I remember falling. Somehow, I saw it coming seconds before it happened, but I had no way to stop it. Snap. The rope severed. The top of the towering spire of rock began to fall away. During my freefall, time became surreal. Each moment stood alone; an encapsulated eternity. The idyllic scenery of Utah’s canyonlands passed in slow motion around me. Rich orange alien rock formations fused with the light greens of the trees and shrubs.

Crash! The Earth swept my soul from its mortal flesh with impartial efficiency. It was like being sucked from a pressurized chamber into the vacuum of space. There was no tunnel, no light – unless you count the bright blazing sun overhead.

These images still surround me, but they are clouded by a dense fog – a thin veil that I am unable to pull back. My soul has stayed behind. Is this purgatory? Perhaps I am suspended in the memory of my death. I lie between worlds, unable to move on, although I know not why. I pray for the veil to be lifted.

Time stands still. I think to myself, if I am to remain here, let me see my surroundings clearly. I loved this place in life; it was the one place where the horrific memories of war were not as vivid. A maimed special ops officer dying in my arms as I struggle to extricate him from an ambush. My knife at the throat of another assassination target. The explosion that left half of my team dead. In this place, I was almost able to find some peace from these scenes of death. The green and orange stained canyons remain eternal and unchanging in the haze. For a second it seems there might be a thin clearing in the fog above me.

“Doctor Schmidt,” the senior military scientist says, peering over his spectacles at the younger man. “Is the transfer nearly complete? We can only keep his soul in the stasis field for so long, and I don’t want to have to procure another subject.”

The junior scientist looks up from the computer. His cherubic face is alight with excited anticipation, having repressed the horrific reality of the project’s implications long ago. “This is the last pathway to calibrate, sir. We’re almost there.”

“Good,” says the older man. A thin smile forms on his lined face as he looks down at the shining metal of the android lying on the cold steel table before him. It is a masterpiece of mechanical engineering, glistening under the bright fluorescent lights of the lab room. A series of wires connect its body and head to the supercomputer.

With a final keystroke, Dr. Schmidt completes the last pathway. The transfer sequence is initiated. The two scientists watch the android with rapt attention. The anticipation is palpable, like an approaching storm.

I’m not imagining things. There is a thinning in the fog. A hole is forming in the veil at last. I wait with eagerness either for the clarity to return to my majestic surroundings or for what lies beyond. Time is meaningless now.

Something is wrong. I sense it before it happens. The sky is torn violently open in a great cataclysmic gash. My world is suddenly filled with light. Bright. Unnatural. Merciless.

I try to scream. Before the sound can escape, I am sucked through the great wound in the sky. My vision is filled with the terrible light. I hear triumphant human voices. Terror fills me as the beauty of my world vanishes and my soul is trapped in a metal hell.

Lt. Bernard sat, arms crossed, in a 15,000,000 credit coffin. The nuclear battery shorted out and now, without engine power, his ship was just another object in space. Interceptor Pilot Protocol dictated that he stay with his vessel and wait for a patrol to pick him up. That might have worked for downed pilots centuries ago, back on that sandbox called Earth; but here, in the vastness of space – rescue was slim to nil. Bernard slammed the fists of his environment suit into the control panel and called it a “…lousy floating space cow.”

Those who knew him, well, didn’t. Bernard never went out while at the academy because he had seen what happens to students caught drinking, similar reasons kept him from going out with the other pilots when his ship was docked. His whole life was spent with strict adherence to the rules; rules were important, they were the standard and criteria by which he was judged by his superiors. Certainly not superfluous things like flair or creativity. If it weren’t for his strict observance of the rules he might never have been chosen for flight school, might never have been granted the honor of serving at his station, might never have been selected for this mission. Now the rules told him to sit and wait.

The more he thought, the less sense it made. His whole life had built up to this day, this mission; but now, like a novel with a great back story that only fizzled as it progressed, it was over. At least he had a good view of the cosmos… Bernard chuckled to himself. You see, there is this saying that claims some people don’t truly live until they are on their death bed and Bernard finally understood what it meant. Now that his rules had been shattered he remembered why he chose to be an interceptor pilot. All the things his wealth and pedigree could have given him and he chose the life of a soldier, for it was the best way to follow his dream. Every night as a kid in his luxury apartment he dreamt of the stars. The void of the cosmos and the universe’s array of colors in subtle pinhole form was such a stark contrast to the orbital colonies of Mars. With his hand on the surface of the inactive display he pushed himself forward until the dome of his helmet connected with the glass of his cockpit, then he sat and stared in bewilderment. It was indeed ironic to him; all this time he spent reaching for the stars and this was the first time he had really stopped to admire their beauty.

