Chapter One: The Misfit

It occurred to Damon Grask, as he sat fishing for the seventy-third day in a row, that paradise had its pitfalls. Had he not experienced it for himself he might never have believed it.

Heaven, he decided, wasn't everything it was cracked up to be.

In fact, no matter how hard he tried to sugar his predicament, or tried to disguise it into something more palatable, the truth was that during the course of his year long stay on the disc-shaped habitat his idyllic surroundings had become intolerable. Life, it seemed, had become everything he'd always dreaded. And dull was too radiant a word to do it justice.

            "Doesn't it bore you sitting here, day after day, doing absolutely nothing? Your organs would be more useful if they were donated to medical science. I have a contact in the genetics core if you’re interested. At a good price, too. You wouldn’t even miss them. Especially your brain."

The cat had crept up on him and perched itself atop his wicker fishing basket. He could smell its fishy breath fouling up the summer breeze. And now it was staring at him with its mischievous yellow eyes.

Grask disliked the cat.

It was more than their difference in height that didn’t make them see eye to eye. It was deeper than that. Personal.

For a moment he contemplated flicking the red-furred creature on its head with his rod, but resisted the urge. Any teasing on his part would see an escalation in the cat’s venomous taunts. And things were bad enough.

"As much as you hope it does bore me,” Grask said to the cat, “it doesn't. Only your presence does that. Now go away. Shoo. There’s a good kitty. I’m happy with my organs arranged the way they are."

“Please yourself.” The cat hopped off the basket and leapt up onto a rocky ledge overhanging the slowly swirling river. It looked down at the taut fishing line and shook its fuzzy head. “Oh dear. You won’t catch anything with that.”

“Why not?”

“Wrong bait. Zelintha fish only eat Zelintha fish. Everyone on Ulnos knows that.”

Grask sighed.

Of course, there was no escaping the cat from hell.

This was his home, too.

The estate was big, but not big enough to hide very long from the resident cat caretaker.

            It was ironic, Grask had often mused, that such a caustic critter could cheerfully exist in such a pleasant setting as this. But then Grask couldn’t argue with the fact that the cat's presence was his penance for being here. For escaping the rat race. For holing up on this backwater habitat far from commercialized space. He had to remind himself it was a small price to pay for his undetected seclusion.

            “Now that I’m thinking about it,” the cat continued, “that’s also the wrong kind of rod for this stretch of the river. I’m afraid you’ll never catch anything with that. Not in a month of Sundays.”

            Grask pulled his long face into a scowl.

            There were times he could willingly throttle the cat.

Of course, it was his own fault.

Mistakenly, he'd convinced himself that retirement to this scenic habitat was the ideal option – the only option – given his lack of options. How wrong he'd been! A man trained for stealth and killing could only soak up so many endless summer days fishing before the mental rot set in. Before stagnation gnawed away at his soul. Before he craved at least one last skirmish with death to break the endless monotony. Something to make him feel alive! Even if it was only a feline death. Anything to provide a little mental stimulation.

The cat stretched elaborately, showing claws. “This is so mind-numbing.”

“Then go away.”

“I just can’t see the point of sitting here all day and never catching anything.”

“I do it for the relaxation.”

The cat gave him a sideways glance. “Quite.”

Grask’s scowl turned into a glower. “So what is it this time? What’s worrying that little feline mind of yours? You only ever hunt me out when there’s something preying on your mind. Last time it was mice giving you the run-around. What’s wrong now? Splinter in your paw?”

The cat tilted its head and glared at him. “How very crass you are. Tell me, do you practice your inanity?”

            Grask ground his teeth together and told himself to ignore the cat’s smug remarks. Character assassination was the cat’s forte. It was its way of reminding Grask that his tenancy on the estate was illegal.

            “I should never have come to Ulnos.”

            “There is still time to change your mind.”

“Elnos had more rivers.”

“I will personally arrange your travel plans if need be.”

“Even Olnos, with its snows, would have been much better.”

“I have good contacts. The best rates.”

Grask’s glower deepened. It was one thing to accept the equal intelligence of a gene-doctored animal, but quite another to suffer its continual taunts.

