It took Darien a moment to process the statement, but processing it didn't help. He held Merlynn's stare, cocked his head to one side quizzically and frowned.

"He asked for me?"

"Yes."

"Me specifically?"

"Yes."

"What the hell?"

"Yes. Again."

He shook his head in bewilderment. "Why? How do they even know who I am?"

"That would be a very good question," Merlynn muttered. "There have been security recordings from some of the Blink operations – maybe someone managed to place your face."

"I haven't been on this planet for six years," Darien said a little too quickly, unwilling to believe that someone in the resistance had identified him. "And our identities aren't on some colonial register. Even if they did manage to get a face off a recording they couldn't have found me through normal channels. It's impossible."

"Operative Flint, everything you're saying is true, but I think the matter of how is one for history to sort out. The fact is someone did identify you and they want to talk."

"Space." Niamh looked at him aghast. "You think someone recognised you, you know... from before?"

He spread his hands in bafflement. "I mean, I guess it's possible. The only other explanation..." His gaze flickered uneasily to Merlynn. "Well the only other explanation would mean a lot of hard questions for everyone on this base."

"You think we have a spy on the base?!" Merlynn hissed.

Niamh shrugged. "Why not? It's been clear since we landed here that the rebel forces are better organised than anyone gave them credit for."

"Can you show me the transmission?" Darien asked. "Maybe it'll mean something to me."

"Of course." At a nod from the colonel Pynazt queued up the file on the briefing room screen.

It took a few seconds for the screen to flicker into life and at a glance it looked like any other rebel transmission: the same oily, distorted silhouette against a green backdrop; an almost formless black shape. A few seconds of crackling static filled his ears before the shape moved, as though shifting position in a chair. Then the rebel leader began to speak.

"I suppose we touched a nerve," the modulated voice muttered in a way that seemed almost weary to Darien's ears. "That's how things work out here. Push back against the big bad wolf and it bites your damned hand off. Hope it feels good now that you've got your war."

He frowned. This felt different than the combative, overtly political broadcasts that periodically hijacked Ravine's airwaves. Something bitter seeped through in spite of the heavily disguised voice of the enemy.

"I'll admit, it took us a little while to realise just what was going on down here – all your little bits of sabotage and subterfuge. I thought for a moment that maybe the colonial government might have figured out how to show some damned restraint. But no. All of that was the work of the obedient little pixies you brought in to do the real work." A pause. A derisive chuckle. "It's a smaller galaxy than I thought I guess. 

So, here's a message for whoever's in charge of the big guns down there. You've got two choices. We can fight this war out here and now and tear this planet apart while we're at it. Or I can talk to Blink Operative Darien Flint, who I know is on your base as I speak.

It's up to you. If you have any interest in de-escalation; any interest in a negotiated settlement, you'll send Operative Flint to the coordinates attached to this message. He goes alone. I'd say unarmed but I think I know him better than that. But no bugs, no radios, no means of tracking of any kind. We find anything we don't like and he's a dead man – and we will find it if it's there. If you can manage to hold up your end of the bargain, just maybe we can try to bring a little sanity to this.

You have twenty four hours before this offer expires, and you get the war you so clearly want."

Then the recording stopped and the screen went dead. Darien's arms folded even tighter across his body as he narrowed his eyes, trying to think as he stared. There was something he couldn't quite place that dug at the back of his mind like an archaeologist with a hammer and chisel; something about the phraseology that chimed at long buried memories. But he couldn't place it – the memory scurried off, unwilling to be dragged back to reality.

He could feel the eyes of Colonel Merlynn, the intelligence officers and Niamh all fixed on him, waiting for him to give some smoking gun, some way to identify this person. Darien wished he could. In the end he just shrugged.

"Not much room for doubt there," he said.

"And you have no idea who it might be?"

Another shrug. "I knew a lot of people, a long time ago. With the silhouette and the voice being disguised it could be anybody."

"Indeed." Merlynn drummed the fingers of one hand against her thigh. "Well, the question remains, what to do now?"

"You're really considering this?" Niamh asked, her voice thick with doubt. "I understand that we want to try and bring the fires down, but you can't send Darien in alone."

"And why not?" Merlynn glanced at her sharply. "He's one of the few people on this planet who can get out of trouble whenever he wants to."

"Assuming they give him the chance." She looked at him pleadingly. "Darien, with everything that's happened the teams need you. They could shoot you on sight – you can't take the risk."

