The glittering array of bars, clubs and other assorted drinking establishments boasted by Galactic Central was extensive but, without exception, expensive. Nevertheless, Cam figured he'd earned a drink or two, and Kaz certainly didn't care about the cost. He came from old money, and as the black sheep in the family his aristocratic parents back on Rigel were happy to sling him a generous allowance on the proviso he restrict his embarrassingly lowbrow activities to locations lots of light years away from both them and his more respectable siblings.

Although the diviest they could find, their selected bar was still several orders of magnitude classier than the best Theves had to offer—the carpet didn't look remotely hose-downable and the chairs weren't even bolted to the floor.

"Why's everyone so hot for these damned AI defence systems, anyway?" Kaz took a slug of his third Arcturan whiskey. "What's so great about 'em?"

"You mean apart from how, compared to us, they're faster, cheaper, more durable and pretty much endlessly upgradeable?" Cam was still nursing his first drink. Time was, his second drink would by now be nursing his first drink, or more likely trying to resuscitate it with the help of his third and fourth drinks while the fifth provided moral support, but those days had passed. For now, at least. "And they also don't get hangovers and they almost never miss. Apart from all that stuff?"

"Yeah." Kaz scowled into his glass, before draining it. "Apart from that." He motioned to a gleaming droid (even the droids here were classy) for a refill. "I mean, I bet they're no fun to have a drink with."

"Yep, there is that," agreed Cam. "When it comes to propping up a bar, we've got it all over the AIs. Mind you, that's probably only because nobody's bothered to design a bar-propping one yet. When that day comes, the Sentinels are in trouble."

Putting down his glass, Kaz gave his CO a considered—albeit three-whiskey—look. "Like we're not already?"

Cam thought back to the CE's chilling, not-particularly veiled threat. You don't know the half of it, my friend. Still, he couldn't see much benefit in sharing his concern. "Sentinels are always in trouble. It comes with the job. Only the depth varies."

Kaz wasn't so easily put off. "You know what I mean. What happened, boss? How'd we go from being venerated to tolerated? Hell, sometimes not even that. What went wrong?"

"Nothing, Kaz. Well, no one thing. Times change, is all." Cam ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. "The restrictions on AI deployment got a little looser, or a little more ignored, anyway. The quelling of the Tau Ceti uprising a few years back didn't do our PR any favours. And lately the Galaxy's had an unusually long run of relative peace and quiet, which tends to lead people to wonder why they'd want a bunch of highly armed and expensive stiffs hanging around doing not much of anything. And there's probably a thousand other things."

"You mean like Chief-Executives who won't listen to plain common-sense?"

"Yeah, that kind of stuff definitely doesn't help. Although..."—he gave his wingman a consoling pat on the back—"look on the bright side. If things go tits-up, then who's gonna be on hand to save the day and serve the CE a big old fistful of humble pie, huh?"

Even as Cam uttered the words, he regretted them. It wasn't as if he was superstitious, as such—of course not. It was just that, well...he'd tempted fate too many times in the past to go giving it the slightest hint of an invitation to deliver some payback.

Despite the misgivings, his statement had its intended effect on Kaz. "Damn straight. With a big old dollop of we-told-you-so on top. Man, she's a piece of work, that one." He shook his head. "Can't believe you guys used to bang."

Given the current state of their relationship, Cam sometimes found it a little hard to believe himself. "Bang? Oh, please. One does not bang the Chief Executive of the Galactic Conglomerate, young man. Although, I guess she was only Vice-CE in those days. No, what happened was you'd compare timetables, find a mutually agreeable window, schedule an 'interpersonal relations' session and then, nine times out of ten, go off and take a cold shower because some critical piece of GalCon business would come up at the last minute and she'd cancel on my sorry arse." He shook his head. "Great times."

"I can imagine." Kaz made inroads on his fourth whiskey. "But it's not so much the, ah...mechanics of the process I have difficulty grasping. That all sounds exactly like I'd expect. No, it's more the participants I'm having trouble with. Well, one of the participants. Namely, you. I mean, what was she thinking? No offence."

"Some taken, Kaz. Some taken. But believe it or not, there was a time when having a Sentinel hang off your arm while doing the rounds of GalCon's swankiest cocktail parties and executive shindigs wasn't such a bad move, career-wise. I was an up-and-comer too, in those days. Back when there was still some up left to come to."

