[TravelerOfTheWays]

OMG EI! Somehow, I appear to have developed that most bizarre of afflictions, a social life. It has its ups, I've discovered, but it means that I haven't dropped by EI in months! This must be remedied!

And what better way to get back into the swing of things than posting a new fanfic, one I absolutely must finish?? Exactly!

This is for Mary Rose's birthday, which every day draws further away. I probably should have thought of this beforehand, eh?? I haven't thought of a title yet, so suggestions are welcome!

Title: ???
Rating: There's kissing already in the first chapter - I'll say PG-13 to be on the safe side.
Summary: Beka and Dylan are almost disgustingly happy with each other in the early stages of their romance. But when Beka's past rears its ugly head, will they lose each other for good?
Pairing: B/D, obviously. Flashbacks to B/other people. Harper may get some lovin' if he's good.
Disclaimer: It ain't mine!

Onto the show!

(Very short) Chapter One

“To us.”

Blue eyes met blue as delicate champagne flutes clinked. A long, quiet moment passed as the pale gold liquid fizzed and foamed. From an open window, the heady aromas of night-blooming flora perfumed the breeze that stirred the silken curtains. It was beautiful.

And it was too much. Beka's lips twitched, and try as she might to suppress it, a snorting laughing rang through the room a moment later. Dylan raised his eyebrows, but he soon succumbed to his companion's infectious mirth. The two of them giggled and chortled and wheezed until their eyes were streaming and their sides aching.

“Seriously Dylan, 'to us'?” Do people actually say that? In a place like this?” She waved her hand around the lushly decorated suite. “Is there really anyone in the Known Worlds that dedicated to cliché?”

He grinned. “You know, I think I read that exact line in one of those holonovels you pretend not to read.”

Beka leaned across the round, spindly-legged table and smacked him on the shoulder. “I told you, those aren't mine! Um, an old crewmate left them on board the Maru. They have, uh, sentimental value.”

“I'm sure they do,” he replied, his voice dropping with undisguised innuendo. “I'm sure they're brimming with... sentimental value.”

Beka thwacked him again. “You're ruining the moment, you idiot.”

He caught her hand mid-slap and held it against him. She glared and struggled a bit to free her hand, but he just brought it to his lips, kissed it gently, and smiled. “Need I remind you, you're the one who couldn't keep a straight face after that heartfelt toast I made.”

A slow smile crossed Dylan's face as he turned her hand and kissed the delicate skin of her wrist. “I'm really very insulted.” He drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them one by one as he continued to speak. “Wounded, in fact. I'm a very sensitive man, Beka.” His voice had dropped an octave from his usual commanding tone to a much more intimate register, low and caressing.

Beka shivered as she watched his mouth press against the tips of her fingers. “Okay,” she said, with the slightest quaver in her voice. “You made your point. I'm a heartless bitch.”

He caught her eyes, and a smile spread oh-so-slowly across his face. “Oh, well,” he protested in mock-solicitious tones, “I wouldn't go that far.”

With her hand still trapped, Beka stood up and took two steps until she was standing close enough to Dylan to pull him to his feet. “You,” she began before tugging him close for a kiss, “are the most difficult man I have ever known. And that's saying something.”

“Mm, I'll take it as a compliment.” He drew her into his embrace, and the glasses of sparkling cider slowly loss their fizz on the delicate little table as the two of them buckled down and started enjoying in earnest their first night truly alone together.

On the Andromeda, Trance was tending a new shrub, one that sprouted hundreds of the smallest, pinkest petals she had ever seen. She was humming happily as she snipped away leaves that had not survived the the transit when something dark crossed behind her eyes. Her sure fingers slipped, and one blade of the gardening shears sliced deeply into a live branch. When she returned to herself a moment later, she gasped at the damage and hurried over to her plant first aid kit.

She soon lost herself in her work again, but this time, she was not humming.

This post has been edited by TravelerOfTheWays: 16 July 2009 - 10:54 PM

[Pixiedust]

New fic! *bounces* And I like it!

[ilexx]

^ My sentiments exactly.

[Mary Rose]

Oh wow!!!! For me!!!! I don't know what to say. Well, thank you. I know this isn't your pairing but it is mine and this makes me so happy. Guess I'm kind of loved, after all.

And don't worry about being late. This just means my birthday lasts longer. You can even stretch the fic all the way out to next year and beyond, if you want.

This post has been edited by Mary Rose: 17 July 2009 - 11:08 PM
Reason for edit: Add content and correct typos.

[TravelerOfTheWays]

Pixiedust - New fic indeed! I'm glad you like it so far!

ilexx - Thank you! And thanks for the bump.

Mary Rose - Yes, for you! I wish I could write fanfiction for everybody's birthdays! That would be awesome. Hee! I'm glad I have your permission to stretch it out. I may need it!

Chapter Two

“Don't you have something better to do with you ill-gotten gains?”

The Merovege snapped her long, elegant fingers, and silent figures swathed in black emerged from the shadows. “If you're sober enough to be witty,” she piped in her girlish, breathy tone, “you're sober enough to hold still during your dosing.” A quicksilver smile flashed across her dimpled cheeks. “Or are you?”

The man in front of her twitched at the sound of her voice, but he could not yet hear the figures in black approaching, nor could he see them making their soft-footed way toward him. “Doll, I'll never be that sober,” he drawled. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

The Merovege's full lips pursed in a plump moue as she waved the quiet ones forward. She shook her head, tossing golden curls that glinted a shade brighter than nature under the nearest chandelier. “So pretty,” she murmured, “but so stupid.”

“Yeah, we're like that,” the man agreed. “Pretty but stupid. Beauty queens, the lot of us.” He squinted at her. “Hey, are you sure you're not related?”

Her lips tightened. “Dose him,” she spat.

He writhed against the restraints at his wrists, ankles, and neck. As his struggles re-opened the angry red wounds that scored his clammy skin, an expert pair of hands held his head steady with no more apparent effort than they would have held a teacup. Another pair of hands produced a clear vial of white liquid from somewhere, along with a dropper.

“It won't do you any good!” he shouted. “I'll never give her up! I won't betray her, not again!”

The Merovege huffed and crossed her arms, watching the scene in front of her. One drop, then two, splashed into the man's dark eyes, rolled back into his eyes as he panicked. Before a full minute had passed, the man's exertions had slowed and then ceased. Her dimples bloomed again at the sight of suddenly cooperative captive.

“Oh, you silly man. You betray her everyday.”

***

When Beka blinked into consciousness, a little flutter of panic rose in her throat at the sight of her unfamiliar surroundings. She reached out to find fresh linen under her sheets, soft and clean and still lightly scented with detergent. The blankets on one side of the bed were thrown back, and then she remembered where she was. She sank back into a mattress that managed to be both soft and supportive and stretched her toes down to the wooden footboard at the other end of the bed.

Delicious aromas of breakfast wafted in through the open door, and a moment later, a gleaming silver cart pushed by a tousled-headed Captain Hunt followed. The rich smell of coffee woke Beka up, and the sight of her boyfriend shirtless, with his curling hair all a-muss made her smile.

“I see her lady is awake,” he said in a slightly sleep-roughened voice. “May I interest her lady in breakfast?”

She sat up and positioned one of the fluffy pillows behind her. “Mmm, you can. What do you have here?”

With the flourish of a professional waiter, he whisked the silver tops from the plates to reveal platters of thick-cut bacon, golden eggs, enormous steaming buns, and hot fruit topping. A shining pot of coffee and two glasses of juice completed the picture.

“And I thought the Andromeda fed us good,” she commented as she surveyed the offerings. He rolled the tray closer and from the other side of the bed retrieved a long wooden plank with two short, wide legs on the ends.

