6:00 A.M.

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It was the morning after the death of O.C.C. and Dan Sykes was already awake, anticipating a new day. O.C.C., Oxy-Core Chemical . . . whatever. It no longer mattered to Sykes. Soon neither name would have any relevance. Either way, the situation was left to the blood sucking lawyers.

Now new horizons awaited Sykes and the catalyst to the future began with one tiny Martian moon and the awakening of one tiny satellite therein. The combining of the two had been a well thought out strategy three years in the making. Only now was the payoff coming due, but it would be the first of many.

Even as Sykes thought about it, Deimos, the furthest of the two Martian moons, was floating into position, the first rays of sun dawning as a meticulously designed engine began to whir. At exactly 6:13 A.M. the Deimos Alpha satellite dish was scheduled to receive transmission.

Dan Sykes anticipated this occurrence with great pride as he watched the seconds tick by; the seconds which were synchronized to match his own watch.

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6:03 A.M.

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A barrage of emotions swept over Sykes in these last few minutes. Within the confines of his soul they all combined in a menagerie of light and dark, good and bad, right and wrong. Sykes felt he was on the brink of eternity, yet with success often came pain; and this time the two walked hand in hand with fate. The joy of his long overdue efforts coming to a head was overshadowed by the untimely death of Betty, his beloved black rhino.

Betty died just last night. It was inevitable. Sykes knew that, even though he didn’t want to. Even the prolonged life span of a true clone plus all the wonder drugs the 22nd century had to offer couldn’t keep her going forever. It ate away at him . . . he enjoyed a fortune beyond imagination, yet he couldn’t save the one thing he cared about most . . . the one thing he actually loved.

Sykes considered cryostasis. Though it would’ve worked just fine, that science had been mastered, Betty’s disease couldn’t be cured in a hundred years, or even a thousand. Her disease was old age. So he let her go peacefully.

Damn, it hurt like hell. Every second he thought about her being gone, he felt like joining her.

Not quite yet. Now he had something else to live for. The upcoming treaty with the pirates.

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6:09 A.M.

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The pirates were a rag tag band of bastards. Their loyalties were to themselves alone and with Operation Ambush they kept it that way . . . even among each other. They we’re always wary of trap or traitor. It’s what kept them alive.

Sykes admired them for their ruthlessness. They reminded him so much of himself in his early days. Though, it was damn hard to convince them of such a thing. Sykes earned himself a bad reputation. He was known for being far too untrustworthy. Just because Sykes shared much in common with pirates didn’t mean they’d get along.

He wasn’t new to the occasional backstabbing, but he always cleaned up after himself. Dan Sykes was notorious for that too . . . nothing could ever be pinned on him. Though, surprisingly, the easiest of his escapades was his frequent torture and murder of half-breeds. It was fun too. Every self-respecting human loathes half-breeds. Hell, even the Coalition’s police force look the other way . . . who says C.O.P. ‘aint corrupted.

Anyway, Sykes had to give up three times what he’d planned, but it was worth it. The treaty with the pirates was all but signed sealed and delivered. Although, just because Sykes admired pirates didn’t mean he trusted them. Hell, that’s one of the reasons he admired them . . . they were the most ruthless sons of bitches in the galaxy.

Dan Sykes has never and will never turn his back on any one of them.

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6:12 A.M., 51 seconds, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59

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Receive transmission. The incoming and outgoing transmissions were wired, scrambled and unscrambled directly to Dan Sykes’s personal suite on Moonbase.

It worked like a charm. It should. It cost enough.

“Grant, of Dark Omen here. What’s your status?”

Sykes grinned, even the state of the art video monitor came through beautifully . . . well almost. Dark Omen is antiquated. Sykes could see and hear them, but they could only hear Sykes.

“Ah, is that my trusty traitor at the helm? I’m sorry, I know that was in poor taste, but I just couldn’t resist the alliteration. Irony too . . . who can trust a traitor? As for my status, I just woke up. I’m still a bit groggy, but don’t let that keep you from transmitting those lovely coordinates. After all, I did give you needed to locate and board Dark Omen.”

“The Dark Omen’s a piece of junk, Sykes, and you also gave the cruisers coordinates to a band of bloodthirsty pirates and forgot to tell me they’d be dropping by!”

“Oops, my mistake. Don’t get on my nerves, Grant. You’ll notice they waited patiently for you to board before lifting off. Otherwise you’d be dead right now; rotting away in the Dead Zone.

