The electrical junction behind the hot water heater was incapable
of supporting a standing and walking human being, but Cole didn't
mind having a room he had to crouch in. If he really needed to
stretch, there were spots where he could rise, if not move. The
enclosed space, bane to many, created a feeling of security for the
youngster, same as his old alley on Persephone had. It was a world
beneath the common sightlines, /his/ world, and he knew it better
than anyone ever could. He was the master here; the ultimate home
turf advantage. Of course, he remained painfully aware that, any
day, puberty could come charging in and take that advantage away
from him, make him just as slow and bulky as those around him. It
was a constant threat to his peace of mind, one that he was
determined to deal with, before it became too late.

But as he sat leaning against his backpack, twirling one of his
picture cubes in his hand, it wasn't the threat of aging that
occupied the forefront of his thoughts. It was a much more tangible
threat, represented by the picture that he currently had on display.
A picture of his mother, from before he was born. Something he had
gotten from his old shuttle's data core a year ago, before
scavengers forced him to abandon the salvage attempt. There were
many more, the only remnants of his mother's life, that had been
lost to him forever. This one hadn't.

And an identical copy of it had been in Ishmael's cube.

The amnesiac hadn't interacted with the crew much since being
rescued from the escape pod. Perhaps from the beginning he had
realized that he had something to do with the Alliance, something
that might be contrary to the Che's crew. Now, Cole knew what it was.

The pictures had proven that Ishmael was an Alliance officer, and
also that he had known Cole's mom. It had been a year since his
mom's life had been ended, but governments were notorious for bad
communications, and it was hard to know how long that pod had been
adrift. It seemed possible - likely - that the officer was tracking
her. Probably one of the ones hunting her.

He wondered, his hand straying to cradle the pistol he kept on
him, whether the Alliance bothered to tell it's hunting units that
she had a son. Perhaps not. Perhaps even after the soldier got his
memory restored, he wouldn't realize that he was befriended to the
son of the one he was sent to capture or kill.

Of course, that was presuming Cole would give him the chance to
remember. It would be much easier to put the man down while he was
without suspicion. Yet that seemed wrong somehow. Wrong to the
noble, altruistic part of Cole's brain, that thought it would be
murder and not self-defense if the man was too innocent to even be
aware of why he was being shot. Equally wrong to the sadistic, hard
part, which WANTED his enemy to know exactly who it was who had
gotten him, and why. He may not have been the soldier to pull the
trigger in the end, but still, Cole surmised, killing Ishmael would
feel in some small way like avenging his mom's death.

In the end, it was the tactician that won out. Unsatisfying and
ungracious as a pre-emptive bullet to the head might be, Cole was
merely a kid, and Ishmael a trained warrior. The element of surprise
was needed.

Putting down the picture cube, Cole came to his knees and lifted
the gun to his eyesight, staring at the barrel trepiditiously. Could
he do it? He had lived a hard life, of course, on the run or on the
streets for almost all that he could remember of it. Several times
he'd had to manipulate people into dangerous, life-threatening
situations in order to survive. He'd never had to do the actual
killing, though. Experimentally, he pulled back the safety catch,
aiming down the corridor. "This is for my mom," he told the
imaginary Ishmael, staring hard into the void.

At that precise moment, someone on the ship's lower deck turned
on the water faucet in their sink. It was enough to heat up the
boiler while Cole's arm was touching it directly. "OW!" he
complained, jerking suddenly... and the gun fell to the floor,
discharging a bullet at incredible speed. It flew an inch from the
young boy's head, ricocheted on one of the gear ports, and flew into
an old spot where, years ago, someone who had been involved in the
ship's construction had left an object behind. That object, jarred
by the bullet's impact, fell victim to gravity's hold, dropping the
way the bullet came and smashing Cole in the head. Abraised, Cole
dropped onto his back, believing for a split second that he'd been
shot, victim of his own stupidity.

Lying there, Cole stared upward. The object that hit him, a book,
lay on top of his head, open to a page. Pulling the book upward and
away, Cole read the first words that managed to stick out:

THOU SHALT NOT KILL

He stared at it in disbelief for a full minute before regaining
his composure, putting the book to one side and rubbing his bruise.
Above him, he could see the long vertical groove the book fell from.

"Son of a bitch," he murmured to it, "you could have made the
point a little less... /blunt/."