Liberty's Price
Date: 2021-11-10 05:00:00+00:00
Description: The enemy crouches at the door. Captain Jackson Adams has contented himself with civilian life, working the family ranch while exploring a new relationship – and trying to patch old ones. His team still holds a grudge after Jackson’s actions during their last mission almost got them killed. But he’s never missed them more as the next covert assignment sends him far from home. The Galt system is the galaxy’s financial nexus – and a unlikely haven for communist terror cells. When a sudden plunge in galactic markets shows all the earmarks of an intentional act, Jackson is tasked with infiltrating

Liberty’s Price

Deception Fleet Book Four

Daniel Gibbs

Steve Rzasa

Contents

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Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

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Liberty’s Price by Daniel Gibbs

Copyright © 2021 by Daniel Gibbs

Visit Daniel Gibbs website at
www.danielgibbsauthor.com

Cover by Jeff Brown Graphics—www.jeffbrowngraphics.com

Additional Illustrations by Joel Steudler—www.joelsteudler.com

This book is a work of fiction, the characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permissions please contact info@eotp.net.

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Battlegroup Z

Book 1 - Weapons Free

Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

Book 5 - Iron Hand

Book 6 - Final Flight

Echoes of War

Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight

Book 2 - Strong and Courageous

Book 3 - So Fight I

Book 4 - Gates of Hell

Book 5 - Keep the Faith

Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet

Book 7 - Finish the Fight

Breach of Faith

(With Gary T. Stevens)

Book 1 - Breach of Peace

Book 2 - Breach of Faith

Book 3 - Breach of Duty

Book 4 - Breach of Trust

Deception Fleet

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Victory’s Wake

Book 2 - Cold Conflict

Book 3 - Hazards Near

Book 4 - Liberty’s Price

Book 5 - Ecliptic Flight

Prologue

Rand

Galt Star System

9 November 2465

Sarissa Fei bumped into a lamppost. Whatever she’d eaten at Talarico’s Bistro had not agreed with her. She wasn’t suffering gastroenteric distress, but the chills coursing through her body had nothing to do with the wintry weather blowing light snow across her path. Her head swam, as if she’d looked up at her surroundings too quickly after endless hours of staring at signal encrypts on her console. She’d thought those days were behind her.

“Are you okay, Rissa?” Alexis held a hand to her back. The soothing sensation, muted as it was by her gloves, took some of the edge off Sarissa’s cramping muscles. But it also, unfortunately, brought with it the reminder of their ongoing debate.

“I’m woozy but on course. That doesn’t mean I’m coming with you to the meeting.” The late hour blazed at Sarissa from her commlink’s tiny screen. “I’m tired, and my shuttle leaves first thing tomorrow.”

“Which is why we need to talk now. I need to know I can trust you before you wind up back across the border.”

“Relax, Lexi. I’m not in the service anymore—just a private citizen working tech security contracts as they come. I like the traveling life.” Sarissa smirked. “Besides, if it weren’t for Darren’s commission, it would be a long time before I headed home to the Chesapeake System.”

Alexis’s stormy blue-gray eyes glinted under the lamplight. She wasn’t putting off the vibes of an old friend wanting to catch up—not when she was actively recruiting for her cause, much to Sarissa’s dismay.

“But since you’ll be at Halsey Station, I could use someone like you,” Alexis pointed out.

“It’s for Darren, not for you, and definitely not for your scummy associates.” Sarissa pulled away from Alexis’s touch. That was a mistake. She staggered up the footbridge, trying to stay mindful of her journey while keeping her wits about her for the conversation.

Her hotel was a collection of four interlinked ten-story towers on the other side of the Atlas River, sitting five kilometers north of the city’s bustling, manic traffic and blazing neon lights. At least she could walk in peace from the restaurants on the east side of the river to the hotels, away from the assorted lowlifes who frequented the city’s fringe. The tourist complex was its own walled enclave.

“They’re not scummy.” Alexis sounded appalled by the characterization. “Each of them has sacrificed so much—jobs, family, honor—to reform the Coalition from the inside out. It’s clear to us the political route won’t work. People supporting our cause have tried the fair game for years.”

“The fair game is the only way, Lexi. You can’t force the Coalition into becoming something its people don’t want—and by that, I mean a socialist ‘paradise,’ from what you’ve been telling me.” Sarissa made air quotes around the word. Her breath frosted in the bitter night air. “No thanks. I didn’t give eight years of my adult life in service to the CDF, fighting behind the scenes to stop the Leaguers, so you and the other naïve people out there could piss away our freedoms.”

“And I thought I was the one spouting propaganda.” Alexis sighed. “We don’t want to take away anyone’s freedoms, but the people have the right to a fair and equitable life, one in which they shouldn’t have to struggle to make ends meet. The economic disruption at the war’s end was bad enough without the oppressive policies the Spencer administration keeps in place.”

“You’d think your guy Fuentes could have gotten rid of a few,” Sarissa teased.

“Fuentes is a coward and a traitor to the people.” Alexis gestured at the maelstrom of noise and light of Rand. “The Coalition pulls back just a few more regulations, defunds a couple of its safety nets, and our people are living in this jungle. I’m trying to change that so we stop dumping our resources into the bottomless pit of military contracts and use what treasures we have to lift all people onto a level playing field.”

“Please. You’re only hanging around me because I mentioned Halsey Station.” Sarissa pointed back at the restaurants. “At least Galt isn’t smothering businesses, like those with so many rules and penalties that they can’t operate without piling up huge debts.”

She stopped in the middle of the path, and for a moment, her skewed vision made her see two bridges side by side, no railings on either. Galt’s so-called government figured she had the right to choose whether or not she walked safely over the bridge without tumbling into the rushing waters below. The patches of ice on the paved surface were almost indistinguishable from puddles that late at night.

“You’re not well. I get that. Let me walk you back to the hotel.” Alexis touched Sarissa’s arm.

“No, I’ll be fine by myself.”

Sarissa again withdrew, only that time, Alexis flinched. A tiny black object dropped into the melting snow.

“What is that?”

“Nothing. A piece of jewelry.” Alexis knelt so she could retrieve whatever she’d dropped.

Sarissa, though wobbly, got there first. She frowned at the cylinder, uncertain of what she saw until she realized the hazy edges weren’t due to her illness but to dozens of minuscule cilia so fine they would probably best be viewed under a microscope. An orange glow pulsed between hair-thin seams. “Is that a bot?”

“No… listen, Rissa, you aren’t being reasonable.”

“I’m not?” Sarissa straightened. Too fast.

Alexis caught her once more, clinging to her jacket, and that time, Sarissa was grateful for the temporary steadiness.

“This has to be a tracker of some kind. You were going to plant it on me. Right?”

Alexis’s expression hardened. “Yes.”

“So, what, then I’d board Halsey Station, and tech would malfunction or worse?”

“No! I wouldn’t ever—it’s not like that.” Alexis sighed. “I have a mission to carry out. We all do. We play whatever parts we can. Don’t you see? Halsey is as good a place as any to access so we can show the Coalition how serious we are, and with your credentials, we can get in.”

“My—you’re using me.” Sarissa glared at her friend of ten or more years. “I can’t believe you! After all we went through when Ron died…”

“Don’t mention him. Not now.”

“Why not?” Whatever sympathies she might have for her widowed friend were melting faster than the snow on the paved path in the face of Sarissa’s growing anger. “Four years, Lexi. Four years since Ron got himself killed trying to assassinate probably the most famous officer the CDF has ever had! He brought that on himself, and I hoped, prayed, that you wouldn’t succumb to the same bullshit that made him turn a gun on his own people.”

“Don’t. Mention. Him.” Alexis yanked Sarissa’s arm, pulling her near, and seized the front of her jacket with her other hand. Then she lifted her off her feet until her shoes kicked free air. “Ron was a patriot, a hero to the cause. He died for what he believed in. And I’m done praying, whatever good that did me.”

Sarissa had no idea Alexis was so strong. She wasn’t a waif, but she wasn’t musclebound by any means—unless Sarissa was hallucinating. Bright spots swarmed her vision. Alexis’s voice echoed as if from a great distance. But none of that meant Sarissa would step back from the confrontation. She flung the bot over her shoulder and had the dual satisfaction of hearing the plink as it hit the river and seeing the fury in Alexis’s eyes.

“Screw your filthy Fabians,” Sarissa growled.

Alexis stepped to the edge of the path and dropped her. One moment, free flight. The next, a jarring impact on frigid water that might as well have been ice. Sarissa lost her breath, submerged in the swirling currents. Rocks pummeled her as the river dragged her deeper—too deep, she recognized even in her disoriented state. The lamplights were distant, fuzzy beacons. A lone silhouette stayed frozen in their fading glow.

Get your feet first. Feet first. Sarissa struggled to remember basic survival training from camping days. Don’t ever go under an obstacle, always over. Over…

The cold and the panic and the pain were too much to control. Any one of them would have overwhelmed her. If she’d been at a hundred percent, maybe she could have gotten herself to one riverbank or the other, but in her sickened state, her body refused to cooperate. It was all she could do to mentally cry out to God for His provision as darkness closed around and over her.

* * *

Alexis Barr watched Sarissa surface, flail for a handhold, then disappear again beneath the dark, churning river. She should have felt more disturbed, but as she probed her conscience for anguish, all she found was a hint of regret. Sarissa had been there for her during those dark months after Ron’s sacrifice—Sarissa drowning in a cold river far from home should fill Alexis with nearly as much sorrow. Nothing. Alexis waited another minute, impervious to the snowflakes alighting on her cheeks and nose. Maybe it was a delayed reaction.

A normal person would contact the authorities. The thought made Alexis smile, as mirthless as she felt. Galt’s idea of police was privately contracted security guards. The bigger and richer the company, the tougher and more competent the security, leaving the poorest to fend for themselves with men and women who were more street gangs than professionally trained personnel. She put no further stock in religion, but by God, when she put her plan in motion, Galt would be one of the first worlds to pay.

Alexis walked back to the restaurant enclave on the east side of the river.

A short, stocky black man waited for her. His head was shaved bald, and in lieu of hair, he sported swirling blue tattoos. Definitely not allowed in his previous line of work. “Dammit,” he muttered. “You’ve failed.”

“I don’t want to hear it, Winston.” Alexis strode past him toward their parked skimmers. “Let’s go. We’ll be late for the meeting.”

“Hold on.” Winston Cole had a slight British accent. “What do you think the rest are going to say when we show up empty-handed? Sarissa Fei was supposed to be our backdoor key into Halsey Station.”

“Halsey was just a distraction.” Alexis plucked a small tablet from her pocket. The mite she’d tried to plant on Sarissa sent no signals. She sighed. Of course not. The cheap League knockoff had probably shorted as soon as it got wet. “It was meant to draw Coalition attention away from our real work.”

“Yes, I understand that, but without her, we have no distraction.”

“Then we do what we do best—we improvise.”

Winston pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered under his breath. Counting to five, Alexis knew—his method of relieving stress so he didn’t give in to his temper, which was fine by her. She couldn’t have him devolve into a sullen statue.

“Winston.” Alexis touched his hand. “Think about all we’ve done to get this far. Think about the ways in which we’ve not only changed our lives but our very existence.”

He shifted his stance. Alexis detected a soft, subtle whirr, which she would have missed had she not been standing right in front of him.

“I know. We all have. I want to put these modifications to good use,” he said.

“You will have the chance when we strike against those who cost you your real legs. The League may have ambushed your transport, even though it was full of civilian passengers, but never forget who made them desperate for targets—the greedy, oppressive Terran Coalition and its CDF warmongers. Their bloodlust has left millions of victims on both sides of the border. We’re doing this for the people of our worlds.” Alexis leaned closer still. “They’re who I wanted Sarissa to see, but she refused to open her eyes. She couldn’t be saved.”

Winston’s expression seemed troubled, which was odd to Alexis. Hadn’t he done the calculations? Didn’t he understand that one woman’s life was nothing when weighed against the outcome of the greatest struggle? His hesitance wasn’t a problem, though. He had more than proven his worth.

“Let’s go.” Alexis mounted the skimmer and waited as its engines hummed to life, the vehicle floating a meter off the ground.

“I will send the recognition signal.” Winston clambered aboard his ride. “They are expecting us.”

The only obstacle was the gate manned by two armed women, one armed man, and a security robot, all of them bearing ballistic rifles. Alexis slowed enough for the woman with the most stripes on her private security jacket to scan her tablet before waving Alexis through. Winston followed, and Alexis secured a thermal face mask before accelerating down the road to Rand.

They were alone, though not for long as they joined more hovercraft, skimmers, and wheeled vehicles until they reached Rand’s seedy outskirts. Riding skimmers let them weave between the frequent traffic jams and zip past the handful of thugs here and there shaking down stopped passengers for “donations.” The seeming randomness of life there produced Alexis’s one genuine emotion for the evening—outrage.

Scum like that will be the first brought to heel when we remake the Coalition. Alexis increased her skimmer’s speed. No more foreign adventures, not until we turn our nation into the socialist capital of the galaxy, and once we do, we can export our greatest product to places like Galt—our care for the downtrodden. They would make the rich and powerful pay their fair share.

Winston took the lead. His skimmer banked right, entering a long, darkened alleyway between two massive workshops, one the home of bot repair technicians, the other a furniture fabrication plant. The doors of a dilapidated, slant-sided garage yawned before them.

They halted inside, swallowed in darkness except for the yellow running lights on their vehicles. The massive door rumbled shut behind them.

“We’re here,” Alexis called beyond their illuminated patch.

Beacons blazed on, turning the inside of the garage as bright as day. Ten more people walked out from behind stacked containers and broken-down machinery. “Where’s the target?”

“She refused to help.”

The older woman sighed. “So, we have another loose end to tie up.”

“No. I took care of it.” Alexis pulled off her mask and slipped out of her jacket as she brushed past the small crowd.

“Winston, I told you she’s not going to listen—”

“Her friend’s body is on its way down the Atlas River into the bay,” Winston snapped. “Is that good enough for you, Perrine? Would you like to ask her any questions about how difficult it was? Or shall we crack on to the next order of business?”

Perrine, her silvery hair shimmering under the beacons’ glow, arched an eyebrow. Alexis found it amusing when she attempted intimidation because she was a head shorter than anyone in their cell. “I have the right, just as we all do, to stay informed about every action taken. We may be building our new socialist world, but I won’t have us keeping secrets from each other like the Leaguers do.”

Or the CDF, for that matter. Alexis shook her head. If Perrine knew all the secrets Alexis knew, she would be as dangerous to the cause as Sarissa had been.

Had been. First Ron then Sarissa. If she were still a superstitious fool, she would say it was God’s punishment, but she knew it was only the beginning of necessary sacrifices.

“The first spike is finished,” Winston said. “We can have it ready to deploy in a few days. First, we must have our final vote on where and when it will be aimed.”

“I’ve already sent word to the other cells on Galt,” Perrine reminded him. “They’re standing by for our suggestion.”

“Then gather everyone up, including the lookouts,” Alexis ordered. “If we’re all in agreement here, we’ll have forty-seven votes. That should be adequate to sway the rest of the cells, and if we can unite behind our decision, the off-world contingents will respect that unity.”

“They’ll respect you, Alexis, because of who you are and what you’ve lost.” Perrine held up a tablet between them. “I didn’t mean to question that loyalty, but I know how hard it is when love crashes against the cause.”

“Thank you.” Alexis accepted the tablet. The coordinates, encrypted into gibberish that most security forces would be unable to crack, were ready for distribution along with a date and time stamp.

Perrine took a middle-aged man with her in search of the other members. More lights blinked on, revealing a structure that went much farther back and much deeper down an abandoned fabrication shop’s catwalks than the exterior hinted at.

“If you want more time, we can take another week,” Winston murmured.

“We’ve waited too long already. It’s time for the Coalition to see we’re not idle and we’re not to be discounted. I want the big money in the galaxy to feel the pain of the people they keep ignoring as they rake in the credits.” Alexis tapped the tablet, sending the coordinates to eight other cells on Galt. One by one, green receipt-confirmation markers appeared. “Once we send this spike, we’ll know for sure whether we can bring down their whole rotten system and give their wealth to the people who truly deserve it.”

Within five minutes, Perrine had gathered the entire cell on the catwalks—men and women, teens and the elderly and everyone in between, from worlds across the Terran Coalition. Alexis felt a tear. Sorrow tightened in her chest. How many of us, we forty-seven, have no home waiting back there? Well, we will take one back.

“All those in favor?” Alexis raised her tablet, affirming her vote.

Forty-six hands lifted glowing screens in response.

1

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Canaan

12 November 2465

Jackson Adams flung his jacket over one of the chairs atop the family skiff’s lookout deck. The herd management vehicle meandered ten meters above the next herd he had to inspect, some two hundred head of cattle lowing as they followed a well-beaten trail onto the ranch’s northeastern quarter. The grasses had grown better out there thanks to recent rains.

Even then, Jackson peered skyward at clouds gathering over the mountains to the west. Not much snow on the peaks. And the grass hadn’t taken on its typical yellow tinge for so late in the season. It had been a warmer-than-usual year but with more moisture. A lot of factors had to be balanced.

He smiled. It was a far cry from seven months ago, when he was balancing yet another personality against his own and balancing the good of the mission against the lives of his people.

“Are we gazing into the far distance, or are we checking the herd for disease?” Abril Castillo stood behind him, flicking through the results on a monitor mounted to the skiff’s bulkhead. She wrinkled her nose, the freckles on her cheeks bunching into what Jackson found a cute display. “And why is it they smell worse from up here than they do when I’m on my skimmer at ground level, surrounded by twice as many?”

“Probably because you’re exceeding the recommended safe velocity.” Jackson wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek.

She swatted his nose with a pair of leather work gloves, smearing cool but still-moist mud on him. Jackson sniffed. Oh, good. It actually was mud.

“We’ll need to up their daily feed in a couple of weeks.” Jackson tapped a declining graph line. “Sensors show the rate of pasture growth in decline.”

“You can certainly see it, even without the sensors, but it’s nice to have them adjust the date so there’s no guesswork.” Abby sniffed the air. “Rain’s coming too.”

She was right. The distant clouds were less distant than even a few minutes before. Jackson consulted his tablet—a cold front was sweeping in, but it didn’t herald violent thunderstorms, only intermittent showers for the rest of the day. Jackson snorted. Right. Intermittent.

“What is it?” Abby peered around him.

He showed her the forecast.

“Are they kidding?” Abby chuckled. “Intermittent. Every time they issue that forecast, we get an hour of downpour.”

“It won’t be a problem as long as the herds are clear of the gullies.” Jackson input commands via the herd management system, which would relay pings to the chips embedded in each animal. “We’ll give them a nudge through HMS to make sure they do. How’s the overall health of this bunch looking?”

“Clean greens across all two hundred and nineteen,” Abby reported.

Jackson nodded. He watched the cattle wandering on. The smell of fresh rain intensified. Gray sheets drifted from the bottoms of thick clouds scudding over the hills. Even without the weather radar, he knew they had about ten minutes before it reached their position.

“Hey.” Abby looked up at him. “Is something wrong, Jay? I thought you were having one of your faraway moments when you go off on your last adventure in your memories, but you’re not smiling as much.”

“It’s Harry.” Jackson tapped his fingers on the railing. “He should be out there, managing the herd, not wasting away in Port Nomad. Did Mom tell you he’s running the fabrication yard for Flecha Norte? He’s not even going out on the ranging expeditions.”

“He sounds like he’s biding his time.”

“For the lawsuit to be heard.” Jackson shook his head. The wheels of civil justice ground slowly, even on Canaan—or maybe especially on Canaan. The Western Steppes were piled with land disputes stretching back generations, most of them interfamilial. What was the figure I saw? Seventy percent? I didn’t want us to be part of the statistic.

Abby gestured to the south, where a silver speck glinted—one of the Castillo skiffs, Jackson knew, helping take up the slack on the Adams spread since the families had formalized their merger in the spring. “I still don’t understand why he can’t be happier about this. Profits are up. The workers are happier—and you’ve afforded more of them. I’ve never seen your mother smile as much.”

Mom was more content. Jackson knew he would never be able to get her to quit working, but she wasn’t the retirement type anyway. She would keep knitting until her hands fell off—or she got permission for cybernetic replacements, as she liked to joke—but the ranch was her passion. Jackson checked his tablet. It pinged her commlink. Yes, she was still in the repair field, probably chastising one of the new hands who hadn’t yet figured out the proper way to rewire a skimmer’s control board.

Dad, bless his soul, had shown Jackson all he needed to know about managing the herds and keeping the cattle healthy. Mom was the mechanic.

But Harry… “It’s about control,” Jackson told Abby. “He thought he was Dad’s handpicked heir. And maybe Dad gave him that impression. I certainly wasn’t around to hear it.”

“Don’t start that again,” Abby chided. “I won’t let you beat yourself up about your service.”

“You won’t let me?” Jackson smirked. “That sounds like an order.”

She put her hands on her hips, a mischievous grin curling her lips. “Maybe it is.”

“Understood.” Jackson met her for a kiss, the kind that drew them together until she was all he could think about. It amazed him how fast his brain could empty. He’d had plenty of these days since he’d come home, filled with good, hard work, warm dinners, and quiet evening hours.

“So.” Abby gasped a bit when they finally separated. “Enrique is on leave while CSV Ericsson undergoes sensor rewiring.”

“I must have missed him at the tram terminal.”

“He snuck in—wanted to surprise Mama and Papa. Anyway…” Abby held up her commlink, waggling it like it was a golden ticket to a fantastic prize. “He’s cooking lunch right now.”

Jackson’s eyes widened. He hadn’t thought he was hungry, but knowing Enrique was preparing a meal triggered his appetite as surely as a Pavlovian reflex. “Well, then we’d better finish because there’s no way I’m going to be late to the table when he’s the one furnishing the food.”

Abby laughed. “I’m going to hop on my skimmer and ride ahead to our villa. I need to check a couple of sensor posts before we eat, which also means I’ll get to Enrique’s kebabs before you do.”

Jackson leveled a finger at her. “Don’t even try it. You won’t beat me if I set the skiff to auto on the way back.”

Abby rolled her eyes and headed for the ladder port, which led down to the platform underneath the skiff, where their skimmers were moored.

The expression jolted Jackson. For a second, he was looking at Gina Wilkes. He hadn’t seen his friend and team member in months. Frankly, he hadn’t seen anyone from the team.

He opened the comms node on his tablet and paged through his contacts. Gina’s smiling face was one of the first, curly black hair and hazel eyes a sight he missed. Lieutenant Brant Guinto was right beneath her, his Filipino features bronzed by his homeland’s sunny skies. Chief Warrant Officer Ehud Dwyer was a few spaces down, grinning in a sideways profile that made it look like he was piloting a spacecraft at a stomach-churning angle—which he probably was. Sevastopol Rast had no picture by his comms code.

Jackson tapped Brant’s profile. Hmm. That would be the tenth message he’d sent Brant since the end of their last mission, when Jackson’s obsession with catching Leaguer spies had left his XO and best friend with nerve damage from a plasma blast to the back. Brant had only answered the first five calls, each response shorter than the previous one. Clearly, their relationship was still on the mend.

“Better skip for now.” Jackson punched Gina’s code. He hadn’t heard a single thing from her since she’d bid him farewell outside CDF Medical Station Avicenna in Lawrence City, where he’d been healing from his traumas. “Hey, Gina, it’s Jack. Been a long time. I wanted to let you know things are going well here at home. Haven’t had word from the colonel yet about redeployment, but Sparks and Sev are both on assignment. Classified, I’m sure you guessed. Brant’s doing better. He’s not quite ready for us to be back on our familiar speaking terms.”

What else? Jackson gazed out at the horizon, where Abby’s skimmer sped toward its rendezvous with the sensor posts. “I’m doing good too. Home’s been what I needed—time away from the galaxy, I suppose, so I could shake the feeling of responsibility. Being around Abby has made that possible. I wanted to talk about her because—” He cleared his throat. What am I nervous about? His last debriefing with Colonel Robert Sinclair had been less tense. “This could become serious. It is serious. She and I are partners now.”

He sounded like a rambling idiot. His commlink pulsed—a message from Abby, indicating she would be home in five minutes. “I’ve got to go, Gina. Drop me a signal sometime. I hope you’re okay.”

Jackson signed off. He set the skiff’s automated systems to head directly to the repair yard, where most of the ranch vehicles were kept. Then he climbed down to the platform and slid onto the seat of a brilliant-yellow skimmer. He fired up the engines, getting a satisfying rumble from the power plant that accompanied the hover nodules’ hum.

