CHAPTER TWO


In space, everyone can hear you scream . . .

As long, that is, as you're equipped with a RemLok survival mask.

	An instant after Alex Ryder hit the hard vacuum, a skin of plasFibre had been shot across his body 
from nozzles on the face piece, keeping him warm against the cold, tightening and protecting him, securing 
him against the void. The oxygen flow in his body was cut off to all but his heart and brain. Needle-doses of 
adrenalin and somnokie were held ready, just within the skin area of his mouth, ready to alert or depress his 
body functions according to circumstances.

And the RemLok screamed through space for help.

	It was a standard survival device, an instantly recognisable distress call indicating that it was being 
sent out from a small, remotely located, dying body. The alarm screeched out on forty channels, shifting 
wavelength within each channel four times a second. One hundred and twenty chances to catch attention . . .

	A cumbersome Boa class cruiser, loaded down with industrial machinery, slowed its departure run 
from Leesti and turned to scan space for the source of the signal . . .

	Two police vipers came streaking from their patrol sector, near the sun, scanning for the body in 
trouble . . .

	An adapted Moray Starboat, a vast glowing yellow star on its hull—the sign of a hospital ship—
came chugging out of the darkness . . .

	Messages from ships to both the planet and its ring of Coriolis stations were abruptly broken as the 
split second message came screaming through. TV programmes were interrupted, the screen dissolving into 
a permanently recorded display of the space-grid location of the RemLok. Every advertising space module 
changed its garish display to flash, in brilliant green, the same information.

	In the orbit-space around Leesti, a million heads turned starwards. That split second of panic, that 
moment's cry of distress, was a sound they knew too well to ignore, and were too frightened of to take for 
granted.

	Within twenty seconds, two autoremotes, tiny vessels just big enough to carry an hour's oxygen, 
one dose each of forty drugs, and a variety of other stimulants, were hovering around Alex Ryder's spinning 
body. one of them shot out a stabilising cable and dragged itself to his corpse. Blinking through its solitary 
monitor, it hovered over his face like a squat, legless dachsund hound and pumped adrenalin, oxygen and 
glucose into his bloodstream. Alex opened his eyes and panicked slightly. The autoremote calmed him 
down with a quick pumpsurge of tetval.

	The robot's voice whispered in his ears, 'Brandy? Scotch? Vodka? I am equipped with a full range 
of miniature stimulants to make the waiting easier.'

	'What . . . happened . . . ship? . . . Avalonia . . .' he gasped through the tight face mask.

	The autoremote blinked at him sympathetically, 'Brandy, then,' and hit Alex with two shots of 
Qutirian SynCognac.

An hour later he was aboard the Moray hospital vessel, in parked orbit above the green-grey face of the 
world of Leesti. Burns to his hands and face had been taken care of. Minor blood vessels that had ruptured 
in his skin had been knitted back together. He was bruised, stunned, but essentially fit physically.

	The image of the ship exploding had begun to haunt him, however. He stood by the wide, sloping 
window of his hospital room, staring out across the bright of space to the slowly rotating world below, 
watching the flash and tumble of shuttles and small freighters as they either glided up from worldDown, or 
struck the atmosphere on their descent, leaving brief, brilliant flares of red in the thin planetary atmosphere.

	Wherever he looked he could see the shadow of the Cobra, rising up in the Witchlight, a great, 
killer beast, closing on its prey.

And his father's face . . .

	The sudden alarm, the sudden anger, and yet . . . and yet Jason Ryder had known.

	His grieving, mind-stunned son just knew that his father had been more aware of the danger than he 
had let on. It had been in his face, in the tension in the cabin, in the slow, deliberate words that he had 
spoken during the approach run to hyperspace.

	Jason had known that his life was in danger. He had been ready for it, ready to save his son in the 
event of attack . . .

	It made no sense. But for the moment Alex felt only loss, the loss of a man he had loved. Both his 
parents were gone, now. His homeworld would seem an empty, uninviting place.

	Behind him, the door opened softly and the grey-suited figure of a nurse appeared. She reproved 
him mildly for being out of bed, but seemed pleased by his apparently calm mental state.

	There followed what seemed like a constant stream of visitors. First the doctor, scanning him for 
tension and psychic repression. The medic was not pleased. He more or less said, 'Young man, your father 
is dead and it would do you no harm to shed a few tears. It's all there, all the grief, all the sadness. It'll do 
you no good to deny it.'

	'I'll grieve for my father,' Alex said back angrily, coldly. 'I'll grieve among the ashes of the pirate 
that killed him. And not until.'

'Will you indeed.'

'Yes,' Alex stated defiantly. 'I will. Indeed.'

