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Cardinal Sins: Prologue
Date: 6 January 2006, 3:24 am

       "Legally, what's their position?" Steven Wright asked, blowing the cigar smoke he had been holding in as he spoke. It wafted gently upwards to be dispersed by the single bladed fan that spun arbitrarily above.

       "They haven't broken the law, certainly," Anthony Romano answered resentfully as he downed his third whiskey. "At least as far as we know. Martin put it to a vote, and the Council and the plebiscite approved it. As long as they stay within the boundaries set on them by Martial Law, they are untouchable."

       "Then they will remain untouchable," Calisto Perez put in. "They learned their mistake from '96, and Martin is much smarter and more dangerous than Carter, I think. Besides, their most recent victory is much more certain than before, and the control Martial Law gives over the media to the party in power makes it unlikely any wrongdoings would ever reach the public ear."

       Shifting uncomfortably in the silence that followed this dire prediction, Amy Bishop struggled to find something to say. How many times her husband had had this very same discussion with a changing assortment of allies and supporters, she had lost count. Always her presence was requested, and always she consented, for what reason she couldn't really say. It was clear, despite his vague reassurances that he simply couldn't bear these dry sessions alone, that she was little more than a political piece in Steven's tireless game. Nevertheless, she stuck resolutely by his side and played wife, tolerated with a polite patience by his guests. She supposed it was because she believed her husband to be on the side of right, though she knew in her heart that she lived on a more human level, beneath such haughty ideals. It was more that she had gotten herself into this position, and had no right refuse Steven of what was only reasonably expected of her.

       She had married him, after all.

       "It seems odd, insane even, that the public would so overwhelmingly support the imposition of Martial Law mere months after the CIF entered office, especially given what happened during its previous enactment," she said at last, and all three men's eyes lifted to hold her own as she spoke. "Is it possible some corruption may be unearthed in its approval, given they are no strangers to exploitation?"

       Anthony Romano gave this careful consideration that he must have thought conveyed appreciation, though was construed by Amy to be condescending. "If Martial Law was imposed by any abuse of power, it is unlikely it will be uncovered at least until it is lifted, and quite possibly not until they leave office."

       "I doubt Martin would have gone to such lengths anyway," Perez opined, speaking to no one directly. "People were scared after the bombings, and the CIF banked on that, and that alone. Lawlessness in that regard would be unnecessary and careless."

       "We must look to what comes then," her husband spoke up, evidently in agreement with his largest financial supporter. "In any falter Martin makes, it must be made known immediately, before they can taint it in their own portrayal."

       With that, her input was dismissed, and the conversation veered from a course Amy thought to be legitimate. The Colonial Independence Front had faced a corruption scandal during their last successful election in 2496 as the Inner Colony rebellion reached its climax. Surely it was possible their enactment of Martial Law had not been entirely legal, approved by a plebiscite far more corruptible than a federal election. And in a situation where the United Party's range of power was severely limited, it seemed the most plausible course of action. These talks, insufferable in nature and interminable in length, seemed the only course of action the United Party was willing to pursue. Where she perceived a major injustice, these men saw only a political defeat.

       Which brought the prospect of separation once more to the well-worn doorstep of the colony of Vesta, an issue which had plagued the planet since its inception. Settled in the late 2300s as the dust settled from the first Inner Colonies war, Vesta was initially populated almost exclusively by veterans and by those displaced by the conflict. The collective mentality these conditions produced was fiercely insular and independent, its people unwilling to deal with outsiders and strongly desirous of putting the memory of the terrible war behind them; a war, it was seen, as being brought about by the failure of the United Nations. And so the Vesta Party was born.

       Initially conceived to administer the massive effort of settling millions of people on a newly terraformed planet, the glibly named party became the political face of the will of the people: complete separation from the United Nations. Its agenda was pushed nearly unchecked for decades, resulting in greater independence than any other colony and immunity from several universal laws, until the lesser known United Party gained in popularity. There were those who saw benefit in remaining within the jurisdiction of the United Nations, and as the goodwill the Vesta Party earned from their handling of colonization wore off, the United Party became powerful enough to contend with their opposition. When they won their first election in 2437, the political weight of the two parties more or less balanced out, and while the United Party was unable to undo the distance put between the colony and the UN, the stalemate rendered the Vesta Party ineffectual as well. For a time, the issue of separation cooled.

       Such an arrangement could not last, however. In 2481, a radical new movement, named the Colonial Independence Front, was formed, and its appearance threw the political landscape of the colony into disarray. Fed up with the lack of progress made in the past half-century, advocates of separation rapidly abandoned their support for the old Vesta Party in startling numbers in favor of the new, hard-line proponent for independence. As the Vesta Party faded into obscurity, the CIF won their first election as soon as 2495, under a man named Daniel Carter, while the Eridanus rebellion raged with intense ferocity. Unwilling to lend assistance to the UN in their effort, the CIF seemed the best choice to the majority, though their enactment of Martial Law at only the threat of rebellion on Vesta, coupled with rumors of corruption during the election, led to their defeat in 2499 and subsequent fall from favor.

       For another sixteen years the United Party ruled, and was able to repair some of the damaged caused with relations to the UN due to their inaction during the crisis. As rumors grew of renewed insurrection in the early years of the 2500s, the CIF regained some of the popularity they had lost with their disastrous first administration. For although many on Vesta desired separation, few wanted their independence forged in blood, for to do so would prevent its legal recognition and condemn it years of struggle against the UN. Most wanted only to live outside the governance of the United Nations and distance themselves with the violence they associated with it. To escape bloodshed was why they had come here, after all, and it seemed to many that the CIF was the only party capable of maintaining this desperately wanted peace.

       Thus, they were voted into office a second time in 2515, the popular leader of the United Party, Steven Wright, abandoned for the bold promises of immediate action made by Francis Perry of the CIF. Mere months after the election, a series of bombings wracked the capital city of Massilia, killing dozens and terrifying the public. It was revealed to be the work of violent separatists, and was immediately decried by advocates of independence who saw it as sullying and derailing their legitimate cause. The CIF once again suggested colony-wide Martial Law, and it was passed in a plebiscite with very little controversy. It seemed people were willing to do anything to preserve their way of life and prevent bloodshed, and had entrusted a party with corruption at its heels to see it done.

       And this is what the United Party has since been reduced to, Amy thought caustically. A group of old men, talking vaguely of the future over warm whiskey and cool wine. They exchange assurances of a repetition of the past without any will to bring it about. And in the end, in the guise of real power, they all still must be shut within their homes by ten o'clock tonight.

       "Amy?" her husband pressed, as though he had already spoken.

       "I'm sorry, yes?" she asked, starting from her reverie.

       Steven looked at her curiously, but did not comment on her inattentiveness. "Could you please get the door?" he asked.

       "Oh," she replied, lifting herself from her seat. "Of course." She left the lounge quickly, not looking back to what she assumed to be, in the silence that followed her retreat, a round of perplexed faces.

       She wondered who would be calling at this hour. Though it was not yet nine thirty, a mandatory curfew had been imposed for ten o'clock on all citizens, and in any case, they were not expecting any more visitors. Her wonder grew as the doorbell rang several more times on her approach, rude and impatient in their intervals.

       Hastily opening the door as the final ring sounded about the house, she was slightly shocked to see that upon her doorstep stood four policemen. They were not civil police, either, but militia, heavily armed officers who dealt with matters of marked danger and importance and whose presence had been largely increased since the imposition of Martial Law.

       "May I help you gentleman?" Amy asked coolly, standing in the doorway with her arm outstretched, thus blocking their entry.

       The entourage did not answer, but the largest of the group moved steadfastly towards the door, and Amy had little choice but to back away and allow them to pass.

       "May I see a warrant, please?" she asked angrily as she closed the door behind the last of them.