“Okay, Rover,” he murmured. “I’m starving.”

He fastened his helmet and cranked the release handle. The skimmer dropped a few meters as the hover nodules compensated, shunting the vehicle ahead. He should have felt more elated by the burst of speed, but the thoughts of Covert Action Unit 171 clouded his sunnier disposition. Focus on the ranch, Jack. If you need to worry about CDF, they’ll let you know.

The thing was, at that moment, he would rather they didn’t.

* * *

The Castillo villa was built of pine and oak, like the Adams ranch house, but where the Adamses preferred a solid, bunker-like structure layered out on the plains, the Castillos wanted an open, sprawling plan with soaring windows. Their home property was sheltered from the frequent winds in one of many valleys leading into the mountains. Jackson found the red cliffs, even as they blurred by, a breathtaking sight.

He parked his skimmer in the front yard, next to Abby’s, and chuckled. She beat me after all. No surprise. She knows shortcuts her father taught her. I guess some things didn’t transfer between our families in the merger.

The front hall was empty. No one came to meet him, but the smell—by the stars, the smell of those kebabs drifted from the kitchen off to the left. “If you guys have started eating without me,” Jackson called out, “I wouldn’t blame you.”

But the stools arranged around the kitchen island were empty. The food was set out, an impressive array of glistening kebabs sizzling on the warmer after being grilled, and a carafe of iced tea had even been placed in the middle.

Everyone was at the far end of the kitchen, their attention glued to their tablets. Whatever the news was, it was bad. Jackson could tell by the tight muscles on their faces and the way Ramon Castillo kept pressing the bridge of his nose. The family patriarch looked like he was trying to reset a CPU.

“Jay.” Abby took his hand. “The markets dipped.”

Jackson frowned. “On beef? I know it slumped after the war ended, but the rebound—”

“All of them.” Enrique Castillo, tall and slender with a CDF-approved haircut, slapped his tablet against the counter. “Every damned sector you can imagine, all the commodities—they’re dropping. Six percent and falling.”

“Six percent? In one day?” Jackson retrieved his own tablet and hurriedly punched up the news feeds. There was no mistake. He hadn’t expected Abby and Enrique to both be wrong.

“In one hour.” Marguerite Castillo shook her head. “I don’t understand. I checked our holdings before Enrique started making dinner. Everything was fine. Ramon?”

“It was fine.” Mr. Castillo punched in a sequence then held up his commlink. “Avi? Ramon Castillo. No, we’ve—yes, I have seen the spiral. What should we do? If this is a major crash, I want to sell—of course, I’ll defer to your judgment…”

He stepped away, gesticulating at Marguerite, their protests and arguments overlapping the tinny chatter coming out of the commlink. Enrique kept tapping on his tablet as if he could make the downhill losses reverse course.

Jackson was stunned. He’d never experienced such an immediate market crisis. Well, he had lived through the postwar slump along with everyone else, when the Coalition’s economy floundered in the face of an attempted League invasion aimed at Canaan’s annihilation.

“Mama and Papa have saved against this sort of thing for years,” Abby reassured him. “We won’t lose our ranch or yours.”

“I know.” He had, as recently as last week, reviewed the finances of the Adams-Castillo ranch and found them in admirable shape, both in terms of cash flow and savings. “Still, we might have to take a few drastic steps to prevent—”

“Hold on.” Enrique raised his hand as if hailing a tram. “They’re rebounding, coming back up.”

“Already?” Jackson glanced at his tablet, ready to correct Enrique’s reading and admonish him for being an alarmist—but the younger man was right.

The markets were ticking back up as they watched, too flabbergasted to say anything. It was insane. Ten minutes later, all prices were within half a percent of normal.

“Dios mio.” Mrs. Castillo came back to the kitchen. “I could live another hundred years without a scare like that.”

Mr. Castillo’s voice carried from the other room, rising in cadence, demanding answers.

“I think we all could, Mama.” Abby poured glasses of iced tea. “What on Canaan was that?”

“Beats me, but the pundits are already demanding answers.” Enrique waved his tablet like a fan. “Maybe you can figure it out, Jay. I’ve got to make sure the kebabs aren’t too well done—keep our catastrophes local instead of global.”

Instead of answering, Jackson nodded, his brain churning for answers. “I’m going to go look up what I can about my investments. I’m worried about a few.”

“Okay. Let me know what you find.” Abby sounded distracted as she carried a glass of tea to her mother then took the other in search of her dad.

Jackson was glad for her inattention because he didn’t want to lie to her. She knew full well he couldn’t share classified details of his assignments and, along the same vein, had to avoid talking about the people involved. Meeting them was one thing. Knowing what they really did was another.

He sent a message to Brant. Did you see how the markets just fluctuated? That can’t have been normal.

To his surprise, Brant replied immediately. Not normal. Not “natural” either. There’s talk of tampering. Message forums I’m in.

The idea that it was intentional chilled Jackson. He thought of Mr. Castillo, who was still arguing with his financial advisor, and how upset the rest of the family had been for those few minutes. Amplify that across a day or a week… Possibilities?

I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner. Even though Jackson couldn’t hear Brant’s voice, the tone filtering across the electronic text was clear enough—disdain. Galt is a free-for-all.

Galt.

It influences all major markets. As open as they keep things, the security has to be terrible. A first-year trainee could make a dent in their networks, which is why I’ve heard RUMINT that they keep the most sensitive access restricted to in-person only.

So, if this was deliberate—and Jackson hadn’t seen any proof it was—then someone had to have been on Galt, messing with galactic trading networks. Galt might be loose on a lot of things, but they guarded the galaxy’s richest currency markets with the zeal of Leaguer commissars.

I’ll keep looking at the forums. See what I can find out. Gina says hi, by the way.

Jackson blinked. Gina had contacted Brant and not him. That was her business, of course, but given Jackson’s repeated attempts to contact both his teammates since their last mission, it irked him nonetheless. He waited a minute to see if Brant had anything else to say—such as how he was recovering from his injuries—but nothing else showed up in his inbox.

“Jay? Food’s ready.” Abby waited in the doorway to the kitchen. She frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Trouble with my friends.”

“Oh. This is the one you said has been complicated.”

“Ones, not one. But complicated is the best description.” Jackson shrugged. “I can’t talk about what we did, only to say it went wrong before it went right. I’m still paying for those actions.”

“Whenever you can discuss it, I’m here.”

“Thanks. I know you are.” Jackson gave her his best fake smile, the same kind he’d used to feign confidence with countless criminals and enemy spies.

Abby crossed her arms.

“I really do.”

“Yes, and I know you have to keep secrets,” Abby said. “Let’s both make sure you’re not keeping the wrong ones. Now, come on. Let’s eat, and we can figure out why our holdings dropped off a ledge before miraculously recovering.”

Jackson followed her back in, happy for the standing invitation, but he couldn’t rid himself of Brant’s suggestion that the strange, brief, and sharp market dip was an intentional attack. And attack was the right word if it were true. Brant wasn’t in the mood for personal talk. That was fine. Jackson needed answers, not banter.

Besides, if anyone could dig through a mess of data to get answers to this weird situation, Brant Guinto was that guy. Of course, so was Colonel Robert Sinclair and his band of intrepid intelligence officers aboard CSV Oxford, except if Oxford was on assignment, chances of finding it were slimmer than the odds of Canaan’s star imploding the next day.

Jackson keyed up a request to contact Sinclair and, once it was lodged, sent another note to Gina. Because if he stuck with official channels only, he might miss his only chance.

2

Fountainhead

Galt System

12 November 2465

The old woman knelt by the building, arms shielding her head. “Please. I don’t have the credits.”

“Nobody wants your worthless credits.” The man towering over her was shaved bald and sported a blond beard dyed with three black lightning bolts.

Two others, a thin black man and two Asian women, cordoned off the interaction from the rest of the street. The way they glowered at the passersby who dared to give a curious look was the obvious warning to stay uninvolved even if, by some miracle, they had half a heart.

Gina Wilkes pocketed her miniature binoculars and snorted. It was Fountainhead. They would be lucky to encounter a person with a quarter of a heart.

“You’re gonna give us what you owe us, or we’re gonna take you off the street and send tiny pieces, one at a time, back to your family in the Rand slums.” Lightning Beard slapped a charge stick against his palm, the business end crackling with pent-up plasma discharges—like an overamped police baton. “Frankie hasn’t had a chance to play with her blades in a long time. She’s eager.”

Frankie, the Asian woman with glowing blue hair, brandished a set of ten-centimeter knives. She didn’t seem otherwise armed. The redhead had a plasma carbine cradled in both hands, and the black guy favored the heavy pulse pistol he slapped rhythmically against his thigh. Gina watched the motion until she could discern the tempo. Is it the same song my brother put in my head all those years ago?

“Please! Have mercy.”

The old woman’s cries were agonizing, but Gina was waiting for the traffic to thin. A quick glance told her the street would be relatively clear in twenty seconds. Her pocket pulse pistol was ready—no stun rounds or sedatives, not in that town. Fountainhead attracted the filth of the galaxy, the lowlifes too violent for Rand to stand, which really said something about Galt or Rand or both. Gina didn’t care which. She just had a thing about bullies, which she’d nurtured from an irritation to a crusade over the past few months.

“No more bullshit.” Lightning Beard raised the baton. “Start paying.”

“Oh, good.” Gina stood from the rooftop, sighted across the street, and armed the flash grenade in her palm. “He’s got a flair for the dramatic.”

She hurled the grenade, counted to two, and leapt into the air behind it.

The grav harness wasn’t as streamlined as the CDF model she’d been allowed to use, but well, the military types wouldn’t let a girl like her take one during her time off contract. So she’d had to purchase a black-market model, one with Matrinid script on the sides. Considering she’d painted it the same brilliant red as her jumpsuit, boots, and mask, she didn’t really think they would mind the improvement.

The flash grenade exploded into a miniature sun, turning the gloomy street and its neon-infused shadows into a brilliant afternoon. Beard and his people hollered and swore. The old woman didn’t seem nearly as affected because her arms were already in front of her face. Gina completed the leap in a suitably heroic pose, splashing in the melting slush that had accumulated after the most recent snowstorm.

“What’s the—shit.” Beard’s complexion paled as he blinked away the tears from his scalded eyes. “It’s her.”

The black man hoisted his pulse pistol and fired a round, but it went wide. Gina shot him twice in the chest, flinging herself clear of the shallow puddle she’d landed in. The redhead strafed where Gina had just been with plasma bursts. Gina grasped a fire escape landing’s rung with one hand, swung over her head, and came down behind Frankie.

Frankie’s metal blades flickered in her periphery, not the easiest to dodge, but not soon enough to cut Gina. She arched backward, letting the sharp edges whisk centimeters from her chin, and shot Frankie in the shoulder. Too bad. I was going for her face. But that’s what I get for showing off.

Beard came at Gina with his baton. It sent a crackle of electricity through the air. Gina straightened and whirled around as the sparks singed her torso. She laughed. What a time to be reminded of dance lessons. She planted her right foot, halting her spin, and drove her concealed knife into Beard’s forearm. He howled like a kicked dog.

Gina held fast to the knife and shoved forward, guiding the sparking baton’s powered end into Frankie’s abdomen. Frankie shuddered, her speech unintelligible. Gina took that opportunity to shoot her between the eyes.

Beard continued screaming like a baby. Gina responded by twisting the knife harder until she heard it scrape bone. He vomited and collapsed.

The redhead struggled to stay upright. The pulse pistol’s discharge had mangled her shoulder, but she managed to hold the carbine in one shaking hand.

“Don’t.” Gina flicked her pulse pistol back up in time to aim dead-on to the redhead’s face. “I won’t hit the wrong part of your body this time. Also, I recommend immediate medical attention for the shoulder, especially if you can’t stop the bleeding.”

“You—what the hell?” The redhead grimaced at the pain that must be coursing from the pulse wound. “Are you with the old hag?”

Gina narrowed her eyes, glad she didn’t have a full mask, just a red hood that cast most of her face in shadow and the partial covering from her nose clear down to the chin. Being cruel was simpler when the bullies could see your eyes and know she meant business. “Yes. I’m with her. Just like I was with the families the Gastoldi burned when they protested bribes and refused to be evicted. And like I paid the Chens a visit when they tortured the bot programmers being held as slaves to do their dirty work. And let’s not forget Silver Styx, with their unfortunate foray into child trafficking.”

The redhead’s expression melted from defiance into terror. Gina grinned. The best part.

“Wh—what do you want from me? I won’t—I can’t leave the old lady alone. Tertullian has rules, and I—” The woman cut off her statement and cursed again.

“How nice. A name. I’ve been hoping I’d get the name of the biggest fish.” Gina gestured with her pistol. “Leave me the carbine then run. I’ll give you seven seconds before I lose patience. Oh, and tell Tertullian I’d love to have dinner sometime.”

“No way! I can’t—”

“Seven.” Gina moved her finger to the trigger.

“But—”

“Shut up. For being argumentative, I’m docking your time.” Gina took a step nearer. “Three. Two…”

The redhead yelped. She was splashing away through the slush by the time the carbine landed.

Gina sighed. “You really should teach your people better discipline,” she said to Beard, who still moaned and groaned like he’d never had an injury before. Granted, it looked painful.

Frankie was out cold, drooling onto her shirt.

Gina knelt. “Hey. Are you paying attention?” She jerked her knife free.

Beard cried out again, so Gina picked up the baton and slammed it into his chest. Sparks and a gasp, and the poor fellow was out too.

The old woman stood, pressing herself even harder against the wall. “I—th-thank you. They kept demanding money, but I thought I had lost everything yesterday when the market tanked. I couldn’t pay. I wasn’t being greedy! How else could I survive?”

“It’s okay.” Gina checked the pockets of the incapacitated Beard and his two dead flunkies. Plenty of trinkets. She took a couple pieces of jewelry, a credit chit worth five hundred, and the knives. “Here. These are for you.”

The old woman stuffed them into her coat without question before hugging Gina. “Thank you so much.”

“Call your family in Rand, and get them here. If anyone does bother you, leave me a message.” Gina added a plastic tag with a comms code. “It’s how I know where to show up.”

“God bless you, child.” The woman hurried off to the next street.

A girl screamed. Five teenagers stood on the opposite sidewalk, looking unsure as to whether they should intervene, a hard call given the alcoholic beverages in their hands. Gina put her finger to her lips and activated the grav harness. It flung her up and backward into a dark alleyway.

She was still gliding midair when her commlink pulsed. Already? The woman had only been alone for thirty seconds—

Ah. It was from Jack.

Gina landed behind HVAC equipment on an apartment complex. She gazed at Jack’s features in miniature on the glowing screen. She brushed a gloved finger along one side of the image. Maybe she should answer. See what he wanted. He’d paid enough of a price, hadn’t he?

Her heart clenched like it was in a fist. Not right now.

Sinclair would let her know if it was a big deal or not.

* * *

Gina waited atop the complex for half an hour, until her suit’s lining wasn’t doing its job keeping her warm and she figured no one was looking for her. Satisfied, she found the power box marked with the Electrocution Hazard sticker and pried it open. In the box, nothing—it was more like a closet with plenty of room for a grown woman to get inside, close the door, and change out of her jumpsuit into a long-sleeved thermal shirt, trousers, boots, and a winter coat.

By the time she clambered down a stairwell at the rear of the building and reemerged onto Fountainhead’s streets, she looked like dozens of other pedestrians with bags slung over their shoulders. They were either headed to work or home from it. That part of town was a kilometer from a private spaceport that could accommodate five small freighters at once, so passengers arriving and departing were a regular occurrence. Gina smiled. Rand’s decentralization and refusal to govern worked to her advantage in more ways than one.

It took Gina fifteen minutes to walk across town to the eleven-story cluster of towers where she’d secured an apartment. It came with a monthly lease, partial utilities, and no paperwork required. In fact, the lumpen maintenance robot used by the landlord to collect rent was waiting outside the door when she got to the seventh floor.

“Seven hundred fifty.” The bot looked like a trash compactor had reduced a skimmer’s sleek lines to a meter cube of plastic and metal. It extended a sealed box.

Gina dug into her pocket. She wiped grease off a pair of credit chits—one thousand sixty total. She held out the first one. The bot scanned the chit and snatched it with a slender gripping tool. A quick second scan pulled the right remaining amount off the second chit.

“Thank-you-enjoy-your-stay-ma’am.” The garbled, electronic buzz ran together without punctuation as the bot trundled away.

“The most charming company I’ve found in weeks,” Gina muttered as she let herself into the apartment.

“I’ll bet I can improve on that score.”

Gina snapped her pulse pistol up, the muzzle an arm’s length from a smiling, handsome young face. Her muscles relaxed once she realized he hadn’t been sent by one of the many gangs she’d wholly or partially inconvenienced. But since he was with CDF Intelligence, she didn’t lower the weapon either. “Hello, Cam.”

“Good evening.” Cam Tahatan leaned against the vestibule wall, clad in civilian clothes sufficiently low class for Fountainhead’s general population.

Gina found everything about his appearance oddly reassuring—black hair with three streaks shaved through either side, icy-blue eyes, craggy but youthful Amerindian features.

“How was your night on the town?”

“I’m betting you know. Is that why you’re here?”

“Can you holster your pistol so we can talk?”

Gina smiled as sweetly as she could manage. “It all depends on whether you’re here to put me down, newcomer.”

Cam grinned. “No such orders. Nice to hear you have such fond memories of Trenchant, because you still owe me money for at least two cars plus the damage to a short-range shuttle.”

“I would have thought your bosses paid you well enough to cover incidentals if they can’t take care of those themselves.” Gina put her pistol away and headed for the single, secondhand couch in the center of the living room. “Multipurpose space” was a better term than living room—a kitchenette took up the right wall, and a sleeping space took up the left. The apartment designers had tucked a bathroom back behind the vestibule wall. “I’m not coming back, by the way.”

“I’m not here to bring you back or to shoot you.” Cam sat in a chair opposite the couch. He glanced at the shifting neon colors through the frosted window wall. “I came to talk about how you’re spending these nights.”

“Trash cleanup.” Gina kicked off her boots and kneaded her feet. Sore, of course, like the rest of her muscles, but it was a good pain, the kind born from healthy use—as in running and kicking.

“Which isn’t drawing any attention.” Cam shook his head. “Sarcasm, by the way.”

“I noticed.”

“Come on, Gina. What are you really doing? Do you expect me to believe you’ve suddenly developed a Robin Hood complex—robbing the rich crime lords to feed the poor citizens?”

“Robbing?” Gina laughed. “Taking their stuff is the side benefit, Cam. I’m causing them pain and stopping them from hurting people who don’t deserve to be hurt. Terribly sorry CDF doesn’t like how messy it is, but I’m off contract, and I’m not Intelligence, unlike you.”

Cam grimaced. “If you think your contract status ends Intelligence’s interest in how you spend your free time, you haven’t been paying close enough attention.”

“I’m frankly surprised you found me. No one’s ever come looking for me before when I was in between working for the Terran Coalition.”

“You made it a lot easier this time.”

“So, what’s it going to be?” Gina reached for a cooler at the end of the couch and cracked off the top of a beer bottle. She offered one to Cam.

“No thanks. That’s what we have to decide.”

Gina smiled. “Maybe I’m lucky, and you’ll be my chaperone again.”

“Maybe they’ll assign me a new code designation.” Cam held up a data stick. “This is everything I’ve been working on—except you.”

“How touching. They do teach spies how to share.” Gina raised an eyebrow. “What’s on it?”

“Whispers, rumors, and dead ends—everything I’ve been able to track down about a cell of potential terrorists living on Galt. We weren’t sure what they were up to until yesterday’s market drop.”

Yesterday. The old woman had mentioned it, and Gina recalled the news networks freaking out, though she’d been too worn out to do anything other than pass out on the couch. And then Jackson’s message—the time stamp wasn’t that far off, accounting for distance lag from Canaan.

She took the data stick from Cam and held it up so the overhead light shone off its bronze edges. “Let me guess—this is not only a vital issue but a great way to get me off my vigilante kick.”

“It definitely doesn’t hurt.” Cam leaned back in his chair and propped his head with his fingers, elbow perched on the armrest. “This can’t be a long-term situation for you. RUMINT has had Covert Action Unit 22 picking up the slack since May, but there are whispers about when Unit 171 will get back together. League activity has been quiet this side of the border since Trenchant. The people I’ve talked to think 171 is responsible.”

“You’re welcome.” Gina drank from her bottle. “I’ll take a peek at this present and see what I can unwrap. Maybe I’ll even leave you a treat outside the door in case you break into my apartment again.”

“Grow up, Gina.” Cam stood and straightened his jacket. “I get that you’re independent. Some of us don’t have that luxury. What we have is pride in our people and in our nation. You aren’t showing any of either by zipping around Galt in a red costume, playing hero to people who never asked you to intervene. That’s the whole point of our line of work—we get the job done and leave.”

“No matter the consequences of our actions.” Gina gestured with her bottle. “That’s what you were going to say, right? We get involved with local crime, cause turf wars, and leave damage in our wake. Meanwhile, regular people suffer, whether from the scum we put down or from covert actions—all in the name of national security. It’s bullshit, and I hate it. This is my way of making penance. If Sinclair and his toadies want me back, he’ll have to do some impressive begging.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Cam opened the apartment door. “This is a charity call. You’re not the only one with skills vital to CDF Intelligence. Why do you think I’m here?” He slammed the door.

Gina closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cool bottle as Cam stomped down the hallway. That went well. Why can’t they see what I’m doing is important? It might not save the Terran Coalition from the vile League of Sol, but it would help people survive. She’d decided she’d done a piss-poor job of the latter.

But with Cam gone, Gina realized she’d had enough of being lonely. The vigilante business was terrible for her social life. Altruistic, sure, but getting less fun.

Gina lifted her commlink again. She pressed the playback.

“Hey, Gina, it’s Jack. Hope this message finds you well.” She swore she could hear him scratch the back of his head in that adorably awkward gesture he used. “A lot is going on at home, and I’ll get to that, but I’ve just messaged Brant, too, because of the market blip. Call it the inbred paranoia of our profession—I think something’s wrong. If you get this, we might need to look into it. But to the ranch first. Harry still hasn’t…”

Gina laughed as he launched into a description that was more soap opera than mission recap. “Oh, Jack.” She palmed the data stick and reached for a tablet that could read its contents. “I should have known you’d show up with the fun when I was ready.”

3

Meron—Tenth Planet

New Israel System

13 November 2465

Chief Warrant Officer Ehud Dwyer knew pilots who chafed at being assigned anything other than a starfighter. They wanted the glory of burning across the cosmos and atomizing their Leaguer opponents in high-G maneuvers—the classic dogfight transferred to the middle of space.

Dwyer only wanted to fly. He didn’t much care where or when or what kind of craft. He shifted his sore back against the battered cushions of his seat behind the assault shuttle’s controls. Got too used to the padding on Novabird. That’s certain. He grinned. Best not to brag on the fact, since he doubted any other fliers assigned to CDF Intelligence were able to take to the skies and the stars in a Florio Ionworks Mark Thirteen racer.

“Nova One, this is Archangel One. We show you as twenty klicks from target.” Major Nathan Mancini’s voice filtered through the comms.

Dwyer tapped the reply. “Roger, Archangel One, this is Nova One. We are nineteen point six klicks, to be precise, and closin’ mighty fast. Ready when you are to make our delivery.”

“Confirmed, Nova One. Our scopes show you clear of bogeys.”

“Two for two, Archangel.” Dwyer glanced again at the scanner readout. Nothing but the looming blue-green sphere of Meron, the farthest gas giant from the New Israel sun, and the eight nearest of its twelve satellites. “All clear on our end too. ETA two minutes.”

“Godspeed and good hunting, Nova One. Archangel out.”

Dwyer flicked off the link and switched over to the intercom. “How’s the ride down there, Master Chief?”

“Vomit-free and boring, Warrant.” Master Chief Petty Officer Gordan MacDonald’s voice had the tone of a man who would boot the first of his soldiers that complained right out the nearest air lock. The commander of the Alpha team of Space Special Warfare Unit Nineteen was a surprisingly good sport about the shenanigans he and his people had been party to since being yoked to Intelligence on a regular basis. “Don’t forget to watch out for giant rocks. We didn’t hitch a ride on this bucket so a cake-eating flyboy could paste us against an asteroid.”

“Never you fear, Master Chief,” Dwyer answered. “I’ve got both hands on the stick and both eyes open this time. Ninety seconds to drop.”

