'Oh, and thanks. You were right; I will.'

'What?' She must have missed something there, but he was already gone. 'What was he gibbering about?' she muttered to herself. It must be the strain, she decided.

Chapter Nine.

Karthakh switched off the communications monitor. Having previous knowledge of his people's communication frequencies and scrambler codes proved quite useful when he and his colleague visited an area where the Veltrochni were engaged in any kind of operations. This star system was no exception, and Karthakh had spent several productive hours eavesdropping on the communications network of a number of Dragons in the Delphinus star group.

The mention of a cylinder in the communications sparked something in his mind. He didn't have the genetically enhanced memory that Sha'ol was gifted - or cursed - with, but he paid enough attention to recall the human at the hangar mentioning such an object. If the cylinder was the relic from the Council of Houses; then it was unique; it must be the same one that the Doctor had been sent to recover.

'The same relic?' Sha'ol asked.

'The stolen object is unique,' Karthakh admitted. 'I do not imagine it could be anything else. The Doctor must be after the same thing.'

'Excellent,' Sha'ol said. 'Then we know where the Doctor will be going. First, the Thor Orbital Facility, then Elchur.'

Karthakh wasn't so sure. 'He is a Time Lord, not a thief.

Even if he has agreed to help out, there is no reason to assume he will do anything more than plan their activities.'

'My people have a knowledge of the Doctor,' Sha'ol said quietly, gazing into the distance in a manner Karthakh recognised. He was experiencing old memories that were as clear to him as the present. Karthakh repressed the urge to let his spines flatten at this display of something so unnatural. He had thought he might get used to it after so many years, but this had never yet proved the case. 'As a Time Lord his mannerisms alter slightly with each regeneration, but monitoring through several incarnations has shown his psychological profile to remain largely constant. It suggests that he enjoys the challenge of operating in the field. It is most likely that he will lead by example.'

Sha'ol returned to the pilot's seat. 'We know who some of his associates are. They will be known to the criminal fraternity on Vandor Prime. It should not be difficult to trace them. Do you concur?'

'Yes.' He not only concurred; he was positively looking forward to it. He sometimes wished that Sha'ol could adopt a more conversational tone in keeping with most species.

Karthakh felt sorry for him at times. Like the rest of the S'Raph Tzun, Sha'ol had been genetically engineered: programmed to think and act in a certain way. He had no real family, except for Karthakh.

Sha'ol turned back to the flight console, and began operating it fluidly, as if he had been born to it.

It had been a difficult choice for Karthakh when he had first met Sha'ol. On the one hand, the Veltrochni had declared holy war on the Tzun after they had wiped out a whole generation of Veltrochni hatchlings. However, it was also a matter of honour that a Veltrochni must allow no harm to come to a guest, no matter what the provocation.

Karthakh admitted freely to himself that if he had known that the ship which asked for sanctuary in his family's plantation so long ago contained a Tzun, he would have refused and blown it out of the sky. But he didn't know, and by the time he found out, the Tzun was already protected by that ancient law. Hiding him had been simple enough, since the other members of Karthakh's family had died long before.

A lightning strike in a storm had started a fire, and taken them all, along with half the plantation. Karthakh had been serving aboard a Dragon at the time, and returned to an empty and gutted home.

At first Karthakh had longed only for Sha'ol to recover from his injuries and leave. He had even contemplated accepting the dishonour and killing his guest. Eventually, though, he had realised that Sha'ol did not deserve such treatment. He had not chosen to be born into such a hated species. Even the characteristics of that race had been -genetically engineered into him. In many ways, Karthakh wondered if letting him live might actually be more of a punishment, for he was the last of his people. There were a few scattered Ph'Sor Tzun colonies across the galaxy, but the Ph'Sor were half-breeds with other species, not true Tzun. When the Confederacy was destroyed, their worlds all became independent.

