The journey to Kappa Velorum was uneventful, though Samara was far from idle. Between studying the files Rook had provided her, there was also the matter of the ship itself. The Ghidhi Ji was a fine ship and suited her needs perfectly, but there was no disguising the fact that alien hands had constructed her. It wasn’t unusual, not in this Third Century Diaspora of Man, as many ships now owned by the Clans had begun their lives on foreign worlds. But a few changes had to be made to avoid raising suspicion, though there wasn’t much to be done regarding her exterior lines until they could find a friendly port, starting with her name.

And so the Ghidhi Ji became the Rächerin, a short-haul cargo and passenger ship, specializing in smaller, more valuable cargoes, the kind of vessel that after a palm or two were greased was waved past customs with a wink and a nod...suiting her needs perfectly.

“We will be within range of the St. Jean Baptiste soon,” Rook informed her, as they entered the system. “How will we proceed?”

“We won’t be proceeding anywhere…I will,” she corrected him. “I need you to stay out of sight until we’ve left the system. If anyone finds out I‘m working with an alien, that’s it. If we’re lucky, they’ll just kick us out.”

“That is not what we agreed to,” Rook snapped at her. “I have no intentions of allowing you to violate the terms of your parole on your very first mission.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she fired back, “but one look at you and the deal’s off. They won’t give me the time of day.”

The Avatar glared at her for a moment and then pointed at a cabinet against the far bulkhead. “On the top shelf, right-hand side, you will find a silver box. Inside there is a bracelet. Put it on.”

Samara folded her arms, smirking at him. “And if I refuse?”

“Then this ship will return to Hishah and you will be turned over to the Troika for failing to abide by your parole,” he answered. “I control this vessel, not you.”

Bravado was pointless when no one else saw it, and your jailer held all the cards. With a sigh, she opened the container and removed the band, affixing it to her wrist. “Tracker, I assume?”

“You assume correctly,” he agreed. “This will allow me to monitor your movements, should you suddenly act precipitously.”

“And if the Knights detect the signal?” she asked.

“They won’t,” he assured her. “It uses a tachyon burst transmitter, which your species has not yet perfected.”

“...Yet,” she shot back, needling him. It was a petty moment, and judging by the way he scowled at her, it had definitely landed, though she was certain he’d return the favor soon enough. “As soon as we’re within range, hail the ship,” she told him.

“And who shall I say is calling?” he inquired.

Samara was silent for a long time. “Liva,” she said at last, “Liva Jiang.”

She was met at the airlock by a pair of Knights; a Chevalier Quatrième clutching a tablet, beside a hulking Sixième apparently chosen for body mass. He watched her every movement as she boarded the Hospitaler ship, while his counterpart stepped forward.

“Liva Jiang? Welcome aboard the St. Jean Baptiste,” she said, greeting her. “I’m Ori Yewande, and this is Anton Coelho,” the Quatrième said, indicating her counterpart. “How may we be of service?”

“I’m here to visit a friend,” Samara explained. “Xeno.”

The smiles disappeared as the pair shared a look. “He said someone would come by,” Ori told her, “but didn’t mention who.”

“You know how he is,” she smiled, laying on the charm. “May I see him?”

“Yes...yes, of course,” the medic flushed, before turning to the orderly. “Please escort our guest to Xeno’s room,” she instructed him, clutching her tablet to her chest. “Excuse me, I have...another patient I must tend to.” She scurried off before Samara could say another word.

“Xeno makes her nervous,” the orderly told her, somewhat unnecessarily, as he led her down a corridor.

“I can’t imagine why,” she shrugged. “Xeno is a gentle soul.”

“That’s not the reason, and you know it,” the massive Sixième replied, shaking his head. “He’s...different.”

“So?” Samara asked. “Most of your patients are a little unusual.” She cast an eye up to him. “Considering your Clan helps all who ask, human and alien alike, I’d have thought you’d be used to it.”

Anton came to a halt in front of a nondescript hatch. “Taking care of others is central to our creed, yes, and we accept all those that come to us, be they human or alien. But you Proteans...you’re something else entirely.”

She raised her eyebrow at that, but he showed no signs of apologizing. ”What makes you think I’m a Protean?”