He magnified the LZ on his display. Meron’s largest moon roamed the third orbit around the planet. Kishor had a fractured surface, a jagged and ill-fitting jigsaw of ice floes, carbonaceous fills, and plummeting stone ravines. Dwyer had read the surveyor notes explaining Kishor’s theoretical destruction and reformation. He didn’t pay it much mind. He was more concerned about the very same rough surface providing adequate cover for his approach.

Passive sensors amplified the heat traces seeping from the domes on Kishor’s equatorial region, as determined by the survey. Yep. Initial probes were correct—somebody had the abandoned ice mines up and running. There hadn’t been a soul living or working down there for five decades.

“Ready?”

Dwyer yelped. Good thing sound didn’t carry through space. He glared over his shoulder at Sevastopol Rast. “Doggone it, Sev. I thought you were down below making nice with the troops.”

Sev grunted.

“I know they don’t put much stock in civilians, but that ain’t their concern,” Dwyer pointed out. “They got orders, and so do we. Speakin’ of which—”

Sev lifted a gray device covered with blue markings. It fit neatly in his palm.

“Right. Make sure it gets into whatever mainframe they got down there. It’ll be shielded against EMP, so we won’t have to fret about frying it when we knock.”

“Okay.”

Dwyer gave him another look. The poor fella did look worried, which was as rare as the astronomical event for which they were currently designated. “You heard from the cap’n? Or the LT?”

Sev shook his head. “Nor Gina.”

It was those two words that probably hurt him the most. What a pair of soft hearts they were. Dwyer didn’t know all the data on what had gone wrong, only that the LT got wounded, and the cap’n got blamed. Could be it was his fault. Their last mission as a team of five had crossed all manner of lines, and when it came to hunting Leaguers, the cap’n wasn’t exactly neutral.

Dwyer turned in his seat and gave Sev a solid whap on the arm with his open hand. “It’s a season, Sev. That’s all it is. We’ve got to get through it the best we can. Hashem knows we won’t be apart forever, not when we’ve been blessed to accomplish what we did.”

“Blessed?” Sev frowned.

“Sure as a sun’s corona.” Dwyer twisted back. Thirty seconds to drop. He guided the shuttle down into Koshir’s weak magnetic field. “’Cause it wouldn’t be fair to the galaxy if the five of us were separated, now would it?”

* * *

Sev checked the seals on his helmet. Warrant Dwyer had a point—they were stronger as a team than as individuals. Though Sev admitted he didn’t always feel that way. His role was the silent one, the lurker in the shadows, the killer who struck from afar.

Killer. No. He was a soldier, like the men lining the assault lander’s hold, except he conducted his warfare in the shadows, without the reward of public recognition when he was done. Even Master Chief MacDonald’s soldiers would be acknowledged for, if nothing else, their rank and years of service. Me? No one outside CDF would know what he did and for whom.

For whom. Sev made sure his carbine was loaded, the extra magazines locked onto his space suit’s rigging. The CDF? The Terran Coalition? Perhaps. Mostly, for Mother and Father. Without them, I would not be free.

“Listen up!” Master Chief MacDonald’s command hammered through his helmet’s comm. “The targets have committed crimes against the Coalition, but they haven’t taken lives. We’re loaded with stun rounds. Command wants everyone alive. Don’t disappoint.”

“What if they want us dead, Master Chief?” Senior Chief Dennis Harrell asked.

“Such a thing has been rumored,” hissed Rucuk, the Saurian warrior in the sixth-man position on the Alpha team.

Senior Chief Harrell chuckled, his suit shuddering, but Master Chief MacDonald silenced him with a solid cuff to the back of the helmet. “They’re Fabians, so they’re the closest thing to Leaguer scum you’ll see this side of our border. Don’t let them shoot first, and you won’t have a chance to get your ass wounded.”

Petty Officer First Class Esmail Rostami raised a hand. “Permission to avoid getting shot again, Master Chief?”

“Granted.”

The lights in the hold flashed from red to green.

“This is it. Jump clear by the numbers, and watch your asses.”

The shuttle hatch popped open. Black-and-white terrain blurred by, though not as quickly as Sev had expected. Then a silvery curve appeared—the first dome.

By the numbers. Rostami and Chief Petty Officer Amacio Mata leapt, Three and Four. Harrell and Rucuk went next, Two and Six. MacDonald jumped after, with Chief Petty Officer Ibrahim Ahmad beside him, One and Five.

Which left Sev to follow. None of them spoke with him. They didn’t have to. He had his orders, and they had theirs. If they held disdain for the civilian in their midst, a man who didn’t belong because he wasn’t a trained special forces operator, they didn’t betray their feelings. Not within his eyeshot, at least.

Sev’s grav harness propelled him downward far faster than the planet’s natural field would have pulled, dragging him toward the shattered edge of an uninhabited dome. The six Alpha team members were slate-gray statues plummeting beneath him. A timer counted in his heads-up display. Three seconds to reversion.

The shuttle flashed overhead. Sev spotted flickering lights in the adjacent domes and a spray of debris blossoming into a frozen flower between them. Warrant Dwyer’s shots were dead-on—he left sparks in his wake, befittingly.

The timer hit zero. The harness’s artificial gravity projector reversed, cushioning Sev’s fall and depositing him on the frosted, rocky ground. Sev bent his knees, absorbing the rest of the impact. By the time he came up, he had swept his rifle in a half circle, the search beam brightening every shadow it found.

Alpha team was on the move, by twos, breaching the old air lock ahead of them. Three and Four approached first, fiddling with the hatch. They abruptly backed off. Sev’s visor darkened against the flare of cutting charges. Two and Six went through ahead of the rest.

“Everybody down! Nobody moves!” Senior Chief Harrell’s commands rang through the open channel, which Sev noted broadcast to any active comms in the vicinity.

An overlapping chorus of voices replied, intermingled with soldiers’ orders. Sev couldn’t see beyond Alpha Team until One and Five made it through the ruined air lock and into the first dome.

Fourteen people, space suited. Sev’s display bracketed each one red, as a potential hostile, while noting the six soldiers’ green. Sensors investigated each for weapons. So far, none of the people were armed.

Worktables littered the main floor of the dome. Electronic parts covered the tops, with wires and circuits spilling off the sides. Sev didn’t see signs the room had suffered decompression, which meant the occupants must have depressurized prior to Alpha team’s breach of the air lock.

“Stand down.” MacDonald’s order sliced above and through the discordant arguments—arguments, Sev realized, between the fourteen people. “If anyone’s armed, I want the weapons on the floor. Do it now.”

Nine people had their hands over their heads. They sank slowly to the floor, an awkward motion when completed in pressurized space suits. Five others, all men, were spread out along the dome’s edge. One of them dropped with surprising speed, his arms ducking behind a set of low cabinets.

“Gun.” Sev shifted his aim thirty degrees, sighted, and fired.

The stun round smacked the kid in the chest—kid, Sev assumed, by the way his voice cracked when he yelled—and flung him against the dome’s curved wall. He rebounded and hit a workstation before falling onto the floor.

More shouts erupted over the comms. Movement flickered in Sev’s peripheral vision.

“The difficulty is, Sevastopol, you can never keep your eye on all things at all times.” He and Father waited in the forest, breath frosting as winter nibbled at their jumpsuits. It was illegal to hunt, but Father pushed the boundaries whenever he could. “Proper training helps, but it is up to you to stretch your senses as far as they will go. There comes a time when lives other than your own depend upon such a skill.”

Sev lost the deer among the snow-crusted trees. Where was it?

“Drop it! Drop it!” Harrell fired three rounds at another man, that one holding a plasma rifle. He, too, hit the floor, where he would remain for hours if not medically revived.

Master Chief MacDonald and two of his men cordoned a pair of the remaining men without having to shoot. Neither seemed eager to test their ability to produce a hidden weapon when faced with three armored and armed soldiers. Rucuk, though, had simply grabbed his target and hauled the stocky, middle-aged man off his feet, talons digging into the front of his suit.

“Master Chief, you think we should let Six eat the poor guy?” That from Chief Mata.

“Stow it, Four.” MacDonald made a circling motion over his head. “Bind whoever’s still standing. We’ll need a second shuttle to bring everyone up.”

Sev continued his sweep through the work area, his suit sensors recording every piece and part he scanned on the tables. He found his target at the far end, on the right—a long, narrow set of computer drives lined by glowing blue cables.

“Deadeye.” MacDonald had switched to a direct channel between himself and Sev. “This what you need?”

“Correct.” Sev patched the device onto the nearest drive and began the transmission. Decryption would take time, but that wasn’t his purpose. All he had to do was get the data out and up to Tucson for analysis.

“Hot dog. I appreciate you catching the Fabian and also not being sloppy enough to shoot one of my people.” MacDonald flipped channels again, that time to the entire squad plus Sev. “Nova, this is One. Area secure. Fourteen rounded up. Send to Archangel for a second ride if he wants to bring them all up at once.”

Sev, meanwhile, made his way to the middle-aged man recovering from Rucuk’s interception. No puncture marks were evident in his suit, so the Saurian must have placed his claws in such a way as to avoid the softer parts. Sev switched onto the general band then linked with the man’s frequency once his internal comms identified it.

“I’m really, really sorry.” Tears choked the man’s voice. “We didn’t know who this was for. They hired us to make the circuits and told us it was a theoretical exercise!”

Sev placed his helmet against the man’s so he stared into the suit’s visor. The man, pale-skinned and sweaty, gazed back with wide, bloodshot eyes. Further analysis would reveal whether or not the man’s statement was true regarding the components they built, as would the data he was uploading to Tucson from their computer drives. But Sev wanted a closer look at the one who’d decided to spill his guts.

“Take care to never spook your prey,” Father reminded him, “or it may vanish.”

“Talk,” Sev muttered.

* * *

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Canaan

Jackson’s tablet beeped at him. He set aside his steaming mug of coffee and reached for it. The afternoon sun warmed the deck, where he was shielded from the northern winds. His body ached. He’d been up since dawn, working on recalcitrant skimmer engines, showing the newer hands how to bypass a fuel injection break while also refreshing himself on how to balance a hover nodule.

Three messages? He chuckled. Three more than he usually had. “Mr. Popular,” Jackson murmured.

The first was from Brant, a simple text summary. Word on the forums is the Fabians. I came across four speeches uploaded within the past month, all their usual socialistic rhetoric cloaked in Christian jargon, but no definitive mentions of planned action. Lots of talk about needing to shake the Coalition, rebuild society, etc. I’ve sent the links. I’ll keep looking.

Fabians. Coffee didn’t taste as good after that. Jackson hadn’t encountered any himself, but there were plenty of stories, rumblings throughout CDF. The most infamous, of course, was the attempted assassination of General David Cohen when he’d uncovered their treachery aboard CSV Monterrey. What was the guy’s name? Major Drymand.

Jackson sent Brant a thanks, though he didn’t pry for personal details. He assumed Brant wasn’t willing to discuss the latter, since he’d left mention out of his message.

The second note was from Dwyer, of all people—a short video. Jackson grinned as Dwyer’s face beamed at him from the tiny screen. “Mornin’, there, Cap’n. Though I s’pose it’s afternoon where you are on the home world. Anyway, we plucked interesting intel off our latest run. You might check in with our chauffeur if you get a chance, share a virtual cup of coffee so he can bring you up to speed. Sev says hi—and I mean that literally, you know the guy, nothing but the one word. We put in for a restock and passenger transfer. Have a good one.”

Hmm. Jackson parsed the coded words Dwyer had used. Both Dwyer and Sev were attached to CSV Tucson under Major Mancini’s command, tasked to Master Chief MacDonald’s Alpha team as transport and specialist, respectively. “Passenger transport” could mean prisoners, which was odd, because Jackson had heard Tucson was hunting pirates, and stealth boats didn’t tend to come back from those missions with captives. Dwyer was right, though—Jackson would have to go through Mancini, or more likely Sinclair, to get more intel.

The last message was Gina’s. No video, short text. My dearest chaperone is taking care of me. Gave a local guide to interesting people and sights. Miss you.

Jackson wondered at that. He could count on Gina to tell him the truth, but given their nature as spies, it didn’t mean he would get the entire truth. She had attached a file labeled “Scenic Views of Galt.” Chaperone? So, she’d run into Cam Tahatan of CDF Intelligence way out on Galt. Jackson opened it.

The contents spilled into his tablet, using a different file format than the attachment had been labeled. Jackson’s eyes widened. It was from “Chaperone” to “Uncle,” talking about the people and rumors Cam had been following on Galt. The activities of his subjects ramped up to the day of the market fluctuation.

Jackson stood and walked to the deck railing. Out there was a puzzle, to which he only had a few pieces, but it was enough he could see fragments of a picture. He needed more data. He needed to make a call.

A pair of skimmers raced by the house, workers on their way to check fences. Jackson exhaled. He’d known his time at home would end, probably sooner than he would’ve liked. Why else have I tried to keep tabs on what was going on outside the steppes, even when I claimed I didn’t care? Because after years of lying to everyone else, you’ve gotten good at lying to yourself.

Jackson sent the coded signal with the message that he was ready.

* * *

To his surprise, he got an answer within five hours. Someone knocked on the front door late that night. Jackson told Mom he would answer it. He opened the door and—well, at least it wasn’t Harry there to punch him again. Colonel Robert Sinclair stood outside, sheltered under an umbrella against the light shower that had come in with the evening clouds.

“Sir.” Adams saluted. “There’s trouble in the works. I’ve put together a few of the connections.”

Sinclair snorted and stepped inside. He folded his umbrella and slapped it against Adams’s chest so the latter had no choice but to take it. “About bloody time.”

4

Adams Ranch—Western Steppes

Canaan

13 November 2465

Mom took a kettle of tea off the stove. She poured a steaming cup. “This isn’t what you’re used to, Colonel, but it relaxes me in the evenings.”

Sinclair wafted the scent toward his nose. “Hints of hibiscus. Very well done, Mrs. Adams. I daresay I have not been able to find tea as aromatic as this whilst on assignment. Perhaps I shall find out your supplier and purchase a few kilos before my next departure.”

“Oh, it’s nothing fancy, just a brew my friend in Port Nomad concocted.” Mom patted Jackson on the shoulder. “Whatever you boys have to talk about is probably national security and a secret, so I’ll turn in for the night. Jackson, shut down the home systems when you’re done.” She hugged him.

Jackson’s face burned as he kissed the top of her head. “Goodnight, Mom.”

The moment her door clicked shut, Jackson led Sinclair out to the porch and shut that door as well. “Sir, I have to say, I’m surprised you got here as quickly as I did.”

“You know the motto as well as I, Captain—In God we trust. All others we monitor.” Sinclair raised his mug in salute and took a sip.

“I’m pretty sure the Spencer administration would have a problem with you monitoring civilian comms, sir.” Jackson had to admit, the idea of being targeted by the very organization to which he’d dedicated his life repulsed him.

“Which is why I didn’t.” Sinclair raised a finger. “However, Ms. Wilkes is not a Coalition citizen, nor is she on a contracted, sanctioned operation for CDF Intelligence.”

“I hate to say this, sir, but I’m not sure I believe you.”

“Captain, I could easily lie to you, but I haven’t, and I won’t. Ms. Wilkes is not on assignment. Mr. Tahatan is, so when he is given orders to investigate potential radicals who have been fomenting unrest across our borders—from within and without—he carries out those orders, as he does when I command him to bring Ms. Wilkes into the loop.”

“Why Gina?” Jackson recalled the data she’d forwarded from Cam. “Was she looking into these people on her own?”

“Hardly.” Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “Have you truly insulated yourself that much from galactic news? Search Galt’s nets, and see what comes under the heading ‘Crime,’ lest you disappoint me further.”

Jackson set aside his coffee and did as he was told, bringing up Galt’s newsfeeds on his tablet. The independent world possessed hundreds of nets, ranging from one-person social media rants to planetwide news conglomerations. All of them were talking about the same thing—the vigilante.

“Damn,” Jackson muttered.

“An apt response. Read, if you will, of her exploits, but don’t lose sight of the thread running through them all. Ms. Wilkes has proven an adept disruptor of Galt’s substantial criminal underbelly.” Sinclair swirled his mug’s contents. “Which is why I had Cam make contact. He is on the same trail Major Mancini has been pursuing, the same one you discovered leading through the woods.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve discovered anything, sir,” Jackson protested. “I reached out to Brant—First Lieutenant Guinto—when my family and I encountered the market fluctuations.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Jackson made a face. “Because it wasn’t typical. It wasn’t normal. It was too quick, too short-lived, to be real. If you’ve been following it, you saw the time stamps. This was a deliberate act.”

“You sound certain.”

“Well…” Jackson sighed. “As certain as I can be with the most circumstantial evidence a man could find.”

“What if I were to tell you this action has all the hallmarks of chatter we’ve picked up from Fabian elements operating on both sides of the border?” Sinclair smiled. “Warrant Dwyer, even if he hasn’t realized the full import, helped bring in a handful of cell members on Meron. Your man Sevastopol played a key part in getting an independent contractor to confess, I might add.”

“What kind of contractor?” Jackson was floored by the idea of Sev convincing anyone to talk at length about anything, weather included.

“It seems, Captain, that the Fabian cell on Meron’s moons was working on a technological project, the specifics of which we’re still deciphering. Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred have taken the lead on this effort aboard Oxford. We don’t yet know what the leftover materials were used for, but our chatty interrogatee said it was work for hire. Poor man made quite a blubbering mess of himself when we explained he might be involved in treason.”

“The cell—any connection to the people Cam was following on Galt?”

“None which they care to admit. Not yet.” Sinclair sipped again from his mug. “However, that doesn’t mean we shall stop looking. Targeting the Coalition’s commodities market is one thing. I, for one, am petrified of damage that could be done to the credit itself. The currency exchanges on Galt are perhaps the most secure in the galaxy; however, they can be infiltrated if one has physical access. I suspect, given the amount of leftover tech Master Chief MacDonald’s team recovered from the Meron lab, the Fabians are aiming for a larger target.”

Jackson nodded slowly. “Has Major Mancini recovered any usable data?”

“Five prisoners and one mainframe, if that answers your question. The men are silent. No amount of coercion or questioning has broken them. The data has proven similarly recalcitrant, which is why Eldred has taken possession of it. I hope Mr. Guinto will be able to lend his expertise.”

“It sounds like you’ve got things well in hand.” Jackson cradled his coffee mug in both hands. “And my hiatus—”

“Is relevant to Covert Action Unit 171, which is on an operational pause, officially.” Sinclair smiled. “But I am rather fond of initiating unofficial operations because of the latitude afforded. I want to send you to Galt, in civilian guise, on a passenger liner.”

“Solo?”

“Yes. It would be necessary because I want you in proximity of a suspected Fabian cell.” Sinclair gestured to Jackson’s tablet. “You’ll see in there, under Mr. Tahatan’s notes, the unidentified group on Galt has sent out a call to action. This coded message was sent within hours of the market slump to message forums frequented by Fabians and their sympathizers—as well as Intelligence personnel using false accounts. Once en route, your task would be to infiltrate the cell, gain their trust, and link up with the main cell on Galt. Ms. Wilkes would be available to assist in other, more direct efforts.”

“And then you avoid the need to deal with paperwork regarding my reinstatement, along with Gina’s. What about the rest of my team?” Jackson dreaded the idea of going in alone. He’d done it before when the mission demanded absolute discretion, but it was far more dangerous.

“Warrant Dwyer and Mr. Rast will be seconded to Covert Action Unit 22 under the command of First Lieutenant Nelson Garza. They’ll operate in conjunction with Tucson and her special space warfare contingent.” Sinclair tapped his fingers against his tea mug. “Jackson, if I may, I’ve said all I need to say about your past transgressions. The psychologist has cleared you of repercussions, and the review board gave you a clean slate. As far as CDF bureaucracy is concerned, you’re prepared to reenter the field. But others of your team, especially Mr. Guinto, may not be. Each member must be scrutinized.”

“I understand.” Jackson walked to the other end of the deck and gazed out at the moonlit pasture. “I need to make arrangements, assuming this is voluntary.”

“It is voluntary.” Sinclair’s tone stiffened. “However, be advised that refusal to undertake this vital mission will delay or otherwise negatively impact your hiatus statutes.”

“Such as when I can reassemble the team?”

“Such as if you are able to lead the team.” Sinclair steepled his fingers. “Jackson, I hope this experience with Vasiliy and his Leaguer colleague has left the correct impact on you. I have warned you time and again about the evils of seeking revenge. You have seen up close the folly and tragedy of ignoring that advice.”

“Yes, sir, I have.” Jackson’s mind refused to stop the endless loop of Brant, who wasn’t supposed to be in the field, begging him to flee the area and getting shot in the back by the Leaguer spy—Brant, who was mending but still suffered from injury with debilitated nerves and a fried patience.

“Be sure you keep it close to your heart. It is a terrible and expensive lesson to learn, one which all commanders must, no matter how cautious or how bold.” Sinclair set down his mug and stood. The rain had stopped, the smell of the damp prairie hanging in the air. “Make no mistake, old chap—I am not about to scrap the covert action units, not given their success rates. For now, CAU 22 will be the so-called ‘face’ of the operational aspects to the brass, while you and your team members will be supplemental assets.”

“Yes, sir.” There was no question. Jackson had to know what the Fabians were doing, whether there was definitive proof of their treason, and how to prevent a more catastrophic crash than what had already occurred. As he considered those elements, an alarm bell sounded in Jackson’s head. “The slump—that was a test run.”

“Correct. Based on Mr. Tahatan’s gathered data and the ongoing analysis of Fabian rhetoric, they have something worse in mind.”

“What could be worse to—” Galt. There it was again. The first piece—the biggest and most obvious aspect. “The currency exchanges. They’re the single largest influencer of valuation in the galaxy. You’re worried they’re trying to obliterate the credit.”

“No credit, no elite ruling class headed by greedy businessmen. Leaving a power vacuum into which the Fabian pseudo-socialists can inject their command-and-control ideas.” Sinclair picked up his umbrella. “Assuming, of course, they don’t damage beyond repair the very nation they claim to want to save.”

* * *

Rand

Galt Star System

15 November 2465

Alexis Barr read Scripture as the mag-tram shot along the half-hour run down the coast from Rand to Fountainhead. The sea flashed by, masts from fishing vessels and pleasure cruisers the only interruptions in the seamless horizon.

The sights reminded her of Jesus in the boat with his disciples, Peter among them. What was the phrase? Fishers of men. Alexis smiled. The Fabian cause should strive for adherents in the same way—casting nets composed of socioeconomic truth, pulling in as many who would hear and change their hearts. They needed to understand that Scripture was correct. Taxes should be paid to whom they were owed, and the poor would always be with them, as the Lord himself had reminded his followers.

For the Fabians, those verses were inextricably wedded. The state wielded such power through taxation, and unlike Galt, which viewed taxation as theft, Alexis knew the Terran Coalition’s disagreement was, in part, correct. A large interstellar republic needed taxes on some level to prop up its government unless the citizens wanted whatever other political entity was out there—like the League of Sol—to conquer it.

The problem was, the Coalition had more Galt in its blood than League. It set aside government authority in favor of capitalist independence so often it simultaneously weakened its body while lining its pockets.

Alexis brushed aside Scripture on her tablet and pulled up the economic news stories on the nets. Commentators still bloviated about the root cause of the market spike. She shook her head. None of them were even close. But their common refrain about lost profits only proved the Fabian point.

The money needed to go back to the people. Equal disbursement. Let the rich on top be reduced to middle-class living while the desperate saw their circumstances raised to relative comfort.

Winston staggered down the walkway between seats. He swayed and nearly fell, avoiding collapse only by grabbing onto a headrest before sliding into the seat opposite Alexis. He grimaced. “I guess I need Perrine to recalibrate these things.”

“The imbalance is just your mind struggling to connect to the operating software. You’ll be fine.”

“You would think after four months…” Winston waved his hand as if he were physically resetting his own thoughts. “We have a problem.”

“I guessed, since we’re not supposed to be sitting near each other on this ride.” In fact, three other Fabians were spread out among the various cars, having boarded at two stops in Rand and its outskirts before departure.

“The military hit the Meron lab.”

Alexis’s grip tightened on her tablet until the screen fragmented. Dammit. “At Kishor? What did they get?”

“Everyone and everything. Our people attempted resistance, but the soldiers weren’t armed to kill. That’s the word from our sources.”

“Hardware? Software?”

