It was a bold move.

Sweat ran down Chris "the Torch" Fratini's temples as he stumbled and staggered across the rocky crevices of the slag heap. He asked himself what fool had placed the transport station here, in the middle of an abandonned strip mine. He grunted, the ropes to the flat bed digging into his shoulders, the pallet digging into the uneven slag. He stepped on the soft cloth toe of a bootie he wore to cover the tread of his shoes.

Of course, the thought came to him, the transport station was once part of the mine. He cursed the miners for the heck of it.

The skid caught, it's rear end lifting, threatening to dump its load.

"Damn it," Chris muttered. He stopped. Crouched. Looked about in the darkness, listening for the echoes of his words to broadcast his business. All he heard was the baying of hounds in the distance, Paulie Pamillia's hounds.

The dogs would be guarding Pamillia's place, his body shop. That was the way the Syndicate worked, use noisy dogs, wake the boss, this way the boss got to blow your brains out himself. The Syndicate took a certain pleasure in that.

Chris "the Torch" Fratini was not associated with the Syndicate, not with any organized crime. It was easier this way. The syndicates were too big, covered too much area, making for too much exposure. "The Torch" worked alone. This way he could calculate the risks with greater accuracy, not be surprised by the stupid moves of colleagues. He blinked, it was bad enough to be surprised by your own stupid moves.

The Syndicate had his flyer though. Well, not the Syndicate as such, Paulie Pamillia had it and was holding it on behalf of the legitimate authorities. The Syndicate was sneaky that way, sort of a smoke screen, look legit and the local cops and even the MPs would look the other way. Okay, so Chris was a bit behind in slip rent at the docks, that was no reason to impound the flyer. Chris was tired of this planet anyway.

The transport station loomed ahead. Chris inched toward it, wishing his load were lighter, that the rocks were less rocky, that the silohette of the station would grow larger at a faster rate. His head was down, straining forward as if that would speed things along, when he made contact with the transport tubing. A gong resounded throughout the mine like a mighty bell ringing in the monks for chapel. Echoes rolled across the slag heap in waves, washing pain through Chris's head. He stopped, swaying, eyes closing as flashes of light exploded inside his brain. He rubbed his forehead, trying to rub away the spinning horizon. He opened his eyes. Seemed the transport station was smaller than he thought. It hadn't been all that far away after all.

Chris took a deep breath. He crouched, looking to the horizon for signs that he had been heard. Of course you were heard, the voice of reason yelled at him from within, the dead heard you, all the monks from here to Jerusalem heard you. What you want to ask is if you were noticed? Chris looked to the horizon to see if he had been noticed.

Nothing but the sound of crickets and the baying of the hounds.

He moved swiftly, unstrapping the canister from the pallet. He reached inside his shirt and pulled out the pen light. With a turn of the handle, a diffuse red glow broke into the darkness. He bit into the end, pointing the light at the cylinder and got to work. An allen wrench yanked at the screws holding the control plate in place. The screws spun loose and Chris placed them onto the transport pad. The cover followed. He punched a one-eight-oh-oh-oh into the display and cranked the key lock back to an "on" position.

He paused. He needed to bypass satellite security. It would have been easier just to steal the flyer and torch Pamillia's place, but like it says earlier in the story, Pamillia was the Syndicate, and Chris "the Torch" Fratini was no fool, you didn't torch the Syndicate. His idea was better, you liberate your property and if you time it right, you interrupt notification of your crime. Chris knew that signals from the satellites were not continuous, to save energy and to keep the population from experiencing too many microwaves to the brain, information was only transmitted once an hour. So, Fratini would reclaim his property, and torch the satellite.

He reached into his pocket for the slip that had the coordinates of the satellite and the transporter station clearance codes. He pulled out paper, lint and a pill - caffeine, pure, powdered, pressed - hot stuff in the market these days. He realized his head still ached, so he popped it, and swallowed using saliva to wash it down. Powdered, yes, yuck, the taste lingered and Chris resisted spitting. No use giving the authorities extra clues.

He set the canister on the transport pad, not bothering to reconnect the cover. In three hours it and everything around it would blow.

He brushed the grime away from the transport display and leaned in close, punching out the code. He stepped back and watched as the canister glowed for a moment and disappeared into the darkness. Not even a hum. Chris backed away and looked at his wrist. He couldn't see his watch in the darkness, but the action reminded him that he only had three hours in which to complete his task.

Chris liberated his flyer from the impound lot of Pamillia's Body Shop, the dogs distracted by a female in heat on the far side of the lot. Sex and drugs, Chris thought. He smiled. Life sure was good.

He flew out low along the horizon, just beneath the reach of the planet-wide radar. He broke upward as a new star exploded in the night sky.