	After the doctor had gone, the man from the Galactic Medical Co-operative came, fussily checking 
up on Alex's medical insurance, making sure that he was covered for all aspects of the treatment, including 
his Faraway transit home.

	Then the police, two lean-faced men, wearing the grey cloaks and silver waistcoats of the 
Narcotics Investigation Department. What cargo had the Avalonia been carrying? Why would a pirate be so 
interested in him as to follow him to a Corporate State world? Had his father ever transported drugs? 
Firearms? Slaves? What about alien substances: Manjooza, fear glands, Marswurt? What was said in the 
moments before destruction? Would he recognise the ship again? What were its markings?

	Alex told them everything he could remember. Everything he'd seen. Everything he'd heard . . .

Except for the fact that his father had clearly known the danger.

And except for the word Raxxla.

	The police left. They were not satisfied. Alex had just received his solo pilot's licence, so he could 
make his own way back to his homesystem, but he should notify them of what route he was taking.

Raxxla . . .

	Alex watched them go, their Viper a slim, evil-looking ship as it rolled and sped away from the 
hospital vessel. His mood matched the dim-lit room, matched the gloom-grey of the storms that were 
building up on the world below. Leesti's oceans looked wild and cold, now, its clouds great charcoal 
coloured swirls of anger above the ragged, mountainous land.

Raxxla.

What could it be? What could it mean?

	At midnight, still resting and recouperating (care of the Leesti Medical Authority), a small green 
light winked on in his room. Alex, still awake, frowned then realised that he was being monitored.

	'What is it?' he asked the empty room, and a nurse's voice whispered, 'There's a holoFac message 
coming through for you. They've requested a tightbeam. Will you receive?'

	Alex sat up in bed. No-one knew he was here. Did they? He frowned, and said, 'Sure.'

'Will you accept the charge against your CR?'

	Curiouser and curiouser. Since he was broke, and without credit until he sorted out his GMC 
insurance, it was easy for him to say, 'Yes.'

	In the middle of the room the air suddenly shimmered white, small bright particles flying off in all 
directions around the gradually defined shape of a man. He was tall, but slightly stooped. As the whiteness 
of the image resolved into colour, the whiteness of the man stayed. His hair was long and snowy, his beard 
ragged. His face had a touch of colour. His eyes were small, gleaming points among the wrinkles. He was 
smiling. He wore a tattered trader's uniform, and one arm hung limp by his side. Even his boots were worn 
down, and the toes were split. The handlaser at his side had seen the same better days as the rest of his 
equipment.

	'You the Ryder Boy?' this apparition of run-down age asked. The voice creaked, a gruff, battered 
tone, the voice of a man who had breathed hard vacuum.

'That's me. Alex Ryder. And you?'

	Alex climbed out of bed and went to stand before the life-sized holoFac. The old man watched 
him, and chewed. Then he spat. The gobbet of stained spittle seemed to fly straight towards Alex's shoulder 
and he winced and jerked slightly to one side, before realising that nothing could travel into real space from 
the holo.

	'You don't remember me,' the old man said. 'That's clear enough. But I remember you.'

'Give me a name.'

	'Rafe Zetter. Trader of old. Traded with your father for many years, till we parted company on 
account of a certain issue which, you might say . . . caused a difference of opinion between us.'

	'Slaves,' Alex said quickly. He remembered Rafe, now. But what had happened to the man? He was 
old before his time. He was the same age as Jason Ryder would have been, but looked twenty years more.

	'Slaves is right,' Rafe said. 'I ran my life on the edge of a Viper's sting . . .' trader parlance for 'one 
jump ahead of the law'. 'But by the time I indulged that little whim, my ass was hard iron. I somehow made 
it to hell 'n back. That's where I am now.'

'In hell?'

'Broke. '

	Alex nodded, picking up slowly on the trader slang. An 'iron ass' was a ship that was well enough 
defended—shields, missiles and lasers—to make a skim run through any system at all, even an anarchist's 
paradise like Sotiqu. All hell and then some would come at you if you tried to trade in such a chaotic 
system. 'Hell 'n back' meant that Rafe had tasted the good life, bought with the profits of his illegal trading, 
but that it had all gone wrong.

It always went wrong.

	Rafe said, 'I was damn sorry to hear about Jason. A good man. A good friend of old, and a man I 
still respect.'

	'It didn't happen but eight hours ago,' Alex said coldly. 'How the hell do you get to hear about it.'

	Rafe Zetter chuckled, then spat again, and again Alex couldn't help ducking. The spittle vanished 
at the holoFac's edge, and Alex felt a chill of irritation. 'You got your father's temper, young Alex. Maybe 
you've even got some of his skills.'