Winston again made a face, as if his legs were still bothering him. “As far as our sources can determine, the contractors in place did send a kill code into the projects, but CDF could possibly recover data from the mainframes. We won’t know for certain unless they succeed.”

“But the cells were separated from ours. They won’t know the specifics.”

“That is the whole point. They don’t have our names, and we don’t have theirs, so we can never identify the others. I am not sure how much the five members of the Meron cell know of the plan’s specifics.” Winston coughed. “The loss of hardware is an even greater problem. Kishor had a working solution for the processor miniaturization.”

“Were they the only ones?”

“No. Two other cells have viable fixes near completion, but Kishor’s was the best and the soonest available.” Winston sighed. “I think we have to push back the infiltration by three weeks, minimum.”

Alexis closed her eyes. “That’s going to be difficult when you consider how many of our friends are on their way here.”

“Still, it’s better if we remain cautious and keep ourselves from any further slipups.”

“How did CDF even find Kishor? Do our sources think there was a leak?”

Winston shook his head. “I suspect someone among the contractors got sloppy when it came to maintaining communications blackout or cut corners in terms of resupply. A breach in either protocol could have tipped off Intelligence. Then it would have been only a matter of time before a probe detected activity on Kishor given its supposed abandonment.”

Alexis nodded. “Nothing can be done about it now. Even if the cell members talk, they can only repeat our aims, which are common enough knowledge. Like you said, the hardware is the biggest loss. If you can get a message to our sources, tell them to throw up whatever interference they can.”

“I don’t think that’s wise. It’s supposed to be a one-way channel to reduce suspicion of ongoing communication.”

“I know, but this is a risk we may have to take if we can’t get the final components.” Alexis stowed her tablet. “But tell the other cells working on them to accelerate their pace. I’d rather have them both rush than one take their time and we lose our window.”

“I agree. The Galt Exchange won’t have its screens down for long when it resets the servers. That is our best opportunity.” Winston seemed to consider something, remaining silent long enough for Alexis to be concerned.

“What’s wrong?”

“Our work—the goal is a just one. I believe it, but we need to consider the methods too. Pursuing the ends by any means is not a Christian philosophy. If anything, it’s the opposite.”

“You’re right, but we’re dealing with the world at its darkest, Winston. I think we have to continue bending and even breaking the rules if we’re going to compete.”

“God is the one who exacts vengeance on the wicked, Alexis. Not us.”

Alexis felt sick, almost nauseous, but she knew she couldn’t back down, no matter what her body told her. Her conscience was clean—and yet Sarissa’s surprised expression filled her memory. What have I done? How can I justify the betrayal I inflicted on such a true friend?

But as soon as the doubts wriggled out of their hiding places, Ron’s smiling face appeared, eliciting a heartache so overpowering it stomped all worries. He’d received no discharge, no honors. Death was Ron’s only reward in that lifetime. Alexis could only hope he was at peace with God, free from the strife that marred the galaxy.

“I’m not interested in vengeance.” Alexis’s voice remained cool, aloof—which she realized was how she felt. The pain was gone. She could again focus on the problems at hand. “I’m interested in revolution. We have to stick to our principles, Winston—equity for all, in Christ and in society. Disembark at the third Fountainhead stop, and retrieve the parcel. I’ll see you in a few days.”

Winston nodded, but he glanced out the window at the passing sea. There were fewer boats but just as much of nature’s beauty, even for a moral cesspool like Galt. Alexis was surprised the lack of regulation hadn’t yet ruined the biosphere. Give it a century or so.

“Hey.” She touched his hand.

Their gazes met.

“Don’t lose your way. Trust in Him.”

“I do, and I will.” Winston clasped his hand atop hers and smiled.

“Next stop, Soleil Station,” the automated announcer intoned. “Disembark for Upton, Wells-Xiao, Bonchance Esplanade…”

The tram shuddered as deceleration took hold. Alexis rose from her seat and joined the crowd waiting for the doors. A glint of red caught her eye. Inside the doorframe, an enterprising soul had painted a red feminine silhouette riding a stylized red script: “Eidolon.”

Alexis smirked. Whoever Eidolon was, one had to admire her results while appreciating the futility. What’s the point of punishing the corrupt and rescuing the downtrodden if the whole system keeping them intact continues to exist?

“Nice try,” Alexis murmured. “But we’ll do better.”

* * *

Winston made sure he went unseen as he slipped deeper into Fountainhead’s ruined weather modification plant. Newer, cheaper facilities in Rand and elsewhere had rendered that one useless for anything but scrap picking decades ago, but it still featured tall, empty sensor towers.

He found the symbol he needed hidden under grime at the base of the seventh one—a cross done in a vertical black line and twin horizontal gold ones. Winston crouched and felt the compressors in his cybernetic legs activate.

The jump drove Winston fifteen meters up, letting him grab onto the lip of an elevated, circular platform. He dragged himself the rest of the way. A small gray container clung to the tower. Winston broke the adhesive holding it in place and opened it.

The foam inside cradled a hair-thin red data core with silver hashes. Winston smiled. Yet another Fabian asset had done their part. Once they fit all the pieces, he and Alexis could put the Coalition’s universal credit into a spiral so deep the government would shatter under the strain.

Only then can we rebuild in our image.

Winston pocketed the box and leapt back into the shadows.

5

Oval Office—the White House

Lawrence City

Canaan

15 November 2465

The trouble squad had assembled first thing in the morning, local time, as the sunrise bled through the windows leading into the Oval Office’s garden. A cold snap had settled over Lawrence City the night before, hitting the vegetation with a tentative frost. One of the stewards had prepared the fireplace, the crackling fires adding what President Justin Spencer considered a vital link to the past. He had no need for such a luxury when modern heating systems activated, but the flames reminded him of the hardships of a more frontier version of democracy practiced six centuries ago.

The morning’s guest stood at the center of the room. “Colonel Robert Sinclair, CSV Oxford, reports as ordered, sirs.”

“At ease, Colonel.” Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Andrew MacIntosh stifled a yawn. “Sorry. It’s been another long night of running SATO simulations with the Saurians. I kid you not, if it’s a choice between shut-eye and war games, they’ll pick the latter every time.”

“I appreciate the effort, Andrew, but you can always use me as an excuse if you need to escape.” Spencer grinned. “Your evil tyrant of a commander in chief.”

MacIntosh snorted. “Your words, Mr. President. Colonel Sinclair and his people have brought to my attention a matter I think needs solving, but we’ve got to be careful how we go about it.”

“Very well. Colonel?”

Sinclair passed around single-use plastic readers to everyone in the room, which included Vice President Eduardo Fuentes and Secretary of Defense Celinda Snow. Spencer wasn’t surprised when the first word he noted in the proposal from Sinclair was “Fabians”—Snow had sent him a private message late last night indicating something was stirring regarding the group.

“I’ve compiled our preliminary findings on Fabian activity over the past eight weeks,” Sinclair began. “As you can see, they have worked on two levels—holding boisterous virtual protests on several worlds’ news nets, calling for the expansion of government safety nets, cutting of military budgets, further rapprochement with the League of Sol…”

“Like the War Free Union only more obnoxious,” Snow interjected.

“And more dangerous,” MacIntosh snapped. “It’s only been four years since they lost us numerous warships and almost crippled our top field leadership.”

“Hold those thoughts, both of you.” Spencer held up a hand. “Colonel, this is the summary of overt activities. What about covert?”

“Yes, Mr. President, I was getting to those.” Sinclair gestured with his reader. “SIGINT indicated Fabians of various unconnected cells have been gathering technical expertise and information technology in hidden labs, using false names and dummy accounts to hire said expertise. CSV Tucson was able to find one such lab on a Meron moon in the outer reaches of the New Israel system. Our elements of Covert Action Unit 171 recovered not only an encrypted mainframe but pieces of what appear to be crude data spikes.”

“That’s unfortunate.” Fuentes frowned as he scrolled through the report. “Data spikes, if I recall, are illegal.”

“Quite so, Mr. Vice President, since they give the user unfettered access to a variety of networks but only if they are physically plugged into that network.”

“I take it you believe the Fabians planned something with these spikes that goes beyond demanding we dismantle our current form of government and create a socialist state next week,” Spencer muttered.

“I believe, Mr. President, they have already made their first attempt.” Sinclair crossed to the multiview holographic projector featured in the office. “May I?”

Spencer nodded. Sinclair tapped commands into his reader, which was a thicker, sturdier version of the ones everyone else had and must have linked to the projector, because a slew of news headlines, complete with talking-head commentators, filled the air. They all had the same topic of conversation—the market glitch from a few days ago.

“I thought my pension was sunk,” MacIntosh grumbled.

“So did everyone else in uniform,” Spencer agreed. “But I was under the impression this was an error—not an excusable one but not surprising given Galt’s lack of governmental oversight.”

“It’s true. Galt has become notorious for the more freethinking among the neutral planets,” Sinclair said. “However, two intersecting ploys are at work here. The market blip was intentional, not accidental, and it was engineered through Galt’s servers in part because oversight has become so lax but also because, frankly, who better to take the blame for such poppycock?”

“How could Galt allow interference with the markets?” Fuentes asked. “I’m not a fan of unfettered capitalist maneuvering, and I have no doubt Galt brings its own problems on itself by refusing to provide additional services for the people, but this—they worship money.”

“To my mind, Mr. Vice President, why Galt allowed this is irrelevant.” Sinclair smiled. “Not to sound chiding. Quite the opposite. What is important here is our initial interrogation of the Fabians and the partial decryption of the captured mainframes indicate this is the kind of action for which they’ve been planning. Our problem, however, is the cells themselves—they are islands apart, maintained with little to no contact between each other. They apparently have operated this way ever since Major Drymand’s insurrection, if we can call it such.”

“Are you saying we have allowed this to grow inside the CDF?” Snow frowned. “Then perhaps we should have taken a harder look at truth-detection tests, as was proposed during the war years.”

“We will not go down that road again,” Spencer said firmly. “We established four years ago that the impact on morale would be catastrophic, and it would be highly unconstitutional. Since Drymand’s treason and the questionable actions by General Barton during the final battle of Canaan, it’s taken considerable effort to maintain that same morale.”

“I’ll second that,” MacIntosh said. “Made worse by the idiotic attempts to sue peace with the League when they clearly had no intention of calling it quits.”

“For which some of us have paid penance.” Fuentes sounded irked by the insinuation.

“Be those factors as they may, gentlemen and lady in the room, our current analysis is the Fabian movement has progressed from military officers to civilians,” Spencer continued, choosing his words with care. “Again, we cannot yet confirm who is involved with what, but the five men in custody have no military service record beyond the basic requirement. Three, however, have relatives who served with others who expressed socialist views or outright resigned in the wake of Major Drymand’s death.”

“But we can’t start going after the families of troublesome officers,” Fuentes urged. “The League’s attempts to frame Mendoza’s sister in the aftermath of the Trenchant II bombing showed us how vulnerable the truly innocent are to suffering for the sins of their relatives.”

“I agree.” Spencer interlaced his fingers. “What options are you giving us, Colonel?”

“Sirs.” Sinclair nodded. “I have an operative in place on Galt who is convinced the Fabians are sending people there, as quietly as possible, so all available cells can pool their resources and manpower. I propose sending Covert Action Unit 22 to monitor and assess, from their current assignment aboard CSV Manchester. Oxford will rendezvous with Manchester and CSV Tucson near New Israel, so elements of CAU 171 can temporarily join with 22 for this operation.”

“Unit 171 is in a bit of a holding pattern, isn’t it?” Snow asked. “I see you have recommendations on their individual statuses.”

“Yes, Madam Secretary. I am also proposing, as you read further, that Captain Adams be assigned separately but concurrently, answering directly to me, for a solo task. First Lieutenant Guinto is not ready to return to active field duty, but we are looking to make use of his skills in an advisory capacity.”

Spencer frowned as he reviewed the rest of the roster. “Seems you’ve already taken the liberty of assigning Gina Wilkes to another solo task, as you put it.”

Sinclair smiled. “Perhaps I’ll refrain from taking further liberties, Mr. President, if matters warrant.”

MacIntosh chuckled.

“Given your instincts have proven correct as far as this team’s deployment goes, Colonel, I’m inclined to approve.” Spencer glanced around the room. “Anyone else have comments?”

“Only that we take care in these operations, since they again involve Coalition citizens,” Fuentes said. “Not everything the Fabians espouse is treacherous, so while we do need to stop those who are promoting and committing violent acts, I won’t endorse any action that results in us arresting civilians for their political stances.”

“I concur,” Snow added. “We also need to tread lightly in neutral space, given how much our alliance with them not only saved our nation in its darkest hour but has buttressed the fledgling SATO. Galt especially frowns upon foreign interference, and if our efforts were exposed, they would be the loudest megaphone broadcasting that interference to the rest of the galaxy.”

“I agree with you both, especially you, Ed.” Spencer smiled and shook his head. “Wonders never cease.”

“Then if that is all, Mr. President…” Sinclair tapped his reader.

“One more thing. Your sources on Galt—I’ve heard rumblings of a servicewoman’s death out there but have seen nothing official.” Spencer frowned. “Was she Intelligence?”

“Formerly, yes, sir.” Sinclair sighed. “A proficient cryptographer who honorably resigned from service. I knew she was on Galt, as did my source, but the most we know is she drowned in the Atlas River several nights ago. At first, we thought it a tragic accident due to winter weather conditions, but now I suggest it warrants reinvestigation, though recovery of the body may be difficult given the proximity to large seaborne predators in the vicinity.”

“Keep us up to speed on that too.” Spencer lifted his reader. “I assume you need these back.”

“Yes, Mr. President.” Sinclair collected the four readers from the gathered officials then stacked them against each other on the underside of his reader. He pressed a switch on the side.

A high-pitched whine cut the air, piercing Spencer’s hearing. Snow scowled and rubbed at her ear. When it subsided, the four readers had blackened sides and smelled faintly of smoldering plastic.

“Dead as the proverbial doornail.”

“Good. But let me make another point clear, Colonel, as I often do—I’m still uneasy with the level of surveillance we’ve cast on our people.” Spencer gestured to Fuentes. “Like I said earlier, it’s where Ed and I have a rare overlap. I need your assurances that the gathered information is not stored, especially if the processes you use vacuum up innocent, uninvolved people in the process.”

“Sir, I… ahem.” Sinclair frowned. He seemed to think hard about his next statement.

Perhaps Spencer had offended him by suggesting CDF Intelligence was overstepping its bounds. Fine by me. Uncomfortable situations lead to uncomfortable questions.

“Mr. President, I can personally assure you we keep no long-term records on Coalition citizens beyond the end of our missions.”

“And if you’re still worried, I’d never let him do it,” MacIntosh announced.

“Begging the general’s pardon, but you bloody well ought not to, sir.” Sinclair’s words were as sharp as if a laser had etched them in a bulkhead.

It was Fuentes’s turn to smile. “Justin and I thank you both for your commitment to our citizens’ privacy. A misstep in that arena would lead to my greatest concern—the further oppression of the lesser by the powerful.”

MacIntosh rolled his eyes but kept his grumbling under his breath. Spencer knew he had a couple of seconds to diffuse their differing points of view before he had a full-scale policy debate on his hands—and no amount of tea or coffee in all of Lawrence City could handle the headaches when Fuentes and MacIntosh got into it. “Let’s move along to anything else Colonel Sinclair needs. Otherwise, Colonel, you’re dismissed.”

“Jolly good, Mr. President.” Sinclair snapped to attention. “I have already begun moving the pieces onto the board, so to speak.”

“Glad to hear it, Colonel. But regarding Captain Adams…”

Sinclair froze in place. “Sir?”

“In your assessment, is he ready to resume his command?”

All eyes moved to Sinclair. If the man was made more uneasy by the attention, he didn’t show it. “While I do not think it entirely proper to bring up his service record in this setting, I will say his hiatus is nearing its end, and my evaluation is that we need his expertise in the field. But you will note, of course, I have not reassembled CAU 171, nor have I given him a role other than that of an independent operative. Captain Adams knows he fouled up, Mr. President, and I have the fullest confidence that, given the chance, he will not let us down.”

Spencer nodded. “Andrew?”

“Sinclair’s right, Mr. President. Adams is a good kid. He takes too many risks, but he wouldn’t be a field operative specializing in undercover roles if he weren’t comfortable doing just that.” MacIntosh grimaced. “Now, I’m as pissed about his mistakes as anyone, but again, I back the colonel on his assessment.”

“That’s all I need to hear on the matter, then, unless anyone disagrees.” Snow and Fuentes shook their heads. Spencer settled back in his chair. “All right. Godspeed and good hunting, Colonel. We’re putting a lot on so few pairs of shoulders, we want to get it right the first time.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. President.”

And hopefully, Spencer mused, prevent traitors among our own citizens from ruining everything we spent the last forty years fighting and dying to protect.

* * *

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Jackson waited under an awning outside the repair shop less than an hour after Sinclair sent word the mission had approval from the highest levels. Packed bags sat in the doorway. He read classified details from his tablet before the information could delete itself as a handy timer showed him the remaining seconds.

His job was simple—to join a cell of three Fabians, infiltrate, and betray.

He glanced up at Abby, who was talking with Enrique. He’d driven her over to say goodbye and was waiting in the rain.

The sight of her pricked Jackson’s conscience. How can I maintain a healthy relationship with her while preparing to lie to three men for the next few months? What kind of man compartmentalizes his morals that way? Try not to think about it. Jackson smirked at the thought. How many times have I reminded myself over the last decade? My service to my country is based on my ability to feign loyalty.

He did his best to rid himself of the doubt. He would work on his cover, using the legend Warrant Eldred had constructed, and memorize everything he needed before he met the three Fabians. Eldred had also made first contact, initiating a forum conversation with them, using a media account Jackson was supposed to take over. He scrolled back through the posts, impressed by her thoroughness. She’d even created a voice Jackson felt he could easily mimic.

“Am I really that predictable?” Jackson shook his head. “Nobody tell the Leaguers.”

“What are we telling Leaguers?” Abby jogged to him. The skies opened up as she arrived, so she wiped rain off her face and pressed against Jackson to get out of the downpour.

“Nothing, if I can help it.” Jackson blanked his tablet. He would delve into the rest of the info later, before he had to board his ship bound for New Washington. “So, about…”

“I’ll be here with your mom every few days.” Abby hugged him. “Don’t worry. Enrique’s on his way to Port Nomad for parts. We’ll keep the skiffs operational while she sorts out the bank files.”

“The sooner we clear up Harry’s lousy loans, the better.” Jackson scowled but returned the embrace. “Why he thought getting fast money wouldn’t come with a sky-high interest rate—”

Abby kissed him. Jackson wisely quit complaining.

“I had to shift your attention somehow,” she murmured.

“Glad you did.” He smiled.

“So, more training, is it?”

“Weeks and weeks of it.” The lie came easily, as if he weren’t talking to the woman he loved. Loved? That rose into his thoughts as clearly as the lie.

“You wouldn’t tell me even if it weren’t training, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“I don’t like it, but I understand.” Abby watched him as if she were examining a skimmer for wiring faults. “But when it comes to other things…”

“I will always tell you the truth, as often as I can, about everything I can.” Jackson stuffed his tablet into his jacket and took her hands in his. “For one thing—you’ve become more important to me than I ever thought possible. As much as I leave and am never sure when or if I’ll come back, I didn’t think I’d find what we have.”

“Our love.”

“Our… yes.” Jackson blinked. “Oh. So, you’re saying…”

“If it’s what you’re saying, only you’re not actually speaking the words, then yes.” Abby laughed. “The question is, which one of us goes first? Or is that a national security secret too?”

A shuttle’s engines whined in the distance, cutting through the rain rumbling on the repair barn’s roof. Jackson looked up, but Abby touched his chin with their hands and guided her gaze back to his.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” Jackson grinned. “You beat me by two seconds.”

“Just don’t be so slow out there.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him again, a certain desperation to her motions and words. She whispered, “Be careful, training or not.”

“I always am.” Thoughts of Trenchant assailed him. Not true. You can be reckless, obsessed, and vengeful. But you can’t anymore. Not this time, especially. Because if you are, you could lose everything.

A CDF shuttle settled on the ground twenty meters from the barn, whipping the rain. Jackson scooped up his bags and trotted across the mud. None of that will matter, he told himself, if I don’t get my people back.

6

Passenger Transport William Henry Harrison

New Washington System

17 November 2465

By the time Jackson stood in the queue for the six-day direct voyage to Galt, he had a good handle on his persona—Jason Alston, dishonorably discharged from the CDF in the last year of the war with the League. His green eyes, courtesy of ocular adhesives, were still dry, but prescription drops helped. The curly black hair itched. Jackson knew the shaggier false hair would bother him a few days more, but if the operation stretched on for a couple of months, it would become a nuisance again.

Eldred had done good work filling in the details of his legend, too, as much as she’d had to hurry. Jason Alston had been arrested during the protests in and around Lawrence City back during the Cypriot Crisis, as the media had dubbed it—which, ironically, was the name for the Aphendrika incident in which Jackson had first led his team.

The most difficult part wasn’t incorporating the slight limp or the perpetual frown he affected but adopting the Fabians’ political views. Jackson was familiar with them, of course. Every living member of the CDF had at least passing knowledge after what rogue officers had tried to pull in the darkest hours of the war. Jackson’s heart stuttered as his anger rose to match his memories. There’d been moments, in the midst of the RUMINT and confirmed reports, when he’d thought Cohen was dead and all hope for a Coalition victory had evaporated.

He shuffled forward, reviewing the contact information on his tablet. A young man named Farook was supposed to meet him aboard the transport. Jackson gathered Farook was the one who would vet him and see if he would pass muster with the rest.

I’d better. Goodness knows I’ve put enough hours over the past few days into memorizing the profile Eldred set up, never mind skimming back through the social media posts. She really had outdone herself, staking out Jackson’s views so they converged with the cell’s, but only in about eight percent of the cases. Matching them point by point would have raised too much suspicion. Besides, she likely knew he could only stomach so much regurgitating.

Jackson supposed he couldn’t blame them for having an extreme reaction to corruption found in the Coalition. The nation wasn’t immune to it, as he’d experienced from bringing down people who stole secrets or traded confidential information out of greed. But to advocate dismantling the entire state in favor of a socialist regime that would mimic the League? Jackson shook his head. He had no doubt some Fabians had what they thought were honorable intentions—he could give them that much leeway.

But he’d seen the League inflict too much horror on even its own people while promising the foundation of a paradise. Instead, they gifted a totalitarian police state on the innocents.

Reforms? Sure. Not that far.

Passing security was no problem, not with his tailored identity tags. Jackson’s boarding pass steered him to Deck Seven, Forward Section Four. The Harrison offered sprawling decks filled with cabins that mimicked apartments—a family could charter one, or single individuals could share. Forward Section Four wrapped around one of the multilevel recreation columns, huge, clear-walled structures offering all manner of exercise and entertainment equipment. A decent assortment of restaurants and cafes were scattered among the cabin blocks.

Jackson found Cabin 7440 on the port side of the ship. It came with a view. He smiled. Well, at least he knew the Fabian cell wasn’t skimping on resources. A cabin like that didn’t require a big salary, but it wasn’t cheap either.

Then again, if they’d wanted to take a budget transport, they would be taking a week longer to arrive.

“Mr. Alston?” A tall, slender, young man with Arabic features and a thin black mustache sat on a bench in an alcove across the corridor. Clever. A tall planter of palm fronds half shielded him from Jackson’s view.

“I’m guessing you’re Farook.” Jackson shifted his duffel bag to the opposite shoulder then acted like he was going to shake hands but hesitated. Time to see how these guys operate.

Farook stood and tucked a tablet under his arm. He smiled and offered his hand. “Farook Amjad. Nice to make your acquaintance—in person, that is.”

Jackson returned the smile but gave it enough of an awkward tilt to express nervousness. He shook hands with Farook. “Sure thing, Mr. Amjad. I’m honored—is that the right word? I don’t know how else to put it. The things you guys are doing with—”

Farook chuckled. “Let’s not get too chatty out of doors, okay? And it’s just Farook. We don’t need titles or rank or anything like that among brothers. Come in.”

Jackson suppressed a laugh of his own. No titles? If you go far enough and get a society full of commissars, try saying that aloud and see how long it gets you banished to the gulags.

