good for little else. Part of Master Sampling's responsibilities included keeping Maelstrom on good terms with Uncle Friendly. Allowing them to solve the crime wave by turning Street Shadow over to them (secretly, of course) would solve his premature retirement problems and solidify his (i.e., Maelstrom's) relationship with the authorities.

"As I promised, Master Sampling," Flat Screen lied suavely to the Master of Thieves, "he believes I divined the location of the legendary 'Belt of Thanes' from recovered computer records, and that the belt he stole from me is indeed the Belt of Thanes. The belt's holographic disguise has fooled him entirely!"

The video image of Shadow, gloating over the Belt, froze and then split. Half of the display now showed Street Shadow wearing the fancy jeweled belt, while the other half showed him wearing a heavy belt made of plain hand sized slabs of pewter-colored material. "Here, I've removed the holographic image. He's just wearing a heavy belt, but the nelix thinks it’s the Belt of Thanes." Flat had done his best video work ever on the image showing the jeweled precious metal belt, and he was gambling his future that Master Sampling wouldn't notice which screen was actually the counterfeit.

Almost two hundred years ago, invading Georwellian forces had killed the last Thane of Pragasus 38. His daughter, the heir apparent, had managed to escape with the Belt of Thanes, symbol of the ancient ruling family. Georwellian forces claimed to have recovered her body only days later, but the Belt of Thanes had vanished from the history of Pragasus 38.

A myriad of legends had grown up around the belt since that time. The more cynical Pragasonians claimed that the daughter had broken up the Belt, sold it and used the proceeds to flee, leaving the corpse of a serving girl behind in her place. The more hopeful legends held that the Belt would grant great powers to the descendant of the Thanes who rediscovered it, and that person would lead Pragasus 38 to freedom.

"The fellow's tutor in discernment shall be himself remanded this very night for failing to instruct his students in the piercing of disguises," Master Sampling commented disdainfully, distancing himself from his former protege. Flat's decision to look to the Master of Thieves for an ally in his conspiracy against his rival, Shadow, was proving well-found. "That holographic mask is little more than elementary, and even a half-trained novice should have been able to see through it."

Flat chuckled. "Indeed, Master Sampling. No misdirection of simple technology can fool the sharp senses of a properly-trained thief!" he agreed ironically. There had been no decoration of any kind on either of the 2 belts that Street Shadow had stolen tonight, but Master Sampling was indeed fooled by a misdirection of technology. Well, perhaps he wanted to be fooled...

"If you have the control unit, we should go expose our traitor," Master Sampling suggested.

Flat pulled a small plastic box from his pocket, about the size of an early 60s Terran transistor radio. He was particularly proud of the unit. It had been a difficult task to rewrite Research Central's command codes, before they were even installed into the Invincibelt, to include his own back door, but this small unit could remotely override the belt's manual controls. He shut down the force field and invisibility shield and activated several other functions. The Invincibelt had a wider range of functionality than he'd let slip to Shadow, as the young thief was about to discover – in a dismaying fashion!

'I love it when a plan comes together!' the young schemer thought to himself as he and the Master of Thieves headed towards the surface. He chuckled again. Master Sampling was so worried about the ambitions of Street Shadow that he was totally overlooking Flat Screen's own ambitions.

Like a soft breeze, Street Shadow moved easily through the debris-strewn alleys and rubble-choked vacant lots that composed Maelstrom territory. The belt might make him invisible and invulnerable, but the silence with which he slipped through the night was a result of his own skill. He was dismayed when the belt began to emit a crackling noise. He reached for the power switch on the buckle and grunted in pain when a two-inch spark jumped from the belt to his hand! He staggered backwards into a wall, which drove the belt into the small of his back. Another shock drove him forward and down to his hands and knees.

It took all his will and concentration to remain almost absolutely motionless, slowly and carefully using one hand to unseal a pouch on his thigh. He was unable to put on the pair of gloves of thin, transparent highly flexible plastic that he gently pulled from the pouch, but he used one of the gloves to insulate his hand as he touched the clasp of the belt. He received another powerful jolt before the belt dropped finally to the ground.

By now, his breath was coming in gasps and his skin was cold and clammy, and he was in shock from his near electrocution. He managed to kick a thin covering of trash over the traitorous belt before staggering away.

Not far away, just outside the door to Street Shadow's room, Flat Screen monitored the action with his small control device. He smiled as he entered another command, and beneath its new blanket of trash, the belt again faded to invisibility. Flat's controller could lead him to it at any time, and it would be safe from discovery until he was free to recover it.

Two of Master Sampling's most trusted apprentices were searching Street Shadow's room while the Master and Flat waited outside. Flat chuckled and the Master managed to look concerned at the occasional yelps of pain pain from within the room as one young thief or the other failed to disarm one of Shadow's more cleverly hidden traps. "That boy really is very talented. If only he were more willing to accept direction, he could go far," the Master mused with simulated regret so real that he (mostly) believed it. "It's too bad he's a traitor." Flat didn't bother to respond.

The Master had enticed his proteges into performing the search by letting them keep almost everything they found, and now and again he could hear them jabbering in excitement about one of Shadow's more valuable trophies. And then came the shout he'd been waiting for.

"Master, we've found it!" the nameless female apprentice called in triumph. Bloody, battered and bruised, but glowing with a big smile of satisfaction and carrying a bag of goodies even larger than her smile, she stepped through the door and handed her mentor a heavy belt, seemingly covered with gold filigree and encrusted with gems and jewels. Her unwary accomplice wasn't as lucky; in the other room they heard a scream, abruptly cut off by what sounded like a ton of bricks crashing to the floor.

"Sound like that's gonna hurt," Flat commented cheerfully.

Master Sampling glared at him. "Deft Touch, get some help and see if there's anything you can do for that clumsy oaf." Deft Touch was thrilled - very few nameless apprentices received their Maelstrom names directly from their masters.

As Touch vanished, the two conspirators could hear someone approaching painfully. Street Shadow dragged himself into the hallway, and stopped in shock when he saw his supposed mentor and his young rival, standing outside the open door to his room, holding a gaudy belt he'd never seen before.

As Shadow stood still in shock, his Master spoke in stentorian tones. "Apprentice, you have violated Maelstrom Code. You will redeem yourself by surviving the ritual of curtate at a general assembly tomorrow morning." Maelstrom's only punishment for any violation was curtate, a spirited 5 minute beating by a half dozen of Strom's toughest warriors, delivered in front of the assembled gang. Those who lived through curtate were reinstated.

Shadow was already weak and sick, as he fought through shock. He had never expected to be brought to task for his violation, as he had been sure he'd left no evidence of his theft. And to be condemned by his own Master felt like the ultimate betrayal. He'd gone from the ultimate emotional high tonight, the successful theft and the encounter with the Uncle Friendlies to the ultimate low, betrayal and likely death at the hands of those he considered his family.

He turned to run, but he couldn't bring up the energy to even keep moving. His world crashed in on him like he'd just triggered a ton of bricks in a dead-fall. He collapsed to the floor and lay there, curled tightly into the fetal position, shivering and sobbing. He didn't even seem to notice when several other Stroms arrived, minutes later.

"Tie him securely and imprison him for the night!" Flat Screen ordered. The goon squad glanced at Master Sampling, but when he didn't say anything, they moved to carry out Flat's orders. He smiled to himself. When Street Shadow had assumed the privileges of higher ranks, seemingly without consequences, Flat had been infuriated. But he'd also learned by watching. Advancement in Maelstrom came to those who were audacious enough to take it, not wait for it, and Flat Screen vowed at that instant that he was done waiting!

Flat turned his back on the goon squad. "As the wronged party, I wish to take part in the administration of the curtate tomorrow, Master Sampling. I need my rest." He walked away, headed for his own quarters. Master Sampling headed slowly in another direction, shuffling his feet painfully like a much older man.

"Don't look like such a hot shot now, do ya?" one of the goons laughed at their bedraggled captive. "Better git a yer feet ur we'll be draggin ya by yer hair, logi turd!" He emphasized his mocking words with a kick to the side of Shadow's head.

The kick never landed. The goon would never know it, but his choice of expletive was like a spark in a room full of explosives. The Fiend had mocked the Boy with those same words. The Boy had never had the power to fight back, but Street Shadow had left the Boy behind long ago. And tonight, Street Shadow would be left behind as well.

Red hot rage exploded in his mind while adrenaline exploded through his arteries. Pain and weakness were blasted away, and the being that rose from the cold debris was more like a demon than a man. The demi-demon moved faster than a man could see, and the helpless goons died quickly at his hand. Its rage was temporarily sated by the slaughter at hand, and the newly-born creature of violence vanished silently into the night.

Chapter 3: The Outcast

"I kinda like you, kid - you fought good last night," the big, burly man was a lanista (handler) at the Munera Arena, halfway around Pragasus 38 from the territory of the Maelstroms. Last night, a new kid had approached the lanista and asked how one became a gladiator. The handler had figured the kid was good for a quick, gory death in one of the warm-up bouts, and set him up against an experienced knife fighter.

It hadn't been much of a fight. Even half starved and exhausted, the Outcast was faster than the knife fighter. He'd kept backing away until the fighter got frustrated and launched a vicious forehand swipe. A backhand blow to the fighter's wrist had turned the swipe into an uncontrolled stumbling spin. The Outcast stepped in behind his foe and knocked him out with a hard blow to the back of his head, ending the fight. The crowd had booed and jeered lustily; they'd paid to see gore, and most of them had bet on the loser. The Outcast had simply taken his very small payment, and gone looking for his first whole meal in a long time.

The Outcast had been running from Uncle Friendly, Maelstrom warriors, agents of Research Central, members of other gangs and 'sub-hunters', citizens who got their kicks hunting sub-citizens, since he'd escaped from Maelstrom. He'd rarely slept in the same place 2 nights running, and he'd missed more meals than he'd eaten. He'd been thin before, now he was gaunt and had a haunted look. A kid with nowhere to go and nothing to lose, the kind of opponent welcomed by the veteran gladiators of the Arena.

"I din't tink we'd need ya tonight, but one'a da guys got hit by a truck. So we need somebody ta fight Karnak. Rehmdaug, the guy what got hit, hes'a 5 year guy, so the purse is a lot bigger den last night." Not that the lanista expected that this kid would ever see a cut of the purse.

Rehmdaug hadn't really been hit by a truck; this was going to be his last fight anyway, and when he'd heard that he'd been matched against Karnak, he'd decided to retire. Karnak of the Lightning Hands had earned his name, and he was one of the most brutal gladiators around. If the kid hadn't been from out of town, he'd probably be running now, no matter how low his circumstances.

Once the kid had agreed to the bout, the lanista had hustled him into the preparation area. No use letting him talk to other fighters and maybe changing his mind. Arena management made sure he had no chances to talk to other fighters before the bout was introduced. Before the Outcast had time to get nervous, it was time for the bout.

