The dawning of another day in Paradise: the sun shining, birds chirping, the eternal tide washing on the beach, as countless days before it had begun.

Only today there was something new under the sun in Paradise, something new for the waves to break against. Last night’s storm had dragged in what was perhaps not a true first, but was at least a second in the island’s known history. For stranded on the sand was the wreck of a small vessel. It was somewhat larger than the boat that washed up some five years ago, yet was of similar design, sleek and swift-looking. But no more, for the storm had hurled it against some of the rocks that peppered the beach near the cliff line. Now there was a gaping rip in the hull.

Painted above the gash was a symbol that Max had only seen in his elders’ descriptions, a symbol for which he had maintained a great deal of vigilance over the years.

The symbol of the Triangle State Authority.

This particular vessel was no derelict, though; its sole occupant had washed up a short distance away. Already he stood on shaky legs, staggering through the wet sand toward what remained of his ship. He was short and wiry, clothed in the ragged-out remains of light blue coveralls that bore the same insignia as the boat. A steel circlet and a length of chain dangled from each wrist.

His short black hair stood in sand-caked disarray as he scratched his head at the sheer misfortune of his wreck’s location. If it had only washed up farther down the beach, it might still be intact. Beached, no doubt, but almost certainly intact. His green eyes stared intently at the wreck, as if his gaze could somehow undo the damage, betraying ever greater dismay as it dawned on him that the ship that had carried him this far would never sail again.

“Damn…” he croaked.

Wasting no time, he climbed aboard the wreck, which wobbled back and forth in its landlocked final resting place. He was very glad to see the standard-issue power rifle still in its compartment, as well as a med-kit he knew he could find uses for. Otherwise, all he could find was a few odds and ends that were either broken or of dubious use; just a mostly empty canteen, for whatever ration packs he had had been washed overboard in the storm. The boat clearly hadn’t been very well stocked when it came into his possession, but he had been hoping he had overlooked something before.

No such luck.

Now that he was armed, the young man turned more of his attention to his surroundings. He could see no immediate threat, but naturally wanted to be as well equipped as possible before exploring. After all, he was in unfamiliar territory, and very ill at ease with the knowledge that he couldn’t leave this place. That, and he had his own dark suspicions as to who he might find here.

He then set out. As he continued down the beach, he gradually regained his land-legs, and some of his strength, even as he adjusted to the shifting sand. At this point he wasn’t entirely sure where he had landed since he had deliberately sailed right off the Authority’s maps, or what he remembered of them. How he had made a point of going the “wrong way” for the Cyexian islands, as he sought to avoid them altogether. (Not that he was complaining about it) but as far out as he had been, he knew of no place the storm could have deposited him.

Unless…

No. He waved that thought aside. The mysterious island of Layosha was just a rumor, and even if it were real, it was said to lie beyond Cyexian waters. Unsure of what kind of welcoming committee he might encounter, he decided to keep his guard up. If nothing else, he had no idea who or what might live on this island.

He honestly hoped there was someone here who could help him repair his ship (if that was even possible without resources he doubted this place had), Layoshan or otherwise. Though he suspected that a helping hand— or even a friendly welcome— was more than he had a right to expect. As for where he was, there were rumors of uncharted islands, but he really didn’t believe there were any. Between the Cyexians and the Triangle State Authority, these waters had been very thoroughly explored.

But the Ocean beyond had not. Not by any means. Surely I’ve gone off the map… That thought intrigued him, as he had always wondered where all those travelers and traders came from (hell, where he originally came from, for that matter), but shed little light on his present situation.

Mostly he wondered at the sheer coincidence of this island being exactly where it was at the time.

At first, there seemed to be no signs of habitation, but as he crossed the beach, the young man found the watered-down remains of a campfire. If no one was currently here, then the area had only recently been departed, most likely because of the storm. Though it was so badly damaged that he couldn’t tell how old it was.

He suspected that there were others on the island, and he knew there might be other islands in these waters. Only a further search would reveal if the island was inhabited, or at least frequently visited.

Now certain that he was not alone, he hauled out the power rifle and kept it handy as he explored. He knew it wasn’t a very friendly gesture, but to him it was better than being defenseless, so he set it for stun, figuring that would be sufficient for self-defense. In unknown territory, no one could be sure what kind of welcome they might receive. He started thinking more and more about the possibilities he now faced. If he had truly broken free of the Triangle State and its ruthless Authority, and the feuding Cyexian clans, and he hadn’t stumbled upon legendary Layosha…

If I keep going this way… he finished aloud, “I’d never have to deal with any of those assholes again…”

I’d be free…

That thought stirred a mixed bag of emotions. If nothing else, no one knew him in the outside world, or knew that he was supposed to be executed. Or at least no one would know now.

About time I did something about these damn chains, he decided. He had had no time in his hasty departure from Pullman Island to work on them, and that tiny vessel rocked too much for him to even try it. Then that storm came up. The one thing that burned him now was that this mine camp uniform was the only scrap of clothing he had to his name. The Authority can still screw me over, even here…

But first things first. These chains were driving him nuts. That, and he was sick of being reminded of his captivity. On that note, he checked his right boot, relieved to see his secret weapon was still there, chalking his negligence up to disorientation. He wandered into some trees, looking for a sheltered place to work while he was so vulnerable—

His search was interrupted by a short yelp, followed by what sounded like laughter.

His chains forgotten for now, he took off in the direction of that sound, nearly falling flat on his face in the shifting sand. The laughter had ceased, and was quickly replaced with the sounds of an ensuing struggle. As he drew nearer to the source, he could hear low growling noises, that caused him to slow down as he approached.

He came around a dense growth of foliage and was brought to a halt at what he saw.

There on the ground lay a young man, and on top of him sat an enormous black-and-white cat. The largest he had ever seen; so large he nearly fumbled his power rifle at the sight of it. The young man appeared to be grappling with the creature, struggling to get out from under it. There was something he didn’t quite understand about this scene, mostly the young man’s lack of urgency, as if this were some kind of game or something, but it was his philosophy to shoot first and ask questions later.

So, not wanting to see what the big cat might do next, he shot it.

There were three reactions, in rapid succession, and only the first one was what he expected. That being that the cat, hit bang-on, reeled away from the young man and fell over with a shocked snarl. At the same time, the young man leaped to his feet, staring at the other in stark disbelief, gasping, “You killed Bandit…” The final reaction in this sequence happened too fast for the stranger to even keep up with.

Max sprang at him in a rage, kicking the stranger’s rifle out of his grasp before he could even think to fire a shot. In a blur of motion, Max’s foot arced back the other way, knocking the stranger flat on his ass. He barely rolled out from under his fierce opponent, but even as he was getting back up, Max kicked him upside the head, knocking him down again.

“So much for gratitude…” the stranger muttered, taking the fight back to Max with a charging uppercut. But Max held his ground, blocking the stranger’s attack and digging his heels into the dirt as his opponent ran into him. It was just beginning to dawn on the stranger just how much taller Max was than he when he was grabbed by his coveralls and kicked straight up into the air as Max rolled on his back.

Max rolled out from under the stranger as he hit the ground. Hard. He was still dazed by Max’s heavy-duty move as he struggled to his feet. Max, however, wasted no time in scrambling after the fallen power rifle.

As Max picked up the rifle, the stranger reached into his tall right work boot, desperate to out-match his foe’s unexpected swiftness. He pulled out something that looked like a longer version of Max’s laser sword, firing up a short blue blade at either end as Max raised his new weapon. At which point the stranger knew he had lost the race.

“The hell—?” was all the farther he had time to blurt out before Max shot him with his own gun.

“…Wake up, whoever you are. I know you’re not dead.”

For a moment, the stranger wondered if his run-in with the mysterious young man and that big cat had all been a dream… but it had seemed so real… His head hurt like a son of bitch and his arm was numb… Maybe I’m still lying on the beach… Lying on the beach!?

He sat straight up, and a sharp pain sliced through his head.

“Don’t move!”

That voice spoke again, and he knew it had been no dream. He opened his eyes again to see the young man aiming his own power rifle at him. He took another look at Max’s clothes. Or what was left of them. Five years— though he didn’t know exactly how long this guy had been here— it was clear that they were well past worn-out. They were even more destroyed than his own, in spite of Max’s best efforts to take care of them. After all, they were the only clothes he had. The clothing he had found strewn on the beach, back then, had been a large and baggy fit. Now, most of it was still fairly loose-fitting, but too small; the pantlegs reached only halfway past his knees, one of them not even that far, having been torn at the seams on one side, and he had to wear the remains of one jacket as a vest, undone because it was too small in the shoulders. A couple toes stuck out of one of the boots he was now wearing.

Sitting at his side was the cat, staring at the stranger with mingled curiosity and distrust.

“But how…” the stranger stammered, letting himself collapse again. He just sat there staring back at the cat. “I thought…”

“Lucky for you, this thing was set for stun,” Max told him. He kept his guard up, but the fact that the stranger wasn’t attacking anymore was a hopeful sign. “Lucky for Bandit, too.”

Of course… The stranger then remembered that he had set it for stun mode, just to play it safe. He had had every intention of defending himself, but wanted to know who he was dealing with first. The Authority already wanted him dead; he hadn’t wanted to cause any trouble here if he could avoid it. So much for that idea…

“Bandit?” he finally managed.

“My kitty,” Max told him, patting Bandit on the head. He found this conversation strange; if he hadn’t talked to Bandit all the time, he might have forgotten how to speak altogether. “Now who are you and why did you attack us?”

“But I wasn’t attacking you,” the stranger told him. “I thought he was attacking you!”

“Why should I trust you?” Max demanded. “You’re from the Triangle State, aren’t you?” He knew the symbol well enough; he had been warned about it since he was a small boy.

“Well, yeah…” He knew he couldn’t deny the insignia on the back of his uniform. “But I’m not with them…”

“Who are you?” Max asked again.

“I’ll tell you who I am if you tell me who you are,” the stranger replied. “Dammit, I meant you no harm…”

“Fair enough,” Max said after a moment of thought. He was trying to play it cool like Cleo always did. At least this visitor had decided to talk rather than fight. And, if nothing else, he was someone to talk to.

“Don’t try to act so tough, kid,” the stranger told him.

“Look who’s talking,” said Max. As far as he could tell, this visitor couldn’t be much older than himself.

“Look, my name’s Justin. Justin Black.” And he wanted to get off on the right foot this time, especially since this guy held the upper hand. He just hoped he was right about this. The young man interrogating him didn’t seem like military material— too youthful, too trusting— but he sure as hell fought like it. Still, he didn’t think this guy was as cold as he was trying to act.

“My name’s Max,” Max told him.

“Look, Max, I’m sorry I shot your… friend. I thought he was attacking you.” But at least now he understood why Max had been so pissed. “I didn’t know he was your friend, man. Ya know, we really got off to a bad start here. I mean, since no one got hurt,” (at least not seriously, he thought, rubbing the side of his face where Max hit him) “why don’t we just forget about it?”

“I forgive you, if that’s what you mean.” Max still wasn’t sure if he fully trusted Justin, but for now he lowered the power rifle. “So why did you leave the Triangle State? And what are you doing here?”

“Where the hell is here, anyway?”

“Paradise,” said Max. The puzzled look on Justin’s face reminded him that Paradise was just a name he made up. “Well, that’s what I call it. I guess this place doesn’t really have a name. I’ve been here for years, and you’re the first person I’ve ever seen.”

“Years? What do you mean? Isn’t there anybody else here?” Justin looked around, seeing the island in a whole new light.

“Nope. Just me and Bandit.” This Justin would have been an Outlander in Layosha, but now he was an Outlander, too, and he wanted to know more about this visitor. “It’s a long story. But how did you get here?”

“That damn storm, that’s how,” said Justin. “Look, those TSA bastards had me in prison, and I escaped. That’s why I’m stuck in this stupid outfit… Say Max, could you get these fuckin’ chains off? They’re cutting my wrists.”

Max thought about it for a moment. He had once spent many hours thinking about what he would do if the Cyexians or any Triangle State people came here. Because Justin was being peaceable, even with the power rifle set aside, Max decided to take the risk. He tossed Justin his laser staff.

But kept his own energy blade a secret. For now.

“Thanks, man.” Justin was relieved to finally have a weapon again, just a matter of instinct. Yet he suspected he wasn’t going to need it in the near future; so far, this Max had proven less an enemy than he was a fellow castaway. The return of his weapon was proof of that. “Have you ever seen a laser staff before?”

Justin activated it, and a short electric-blue blade flashed into existence at one end of the handle.

“Yeah,” Max replied. “A long time ago.”

Meanwhile, Justin carefully held the shimmering blade up to the lock on his left shackle. Careful not to touch himself with it, he worked, the laser blade cutting through the steel as easily as it did through air. The binding dropped away from his wrist with a clink that belied its original strength.

“Now the right…” he muttered. He turned off his staff and offered it to his new friend. “Max, could you give me a hand with this?”

Max took back the weapon, figuring that if this Justin felt safe enough to hand the weapon back, he wasn’t really an enemy, reactivating it and cutting off Justin’s right manacle with noticeable care. Even so, Justin flinched for a moment with an energy blade hovering so close to his good hand. As he suspected, Max at least had a passing familiarity with energy weapons. Max turned it off and handed it back, all but confirming their truce.

“Hell yeah!” Justin laughed, rubbing his worn wrists. The shackles had clearly left their mark. He then turned back to Max and asked him, “So, Max, how did you end up here?”

“We were on a ship,” Max told him, pondering his words as carefully as he had cut his new companion free. “There was a storm… I don’t remember much, but the next morning I woke up here.”

“And no one else, huh?” Justin could tell there was something Max didn’t want to talk about; this mysterious young man was so up-front about most things, that already he found he could almost read him like a book.

“No,” Max replied. “I don’t know what happened to everyone else…” At least that he was certain of. “I got lost in the storm… The boat I got here in is on the beach, around the bend.”

“Sounds like you have a story to tell.”

“So do you.” The more Max thought about it, the more he realized what this meant. So many places he’d never seen… “If you tell your story, I’ll tell you mine.”

“Okay. Just one thing, though: you got anything to eat around here?”

“So,” Justin asked, “if you wound up here all by yourself, then where did he come from?”

“Oh, Bandit was already here. I don’t know where he came from,” Max told him. “It’s weird. I never found any other cats here. Not a trace. I’ve been here for years, and I’ve never seen anything…”

They now stood among some of Max’s favorite berry bushes. Max picked a handful of berries and handed them to Justin.

“You’re serious?…” Justin eyed them warily at first, but finally succumbed to his hunger and chewed a few of them suspiciously. He paused for a moment, then munched down some more. Clearly surprised at the fact that he actually liked them. “Damn! You didn’t tell me these things were actually good!”

“Yes I did,” said Max.

Justin grabbed some more berries and sat on a fallen log, getting up for seconds, and even thirds, he was so hungry.

Finally, he wiped his mouth and asked, “So, is there anything to do around here?”

“Yeah, lots of stuff,” Max replied.

“Like what?”

“I train.”

“Train?”

“Yeah,” Max told him. “I run and swim and practice my fighting skills… fishing…”

“Running? What the hell kind of fun is that?”

“It’s lots of fun, Justin. I try to beat Bandit. He always wins, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.”

“Great.”

“Do you want me to teach you how to fight?”

Justin pictured Max using him as a human punching bag. Then he thought about it. This guy was serious. Damn! He remembered his brief battle with Max, and pictured him beating the crap out of any of the TSA’s bastards, even Trevor. And winced at the memory of that battle.