The apartment was modestly decorated with worn but comfortable furniture in a common living room. A one-meter window showed a dark starfield beyond the ship’s thick hull, hemmed in by shutters that could slam shut if shields failed. A tiny bathroom sat to the left, a galley to the right, and a bedroom in each corner. Two other men were already seated in the common room. One was short, burly, bald, and clean-shaven. Korean or Chinese, Jackson figured. The other man was of average height, sporting a thick beard and curly hair, with a yarmulke perched atop.

“Farook.” The bearded one had a rumbling voice that echoed deep within his chest. “How is it we’ve unpacked and you’re playing cruise host?”

“If you’d volunteered to make contact, Zack, I’d have had more time.” Farook gestured. “Jason Alston, this is Zachariah Pereira.”

“God’s blessings to you, my comrade.” Zack clasped Jackson’s shoulders and shook him like the latter were one of those ancient vending boxes people used to procure snacks from. “Our trio is now a quartet. All the more fitting for our justice to come forth from the four corners.”

“Four corners of the galaxy, not the room.” The Asian fellow shook his head. “Hey, Jason. Nicholas Gao.”

Jackson nodded, noticing a gold cross gleaming at the man’s neckline. “Sorry, I don’t mean to stare, but I thought that—well, I didn’t realize the cause brought people other than Christian socialists.”

Zack grimaced. “I don’t know what you mean, boy.”

“Zack. Calm down. The room is swept.” Farook flopped into a chair. “I had Nick do it twice when he came aboard.”

“Oh.” Zack clapped his hands. “Good for us. So, yes, Jason, the Fabians have expanded their cause to encompass all peoples within the Coalition who yearn for justice, equity, and a slate wiped clean of greed.”

“Having high-profile arrests among Christian socialists didn’t hurt our campaign to expand membership either,” Nick muttered. “Since we’re persecuted, we figured why not share the love?”

Jackson snickered. “Sorry, no offense intended.”

“Nick may take some offense, but he won’t hang on to it,” Farook explained. “He’s understandably unnerved after CBI swept up two of his brothers when they sent their jackbooted authoritarian thugs to their apartment.”

“I can’t believe they’d drag you out just because you want to reform the Coalition.” Jackson tinged his reply with exasperation, but inwardly, he marveled at the Fabian characterization of CBI antiterrorism efforts as authoritarian. Does he even know people who fled League oppression? If the Coalition government collapses, how will anything that replaces it be any freer? Easy, Jack. He forced himself to take a seat and set his bag at his side. Don’t let these beliefs rattle you. Focus on the mission, and remember who you are. Captain Jackson Adams, CDF Intelligence.

“Jason, you’ve got no idea.” Nick leaned forward. “But maybe that’s because you’re not a believer.”

“In the cause or in God?”

“Both.” Nick made a face. “The desire to bring all peoples together doesn’t succeed without God. You put together a socialist society in the throes of militant atheism, and you get the League. They’re just as bad as the Coalition.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Farook demurred. “They’ve at least embraced the ideals we hold dear. The Coalition would rather dump us across the border—preferably out of an air lock—before committing to a single reform that would elevate people from poverty, the same poverty the corporations enforce through their unfair policies.”

Jackson’s head reeled a bit, even as he followed the common thread—dissatisfaction. Apparently, surviving a war with a massive empire that wanted to destroy their nation wasn’t enough to convince the Fabians they were, so to speak, backing the wrong horse.

A chime sounded from above the closed door. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking,” a smooth voice called out. “We’re making final preparations for departure. All passengers must report to their cabins and secure for station transit and, following that, Lawrence drive activation. First jump will commence in fifteen minutes. Again, please report to your cabins.”

The four men found the proper straps and hooked the latches. Jackson eased back into his seat. “I guess I still have a lot to learn, but I know I’m ready to help out in any way I can.”

“From what I gathered through the forums, your technical skills will be more than adequate, especially if you can get our clunkier equipment in working order.” Farook nodded in his direction. “May our prayers go ahead of us, brothers, as we take our first step to creating a new world.”

Jackson murmured his assent as he wondered how and when he would have to turn on these men after he earned their trust.

* * *

Fountainhead

Galt System

17 November 2465

Gina slipped through the entryway of the shelter at the corner of Gantryway and East Sixtieth Street. It was a rundown structure, four stories whose sole redeemable feature was that most of its windows weren’t broken. Security bars crisscrossed the street-level ones. Three crowds of ragged poor and homeless huddled along the sidewalks outside.

She’d tracked the old woman she’d rescued to the facility, which was supported by individual donations and small corporation sponsorships. In fact, the shelter didn’t have a name other than its corner location. A tall plastic sign by the front door listed more than thirty people and companies who kept it funded.

Once past the registration desk—where she left confiscated jewels as a tempting bribe—Gina found the long, narrow infirmary. Medical technicians dressed in powder-blue jumpsuits cared for a few dozen people, half of them elderly. The rest seemed to be solo teens, with a couple of families in the mix.

She touched the shoulder of a man heading from one bed to the next. “Is Opal here? I brought her supplies.”

The man eyed the bag slung over Gina’s shoulder. Though grungy, it still bore the faded cross of the Salvation Army. The bag was clearly stolen. Gina didn’t bother to disguise it, not in a neighborhood like that, but the offer of free—and otherwise expensive—meds must have been too tempting.

“She’s got the four beds at the end of the room.” He pointed behind himself.

“Thanks.” Gina passed down the aisle, glimpsing sickened and dirty faces veiled only by the thinnest sheets of supposed privacy curtains. Even those were riddled with tears and made of mismatched materials.

Opal was at the end, gray hair pulled away from her face, checking a female patient’s vitals on a crude med scanner. She looked up as she registered Gina’s footsteps. “What do you want?”

Gina smiled and offered the medical supply bag. “I come bearing gifts, like I did the other night when you were down on your luck,” she murmured.

Opal’s eyes widened. “You’ve—oh my. Thank you, again.” She accepted the bag and looped the strap over her shoulders so it rested against the small of her back. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I did, actually. I’ve been looking for you over the past few days. You’re hard to find.”

“Well, I don’t have a home.” Opal gestured to the patients lining the hall. “I’m no different than them, except I have my health and a bit of rusty med tech training. Is this why you came? To volunteer?”

“I’m helpful but not that much.” Gina sat on the edge of a bed across from the female patient’s.

The woman’s face bore a few lingering bruises and was obscured by an oxygen mask plus assorted diagnostic pads adhered to her forehead and cheeks. But Gina could still see her beauty, the symmetrical Asian features that would draw male attention everywhere she went.

“Who is this?”

“Poor girl. A scrapper picked her out of the Atlas River’s mouth a week ago, washed up with debris. He hired a med service to bring her up to our clinic—none in Rand saw profit in taking her as a patient. She’s been in and out of sleep, not a coma, as far as I can tell.” Opal sighed. “With this old machinery, I can’t do a lot except monitor her organ function and make sure she’s still breathing well.”

“Any ID?”

“None. Barely had clothing left on her, thanks to the river currents.” Opal made a face. “You didn’t answer me.”

“I never said I was going to.” But of course, Gina would have to fall back because she did need help—she and Cam, that was. “You see a lot of people come through here, and the ones you help probably see even more. They’re the city’s underclass. They notice everything that goes on while the ones with more money ignore them.”

“Yes, unless people like the thugs you beat off decide it’s worse squeezing the last few credits or goods out of us.” Opal shuddered. “But you’re right. Who are we looking for?”

“I don’t know the faces yet. That’s what I need.” Gina held out a tablet. It displayed six buildings and two intersections in Fountainhead plus a handful in Galt. “Can I transfer these?”

Opal peered at them. “I won’t be much help for the Galt ones.”

“But your family might because that’s where they are, and that’s where you were supposed to go when I saved you.” Gina arched an eyebrow. “I guess that makes us both stubborn.”

“I guess so.” Opal smiled. She pulled a smaller, beat-up tablet from her pocket. The devices touched.

Gina initiated a quick file transfer.

“And I can probably help. Is this because I owe you?”

“I don’t like collecting debts. They’re too hard to keep track of.” Gina smirked. “Use the comms code I gave you if you get anything interesting, but don’t send what you find or call to tell me. We’ll set up a meeting outdoors somewhere.”

“On a day when it’s not snowing, I hope.”

Gina stood and tugged a knitted cap down over her head. “I wouldn’t mind if it was. Wearing a scarf is a great excuse to hide my face. Good luck with your patient.”

“Yes, thank you for these meds, but I’d feel much better about the poor girl if I knew who she was.”

Gina had already taken a crude scan of the woman’s face in case Cam could turn up something with his Intelligence resources. She had a good feeling a partnership with Opal could bear substantial fruit.

And if Gina ran out of confiscated, ill-gotten gains from the gangs she was tormenting, well, she would have to go out and shake them down for more.

* * *

Cam waited for her in a coffee shop across the street from yet another location listed on his files, one Gina hadn’t given to Opal. He pushed a steaming cup toward her side of the table as she sat. “Hot cocoa.”

“Mmm. Perfect.” Gina sipped at the thick brown liquid and licked her lips to clear away the whipped cream topping. “Do you always indulge when you’re on the job?”

“Are you kidding? The last time we met was in Daranj’s premier underground nightclub.” Cam drank from his cup, but his gaze flicked toward the windows.

Gina watched, too, pretending as she did to reach for her commlink. The storefront housed Glitz Pit, a pawnshop. Flashy, to be sure, with blazing neon signs and gaudy flashing credit symbols in the front windows, but it had steady traffic—a young couple left, then an old man entered, then a trio of burly teens left, all within four minutes.

“General rule? One counts their credit tab when they leave.” Cam tapped the side of his cup. “I’ve been cataloging the ones who don’t.”

“A small number?”

“One in twenty, approximately.” Cam smiled and tapped the corner of his right eyebrow. “They’ll be easier to sift once I run them out of my contacts.”

Gina had used a pair like those before. Sadly, CDF hadn’t let her keep them, and they were a tad harder to find than a used grav harness. “This place is a front for your terrorists, then?”

“Likely. They run a hovercraft down to Galt and back up again every week. The intervals are random, or at least, they’re trying to make it look random. I’m running an analysis through my comp because I want to confirm a pattern.”

It made sense. Most people, when trying to randomize dirty dealings, inevitably repeated subtle patterns even if they didn’t know it.

Cam’s pocket buzzed. He frowned and checked his commlink. Gina’s buzzed too.

“From you?” he asked.

“The automated beacon from my drone. I had it down in the old weather modification plant you had on your list of secondary sites.” Drone Three, Gina saw. She picked up the transmission on her tablet. “Well,” she muttered.

Cam leaned forward. Gina tilted the screen so he could see.

The camera showed the tops of sensor towers—and a man suddenly appeared on the ledge of one, up far too high on an impossible-to-climb structure.

“Did he—jump?”

“Modded individuals.” Gina frowned as the dark-skinned man retrieved a tiny item from the tower, then she froze the recording on a hazy, shadowed profile of his face. “Looks like we’ve found your terrorists.”

7

CSV Oxford

Near the New Israel System

19 November 2465

Colonel Robert Sinclair perused his latest notes on the current mission as he strode into the operations center. Not even the new report from Cam Tahatan could hold his attention, however, as the dozens of screens and holographic displays appeared around him like flowers blooming in accelerated time.

The plaque shone in its place of prominence, “In God we trust. All others we monitor.” Sinclair smiled. How many times did the simple statement buoy my mood during the darkest, bleakest years of the war? Still fitting, though, as we tiptoe into this era of formal peace and informal war.

“Colonel on deck.” Captain Tamir and the rest of the operations center officers and crew braced to attention.

“As you were.” Sinclair waved with his tablet, indicating they should resume their posts. The tactical display up ahead caught his eye. Oxford lingered a few light-years from the fringes of the New Israel system, cruising in tandem with her sister ship, CSV Manchester. Covert Action Unit 22 was aboard for a joint briefing before the vessels continued to Galt. The readouts hovering on the far right of the display indicated CSV Tucson was due to arrive any moment.

“I say, Butter Bars, did you have a chance to view this intelligence gathered on Galt?” Sinclair asked. “I would very much like to hear we have signal analysis to complement our operatives’ hard work.”

“I did, sir, when we ran it through decryption, though I have to say, some of it was puzzling.” Tamir frowned. “Augmented individuals? I can’t help wondering if they had the work done after they left Coalition space.”

“More than likely if it was not for medical purposes. I do appreciate that our pieces are coming together, even as our targets seem to be assembling theirs.”

“The good news on that front is we have broken the Fabians’ latest encryption. I don’t know how long it will be available to us, but we did manage to retrieve a few messages.” Tamir loaded them onto his screen.

Yes, they were indeed communications between Fabian members, judging by the content of their political commentary, but Sinclair could tell they’d been careful to use code names for individuals and activities. “Clever lads and lasses, aren’t they?” Sinclair murmured.

“That was my assessment, Colonel.” Tamir tapped the monitor. “But you can see here their mentions of ‘timetable’ increase thirty percent in the previous month as well as references to ‘packages.’ I understand from Chaperone that he and Echo Two have recorded video of several probable transshipment points for whatever the packages are.”

Sinclair waggled a finger. “Let’s not use Echo Two as her moniker, Tamir. Her presence is one of an independent operative, since CAU 171 is not formally reassembled. I quite like the Eidolon name she chose for her vigilante persona.”

“Of course, sir.”

Warrant Miranda Eldred snorted. She glanced over from her station a couple of consoles away. Sinclair thought her eyes seemed more bloodshot than normal—a hazard of too much screen time in too short a span. “Does this mean all her activities are sanctioned, Colonel?”

“That’s a matter left to the powers that be, one which I am happy to pass along.” Sinclair frowned. “Don’t mistake that for condoning her actions, but we can’t deny she’s cemented herself into a fragmented community, making it easier for Chaperone to obtain actionable intelligence. I am more interested in whether or not our people’s presence has raised any eyebrows.”

“Other than local chatter praising her Robin Hood exploits—and scathing comments from scum associated with the criminals she’s removed—there’s not much. You’d be surprised, Colonel—I think the syndicates and gangs enjoy using social media on Galt more than the average civilian. And their network security is awful. My classmates in primary school could have done better.”

“Bully for us, then.” Sinclair shifted his stance so he could see Eldred’s console too. “What have you found?”

“Outrage at Eidolon and an undercurrent of black-market trading. Someone’s hunting for data spikes, the kind used to override a mainframe’s systems through simple, physical access. No need to worry about complex algorithms designed to break through a network’s security and subvert its operations. These use brute-force tactics on the computer itself, which, for the most part, tend to be less protected because physical security—guards, bots, and the like—prevent that access much better than a program. If you can’t get into a building, you can’t spike a hard drive.”

“As fine a summation as you’ve ever delivered, Eldred. Does this get us closer to linking Fabian activity to the market blip?”

“It’s still a good theory, but the only way I could prove it is if I had a spike in hand.” Eldred spread her fingers. “They leave traces in the systems they ransack, even as they burn themselves out.”

“A single-use weapon, in other words.”

“Which explains why there’s been a lot of talk about acquiring more components.” Eldred brought up another screen filled with data. “Like these chips being produced on Meron’s moon. It’s the only instance we know of the Fabians manufacturing themselves. Given that lab hadn’t produced anything as sophisticated as what was used in the blip, I’m not surprised there’s as much chatter as there is.”

“They have a shortage of their key components,” Tamir agreed.

“Am I correct in assuming none of this is inexpensive?” Sinclair ticked off points on his fingers. “Augmentations. Black-market circuitry. A well-stocked tech facility.”

“Yes, sir. It isn’t cheap.” Tamir glanced at Eldred. “We don’t have anything along those lines yet. Finding evidence of individual donations isn’t difficult—there have been plenty of those. But the totals we’ve estimated based on the work we’ve seen and the extent of the Fabians’ communication network—”

“We’re talking tens of millions of credits,” Eldred interjected. “Once you factor in the cost of how they breached the market in the first place.”

“Bloody hell. Tens of millions.” Sinclair clasped his wrist behind his back. “Is there any indication of League involvement?”

Tamir shook his head. “They’ve been quiet ever since Trenchant. No recent intelligence alerts show their modus operandi. And frankly, sir, the Fabian efforts have been on the sloppy side. The League operative Vasiliy doesn’t strike me as having a hand in something as haphazard, at least based on Janus’s summation.”

“As for the breach…” Eldred shrugged.

“Hardly a gesture of confidence.” Sinclair frowned.

“Sorry, Colonel, but it is what it is. Getting information out of Galt authorities—and I’m using the term loosely—is worse than high-G acceleration. CBI isn’t having any luck, and CIS has had its quiet inquiries stalled, or so my former colleagues tell me.”

“Keeping those lines of communication quiet, I hope.”

Eldred smiled and tapped her lips.

“Delightful.” Sinclair patted his tablet against his hand. “Given what I’ve seen and heard, it does not seem likely our Fabian agitators will hit several financial sectors at once, if that is indeed their aim. Hence our insertion of Janus into the Fabian cell—determining those aims. From what he’s reported, Captain Jackson has contacted the three individuals and is en route to Galt.”

“Where we’ll be waiting to support our people on the ground,” Tamir noted.

“Quite right. Our primary objective will be to remain hidden as we provide ELINT for our operatives, from multiple sources—while remaining vigilant for anyone who may wish to ascertain our identity.” Sinclair arched an eyebrow. “May I remind you no one will be pleased by a failure in that regard again.”

Tamir grimaced. Eldred focused dead ahead on her monitor. The rest of the ops center had gone quieter than usual. It seemed the League—potentially using a stealth-modified vessel that had dogged Oxford on several encounters—had finally discovered a way to separate Oxford’s electronic signature from other cargo ships, which she was disguised as. The momentary discovery had allowed the enemy to escape and local authorities at Trenchant to foil any pursuit until Oxford’s CO could clear matters up.

“It won’t happen again, sir,” Tamir assured him.

Sinclair’s tablet chimed. The ops center’s tactical display issued a similar notice—CSV Tucson had completed its Lawrence drive jump and was on its way to rendezvous. “Very good. Send my compliments to Major Mancini, and have him join me in the wardroom—and tell him to bring the necessary pieces of CAU 171 along when he does.”

* * *

Dwyer knew he was in for a top-level briefing when Major Mancini informed him and Sev they had to tag along. He just hadn’t figured on how many folks Sinclair wanted in one room at the same time.

Sinclair was at the head of the table, naturally, reminding Dwyer of his zadye seated in front of the family for Passover. Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred were to his right and left, respectively, which Dwyer expected. He sat with Mancini and Master Chief MacDonald on the right side of the table, while Sev found his customary corner.

Sitting there threw Dwyer out of sorts. The left side was where Captain Adams and the rest of the team preferred to post themselves. Dwyer had a hard time not seeing the cap’n making his point in a cool but emphatic manner or the LT fussing over new technical details or even Gina yawning at what she figured were mundane aspects of a mission when all she wanted was the challenge of breaking into a new place.

Instead of them, Dwyer faced the ringers—a young Latino officer, a female pilot of Asian descent, and a stout technician with brown hair shaved at the sides.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you’re all aware of aspects regarding Fabian activity in this region,” Sinclair began. “Our goal here is to meld our forces seamlessly.”

“Sounds like a blast.” MacDonald’s tone indicated he thought it was anything but. “Didn’t we do this last year, sir?”

“We did, Master Chief, and if you’ll refrain from further interruption, I shall spell out precisely how we intend to do it again,” Sinclair replied.

Dwyer suppressed his chuckle at Sinclair’s stern voice. MacDonald didn’t seem impressed, but Dwyer sure was. Everyone else in the room was suddenly paying a lot closer attention.

“For those of you who haven’t formally been introduced, this is First Lieutenant Duncan Garza, commander of Covert Action Unit 22,” Sinclair said.

“Thank you, Colonel.” Garza smiled across the table at Dwyer. “Though I know a couple of people in the room. Warrant Dwyer, I can’t thank you enough for your brave actions.”

Heat rushed to Dwyer’s face. “It wasn’t a thing, sir. We were just doing our duty.”

“By disguising yourselves and infiltrating a megacorp’s space station to rescue me from corrupt security forces? I agree, you were, but that doesn’t make me any less grateful.” Garza gestured to his companions. “Chief Warrant Officer Ixora Sakuri, our pilot, whom you’ve already met, and Second Lieutenant J.S. Richards, technical.”

Dwyer nodded. “Warrant, good to see you’re still flying. Lieutenant Richards, welcome aboard, sir.”

“Thanks, Warrant Dwyer.” Richards grinned. “I’m still trying not to pinch myself. You guys are really part of 171? When I got this assignment, I knew we’d be doing important work, but to think we’re joining up with your team—”

“Stow it, Richards.” Garza’s order was firm but not harsh. “Forgive him. He’s fairly excited about this mission.”

“I’m tasking Mr. Garza with an observer’s role,” Sinclair said. “He’ll place himself in one of several shops Chaperone believes to be transshipment points for Fabian contraband.”

The tablets set out for the meeting’s participants lit up with a map of Fountainhead, one of Galt’s larger cities. Dwyer immediately noted the local flight routes in and around its boundaries, making it all the easier to thread Novabird’s paths.

But… “’Scuse, me, Colonel.” Dwyer gestured at Sakuri. “But with Vector Control over there, I’m not sure how many pilots you’ll need for this run.”

“Both, actually,” Sinclair noted. “You have seniority, Warrant Dwyer, so you’ll be the mission pilot, and Warrant Sakuri will be your copilot, especially valuable in the event you are needed on the ground. Lieutenant Richards will handle comms and technical aspects, while Mr. Rast there…”

“Kills.” Sev watched the whole affair like a bird of prey perched on a fence post, on the lookout for his next meal.

MacDonald chuckled. “I never was a fan of babysitting civilians in military operations, but if I were going to have someone who didn’t give me lip and got the job done, he’s still the guy.”

Dwyer was less than buoyed by Sev’s cold response. Sure, the man wasn’t wrong—his job was killing. Heck, the 171 team had left a trail of bodies either through direct action or by its interference from the Coalition’s boundaries to the far side of the Alvarsson Wedge. They either had to come to terms with the facts, bury them deep down, or get out of the service. But Dwyer still found it unsettling to balance protecting the Coalition and its people with the collateral damage the team inflicted.

“Certainly glad to hear it, Master Chief,” Sinclair continued, “but Mr. Rast has been seconded to CAU 22—as has Warrant Dwyer—for the remainder of this operation. You and your team will remain aboard Tucson as they watch the space lanes for smuggling activity related to the Fabians’ need to acquire complex tech.”

“If it’s anything like Meron, we might be doing a lot of silent circling.” Mancini cradled a cup of coffee in both hands.

Dwyer hadn’t recalled seeing a fresh pot anywhere in the wardroom, unless it was stashed in the back corner, but then again, the major was never without his caffeine.

“I take it we’ll be tracking down and boarding if we do find something suspicious,” Mancini said.

“Quite right. I have transmitted your orders accordingly.” Sinclair raised a finger. “What all of you should keep in mind—this is neutral space, and more importantly, this is Galt. Bellwether was a private habitat run by a megacorporation, the likes of which our government maintains adversarial relations with. Galt, however, is the galaxy’s nexus of finance. They are scrupulously neutral and rabidly objectivist, which means whatever law enforcement they have will not lend us outright assistance and will protest any overt Coalition action in their space or on their world. Maintaining our invisibility and our covers is foremost. Any questions before we begin in earnest?”

“No, sir,” Garza replied.

“One, Colonel.” Sakuri addressed Sinclair, but she was looking at Dwyer. “RUMINT has it our bird for this mission is not standard issue.”

“RUMINT can often be misleading.” Sinclair’s smile, though, suggested otherwise. “Don’t be bashful here, Warrant.”

“Yes, sir.” Sakuri shifted in her seat. “Is our bird the Florio Ionworks Mark Thirteen racer strapped down in Oxford’s hangar?”

“Really?” Richards had been scrolling through his tablet during the discussion, eyes flicking from one data point to the next. “Have you seen the specs on one of those? I bet you could accelerate—”

“One detail at a time, Lieutenant,” Sinclair interrupted. “Mission specifics then the tour, which I’m certain Warrant Dwyer would be happy to provide.”

Dwyer grinned. The only thing better than getting behind the controls of Novabird is showing her off.

* * *

Passenger Transport William Henry Harrison

Near the Monrovia System

20 November 2465

The transport had made several jumps and cruised to a rendezvous with a local passenger liner to take on more fares for the longer leg to Galt. Jackson took advantage of the brief stopover to explore the rest of the Harrison and catch up on his propaganda reading.

