
*********

The Project 64 etext of ~Elite: The Dark Wheel~, provided to by
Andrew Williams <awilliams@daikin.com.au>, obtained from Ian Bell's
home page http://people.netcom.co.uk/i.bell/elite/archive/index.htm

NOTE: Ian Bell was one of the two creators of Elite, and all the docs
plus many different-platform versions of Elite (C64, Amiga, NES, etc)
can be downloaded from his site.

DARKW10.TXT, March 1998, etext #333#

*********

ELITE
The Dark Wheel

Robert Holdstock

CHAPTER ONE

From the moment that the trading ship, Avalonia, slipped its orbital
berth above the planet Lave, and began to manoeuvre for the hyperspace
jump point, its measureable life-span, and that of one of its two-man
crew, was exactly eighteen minutes.

The space station gently span away into the shadows and the small
Ophidian class vessel shuddered as its motors angled it round towards
the Faraway jump. The planet Lave, below, rotated in blue- green
splendour. There were storms moving across the Paluberion Sea, six
great whorls of pink and white cloud. They were approaching the
continental mass that was FirstFall, and promising a bleak and wet few
days to the swathes of forest and the deep, snaking valleys that cut
through the rugged land. The cities of both Humankind and Lavian
glittered among the verdant blanket below like bright shards of glass.

Watching the lush world from his seat at the astrogation console, Alex
Ryder expressed an audible sigh of regret that he had not been allowed
down to the world itself. Next to him, fingers moving expertly over
the keys of the trader's ManOp console, his father grinned. Jason
Ryder knew well enough the frustration of only being allowed to
observe a rich and fabled world like Lave from orbit. He had been
planetside once, an unforgettable experience . . . But the rules and
regulations of the Galactic Co-operative of Worlds were strict and
sensible. Lave, like any other planet, was not a holiday resort, not a
curiosity. It was a living, evolving world, and there were folk down
below to whom that world was everything that Old Earth had once been
to the Human race. Protection. Mother. Home.

Another time, another year, Alex thought. You earned your visit to
Lave, and he had hardly begun his professional life. He still had so
much to learn.

The Ryders had been a trading family for three generations. It had
begun with Ben Ryder, who had traded almost exclusively using shot-up
pirate ships. Ben had lived life on the edge, and one day, one night,
one star year, he had not returned. Out in the void between the stars
his grave was as remote as it was private, and would probably never be
found. His son, and his grandson—who was Jason Ryder—had followed the
family business. Alex would soon have to make the final decision:
whether to sacrifice his life to shuttling cargo between the worlds of
the Galactic Co-operative, or to train for a different profession.

Let's be clear about trading. Trading between worlds is no game for a
youngster with ideas of getting rich quick. You can spend a lifetime
carrying food, machinery and textiles, and at the end of that life
you'll have enough saved up to buy a patch of coastal land on an
Earth-type world, and spend the rest of your days in quiet, isolated
comfort.

That's all.

A lifetime of sweat and combat for an orbital shuttle, a home, and the
clear blue of an alien sea at your doorstep. If you want more, there
are ways of getting it: narcotics, slaves, zoo animals, weapons,
political refugees . . . trade in any of these things and wealth will
tumble around you.

And corsairs, and privateers, and pirates . . .

And the police.

The strain of the years of honest trading was already telling on Jason
Ryder, but he had invested wisely, and this small, cargo-carrying
pleasure yacht was his pride and joy. He could get away from the
trade-lanes for a while (although he always respected the trader maxim
that 'an empty hold means an empty head', and never travelled
freight-less; today he was carrying thrumpberry juice, an exotic
flavouring). He could show his son what space was really like, and
whet the lad's appetite . . . or let him see that a life in hard
vacuum was one of the hardest lives of all.

For his part, Alex Ryder would need a lot more convincing. He was a
tall, fair-haired young man, wiry and athletic. He was atmo-surfing
champion on the Ryder's homeworld, Ontiat, and very bright. Like all
young men of his age he was reluctant to switch his status from that
of student to professional, with all that that meant in terms of
settling with one particular girl, one job, and beginning to plan for
when, eventually, he would buy his own land.

He still had a year to decide, a year of surfing, free-fall baseball,
cloud barbecues, hi-falling, partner selection and Sim-Combat.

He was in no hurry.

Except that he loved space. Loved the flash of sun on duralium hulls,
the clutter and confusion of the space ports.

Loved the idea of other worlds, of exploration, of path-finding.

The voice of SysCon, which controlled all traffic flow in Lave's
orbitspace, murmured softly, 'Avalonia, make a four minute
drift-flight to Faraway jump point.'

'Understood,' Alex called back, and adjusted the auto accordingly. His
father sat back and smiled, his job done for the moment.

SysCon said, 'Enter Faraway jump along channel two seven, at
forty-five orient.'

'Affirmed,' Alex said, and his father rolled the ship along its
central axis, ready for the dangerous hyperspace transit.

Everything looked good.

On the rear monitor, where the planet shone brilliantly as it slowly
moved through the heavens, a dark shadow drifted into vision: another
ship, lining up for the Faraway jump.

It was quite normal. Alex took no notice, more concerned about the
impending transit through hyperspace. His father scrutinised the other
vessel for a moment, then relaxed.

He had no way of knowing that he only had fourteen minutes left alive.

Making a Faraway jump in a system as complex and crowded as Lave is no
simple business. A hundred eyes are watching you for the slightest
mistake. Make a mistake in orbit-space and the next time you go to
dock at one of the world's Coriolis space stations a big NOT WELCOME
sign might flash in the vacuum before you.

You slip your C-berth under the instruction of Station Space Monitor.
Perhaps twenty ships are doing the same. You go when it's safe. You
rotate, accelerate, decelerate and spin to the absolute second, both
of time and arc. That way you get clear without two thousand tons of
duralium trader rammed into your hyperspace jets.

It isn't over.

Now you're under the supervision of HSA, Home Space Authority, and
they'll jockey you safely about among the traders, and the yachts, and
the ferries, and the shuttles, and the star-liners, and the arrow-
shaped police patrol ships. All of these vessels slip and slide about
you, streaks of silver in the darkness, flashing green and blue
lights, sudden walls of grey metal that pass across your bows, winking
yellow warning beacons.

You move through this chaos and a new voice begins to call for
attention. Now you're with the Faraway Orientation Systems Controller;
FOSC—or SysCon—sets you up for the big jump. You're going to cover
maybe seven light years in a few minutes, and you might think that's a
lot of space to get lost in, but that isn't how it works. Faraway is a
tunnel, like any other tunnel. Inside that tunnel is the realm called
Witch-Space, a magic place, a place where the normal rules of the
Universe don't necessarily work. And every few thousand parsecs along
the Witch-Space tunnel there are monitoring satellites, and branch
lines, and stop points, and rescue stations; and passing by all of
these are perhaps a hundred channels, a hundred 'lines' for ships to
travel, each one protected against the two big dangers of hyperspace
travel: atomic reorganisation, and time displacement.

Jump on your own through hyperspace, across more than half a light
year, and you'll be lucky to make the same Universe, let alone your
destination.

You might emerge from Witch-Space turned inside out (which is not a
pretty sight).

You might be stretched in all the wrong angles, and although the ship
keeps travelling, that jelly mass of broken bone and flesh inside the
cabin is you.

According to legend, you might come through okay and breathe a sigh of
relief, only to go into Earth orbit and wonder why that big lizard,
with the teeth and the long tail and the green scales is roaring up at
you, and warning you off of his nice Jurassic patch of prehistoric
desert.

To go Faraway is a killer, unless you obey the rules.

So for a few minutes, on that fateful day, Alex Ryder was content to
let the robot voices of SysCon guide his family's ship through the
space lanes, towards the jump point for the planet Leesti. He relaxed,
beside his father, and watched the bussle of the space port.

The shadow behind them, the ship that was following their path towards
Faraway, was a Cobra class cargo freighter.

No-one knew how or when the designation of space-going vessels had
been linked to the names of snakes. The Ryder's own vessel was a
relatively harmless Ophidion, capable of two hyperspace jumps, armed
very basically, set up, really, only to destroy imminent dangers, like
asteroids, meteoroids, or 'crazy craft', the name given to vessels
that were out of control, or ridden by juveniles out for kicks.

The Cobra was a bigger vessel by far.

A common trading ship, most Cobras are buried beneath the weaponry and
defences that their hard-bitten, tough-talking captains have accrued.
And with good reason . . .

To be a trader is to be two things: dangerous, and at risk. Dangerous
because to survive as a trader you have to know your weapons and how
to use them in space combat; you need to be able to recognise a
pirate, or an anarchist, or a Thargoid invader, or a police trap when
you might be carrying any one of the thousands of prohibited
materials.

And at risk for the same reason. A juicy Cobra, weighed down with
minerals, or rare textiles, or furs, or ore, is as tasty a target for
a freebooter as any in the Galaxy.

To be a trader means to shoot first and pray that you've read the
warning signs alright, and that your victim was a pirate.

Make a mistake and not even two shells of time-stressed duralium and a
belly full of missiles is going to save you from the vipers.

Vipers. Police ships. Small, fast, deadly. And most particularly,
tenacious. The pilot is a man, certainly, but kill the man and the
ship will keep coming at you. Kill the ship and its missile will keep
coming at you. Kill the missile, and watch for the shadow.

When a viper bites, it clings.

Eleven minutes . . .

'There's a sight you'll not often see . . .'

His father's words broke through Alex's silent, concentrated study of
the planet they were leaving.  To the right, running a parallel course
towards the Faraway tunnel, was an odd-shaped ship, with poweful
lights flickering on and off. It was catching the sun and Alex could
see how it was slowly spinning about its central axis. Fish-like fins
opened and closed. Across its sleek hull a rapid pattern of coloured
lights rippled.

A Moray. A subaqua vessel, designed for both space and undersea
voyaging. The Moray was a rare ship indeed to see in space, especially
about to undertake a hyperspace transit. On worlds like Regiti and
Aona, where the only land was the tips of volcanoes, rising al oceans,
the Moray was both freighter and public transport, a vital ship-link
between the undersea cities that were developing in such hostile
environments .	The Moray's frantic colour signalling ceased. Alex
noticed that his father was watching the animalistic display (the
coding had been developed from the signalling of a terrestrial aquatic
creature, the squid) with a frown on his face.

'Something up?'

Jason shrugged. 'Not sure. Probably not.'

Alex watched the Moray with renewed interest, then turned back to the
rear view, where the Cobra had nudged a few kilometres closer.

'Shall we warn him to stay back?'

Jason shook his head. For the first time Alex realised that his father
had been as aware of the trader as he, and had been studying it
curiously for some minutes. There was a tension on the Avalonia's
bridge that was unusual, and unpleasant.

Something wasn't right. Alex had no idea what, but he sensed it
powerfully.

Something was not going according to routine.

Then the go-signal for entry to the Faraway tunnel flashed on,
accompanied by a gentle audio prompt.

And as it did so, the Avalonia's life expectancy had shrunk to just
nine minutes.

Around the entry point to Witch-Space is always to be found the
biggest cluster of transit vessels, most of them moored in groups at
orbital buoys while mechanics and repairmen crawl over them, checking
and servicing their external systems. At such a point in any advanced
system like Lave you'll see every ship of the line, every type,
subtype and artificially mocked-up version of every snake-ship ever
built.	As they approached the jump, Alex practised ship
identification, a crucial talent in any space-faring profession. The
unarmed, unmanned orbit shuttles were easy enough to spot, as they
ferried cargo all around the system. He noticed two Asps, Navy ships,
small, manouevrable and deadly, well protected against attack, and
with highly advanced military weapons systems. He also saw a single
Krait, the so-called StarStriker, a small, one-man ship much favoured
by pathfinders and mercenaries.

To his right, space-docked and still unloading her passengers, was the
immense, cylindrical mass of an Anaconda, a massive freighter that had
been adapted to passenger transport. It was an ugly ship, and its
yawning ram-scoop gave it the appearance of being a squat, blind
creature with its mouth disgustingly agape.

The catalogue was endless. Boa class cruisers; Pythons; the bounty
hunters' favourite, the Fer-de-lance, packed out with weapons, and no
doubt decked out inside like a palace; landing craft called Worms;
Mambas; Sidewinders . . . large craft and small, all winking brightly
and reflecting sunlight in brilliant blue- grey sheens.