“I guess so,” he finally told Max. After a moment, he stood up and said, “It looks like I can still stand, so let’s see if anything useful washed up here.”

His steps were shaky at first, but now that he was no longer weak with hunger, Justin was much steadier on his feet.

As they made their way back to the beach, Bandit tagging along but still keeping his distance from Justin, Max asked him, “Tell me, Justin, how long did you live in the Triangle State?”

“Well… You know, I’m not really sure… about six or seven years… I think…” Justin slowed down for a moment, as if his mind had paused too. He hadn’t really thought about it much in a long time. Had discovered that, as time went by, his memories of his life before the Triangle State grew more hazy with every passing year. He remembered the ship traveled a lot, yet the destinations remained vague in his memories, just fragments that felt more like figments. “I know I came there in a ship… but I don’t remember much… I think I was left behind or something… I don’t know what happened, really…”

He paused again, a look of inexplicable irritation crossed his face, and he said, “Look, Max, let’s just drop it, okay?”

“Sure.” Max could tell something about his thoughts had really gotten to him, in a way he had neither intended nor foreseen. Of course, now that he thought about it, he still wasn’t quite sure what he was going to tell Justin. He had made a bargain: a tale for a tale. “Well, there’s what’s left of my ship.”

By now they had reached the beach, and Justin could see what Max meant. Still, he wasn’t quite ready to give up. Now they had spare parts from two vessels, so he still harbored the hope of being able to piece something together.

They then continued up the shore to where his own ship ran aground, and Justin asked Max, “So, where did you come from?” He could see Max’s boat was a TSA standard model, but majorly stripped down. His guess was Cyexians. But Max didn’t seem to know much about either of them, thought he did know enough to know the Authority was bad news, so he wanted to know who he was dealing with.

“Well…” Max found himself pausing in spite of himself. “I ended up here about five years ago… Before that, I lived on an island…”

“So do most people in the Ocean,” said Justin. “What island? You don’t look Cyexian to me.”

“I’m not,” Max assured him, thankful for Justin’s change of subject, “I just don’t remember a lot about it. I’ve been here so long…”

“You’re not from Layosha, are you?”

The stunned look on Max’s face told him all he needed to know. “So,” he asked, “You know that name, huh?”

“Yes… Yes.” Max halted again. “I just haven’t heard it in so long…” But he saw his chance to keep his battle with the Cyexians out of this. “You’ve heard of it?”

“Yeah, but hell, I always thought Layosha was just a legend.” Then again, he also thought the Isle of Paradise was just a legend, too; now he wondered if that wasn’t where Max got his name for this island. “You used to live there? Seriously?”

“Yeah. I think… The name sounds right. So what do you know about the Islands?”

“Well, for starters, I didn’t know there was more than one.” So Layosha was real… He had often scoffed at it as a myth, but secretly he had always wanted to believe it: a place— any place— the TSA and the Cyexian clans didn’t control. “What was it like there?”

“I don’t remember much, but it was very… Hey, isn’t that your ship?”

It was perhaps proof that there was such a thing as a stupid question, given that so far as they knew there were only two shipwrecks on the whole island, but it bought Max some time to figure out what he did remember. He wasn’t being completely dishonest; during his years here, the past had indeed become more and more hazy to him. He didn’t want to lie to Justin, but he also didn’t want to talk about that night, and kept picturing accusations…

“Yeah,” said Justin, “whose did you think it was?”

That one got such a sheepish look out of Max that he couldn’t keep himself from laughing. Max looked strangely uncertain for a moment, then laughed himself.

Almost, it seemed, with relief.

Unless there were some tools and supplies in that wreck, Max wasn’t exactly sure what Justin thought they could do. One look at that gash was all he needed to know it had reached the end of its voyage. Though for now he would see what his new friend had in mind. This was the chance he had all but given up hope for, the chance to see the world. And perhaps seek answers to questions that had quietly haunted his otherwise peaceful days here.

He was rather dismayed to see the growing discouragement in Justin’s face as he again examined the wreck.

“Damn it all to hell…” Justin muttered as he took a closer look at the torn hull. It was now dawning on him just how much of his earlier appraisal had been mere wishful thinking. He kicked the hull, wincing at the pain that stung his foot. “Ow! Shit!…”

“Justin…” For all his years of isolation from human contact, Max had no trouble seeing Justin’s anger and frustration. But much to his chagrin, he couldn’t figure out what to do, or what to say, that wouldn’t just make things worse. So he just fell silent.

For one jarring moment, Justin thought he was going to break down, right here in front of Max. And for a moment, he really wished he was all alone here. The strength drained out of his legs, and he fell flat on his ass. He pounded his fist in the sand and started pulling himself together before rising slowly back to his feet.

All the while, Max simply stood and watched him, unwilling and powerless witness to Justin’s troubles.

“Guess I’m stuck here,” Justin muttered, turning and gazing silently at the incoming tide that had brought him to this place.

“I don’t know,” Max finally said, hoping Justin had cooled off enough to listen to him. It was little consolation, but, “I’ve been building this raft—”

At that word, Justin snapped his head back around, demanding, “What kind of raft?”

“Well, it’s not much,” Max admitted. “I really don’t have anything to work with here… Maybe we could use some of the stuff from your ship… and… I don’t know…”

At the very least it was an idea.

Max sat on a log, petting Bandit, Justin across from him, a small fire crackling and flickering in the dark between them.

They had spent most of the day looking over the two boats, and Max had taken him to see the raft. Examining the wrecks, and trying to form some kind of plan. If nothing else, discussing plans seemed to take the edge off Justin’s nerves; he was now calmer and of a somewhat more optimistic disposition. Max supposed it was mostly because it looked like they might actually be able to do something about it.

“So,” Max asked, remembering even as he spoke that he had already asked him that, “how long did you live in the Triangle State?”

That was a good question.

Justin tried to piece it together, but after a moment admitted, “Beats the hell outta me, Max. I mean, I know I was there for a few years, but I came from somewhere before that…” Again, that aggravating sense of it all slipping away from him, a half-remembered dream of seemingly unrelated scenes that sometimes played in his head like clips from some old film. “Since I was about eight or nine, I think…

“Before that, I went a lot of places… but all I can remember is… I don’t know. It’s like I know the place, but I don’t know what’s going on…”

Max saw how strained Justin’s face looked, as if he was really digging for what little he had to offer, and felt ashamed of what he knew he was holding back.

The last few years of Justin’s life had left him little time to ponder the distant recollections of a half-forgotten childhood. A few scenes faded in and out during his stay at Pullman Mine Camp. Otherwise, he didn’t think much about it anymore; most of his earliest memories felt more like daydreams, like glimpses of someone else’s life, rather than his own. Yet he was always the star of these one-act scenes. At times, he remembered more about these places than he thought he could possibly know, things he was certain he had never heard from any traveler.

“I used to live on a ship, but I don’t remember what it was called… Max, can we talk about something else for a while? This shit’s giving me a headache.”

“Sure.” Even Max could tell that Justin had tapped himself out. The intensity of his effort was written all over his face. “So what do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know.” Justin thought for a moment, then said, “I guess you could tell me about Layosha.”

At first Max was silent. They were both struck by the awkwardness of the day’s conversations. Justin at being free and not having to hide or be silent. Max at simply having another human being to speak to. In either case, each of them adjusting to changes in trends that had followed them for years.

At last, Max said, “Well… the Islands are beautiful, like here…” and tried to continue, wishing he had the words to describe his feelings, “and peaceful…”

“Peaceful?” Justin again rubbed the bruise from where Max had kicked him upside the head this morning. “Then where the hell did you learn to fight like that?”

“My dad taught me, of course,” Max said, then wished he hadn’t. He didn’t want to go there, so instead he asked, “Where did you get a laser staff anyway? I thought they were really rare.”

Earlier, Max had shown him his laser sword, and of course Justin had demanded to know why Max hadn’t told him about it earlier. Though once he thought about it, he realized that Max had only done what he would have. Kept it secret.

“I guess they are,” Justin replied. “I’ve heard of them, but this is the only one I’ve ever seen. I got it when I escaped from this guy, I think he was a mercenary. The Authority hires some tough guys from other realms to back up their guards.” He remembered his narrow escape from the Junkyard Dogs, and the trophy he claimed from their leader… “I don’t know where the hell they come from, but they’re always better armed than the other troops. So where did you…?”

“It was my dad’s. He lost it in the storm.” That was true enough.

Justin sat for a moment in silence, then said, “He must’ve been a hell of a fighter.”

“He’s a fisherman. And he has to be alive… I mean, I made it…”

“Yeah…” Justin had no memory of either of his parents, and for a moment he resented Max for even being able to remember his father. “So did everyone know how to fight like that?”

“Yeah,” Max said absently, “We had to. Because of the Cyexians.”

“Damn Cyexians…” Since his escape, he had been so preoccupied with the TSA that he had all but forgotten who had gotten him into this mess in the first place. And again his rage boiled over. “Damn you, Trevor! Damn you, Slash! Damn you all to hell!…”

Max froze at the sound of that name, seeing her again in the pouring rain as she faced Dad…

Bandit looked at Justin with growing alarm, then to Max in dismay.

Justin got a grip again, seeing the stunned look on Max’s face, and asked, “Do you know Slash?”

Max blinked, then answered, “Well, who doesn’t?… I mean, she is the most feared clan leader in these waters. But… what happened to you? She lives?”

“Last I saw of her,” he muttered. “I hope they got that bitch. It would serve her right…”

“Whoa…” Max wondered if Justin didn’t have more of a tale to tell than he originally thought. Not that he wouldn’t have listened anyway. After all, Justin was first news of the outside world he had heard in years. “You’ve gotta tell me about this.”

“Say, isn’t that crab done yet?” Justin had gotten a crash-course in herb lore for lunch, and he was famished.

Max peered into the pot for a moment, then told him, “Yeah. Looks like it. Remember, you have to cook it through or you’ll get sick.”

“Yeah, I know,” Justin replied. “Sorry. I just haven’t had much to eat lately, and those ration bars taste like crap.”

“No problem.” Max wasn’t entirely familiar with Justin’s vocabulary. Most of it seemed to consist of insults and curses, but he wasn’t sure what all of them meant.

“Say Max,” Justin asked as Max served up their supper, “where did you get that necklace?”

It took Max a moment to figure out what Justin was talking about, then he remembered the medallion that his father had given him all those years ago. He wore it everywhere, except when swimming, and had largely forgotten he even had it on.

“It used to belong to my father,” Max told him. “He traveled all over on the sea before I was even born, and I think he picked it up somewhere out there. He gave it to me for my birthday when I was a little boy.”

“Birthday…” Justin sighed, wishing for the first time since he was a child that he knew exactly when his was, and begrudged having to guess his own age. “Sounds wonderful.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry. So any idea where the thing’s from?”

“Nope. I don’t even know if Dad knew.”

So they sat and ate boiled crab for dinner, talking in circles as Max tried to describe the Islands and Justin tried to remember how he came to be in the Triangle State, finally settling for explaining about his life in that realm. Justin was still worn out from his harrowing escape, and though he was as fascinated hearing about a place he had thought a myth as Max was hearing about a place that had been an enigma even to his father, he was still unable to keep his eyes open for long. Just not used to staying up so late.

And though he would remember little of it upon waking, Justin again dreamed of the days before he was stranded in the Triangle State…

…The smell of the sea is the smell of memory for those who’ve slept by its shores; for Justin, as one who has rested his eyes while sailing upon it, it is also the smell of dreams, as memories lost to his waking life flow through him in gently rolling waves.

Again he is lost in a haze that is more shadow than substance as he feels the world slowly rocking back and forth under his feet. Though he spent much of his most recent days on terra firma, in his early years he would spend much of his time between lands and so when he was older he would have no trouble finding his sea legs. In fact, he has to come to like the sensation, he finds it relaxing; for the rest of his days, he will always fall asleep more easily on a seagoing vessel than anywhere else.

As Justin pads down the shadowy hall, passing a long line of closed doors, he again wonders why such a big ship is always so empty. It is always dark below deck, with only occasional small lamps on the walls to light the way. Sometimes he swears this ship is haunted, for everything onboard feels so old. As if it belongs to another era long past, long before his time.

It feels haunted to him, but not in a creepy way. For a child, this ship, like many things, simply is. He accepts feeling lost most of the time as a simple fact of life, and spends much of his time at sea wandering the decks, though he seldom encounters a soul. He has come to know every inch of the ship; at this point in his life, it is the one thing he really knows.

Sometimes there are more people around, but most of the time he finds himself alone wherever he happens to be.

He sees no one on his way to the main deck. Even above deck it’s dim and murky, the sky full of heavy clouds. As usual, the decks are empty as he takes his ambling tour. There is a haunting beauty and allure in this place that would later make him wonder why so few people wished to come out here.

He is about to go back below to see if there is anything else to do, when he sees a lone figure on one of the upper cabin decks.

A little girl, about his age, wearing a dress that, on anyone else, anywhere else, would have looked silly and… somehow old-fashioned. In a way that (like so many other things in this place) he just can’t quite put his finger on.

These are strong undercurrents in his thoughts, but on the surface, he just finds himself feeling a little less alone at having found another human being. Time is a strange thing on the Ocean, and it often seems to slip through his fingers like the sands of the beach, to the point that sometimes he doesn’t know how long he’s been out here. Many people come and go at the blur of ports that swirl in the back of his mind, but she is a regular.

He knows not from whence she came, no more than he knows of his own origin. There is a certain “lost” feeling about her that seems to mirror his own. Her eyes are the grey of the sea, and they make her look wiser than her years.

Justin is certain they are windows to her own little world, both within, and without.

He isn’t really sure why he finds her so fascinating. The only thing he can come up with is that some part of his mind equates her with this ship. Somehow she just belongs here.

He wanders over to talk to her, to find out where she’s from, for he has seen her out and about before, but never really had a chance to talk to her, this he thinks as he steps into the mist swirling along the deck…

Max was up with the sun, and with a stretch and a yawn, he took off with Bandit to the pond.

So when Justin woke up, he was all alone. He glanced around warily, then saw his power rifle lying on the ground next to him, and he relaxed a bit. Just to be on the safe side, though, he checked and made sure his power clip was still there. He didn’t really expect Max to do such a thing, but with everything he had been through lately, he didn’t quite put anything past anyone.

He sat there for about ten or fifteen minutes before Max returned, soaking wet, damp hair still hanging in his face.

“Where the hell have you been?” Justin demanded.

“Swimming,” Max told him. “I tried to wake you up, but you just kept muttering at me. Anyway, I got us some breakfast, too!”

Max had brought back a full pot of berries, and he and Justin dug in.

“I remember,” Justin declared out of the blue.

“You remember what?” asked Max.

“The name of the ship I was on before I wound up in the Triangle State.” He had been mulling it over in his head since he first woke up. It had been dancing on the tip of his tongue, just out of reach, and then he remembered it a moment ago. When he woke up, he also had a few fleeting memories of his dream before it all went skittering off into a confused jumble of vague images. “It was called the Skerry.”

“Scary?” asked Max, “What was so scary about it?”

“No, not scary, Skerry…” Justin looked around and spotted a stick on the ground. He no longer remembered where he learned to read, except that he already knew a bit before he was left high and dry, and that he had learned a little more from a traveling teacher who later vanished without a trace, likely a result of her outspoken opinions about the Authority. “I remember the name.” After all, it was proudly displayed all over the ship. “It was spelled like this…”

S-K-E-R-R-Y, he drew in the dirt.

Max simply stared at the word.

“I don’t know what it means,” Justin told him, “but it always sounded kinda, well, eerie to me.”