He spoke his thoughts out loud and the cat’s eyes narrowed to spiteful slits. “Do not presume we are of equal intelligence, human.” It snarled, revealing dagger-like teeth. “Presumptions can get a man killed. Especially at night, when he sleeps, and is vulnerable to one as stealthy as I.”

Grask stared at the cat. The cat stared back. They sat like this in deadlock for long moments as the river rolled by.

The cat’s full name was Murgle Fessolian Rin-Toulamont. Apparently it was a title of some pedigree with Identigram to prove it. But the creature went by his litter hypocorism of Rin. Grask suspected this was because the cat was slightly embarrassed by his full name, and took great pleasure in ribbing the creature about it whenever the opportunity arose. As IQ-enhanced cats went, Rin was big for his breed – as big as an infant tiger – with claws and teeth to match. He was the colour of blood, with paper lantern ears and fibre-optic whiskers. A fearsome opponent, even without his biting gibes.

            Typically, as was the nature of most cats, Rin had a self-imposed aloofness that grated the nerves like wire wool.

            The float dipped beneath the water, then bobbed back up.

            “Told you,” the cat said without breaking his stare.

            “Haven’t you got more important housekeeping chores to attend to?”

 “And risk missing all this fun?”

“You’re scaring the fish.”

Effortlessly, the cat jumped down off the rock. “I suppose I could go and spray your bed again. Or use your breakfast cereal as a litter tray. Incidentally, did I mention we’re about to have visitors?”

"Visitors?" Grask was on his feet in a flash, their bantering forgotten. No one ever visited the estate – especially while the owner was away!

The cat saw the man’s shocked expression and added, “According to the House, an anonymous shuttle docked several minutes ago at the subterranean port. We are definitely about to have visitors.”

"But we aren't expecting any visitors!"

"But we aren't expecting any visitors." The cat echoed in a mocking tone. He began to climb the steep embankment, heading up into the thicker, wiry grass and the rolling meadow that descended towards the House.

Grask quickly holstered his fishing rod and bounded him. "Who have you invited, Rin? What trouble have you brought to your Master’s estate?”

“None and no one.” Hissed the cat. “I thought maybe you were expecting somebody.”

“Nobody knows I’m here!”

“What about the authorities?”

“The authorities!” Grask nearly lost his footing on the loose incline. He had to grab a handful of the coarse grass to prevent himself from slithering back down into the river.

“Yes, the authorities. I have often wondered who it is you are fleeing from. A scorned mistress, a vengeful creditor, the entire judiciary system. You haven’t exactly been candid with your reasons for coming here.”

They came to the top of the rise and Grask got down on his haunches.

“See what I mean?”

He waved the cat into silence.

Visitors? An anonymous shuttle? This could only mean one thing …

            From here he could see a fair portion of the estate. Mostly it was a beautiful vista of orchards and meadows, dappled with vineyards. But there were also many dense wooded areas and lengths of glistening lakes that made the habitat as lovely as it was.

            Shielding his eyes, Grask focused on the top of the mantle elevator halfway between their little hill and the sprawling mansion house lounging in the distance.

The mantle elevator was a tall 'bandstand' construction of yellow wood, topped with a metal and glass roof. Beneath it, he knew, lay an elevator shaft that connected the habitable Topside of the habitat with the Underside superstructure. Beyond that lay the endless depths of space. And right now the elevator was in operation.

“Oh, look,” the cat whispered by his ear, “right on time. At long last, human, they’ve come to take you away.”

Sunlight rippled off the elevator’s glass door as it slid open.

            Rin pressed himself close to the man. "No overdue library books?”

A woman emerged from the elevator carriage.

“No illegitimate offspring?"

            Grask shot the cat a murderous glare, then hunched lower into the grass.    

            Something was glinting in the woman's hand.

            Rin had noticed it too. "What's that?"

            "A tracker. How do I know?"

            “Looks like she’s spotted us.”

The woman began to wade towards them through the waist-deep fallow.

            “I’m warning you, Rin. Keep your little mouth shut.”