And of course, there were advertising Droidships, their catchy light
displays blinking out information about ROHAN'S REAL EARTH ALE WITH
HONEY, or KETTLE'S CLONE-YOUR-OWN FUNGAL CURES. Or even offering the
'last real food before Witch-Space', small restaurant ships designed
to dock and supply instant nourishment (PRIEST'S PERFECT PROTOPOLYPS,
TUTTLE'S TASTY THERAPSABLADDERS) to space-weary travelers.

'Here we go . . . Hang on to your seat . . .'

Jason Ryder always said this, and Alex always fell for it. He tensed
up as if the ship was about to plunge over a gravity-roller. In fact,
the entry to Witch-Space was accompanied by an almost negligible
accelerative surge, a moment's dizziness, and then the spectacular
sight of the stars brightening, spreading out and suddenly streaking
in multi-coloured circular patterns, so that the ship seemed to be
passing down a spinning tube. Almost as soon as the surge of
acceleration had come it had gone. The ship drifted in 'Witch Light',
in the non-place in space and time. It was crossing the void between
stars in seconds, but for those seconds it was in a twilight world
whose existence was beyond imagination.

They say that Witch-Space is haunted. Maybe that's why they call it
'witch'. Time turns all around, and atoms turn inside out, and gravity
waves billow up, and things move there, lifeforms, or shadows, or
atoms, or galaxies, who knows? No-one has ever stopped and gone
outside to find out. Only robot remotes exist there, switching
stations, monitors, rescue Droids and the like. Whatever lives in
Witch-Space, in the Faraway tunnels, will remain a mystery always.

But there are ghosts there. The ghosts of the early ships that went in
to Faraway, and didn't come out again.

Ghosts . . .

And shadows.

The shadow of a snake. A Cobra . . . Rising over them . . .

'What in God's name . . .?'
Jason Ryder had gone whiter than white light.

Trapped in Witch-Space, there was nothing he could do to outmanoeuvre
the other vessel. Alex said, 'He doesn't know the rules. Perhaps it's
a rookie pilot.'

'Perhaps,' his father said. Jason Ryder's eyes never left the
scanners. His face had beaded with sweat. Alex watched the shadow of
the Cobra . . .

Well-equipped . . . a fuel-scoop, missile silos, extra cargo holds,
the squat dome of an energy bomb housing . . . a rich ship indeed and
a deadly one . . .

'They can't be intending to attack us.'

'The hell they can't!'

Three minutes . . .

And they came out of Witch-Space!

Immediately, Jason's hands began to fly over the key console. The
Avalonia surged forward, rotating on its long axis. The planet Leesti
was a small, greenish disc in the far distance. Alex saw his father
arm the two missiles that the Avalonia carried, then reached to rest
his hand on the multiple laser-trigger.

It was a pirate, then. And as Alex came to accept the inevitability of
combat, his mouth went dry and his mind sharpened. He had never been
in combat before, not for real, only in the SimTrainer. He had heard
his father talk about it, of course. And combat did not sound glorious
. . .

A pirate ship, disguised as a trader, pursuing its victim into
Witch-Space itself . . . for their cargo of . . .

Thrumpberry flavouring?

An uneasy voice whispered in Alex's mind. This was untypical behaviour
for a freebooter. They normally waited at the edge of planetary
systems, watching for their prey with long-distance scanners, picking
and choosing carefully. Pirates could be found everywhere, of course,
though rarely in space around Corporate State worlds, or Democracies
(the police were too efficient). Planets run by anarchistic or feudal
governments were a pirate's favourite haunt.

This behaviour was wrong . . .

Not a pirate.

Alex looked from the slowly rotating planet to the grim, grey features
of his father. They were a long way from safety. 'What the hell are we
up against?'

'Put on a RemLok and get to the escape pod,' Jason Ryder murmured. 'Do
it!'

'I'll stay and fight '

'The hell you will. Do as I say.' As he spoke, Jason thrust a small,
black face-mask—the remote- space locator at his son.

The first missiles struck the Avalonia's shields, and Jason punched
the launch buttons on his own defences.  The small ship veered and
strained as he looped it in an escape run, activating its ECM as the
Cobra launched a second wave of missiles.The rear screen exploded with
light . . .

But through the brightness the sombre grey shape of the killer came on
. . .

It happened so fast, then, that afterwards Alex was uncertain as to
what exactly had happened. The duelling ships span and circled in
towards the planet. Space around them blazed silently as their weapons
struck and were deflected.

Then the whole Universe rocked. Air screeched into the void. The
lights in the Avalonia blinked and dimmed. Warning lights shot on
across the console: lazer temperature in the red, screens down, energy
low, cargo jettisoned, cabin temperature dropping . . .

In the same moment of the Avalonia's death, Alex Ryder found himself
being struck by his father, the remlok mask forced into place about
his eyes, nose and mouth. Then his whole body was physically
manhandled into the escape pod.

The ship shuddered and screamed. Fuel spilled into the void.

Father and son faced each other for a last moment, each watching the
other through a mist of tears and confusion.

'I don't understand . . .' Alex screamed above the noise of the dying
ship, meaning: Who's trying to kill us?

'Raxxla!' Jason said. 'Remember: Raxxla!' Then, as he pushed Alex back
into the cramped escape pod, he shouted, 'Remember me, Alex! I
wouldn't have wished this on you. Raxxla!'

The escape pod was jettisoned. Alex tumbled. The sleek shape of the
Avalonia was above him, and then just white light.

White heat.

Cold space!

In a second it had gone, the ship, his father, a part of his
life—obliterated by a single burst of fire from the hovering shape of
the pirate.

And as Alex watched, so a yellow tongue of fire licked towards the
tumbling escape pod. He felt heat, then pain, then cold . . .

The tiny survival vehicle was blasted apart, sparkling fragments
falling towards the green world of Leesti.

Alex hit space, arms flailing, mouth opened, consciousness and life
draining from him with every second . . .




CHAPTER TWO


In space, everyone can hear you scream . . .

As long, that is, as you're equipped with a RemLok survival mask.

An instant after Alex Ryder hit the hard vacuum, a skin of plasFibre
had been shot across his body from nozzles on the face piece, keeping
him warm against the cold, tightening and protecting him, securing him
against the void. The oxygen flow in his body was cut off to all but
his heart and brain. Needle-doses of adrenalin and somnokie were held
ready, just within the skin area of his mouth, ready to alert or
depress his body functions according to circumstances.

And the RemLok screamed through space for help.

It was a standard survival device, an instantly recognisable distress
call indicating that it was being sent out from a small, remotely
located, dying body. The alarm screeched out on forty channels,
shifting wavelength within each channel four times a second. One
hundred and twenty chances to catch attention . . .

A cumbersome Boa class cruiser, loaded down with industrial machinery,
slowed its departure run from Leesti and turned to scan space for the
source of the signal . . .

Two police vipers came streaking from their patrol sector, near the
sun, scanning for the body in trouble . . .

An adapted Moray Starboat, a vast glowing yellow star on its hull—the
sign of a hospital ship— came chugging out of the darkness . . .

Messages from ships to both the planet and its ring of Coriolis
stations were abruptly broken as the split second message came
screaming through. TV programmes were interrupted, the screen
dissolving into a permanently recorded display of the space-grid
location of the RemLok. Every advertising space module changed its
garish display to flash, in brilliant green, the same information.

In the orbit-space around Leesti, a million heads turned starwards.
That split second of panic, that moment's cry of distress, was a sound
they knew too well to ignore, and were too frightened of to take for
granted.

Within twenty seconds, two autoremotes, tiny vessels just big enough
to carry an hour's oxygen, one dose each of forty drugs, and a variety
of other stimulants, were hovering around Alex Ryder's spinning body.
one of them shot out a stabilising cable and dragged itself to his
corpse. Blinking through its solitary monitor, it hovered over his
face like a squat, legless dachsund hound and pumped adrenalin, oxygen
and glucose into his bloodstream. Alex opened his eyes and panicked
slightly. The autoremote calmed him down with a quick pumpsurge of
tetval.

The robot's voice whispered in his ears, 'Brandy? Scotch? Vodka? I am
equipped with a full range of miniature stimulants to make the waiting
easier.'

'What . . . happened . . . ship? . . . Avalonia . . .' he gasped
through the tight face mask.

The autoremote blinked at him sympathetically, 'Brandy, then,' and hit
Alex with two shots of Qutirian SynCognac.

An hour later he was aboard the Moray hospital vessel, in parked orbit
above the green-grey face of the world of Leesti. Burns to his hands
and face had been taken care of. Minor blood vessels that had ruptured
in his skin had been knitted back together. He was bruised, stunned,
but essentially fit physically.

The image of the ship exploding had begun to haunt him, however. He
stood by the wide, sloping window of his hospital room, staring out
across the bright of space to the slowly rotating world below,
watching the flash and tumble of shuttles and small freighters as they
either glided up from worldDown, or struck the atmosphere on their
descent, leaving brief, brilliant flares of red in the thin planetary
atmosphere.

Wherever he looked he could see the shadow of the Cobra, rising up in
the Witchlight, a great, killer beast, closing on its prey.

And his father's face . . .

The sudden alarm, the sudden anger, and yet . . . and yet Jason Ryder
had known.

His grieving, mind-stunned son just knew that his father had been more
aware of the danger than he had let on. It had been in his face, in
the tension in the cabin, in the slow, deliberate words that he had
spoken during the approach run to hyperspace.

Jason had known that his life was in danger. He had been ready for it,
ready to save his son in the event of attack . . .

It made no sense. But for the moment Alex felt only loss, the loss of
a man he had loved. Both his parents were gone, now. His homeworld
would seem an empty, uninviting place.

Behind him, the door opened softly and the grey-suited figure of a
nurse appeared. She reproved him mildly for being out of bed, but
seemed pleased by his apparently calm mental state.

There followed what seemed like a constant stream of visitors. First
the doctor, scanning him for tension and psychic repression. The medic
was not pleased. He more or less said, 'Young man, your father is dead
and it would do you no harm to shed a few tears. It's all there, all
the grief, all the sadness. It'll do you no good to deny it.'

'I'll grieve for my father,' Alex said back angrily, coldly. 'I'll
grieve among the ashes of the pirate that killed him. And not until.'

'Will you indeed.'

'Yes,' Alex stated defiantly. 'I will. Indeed.'

After the doctor had gone, the man from the Galactic Medical
Co-operative came, fussily checking up on Alex's medical insurance,
making sure that he was covered for all aspects of the treatment,
including his Faraway transit home.

Then the police, two lean-faced men, wearing the grey cloaks and
silver waistcoats of the Narcotics Investigation Department. What
cargo had the Avalonia been carrying? Why would a pirate be so
interested in him as to follow him to a Corporate State world? Had his
father ever transported drugs?  Firearms? Slaves? What about alien
substances: Manjooza, fear glands, Marswurt? What was said in the
moments before destruction? Would he recognise the ship again? What
were its markings?

Alex told them everything he could remember. Everything he'd seen.
Everything he'd heard . . .

Except for the fact that his father had clearly known the danger.

And except for the word Raxxla.

The police left. They were not satisfied. Alex had just received his
solo pilot's licence, so he could make his own way back to his
homesystem, but he should notify them of what route he was taking.

Raxxla . . .

Alex watched them go, their Viper a slim, evil-looking ship as it
rolled and sped away from the hospital vessel. His mood matched the
dim-lit room, matched the gloom-grey of the storms that were building
up on the world below. Leesti's oceans looked wild and cold, now, its
clouds great charcoal coloured swirls of anger above the ragged,
mountainous land.

Raxxla.

What could it be? What could it mean?

At midnight, still resting and recouperating (care of the Leesti
Medical Authority), a small green light winked on in his room. Alex,
still awake, frowned then realised that he was being monitored.

'What is it?' he asked the empty room, and a nurse's voice whispered,
'There's a holoFac message coming through for you. They've requested a
tightbeam. Will you receive?'

Alex sat up in bed. No-one knew he was here. Did they? He frowned, and
said, 'Sure.'

'Will you accept the charge against your CR?'

Curiouser and curiouser. Since he was broke, and without credit until
he sorted out his GMC insurance, it was easy for him to say, 'Yes.'

In the middle of the room the air suddenly shimmered white, small
bright particles flying off in all directions around the gradually
defined shape of a man. He was tall, but slightly stooped. As the
whiteness of the image resolved into colour, the whiteness of the man
stayed. His hair was long and snowy, his beard ragged. His face had a
touch of colour. His eyes were small, gleaming points among the
wrinkles. He was smiling. He wore a tattered trader's uniform, and one
arm hung limp by his side. Even his boots were worn down, and the toes
were split. The handlaser at his side had seen the same better days as
the rest of his equipment.