“I wasn't sure what you'd want, so I ordered a little bit of everything.”

A trill of laughter burst out of her – she would have sworn that he sounded nervous. As if she wouldn't love both the food and the thought he had put into serving her breakfast in bed. “I'll choke it down somehow,” she replied with a wide grin. “Now get in here.” She patted the empty space beside her on the bed.

With a few efficient movements, he had laid out plates, silverware, and napkins for both of them on the plank before managing to slide back into bed.

“Now it's perfect,” she said, nearly burning her fingers as she took the plate of eggs.

They talked and laughed as they ate, and somehow a blob of the fruit topping ended up on Dylan's bare shoulder. With a wicked little laugh, Beka licked it off, and then somehow another glob of the fruit made its way to her neck. Fortunately, it was no longer steaming by this time, just a bit warm on her sensitive skin.

Ever so slowly, Dylan licked the fruit from her neck with methodical little flicks of his tongue. Beka giggled and squirmed, and when he finished, she hurriedly loaded the leftover plates and utensils back on the cart and knocked down the serving plank.

They did not stir again from the bed for another hour or two. Finally, feeling awake and invigorated, Beka pulled Dylan and herself out of bed. They giggled like furtive teenagers as they explored their suite wearing as little as comfortably possible. Beka threw open the massive window in the sitting room and basked in the warm sunshine that streamed inside.

“Why Captain Valentine,” Dylan observed, “it looks like you're actually enjoying the weather.”

Without turning around, she replied, “If weather usually behaved like this, I might have to reconsider my stance on the general subject.”

As she stood in the sun with her face tipped back, Dylan padded across the room, steps muffled by the thick carpet, and wrapped his arms around her waist. He nuzzled her neck, and she sighed happily.

“I don't suppose I'm going to wake up in a moment,” she said after a quiet minute. “This kind of thing doesn't happy to me, to anyone named Valentine. We don't wake up in gorgeous hotel suites, eat gorgeous breakfasts, and canoodle with gorgeous men. You can tell me the truth Dylan – did you slip me a hallucinogenic drug in my coffee this morning?”

He chuckled. “No, we're really here. When are you going to believe it, Beka? You're here, and what's more, you deserve to be here. We've worked so hard for so long now – do you even remember the last time you took a vacation?”

“A vacation? Is that where I drop Trance off to view the moulting of purple-snouted migrouses and then spend a week refitting the ship?”

“Not quite,” he answered as he dropped soft kisses on her shoulder. “Do you really not remember the last real vacation you had?”

This time, her laugh was tinged with bitterness. “We've known each other for over a year now, Dylan, as you've scraped together a new Systems Commonwealth, but sometimes I think you don't really know how far civilization fell while you were asleep. A handful of people get vacations, but the rest of us get a week here or a few days there where no one's on our ass for a few credits or some imagined insult or Divine knows what. When we're in the black, Dylan? That's a vacation. This kind of thing? This is a dream.”

He hugged her tight. “Not anymore it isn't. I'm not saying it's going to be like all the time, but I promise, things are going to get better. For you, for me, for the little guy... well, maybe not for the Drago-Kazov.”

Beka shook herself and turned around to smile at Dylan. “I'm going to hold you to that, mister. Now let's get outta this place. It's great, but I'm starting to feel a little claustrophobic.” The solemnity of the moment was broken, and he grinned back.

“Agreed.”

As she turned away again to hunt a pair of clothes to wear outside, Beka's smile faded a little. Beautiful as this place was – or maybe because it was so beautiful – she could not shake the feeling that something was lurking in the shadows. Something or someone that was going to snatch this all away from her.

[Pixiedust]

Oohhh...what is this going on? Who's being tortured? *curious*

[Mary Rose]

Me thinks angst is on the horizon. Glad they had some happy times first. I have a feeling once the angst starts it'll be awhile before happy times come again.

[ilexx]

Rafe? Tyr? Inquiring minds want to know...

[TravelerOfTheWays]

Pixiedust - You're soon to find out!
Mary Rose - Ahh, you know Beka fic so well!
ilexx - Inquiring minds shall soon be satisfied!

Chapter Three

The Merovege flounced onto her Aurier velvet settee. Infiltration on short notice took so much time and money and endlessly detailed research. She had spent all morning in her computer's VR matrix, checking security codes, personnel files, military satellite tracking images, aided only by her barely sentient AI. Someone with the Merovege's power and finances had people for this sort of headache-inducing – in a legitimate operation, it would have been delegated to an intern – but the Merovege had always possessed a knack for finding things, ever since she was a grubby little girl stealing credit discs to feed Auntie's habit.

That infuriating man, she thought as she tapped pink manicured fingernails on a nearby windowsill, had chosen one of the more safety-conscious lodgings for his little vacation. Unlike many of her social and business circle, the Merovege did not particularly enjoy a challenge for the pure joy of imposing her will upon the universe, to put it in Nietzschean terms. She preferred the more material things in life, and when she did deal in abstracts, she limited herself to revenge. Revenge worth having was always expensive in her experience, but it was one of the few ethereal concepts that gave her life meaning.

After a reviving lunch – the Merovege found that VR work tended to leave her famished despite the total lack of physical exertion – she returned to her captive. The drugs they administed to loosen his tongue cost her dearly, but like so many who had grown up in the squalor of the space-faring, little else could persuade him to talk. Only the desperately poor planet-bound were worse; the Merovege and most people she knew had given up on trying to extract information from the rare mudfoot who had something useful to say. The Nietzscheans claimed they could make them talk, but the Merovege would have bet money that they tortured their kludge cousins purely for the sadistic glee of it.

Her prisoner was sleeping fitfully when she approached, and he woke too late to offer much of a struggle. His pupils dilated, and his heart raced. She smiled. The effects of pure Flash were too erratic and too damaging, but when mixed with an equal proportion of a common animal tranquilizer, it yielded a soothing disinhibitor.

“It looks like you're going to get something out of this sad affair yet,” she said perkily. “I have a job for you, and my employees can tell you that I pay very generously.”

His eyes rolled back in his head as he nodded slowly. “Whaaaat job?” he slurred.

The Merovege frowned. At the levels required to ensure his docility, the effects of the drug were obvious to anybody who looked twice. She hoped there would be some way to use him without actually allowing him to open his mouth.

“You're just going to take a walk. That's all. Just take a walk and catch the eye of a pretty lady. You can do that, can't you?” she cooed.

“IIIII c'n waaaaaalk past a purrrrrty lady, suuuuuuure.” A dopey smile crossed his thin features, handsome before she had found him hustling tourists on Dega Drift.

She would have to send somebody trustworthy with him to watch him, she decided. He would attract far too many eyes in a place like that, in a state like this.

“Thank you very much,” she said sweetly. “I'm sure you'll do a wonderful job, and then you can go back home and forget all about our time together.” A few more days of this would fry his short-term memory, a helpful side-effect of this drug cocktail.

***

“Now I remember why I hate planets!” Beka moaned. “Ecosystems. Bugs. Poisonous plants that nothing else can survive without. If we were meant to undergo this kind of torture, the Divine wouldn't have given us spaceships.”

Dylan made sympathetic noises as he gently stroked ointment over an angry purpley-red rash that flamed from her left ankle halfway up her leg. “They did warn us,” he ventured.

His lack of empathy earned him a slap across the head. “I thought it was... local color or something! What kind of savages are these people?” She flopped back onto the lushly padded lounge chair and moaned again.

A moment later, she propped herself up again. “Well, maybe it won't be a complete loss. Now I get to keep you locked in our rooms all day. Who hikes on a romantic getaway anyway?” She was pale, but a grin flickered across her face.