It must a terrible weight to bear, and Karthakh was glad that it wasn't him who had to live with being unique or so alone. Sometimes he wondered if that was why he grew to accept the Tzun's company so readily; even his company was infinitely preferable to remaining alone. Veltrochni were meant to be surrounded by family, not wander the galaxy in solitude. All either of them had left was each other.

'Gunboat 424,' a voice crackled over the intercom. 'This is Vandor Prime calling gunboat 424.' Sha'ol and Karthakh looked at each other. Karthakh doubted they should answer, but that itself might be suspicious. 'This is Vandor Prime calling Sha'ol and Karthakh,' the voice went on. 'I know you can hear me, and wish to discuss a business arrangement.'

Karthakh doubted that, but was intrigued all the same.

Sha'ol switched on the communications system fully, and Karthakh assumed that must be wise. He had never known Sha'ol to be wrong about tactical decisions. 'This is Sha'ol.'

A hologram of a bearded human materialised in the centre of the gunboat's flight deck. 'Good evening. I am -'

'Mandell, Niccolo,' Sha'ol rapped out without missing a beat. 'Director of Vandor Prime's Security and Intelligence Division. You may speak.'

Mandell hesitated, to Karthakh's amusement. 'I understand you are in the process of fulfilling a contract on the Time Lord known as the Doctor?' The human now tried to look relaxed and superior, without success.

'That is correct. Do not attempt to interfere. When our contract is fulfilled, we will return your ship.'

Mandell shook his head. 'I didn't quite have interfering in mind. Quite the opposite in fact. Can you tell me if your employer specified a time by which the Doctor must be delivered?'

'No,' Karthakh admitted. 'However, we have personal standards to uphold. If you know who we are, then you must know that.'

'I understand that,' Mandell said. 'It's just that, at the moment, I need the Doctor's... assistance. Now, I could simply spend a lot of time and effort trying to keep you away from him, but I'd rather not. Instead I'd like to propose a new arrangement. If you can tolerate waiting until the end of the week, when the Doctor has fulfilled his obligations, I will deliver him to you, along with a suitable bonus for your cooperation. I don't believe that such an arrangement would in any way infringe your current contract?'

Karthakh considered the merits of the scheme. There was no shame in it, especially since they already knew from the Veltrochni communications net what the Doctor would be doing. In essence, Mandell was offering them a bonus for nothing. Karthakh looked at Sha'ol.

'We agree,' Sha'ol said simply.

'How did you get on at the station house?' the Doctor asked Frobisher. Even though they were still sitting in a disused factory in a run-down area of the city, the Nosferatu's Nosferatu's furnishings were perfectly comfortable for a gathering of fugitives. 'Did they indeed have records on this... Oskar?' furnishings were perfectly comfortable for a gathering of fugitives. 'Did they indeed have records on this... Oskar?'

'Well, they did,' Frobisher said, neatly using one flipper to unwrap a chocolate pilchard. 'It turns out he's dead.'

'Dead?' Monty echoed. He sat down heavily in one of the crew quarters' chairs. 'Dead...' Monty looked out the ship's viewport at the decaying rooftop, in the hope that the others wouldn't see his tears. He hadn't actually been particularly close to Oskar, but every old colleague who died took a little piece of Monty's past with him. That was what the aging engineer grieved for. He could foresee a day when everyone who knew him of old would be gone. After that, who would there be to remember him when he died?

'How did they catch him? He was a master of disguise.'

'Mistaken identity,' Frobisher said. 'Apparently a local crime syndicate thought he was a politician they wanted rid of.'

Monty nodded sadly. 'Mistaken identity... He'd have wanted it that way, I suppose.'

'Still a shame,' Chat said. 'He was a bit distant, but he was still one of us, you know?'

The Doctor looked at Monty for a moment, then nodded. 'I understand, but there will be a time for grief later. For now, we ought to move straight on to the last member of your band.'

'Just like that? Grieve later?' Monty was surprised that he didn't seem to be bothered by the loss of Oskar. What happened to other people had never really made much impression on the likes of Glitz, but he'd expected better of the Doctor. Monty was as much jealous of that sanguine air as he was chilled by it.