He glanced pointedly down at her hand, as the tissue covering her fingers rippled slightly. Gritting her teeth, Samara willed her flesh to be still, though it took an effort on her part. She glared back up at the orderly, her secret now exposed as he jerked his head towards the hatch. “This is his room,” he informed her. His mission now complete, he turned and left without another word. She watched him go, her eyes gone dark and cold. Some things never changed. Her hand raised to knock, only to have the hatch slide open before she had the chance.

“Samara,” she heard from inside. “It’s been some time since we last spoke.”

Squaring her shoulders, she ducked inside, the hatch closing behind her. Xeno sat in a large chair facing her, his expression as inscrutable as she remembered.

“Hello, old friend,” she said softly. “It has been a while.” She waited for him to invite her to sit or ask her to leave. One did as Xeno asked when in his presence, for he truly was special. She’d never asked what niche his patron had hoped he’d fill following his transformation; unfortunately, the results had been disappointing. The gene therapy and cybernetic enhancements had not gone as hoped, so Xeno had come here to be looked after, discarded and abandoned like so many others.

Two bulbous black lumps of jelly quivered in the place where his eyes should have been, while a shiny chunk of chrome and electronics bolted to the side of his skull blinked as it did something arcane. His torso was lumpy and swollen, resting upon a pair of mismatched spindly legs that would never support his girth. One of his arms, red and swollen, rested upon a wide padded shelf, while the other writhed and twisted like a serpent. Despite herself, Samara managed a smile. “You look good,” she told him.

“In fact, I do not, but thank you for the effort,” he said. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”

She took a seat opposite him. “I’d hoped you’d know I was coming,” she told him. “Your gift is as strong as ever.”

“Gift,” he repeated, as a sudden chill crept into his voice. “Look at me, Samara. Tell me if what I received could truly be called a ‘Gift’.”

Samara winced and turned away. “Please, I don’t want to do this,” she sighed. “I know we’ve had our differences…”

“And yet here you are, asking for my help,” he interrupted. “You can at least indulge me, for old time’s sake.” Xeno waited patiently as if he had all the time in the world.

She sighed, closing her eyes and bowing to the inevitable. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “You got screwed.”

“Yes, I did,” he shot back, “while you, my dear, had the galaxy at your feet.” His facial muscles, such as they were, pulled at his mouth in a twisted parody of a smile. “That is, until now.”

Samara nodded. Xeno was not the type to be easily fooled. “How much do you know?”

His serpentine limb reached up and tapped the alien hardware grafted to his head. “I may not see, but I hear everything,” he said solemnly. “Hints and bits from across the cosmos find their way to me, coming together to tell a story. And lately, they have been telling a fascinating tale about you, my dear child.” His chair creaked beneath his bulk as he leaned forward. “I have listened with rapt attention to a saga that rivals the Iliad, wondering when you would come to me...for who else could you go to?”

Deflating, she leaned forward as well. “I’m in real trouble,” she blurted out, “and I don’t know who I can trust.”

He sighed, clucking with regret. “Poor Samara. Discovering that starting wars is easier than surviving them? Are you only now beginning to realize what you have unleashed?” Xeno shook his head in both sadness and accusation. “You came here to recruit an army, didn’t you?” She recoiled from that, but the older Protean wasn’t quite finished with her. “Look at me, little seedling. Do I look like a warrior?”

“Warriors come in many forms,” she said stiffly, jutting out her chin.

“So they do,” he agreed. “But to come to this place...only someone truly desperate would seek to swell their ranks with volunteers from the Island of Misfit Toys. Haven’t they suffered enough, little seedling? Haven’t we suffered enough? Must we now die for you on your mad crusade?”

Samara rose deliberately to her feet. “If you truly have been listening to the æther, then you know humanity is in real trouble, maybe the worst since we lost Earth. The Troika is out for blood because we might have something they want badly enough to kill for.” She took a breath, centering herself. “And for the very first time in my life, I have a cause I can believe in.” She worked her jaw as she faced his misshapen flesh. “I know my words must ring hollow to you now after all that’s happened. I’ve killed and seduced my way across the Perseus Arm and never apologized for it. I’m ten times the monster you’ll ever be, and yet here I am, Xeno. Where are you?”

He leaned back in his chair, regarding her thoughtfully. “In all the years I have known you, little seedling, you have never spoken with such conviction and passion. You almost make me believe in you.” He smiled. “Almost.”

“Damn you, old man,” she spat. “Would I be here if I wasn’t on the level?”