'You the Ryder Boy?' this apparition of run-down age asked. The voice
creaked, a gruff, battered tone, the voice of a man who had breathed
hard vacuum.

'That's me. Alex Ryder. And you?'

Alex climbed out of bed and went to stand before the life-sized
holoFac. The old man watched him, and chewed. Then he spat. The gobbet
of stained spittle seemed to fly straight towards Alex's shoulder and
he winced and jerked slightly to one side, before realising that
nothing could travel into real space from the holo.

'You don't remember me,' the old man said. 'That's clear enough. But I
remember you.'

'Give me a name.'

'Rafe Zetter. Trader of old. Traded with your father for many years,
till we parted company on account of a certain issue which, you might
say . . . caused a difference of opinion between us.'

'Slaves,' Alex said quickly. He remembered Rafe, now. But what had
happened to the man? He was old before his time. He was the same age
as Jason Ryder would have been, but looked twenty years more.

'Slaves is right,' Rafe said. 'I ran my life on the edge of a Viper's
sting . . .' trader parlance for 'one jump ahead of the law'. 'But by
the time I indulged that little whim, my ass was hard iron. I somehow
made it to hell 'n back. That's where I am now.'

'In hell?'

'Broke. '

Alex nodded, picking up slowly on the trader slang. An 'iron ass' was
a ship that was well enough defended—shields, missiles and lasers—to
make a skim run through any system at all, even an anarchist's
paradise like Sotiqu. All hell and then some would come at you if you
tried to trade in such a chaotic system. 'Hell 'n back' meant that
Rafe had tasted the good life, bought with the profits of his illegal
trading, but that it had all gone wrong.

It always went wrong.

Rafe said, 'I was damn sorry to hear about Jason. A good man. A good
friend of old, and a man I still respect.'

'It didn't happen but eight hours ago,' Alex said coldly. 'How the
hell do you get to hear about it.'

Rafe Zetter chuckled, then spat again, and again Alex couldn't help
ducking. The spittle vanished at the holoFac's edge, and Alex felt a
chill of irritation. 'You got your father's temper, young Alex. Maybe
you've even got some of his skills.'

'Answer my question, old man. How do you manage to know about my
father? How did you find me?'

Watching him from the holo, Rafe chewed, smiled and considered. Alex
tensed, waiting for the next high velocity spit-transmission.

Rafe said, 'I repeat, Alex. I had great respect for Jason Ryder. For
what he was, and what he was doing.'

'He was a good man,' Alex said. 'And an honest trader.'

'He was a damn sight more than that,' Rafe said loudly, and spat. Alex
dodged. The ghostly holoFac image shimmered and blurred slightly.

'What does that mean?'

Rafe Zetter leaned forward so that his grizzled features seemed almost
able to kiss the younger man. 'He was a combateer, Alex. One of the
best. No way should he have died like he did . . .'

'My father was a trader, not a combateer,' Alex said, startled and
disturbed by what Rafe was implying.

'Guess again, sonny.'

'But it sickened him to fire shots in anger.'

'Maybe,' Rafe said drily. 'But it didn't stop him. How else do you
think he made it as a trader all those years? Dammit, Alex, even if
your cargo is sour-cream and pickles there's someone's going to try
and take it from you. Your father was a combateer of the highest
calibre . . .?'

Alex swallowed heavily, staring at the quizzical features of old Rafe
Zetter. 'The highest calibre . .  .?'

Rafe nodded. 'That's right, Alex,' he said softly. 'You can be deadly,
you can be dangerous, and you can end up as pet food in orbit around a
dog's ass-of-a-world like Isveve. But if you're élite, and you die,
then there's a reason for your death . . .'

What was this old man saying? Elite? An élite combateer? Alex's head
span. He knew all about the space pilots who'd earned that title, of
course. Few of them did. To be élite in combat was to be . . . well,
as near invincible as made no odds. A great many pilots were
'dangerous'; you didn't last long as a trader if you weren't. Many
more had earned the classification 'deadly'. So had a lot of
mercenaries. So had a lot of pirates.

But Elites. Few and far between.

And his father, Jason Ryder, had been Elite, and none of his family
had known!

'Jason was one of the very best. You probably never saw his ship, but
it was like a fortress. He traded places that most of us would have
had nightmares about.' Rafe shook his head admiringly. 'One of the
best. A man of the highest calibre...' His gaze hardened on Alex. 'The
question is . . . Can you be the same?'

'What makes you doubt it?'

'Jason never said anything about you. I guess he was trying to protect
you. The trouble is that it gives me nothing to go on: you're going to
avenge your father's death. I can tell that from the look of you, and
your tone, and your anger but for all I know, that'll just mean one
more Ryder will be stardust before he even manages to target a
missile.'

Not liking Rafe Zetter's tone, Alex said bitterly, 'I've done hours of
SimCombat. I score highly . . .'

Rafe laughed and spat voluminously, then became serious.

'Alex, there's something I've got to know. Maybe you're going to end
up???'

'Pet food in orbit around Isveve!'

'Yeah. Maybe that. The only person who knew your talents was your
father. Tell me, Alex, and tell me true, now . . . Did he say anything
to you . . . you know . . . in the moments before he died? Did he
indicate anything, or say anything?'

'He said a lot,' Alex murmured, and felt a strong pang of grief as he
remembered the look in his father's eyes, the greyness of his cheeks,
and his desperate words, remember me, Alex . . . 'I think he knew he
was going to die. The last thing he said was the word Raxxla. I don't
know what that is. An alien, I guess . . .'

Rafe smiled, shaking his head. Suddenly there was a brilliant sparkle
in his eyes: 'Raxxla's no alien, Alex. It's a ghost world. A planet. A
legend . . .' He hesitated, staring quizzically at the younger man
through the distant link between them, 'Jason really said that to
you?'

Alex nodded. 'Moments before . . . It was the last thing he said.'

'Then he knew,' Rafe said with a nod. 'And that's good enough for me.
Alex, get your frail shell to Tionisla and take a visitor's shuttle to
the orbital cemetery there. Say you've come to see the grave of
Starpilot Fleischer. And take a good look around. You do that, boy.
Tomorrow. I'll be waiting for you.'

'Waiting to do what?'

Rafe chuckled. 'How're you going to hunt a Cobra? You going to
hitch-hike? Or use a big stick?  You'll need a ship. Hunt like with
like. Get to the wreckplace at Tionisla. I know just the vehicle you
need.  Don't speak to anyone. Just get to Tionisla.'

'But'

'Au'voir, Alex!'

And Rafe Zetter spat for the last time before the holoFac faded.

Alex didn't flinch. Something whistled past his ear and struck the
wall behind him.



CHAPTER THREE

The best way to see the wreckplace at Tionisla is to approach it from
the Sun (a reasonably safe thing to do since Tionisla, being a
Democracy has few pirates in its system). Tionisla itself is a bright
yellow world, and the cemetery is always between the planet and its
star. As you fly close, the whole strange graveyard seems to be
expanding from the circle of the world behind.

The first thing you see is a shimmering, silver disc, a double spiral
of tiny bright points. It slowly turns: it's a galaxy in miniature,
with the same intense blur of light at its centre, because here is
where the biggest tombs are to be found.

Come closer and soon you can see that the stars in this galaxy are
markers, great lumps of metal, heavily inscribed with the words and
symbols of a thousand religions. The cemetery is a bizarre and moving
sight. The markers are rarely less than a thousand feet across. There
are chrome-alloy crosses, titanium Stars of David, duralium henges,
and all the strange symbolic shapes of the worlds, and the minds and
the faiths that have come to die in this Star traveller's special
place.

Tethered below this vast, rotating mausoleum is the dodecahedral shape
of a 'Dodo' class space station, the home of the Cemetery Authorites.
Here you go through security checks and get your visitor's visa. And
as you stand in the queue, staring up through the translucent ceiling
of the Customs Hall, you can see the battered, broken ships of many of
the dead, still attached to the silent tomb that contains the body.

It's a good enough reason to come to Tionisla. There are pickings
aplenty among the wrecks. The treasures of centuries might be revealed
by pressing the right panel on the right cube of black, alien metal as
it floats silently by.

Or maybe not treasure, just the tomb's defences . . .

A pit with a laser.

A robot guardian with knives where its hands should be.

A hyperspace vacuum that sucks you in and throws you out into another
time.

You tread carefully among the wrecks in orbit about Tionisla. The
creatures buried here—human and alien had money enough to buy these
prized resting places, and more than enough wealth to protect their
property after death from the mercenary fingers of bounty hunters.

Formalities completed, his newly issued pilot's licence checked, Alex
Ryder was given a small tour-ship, an oddly shaped and cumbersome
vessel. He drifted quickly among the tombs, seeking the resting place
of Starpilot Fleischer, following co-ordinates on the ship's cemetery
plan.

He soon found what he was looking for. Whoever Fleischer had been, he
was monstrously egocentric: his tomb was a great crystalline
structure, a puff-ball of diamond-bright needles, literally hundreds
of feet across. His body, dressed in the red uniform of an elite
combateer, hovered in stasis at the centre of this great construct,
illuminated by focused light from the sun.

Tethered to the simple monument of the grave next to this was the
battered, blistered shape of a Cobra class ship, its insignia still
proudly displayed, but all its vital equipment, its fuel-scoop, its
extra cargo bays, its aft missile and laser banks removed.

Alex stared at it. It looked nothing like the Cobra that had destroyed
his father's ship. That vessel had been bristling with all the extra
things that good money could buy, to defend and to attack, and to make
the trading game an easier prospect for the elite trader.

A light on the Cobra winked at him.

Alex blinked, then looked again. Sure enough, a small, red light was
flashing on and off, a brief sequence of code.

LAND ON DOR PL

'Land on the dorsal plate' That was clear enough.

Alex manoeuvred his tiny craft above the arrow shape of the Cobra, and
touched it gently onto the heat-blistered hull. He looked around
guiltily. Touching monuments wasn't permitted and the cemetery was
patrolled by Kraits, small and deadly security craft, with
instructions to blast away any man, woman or child seen tampering with
a mausoleum . . .

But the graveyard was huge, and the shadows of the great tombs
transferred this miniature world of the dead into a place of
hide-outs, and shifting, occasional safety.

An entry port opened, and a green light quickly blinked the message
'Come aboard'. Alex flew the tour-ship into the hull space and when he
got the 'pressure green' signal stepped out and walked cautiously
towards the main control area. He opened the sliding door and blinked
for a moment at the bright control displays and scanners. Ahead of
him, the main screen was wide, and filled with a view of Fleischer's
crystal tomb.

Silhouetted against the gleaming brightness of the crystal was the
shape of a man, wearing full space suit. One hand rested on the
navigation console, the other hovered above the laser button.

'I'm aboard,' Alex said, and walked up behind the silent pilot. The
man made no movement, said nothing.

For a moment Alex stood beside him, staring out into the wreckplace,
at the slowly shifting monuments, at the stars glimpsed in the
background.

Then he turned to greet his host.

And nearly died of shock, taking a quick, horrified step backwards!

It was the drawn, mummified face of a corpse that half looked up at
him from behind its visor, the rictus smile of death stretching wide
across its lips.

'Do you think we should take him with us?' a voice asked from across
the cabin. Alex started again with surprise and watched the figure
which emerged from the shadows. 'As a sort of totem. A lucky charm.'

Alex tried to smile, but neither relief nor the new arrival's charming
grin could relax him enough.  Too much had happened too fast, and he
stood rooted to the spot, watching as the woman came over to him.

She was quite small. Her skin was olive, her eyes dark. She wore her
hair in a fashionable series of spikes, like a porcupine. Dressed in
the light green coveralls that most traders sported, she seemed
swamped by clothes. Her hand-touch was cool and confident, and she
kept the contact as she looked up at Alex Ryder, still smiling
disarmingly.

'So you're the man that Rafe has chosen. Well, Alex. So far it seems
that star-riding with you is at least going to be quiet. You do . . .
er . . .' she frowned. 'You do have a speech function?' She turned him
slightly and felt up his back for the switch. 'Or are you one of the
early 'semaphore and gormless grin' models?'

'Sorry,' Alex said. 'You took me by surprise.'

'Oh God,' the woman said. 'Where's the off-switch? I think I prefer
you silent . . .'

'Who are you?' Alex asked, irritated by her levity and keen to find
out why Rafe Zetter had summoned him here? Where was the old man?