Across the ring, the Outcast saw a well-built young man who moved with athletic grace. Years ago, a dagger swipe across his face had torn an ugly scar and permanently damaged some muscles in his neck, leaving his head canted to the left. His short-sleeved body suit was padded as much as the rules allowed, and he was equipped with a small circular shield on his left wrist and a short club.

Though he'd been unarmed last night, tonight the Outcast had a staff. He'd found a long scrap of wood in a trash pile, and spent last night's lonely hours shaping and smoothing if with a handful of rocks as tools. He wished there had been some way to harden it, but it would have to do for the moment.

Karnak was talking even before the bout began. "Too bad, Logi, gonna die in just your second fight. And it's gonna hurt, bad," he mocked his young opponent. The Outcast simply snarled, enraged at being called a logi again. He flicked the staff, and Karnak blocked easily with the shield. "Gonna need to do way better than that, logi!" Already, the more experience fighter had realized how to enrage his opponent.

The Outcast pressed forward, attacking furiously with jabs from his staff. The ends moved so fast they blurred, and Karnak was forced to use both shield and billy club to block. As he backed away, the more experienced fighter managed to turn consistently to his left, and they circled around the arena, the Outcast stalking relentlessly forward, his staff humming at impossibly high speed, and Karnak desperately blocking, unable to launch an attack of his own.

Meanwhile, the crowd was quiet. Most of them had bet heavily on Karnak, and their favorite was already running from a mere beginner! The Outcast launched a new flurry of attacks, and the flailing ends of the staff forced Karnak's hurried blocks ever closer and closer to his body. A sudden backhand swipe caught Karnak in the back of his club hand, knocking the weapon skittering across the sandy floor. Before Karnak could recover, the return stroke of the staff smashed into the backside of the shield, knocking it loose as well. Without shield or weapon, Karnak was totally exposed to the Outcast's next attack.

The Outcast swung the staff with both hands, and the free end whipped around towards Karnak's head. Karnak was not going to be able to avoid the blow, but he didn't even try. He calmly raised his left hand into the path of the staff, and a bolt of electricity leaped from his hand to the Outcast's weapon, which exploded! The current raced through the Outcast, blasting him backward like a high explosive.

The crowd went wild, screaming with unleashed bloodlust! Karnak rarely unleashed all of his power in a single bolt; it took hours for him to recharge, and he preferred to weaken his opponents with a series of smaller shocks. The aftereffects of these smaller shocks caused muscles to tremble, and finally to spasm uncontrollably, and Karnak would have another easy win. In all his fights, Karnak had never before come so close to defeat. But he would do whatever he needed to win, and he was sure he'd just won this fight!

The Outcast was not so easily beaten, however. After his recent experience with electrical shocks, he had stolen insulated gloves and boots during his cross-world odyssey. His superior reflexes had allowed him to see an aura of crackling light starting to grow around Karnak's arm as the other had raised it into position. When the current had traveled up his staff, the Outcast had already given his body the desperate mental command to release the stick and jump backwards. He was flung violently back through the air, but the stunning effect of the current was marginally less than if he'd been totally unprepared. He thudded when he hit and scraped a track through the layer of sand covering the arena floor before he finally skidded to a halt, face down and scrunched up.

Karnak took the boneless landing and uncontrolled skidding as evidence that the Outcast was now helpless. Instead of rushing to his opponent to finish him off, the relieved gladiator strutted around the Arena like a rooster, waving his hands in triumph and blowing kisses at the attractive women in the crowd. He was slightly surprised when the Outcast moaned in pain and started to twitch, as if struggling to turn over, but the fact that his opponent was helpless but not unconscious would make Karnak's victory even more dramatic.

Karnak stood over the twitching body of the Outcast and made the gesture to the crowd that asked for their vote on his fate. The crowd's bloodlust surged higher, and they leaped to their feet, almost unanimously giving the 'thumbs-down' symbol. Karnak kicked the Outcast once vigorously in the ribs to insure that he was helpless, then flipped him over with the toe of his boot. The crowd roared louder as Karnak raised his foot and attempted to crush the Outcast's windpipe with a vicious blow that would kill him through painful suffocation.

The Outcast abruptly rolled just far enough that Karnak's stomp missed. He leaped to his feet, and he had Karnak's billy club in his hand. "Great balance, I think I'll keep it!" Without any warning at all, the weighted club was flying at Karnak's throat. Karnak managed to dodge, to his left, right into the handful of sand the fighter had thrown with his other hand. A pair of quick punches to his blinded opponent and Karnak was lying on the ground, unconscious.

Once again, the crowd was on its feet, roaring and giving the 'thumbs down' symbol. The Outcast gave them a hand signal of his own, then retrieved his new billy club. He calmly walked from the Arena, ignoring the wild crowd as the cheers changed to boos and the crowd demanded the death of both fighters.

The outraged crowd in the stands had actually rioted after the Outcast had refused to kill Karnak. A lot of them had lost big betting on Karnak, and they hadn't even got to see a death for their money. The management of the Arena had blamed the Outcast for their problems. The lanista had refused to pay him, and when the kid had gotten angry, a half dozen of the biggest, meanest gladiators in the lanista's stable roughed him up before throwing him out the side door.

Battered, bruised and bleeding, his nerves still jangling from Karnak's lightning bolt, and physically exhausted from being hunted and hounded halfway around his planet, the Outcast couldn't find the energy to get to his feet, or even drag himself out of the middle of the street. He knew he was lying in a pile of trash and his life was leaking away through his wounds, yet he just didn't care. He'd invested his last tiny shards of hope in the Arena. A couple small payoffs, even for losses, and he could have afforded to buy stolen identity papers, and maybe after that, he could have found a job at the spaceport and somehow worked his way off this Triune-forsaken planet. Now, that hope had been ripped away, and he had nothing left inside to take its place.

He didn't even react when someone kicked him in the side. "Jeez, da tings peepow trow out inna trash deese days - ain't day got no respek fur pubbik clendiness?" The slur of the voice muted the intended sarcasm, but the speaker and his friends all laughed anyway.

"You cost me a lot of wad tonight, boy, and I'm gonna take it outta your skin," a second loudmouth shouted.

The Outcast barely managed to turn his head. The man who had kicked him was short and extremely heavy, and he staggered as he moved - someone high on recstim.

"Leave some f'rme" a third voice laughed.

The others jabbered, but it was too much work for the Outcast to comprehend their words. Somewhere inside he knew he had to get up or they would beat him to death, but his body didn't respond to his feeble mental pleas. Part of him welcomed his approaching death - why bother to live any longer? He had nothing left to live for.

There were 8 of these disgruntled, intoxicated Arena patrons crowding around him, and he was actually fortunate there were so many of them. They were too drug-impaired to cooperate, and they got in each others ways, which interfered with their blows. 2 of them managed to hit each other, and started fighting. But the Outcast was getting hit, and taking damage, and there was no doubt about the eventual outcome.

The two fighting each other were the first. They'd managed to grab each other and had fallen to the pavement. One second they were tied up in crude wrestling holds, shouting incoherently at each other and squirming violently, though to little effect, and the next they were silent and still. The closest goon to them turned his head in curiosity, but he was too befuddled by stinksmoke to even see what crashed into the side of his head. He fell like a rock in a landslide. By now, the other 5 goons were starting to realize something was wrong. The most sober thought he saw the figure of a man, attacking his friends.

"Hey! Who the crap are you" he yelled. He was reaching for the illegal stun gun in his pocket when the edge of a palm shattered his wrist, and he fell to the ground, screaming in agony. A boot to the temple shut him up. His friends started running in terror. One was tripped, and a push while he was stumbling sent him skidding across the rough pavement on his face. A foot to the rear of another had the effect of an explosion behind him, throwing him violently crashing into a wall, arms and legs akimbo. The other 3 got away, screaming as they ran, not even looking back to see if their friends were still alive.

A hand grabbed onto the Outcast's shoulder and pulled him to a sitting position. His eyes weren't working well; he saw a face that seemed more demon than human. But he could understand the words it spoke. "C'mon, kid, we gotta clear outta here. Uncle Friendly doesn't come down this way too often, but even those clowns can't ignore the screams these guys made."

Looking more closely, the Outcast realized that his eyes actually were working correctly. This figure was not some kind of mythological monster, but a man wearing a grotesque mask. He started to ask why he should trust someone he'd never met before, in the middle of the night in the worst section of this city, wearing a demon mask, but then realized that things probably couldn't get much worse for him. What did he have to lose? The masked man helped him to his feet, and they moved away into the darkness. Initially, the man in the mask was virtually carrying the younger man, but as he began to move, the Outcast began to feel better. He realized that he would live - and that he was starting to want to.

As they hurried away, the rescuer discarded his mask, revealing the ancient face beneath. A wealth of wrinkles pushed his gray hair up and away from his forehead; what hair remained was cropped short and cut in the traditional style of a military drill sergeant. A thin handlebar mustache decorated his upper lip and a short tuft of gray hair sprouted wildly from the tip of his chin. Though he was a head shorter than Outcast and appeared to be in his 90s, he moved with the grace and power of a highly trained athlete in his prime.

The Outcast tried to pull away and return to the Arena. "Are you crazy, boy?" his rescuer asked incredulously. "The ones that ran will be coming back by now, and there'll be UnFriendlies all over the place. What could you want back there that's worth the effort?"

"I dropped my billy club" the youngster replied, though he was actually thinking of the wallets they'd left behind.

The old fellow smiled approvingly. "Retrieving your favored weapon is actually a pretty good reason to go back. Fortunately for you, though, we don't have to." He flipped his wrist, and the club seemed to materialize in his hand, though the Outcast's reflexes were good enough to reveal that it had been concealed up the old guy's sleeve. Almost as if he could read the youngster's mind he continued "Don't worry about all that cash lying around - I made sure it's safe." He tossed a wallet to the Outcast. "Got the rest of them, too - we can split the rest later."

"Are they dead?" the Outcast asked, only slightly curious about the fate of the goons who had attacked him.

The old guy chuckled. "The one that smashed into the wall, likely. The others will probably live, if they get to the hospital in time. Must be I'm getting old," he continued ruefully. "We should be quiet for the next few minutes - don't need the neighbors mindin' our business." He guided the young man swiftly through the dark streets. It was instantly apparent when they crossed into a 'citizen' neighborhood, there were sidewalks and streetlights. The Outcast was reluctant to continue; he'd relinquished his citizenship when he'd run away years ago and so far as he was concerned, citizens were nothing but trouble.