Dylan lay a soft kiss on her knee. “Right as always, Captain Valentine. Unless...” he grinned back, “unless that was your dastardly plan all along. Wandering into the burning clover, get a little rash, and drag me back to the b edroom to have your nefarious way with me.”

“Little rash?!” she shrieked as she threw a pillow at him, which he narrowly ducked. “What are you, viewing it from space? I'm in searing pain here!” But she was laughing as she launched her missile, and for a moment they managed to forget about the unfortunate mishap.

A combination of soothing ointments and Dylan's very affectionate nursing had Beka back in her usual high spirits in no time. They took supper on the little balcony attached to their suite, where she cracked endless jokes about the hellhole he had brought her to, which he endured good-naturedly. In response, he constructed elaborated scenarios about nature walks, climbs, float trips, and spelunkings that left her shrieking in mock terror.

“Spelunking?!” she exclaimed. “That sounds like a Than mating ritual. I don't even what to think about what you could catch spelunking.”

He laughed, but before he could form a reply, a figure several hundred meters away caught Beka's eye, and she froze.

“Beka? What is it?” As he turned and craned his neck to see what had arrested her so completely, she leapt up in a scramble and a moment later fell back into a heap, cursing.

“Ow! This damned bandage tripped me up. Dylan, it's Rafe! Over there, on the path to the river.”

He opened his mouth to protest the extremely low odds that her scam artist brother had shown up at this hotel, on this planet, at this moment, but as he squinted, he saw with amazement that whoever he was, he looked exactly like the Raphael Valentine he – fortunately or unfortunately – met.

“Stay there,” he commanded. “I'll find out what's going on.”

She forced herself back to her feet and pushed her way up the low balcony wall. “Are you crazy? He's my brother – I can't just wait for you to report back!” But even as she spoke, the ankle flared red-hot, the bandage snagged on the wrought iron railing, and she collapsed again. “Damn it,” she swore. “Hurry up!”

With a nod, Dylan vaulted smoothly over the railing, landed in a neat roll, and took off at a tear across the impeccable lawn. Beka watched with equal parts frustration and agonizing impatience as he closed the distance.

Her frustration and impatience transformed into heart-stopping horror when she saw the camouflaged figures creep out from behind manicured shrubbery. She screamed, but it was too late. It seemed that whoever had planned this knew Dylan's reputation too well. They did not bother engaging him in hand to hand combat but injected him with a dart she saw glint in the bright sunlight have a second before it buried itself in Dylan's neck.

As he swayed, they dashed out to catch him and bundled him away into a neaby wheeled vehicle. One of them grabbed Rafe by the collar and jerked him inside, but before the door slammed shut, Beka could have sworn that she caught her brother's dark eyes, glassy and touched with something that might have been sorrow.

She screamed again and scrambled over the fence, distantly aware of the excruciating pain at her ankle. The bandage tore loose as she ran, and even after the vehicle had disappeared around a corner, she sprinted as best she could until the adrenaline that had fueled her mad dash drained suddenly. Pain consumed her world, and her vision went black.

***

“That bastard!” Harper cried as Beka's tense and pale features stared at them from the viewscreen. “I'll kill him! Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, I kick the crap out of you!”

“Agreed,” Rommie intoned coolly from her station. “With the sentiment, if not the precise course of action. Harper, best speed toward Tilli'a. Tyr, do yu think you track down Mr. Valentine?” She spat the name.

“You're asking me to locate one drug-addicted human floating amidst the filth of the Known Worlds?” His lips quirked in a small, deadly grin. “At last, a challenge.” He strode out of Ops into the bowels of the ship.

“At least he's happy,” Harper muttered.

Rommie rolled her eyes. “Trance, inform Rev, and tell him ot meet us in Medical. I have a feeling that Beka will want to see him.”

Trance frowned as she studied the haggard image of her crewmate. “Funny,” she murmured.

“What, you're with the Uber now?” Harper asked incredulously.

She shook her head. “Not funny ha-ha. Funny strange. If they wanted to kidnap Dylan, why would they send Rafe?”

Rommie gave her a long, assessing glance. “Good question,' she answered crisply. “One I intend to put to Mr. Valentine as soon as I can.” Her voice was grim, but there was a glint in her eye not unlike Tyr's deadly little smile. She was a warship, and someone had declared war on her crew.

This post has been edited by TravelerOfTheWays: 08 August 2009 - 11:11 AM

[Pixiedust]

Eep! Poor Rafe (and Beka and Dylan). What do these odd people want? *can't wait to find out more*

[Mary Rose]

Did you give Beka a rash because I have one? In any case, I'm still enjoying this very much. Thank you again.

[TravelerOfTheWays]

Pixiedust - What indeed?? A bit more will be revealed in this chapter.

Mary Rose - I gave it to her mostly as a plot device but partly because of my brush with poison ivy this summer. And you had your own summertime rash! Yeesh!

The next chapter's coming soon - I thought it was finished, but somehow I neglected to finish out the last section! It's on its way!

This post has been edited by TravelerOfTheWays: 17 August 2009 - 10:23 PM

[TravelerOfTheWays]

Chapter Four

Surveying the scene before her, the Merovege huffed. “Just this one? You didn't get her too?” Her crystalline blue eyes flashed with muted fury. “I told you and told you, she's the one I care about!”

One of her minions began to respond, but she cut him short with a curt wave of her elegant fingers. “I'm not interested. What did you do with the bait?”

“Dumped it,” the man answered. “He remembers his own name but not much more.”

She giggled her little-girl laugh. “I suspect this one's friends,” she said as she idly kicked the comatose body at her feet, “will have a few choice words for him.” Her lips curved into an angelic smile as she contemplated the immediate future of Raphael Valentine. “Dismissed,” she said airily to her employees.

“This may work out nicely in spite of their bungling,” she murmured breathily to her newest captive, bound to the floor by four titanium-enforced manacles. “Perhaps I can convince her to deliver herself to me without all this fuss.” Still smiling the smile that had broken dozens of hearts across the Known Worlds, the Merovege aimed a vicious kick at the man's ribs, eliciting a groan with the sharp triangle point of her boot.

“Dylan... Hunt,” he said between belabored breaths. “Captain. Serial... number...”

She cut off the recitation with another kick. “Save your breath, Captain,” she whispered as she knelt just outside his reach. “I'm not interrogating you, and if I were... I promise, you would tell me anything and everything I asked.” She giggled. “I'm not saying there won't be torture, but it won't be for your sake. It's for hers.”

His eyes flew open, and for the first time since grasping consciousness, he struggled against his shackles. “Beka,” he rasped, “What do you want with her?”

“I think that's between two girlhood friends, Captain. I must admit I'm impressed that she landed somebody like you. The single most powerful warship to be found, a burgeoning alliance encompassing... is it forty-five worlds now?... and a chiseled jaw on top of it.”

Leaning in closer, keeping a careful eye trained on his hands, the Merovege stroked the uneven stubble on his cheeks with a glossy fingernail. “I remember when Beka Valentine found her boyfriends on the street corner, so to speak. Don't look so surprised, Captain. I'm sure that she's still a self-righteous little bitch on the subject of mind-altering substances, but surely she didn't delude you that she's as pure as the driven snow.” Her button nose crinkled as she laughed.

“She loves that death trap ship of hers—more than you and more than life itself, in all its joy and misery. She will do anything for it.”

“If you harm a hair on her head, I swear I will hunt you down. I'll—”

The Merovege rose smoothly and smothered a delicate yawn as she pressed her heeled boot on his exposed throat. “I won't need you again for some time, Captain. You look far too healthy to be of any use.” She spun on her heel and exited the bare, concrete cell.