'Trader Fields', she said, and touched the heel of her right hand to
her left shoulder by way of salute. 'My given name is Elyssia. Elyssia
Fields.' She smiled again. 'My brood mother's little joke. She
discovered Greek mythology at age 9 when she was incubating her first
cluster.'

Brood mother? Greek? Incubating clusters? That meant that Elyssia
Fields was from Teorge, the so-called 'clone-world'. Alex struggled to
remember what he'd been taught about Teorge . . . an inhabited world.
. . settled by two colony ships that had proceeded to clone a select
few of the crew and colonists, killing the others. For centuries
Teorge had been a world apart, cut off from the normal flow of trade
and commerce, and banned from sending representatives into space.

Elyssia Fields was clearly a fugitive.

'I'm Alex Ryder,' Alex said.

'I know,' the woman said back, breaking the gaze with which she'd been
fixing him. She patted the corpse on the shoulder, an oddly
affectionate gesture. 'This is—or rather was—Space Trader Henry Bell.
We're going to purloin Mister Bell's coffin. Of all the people who are
going to object, he's going to be the most objectionable. This rust
bucket is set up with holo-projections of our man here, warning of
dire consequences for invading his sanctity. I've turned most of them
off, but I expect I've missed a few.'

'We're going to steal this ship?' Alex said quietly, checking the
flickering control display panel. Witchlight fuel registered enough
for a 0.1 light-year jump, hardly sufficient to clear the Tionisla
system.

Elyssia stared at him, a half smile on her lips. 'We could pass the
time chatting if you'd prefer.  Plant some flowers, clean the tomb up
. . .'

'I meant,' Alex said drily, 'How the hell are we going to get away
with it?' He found himself staring at the pert features of the
humanoid female. The shadow of gloom and grief that had haunted him
for the last few hours seemed to fade a little. The girl interested
him. He added, 'And just why are you helping me, anyway? Where's
Rafe?'

With a quick laugh, Elyssia said, 'Funny thing about Rafe. Wherever
you go in the galaxy, he's always there, a shimmering white holoFac .
. . but where he really is . . . that's something you're about to find
out.' she glanced up at Alex. 'Why am I helping you? Who says I am.
We'll be helping each other, in fact. You have a father to avenge. I
have some things to avenge too. Maybe I'll tell you about them one
day.  But without you I cannot fly this ship.'

Surprised, Alex said, 'Cobras were made to be flown by a single pilot.'

'But I'm a single Teorgeon. I'm not supposed to be here. I can fly
this bucket with my eyes closed, but your face fits. Listen, Alex,
this craft wouldn't survive the first attack by a pirate with a
peashooter, no matter how good we are behind the laser button. We need
shields, missiles, defences and cargo space. How d'you think we're
going to get them? They don't grow on silvery moons, you know.'

'Trade for them,' Alex said gloomily, and the vista of his family's
long life trading through the stars swept before his eyes.

Elyssia was right. He couldn't go hunting a Cobra without the proper
equipment, and it would take too long to sort out his inheritance,
bearing in mind the circumstances of his father's death.

He felt utterly overwhelmed with frustration. A part of him wanted to
kill right now. A part of him wanted to rip out onto the space-lanes,
and hunt his father's killer. But the best part of him knew that would
be a recipe for disaster, that patience was called for, that a
tactical appraisal of how he would set about the hunt was essential .
. . and that a protected ship was the barest necessity!

'I've got a hundred credits in all the world,' Alex said, referring to
the Galactic Emergency Services loan that he had been given to get him
home.

'It's a start,' Elyssia said. 'It's a start in the trading business.
As Rafe would say, we'll give this old lass an iron ass.' Her face
darkened though the flickering lights from the console were bright in
her eyes.  'Then we'll go to a place that I suspect only Rafe Zetter
knows, and we'll watch a lot of heartache burn up courtesy of some
fine shooting by the both of us. 'We'll get the ship that put an end
to your father. It's a ship that has a lot to answer for . . .'

But she would say no more than that.

For anyone reckoning on beginning a space trading career from scratch
the hardest task is finding a ship. Each planetary system has its
floating junk yards, its second-hand craft, its impounded vessels,
eventually auctioned by the police. Most places advertise for
co-pilots, to work without pay for four years with the guarantee of a
ship at the end of it if they're still alive.

But ships are expensive, even if they're from the scrap heap.

Alex was impressed and startled by the audacity of the theft that was
being proposed. In response to Rafe's plan, the fugitive, who had been
hiding out in the dead craft for nearly a year, had managed to
accumulate the fuel, food and power to make the brief hyperspace jump
to the interstellar junk yard. All that had been missing was the right
co-pilot, someone who could actually do the trading without arousing
suspicion.

They hauled the mummified body of Henry Bell to the small tour-ship
and set the craft adrift.

'Whatever happens now,' Elyssia said as they took positions at the
bridge consoles, 'You're going to get an "offender" status tag. But
Rafe thinks if you respect the body they'll just post it at Tionisla
itself.  Destroy the body and they'll probably notify most worlds in
the vicinity, and we can't afford that. Here goes . . .'

On the screen, the small tour-ship drifted away, and the crowded
monuments of the cemetery swung past in a dizzying array of bright and
shadowy surfaces. Alex studied the scanners and monitors carefully.
They had only tiny energy supply to fore and aft screens. A blast or
two of laser power. No missiles, of course. The craft was still locked
on to the Dodo space station, whose position was shown by the darting
bright point in the tri-axial grid map.

Slowly the Cobra turned, and began to move gently, silently towards
the edge of the spiral grave- field.

The scanner scanned, and Alex watched it hard, alert and apprehensive
for the tell-tale wink of its moving green light. The duller-colours
of the tombs and stationary craft crowded the scanning screen, moving
slowly past.

'There's something I ought to tell you about uncontrolled WitchSpace
jumps . . .' Elyssia said, and Alex felt a moment's irritation.

'I already know. Thanks. Besides, wherever we're going we're only
going a tenth of an LY. And that's reasonably safe.'

Elyssia sniggered. 'What god or goddess do you believe in?'

'Randomius Factoria . . .' Alex muttered.

'Me too . . .'

They looked at each other.

Alex laughed and said, 'Repeat after me: Lady of Fate, we adore you .
. . '

'Get us to Rafe's, we implore you . . .'

The monuments and monoliths drifted by. The star field widened ahead
of them.  'Nearly there,' Elyssia breathed. 'Get ready for the jump .
. .'

Alex watched the scanner.

And two bright points of light appeared, moving rapidly towards them.

'Company!' he said, and Elyssia swore loudly.

'We've not got much laser power,' Alex said.

'Use our laser, and any chance of trading goes. Those are police. They
may not be Vipers, but they're police nevertheless. Damn!'

Ahead of them the starfield was almost clear. The two security craft
veered apart, to close in from the sides. Elyssia began to count down,
finger resting on the simple trigger that would dispatch them Faraway.
'Ten seconds . . .'

The Cobra vibrated and whined, unused to activity after many years in
stasis.

'They're closing fire coming in!'

'Five seconds.'

The Cobra screeched as a laser shot glanced off its hull. The shield
energy, low as it was, vanished! The attacking craft overshot. It's
colleague fired and missed, manoeuvring with difficulty around a
large, henge monument that slowly revolved at the edge of the
cemetery.

'Three . . . '

'Lining up . . . fire coming in!'

The two craft were together again. Their laser fire played in the void around the Cobra.

'Two . . . '

There was a strike, a scream of pain, the vessel almost rocked out of
control. And then

Star tunnel!

Elyssia flopped back in her chair. Alex cheered. When he looked at the
woman he saw that she was drenched with sweat. When he reached a hand
towards her, his fingers were shaking uncontrollably.



CHAPTER FOUR

'You've got a ship,' said Rafe, 'You've got money. You've got a
co-pilot who's a better shot than you, but not for long I hope. Now
it's up to you, young Alex. And one thing more. If Jason were here
he'd have this to say. In time of trouble, forget common sense, forget
the force. Do what you goddam feel like. If it don't work, one thing's
for sure. You ain't going to be around to regret it.'

Seated at the astrogation console of the Cobra, Alex watched Rafe's
home on the forward screen. It was a much modified, and quite
bizarre-looking, Anaconda cruiser, its cargo bay dented, its
fuel-scoop ripped open, its hull lights blinking not so much with
meaning as with disrepair.

Rafe had not invited him aboard. At 0.1 Iight years from Tionisla he
was safe from detection, and here he stayed in the cold and silence of
interstellar space, collecting ships, fuel, food and weapons. Three
Mambas—small fighters—were tethered to the service bay on the
Anaconda's hull, robots crawling all over them as they patched-up the
shot up vessels. Unlike humans, robots could work without arc-lights.

When the graveyard ship had arrived at Rafe Zetter's private system,
Rafe's holoFac had appeared in the cabin.

'It takes a lot of effort and a lot of wile to get supplies for the
sort of mission you're about to go on.  I'll fuel your ship enough to
get you to Isinor. But from then on you're on your own. You're going
to need missiles, operational lasers, an energy bomb, a fuel scoop . .
. a whole bunch of other things.'

'An iron ass,' Alex muttered with a smile.

'That's right. And I don't want to hear from you again until you've
scalped that Cobra that killed Jason.'

'Why are you doing this for me?'

'I'm doing it for Jason,' Rafe said. 'And for others besides. And
listen Alex. Don't you go worrying about Raxxla. Not yet. That comes
in time . . .'

'But why did he say it?'

'To let me know he trusted you. Your father reckoned you have it in
you to become one of the Elite. That's good enough for me.'

Alex's head span. What was this old man saying now? Not just that
Jason Ryder had been an élite combateer, but that he'd seen the same
potential in his son?

In SimCombat Alex had often built up a success and survival score that
had awarded him the simulator's highest accolade: a victory roll over
the mock-up of the old Earth city of London. But he had never thought
that in real life he would ever achieve a combat status higher than
'dangerous'.

To be Elite . . .

A dizzying prospect. And a nerve-racking one, with all that it implied
of not just fighting off free- booters, but of spending time as a
bounty hunter, deliberately hyperspacing into dangerous planetary
systems and waiting for pirates to come to you; looking for trouble,
in other words, boosting your combat status to the maximum by
advertising yourself to killers, and outgunning them.

'One thing's for sure,' Rafe went on drily. 'Unless you get there,
unless you become Elite, you'll never get to Raxxla. And you'll never
know exactly what your father was searching for.'

'I don't understand.'

'Were you aware of his involvement in The Dark Wheel?'

Shock after shock! The Dark Wheel was a semi-legendary space unit,
star-riders who made it their business to seek the truth behind the
plethora of myths and romantic stories that filtered back from all
corners of the Universe: fabulous cities, parallel worlds, time
travellers, even planets that appeared to be the old 'heaven' of Earth
legend. The Dark Wheel was as mysterious and as mythical to the
traders of the Galaxy as King Arthur might have been to the first
spacemen.

'It's not possible,' Alex breathed. 'He would have told us . . .'

'The hell he would,' Rafe said, staring at the younger man from the
shimmering holoFac on the bridge. 'The ship that killed Jason was no
pirate. He was killed because he'd found something. Something that
certain parties were deeply unhappy that he'd found.'

'What exactly?'

Rafe laughed. 'Listen to the boy! Look at me, Alex. Do I look whole? I
do? Well I ain't. One leg, some of my liver, a few brain cells—all
that's left of the real me. The rest is just bionic. Trying to do what
your father did, I got shot to hell'n' back. I was élite once. Now it
takes me ten seconds to decide to spit. He didn't tell me because I'm
not part of it anymore. Not to that degree. But I watch and I listen,
and I do what I'm told. And as sure as there's gold-flake on the skin
of a Geretean, Jason Ryder told me to get you ready to follow in his
footsteps.'

Coming so soon after his father's death, with the memory of Jason's
murder so vivid in his mind, it was almost too much for Alex. He
didn't know whether to glow with pride, or shake with apprehension. He
slowly sat down at the astrogation console and played his fingers over
the controls of the Cobra.

After a while he smiled, and shrugged away the confusion and the
sadness he was feeling.

'Right. If that's what my father wanted, then I shan't disappoint him
. . .'



CHAPTER FIVE

Out of Witch-Space: the dizziness, the slight shudder, the brief
disorientation. Ahead of them, the distant, red-blue disc of the
planet Xezaor was only slightly brighter than the gleaming field of
stars around. The planet's sun was dim and very close by. It glowed
red. A dying star, as the world ahead of them was a dying world, a
cooling world, a world whose wealth and industrial development could
not hold back the process of Galactic ageing. Xezaor was a world where
luxuries and warmth meant everything, now, and Shanaskilk fur, with
the multiple heads still intact, would fetch a high price.