He lifted the emergency eject and the cockpit sprung right open, the atmosphere in his ship rushed out and he was now the closest he had ever been to the stars. Here he lingered clinging to the wing of his downed bird, not a thought for the rules as he found the brightest star in sight. It was a nearby red giant and it too was close to the end of its life where it would explode into a brilliant super nova; such an explosion of vividly colored gas simply makes it the most powerful act of nature in the universe. He had let go of the ship and started drifting towards the giant. He could stretch out as big as possible without fear of touching another human and he could finally look all around him without the walls of mankind.

Bernard curled up as the cold seeped through his suit, taking one long look at his star. As he closed his eyes and drifted into one last sleep a smile crossed his face; satisfaction that he had finally achieved peace swelled from his heart like a tiny explosion in space.

My gorget chafes as I sit in the dark, listening to my world hum. I can feel the distant thrum of engines, and the creak of cables. Steam and pressure hiss and burble, vacuum engines thump and click, shunting force thru the veins of the ship. Some of the other troopers think I am a bit daft, but I swear I can sometimes hear the electricity coursing thru the wires from the topside collectors to the batteries amidships. Of course, I’ve been on the ship longer than most of them, including the skipper. I even got to vote on her name prior to her maiden voyage — The Cloudcutter was the name that won. Wasn’t the name I voted for, but it’s a goodish name and it’s grown on me.

Of course, I am barely aboard the ‘Cutter at present, to say elsewise would be disingenuous. I am deep below in the drop deck — there are sounds much closer and clearer. I can hear the clink-clack of ratchets as straps are tightened. I hear the heaving of a bellows pump as the belay crew shoves air into the impact bladders all around me.

My breastplate sits tight against me, more comfortable than my own skin is most of the time. The corundum plate is covered with layers of silk and gesso, which helps make it proof against most small arms fire. Well, at least the first shot or two.

But this gorget, it irks me like all nine hells. The greaves and helmet are forgotten they are so much a part of me; but this damn gorget! Maybe if it actually was to keep my throat from being slashed, if it was really armor, I could learn to deal with it. It’s not though, its sole purpose if to mark me as someone who is supposed to know what they’re doing. Someone to be heeded in the thick of it when they tell you to do the dumbest things, like climbing over the top of a trench’or dropping out the bottom of an airship. This is the second drop I’ve had to make with everyone’s fate hung around my neck disguised as a big polished brass collar.

There are three quick bangs on the side of the drop bucket — the belay crew letting us know they are done and retreating back above and away from this insanity. I sit in the dark for what seems like days, trying not to go mad. Suddenly light blooms behind me as the drop hatches spring open. With a huge jolt and a thump, we are away.

Silence at first, and flares of light and shadow as we drop through clouds. Then the rising whine of the belay cable growing taut. The pitch deepens, and I know we are getting close. The banging impact with the ground is almost drowned out by the sputtering of the impact bladders under me. As the bladders deflate, the whole bucket opens like a rose, disgorging myself and nine other troopers right to the gates of Tartarus. Ten Rifles snap up, and 20 eyes scan the terrain. A voice booms “Let’s go apes! Ya plan to live forever?” and I realize it’s mine. So I do the only thing I know to do — run doggedly into the teeth of the fight raging on the near ridge as the ‘Cutter reels the bucket back up. The damn fools fall in and follow me. Damn, this thing chafes.

How did the world come to this?

Grant pushed through the crowd, ignoring the direction indicator. He longed for elbow room and privacy, luxuries of a forgotten past. But rumor had it there were still places–distant, underpopulated islands. He only dreamed of reaching their shores … until today.

He shoved and nudged through the ebbing crush until he found Cali at 5th and Main–brown hair, golden eyes–now she would finally take him seriously.

“You again?”

“We need to talk.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Alone,” he whispered.

She laughed and gestured to the throngs around them.

Grant scanned the nearby faces. No one paid attention. It would have to do. “I have a way out of here!”

“Of where?”

“The crowd.”

“Oh, please …”

Grant yanked a device from his pocket. “With this!”

He turned it in his hand.

“What is it?”

He leaned into her ear. “A teleport.”

“Teleport?” she said.

“Shhh!”

Several passers slowed, glancing at them. Grant’s face flushed. He shoved the gadget into his jacket. “Move along,” he said. “This doesn’t concern you.”