“So how did you end up in the Triangle State?” Max asked, hoping that perhaps his new friend remembered more.

“Like I said,” Justin told him, “I don’t remember a lot. I think I got left behind…” The only really distinct memory he could dredge up was of wandering around the port of Benton, and not being able to find stem nor stern of the Skerry. “I guess I got lost or something.”

Just thinking about it conjured up this image of the Skerry sailing away while he was off aimlessly wandering every crooked corner of his unsuspecting new home…

In Justin’s words, Max heard the same sense of abandonment and confusion he had felt in his early days here in Paradise. As he had not felt in a long time.

“It was a big ship,” Justin continued, “I always felt lost… but not like I was in trouble or anything… I don’t know. It all feels like a weird dream. We went to so many places… I could’ve got left behind at any one of them.” He snorted, snapping out of his reverie. “But I had to get stuck in that hellhole…”

“It was really that bad?…” Max could feel the resentment and bitterness dripping off of Justin’s last words, and wondered what the Authority could have done to him…

“You have no idea,” Justin told him. “I spent most of my time hiding in the woods, outside of town… I had to steal food, clothes, shoes… I had to hide from the guards, or they’d just force me to work all day… I had no choice. I had to go into town to find food… and… and… You really don’t have any idea, do you?”

Max had been listening, and his jaw dropped steadily as Justin described a life he could barely begin to imagine.

“How did you stay alive for so long?” he finally managed.

“I did what I had to,” Justin replied. “I spent so long, just wanting out. I hated it…”

Max stood there for a long moment, then said, “Come on, Justin. I’ll show you around the island, and you can tell me what happened.”

“Okay.” Justin figured, why not. After all, no one had ever asked to hear his side of the story before. “I guess you could say the whole mess began one morning…”

One morning.

That’s how these sort of things always seemed to start. One bright morning, one bright idea. Bright as the solid slat of sun on the concrete wall.

The sun that was inching its way down onto Justin Black’s cold, huddled form. He had spent the early hours of the morning curled up, shivering in the tattered remains of a blanket that had seemed a lot warmer when he first absconded with it almost two years ago. For now, though, he had been enjoying the growing warmth of the sun, for it would be gone in a couple hours.

After a while, Justin finally got up. He hung the blanket on a protruding hunk of concrete, not wanting the bugs or the rats to make it their home, and walked over to the deep slit in the concrete wall. He knew from experience that once he was up and moving, the chill and the stiffness would fade. The view from up here was one of the few things he really looked forward to on any given day. From up on this embankment, he could see many of the ships that passed through Benton Island’s ragtag excuse for a port.

Just another day in the Works.

Or rather, what was left of the Works. The ruins stretched out behind him in all directions, both above ground and below. From various overheard conversations, he had pieced together little, other than that the Works used to be a major facility when the Triangle State Authority first “annexed” Benton (once Gwanga) Island many years ago, and that it was destroyed during a riot in that same era. Much of the ground-level portion of the Ruins had crumbled to a skeleton of its former self, and many of the underground parts were commonly thought to be unstable.

That, of course, being the very reason Justin chose it as his home. Though a few vagrants sometimes hid in the ruins above, no one dared venture into the crumbling basement levels.

Which suited him just fine; he knew the risks, and there were even some parts he dared not go because they looked a little too unstable. This section— compared to its exterior— was quite solid. The Works’ reputation, combined with the fact that no one else had found the entrance to this level, served to make this the only place in the Triangle State where he actually felt safe.

At least until recently.

He first discovered this place over five years ago while being chased in the woods by some guards. Had fallen down into part of the basement, and the guards had climbed down after him. After what had felt like a terrifyingly long amount of time, scrambling through tunnels what were once hallways, he found the “entrance” to this area. It had been a tight squeeze, but Justin was skinny little bastard, and he made it just moments before the strobe of flashlight beams came zigzagging around the corner. Come on, he had heard one of his pursuers say, If he went down here, he’ll be lucky if the roof doesn’t collapse on him! Like what had happened to some other guards a few years ago who went poking around down here. And another one said, Little streetrat thief! I hope the roof does fall down on you, ya little shit!

And they walked away, laughing wildly.

In the intervening years, Justin had appropriated a meager stockpile of supplies in this, and a couple other rooms. In a small pouch tucked in a crack in the wall, he kept a little money, though he ended up hoarding most of it; sometimes he would actually buy food, but it always raised the question of where a dirty little streetrat even got pocket-change from in the first place. Unless it was canned, he couldn’t keep food in this place; the rats just ate it when he wasn’t around. Sometimes they were audacious enough to try it when he was. So he still had to go into town to find food on an almost daily basis.

It took his eyes a good while to get used to the bright light flooding that narrow concrete slit. After which he spent a couple wistful minutes watching a ship glide out of the harbor and off into the unknown reaches of the Ocean. Of course, he kept back in the shadows, for fear of somehow being spotted from afar, but he loved to look out from this underground highland perch. If he had a telescope, he would be able to see Pullman Island— which he would be visiting all too soon— from here. Before he found the hidden level of the Ruins, he had sometimes wondered what was up there, behind those mysterious concrete slabs up on the bank, where he could see narrow little windows. From this now obscure, hidden place, he could watch ships sail in and out from different parts of the Triangle State, and the vast reaches of the Ocean beyond… Then the fierce growl of this belly brought him back to the here and now, and he sighed, stretching and yawning as he turned back to his bedcorner.

Yet again, he was going to put his ass on the line just to bring back table-scraps.

Tucked in his fraying belt was a power pistol, and tucked away in several nooks and crannies of his hideout were several stashes of power clips. He kept them in two sets: one set was used (and he had no idea how much power was left), and new clips that were at full power. He always kept his pistol armed with one of the latter. He also had a couple other pistols and rifles hidden in the dark maze beyond, just in case.

Little did he know, but years before he ever set foot in the Triangle State, this place had once been used as a base by a group of guerrillas who had escaped from the mines. It was these freedom fighters who brought down the Authority’s wrath on the Works— already a de facto home for the homeless— and reduced it to the Ruins. Had no idea that he wasn’t the first to wield that power pistol against its original owners.

In the corner, where he spent every night shivering on the cold stone, dreaming of sand and sun, was the flashlight he always kept close to him in the darkness of the tunnels. He would want that handy at the entrance when he returned; by now he knew his way around in the dark, but he still kept it close at hand for emergencies. And he wasn’t too keen on losing it in the dark either, given that he very nearly ended up as some guard dog’s chew toy getting ahold of it in the first place.

He picked it up, heading into the tunnels that were once hallways, switching it on briefly to make sure the batteries were still good. He also had a couple hard-won stashes of power cells hidden down here, too, along with various odds and ends he had managed to get his hands on over the years.

Though he knew the way by heart, he also remembered that it was the sound of dripping water that first led him to where he now went. Ever deeper he walked, skirting holes and small piles of rubble, until he came into a cavernous chamber whose floor was spotted with scattered puddles. This room lent every sound a deep atonal echo, robbed of any warmth by metal and concrete. The far wall of the chamber was crisscrossed with pipes, most of them broken, leaning at various angles. A few still ran unbroken, but Justin knew that nothing flowed through them anymore.

Only one was still running.

Trying to keep his feet dry, Justin made his way over to a pipe running at about waist-level. There was a large metal valve wheel, and he knew he only had to give it about a three-quarters turn to get a modest flow of water. He never gave it more than a full turn, though, fearing that someone might notice a decrease in water somewhere. He had no idea why this one was still running, or if anyone actually received anything on the other end, but he wasn’t about to give the Authority any excuses to start poking around his subterranean home; he had enough trouble with them above ground.

After filling up a chipped plastic cup he kept near the pipe, he splashed his face a couple times, then cupped his hands and took several long draughts. Feeling refreshed, and more awake, he made his way back through the tunnels.

At some point, he turned a different way from where he came from, ultimately arriving at the entrance to his secret hideaway. He set the flashlight down, took one last swig of water, then set the cup down as well. Hidden in the rubble was a backup power pistol he kept waiting there, just in case.

Thanks to the Triangle State Authority’s Streetrat Subsistence Diet, Justin was just as scrawny was he was when he was a little kid, so he had scarcely had to alter the entrance since he first stumbled upon it.

Here there were gaping gaps in the ceiling, revealing patches of sky and trees. A couple rooms over, he found the ragged edge of a thick foundation, leading up to the ground in easy-to-climb steps. Looking cautiously to make sure no one else was about, he quickly ascended the steps and emerged into the woods above. Seeing the coast was still clear, he stepped onto one of the old paths and made his way to the shantytown below.

On the surface, things appeared to be set to go just like so many days before it, except for one small detail: Justin had made a little change of plans.

To most, the Works was a lonely place, but to Justin Black, it was a welcome reprieve from all the assholes he had to put up with on the rest of the island. Under the Works was the only place he had ever felt safe, but now even that might be taken away from him. At first he had dismissed it as rumor, but he had been overhearing an increasing amount of talk— and from all the wrong people— about the Triangle State Authority planning to tear down the old Works and build new Works on the same site. Even then he had held out the hope that it was all talk, as previous proposals had been over the years, but just the other day, he had caught sight of a survey team snooping around the aboveground portions of the Ruins.

Justin knew his days here were numbered.

“…When I realized that there were two of them, I thought I was dead for sure!” Max told Justin. “I thought I had everything well in hand, but I hadn’t planned on two of them.”

“Damn, Max!” Justin laughed. “You’re nuts!”

And not for the first time in this particular conversation. After a while Justin had tired of telling Max about his life in the Triangle State for the time being, so Max was telling him about his confrontation with the devilfish. He still wasn’t quite sure if Max was pulling his leg, but if it was true, then as far as he was concerned that made his new friend either the boldest person he knew, or the stupidest, he couldn’t make up his mind which. Of course, Max had promised to show him the creatures’ beaks later.

Since breakfast, they had walked a considerable stretch of the beach as they talked. Max was giving his new friend a literal tour of his world, and Justin was giving Max a narrative tour of his. Bandit, of course, was still keeping his distance from Justin, but at least he wasn’t acting so jumpy anymore. Max took that as a good sign.

“Well,” Max told him, “I promised my father I’d give his laser sword back, you know… in case I ever ran into him again.”

“I still say you’re crazy,” Justin replied.

“Besides,” said Max, “It would’ve been a lot harder to survive here without it. And I needed to figure out a way to keep using the pond again, anyway.”

“So how did you get out of that?” Justin wanted to know how Max managed to best a big bad devilfish when he was out of ammo. Of course, he could have told Max to change power clips; where he came from, going in half-assed will get you killed. But he was far more interested in hearing how Max got out of this one.

“For a moment, I thought I was gonna die,” said Max. As he had gone on with his story, he began to realize how easy it was to laugh about a life-or-death situation that now lay behind him. No mistake, he had been terrified back then— one with any less fortitude or strength of will would likely have soiled himself— but only a hint of that fear lingered now. “It’s just, I went though so much trouble— I even got Dad’s laser sword back— I just couldn’t give up without a fight. I don’t know what came over me, but the fear just… went away. I just attacked the devilfish with my laser sword and chopped it to pieces. I saw my chance and took it.”

Justin walked along quietly for a moment. He had seen a dead creature hanging in the market-place on Benton Island that matched Max’s description of a devilfish, only where he came from it was called an octopus. And he had overheard the stories of some of the seafarers who lived there, and those who passed through.

Then he paused, saying, “Wait a minute! I thought you said the laser sword was out of power.”

“It was,” Max told him, “but it’s a pulse weapon, remember? Just like your laser staff.”

“Oh yeah.” Justin had always found his staff to be a useful practice weapon, for no other reason than that it never completely ran out of power

He had practiced with both the rifles and pistols in his hideout, but had to use “spark shots” because he couldn’t afford to waste power clips. It was a tedious process, loading a clip, then unloading and firing a shot with the latent “spark” of energy left in the weapon. He had to move quickly, because the spark wouldn’t linger for long, and it scarcely left a mark on whatever it hit. (Didn’t have much in the way of range, either.) Even so, he had discovered that he had a natural talent, and he had continued to perfect his aim.

Justin smiled to himself. Later on, he would have to show his new friend just how good a shot he was.

“So how good are you with a staff?” Max asked.

Justin couldn’t come up with an immediate answer to that one; his usual bravado had deserted him when it came to this matter. Until his final days in the Triangle State, he would have fancied himself pretty damn good. But after Trevor’s little reality check, he didn’t feel so hot about his staff-fighting skills. And Max had said that he trained with a staff. Given how tough he was hand-to-hand…

“I know!” said Max, excitement written all over his face. “We can spar against each other later!” It had been years since Max had faced another opponent. This would be a great opportunity to see just how far he had come in his training.

“Uh, yeah,” Justin replied, hoping Max wouldn’t beat him too bad.

“Hey Justin!” said Max, veering over into the foliage, “There are some good berries in here. Wanna stop for lunch?”

“Sure. Why not.”

So they stopped for lunch, and Max told him that later he would show him both of the devilfish beaks he had kept as both tools and trophies, and Justin, wanting to change the subject from sparring, agreed to resume his tale.

Looking back, Justin should have recognized his own peril, for everything was going all too smoothly that morning.

Of course, as such days tend to go, his mind was not on that line of thought. He took his every move in stride, but still found himself uncommonly pleased with how well things were going. Though he would not have considered it such until much later, today was indeed Justin Black’s lucky day, for, though he would pass through many hardships along the way, the path he chose that morning would ultimately lead him to escape and freedom.

After all these years, Justin had come to haunt Benton Island, a ghost in a land already over-populated with uneasy spirits. A phantom vagrant for whom most people’s attention seemed to slide off of like water off a shanty’s tin roof. He knew there were limits to how much he could get away with, but as long as he didn’t do anything to draw too much attention to himself, he could remain unnoticed by most people. Though he gave no conscious thought to this strange gift. When he was out and about, he was always on the lookout for trouble, always afraid of getting caught.

For there were a few guards whom he had had trouble with before, and they did seem to keep an eye out for him, unlike most people. He could often go for a couple weeks at a time avoiding them, but when any of them did catch up with him, those bastards were his biggest source of trouble. It was like a game, he would later come to think of it, but one whose consequences could be deadly serious.

He had managed to sneak in and out of one of the groves, leaving with two large bunches of bananas. Unpursued, which was a hard thing to pull off this close to harvest. The guards from the other islands always called Benton the Banana Republic, and he guessed that he was now eating the reason why. The island was a major source of local food and a modest port of trade. Over the years, he had observed that the TSA treated everything, even its own people, as a commodity.

The Crystal Islands, as the TSA had named them for their uncommonly large motherlodes of plasma crystals, marked one corner of the Triangle State, of which Benton was the frontier outpost. The Authority’s power reached from Crawford (where the Board of Directors resided) to the military base on Belvidere Island to Justin’s home on Benton. And everything in between. Beyond Belvidere there be Cyexians.

The last, but by no means least, corner of the TSA’s little empire, the island chain where the plasma crystals were mined. The jewels in the Authority’s iron crown. The “Banana Republic” hung at the far end of the cluster, and was the poorest in its supply of crystals. Even so, the TSA still kept a very visible military presence there.

No one seemed to know from whence the Authority came, at least according to what few historical accounts existed, though it seemed to have been there forever. Not more than a century, surely, but their arrival brought technology (and a hell of a lot of trouble) with it. Though well before his time, the locals’ second “revolution” came to a bloody and unexpected end when the Board of Directors financed more troops, more weapons, and all the mercenaries they could round up. The most callous and ruthless mercenaries money can buy. Assassins and bounty hunters and professional soldiers of fortune from such far-flung places as New Cali— even pirates— to augment their army.