'Later,' the Doctor repeated stubbornly. 'We do have a schedule to keep to, otherwise there may not be be a later. Not for this planet, anyway.' a later. Not for this planet, anyway.'

'Jack won't go for it,' Chat warned. Liang, Monty and Dibber all nodded in agreement. 'I think we should just go for it as we are. The Doctor's smarter than Jack, and Frobisher's a perfect replacement for Oskar's talents.'

The Doctor shook his head. 'Knowledge is the key,' he lectured them. 'Our best hope of success will be to know everything we can about this cylinder and how you stole it before. Besides, I may be far more knowledgeable than your Jack Chance, of course, but I don't have the previous experience with the cylinder that you and he do. I presume one of you knows where we can find him?'

The five thieves looked at him askance. 'I'd have thought even the Time Lords would have heard of Jack's Cafe Terrestriale,' Glitz said.

The holographic sign that floated above the roof read 'Jack's Cafe Terrestriale'. Through the ingenuity of the designers who had installed it, the words faced any observer in perfect clarity from whatever angle he or she looked at them.

'Cafe' was perhaps too small a word for the building's nature. It was a modest-sized galleria mall, with bars, eateries and amusement areas encircling a wide indoor park on the ground level. That was all overlooked from above by several holo-theatres, and a true amphitheatre for live performances. Above that, with access strictly monitored, were a variety of casinos and entertainment palaces of the less family-oriented kind.

Every concession in the Cafe Terrestriale had Ancient Earth as its theme. A copy of the 1920s era Maxims restaurant snuggled in between a western saloon and a wine bar. Neon and glass bulbs meticulously recreated from images of Las Vegas lit the area from the casinos above.

It was a spectacularly perverse mix of styles unseen for millennia. It was also, of course, supremely tasteless, though no one alive in the eras which had been recreated was still around to explain this fact to the masses who frequented the place.

The owner watched these masses from what could be considered a sunken office in the roof, which was ringed by a circular window that gave an unobstructed view all around the Cafe Terrestriale. The glass was one way, since he had been known to use the office for bedtime escapades with whoever took his fancy. There was no shortage of willing volunteers. Well, they were only human, he thought egotistically.

Jack Chance was pushing sixty now, but took just enough rejuvenation treatment to look twenty years younger. In terms of fitness, it made him a good thirty years younger. He kept the faint touches of grey in his coiffured mane, though; he felt it gave a respectable air that attracted the girls.

Youthfulness and maturity in one package, and not a downside in sight.

He activated his personal assistant with a snap of his fingers. 'What's up, sweetheart?'

In past centuries, people had interfaced with their computer equipment through keyboards, or voice commands, or wetware. Throughout history, though, people had always felt most comfortable interacting with other people. This had allowed a fashion for humanoid computer interfaces to develop. The holograms could be visually indistinguishable from real people, or as bizarre and unreal as the customer wanted. It would then be a more user-friendly - literally - interface than a keyboard, mike, speakers, screen, skull jack and all the rest of it rolled into one.

The holographic image of Jack's ex-wife joined him at the bar. He hadn't picked that form so much for its looks as so he could enjoy hearing her speak only when spoken to. Most people had their PAs set to full opacity, making them indistinguishable from real people, at least to the naked eye, but Chance preferred his to be faintly translucent. He liked to keep a distinct difference between the real and the unreal.

'The usual things,' she answered with a sigh. 'The President is returning from Mars today. The shares index has dropped ten points, and forecasts are for the Terran market to open down twelve to fifteen points. More dull political stuff, if you want.'

'Forget it. Political news is always the same anyway.'

'Just the names that change, huh, Jack?' She blinked, as if just remembering something. 'Oh, weather control will be off-line in the capital this afternoon for essential maintenance.'

'Which means what? Rain? Blizzards? Scorching sun?'

'Your guess is as good as mine.'