“If you were desperate enough? Oh yes, you would.” Cocking his head, he seemed to listen to a snatch of music only he could recognize, before turning his attention back to her. “Are you going to explain how you come to me, not of your own free will? How even now, your jailer’s mark is wrapped around your very wrist? Just what did you offer them to gain your freedom?”

She snatched her arm away, clutching it against her. “It’s not like that,” she protested. “We’re working in a common cause.”

“Common cause. With them.” With sudden effort, Xeno pushed his way to his feet, grunting and gasping with the struggle. His body seemed to pulse and bubble beneath the flesh, as his ruined eyes sought hers. “They did this, Samara. Turned us into monsters and freaks and then left us to die. Why would we ever join forces with them?” he hissed, his once placid voice now filled with hate and bile.

“I’m not asking you to join them,” she mumbled, “I’m asking you to join me.” She shrugged helplessly. “I know this war I’ve chosen will kill me. I know I’ve taken on more than I can face. And I know that anyone who comes with me will probably suffer the same fate.” She closed her eyes and whispered, “But I’m asking you to come with me, anyway.”

Wheezing heavily, the elder Protean sat back down with a whuff. “Leave me now, Samara,” he ordered her. “I must meditate on this and listen to the winds of the æther. Go back to your ship and await my answer.” With that he turned away, not an easy feat given his bulk, dismissing her.

Samara exited the compartment, retracing her steps back to her ship without a word. She couldn’t guess which he would choose, in fact it surprised part of her he was even considering her offer at all.

Rook had a few choice words for her upon her return.

“Of all the reasons one might visit a long-term care facility, using it to mobilize a strike team has to rank near the bottom of anyone’s list,” he sniffed.

“Why? Because they have problems?” she shot back.

“Problems?” Rook considered that for a moment, tasting the word. “I suppose that ‘problems’ is an accurate enough descriptor, when characterizing individuals whose bodies are falling apart because of what they did to them.” He raised his eyebrow. “Had I realized this was your plan, I would have vetoed it.”

“You want to handle it? Fine. You and your Kikush buddies can launch an assault against the Troika yourself since you don’t require my services.” She plopped down into a chair, crossing her legs and wrapping her arms behind her head. “Go on then. I won’t stop you.”

The Avatar’s nostrils flared with disdain. “That is impractical. Our forces are no match for the Troika’s firepower.”

“And yet you have no problem throwing me at them,” she sneered.

“You were going after them anyway,” he reminded her. “We are simply aiding your mission.”

“While reaping all the benefits and suffering none of the drawbacks,” Samara said with contempt, “though I can’t help but wonder what would happen to your people should your involvement ever come to light?” A frosty smile graced her features as she regarded the Avatar. “I imagine there would be all sorts of negative repercussions.”

“Whatever hold you think you may have on me or my people, I can assure you it is only an illusion. Should you attempt to escape, or expose our involvement in this, it will force me to stop you.”

“Oh, really?” Samara laughed. “And just how do you plan on doing that?”

Rook smiled. “Like this,” he told her, snapping his fingers. An instant later she fell to the deck like a puppet whose strings had just been cut, screaming and writhing in agony as the alien Avatar watched. Slowly, gradually, the pain lessened until it finally disappeared, leaving her whimpering.

“Nanotechnology introduced into your bloodstream via the food and drink,” he explained. “By now they’ve attached themselves to your central nervous system. Step out of line, and it will only get worse.”

Samara pushed herself up to a sitting position, a look of pure murder in her eyes. “Bastard,” she hissed, running the back of her hand across her mouth. It came back bloody.

“This was never a partnership of equals,” he told her, as frigid and stoic as ever. “Do as I command, and we may both profit from this. Fail to do so, however, and you will suffer accordingly.”

There wasn’t much she could add to that. She’d thought she’d been so smart, plotting and scheming her way out of Rook’s clutches. She should have realized he’d have a backup plan in place to keep her right where he wanted her. Staggering back to her feet, she stumbled to her cabin, locking the hatch behind her as she collapsed onto the bed. Not that it would keep the alien Avatar out, as he had just proved, but the illusion was important to her. She needed to be alone, needed time to gather her wits and think.

A soft chime drew her attention to her tablet, a blinking icon showing a waiting message. Tapping the screen revealed a brief note:

23:39hrs, Airlock 14D

Don’t make me regret this

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she whispered.