Pfister lost sight of any purpose other than killing Serena.  She was about to betray the outpost giving tentacled invaders access into the square.  They would plant their disruptor in the deep night and wait until all had awakened before unleashing a most painful and certain death on everyone inside.  Evacuation was no option.  Humans were despised on Saturn’s moons.  And eight square miles of fortress was surrounded. Pfister knew the woman’s habits.  In minutes, she would emerge from the black market with supplies she would need to escape to the enemy.  Her rewards would be wealth and luxury beyond measure for a colonist.  As she stepped into the square, he fired.  The blast struck a few inches off target.  Still, she would be dead in minutes.  He walked over and looked into her fading, blue eyes.  Her slim, weatherworn hand slipped into a fold in her vest and pulled out a digital key.  With her dying breath she told her lover, “Insert this into the left port of the device and it will direct their blast outside our walls.  The siege will be over.  The bomb is buried at . . .”  Nothing more escaped her lips.

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