'Answer my question, old man. How do you manage to know about my father? How did you find me?'

	Watching him from the holo, Rafe chewed, smiled and considered. Alex tensed, waiting for the 
next high velocity spit-transmission.

	Rafe said, 'I repeat, Alex. I had great respect for Jason Ryder. For what he was, and what he was 
doing.'

'He was a good man,' Alex said. 'And an honest trader.'

	'He was a damn sight more than that,' Rafe said loudly, and spat. Alex dodged. The ghostly 
holoFac image shimmered and blurred slightly.

'What does that mean?'

	Rafe Zetter leaned forward so that his grizzled features seemed almost able to kiss the younger 
man. 'He was a combateer, Alex. One of the best. No way should he have died like he did . . .'

	'My father was a trader, not a combateer,' Alex said, startled and disturbed by what Rafe was 
implying.

'Guess again, sonny.'

'But it sickened him to fire shots in anger.'

	'Maybe,' Rafe said drily. 'But it didn't stop him. How else do you think he made it as a trader all 
those years? Dammit, Alex, even if your cargo is sour-cream and pickles there's someone's going to try and 
take it from you. Your father was a combateer of the highest calibre . . .?'

	Alex swallowed heavily, staring at the quizzical features of old Rafe Zetter. 'The highest calibre . . 
.?'

	Rafe nodded. 'That's right, Alex,' he said softly. 'You can be deadly, you can be dangerous, and you 
can end up as pet food in orbit around a dog's ass-of-a-world like Isveve. But if you're élite, and you die, 
then there's a reason for your death . . .'

	What was this old man saying? Elite? An élite combateer? Alex's head span. He knew all about the 
space pilots who'd earned that title, of course. Few of them did. To be élite in combat was to be . . . well, as 
near invincible as made no odds. A great many pilots were 'dangerous'; you didn't last long as a trader if you 
weren't. Many more had earned the classification 'deadly'. So had a lot of mercenaries. So had a lot of 
pirates.

But élites. Few and far between.

	And his father, Jason Ryder, had been élite, and none of his family had known!

	'Jason was one of the very best. You probably never saw his ship, but it was like a fortress. He 
traded places that most of us would have had nightmares about.' Rafe shook his head admiringly. 'One of the 
best. A man of the highest calibre...' His gaze hardened on Alex. 'The question is . . . Can you be the same?'

'What makes you doubt it?'

	'Jason never said anything about you. I guess he was trying to protect you. The trouble is that it 
gives me nothing to go on: you're going to avenge your father's death—I can tell that from the look of you, 
and your tone, and your anger—but for all I know, that'll just mean one more Ryder will be stardust before 
he even manages to target a missile.'
	Not liking Rafe Zetter's tone, Alex said bitterly, 'I've done hours of SimCombat. I score highly . . .'

Rafe laughed and spat voluminously, then became serious.

	'Alex, there's something I've got to know. Maybe you're going to end up—'

'Pet food in orbit around Isveve!'

	'Yeah. Maybe that. The only person who knew your talents was your father. Tell me, Alex, and tell 
me true, now . . . Did he say anything to you . . . you know . . . in the moments before he died? Did he 
indicate anything, or say anything?'

	'He said a lot,' Alex murmured, and felt a strong pang of grief as he remembered the look in his 
father's eyes, the greyness of his cheeks, and his desperate words, remember me, Alex . . . 'I think he knew 
he was going to die. The last thing he said was the word Raxxla. I don't know what that is. An alien, I guess 
. . .'

	Rafe smiled, shaking his head. Suddenly there was a brilliant sparkle in his eyes: 'Raxxla's no alien, 
Alex. It's a ghost world. A planet. A legend . . .' He hesitated, staring quizzically at the younger man through 
the distant link between them, 'Jason really said that to you?'

Alex nodded. 'Moments before . . . It was the last thing he said.'

	'Then he knew,' Rafe said with a nod. 'And that's good enough for me. Alex, get your frail shell to 
Tionisla and take a visitor's shuttle to the orbital cemetery there. Say you've come to see the grave of 
Starpilot Fleischer. And take a good look around. You do that, boy. Tomorrow. I'll be waiting for you.'

'Waiting to do what?'

	Rafe chuckled. 'How're you going to hunt a Cobra? You going to hitch-hike? Or use a big stick? 
You'll need a ship. Hunt like with like. Get to the wreckplace at Tionisla. I know just the vehicle you need. 
Don't speak to anyone. Just get to Tionisla.'

'But—'

'Au'voir, Alex!'

And Rafe Zetter spat for the last time before the holoFac faded.

	Alex didn't flinch. Something whistled past his ear and struck the wall behind him.