Ever since, they kept a tight hold on all of the island’s resources, especially its chief export. The bananas Justin got were still ripe, which meant that they would be good for a few days. He dared not eat a single one until he got back to his hideout, then he munched a couple down and hung the rest from a twisted iron rod jutting out of the ruined wall at the entrance. This was the most critical score he had made in a long time. Without it, there was no point going forward with the rest of his plan.

He had then gone down to his quarters and gathered the rest of his supplies. Stuffed his pockets with power clips. Loaded his flashlight, a couple cans of food, a few other useful items into a worn shoulder bag someone had left unattended a few months ago. Filled a battered canteen with fresh water from the pipe.

And set out to meet his destiny.

He had become increasingly certain that the Authority really was going to tear down the Works, and knew he had no other choice. He would have to find a way to escape the Triangle State. Not that he hadn’t tried before; he had been caught three times in the last two years trying to stow away on various ships. Fortunately, the people who had caught him, having seen for themselves what the Triangle State Authority was like, hadn’t the heart to turn him over, and had merely sent him on his way.

This time, though, he had no choice but to succeed.

Justin now wandered through the shantytown of Benton (renamed after the Chairman of the Board who annexed Benton Island so many years ago), near the docks. The place was only somewhat crowded at this time of day, as most of the people here had work to do. It didn’t take him long to reach the docks.

Where he had to be fairly careful and keep a low profile, as there were a lot more guards around than usual. Including a few he knew he absolutely had to stay away from.

He soon found out what all the guards were about. Along one of the docks he was searching, he came upon a Cyexian ship. She was a small, two-masted vessel her owner had named Eye of the Storm, in true Cyexian fashion.

Right next to a currently unoccupied schooner he had set his eyes on.

If Justin had only slipped aboard the other ship when he had the chance, there would be no telling where he might have ended up instead of the Isle of Paradise. But in the end, simple curiosity changed Justin Black’s course for the rest of his days.

For better of worse.

It was more than just the fact that he had never seen a Cyexian ship up close before, it was also the voices he heard from within.

“…have to be sitting on this stuff, Slash? Even with the sub—”

The woman’s voice was cut off by a loud crash, and a cry of pain.

A second female voice— one that stunned Justin with its sheer hostility— cut in with: “Never speak my name here, fool! And if you ever mention the other ship here again, I’ll rip out your tongue!”

“Y-yes, Your— yes, Blaze…” That voice was the most whipped, most subdued, Justin had ever heard in all his years in the Triangle State.

And that other voice was enough for him. The name Slash was notorious even out here in the Banana Republic. Now he knew he wanted nothing to do with this.

He stood there for a moment too long in indecision, then started back toward the other ship—

“And where the hell do you think you’re going, kid?”

Justin stopped in mid stride at the command of that voice. Stopped him in his tracks as surely as if its owner was pointing a gun at him.

Which in this case it wasn’t, as he discovered as he slowly turned around to face his antagonist. At least that was some relief. Not much, given who he was now certain he was dealing with, but it offered a glimmer of hope of getting out of this without making a scene.

He tried to act casual as the three Cyexians leisurely closed the distance between them, but had to admit even to himself that it wasn’t working. Though he stood nearly petrified, his brain at least started moving again, and upon realizing the secret leaked in that last conversation, that he was going to have to try harder. That a group of Cyexian pirates had likely either stolen something, or might be trying to smuggle something in, was no great secret. Hence, all the guards that day. But that Slash herself dared to set foot in the Triangle State…

That was the kind of secret some people would kill over.

In that cold-sweating pause, which to him felt way too long to be real, he took in this trio who had taken such an unhealthy interest in him of late. One woman hung back from the other two, likely covering them. For a moment, Justin remembered his own power pistol, tucked into his belt and concealed beneath the worn rags of an old discarded jacket, out of reach, then forgot it. May as well be on the other side of the Ocean for all the good it would do him against ones such as these.

The next pirate was slight of build, but had a heavy disrupter pistol hanging at her hip. Quiet and mousey, and seeming horribly out of place in such rough company. Her eyes betrayed something bordering on innocence, and also suggested a keen intellect. He guessed right away who had spilled the beans, for she had a swelling knot on one side of her forehead.

And he knew without question who had meted out that little touch of discipline; there was no mistaking who was in charge of this crew. Or who had spoken to him one impossibly long moment ago. Though she wasn’t exactly what he was expecting.

For starters, he had been expecting her to be taller, and decked out in somewhat more elaborate garb. It took him a moment to catch up with the fact that if she was indeed visiting in secret, of course she would be wearing some kind of disguise. She wore a light grey cloak with the hood draped over her head, and the rest of her clothing in no way stood out against the rest of her ragtag crew.

And her face. Even as he watched her expression shift from casual hostility to a suspicious sort of curiosity, he couldn’t avert his eyes from the sleek, black flames tattooed up both sides of her face. Nobody had said anything about tattoos. Not in any description he had ever heard.

Justin would never be sure how long that ominous moment really lasted before she spoke again, demanding, “Well?”

“I…” Justin knew this was getting off to a really bad start. “I’d never seen a Cyexian ship before” (true enough) “and…”

“You weren’t planning on taking anything that didn’t belong to you, now were you, little streetrat?”

“From you guys?” Justin remarked. “I’d have to be outta my mind!” Again, she had asked him a question he could answer with the truth. The real question, though, was did she know what he had heard.

“So, what’s in the bag?”

“Stuff,” Justin replied, trying not to betray how relieved he was at this change of topic.

Though Mouse seemed to look at him with the pleading kind of disapproval of one who has seen too many scenes like this play out before her eyes: You’re pressing your luck, boy…

“Fair enough,” Slash muttered. “You live on this island?”

“Yeah.”

“Know it very well?”

“Yeah… I’ve been here for years…”

“Blaze” gazed at him for another of those long moments, appraising him. Watching him squirm under her harsh scrutiny. Then she asked the important question.

“So, how did a little vagrant you manage to get in here?”

“I… sneaked past the guards. You’re not gonna rat on me, are you?”

He glanced at Mouse, who appeared surprised and confused, seeming to be trying to second-guess what her boss had in mind, finally settling for a look of detached curiosity.

“Depends…” Blaze smirked, savoring the suspense Justin couldn’t hide no matter how hard he tried, before she continued. “Would you be willing to do me a favor in return, little man?”

“Well, I guess so…” Justin thought about it, then added, trying not to sound too suspicious, “What kind of favor?”

Blaze smiled. She liked her minions pliable, and not overly shrewd, but she would have been disappointed to find herself dealing with a candidate who wasn’t at least smart enough to ask that question.

“How much do you know about the town on the other side of the island?”

“Bates?”

“Bates.”

Bates. Once the village of Gwanga, now just another shantytown whose name was erased by the Triangle State Authority. Justin didn’t get out that way very often, but he knew his way around, and he overheard enough stories to have an idea what was going on over there. He knew that Bates had a long history of harboring guerrilla movements that resisted the TSA’s authority, in the Crystal Islands in particular, and in the Triangle State in general. Of course, the Authority had repeatedly raided the town over the years, but some of the resistance members always managed to remain at large anyway. If not for Gwanga, Bates would probably be of even less importance to the TSA than Benton.

“Then you must know about Gwanga,” Blaze continued, all the while leading him by the shoulder, herding him back toward her ship. “Well, we have a shipment I think they would be very interested in.”

“What’s in it for me?”

For her part, Mouse seemed to be trying to look the other way.

“Deal,” was Blaze’s short, no-nonsense reply.

Now the ball was back in Justin’s court. She would let him open the negotiation, but he knew not to push his luck. Especially if this Cyexian really was who he feared she was.

“Could you get me passage out of this hellhole?”

She pondered his offer for a moment, then told him, “Passage is expensive in these waters. I can pay you seventy-five Triangle State credits. Twenty-five now, the rest after you’ve finished my little errand.”

“What good is money if I can’t spend it?” Justin demanded, for no one would believe a single credit of it was his, not a vagrant… Then he wished he hadn’t said that, expecting “Blaze” to knock him flat on his ass any second.

Mouse apparently expected the same thing, for she winced visibly at that last remark, bracing for the blow.

Instead, Blaze’s face broadened in a vicious grin, and she said, “You’ve got a point. Perhaps if you did me more than one favor, I would be willing to get you out of this ‘hellhole’.”

Justin stood there for a moment, fearing she was still going to kick his ass.

“I was originally going to pay you to move part of the shipment,” she continued, “but let’s see if you can do the whole thing.” She seemed to instinctively see Justin’s talents for what they were, and the longer they stood here, the more convinced she was that he had just what it took. “If you pull it off, I’ll see if I can convince someone they need a streetrat on their ship. How does that sound?”

“How many runs do you want?”

“Three runs,” Blaze told him. “Three runs to freedom… Mister?…”

“Justin,” he replied. “Justin Black.”

“Blaze. So what do you say?”

“Make it a good crew I leave with, and I’ll do it.”

Mouse’s expression suggested that he had finally gone a little too far this time.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Blaze replied curtly. “I’ll get you whatever damn ship will have you. Unless, of course, you’d like to discuss the contents of your bag with those guards over there…”

“And I’m sure they’ll be very interested in your little shipment.”

Mouse looked more tense than ever, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

For a moment, Blaze did look like she was going to reach out and strangle him, and Justin wondered if he would even live long enough to tell the guards anything, but then she cracked a smile and laughed, saying, “Kid, you’ve got balls. More so than most of these so-called men.”

Pure salesmanship. But she wondered if perhaps this Justin was more shrewd than she had given him credit for. Or was he just desperate? Either way, what it boiled down to was that he had a lot less to lose at the hands of the TSA than she did. She was not accustomed to having her own threats backfire on her.

On top of that, she resented being one-upped by a little boy.

As they shook hands, her grip was so tight, for a moment he was afraid she was going to break his hand out of spite. And so it was agreed: one way or the other, Justin Black was going to get the hell out of the Triangle State. Just not the way he thought.

So relieved was he to be away from her, that he could hardly focus on avoiding the guards.

“Don’t fuck with me, boy,” Blaze muttered as Justin wandered beyond earshot, “or you won’t live to see next week…”

It was not a threat. It was a promise.

She turned and boarded her ship, Mouse and the other pirate flanking her. Once below deck, Mouse slumped into a seat, and “Blaze” paced back and forth in thought.

“Do you really think that brat can pull it off?” the other Cyexian asked.

“He damn well better.” But Slash believed he could. “Hell, he’s desperate enough.” In all her years, she had never met anyone quite so determined to get out of the Triangle State. And that was saying something. “Besides, we need a fresh face. The TSA has found out our last couple errand-boys.”

She continued to pace, trying not to show how much the “tattoos” Mouse had painted on her face and arms bugged her. She knew that without them, the Authority’s agents would recognize her all too easily. Here, Slash was known as Blaze, and on her rare visits, she served as her own “emissary” to the Triangle State.

Like the other clan leaders, she had her own spies in these islands. (Despite competing agendas, the clans all agreed not to interfere in each other’s business in this dangerous realm, in the interest of secrecy.) Not that she cared about agreements; it was just that it was getting harder and harder to get any reliable information out of this realm.

She had heard growing rumors that the TSA was preparing to go on the offensive against her clan. Armed with this bit of info, she had her own nasty surprise in store for them. Chairman Fitzgerald’s little “préemptive strike” against her was going to be pre-empted by a little trouble on the homeland front. Putting some of her clan’s surplus arms in the hands of her enemy’s enemies would keep them too busy within their own borders to concern themselves with her for a while.

Let the natives have their little rebellion. The TSA will crush them in time. They always do.

Though she still prided herself on keeping their secret weapon (Death From Below, The Sub Formerly Known As U-553) a secret, even after all these years, she increasingly felt that she had gotten too accustomed to setbacks these days. And while, on one hand, being the only Cyexian with a sub gave her an edge, on the other, having a “secret weapon” also meant that all eyes— even those of her fellow clan leaders— were more and more frequently on her. Even before that fateful night years ago, it had been getting harder and harder to maneuver.

Thinking back to that night still pissed her off, even after all this time. How Robert’s final attack had cracked a couple ribs— she would spend the next several weeks dealing with one mutiny scheme after another. What really infuriated her was that Robert remained unaccounted for after the sinking of The Edge. At least she had learned that Angus had somehow made it back to Kinsasha, and she had seen Ron die with her own eyes, and Robert’s little brat had fled right into the depths of the storm. Now the boy and his father were both question marks, along with the two missing attack boats, and the Ocean was well known for posing more questions than it would ever answer.

Most vexing of all, that it had all happened on the eve of what should have been her greatest triumph. That years of waiting and planning had been undone by a child. And still being undone, every single day she had been forced to wait in the meantime, stuck in a holding pattern. While greater Layoshan vigilance, the schemes of her so-called allies in the other clans, and the machinations of the Triangle State Authority kept her occupied on all fronts.

Slash needed something to go right on this visit. Little did she know just how right. And, just like Justin, she would set back the TSA’s plans and get the break she needed. Just not the way she expected.

As she strode back and forth, lost in her own thoughts, her crew stood by silently, waiting.

Mouse leaned back, enjoying the cool sea breeze blowing in from the cabin window—

She froze for a second, trying to regain her composure before Slash turned back around. The cabin window. Had been open the whole time. Even before they stepped out. And now she found herself wondering if that little tramp Justin Black had overheard any of their earlier conversation.

Not that she was going to say anything at this point. She had already taken her lumps for this voyage. Though she might be the only one anyone might consider to be Slash’s friend, even Mouse was afraid of her.

Though her mother had named her Nemesis, she had been called “Mouse” since she was a little girl. The name had simply stuck, and much to her chagrin, it was still an apt name. She wasn’t much of a fighter, still she had been there that stormy night, on the bridge of Death From Below, near the helm, threatening to shoot a gunner who had tried to fire on The Edge while Slash was still fighting her duel with Robert.

Not much of a fighter, but over the years Slash had found other important uses for her.

As Slash finished contemplating and began explaining her plans for Justin’s delivery, Mouse made a mental note to close the cabin window when Slash wasn’t looking…

Justin was right. He really wasn’t as hot with a staff as he used to think.

After telling Max about his run-in with Slash, Justin had again tired of talking, so Max suggested sparring. Since they were currently near the main portion of Max’s jungle training ground, he had fetched his staves. He had told Justin: “Sometimes I break a staff in training, so I always make an extra one, just in case.”

And he found out right away that Max had learned some vicious moves with that weapon, as well. He wondered if Trevor could fight like Max. Then again, unlike Trevor, Max had offered to teach him rather than kill him.

It only took a couple minutes of sparring for both of them to realize that they were each in a totally different league, skillwise.

Now Max had been teaching Justin the same basic moves Robert had taught him as a child. And Justin was catching on more quickly than he had hoped. The more he watched, the more he was convinced that the staff was the weapon Justin was made for.

“One thing I don’t get,” Max muttered, having turned back to mulling over Justin’s story while his friend continued to practice, “is since when did Slash have tattoos?” She certainly hadn’t had any the day he met her. “No one ever said anything about tattoos…”

“I don’t know,” Justin muttered, continuing to repeat a sequence of moves Max had shown him, “maybe she got them just lately?” To be honest, he had also never heard any descriptions that included tattoos, either. “Maybe they’re fake. Not real tattoos, just painted on or something… After all, she was using a different name in the Triangle State.”