A tree-lined walking path encircled the recreation cylinder on Deck One, Forward Section Four, with an armored, transparent ceiling that allowed a breathtaking view of interplanetary space, one of Monrovia’s gas giants fist-sized on one edge. Jackson looked up every once in a while, trying to recall from the ship’s course and orientation if Galt was one of the stars he could see—or if home was another.

The transport’s name wasn’t lost on him. He wondered how Harry was doing, with his deep-seated grudge against his brother showing no signs of wear. Jackson had no idea what legal entanglements still existed. He was comms silent from Oxford, even though he could send Eldred and Tamir a distress signal if an emergency arose. Otherwise, he was alone.

It was disheartening to not have Brant’s reassurances or Gina’s glib comments filtering through his embedded transmitter. He brushed his hand behind his jaw, feeling for the tiny bump under his skin.

A pair of footsteps caught his attention—Farook. The Muslim Fabian wore soft slip-on shoes with rubberized treads in place of the boots he’d had when they’d boarded at New Washington. The left shoe emitted a tiny squeak whenever it touched the tiles in the cabin’s bathroom or, in this case, when it hit the walking path. Distinct from the uniform footfalls around him. Very few aboard, at least who Jackson had met, had similar shoes.

“I thought I would find you up here.” Farook matched Jackson’s stride. “Are you coming to the meeting in the arboretum in a couple nights? Nick thinks we could see thirty people or more.”

“That’s awfully out in the open, isn’t it?” Jackson sounded worried, even to himself, which was good because he actually hoped the Fabians would do so more often. Better to get them on the ship’s security footage for later image retrieval and comparison. He limped along, mindful to maintain the charade of a physical infirmity.

“It is, yes, but having everyone congregate in our cabin wouldn’t be any less suspicious. Besides, Nick is skilled at causing malfunctions where none should exist, and the arboretum has enough blocked lines of sight that Zack has found a handful of blank areas we can use.”

“Oh, good.” Jackson rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t want to spend any more time in a brig. Once was enough.”

“I understand.” Farook had a tablet in hand. “Here are the notes I’ve come up with. Let me know if they’re of any use to you.”

“Notes?” Jackson accepted the transfer with his tablet. “For what?”

“For your testimony, brother. I wouldn’t dream of you meeting like-minded citizens without getting the chance to tell your story of how you came into the fold.” Farook grinned. “And once we get through this meeting, we’ll have a better sense of what greatness awaits our cause when we arrive on Galt.”

“Thank you for the opportunity.” Jackson’s heart accelerated at the news, both at the prospect of gathering new intel and at the jolt of having to pass another major test in his rise among the Fabian cell. “I can’t wait for everyone to find out who I am.”

8

Fountainhead

Galt System

22 November 2465

Gina had forgotten how boring playing spy could be. All she’d done for the past several days was follow people and stare at recordings of places she couldn’t go. She was back across the street from the Glitz Pit pawnshop, gazing glumly out of her apartment window—not her real apartment, where she’d made her home for the last several months, but a temporary rental. People came and went, she made notes, passed the intel on to Cam, then switched with him as she went to check other locations.

She sighed and made a notation on her tablet as a trio of teenage girls left the shop, giggling over their credits as a light snowfall dusted them and the surrounding street. “No wonder Brant always sounded tired,” she murmured. “The poor guy must have gone nuts sitting behind his holograms the whole time.”

“Eidolon, this is Chaperone.”

Ah, yes, there he is.

Cam had switched back to Intelligence comms protocol as soon as CSV Oxford had arrived in the system that afternoon. “Have a potential target incoming.”

Gina rolled her eyes. Roger and ten-four. No, that probably wouldn’t endear her to him more than she already had with her abrasive attitude since they’d partnered for the investigation. “Copy, Chaperone. I’ll have eyes.”

And she did. The dark-skinned fellow from the imagery at the abandoned atmospheric plant—albeit in a poor attempt at a disguise. He wore sunshades and a winter cap, with a hood pulled up from his all-weather jacket. It wasn’t terribly cold out. Plenty of others had on middle-weight jackets, and half went without hats. Still, he wasn’t dressed too oddly. He went through Glitz Pit’s front door without hesitation.

“Target is inside.” Gina punched a command on her tablet. “Switching to audio.”

Distorted speech crackled through the speakers. She made a face. Brant could have cleared it up in seconds, but it took Gina half a minute to get the incoming audio clean enough to hear a voice say, “…think I’m supposed to do with this?”

“I know, and therefore, I think you’d better get it to the big city.” The hint of a British accent reminded Gina of Sinclair, though his wasn’t as proper, meaning it was of mixed ancestry. “I’ve had our people working on this for a solid week. She’s not going to take it lightly if it’s late.”

“You think I’ve got a spare carrier lounging about?” The other voice was older, gruff, filled with scratches like a terrible recording.

Gina checked the tablet’s readout. No, the bug was operating within its parameters.

“Are you telling me you can’t?”

“I’m telling you I’m tired of moving things through my business for the good of the cause without a credit boost.”

“Credit boost.” British Voice sounded disgusted with the shop owner. “You talk like that and mention the cause in the same sentence? Keep in mind we’re zealous about membership. I can always find someone to remove you from the rolls if you’re tired of our bylaws.”

Metal and plastic brushed against fabric. Even on the other end of a lousy mic, Gina recognized the sound—a weapon being drawn. The soft buzz filtering through the static confirmed her guess as a plasma pistol, one of the knockoff brands common in the neutral systems. League weapons had a higher pitch and were quieter than most people could detect.

I bet Jackson could hear one, though.

She pushed away the nostalgia as the owner’s response took on a decidedly apologetic tone. “I, uh… that’s not what I-I’m saying. What I need is a bit more time and the extra income to make courier repairs.”

Ah. “Courier” didn’t mean a person, then. Maybe a skimmer? Jack had infiltrated a ground effect garage on Aphendrika that used skimmer riders to transport illicit goods.

“The accounts aren’t bottomless,” British Voice snapped. “We’re still waiting on our sponsor—”

Static hissed across the signal.

“Shit,” Gina snapped. She tried boosting it with a couple of tricks she’d seen Brant use, having no idea how they worked, only that they did. The next sentences were still muddled. Sponsors’? Sponsor’s? Sponsors? Which way had British Voice meant it?

Whether it was one, two, or fifty, it didn’t matter much to her at that point. Gina was confirming an outside source funding the Fabians.

“…before getting a transfer.” Flesh struck against a table or a counter—a dull sound. “I need to get this to the big city. It’s bad enough I’ve had to delay a return in order to allay suspicions. I don’t doubt the Coalition keeps tabs on us even outside its bounds.”

“Who, us?” Gina murmured.

“Fine. Look. Here…” Something scratched against plastic. At least, that was what it sounded like. “Better than a courier.”

British Voice sighed. “As long as they’re trustworthy.”

“They’re working for me, so they’d better be trustworthy, or they’re out of jobs.” The owner snorted. “Since we’re talking about native Galters, I pay them better than most because that’s all they’re worried about—what works for them.”

“Turning on me had better not work for them, objectively speaking.” British Voice went cold.

“It won’t. They won’t.”

Footsteps.

“Chaperone, this is Eidolon,” she murmured. “Target is on the move.”

“Confirmed, Eidolon. Maintain visual. I’m retasking drones to another possible sighting. Stand by.”

Stand by? Gina glanced at the Glitz Pit. No one emerged. Unless… She pulled up the building schematics. Front entrance, stairs inside to a second floor, standard window escapes that elsewhere in the galaxy were required for safety codes. A rear loading dock.

“Great.” Gina flung on her jacket and yanked on a cap. “Chaperone, Target is heading for the alley. I need that drone.”

“Stand by…”

“Shut up, and get me the drone! I’m not standing by anything.” She was out the apartment door and heading for the roof before he could continue in his monotone or try a fresh argument.

Gina emerged into a snow squall, the wind whipping up there while the streets stayed sheltered from the brunt. She slipped on her goggles, letting them shade her vision from the bright-white conditions. The drone’s video feed appeared inset in the upper right corner. There he was—the target strode toward a parked hovercraft a block away nestled under a repair shop’s metal awning. “I have him.”

“Don’t intercept. Those aren’t our orders. Shadow and observe.”

“Yes, thanks, I remember what you told me and how to do my job.” Gina killed the comms connection. Cam could always reestablish if he wanted to.

The target slipped inside the hovercraft, and the vehicle immediately powered up.

Gina trotted across the rooftop but knew she wouldn’t be able to catch up, even though she could easily bridge the distance between buildings. She’d ascended in hopes that she could sprint ahead of the dark-skinned man before he got wherever he was going. She hadn’t anticipated a getaway vehicle so close. And in less than two minutes, it would be on the express lanes down to Galt. Too bad she didn’t have a skimmer on hand.

She expanded the goggles’ magnification range and was picking out the nearest vehicle she could unobtrusively steal when her comms came back on. “Eidolon, this is Nova One,” a voice drawled. “Fancy a lift?”

Gina glanced up. Low-flying aircraft were common above Fountainhead, as the aerial traffic regulations were flimsy enough that pilots took shortcuts across the city as they flew from private landing fields to Rand and points beyond. Still, her heart leapt at the sight of a white-and-gray racer cutting through the snow clouds clinging to the skyscrapers. Variable wings shifted as it roared on hoverjets above the next building, kicking snow into wild cyclones.

“Nova One.” Gina kept her reply businesslike but couldn’t help a laugh. “I’m gone for a few months, and everyone gets a new code name.”

“New codes and new bosses, but the ride’s the same, and so’s the immediate company.” Dwyer chuckled. “Come on up, and strap in so we can follow your new pal.”

Gina made the leap onto the next building and accepted the arm that pulled her out of the rushing, bitter wind into the warm confines of Novabird’s hold. It wasn’t until she pulled back her goggles and blinked to adjust her vision to the brighter lights that she realized Sev was the one who had retrieved her.

“Hello.” Sev smiled.

Gina hugged him.

* * *

Alexis checked her commlink. Winston was on his way with the parcel. She grimaced. It was about time. It had taken several days longer than she would have liked, but with cell members arriving from across the Coalition at Rand’s spaceport every day, they had a lot of new faces in town, a lot of network connections to make.

Perrine nudged her. “Are you still with me?”

“Yes. Right here.” Alexis leaned on the railing of the Drake Waterfront Walk, a steel-and-concrete pathway lined with stores that topped a sea wall on Rand’s southwest coast. The sluice gates channeled the Atlas River out to the bay in torrents. Hundreds of people took advantage of the sudden sunshine in the wake of the squalls pummeling Fountainhead and points north. Aromas from food vendors drifted along the Drake. Alexis felt a pang of longing for the last trip she and Ron had taken on a beach boardwalk whose name she’d forgotten.

“The access points are wide open.” Perrine showed her a map of the Galt Currency Exchange. Six tiny blocks flashed green. “The main entrances have heavy security but nothing that can cause headaches for people who have the right credentials and a ridiculous amount of money.”

“We almost have both.”

“Correct.” Perrine patted her pocket. “The last of the ID tags. A young man is due in on a Coalition transport in a couple of days who can help add the finishing touches. He’s gifted at breaking into places where he shouldn’t be, which is a great trait for a member of the cause who has a point to make to capitalist oppressors.”

“And we should be getting a series of transfers this week from our donors,” Alexis added. “I have one due this evening. I’ll let you know once it’s complete.” She turned and gazed up at the Galt Exchange building looming six blocks away.

It was a six-sided spire of black stone and golden-hued glass. Nothing about the design was meant to blend with either the sprawling cityscape or the natural environment. Galters couldn’t have constructed a greater monument to their pursuit of the almighty credit if they’d wrapped a neon sign around the entire planet.

“We’ll need a second test run.”

“I was afraid you’d suggest that. Do you realize how limited our supplies are? Since the lab was destroyed—”

“You worry too much, Perrine. Winston’s parcel will provide us with enough components for two spikes, and I’m not about to send our brothers and sisters after the biggest fish without making sure we can catch its smaller kin with the same bait.”

The waters below came alive with thrashing and churning. Several pedestrians hurried to the railing, so many that Alexis and Perrine had to sidle away to keep their conversation confidential. Alexis caught a glimpse of the source behind the watery disturbance—rows of needlelike teeth, a long, sleek body, rippling black fins.

“I wish people would quit dumping garbage off the west piers,” Perrine muttered. “The organic items are better suited to the composters. Why do they think we keep getting more and more yar norkan where the current washes their trash?”

“I’m sure some have put two and two together.” Alexis leaned on the railing and watched the beasts tussle over their meal, slashing at each other with those fangs, each one a meter long. “But I also don’t doubt they love a good spectacle. We’ll see if that’s still true when we’re finished and the elites rip each other to shreds like a pack of yar norkan.”

* * *

Winston glanced out the hovercraft’s canopy as it approached a line of sagging, concrete apartment blocks crammed along Rand’s east side. The structures there had no rhyme or reason other than the living quarters ranged from second to thirtieth stories, and the ground levels were filled with shops selling everything a local or traveler could require, from baby food to energy weapons.

“Where do you want to get out?” The driver hadn’t spoken much beyond that question for the whole ride from Fountainhead.

The storefront should be up ahead… there. A florist. “Stop here.”

The hovercraft pulled over, and Winston disembarked. The rumble of passing ships overhead rattled the pavement underfoot. He squinted into the sunny sky. A fat-bellied ore transport thundered at what looked like rooftop level, thirty stories up.

* * *

Dwyer slapped the console. “C’mon, now, move!”

Gina shared his frustration but couldn’t do anything to get the lumbering transport out of their way. Novabird was a thousand feet up, sensors trained on the streets below—and the hovercraft blocking the view of their target.

“Hold tight. I’ll swing around.” Dwyer descended and banked west, circling the neighborhood at a lower altitude. “Keep an eye on the scanners.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing. Hang on—there it is.” Warrant Sakuri sat in the copilot seat, which left Gina to monitor the action from the next chair back. Sakuri adjusted the view. The hovercraft drifted away from the curb. “It’s stationary. Any idea if the target is out or still inside?”

Gina leaned over her shoulder but had a hard time differentiating the one she sought. That knitted hat… “Got him. The orange bands, there.”

“Roger that.” Sakuri bracketed the small, blurred image of a man walking. He stopped in front of a corner store. Sakuri’s fingers slid across the console, querying the Rand information network Novabird linked to for a business name and came up with Fitz’s Florals.

“That’s your fella?” Dwyer asked.

“One and the same.” Gina unstrapped from her seat and adjusted her grav harness. “Put me over the alleyway next door, and I’ll drag him back there. How close can you get to the roof?”

“How close?” Dwyer snorted. “You know better than to ask me.”

“I’m just kidding.” Gina gave him a peck on the cheek. “The closer the better.”

“I don’t think we’re authorized for that,” Sakuri pointed out. “I’m pinging Duncan.”

“You do that.” Gina stood before the aft ramp and adjusted her goggles. “Tell him to link me the vid he gets for my greatest moments file.”

“Wait.” Sev indicated the comms and an incoming message.

Gina groaned. She could see the tiny light flashing even from way back.

Sakuri tapped the panel.

“Nova One, this is Vector Home.” The voice was young, not squeaky, but Gina imagined they weren’t many years removed from it. “Be advised we have you on our scopes.”

“Thanks much, Home. This is Eidolon.” Gina couldn’t tell if Sakuri was irritated she answered in the copilot’s stead, but she would apologize later if so. “Give me updated visuals on—”

“Uh, negative, Eidolon. Vector One wants you to stand down and observe only. Do not attempt interception. He has the target and is sending flitters to monitor.”

Flitters. Gina’s favorite toys, next to the grav harness. She was fresh out of the tiny bots because, once again, Intelligence was stingy when a civilian contract operator up and left. But this new guy has them?

“Home, this is Two.” Sakuri’s reply was firm. “Order acknowledged. We’ll continue our circle into a holding pattern to monitor the target.”

“After I head down there to add my eyes to Vector One’s.” Gina reached for the hatch control.

“Stand down, Gina.” Sakuri turned in her chair. “You heard the lieutenant’s commands—none of us are intercepting anyone.”

“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but if we don’t, he’s going to give whatever he’s carrying to the Fabians, and we’ll lose our chance to stop the handoff,” Gina snapped.

“And if you’d wait ten seconds to think more clearly, you’d see Lieutenant Garza wants us to figure out where else he’s going so we can add more faces to who we know among the Fabians.”

Gina glared at her, but Sakuri remained impassive. Dwyer certainly wasn’t backing either of them—he kept Novabird on course, offering a single worried glance to the confrontation.

Sev put a hand on Gina’s arm. “No.”

“You too?” Gina sighed. “This must be my vigilante phase coming to an end.”

Sev shrugged and guided her away from the hatch.

“Home, this is Two,” Sakuri went on. “Our target is standing there. What does One have?”

“Hold on.” Vector Two—Richards, Gina recalled from the briefing file Cam had provided—murmured words she couldn’t make out. They sounded rhythmic, like poetry. “Yes, he’s got it. Transmitting.”

A street-level video stream appeared on a screen between Dwyer and Sakuri’s seats. There he was—the dark-skinned man. He spoke into a commlink.

“Can we capture that?” Gina’s heart pounded.

“Got pieces, but it’s scrambled—coming out as gibberish.” Richards swore. “Sorry. I can’t wash it out. Whatever encrypt he’s using is high end, not your typical criminal tech. Expensive black market.”

“Cut the chatter.” A new voice broke through—young, too, but full of far more confidence than Richards’s. “I’m going for the parcel.”

Gina wondered at the declaration, given Garza’s order to not intercept, but watched anyway as one of several poor clad in ragged, layered jackets bumped into the target. British Voice shoved the beggar, who rebounded off a cluster of older men and grabbed onto him. Bodies crashed together in a fracas that soon separated into three parties—British Voice storming into the floral shop, the beggar shuffling down the next street, and the old men shouting after him.

“Negative.” Garza sounded peeved. “Target does not have the parcel.”

“Where does he…? Dammit.” Gina gestured to the scanner console. “The hovercar.”

“I…” Sakuri cleared her throat. “I’ve got nothing on the scopes. One, do you have visual on the vehicle in question?”

“Again, negative, Two. Run its ID tags through the local databases.”

“One, this is Home. I’m on it, but you know those are spotty at best, and it won’t help that the hovercraft looks like a couple thousand other cheap ones popular on Galt,” Richards noted.

“Well aware, Home, but do it anyway. Set for rendezvous. I’ll see if the flitters pick anything up.” Garza’s voice went stern. “And we’ll figure out how badly our delays cost us this time.”

9

Passenger Transport William Henry Harrison

Galt System

22 November 2465

Jackson didn’t mind crowds. He’d spoken to them before—and goodness knew he’d been on stage in front of a few hundred students during his university days. Still, seeing the few dozen clustered in the quiet corner of the transport’s arboretum sent a twinge of fear through him, momentary and manageable but still there. I suppose I’m not used to giving speeches in front of people I’m infiltrating, just in case they decide to kill me if my cover gets blown.

He smiled and nodded to the gathered Fabians. No wonder he felt more at ease with each passing second. It was a performance, plain and simple.

“Jason is our newest recruit, so to speak.” Farook stood beside him, his voice echoing off the curved walls. As clear as he sounded, no one seemed bothered by the prospect of being overheard. The domed enclosure was one of twenty linked by arced corridors, separating the arboretum’s miniature biomes. Theirs was filled with tropical plants, predominantly swaying vines Jackson recognized as native to Canaan’s tropical belt.

“I’m more than happy to be welcomed in,” Jackson said. “It seems unreal that four months ago, I was freed from the brig after the government trumped up charges against me like I was flirting with treason.”

“Standard tactic,” a woman muttered from up front.

“We’ve all either been there or known someone who has,” an elderly man added.

“Now you’re meeting another.” Farook pressed his hands together, as if preparing for prayer. “Jason is one of many who have been drawn to our cause over the past four years, ever since great sacrifices were made on the part of so few to avoid a terrible future.”

Jackson found himself again tugging on the leash of his anger. Farook was talking about Drymand’s treason. Careful. It was simpler to imagine Brant cautioning him through his transmitter than to admit he was truly on his own. Jackson nodded at Farook’s comments, his expression one of serious contemplation.

“So…” Farook gestured to the crowd, watching Jackson intently. “This is your time.”

“Thanks.” Jackson cleared his throat. He scratched at the back of his neck and lapsed into his frown as he gazed at the other Fabians. “All I’ve ever wanted to do was help people. That’s why I signed up again after my compulsory service was over. The war was going on, and I knew I could prevent innocents from getting hurt. I was convinced I was fighting for the right cause—protector of the Coalition standing against the evils of the League of Sol.”

Murmurs and even a few chuckles filtered from the crowd. Some must have thought him sarcastic. The irony, of course, was Jackson had spoken the truth from his heart, letting his guise fall for just a moment. I believe every word of what I just said, and they can tell.

The next part was harder, so Jackson dug into the resentment and anger he harbored toward Harry—and found his obsession with Vasiliy lodged beside them. His hands shook. It was no act. “But I saw even then how I couldn’t stop the cruelty others faced because corrupt industries bled them in pursuit of profits even as our politicians refused the League’s peaceful overtures. They stepped on their own citizens while feeding us lies about supposed atrocities our so-called ‘enemy’ committed.”

That earned him more nods, sidelong mutters of approval between comrades, and a couple of listeners who moved closer.

Jackson glimpsed his cabinmates hanging at the edge of the crowd, under a pair of fraying palms. Zack sat on a bench, smiling as he plucked at his beard. Farook stood behind him and, when Jackson caught his gaze, returned a nod. Nick maintained his perpetual disgruntlement, swiping away on his tablet and glancing around the garden—on the lookout for listening devices and possible spies, no doubt. Jackson wondered if he realized his behavior and overall dour attitude didn’t speak well of him as the only Christian in the group. The man was a sharp contrast to Brant.

“When we step off the landing barge onto Galt,” Jackson continued, “I don’t want to stand around and complain about everything wrong with a greedy, capitalist society that’s gotten more materialistic by the second. I want to do something. Protesting got me arrested on Aphendrika. This time, I want to put my skills to work and force the galaxy to see that the Coalition’s going to change, whether it wants to or not.”

He let the last phrase drop off, each word delivered with a punch of air, and the resulting applause made him grin—a real expression that time. He shifted onto his other leg. Is it my imagination, or does affecting the limp make my appendage actually hurt? Gina would mock my hypochondria, if that’s what you could call it.

The real reason for his nerves hit him. It wasn’t the crowd but the fact that he was only a few hours from getting to Galt and making landfall in Rand, where Sinclair had Covert Action Unit 22 operating with elements of Jackson’s team.

He needed to contact them eventually. The prospect of seeing them face-to-face worried him more than being trussed up in the middle of an island clearing as Trenchant II’s atmosphere and its poisonous wildlife tried to kill him.

Farook motioned for Jackson to step down into the crowd. “Nicely put.” He patted Jackson on the shoulder. “Come and meet your kin.”

“Thanks, Farook.” Jackson put his worried frown back on. “I meant it—give me something useful to do.”

“Oh, we will.” Farook indicated the people gathering to introduce themselves. “I’ve projects in mind that will make the corporate fat cats tremble.”

“Sounds great to me.” Jackson turned and gave the people coming toward him a tense smile as his contact lenses registered each new face with a quick scan for storage and later retrieval.

* * *

East Quarter

Rand

Galt System

It amused Gina that whatever safe houses Intelligence used were of only two types—an abandoned structure in the middle of nowhere or a busy building surrounded by a crowd. She preferred the latter because, even though infiltration was her specialty, throngs of people made her feel secure. True, enemies could hide in them, but it was far simpler to slip away when hundreds of faces distracted the pursuer.

So she was glad CAU 22 had a pair of adjoining hotel suites as its base of operations. The hotel itself was modest, with ninety rooms spread across five floors, the squat building crammed between dozens more just like it and stacked between five others. Multiple elevators, stairwells, and cross-corridors linked the hotel to others around it. Pedestrians constantly flowed by, especially to the shops and food vendors stationed in those corridors.

Everything cost money, of course. She even had to pay a tiny fee just to walk from building to building, but then again, it was Galt.

The team—Gina thought of the designation loosely—gathered in the common area shared by the two apartments. She and Sakuri had one room, while Garza and Richards had the other. Dwyer and Sev were there temporarily. Novabird would remain their home, as it was common for pilots to remain with their ships. Leaving a vessel of any size unattended, even with the latest security features to prevent theft, was poor planning.

“Our first attempt didn’t go so hot.” Garza stood by a pair of desks overflowing with consoles, scanner readouts, and computer drives.

