I've heard rumors that back on the first Earth, when a family pet bit one of the children, they put it down. For a rogue agent, the penalty is the same. Treason equals death. I've known it since I graduated from the Academy of Red Moon Agents established by the Intergalactic Consortium.

I've never had a problem carrying out the orders of my commanders without question. The agents they sent after me don't ask questions either. The Intergalactic Consortium only protects its own, and I don't fall under that label anymore.

The worst thing is that I can't think of a soul who would miss me. No one even remembers I existed.

My fist comes down hard against the cheap wooden desk in my shabby motel room. Though, motel feels a little too rich for this place. I have nowhere left to go.

When I checked in, I gave my legitimate credit ID. I need to get a false ID chip with credits to avoid getting captured, though I don't know the first thing about how to obtain such a thing. That's the problem with obeying the law my whole life. I don't have a clue how to break them.

But promising to pay later isn't an option at this 'establishment'—that's a nice word for the place I've landed, facing the man behind the duroglass ogling me from head to toe. I hold my breath to avoid inhaling the fumes of his hair pomade and bat my long eyelashes to keep him from investigating my credentials too closely. The creepy man with the unibrow and greasy comb-over winks after he's given me another sleezy once-over. It makes me want to crawl out of my skin because a shower wouldn't be enough to wash off the remnants of his leer. He hands me the passkey to the room before I vomit on his desk.

The place is seedy and mysterious, perfect for hiding out while I figure out what to do next. It's a place where few questions are asked, and rooms are often rented by the hour in this part of town as long as they get their credits up front. No doubt the place had a million and one infractions with illegal activities going on behind every door, but this time, I'd be one of them.

I got a room on the first floor and passed five other closed doors before I reached mine at the end. I place the passkey in front of the reader, and the door slides open to my room. An unventilated stench assaults my senses. My nose itches and my eyes water as I try to breathe through my mouth. I needed a place to rest.

What did a little funk matter as long as I was off the streets? I gaze from the dingy floor to the bed. Which of the two would be the worst offender of germs was anyone's guess, but the thought reminded me to wash my hands. At least even a dump like this one carried clean water.

The tiny bathroom didn't bother with decoration or lavish toiletries. A mini gel disk of soap sat in a dirty tray beside the wash basin. I sigh and shake my head at the notice etched into the corner of the glass: 5 MINUTE LIMIT

I coat my hands up to my elbows and let the water mist them clean. As soon as I remove my hands from under the sensor, the mist stops.

The reflection in the mirror catches my eye.

Not me.

Not bad.

The black cap on top of the blue wig that brushes my shoulders itches, so I pull them both off to scratch my sweaty scalp. I mist my shaved head in the sink before the water timer goes off. I let the water drip off me for a minute before drying off with the nearest hand towel. The cloth is chemically treated to the point it no longer resembles the white it should be, and is rougher than sand.

My uncovered head feels refreshed and right, though. My face is another matter. The dark smudges under my brown eyes catch my attention. I dismiss them for what they are, a casualty of this new life, just like being without my uniform and helmet. Instead, the baggy clothes hide my toned arms and legs and keep anyone from my old life from recognizing me.

I reluctantly replace the wig and cap before I sit down on the edge of the bed. Too afraid of what might crawl beneath the sheets to lay down, I activate the viewscreen's image processor and the digital display appears in front of me. I flip through broadcasts looking for something, anything, to take my mind off everything that has happened over the last few days.

I skip several movie options before I see my Academy graduation picture flash onto the screen. A local news feed is talking about the incident–no, about me. The female broadcaster's voice fills the room as I turn up the volume.

A blonde with a short bob and snub nose speaks to the camera with a grave expression in a serious tone: "Intergalactic Consortium authorities say the woman pictured here, a former IC agent and Status One Telepath, is already responsible for the deaths of two people. If anyone has knowledge of her whereabouts, they should contact the IC at once. She is considered extremely dangerous and…"

Two deaths?

I hadn't killed anyone, not that it mattered now. Marked a traitor and a rogue agent, they'd never give up looking for me. The IC could say whatever they wanted. If they went on the broadcast feeds and said I dealt drugs, illegal weapons, and had three heads, people would believe it. The public viewed the government's activities through controlled media with complete trust.

Frustrated and annoyed, I lift the remote to change the program, then stop as the next words out of the blonde's mouth bring me to my feet.

"There is a large monetary reward for anyone with information leading to her capture."

I listen for the desk clerk a moment. No doubt he'd take the reward credits and invest them in a new hair piece rather than repairs on the rundown motel. But it wasn't him coming for me.

Two agents have tracked me down. I hear their thoughts, intent on violence, making their way down the corridor. The desk clerk won't have a chance of collecting that reward after all.

I drop the remote and dash out the window and down to the street in under thirty seconds. I disappear into the night without looking back.