       The four of them stood arrayed around the foyer, taking in their surroundings with scant interest and regarding her with a condescending gaze. "Martial Law has been enacted, ma'am," said the largest, who must have been their leader. He spoke in a tone that laid bare his obvious contempt at being questioned by her. "Are you Mrs. Wright?"

       "No one in this household has a criminal record," Amy began, anger behind her words. "We have no associations with any illegal organization. You have no authority…"

       "We are here on very special authority," the man said dangerously, cutting short her objection. "I assure you our presence here is more than lawful. Now direct us to your husband, ma'am, or we will take the liberty of searching your house ourselves."

       For a moment, only, she stood still in raging protest, though came quickly to the conclusion that refusal would do more harm than good. These men were bent on seeing her husband, and while admitting them their demand was likely bad news for Steven, she had no choice in the matter. Reluctantly, and with worry gripping her heart, she led them to the lounge.

       As they made their way to the bar, the crackling of the police radio carried by the leader made Steven turn to look around. Although Amy did not hear the message, she heard the man say quietly, "We got 'im."

       "What's going on here?" Steven asked as he rose from his seat at the sight of the four policemen. His companions remained still, surprised looks plastered on their faces. "Amy?"

       "Steven Wright?" the man asked questioningly, though he must have known his target already.

       Steven's jaw set firmly, seeing he would be unable to speak with his wife. "That's right."

       "Sir, you are under arrest as per Provisional Martial Law, article two."

       His eyes widened at this declaration. "For what?" he managed with difficulty.

       "For crimes against the state," the man intoned, reaching for his handcuffs.

       "Well, that's ridiculous!" Anthony Romano spoke up, his lawyer's instincts set to defend his friend from such allegations. "There is no basis for that accusation. You have no right to be here!"

       "We have every right to be here, Mr.…?"

       "Romano," he said, taken aback by this interest. "Anthony Romano."

       The officer's eyebrows raised with renewed interest. He looked down at Calisto, who had remained seated. "And you, sir?"

       "Calisto Perez," he answered dully, stunned by the presence of these armed men.

       The man nodded, and said, "Alright, I'm going to have to ask you three gentlemen to follow me, please."

       At this, Anthony looked as though struck. Calisto sighed long and hard, as though this was simply an inconvenience that distracted him from his business. Steven continued to look nonplussed, struggling to comprehend this sudden turn of events, and to determine if there was any way around them. Eventually, the leader simply ordered his subordinates to apprehend the three men and escort them outside. It was an unbelievable scene; Amy could do little but follow helplessly as her husband was arrested on terms that called for indefinite imprisonment.

       When they reached the foyer, the leader demanded they turn and face the wall, and his three men brought out their handcuffs.

       "You will not give us the dignity of walking out unrestrained?" Steven asked with barely contained rage.

       "I apologize, sir," the man said insincerely, "but it is procedure."

       Calisto and Anthony consented to the request without trouble, and were immediately handcuffed by the other officers, but Steven remained resolutely still. After only a moment's hesitation, the third cop seized him roughly by the arm and threw him against the wall, pinning the back of his neck with his forearm against the wall as he reached for his restraints.

       At seeing this ill treatment, something stirred within Amy; without thinking, she rushed towards the man and grasped his arm, trying to wrench it loose from her husband. For her effort, the officer pulled his arm suddenly back, striking her full in the face and sending her reeling back onto the floor.

       Free now from his oppressor's grip, and seeing his battered wife upon the floor, Steven pushed the policeman with all his strength, succeeding in unbalancing the man and receiving a surprised curse. His victory was not long-lived, however, for in seeing this, the leader, with startling speed, pulled out his truncheon and struck Steven on the knee with a sickening thud.

       To say that he fell was not enough; he crumpled, his knee shattered, and fell upon the floor with a cry of anguish. Amy began to approach him and help, but quickly retreated when the offended officer walked over to her moaning husband and hauled him to his feet, forcing him to balance on his remaining leg. So restrained, the four men walked out, half-leading, half-dragging their quarries.

       As he left, the leader gave Amy a curt nod and a small smile. "Thank you for your cooperation, ma'am."

       She did not answer, merely stared at him with loathing over a hand that held her bloodied nose.

       Amy walked to the doorway, and watched as the three men were carried away to a police van parked at the end of the walkway. Calisto and Anthony were able to ascend the back with some dignity, despite their condition, but Steven was thrown into the vehicle with utter disregard. She winced as she imagined his pain.

       She remained standing there, the warm July breeze gently caressing her skin, staring down the long street far after the van had passed from sight. It had happened so quickly, she was not even certain it had happened at all; only the pain of her battered face lay in testament to the truth. More than the corruption, more than the invasion of privacy and feeling of insecurity, more even than her husband's arrest and mistreatment, the helplessness she felt and the humiliation she suffered stirred the fury in her heart. Feelings of such potency must find an outlet, for kept within they would explode.

       I will have my revenge, she vowed silently, and closed the door on the night.

Cardinal Sins: Chapter 1
Date: 3 February 2006, 4:22 am

       Michael Taylor regarded his empty suitcase with an empty gaze. He struggled to focus his mind, but it raced far ahead of his actions. Taking his suitcase from the closet and laying it on his bed had been an impulsive move; he did not yet know exactly what he meant to do. It would soon be curfew, after all. Yet he could not stay.

       He should have seen it earlier. No, he had; fear and weakness had simply frightened him into inaction. It had begun at the top, with the disappearance of the United Party leader, Steven Wright, followed by the resignation of most of the senior officials. Replacements had been elected shortly thereafter, though the results did not correspond with the vote of himself nor any of his closest colleagues. The newly appointed leader of the Party, Douglas Adams, was a largely unknown young man from the country who had only joined s few years prior. His victory was, to say the least, suspicious. To Michael, however, it was terrifying.

       From that day on, he had tried to keep a low profile. He had not commented on the lack of media coverage of this tumultuous political shakeup which mentioned only offhandedly that the United Party had elected a new leader. He had looked the other way as many of his comrades, some close friends, had "resigned" and dropped completely from contact. He had even remained silent when many high ranking Colonial Independence Front members took their place in the upper echelons of the Party, ostensibly defecting, but in reality monitoring those who were left. Attending the Vesta Council was an experience now rife with fear.

       He had not been quite sure what to do. Leaving had frequently crossed his mind; certainly, it was not out of steadfast dedication that he stayed. The same fear that had driven him to complacency had compelled him to stay, for in quitting the United Party he would stray beyond the watchful eyes of the CIF, and thus become a potential threat to them. So he remained, unable to act, yet too scared to leave.

       Any hope that this miserable yet seemingly safe arrangement could endure was shattered earlier that day, when he was approached by Senator William Baker, one of the newcomers from the CIF. He had asked, in a deliberate, roundabout way, what he thought of the new leadership of the Party and whether or not he had any intention of leaving. In retrospect, the question itself probably heralded his arrest, or at least suspicion. His biting answer, borne of a foolish moment of principle, served merely to accelerate the events he sensed were already in motion. They were coming for him.

       In a sudden flurry of action, he grabbed an armful of clothes from the nearest drawer and threw them into his suitcase haphazardly. He leapt about his diminutive house, grabbing necessities with little regard, his mind concentrated solely on getting away as quickly as possible. If he had any luck, he could get out of the city and get a ticket off the planet at a remote port before they put an APB on him.

       As he zipped up his suitcase, the dull sound of a heavy fist on the front door nearly stopped his heart. He snapped his head over to the curtained windows, which now glowed red and blue at rapid intervals from a source outside. His hands began to shake uncontrollably and a cold shiver ran across his skin. It was the militia.

