The Operative slammed the door to his house, and collapsed onto an uncomfortable looking chair, one of the few pieces of furniture adorning the sterile, unlived-in room. He only lived there for the short periods between assignments, and it was a lonely life, living in a house that received no waves, on a street, that technically, did not exist. The house had been given to him by the Alliance, and the long, featureless street on which it stood housed all the Operatives, although they did not know it. As far as each Operative knew, the street was empty.

He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. How had it gone so wrong? It should have been a simple assignment, made easier by the fugitive’s family supposedly being on holiday. Questions swirled in a tangled confusion round in his head. Why had the girl been there? Where had she hidden? Why hadn’t his soldiers found her? The answers didn’t matter, though, she was dead now. Elite Soldier No# 767932K had, of course, been dealt with, but that didn’t change the facts. The Operative knew that his job often meant that innocent people sometimes had to die, but he hated to waste life, especially one so young.

He ran his finger through his short, tightly curled black hair, which was recently greying slightly at the temples. Something hard and sharp poked him in the ribs, and he jerked up with a small cry of pain.

The bible. Almost as if it wanted to be noticed, he mused, removing the book from inside his plain, Alliance issue tunic. It was still slightly sticky from Derrial Cobalt’s blood, and some of the pages were stained a dark red. For the first time in his career as an Operative, he felt a twinge of guilt. It was only small, but he was still shocked. He was an Operative, he wasn’t supposed to feel guilty at what he did, did for the good of the Allied planets.

Or was he? He had never really enjoyed his job, he was no sadist who enjoyed killing people, but still, there was a sense of satisfaction, when he completed an assignment, at a job well done. Not recen