Routine. A routine trade run. Elyssia dozed, Alex punched co-ordinates
into the auto-pilot and prepared to pass the time of the long run-in
to the world.

Routine, a routine which Alex was by now well used to.

Out of Witch-Space and then the slow approach until the Coriolis
station came on target—

Nothing to do . . .

Nothing to see . . .

The Cobra rocked and a sound like the screech of metal being bent
apart echoed through the bridge!

'Company!' Alex said loudly, and Elyssia blinked awake. She must have
assessed the situation in an instant. She remained where she was. Alex
was at the console and there were only seconds available for thought.

Alex had been taken by surprise, not because he hadn't been paying
attention, but because the attack ships had been so close to the
egress point from hyperspace. With their tiny hulls between him and
the glowing sun, they had not been visible for an instant, and they
had been performing a 'tumbling' routine, mimicking slow-moving
asteroids.

Alex had half noticed them and half ignored them. They had got the
first shot in, then overflown the Cobra.

Now, they grouped behind as Alex punched up maximum speed, and scanned
space for them.

'Here they come . . .'

The shields screamed as laser fire played off them. Beam lasers! Those
ships were well equipped.  But then, so, now was the Nemesis, the
dramatic name that he and Elyssia had given to their ship. Alex
checked the rear monitor and lined up the firing window. He stabbed
out two bursts of fire from the newly installed aft-laser. The pirate
ships veered apart, one of them struck.

As he had them on the screen, he targeted a missile. A missile from
one of the attacking craft began to weave towards them, and his screen
flashed with warning. Alex operated the Nemesis's ECM, and after an
agonisingly long few seconds the incoming missile vanished in a burst
of heat and light.  The hull screeched and Alex dived. He noticed that
the shields had begun to put a drain on the first energy unit.

Elyssia sat calm and quiet while Alex handled the situation. Ahead of
them, the planet edged closer, rising and falling and spinning in a
dizzying way as Alex fought for a better combat position.

Then, instinct took over. He looped the Cobra a full 180 degrees and
raced head-on at the pirate vessel that had been behind him. Now he
could see that it was a Fer-de-lance, a sleek, fast ship that was
probably loaded down with sophisticated navigational and defence
equipment that had been installed by the original owner. Or maybe not
. . . such equipment took cash to maintain, and this ship had seen
battle service aplenty.

As pirate and Alex closed, Alex took a chance. They had only four
missiles and one was targetted.  He punched for fire and the Cobra
jolted as the deadly sting shot across space.

It reached its target and the Fer-de-lance literally disappeared.

Had it hyperspaced? No.

When Alex activated the rear screen, he saw the spreading ash cloud, a
silvery glimmer against the stars . . .

'Good shooting!' Elyssia said enthusiastically.

Through the cloud of metal and ash came the other ship.

Alex looped again. A laser strike depleted the aft shield even more.
But now that the enemy knew that its prey had an anti-missile system,
it was going to try and dogfight Alex to destruction.

The ship was a Cobra too. It's fuel-scoop gaped, ready to suck up the
cannisters of precious Shanaskilk fur from the wreckage of the
shattered trader.

Alex had other ideas.

Again, Xezaor was ahead of them. Rear-shooting, Alex ducked and darted
towards safety, and the pirate weaved a snaking pattern against the
star-field behind. Alex targeted a missile-

'Save it if you can . . .' Elyssia breathed.

'I know,' Alex said. 'But we can afford a replacement . . .'

'We won't afford the fuel-scoop then,' Elyssia reminded him, and they
both laughed. At a time like this, worried about their shopping list!

The space station, and the safety it afforded with its own fighter
defences, was too far away. Alex veered sharply sunwards, and dropped
his forward velocity dramatically. The pursuing ship copied the first
movement precisely, but took a few seconds to orientate to the second.
It overshot. Before it knew what was happening it was no longer the
hunter but the hunted.

'Go, Alex, go!' Elyssia shouted, as Alex shot off pulse after pulse of
laser fire. The Cobra on the screen ducked and weaved, but Alex was
equal to it, hardly thinking, just reacting. The temperature of his
forward laser began to rise dangerously. The Cobra ahead of them
launched a missile at them and Alex shot it, not even bothering to
program the ECM.

Elyssia gasped at the cheek of that, and glanced at the young man in
whose hands her life was being so capably held.

A moment later it was all over. The pirate exploded, his screen energy
finally exhausted. Alex saw the wink and flash of a jettisoned escape
pod and for a second—

Remembering the beam of fire that had destroyed his own escape craft,
remembering the savage destruction of the Avalonia . . .

He was tempted to go in pursuit. His better judgement prevailed.
Around them, cargo cannisters tumbled like sycamore seeds.

'And us with no scoop to pick them up!' Elyssia muttered.

Alex grinned. 'We claim two. That's quite a bounty.'

Elyssia looked down at him as he sat and guided the ship towards
Xezaor. 'Alex, you're a natural.  It's an honour to ride the stars
with you.'

No-one had said a word, neither of them commented on it: the fact that
this had been Alex's first solo combat'


CHAPTER SIX

They had been trading now for three standard months, and their Cobra
craft, the Nemesis, was scarcely recognisable as the battered
tomb-place of Trader Henry Bell. With new insignia, new welding, new
colour and the pods and swellings of the armaments housings, it began
to look like a fighter.

Three months a trader. And not for one hour of one day of those months
had Alex forgotten the reason behind this way of life.
Something—someone—disguised as a trader had killed his father, and
done its best to kill him. His father had led a double life, and
accordingly to the oldest relic in the Galaxy, had deputised his son
to follow in his star path.

Alex Ryder was not about to fail his father in that wish.

There were so many questions, so much grief, so much anger. And for
Elyssia too, although the Teorgian woman rarely showed the emotion
that Alex sensed was bubbling just below the surface of her cool,
wisecracking exterior.

They were facing a task together, a task of growing, of becoming
strong. There would have to be a time of waiting, and both were
accepting that time with as much silent patience as they could muster.
But it was not easy, not easy for either of them.

And for Alex, with blood on his hands at last . . . not easy at all .
. .

The skirmish with the two pirate ships had scraped the paint a little,
and loosened several hull plates, necessitating a trip to a service
satellite where, because of their bounty hunting, the work would
almost certainly be performed free of charge. Though this had been
Alex's first solo combat, it had not been their first battle. Elyssia
would have qualified for 'dangerous' status had she been eligible for
a rating. As it was, her rating—on the evidence of the Nemesis's
skirmishing—had been assigned to Alex. Now, for the first time, Alex
felt he had taken a substantial step towards proving that he genuinely
deserved that particular classification.

Still at the astrogation console, he guided the ship to within a
thousand kilometres of the surface of the dying world, so close that
the planet filled everything in the forward vision screen. At dead
slow approach speed he finally looped around and there, slowly
spinning before them, a glittering metal cube, was the space station,
its access bay a wide, rotating mouth.

'Oh for a docking computer . . .' Alex murmured as he began to match
rotation and slowly approached.

'Waste of money . . .' Elyssia chided. 'If you can't dock without
losing your paintwork, you shouldn't be in space.'

Alex was a great flier. But snaking neatly into the reception bay of a
Coriolis station was his greatest weakness.

He made it, though, and once inside the vast hanger space, magnetic
traction drew the Nemesis slowly to a vacant berth. AutoCom links
snaked out and clamped to its hull. Alex watched the bustle in the
great, brightly-lit void, the customs ships, the police Vipers, the
advertising modules, the repair modules, all moving slowly in the
cube-space, touting for business. Elyssia hid in the escape pod as
usual. Alex declared his cargo, and received confirmation of his
bounty killings, and notification of his bonus: thirty credits!

That exactly covered the cost of a new missile.

When all the check-ins, log-ins and identity verifications had been
run, Elyssia emerged from hiding. The escape capsule had been their
first priority, and they had bought one second-hand for four hundred
credits. They didn't intend to use it anyway, except to screen off
Elyssia's unfortunate and unwelcome origins.

Now began the routine of business. Selling, then deciding where to
trade next, and what to buy to take with them.

Trading is very much a hit and miss profession. With certain high
demand, high turnover products, a small profit can usually be
guaranteed—foodstuffs, textiles, simple machinery, simple luxuries.

But the ship's running costs, and an occasional space skirmish, can
soon eat up such profits, making the whole exercise essentially
worthless. There is no way of knowing trade prices at other systems.
Each planetary state jealously guards its stock-market information,
and there are heavy penalties for Faxing the market prices of any item
beyond orbit-space.

Prices change, too. Speculators lurk in every system, no matter how
poor. That tonne of frozen bladderlash that would have fetched eight
credits a month ago at Ceinzala, against a buying price of three from
its homeworld Reorte, will suddenly be worth only two. The demand for
bladderlash had not lessened.  The speculators have made a secret
killing, and fixed up the market.

Hit and miss.

Alex and Elyssia had been lucky so far. They had carried Vargorn
mind-silk between Rexebe and Inera and doubled their intitial hundred
credits. They had ferried the gold-flake scales of Geretean reptiles
and only just covered their costs. They had supplied twenty tonnes of
sunflower seeds to the grotesque amphibioid inhabitants of Bierle, to
whom sunflower seeds were a particular delicacy, only to find that a
mass, mind-induced mutation had occurred throughout the entire
planetary population, changing their taste buds . . . The search was
now on for the new delicacy to delight the palates of the Bierleans.
Lubrication oil had come close, and lavender scented tissue paper. But
somewhere there was a real profit to be made. One day. One year.

Moving machinery from high-tech worlds to middle-tech worlds was also
unexpectedly profitable, and demand for luxuries was always high on
evolving industrial worlds. But on Xezaor the Shanaskilk furs (bought
at thirty galactic credits the tonne) were likely to be their best bet
yet. Alex nervously called up the buying price at Xezaor.

He whooped with triumph as he saw that he and Elyssia had tripled
their money.

This time, in the hit and miss game, they had hit lucky.

They sold the furs without trouble. Then Alex called up the price list
at Xezaor of ship and armaments equipment. The new missile was the
standard thirty credits. He ordered one and a small robot scuttled off
to fetch the permitted weaponry. Beam lasers were one thousand
credits, and the temptation to invest in one was strong. The price of
the fuel and cargo scoop which the Nemesis so badly needed was
extortionately high, at five hundred and twenty-five credits. But an
energy bomb cost nearly twice as much!

Of course a fuel scoop could be used for salvage, as well as topping
up their fuel banks by sun- skimming, so it was a good investment,
even at one hundred credits over the odds.

Alex ordered one. Delivery and fitting would take twenty hours, a
standard day. Alex fuelled the ship, next, and stocked up with
Xezaorian delicacies.  They had three hundred and twenty galactic
credits left with which to buy trade stock, an uncomfortably low sum.
On the other hand, their ship now had extra defensive shields, four-
directional targeting of lasers and missiles, an anti-missile system
and a fuel scoop.

They were more than half way to becoming a battle cruiser.

Elyssia scanned the planet's market list with Alex. For all that
Xezaorians liked exotic things, they had precious little to offer. Two
narcotics were available, arcturan burstweed and, strangely, tobacco-
and Alex thought hard about them.

'Surely we could get away with tobacco . . .'

'Uh-huh.' Elyssia murmured. 'No way. Nicotine is deadly, even in low
doses, to many races.'

'If we carried it to a human world?'

'Still too risky.'

Minerals were on offer, but were pricy. Durassion—one of the ores that
could be refined and 'time- stressed' to give duralium for ship's
hulls—was available at eight credits the tonne, and that would sell
exceptionally well at Lave . . . but Lave was many light years away,
now, and any dura-ore could bottom- out on a standard day when a
richer ore was found.

Too risky.

Gemstones? There were maroon and silver spectonals for sale, and
red-green emeronds. A pirate convoy would smell such booty from two
light years away.

As for the curiosity market there were two hundred fossilised
Dironothaxaurian life-bones on offer, at forty credits each.

'Ever heard of them?' Elyssia asked.

Alex said, 'I've seen one. And heard one. In a museum on my homeworld.
They sing. They're over forty million years old, and still they sing;
waiting for something, a hatching, or a change of climate. They're
bones from the pelvic region, so they could be incubation pods. Nobody
knows . . .'

'Are they valuable?'

'Very. Exactly by how much I don't know.'

'Check it for restrictions . . .'

Alex did so. There were no known import restrictions, or potential
legal violations involved in trading in these fossilised animal bones.