       He walked down the stairs in the manner of a man walking to his own execution. His mind raced for a way out, some alternative to these inexorable steps to his own end, but he could see none. Of course any escape was hopeless; they would have covered the few exits his tiny home had, and in any case could track him easily from here on out in any attempt he made. He had nothing of any value with which to bribe the officers and even if he did, he doubted they would accept. His stomach clenched painfully with the horrible realization that there was no way out; he wondered only the extent of what was going to happen to him.

       Peering out of the one-way glass, he saw two militia officers on his front landing, standing lazily on either side of his door away from the window. One of them leaned over to knock again. "Michael Taylor, we know you're inside," the man said in a voice loud enough to be heard within. "Please open the door, sir."

       Looking around wildly, his eyes were drawn to a tall china cabinet, the top of which held a shotgun he had purchased years ago for an emergency and had never even thought of since. It was entirely possible that walking through that door meant walking to his death, and the thought of dealing a blow to his oppressors before he met his end flashed quickly and violently through his frantic mind.

       "Mr. Taylor, open the door now or we will use force," the officer cautioned strongly.

       It could no longer be reasonably ignored. With a short prayer on his lips, Michael reached a trembling hand to the brass door handle and opened the heavy oak door.

       "Are you Michael Taylor?" the officer asked once he revealed himself.

       "Yes," he responded in a voice that did not crack despite himself.

       The officer made a hand signal to his right, whereupon a third policeman emerged from an alleyway adjacent to the house. "Are you alone, sir?" the man asked.

       "Yes," he repeated tersely.

       He needn't have asked, for the man said to his two comrades, "Jeff, you secure upstairs, Jake, take downstairs. Tell Li to remain out back." The two men entered the house, brushing blithely past Michael and proceeding with a rough investigation of his residence.

       The lead officer turned back to Michael. "Turn around and place both hands on the wall, please," he commanded.

       "May I ask what I'm being charged with?" he asked defiantly.

       The officer smirked dangerously, evidently tired of this particular line of questioning. "You're not being charged with anything," he said shortly. "Now, listen Mr. Taylor. This is going to happen one way or the other; it's up to you how it goes down."

       They stared at each other for a moment in mutual loathing, Michael's bred of fear, the officer's bred of contempt. Of course any insolence in his position was pointless and self-destructive, but he had the cornered man's impulse to rebel against a threat that was all the more potent because it was as yet unknown. He regarded the man as rage pounded in his veins. Michael was strong and fit, and had been in the military years ago, but the officer stood a head taller than him and wore a thick bulletproof vest that only accentuated a formidable bulk. In any case, the militia, who were the police special-forces, were well trained and kept at a level of expertise he had long ago lost. His shoulders slumped in acquiescence.

       The officer, who had tensed for an attack, now seized his target by the shoulder and shoved him roughly against the wall. Gripping his wrists painfully, he put the restraints on him then led him outside to sit on the edge of the porch, leaving him to contemplate his situation in abject misery.

       It was January, and it felt like it. The dead trees that lined the lonely street were weighed down with heavy white snow, and likewise lined the roofs of the other sorry looking houses along the stretch. A harsh wind blew from the northern mountains, loosening the odd snowflake from its resting place and twisting the dark clouds above into turmoil. The desolate scene had a cold sort of beauty, though to Michael, who had not been permitted to bring his coat, it was simply bitter.

       At length, the two men searching the house and the officer out back came around to the front. One of them shook his head slightly, which seemed to be enough for the leader to move out. He hauled Michael to his feet by his armpits and led him to a police van parked on the street in front of the house.

       They had only made it halfway down the walkway when the man leading Michael seemed to crumple under his own weight, taking him down as well as he fell to the ground. Now prostrate the frozen lawn, the wind knocked out of him and his hands tied behind his back, he rolled to face the fallen officer and recoiled in surprise as he saw a gaping wound in the man's forehead that colored the fresh snow a deep red. He tried to crawl away behind the nearest cover but not before he saw a second officer drop, his head snapping back from the impact of a high caliber bullet.

       Michael made it to a low brick wall at the front of his property and lay against it. He saw another of his captors make his way towards the wall as well but not before he took two shots to the chest; these he shrugged off like a bear, however, by virtue of his bulletproof vest. Crouching behind the wall, the officer drew his pistol and screamed at him, "Stay the fuck down!" He then brought down his communications piece and radioed frantically for backup while he primed his gun. Looking to his left, he saw that the fourth officer was now dead, sprawled face down in a snow bank after an unsuccessful dash for cover.

       With a heart-stopping suddenness, an ear splitting report that nearly deafened him pierced the night air. Looking over to the surviving officer, he saw the brick wall behind which he had sought cover had disintegrated, evidently from a powerful shotgun blast, leaving the man a torn and bloody mess.

       Michael instinctively curled up in a ball, trying to stay as close to the base of the wall as possible. He heard a pair of footsteps crunching noisily in the snow on the far side of his scant cover. Unsure whether the shooters were friend or foe, it was with considerable trepidation that he lifted his head to gaze upon his liberators who announced his presence loudly on his discovery.

       There were two figures looming over him, one heavyset and the other quite slim. They were both clad in dark clothing and had black ski masks concealing their faces, a feature which rarely portended good. This image was not particularly helped by the silenced pistols they both pointed threateningly at him.

       "We found Taylor!" the larger person said in a deep, masculine voice.

       "Secure him!" came the reply from somewhere nearby, this time a female voice. "And bring him over here quickly. They're gonna be all over us in a second."

       The large man and his smaller comrade dragged Michael to his feet and hauled him bodily over to a black van that had just pulled up behind the police vehicle. Another mysterious black clad figure crouched in the back of the van and helped the still restrained Michael into the vehicle.

       "What the hell is going on?" he asked who he presumed to be the leader once he was settled on a small ledge.

       The lithe figure who had assisted him into the back ignored him, instead ordering her subordinates to hurry up and return to the van. "Come on," she urged to the large man, who began to close the rear doors.

       A series of loud gunshots interrupted his work, and the man suddenly collapsed as a bullet struck his neck, washing the open van door with blood.

       "Jesus Christ!" the woman exclaimed in shock. "Sam!"

       Peering out the back, Michael saw the officer who had been hit with the shotgun blast had survived and was firing shots blindly towards his attackers in his final moments of life. The smaller figure who had been with the man sprinted over to the wounded officer, vaulted over the shattered remnants of the wall, and emptied her pistol into him with a ferocity that could be felt with burning intensity.

       "Jennifer!" the woman still with Michael shouted. "Get back!"

       Perhaps remembering their situation, the dark figure pulled herself from her vicious retribution and ran back to the van. The leader also exited the vehicle, jumping out to inspect the wounded man who was writhing in silent agony on the freezing asphalt.

       "Get him into the back," she ordered the other woman.

       "We've got to move, now!" the male driver at the front shouted back. The crackle of police frequency radio could be heard distinctly by Michael as he watched with growing perplexity this horrific scene. "A military patrol is en route."

       The two women managed with some difficulty to lift the massive, bleeding man into the back as Michael continued to gaze on helplessly. The man gripped his neck with both hands as blood gurgled hideously from his mouth and poured from his wound.

       "Go, go, go!" the leader screamed at the driver, and he took off with a loud screech of the wheels. She then examined the wounded man, her head shaking almost imperceptibly. "Take his ski mask off," she ordered the other woman as she reached for a small black box near the front. From it, she took a tube of bio-foam and some bandages.

       "We've got company," the driver yelled back, his voice strained with concentration.

       The leader steadfastly ignored him, concentrating instead on her grim task. Once the man's mask had been pulled down, it revealed a face contorted with agony and covered in blood. His eyes bulged, showing both his pain and his bewildered fear; in their glassy depths lay the horrid realization that his life was slipping rapidly through his fingers. So hideous was this twisted visage of what might have been a handsome face that Michael had to look away. Even the seemingly stoic leader hesitated upon seeing it, the supplies she had so hastily procured gripped uselessly in her limp hand.