"I don't think I've got a lot of choice, Niamh." He gnawed thoughtfully on his lip, weighing up the pros and cons, the risks of going against the risks of refusing. The second option did not sit right in his conscience. "They wouldn't make contact like this if they weren't serious. As far as war goes, killing me won't help them much. Whoever it is does want to talk to me."

"Besides," Pynazt cut in. "They seem willing to let you carry a weapon. That's quite a risk for their leader to take in a face to face encounter. He must believe that you wouldn't take the chance."

Darien nodded slowly. "Where is the meeting point?"

"Well beyond what we could consider 'secure' territory," Merlynn admitted. "Coordinates they've given match up to a freight transport junction in the north east. If I had to take an educated guess you'll meet a contact there and there might be a few stops before you get to meet our friend."

"I'd say that's a safe bet." He sighed. "And you won't be able to track me from there on."

"It's not impossible – we could-,"

"No," he interrupted, shooting Merlynn a sharp look. "If we do this I don't want to get my head blown off because they think we double-crossed them. If you're serious about talking to them then let me talk. If anything else goes wrong I'll get out of it myself."

"Darien, this is a bad idea," Niamh persisted, though he could hear in her voice that she knew she'd lost the argument. She just needed them to know that she wasn't okay with this. As he looked at her he knew somewhere deeper down she wasn't thinking as a soldier. He looked her in the eye; shook his head gently.

Niamh's face pinched with discomfort but she held her tongue, glancing to Merlynn and back again. Eventually her shoulders sagged and she gave him a tiny nod of assent. Grateful to have even her reluctant support, he looked back to Merlynn.

"Alright, Colonel, I'm in."

*

Darien sucked a steadying breath through clenched teeth as he approached the rendezvous point, doing his best to quiet his nerves and still wracking his brain to try and figure out who exactly he was about to meet.

In front of him an industrial freight yard sprawled, clanging with machinery and a chorus of growling engines. Massive, brick-like hauler trains squatted on magnetic rails, their armoured hulls scorched and covered with soot and ash. The heat in the yard made sweat bead on his cheeks as he walked, keeping a lookout for any sign of a welcoming party.

Most of the people he could see wore the standard heat resistant overalls and blast coats, forming a drab kaleidoscope of greys, blacks and browns that blended against the burnt metal of the yard. Adjusting his own jacket, Darien felt the reassuring bulk of the Bocklor typhoon pistol against his thigh. Despite the supposedly peaceful nature of this mission he was glad to have it in the event he needed to shoot his way out of a double cross.

Don't get shot.

Niamh's parting words echoed in his mind. No-one in the squad had been particularly sanguine about this solo operation – he could hardly blame them given the risks. He did feel uncomfortable leaving them like this, with Vass still fighting for his life and many of the operatives fighting to come to terms with the deaths of their comrades. Part of him wanted to stay and be the leader they needed, but he knew this chance to speak to the rebels simply couldn't be allowed to slip by.

So he squared his shoulders and walked on.

After a few minutes wandering his way through the yard he became aware of someone shadowing his steps, catching a figure watching him as he moved from platform to platform. Not trying to hide from anyone, Darien stopped, lounging against a pillar with one hand in his coat wrapped around the grip of the Bocklor.

It didn't take long for his shadow to approach. It was a woman, the wrap covering the lower half of her face making it difficult to make any meaningful guess at her age. Thick braids of dirty blond hair spilled down her back, her thin frame swallowed up by a long blast coat. Coal-coloured eyes fixed on him as she approached, before she took up position against the pillar beside him, leaning against it and lighting a black cigarette.

He waited, a few puffs of chemical smelling smoke swirling around them.

"Flint?" she rasped eventually, her voice slightly muffled by the fabric of her face-wrap.

"Depends who's asking."

"You know exactly who's asking. Come with me. We've got a train to catch."

*

They were taking the scenic route, as it turned out.

After an hour long train journey crammed in a windowless cargo container with his chaperone, he was decanted into a quarrying settlement embedded in the flank of a gently burbling volcano. He didn't recognise the place and clearly their choice of transport had been deliberate to stop him getting any kind of bearings on their destination. While in the container he'd been subjected to a thorough scan for any kind of tracking bug or a comm wire.

The woman found nothing, though he saw her expression darken when she discovered the Bocklor. Despite her obvious trepidation she didn't try to disarm him – evidently the rebel leader had been serious about allowing Darien to go armed.

From the train she ushered him to board an armoured lava-canal barge, an ugly black cuboid that ran the lava flows on a heat diffusing hull and a thermal energy convertor to drive it. Inside it his entourage tripled, with a pair of grizzled men in full blast gear and carrying military issue assault rifles taking charge of him.