"What have you got to lose, youngster?" the old man asked gently, as if reading his mind again. The home they eventually approached was small and shabby, all the windows tightly shuttered, jammed close to dozens seemingly just like it in a neighborhood only slightly better than those where sub-citizens lived. The lifestyles of many citizens were closer to that of sub-citizens than they wanted to admit. "Careful, now, youngster. Lotta folks think an old man's an easy target, but I've done my best to discourage 'em. Don't get ahead of me, and make sure you step where I do."

The old man manually disarmed 4 traps within 5 feet of the door, then reset them after they'd passed by. Even though he was a superb thief and paying close attention, the Outcast only spotted two of these in advance. "Where'd you learn to set traps like that?" he whispered in awe.

"I used to be a spy," the old man chuckled. The Outcast couldn't tell if he was serious or not, but the traps and his fighting skills certainly seemed to support his claim. The door was trapped as well, and sported an impressive array of locks. Once the locks were opened and the traps were cleared, they stepped into a small living room, sparsely furnished with pieces that were mismatched and well worn. But everything was spotlessly clean.

"Refresher's the door at the end of the hall" the ex-spy pointed to an archway in one wall. "Spare bedroom's yours for the night, door on the right. There's a nanosonic valet in the fresher, know how to use it?" The Outcast didn't; he'd never heard of it before. "Navy gadget, reserved for Commodores and Admirals on-board the bigger warships. Throw your clothes in the nano-v, press the button. Time you're done with your shower, some nano-tech genie's cleaned and repaired your clothes. Make sure you use it - your clothes stink!" He turned to a door in the wall opposite the hall. "While you're cleaning up, I'll make us something to eat."

It had been a while since the Outcast had been clean and had clean clothes. He was feeling pretty good when he joined the old man in the kitchen. "That 'fresher's amazing! How do you rate something like that?" he asked jealously.

"Long story, kid. Navy flagship destroyed during the Erwhon Annexation in 1905, and a private salvage operation in 1956. Want to hear it while we eat?" The Outcast did; he'd been born in 1956. But the old man didn't get to enjoy his meal, or tell his story, at least not that night. As he finished the question, his youthful vitality fled from him like air from a popping balloon. The weight of his 90+ years plopped down on his shoulders like a 4-ton dinophant, and he suddenly looked even older and more frail that that. "Ah, crap!" he tried to swear vehemently, but it came out as a weak pant. "Getting' old, getting old,” he wheezed. "No story tonight, youngster, sorry. Help me to my room, will you, and then you can come back and finish dinner." He paused and breathed heavily for a few seconds, the struggled to his feet. The Outcast leaped to help him((The average lifespan for a citizen in the Georwellian Imperium is around 115 years, so the old guy still has some time left!)).

The clutter in the old man's bedroom was a shocking opposite to the paucity of stuff in the living room. Every item of furniture - the dressers, end tables, desk, several sets of shelves and the headboard of the bed - was covered with something or other:? weapons and statuettes, framed pictures and personal electronics, curios and knickknacks. Paintings and photos covered the walls, and there must have been a dozen different throw rungs on the floor. Models of spaceships and armored fighting vehicles hung from the ceiling. "90 years of souvenirs" the old guy whispered, reading the Outcast's mind yet again.

The Outcast's cat burglar experience suggested that many of the items in this room were extremely valuable. The old man could be well-to-do if he fenced just half this stuff, and if he could sell individual items directly to collectors and connoisseurs, he would be wealthy. But he just considered this stuff as 'souvenirs'! The young man helped his suddenly sickly and frail rescuer sit on the side of the bed, and went back to the kitchen to finish his meal and think about what he'd just seen.

Just a few hours later, the Outcast quietly entered the old man's bedroom again. He was carrying one of the blankets from his bed. He laid this blanket on the floor and started looking through the plethora of 'souvenirs'. When he found something he particularly liked, he would put it on the blanket. He used the sheets as padding ? he didn't want anything to make noise and wake the old man when he was finished packing, and he certainly didn't want to break anything valuable. He worked slowly, examining each item carefully and taking only those that fit some private formula he'd developed concerning estimated value and weight. Long before he'd looked at even half the items in the room, his improvised sack was full. Regretfully, for he knew he'd never have another chance at this, he tied it shut. As he bent to carefully pick up his booty, he heard the faint buzzing of an energy weapon behind him. Before he could react, the beam struck him and he collapsed to the floor.

The young man awakened with a tremendous headache; the standard legacy of being shot with a stunner. When he opened his eyes, he realized he was lying on a wood floor. He looked around and discovered that he was in a small room which had been converted for martial arts training. The wooden floor was partially covered by a thin mat, one of the walls was covered by a mirror, there were a couple of training dummies in the corners, and against another wall were racks of hand-held combat tools. He saw more weapons than he had dreamed existed - swords, staves, daggers, throwing stars, brass knuckles, whips, slings, darts and launching tubes. There were no 'ranged weapons', which made sense as there was very little room to practice. There were shields, gauntlets, protective headgear, and lightweight body armor. And there was a lot of nasty-looking stuff he didn't even recognize.

The old man was practicing a kata with a single stick, moving slowly and continually checking his form and position in the mirror. His movements were totally unlike those the youngster had seen the night before;? last night he had moved with fluid power and grace; today his movements were stiff and seemed painful, and he grimaced as he forced himself through some of the more complex sequences.

He began talking when he noticed that the youngster was watching him. "This weapon is much like the billy club you would have risked your life for last night. Always been one of my favorites. You can hide it easily without worrying about stabbing yourself..." the club slipped up the old man's sleeve "or bring it into play instantly." and it was back in his hand, though not nearly as smoothly as last night. "It's useful both close up,” and he went through a series of attacks, feints and blocks. He was moving a little better now, as he got loosened up "and most of your opponents won't expect you to use it at a distance". He flipped his wrist and the club flew through the air, bounced off a wall, and hit one of the practice dummies under the chin. "Course, you gotta be careful when you throw it. It's not going to come back to you on its own." He walked over and retrieved his weapon.

He looked at the kid. "You don't look so well, youngster."

"Somebody shoots you with a stunner, you wake up with a headache," the younger man replied casually. "It's a lot better than I'd feel if it had been a blaster."

"Good answer, kid," the old guy's face crinkled into a smile and he moved into another kata.

The kid was befuddled; he just couldn't figure this guy out. Was he going to be punished for his attempted theft or not? After another minute of silence, he finally asked "Can you show me a few of those moves?"

The old fellow stopped, turned to face him. "Could" he admitted "but teaching you 'a few moves' would only get you killed. Waste of my time."

"Hey! Even without any fancy-dancy moves, I won two fights in the Arena!" the kid snarled back, then winced as the pain in his head flared up.

"You won those battles because you don't know a few moves, not in spite of not knowing them. If you are interested in learning my art, and willing to commit to several months of training, we can begin this afternoon. Otherwise, you may leave now." The kid hesitated for a few seconds, then stood, gingerly, and turned towards the door. He stopped, turned back.

"What about my share of the loot from last night?" he demanded.

The old man laughed. "Your audacity is delightful." He picked up a small bag from one of the weapons benches, and threw it at the youngster. The kid's headache slowed down his reactions, and the bag smacked him painfully in the chest. "You can have it all; I've no need of 'loot'. Make sure you don't touch anything else on the way out. I've deactivated the locks and traps on the door and in the yard for the next 10 minutes. I wish you long life and good health." The old man nodded genially in dismissal, and returned to his katas.

As the youngster left the training room, he checked the contents of the bag and discovered enough money to carry out his plan to get off planet. Still, he couldn't help but look around, one more time, regretful of what he might have missed. His eye was drawn to a small statuette, studded with brilliant jewels, on a table near the door. He checked behind him, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. As he started to reach for the statue, a small point of brilliant, flickering red light blossomed on the back of his hand, letting him know that a laser-targeted weapon had achieved firing lock. He noticed another on the middle of his chest. Moving very slowly, he withdrew his hand and turned back to the door. "Long life and good health to you, as well, old man," he laughed, as he cautiously opened the door.

He moved cautiously through the yard and sighed in relief when he safely reached the street, then stopped and looked around. He had no idea where he was. "Guess I shoulda asked the old guy the way to the starport," he thought to himself. "Well, I'll figure it out."

Chapter 4: The Student

The old man sat on the floor of his exercise room, satisfied with the state of the world. He hadn't had an apprentice in many years, and he hadn't felt this good in decades. The course of action he was now undertaking was virtually guaranteed to take years from his life, but he didn't care. He hadn't been living; he'd only been existing, and was ashamed to admit that he'd forgotten the difference.

Just because he could, he folded his legs into the 'position of contemplation' and went through the exercise of clearing his mind. He reviewed in his mind the lessons and exercises for beginners. Years ago, he hadn't really had the patience necessary to tutor a novice correctly. Hopefully, his capabilities had grown due to his years of experience.

He heard a whisper of noise behind him and smiled. The boy was right on time. He rose easily to his feet, turning smoothly to face his new apprentice. "There is appropriate clothing in the fresher, youngster. Get changed, and we'll get started."

"The art you are about to learn is called Kild'Rel, youngster." The old man sighed as the boy's face remained blank - he'd never heard of the most dangerous of all the marital arts! "In 1544, for the first time, Georwellian forces invaded another planet, Beortsh. Although it took almost 25 years, Beortsh was conquered and added to the Imperium, and our future manifest became clear. During that war, the art of Kild'Rel was born as well."

"Georwellian soldiers encountered defenders who were skilled in the martial arts of Beortsh, and sometimes, these local arts enabled the natives to temporarily resist our troops. An adept in one of the native Georwellian arts, now long forgotten, began to adapt and adopt native techniques, and the hybrid art of Kild'Rel was created. Each time the Imperium conquered a new planet, new skills and techniques were added. Today, Kild'Rel includes techniques from over 180 planets and more than 600 different martial arts. Not every skill or technique, but only those judged worthy by the current masters. There are other schools that claim to be the 'sun source' of all martial arts, but Kild'Rel is the destination.

"Kild'Rel is an art of violence. It was not designed so that an unarmed people could resists armed invaders, or for self-protection. Kild'Rel is a tool of conquest. There are two rules you must remember when learning Kild'Rel. Rule one is 'Conquer!" Rule 2 is, 'Never forget Rule 1'. Are these clear?" The kid nodded his head numbly - this talk of conquest was almost overwhelming to one who had spent much of his life desperately fleeing from his enemies. "Kild'Rel has fallen from favor in the last 100 years - it is a long and expensive process to produce a single master of Kild'Rel. It is much cheaper to stick thousands of untrained idiots into virtually invulnerable shells and give them weapons that can devastate half a city with a single shot." Although his voice remained quiet, his words somehow became harsher, and the youngster suddenly understood the phrase 'spitting bullets'. The old man stopped talking and took several deep breaths.

"Before we begin, there is the matter of introductions. We will learn more of each other during your training, but we must have names to address each other. I am Jerek Renain."