***

When Tyr had nearly finished packing for his mission, a chime sounded, and a moment later a startingly pale Beka Valentine strode into his quarters, fairly vibrating with nervous energy. He raised an eyebrow and continued packing. Since she had entered into a romantic relationship with their captain, they had spent little time alone together. He was not entirely sure how their friendship had changed; that charge of adrenaline still filled the air when they brushed by each other.

“I'm going with you,” she announced without prelude. “I'm all ready. We can take the Maru. I know some people who might still keep in touch with Rafe, and I guarantee he owes money to every major casino in three galaxies.”

“Somebody else is orchestrating this,” he rumbled. “Your brother is many things, but I do not believe willfully malicious to be one of them. This person knows you and will be tracking your ship's every move. I'll take one of the slip fighters and quietly leave it on the side of metaphorical road before continuing in something rather less conspicuous.”

She paced back and forth, running her fingers incessantly through her blond hair so that it stood up and tufts and spikes almost as wild as Harper's. “Fine, whatever, those slip fighters slip two. Um, if they're... comfortable... like that.” She paused in her pacing to shoot a sidelong glance at Tyr, which he ignored.

“You are not accompanying me.” His voice remained as glassy-smooth as a frozen lake. “Stay here. Talk with Rev. Plot the no doubt creatively painful injuries you will inflict upon whomever has done this. Tyr to talk the ship out of launching a Nova bomb when we find our culprit; I doubt our honorable Captain would approve.”

She cracked a smile, and her fingers fluttered out of her hair. “Very funny, Tyr.” She swallowed. “But seriously, I can't just sit here and do nothing.” She cracked her knuckles. “I haven't landed a hard right hook in a long time.”

Tyr turned from his chore and crossed the deck to where she stood, miraculously still for the time being. With a little half-smile of his own, he held up his hands in a gesture they both knew well. “That, at least, we can rectify.”

She gave him a quizzical little laugh, but he just nodded. “I have let you fall behind in your training. This is an unexcusable failing.”

She shrugged and fell into a fighting stance. The first blow she struck failed even to rock his hand. He shook his head and sighed. “Again.”

A frown crossed her face as she tried to concentrate on her target. She inhaled deeply, and as she pivoted from her hips, exhaled sharply and focused her energy onto his left palm.

“Better,” he barked. “But still below your standards. Focus. Breathe. And hit me woman.” These last words came out in a low growl.

She lashed out her right fist, as usual, but a lightning-quick reversal sent the Nietzschean tottering from a very decent left jab. “Good,” he began, but she had not finished. She sunk an elbow into the hard muscle of his abdomen and landed a palm strike to his chin that nearly severed his tongue, before he grabbed her wrists and held her in a suffocating embrace.

“Hold onto that,” he hissed as she fought his grasp. “Your Reverand Behemiel will counsel forgiveness, but trust me in this, Beka. Keep your anger at hand. Nurse it as you would a spark in the icy darkness.”

Her arms eventually relaxed, and she let her cheek rest against his chest. “This may test you to the limits of your strength,” he said softly into her ear,” but not beyond. Remember this, if you remember ntohing else. I have faith in you, Rebecca, and so does our Captain Hunt.”

She drew back and took a deep, slightly shaky breath.. Heat flared around them as their eyes met, but she broke the spell a moment later with a nervous laugh. “Thanks. Um. Are you okay? I sort of... saw red there for a minute.” She reached up as if to touch the spot where she had hit him but quickly snatched back her hand.

His face relaxed into a wry smile. “I'll recover, and besides, battle scars may lend me a fearsome aspect that will prove useful over the next several days.”

Her chest heaved in a sigh. “You're not going to relent, are you?” He shook his head. “Tyr, why are you doing this? Really? Do you... do you think I'd get in the way? That I couldn't stand to see you... interrogate Rafe, when the time comes?” Her blue eyes stared beseechingly into his.

“Truthfully, I believe you will accomplish much more staying here and assisting the others. And perhaps I am not the best companion for you at this time. I fear we would try each other's tempers in such close quarters.”

In the air between them hung unsaid something else, another reason they both knew it would be best to keep distance between them. Beka loved Dylan without question, loved him as fiercely as she had ever loved, if not more, but the air between her and Tyr had always crackled. The extreme stress and very close quarters might have the opposite effect of the one Tyr had described.

And they both knew that such a move would sour their friendship because Beka would never forgive herself.

***

The day after Tyr left was the day the first of the vids arrived. Delivered by one of the nicer couriers, Beka originially assumed it was Commonwealth business. Her heart beat out a staccato rhythm in her throat. “Onscreen,” she ordered, proud that her voice shook only a little.

Characters in blocky Common flitted across the screen. “Rebecca Valentine, for your viewing pleasure.” She momentarily forgot her grief in bewilderment that quickly gave way to fury. It was them, she was sure. Whoever they were.

“Rommie, that courier didn't include a return address by any chance, did he?”

At her console, the android shook her head. “That's a negative. Wait a minute...” Her eyelids fluttered closed for half a second. “There's something embedded deeply within the data. I'm not sure we're meant to find it. I...” She shook her head again. “I can't read it, but Harper might have more luck in my VR matrix.”

Beka frowned. “It's not going to hurt either of you, is it? This could be a trap, some sort of virus.”

“I've sealed it off behind a firewall in case, but I believe it's safe.” Her dark, almond-shaped eyes met Beka's. “We still have the vid. Are you... would you like to watch it now or--”

“I'm as ready as I'll ever be,” Beka broke in, a little more harshly than she meant to. Rommie just nodded, both programmed and experienced in dealing with stress-induced irritability from her organic crew.

Trance strolled into Command just as the letters faded from the screen. They were replaced by a shot of a dingy, concrete cell, empty except for a huddle in the center of the floor. Without a word, Trance padded over to Beka and lay a purple hand on her shoulder. Beka swallowed and gave a tiny nod. As the shot focused on the huddle, she felt her stomach tighten. She recognized the snug brown trousers she had dubbed sexypants, now cut halfway up both legs to accommodate heavy metal shackles on his ankles.

Beka's breath hissed through her teeth as the camera lingered on the bruises to his exposed chest and arms. Dried blood flaked on his cheeks and his upper lip, and sooty black marks on his sides attested to liberal use of one of the more violent shocking instruments. It was only when she felt moisture on her neck did she realize that tears were streaming down her face.

A breathy voice spoke somewhere off camera as Dylan stirred and moaned in his uneasy slumber. There was no way he could find a position that would not force him to place his weight upon a splotch of purple or smudge of electrical burn.

“Rebecca,” the voice murmured, “Do you see what you have driven me too? You were meant to be here as well. You would have taken most of these wounds, leaving your lover relatively unharmed. Can you understand the consequences of thwarting me, Valentine? When I send for you, you will present yourself when and where I say. Alone.”

The voice tickled a memory at the back of Beka's mind, but she couldn't place it. She felt her face grow hot with mingled rage, fear, and guilt. “I'll thwart you back to the Stone Age, you bitch,” she muttered. Anything else she might have had to say died on her lips when a figure clothed head to toe in black entered the camera's range and approached Dylan's unconscious body. Her breath caught in her throat. “Oh no.” Her voice came out in a creaky whisper.

The figure wielded a silver instrument and metal-tipped shoes. It was all very primitive and horrifyingly effective. Dylan's eyes shot open at the first blow of the instrument, and his face contorted into a rictus of pain as the instrument flared red at his side. Every blood vessel on his face seemed to bulge as his back arched from the electrical shock. When he began to choke, the figure kicked him roughly onto his side, knelt to pull back his sweat-soaked hair, and mashed his face against a grate set into the concrete floor.