            The woman scattered dusty seed spores in her wake, sending a cloud of twinkling jewels into the dry summer air. Every now and then she glanced at the device in her outstretched hand and adjusted her course accordingly.

            "Some disgruntled old flame, perhaps?"

            Grask made as if to grab the cat's snout, but Rin was too fast, ducking away into the grass and hissing venomously.

            By now the woman had gained good ground and Grask saw that she was small, with dark blue hair and delicately pale skin. Fleetingly, she reminded him of someone once dear to him, and his heart ached a little with the memory. Her brilliant white skinsuit gleamed like virgin snow.

            "Mr Grask!"

            Grask jumped.

            “Oh my,” Rin said, coming back to the man’s feet, “she even knows your name. I do believe you’ve just been ratted.”

            Grask felt an urge to wrap his fingers around the cat’s throat and squeeze very hard. “When this is over, Rin, I’m going to feed you to the Nandelopes.”

            The cat simply sniggered.

            The woman was halfway up the slope now. "Come out, Mr Grask. I know where you are. It's pointless hiding."

            Feeling a little foolish, Grask got to his feet.

            The woman stopped, several yards down slope, and produced a blaster.

            Automatically, Grask raised his hands. "Don't be shootin’ me, missy! Don’t shoot ol’ Rolfe! I’s done ye no ‘arm."

Rin’s mouth dropped. He’d never heard the human speak with such a burbling yokel tongue before. It quite suited him.

“Please, Mr Grask, it’s hot; let’s not do this.”

 "If it be master Grask you be after I's afraid you just missed 'im. I just be his 'umble servant, see. Not worth wastin' no energy on me, see."

            She held her aim. "Cut the ridiculous bumpkin accent, Mr Grask. You know as well as I do that I have already ascertained your identity by the aural identifier implanted in the base of your skull."

            “Advantage female.” Rin whispered.

            The woman waved the gun with measurable menace. "Do not patronize my intelligence nor underestimate my patience any further with your transparent prattling. I assure you I am immune to your stone-age charms and your most expensive cheap lines."

            “But …”

            “No buts, Mr Grask. You have been found. Accept your fate like a man.”

Resigned, Grask lowered his hands. Outwardly, he gave off the pose of a man subdued. Inwardly, he was furiously thinking of a way to successfully disarm this beautiful stranger. Unfortunately, she looked quite capable of thwarting off his every challenge.

“I am at a disadvantage." He said. “I’m not used to being on the other end of a muzzle. May I ask your name?”

            "My name is presently irrelevant."

            He smirked, “What were you parents thinking?”

            The woman sighed. Clearly, she was not amused. Matter-of-factly, she said: "My name is Morda Turvanikae. Alien Interventions Special Covert Operative, First Class. Tell me why you look neither surprised nor impressed?"

            "Because I had suspected as much." He admitted.

“Oh.”

"Not your name, of course, but those you represent. I knew you’d catch up with me one day.”

“It was inevitable.”

“Yes, you’re absolutely right. Sooner or later I knew you'd come traipsing along. Or someone like you. Sent to rebuild burnt bridges and mend broken fences. In all honesty I guess I was lucky lasting a full year.”

“We have known of your whereabouts for eleven months and twenty-seven days.”

Grask tried to hide his surprise. “Now it is my turn to say oh.”

“We simply left you alone until we needed you. It was not in our interest to send a representative across the breadth of Glomerate Space just to tell you we knew where you were. Better to monitor and control.”

“As is the wont of Alien Interventions. Although I must confess I am a little disappointed.”

The woman shaded her eyes. "Really?”

“Yes. I invested heavily during my flight from Glomerate scrutiny. Bought vows of silence. Made intricate plans.”

"A man of your background should have known when to pay bigger bribes, and when not to pay them at all.”

He smiled, “I will remember – for next time.”

“As it is, you may count yourself fortunate that we decided to pluck you from your premature retirement first. Other parties might have been less ... humane."

            Grask flourished a bow. "Then I am indeed indebted to you, Morda Turvanikae.” He put on a cheery smile. “Come, let us walk to the House; it is madness to dally out here when there is iced tea in the cooler." He made to step toward her, but she raised the blaster a fraction.