       "Amy!" her companion urged, snapping her from her trance.

       Shaking her head determinedly, the woman continued. "Prep an IV," she ordered. Twisting the cap off the bio-foam container, she attempted to administer it to the wound to seal it and prevent further blood loss. Unfortunately, with a strength given him by his own formidable physique and by desperate instinct, his own hands were clamped firmly over the injury in a vice-like grip. She wrenched at his fingers, but between his pain and confusion, he refused to give.

       "Sam," she whispered to him, the cold authority of her voice evaporating with this heartbreaking plea. Blood continued to seep through his hands. "Sam, let go. Please."

       As she said this, the vehicle made a particularly sharp turn, causing all inside to lurch sickeningly. "For Christ's sake, keep the van steady, Eric!" the second woman yelled to the front.

       "I can't!" he screamed back.

       Muttering curses, she helped her leader and together they were able to pry the man's hands from his profusely bleeding neck, revealing a gaping hole that bled with renewed vigor. "Hold his arm down," the leader said quietly to the other woman, and she pressed the tube to his neck, releasing the bio-foam into the wound. In the unsteady van, however, the procedure was less than surgical, and the foam sprayed messily over his neck. Shuddering as the foam seeped into his wound and expanded, Michael winced and felt bile rise in his throat as he imagined the searing pain this must have induced.

       "You got that IV?" the leader asked her comrade, and she nodded, pulling out the pouch and attaching it to the man's arm as best she could under the circumstances.

       "How we doing, Eric?" the woman called, still intent on her work.

       "I think we're good; I don't know," was the driver's vague response.

       No sooner had the IV been administered before the man seemed to tense and start shaking, slow at first but with growing intensity.

       "He's going into shock," the leader realized. After only a moment's hesitation, she ripped off her dark jacket furiously and ordered her companion to do the same. "Cover him, quickly!"

       In the freezing interior of the van, the two jackets did little to allay the effects of blood loss on the man. His convulsions became more potent, twisting and shaking violently and frothing at the mouth between tightly clamped teeth. These spasms ripped edges of the poorly sealed wound and tore the newly placed bio-foam, releasing a fresh torrent of blood.

       "Fuck," the leader murmured in a broken voice, spraying more bio-foam uselessly into the wound. "Do we have any epinephrine?"

       The other woman shook her head slowly, and it was clear even to Michael that it was not in response to the leader's request. They stared at each other for a moment through the slits in their masks, agreement spoken without words. Seemingly resigned, the leader grasped the dying man's trembling hand and held it tightly, laying her other hand gently on his chest. There she remained, holding his agonized gaze as his convulsions slowed and his breathing became short and ragged. As he drew in his final, pained gasp of air, she mouthed, "I'm sorry." With this, his eyes glazed over, and his final breath escaped his bloodied lips.

       With the man's passing, a silence fell over the van, its occupants respecting the solemnity of the horrific death. The leader seemed particularly affected, hitting the back of her head against the side of the van and muttering something under her breath. Even Michael, who was as yet unsure of whether he was in the presence of saviors or captors, did not break the somber mood with the multitude of questions that swam in his stunned mind.

       Not another word was spoken until the vehicle, with a final lurch, came to a stop in a parking lot behind a seedy looking restaurant. Without so much as a glance towards him, the three enigmatic black clothed figures exited the van. The male driver immediately approached a nearby red car, the side window of which he smashed with the handle of his pistol. The two women, meanwhile, secured the area, looking carefully around for any militia or passing civilians, leaving Michael to sit alone in the back of the van, hands still restrained behind his back.

       At length, the two women returned to the vehicle as the man successfully started up the red car. "Get the bolt cutters," the leader ordered her companion.

       Michael's stomach twisted at this, and he looked sharply at the unidentified woman. "Wait," he began pleadingly.

       "Relax," she said condescendingly. She seemed to have hardened herself once more from the vulnerability she had shown when she had attended to her dying comrade. "Unless you want to keep those cuffs on."

       "Right," he said, and clambered out of the vehicle with as much grace as his condition allowed, slipping at the end on the blood that now dripped from the rear edge. The other woman retrieved the bolt cutters and cut the chain, returning mobility to his arms which he put to use immediately by stretching his aching shoulders.

       As he did this, the two women took off their masks, and as he gazed curiously at the revealed face of the leader, his heart skipped a beat; for he looked at that moment upon the most beautiful face he had ever beheld. A golden tan colored the delicate contours of her face, feminine yet strong features that stole the breath from his lungs. This was framed with raven black hair that, although disheveled from the frantic attempts at saving her companion, flowed gracefully down to her shoulders.

       "We should get moving," the other woman suggested. Turning, he saw that she was much older than her leader, though still quite comely. She had short brown hair and a rough yet attractive face that exuded an air of confidence and hardness.

       "Load up," the leader instructed the other woman, who promptly turned to run to the stolen red car. She then turned to Michael. "After you," she said coldly.

       His curiosity at who his seeming liberators were being somewhat satisfied, Michael now could no longer contain his pressing questions. "Who the hell are you people?" he asked.

       She continued to ignore him, instead grabbing his arm and leading him forcibly towards the car. Having had enough of this reticence, he broke from her grasp and repeated his question more forcefully.

       Turning to face him, she revealed an unnatural anger etched on her profoundly beautiful face. "I'll tell you what, Michael," she said in a low, dangerous voice. "I'll give you three seconds before we leave you here to explain what happened to those militia back at your house."

       Michael's blood boiled at this inescapable threat that had been forced on him unwillingly, but conceded to follow her. "And what of that man back there?" he asked, gesturing towards the van.

       She twisted around to gaze into his eyes, her own sparkling with fury. "What the fuck do you care?" she spat, stopping him in his tracks with her withering glare. She paused, staring at him coldly for a few moments before saying quietly, "You didn't even know him."

       With this bitter remonstration, she packed the dark clothing she had removed and her weapon into the trunk of the car, then entered the front with a deliberately loud slam of the door. Michael, with equally bitter reluctance, climbed into the back.

Cardinal Sins: Chapter 2
Date: 10 February 2006, 4:04 am

       The remainder of the ride in the stolen car was an uncomfortable one. While reasonably assured these people did not have any intention to harm him, Michael Taylor was nonetheless apprehensive in the company of these apparently well trained killers who had yet to identify themselves. On top of this uneasiness was the heavy burden of the death of the man, which weighed heavily on his comrades' minds and robbed them of any interest they may have had in the man they had saved from the grip of the Militia. The leader of the group and the driver never turned around, and the older woman next to whom he sat stared steadfastly out the side window, save for the few wary glances she shot him at any small noise he made.

       At length, Michael gave up any hope of an explanation from these people, and instead turned his attention to his own passenger window. They passed quickly down a wide avenue, home to a lower class commercial district. There were scattered groups of people heading home for the impending curfew, including a number of boisterous teenagers making their way loudly out of a closing cinema complex. They were laughing merrily, rejoicing this Friday night and clearly not making any effort to get home before the Militia would start harassing stragglers. They were intent on testing authority tonight, like it was all just some game. How could they be so blind? he thought incredulously. How can they not look to see just beyond the surface?

       More striking to Michael than this blatant unwillingness to see the truth was how normal society seemed to be functioning amidst this terror and corruption. The flashing neon signs of the passing shops went dark one by one as the city settled for an early sleep; the rest reflected glaringly off the freshly fallen snow, bathing the street in fading glow. Students living in the cheap apartments above shut their curtains, anxious to get a fresh start in the morning. Couples walked hand in hand back to their homes, taking in the cold beauty of winter and finding happiness in their young love.

       After bearing witness to the killings of four police officers and a man who had given his life to save him, such a scene was more terrifying in its potentialities than if he gazed on an oppressed police state of misery and defeat. Such conditions could never last; yet this! People content to live within their safe little bubbles, not questioning the sudden restriction of common freedoms out of fear for the perceived threat of violent revolution. It was an arrangement that could last much longer – at least long enough to tear Vesta apart at the seams.