“By the time I send for you, you'll wish I had killed him,” the voice continued. The stark threat raised goosebumps on Beka's flesh, all the more eerie for the girlish voice that pronounced it. “If you do not present yourself, I'll make this look like a day at the spa.” The complete lack of bravado in the speaker's voice disheartened Beka more than the violence onscreen and Dylan's screams. This woman had the quiet, secure confidence that stemmed from absolute certainty and long experience.

She knew then that no matter how anybody would argue with her, Beka would come running when this evil woman called her. If she had to sabotage the Andromeda to escape Rommie's well-meaning clutches, she would. Nothing would keep her from Dylan.

[Pixiedust]

OMG!!! What does this woman want? Go, Tyr, go!

[Mary Rose]

So someone form Beka's past has a grudge against her. Wonder why. and yay that this seems to be classic 'Drom. I'm loving it. I see you couldn't resist sprinkling in your pairing there. That's cool, though. I do love Tyr. In fact in the early days of 'Drom it was suggested that I was a B/d shipper just so I could have Tyr for myself. I don't know what would make anyone think that.

[TravelerOfTheWays]

Pixiedust - Some shall be revealed! And yes, Tyr shall definitely go. To what, though??
Mary Rose - Definitely classic Drom. And hee, of course I couldn't resist a little Tyr/Beka. Could I ever?? But this is a Beka/Dylan story, through and through .


Chapter Five - Or, the first chapter in which Beka does not make a personal appearance. Huh!

The Merovege cradled a silver frame and the old-fashioned photograph encased within. A picture-perfect family gazed out from behind the glass, slightly stiff holding the pose, but the smiles that spread across their faces shone with genuine happiness. A tall man with a mop of unruly blond hair, yellow as the Terran sun and the hearts of daisies, had one arm wrapped around a short woman and his other hand clutched by a laughing little cherub with perfect ringlets and a balloon. The woman was a lush redhead who held a sleeping infanct in her arms and beamed a pearly grin amidst a waterfall of slightly frizzy curls.

At one time, a young Beka Valentine had envied her this family and the picture that proved how happy they had been. Back then, the Merovege – who went by a very different name in those days – had not understood subtlety and had gloated endlessly over the other children whenever the salvagers met up. She would recount breathless tales of the adventures they had together, dwelling not on the high-intensity action, which they all experienced weekly, but on the ways her family worked together to emerge victorious at the end.

The Merovege laughed bitterly, a sound she never uttered when another sentient being might be in hearing range. After all, that blonde cherub in the photograph had a reputation to maintain. “And I wondered why they hated me.” Her gleaming fingernails caressed the frame for another minute before she returned it to its unassuming corner atop a low wooden stand.

Her pale pink slippers whispered across the floor as she made her way to the wing of her manor devoted to business. Floating chiffon in shades of rose and cream rippled with her every step, and the ringlets that were still perfect three decades later bounced gently against her neck and shoulders. When she entered the back room, she presented quite a jarring contrast to the spotless equipment, all metal and moulded plastic.

“How is the boy's recovery proceeding?” she asked without preamble.

A good half of the tech wizards inside jumped at the sound of her soft voice, and the other half ignored her completely. One of the techs who had jumped – a young woman in a wrinkled plaid shirt and green canvas pants (truly unfortunate, the Merovege thought) – tapped something on the nearest screen and turned to face her employer.

“He's alive, as you requested. Um, we don't think he's saying anything dangerous to anybody. It's a good day when he can remember what month it is.” She tapped the screen again and squinted at it. “Um. Some of the small time sharks are circling. Probably wondering if he's running another scam. Do you, um, want their names?” She blinked at the Merovege and tugged at her eye-searing shirt.

“I do not. Is that all?”

The young woman glanced at her screen and frowned. “Ye... um, wait. This just in from intel. Someone else is looking for him. We're processing it now.” She blinked again and ran a hand through her rat's nest of brown hair. “It's someone... ouch. That's not pretty.”

A small, delighted smile curved the Merovege's rosebud mouth. “That will be the formidable Tyr Anasazi, I believe. Tell me, what is your personal opinion of our security protocols?”

The woman's eyes widened, and her fingers plucked nervously at each other. “Security, ma'am? Well, um, we have better firewalls than some of the smaller governments, and with randomized passwords and mandatory re-sets, not to mention the Trojan horse that automatically downloads into any computer accessing our system unless the operate follows the correct steps, um-”

The Merovege cut off the recitation with a wave of her hand. “Not that. Securityfor our agents. Intel.”

Her employee's eyes darted around the bustling room. “Intel. Um. That's not my area of expertise, but, um... nobody's been compromised since I've started working here. If it's set up as meticulously as the computers, it must be good. Um. You run a tight ship,” she concluded with a weak smile.

The Merovege reached out to grip the young woman's shoulder lightly and gazed into her eyes. She knew the effect her crystal blue eyes had at on her fellow human beings at this close proximity, even those who had no sexual interest at all in human woman. The rose shades of her dress set off the light blush on her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured silkily. After a long moment as the woman's mouth hung slightly ajar, the Merovege turned and left the room. Unless she completely missed her guess – and she had not done so in years – that technician would stand rooted to that spot, gaping at the door, until one of her co-workers nudged her back to reality.

The Merovege possessed supreme confidence in the powers she enjoyed over otheres, but it was always fun to remind herself. Heterosexual men were almost too easy. So it was with an extra spring in her slippered stepp that she trekked down to the cells to make another gift for Rebecca Valentine.

Dylan was unconscious when she found him, as usual. His slumber demonstrated just how profoundly she and her people had abused him; a military (rumored black ops) man like that should have snapped awake at the sound of her approaching footsteps, satin-clad though they were, but instead he continued to twitch and mutter in his sleep. She contemplated his lean form, well-toned and tanned, attesting to both his ongoing commitment to keeping himself in shape and his recent vacation. His hair, a shade longer than she would have expected on a Commonwealth military officer, hung in sweat-soaked waves across his face, which was tense with pain even as he slept.

She brushed some of the hair out of his eyes, gentle as a mother with her newborn child, and then slapped him as hard as she could. His bloodshot eyes flew open and seemingly without conscious thought on his part, his hand shot out to wrap around her wrist. He squinted at her through eyelashes flaked with blood.

“Beka?”

She should have understood. Blond hair, blue eyes, fair skin, human. After the amount of – to his mind senseless – torture they had put him through, it was only natural that he should awaken wishing for the presence of his lover, even if he had been woke up by a resounding slap. But still mired in her childhood memories, the Merovege was perhaps not fully rational. She had let herself be caught by him, and judging by the iron grip he had on her arm, he would not inclined to let her anytime soon. At the best of times, she chafed at the feeling of being trapped; under these circumstances, it nearly unhinged her.

“I am not a Valentine,” she hissed. “Release me immediately.” As she spoke, her free hand snaked its way down to the knife holster at her thigh.

“Or what?” Dylan slurred. “You'll kill me?” He shook his head. Weakened by pain and deprivation, chained to the floor though he was, the Merovege nevertheless kenw real fear as he glared furiously at her with those hard blue eyes. “If you wanted to kill me, you would have done so days ago.”

She forced herself to smile and modulate her voice to those dulcet tones everybody expected of her. “You're right,” she all but cooed. “I have no desire to kill you. In fact, I have little desire to hurt you, though I must admit, when I consider how much pain our little recordings are inflicting upon a certain First Officer we all know, I do relish the task.”

As expected, mention of his beloved further enraged Dylan, and he yanked her closer. The jolt covered her own action unholstering her blade quite nicely, and before he had a chance to deliver an angry retort, she had the razor-sharp edge of the knife pressed hard against the soft juncture between his neck and chin.