Not letting his unease show, Darien took his seat between them, folding his arms and leaning back against the hot armour of the barge. A thick, heavy slopping sound of lava lapping against the outer plates brought memories surging back into the forefront of his mind as they set off on the next leg of their journey. He had spent a long time crewing barges just like this, smuggling anything and everything through the deadly canal networks that infested Ravine from continent to continent.

Whoever was leading this rebellion knew those networks well. He tried to think back. It had to be someone he knew from his days on Ravine, someone who knew him well enough to recognise his face in spite of the years. But none of those people fit the profile of a charismatic leader fighting back against the oppression for the citizens of Ravine.

The people he knew on Ravine were self-serving convicts, little more.

By his reckoning they spent the better part of two hours riding the lava flows, a pretty long trek by the standards he knew of given the risks of overheating the protective plates that kept them afloat. But when they finally bumped to a halt the woman motioned for him to stand, holding out a pair of blast goggles with their lenses painted over in black.

"Put these on."

Darien accepted them with a wry smile. "Don't trust me?"

"Save the small talk someone who actually wants to speak to you. If I had my way you'd be sinking into a canal right now."

"Is that so?" Darien's smile didn't falter at the threat "I guess we should all be happy you're not in charge then." Before she could reply he slipped the goggles on, completely blocking out his vision. He spread his hands wide. "Happy?"

He took her silence as tacit agreement.

A grip on his arm directed him down the barge's boarding gangway and out onto some kind of metal platform. He could smell a blend of ash and chemicals in the air, but for the first time in a while he couldn't pick out any kind of machinery clanging in the background.

The surface underfoot remained flat and unyielding and the hiss of hydraulics stung his ears as they passed through some kind of airlock. A wave of surprisingly cool air washed over him and he took in a grateful lungful as he was marched through a series of corridors. Given the short echo of his footsteps he knew they were traversing narrow passages, turning several times in quick succession. He wondered if they simply wanted to disorient him.

If so, it didn't work. Not speaking and simply focused, he remembered the order of turns they had taken just in case he needed to make a quick get away.

After a final right turn the goggles were finally (and rather forcefully) pulled off of his head and he found himself facing another airlock. Not much bigger than a normal door it looked fairly unremarkable, save for another pair of guards, one of whom carried an enormous shotgun slung across her chest. He waited for a moment then glanced around at the woman and guards who'd brought him here.

"Well, here I am." Darien shrugged. "Are we going to do this."

The woman with the shotgun looked him up and down disdainfully and tapped her earpiece. "He's here."

Whatever reply came through wasn't audible, but a moment later the other guard turned and punched an access code in to the airlock control panel, shielding the keypad with his body to prevent anyone seeing the combination. Clunks echoed in the passage as the locks disengaged and with a faint creak of heavy hinges the airlock swung open.

"Go on in," said the blond-haired woman who'd accompanied him all this way. "You came to talk – make sure that's all you do."

"I didn't come here to pick a fight," he assured her. Then, steeling himself for whatever he might find, he stepped through the doorway.

The room beyond was an empty metal-walled cell save for two chairs and a table. As the airlock door thumped shut behind him he looked across the room and found he was not alone. One other person sat in the room on opposite side of the table, facing him.

When he realised who this person was, shock didn't do the feeling justice. Darien's mouth dropped open stupidly, eyes widening as he stared in disbelief at the figure sitting at the table in front of him.

The young man looked at him with red, smoke-stained eyes, as though some demon had control of his body and was gazing malevolently out into the world. He was no more than a few years Darien's senior, with dark hair shaved down into a fine fuzz over his scarred scalp. He had skin like tough leather – dark and beaten by Ravine's elements, stretched over hollow cheeks and a sharp chin. A factory issue blast coat hung loose on his slim frame, revealing a sinewy chest beneath a fire blackened tank top. From under the table Darien could see a pair of heavy duty work boots poking out, ankles crossed as his quarry lounged back in the seat.

For a moment they just stayed there, one sitting, one standing, eyes fixed together, each trying to process what they were seeing.

Then the rebel leader let out a rasping chuckle, shaking his head as though he'd just been let in on some kind of inside joke. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a pack of soot-black cigarettes, removed one with his teeth and replaced the packet. From the other pocket came a lighter, and without a care in the world he set the little stick of darkness burning. The tip flared orange for a moment before he exhaled a waterfall of acrid smoke from his nose and mouth. Scissoring the cigarette between index and middle finger, he removed it from his lips and looked Darien in the eye.

"What's the matter, Darien?" he said through a malicious grin. "You look like you've seen a ghost."