       The last stretch of the silent ride passed quickly. The streets were by now abandoned, almost no one risking retribution for being out past the curfew. They drove presently in an uncomfortably dark industrial sector near the southern river, and as they sped past the empty, looming factories down the deserted streets, everyone in the car tensed visibly. Besides their conspicuousness, the eerie silence left them alone with thoughts they were trying to drive from their minds.

       "Get us back quickly, Eric," the leader said to the driver nervously, breaking the silence for the first time since the ride had began.

       "If I go any faster, I'll only attract their attention sooner," he responded brusquely.

       Eventually the car made it to a sprawling warehouse that looked to be little different from all the other buildings in the area. Michael became slightly apprehensive as the car pulled into a pitch black garage around back where they were hidden from streets by a high brick wall.

       "Where are we?" he asked, hoping his voice would not betray his worry.

       "Don't worry," came the short reply from the darkness.

       Michael heard the car's engine stop, and moments later bright lights lit up his surroundings and made his eyes water painfully. When he trusted himself to open them, he was shocked at the size of the room they were now in. It seemed to span most of the length of the building, though it seemed a wasted expanse, for only a few scattered boxes and a forklift occupied its wide open space. It had a lonely, disreputable air about it and did little to reassure him of the intentions of his new companions.

       "Come on," the leader urged him as the three others got out of the car.

       Deciding any refusal on his part would at this point be futile, he obeyed her command and followed her towards a platform near the side of the building. There he saw an elevator, and his hopes were raised slightly to be leaving this empty vastness where his footsteps echoed eerily and the smallest noise put his senses on edge.

       "In the morning, get rid of the car," the leader said to the driver, hitting the button for the elevator.

       "You got it," he said.

       Studying the man for the first time, Michael realized with a slight shock that he recognized him. His name was Eric Edwards, a member of the much reduced Vesta Party and an outspoken human rights activist. It had been with particular passion that he had attacked the CIF in the recent elections, citing their abuse of power in their last administration and warning of a repeat of the same. Apparently, it had not been without cause.

       Michael had never been quite sure what to make of him on his televised conferences or from his fiery speeches in the Vesta Council, and this uncertainty was only increased with this meeting. He was about his own size, though perhaps slightly shorter. In many ways he seemed ordinary, except for one, striking feature: his piercing, light grey eyes, which contrasted heavily with his black skin. It was a complex face; one he suspected harbored an equally complex agenda.

       They stepped silently into the elevator, and were quickly taken to the top level of the low structure. It opened up into a narrow corridor along the length of which were a dozen offices and assorted rooms. They turned right and followed the hall into an open lounge which housed a number of plush leather couches, sleek wooden tables, and, to the side, a small kitchen with a fridge and stove. At the far end of the lounge was a large workstation which surrounded a single man with a myriad of computer monitors.

       "We're back, David," the leader said bitterly to the man at the computer.

       The man snapped around on his chair and hastened to remove a headset he had been wearing so he could approach them and see the newcomer. As he came nearer, Michael likewise studied him. Unlike the others he had already encountered, this man was clearly not a fighter. With short auburn hair and light blue eyes, he had the sort of face one knew had never seen action and never willingly would. His hands were soft, as was his stomach; out of place on this gentle man, however, was a long scar that ran the length of his face from below his right eye down to his jaw.

       After this new man had finished examining Michael, he turned his attention to the rest of the group. After a moment, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Where's Sam?" he asked the leader.

       "He didn't make it," she answered quickly in an even voice.

       "Oh my God!" he exclaimed with genuine shock. "Really?"

       No one bothered to affirm the terrible news for a second time. The older woman walked over to the kitchen to wash her hands of the man's blood that still covered them to their wrists. The leader, although in a similar condition, neglected this treatment; instead, she and Edwards rounded on him and regarded him with hostile eyes.

       "Take a seat, Taylor," the leader said, gesturing to one of the couches.

       After a moment's hesitation, he took a seat tentatively. The leader sat down on the couch opposite him and leaned forward in preparation for what she was going to say. Edwards remained standing, looming threateningly over Michael and staring at him with an unfriendly gaze.

       At last, she began. "Taylor, you are probably wondering what the hell is going on here, and who the hell we are. After what you have seen… I can hardly blame you." She paused as he shifted uncomfortably at the forthcoming explanation. "Have you heard of an organization known as the PLC?"

       Michael's eyebrows shot up at this, and looked around with renewed anxiety. "You people are with the People's Liberation Coalition?" he asked incredulously. He shook his head resolutely. "I'll have nothing to do with terrorists. You justify to the people the actions of the CIF!"

       "Considering we just saved you from arrest and whatever the fuck else, you might try and actually listen to what she has to say," Edwards growled, glaring at him with contempt.

       The woman, however, held up a restraining hand to him. "Michael, let me make something very clear to you. Right now, you have two choices, and only two: either you hear me out, and find out what is really going on, or you walk out that door." Her voice had lost much of its biting edge from before, and now simply contained a determined calmness.

       Michael nodded his head slowly, slightly reassured by this reasonable speech. In any case, he doubted they would truly let him leave alive now that he had seen their hideout. "Alright," he conceded.

       She continued, her voice remaining toneless. "For a man who has had the CIF breathing down his neck in his own Party for the past seven months, and who has seen what you have seen tonight, I am surprised you so blindly accept what the media has been reporting." His eyes narrowed at this, and he felt intrigued by her words and captured by her deep, dark eyes. "Yes, we are with the People's Liberation Coalition. But we are no terrorists, at least by no reasonable definition. We fight against the Colonial Independence Front, so that Vesta may once again be a free world."

       "Fear of revolution and civil war has been distorted and exploited by the CIF," Edwards spoke up. "The damage they will cause with these extraordinary powers vested in them so unwittingly by the public may well become permanent if they are not stopped quickly. In any case, these 'political prisoners' they have taken so sweepingly in their illegal arrests is a gross misuse of authority, yet the public turns a blind eye towards it out of desperation to see the attacks end."

       "Is it not your bombs that give reason for Martial Law?" Michael pressed.

       "No," the leader said simply. "We do not know who are behind the bombings. Our 'crimes', though, are never reported on the news. Saving persons such as yourself from a warrantless arrest, information attacks on government strongholds, attempting to broadcast the truth – this is what we do."

       "Who is 'we', exactly?" he asked slowly, looking around at them.

       Some of the others grumbled at this inquisitiveness, but the leader was quick to answer. "My name is Amy Bishop. This man is Eric Edwards. He is a member of the Vesta Party and is active in several advocacy groups."

       "Indeed, I recognized him," Michael acknowledged, with a small nod towards the man.

       "I have also seen you on the Council," he said gruffly.

       "This is Jennifer Wright," Amy continued, gesturing to the older woman. "She was a police officer in Massilia PD, but left after facing persecution when the CIF entered office."

       "Any relation to Steven Wright?" he asked.

       "Sister," she said shortly. Her surly response was probably due to mistrust, though having never heard that the leader of the United Party was anything other than an only child probably also indicated bad blood between them.

       "And this," Amy finished, nodding her head to the last man, "is David Hall. He runs…"

       "Ran," Hall corrected.

       "Ran," Amy amended patiently, "an IT research firm that worked in conjunction with Guadell University. He is a computer expert, and coordinates communications and logistics." She turned back to him once the introductions had been completed. "We are members of the Cardinal Cell."

       "The Cardinal Cell?" he asked.

       "The PLC is separated into many different cells," she explained. "This way if any one of us is caught, it will not jeopardize the identity of more than one or two other cells. We are an active cell; the only other cells we have contact with are primary cells, those which give the orders.