“Come to think of it,” she continued in a thoughtful voice. “as much as it doubtless wounds her to see your bloody, battered body, just imagine how she'd feel upon seeing the throat slit on your handsome corpse.” Her teeth shown in a beaming smile. “What do you think that would do to her?” She shifted the knife so that the point of the blade dug into his flesh, drawing a single drop of blood. After a long moment of what she was sure were silent threats on her person from him, he released his grip and shoved her away.

She would not give him the satisfaction of rubbing her injured wrist. Even in his weakened state, she reflected that he cut an impressively fearsome figure. She did not envy anybody brave or foolish enough to oppose a Dylan Hunt who stood proudly at the helm of his great warship.

“You know,” she mused as soon as she had put a safe distance between herself and her captive, “you've actually given me a charming idea for my next gift to Miss Valentine. I'm much obliged.”

***

“What, does the bum owe you money too?” The man wiped his sweating face with a rag and shook his head. “No, I don' know where he's been or what kinda scam he's been runnin', but if he got anything out of it, he's not enjoyin' it now.”

Tyr slouched in his chair, opting for the moment for the quiet approach. This balding sack of human mediocrity was quite happy to talk at about Raphael Valentine given half an ear, and for now, Tyr was willing to have his talked off. “Behind on the rent?” he asked in his most nonchalant tone.

The man chuckled. “You could say that. Behind on the rent, the maintanance, the groceries, you name it. I tell ya, I been raking in a month's pay on Valentine alone. I don' know if there's gonna be much left of him by the time you get there, by if anyoe can squeeze anything outta that pathetic small-timer, I bet you can.” He shot Tyr's biceps and appraising and slightly nervous look. A paper-pusher at ExpiFunds Universal, the largest provider of instant cash at exorbitant interest rates – known far and wide as Usurers Universal – Davidan earned three times his annual salary selling information on sought-after dobtors to loan sharks... after ExpiFunds got their pound of flesh, that is. The side gig paid well, but there wasn't much job security in illegally selling personal information, not the mention the inevitable tax evasion.

“I'll find something,” Tyr drawled. He reached into his pocket and drew out a credit chip. “For your trouble,” he said as he handed the little man his fee. He might make use of this man's services again, and there was no need to attract more attention to himself after that unfortunate incident with the slipfighter. The dealer recommended by an old business associate had professed his eager interest in the ship right up until Tyr requested the replacement vessel they had agreed upon. Suddenly the slipfighter wasn't quite up to par – scratched here, systems incompatible there, depleted fuel and weapons – and all he could offer Tyr was a pathetic handful of credit for his blackmarket supply business.

Difficult negotiators Tyr could respect. Even outright liars slick enough to pull their con long after they were beyond his reach could be tolerated, if only because he usually had better things to do, though they had best hope he not cross them again or get bored one day in their part of space. But this particular combination of bad faith and bald-faced incompetence offended him. He viewed it almost as an act of altruism to beat such people to a bloody pulp and leave them sobbing their gratitude that he did not do worse. That is, when he was feeling generous enough not to do worse.

Raphael Valentine's whereabouts were practically a matter of public record for anyone with a working knowledge of certain corporate and police databases, but Tyr wanted to be seen searching for him through the usual channels. The skinny little con man had not acted alone, nor, Tyr suspected, on much of his own impetus. Whoever had used him would be watching for Dylan's crewmates to wreak vengeance, and Tyr did not want to disappoint them. He would find Rafe, inflict the violence necessary for appearances with no little relish, and then appear to return to the Andromeda in a huff.

Two days later he reached the orbital habitat where Rafe was currently hiding out, too scared to run a con and too poor to do anything else. As he monitored the pale husk of the bright-eyed scoundrel, he could not help comparing the two Valentines he had met and finding this one severely lacking. From what he had gathered, Beka had earned a decent, if often dangerous and never luxurious, living as a salvage and general transport captain of her rusty, rickety ship, rising from the same muck Raphael had come from to make a halfway respectable name for herself.

As he monitored his quarry, Tyr confirmed his suspicions that somebodyhad manipulated Rafe – probably by some combination of force and mind-altering substances – into baiting Dylan and Beka. The haggard man spent his days drifting the corridors of Yroman Platform like an aimless ghost, doomed to haunt this callous little habitat without ever understanding why.

He might as well have dragged Rafe off by his scraggly hair for all the attention people paid the sad specter he made. The habitat’s denizens made an effort to avoid noticing him, doubtless aware of all the unsavory characters who had spent the last few days since his arrival hounding him and pounding him flat when he had nothing to give them, not even a coherent promise that the money was coming.

When Rafe had settled into one of the darker corners for the hour or so of sleep he was able to catch at a time, Tyr padded behind him, silent as a stalking tiger. In one smooth movement, he clamped a hand on Rafe’s shoulder and pulled him to his feet. The man moaned a note of unhappy surprise but offered no resistance. That, more than anything else Tyr had seen, sparked the barest hint of pity tinged with contempt. He remembered Beka’s fierce struggle days before and grinned faintly. If Dylan did not appreciate what a spectacular specimen of a human female he had in his arms, Tyr resolved he would break them. Not even for Beka’s sake—she was quite capable of handling her own affairs—but for Dylan’s. Idiocy in such matters was inexcusable. Why, if she had been a Nietzschean… Tyr should his head, quashed that train of thought, and steered Rafe toward his quarters.

“Mr. Valentine,” he rumbled softly, “you’re looking significantly worse than the last time we met.” When the man did not react, Tyr furrowed his brow in confusion. Was the brain damage truly so extensive. “Do you remember me?” he asked in what might have been a gentle tone under different circumstances.

Rafe turned to face him, eyes glassy with exhaustion. He sighed deeply and visibly tried to focus on Tyr. “No, I… wait.” Something lit up behind his weary eyes. It was weak and fleeting, but it was more than Tyr had seen since he first encountered Rafe in this place. “Teee… Tahhh… Tare. No.” Water gathered in the corner of his eyes and glinted briefly in the diffuse lighting.

“Close,” Tyr replied. “I am Tyr Anasazi, weapons officer aboard the Andromeda Ascendant. Is that name familiar to you?”

The effort of thinking back took up so much of his feeble energy reserves that Rafe swayed on his feet. “Andrrrrr… me… yes. I know it. I…” His eyes widened suddenly, and he staggered toward the door. “Warn her! I have to… warn. She wants… Rocket. Baby sssis. I have to…”

Tyr caught the man and was shocked when he struggled briefly in his embrace. Somewhere a remnant of Raphael Valentine lurked, and his skeletal limbs twitched and flailed as he gibbered helplessly. “Save your strength,” he whispered. “I’ll help you find her.”

Rafe ceased his resistance and stared into Tyr’s eyes with an oddly young expression of abject supplication. “You… help? Rocket? No, she… find the… lady. She’s… bad. She…” He moaned, as if he could not find words to describe what this nameless woman had done.

“Who is she?” Tyr prodded when Rafe fell silent.

“She’s the… angel. So… so…” Tears began trickling down his hollow cheeks. “Can’t think. The… angel… hurt Rocket. Doesn’t make sense.”

An angel? At first, Tyr wondered if he had misheard Rafe, but when he repeated it, the word was clear. What could a celestial being associated with kindness, miracles, and old-fashioned religion have to
do with Dylan’s kidnapping?

“I think… oh no. Teeeee, I think…” Rafe grasped the fabric of Tyr’s shirt in his bony fingers and shook it with about as much force as a butterfly might muster. “Did something bad. Rocket, I… the angel. It was… but I saw… baby sister. Sad.”

Tears soaked his pale face. “Sorry, Rocket. The… angel. Teeee… They hurt… Please no.”