'Better than food,' Alex said.

'Any day,' Elyssia agreed.

'So we go for it . . .'

'I suppose so.'

But as Alex began to key into the trade-centre to purchase the goods,
the console flashed the words, 'Incoming message . . .'

'Rafe!' Alex said. And Elyssia too seemed excited at the prospect of
seeing and talking with Rafe Zetter again.

But it was not the wizened, crusty old space trader who appeared on
the screen as Alex accepted the call.

Nothing like.

It was a human being, and not a humanoid alien that faced them. But
what had happened to its face was beyond description. There were many
ways to change ordinary human looks to nightmarish caricatures of the
same: flying too close to certain stars, being exposed to the
interstellar vacuum too often, working in certain ore and mineral
mines . . . But Alex, as he stared at the lumpy, grey swellings that
swathed this person's flesh, could not imagine what grotesque disaster
had befallen the caller.

Lips like quivering gossamer wings trembled in the grey flesh. A hand,
skeletal and crippled, shot through with bright red blood vessels,
touched the wispy ginger hair that grew in a bizarre floral circle
around the deformed head.

'Are you Ryder?'

The voice, at least, was normal. And male.

'Identify yourself, caller.'

Ignoring the question the other man went on, 'What're you trading in
this time? Minerals?  Specialities?'

'What's it to you?'

'Whatever it is you're thinking of buying, I can do you a better deal.'

'I wouldn't trade with you if I was running hot from a supernova.'

The human grinned (or so it seemed).

'Rafe Zetter would. How come you're so fussy?'

'You know Rafe?' Alex asked, perturbed and puzzled by the grotesque
man's invocation of the friendly name.

'Me and half the Universe.' The deformed man leaned closer to the
monitor. His features filled the screen totally. 'Parasites.'

'I'm sorry?'

'These things. This . . .' tapping his face. 'Parasites. Spider worms.
I did a stint in the pen. on Dykstra's world, and the little buggers
took a liking to me. These are the larvae, about two million of them.
They'll hatch out in about ten years, and that'll be the end of me. I
sort of hope I'm at a dinner party with someone I don't like, at the
time, but you can't plan for these things. I don't blame you for not
trusting me . .  .' Pale eyes glittered from beneath the heavy,
pulsating folds of grey flesh. 'But don't judge by appearances.
Alex, it is Alex, isn't it? I mean, for hell's sake tell me if I've
got the wrong number . . .'

'I'm Alex Ryder.'

'And I'm Patrick McGreavy. I'll say just two things to you. The first
is this: when you kill the snake, you'll lay a ghost that's haunted me
for more than five years. I'm not a flier. What I am doesn't matter.
There are more people like me than all the sunflower seeds you've
traded in your life. People who need vengeance. People who can't do it
for themselves. Kill the snake and you'll do a service to us all.'
Alex couldn't help the wry smile that touched his lips, even though he
had rarely felt less like smiling. He felt as if he was being
manoeuvred, manipulated, like a robot ship, an autoremote, programmed
to fly in endless, mindless circles. What the hell was going on? He
was Jason Ryder's son, and until three months ago his best combat
experience had been in a SimCombat trainer. His pilot's licence had
hardly dried. And somehow, despite all of this, he had been chosen as
nemesis to exact a savage vengeance from a ship that was certainly far
more than a simple—and simply deadly—pirate.

There were people watching him, and waiting on him, their fingers
crossed, their breath held.

Why him? Why him? (And Elyssia . . .)

'Okay,' he said quietly. 'I get the message. You said "two things".'

'Right. Rafe told you to trade in Shanaskilk fur, as soon as you could
afford it. Am I right?'

He was right. It was one of Rafe's last pieces of advice to Alex, and
Alex had not forgotten it.

McGreavy went on, 'When Rafe told you to do that he was sending you to
me. You've got to get an iron ass. You've got to trade in something
really worthwhile. Unship and fly across to South City, to the private
traders' centre in the Magellan Building.'

'I've already got an "iron ass",' Alex said.

'You think so, do you? Do it anyway. Take a chance. Make your way to
the Magellan building, South City .  . .'

After a moment's hesitation, and with a glance at Elyssia, who just
shrugged and nodded, Alex agreed.

A Coriolis station is nothing less than a vast city built on six
planes and spread, around the wide empty sky of its interior, facing
inwards. From South City, the roof on the world is North City. At
night, the lights that glow above your head are the lights of streets
and buildings.

Alex checked out of the ship's berth and took a sky taxi across the
void. The tiny automatic ship slid delicately and smoothly between the
incoming and outgoing ships. Alex watched in fascination as the
towering buildings of South City dropped away below and the grey sky
edged closer. To his left, he could see the pattern of streets and
parklands on the inhabited plane known as Commander City. Facing the
entrance to the station, on that particular level lived the high
ranking officials and various planetary envoys and ambassadors. They
enjoyed a landscape which included lakes, rivers and ski-slopes with
real snow.

Below him, the Nemesis became a tiny dart-shape on the broad landing
pad. Above him, the towering offices and living blocks reached down
towards him like geometrical stalactites.

There was an abrupt moment's disorientation and suddenly the roof was
the ground and now the Nemesis was a single, winking light in the
heavens. The taxi dropped swiftly to street level, between the grey
and black monolithic structures. Lights of different colours blinked
and shone, and when the atmosphere began, a strange dusty shimmer
seemed to envelop the city.

The streets were crowded here and it took Alex only moments to realise
that the South City of this particular Coriolis station was the 'down
town' area. Illegal trade abounded, in narcotics, robots, slaves,
sensuastims, prostitution and frozen organs. Spacers walked slowly,
cautiously, most of them still wearing near-full suit, a certain sign
that this was the rough quarter. Hookers, of all sexes (the Galaxy
counted seventeen at this time) and races, but mostly humanoid,
solicited from hovering platforms, ready to escape fast from any
over-welcoming, unwelcome client. Advertising hoardings here were
almost completely devoted to proclaiming the illicit pleasures which
were available in South City. Police cars and remotes roared overhead,
as did med-ships. The streets were alive with noise and bustle and
filth.

The Magellan building, a dark, squat cube, sat amongst this confusion
like a great, brooding monster. It had no visible windows. Lifts rose
and fell on its outer walls, slow-moving green lights that gave it an
uncanny sense of being alive.

Alex had come without a hand weapon, and now began to regret it.
Practically everyone and everything he saw carried a gun, in
contradiction of orbit-space law.  He walked cautiously through the
crowds of reptilioids, cloaked amphibioids, armoured insectoids,
squat, bristling felines, and the grotesque robo-tanks in which things
that looked like giant molluscs, or worms, or branches of heather,
moved within the safety of their own environment.

He entered the Magellan building and noticed the stench for the first
time, the combined body odours of a thousand alien life-forms;
surprisingly some—those who drank raw methane gas—managed to excrete
sweat that smelled as sweet as apple blossom.

But most did not.

The private trading centre was a vast hall, surrounded by the
entrances to offices and warehouses.  What was sold in this crowded,
noisy place, was anything that was considered too risky, or bizarre,
or commonplace to sell on the open market. The trader who loaded up
his cargo bay from a private purchase had better check with the
planet's export monitoring system before leaving, or his reception, at
the other end, might be a little more violent than he'd expected.

Alex scanned the high walls for a hint of McGreavy's warehouse. As he
did so he found himself standing behind two tall, violent-looking
insect-forms, their bodies armoured in light grey, their facetted eyes
swivelling to stare at him as they talked together, chelicerae
clashing and clacking in their peculiar mode of communication.

Alex stepped away, heart beating, blood rushing to his head. Compound
eyes, jointed limbs, head antennae, double cutting jaws . . .

Thargoids!

Here, on a space station!

Thargoids were deadly. Thargoid spacers had their fear-glands removed,
and were considered to be the most effective and potent of humankind's
enemies. The bounty for killing a Thargoid was huge, and for capturing
and delivering the juvenile form, the Tharglet, to any Space Navy
research centre, even greater.

What were they doing here?

The Thargoids chatted together and watched Alex coldly. Alex noticed
that each had an appendage resting on its thoracic plate, where they
holstered their hand-lasers.

'Back off,' a voice whispered, and Alex turned. McGreavy stood there
blinking through his deformities. Alex had not grasped how short the
man was; he only came up as far as Alex's chest.

'Thargoids . . .' he whispered.

'Bullshit,' McGreavy said, and dragged Alex away. 'They're Oresrians,
and the one thing that can make an Oresrian deadly is being confused
the way you've just confused them, with their deadly enemies the
Thargoids. Check the thorax markings and the shape of the fourth joint
on each hind leg before you jump to conclusions again . . .'

Alex followed McGreavy gratefully, away from the whispering insects.

McGreavy's warehouse was small, cramped and smelly. Alex followed him
through into the dimly lit interior, and felt a pang of discomfort as
the grotesque little man closed the doors behind them. In several
large, transparent crates, peculiar creatures shuffled and murmured,
excited at the sudden disturbance.

'Are these what you have to offer?' Alex asked in a low voice.
McGreavy chuckled. He walked over to the nearest crate and brought up
the light, to illuminate more clearly the odd creature within.

Alex stared. The creature was vaguely familiar, but the memory refused
to come. It had a thick shell, patterned neatly, and limb holes at
regular intervals around this bony house. For the moment the beast was
securely hidden within its protective environment.

'What are they?'

'Mymurths,' McGreavy said. 'If they seem familiar it's because they're
astonishingly like an animal of Old Earth: the tortus, as I believe it
was called. These things have two heads, four legs, and two anterior
organelles that seem to serve no purpose. They're named for the planet
of their origin. Mymurth. But you'll be shipping them to Cirag. The
Ciragians have a special relationship with the Mymurth.'

'They eat them?' Alex guessed.

They worship them,' McGreavy corrected with a twitch of his flimsy
lips.

'Worship?'

McGreavy nodded. 'To the Cirag race, the Mymurth are the
reincarnations of gods. A particular sort of god, called an 'avatar'.
The animal form of a god. The Mymurth look very like the legendary
avatars of Ciragian religion and mythology. They're from another
world, of course, and have no connection with Cirag at all. But any
Ciragian family will give a small fortune to have a living Mymurth in
its temple.'

Alex was fascinated and intrigued. The bulky creatures moved
sluggishly about, their fleshy pink limbs emerging from the shells to
propel them through the slush that filled their cages. 'How much is a
small fortune?'

'Each of these will fetch a hundred credits. Maybe more. And I have
twenty-eight. Twenty-eight hundred credits. That'll buy you all the
shields and weaponry you need . . .'

'Why not trade them yourself?'

McGreavy laughed sourly. 'With my record? You must be joking. No
thanks. It takes me half a standard year to get a pen full of these
things, and Rafe Zetter usually has a customer for me, someone like
yourself who needs credit fast, to perform a certain act . . . of
violence . . .'

Alex found himself staring at the bright eyes of the hideous face
before him. He was no longer overly conscious of the deformities, or
of the pulsating life that existed just below the man's skin. He was
aware only of the fact that he wanted—needed—to trust this
acquaintance of Rafe, and yet didn't.

'Make me an offer I can't refuse,' McGreavy said, and hard reality hit
Alex again.

He said, 'Three hundred.'

McGreavy chuckled and shook his head. 'The idea is that you make the
profit. You won't do that offering me three times what you're likely
to make for a Mymurth.'

'I meant . . . three hundred for the lot.'

For a second McGreavy stood in silence, staring at the younger man.
'Is this a joke?'

'No joke. I have three hundred credits in the world. You've got the
wrong boy, McGreavy.'

'You just sold a cargo load of Shanaskilk fur!'

'And bought weapons and a fuel scoop. I bought the furs at a loss to
begin with. I'm no trader, McGreavy. I'm a combateer. I did tell you.'
Alex looked down at the Mymurth. 'I'll buy eight off you. How's that?'

'I sell the lot, or not at all. I want fifteen hundred credits for
them. Rafe said you'd come through . .  .'

'Rafe was wrong. Shift them through some other sucker . . .'

Alex turned to go. McGreavy's whimper of panic was almost funny to
hear. 'I save these things up for Rafe.  Who else is going to trade in
Mymurth?'

'I'll take ten off your hands, for three hundred credits. The more you
stall, the less I'll offer.'

Alex was enjoying this.

'I need to shift the lot. To Cirag.'

Where was Cirag, Alex wondered. It was not a name that rang any bells.

'Then you'll have to trust me,' he said. 'Like you trust Rafe. I'll
give you a down payment of three hundred against one third of what I
get at Cirag. I'll come back and pay you off.'