       "Every active cell has five members: one for coordination, and four for jobs," she went on. She hardened herself before she continued. "We have lost one of our five tonight – saving your life. I think it only fitting to ask you to be his replacement."

       The others in the group looked shocked, and stared at their leader in surprise; none so much as Michael, however.

       "Me?" he asked quizzically.

       "You were indeed to be added to the ranks of another cell that needed a replacement member," she said, ignoring her comrades, "but given our situation, your presence with us seems more appropriate."

       "I thought you were going to help me escape," he said. "I can't stay in Massilia! After what happened, there's going to be a citywide manhunt for me."

       "No, there won't," Jennifer put in. "The CIF loves to report the bombings, so they can justify their imposition of Martial Law. But you'll notice the coverage is incremental, almost perfectly so. They want people to be scared, but they don't want to appear out of control either. They want to make it seem like Martial Law is a necessary evil."

       "And since there was a bombing two days ago, the CIF wouldn't dare allow the killings of four Militia to be reported," Amy added. "Certainly the authorities may now recognize you – but everyone here runs that same risk."

       Michael put his hand to his forehead for a moment then ran his fingers through his hair. It was a lot to digest in such a short period of time.

       "You've nowhere else to go, Michael," Amy urged. "You will never make it out of the city a free man, and likely not even a live man. You must want to fight back at the CIF. It is your responsibility to."

       "I guess I don't have much of a choice," he concluded, meeting the depths of Amy's eyes. As they stared at each other for in that moment, he realized with a skip of his heart that he recognized both the name and the face of this stunning woman. She was the wife of Steven Wright. She had been active in her husband's campaign, participating in and organizing a number of fundraising activities, but had nevertheless been camera-shy and hesitant to give public speeches. As he was also low in the ranks of the Party, he had never met her personally, so he supposed it was reasonable he had not recognized her; nonetheless, he berated himself for not placing this beauty before.

       "Good decision," Amy said, averting her eyes as she realized what he must have been thinking. "We have some offices with pullout couches here. I assume you're tired."

       Any exhaustion he should have felt had evaporated with the revelations of the night and his sudden recruitment into an underground freedom fighting organization, but he sensed the invitation was actually a request for the four original members to discuss the night's events. "That sounds great," he said, getting slowly to his feet.

       "I'll show you to your room, then," Amy said, and led him back down the narrow hallway.

       They entered a small office near the end of the corridor. It was a cramped space with a cheap desk and a few filing cabinets pushed off to the side to make room for a couch that seemed to have been haphazardly dumped in the middle of the room. The windows were heavily curtained and the lights seemed dimmer than they should have been.

       "The bathroom is across the hall," she said in parting, and made to leave.

       "Amy Bishop," he called to her, as her back turned to him. She slowly turned around to face him once more. "You were the wife of Steven Wright?"

       "I am," she said, subtly correcting him.

       He seized upon this amendment. "What happened to him? If you don't mind my asking?"

       "You knew my husband?" she asked him curiously.

       "In passing, only, ma'am," he said. "He was the head of my Party and the leader of this Colony for some time. I saw him speak many times on the Council, and in many conventions. I took my place in the lower rungs of the Party, though, and spoke to him personally only a few times. He seemed like a fine man."

       "He was. A fine man and a good leader." It seemed an odd way to describe one's loved one, and he began to think he may have overstepped his bounds in asking her. Eventually, however, she said, "The Militia came to my home, arrested him, beat him, and took him away. I don't know where he is."

       "I'm very sorry, Ms. Bishop," he said awkwardly, though as he said it, a thought occurred to him. "Ah! The Cardinal Cell. I did not see it before."

       What might have been the beginnings of a smirk crossed her face, though it did not stay long upon her lips. "I would not say the connection was unintentional, though it was not chosen for solely that purpose. I confess I did not share with you the whole story of this outfit." She paused to regard at him severely. "You see, we are a black ops cell. It is our duty to perform certain tasks which might… upset the morals of others. All in this cell must be prepared to accept the burden of cardinal sins."

       This dark speech erased what humor he thought he had found in the name. "Respectfully, I am not sure I am the best pick for such an outfit," he said, lowering his gaze.

       "I have read your file," she began.

       "Then you know I am not," he shot vehemently.

       "I disagree," she said simply.

       "I couldn't… I can't…"

       "Get some rest, Michael," she ordered, turning once more to leave. "We'll talk more in the morning."

       Closing the door behind her, she left. Michael listened to her footsteps fade down the hallway until she passed beyond his hearing. He then pulled the bed out from the couch and, after switching off the lights, settled down on the thin mattress to begin what he guessed would be an active night of tossing and turning. An irregular sleeper at the best of times, he had no hope for rest this eventful evening. And so he threw his arms behind his head and stared at the dark ceiling with eyes that had not the slightest inclination of closing, and prepared to contemplate all that had happened to him in the past few hours.

       How the hell did I end up here?

Cardinal Sins: Chapter 3
Date: 7 April 2006, 3:31 am

       Michael Taylor watched the dull rays of light that crept slowly around the edges of the heavy curtain which must have concealed a large window. He heard outside his door the muffled rustlings of the other cell members awakening. Checking his watch which he had placed on the desk beside him, he saw it was still just six o'clock. These people made an early start of it.

       As he had expected, it had not been a restful sleep. Though his accommodations were uncomfortable enough, his normally active mind had more than usual to dwell on. While at first shock and incredulity had been foremost amongst his feelings, fear had since replaced them. His mind had wandered uncomfortably to his rescue from the Militia, and the memory of the terror returned. Was that just another night for this cell? Was such violence commonplace?

       Michael could not kill anyone. It had taken him twenty-two years to find it out, but it was an undeniable truth to him now. All his youth he had wanted to join the army, more eager than any to defend Vesta's sovereignty in the name of the Colonial Independence Front. No one had attended more of the Front's rallies, nor joined so enthusiastically in the condemnation of the UN, nor defended more fanatically the Party's disastrous first term in office in 2496. Upon leaving high school with grades that barely permitted his passing, he had signed up for the Colonial Army and had been put into a unit whose lieutenant shared his political views with equal fervor. He had felt more at home in the army than he had ever felt anywhere in his entire life.

       He had spent four years in training before seeing his first action in a remote forest town far to the south. He recalled, with some unease, the feeling of pure adrenaline as his unit had closed in on the small settlement in the dead of the night, his night vision goggles bathing the scattered buildings in a faint green glow. The town was said to be a separatist stronghold with an unknown number of civilians. His unit was meant to be a surgical strike, to take out the hostiles and secure the others for detainment and questioning. It was to be a simple operation, no more than ten minutes from beginning to end, though as he had since learned, nothing is ever so simple.

       When the first bullet fired, all had descended into chaos. Civilians ran from their homes and were cut down in the crossfire between the soldiers and the separatists. As men, women, and children were shot in the streets, his own rifle had stayed quiet. His lieutenant had been furious, and under the pressure of the moment Michael had snapped and struck him down. While usually striking an officer carried with it a minimum punishment of imprisonment, the failure of the operation had compelled his superiors to merely drum him out of the army with a dishonorable discharge to keep him silent about the incident.

       The events of that day had shaken him to his very core. He no longer believed that separation by any means was the right answer. He decided the unhealthy compromise that left Vesta on the edge of the independence yet officially attached to the UN was breeding these violent separatists. Exemption from several universally binding laws allowed the fiercely insular people of Vesta to exact their own form of brutal justice, and it was clear it was not working. While attending university after being discharged, he also learned violent revolutions were a problem unique to the Outer Colonies whose ties to the UN had faded. The Inner Colonies enjoyed more stability and boasted greater quality of life under the governance of the UN. It became clear to him that accepting United Nations administration was the only path to peace.