"I don't have a name, Mister Renain. I gave up the last one months ago."

The older man didn't seem surprised; instead he smiled in pleasure. "When our Imperium and our art were new, the classes of those learning Kild'Rel were often filled with recruits from conquered worlds who didn't even know the language spoken by their instructor. It became traditional for the instructor to assign names to all new recruits, who would then discard their former names. As the Imperial language became the only language spoken on the majority of the worlds of the Imperium, this tradition declined. It gives me pleasure to honor one of the oldest traditions of our art." He paused for a few seconds of thought. "Many names suggest themselves, but one stands out as most suitable. From this day onward, let the world know that you are Gabel Nevin!"

The first workout began abruptly and very informally. "We're going to start by sparring, youngster- find out what bad habits we have to break".

Gabel didn't know exactly how to respond; he just stood there looking confused. Master Renain turned to one of the weapon racks. When he turned back, he swung his arm with the turn, and without warning, a half a dozen small balls were flying through the air at the youngster. They were similar in size and hardness to golf balls, and they were weighted eccentrically so that they wobbled as they flew. Nevin could have avoided any one of them, but a spread of six was too many, and he was whacked soundly be a couple.

"Triune!" the youngster swore loudly. "That hurt!"

"Lesson 1, kid - you've always gotta be ready to fight." Jerek tossed the billy club that Gabel had appropriated at the Arena to the youngster. He nodded approvingly as the kid snatched it out of the air. "You seem to like that thing, and it's a weapon I approve of. So let's see what you got!" He threw another handful of weighted balls. This time Nevin avoided getting whacked - he was easily able to knock down the few projectiles he couldn't avoid. Master Renain was astonished at the youngster's speed, but he'd faced opponents almost as fast before. He moved into an attack.

Nevin watched his mentor closely. The old man's movements were a little jerky and stiff, and occasionally he seemed unsure of himself, as if he were relying on partially-forgotten skills. As they fought, he became more fluid and more confident. And he talked while he fought.

"C'mon, kid are you going to take that,” he stepped closer to his student and casually slapped him, hard, jerking the younger man's head around painfully "from an old man?" He easily avoided the angry flailing Gabel made in reply. The old man wasn't as fast as Nevin, but he always seemed to be responding to the youngster's moves even before the kid started making them.

Initially, all the youngster did was try and defend himself, and the old man increased his taunting. "You'd never last a minute in a real fight!" he sneered as he danced in, flicked two punches into the youngster's exposed chest, and danced away. The billy club swept up in a block which could have been painful had it landed, but it was far too late. Jerek stepped in behind the movement and slapped the back of Gabel's arm, encouraging it in the direction in which it was already moving. Nevin spun around, out of control, and tripped over the outstretched leg of his mentor.

This indignity finally made him angry enough to launch an attack on his own. He threw the club with all his speed and power, and was gratified to see that Master Renain winced in pain when he blocked it away with the outside of a forearm. Nevin lowered his head and charged across the room as fast and hard as he could, then leaped into a flying tackle. Master Renain easily stepped aside and twisted his body and his student went zooming by, but he managed to land a punch to the stomach as he passed. He smiled to himself in grim satisfaction as the older man grunted at the impact. He rolled, and came up holding a pair of the weighted balls - and his club.

"OK, old man, let's see what else you got!" he snarled. The old man smiled in satisfaction. He picked up a slim 6-foot staff made of light metal and settled down for a real workout.

Too soon, he felt the warning pangs of fatigue that told him he had just about reached the end of his endurance. He backed away from his student and spoke in his most commanding tone. "Enough, youngster!" For a few seconds, Nevin didn't hear him and kept attacking, so Master Renain swept the pole around and hit the kid in the back of one knee. A quick reversal, a jab in the chest, and the off-balance youngster fell backwards. He began to jump quickly to his feet, but the pressure of the butt of the pole pressing against his Adam's Apple stopped him. "Just in time!" the Master coughed. He grounded the pole and used it to support his weight, and his face turned pale as if all his blood had just drained away. Gabel sprang to his feet and he helped the older man to a chair.

"What's wrong?" the youngster asked anxiously in concern. "Did I hurt you?"

"Gimmee a break kid, you couldn't hurt a six year old girl with one arm and wearing a hip cast!" the old man snarled. "I'm over 90 freepin' years old. What did you expect?"

Nevin was surprised and hurt by his mentor's response. His face fell and he held tightly to his temper. "I'm only trying to help!"

Renain was appalled at his own words. It certainly wasn't the kid's fault he felt so terrible. He was 90 years old - how the hell did HE expect to feel after the way he was abusing his body?

"Crap, kid, I'm sorry!" he quickly added. "I really AM over 90, and I feel like I'm a lot closer to 150 right now - but it's not your fault. In fact, you did really well." He paused and breathed heavily for a few seconds, then asked. "Do me a favor?" Relieved that his mentor wasn't really mad at him, and pleased at the compliment, the youngster nodded. "Bring me some water and a couple of energy bars, and in a couple of minutes, we'll review the session and start figuring out what to teach you first."

Master Renain recovered slowly from his exhaustion. Even the next day he felt much too old to spar. Instead, he demonstrated some slow-motion katas introducing basic moves, blocks and techniques for Gabel to practice. Renain was extremely exacting about form and Gabel found it very difficult to execute these katas precisely, even in slow motion. As well, he was amazed by how physically taxing the exercises were. Yet, when Renain finally allowed him to perform the same katas at normal speed, both instructor and student were pleased with the results. "Another 2 hours of practice and we're done for the day." Renain announced. "Tomorrow we spar again. I want you to use what you've learned today.,"

"Darn, I'd really hoped it wouldn't take quite that long," Gabel joked. His expression turned serious. "About how long IS training going to take, Master Renain?"

Now it was the Master's turn to be serious. "Like most things in life, youngster, the answer is 'It depends'. It depends on what you want to achieve, and how much time you are willing to spend. In 10 days, you should be more dangerous to others than when we began your training. In a month, you should stop being dangerous to yourself. When Kild'Rel was still taught in basic training, a recruit would train for 2 hours a day for 6 weeks. Though I've been acknowledged as a Master for over 50 years, I learned a new evasion technique from you in our sparring session yesterday."

"Really?" Nevin was excited to learn that a Master of Kild'Rel had learned something from him.

"Yes, you stumbled once and managed to avoid a blow that would have been quite painful. A controlled stumble has high potential for deceiving your opponent. I 'stumbled' several times shortly after that. Perhaps you noticed?"

The boy's face fell as he shook his head. His mistake was the high point of his first training session? Master Renain didn't give him time to pout. "My point, youngster, is that I can train you forever, and there will always be more for both of us to learn. You will decide when we're through with training, but as long as you live, you will always be learning. I hope!"

That was certainly something for the kid to consider. It brought him to another question, as well. "How am I going to pay you?"

"That is a worthy question, youngster, but not necessary. It is a Kild'Rel tradition for the Master to provide for the student," the old man said smoothly.

"Triune crap it is!" Gabel exclaimed emphatically. 'Traditionally,” the word dripped with as much sarcasm as a teenage boy could generate "all Kild'Rel students were military recruits, and the Imperium 'provided' for them."

"Perhaps it's time to establish a new tradition, then," Master Renain replied. "As you learned previously, I'm not in need of money." He swept his hand through the air, indicating the valuable curios in his bedroom, and Gabel felt a twinge of conscience. The old man quickly let him off the hook. "The salvage operation on the Iron Boot was quite lucrative. I'll tell you the whole story," Gabel spoke the last 3 words along with Master Renain, as he had already heard this particular line several times before "some other time." They both laughed.

"I'm going out tonight to play pyramid with some of the other old men in the neighborhood. Would you be interested in joining us?" Renain asked his pupil. "The stakes are quite low, though the passion often runs high."

Gabel had learned pyramid and other card games in Maelstrom, but card games bored him. "You don't happen to have the Justice Machine virtuality game, do you? I'll bet I could really kick some ass playing Challenger with some of the stuff you taught me today!"

"Are you a fan of Challenger?" Renain asked, the trace of a smile on his lips. "He's a worthy warrior."

"You know Challenger?" the youngster asked. Master Renain chuckled at the hero worship dripping from the kid's voice.

"Many years ago, Challenger was an officer candidate at the Academy on Martel," Master Renain replied. "After his first term there, his martial arts prowess had already outstripped that of his instructors. I was lured from retirement to provide him special instruction."

"That is SO COOL!" Nevin was almost hopping with enthusiasm. "Was he better than you, too?"

"Though his hand-to-hand techniques are rudimentary, he is extremely proficient, as well as fast and powerful. And he is highly skilled in combat tools not traditionally employed by a Kild'Rel Master, such as handguns, energy pistols, force fields, rockets in his boots, and explosives."

Nevin wasn't going to stand for an evasive answer. "You told me earlier that the knowledge and training of a Kild'Rel Master allows him to deal with almost anything. So, back then, could you take him or not?" he insisted on knowing.

Renain smiled slyly. "At least one of us would have died in an all-out fight, youngster, and we are both on the same side. Still, while I taught him everything he knew back then, I didn't teach him everything I knew." No matter how often Gabel asked the question, or the clever ways in which he disguised it, that was the best answer he got. And even worse, he ended up losing at pyramid!

A few months later, the two warriors, the one long retired and the other still in training, had fallen into a comfortable routine. Every other day, when Master Renain was feeling young and spry, they would spar, and Renain would test his protégé to see how well he had learned yesterday's lessons. The next day, while Renain recovered, he would teach young Nevin new exercises, skills and techniques, and watch closely while the younger man trained. And the next day, they would spar and the cycle would repeat. Late in the afternoon on one of Renain's rest days, Nevin simply stopped moving in the middle of a kata. He spoke before the older man could chide him.

"Boss, I'm bored!" he complained loudly. "We've trained hours every day for months. I already know 346 different ways to kill a man silently, without weapons, along with 2012 blocks, counters and evades. I've trashed 32 training dummies, destroyed 17 combat robots and 3 security droids, conquered the Imperium as Challenger in the Justice Machine game, lost all my cash to your old friends at pyramid, and learned more about a billy club...

" As he talked, he flicked his wrist and his club dropped from his sleeve to his hand. Without looking, he threw it behind him, then held his hand in front of his face, kept talking. "... then Research Central knows about physics!"

The club flashed into an upper corner of the room, deflected off of wall, ceiling, wall, and sped towards Master Renain's head. He casually leaned aside and it missed his chin by less than an inch. He turned his attention back to his student, who was still ranting. The club was headed for an equipment cabinet on the far wall.