As Rafe lost his grip on Tyr’s shirt and collapsed in a muttering, shaking heap on the carpet, Tyr regretted what he had to do. For Dylan, for Beka, for the Andromeda, even for Rafe, to avoid the attention of this deadly angel in the long term—not to mention for Tyr himself—it had to be done. After a moment’s thought, he grabbed a hypospray for his first aid-cum-poison kit and injected a mild
sedative into the man’s neck. He fell unconscious immediately and, malnourished as he was, Tyr’s guess that he would not awaken during the violence proved accurate. His stomach turned as the idea of
beating an unconscious opponent, but he steeled himself and carried out the sickening task.

Before he dumped Rafe in the nearest clump of shadows, he injected him with an anti-inflammatory, a germicide, and a general vitamin supplement. His did not dare leave any money, knowing full well that
it would be stolen the moment anybody saw him eating real food. After another moment’s search through his supplies, he found a packet of Andromeda’s field rations he had packed and another containing a powder meant to be mixed with water for a sustaining, if repugnant, beverage. Rafe could still sneak into a restroom for a cup of water, Tyr thought a bit uncertainly. These he taped to the man’s midsection with white bandages before stealing away into the night.

This post has been edited by TravelerOfTheWays: 24 August 2009 - 09:49 PM

[ilexx]

I love going on vacation - whenever I get back, there's loads of exciting updates!

Okay, so Tyr got Rafe, Dylan is still in the claws of that Angel-lady and Beka's staying put on the Andromeda... (Hmm, really?) What did Harper find in the message? Whi is that formidable nea enemy? And will we get a cat-fight?

[Pixiedust]

Come on Beka! You know you want to go save him!

[Mary Rose]

Very interesting. You know I'm a Tyr fan. He's the best Neit ever. So, even though beka wasn't in this part, it was O.K. because I got lots of Tyr goodness.

[TravelerOfTheWays]

Oof, this chapter took too long!

ilexx - Isn't it?? That IS fun. And hee! Some answers are coming immediately, others shall have to wait. Cat-fight, hmmm. Sounds promising.

Pixiedust - She does! If only she knew where to go...

Mary Rose - Hee! I'm glad you approve. Gosh, Tyr is fun to write! Well, they all are, but Tyr being Tyr is awesome.

Chapter Six

Blackness without end, an emptiness so profound that it obliterated even Beka's sense of up and down, surrounded her as she gazed into infinity. It was like being adrift in space without a tether but worse because there were not stars. Fortunately, though, it was better than being in space because she did not implode. In truth, she was not physically here at all; her body sat comfortably in a padded chair, wearing the VR helmet that transported her consciousness here.

The blackness lasted only for a moment before Andromeda gave dimension to the place; this was a part of her vast AI that she had cordoned off in case the information they were investigating should provde dangerous. A silvery light bathed the what appeared to be a vast hall like a library, only with orderly rows of glowing code instead of stacks of books. A faintly flickering image of the ship herself appeared shortly thereafter, followed by Harper, who Beka almost laughed to see had appeared to change his clothes for the foray into VR.

“She's just as beautiful on the inside, isn't she, boss?”

Beka had to agree; she kenw ships rather differently than Harper did, but in VR, the graceful lines, the staggeringly complex artificial intelligence, and the smooth functioning of the ship were evident.

Andromeda rolled her eyes, but a small smile danced across her lips. “If you're done ogling my mind, Harper,” she began in mock irritation,” we have work to do. Beka, I asked you to come along in case you recognize any information we can decrypt from these recordings.”

Beka closed her eyes for a moment against the images that arose in her mind when Rommie mentioned the recordings, her voice slightly tight. Dylan, chained to the floor. Dylan, bruised and battered and bleeding. Dylan, unconscious after screams had left him exhausted. She opened her eyes again and and clenched her fists.

Rommie continued. “The sender implied that she had some personal relationship with you. I'm hoping we'll find something meaningful to you.”

Beka nodded and squared her virtual shoulders. So far, she had been going stir-crazy aboard this ship, berating herself for agreeing to let Tyr go haring off on his own. She could not remember why she hadn't followed him. But now maybe there was something she could contribute. Finally.

“Bring it on,” she replied in a half-echo of Dylan.

Rommie glanced away, and a blink of an eye later, a glittering diamond curtain flared into life around them before dispersing a moment later.

“That would be the Great Wall of Rommie,” Harper explained. “The firewall. Nothing's gonna get past it. I should know; I've been trying all morning to hack my way inside.” Rommie shot him a smug look, and Beka tried to rein in her impatience. Usually Harper's uniquely geeky brand of flirting amused her endlessly, but this time, she just wanted to find the sadist who held her captain and boyfriend.

The three of them passed through the dim remnants of the curtain to face a great undulating sea of neon orange. “This recording came from a state of the art computer,” Harper said. “Just top of the line. Not that our great goddess of knowledge and things-that-go-boom isn't a work of art – you'll always be the one for me, Rom-Doll.” He pressed his hand to his heart and tried to look sincere.

Beka exhaled sharply. “Harper,” she snapped.

He colored. “Right. Sorry, boss. Anyway um, hacking into the recording is one thing. It wasn't designed to hurt anything, and I'm pretty sure it's not packing. But try hacking into the mainframe that spawned this baby, and you'd get a nasty surprise, some kind of virus.”

Was he ever going to do something useful? Beka crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows impatiently. “Okay, I'll keep that in mnd if I ever try to break into this sick bastard's computer. What does that mean for us now?”

“It means we can narrow down our list of suspects,” Rommie explained. “Instead of the millions, perhaps billions of people who might want to hurt you or Dylan, there are maybe one thousand organizations and private individuals with these kinds of resources.”

“Which is still a lot, even for Trance,” Harper cut in. “that's why we gotta crack the nut and see what she tells us.” He and Rommie waded into the orange sea, parting the waves with their hands and staring intently into the fine numerals of code that washed over them. Beka had seen VR work before, and it had not looked like this. She fidgeted, completely lost in this high-tech search. It seemed like an hour, but she knew logically that only a few minutes passed before something leapt out of the sea like a giant, winged fish. Instead of splashing back into the sea, though, it exploded like fireworks into a rapidly scrolling list of words Beka could almost read.

“There!” Harper exclaimed. “Gotcha! Slippery little fellow, aren't you?”

Rommie reached up and brushed the list with her finger; it stopped its scrolling immediately and grew large enough for Beka to read. “This is all just programming for the recording.” Her lips whitened around the edges; although Beka could not read it, clearly she could. “There.”

The letters began quivering and fading. Harper dashed over to where Rommie stood. “Crap!” he shouted. “It's programmed to self-destruct before anyone can decrypt it. Here we go, the directory information and the tags. Files and folders, blah blah blah. Let's see here...”

Beka squinted, trying to read the wiggling letters, and suddenly, something came together. “I see it! There's a name I recognize, or sort of.” Rommie's eyes closed as she focused on maintaining the letters for a bit longer. “Tournai. What is that?”

“You're looking at the location of the server,” Rommie replied in a perplexed tone of voice. “My database indicates that it was a city on Earth in the country of Belgium, which was annexed by The
Five during the twenty-third century water conflicts.”

Harper winced. “Nasty stuff, the Water Wars. Until the Magog, it was probably the bloodiest period in Earths' history.

“It's not that,” Beka insisted, shaking her head slowly. “But I know that name. When I was a kid. Somebody...” She frowned. That name held, if not the key, an essential component of finding the people who were torturing Dylan.

Harper and Rommie continued to look for clues in the orange sea of code, but the search was interrupted when Rommie announced that another message had arrive.d They agreed that Harper would stay in VR and Rommie would redirect her on-screen persona to join him.