       While this was how he justified his sudden and radical departure from his previous political ideologies, he knew the more fundamental reason for his dramatic shift was the conscious and subconscious association of the CIF with the events that day in the woods. Following their tenets himself and led by a likeminded officer, it had been in the CIF's name that all those people had been killed. He felt the desperate need to wash his hands of the incident, and it was in the United Party that he had sought his absolution.

       A sharp knock on the door shook Michael from his bleak reverie.

       "Are you up?" asked a deep voice he recognized as Eric Edwards'.

       "Yea, basically," he said somewhat groggily, looking around his room through the gloom.

       "We have some clean clothes for you outside your door. Now get up," he ordered gruffly, and walked down the hallway towards the common room.

       Michael let his head fall back on to the pillow and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands in an attempt to compensate for the lack of sleep he had gotten. What on earth did they need him up for at quarter past six? A cold sliver of fear shot across his chest, though he quickly quenched it. He would have to get up eventually; in any case, as he had learned since his departure from the army, the best way to stay ahead of his fear was to keep moving. Grabbing the clothes piled on his doorstep, he pulled on a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt, and a gray pullover sweater. Gazing at himself in the mirror, he decided he looked almost suspiciously casual.

       After stopping briefly in the bathroom where he found his own toothbrush in a helpfully labeled container, he made his way to the common room at the end of the hall. Not sure quite what to expect, he was vaguely surprised to see a scene that resembled a college dorm room. Jennifer Wright and David Hall were sitting on one of the leather couches, jocularly criticizing the censored newscast they were watching on a flat screen television. Amy Bishop and Eric Edwards were discussing something in slightly more subdued voices as the latter was frying some eggs, sausage, and bacon.

       "Ah, Michael," Amy said, noticing him after he spent a few uncomfortable moments in the doorway. He noted that while she did not speak to him with the same hostility she had displayed after his rescue, she still regarded him with a somewhat detached gaze. "Our resident chef here is cooking us a breakfast fit for kings."

       Edwards cracked what Michael assumed to be a rare smile. "Southern eggs this week. All natural."

       "We start every morning with a healthy breakfast," Amy said a little more seriously. "Get as much food and sleep as you possibly can while you can. There may come a time when it will mean the difference between life and death." She softened this dismal advice with a heartwarming smile.

       "I'll keep that in mind," he answered, unconsciously returning the smile.

       "Dinner is about to be served," Edwards announced, and the pair on the couch lowered the volume of the show and approached the kitchen counter, still talking loudly. Edwards doled out equal portions of the scrambled eggs, sausage, and bacon, as well as two sliced of buttered whole wheat toast, on to five generously sized plates. They then took a seat at the maple dining table, Amy and Edwards at either end, Jennifer and David sharing a side, and Michael left to his own side.

       Before anyone ate, Amy held her juice in the air and turned her attention to Michael. Her comrades followed her gaze. "I would just like to take this opportunity to officially welcome you into this organization, Michael. May you have a successful – and hopefully long – membership in the Cardinal Cell."

       It was a clear allusion to the man killed the previous night saving him, and it was with a palpable heaviness that the other members exclaimed, "Hear, hear!"

       They dug in all at once, Michael's hunger suddenly awoken by the sight of food in front of him. It was by no means gourmet, but it was all fresh and adequately prepared, and most importantly it settled his empty and uneasy stomach perfectly. As he slowed and his appetite became satisfied, he began to consider asking about the man who had died. He did not want to overstep his bounds, but was curious about the person who had been killed trying to get him to safety.

       "Who was the man last night?" Michael asked, and everyone looked up from their meal to look at him. "The one who was killed, I mean."

       He looked around at their faces, which all stared back with empty gazes. At last, Amy answered. "His name was Samuel Lewis. He was with the Cardinal Cell since its inception."

       The terse reply left little room for conversation on the matter. Feeling it awkward to leave it there, however, he finished by saying quietly, "I would just like all of you to know that I'm deeply grateful for his sacrifice."

       "Well, I'm sure he'd really appreciate that," Edwards shot in a low growl.

       "Eric!" Amy interjected sharply, though said nothing more.

       There was no more conversation after this exchange, the only sound accompanying them being the clanging of silverware and the low chatter of the reporter from the news program. As the hour approached seven, Amy finally broke the silence.

       "We have an errand to run this morning," she said suddenly to Michael. "The cells are running low on ammunition and supplies, and we have to obtain some through a proxy."

       "Who's coming?" he asked lightly, purposely avoiding Edwards' glare.

       She gave him a small, almost undetectable smile. "Eric will be dumping the car we used last night. David, as always, will be running logistics. That leaves you, me, and Jennifer." She finished the last of her juice in a final gulp. "Finish your meal and follow me. I'll get you suited up."

       Likewise finishing his drink, he left his dinnerware for the others to clean up and followed Amy into an adjoining room. He couldn't help but give a small exclamation at the contents of the small storage space; hung on brackets on the walls and piling the pair of tables were dozens of firearms and assorted ammunition. A shelf on the back also displayed an impressive array of explosives, a discovery that made Michael back up an involuntary step.

       "It doesn't look like you need any more weaponry to me," he breathed.

       "There's certainly been no shortage of guns since the imposition of Martial Law," Amy said as she examined a pistol from one of the tables. "Law enforcement and the army have been moving huge shipments of confiscated weapons out of the city and even bigger shipments of supplies into the city. It wasn't too hard to get all these." She seemed to settle on a small black pistol and slipped its corresponding clip into the hilt. "Trouble is, the CIF has of course prohibited the sale of ammunition to the civilian population, and we go through that like you wouldn't believe. It's extremely hard to get, but we're well connected." She handed him the pistol and smiled, likely at the stunned expression on his face has he hesitantly took the proffered weapon.

       "Turn around," she ordered suddenly.

       "What?"

       "I need to implant a subdermal in the back of your neck, for tracking purposes," she explained offhandedly, taking a needle instrument from the shelf. "It won't hurt," she reassured him, as he showed considerable reluctance in obeying her. The pain was certainly not what he was worried about, as she no doubt knew. Being implanted by someone he had just met the previous night was an unsettling prospect.

       He heard a small popping noise behind him and it was done. As she had said, he had not felt a thing, though he unconsciously rubbed the spot anyway, to her amusement.

       "Lastly, we have this ultra-light Kevlar for you," she said, and held up a gray vest slightly thinner than his sweater for him to see. "It's available only to members of black ops cells. Put it on and meet us in the warehouse." With this, she left him alone in the room, a hand still on the back of his neck and eyes glued to the vest he held limply in his hands.

       Once more, he felt the sensation of being left far behind. This was happening almost too fast to comprehend it as it happened. Shaking his head, he slipped off his sweater and put the vest on. It was much lighter and thinner than the military issue he was used to, though he guessed it was also a good deal less durable. Still, it was better than nothing and ensured discreetness. He put his sweater back on, slipped his pistol into the back of his pants, and headed through the common room, where David had settled into his communications niche and Edwards was clearing the dishes, towards the elevator at the back of the hall.

       When he reached the warehouse, Amy and Jennifer had pulled up in a cheap black car outside the elevator doors. "You're in back," Jennifer said helpfully, and he entered the rear with gritted teeth.

       It was seven thirty when they left the warehouse, which was exactly when curfew lifted. The industrial park they were in seemed almost as abandoned as it had the night before with the exception of a few commercial trucks that had a tight schedule to follow. They passed a Militia van along the stretch, causing Michael the snap back in his chair from the view he had been admiring from the passenger window.

       "Take it easy, would you," Jennifer said, offering some more helpful advice. Michael said nothing.
January
       He turned back to gazing out his window after a few moments. Massilia was a beautiful city in many ways, though these days it was a beauty to be admired from a distance. The newly risen sun bathed the distant downtown Massilia in morning's pale light, the skyscrapers, gleaming with fresh frost, casting long shadows across the city, with the bay sparkling beyond. The residential sector to the north was equally attractive, its low built houses sprawling endlessly along the slope of the northern mountains, hidden beneath the branches of the trees that lined every street. He settled back in his seat and shook his head. It was a beauty wasted on its people.