"I can hold my breath for 10 minutes, grab a coin from the bottom of a pot of boiling water," His open hand snapped closed, stopping the ricocheting club an inch from his nose. "balance myself on one finger on a tightrope - and bounce, climb the outside wall of a 10 story building in under 5 minutes. Boss, I've had enough training for now. If I can't do something else, I'll go crazy!"

Jerek waited patiently for a few seconds to make sure his student was finished. He stroked his sparse, sharply pointed beard for another second before speaking softly. "You could" he offered "fight in the Arena."

Gabel brightened for a second with interest, but just as quickly, his spirits fell. "I'm not going to kill some starving, homeless kid who's just hoping to win enough money for tonight's meal," he said morosely, remembering his own condition when he first encountered the Arena. "Especially to entertain a bunch of drug-addled bloodthirsty cretins. You trained me to conquer, not to slaughter."

"Good for you, youngster! Still, most Arena matches are not 'to the death'; there aren't enough gladiators to let them kill each other off wholesale. Death matches only occur every month or so."

"Doesn't matter, Master J - I'm not interested in fighting with unskilled kids."

Once again, the old man nodded in approval. "You can sign up for bouts against the older, more successful fighters. It will give us a chance to truly evaluate your progress."

Suddenly, Nevin was nervous. "You're serious? Do you think I'm ready?"

"You were ready the first time you entered the ring, weren't you? Are you are now better prepared than you were then?"

He nodded, slowly at first and then more vigorously. "OK, I'll do it!" Gabel proclaimed decisively. Then, a little unsure: "Do you think they'll need another fighter tomorrow?"

"You'll spend all night and all day worrying yourself sick, and you will lose, if you wait until tomorrow. The time is now!"

Master Renain wasn't kidding about 'now'. "We can be there before tonight's first bout. I'll be ready in 5 minutes." He left the training room, his movements slow and stiff, and Gabel figured he was taking a bio break.

He was wrong. A few minutes later, Gabel was shocked when a stranger entered the room. He and Renain never had guests! The newcomer was male, probably 15 years older than Nevin, as tall as the youngster and about 60 pounds heavier. He moved with the fluid grace of a hunting cat. The face was familiar- and then the youngster's perceptions snapped into place. Somehow, Master Renain had morphed into his self of years ago.

"Holigraphic Image Inducer, kid." Renain chuckled when Gabel's mouth dropped open in surprise. He touched the buckle of his belt and the young man's image vanished, replaced by the aged Renain. "That's me in my thirties. Not a bad looking youngster, eh?" Renain touched the belt and his image flickered: a beautiful young woman, a Rizzard, a Terror Trooper in full armor, a much older woman, and back to his younger self again. "Standard gear for a spy, back in my day. Up to 15 different images at any time., It's pretty fragile, wouldn't hold up to a kick in the gut. The ones they have today are better, but they're really tough to get hold of. I got this one for free."

"So why a disguise?" Nevin wondered apprehensively. "You haven't used one before."

"Haven't had the fightin' urge recently, kid. I need a little excitement too. Figure they probably wouldn't let an old man on the floor," Renain replied casually.

Gabel almost choked. His ancient mentor was going to fight in the Arena? He wanted to protest, but if he was ready, how much more ready was his mentor? He watched the way the man was moving, noted the easy grace and power, not at all like the pain and stiffness he'd exhibited only minutes ago. He was in the midst of one of his 'youthful' periods. Gabel hoped it didn't wear off before Renain's bout was over.

The older man grinned at his shocked protégé. "Thanks for reminding me just now that I'm trained as a conqueror, not a cowerer, kid. I've been acting like an old man long enough!" He turned and headed for the door.

'I've got a bad feeling about this, Boss' the youngster thought, but carefully didn't say.

Master Renain was correct. The lanista at the Arena hadn't recognized Gabel. Instead, he'd been assigned the first bout of the evening. The match didn't last long. His opponent, a young man armed with a pair of knives, rushed forward, slashing wildly. Initially, the youngster felt a touch of panic, but his training was true. He stepped back to avoid the first sweep and knocked the next aside with his billy club. A quick sidekick staggered the bladesman, and as he staggered away, Gabel threw his billy club. It caught the other fighter in the side of the head and he silently crumpled to the sand-covered floor, unconscious. The crowd was disappointed with the short, bloodless match, and booed as Gabel left the floor. This time he refrained from flicking them off.

Master Renain greeted him with a pleased smile. "Great job, kid! Short and sweet, no wasted effort. Got long odds on you at the betting window, too, so we made a bundle. Last time that'll happen, though - they won't forget you again." He thrust a big wad of bills into Gabel's hand. "I'm up soon. Wait until just before the match starts and then bet it all. We'll get the best odds that way." He rushed away before Gabel could say anything.

'I haven't fought seriously in over 40 years, and I've got a student depending on me. What will happen to Gabel if I get killed?' Jerek Renain asked himself as he sat in a corner in one of the gladiator ready rooms. Before a fight, he knew he shouldn't let the thought of losing even enter his mind, but he couldn't help it. 'Why in the Truine's Black Heart am I even here?' He snorted in self-disgust; he knew the answer. 'It's the Edge. I hardly believe it; clean for 60 frippin' years, and I got hooked again like I'd never even heard of the crap before!'

Jerek had become addicted to Edge in his twenties, like all of the other agents of the Imperial Intelligence Service (i.e., spies). The IIS approved of agents who could instantly morph into virtual super soldiers, and the IIS was the only source of the drug, insuring the loyalty of these super agents. Most agents eventually died of the drug's debilitating after effects; Jerek was one of the very rare exceptions. After his medical discharged from the IIS, he'd spent years in physical therapy to restore his body to normal.

He'd recovered a significant quantity of Edge from the Iron Boot, but never destroyed it. Instead, he wore a single grain of Edge in a sealed cotainer around his neck 'in case of an emergency'. After more than 15 years, he'd almost forgotten that single grain - until that night when he'd come upon a group of drug-addled citizens beating a youngster to death. He'd known the likely consequences of taking just one tiny grain, but he'd never considered leaving the boy to the hands of the murderous thugs. 'Rock and a hard place,' he thought now. 'And you, Jerek m'boy, you chose them both!'

Jerek had been in control this time, not the Edge. He used no more than a single grain every other day, and only for training Gabel. The sense of euphoria the drug provided, the feeling of invincibility, and the astonishing relief from the aches and pains of old age were merely serendipitous side effects, not the real reason for using, and he knew he could walk away from it any time. But tonight he'd relearned the truth. The Edge was ALWAYS in control.

He'd wanted to be able to walk proudly into the Arena with his protégé, to act and move like a Master should, not like a tired, painfully stiff old man. But somehow he'd taken two grains instead of one - and he'd been unable to resist the seductive power coursing through him. He'd instantly decided to fight tonight - he couldn't lose, so why not?

'I can't be thinking straight like this unless the Edge has almost worn off',' he realized anxiously. 'If I'm in the middle of a fight and it goes, I'll probably die." Dying in a fight wouldn't be a bad way for a Master of Kild'Rel to go - but dying in a fight because he was helpless, with his protégé watching, was unacceptable. 'If I live through this,' he swore an oath as he shook the grain of Edge from his pendant to his finger 'I'll never touch this stuff again'. He touched his finger to the tip of his tongue. A hollow oath; the after effects of three grains of Edge in a few hours would probably kill him anyway, but not till after the fight.

A roar filled his ears, and liquid fire raced through his veins. His doubts dissolved, leaving behind the feeling of invulnerability he had craved. Yet this time, sadness tainted his euphoria - he knew, in a part of his mind untouched by the drug, that he would never feel this way again. Whether he won the fight or not, if he managed to live through the night, he might be crippled, and he knew the next time he used, he would die.

Jerek's opponent was human, a small man armed with a kurbash: a type of whip similar to a riding crop, a thin rod of very flexible metal. This particular kurbash was a little longer than a yard and covered with thorn-like barbs. It was a vicious weapon, designed specifically to excite the bloodthirsty Arena crowd. In the hands of an experienced wielder, every strike would rip open painful wounds. The blood would excite the crowd, and if the opponent didn't succumb quickly to the pain, he would later fall to weakness caused by loss of blood.

At the start of the fight, Renain's opponent raised his arm and flicked his wrist, and the flexible kurbash whipped forward. The barbed tip touched Renain's left cheek and opened a nasty gash. Surprisingly, Renain didn't try to dodge or back away, instead his left hand flashed up at incredible speed, and he grabbed the thin rod. The Edge allowed him to ignore the pain as the barbs on the whip dug into his hand, and he spun to his left, yanking on the kurbash with all his strength as he turned. The astonished whip handler was totally unprepared for this technique and stumbled forward. As he spun, Renain raised his right leg and slapped a kick into his opponent's exposed chin. If Jerek had been even 30 years younger, the kick would have broken the whip fighter's neck; as it was, it dislocated his jaw and knocked him instantly unconscious.

Renain kept his hand closed around the whip as he hurried from the sandy floor. When Gabel rushed into the ready room, he found his mentor seated at the first aid station. A trainer had cleaned and dressed the old man's wounds and was wrapping a bandage around the shredded hand.

"What the fk was that!?!?" Gabel demanded. "You taught me how to beat a guy like that without ever getting touched. You're going to be lucky if you can ever use that hand again!" He was livid and screaming.

"Sorry, kid ? I need to get home fast!" Jerek spoke weakly, barely more than a whisper. The pain in his voice instantly quenched Gabel's anger. Renain turned to the trainer. "I need something for pain." The trainer gave him a big pill, then moved to another wounded gladiator, and the old man knew he'd used up all the free medical care the Arena was prepared to provide. He gulped down the pill, then closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. His face was white and he was breathing in short, shallow gasps. To Gabel he continued "You can yell at me at home. Go pick up our winnings while I call a car."

Gabel tried to argue. "You don't need the money. I'll come back tomorrow"

Renain cut him off. "We forfeit it all if we don't pick it up in a half hour. If you won't go, I will!" His voice was a little stronger, and he started to stand up.

Gabel pushed him back into his seat. "You're a stubborn jackass," he snarled as he hurried to the betting window. Renain painfully pulled his compunicator from his bag and called a car company.

Gabel wanted to take Renain to a hospital but the old man refused. And he wouldn't explain while they were in the car. Once they were inside the house, Jerek managed to whisper. "Couldn't tell you in the car, but my papers are as phony as yours. Wouldn't pass at a hospital." He had to pause, even through the Edge and painkiller, he was in agony. "Get Sanuye. Hurry!" Rafel Sanuye, one of the old men who played pyramid with them, had been a Naval medic for over 40 years before he'd retired. Gabel rushed from the house.