McGreavy stared at him in silence; the man's breathing was laboured.
'One third will hardly cover my outlay. Fifty percent.'

'Forty percent,' Alex said. 'And no further bargaining.'

The Mymurth shuffled anxiously. McGreavy shrugged with defeat. He
summoned the vid-witness, and the two men signed the agreement.
Twenty-eight Mymurth for sale to Cirag, forty percent of the proceeds
to be returned to Pat McGreavy at South City, Coriolis 7, Xezaor.

If McGreavy was right, and the money was forthcoming from the
religious nutcases on Cirag . . .

Where was Cirag?

... the Nemesis could be equipped with beam lasers, extra missiles,
extra shield energy units, and an energy bomb, and the hunt could
begin in earnest.

Alex returned to his ship to report on the day's trading.



CHAPTER SEVEN

They had been set up, of course.

And in a way, they went into the set-up gamely. Alex checked up on the
planet Cirag and discovered that it was not listed with the Official
Planetary Register. That was the reason for its unfamiliar name. Not
to be registered was not in itself unusual. Only inhabited worlds were
listed. There were millions of inhabited star systems of use to
miners, traders and explorers, which could only be located by
reference to the Galactic Gazatteer of Worlds.

But Cirag was inhabited by intelligent beings.

That meant just one thing: Cirag was an independent world, had refused
Federation status, was dangerous, probably deadly, most likely the
haven for freebooters and criminals, and almost certainly a system in
which the general principle of 'laser first, talk second' was applied.

We've got to be crazy . . .' Elyssia said.

Alex agreed. 'Could Cirag be Raxxla? Could it be the world my father
mentioned before he died?'

'No way. Cirag is Cirag, and Raxxla—if it exists—is in another Galaxy;
you know the legends.  Cirag is just a hell-hole of a world, by the
sounds of it. Give the guy his turtles back. Let's trade life-bones.'

But Alex said no. Something about the whole deal, about the way he
felt manipulated, guided, had whet his appetite for this venture.
There was good money to be made, and the Nemesis could finally equip
itself to perfection.

And the hunt could begin. Vengeance could begin.

'It's hit or miss, right? And in Rafe's eloquent language, we'll not
know a goddam about any failure.'

'We've got to be crazy . . .' Elyssia repeated.

'Let's not talk to any strangers, at least . . .'

Out of Witch-Space.

The planet Cirag floated before them, a pastel yellow world, the dark
markings upon its surface— mountains, probably, or deserts—forming a
pattern that reminded Alex of bones. At nineteen light years from
Xezaor, the Nemesis had made two refuelling stops, and as they came
into System Space they had energy enough for a two-light-year jump
only. The nearest world, Alex knew, was more than twice that distance
away.

No matter With their new fuel scoop they would simply transit the
sun's corona, and recharge the fuel cells.

Cirag's sun was a large, yellow star, old, but with much life left in
it yet. It was active, too. As Elyssia at the astrogation console,
turned towards it, so two immense streamers of fire were erupting from
its surface, whirlpools of plasma that were spectacular when seen
through the Nemesis's polarising filters.

'Let's catch some of that heat,' Elyssia said, and punched for top
speed. The Nemesis surged forward.

But they flew for no more than a minute.

'Holy Mother of the Stars!'

Alex stared at the scanner screens and felt his stomach turn over. The
bright marks there were so large that they could only be Boa or
Anaconda class cruisers. They had formed an attack pattern, four large
ships, surrounded by the darting points of light that was its fighter
escort.

On the viewscreen, against the glowing sun, the assault group were
dark smears, rapidly closing.

'Boas,' Elyssia said. 'They're set up as fighter cruisers, by the look
of it. At least they're slow. Hang on . . .'

Alex gripped his seat, then grimaced as he fell for the same trap that
his father had always set for him. But this time it was as well that
he secured himself. The universe shifted; his body organs did
somersaults.  Elyssia feigned an escape loop, and the fighters—Mambas
by the looks of them—broke formation and went into the scatter mode
that meant pursuit. But Elyssia completed the loop to come full back
against the looming pirate craft.

She sailed under the belly of the leader with as much calm and cheek
as you please. It belly-shot at them, and she rolled the Cobra so that
she could side-strafe back. All along the Boa's under-belly, shards
and sparks flew brightly where the shields were lowered around the
laser housings.

'Markings are unfamiliar . . .' Alex said. There had been black and
green flags with bright sunbursts on them, and non-terrestrial
ideographs on the sides.

'Intentions very familiar . . .' Elyssia breathed. Behind them, two of
the Mambas were closing fast.  Pulses of laser fire made eerie streaks
in the dark circle of space around the glowing sun ahead of them.

The huge ships had turned too, and were accelerating towards them.
Elyssia made it clear, without speaking, that they'd never reach the
star and have time to refuel. Alex, never taking his eyes from the
scanners, knew as much.

Elyssia rolled the Cobra and turned to fight. She targeted a missile
and dispatched it on the turn, and the nearest fighter became a
glittering dust cloud. The other streaked fire across the forward
shields, and the Nemesis shuddered and whined. Two stabs of her finger
on the sidefire button, and the second Mamba tumbled, its shields
still up, its pilot disorientated by the unexpected hit. Elyssia
closed in for the kill . . .

Killed.

One of the Boas loamed large from the darkness. It was rolling slowly,
and beams of light played from its spike nose. Elyssia targeted a
missile. Sweat ran freely from her face, and her hands were white with
tension. Alex, feeling helpless, gripped the sides of his chair,
leaning forward, jumping and starting in sympathy with every sudden
movement, every avoiding action.

The Boa ECM'd the missile before it had gone a tenth of the distance
between the two ships. The Nemesis slid smoothly along its belly and
again turned side on, strafing the sensitive underparts as it matched
the giant's slow roll.

And then it happened. From somewhere, out of nowwhere, pulsing laser
fire made a direct aft hit on them. The Nemesis shuddered and
stuttered and was forced into a rapid, dizzying roll. Alex swore,
feeling his body wrenched by the seat harness. The shock had nearly
taken his head off. He straightened up, assessing the situation: there
were two Mambas behind, and they were closing rapidly on the maw of an
Anaconda; it hovered there in the void, like a giant net waiting to
swallow them.

'Let's see you get out of this . . .' Alex said loudly, and glanced at
Elyssia to see why she was running so straight.

She was slumped in her chair. Blood flowed freely from her scalp and
nose. Her eyes were closed.  She must have had her seat belt too
loosely fastened, and had struck the console when the cobra had
bucked.

Alex leapt from his co-pilot's seat and literally wrenched the woman
free, throwing her to the floor.  This was no time for courtesy. He
buckled in, stabbed fire at the Anaconda's ram-scoop, then overflew,
dodging laser and outrunning a missile, which then closed on him with
alarming speed before he was able to destroy it.

The planet Cirag was ahead of them once more. He began to run for
safety, and then thought an alarming thought: what guarantees did he
have that the Coriolis network would protect him if he got in range?
He had no such guarantee. The space stations were as likely to be
against him as the ships that pursued him.

But if he could let them know what he carried, if he could communicate
that he carried their god creatures, perhaps they would send their
fighters to keep the freebooters at bay.

To his right a Mamba appeared out of nowhere. He rolled the Nemesis
and shot from his rear laser, then slowed speed, span and strafed the
killer vessel from his port gun, watching the Mamba tumble out of
control, not destroyed, just dead.

If only he could release the cargo, jettison the cannisters containing
the Mymurth life-systems, perhaps the pursuit would end. He and
Elyssia would be out of pocket by three hundred credits, but so what?
Neither he nor Elyssia were élite, yet. He might feel like an élite
combateer, but faced with this sort of—

A Mamba strafed him. Shields screamed. He targeted a missile, but used
side-fire to battle with the attacker . . .

Faced with this sort of pressure, neither of them could survive.

Elyssia came round, staggered to her feet and stared, through
blood-encrusted eyes, at the combat.  Cirag came closer. A tiny
spinning point of silver light winked and beckoned to them, but the
sight of it did not fill Alex with joy.

'There must be more than Mymurth in those cannisters . . .' Elyssia
said quietly.

'Let's discuss it later,' Alex retorted, as he rolled and veered to
escape the fire coming from the closest of the big ships.

The woman left the bridge. Hanging on for dear life, she went down to
the cargo bay . . .

And suddenly the attack finished.

Alex nearly jumped with surprise. One moment his tail had been hot,
and his port laser almost at exploding point. The next: nothing. The
heavy lights of the massive pirate ships dropped away into the
background. Two of the Mambas continued to dog his tail for a moment,
firing last, optimistic bursts of fire.  Then they vanished, streaking
away into darkness, away from the sun.

Alex slowed the Nemesis and checked damage levels. They were not
seriously hurt, but two missiles were gone, and energy levels were
low. Their cargo was intact, however, and if the pirates had backed
off, this close to the world, it could only mean that Cirag would
defend its visitors.

Elyssia came back onto the bridge, holding the small, black box that
was a Thru-Vis camera. 'They look like turtles. They stink like
turtles. They're as boring as turtles. But I've taken a couple of
Thru-V shots, just to see if anything else is hiding in there . . .'

'Good idea. Let's see?'

'Two or three minutes . . .'

She placed the camera down, sat back in the co-pilot's seat and looked
at him. 'You okay?'

Alex nodded. 'Shaken. How about you?'

'Bruised, bloody but unbowed. We in the safe zone?'

'Looks that way.'

The Coriolis station span gently before them, bright with sunlight,
casting its shadow on the patchy grey and yellow of the huge world
below. Several ships were tethered to buoys close by. They looked safe
enough. Lights flashed on the Station. Everything gleamed, everything
welcomed.

Alex sailed gracefully past the immense flying city, then turned to
face the entrance.

But there was no entrance. 'What in God's . . .?'

He sat there, motionless in space, rotation matched with the Coriolis,
facing blank metal. By zooming in he could see the shape of the
entrance, closed, now, protectively.

'Afraid of strangers?' Elyssia suggested.

'We need fuel badly. They'd better not be too afraid . . .'

Then the crackle of an audio message coming in. On the screen, only
the space station, with stars and the sun behind.

'Identify, identify. This is Craig Orbit Space.'

'Cobra class trader, the Nemesis,' Alex said. 'We have a cargo of
Mymurth. Open the gates.'

There was silence for a while, though the channel remained open
because it continued to hiss and crackle. Then:

'Attention, Nemesis. Mymurth trade in Coriolis stations is prohibited.'

'What? '

'Release your cargo before coming aboard. Release cargo. You will be
compensated.'

Alex glanced at Elyssia. 'What the hell do we do?'

'Sounds unprofessional to me,' the woman said. 'Sounds a little fishy
. . .'

She picked up the camera and removed the developed and printed film.
Staring at the two prints for a moment, she suddenly seemed to realise
what she was looking at and gasped.

'Oh my Sweet World ...' she said slowly, and passed the prints to
Alex.

On the screen, the entrance to the space station began to open slowly.
Two lights shone there, like eyes, tiny in the dark void space beyond.

Alex looked at the Thru-V pictures, and for a second couldn't
comprehend the grotesque sights he saw. Looking through the bodies of
the Mymurth, the camera had picked up the spider-like life-forms that
were living inside the shuffling, harmless turtle-forms. The sight was
discomforting. Jointed legs seemed to be reaching out into every limb,
and every body space. The central black body was shiny, and from it
peered a number of bloated, faceted eyes. Two long, bristly tendrils
stretched into the Mymurth's brains from each of these hideous
parasites.

'What are they?' Alex whispered, and Elyssia said,

'Trouble. They're immature Thargoids'

Alex felt his heart quicken. Tharglets! He was transporting Tharglets,
the larval forms of one of the most deadly life-forms in the known
Galaxy!

Set-up? Being set-up hardly began to describe the way they'd been
duped on Xezaor!

No wonder the pirates had closed so ravenously . . .

'There's good bounty on Tharglets. The Navy pay well, for research
purposes.'

'They're also deadly; and they make ideal mercenary fighters if
trained and developed. We've been carrying fighters for Cirag. Pirate
fighters. No wonder they want to destroy us. They won't want any
evidence left of this . . .'

Alex stared at the space station. For a moment Elyssia's words just
went in and didn't register. He was thinking of the pirates who had
attacked, and who had been beaten back . . .

He was thinking that the danger was over . . . they were at a Coriolis
station, and the only danger now was illegal trading . . .

He was thinking safety . . .

