When are you going to tell him?

She pursed her lips. Tell him the full truth about what was left of The Consortia – who she was, what she had done? Was she so certain Kyso would be accepting of all that? It was much too much for any one conversation.

Althea hoped he was capable of handling the truth, hoped she could convince him to. It would have to wait until this Macro was dealt with anyway. And… how to even start?

An alarm chimed. She sat back up, realizing what it meant.

“You’re picking up signals?”

Yes, but not Macro. Let me show you.

She activated the display, opened it, scrutinized it; checked the symbols, the sweep of his wide spectrum surveillance. The signals weren’t Macro, or even trinary.

“We’re being followed?”

It would seem so, he agreed. They are not close.

She could tell by the weakness, diffusion of the signal, but, “how far?”

Too close and they would have to move again, or prepare for a fight. Could the Ginga be so confident, after what she’d done? After seeing the pile of unconscious bodies she’d left for him, the other graphic warnings? Had he recovered enough men to try to stubbornly exact revenge. Or were they merely following, in the hopes of being close enough to profit if her group had an unfortunate run in with the Macro constructs?

The source is at least a two thirteens away. The information relieved her anxiety. Perhaps further, depending on the refraction of the cloud cover.

She relaxed. The signals were far behind them; with the lifter they had covered a fourteen, in a day over the mountains, the glacier. Even if they were being followed, their pursuers had only moved one third their speed.

The signal is not mobile.

With the frigid nights here, that was not surprise. Baring an unexpected catastrophe, a threat wasn’t likely.

“Let’s hope they don’t catch up. I don’t want more people involved in this. We don’t have much margin for error.”

I will continue to listen, Dorian told her. I will inform you if they transmit anything significant, or if there is a response from nearby.

She smiled again, appreciative.

Althea stretched under the warm blankets, shut her eyes for what felt like a brief moment, then was startled back into awareness by a noise. She turned over, heard something again, over the sound of the wind, the tent’s fabric – a woman’s voice. Teffa? It sounded fearful – then a man’s voice over her’s – harsh.

Already? Her mind raced back to full consciousness. Were they fighting already? Then she heard, confirmation of the fear Traejan had planted in her mind, Teffa’s cries for help. She pulled on her boots, grabbed her tunic, sprang outside as quickly as she could. Out of the protection of the tent it was dark. The cold hit her, shock of it stopping her in her tracks. Where? Behind her tent – sound of a struggle – Teffa crying out again.

“No! No! No!”

Althea spun around the tent’s corner to spot Obe crouching over the prone body of the woman, whose legs and arms were flailing under the bigger man.

“Stop it!”

Obe turned to look at her, rage in his face, blood on his fist. Althea felt her fury rise again.

Not like this, not like this!

She reached into her pocket for the projector. Felt around for its signature shape, feel. Did she put it back? She checked another pocket.

Where had she put the projector?

The man was rising, there was no time left to search.

Althea moved as fast as she could, just a flicker of her potential strength rising. It didn’t matter; she knew skill and anger would carry her against him. Obe tried to block her attack, but she batted away his defense with ease, landing blows that knocked him away from Teffa. The man grunted against the attack, defended against her repeated blows as he fell back to the snow.

A detached part of her wondered if this would work. Kill him, under cover of defending Teffa, the implant could be explained. She landed two blows on his head, his face. It could work, he had been attacking Teffa. Another quick strike and he stopped struggling completely. She stopped, stood over him, breathing hard.

Althea noticed the movement, crunches in the snow too late; stars exploded in her head as the blow from behind knocked her off her feet. She tried to stop the agony, tried to hold her skull together as she was thrown over the man. The shock of the cold ground warred with the ringing in her head – the pounding, pounding pain.

Then the harsh, hot breathing in her face, the cold sharp pressure on her throat.