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pouch made of animal hide which protected his manhood, and then the loose coarsely-woven trousers, tossing them onto the ground. With brisk efficiency, he sloughed off the blood, grime and gore, then inspected his wounds before smearing a noxious smelling salve over his body. He sighed as the slow releasing heat from the herbs ebbed through his skin and eased his tight, aching muscles.
    Maaka stretched and arching his back, attempting to work out his aches. He grabbed his belt and pouch, a clean pair of trousers and stalked naked back to his makeshift bed. Time to sharpen his weapons. No hunter ever took his rest with blunt sword or axe unless he wanted to wake to find himself a Half-dead’s next meal.
    Settled back amongst his furs, he scrutinised his sword blade before reaching for his small hoard of tools. He filed the edge before polishing the blade using long, careful strokes against his oiled whetstone, when he heard footsteps approaching from behind. The scent of rich, roasted meat filled his nostrils and he twisted his lips into a grim smile.
    â€˜Aah, Junta. You have brought food. Thank you.’ He straightened and took the cracked meat-filled platter from his friend. Maaka muttered a brief prayer, giving thanks for the life-giving gift of food. It would do no good to question from whence it came. Best be thankful there was sufficient tonight to fill his empty belly. He tossed the patient were-dog a bone. The animal fell to gnawing with gusto and Maaka’s gut rolled over.
    Beside him, Junta groaned as he lowered his battered body onto the furs. His friend linked his arms beneath his head and stared, frowning, up at the night sky
    Maaka forced the food down his throat and cast his friend a curious glance. ‘What is it, you look for?’
    â€˜One of our Elders said he had seen lights in the sky earlier this eve.’
    Maaka hissed in a sharp breath. He stared skywards where destruction had rained down onto all countries of the earth until the dirt turned to rivers of blood. In his mind the oft repeated myths and fireside stories of his childhood reverberated. Of the technology that man had once possessed and used to almost destroy the human race.
    â€˜I see them.’ Shock audible in his quiet voice, Junta pointed, due east from the moon.
    Maaka stiffened. His lips peeled back over his teeth and he snarled.
    Lights in the sky.
    The foreshadowing of change.
    Of doom.
    His hunger fled. He threw the remains of his meal to the were-dog and rose to his feet, weapons in his hands.
    â€˜No rest for us tonight, Junta. We will track these lights and see for ourselves whether these gods will prove to be friend or foe.’ He raised his arm and gestured with his axe at the green and red blinking lights moving with steady purpose across the heavens. Prophesy or no prophesy he would take by force, if he had to, these gods’ technology.
    Then, he would rid this land of the Corporation for all time.

Chapter 3
    On board the Quinnie
    Sherise had deliberately chosen the communal compartment for the moment when she’d impart the harsh news to the Earth passengers. She hoped that the familiarity of the room would bring a measure of comfort. A futile hope, she well knew and, judging by the angry faces turned toward her, a wasted hope.
    She stood facing them, grateful for the support of Bree, by her side. Lord Barid, of whose presence she’d requested, had refused to attend. In fact, he’d been adamantly opposed to her decision of total disclosure, citing such an act would bring down unrest and trouble on their heads. Didn’t he realise they were already neck deep in trouble? Rather surprisingly, when she’d spoken of her intentions it had been Commander Dyrke who’d sided with her. And Sherise still didn’t know quite what to make of that; a military warrior born and bred would have been all for keeping the passengers, and crew for that matter, in the dark and thus easier to