He waited for the throngs to shift and change. With new faces finally around them, he returned his attention to Cali. “It’ll take us away.”

She seemed doubtful. “Where’d you get it?”

Grant smiled. “I was minding my own business. The crowd I was in wandered through a science building of sorts. We passed this tight clutch of government people and a technician. They had this and they were tense. As the crowd shifted, I lingered. I finally heard the technician explain it. Then, as I’m standing there listening, without looking like I’m listening, some pack of chaos–parents trying to coral their children–the technician was bumped — and it dropped.”

“That still doesn’t–”

“There was commotion. It got kicked. They dove at the floor. I stepped away … and it got kicked right to me!”

“They’ll come get you.”

“They didn’t notice.”

She glanced around. She regarded him. It was more attention than she’d ever given him before. “Let me see it again.”

He gulped. “Sure.”

“It’s kinda complicated.” She touched the Instruction Manual button. An 80-page holographic tome appeared. She whistled. “I don’t know. I’ve seen you stumped by vending machines.”

Grant canceled the display. “Never mind that. I listened. He explained. We don’t need those.”

They heard a disturbance up the street.

“It’s them,” said Cali.

Grant tried, but couldn’t see the source of the approaching uproar. His heart pounded. “We haven’t much time. Will you come with me?”

She scrutinized him. People were tossed aside in the distance. It was the government people.

He could not wait for Cali to make up her mind. “Now or never,” he said, twisting the dial. Finally, she slipped her hand around the crook of his arm.

“You won’t be sorry,” he said.

The government people closed, throwing pedestrians like sticks. “There it is!” one shouted.

“Prepare for peaceful surf.”

Grant and Cali smiled and waved.

Arms reached. “Don’t!”

The machine hummed … and vanished from Grant’s hand.

In an instant, Grant found himself off the ground, lifted by the lapel.

“Where did you send it?” shouted the strong woman holding Grant.

“But?”

“He didn’t set the proximity,” groaned another.

The woman shook him. “Where?”

“K-Kiribati ?”

The woman threw Grant to the ground. He saw that Cali received a similar treatment.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

Cali brushed herself. “Directions,” she said in disgust. “You need to read directions.”

Sapphire, threaded with white and then a diamond studded blackness. Sapphire and white fill my vision again. They remain now. Chirps and static bursts chatter in my ears. Emerald threads begin to fill my vision, cascading down, faster and faster until a fine web blossoms across my vision, overlaying the sapphire and white before me. I suddenly twist to the left and to the right, but it’s outside of my control. It stops and I stare forward at the vast swell of blue and white.

A tiny green envelope emerges from the web of light and bobs gently in my vision. I imagine it unfolding, and it does. An emerald mist overlays the sapphire beneath and white letters emerge. Look right. I smile and turn. It could have been anyone. Thousands of white dots are floating around us, shimmering and exploding with flashes of brilliance in the untamed sun. Scarlet lines begin to stretch out across my vision and I dismiss them.

Is it how you imagined?

The words flowed from my mind and were made real. With a sad pop, they shrink and collapse to a tiny point that crosses the distance between us.

I never imagined at all.

Of course.

Live forever?

Not now.

There are flecks of brown and green among the sapphire now. Tiny specks that taint what had been pure. I sigh and will myself to move to the right, but nothing happens. Only more of the scarlet lines, which I dismiss again.

Come to me?

I watch and wait. The other hesitates and then gently closes the distance. White arms extend and wrap around me. Long legs follow and the black plane of glass which shows only my reflection gently nudges against mine with a soft thud. I sigh and the sounds of the sigh blink away so quickly I barely see them. There are more scarlet lines than emerald now, and I leave them, watching as they gather and knot together, obscuring the scene in front of me.

Always and forever. These words trickle through, held and released with regret. Watch with me?

Always, comes the reply. My vision warps and doubles, looking down an infinite series of mirrors.

We turn our masks, our bodies still twined together and I push the red lines away one last time. The specks of green and brown consume our vision, swallowing the space around them rapaciously. I grip, and am gripped tighter as the doubled image flickers and vanishes. White flashes past us, again and again. The sapphire is gone. The white flashes one last time and then there is only green and the twisting scarlet lines.

And forever.

The last words having struggled through, shimmer and fade.

Ant,

You’re not going to believe this. Unzip the folder and check out image 14, number 227. Yes, that’s a jugger you’re looking at, only ten times the regulation embryo mass. And yes, that is an illegal frontal lobe.