`Curse that doddering old curmudgeon!' Gable thought as he ran at top speed through the poorly lighted streets between Renain's house and that of Rafel Sanuye. `I can't believe he doesn't have a stupid compunicator!' (Or perhaps his thoughts were somewhat more pointed, but you get the idea!) `At least he doesn't live far away.' Not when you are the fastest man on Pragasus 38, anyway ? Gabel covered the half mile to Sanuye's house in under 90 seconds. He pounded frantically on the door for several more minutes and was just about to break in when the ex-medic finally answered the door.

"Master Renain needs your help now!" Gabel screamed. "He's dying!"

This wasn't the first time Sanuye had been called out of bed to tend a dying friend, and he sadly realized that it wouldn't be the last. The Imperium didn't waste a lot of money on health care for 'non-essential' civilians, which definitely included almost everyone over 80. "While I get my bag, you start the cart, yes?" Sanuye struggled painfully to walk on a bad hip, an unwelcome souvenir from his years in the Navy. He got around the neighborhood in a small cart much like a Terrestrial golf cart, and he'd once showed Gabel how to drive it (though Gabel already knew, as he had boosted several similar carts during his days in Maelstrom.)

The half mile return trip seemed to take forever. The older man tried to keep Gabel calm by asking him questions about Jerek's condition, but the youngster's terse answers just seemed to confuse him more. "Why would someone Jerek's age fight in the Arena? How could you let him?"

At that point, they heard a very loud ripping noise, and a large truck backed away from Renain's house, then sped off. It was difficult to be sure on the poorly-lighted streets, but it appeared that the truck had actually come from inside the house. Suddenly the tearing noise made sense, and Gabel instantly leaped from the cart to race ahead to his mentor's house. He was horrified to see that one wall of the house was shattered - the truck had smashed through the wall and then ripped back out. If must have happened while he was getting the cart from Sanuye's shed or he would have heard the crash, so the truck had only been there for a few minutes at most.

He tore through the hole; the living room looked like the aftermath of an explosion. But Gabel wasn't interested in the rubble and debris. There were at least a half dozen bodies lying on the floor in pools of blood, young men wearing what appeared to be gang colors, men who had died of devastating injuries. Injuries whose cause Gabel recognized instantly: these men had died in battle with a Master of Kild'Rel, a Master who wasn't pulling his punches.

"Here, Gabel," Renain's voice was barely above a whisper. The youngster rushed to his mentor's side. He was lying on the rug behind the sofa, and though he was spattered with blood, none of it was his. "Followed us home like a pack of rats!" he spat. "Nice of them to provide me an honor guard." It was the last thing he ever said.

Gabel barely felt any anguish at the death of his beloved mentor - he knew it was there, but it was sealed inside an unbreakable bottle somewhere deep in his mind, the same place he'd hidden his grief when his mother had died.

What he felt instead was rage. Rage had burned within Gabel for most of his life, rage against the Fiend, rage against the system, rage against Maelstrom. Those angers combined with the latest rage towards those who'd killed Renain and he was filled with a burning fury like a volcano erupting in his head. He couldn't understand why he wasn't simply vaporized, so great was the heat of his rage, but he couldn't escape from life that easily.

Still, this fury was unlike the murderous frenzy he'd unleashed against Maelstrom. Renain had taught him that controlled anger is a powerful tool, and Gabel's training now took control. He now had a mission in life - taking revenge against those who had killed Mater Renain - and this towering inferno of anger would fuel his determination to succeed. A quick examination of the dead bodies showed that there were all wearing similar colors, the colors of Brontide, a street gang that claimed the territory near the Arena. That gave him his target. But even in his rage, even with his naturally-superior speed and the benefits of Master Renain's Kill'Drell training, Gabel realized that he wasn't going to be able to wipe out an entire street gang without some additional advantages. He moved to make his preparations.

When Rafel Sanuye arrived a minute later, he found Gabel carrying Renain to his bed. "It's too late," the youngster told the ex-medic in a flat, emotionless voice. "He's dead."

Rafel Sanuye examined the body anyway. "Not a mark on him - must have been a heart attack," was his original diagnosis.

"Not a heart attack," Gabel contradicted. "This is what killed him." He showed Sanuye a handful of black caplets, marked with white ovals - which, on closer examination, proved to be miniature pictures of a fleshless human skull. "What is it?"

"Triune crap! That's Edge!" The ex-medic recognized the drug instantly. "He was insane to be using Edge at his age. Of course it killed him!" He looked at Gabel, spoke quietly but urgently. "Son, I think you had better give me the rest of that so I can dispose of it."

"Wrong, old man! This is mine!" Deep inside, some part of Gabel was thrilled that this man was honestly concerned about him, and liked him enough to call him son - another friend, and he had so few of them - but his rage was talking through him, not the vulnerable Boy, now hidden so deeply under layers of mental armor.

Rafel Sanuye flinched from the menace in Gabel's voice, but he didn't back down. "Edge will kill you, too, son - it doesn't care how old you are."

Right now Gabel didn't care if the Edge killed him, as long as if helped him get his revenge. He was saved from responding, however, when they two heard the faint howls of sirens. "We shouldn't be here when the UnFriendlies get here, old man," Gabel changed the subject. "Time to go!" He actually picked up the old medic and carried him out through the hole in the wall. "Get out of here!"

"You can stay with me, Gabel - Jerek was my friend," Sanuye said as he started the cart.

"Can't - got things to do," Gabel shook his head and turned back to the house. "Get going."

Inside the house, Gabel returned to the secret compartment where Master Renain had kept his supply of Edge, and scooped up a roll of cash. He pulled a blue and red garment from a hanger in Renain's closet, and dropped it into a travel bag. Finally, in the workout room, he slid open a hidden panel in the wall and flipped a switch on the control panel behind, then hurried back through the hole in the living room wall. As he ran in the direction opposite the sirens of the UnFriendlies, he heard a muffled thump behind him and he knew Renain's house was now engulfed in flames.

Chapter 5: A Demon Among Us

A week later on Martel, Jaime Conrad, better known as Challenger, commander of the Justice Machine, stood at attention in the office of Georwell's Chief Prosecutor, Arndo Zarren.

"There's a situation on Pragasus 38 that needs the attention of the Justice Machine," Zarren told his subordinate. "Somebody's killing street gangs."

"That sounds like a good idea to me," Challenger replied. "What makes it a problem for the Machine?"

"Always a smartass, eh, Conrad?" Zarren snarled. "It's your problem because I said it is. Our reports say that all the killing is being done by one man. So this is your new assignment."

He picked up a sheath of papers from his desk, held them out to Challenger. "The Justice Machine will leave for Pragasus 38 immediately, capture the man behind this - and return him alive to my custody. Dismissed."

The city of Negundus on Pragasus 38: In the almost ancient war-shatteered ruins of Negundus, once the capital city of Pragaus 38, 4 costumed figures were examining a bizarre scene. They stood in what had once been a public park, surrounded by the a thick cluster of the decaying ruins of ancient government buildings destroyed in the Georwellian invasion, almost 200 years ago. Arrayed neatly on the ground in front of them were eight bodies, lying in a neat row, with the arms crossed over their chests. The heads of several of them were twisted in grotesquely impossible positions.

“Cheez, boss, dis bratart’s good – even cleans up after hisself!” Integra said admiringly in her thick Colonial accent. She had used the advanced senses of her cyborg body to closely examine the bodies. 'Ever un of 'em, killed wit a difren strike. Masta Kild'Rel's wat ee is."

The four current members of the Justice Machine, Challenger (Commander Jaiime Conrad), Integra (second-in-command Bruna Garonez), Dynamor (Alynya Tangrora) and Titan (Jemin Osk) , had recently arrived on Pragasus 38 in search of whoever was killing chlon rufftuffs. They hadn't been in time to help the corpses of the chlon warriors and warrines in front of them.

Scanning the battered common one more time, Bruna continued "Mebee da best Masta Kild'Rel eva. Lookit em all! Har'ta bleev its jus one bratart did all dis!" Before she'd been blown almost to smithereens in the invasion of the Rizzard homeworld in the last battle of the Rim War, Integra had been the commander of a squad of elite commandos. A Research Central team on the invading Imperium ships had seen a way to turn this disaster into an opportunity, and had slapped her remains into a stasis field and shipped them back to Georwell. There she'd been rebuilt into a cyborg, her mechanical body sharing most of the mechanisms and circuitry used in the powered combat armor worn by Imperium Terror Troopers. She now was covered with pewter-gray, virtually featureless armor for skin, and had vastly enhanced strength and a wide array of electronic senses. Though she didn't need the martial art any longer, she herself was a Master of Kild'Rel, so she spoke with some authority regarding their quarry's skill.

Dynamor joined the conversation. "Zarren was wrong 'bout what this guy's doin', boss. He took out most everybody in the Brontides, revenge for killing his friend, but sincewise, he's only doin' a chlon's ruftuffs. Always throws up a challenge first. Busts in on da chlon's leader, no matter how well protected, bragging: 'I'm the best: send your best, one or ten, hand to hand or with weapons, and I'll kill them all.' And he does." She paused for a minute, then asked a delicate question. “Can't see why Zarren has us chasin' him down, boss. Take out the ruftuffs and a chlon's just a buncha subbies an' the Unfriendlies can handle them easy. Isn't he doin' our job for us?"

“We wouldn’t just kill them all!” Titan objected. “Sure, we’re soldiers, and we kill when we have to, but was this necessary? Most of these…” he swept his arm, indicating the neat array of bodies, "…coulda been captured and retrained. They would make perfect Terror Troopers – might even be given citizenship when they get discharged." Titan didn’t like killing even when it was absolutely necessary. Challenger usually approved of this attitude, even when it caused problems on missions. However, this wasn’t the scene of a normal battle where the eventually winner could afford to be merciful.

“With odds of 8 to 1 against, Jemin,” the boss replied quietly, "you can't always risk pulling your punches." Jaiime had been studying the fight scene intently. “Plus, there’s evidence that shows that one more got away. Not easily, however, he was bleeding heavily and had to crawl. But I'm sure he lived long enough to get back to his chlon.”

“Still sending his message – letting one go to tell the rest of the infegons that he’s coming for them,” Titan observed. "Still boasting, still showng everyone he's the best." He snorted his disapproval. "If he really was the best, wouldn't he be in the Machine? We do 8 to 1 against before breakfast." He didn't notice his commander's thoughtful expression.

When he'd ordered the Machine to track down the killer, Zarren hadn't known why this young man had gone on a murderous spree against chlons. Some diligent research by the Justice Machine had painted a grim picture of their target. Abused as a child, driven out of his chlon just as he was starting to gain acceptance and social standing, adopted, and then finding his adopted father dead at the hands of another chlon, this young man had something to prove. Once he'd seemingly gotten revenge out of his system, he was now only killing ruftuffs, and only the best in each chlon. Those who lived through an encounter with him described an intensely arrogant man, clad in a garish red and blue outfit, who boasted about being the best even as he casually defeated every chlon soldier arrayed against him. He called himself Demon, and was a whirling dervish of destruction, moving faster than any human the survivors had ever seen, striking unerringly and with deadly effect while shrugging of their best blows like a light rain.

