Once again Samara was forced to hand over the reins to one of the Cognates as they made a few modifications to their newly acquired ship, now rechristened the Adrestia. Hiding her profile from prying eyes had top priority, and while there was little they could do about her physical form, there were alterations they could make with the equipment on hand. Reprogramming her transponder had been easy enough and altering their engine output signature was not much more difficult, even if it cost them in overall efficiency. With any luck, the authorities they came across would settle for a quick scan and wave them through, though it cut deeply against her well-honed paranoia regarding the inevitability of Murphy’s Law.

They just didn’t have any other options.

They’d also turned up a few odds and ends for trade, mostly taken from the survival and exploration gear. Samara hated to part with them; she could think of several scenarios where they’d come in handy. It was a gamble, like everything else, but hopefully it would be enough for food.

“I could really use a new helmet,” Samara said to no one in particular, “since the last one got shot full of holes.”

“I doubt we would find a human-style helmet here,” Xeno pointed out, “and even if we did, it is likely we could not afford it.”

“I’m not sure I can afford not to have it,” she parried. “Even with the upgrades, I doubt I can survive in vacuum for long.”

“Why don’t you ask your friends?” Kalypso told her, giving that last word the same inflection most humans reserved for the Yīqún.

“I have a better idea,” she snapped, “why don’t I toss you out and see how well you do?” She glared at the other woman, fed up with her attitude.

Kalypso’s reaction was instantaneous. Her artificial hands came up in a defensive posture, both glowing slightly as she readied herself for battle, hissing like an angry cat, as Xeno rushed to separate them.

“Samara, Kalypso, stop this!” he shouted, interposing himself between them, “this is neither the time nor place.”

... Your friend is correct. Guardian chimed in. Fighting amongst yourselves only weakens you.

She knew he was right, that they both were, but at the moment it was the last thing she wanted to hear. “I’m heading to the Bridge,” she told them, shooting one last look at Kalypso. “I’ll let you know when we’re near the planet.” She spun on her heel and left them both in her wake, eager to put as much distance between them as possible.

But even that separation did little to improve her mood. Just what exactly did they want from her? Hadn’t she done enough? Hadn’t she been through enough? Hell, she’d already been shot, stabbed, and beaten to within a centimeter of her life. Didn’t that earn her just a little respect?

Apparently not.

... Perhaps you should consider separating from your friends. Guardian suggested. Continued alliance with them appears to be more of a hindrance than a help.

“Believe me, I’ve thought about it,” she agreed. “Plus, I move faster on my own.”

... Then what is stopping you?

Samara grimaced. “Because it’s a big war we’re fighting, and I need all the allies I can get.”

... I would submit the difference between three individuals and one is slight, he pointed out.

“That’s humanity in a nutshell for you,” she sighed. “We’ve always been better at fighting each other than uniting in common purpose.”

... Perhaps this explains the current state of your species, Guardian pointed out, somewhat less than diplomatically.

“You can’t pin losing Earth on us, but after that?” She shook her head. “Remind me to tell you our history.”

... I look forward to the lesson, he answered. Also, it would appear we are nearing the Mu’ussa system, Guardian continued, drawing her attention to the navigational array.

Samara peered at the display and then nodded. “Yeah, we sure are. Looks like we’ll be in orbit and ready to dock in about an hour.”

... Should you not alert the others then?

She looked over her shoulder and snorted. “No rush.”

It was in fact closer to two hours before Samara stepped through the trading post’s airlock, shucking the helmet she’d borrowed from Xeno. She’d come alone, as she was the only one who could pass for an unaltered human. It tempted her to shapeshift into an alien guise, but there were few other races that could fit into a human-built space suit, fewer still who’d be caught dead in one. Tucking the helmet under her arm, she went off in search of the proprietor.

It appeared her luck was still holding when she found him. There had been only a perfunctory hail as they’d entered the system, accepting their doctored transponder code and falsified manifest without so much as a peep. The owner was a Durzix, a member of a non-aligned insectoid race, not a Chell minion of the Empire, and unlike the Eleexx and To’uuk, the Durzix weren’t actively hostile to humans.

Passively, of course, was a different story.

His antenna wavered as she approached him. “What do you want, Terran?” he demanded.

“Looking to trade for food,” she told him, as she unslung the satchel she’d been carrying on her shoulder and set it on the counter. “I’ve got some quality merchandise here I’m willing to part with.”

“Bzzzz…” he vibrated, looking over the items as she removed them from the tote and laid them out, inspecting each one with a practiced eye, his mandibles chittering away as he calculated their worth.

“Food, you said?” he finally asked as he looked up from the counter. “What kind of food?”

“Terran-compatible,” she told him. “Basic supplies only, no luxury items.”

He tossed his head in derision, sneering at her stinginess. “Seventy-five kilos,” he told her, “and not a kilo more.”

“Done,” she agreed. It was less than she’d hoped for, but she was in no mood to haggle. Get in, get out, and get moving, that was her motto these days.

The Durzix swept the items into a bin and placed them under the counter. “Wait here,” he told her, shuffling off to the back as he went to fill her order. Samara nodded, turning to look at the items on the shelves while she waited. It was all standard fare, nothing out of the ordinary… until her eyes fell upon an old-style human space suit helmet.

Samara went to the shelf and lifted it up, giving it the once over. It was an antique, but it still looked serviceable, and considering human tech hadn’t changed all that much since the Diaspora, it was still compatible with her suit. She’d need to run a diagnostic on it to be sure, but her mind was already racing as she prepared to make an exception to her “No Haggling” rule.