Look at those EEG printouts. That says sentient-level brain activity, or I am a monkey’s nutsack. And get this – according the dates, he’s two and a half years old? Still in prenatal phase. Oh yeah, and zoom in on that dark spot on the left. #227 also seems to have grown himself an eyeball.

Our whole agenda here just took one giant leap into workable human rights territory. So let Jim know the plan’s changed. Getting this jugger out alive will achieve a lot more than just sabotaging another lab.

Security’s tight. I’ll mail you when I can.

- B

____________________

Ant,

They excised the eye for biopsy. Makes me wonder if 227 is all about the next big WHO summit, pushing for retina harvests, organ factories, etc. But then, what’s with the frontal lobe? I have no clue what’s up with that.

- B

____________________

Jesus H. Christ. No. Not happening.

Tell Jim he cannot – I repeat, cannot – trash this facility before I figure this out. I want at least a week. Flash your titties at him if you have to.

As for 227, he’s doing okay. Grabbing you a biopsy sample of that eye tonight, maybe.

Wish me luck.

- B

____________________

Four days is just not enough. Flash him again, let me know if it works.

Good news: I got your sample on ice, will send ASAP but it could take some time.

Bad news: they moved 227 up to Level 3, major lockdown. My guess is, they store the other ‘anomalies’ up there, too. Getting him out won’t be easy. I expect things might get messy so I’ll need the whole crew, and the truck geared up and ready to roll.

Miss you too, can’t wait to be home.

- B

____________________

Hey,

With what I found up there, we could feasibly take this whole company down – and maybe the jugger legislature with it. Admit it: I am Superman.

I’ll have eight specimens all up: three ‘special editions’ in formaldehyde, four regular juggers, alive and well, and 227. That makes five travel packs. We can tank that many at the lab, right? Our gear’s pretty rustic compared to what’s here, but better than nothing.

Do not even think about being in that truck. You know how it is. These guards are paid to shoot, not ask questions.

Smile, Lois. Looks like we’re going to have a baby.

- B

____________________

Antoinette,

I must say how sorry I am about Ben. Let me know if there’s anything you need.

Forgive me for talking business at a time like this, but I’m quite eager to know what happened to that delivery he promised.

Sincerely,

Jim

____________________

Jim,

My husband is quadruplegic, not dead. I don’t need your condolences.

This is to inform you that we no longer wish to support your organisation. As I have said to you before, there’s better ways to deal with this. Ways that don’t get people shot.

I’m keeping 227. The files, too, all of it. Think what you will, but I need those jugger stem cells to make Ben whole again. Once he’s healed, we’ll decide together what to do next.

227 is developing quickly without the growth retardants. He even has real fingers and toes now. I think we’ll name him Nelson.

Don’t bother looking for us. God willing, we’ll be in touch.

- Antoinette

Even more of the world watched Jerome II enter the hospital room than had even watched those first interviews with Jerome. Those early interviews had set the world alight. They had watched in their thousands of millions as the gray haired scientist had described the moment he realised he had taken a step humanity had never before imagined possible. The moment he felt his mind tear. When he described how the sensation of fluid filled lungs had caused him to believe he was drowning while standing in his lab, they had exclaimed their disbelief. As he went on to describe how he first saw his submerged premature eyes open and also of opening them, they fell silent. Of how he had looked through the distortion of the growth medium and the glass curve of the viewing portal into his own soul from two pairs of eyes, the clamour began.

All the efforts philosophers had put into the moral issues of cloning; inter clone homicide, asset ownership, even marriage. All the scientific enquiry into the process of tempting cells taken from an individual to form a new whole. Those decades of biological and ethical thinking had never considered how the human mind itself would cope with the existence of two physically identical brains. How the two might entangle at the lowest possible subatomic level and create a new kind of home for a mind. A home with two bodies.

The dispute over what this meant for the human race began immediately. Spiritual ideals formed the first lines around which the debate ebbed and flowed. Was this proof of gods existence or would new branches of the science explain this incredible finding?

As the conversation matured more practical concerns began to dominate. Regardless of whether it was science or spiritual in nature. Was this the end of cancer and degenerative diseases? Would it be possible for those now alive to measure their experiences in centuries or even millennia? Could humanity stop losing its finest minds to death? Had immortality been achieved?