“That’s probably it.” Now that Max thought about it, it made sense. Just another part of her disguise when visiting enemy territory. As he thought this, he glanced back over at Justin and said, “No, you need to swing a little higher. Remember, you’re coming down on your opponent’s head or collarbone.”

He walked over to Justin and stood before him, saying, “See where your staff hits me? Keep picturing me in front of you and aim for where my collar would be…”

And so Justin continued to train for a while. But then he got bored, having decided that he had learned as much as he could for one afternoon. So he asked his new companion about Layosha again.

And Max again tried to tell him about his former home, but kept having trouble finding the right words. Instead, the subject revolved back around to Justin’s smuggling run. And Justin again found himself in a talkative mood.

No one had ever really asked him if he had anything to say before.

In a land where all the laws were against him, Justin Black had become the only thing he could be: an outlaw.

His journey that night was really nothing more than the next step in a trend Justin’s life had been following since he first got left behind on Benton Island. There was no place for him in a realm like the Triangle State, and the TSA and its agents only seemed to be interested in stamping out people like himself. So, all along, he had merely done what he had to do to stay alive.

And now, to escape.

Of course, he nearly got cold feet, and the big adventure to be almost never was. After his initial meeting with Slash, he had beat a hasty retreat back to the Works, where he pigged out on a feast of bananas. Best damn meal he’d had in months. If nothing else, if he hadn’t eaten them, the bugs would have anyway. He didn’t dare eat out in the open; if any guards came along, they would just take it from him and eat it themselves if it was anything good, taunting him with every mmm! and ahh!, and if it wasn’t to their liking, they would just toss it on the ground and grind it into the dirt.

Finally, he summoned the nerve to prepare, focusing only on the thought of escape. Nothing else mattered to him at this point, he hated the Triangle State that much. If Slash could hook him up with a ship out of here, he was willing to run the gauntlet for a shot at freedom.

Of course, he had his doubts about whether or not she would keep her word. Though part of him felt like he was being played for a chump, he tried to put those thoughts out of his mind and reminded himself that he was doing her a major favor. Of course she would get him passage, surely it wasn’t as expensive as she had made it sound.

If nothing else, he reminded himself that Slash didn’t know where his hideout was, so if things went sideways, he could try to take the money and run. Gwanga was willing to pay a lot for Slash’s arms shipment, and if he came to believe she was going to cross him, that money could probably buy him passage without her help. Such thoughts were fleeting, though, for whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was terrified of the thought of having Slash after him.

Besides, the ship he was on had no food, and he couldn’t eat weapons, he reflected bitterly, so there was no point in taking the ship and running.

Still, he didn’t know what to do, so he just kept telling himself to keep pushing forward, and he would figure it out as he went along. Like he always had. That, and if he could just escape from this realm, he would no longer have to worry about Slash, even if he somehow pissed her off.

For now, he continued to focus on the task before him, reminding himself that if he screwed up here, he would have both Slash and the Authority on his ass.

His time for considering such things was brief, though. Even before he set out, he had been given little time to think as Slash and Company briefed him on his name, ship, cover story, and other important details of his smuggling runs. Now he was quite certain that a patrol would come along at any moment, and he would have to explain himself to them. He kept running through the script, hoping they would buy it.

For after doubling back to the port and sneaking in the day after he met Slash, the Cyexians stuffed him in a crate. Once Eye of the Storm was far enough out of sight of the Crystal Islands, he was let out and given a ship’s uniform, and presented with a small outrigger that bore the same name as the uniform. Once he reentered the Triangle State, he would call himself Jordan Robertson; he would be a ship’s boy for the crew of the Sea Breeze, which some of the Cyexians (also in disguise) posed as the rightful crew of. It was the first time in about seven years that he got to wear clothes that weren’t ragged-out. Though nobody said anything openly, he quickly got the impression that his significance in this operation was the fact that he was not a Cyexian, and so the guards would not be nearly as suspicious of him.

Fortunately for him, the Sea Breeze outrigger was a fairly small vessel, or else he would have been in trouble. Years ago, he had been forced to work on a ship a little bigger then this, and he had taken in everything he could of its operation. This had been only a few weeks before he found the hidden wing of the Ruins, and though he was being punished for stealing a guard’s bag, he actually enjoyed the parts when the crew supervisors weren’t yelling at him, pretending he was off on the high seas. Away from the TSA, searching for a ship he could seldom remember the name of anymore, just for the hell of it. During his three-month sentence (which he had ended a little early with his successful escape to the Ruins), the only other bonus he got besides actually getting to eat every day without having to run, was that he learned nearly all of the basics of maneuvering a small vessel, and the Cyexians had given him a little refresher course anyway.

He was in no hurry, but he had to keep up some semblance of a pace, or else look suspicious. Off in the distance, just barely within reach of his light, was the buoy that marked his next delivery. The buoys were markers the TSA had put in place years ago, and they hadn’t changed much over the years, so all the fishermen in Bates knew where they were.

Which meant that they could be the “X” that would mark the spot.

Justin reached over and pulled a lever that had been rigged to the boat, releasing his payload.

He winced at the bubbles that chugged up from the sides of the outrigger, glad that there was no one in sight. The contraband was being hauled by cables underneath the boat, which could be released with a series of hidden “levers” that had been modified to look like part of the rigging. All he had to do was release each payload as he passed certain buoys.

The “fishermen” of Bates would take care of the rest. Now that he thought about it, he found he liked the idea of the villagers making such a catch, wondering if they might start a real rebellion this time. He wasn’t sure why Slash was helping Gwanga, but he could see she at least had an ingenious plan for doing it.

After dropping his payload, he drifted along again, heading for the next buoy. With each drop, his anxiety had increased. So far, he hadn’t met with a single patrol, and he knew that as he got closer to the island, his luck would finally run out.

And run out it did, a few minutes later.

He was within a stone’s throw of the final buoy when the patrol boat came in sight and Justin found himself fixed in the sharp glare of a searchlight. It took an act of willpower to resist his instincts and not take off. He reminded himself that he was now Jordan Robertson, and he had never heard of anyone called Justin Black. In spite of his disguise, he silently pleaded to whatever gods there were that watched over smugglers and outlaws that none of the guards would be ones he recognized.

And the patron gods of smuggling smiled upon him that night, at least in that particular regard. Still, even though none of the guards would turn out to be the ones he was most worried about, they were Authority pigs all the same. But at least the wouldn’t have to worry about anyone recognizing him as the Streetrat of Benton and further complicating his mission. Though he did not yet know this, and so he continued sweating.

“Identify yourself!” a voice boomed on a megaphone. “Unknown Vessel, you have entered Triangle State Authority waters! You will stand down and identify yourself immediately! Identify yourself, Unknown Vessel, or prepare to be boarded!”

Then there was screech of feedback that forced Justin to cover his ears, as well as squint his eyes against the glare.

Aside from his laser staff (which he had kept hidden in one of the high boots that were part of his uniform), he had no weapons. The Sea Breeze was a shipping vessel, and, as such, the ship’s boy would not be armed. Even the bogus crew Slash planted back on the ship were minimally armed; unbeknownst to him, Death From Below waited quietly for anyone foolish enough to attack her Trojan Horse crew, running silent, running deep.

It was only after the searchlight shifted to other parts of the outrigger that Justin was finally able to clearly see the faces of his antagonists, taking some relief in the fact none of them were the “trouble” guards he had to watch out for in the shantytown. In fact, he didn’t even recognize any of them. Yet he refused to relax, as if he needed to be reminded of the danger. In his experience, all TSA soldiers were trouble— some were just a bigger pain in the ass than others.

“Who are you!?” the guard demanded again, this time without the megaphone. Now that they were within earshot, he instead slung a power rifle on a shoulder strap. The rest of the crew was similarly armed, including one who manned a quadra-barrel cannon near the bow. That gun alone would be enough to sink a little ship like this in short order, and Justin knew it.

For his part, he just hoped they couldn’t tell how much sweat was pouring down the back of his shirt.

“Hey! We’re talking to you! What’s your name, boy?” The guard snapped his light back in Justin’s face, and he held up his arm to ward off the piercing shaft of light.

“J… Jordan. Jordan Robertson.” Justin silently cursed himself for nearly blowing his own cover.

The guards laughed, hefting their rifles. Then most of them shouldered their sidearms, seemingly amused at the boy’s trepidation. The guard with the light laughed again, telling him, “You don’t have to be scared of these, kid.”

“Not unless you’re pirates, rebels or troublemakers!” added another.

“So,” the other guard resumed, “what’s your business in the Crystal Islands?”

Justin took a moment to regain his composure before he spoke. “I’m with the crew of the Sea Breeze. My captain sent me to pick up supplies. This is Benton Island, isn’t it?”

Even as he spoke, the guards ran several searchlights up and down the length of the outrigger. Of course, Slash had sent him “empty-handed” so his story would stick. Still, they could grill him, possibly for amusement, before letting him pass, and he was afraid they would somehow discover his remaining contraband.

His chances were shrinking with every passing second, and it took another effort of willpower to not look down, for fear that his hidden cargo was somehow visible.

Through all of this, the lead guard eyed him, finally saying, “Mr Robertson, this is just a routine check. There’s no need to be so nervous if you have nothing to hide. It would have been easier if you’d entered port during the daytime, you know.”

In order to avoid looking down, and possibly giving away the perilous secret bobbing below, Justin glanced from one armed guard to the next, not at all liking the odds he was taking in. Should this go sideways, he knew he wouldn’t get even halfway to the helm before they gunned him down. He felt so naked without his power pistol, and he still couldn’t figure out what to say to the guards.

Just when he certain they were going to board him, and somehow discover his secret, and capture him, and his bid for escape would end here, one of the guards said, “Give him a break, man. He’s just a kid. We should be keeping an eye out for Cyexians, not snot-nosed ship’s boys.”

The other guard thought about it for a moment, then asked Justin, “You’re really that nervous, huh?”

“Yeah,” Justin replied, “I’m sorry,” as he thought of a way out of this situation, “it’s just that guns make me nervous.”

True enough. Guns (at least when in the hands of others) did, in fact, make him nervous. Doubly so when he himself was unarmed.

“Ha!” quipped one of the other soldiers, “Since when do they send the ship’s boy at this hour?”

“But the Captain said I could!” Justin protested. “I worked really hard just so he would let me go ashore this time!”

“Lay off him,” said one guard, and another added, “He’s just a kid.”

Fortunately for Justin, the leader seemed to buy it, saying to his companions, “Come on. This kid’s no trouble.” Then he turned back to Justin, saying, “You’re free to go, boy. Move along.”

Justin returned to the helm as the patrol turned. He watched for as long as he dared, knowing instinctively that if he lingered for too long next to the buoy, he might yet arouse their suspicion. He cursed them under his breath for effectively sitting there watching him in the place where he was supposed to make his last drop, it was maddening.

Yet just when he thought the game was up, he came up with an idea. Hoping his luck would hold on the return trip— and that his dangling delivery wouldn’t drag on the bottom if he stuck to the deeper part of the harbor— he restarted the engines. This wasn’t part of the plan, but he could think of no other way to fulfill his purpose.

Had she known, Slash would have been very pleased with how well she had chosen her new delivery boy.

Though he passed a couple more patrols on the way in, no one else troubled him. After clearing docking space (which Slash’s crew had briefed him about, as well), he wandered into the Shantytown of Bates. The place had scarcely changed since the last time he found himself out this way.

Then again, nothing seemed to change in the Triangle State. Same shit, different day, as the guards sometimes put it.

He found it strange passing through Bates as Jordan Robertson. After so many years of being Justin Black, he kept expecting trouble at every turn. Now he walked out in the open for the first time since he was a child. If not for the terrible risks he still faced in this place, he might have had time to enjoy his brief new life as something other than a streetrat.

It took all of his will to resist years of habit, and not try to hide and slink around. He tried to relax as much as he could, reminding himself that he was here on legitimate business. That someday soon, he would never again have to slink around everywhere, like the alleycat spooks that most of the guards and merchants took any opportunity to kick around.

The Anchor Lounge was still right where he remembered it, a large, glorified shanty with a big rusty anchor leaning over the entrance. Even at this hour, dim golden light and muted strains of conversation still leaked through chinks in the rickety old building. There was a burly man hovering near the door, and Justin knew from observation that guys like that were put there to tell guys like him to get lost, kid, among other things.

Fortunately, “Jordan’s” contact was hanging out near the narrow alley between the Anchor and some other establishment whose exact nature he didn’t care to know. Slash had given him a description, and this man fit the bill perfectly. Of course, there was only one way to be sure; Slash had also given him a password.

Justin was about to make his move when a trio of guards stepped out of the Anchor. Not wanting any trouble when he was so close to goal— and so far away from his ship— Justin just kept on walking and came around for another pass.

This time there were no guards about, so he approached his contact.

According to Slash, the man’s name was Jimbo. He wasn’t much taller than Justin, but deeply tanned, his lineage likely that of those who dwelt in these islands before there even was a Triangle State Authority, and dressed in the shabby garb of a fisherman. Still, he noted, an improvement over anything he had worn in the last seven years or so. Which made sense to Justin, if he was connected with Gwanga. Even so, the man didn’t strike him as the “guerrilla” type, and he began to wonder if he didn’t have the wrong guy.

Then the man said to him: “Fishing’s slow these days. Spare a credit?”

To which Justin paused for a moment, remembering his line, then replied: “Don’t give up, I’m sure it’ll pick up soon. By the way, do you know where I can buy some supplies for my crew?”

“Perhaps,” the man, whom Justin was now fairly sure was Jimbo, said, fading back into the alleyway.

Justin followed, hoping he wasn’t drawing too much attention. At the other end of the alley, they came out on a quiet, deserted street.

“So,” Jimbo asked, “What’s your business?”

“My name is Jordan Robertson, and I’m with the crew of the Sea Breeze. My captain sent me ashore to purchase supplies.”

“Ah,” Jimbo replied, seeming to scrutinize Justin as much as Justin had eyed him earlier, “then you’ve come to the right place. I can hook you up with just about anything you’d need. You can call me Jimbo.”

“Good,” said Justin, both playing along with the script, as well as expressing his relief at having found the right party. Still, he had to resist the constant urge to glance back and forth down the street, part of him expected this to be a trap or something. “We’ll need the basics, mostly. The Captain gave me a list…”

He fished out the list, which was really an encoded message from Slash.

Jimbo scanned the list for a moment, then told Justin, “Well, Jordan, I think I can round all that up in a day, two at the most.”

“Good,” Justin replied. “I will tell my captain, and return tomorrow night. I take it we’ll meet here then?”

“No,” Jimbo replied, his tone changing markedly. He lowered his voice to where Justin could scarcely hear it, then said, “They know this place. We can’t meet here twice.” Then he resumed his previous just-doing-business tone, “Of course, if we meet out near the port, we won’t have to pack everything nearly as far. How does that sound, Mr Robertson?”

“Works for me,” Justin replied.

“Oh, and one more thing…” Jimbo leaned close to Justin. In a tone that sounded nothing like his Jimbo the Fisherman routine, he looked Justin right in the eye and told him, “If our catch isn’t there in the morning, don’t bother coming back.”

As he said this, Jimbo drew his finger across his throat in a familiar gesture. He and Justin stood there for a long moment in silence.

Then Jimbo smiled, turning away and saying in his previous pleasant manner, “Safe travels, young mariner!”

“You too…” Justin kept his voice steady, but shuddered with relief as he turned to walk away.

After that last conversation, the only thing on his mind was making that last drop on the way out, ensuring that no one could know that even a single part of the plan didn’t go exactly as planned…

“How much farther is it?” Justin panted yet again as they struggled up a steep incline.