He watched as the bright eyes slid forward, out of the space port.
Behind the eyes came the bulky shape of the ship to which they were
attached. Behind the ship came light, bright light, a gleaming yellow
beam that cast the shadow of the ship across the Nemesis . . .

The shadow of a snake.

The Cobra!

He would have known that ship anywhere. It was months since he had seen it, but not a night had passed
when the shape of it, when the evil of it, had not infested his dreams.
The ship that had destroyed the Avalonia came slowly towards him, and he had no doubt at all as
to its identity.

And nor had Elyssia.

She sucked in her breath and moved towards the console. 'I want him.
Let me take the controls . . .'

'Sit down,' Alex said coldly, and Elyssia turned angrily on him.

'I have as much stake in this as you . . .'

'Luck of the draw,' Alex said. 'The pilot of that ship killed my
father . . .'

'Killed my whole family! We were escaping from Teorge, and we asked
that ship for help, for supplies. It took my sister and myself as
slaves, and blasted my family's vessel to pieces. I escaped. My sister
didn't. Alex, I want that bastard!'

'Too late . . .'

Fire blossomed from the front of the Cobra. The Nemesis rocked and
rattled. Alex targeted a missile, then stabbed laser fire back. The
energy spread over the Cobra's screens like a bright yellow flower.

It accelerated towards them. Alex accelerated too, but rose over the
killer, and over the space station.

We can't fight it! We've not got the weapons, nor the defences. Not
yet. Damn! What should we do?

On the rear screen, Alex saw the sombre shape of the killer rising
above the Coriolis station. A flash of light presaged the warning
INCOMING MISSILE, and Alex targeted the ECM to destroy it. As he did
so, he turned. The two ships tore past each other, majestic metal
galleons, raking each other with fire before turning and approaching
again.

Twice they duelled in this way. The Nemesis groaned beneath the weight
of the laser strikes on its hull; the energy in its storage cells
began to drain away. In Alex's mind there was only confusion. The
Cobra knew him, and wanted him, and wouldn't let go. And this was the
ship he wanted to kill . . .

But he wasn't equipped to kill it . . . Not yet. Not yet!

So despite Elyssia's objections, Alex turned and ran for the sun.

The Cobra followed. The two ships manoeuvred and looped, slowed and
speeded up. Whenever possible, Alex rear-lasered, and this had the
effect of driving the pirate back a little. It targeted and dispatched
three more missiles, and Alex shot them down. He was tempted to think
that that represented the full missile load of the Cobra, but he
wisely avoided such complacency. His own missile remained targeted,
ready to fly, but he imagined that it would meet a quick and pointless
fate.

The sun edged closer. It grew in size and majesty. The cabin
temperature of the Nemesis rose.  Immense arms of plasma curled out
from the surface, like weird creatures rising above a molten sea. Alex
flew towards one, fuel-scoop ready.

The Cobra fired at him. Shields screeched.

The duelling ships entered the realm of the Inferno . . .

Alex said, 'It's working. Look . . .'	The fuel gauge was edging up
as the scoop sucked in raw plasma and converted it to the energy form
needed for Witch-Space transit. He skimmed the Nemesis along the edge
of the great ocean of fire. The arms of the corona was millions of
miles long, thousands wide, and curling round, like a whirlpool. At
its centre, then, there was a calm place, a place away from the heat
and danger.

Alex headed towards it. The cabin filled with an eerie brilliance in
which shadows seemed to writhe and beckon. The sun was an unbearable
glare. The temperature of the ship rose dramatically. Fire played
about the hull, and the shields moaned and creaked.

'Not long,' Elyssia said. At last she too had come to realise that
they were just not ready to fight the Cobra. They had to get out of
here, and fast. The nearest star was six light years distant, their
fuel gauge showed a jump capability of four, and rising . . .

In the calm sea, wrapped around by sunfire, the Nemesis hovered, and
waited. Somewhere in the brilliant glow of the plasma arm the Cobra
searched for them, but perhaps they were safe, now, safe from
scanning, or from probing, since no electronic eye or ear could pierce
the intense radiation field of the corona.

'Five light years and climbing. Get ready to go, we're already
targeted . . . '

'I'm ready,' Alex said. He tried not to think of the consequences of
such a long, unsupervised jump .  . . in the first instance they would
just jump small distances, but the hyperdrive mechanism wouldn't
tolerate too many such feeble movements.

Alex turned the Nemesis so that it gently span in a circle, searching
the flickering, shadowy fire for danger.

'Five point five light years. A minute more. Just sixty seconds . . .

'Just thirty seconds . . . we're filling up lovely . . .

The ship hummed. Alex dripped with sweat.

'Just twenty seconds more, Alex, and we can fly like star seed ...'

On the scanners the merest flicker of light hinted at the presence of
the Cobra. It was on the other side of the strand of plasma; a curtain
of fire separated them. Nemesis and killer stood motionless in space,
facing each other through the great erupting wave of sunfire.

'We're ready to go,' Elyssia said. 'Alex. Go! Now!'

Alex Ryder shrugged her off. 'No,' he said. 'Not yet . . .'

'Alex! '

He pushed the ship towards the fire. The flickering, ghostly image on
the scanners moved too.  Closing.

And with a sudden cry, Alex stabbed speed into the Nemesis' engines,
and raced towards the veil of flame and plasma. All vision had gone.
All he could see was his father's face; and the white ball of flame
that had been the Avalonia . . .

All he could feel was grief, and anger, and hate . . .

All he knew was that he had a missile targeted on the Cobra, and that
he had one last, desperate chance . . .

The ships closed. The distance between them was the distance of the
plasma veil. It played on the hull of the Nemesis, and the shields
screamed and complained. He could not go too deep . . .

Not too far in . . .

Too dangerous . . .

He fired the missile.

The tiny vessel sped into the sunfire, weaving and ducking as it homed
on the Cobra. It didn't show on Alex's scanner. It didn't show on the
Cobra's scanner. Not until it was too late . . .

The Cobra triggered its ECM. Alex saw the burst of brightness, the
sudden detonation . . . and then he saw the great fireball that
gyrated around the destroyed missile.

Momentum, heat, plasma, fire . . . all gathered together into a ball
of death that swept from the corona and engulfed the Cobra.

No shield known could stand against such intense energy, the raw
energy of the sun, stung and screaming, blown into a great tidal wave
of explosive terror.

The Cobra bathed in light and fire. Alex watched the scanner, and
suddenly . . .

The light was gone.

The Cobra was dead. Destroyed. Gone forever.

The Nemesis slowed and turned, went back to safety.

No-one on its bridge said a word. But in the bright light of the
ageing sun, tears glistened on two faces.



CHAPTER EIGHT: CODA

The holoFac of Rafe Zetter gleamed and shimmered on the bridge of the
Nemesis, as if with pride. Behind it, the full face of Lave was a
welcome and relaxing sight. The last of the Mymurth and their precious
parasites had been off-loaded into two Navy Asp-type ships. The final
payment had not yet been agreed, but the figure would not be less than
one hundred credits per creature.

'I knew you could do it,' Rafe said, chewing happily and stroking his
wispy sidewhiskers. 'Had to be sure. But was confident enough to get
you to Cirag before you were ready.'

'We could have been killed,' Alex muttered. 'That system was crawling
. . . '

'But a good combateer, even an élite combateer, knows when to run, and
how to run. I'm proud of you . . . you ran and scored.'

And as he spoke, so on the screen a message came through from the
Galactic Police HQ on Lave Coriolis 6.

Congratulations to Alex Ryder, and thanks on behalf of the Galactic
Co-operative of Worlds for your efforts and skill in destroying pirate
vessels as documented by you, and verified by on-board V-film.  We
have pleasure in assigning to you the Combat Status of 'Deadly'. Your
legal status of 'Offender' has been negated. Your new rating as Deadly
will be lodged in the GalNetwork within a standard day.

'Select wisely in battle, and be strong.'

So there it was. Alex was not yet twenty earth years of age, had come
within one step of being rated more highly as a combateer than most
people would even dream about.

He was deadly; he had killed the Cobra; why the Cobra had killed his
father Alex hadn't thought to ask . . . of the ship's pilot, at least.
He had guessed that the ship and its bounty killer pilot had simply
been earning a wage.

Instead, he said to Rafe, 'Did you know the ship was at Cirag?'

'Had a good idea of it, Alex. That's why we sent the Tharglets with
you. Nobody, but nobody, if they're a tad evil, can resist booty like
that. I knew it would bring every freebooter for a light year after
you, but I reckoned you could handle them. Most importantly, I was
damn sure that your cargo would bring out the Cobra.

'You fought well. You showed the sort of instinct for combat that I
remember in Jason. He was right. You are the man to follow him.'

'Follow him where?'

Rafe chuckled and shook his head. 'You see, that's the big question.
Your father was chasing the mythical plant Raxxla. Does it exist, or
does it not? If it does, then on Raxxla there's an alien construct
that's a gateway to other Universes, and all that's in those Universes
in the way of bounty, and treasures, and aliens, and life . . .

'Jason Ryder was convinced that Raxxla existed. That's why he trained
for, and became a part of, the Dark Wheel, the legend-seekers. I
hadn't heard much from him or about him for some time until just
before he died, when he told me he'd found evidence for the real
existence of Raxxla. He came back from Deep Space to get a proper team
together . . . ' Rafe smiled bitterly. 'But just before he was due to
go back, he decided to take a safe-worlds holiday jaunt with his son .
. . and an assassin was waiting for him.'

'But why?' Alex asked. 'Why kill him for finding Raxxla?'

'Because there are people on Raxxla already. This is only a guess,
mind you, but from what happened to Jason I'd say it was close to
being right. We've long suspected that a corps of Elites lives there,
and are exploiting the gateway. They're powerful, twisted men.
Powerful enough to hire an assassin to kill the threat to their
dominance.'

Rafe leaned a little closer to Alex, his bright eyes gleaming, an
intense look on his grizzled face.

'I've put you through your paces, Alex, you and Elyssia both. The Dark
Wheel needs you. Both of you. But believe me, what you've just been
through is nothing to what you face now. You've got to become Elite,
Alex. And that means a lot of training, and a lot of fighting, and
maybe a lot of months, even years.  But then the Universe will open up
before you in a way you never imagined possible.'

Alex stood silent, thoughtful, watching the old man. In the corner,
half in shadows, Elyssia stood and watched too, frightened by what she
was hearing.

'Has the grief gone?' Rafe asked, and Alex nodded. The old trader
smiled.

'How does it feel to be rich?'

'Empty,' Alex said, and Rafe Zetter laughed.

'You'll do for the Dark Wheel, Alex. You'll do . . .'



READ THE NOVEL/PLAY THE GAME
A BOY WITH STARS IN HIS EYES
SHOOTING THE RAPIDS OF HEAVEN

On his inaugural flight as a 'harmless' combateer, Alex Ryder
experienced the sharp divide between Sim- combat and live action in
the fast lane of Witch-Space. Seated next to his father, the occasion
(a celebration!) was suddenly jarred by the fatal laser fire of a
fellow trader . . .

Emerging from unconsciousness aboard a Moray hospital ship. Alex's
first impression was conditioned by a sleazy holoFac of Rafe Zetter (a
friend of Alex's father who has blotted his legal status by trading in
slaves).  As Alex's mind grappled with his senses, his desperate
questions seemed to provoke still more perplexing riddles from the old
warrior.

What had the trader hoped to gain (their cargo had been almost
worthless)? Why had Jason Ryder stayed to engage the attacker, when he
could have bailed out with Alex? What had he meant by 'Raxxla!
Remember Raxxla!', as Alex slid into his escape pod?

But gradually, with Zetter's help, Alex began to assemble some pieces
of the jigsaw. His father was no simple trader, far from it; he had
been one of the few - an Elite combateer. The marauding trader was no
bounty hunter, but an assassin programmed to kill.

As a thirst for revenge spurred the fury of Alex's emotions, he
understood that Jason's mission must now become his. To succeed, he
too would have to prove himself worthy of -

   THE ORDER OF ELITE
   a fighting quality far beyond
   courage, macho and cool precision

'Elite: The Dark Wheel' is a novella written by Rob Holdstock and
inspired by the intergalactic space trading adventure program, ELITE,
by David Braben and Ian Bell. A sequel to the novella is planned for
publication in 1985.

Acornsoft Limited, Betjeman House, 104 Hills Road, Cambridge CB2 1LQ,
England

Copyright (c) Acornsoft Limited 1984

*********

End Project 64 etext of Elite: The Dark Wheel

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