Of course, thus far all of humanity’s greatest discoveries had caused stresses on the race before any benefit was felt. Could the impact of this, the most incredible discovery of all, be too much for us to bear? Would armies of a single mind march across the world waging war? First against those countries that held resources coveted by their creators, but soon just against each other for dominance over the planet.

As the years passed an almost unspoken agreement formed. No one attempted to recreate Jeromes work, they waited until one further crucial piece of the experiment was performed; could Jeromes psyche survive the death of the original host?

So now in their tens of billions they watched as Jerome failed to first find a breath and then another heart beat. Then the whole world turned its attention to the man stood over the bed.

It doesn’t take them long to do it, just eye contact. Once they do, and those eyes are locked, instant transmission — you disappear.

I’m not sure if this is just the way my own programming reacts to this planet, but something has happened. I was on the shuttle to the west quadrant. One of them sitting across from me, he must have known. I could feel his pink eyes from across the aisle, just took me raising my head, unblinking, and when he had me, I was back on the ship, except it wasn’t the ship, it was the inside of a brain. The walls were smeared, drenched in rotten grey mucus. There was red light, a table, a bed. It was McKinney’s bed, and he was there, looked like him — strapped down — a button in the middle of the table. I kept hearing this whisper under my tongue, saying, “push,” over and over. Was all I could hear, just moved to the table, pushed it. When I pressed that button, my self, my being, me…I fell apart. I could feel this body being stretched, ripped, splattered, enveloped by some force. The next thing I know is I’m standing in the station, shuttle doors closing, and that one, those pink eyes, he’s at the doors, one of his hands touching the window and I look — there is blood on his fingertips, which is when I notice blood on my fingers, too.

And it gets worse.

When I go to look for the bathroom, it’s like they all know. Everyone is staring, whispering, children point. In the bathroom, there’s this lady on the floor, twitching, hurt or something, vomiting, pool of blood leaking from her body and when I go to pick her up, turn her over, the lights go out, I’m back in the brain room, except this time it’s not McKinney on the bed, but it’s me. I’m strapped down.

You’re there, too. Yeah, you’re standing where I was standing, but now it feels like it happened years ago and I don’t know how I know it’s you, but I do, am certain of it. And when you walk to that table, I’m opening my mouth, telling you not to do it, but you don’t stop. I remember thinking, what if the transmissions are linked and we just haven’t been able to figure out how they do it and they know this, so they kill us whenever they can, make us kill each other and then we, because we don’t know, blame our own faulty systems and repeat the process . . . what I mean is, what if we are misdiagnosing the problem? This must be it, but you, in that room, just won’t listen and I scream your name. You don’t do anything except hold out your hand, press the button and I can’t forget your eyes. They were pink, you were crying, your face asleep, and you looked like the one on the shuttle. Was it you? Please tell me.

I don’t know what happened to McKinney or Johnson or Brooks or Phillips. But, you won’t believe me, will you? That’s why I’m sending this from The South. I’ve met an ex-employee, says he can program a new girl identity so I won’t have to live with the guilt of these accusations about how I murdered McKinney and the rest of them.

And, if it was you in the room or on the shuttle, don’t worry. I know you couldn’t help it. Your tears told me everything.

“You want to do what?” said Alice’s mother, Irene. “That’s insane!”

“Not really,” said Alice. “We always speak about time as if it were a great surprise, an uncontrollable element. I think it’s time we tamed it.”

Her father smoothed his muttonchop whiskers. “Has this something to do with all this monkeying around in your laboratory?”

“Something,” Alice said. “Come, I’ll show you.”

She led the way to her laboratory. They had seldom been inside, and stepped in gingerly, staring around.

They saw nothing out of the ordinary in the high-ceilinged, curtained room, unless it was the device on the table, a scintillating orb that whirled so fast it was a blur, emitting a faint buzzing sound.

“Is that it?” asked her father. “What does it do?”

“It’s a remedy,” said Alice. “You know how one is always saying, ‘oh how you’ve grown!’ to children? And ‘it seems as if Christmas was just last week, and here it is again.’”

“Yes, of course,” said Irene. “Time does seem to fly, and more so as you grow older.”

The twins, Agnes and Roger, peered in. “What are you doing?” Roger asked. “Can we see too?”

“Come in.” Alice drew her niece and nephew in, smoothing Agnes’ unruly red hair. “Remember the twins’ birthday party?” she asked her mother. “We enjoyed it, didn’t we?”

“I remember it,” said Agnes. “We had red balloons, and I got a doll and Roger a truck.”

“How long ago was it?” Alice asked.