 "If it's all the same," she said, "I'd rather we skip the formalities and get straight down to business.”

“Business? In this heat?”

“We have a proposal for you, Mr Grask. One that will guarantee your continuing freedom – at least in the short term – and possibly indefinitely, depending on your co-operation, or lack of it thereafter.”

He spread his hands, “What if I told you my illustrious career is best long forgotten?”

“I would call you a liar.”

“Match point female.” A voice whispered near his feet.

“But a man can change.” He argued. “For the first time in my life I've found real peace here on this backwater habitat. Real peace, Ms Turvanikae. And I do not intend to lose it.”

“What if you have no choice?”

“Then there is your folly. You wouldn’t be presenting me with a proposal.”

“Deuce.” Hissed the cat.

At length the woman nodded, “True enough. Is there anything I can say to persuade you to even consider our proposition?"

Grask shook his head, sensing a near victory. “I am done with my mercurial lifestyle. Certainly, I wish the events that caused my resignation had never come about. But they did. Alas, I am through with Alien Interventions. I'm sorry this has been a wasted trip for you. Really I am. I trust your employers will look favourably upon your failure."

            But the woman wasn’t finished with him yet. She traced circles with the muzzle of the blaster, circles around his eyes. "You know, I could simply arrest you and take you back with magna-cuffs on. There's nothing to stop me."

            Grask made a plaintive face. "Since you hold the gun I suppose that is true –providing you fancy your chances."

            Now the woman looked appalled. "You mean you'd fight with a girl, Mr Grask? Heavens, you don't seem the type!"

            "Then you underestimate me, Ms Turvanikae. I value my freedom. I will fight tooth and nail to keep it."

            "I see. Then you give me little choice." She drew a deep breath. "I will say nothing more than this, Mr Grask. Nothing more than a few simple words that I hope will change your stubborn mind.”

“Fire away. I will not be swayed.”

“Despite what you believe, despite what your irrational male ego wants to accept, Ela Sastria-Carver is still alive. Your wife, Mr Grask, she is alive."

Her words nearly bowled him off his feet. He felt his knees buckle, his legs sag, the weight of the habitat press down upon him. For a moment he was dizzy, nauseous. Then he swallowed, dryly, and steadied himself. "Shame on you, Ms Turvanikae! That was most underhand!”

            “I am deadly serious.”

            He glared at her. “Forgive me if I do not share your cruel joke!” His voice was a tight rasp. There were pains in his arms and chest. His ears were ringing. “Your humour is both sick and misinformed.”

“I kid you not, Mr Grask. Your wife still breathes.”

“But I saw her perish. I saw her slain. With my own eyes!"

“Then there is your folly. The eyes can play tricks with the mind. Sometimes we only see what's on the surface and never what lies beneath. I can assure you as I stand here living and breathing that your with is still alive.”

Grask was shaking his head. He refused to believe the words of this stranger. He’d seen his wife murdered right in front of him. She was a year dead. And he was a year down grievance road. This stranger had just reopened all his old wounds and mercilessly poured salt over them!

Morda Turvanikae clipped the blaster to her hip and turned as if to depart. "If you do not want to hear what I've come all this way to say, Mr Grask ... I guess it is now my turn to apologize for wasting your time. Good day to you, sir. And to your cat. I will remain in dock for twenty-four hours should you change your mind."

            "Wait!"

            The woman descended the slope.

            All at once his heart was pounding uncontrollably. The very utterance of his wife's name had flooded him with a wild narcotic of hope, confusion and dread.

“If this is some kind of ploy," he shouted after her, "If this is some kind of ruse to make me return –"

            The woman shrugged. "What need have we of personal stratagems?”

“You work for Alien Interventions!”

“So do you.”

“Then you appreciate my reservations!”

The woman stopped at the foot of the slope and turned to face him. “Mr Grask, your wife is no more deceased than I am.” Then she turned and made for the elevator. “Twenty-four hours, Mr Grask.” She called. “I hope for Ela’s sake you see sense.”

Speechless, Grask could do nothing but gape as the woman entered the mantle elevator, leaving a troupe of faerie spores fluttering in the air behind her.