“Unusual team he was fighting this time,” Challenger commented. “Four different sets of colors – these bodies are from 4 different chlons. Looks like the Krazers, Maelstrom, Psybol and Davubari. They must be running scared to have teamed up that way.” He paused to think for a few seconds. “Bruna, call in our support crew and analyze the scene. See if you can learn anything new about the killer, and let me know." Her hyper-senses might turn up something he'd missed. He turned to Dynamor.

"Alynya, you coordinate with the Uncle Friendlies. Let them know that we're on the case, and they had better stay out of it. Wouldn't want them killing our guy by mistake. Or more likely, killing a bunch of innocent bystanders and getting a lot of Unfriendlies killed as well." A citizen who was overheard referring to local law enforcement that way would probably get a beating and then be tried for treason, but the members of the Justice Machine could get away with it. "Let them know that any idiot who gets in our way will answer to me."

"Jemin, you look for witnesses, get their stories, see if anyone knows something we don't.” The blue and white clad Titan, in spite of being the only member who wore a full-face mask, had the best public approval rating of any current member of the Justice Machine, almost as high as the Flame, after she and Challenger had killed the Rizzard emperor and won the Rim Wars. Even subcitizens trusted him. "And I'll see if I can track down our Demon." He had a good idea where to look.

Not long after the Machine split up, Challenger stood in the shadowed alley between two residential buildings in a citizen neighborhood. At least, it had been a neighborhood once; now it was abandoned except for a single apartment in a battered building down the cross street. He was closely observing that building, the place where their target had lived until the death of his mother. At an almost subliminal level, Jaiime was somewhat uncomfortably aware of the crumbling buildings and centuries-old decay around him. It wouldn't take long for a properly-motivated task force of subcitizen work gangs to clear the rubble and debris and build a thriving industrial defense complex in its place that would contribute to the welfare of all Georwellians. And it would probably clear up most of Pragasus 38's street gang problem too – busy subcits didn't join chlons. But even after almost 200 years, there were still rebellious elements on Pragasus 38 that prevented the planet's full integration into Imperium society.

Something else about his surroundings caught Challenger's attention as well. "That Demon kid is pretty lucky I got here first. The local chlons are plenty worried about his rep – and his mission!" He scanned the decaying city block ahead of him. "Shooters there and there… a couple more in those windows… fighters hidden in those doorways and behind those walls…" He made about 20 chlon ruftuffs arrayed nearby, mostly poorly hidden, and all on high alert! And so nervous he could actually smell some of them. "Wonder if they'll realize I'm not really their target? Of course, at this point, they probably don't care - just need somebody to kill."

He touched a flexible keypad that was inset into his sleeve, just over his left wrist, and a holographic image inducer covered him with a new look. His costume changed colors, from the subdued brown on brown that he preferred to a garish combination of a skintight blue body suit with a ragged cut that left his chest bare to the navel and thigh high red boots, with some yellow trim – as best he could determine, a copy of the outfit that Gabel Nevin was wearing. (Nevin was now proclaiming to everyone who survived meeting him that he would henceforth be known as the Demon!) Challenger then stepped out from between buildings and swaggered confidently down the street. As he stepped into the small, rubbish-strewn courtyard in front of his destination he touched the holographic holster on his belt that appeared to contain a billy club, but was actually one of his pistols. At that motion, all hell broke loose!

Four snipers, one from each chlon, instantly opened fire on him. Each was using a different types of police or military weapon, energy beamers and pistols that fired explosive projectiles, all illegal for civilian use, all stolen… and all deadly. Instantly, there was a geyser of destructive energy at the spot where Challenger had been standing, hotter and brighter than the sun of Pragasus 38, dazzling the ruftuffs arrayed nearby. When they could see again, the chlon warriors were satisfied to see a small, smoking crater, and a lot of the nearby debris partially melted. There was no sign of their target.

"Da Duke said dis guy wuz tough. What a nelix!" a Davu sniper observed to his Psybol partner, who wasn't sure if it was the Dukister of Storms or the dead guy who was the nelix. "Izzee fraida his own shadow, too?" They slapped hands in a celebratory gesture similar to a terrestrial high-five. "Da Stroms must be a buncha logi-livered cowards ta been fraid'a dat loser."

The nearby Stroms were about to take exception to that when a powerful voice interrupted them. "I suppose an ambush, 20 of you against a single man, is how you infegons define bravery? Not so good for you that I had a force field, eh?"

As one, the rival ruftuffs turned in shock. Challenger stood easily in front of them, now in his own drab battle garb of brown top over darker brown pants, with a bandolier across his chest, two large pistols holstered on his thighs. His right hand was wrapped around the butt of a pistol, ready to draw. He didn't think the ruftuffs needed to know that the force field had burned out under their barrage, even though he didn't plan to let them target him again.

Those ruftuffs with weapons turned in his direction, but before they could shoot, without drawing his pistol, he pulled the trigger. To the surrounding warriors, it felt as if they had just been struck a phantom blow; none of the survivors could ever describe exactly the ghostly sensation. "That was a mini-EM Pulse, boys and girls. You still feel so brave without your guns?"

"Lucky for you I'm NOT the guy you're after – you'll wake up from this!" A steely fist slammed into the side of the Davu gunman's jaw, and one ruftuff was out of this fight for the duration. A quick flurry of punches and his partner was down as well. But by this time the other warriors had recovered, and Challenger was quickly swarmed by a dozen ruftuffs armed with knives, clubs, crowbars and brass knuckles.

Even from a block away, Gabel Nevin recognized his childhood hero. With the chance to fight chlon ruftuffs alongside Challenger of the Justice Machine, Gabel didn't even hesitate. He flicked his wrist, and his billy club flashed ahead of him, bouncing once off the pavement and then the temple of a Strom warrine. A bare instant later, Gabel was engaging a Krazar who was using a machete. He caught the blade between his palms and viciously kicked the hapless warrior between the legs. As the now-helpless ruftuff fell, Demon aimed a killing stroke at his windpipe – a blow that Challenger knocked aside.

"Gabel Nevin, right? No need to kill them all - Master Renain trained you to conquer, not slaughter! These guys are no match for us." Jaiime spun under a vicious knife swipe and dropped the attacker with a side kick to the stomach.

For Gabel, time stood still for an instant. In his mind, he was facing his master, back in their training room, and he could hear himself speaking emphatically: "You trained me to conquer, not to slaughter!" Hearing his own words come back to him touched something inside him that he'd buried deeply, and he realized that in his rage, his burning hunger for revenge, and his obsession with being the best, he'd betrayed his training. No chlon ruftuff was the equal of a master of Kild'rel; once he'd avenged his mentor by wiping out the Brontides, the further killings of other chlon warriors, just for the sake of proving he was the best, hadn't been honorable, just… slaughter. Besides, who would acknowledge that he was the best if all those who could appreciate him were dead?

At that instant, he heard his mentor bark at him "Never let your mind wander in combat, youngster!" and his attention snapped back to his surroundings – to find that it had been Challenger chastising him, using Renain's exact words and tone of voice. Even Gabel's genetic gift, virtually instantaneous reaction time, wasn't enough to fully avoid the club swinging towards his side. He turned so it would hit his stomach, and tightened the stomach muscles, and the impact knocked him tumbling backward. As he fell backward, he was able to turn the stumble into a back flip, and he landed, ready for more combat, none the worse for wear.

At least, that's the image he tried to portray as he waded back into the fight. He noticed that Challenger wasn't pulling any punches, though he was using non-lethal strikes whenever he could. Gabel took a swing at another warrior, and the pain in his stomach almost made him pass out. He let the next blow knock him down, onto his billy club, and using his body to conceal his actions, he slipped a quarter grain of Edge from the secret compartment. Using all the speed he had left, he dropped the tiny pill under his tongue, and he could instantly feel the energizing effects spreading through his body, supercharging his muscles, relieving the pain. He sprang to his feet and once again rejoined Challenger in the battle.

"So how'd you know Renain was training me?" Gable asked as he leaped high over the blade of a molecular-edged knife, and lashed out with one foot, catching the blade wielder under the chin. He fired his billy club and knocked out another.

"We kept in touch." Challenger replied sadly, almost as if he was unaware of the vicious ruftuffs attacking him. "I'm sorry to hear about his death. Best fighter I ever knew. Nice move, there!” He grabbed an opponent's arm after a wild swing at his head, spun around, and threw the young warrine into three more charging ruftuffs. The four went down in a heap, cursing wildly. Continuing his spin, Jaiime brought his hands together and clubbed two more warriors.

"Not half as sorry as the Brontides were. But thanks!" Gabel barely moved, but a lunging warrine missed, and Gabel tripped her as she went by. "So… could you beat him? He'd never tell me who was better." Gabel had recovered his billy club, and was using it defensively, slamming it against wrists that held knives, swords, bottles, clubs, whips, you name it. Most of those he struck lost their weapons and the use of that hand as well, with a broken wrist, and crawled painfully away from the donnybrook.

Say," Nevin continued, "how about a quick hand here?" A Strom hand managed to dive at him and grab his legs in a bear hug, and a Psybol was trying to pin his arms behind him.

"No sweat!" Challenger clobbered another warrior with his right as he pulled a pistol with his left, flicked it in Nevin's direction, and pulled the trigger twice. There were two pops, and both warriors let go as something struck them in the heads. A number of chlon gunmen, encouraged that Challenger's pistol still worked, aimed and pulled their triggers – and then they threw their guns away in disgust. "Sorry, children – compressed air pellets, no electronics to fry…" He returned to his interrupted conversation, as casually as if the two were sitting in easy chairs sharing a couple of beers.

By this time, the remaining ruftuffs were half mad with terror, and totally enraged by these two… monsters, who were carrying on a casual conversation – while easily disposing of 10 times their number of chlon warriors. They rushed the two, who stood back to back, and for a short time, even these two had no time to continue their casual conversation. For a few minutes, the air was filled with the sounds of grunts and groans, thwacks and clangs, swearing, panting, and the thuds as desperate warrior after warrine fell to the ground, unconscious, injured – but alive.

Finally, only two men remained standing – one in subdued brown, a little taller, the other in garish red and blue, a little wider, but both well matched as fighters.

"Well fought, youngster!" Challenger approved the battle."You don't have to kill to conquer – you have to leave some to rule over!"

"Yeah, you're not bad, for an old man…" Demon agreed grudgingly, then abruptly changed the subject. "So, who was better, you or Master Renain?"

"I know what he told you about that: He didn't teach me everything he knew," Challenger laughed, "but I know some things he didn't teach me, either – so he might have been surprised."