“Why, it was . . .it wasn’t long ago. Let’s see, what month is this?” said Irene.

“We’re in summer,” said Alice.

“Why, then it was just last fall.. . ” Irene looked puzzled.

“But it seems much longer ago,” said Alice. “Doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s . . .it’s been quite awhile, but of course we’ve had Christmas since then, and Easter . . . and . .. .”

“Time has stopped,” said her father, looking pale. “You’ve stopped it somehow.”

He pulled out his pocket watch and consulted it. “The second hand is barely moving. I hadn’t noticed.”

“Everything in this house has remained the same for some time,” Alice said. “We haven’t really noticed because time is an unnatural element for us. We were meant, after all, to live in eternity.”

“Is this . . .eternity?” whispered Irene, looking around rather wildly, as if she expected to see archangels materializing.

“Not at all.” Alice laughed. “It’s just time slowed down.”

“But the supplies?” said Irene faintly. “The housekeeper . . .”

“Helga has bravely ventured out occasionally. Rather like stepping in and out of a moving carriage, she says. But there is a small problem.”

Her father looked grim.”What is that?”

Alice crossed to the window and lifted her hand to the curtain. “Well, things have not stayed the same outside. Time has been moving on, there.” She opened the curtain.

Bright sunlight spilled into the room, blinding them at first to the scene outside. Alice, who had not looked out for some months, blinked at it herself. Bridges and skyways looped from one soaring edifice to another, rising into apparent infinity, while under and around them whizzed vivid neon vehicles at speeds approaching sound.

“I’m not quite sure what will happen if I turn it off,” said Alice. “But I suspect we shall be quite an anomaly.”

Regret. That was new.

My life had been built into a shape where regret had no place. I only had one purpose – my entire existence leading up to it – and it wasn’t just me – I couldn’t even guess how many others were involved; working behind the scenes so that everything came together at the right place. The right time. Just so I could say that one word…

You wouldn’t believe there was anything special about Lenko. Not to look at him, anyway. I actually thought he was a little too stupid, even for a Senate candidate, but that shows you how much I know.

Fifteen years in the satellites, ferrying him from one station to the next while he built his popularity. Stuck in that ugly Behemoth without even any view-screens except for the docking cam. Not that there’s anything to see up there. Black space. All the stations, one just like the next.

There wouldn’t have been any regret back then. Every time he came back on board Lenko would slap me on the shoulder as I secured the airlock and tell me “not long now, Cormac. Not long now until I’m in the Senate and we can finally go down to the surface. Then it will all have been worth it.”

I’d nod my head and smile like the loyal servant he’d always taken me for.

And then one day it finally happened. The vote came and Lenko was a Senator.

The transmission with the access codes arrived straight away and I docked the B at Threshold – the only station I’d never been to before. We stepped through; inside the atmosphere for the first time. It had actually worked.

There were a few technicalities to sort out but within an hour we were in the car pool – and there she was.

Lenko was saying something about the honour the people had bestowed upon him and the privilege of becoming the first off-worlder to make it to the highest level of the legislation, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off the Zephyr. Perfect smooth lines, no jutting stabilizers or thrust pods. She gleamed in pale yellow – the first thing I’d ever seen that wasn’t the plain grey of spaceware.

The command centre was familiar – I’d done plenty of time in the simulators – but when we slipped out of the launch chamber and saw what seemed like the whole planet stretching around us on the view-screens, I could hardly breathe.

Even Lenko shut up for a minute to look out at it.

The low-level flight plan was pre-programmed for when we hit traffic closer to the surface but up there I could pull her in big banking arcs, punching the boosters just for the feel of it.

When we dropped in below the marker a little indicator on the panel started to blink and the automatics cut in. We drifted into the traffic flow and crossed the sprawling cityscape until the Senate building came into view. That was when I really started to feel it. All the years of preparation and biding my time, waiting.

I ran my fingers over the controls of the Zephyr.

Lenko was getting all choked up as we started final approach. We could see the Senators lining out in their bright blue robes on the docking point, and in the middle of them all – out there in broad daylight instead of hidden away in the depths of the palace – Garlania, the President. She was actually smiling as we touched down and the airlock opened.

Regret. It was the last thing I thought I’d ever have to deal with. Not for that fool Lenko, not for the bowing and scraping Senators who would inevitably be caught in the blast, and certainly not for the bitch Garlania.

As I speak the control word and feel the chemical reaction of the deadly device planted in my guts begin to mount, my one regret is that I only got to drive that beautiful car just once.