“In position and awaiting orders, Sir.” The man in the receiving end of the transmitter paused for a moment, straightening his already immaculate tunic before replying: “Flush him out.” Transmission over, he slipped the device into his belt and sheathed his sword with a hiss like an angry snake. Face devoid of anything even resembling emotion, he walked slowly to face the door of the house they surrounded, so that he would be the first – and only – thing the fugitive would see when he burst from the exit, flushed out by the man’s soldiers. The man was an operative. He had no name, no family and no past. Best of the best, he was one of the Alliance’s best-kept secrets. He was assigned to hunt down high-profile escaped prisoners, enemy spies and traitors to the Alliance. The names and offences differed, but they all had two things in common. They had all angered the Alliance, and they had all met their deaths at the hands of an Operative. This offender was no different. He had supposedly been passing valuable information regarding the Alliance to the fast growing group of rebels who called themselves the Independents. What exactly the information concerned, the Operative did not know. All the Alliance had told him was where Derrial Cobalt could be found, and that he had to die. A shadow of a frown flickered across the Operative’s face. It should not be taking this long. He raised his hand slightly in a signal and a young soldier hastened to his side. He was a new member of the Elite Guard, and understandably nervous. Every Operative had an Elite Guard under their command: a crack team of a hundred or so soldiers, aiding and protecting their Operative. It was a dangerous and select job. Few ever made it into the Guard, and even fewer survived to a retirement age. “Where. Is. He?” the Operative hissed, his face mere inches from the soldier’s. Elite Soldier No# 767932K fidgeted, more out of fear of his commander than a need to keep warm in the chilly, pre-dawn air. Like the Operative, he no longer had a name. Technically, he didn’t exist. “Th-they can’t find him, Sir.” The Operative’s eye’s narrowed and the soldier cowered, visibly. Luckily for the latter, at that moment, the Operative’s transmitter crackled into life. “Yes?” “Found him, Sir. He’s headed your way.” Relieved, the young soldier scuttled away and the Operative unsheathed his sword. Operatives had a choice as to which weapon they used, as they were highly skilled in combat with most, but this one preferred a katana, like those used by the deadly Samurai on Earth-that-was. He clasped his hands behind his back; so that the sword was hidden behind his legs, dawn sunlight glinting blindingly off the wickedly curved blade. He waited. He did not have to wait long. The door opened and a man in his late thirties exploded from the dark space behind. Dishevelled and sweating fear, he panted as he glanced around him, searching desperately for an escape route. His wild eyes caught site of the Operative and he turned to flee back into his house. “Stop.” Against his will Derrial Cobalt turned slowly. The sheer power and will in the Operative’s voice scared him. He stood, head held high, facing his executioner, trying to look defiant and brave. “What do you want from me?” “You betrayed your government.” The Operatives lips barely moved. “They gave you a job, a home, a reason to live, and you threw it all away for pathetic rebels.” “My ‘reasons to live’ are my family and my faith. Not your gorram government.” the fugitive spat. Anger at this insolent, arrogant intruder made him twitch; reach for the gun had shoved in the waistband of his trousers. He aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The Operative was faster. He flicked his sword, lightening fast, past the hand, and Derrial’s finger squeezed empty air. Derrial opened and closed his mouth, shock reducing him to gasping like a fish out of water. The Operative reclasped his hands behind his back, sword once again out of sight, as if he had never moved. Derrial turned again, to flee back inside, but the Operative glided soundlessly up behind him, long brown fingers brushed feather light across the fugitive shoulder. Furious at being touched by this man, Derrial span round, fists bunched, ready to fight his way out. Stone cold eyes locked onto Derrial’s, paralysing him. The Operative whipped up his sword and ran it through the fugitive in one clean, practised move. The last sound Derrial Cobalt ever made was a small gurgling gasp, as thick, metallic blood welled up in mouth and trickled past his lips and down his chin, where it dripped off to join the increasing circle of dark red liquid that pooled around his feet. As he dropped to his knees, the Operative murmured: “This is a good death.” That was the first thing a perspective Operative was ever taught. There is no shame in a death at the hands of an Operative. His eyes never left the fugitive’s, holding them in a last, chilly embrace, until they became staring and unfocused, glazed over with death, in a body that lay lifeless and cold on the frosted ground. The Operative bent, and wiped his bloodstained sword on the corpse’s shirt, a final insult to a broken man. He gave his katana one last stroke, to remove a particularly awkward stain, when, dislodged by the movement, a small, black book fell from inside Derrial’s shirt. Puzzled, the Operative picked it up. It was thick, and sticky with blood, with a small, gilt cross engraved on the front. A bible. Without thinking, he slipped it into his tunic, and was about to leave, when an ear-piercing shriek split the air. A young girl of about nine or ten ran from the door and across the white grass. “Daddy!” She screamed

***************************** Elite Soldier No# 767932K had watched the scene from his position, behind a small wall, on which rested his high-power, high-tech rifle. Despite being thirty yards away and wearing full body armour, he had watched the scene with mounting terror, unable to tear his eyes away as the fugitive slumped to the ground. The second figure that emerged from the dark doorframe was the final straw for the soldier. Pure, untamed fear clouded his vision, and he saw; not a small, innocent girl, waving a stuffed animal, but a knife-wielding maniac, the grief stricken scream a crazed battle cry. Panicking, he squeezed the trigger on his gun. He was a good shot, he could do this, he had never killed anyone before, but he could do this. He was a good shot, a very good shot. The single bullet ripped through the toy first, then the girl’s chest, spinning her around like a grotesque puppet before she fell. It was only as her small body came to rest, slumped across her father’s that Elite Soldier No# 767932K realised what he had done. He had not shot a dangerous maniac, like he thought, but a defenceless, innocent little girl. Overwhelmed with horror and self-disgust, he dropped to the floor in a dead faint. After all, he had never killed anyone before.