“Yeah, I’m still alive, but half of my crew bought it just getting to the piece of shit! You just couldn’t land it any closer to 87C, could you?!”

“I didn’t land it, Grant, I just found it, claimed it and bought the rights from C.O.P. ‘cause it was on their fucking land.” Sykes yawned. “But what do you care? Your entire party would’ve and will disown you when they discover what you’ve done. It’s better this way. Better yet, kill off the rest of them before they get you first.”

“Don’t have to, you bastard. Pirates slaughtered them. We didn’t know who they were thanks to you. We attacked them; they attacked back. And I had to kill two of your trusty pirates just defending myself. After they found out who I was they almost killed me anyway!”

“How sad, Grant, but you shouldn’t have pissed them off. Now transmit the coordinates before you piss me off too.”

“I don’t think so. Our casualties are your casualties. Stakes go up, price goes up.”

“The price stays where it is.”

“Wrong again, Sykes, I know you get your jollies from lording it over the galaxy, but I’m holding the strings now and we don’t need you.”

“Think so, huh? Price stays where it is. Don’t you think, Samson?”

With that a hulking figure suitably named Samson got up out of his chair, and started walking towards Grant.

Grant heard the squeal of the revolving chair, turned and held his taser rifle on the larger man.

“Hold it, Samson, who’s side are you on, anyway?”

Samson failed to respond, but made his answer quite clear when he kept on coming.

Grant didn’t want to anger the pirates with another death, so he aimed his rifle at Samson’s right shoulder. A bolt of electricity filled the ops room.

Samson flinched and reacted. A fist suddenly hit Grant in his stomach. The fist felt like it was made of chromide and moved faster than Grant could follow. He never had a chance to fire his second shot and the rifle clattered to the floor.

Grant doubled over, but before he could reach the chromide surface Samson grabbed his neck and lifted him so that he dangled above the floor. Samson held on firmly, careful to put the strain on Grant’s chin instead of his throat. This required an expertise few had, causing the growing pirate audience to believe this wasn’t Samson’s first experience with the maneuver.

From the right edge of Grant’s mouth, burgundy colored blood dribbled down. This was one of the more obvious signs of a half-breed. His eyes, staring uncontrollably at the ceiling, widened in horror. He spoke as much, gasping for each breath. “C . . . c . . . clone. You’re . . . a . . . fucking true c . . . clone.”

Sykes spoke up in a happy tone as Samson remained quiet. “Never leave home without them. Now, the coordinates please.”

“Fuck . . . you.”

“I don’t think so, you’re not my type.”

Samson jammed his right knee into Grant’s groin.

Grant let out a noise that sounded like glrk as his eyes widened even more. Ever since he’d been lifted off his feet, he’d been fighting Samson’s single hand, doing everything he could to break the vice-like grip so he could breath. He ceased momentarily as the new attack sent more pain shooting through his body.

“That was just a warning. Now please, be a sport, and give me those coordinates.”

Grant began to say “never”, but as he did so he glanced down at his own left shoulder.

“Ah, thank you, Grant. Check it out, Samson.”

The behemoth lifted his right arm, as it was still useful enough to do damage. Samson grunted in pain as he tore the left side of Grant’s khaki jumpsuit off with one jerk, revealing part of his extensive disfigurement. The purplish discolored skin mingled with a series of wart-like bumps spanning the length of his arm, all the way to the back of his hand. But on his shoulder was a bump more prominent than the others. Samson saw this, too, and turned Grant to give Sykes a better view.

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Upon seeing Grant’s disfigurement Sykes was repulsed and fought the urge to vomit. He already knew Grant was a half-breed, no matter how hard he’d tried to convince him otherwise during their well-guarded communication back at 87C. Half-breeds swarmed 87C. That piece of shit bunker harbored more of them than anywhere else in the fuckin’ galaxy. Well, except for 252E, but everyone knew that. The very idea of treating a half-breed as an equal made him sick.

The signs were blatantly obvious. The first was speech. For some strange, fucked up reason a select few half-breeds couldn’t use acronyms, such as C.O.P. or pronounce some slang words like ‘aint, instead of “is not” or “isn’t”. It was almost like the fuckers had been programmed. Hell, he once came across a half-breed that wasn’t even able say “couldn’t” over “could not”. This was a subtle difference, but if you kept ‘em talkin’ long enough you could catch ‘em. True-clones never had this problem; Samson was just the quiet type. Although it was true that Grant wasn’t afflicted with this particular problem there were other unavoidable signs that gave him away.