“Not very,” Max replied, and hardly for the first time in this particular conversation.

The two of them trudged up the side of the mountain, Bandit wandering in and out of the foliage as they went. The sun had risen almost to noon; they had stayed up most of the night while Justin told Max about his smuggling runs, so they had slept in. Before breakfast, they had raced to the pond, and, as usual, Bandit won. At the pond Max had nearly stripped down before he remembered Justin. It had been years since there was another around, and he had grown accustomed to swimming in the nude. He had done what he could to keep his own dwindling supply of clothes going, and that sometimes included giving them a rest.

For a man who was always on the run, Justin was huffing and puffing at the end of the race.

Just like me, Max had reflected, when I first started training with Dad…

“What all can you see up there?” Justin asked.

“Everything,” Max replied. “The whole island.”

“From one spot?”

“There’s several places,” Max told him. “Just a little farther…”

A few minutes later, they reached the summit. After a moment of catching his breath, Justin looked up and saw the commanding view Max had told him of. A couple more steps, and he could see the entire stretch of beach where he washed up the other day, and the Ocean beyond for miles and miles.

“So, what do you think, Justin?”

“Umm… Why did we climb up here again?”

“To build up your endurance— and to see the island,” Max told him. “Why? Don’t you like the view?”

“Yeah… I don’t know…” Justin gazed out at the Ocean, wishing he could be out there. “Don’t you wanna go see what’s out there, Max?”

“All the time.”

Bandit nudged up against Max’s leg, and he reached down and scratched him right behind the ears, right where he seemed to like it most.

After a moment, Max asked him, “So, if the other two runs went okay, what went wrong?”

“Everything.”

No matter how long Justin thought about it, he still couldn’t piece together exactly what the hell happened that day. In the space of thirty seconds… Jimbo, Trevor, Slash… Too much… He had never even met Trevor before that day, and it turned out to be an acquaintance he could have done without.

Though both of his latter runs had been even less eventful than the first, he had still spent both of them thinking this was too easy, and not in a good way. Especially the final run, which he had to do in broad daylight. On the plus side, it was only the remnant of the contraband the Cyexians hadn’t been able to rig up room for on the first two runs, so there wasn’t much of it, and he had been able to drop it all well before he got within sight of Bates.

“I just knew things were going too smoothly,” he muttered.

“Hey, Justin,” Max said as he walked over to his Crow’s Nest tree, “wanna see what Paradise looks like from up here?”

“Why not?” Justin shrugged, then climbed up after him.

Bandit just looked at them, cocked his head, then flopped next to a rock in the sun.

Justin perched on a branch, just a little above Max. From up here, he could crane his neck around and see almost the entire island, and practically all of the surrounding waters. It almost gave him a touch of vertigo, seeing all of this from on high.

“Cool isn’t it?” Max asked. “…So, what happened when you went to get the money?”

“They knew,” Justin told him. “Somehow they knew. And that bastard Trevor was there, waiting…”

At the end of his final run, Jimbo was there waiting for him with a few other fishermen.

Little did he know they weren’t the only ones waiting. Jimbo’s men loaded the “supplies” that “Jordan” had “ordered” (part of Gwanga’s payment for Slash’s arms), mostly things that Slash’s clan was currently short on. It only took a few minutes to load the outrigger, and when they were finished, Justin suppressed a sigh of relief. Silently hoping he wasn’t celebrating too soon. His brief dealings with Gwanga were less harrowing than his run-ins with Slash or the night patrol. They seemed to sense his extreme dislike of the TSA, and his resentment, and at least they trusted that.

When his men were finished, Jimbo took off the backpack he was wearing, telling him, “Well, Jordan, we rounded up all the stuff you needed, and here’s that special order your Captain made…”

Jimbo unzipped the backpack, and Justin saw intermingled coins, wads of bills of many colors, and other items— a hodgepodge of currencies from many realms. Slash, of course, would use it to trade with passing ships. Perhaps even the Authority itself.

Justin smiled; he couldn’t help it at the thought of all these guys rising up against the Authority. But he understood full well that whatever Slash’s real motive, she wasn’t doing this out of the goodness of her heart; he was glad these guys were smart enough not to bring their ideals with them to the bargaining table.

Jimbo zipped it back up and handed it to him, saying, “Nice doin’ business with ya, Mr Robertson, tell your Captain—”

“Nobody move!” a harsh voice cut in.

Both Justin and Jimbo’s crew looked around in alarm and confusion as TSA guards sprang from a couple ships docked next to the outrigger. Justin wheeled around to see the owner of that voice step out of an equipment locker next to him. The young man, decked out in an officer’s uniform, pointed a power pistol at Justin and walked up to him as Jimbo’s men put their hands on their heads in accordance with one of the guards barking orders.

“Nice work, Jordan,” the young man told Justin. “You led us right to them.”

“If that really is your name…” Jimbo muttered.

“But… wait… I don’t even know this asshole…” Justin’s head reeled as he tried to explain to Jimbo that he hadn’t sold them out, while at the same time trying to figure out what exactly had happened. “Jimbo… I didn’t…”

Before Justin could stammer any further, something next to one of the ships blew up in a guard’s face with a barely audible “Shit!”

This was all the distraction Jimbo and his comrades needed to draw their own concealed weapons and open fire on the guards before they could regain the initiative. And Justin used the opportunity to swing the pack and nail the guard leader in the gut, knocking him down as he bolted for a gap in the scattering guards. He would never be able to fully account for why (beyond the simple Once a streetrat, always a streetrat), but as he fled the scene, he slung the backpack with Slash’s money over his shoulders as he ran.

“We’ve been set up!” shouted one of Jimbo’s men, “Retreat! Retreat!”

Even as he said this, a few more “fishermen” ducked behind various objects to lay down cover fire for them.

“Hey! Get back here, you son of a bitch!” cried the young TSA officer, whom Justin was now increasingly certain he had seen somewhere before. “I’ll kill you!”

He staggered to his feet and took off after Justin. Who dashed through the crowd as his pursuer fired several shots at him. Unfortunately, once the shouting gave way to shooting, people began taking evasive action, quickly reducing his cover.

At least the other remaining guards had taken after Jimbo’s comrades.

Though he’d had no real plan to take the money and run, he had decided of late that he was willing to risk the wrath of both Slash and the Authority for a chance at escape. He knew he had no chance at stealing a ship with so many guards around, so he decided to get out of Bates, where he could hopefully give them the slip out in the woods. And if they were persistent enough to follow him into the Ruins, he would at least have some weapons. And an alternate exit.

Justin knew that Bates was a shantytown no different than Benton, a haphazard maze of streets and alleys for which there was no original design. He also knew that he didn’t know his way around here nearly as well as he knew Benton, but the guards did, and they would soon move to cut him off. That is, if he didn’t hit a dead end first. The only thing he could think of to do was a trick that had served him a couple times in the past.

Seeing his opportunity, Justin scrambled up a stack of crates next to one of the shanties, jumping on the roof. The mystery officer, meanwhile, had holstered his sidearm, and quickly climbed in rabid pursuit. He matched Justin move for move as he fled across the ramshackle roofscape, leaping the narrow alleyways between shacks.

Unfortunately, Justin was too busy with this persistent adversary to notice another hooded figure trailing both of them from the street below.

Another guard took inspiration from his commanding officer, and climbed up after them. Even though he found it hard to keep up with the chase, he tried anyway. At least until he stepped on a particularly rotten, or perhaps poorly built, roof panel and fell through with a half uttered curse.

As his adversary continued to gain on him, Justin tried to remember where he had seen this guy before… And when it hit him, he nearly lost his stride at who he was dealing with and why he hadn’t thought of it before. During his years in Benton, he had heard rumors of some kid, the bored son of some Board member or another, who was being trained by some of the Authority’s mercenaries. His name was Trevor Something Or Other, as he recalled.

This must be him…

Though his roof-hopping stunt had yielded him a nearly unobstructed path out of Bates, now that he was near the edge of town, the gaps between shanties were getting larger. Even as he slowed down, fearing that this Trevor (or whatever his name was) was going to catch up and slow him down still more, spotted a cable— probably a communications line— running down from the roof he was on to the wall of a nearby shack. Realizing that he would have needed a way down at some point anyway, he shrugged off the backpack and slung it over the cable.

In that brief moment, he felt a flicker of disbelief at what he was about to do as he gripped one strap in each hand and slid down the cable.

Trevor muttered something Justin couldn’t hear as he tore off his jacket and looped it over the cable, following suit.

Justin let go of one of the straps just seconds before he would have slammed into the wall, dropping to the ground flailing. A guard, who had simply stood there watching Justin descend upon him, ended up breaking his fall. Still, Justin skinned both knees and one elbow as he tumbled across the ground, but he hardly noticed as he staggered back to his feet.

Through it all, Justin never let go of the backpack. He nearly fell on his face again as he pushed the stunned guard aside, snatching his power pistol as he took off once more. Even as he ran, he tried to get his bearings.

Trevor, meanwhile, had made a somewhat more graceful landing, and was now closer behind his quarry than ever.

As Justin ducked around surprised onlookers, who were also trying to duck out of his way, he could see a road ahead leading out of town to the forest. The guards had not yet barred this way out—

And with possible escape in sight, someone in the crowd reached out one foot and tripped him. All he got to see was a hooded figure fleeing into the crowd.

This was all the opportunity Trevor needed; as Justin skidded along the ground, he at last closed the gap, dashing out ahead of him.

Justin tried to raise his power pistol as he struggled to his feet, but Trevor kicked it out of his hand, then reached for his own sidearm.

Yet Justin still had an ace up his sleeve. Slash had sent him in unarmed— or so she believed— but he had managed to keep his laser staff carefully hidden. Mostly just out of fear that Slash would take it for herself if she knew about it. Now he reached into one of the tall boots of his Sea Breeze uniform, firing it up and slicing Trevor’s gun even as he tried to dodge.

Trevor stared at those neon blue blades, a most unexpected development, for a long moment, then smiled. “I don’t know who you stole that from,” he told Justin, “but let’s see if you know how to use it…”

Then he threw aside what was left of his sidearm and drew a radiant orange laser blade.

By now, a group of guards was beginning to swarm around the scene, but at the sight of the two combatants’ weapons, they kept their distance. Some of the Authority’s mercenaries, as well as some travelers, carried such rare weapons, and they knew the dangers of energy blades.

Justin knew his chances of escape were shrinking exponentially with every passing second… and this Trevor bastard was just grinning.

“Your move… streetrat.”

With that, Justin sprang into action, lunging at Trevor in one last, desperate attempt to hack and slash his way to freedom. They clashed blades several times, Trevor parrying and blunting each attack in turn. It was just starting to dawn on him that even though this Authority brat wasn’t much older than himself, those mercenaries had taught him some badass moves, that he was in even deeper shit than he could have guessed.

The guards had even started chanting Trevor’s name, cheering him on as he made sport of Justin’s desperate struggle in front of everyone.

“You son of a bitch!” With a furious cry, Justin flew at him with a wide, arcing swing.

And Trevor sidestepped the whole thing, nailing Justin with a low, sweeping kick that sent him sprawling. Justin watched in horrified confusion as he hit the ground, losing his grip on his staff, the shimmering electric-blue blades winking out as the staff rolled out of reach. Probably for the best, given that if he hadn’t lost his grip, or if the thing had been locked on, one of his own blades would likely had cut him in two.

Even as he tried to regain his feet, one of the guards planted his foot firmly on the grip of Justin’s staff.

Adding insult to injury, Trevor shut down his own weapon, tossing it to one of the other guards, saying, “Nice toy… I think I’ll have to hang on to it since you’re not worthy.”

“Master Fitzgerald!” one of the guard officers called out, “Your father—”

“Do you mind?” Trevor cut him off, “I’m trying to have a little fun in this boring—”

In Trevor’s two-and-a-half seconds of inattention, Justin sprang at him with a wild right that nearly knocked him flat his ass. He then wasted no time charging the guard who was in the midst of reaching for his staff. His one hope of breaking free of the crowd.

Unfortunately, the strain of pursuit and combat, of every move and every blow, had begun to take its toll, and he found himself dogpiled by a fresh group of foes.

Trevor had regained his balance, and stood rubbing his jaw for a moment in stunned silence. Gone was the playful, sadistic smirk from only moments before, replaced by a snarl of unrestrained fury.

“You little fucker…”

As the guards dragged Justin to his feet, Trevor strode up to him at a slow, deliberate pace. Justin struggled against his captors, trying to squirm free even as they yanked off the backpack with the money. Then Trevor let out a long scream of pent-up rage as he pummeled Justin with a volley of punches and kicks.

It didn’t take much of this punishment to leave him hanging limp in the guards’ arms, with no more strength left to resist them.

And it was during his first full-fledged beatdown that Justin finally got a good look at the hooded stranger who had tripped him earlier. Despite his pain and fatigue, his blood boiled at the sight of those flaming tattoos and the realization that she was no stranger. No stranger at all. He coughed and wheezed, trying to regain his voice as she turned with a flutter of her cloak and wandered into the crowd.

“You’re going to work a long time in the mines for this, you little streetrat shit,” Trevor told him as the guards bound him. Yet Justin barely heard him, nor felt the cold steel that would be his closest companion for the next few weeks as the shackles were clamped onto his wrists. “Nobody gets away with pulling that crap on my island, Jordan Robertson… if that even is your real name—”

“SLASH!!” Justin screamed with all of his remaining strength. The only thought left in his head right then was that there was no way in hell he was going down alone. That he was going to let her just get away with this. Though later he would have no idea what possessed him to do such a stupid thing, he blurted, “Blaze is Slash! Slash is here on this island! She was just here a minute ago…”

Then he was cut off by another coughing fit.

“Is that so?” Trevor arched an eyebrow at that last as a guard handed him Justin’s staff. He wagged it under Justin’s nose and told him, “I don’t think you’ll last long at Pullman, but enjoy it while you can.” Yet the longer he looked at Justin, the more he was certain he had seen him somewhere before. “You’re pathetic! So tell me, what do you have to say for yourself, ‘Jordan’?”

“Fuck off and die…” Justin croaked.

The last thing Justin remembered was one of the guards rifle-butting him upside the head before he was dragged away to backbreaking labor in the mines of Pullman Island.

Trevor spit at where Justin was standing moments ago, then told the other officer, “I want to know who he really is. And bring me a report on the hunt for the other insurgents. Somebody snafu’ed this thing, and I want to know who.”

“Yes, sir.” The officer handed Trevor his own laser sword back, then walked away.

As the officer departed, another man, one of the mercenaries, came up to him, saying, “A message from Command! The insurgents in the port area have fled, and so far we’ve counted five dead and eight prisoners. The one called ‘Jimbo’ remains at large. We are continuing the pursuit, and have begun an investigation into the location of the smuggled arms.”

“Excellent. Carry on.”

Trevor stood there for a long moment, examining both his own weapon and Justin’s…

Max and Justin sat up in the Crow’s Nest tree for a long time, talking.

When Justin finished his story about Trevor, Max asked, “Are you sure it was Slash?” It didn’t really surprise him that she betrayed Justin, but it had sounded like a very confused situation.

“Of course I am,” Justin told him. “Bitch even smiled at me when she turned away… They say she’s like that, instead of hiding behind her crew like the others.” (If you want something done right, you have to see to it yourself… she had muttered more than once during his short stay aboard the Sea Breeze.) “They say she’s paranoid, and I’ve seen it for myself. She‘s got eyes in the back of her head or something! I’ve even heard she doesn’t sleep for days at a time.”