“Hey, how much for this?” she asked, holding it up as she walked back to the counter. She peered into the back storage area but couldn’t spot the owner. Shrugging, she set the helmet on her neck clamp and locked it into place, checking the connections as she booted up the HUD display. The graphics lagged and needed work, but they were serviceable enough. Now she had to have it, as she moved to unlatch it from the suit, only to discover the damned thing had jammed on her. “God damnit,” she grumbled, twisting the old helmet back and forth as she struggled to loosen it, but it was wedged in tight. Suddenly it lost much of its appeal, though if she could get the damn thing off maybe she could wrangle a discount…

... Samara, you are in danger, Guardian piped up...as a hissing sound filled her ears. Frantically she started bashing her head against the counter, trying to shatter the polycarbonate, but there was a reason they used it in helmet construction. Her legs suddenly wobbled as her vision blurred, falling to her knees. Whatever was being pumped into her system was threatening to overwhelm her, and as she rolled over onto her back, she saw someone approach. Samara desperately tried to scrabble away, but her limbs were refusing to cooperate. She could only stare in disbelief as the figure came to a halt beside her, as a familiar face gazed down.

“Hello Samara,” Jibril smiled. “We meet again.”

She could feel herself fading out... but she still had a card left to play.

... Guardian? Take over.

Her last conscious memory was of her rising back to her feet, as Jibril stared at her in shock.

Once again, I find myself called into action, as they ambush our host in some sort of prepared trap. I call up Bellator Cherdor Hosk and place him in charge, stepping back and taking an observation role as our warrior goes to work.

It is surprising that Samara was so quickly subdued by an anesthetic agent, as I am well aware, she is immune to most chemical compounds designed to cause a loss of consciousness. My curiosity piqued; I investigate further.

... Xenon. A strange choice, yet obviously an effective one. Given who this individual is and his relationship to Samara, it would seem this was a programmed weakness, something that could disable her at need.

Of course, this no longer applies.

With Hosk firmly in control of our host’s motor functions, I watch as he seizes this “Jibril” by the throat and lifts him off his feet. The human is caught by surprise, it is now apparent that he expected there to be no resistance once the gas had taken effect. His hands fumble at his waist, but Hosk is watching and moves much faster, plucking the concealed weapon from his belt and taking it for himself.

And not a moment too soon.

Other figures appear, allied with this Jibril. They represent several species, but none are members of what Samara refers to as the Troika. Curious. Given the situation, I suspect they are mercenaries, hired by her former Clan leader to capture her. I pass this insight on to Hosk, but he is already dealing with the situation as his weapon fires. Jibril’s allies are hampered by the fact Hosk is using his body as a shield; it would seem they are wary of harming him.

Perhaps they have not yet been paid.

It would seem they too thought this operation to be a simple one, as their reactions are sluggish and poorly coordinated. Their return fire shatters nearby merchandise and shelving, but Hosk is already moving, the struggling Clan leader firmly in his grasp as he takes down one enemy threat after another. His reaction speed is well above that of his opponents, and by the time they realize they are outmatched and withdraw it is already too late. The last one falls lifeless to the deck, less than one hundred nanocycles after they’d fired the first weapon.

I confer with Hosk, to determine our next course of action. The first step would seem to be to remove this helmet, but it seems unlikely we will be able to do so without outside assistance. I consider the problem when Hosk solves the matter in the most direct method possible.

He lifts his weapon to Samara’s head and pulls the trigger.

I sigh as it forces us to wait while the nanomachines rebuild her skull and brain once again. However, Jibril’s reaction is far more visceral. His screams are louder and more jarring than Kalypso’s reaction, and I record this memory for my host’s later viewing.

I know she will appreciate it.

As it will take time for Samara to reassert control, I consider our next move. Given that we came to this place to secure a supply of compatible food, I direct Hosk to track down our host, who has yet to return from his task and is obviously a part of this operation. By this time Jibril has gone limp, whether because of Hosk’s grip on his neck or emotional distress, I cannot say. It does not matter.

Time is of the essence now, as we search the back rooms. We find the proprietor hiding in his office, his antenna flailing as we approach. It would seem his reaction to Samara’s current condition is as visceral as Jibril’s was.

This simplifies matters.

“Where is the food?” I ask him. Hosk does his part by raising the weapon and pointing it at the insectoid’s head.

“Please... I had no choice,” it chitters in fear. “I am just the proprietor!”

“I doubt that,” I tell him, “but I am not here for you, unless you force my hand. Get the food. Now.”

His mandibles open and close in a blur of motion as he hurries to comply. I suspect there is considerably more than the agreed upon seventy-five kilos, but as I am less than familiar with the measurement units used here, I could be mistaken. Realizing our predicament, and that we only have a single hand free, he packs the larder into a duffle bag for us, nervously handing it over as Hosk slings it across Samara’s shoulders.

Time to go, I tell him.

As we head back to the airlock, I abruptly realize our mistake. The tube connecting Adrestia to the station is in vacuum, and while we have possession of Samara’s original helmet, the shattered remnants of the booby-trapped version are still attached to the suit’s neck ring. Then there is Jibril, and while I have no qualms in terminating his existence, I know my host well enough to recognize her wish to interrogate him.

While Samara... with our help... can tolerate a quick jaunt in vacuum, I doubt we could say the same for him. He must have a suit somewhere, but it is also likely he would use its communication device to signal for backup and rescue. This is unacceptable.

Given that choice, it seems that we will learn if exposure to vacuum will end his existence after all.