Despite himself, the recollection brought the ghost of a smile to Cam's features. It had never been love, he knew that. Hell, sometimes it hadn't even been like. And these days it was anything but. It had never been dull, though, that was for sure. Wrangling his squadron of Sentinels by day and navigating the intricacies of the CE's world by night, he'd never felt more capable, more ready to take on the galaxy and anything it had to throw at him, his days as a struggling nobody from a nothing planet far behind him.

But even then, there'd been the sense it couldn't last. Rising through the ranks, it was impossible not to notice just how thin those ranks were becoming. There was a time, not so long ago in the grand scheme of things, when Sentinel bases spread across the galaxy and a captain like him would be a relative nobody, just a middle-ranking cog in the machine, but time and circumstance, misfortune and malfeasance, had whittled those bases down to the very last one and scattered his former COs and superiors far and wide, into reassignment or resignation, retirement or retrenchment or, well...the big boneyard in the stars. 

Leaving him as the most senior Sentinel standing. The one left to hold the line. To defy the odds and to keep the flame flickering, no matter how feeble it might become, until the day when the Sentinels rose again. Not because of any grandiose sense of self-importance or simple base instinct for survival. No. The Sentinels must persist because they existed to serve the galaxy—and the day would come when the galaxy needed that service again.

Although unspoken—possibly even imaginary—Cam felt the weight of that burden. He didn't know if he was the one to lead the Sentinels back from the brink. In fact, he doubted it. But he'd at least been confident he'd keep them around long enough for that one to come along.

Now? Not so much.

"Hello? Galaxy to Earthman. You still with us there, cap?"

"Huh? Sorry, Kaz. Must've been gathering wool."

"What's woo—? You know what? Never mind. Should we hit the launch bay, do you think, or is there time for one more drink?"

Cam drained his glass and got to his feet. "Both, lieutenant."

"Huh?"

"Well, it's like this. I'm hitting the launch bay. You, on the other hand, have time for one more drink. In fact, you've got time for as many drinks as your stomach and/or your pocket money will stretch to. You're staying here."

"What? Why would I do that?"

"Well, firstly, because I'm ordering you to. And secondly, because I need someone to keep an eye on Galactic Central while I go and check out this pirate thing. This place will be up to the eyeballs in world leaders soon and if things start to go a bit pear-shaped, I doubt I'm number one on the CE's list of emergency contacts. I need you to keep me in the loop."

"Screw that. Forget it, I'm not—"

"Kaz, you know how I hardly ever pull rank on you?"

The Rigellian glared at him in suspicion. "Yeah."

"Well, the key words there are 'hardly ever'. Drink up, shorty."

####

Vast and treacherous, the asteroid belt lay far out in the cold, dark reaches between Theves and the first of Prima's half-dozen gas giants, a gargantuan system-straddling ellipse of tumbling, colliding, drifting and ever-shifting rubble, ranging in size from pebbles to planetisimals.

In the shifting shadows of a slowly rotating, ice-crusted boulder, some two or three times the size of his ship, Cam clung tight to its meagre cover with the lightest of touches on the controls of his interceptor, before, with a sharp burst of thrusters, darting over to the next convenient asteroid heading his way.

This was pirate territory. And pirates tended to take a dim view of unannounced visitors—at least those without the means to pay a worthwhile toll for their safe passage, whether it be willingly or otherwise. And although Cam had nothing much the pirates would want, possibly beyond bragging rights for having taken down the head of the Sentinels, he very much fell into the 'unwilling' camp.

And also had no intention of giving away those particular bragging rights. Which meant, now that the pirates had seeded pretty much the entire field with anti-cloaking probes, sneaking up the old-fashioned way. The fun way.

The Sentinels may be much diminished, he may not be in charge of much of anything for much longer, but he was pretty damn sure he could dodge of bunch of cutthroat space-buccaneers long enough for a thorough recce of the situation, prior to somehow utilising his modest resources to bring them into line.

So, needless to say, it came as something of a surprise when a dazzling blaze of light engulfed his ship and a cheerful voice emerged from his headset radio.

"Nice flying, dude. If the Sentinel thing doesn't work out, we can probably find a job for you out here. I'm pretty sure the boss needs a new chauffeur."

Squinting through the glare, Cam took in the shape of three pirate vessels emerging from behind nearby asteroids. A motley collection of repurposed shuttles or transports, with retrofitted weaponry bolted to every available surface, he was pretty sure he could take all three, but at the moment an all-out war with the pirates was the last thing he needed.

"Why?" he asked in resignation. "What happened to the last one?"

"Tell you what—why don't you ask her yourself?"

####

Long a drawcard for miners and merchants hungry for its rich resources, the asteroid belt had for almost as long attracted folk of a less scrupulous nature, those who found the gun a more effective tool for gathering wealth than the drill or the ledger.