A dizzying second later, Beka gasped and found herself in the chair again. She ripped the VR helmet off her head and ordered Rommie to play the recording. Once again Trance had found her way to Command just at the right moment. She took Beka's hand as the too-familiar room appeared on the screen.

“Rebecca Valentine,” the voice she had come to loathe trilled off-screen. “I know you've been trying to find me, and I really can't blame you. After all the boyfriends you had on Degas Drift, Captain Hunt must seem like an angel from the heavens. I wouldn't want be eager to let him go either.” She giggled.

“Angel,” Trance whispered. But Beka was too distrated by the speaker's reference to a particularly painful stretch of her late teenage years to notice. By the time the unseen speaker loosed her annoyingly childish laugh, she was seething.

“Degas,” she hissed. “Who is this person?”

Rommie eyed her sideways. “Does that mean something to you? Something that could help narrow down the list,” she added hastily. That it meant something to Beka was evident from the flush that overspread her cheeks.

Beka took a few deep breaths to clear her mind of the red fury that washed over her. It worked a very little bit. “It's... hard to say. Someone could have accessed the arrest records.”

Rommie's eyebrows shot up, but Beka was glad that she wisely refrained from inquiring further. As the camera focused on Dylan, Beka's stomach tightened as it had three times before. She wanted to feel nauseous, but a trace of something floral hung around Trance, soothing her slightly.

“I don't know why we bother watching these,” Beka muttered. “It's always the same thing.” And, she wanted to add but didn't, less her voice crack, every fresh bruise against his lightly tanned skin killed her a little more.

A lithe figure clothed entirely in black entered the room from a side door off-camera. The slim shoulder-waist-hip ratio suggested a young man, but Beka could not have said for sure. He, if a he he was, grabbed the unconscious Dylan by his matted hair and jerked his head back so hard that Beka expected to hear a sickening crack. She let slip a quiet whimper. This part was always the worst for her, no matter what followed—when they worke him up. The look on confusion, followed swiftly by surprise, the return of the pain from his wounds, and finally grim resignation, broke her heart.

And another senseless beating commenced. The faceless torturer flung Dylan across the rough concrete floor as far as his chains would allow, ripping open the mushy scabs on his face and neck. Dark blood oozed down his jaw and the beard that was growing in. The figure slithered across the floor and bent Dylan's right arm back at an impossible angle for a long, agonizing moment until it popped out of joint. Dylan screamed, and tears sprung to Beka's eyes.

She was going to kill them. She was going to give them what they had given Dylan, ten times over, and then she was going to kill them. Tyr would understand, and he would help her, she knew, though he might inititally try to talk her out of it. Somewhere in her heart, programmed through it was, Rommie would also understand, but her ethical constraints and commitment to Dylan's Commonwealth ideals would force her to stop Beka. Trance and Rev would be horrified to hear it, and Harper... a year ago, Beka would have been sure of his reaction, but out of all of them, she had realized that he needed the Commonwealth and its strange and wonderful brand of justice more than any of them. Raised on a garbage heap of a world mostly abandoned by its progeny, treated like the worst kind of rabid dog by anbydoy with a modicum of power, Harper had absorbed the tenets of cruelty and pain and tyranny from the moment he was born. And Beka could not bring herself to pull him down to that level again.

Her searing anger gave her something to hold onto as she watched the recording, unconscious of the tears that streamed down her face. And then suddenly, it wasn't enough. The figure in black was pressing his booted foot on Dylan's throat, and the recording suddenly shut off. Beka leapt from her console. “What the hell that?!” At the end of every other recording, the speaker had spoken a few taunting words as the camera lingered on Dylan's battered body, but this time, the screen flicked to black.

“It's not finished,” Rommie replied, a bit tersely. If Beka had even noticed, she would have known not to take it personally. She forgot sometimes, but Rommie must have been suffering just as much as she was.

Plain white letters in Common flashed at the screen: New Diamond Casino, Gamma Hangar, twenty three hundred hours, along with a date ten days hence.

Beka's heart hammered in her chest. “Ten days?!” she exclaimed, her voice shrill with horrified surprise. “She's never gone two days without sending us more of these... things, and now we get a black-out??”

Trance squeezed Beka's hand. “He's fine,” she murmured. “He's not well, but that video... Beka, please don't panic. That won't help you or Dylan.”

Rommie turned to face them, and Beka saw what must have been an echo of her own tense, drawn expression. “I have to to believe that Trance is correct.” Her voice was strained. “We know that she wants you, Beka. Captain Hunt is not their target.” Beka wondered how much the android believed her own words; there was a brittle flimsiness to her voice that sounded to Beka's ears like a desperate effort to convince herself.

“How do we know that?” she argued, pulling slightly back from Trance's comforting presence. “The word of a sadist? She's been toying with us this whole time. Maybe by telling us she's after me, she was keeping us from going after Dylan.” She felt her face growing hot. “You guys saw the other trhee—this one did not end the way the others did.” She choked back a cry. “I can feel it. Something terrible happened to him.”

Rommie's dark eyes held hers for a long moment. “If that's true, that's all the more reason that you must act with the utmost care,” she finally whispered. Beka was startled to see a shine of tears glint under the bright lights of Command. “Tyr is the next in command. Can you imagine that?” she laughed weakly.

Beka tried to smile back. “He'd have the Nietzschean Empire up and running in a month,” she half-heartedly quipped. “Rommie, I'm not going to promise anything,” she continued as the smile faded quickly from her lips. “Can you honestly tell me that if you were in my shoes, you'd be careful and cautious?”

This was the closest they had come to openly acknowledging Beka's relationship with Dylan.

“I-” Rommie paused and suddenly turned to look back at the screen. “I'm getting a message. It's Tyr.”

Beka's fingers gripped the console so hard they ached. “On-screen.” She wondered if Rommie would provide difficult later on—as the Commonwealth's flagship, her priorities would not always align with Beka's—but now she had other things to think about.

“Audio only,” Rommie announced. “He bounced his halfway across the galaxy, so it's a little corrupted.”

A loud static hiss echoed through Command, and a moment later Tyr's baritone crackled around them. “My suspicions have been confirmed over the past several days. Rafael Valentine does not remember a thing about th-” The static drowned out his words for a few seconds. Beka cast a wild-eyed glance at Rommie, who shrugged helplessly. “-gel. That's all I could understand, but I had the impression that he was not talking about the typical angel, either in origin or character.” His dry voice indicated that he was making a joke, but Beka's panicked brain didn't catch it. He paused. “He's not well. He's experiencing short-term memory loss, paranoia, and extreme confusion. My guess is that he was heavily drugged, and not by his own volition. I will continue my search, but you should expect an arrival a few hours after this arrived.” He sounded amused at something.

Beka asked Rommie to clean it up and play it back, but the corruption was too far advanced.

“It was 'angel,'” Trance interrupted. “What he was saying about Rafe? He was talking about an angel. A bad one.” Her eyes were wider than usual, worried and ever prescient. Beka did not like that combination.

“Angel,” Beka said softly. “Tournai. It's...” She shook her head. “Rommie, tell me... Tournai. Something else. Angels. I... argh!” she screamed.

Rommie's cool lecturing voice washed over her, rattling off facts that failed to stir the slightest hint of memory. And then, “... saints in the Merovingian Empire. I'm not sure if they could be considered angels, but miracles were important to the faith of the-”

“Repeat that,” Beka ordered breathlessly. “About the... that empire. What was it called?”

“Merovingian. Is that familiar?”

Beka nodded slowly. “She was obsessed with empires,” she said, half to herself. “Said her family was descended from the Merov... whatever that is. Her perfect family. We were friends, as much as any of us were friends, but then...” Her blue eyes turned to Rommie, blazing with sudden understanding.

“I know who it is. And I know why she wants me.”