Richards murmured to himself as he watched data stream by in the form of flicking images and scrolling text.

“The hovercraft was a dead end,” Richards continued. “Josh was right—too many to trace because of inconsistent IDs and failure to register vehicles.”

“But we know the target is staying here.” Richards pointed at a large map screen atop his other displays. “Beats me whether it’s a temporary shack or a long-term rental. No names given. Paid in local scrip, not credits. No security vid to tap either. Heck, I don’t think three-quarters of Galt’s urban areas even know what a camera is.”

“This is the main issue with tracking the Fabians—decentralization,” Garza said. “At last count, one hundred twelve sects are scattered across the Coalition and neutral space, ranging in size from a handful of members to dozens.”

“So, you’re not talking about that many people,” Dwyer noted. “Maybe a thousand or so?”

Garza shook his head. “Plenty of sympathizers aren’t affiliated with those cells but, from time to time, carry out illicit activities for them. Aphendrika is a good example. As I’m sure you’re aware, the League riled up the refugee camps there.”

“I heard something about it.” Gina examined her reflection in her knife’s blade.

Sev snorted.

“Right.” Garza glanced at Sakuri, who sat nearby, her expression one of extreme consternation. “But among the protestors calling for the refugees’ release, Fabians took an active role stirring up the more vocal members. They also sent several representatives to Trenchant II during the War Free Union’s push to lobby against the Astrocom refit and the perceived military buildup in the region.”

“They’ve been busy, no kidding.” Richards brushed the back of his hand across a display. Holographic numbers leapt into the center of the room as he spun around in his chair so he could face the rest of the group. “Now, even though they’re smart enough to pay in ways that are hard to trace, they’re not always—smart, I mean. And when they use a link to a private account, we can trace those back, even after they shut off access, which they do. I’m guessing someone higher up in the ranks is watching that kind of stuff.”

“I saw that in your summaries.” Gina consulted her tablet. “Tens of millions of credits? Where are they getting it?”

“Supposedly from like-minded donors,” Garza said. “I’m not convinced. But so far, we haven’t found evidence to the contrary.”

“If that’s the case, why aren’t you convinced?”

“The lieutenant has his reasons,” Sakuri interjected.

Gina glanced at her. “I know. That’s why I asked him.”

“I didn’t realize he had to explain himself to civilians.”

Garza held up his hands. “Take it easy. This is a new situation for all of us.”

“Shitty,” Sev muttered.

“That too.” Gina smirked.

Dwyer sighed and shook his head. “Listen, y’all. We’re gonna have to make do with what we have until the cap’n and LT are back on duty—whenever that is. For now, Lieutenant Garza’s the boss. I’m good with that.”

“Not big on loyalty, are we, Sparks?” Gina was surprised by the bitterness in her question. So what if Jack isn’t calling the shots? She would still be paid, per her contract.

“Got to worry about chain of command, first, Gina.” Dwyer crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“Listen.” Garza’s tone sharpened. “Don’t think we came to this assignment without any respect for what you three and your fellow officers have accomplished. I’d have been spaced if it weren’t for you. My gratefulness won’t change. But that isn’t what we need to focus on. The Fabians are our mission. If anyone has a problem with how we’re doing it, I’ve got a boat that can ship you off to Oxford in no time.”

Gina went back to admiring her blade but didn’t miss the smug look Sakuri gave her.

“That goes for you too, Ixora.” Garza nudged Richards’s chair with his boot. “Josh.”

“No complaints from me, Lieutenant.” Richards watched the proceedings wide-eyed.

“Good deal. If we’re done whining, then…” Garza swiped through the holo numbers. Images dropped into view, faces, locations. “This is everything Chaperone and Eidolon have compiled for us. I’ve added their intel to our compilation, which includes the names and faces Tucson brought back from the New Israel system raid. Sadly, we haven’t gotten much out of the people who the Alpha Team apprehended. They’ve either refused to talk or had nothing vital to say.”

“What sort of nonvital things did they reveal?” Gina asked. “I think we’d better go over the recordings in case the original interrogators missed something.”

“Good idea.” Garza smiled. “Which is why you have those recordings too. Your tablets will wipe themselves clean before our next op. Dig up what you can. All we can say for certain is the people manufacturing the spike components on Kishor didn’t know who the recipients on Galt were. Our guess? This guy.”

Richards fiddled with his console. The dark-skinned British Voice appeared, his face in profile.

“No name or ID yet,” Garza continued. “If he’s Coalition, his records have been scrubbed—and Galt has nothing for us to go on.”

“Did you ask nicely?” Gina tilted her head. “I could help with that.”

“We didn’t ask at all. Richards slipped in through an unlocked door, so to speak.”

Richard grinned, his cheeks reddening. “Not that hard. Galt’s got great security around their data markets—not so much around everything else. Pretty shoddy.”

“Josh is going to keep watch over their comms in tandem with Sinclair’s crew on Oxford,” Garza explained. “They’ll monitor local and systemwide communications. We’ve gotten lucky with a few decryptions, so we’ll use what we can. Meantime, I’m sending Warrant Dwyer and Ixora out around the continent to intercept any suspicious flights we pick up from those signals. Word is the Fabians are gathering their people from all over.”

Dwyer nodded. “And the cap’n will be able to feed us intel from the inside on that score, right, sir?”

“Exactly.”

Gina made a face. “Jack’s coming here? I guess Chaperone and I weren’t read into that part of the mission.”

“We didn’t transmit any briefing about it. Colonel Sinclair’s taking his caution to the extreme.” Garza reached for his tablet. “Captain Adams is doing this one on his own. He has no comms or backup until he feels it’s safe to contact Captain Tamir and his people on Oxford.”

“And when he arrives…”

“The transport William Henry Harrison is due to make North Post One in two hours.” Garza tossed data from his tablet into the holo, replacing the pile of data Richards had imported. “We’ll need eyes on Adams as soon as he disembarks.”

“I’ll be there.” Gina got out of her seat. “Come on, Sev.”

“Hold on a millisecond.” Garza stepped through the holographic images, making them ripple like the surface of a pond disturbed by a thrown stone.

Gina found those ripples mesmerizing, like the ones she created in tarmac puddles when she tossed bits of asphalt at them. Anything for respite from her mother’s play-by-play about arriving ships. Gina’s stomach twisted. She felt clammy. She’d come out there months ago to see if she could mend her relationship.

“Wilkes?” Garza frowned at her. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” She shook her head, trying to rattle the memories free. “What do you want now?”

“I want you to come with me to the florist,” Garza said. “Chaperone will make sure Captain Adams—Janus—is followed.”

Gina began a couple of arguments in her head—valid ones, she knew—but quashed them just as fast. Cam was good—not as good as she was but a passable imitation when it came to subtlety. He would watch out for Jack. At least, until Jack was on Rand’s streets, where Gina could do the job right.

“Okay.” Gina put her hands on her hips. “What did you have in mind?”

* * *

Whether or not Garza had come up with a great plan, Gina had to admit, it was an amusing one.

He donned his vagabond garb and resumed his drunken stagger. Gina jerked his arm, pulling him toward the florist shop, their progress impeded by frozen snowfall on the sidewalks.

The rags were perfectly filthy. Gina wrinkled her nose. “I’m impressed. You stink as bad as the real thing.”

“Every detail sells authenticity for a cover like this,” Garza muttered, his voice carrying an undefined accent that used slurred words.

Gina didn’t get to ask him if he was serious or trying sarcasm. She opened the door to the shop.

A tall, willowy girl with blazing-pink hair looked up from the counter, which had a tablet screen embedded in the surface. She had coppery skin and pale-green eyes. Gina found her quite beautiful and pondered how she would make a great asset to an undercover operation—likely as a distraction to whatever male target Gina was chasing—but as soon as the girl gasped, that idea fizzled.

“C-Can I help you?” The girl practically slapped the countertop into sleep mode. Whatever she’d been up to couldn’t have been work related.

“I caught this vape for brains tryin’ to use a credit chit that wasn’t his.” Gina clipped her words, an easy enough task after years spent around officers and enlisted crew. The local patrol uniform she wore helped bolster her official appearance and officious attitude. “Got to get it to the owner. You see this guy?”

She flashed British Voice’s face from a small tablet.

“’S not his!” Garza growled. “I didn’t take nothin’ he—”

“Shut it!” Gina snapped.

The girl nodded. “Yes, I, um. Yes. He’s one of our better customers. Winston. He has a place down the street.”

“Good. Nice work.” Gina tucked the tablet away. “Got his codes? Give him a call, and tell him to pick up the chit here.”

She slapped it on the counter and marched Garza back out the way they’d come.

“Eidolon, this is Vector Home.” Richards cleared his throat. “This is great, ma’am. The flitters are in the shop. Three of them taking up position. Good signal on the feeds. They’ll embed in the walls and watch the angles. Fourth one is digging into the shop’s comms as we speak.”

“I’m very glad to hear it, Vector Home.” Gina tightened her grip on Garza’s arm.

He ground his teeth and looked back at her, his expression more confused than pained.

Gina smiled and winked at him. “Just remember how much I like my knife the next time you call me ma’am.”

10

North Post One

In Polar Orbit of Galt

Galt System

22 November 2465

The orbital station was all metal and plastic, not a creature comfort like wood—not even a false veneer. North Post One had two purposes—to funnel incoming visitors past myriad shops selling all manner of things useful and useless and direct them via two dozen competing shuttle services to Galt’s cities.

The constant surge of passengers heading to and from their transports made for a semisynchronized chaos, which Jackson appreciated. North Post One had rudimentary security scanners, so he knew his arrival would be noted somewhere by someone, but the decentralized nature of Galt’s government and its attendant parts made his job all the easier. Of course, he found it ironic he had to play the part of a man inexperienced at the cloak-and-dagger aspects of his real life.

“Let Nick and Zack stay ahead of us,” Farook murmured as they squeezed out of the William Henry Harrison’s Number Four air lock along with dozens of fellow travelers. “We’ll give them a couple of minutes. There’s no hurry for us to catch up. In fact, the later we meet with them, the better.”

“Sure.” Jackson adjusted his bag’s strap. He glanced around at the other passengers.

“Don’t do that. Talk to me. Doubtless police or station security are watching for suspicious activity, and we can’t discount the possibility of Coalition agents waiting to drag us back to their gulags.”

“Sorry. I’ll keep to myself.” Actually, Jackson hoped such agents were present, because the sooner Colonel Sinclair’s assets on Galt were aware of Jackson’s arrival, the better. He knew Cam Tahatan had been tasked with watching for him. He scanned the crowds surreptitiously as the disembarking travelers spread out onto the vast concourse ahead. Cam would more than likely have a robotic unit in place rather than showing his face directly.

Too bad. Jackson kept his awareness up as Farook gave him more tips on how to not look like they were part of an insurgent cell marked by the Terran Coalition for arrest. It’s only been a week, but feeling like the proverbial fish out of water without my team hasn’t subsided.

“This one.” Farook directed him toward a shuttle service’s booth—the third one down the row from a huge, rotating holographic globe of Galt. The pulsing neon slogan, “Welcome to Galt—Freedom at the Best Prices,” drifted around the equator. Farook, though, ignored the advertising and went straight for Gadarenes Courier & Shuttle.

“Morning, guys.” The older woman behind the counter and its bulletproof screen didn’t look up from her long list of times and destinations. “Where to?”

“Rand,” Farook said. “Tambler District. Two people, one way.”

The woman flicked a world map onto the barrier then magnified first Rand and second the northwest quadrant of the city. A lumpen crescent glowed at the farthest edge. “Three ten. Departure in twenty minutes at Docking Bay Seventy.”

Jackson paid the fare with a discardable credit chit—part of Farook’s scheme—to have one person order the ride and another spend the money to avoid links between each other.

“One second.” The woman slashed the chit over a black panel on her console before handing the chit back, three hundred ten credits lighter.

No name appeared on the receipt. The beauty of a discardable chit was that the average commercial device treated it like hard cash or barter—untraceable to the owner, especially once it was thrown away or recycled.

She handed over a red plastic square with Docking Bay 70 inscribed on it and a tiny screen counting down from 19:58 in blinking green numbers. “Safe flight.”

“Thanks.” Jackson took both and walked off, Farook following. Jackson gave him the square and tucked the chit into his pocket.

“All right.” Farook gave him a tight smile. “No one was waiting for us. That’s a pleasant surprise. Last time I traveled long distance, two CBI people were at the dock when I arrived.”

Jackson shook his head. “But they wouldn’t try that kind of persecution outside home space, would they?”

“These are strange times, brother. I would not be surprised about anything with their mad desire to suppress their citizens.”

* * *

Gina’s tablet hummed. She set aside her book—a compilation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s finest she’d bought from a Fountainhead merchant who’d claimed it was a fifth edition. Try five hundredth edition. Whatever. She had paid the ridiculous price for a real paper book and figured she could pass it off as part of her cover’s expense.

Cam had messaged her. No text, only an image with no name and a time code noting it was taken one minute ago. Jack. He was in disguise, walking with a man of Middle Eastern descent. Gina smiled. His shaggy black hair was cute. Probably still itched though.

A second image appeared—Jack and his companion at a shuttle counter. Gadarenes. Gina pushed the pictures aside to the left half of her tablet and dug into Galt’s business registry. Hmm. The shuttle company operated ten private landing pads in Rand and four in Fountainhead plus another eight scattered around Galt.

A third image? Gina snorted. Cam must be enjoying his toys. Whatever microbot he’d picked—probably a flitter that would disintegrate on station when it had outlived its usefulness—had either gotten close enough or possessed decent image magnification to get a picture of the shuttle number and destination, albeit reversed. Gina inverted the image.

“Good news?” Garza sat on the edge of the couch.

Gina blinked and looked up. They were in the common area of the team’s hotel base. Richards was engrossed in his consoles, headphones clamped over his ears. Monitoring comms traffic, she supposed.

Garza, on the other hand, watched her with a steadiness she found in counterpoint to the fear he’d shown when she’d seen him bedraggled and exhausted, Dwyer and Sev dragging him through Bellwether Station to an uncertain extraction.

“Jack’s here.”

“That’s a relief.” Garza checked his tablet. “Send them over?”

Them? The images, of course. Gina shared Cam’s surveillance in a quick direct transfer from her tablet to Garza’s. Garza frowned as he perused them. It was a funny expression. He reminded her of Jack in that way—a man who could hide his appearance and change his personality but had a hard time shielding his concern when he was in a safe environment.

“I’ll make sure we keep overwatch on him after he lands. The shuttle’s due to land in a half hour. I can get a drone to the pad by then.”

“I wouldn’t mind directing one.” Gina shut down her tablet. “I know how to use them, after all.”

“I’ll bet you do, but I’m not going to deprive Josh of his specialty.” Garza stood and tapped Richards on one ear of his headphones.

Richards pulled the half off.

Garza showed him the tablet. “Send a drone to these coordinates. Use one painted as a courier service from one of the busier companies. It’s going to be all over the place, and I don’t want people wondering about it.”

“You got it, sir.” Richards doffed his headphones and went for a pair of wheeled crates in the corner.

One carried the brand name of Rand’s most popular food market. Richard popped the top. Drones of four different sizes, plus an array of what Gina assumed were listening devices and implantable sensors, filled the interior.

“Let’s go with Two Bravo…”

Garza turned back to Gina as Richards launched into a soft-voiced monologue Gina was fairly certain he aimed at the microbots themselves. “Nothing yet from the florist’s, but we’ll give it time. The clerk sent a transmission to the same place this Winston is staying. No word back from Oxford, either, on his identity.”

“Well, if your gamble failed, he got scared and bolted.” Gina shrugged. “Which would be terrible, wouldn’t it?”

“I thought you were in agreement with the plan.”

“I was. That doesn’t make it risk free.” Gina stretched her arms. “In any case, I’d better get back up to Fountainhead. I want to look in on a couple of assets, since you won’t let me overwatch the most important one—you know, the ranking officer arriving on planet?”

Garza sighed. “Look, Wilkes. I don’t dislike you. But your mode of operating is unconventional, and I’m not ashamed to say we’re having a hard time adapting to it.”

“I’ve noticed.” And possibly enjoyed the discomfort.

“I agree with Colonel Sinclair that you’re a vital presence here, but I also think you’re sloppy and have the potential to be dangerous.” Garza cocked his head. “But you also have the equal potential to swing this mission in our favor. Work with me like I’m trying to work with you.”

His sincerity breached a bit of Gina’s cynical defenses. And she knew he was being genuine, the same way she could tell whether or not Jack was lying. Garza was trying to do his duty. It wasn’t his fault CAU 22 hadn’t worked extensively with civilian operatives before, unlike 171. Jack, Brant, and Dwyer knew how to deal with quirky nonmilitary personnel in their ranks. Garza and his people didn’t have that grace yet.

“You make a good point, Lieutenant.” Gina stood and patted his shoulder. “I’ll do my best. But you’ve got to give me a little slack on the leash because I tend to snap them when they get too restrictive.”

* * *

Jackson walked off the shuttle, steam rising around the ion engines. He was alone. Farook had insisted on waiting to disembark until Jackson was well into the gatehouse. I’m impressed. I thought these revolutionaries were flakier than they’ve turned out to be.

As far as Jackson knew, Farook hadn’t sent or received any communication since they’d made ready to disembark the Harrison. He was careful and deliberate. It made things simpler for Jackson, so he could play the role of the brand-new member of the cause learning the way.

Of course, it also served to heighten Jackson’s suspicions about Farook. That kind of training, that kind of care, didn’t come about naturally. The man had practice, was possibly a professional.

There was more to the Fabians than perhaps CDF Intelligence realized. Jackson had to keep an eye on his shipmates from the transport while he made contact through them with the larger cells on Galt.

Jackson summoned a helicar using one of Galt’s many competing reservation systems. His tablet immediately deducted a minimal fee, one of many Jackson knew he would encounter for the duration of his stay. A white-and-yellow cab trundled toward him, the green letters glowing Available in the windscreen. But a block away, a second helicar cruised off a side street, cutting in front of the first. The new arrival halted in front of the gatehouse.

A young man with a cybernetic right hand waved from the open window, silvery digits glinting. What limited hair he had on his shaved scalp glittered the same way. “Hop in.”

Not usually how a drive solicited business. Perhaps Galters were more direct.

But as Jackson climbed into the back seat, the driver added, “It’s nice to see my brother.”

Code phrase. Jackson recited the countersign Farook had taught him. “Family stands by family.”

With that, the driver accelerated from the curb without inquiring as to Jackson’s destination. Jackson glanced back through the windows as they darkened against the sun’s glare. Farook stood in line behind three other passengers, chatting amiably with an elderly man supported by a very well-done medical exoskeleton. Jackson smiled. Splitting up their cell made surveillance harder. No wonder the Fabians, public as they were with their protests, had proven elusive as an organization over the past four years.

“So, how was the trip?” The driver glanced in his rearview screen. “I’m Hank, by the way.”

“Jason. Glad to meet you.”

“Same here.”

“It was a good voyage. I didn’t have any trouble, not that I know of.”

“That’s a relief. A school friend of mine got arrested last month. She was trying to make our aims known by cutting the sensor links on a handful of CDF scout shuttles—old ones, ones the Coalition didn’t have much use for. I couldn’t believe how far she got before the MPs caught her.” Hank chuckled. “They didn’t even realize she’d snuck onto base until the first readouts came back garbled.”

“I’ll bet that set them back on whatever they used those shuttles for.” Outright sabotage. It shouldn’t surprise Jackson, given the violence he knew the Fabians were capable of. But to hear constant reminders… He clenched his fist in his coat pocket. And these people wonder why they experience such persecution. “Whatever’s happening here has to be a bigger deal than we’ve seen before if we’re coming to Galt from across the galaxy.”

“I don’t know all the details, but the market blip?” Hank nodded. “Our new work will make that seem like a happy holiday.”

So, not that top secret among the Fabian ranks, but the average member of the cause might be in the dark. It would be easier to forward it all to Sinclair’s people, except the protocol was to avoid all signals, even from the embedded transmitter behind Jackson’s ear.

The helicar entered an industrial and commercial part of town. The twin shops looked like they were still in business, though perhaps not very often. The alley was too dark, even in daytime. A few people left the bot-repair storefront. An eight-wheeled automated truck sat parked in front of the furniture fabricator, engine rumbling as men and a couple of heavy-lifter robots moved couches from the building. No one paid mind to the slumped garage at the far end of the alley. It didn’t seem to belong to either company, and the signs declaring it Hazardous—Off Limits didn’t encourage investigation.

“Here we go. I’ll let you out a block past where we’re meeting.” Hank slowed the helicar. “Go in the side door of the garage. You’ll be in a dark room—you might have to wait a minute because the other door’s always locked. If anyone else comes inside with you from out of doors, keep quiet. Okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Jackson took a ragged breath. It was a nice change to let his small amounts of anxiety bleed out rather than constantly concealing it. “Thanks for getting me this far.”

“Good luck and God bless, man.”

As soon as Jackson exited the cab, he squeezed the tiny plastic packet in his hand. His body heat disintegrated the packing and freed a long-duration flitter. It was the size of a small coin, dropping low to the ground, where it used miniature ground effect repulsors to scoot a few centimeters over the broken asphalt and scattered puddles. Tiny Tim. Jackson knew Brant would have designated the flitter with a simple alpha-numeric designation.

Jackson fought the flood of memories pounding against his compartmentalized thoughts. He could worry about Brant—and Gina and Dwyer and Sev—some other time. For the time being, he had a job to do. He was just used to carrying out that duty as part of a team.

The alley was deserted. Jackson let himself into the garage, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible. He could have been there for ten seconds or ten hours. The room had gone pitch-black.

The inner door banged open. Blinding light poured in, forcing Jackson to shield his eyes and look away. Hands grabbed his arms and dragged him through, powerful hands.

“Here he is. One of our newest recruits.” The voice had a lilting British accent—not as strong as Colonel Sinclair’s but familiar enough to put Jackson into a more relaxed state. “Sorry about all that, lad, but blink it off, and you’ll be able to greet us properly.”

Blink he did. Jackson put on his best smile. “Sorry. I’m so grateful to be here.”

“We feel the same. Farook signaled ahead. He’s spoken highly of you—and we heard the recording of your speech from the transport.” That time, a woman spoke up.

Jackson’s vision cleared enough for him to see a dark-skinned man and a brunette woman, the latter with stormy eyes. An older woman joined them, her expression one of dour deliberation.

“My name is Jason Alston. I’m honored to be welcomed into your cause.”

“Alexis Barr.” The younger woman spoke with greater authority than Jackson had heard from any Fabian so far in his journey. She was the one holding Jackson’s arms—and he was stunned to realize he couldn’t have broken free if he wanted. “And my associate, Winston Cole. You, brother, have left your old life behind so you can help us build a new galaxy on the ruins of the corrupt old one.”

* * *

Gantryway and East 60th

Fountainhead

Gina found Opal tending to the young Asian woman again, only that time she was engaged in conversation instead of convalescence.

Opal glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Hello. I see you brought a friend.”

Cam hung back, blending with the other visitors and volunteers mingling in the infirmary hall.

“He watches my back, so I don’t get taken advantage of on these tough streets,” Gina said solemnly.

“Yes, that sounds exactly like what I do,” Cam muttered.

“Well, it’s nice to see you here again, though I don’t have much in the way of names for you from the faces you left. Except this one.” Opal patted the young woman’s hands. “She’s come to and is doing much better. The med techs who stopped by from the clinic healed the worst of her brain fog, but she still needs rest before she fully recovers.”

“Could we go over those names again?” Gina felt bad for the injured woman, who seemed to watch everything around her with alarming intensity, but she did have a mission to complete. “Or maybe I should say the faces…”

“Oh, of course.” Opal opened her tablet. Images filled the small screen. “So, the ones that stand out most—”

The woman recoiled so fast her shoulders slammed against the bed’s plastic backboard. “No. Not Alexis.”

Gina’s gaze snapped to hers. “Who?”

“Al-Alexis. Alexis Barr. She pushed me into the river.” The young woman gulped air like she was fending off drowning all over again.

Gina shared a quick look with Cam, who’d moved closer.

His hands drifted to his belt, where Gina knew he had at least one pulse pistol secreted. “Who are you, exactly?”

“Rissa. Sarissa Fei.” Sarissa gripped her bed so tightly her knuckles went white. “Please don’t let them kill me.”

11

Gantryway and East 60th

Fountainhead

Galt System

22 November 2465

Gina tucked herself into the far corner of the infirmary hall and activated her comm. “Vector Home, this is Eidolon.”