Lounging on plush xapholod-hide upholstery, sipping vintage Sirian wine and gazing at the view through the immense floor-to-ceiling picture window behind the pirate leader's desk, Cam could see their point. Admittedly, the view was of the bleak, cratered surface of Karumppo, the largest asteroid in the belt, but the stately opulence of the office was ample compensation.

"Now, what can I do for you, Captain Estrela? Is your venture into our little kingdom for business"—the blue eyes sparkled—"or pleasure?"

"Visiting you is always a pleasure, Mistress Velis. And please, call me Cam."

"Ah, so it's to be an informal visit? Of course, I should have guessed, given your rather...unofficial approach. I am intrigued. And naturally, it's Lara." Perched on the edge of her desk, the pirate crossed her long leather-clad legs and took a sip of her own wine. "'Mistress' makes me feel so old."

Jet-black hair trimmed short, lithe and fit, with the first interesting hint of lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, Cam guessed her age to be somewhere about his own. Was that old? He didn't know anymore. It didn't feel like it, but lately he was beginning to wonder. It sometimes felt as though the galaxy was moving on without him and if that wasn't a sign of obsolescence, he didn't know what was.

"Lara, it is." He raised his glass in acknowledgement. "And Lara, I'm sure you know precisely why I'm here."

"Oh, I have my suspicions, Cam. But a girl can always hope."

Although all too aware the flirting was a tactic and nothing more, he found himself enjoying it. He'd been out of the game for a while, after all. But he'd let this charade go on long enough. He was here to do a job, no matter how inept his performance so far.

"I'm afraid you've exceeded your mandated raiding limits for the quarter." As he listened to himself utter these words, it struck him just how illuminating they were. This was what it had come to. The Sentinels, the once-mighty guardians who had been there for the salvation of worlds, the downfall of dictators and the overthrow of tyrants, no longer blew the bad guys away. Nor even kept them in line with the threat of doing so. No, in these modern, more enlightened times, they were reduced to asking them nicely if they would please not steal too much.

"According to who?" demanded Lara, any hint of flirtatiousness gone. "I trust you have reliable sources to back up these claims?"

"Well, yeah. Mostly the people you raided. I'd say that's pretty reliable, wouldn't you?"

"Nonsense." Placing her glass on the desk, the pirate leader stood and glared down at Cam. "Who would be more motivated to exaggerate their losses? The miners and merchants and their wretched guilds are forever looking for an excuse to lower their quotas, but I can assure you we purloin our mandated limits and no more. My accountants would be more than happy to meet with theirs."

Pirates with accountants. Cam sighed. What was the galaxy coming to? "Fine. But in the meantime, while the bean-counters thrash things out, ease up a little, okay? Please, Lara?"

She moved a little closer. "Or what, Cam?"

That was a remarkably good question. Gazing up at her, catching a hint of the exotic scent she was wearing, he wished he had an equally good answer. "Or steps will be taken."

Expression cold, she stared down at him for a moment longer before her features softened. "Poor Cam. How hard it must be for you. To have come so far and yet have it amount to so little."

"What?" He found himself at a loss. He'd expected outrage, derision, maybe even amusement. But sympathy? "I...what do you mean?"

"Oh, I think you know. An Earthman join the Sentinels? An unworldly, uncivilised nobody from a backwards planet at the back end of nowhere? Preposterous. And yet here you are. Not only a Sentinel, but their leader. An astounding achievement, even with your family  history. And all for nothing."

Searching for a rebuttal but unable to think of anything better than "Is not", Cam remained silent.

"And yet, it doesn't have to be." Retrieving a bottle from her well-stocked bar, Lara topped up his glass. "I've been watching you, Cam. Following your career. You see, I'm something of a nobody from nowhere too. And it's always nice to see a peer do well. Only you're not doing so well anymore, are you? The Sentinels are a spent force, anyone can see that. Your talents are wasted."

"My talents?"

"Oh, Cam. No false modesty, please. It's true you may be a little lacking in eloquence, but there's no question you have courage, you're a leader and you're one hell of a pilot. And if what my spies tell me is true, you're not averse to bending the occasional regulation or two in the name of achieving the desired outcome. You have all the right qualities."

"The right qualities?" He gazed up at her in genuine puzzlement. "The right qualities for what?"

"To free yourself from rules and regulations, Cam. From budgets and bureaucracy. To sail the ocean black and be all that you're meant to be. To truly utilise your abundant talents." She touched her glass to his. "Why, to become a space-pirate, of course."