This would be his blood, but not only his . . . all half-breeds. It was darker than human blood; a shade half way between red and black. Samson and all T.C.s were free of this embarrassment.

The last sign was Grant’s disfigurement. Only about a fourth of half-breeds were born disfigured, but Grant definitely fit into that category.

Half-breeds are a truly fucked race, Sykes thought. He was doing them a favor by putting them out of their misery. Torturing them first was just the fun part.

Sykes instinctively knew this particular bulge was . . . the microchip. The chip itself was slightly larger than the head of a needle, but was undoubtedly in a larger protective cover. It was the only way to keep the contents of the chip safe after being imbedded in his skin.

Stashing microchips in your flesh was a common practice, but putting a chip in the shoulder was a rather obvious hiding place. Grant made a valiant effort to hide it by intermingling it with his other protrusions. It probably deceived 98% of the imbeciles he’d come in regular contact with deep inside Bunker 87C, but Sykes was no fool.

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After barely controlling his urge to throw up, Sykes continued, though not quite as cheery as he was. “I think . . . this ought to be a special pleasure for Samson, seeing how you blasted his right shoulder. Careful now, big boy, don’t damage the hardware.”

Grant squirmed desperately with what little reserve strength he had left trying to release himself from Samson’s left arm, but to no avail.

The scream tore through Sykes speaker system. It was louder than he anticipated. Sykes took a moment to clear his ears of the incessant ringing. Though abbreviated with frantic gasps, the screaming didn’t stop. Sykes was forced to raise his voice to the same level just to be heard. “Hell of a scream, Grant!” The noise level subsided as Samson further cut Grant’s air supply. “Ah, that’s better! . . . Don’t feel too bad. You’re a half-breed. I already knew it, but it’s incredibly obvious now. In case you didn’t know, I . . . hate . . . half-breeds, especially disfigured ones. You’re even more detestable than I gave you credit for. I never would’ve let you live, price hike or no price hike. Hell, even for free, I’d still kill you’re disgusting ass. And hey, I’m a busy man, so I’m going to send you off a hell of a lot quicker than most. Actually, I’m just sick of looking at you. Sayonara, you piece of shit motherfucker!”

With that Samson immediately twisted his wrist to the right. A muffled snap was heard as Grant’s neck broke.

The darkened blood flowed from the shoulder wound as Samson released the dangling body. It crumpled to the floor it had been denied for the last five minutes.

“Good boy, Samson. Now give the chip, casement and all, to Surge and go finish off the rest of the fuckers. I know Grant lied. He’s always had a soft spot for his own kind.”

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After Grant and Samson exited the camera’s view, Sykes could see the rest of the crew. There were five pirates, including Surge, who’d already begun cleaning the blood from the delicate casement. He was happy to see among them was Chris Pierce, Sykes’ ex-senior security officer. Dan Sykes had sent him to Dark Omen as a punishment for his blatant hatred of Betty. Firing the bastard would’ve been too easy. Forcing him to coexist with pirates was far more entertaining. Sykes still remembered telling Pierce about the priority-one project and how imperative it was that he join in.

Pierce looked different now. He’d changed clothes and resembled a pirate. It wasn’t hard to do. Just wear a pile of rags, like in the slums, but include a heavy arsenal and an expression full of hatred. Pierce wasn’t smiling, but he lacked the normal hatred burning in most pirate’s eyes. He was also a bit too clean and his wavy brown hair was actually combed. It was a hilarious sight and Sykes took it all in. It was rare when something made him laugh.

Sykes found even though he despised Pierce, he was happy to see he’d survived this long. Hell, perhaps Chris still thought he was doing him a huge favor. Why not find out?

“Pierce! I see you’ve made it to Dark Omen. How’s everything going so far?”

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Pierce was fully aware of the murder that just took place, but followed the example of the other pirates and remained at his station. The death hadn’t fazed him. He was used to such things. One of his jobs as Sykes’s head security officer was covering up his half-breed murders. Sometimes he also participated when Sykes wanted to make things more interesting.

The job he hated most was guarding Betty. She was top priority in Sykes’s deluded mind, and that meant he had to guard her personally, instead of giving the job to one of his 238 highly trained security guards. He still remembered what a joy it was inhaling the delightful scent of Betty’s feces each night.