An insomniac, some called her, and he could not recall hearing of her sleeping anytime during those three days.

“Anyway, my ass hurts,” Justin told him as he started climbing back down. He was not as accustomed to sitting in tree branches as Max, and now that he was no longer lost in the pain and confusion and frustration of that day, he realized that he had sat like that for too long. Still, now that he had seen it for himself, he decided that he loved the view up here even more than the slit back in Benton.

“So what now?” Max asked as he followed him down.

“I’m gonna go take a piss,” he replied. “Then how about we go and see if we’ve got any crabs for dinner tonight?”

“Sure.” Max dropped from a few branches up, landing on both feet as he had learned from his feline friend, as Justin wandered off behind a large rock outcropping.

Bandit looked up from his catnap with half-awake eyes that exuded a kind of bored curiosity, then stretched to his feet.

As it turned out, they did find a few crabs in Max’s traps, and over dinner, Justin would tell Max more about his stay at Pullman Mine Camp.

It was dark.

Justin could barely see what he was doing in the many areas between lamps. The TSA tight-wads refused to waste one credit more than they had to on such trivial things as lighting, cutting into their profits. The guards supervising the operation had explained that his eyes would adjust (as if a man who had lived underground for several years needed to be told that), and of course, this coming from the only people in this ant-farm who were allowed to wear headlamps.

Or hardhats, for that matter. Aside from the most rudimentary tools their tasks required, none of them were permitted to have anything that might even conceivably be used as a weapon. And even then, it would be picks and shovels against energy weapons.

Not Justin’s kind of odds, but right up the Authority’s alley.

The chains shackling his hands and feet were long enough to allow him to do his work, but short enough to prevent him from running, and to hinder his arm movement in a fight. Gone was the Sea Breeze uniform, in its place was the same mine camp jumper he would wash up on the Isle of Paradise in. Even his new boots, replaced with a worn-out pair of stompers which had clearly belonged to other unfortunate souls before him.

He had been dragging those boots and those chains around for a third day in a row. Between Trevor and Company’s savage beating, and shoveling endless loads of dirt and rocks into carts, he had yet to figure out how he was still able to move at all.

Justin’s very shitty day had ended in the brig of a ship bound for Pullman Island. But not before being sent to a medic who looked him over for all of three or four minutes before declaring him fit for work, then turning his full attention to the guards who were injured in Jimbo’s escape. (From the way they had spoken, it sounded as if most of the others they were after had escaped— good for them; he couldn’t make up his mind if he was happy for them or not.) Trevor, of course, the least harmed of all, had been taken to a real doctor.

Justin had coughed up blood all that night, and most of his first shift in the mines.

Every move was an exercise of willpower and an experience of agony. It was getting better, but how he had dragged his manacled ass out of that lumpy, smelly excuse for a bed those first couple days was beyond him. The guards had beaten him a couple times before, but those were apparently just a warm-up for the other day.

Mercifully, there was little abuse to be had during his short interrogation. Mostly because he had already blurted out the single most useful intel they had received in ages: Blaze’s real name. Beyond that, being only Slash’s errand boy, they quickly concluded that he knew nothing else of importance, and they took him away.

His first day was an excruciating blur to him, and all Justin really remembered of his first day on the inside was learning the truth about his opponent. Some other inmates had told Justin the rest of the story about Trevor. I heard you popped Trevor Fitzgerald one, one prisoner had said, Shoulda hit him once for me. The guy next to him remarked, They’re never gonna let you outta here! Then the guard had told them to shut up and get back to work.

That was when it sunk in. Trevor Fitzgerald. Damn! The son of Chairman Fitzgerald of the Authority’s Board of Directors.

The shit just kept getting deeper.

It was then that Justin knew that the length of his sentence was just an arbitrary number. Arbitrary as everything else in the Triangle State. A few months. A few years. The rest of his life, most likely. Like anyone else who had lived in this realm for long, he had heard whispers of unfortunate visitors who wore out their welcome and were never seen again; he wondered bitterly if he would meet any of them here.

His nineteen days in Pullman Mine Camp would be the bar against which he would measure all other hardships he would suffer in the future.

He had always wanted to leave Benton Island, but this wasn’t quite what he had in mind. Nor was Pullman his idea of an improvement; the chains only served to reaffirm that conviction. Of course, there were also mines on Benton, but he knew why they had taken him here instead. The Authority had decided, even without knowing all the facts, that Jordan Robertson might know Benton a little too well. So he was being taken to a place he wouldn’t know his way around so well.

Standing in the shadows between the lightbulbs strung along the walls, Justin worked no harder than he could get away with. The shovel seemed to grow heavier with each passing hour, and his arms grew less and less cooperative. For now, it was all he could do to lay low and try not to draw any attention to himself. It was bad enough so many people here knew he had fought Trevor, so he didn’t want to fight unless he absolutely had to.

Yet it was a constant struggle. More than anything, he longed to take up that shovel and bash his way back to the surface… But he knew he would only get a couple guards at the most before they gunned him down. So he kept his smoldering resentment to himself here in this place.

This place that was several levels deeper than any part of the Works. Anymore, Justin was no stranger to subterranean living, but there were portions of the mines that made the Ruins look stable by comparison. At least the Authority appeared to spare less expense on supports than they did on lighting.

Being incomplete, the supports were especially shaky-looking here in the deepest tunnels, where they were digging out a new vein. The prisoners ahead of him dug with picks and spades, and as exhausted as Justin was, he had to keep up, shoveling dirt and rocks into a never-ending parade of carts. Going as easy on his battered body as he could, without falling too far behind and incurring still more abuse from the guards, that was the trick.

Digging in these depths was a delicate balancing act between forward progress and structural integrity, made complicated by the very nature of that which the TSA sought. The very thing the Authority had named this corner of their little empire the Crystal Islands after, Pullman was the richest source of plasma crystals. The true source of the Board of Director’s wealth. Much sought after for their unique crystal matrix structure, which allowed for energy storage far exceeding that of chemical power cells, they were also very rare (and prohibitively expensive to synthesize), with deposits existing in some realms, but not in others. The gods cursed the Crystal Islands with uncommonly rich deposits of it. Their exact origin was unaccounted for— of course, to people like the TSA, where it came from was irrelevant, for all that mattered was that it existed— and were primarily used in power cells for energy weapons and other high-power devices.

Justin didn’t know the rocket science of it, but in their raw, unrefined form, the crystals were at least somewhat unstable, so blasting was done only with small, surgical charges. And according to the scanning apparatus the Authority’s specialists brought down now and then, they were only a matter of days away from hitting the motherlode. The largest concentration of plasma crystals any of them had ever heard of.

What he did know was that if there was any blasting to be done around here, it always fell to a mysterious prisoner who otherwise worked on simple tasks elsewhere. The thing that bothered him most was the man’s eyes, so hollow… as if he no longer cared whether he lived or died. Even the guards seemed to grant him a wary, grudging respect.

And little wonder. During their brief meal breaks, when a group of female prisoners that he never saw hide nor hair of the rest of the time came through, serving the cheapest food the TSA could possibly find, Justin had asked about him, and was told that his name was Jasper. That he had been Pullman’s blasting man for over three years, making him the longest-living person to ever take that job in the mine’s entire history. For one who, by all accounts, had turned his back on life, he seemed to posses the kind of luck most people would kill for.

Though he would only think about it occasionally during his time at Pullman, there was something about Jasper and the mysterious tragedy of his past that would haunt Justin for years to come.

Digging here at the forefront of this new tunnel was the most dangerous job in the whole operation. There was no doubt in his mind that that was why he was one of the prisoners selected for that detail. He wondered who some of these others had pissed off to end up down here. Pictured Trevor just shrugging his shoulders at the news of himself dying in a cave-in, and it angered him to no end.

Then again, any thought about Trevor or Slash tended to have that effect on him, and whenever he looked back on it later, he was certain that it was his rage that held his battered, exhausted body together through those brutal first days. He just kept on imagining himself beating the crap out of Trevor, or sometimes Slash, with that shovel while he slaved away the interminable hours of eternal night. Just kept telling himself it wouldn’t be much longer before they marched him back to that tiny cell that barely had enough space for a cot.

Where he would be dead to the world for a few hours until they came for him again...

To Justin Black, crab never tasted so good.

Max sat on a log across the fire from him, watching him chow down, amused by his own memories of how starved he was during his early days here. Bandit had long since curled up near the fire and nodded off as the two castaways talked on and on. The sun was setting, and the shadows of the trees stood long as they finished their supper.

Here on the Isle of Paradise, Justin had eaten his first meals in years that he hadn’t had to run or fight or do someone else’s dirty work for. Since Max first told him what he called this place, he had wondered what this guy knew about it. Having noticed that such roundabout questions seemed to be the way to start a conversation around here, Justin asked, “So Max, what do you think is out there?”

“I don’t know,” Max told him after a moment, trying to take stock of what he did remember. Tales, mostly. “I hear there are lots of different places.”

“I used to hear a lot of stories when I was in the market, and before I got left behind, the Skerry used go lots of places. But I don’t remember much about it… A lot of people talked about Centralict Island, and a city called New Cali.”

Justin could tell from look on Max’s face that he had definitely heard of those places.

“Isn’t Centralict a really big island?” Now that Justin mentioned it, he was pretty sure that Robert and Alida had been there before.

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard. I think I might’ve been there once when I was little. I’ve never been to New Cali, but everyone says it’s the biggest city in the world, with towers that reach into the sky.”

“I wish I could see it…” Though Max remembered his father talking about it. Meeting Justin, and hearing news of the outside world, had made all those far-away places feel more real to him than they had in years. The more they talked, the more names he remembered. “The Foghorn Islands, Elyria… the Islands of… Kara Danjo?… Ashton, the Abalah Desert… Andros… I heard a lot of stories about haunted places…”

“The Isle of Paradise?” Justin intoned.

Max’s thoughts and remembrances came to a halt. Justin tried not to laugh at the sheepish look on his face as his mind chased its own tail for a moment before finally realizing what Justin meant.

“Oh! I thought you meant here…”

“So you did name this place after the Isle of Paradise! As I thought.”

“Oh?” But Max didn’t hear any meanness in Justin’s voice, just the satisfaction of having guessed correctly. “Yeah. Of course… I kept thinking about it, and…”

“Yeah.” Justin looked around, thinking about his last couple days here. “Yeah, I can see it. This place is really quiet.”

Though he was beginning to appreciate the freedom this place afforded him, and he could see how someone would become enamored of this peaceful island. The thing that cut into the tranquility of this setting was knowing the one thing he wasn’t free to do: leave.

“Yeah, I guess I did get shipwrecked on the Isle of Paradise…” Max had simply been calling the island that for so long, just out of habit, that he hadn’t thought much about it in years.

“So what do they say about Paradise where you come from, Max?” Justin had heard many stories that were basically about the same thing. Treasure, eternal youth, beautiful women. Though so far, he had seen none of those things on this island.

“Well… they say lots of things,” Max told him. “I guess the tale I like most says that on the Isle of Paradise, you get to meet everyone you parted with along the way.”

Justin was silent for a long moment. There was something in Max’s wistful expression that he couldn’t quite place. Those you parted with along the way… There was certainly none of that to be found around here, either.

Finally, he said, “Well, I guess I’m still lookin’ for the one with tons of gold and jewels and stuff.”

“Why?”

“Why? Why not?” Justin’s jaw nearly dropped at what had to be last question he was expecting out of anyone about that. “I’d be rich! And I’d never ever have to live like that again.”

“Oh.” Max thought about that for a moment. He hadn’t really given it much thought before, but he had to admit that Justin’s plan did make some sense. And based on the few exotic treasures he had seen in the Islands, part of him was overwhelmed with curiosity, just to see more such things. Unconsciously taking his cue from Cleo, he said, “That would be pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” Justin remarked, “and I get half of everything we find!”

“Okay…”

“There! You said it. Now I get half of all the treasure we find.”

“Umm…” Max tried to piece together that last part of their conversation, then told him, “There isn’t any treasure on this island.”

“I know that,” Justin replied. “I’m just sayin’. I mean, you really don’t think we’re gonna be stuck here for the rest of our lives, do you?”

“Well… no…” And in spite of five years of just that, Max found he didn’t believe he would be, though he couldn’t explain why.

“So when we get outta here, we’ll hunt for treasure, how does that sound?”

“I suppose,” Max replied.

And so they spent the rest of the evening telling each other about what they remembered of places they had heard of. Justin didn’t want to talk any more about the mines for now, but he would tell Max the rest in the morning.

For nineteen days Justin languished and toiled in the bowels of Pullman Mine Camp, but unbeknownst to him, today would be the last.

It would be one of the most grueling trials he would face in his entire life. Especially since he would start it off in such a worn-out and utterly unprepared condition. Not that escape was ever far from his mind, but so far he had seen no way that had any chance in hell of succeeding.

And recent days had been particularly draining. The Director of Operations was certain that they were on the verge of the most concentrated crystal vein in Pullman Island’s history, and crews had been worked around the clock for more than two days in preparation. One group or another, at least some of the prisoners were working on it at any given time, even at night. Not that it mattered; it was always night down here. Justin hadn’t even seen his bunk in what felt like a week, and he and the other prisoners were now allowed to sleep for only three hour shifts. At least they said it was three hours, though to him, it seemed more like they woke him up three minutes after he passed out.

Much like days, hours had become subject to speculation in this place of eternal night, whether he sat against the earthen wall with his head resting on his knees or he was back on the line shoveling a bottomless supply of dirt. Justin could only guess whether or not the sun was shining above. He had of course lived in darkness all those years in the Ruins, but even then he could still see the sky when he wanted to. He was sure that, even years later, this place would often be the first thing that came to mind when others spoke of hell.

Though his injuries had largely healed, his perpetual fatigue was only beginning to fade when they were forced onto this ruthless new schedule.

Yet Justin hardly noticed; he had more urgent things to worry about. Jimbo. Trevor. Slash. All had reason to want him dead, so he lived in constant fear of being shanked by the three or four Cyexian prisoners, bludgeoned by Gwanga prisoners, or simply being taken aside and shot by the guards. So far, no attempts had been made on his life, but that did nothing to ease his mind in the slightest.

Mostly, he just kept his head down and tried to learn as much about his prison as possible.

Little did he know that his tactics closely resembled those of another prisoner who had been here a lot longer than himself. He had asked around about the mysterious inmate known only as Jasper, the only exception to his “lay-low” strategy, but was able to learn little. Jasper himself spoke only when he had to, and none of the others knew much, save that he was forced into blasting not long after he was sent here. And that, as Justin had seen for himself, the man appeared to place no value on his own life.

Broken. That was the general consensus of both guards and prisoners alike. And like the others, Justin could only wonder what the Authority had done to him to crush him so utterly.

Though it would not be long before all of them would learn just how disastrously they had miscalculated.

Justin leaned against one of the support beams, trying to stay awake. All of the prisoners had been moved to a tunnel near the entrance as Jasper set the charges below. As he strained to keep his eyes open, reminding himself that he would only be awakened by the blast in a few minutes anyway, he tried to remember something from his last rest break, something almost like a dream…

His semi-conscious reverie was jolted back into waking reality when he heard a hoarse, desperate laugh echoing from the depths, followed by harsh words that made everyone sit up and take notice.

“You murdering bastards destroyed everything in life that I cared about!… That I might live to see this day…”

And more of that laugh, the stoic façade of years crumbling to reveal the true face lurking behind it, exposing a soul full of pain and loss, where all that dwelt now amid the ruins of his shattered psyche was revenge.