       "Where are we going, anyway?" he asked, turning his attention from the view.

       To his surprise, it was Jennifer who answered. "To see an old friend of mine."

       "Who?" he ventured, when no further explanation was offered.

       "His name is Alexander Lansing," she explained. "I had a professional relationship with him back on the force."

       "What manner of relationship?"

       Jennifer didn't answer, so Amy carefully elaborated. "Jennifer had the opportunity to discuss many unsolved crimes with Alexander, on a civilian basis."

       "You mean he's a criminal?" he said incredulously.

       "Of course not!" Jennifer said lightly. "He was never directly accused of anything."

       "Look, Michael," Amy said to placate him. "No one was harder hit by the imposition of Martial Law than organized crime. Everyone with a record was immediately taken in, and the Militia took a great deal of liberty in arresting even those who were clean. The Red Mafia is a shell of its former self, so it is obviously in the survivors' best interest that democracy be restored to Vesta. Alexander happily uses his many contacts to assist the PLC in our efforts."

       "Also remember that the weeding out of all those with a record left only the smartest members," Jennifer added. "Lansing is one crafty fuck, always has been. Christ knows how he avoided the CIF witch hunt."

       As they made their way towards lower downtown, Michael contemplated what he had been told. That his first task with the PLC was to buy illegal weapons from a mobster was not so objectionable in itself as was the precedent it set for the future. Doubtless bringing him along was a sort of initiation, which indicated the jobs ahead would only test his morals further. And he had worked so hard to keep them safe.

       They pulled up to a two storey restaurant on a one way side street that lay in the midst of the busiest commercial sector in the city. The street was relatively empty, however, for most people had not completed their commute so soon after the curfew had lifted. The only car actually on the road was an army truck that noisily passed them as they parked.

       The two women got out and Michael quickly followed them. As they walked towards the entrance of the restaurant, he noticed two Militia officers walking down the sidewalk towards them. His heart jumped in his throat, but Jennifer was quick to say, "Just keep walking." Following her advice, he turned away from them and focused with an unnatural intensity on their destination.

       Amy knocked three times on the door, and immediately movement could be seen through the pair of stained glass windows that adorned its front. The door opened and a small, dark haired woman stood in the doorway. "I'm sorry, but the Chateau Briand does not offer breakfast," she said curtly. "We open at noon."

       "We're here to see Mr. Lansing," Amy said, as if she had not spoken. "Tell him it's Bishop calling."

       "Just a moment, please," she said, sounding hesitant. The door closed.

       "For Christ sake, can't he tell the new staff to just let me in?" Amy muttered, annoyed. The two officers were approaching quickly.

       The door reopened moments later and the woman held out an arm to beckon them in. "Mr. Lansing will see you now." As they entered, the two Militia outside peered into the darkened restaurant suspiciously, but Michael quickly averted his eyes.

       The woman led them arbitrarily towards the back, for it was clear Amy knew the way. Michael, meanwhile, took in his surrounding with quiet admiration. Though he had expected nothing less than high class, the dining area had an old world, almost nostalgic charm. Dozens of mahogany tables interspersed with wine cooling spaces graced the floor under low hanging lights, each decorated with ornate green lampshades. Two dark wood bars could be seen at either end of the restaurant, and a low platform at the back seemed set up for live entertainment. He had never seen a place like it on Vesta.

       They were led to a closed door past the kitchen and bathrooms. The woman nodded towards the door. "Please, go right in," she said.

       Past the door was a small room that looked much like the rest of the building. The hardwood floor was arranged in an elaborate, lavish pattern, and the equally gilded walls boasted half a dozen paintings, most depicting beautiful, half-clad women. On the right was a generous mini bar, on the right a granite fountain, and in the center, a large, marble-topped oak desk with a man of fitting stature seated behind it.

       "Ah, Amy," he said genially in a deep, imposing voice, turning his attention from his computer screen to look singularly at her. "How have you been?"

       "Just fine, Alexander," she said with a smile, and took the proffered seat. Michael and Jennifer were left to stand.

       "I must say, I was not expecting you," he said, his voice losing its friendly tone with startling speed. Although he said nothing overtly intimidating, the force of the man behind the words added much weight to them. It was clear he was a big man, well over six feet and with broad shoulders. Alexander Lansing's face was hard, probably middle aged but looking much older. His hair was probably once light brown, but it was barely visible through the dark grey that had long since overtaken it. His most striking feature, however, was his icy blue eyes, which appeared so pale that they almost looked in the dim light to be white. Certainly, they looked to be as hard and unfeeling as the marble of his desk.

       "We have been in greater need of your services lately," Amy said, with the same professional voice. "We have more members than ever before, and we are stepping up our efforts."

       "I'm sure," he said, blowing smoke out slowly from the cigarette held loosely between his fingers.

       "We need another shipment. Our supplies are running low."

       "Have you perhaps forgotten our arrangement, my dear?" he asked, slightly more diplomatically, yet somehow no less intimidating. "You said two weeks ago you wouldn't be back here for a month. Every time I tip you off about an arms shipment I run the personal risk of exposure."

       "You run the risk of exposure every time you draw breath, Alexander," Amy returned gently.

       Lansing's eyes narrowed as the intensity of his frightening eyes grew. "You know, with the obscene amount of ammunition you ask for, sometimes I think you must be killing an awful lot of those bastards. And sometimes," he continued, exhaling another lungful of smoke, "I think you're just wasting my fucking time."

       Amy never broke her gaze with Lansing, but a long silence filled the smoke laden air before she answered. "You know, there was a time one could find such things out on the news."

       Another silence drew on for a time before Lansing broke out in a barking, mirthless laughter. When he finished, he turned his gaze for the first time from Amy. "And who is this?" he asked with a slight nod towards Michael. "Did somebody die? Or did they just have the sense to leave a freedom fighting organization everyone else thinks is a terrorist group?"

       "Do we have a deal?" Amy asked coldly.

       Lansing continued to smile. "Did you bring what I asked for?"

       "Of course." She handed him a small, folded piece of paper.

       He looked at the piece of paper briefly, than, apparently satisfied, reached into his desk and placed it carefully within, at the same time retrieving a small datapad. "A civilian convoy is bringing military grade weapons into the city from Mason Air Force Base tomorrow morning, trying to keep a low profile. The details are all in here." He handed the device over to Amy, who took it quickly and put it in her pocket.

       "Thank you," she said and stood up to leave.

       "Until next time," he said with a smile, and the three of them made their way to the door.

       "Oh, and Amy," Lansing said, as she was about the close the door in leaving. She stopped and turned around. "If you come back in less than a month, I will not admit you."

       She regarded him with a blank expression for a brief moment and then closed the door behind her.

       As they walked back towards the front door, Michael could not contain his burning question. "What was that slip of paper you gave Lansing?" When she ignored him and continued walking, he insistently repeated his question. "Amy! What was on that piece of paper?"

       "Security access codes," she answered shortly.

       "To what?" he pressed.

       "What does it matter?"

       He stared at her for a moment with an incredulous gaze. "We're helping murderers make a living now, are we?" he asked, exasperated.

       "Just what the fuck did you think we were doing here, Michael?" she asked fiercely, rounding on him as they reached the door. She lowered her head to calm herself and ran her hand through her raven black hair. Suddenly she looked up at him with an inscrutable expression, her chestnut eyes like deep, black wells. "You think you know yourself. You think this should shock you. Well, if you didn't believe in the greater good before, believe it now. If not, stay the fuck away from us."

       With this, she turned from him, and walked out into the cool, sunny morning.

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