Pierce was always up for another assignment. Anything was better than fuckin’ rhino duty, but this assignment was prime. It was highly classified and Sykes himself asked for him. It’s not easy rising to the top in the dangerous field of security. He was in the best shape of his life and ready to handle anything. Pierce was sure Sykes was putting him to the test, and if he passed he’d receive accolades, along with a far more vital role. This would obviously include a raise, but maybe even a hefty share in the company’s stock! The best part was that Betty would probably be dead by the time he got back.

Thankfully, it seemed, he’d been forgiven for his sorry-ass explanation regarding the stupid rhino a couple days ago. It wasn’t the first time his hatred for Betty had shown through and forgiveness had never been one of Sykes strong suits. Pierce felt honored to be one of the few who’d managed to acquire it. It was all the more reason to redeem himself with this assignment and make Sykes proud, if such a thing was even possible.

Even so, Pierce was used to Cryox Dome and everything it entailed. This was completely new. The ship was a piece of shit. It was obvious the crew was pirates. Nor was it a surprise they didn’t seem to have any order or regiment. He’d seen better living conditions in the slums where breeds live.

The food and water were detestable. He’d had diarrhea set in more than once. Normally you wouldn’t want to be in a weakened condition around pirates, but being sick seemed to help. Diarrhea made him a laughing stock, which was better than getting killed. Not that Pierce couldn’t take care of himself, but Sykes sent him on this mission alone with no backup on the way.

Pierce wasn’t afraid of them . . . no, scratch that; he was, but not to the extreme. He’d survived similar situations, but neither was he stupid. Eleven-to-one weren’t good odds, especially when one was a true clone. He took what he could get, and played rag doll for a while. It wasn’t prudent to get into a fight anyway, as this was Sykes’s ship, Sykes’s operation and apparently, Sykes’s pirates. Rocking the boat would make him look bad. So he endured the humiliation and did his job, manning the fucking radar. Who knows, maybe he’d still get a chance to prove himself.

Pierce was still puzzled about one thing, though. Why would Sykes send a security officer on a trip with a bunch of ruthless pirates? They can obviously handle themselves. Sykes never really told him the reason. Perhaps he was a spy. Everyone knows pirates can’t be trusted. Maybe he was Sykes’s last ditch hope if there was a mutiny! Even so, why pirates?! Things would have gone much smoother and faster if he was in charge of his own men out here.

Slowly the stench of sweat and death filled the room and flooded Pierce’s nostrils. Things would have smelled better, too.

That’s just how Sykes did things, in secrecy. He never entrusted too many people with too much information. Sykes told him before he left that he’d keep in contact with him and advise him on his next task. It was good enough. He’d play along. Sykes’s trust extended only to a select few and it looked as if Pierce was now one of these elite.

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Pierce slowly swiveled his chair to better face the camera.

“Fine, sir, radar’s clear. We’ll be nearing your position on Moonbase in a few days. I wish we could make better time, but Dark Omen’s just too damn old.”

Sykes clenched his teeth. Not again. The bastard said the same thing about Betty. Must be his favorite line. Why isn’t the guy dead yet anyway?

Sykes got himself under control. “You can do better . . . and I expect it. Forget the sensor sweeps and work on speeding up the propulsion system.”

“Aye, aye sir!”

Bastard. Everything he did set Sykes off. That term hadn’t been used in over a hundred years. Who’d he think he was . . . a fuckin’ pre-holocaust?! Truth be told, he once was, but not anymore. The good news? Pierce was as clueless as ever. He actually thought he was put there for some secret mission.

Sykes was no longer happy Pierce was still alive and wished the pirates would hurry up and finish the job he’d started. Until then, Sykes would continue rattling the chain.

“Kraid, catch up with Samson. Help him finish off the bastards. If Pierce hasn’t shortened your timeline by the time you get back, give him some incentive.”

This gave Pierce reason to sweat and in turn interrupted Kraid’s response. “No worries! I’ve got everything under control!”

As if able to read his mind, Kraid’s face was suddenly etched with the same “Shut the fuck up!” expression that was plastered on Sykes face. Though, this would only make his “incentive” all the sweeter when the time came for him to administer it. As he left the room to join Samson he knew he wasn’t about to miss out on this rather enjoyable extra-curricular activity . . . whether Pierce succeeded or not.