'Off.' Jack felt a twinge of guilty pleasure as his ex vanished into thin air. He wondered if it was legally possible to marry one of those holograms. He decided against it; she might be more cooperative, but you couldn't really have sex with a hologram. Not that it stopped some fetishists who chartered his rooms, but Jack liked his partner at the very least to have a pulse.

According to the antiquated scanners in the Speculator's Speculator's main control room, a bulk freighter was passing quite close by, carrying foodstuffs to space stations. That was a good omen, Gorrak thought. That would show the matriarch what was what. main control room, a bulk freighter was passing quite close by, carrying foodstuffs to space stations. That was a good omen, Gorrak thought. That would show the matriarch what was what.

Borrk had assured him that the Speculator's Speculator's tractor beam was working perfectly. Instead of going out in the shuttle, they could drag ships in. The tractor beam had originally been installed for asteroid mining, of course, but Gorrak couldn't care less about that. tractor beam was working perfectly. Instead of going out in the shuttle, they could drag ships in. The tractor beam had originally been installed for asteroid mining, of course, but Gorrak couldn't care less about that.

It was with a surge of pride that he watched the swollen freighter being dragged towards the nose of his ship.

Gorrak looked back at his troops. 'Check your weapons.'

The surrounding Ogrons laboriously squinted at the controls on their plasma rifles. A blue-white flash spat out in the middle of the room, and an Ogron in the front row popped in a shower of blood and twitching limbs.

An Ogron in the centre rank shrugged, looking at his smoking rifle. 'Mine loaded,' he deduced cheerfully. Gorrak laughed approvingly with the rest of the squad.

This didn't stop him from looking through the thick transparisteel windows in the airlock doors. Already the hapless freighter's hatch was falling towards the outer door as it was swallowed up by the Speculator. Speculator.

Jack Chance toured his property every day, greeting the regular customers, smiling at families, and propositioning anybody who looked attractive enough. He had just stopped to help himself to a drink at one of the bars, when he became aware of someone approaching.

It was a middle-aged man with drab clothes and a drab face. He had 'accountant' written all over him. Something similar anyway, Jack thought. 'Can I get you something?'

'The word on the streets is that you can get me out of here.'

Chance repressed a smile. There were enough words on streets to fill several dictionaries, few of them reliable. 'I'm just a businessman. I run this place, import some foodstuffs and holograms... I'm not quite in the league you're looking for.'

The man slid a credit chip across the bar. Chance picked it up. 'Hang on a minute.' He slid the chip into the reader under the till. It was one he had modified himself to read fingerprints on the chip, rather than its veracity. According to the prints, checked against a database hacked from the Justice Division offices, the guy was a government cleric.

More importantly, he didn't match any records of police or security men.

Jack stepped back to the man. 'Well,' he admitted slowly, 'there is this Kaldanian freighter setting off for the Rassm system tomorrow. Their captain bitches to the bartender here all the time, and right now he's short of a galley assistant...

You'd be scrubbing dishes the whole trip, but -'

'That doesn't matter,' the man said urgently. 'Just name your price to make sure I get aboard.'

'For two thousand, and a few rounds of drinks for the captain tonight, I'm sure we could swing it.' The man hesitated, then wiped his brow in relief, and dug a creditchip out of his pocket. Jack stopped him. 'Ah, you know how it is... On a war footing and all, credit doesn't go that for. I prefer cash.' It was less traceable for a start.

The man visibly repressed an urge to speak - a curse most likely, Jack thought - and nodded. 'All right, cash it is. I'll be back in an hour.'

'I ain't goin' nowhere,' Jack advised him cheerily. 'The captain should be in tonight. I'll introduce you when you come back... If you've got the cash.'

'I'll have it.'

'Good.' Jack watched him go, and then helped himself to a Rush tab. Purified adrenalin and endorphins grown from his own cells flooded his brain, bringing a chemical-free buzz.

Someday it'd occur to the government to make it illegal, but not today.

Reinvigorated, Jack switched on the communicator screen under the bar. 'Kallas?'