Even as Justin pondered these impressions, wide-eyed, sleep forgotten, the guards looked among themselves in confusion and horror, some of them moving to pursue Jasper.

“You hear me!? Now I take away the only thing you care about!…”

Unlike the others, as Justin looked around, seeing his surroundings in a whole new light, he happened to look up at the power cables and finally understood. Laced through cables running from lamp to lamp, distinguishable only because they were thinner, were detonator wires. His eyes followed the line down the tunnel to where he now suspected he would find blasting charges snugly concealed behind one of the support beams. Even as it dawned on him that Jasper had clearly taken advantage of everyone’s preoccupation and fatigue to do this, he saw what no one else had caught on to yet.

Not just the new shaft— this whole place was wired to blow.

Before he could utter a word of warning, Jasper finished: “Emily! I’m comin’ home!!”

In that peculiar moment of silence, before all hell broke loose, he remembered the voice he had heard in his sleep. Run, boy… You still have a future… Don’t ever let them do to you what they did to me… He was now certain it had been Jasper.

Still, even as he fled the tunnel, paying no heed to the guards or their guns, he was knocked flat on his face along with everyone else when Jasper pressed the button.

The first time he tried to get up, he tripped on his own chains. Whole sections of the tunnel appeared to have sprung a leak, spewing dirt and rocks. The thunder of the lower levels’ collapse drowned out even the loudest of their cries.

Seeing his opportunity, Justin took up his shovel and bashed a fellow guard upside the head, swiping his disrupter pistol as he hobbled out of the tunnel, trying not to trip over his own shackles again.

Most of the others had a head start on him, and he barely made it out as even the entrance was swallowed up by a flood of dust and stone, tumbling down the hillside as he was thrown off his feet by aftershocks. Somehow he managed to keep his grip on his gun. As he lay sprawled on the ground, he spread his feet in the air as far apart as he could, and aimed at the chain. Two clean shots shattered the link.

He then scrambled to his feet to see that the other prisoners were fleeing in all directions, and the guards were in total disarray. Taking his chance, he shot at some of the guards, giving the others a chance to jump in and steal their guns. Unleashing all of his fury… nineteen days of Pullman Mine Camp, endless months hiding in the Ruins… years of putting up with the TSA…

Justin had shoveled the Authority’s shit long enough.

“NO MORE!!” he cried, brandishing his new weapon and firing several shots in the air, “Fuck the Authority! We’re free!!…”

A rallying cry answered unanimously by the others as the riot escalated. Two of the Cyexians were really giving it to the guards near the main gate, and others were starting to follow suit. Behind them, junk and debris exploded from the vent shafts, raining down on the shantytown beyond. Jasper’s revenge was consummate, destroying both himself and the TSA’s most profitable crystal vein.

Over thirty years of digging and shoveling, erased in one night.

Taking stock of the situation, Justin decided to let his fellow inmates storm the gate while he made his own escape route. The entire Pullman Mine compound was enclosed in chain-link and razor-wire, twelve feet of it. Justin blasted the wire, causing the taut coils to snap back out of his way, then started climbing, digging his raw fingers and work boots in for purchase every leg.

When he dropped down on the other side, tearing his baggy pantleg on the wire in spite of himself, he saw that the chaos had already spread to the shantytown of Pullman. Several fires had started. Making up his strategy as he went, he decided to cut through the woods and enter town from a different point than the others, who would draw Security away from him.

He made his way quickly, pausing only once to try to find a way to shoot off the chains binding his hands, but being unable to figure out a way that wouldn’t wound him in the process. As the fires spread, anarchy prevailed, and most of the guards were being summoned to the mines as he slipped through the crowded streets and alleyways. What few guards he encountered already had their hands full battling the growing uprising, and had no time to chase him down.

And he again failed to notice a figure on the edge of the battle noticing him.

As Justin ducked around another corner, a foot swung out of nowhere, nailing him right in the gut and sending him tumbling to the ground. He lost his grip and watched his hard-won weapon tumble across the narrow alley, and be lost to his knowledge in the chaos.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, streetrat?”

Justin didn’t need to see Trevor’s face to know it was him. Even as he tried to crawl after his gun, Trevor kicked him again, this time in the ass.

As Justin fell on his face once more, he heard Trevor shout, “This is all your fault, isn’t it!? You little shit—”

But before he could finish, another tremor from the mine sent him sprawling. Several roof panels, already jarred loose by the previous shocks, came crashing down on him as Justin got back up and started running again.

“Goddammit…” Trevor muttered as he heaved the mostly plastic and aluminum panels off himself. He then sprang back to his feet in hot pursuit.

It was slow going at first, and he very nearly lost his quarry, but Justin was running on empty, fighting on heart alone. By the time they reached the dock, his strength was waning and Trevor was gaining.

With all the trouble in town and at the mine, there wasn’t even a skeleton crew left to watch the ships there. In this brief window, it would be child’s play even for an amateur like Justin to steal a ship. That night, more than a dozen vessels would be commandeered for parts unknown before a blockade could be formed. The two Cyexians would join forces with a couple of their sisters to hijack a whole TSA patrol cruiser and set sail for their home clan. More than half of the island’s Security forces would be dead or wounded by morning, especially after the fugitive Jimbo and a certain group of “fishermen” got into the act, and units would have to be summoned from across the Triangle State to quash the rebellion.

Meanwhile, Justin’s wild, nearly aimless flight was brought to a stumbling halt at the scene he had come in sight of.

Thrown from the shafts in the initial explosion, a flaming hunk of debris had landed as far away as the outer docks. And had crashed right into a very expensive-looking cruiser, by now in flames from stem to stern. Justin knew this ship, for he had had occasion to see it every now and then from his narrow vantage point under the Works; in the flickering firelight, he read: TSS Fitzgerald. Renamed several years ago, after Brenton Fitzgerald’s hostile takeover, the Chairman’s personal transport, the flagship of the Authority’s fleet.

Justin tried to catch his breath as he watched the slowly sinking vessel burn, but that was when Trevor floored him with another vicious kick as he finally caught up.

“If my dad was on there…” Trevor snarled as he stalked Justin.

Just as he swayed to his feet, Trevor spun him around by the shoulder and decked him.

“I asked around, and you were never Jordan Robertson, were you? Justin.” Justin’s reaction to that name was all he needed to see. “So you’re the little motherfucker who stole my backpack four years ago…” He had wondered why the term “streetrat” had popped into his head the first time he saw him. “The bag you had disappeared in the confusion when I captured you, and someone took off with your ship” (along with the secret of how “Jordan” was smuggling Slash’s arms into the Triangle State) “before it could be secured. All we got was you.”

“Probably Slash…” Justin panted. Got her money and supplies. Jimbo got his weapons. And Justin got a life sentence in the mines.

“Tell me what you know about Slash!” He had at first dismissed Justin as a mere errand boy who didn’t know jack shit. In light of his earlier claim, he now reconsidered. “Or do I have to beat it out of you?”

As he spoke, he strode up to Justin. Who at first retreated, until he saw his own laser staff, hanging from the mercenary-style bandolier of grenades Trevor had donned under his jacket before joining the street fight. This sight rekindled his rage, and he charged Trevor.

Who blocked Justin’s attack and punched him again. Justin tried to ward him off with his still shackled hands, but Trevor grabbed the chain, hauling him closer. He then proceeded to kick Justin in the nuts, doubling him over and kneeing him repeatedly.

“I’ll break every bone in your goddam body and throw your corpse at my father’s feet!” Trevor screamed as he grabbed Justin by the front of his uniform and dragged him face-to-face and head-butted him.

Dazed, seeing only shifting lights after two trying days and Trevor’s savage head-butt, Justin reached slowly. Pretending to make a feeble struggle against Trevor as he groped for his weapon… grabbing some ring-shaped item that wasn’t his weapon… then reaching again…

Lost in a rage, Trevor kneed him several more times, butting heads with him again and throwing him to the ground, saying “You’re just a fuckin’ streetrat!”

But as he drew his sidearm, the vicious grin on Justin’s face made him pause. And perhaps he was right: once a streetrat, always a streetrat. For in his right hand, Justin had reclaimed his staff, and with his left he was flipping him off.

What held Trevor’s undivided attention wasn’t the rude gesture, but the ring on his middle finger, caught in a glint of firelight. Mostly because it belonged on one of his grenades.

Trevor looked down at his bandolier with a mixture of rage and horror. It took a second, but then Justin realized what the other item he had grabbed was. He yanked it off his finger with a cry of alarm.

Yet before Trevor could make a move, Justin flung the pin over Trevor’s shoulder purely on reflex. He found he still had enough strength left to scramble away as Trevor dove after it with a frantic cry. Trevor Fitzgerald, son of the Chairman of the Board, the brat of the Authority’s military, who had the best training money could buy. To whom this sort of thing just wasn’t supposed to happen.

Much to both of their surprise, Trevor actually managed to get his hands on it—

The noise was loud (but not as loud as Jasper’s handiwork), and the shockwave threw Justin over the edge and skidding across the water. His forward momentum barely allowing him to avoid the plane level of the shrapnel as he went under, temporarily blinded by the explosion of the other grenades. He nearly lost his grip on his staff, but hung on for dear life, determined to never let anyone else take it away from him again.

A moment later, he surfaced, sputtering oily water and blinking his eyes. He barely caught sight of Trevor’s smoking boot as it splashed next to him.

Justin Black hovered there for a long moment, gathering his strength and watching the Fitzgerald burn down. What had started out as a desperate act of vengeance had mushroomed into the single most devastating blow ever dealt to the Triangle State Authority. He knew that if he hung around, they would execute him for this, so it was clearly time to leave.

And never return.

As he turned to search for the very getaway ship that would later land him on the Isle of Paradise, he told the raging island, “Never again…”

Max and Justin spent the entire morning at the pond while Justin told his story. The sun was edging past noon as Justin told of aiming “away from” any place he knew (none of them being anyplace he wanted to go) and sailing off into the coming dawn. Of the awe and helpless fear of traversing endless leagues of ocean, as if all the other realms he had heard of were all just a cruel joke. Of getting caught in a storm and being certain that he was done for this time… until he caught sight of land.

“…You know I can’t go back,” Justin told him, and the solemnity of his own voice startled even himself. He could tell from the look on Max’s face that he had clearly been moved by his tale. Little knowing how well Max understood that last.

Only a matter of weeks ago, this would have been the sort of thing he’d have a good laugh about. After all, a smoking pair of boots was the sort of image the mercenaries and soldiers would have found morbidly amusing. Perhaps it was also seeing the shock in Max’s eyes, and he knew that, although something ugly may have happened in his past, Max had obviously never had to kill anyone to survive. Trevor was a first; he had injured others in his escapades, but to his knowledge no one else had ever died by his hand, and he was also taken aback now that he had time to think about it.

“Everybody betrays everybody…” Max murmured. As Layosha endured with no outside allies, the idea of leaders abusing their own people was a very alien concept to him.

“I did what I had to,” Justin told him, “so don’t call me a criminal. I was an outlaw. There’s a difference.”

“I’m not. It’s just… strange to me…”

A long, awkward pause.

Betrayed. Framed. Now a scapegoat for the biggest disaster in TSA history… To face execution. To be hanged like a dog, while Trevor’s father and his cronies went on killing and torturing and extorting, the royal exceptions to their own rules. It drove home to him once again that, in the Triangle State, words like taxes or robbery, assault or discipline, execution or murder, were defined not in terms of what was done, but by who they were done to.

“Something’s gotta give…” Justin muttered.

“I hope it does,” Max replied, seeing his friend’s clenched fists. “If only somebody would stand up to them…”

He tried to picture Trevor beating up on Justin, but what came to mind was watching Ron’s beating, his rage against Slash, and he wondered if he hadn’t had himself in mind. Of course, as Justin had pointed out, many had stood up to the Authority; Justin was one of the few who lived to tell about it. In a pinch, the TSA was known to even break its own standard policy and hire Cyexian pirates, but even so, not even Justin was sure he could imagine the lengths they would go in the coming weeks and months after the Pullman Mine uprising.

“Say Max, let’s talk about something else for a while, okay?”

And so Max spent the next couple hours telling Justin more about his early days in Paradise.

Morning gave way to an uncommonly hot afternoon, so Max and Justin had retreated up the mountain, only coming back down for supper, before resuming their training in the cool evening hours. Now they sat on a log Max had long ago dragged up near the cliff overlooking the beach both of them had washed up on. The two castaways sat with their backs to the fire, watching the last of the sun set and the stars brighten.

Justin was fast deciding that he liked this view better than from the former bunker of the Works; the whole sky, not just a slice of it. No more hiding. He was beginning to see why this view so inspired Max. That proverbial place where the ocean meets the sky, and anything seems possible.

Even leaving this place to see the world.

“Say Max,” Justin asked, without pretense, “did you ever have any friends… back in Layosha?”

It seemed to him as if Max had lived here all his life, but even he had admitted that he hadn’t.

“Well… yeah…”

Sometimes he even thought about them. Whenever he thought about it, his last day in the Islands… Hugging his mom goodbye, expecting to return the next day… Waving farewell to Cleo one last time on some unknown impulse… Being beaten in the driving rain… Watching as Ron’s life was torn away from him before his eyes… Dad’s victory against Slash— cut off by a cruel twist of fate… (Over the years, Max had largely convinced himself that Robert must have commandeered one of Slash’s marauders, must have…) Enduring two storms and an impossibly vast expanse of ocean in between…

Such a beautiful day… it all felt so unreal no matter how many time he looked back on it.

“What were they like?”

“Well it’s kinda hard to describe… but I remember their names…” And almost ghostly faces to go with them. Though he knew they must have changed, memory froze them in time, seeing them as if he had waved goodbye to them just the other day. “Mom… Dad… Lance… Cleo… Carlton… Ron… Uncle Angus…”

A lone tear slipped from the corner of his eye.

Time had made the idea of facing them again no easier to think about. Afraid and conflicted as he had been, he still felt responsible. Five years to ponder, and he still couldn’t decide which pain was greater— if they didn’t forgive him, or if they did. In a way, he was glad that the Islands were so hard to find the way back to; it meant that his life could go on as it always had.

Justin was silent for a long moment before he spoke. Thinking back to their conversation about the Isle of Paradise the other night, he remembered Max’s words: …to meet everyone you parted with along the way… and he finally figured out what that look in Max’s eyes had been.

Loneliness.

“I never had any friends.” There was one whom he had thought of as a friend once, but Justin had written him off a long time ago, hadn’t even thought of him in ages, and didn’t particularly feel like thinking about it now. He could hardly believe he was saying what he said next, but he now saw a chance for something he had never really had, and wondered what it was worth. “I don’t know how else to say this, but… will you be my friend, Max?”

“Of course,” Max replied after a moment of trying to figure out what Justin had meant by that. Then it clicked. We were friends without question… “Of course, Justin. I guess I just already thought of you as my friend.”

“Cool.” Justin wasn’t quite sure what to think. On one hand, that had seemed too easy. On the other, a voice in the back of his mind told him, in spite of experience, that Max would not betray or abandon him, as all the others before had. “So, now that we’re friends… now what?”

Max considered his question for a while before he replied.

“You want out of here. And I want out of here.” Justin’s arrival had awakened a restlessness and wanderlust his years of tranquil solitude had slowly lulled to a dormant undercurrent in his heart. “I say we build a boat and try to leave this place.”

“Sounds like a plan to me.”

And so two friends spent much of the night talking about how they might salvage their wrecks and set sail into the Unknown, staring up at the stars and out at the shadowed Ocean beyond.