A bit annoyed at _still_ not getting a straight answer to the most pressing question in his life, Gabel turned away. "We can chit-chat later – something I've gotta do." He stomped determinedly into the building where the Boy had been raised.He could hear Challenger following him, but he didn't turn back. After he kicked in the front door, he was so stunned at the squalor that he didn't realize he was speaking aloud. "I can't believe this place is even worse than when I lived here! How can anyone stand it?" His voice quivered in pain and emotional terror.

"When he retired from the Troopers and started living here full time, everyone else moved out. nobody but him and his woman. He's an Unfriendly now – he gets away with anything he wants," Challenger responded softly. "Murdered the woman after your mother, this is a new one – but they're all subcits, so nobody cares."

Gabel waveringly approached the apartment door without turning, almost afraid it would open and the Fiend would erupt. "How do you know these things about me… and him?"

"Why do you think the Justice Machine is here, youngster?" Jaiime shot back. Then: "Are you sure you want to do this? He's not here, you know."

"But the woman is. I'm going to get her out of here. Even if she's not my mother, she doesn't deserve HIM!" he replied emphatically. Tryng to conceal his movements from Challenger, he dropped a small sphere at his feet. Jaiime noticed, of course, but pretended he didn't.

"No one does," Challenger answered Gabel's point sadly, then, too softly for Gabel to hear. "Even the Machine can't save them all, though..."

As suddenly as it had taken effect, the Edge wore off. To Gabel, it felt as if his muscles turned to jelly and a dinophant fell on his back at the same time as someone sucked all the oxygen out of the air around him, and he staggered and almost fell. But he'd been expecting it, and managed to make it look as if he had tripped on a piece of the trash, then, calling on virtually his last energy reserves, he stood up straight and strong. The first time he'd used Edge in a battle, he'd discovered the dangerous after effects of the stimulant when a full dose had worn off and left him virtually helpless. If his last desperate killing strike hadn't incapacitated his last opponent (not killed, as he had planned!), he would have died; as it was, he barely had strength to crawl away from the battle scene. He'd experimented cautiously since then and found that a quarter dose gave him the 'edge' he needed without totally disabling him after the battle, and his youthful strength, stamina, and superior physiology allowed him to quickly shake off the weakness that followed.

Still, the Edge crash, combined with the eruption of long-suppressed emotions of hatred and terror roused by so many reminders of the Boy and his life, put Gabel into a waking stupor, leaving him barely functional, running on autopilot. Later in life he could never remember the next few minutes as he and Challenger searched the noisome apartment and discovered a pregnant girl dressed in rags, cowering in a closet, clinging desperately to a puny kitchen knife and struggling to keep silent her whimpers of fear. Somehow, Challenger convinced her that the two men weren't there to harm her, and coaxed her out. When they left the building, Gabel didn't even notice that the rest of the Justice Machine had arrived.

"Make sure she's taken care of, Jemin," Challenger led her tp Titan. "Use account 32x-47Z and charge it to Zarren!" The pitiful girl instantly gained the empathy of the gentle giant, and Jaiime was sure he would do right by her.

Gabel woke up again when he heard Challenger release her to Titan's care. He reached into a pocket in the top of one of his boots and pulled out a pouch. "These are hers! Don't lose them or you'll answer to ME!" he barked fiercely at the blue-clad hero. Jemin looked into the pouch; it contained a set of citizenship papers for one Jerly Renain, and a nice sum of money in a variety of currencies. Nevin had recovered the cash from the bodies of the many ruftuffs he'd killed, and he'd used another of the skills he'd learned from Jerek Renain to alter the citizenship papers that one warrine had carried into her last battle.

"Not to worry, kid," Titan smile gently. "We'll relocate her to Trystany and set her up; she'll be fine. My guarantee!" Trystany had a reputation as being one of the most pleasant planets in the Imperium. For some reason, Nevin felt inclined to trust Titan.He turned back to Challenger, who was pointing skyward.

A few seconds back, while Gabel and Jemin were talking: “Boss, incoming, 2 miles off!” Integra’s electronic senses included radar. “1 unit, UnFriendly armored troop carrier, one pilot, no passengers, weapons armed.” Integra's on-board computer had built-in Justice Machine priority which allowed her to demand information from almost any computer in the Imperium.

UnFriendly fliers were obsolete military equipment, designed for suppressing armed rebellions. Unarmed citvilians would stand little chance against them. However, the Justice Machine was neither civilian or unarmed. "OK 'f I have a little fun wit this bratart, boss?" Integra eagerly wanted to know. Challenger knew she meant things like taking over his flight controls and making the flier do insane acrobtics, or cutting off its engines and letting it crash.

"No, but lock out his weapons and be ready to shut it down fast on my signal if the youngster can't handle him. But it's his fight, if he can handle it," Challenger commanded. Overriding combat computers was well beyond Justice Machine priority, but there wasn't much Jaiime couldn't do with computers, and reporgramming Integra's computer to bypass military securty measures hadn't been much of a challenge.

"Gives you another chance to check out the kid, eh, Commander? You got something in mind?" Dynmor asked with a grin. All three made sure to conceal their words from Nevin.

Challenger turned to the youngster and spoke softly, while pointing at a dot quickly growing larger in the sky. “Gabel, that's the Unfriendly who lives here." He carefully avoided calling the Fiend Nevin's father. "He's violating my direct orders by coming here, and I have to bust him. I'm temporarily deputizing you as a Justice Machine auxiliary. Would you care to arrest him for me?"

Inside, the Boy was practiiclly gibbring in fear. This was the man who had terrorized him as a child and murdered his mother, then driven him from his home. But Gabel wasn't the Boy any longer.

"Let him land - and stay out of my way!' Demon barked arrogantly, not caring that he was peremptorily giving orders to one of the most powerful military commanders in the Imperium. He quickly considered taking another (quarter!) grain of Edge, then decided he'd rather do this himself. The adrenaline racing through his body was quickly counteracting his weakness.

The flier roared toward them, only 10' above the pavment. The Fiend cut off the silencers, and roar of the flier's rocket motors, amplifed by echos from the surrounding buildngs, grew panfully loud. During planetary rebellions, this tactic, multiplied by hundreds of incoming troop carriers, often put defenders to rout without a single casualty. Terror Troopers hated missing out on the slaughter, but Imperium tax collectors loved it.

If a cyborg could yawn, Integra would have. She casually raised an arm, pointed with a clenched fist, and activated her sound suppressor, and now the Fiend approached and landed in front of the group in dead silence. Demon stepped forward to face him. The Fiend fired all the carrier's anti-personnel weapons - nothing happened. He kicked open the pilot's door and jumped to the ground and stomped forward. His face was livid.

Once again, Demon had to force down the gibbering terror inside, and swallow the naseous bile of the Boy's fear, and once again, he triumphed over his former self. What exactly should he say? In the Challenger virtuality game, as Challenger, he'd performed many arrests, so he followed the script from the game:

"Halt and desist! By the authority of the free people of the Georwellian Imperium, I place you under arrest in the name of the Justice Machine!"

A small part of Demon's mind noted that the scripted words sounded a lot more imposing in the game than they did in real life.

"You're still nothing but a offine bistup logi, thinking you’re better than me," the Fiend screamed. "Well, you're not, logi! Today I do what I shoulda done years ago. You're dead logi meat today!"

Once again, an opponent had made the mistake of calling Demon a logi, and this time, it was the tormenter who'd started it! "You'll never hurt anyone again. You were a tough guy when it was just you and a child and a subcit girl," Demon sneered at him. "Big and brave, aren't you?" He held out a hand; there was something small in it - too small for anyone to easily recognized. 'Well, I'm not a scared child any longer. I'm Demon - and I'm the best there is!"

Challenger realized that something was about to happen, and he had a good idea what. "Incoming!" he warned his team. An instant later, Demon clenched his fist - and there was a muffled explosion inside the building. The red and blue clad young man didn't even flinch, but the Fiend roared in anger and thundered forward, babbling in incoherent rage.

Demon waited until the last instant, and then stepped aside, stuck out his leg, and laughed as the Fiend went down, then stood waiting for his former tormenter to rise again.

The fight was as uneven as watching Pragasus 38's largest predator, a razortooth, toy with a small, harmless skizzerat before delivering the killing blow. The Fiend rushed and was avoided and tripped, threw stones that were caught and flung back twice as fast, made vicious swinging attacks with sticks he'd found in the rubble, only to watch them shattered by the edge of Demon's hands. Demon never touched him, and yet he was being battered and bruised and humiliated, and screaming in his ever-growing fury.

Throughout, Demon mocked him continually. "You made me what I am today, old man! The best - and you're not even good enough to be the worst." "You might hurt a helpless child with that punch, loser, but I'm not helpless: I'm the best." "Can't a Terror Trooper do better? Seems more like a Comedy Cop to me!" "You've never been anything more than a sick old man with a gun."

This last remark reminded the Fiend that he was wearing a gun. Demon's billy club ended any thought he might have had about using it, and the fight, as it smashed into the Fiend's jaw, and the Unfriendly dropped to the pavement unconscious.

Demon was surprised to discover that he felt as weak as if he'd just come off an Edge, but he also felt an emotional high - as if a dinophant had been sitting on his shoulders and he'd suddenly got out from under.

"I'm impressed with what you've showed me today, kid," Challenger addressed him. "So I'm going to give you a choice. My orders are to arrest you, but I think there's a chance you might make a good member of the Justice Machine. The choice is: you can come with us voluntarily, spend a couple of years at the Academy, work hard, and maybe graduate into the JM in a couple of years, or, be arrested. I don't know what will happen after that - Prosecutor Zarren seemed to have a personal interest in you, and in my experience, that's never good."

"Third choice is I leave on my own. You guys can't stop me - I'm the best!"

"Sorry, kid, you're good - but we're the best." The other 3 members of the Justice Machine stepped closer to flank their commander. "So, what'll it be?"

Demon considered the offer for a few seconds. If he'd been in top shape, and riding an Edge, he'd be willing to take the all on. But exhausted as he was, even through his arrogance, he didn't think his chances would be good in a fight right now. He thought about what was being offered - a chance to stop running, a place where he could fit in, and a place where he could prove to everyone that he is the best.

"Your word, no prison, and you'll square it with Zarren?" he asked Jaiime. Even among his enemies, Challenger's word was good. "And I go to the Academy? And membership in the Justice Machine?"

"My word," Challenger assured him, "that you'll go to the Academy and I'll handle Zarren. The rest is up to you. Stay clean and you stay out of prison, work hard and you'll get a tryout for the Machine. And if you're really the best, the Machine is the right place for you."

It really wasn't much of a choice. "The Academy, it is. I'm looking foward to showing them, and then you, who is really the best. Not that I have any doubts."