“Eidolon, this is Home. What’s going on?”

“The dead woman’s not dead. She survived the drowning—which makes it not a drowning. I need an extraction.”

“She’s—who is it? The dead woman…” Richards gasped. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Get me Vector One.”

“He’s on overwatch for Janus, using the feeds Chaperone set up. Should I call him back?”

Gina counted to three so she didn’t say anything unnecessarily hurtful to the inexperienced young officer. He had promise and didn’t need her nasty replies. She would save those for Garza. “You’d better tell him, yes, but in the meantime, I need a quick and quiet way out of this neighborhood.”

Cam sidled up to her.

He’s back already? Gina swore he’d only just gone to the front rooms to see if anyone was watching the building.

“Three men across the corner. They’re trying the whole look-like-they’re-reading-but-not routine.”

Gina sighed. “Don’t you love it when amateurs try copying us? It makes me feel special.”

“I don’t know. I would rather they were incompetent.” Cam smirked. “Got our ride yet?”

“No, because Vector Home is having issues with customer service.” Gina redirected her commentary into the open channel. “Do you have a vehicle on standby?”

“Negative, Eidolon. Novabird is a hundred klicks out, tracking possible black-market flights. I can get them back in fifteen minutes, max.”

Dwyer can probably shave it down to ten, but that’s still ages if something goes wrong. “Forget it, Home. We’ll manage. Relay to One, and have him stand by.” She cut off the signal, and yes, it gave her perverse pleasure to make the team leader stand by after his insistence she do the same.

“So, we figure our own way out.” Cam crossed his arms. “What’s your plan?”

“My plan is to hope you found a roomy but quick ride out on the street, perhaps with limited antitheft security.” Gina batted her eyelashes. “Pretty please.”

“Back together for a few days, and you already have me committing grand theft.” Cam shook his head. “I should have taken a data analyst’s chair when I had the chance.”

“Does that mean you succeeded?”

“Of course I did.” Cam shrugged out of his winter coat. “She’ll need this.”

Opal helped Sarissa Fei to her feet. Fei wore a thermal shirt and exercise trousers, all very comfy, Gina was sure—and helpful if they needed to run. Then again, by the way Fei swayed through her steps, it became clear there would be no running with her in their midst.

“Take these with you.” Opal pressed several injection packs into Gina’s hand. “She’ll need a shot every twenty-four hours for the next week to help her neural pathways heal. She might not’ve died, but the lack of oxygen and hypothermia didn’t do her brainwaves any favors.”

“Thank you.” Gina smiled. “I slipped more money under the sheets so anyone nearby who’s greedy wouldn’t get the wrong idea.”

“Thank God for you, Eidolon,” Opal murmured. “I’ve put rumored names with your faces in the tablet. Take care.”

Cam helped Fei into the jacket. He let her pull a cold-weather cap over her head. “No, down farther, and tuck your hair up. We want to obscure your identity as best we can.”

“They won’t try to kill me here, will they?” Fei’s voice shook.

“Not inside. But on the street, as long as no cops are around—or they’ve bribed the laughable law enforcement in this neighborhood—we could all be targets.” Gina grinned. “Don’t worry, though. I’m used to being one.”

Cam snorted. “Usually turns out poorly for the triggermen when you are.”

“You say the sweetest things.” Gina patted his cheek and led them to the door.

They exited as a trio, faces downturned, with Cam murmuring to Fei as if deep in conversation, when in fact, he was saying nothing other than encouragements to the woman to keep her moving. Gina, meanwhile, produced the syrupiest smile she could manufacture and gazed at every shop they passed, occasionally pointing out something she had to have.

She was really keeping the trio of obvious thugs visible in the storefront window reflections. The men had abandoned their pretense of being avid readers. Instead, they strode along a course parallel to Gina and her companions, dodging traffic when they needed to cross streets.

“Here we go.” Cam pressed against a neon-green Spiedel Mark Twelve six-wheeled independent-suspension car with a hefty clearance. Racing stripes on either side shifted through a spectrum of metallic colors as they moved to the back end.

“Will it take you long?” Gina spotted their pursuers crossing perpendicular. Apparently, they weren’t content with waiting for their quarry to come to them. More movement among pedestrians caught her attention too. “Ah, Chaperone…”

Her use of the code name made him look up. He glanced in the direction she pointed. “Well, hell.”

Three more men hurried toward them, shoving aside anyone in their path. Gina saw their hands tucked inside their coat pockets or under flung-open jackets. It took her two seconds to analyze the crowds between them and her position. Seven adults. No children. Good enough.

She pushed Fei to the curb and drew a pulse pistol. “Stay down.”

“What’re you—” Cam’s eyes widened, but instead of arguing, he ducked, grabbed his own pistol, and smashed it against the passenger-side window.

Gina timed her first blasts with the crashing noise. Two bursts caught the lead man in the chest, dropping him onto the sidewalk. His companions scattered, finding cover behind a parked vehicle and inside a doorway. The pedestrians also ducked and ran off, screaming as they did. Traffic jammed in the street.

Shouts drew her back to the left. She plucked a second pulse pistol from her belt and fired that direction, keeping her right-hand weapon pointed at the remaining two on the sidewalk.

“Get in!” Cam pressed Fei inside the car and slipped in with her, lunging for the vehicle’s control console as he did. Whatever he had in mind for overriding its security systems couldn’t have been too complicated because, in fifteen seconds, the car’s engine roared to life.

Gina smiled. She’d shot another man in those fifteen seconds, dodged incoming fire from two directions, and hunkered at the rear of the car.

“Eidolon, this is Vector Home.” Richards’s voice shook, but nothing else about the way he spoke betrayed nervousness. “Traffic guides for the next three blocks are null and void. Get to Fifty-Seventh, and I’ll get you clear.”

“Roger and thanks very much.” Gina cranked open the rear door and slapped the back of Cam’s seat with the steaming barrel of her second pulse pistol. “Go!”

Her order was unnecessary, she found, because the instant her knees hit the seat cushion, Cam raced away from the curb. The six wheels squealed and skidded on the icy pavement, throwing up spray where they hit slush-filled puddles. The open door Gina had entered through smashed against the parked car in front of them and tore free, banging down the road behind them. Gina hazarded a glance behind and saw two men firing plasma pistols at the fleeing car.

“Incoming!” Cam snapped. He yanked on the steering controls.

Gina tumbled toward the open doorway and clung to Fei’s seat as the rescued woman screamed—not nearly appreciative of her salvation, Gina noted. Plasma blasts seared the top of the car and blew out the rear window, reducing the glare-proof transparency to glistening, molten slag.

But at least Richards had been true to his word—the traffic guides stayed green ahead three blocks.

Cam laughed, a sharp, adrenaline-tinged sound. A map appeared on his windscreen.

“I’m glad you’re happy!” Gina shouted over the roar of the car and the screech of incoming plasma blasts. “But keep us on the road anyway!”

“Not a problem!” Cam slapped the console. “Home is feeding us orbital scans of the entire damned city, including a pair of VTOL craft coming for us. I can see more than an entire police precinct.”

“Which is great,” Gina muttered as she ejected a spent power pack from her pulse pistol and fished for a new one, “until they find us while you’re celebrating.”

* * *

CSV Oxford

Orbiting Fourth Planet

Galt System

Tamir linked the satellite network from Eldred’s console to his. “Have you identified enemy targets?”

“As near as I can tell.” Eldred magnified the image as best she could, but the screen still appeared grainy. “Two private aircraft on intercept vectors. They could be unrelated, but given they altered their trajectories as soon as Chaperone reported weapons fire…”

Sinclair stepped between their stations. “Keep them away from Chaperone and his charges. If they’ve really located Sarissa Fei, we need her alive and in custody as soon as possible.”

“Working on it, sir.” Eldred pressed her comms earpiece. “Vector Home has notified Nova One and Vector One. Neither is in position to help, but Nova One reports he can be on scene in six minutes.”

Sinclair shook his head. “I don’t want Novabird appearing out of the sky every time something goes amiss. Her frequent arrival will only arouse suspicion among the Fabians. What other options do we have?”

Tamir expanded his version of the map. Twin red dots marked the approaching VTOL craft, and a red square indicated a vehicle in pursuit of the ride commandeered by Eidolon and Chaperone, the latter designated with a blue square. The computer outlined six locations within five kilometers of the pursuit.

“Any of these destinations will work, Colonel. We have them reserved under shell companies set up for CDF Intelligence in case of such an emergency.”

“Route them to whichever is the nearest and the least conspicuous. And get me Lieutenant Garza.”

Eldred tapped a few commands then nodded. “You’re on, sir.”

“Vector One, this is Base,” Sinclair said. “Do you have confirmation Janus is with his hosts?”

“Base, this is Vector One, confirming.” Garza sounded perturbed, likely at the sloppiness of the situation. Given Ms. Wilkes’s involvement, though, Sinclair wouldn’t have expected anything less. “His valet is keeping me up to date.”

Valet? Sinclair raised an eyebrow.

Eldred pointed to her screen. Schematics for a small, round flitter glowed in the upper right corner.

“Very good, One. Be advised Chaperone is escorting Eidolon to one of our summer homes.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll rendezvous as soon as I can withdraw from the area without raising suspicion. Janus has already provided pictures of the happy couple.”

Sinclair admired his field operatives for their endless creativity in making up innocent euphemisms for targeted individuals on the fly, but it could be a damnable nuisance keeping track of it all. Fortunately, Tamir moderated a running document of all the terms populated by the communique, indexed for later mission-specific use.

“Sir,” Eldred murmured. “They’re approaching the next turns. Vector Home is feeding them the coordinates and directives via our satellite feed.”

Sinclair cleared his throat. “Get there as soon as you can, Vector One. Base out.” He made a slashing motion with his hand across his throat, directing Eldred to cut the signal. “I trust our interference in local security and tracking feeds has remained unnoticed.”

“Yes, sir, for now,” Tamir answered.

Eldred made a face. “For now? I think you’re selling us short, Tamir. The Galt networks are so busy fighting off malware and other invasive programs from scammers trying to sell each other advanced tech that they haven’t noticed our infiltration. It’s too subtle. They’re built for brute force.”

“Be that as it may, Eldred, let us not tempt God or fate.”

“You’re the colonel, sir.” Eldred’s console beeped at her. “That’s Vector Home. He’s run into virtual roadblocks with the traffic guides deeper in the city.”

Sinclair gestured. “By all means—clear the road.”

* * *

Gina fired three more bursts through the back window. She’d scored several hits on the car trying to chase them, but as they raced through the next intersection, the traffic guides abruptly turned red in their direction and green in the other. Two streams of hovercraft and other vehicles flooded between them, forcing the pursuer to skid to a stop.

“Our angels continue to minister to us,” she told Cam, and as she did, she realized Brant the Catholic would find it especially amusing.

“Good news, finally.” Cam programmed a new route into the vehicle’s nav system. “Three point two klicks to a safe house.”

“Eidolon, this is Vector One.” Garza sounded breathless. “Do you still have her?”

Gina hung on to the back of Fei’s seat as the woman hunkered low, her face pale and her eyes squeezed shut. “We do. Also managed to not get shot ourselves, thanks for asking.”

“When you get to the vacation spot, turn into the alley. I have a hangar ready. Vector One out.”

Hangar? Gina shook her head. These military types and their goofy phrases.

They managed the rest of the ride without complication, though the route was so circuitous Gina was glad for the nav system because even she got lost twice. When they finally pulled into the alley, she blinked. A cargo truck lumbered along, having just gone the same direction moments before.

“Very clever, Duncan,” she murmured.

Cam slowed to a crawl. The truck’s rear door rolled open, and Garza hopped onto the pavement, dressed in drab winter gear that put him as incognito as any other pedestrian in that quarter of Fountainhead. “Everybody out.”

Gina disembarked and opened the front door. She helped Fei step free and move at a quick walk. Garza directed them across the alley into an open service door of a repair shop with faded paint on its signs—not the place Cam had highlighted on his nav system. A further feint in case our enemies broke our comms.

Cam jumped out, too, but kept the car running so it rolled up the truck’s ramp and thudded against a far wall. Garza spoke into his commlink, and the transport vehicle closed its door before accelerating down the alley.

“Off the streets.” Garza ushered Cam in and shut the door, putting them into a dim corridor lit only by orange backup beacons.

Gina and the others followed him through two turns and into a windowless room, a basement, by the damp smell. A couple of cots, food storage units, and a crooked door labeled Restrooms.

Charming. “Quite a rustic retreat you’ve got here, Duncan.”

Garza frowned at her. “This is her. NO mistaking her ID. How’d you find her?”

“She is Sarissa Fei, former CDF Intelligence, and I’m sure she can answer all the questions.” Gina helped Fei sit.

The poor woman’s limbs shuddered.

“Easy. It’s okay. We’re here to help you.”

“Intelligence?” Fei blinked away tears. “Oh, thank God. I knew they’d never let me down but… when you’re out of the service, you don’t think of ever in a million years needing this kind of support.”

Garza crouched before her. He smiled and touched her hand. “We’ll do everything we can, but we need your assistance too. You identified this woman for Eidolon. I need you to do it again, so I can confirm.”

Confirm, confirm, confirm. That’s all they ever did. Does it drive Jack crazy too? Gina glanced at Cam, who alternated between watching the door and looking like he was having a marathon brooding session. Does this kind of work wear on him too?

Fei chewed her lip but examined the image on Garza’s tablet without flinching. Apparently, getting back into the swing of things didn’t bother her either. “It is her. I can confirm it. Alexis Barr.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Garza turned the tablet so only he could see it and paged through more screens.

Gina patted Fei’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“I will be. Thank you so much, again.” Fei touched her hand. “I couldn’t believe you swept in to pull me out of this mess. It’s the second time I’ve felt like I was saved from death.”

Gina withdrew her hand so suddenly Fei’s expression shifted to one of confusion. Why did Fei have to put it like that? This work, chasing the Fabians—it wasn’t why she’d come there. Neither was her vendetta against the scum taking advantage of innocents.

She’d had only one reason for coming to Galt, one objective to achieve, and she’d failed it miserably. Not that any of these people would understand. Jack would. He knew the terrible pull of family.

“Ms. Fei—Sarissa, I need you to view this footage as well.” Garza glanced at Gina briefly before he revealed the tablet again.

It was Alexis Barr, all right, and the man the florist had told them was named Winston.

“I’ll be damned,” Cam muttered. “We’ve got them together? In the same spot?”

“We do. Thanks to Janus.”

No wonder he’d given Gina a strange look. She shook her head. “I’m missing something. Who is Alexis? Besides just a friend of yours, Sarissa.”

“Alexis and I knew each other through her husband and… other acquaintances. She wanted me to join the Fabian cause, and I refused. She—she’s the one who threw me into the river.” Fei clenched her fists. “I stood there trying to reason with my friend, and all she could do was theorize ways I could be used like some kind of tool to sabotage a space station. I don’t understand her. I knew she was in pain but—”

“That’s a hell of a pain to make you join a revolutionary cult,” Cam interrupted.

“Grief will do that to a soul. Not that I’m condoning.” Garza rose. “Alexis Barr is the widow of Major Ronald Drymand, commanding officer of CSV Monterrey.”

Oh.

“Shit,” Cam snapped.

“That’s what I was thinking.” Gina pressed her hand to her forehead.

Even she’d heard of the Fabians’ near-catastrophic strike against the most famed—and effective—general of the Coalition Defense Forces. Drymand had nearly taken David Cohen’s life while feeding information to the League that caused countless deaths.

And there Alexis was, smiling, with the man Gina and Cam had linked to illicit data spike smuggling.

“Well, Jack,” she murmured, “count on you to step right into the middle of the most interesting messes.”

12

Unconquered Spires

East of Rand

Galt System

23 November 2465

Dwyer put Novabird on autopilot and leaned back as far as his flight chair would let him. The tallest sandstone spires in that region were four hundred meters, and he kept the racer well above a thousand, so he wasn’t worried about terrain. He needed a break, though, from the endless overflights, as pretty as the snow-dusted outcroppings were.

He’d thought they would get a reprieve when Sakuri had started getting the ruckus on the comms late yesterday, but near as he could tell, Oxford’s people had pulled enough strings—or maybe he should say broke into enough satellite systems and sensor banks—to get Gina and her crew to safety. At least, all the updates overnight and into the gorgeous, cold dawn had been positive.

Gina’s crew. Dwyer shook his head. “Sure ain’t like the old days.”

“Problem, Ehud?” Sakuri rubbed at her eyes as she scrolled through yet another scan result. “This sector’s clear.”

“Yippee. Got only a couple hundred more to go.” Ehud kicked his boots up onto the console. “We haven’t seen so much as a winged critter out here, let alone shuttles or aircraft skulking about with black-market electronics in their holds.”

“This kind of surveillance takes patience.” Sakuri managed a sideways look at him. Her eyes were definitely bloodshot around the edges. “And time.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve had plenty of that, after nigh on…” Dwyer checked his commlink. “Sixteen hours straight.”

“I wouldn’t whine too much.”

“Why’s that? The esteemed lieutenant going to slap permanent marks on our OPMFs?”

Sakuri scowled. “Lieutenant Garza has good reason for every order he gives. That’s something the rest of you could learn. If he and Josh have the communications intercepts pointing to this region, then this is where we’re going to hunt until we find what we’re looking for.”

“I don’t have a problem with that.”

“But you’re used to more excitement.”

“Much,” Sev rumbled.

Dwyer started. The damned thing was, he’d forgotten at least twice that Sev was aboard because the fella kept to himself so much. Matter of fact, Dwyer had become used to talking to himself over the missions they’d pulled together. Having Warrant Sakuri around helped him keep his wits, but he had to admit he also missed the solitude at times.

Dwyer grinned. No way he would let the shrinks analyze him for that one. “Look, Ixora, I’m not gonna knock the way Garza does things, but this assignment? It’s a temporary matchup. You folks are gonna have to adjust to our way of running things too.”

“I’ll leave that for the lieutenant to decide.”

Man. She’d been pretty icy since they’d reached the surface, after what he’d figured was a positive intro aboard Oxford. “You have anything else on your mind, Warrant?”

“I’ve—it’s news from home. Nothing to bother you about.”

“Try me.” Dwyer grinned. “I’m a pretty good listener. Ask Sev.”

Sev nodded.

“You know my family was one of the founders of Nosamo Aerothermic, right?” Sakuri grimaced. “Before they and the Morgans were forced out by Ardalion Noor’s clan. I heard from my uncle the other day that the Sakuris and the Morgans are pushing their way back in. One of the lawsuits lounging in court for years has finally gained legs, thanks in no small part to your team’s discovery of how terrible a man Noor really is—which everyone in my family has been screaming about for a long time.”

“Ah. I get it. My bet is the board didn’t take kindly to finding out their CEO had a weapon of mass destruction masquerading as an atmospheric cleanser.” Dwyer shook his head. “Lord knows the president didn’t.”

“In any case, it sounds like my uncle has spearheaded this along with other key family members, and now Noor has left Bellwether. Apparently, CBI has a warrant for his arrest inside Coalition space, and RUMIT says CIS is scouring the stars for him too.” Sakuri exhaled. “I just hope one or the other can get ahold of him and bring the families—not to mention the next of kin of people his Tactisar thugs killed on Bellwether—a measure of justice.”

“I second that prayer.” Dwyer scratched at his chin. Bellwether hadn’t been his favorite place to visit, though it did bring up a few pleasant memories among the bad. What was her name? Ava something. The pilot… Dwyer snapped his fingers. “Ava Vardanyan.”

Sakuri blinked. “Who’s that?”

“Shockwave Shuttles Limited,” Sev offered.

Dwyer pointed at him in triumph. “That’s her! That’s the gal. She was the courier who lent us a neighborly hand when we had to scram out of Bellwether’s hangar maze with your lieutenant when we pulled him from hiding a step ahead of Tactisar. Pity she never got my real name…”

Novabird’s console flashed red. The tactical screen bracketed a target moving swiftly below, though not at ground level.

“Reckon we’ve got ourselves a bogey.” Dwyer slid his seat up and resumed manual control. “We’ve got nice cloud cover ahead too.”

Sakuri gazed out the cockpit window. “The cumulonimbus at twelve degrees half a klick ahead.”

“I see it.” Dwyer steered onto a new trajectory. Novabird’s variable wings corrected, shunting her sidelong and down two hundred meters into the low-lying clouds. The tactical display magnified their new target. “Florio Ionworks? Huh. Looks like a Three-Oh-Three gig.”

Sakuri swiped the readout into her console and dug into the technical specifications of a small spacecraft half Novabird’s length but with the same beam, like a flattened octagon with sharp angles. “She’s making a good clip through the spires at three hundred meters’ altitude.”

“Three hundred?” Dwyer wrinkled his nose. “That doesn’t make a lick of sense. Any pilot worth their wings would just avoid hazardous terrain—which I suppose means we’ve found our suspicious pals, doesn’t it?”

“Sounds like we’d better confirm.” Sakuri checked the scanners. “I’m getting ID registered as Stay Far Back, out of Fountainhead, tagged as FNH-60623GA.”

Dwyer snorted. “So, what’s your pleasure? We can’t exactly pull it over, sirens flashing.”

“No, but I think the lieutenant was clear with his preferred protocol.” Sakuri smiled for the first time in who knew how many days. “You wanted to get your blood pumping, didn’t you?”

Dwyer stared for a moment then burst out laughing. He glanced over his shoulder, still chuckling. “Didn’t think they’d go for our idea, did you? You owe me.”

Sev glowered. He dug a credit chit from his pocket.

“Such prompt payment.” Dwyer tapped his chit against Sev’s and transferred the thirty credits Sev had bet him that Sakuri and Garza would not agree to his plan for what to do when they wanted to inspect a suspicious craft. “Thanks much.”

Sev set about assembling his rifle.

“Don’t suppose you’ve gotten us confirmation that gig’s carrying what we hope it’s carrying?” Dwyer asked Sakuri.

“Not yet, but it matches the approximate location and three-day span hinted at in the decrypted communiques.” Sakuri touched the scan screen. The center-aft section of the gig glowed orange. “Mass scans come back with higher density than you’d expect from weapons or other stolen goods. Data spike components put off a peculiar signature, not easy to detect, so even with Novabird’s advanced scanners, we’re not going to have the certainty you want unless we force them down and board them.”

“Welp, best not delay.” Dwyer dropped Novabird’s right-wing assembly and slid the racer into a steep, fast dive.

Sev yelped and scrambled for the barrel of his rifle. Sakuri whooped and held onto her console.

Now that’s what any good pilot’s reaction should be. Dwyer pulled free of the dive at 500 meters, Novabird’s shadow rippling over the spire tops with the setting sun behind them. “How’s about you ring them up?”

Sakuri cleared her throat and toggled the comms. “Stay Far Back. We’re not gonna do what your name suggests, so do yourselves a favor and land. We ain’t picky about pulling scraps off your carcass if you don’t open your hatches.”

Dwyer grinned. She put such a crackle into her voice—and added a convincing twang, he might add—that Dwyer figured he himself might have acquiesced to the demand. The trick, of course, was seeing if they thought their modest gig could outrun a racer whose ion engine output exceeded their own by more than seventy percent.

Sakuri waited on a response but received none. She punched the transmitter again. “You don’t get a third chance, Stay Far Back. Slow down and descend. Get your ass outta the air and power off. That way we take your cargo, and we won’t take any lives. Plus, you get to keep your ship. Bonus. Consider it, or else we bring you down the hard way and strip the burnt hulk for parts along with the goods.”

“Wow.” Dwyer whistled while keeping an eye on airspeed and altitude. At that rate, they would intercept in thirty seconds. “This mean you want me to run out the guns?”

“I don’t think you need to. Those are powered, so they’ll get the hint.”

“Yeah, that’s true, and if… hold on. They’re descending. Got a drop in engine strength.”

Sakuri frowned at the displays, but they showed exactly what Dwyer had pointed out—the gig banked toward an open patch among the spires and throttled back. “They’re landing. You’re right.”

“No kidding?” Dwyer twisted in his seat. “Sev! Did you hear that? I was right.”

“Rare,” Sev replied.

Sakuri chuckled but kept her attention on the displays. “I wonder if my threats got through to them.”

“Still, I’d watch the rest of the scopes in case they’ve got a wingman hiding nearby.”

“They look clear so far. Why do you say that?”

Dwyer gestured at Sev. “That’s what I’d do.”

He maneuvered Novabird between spires and came in low over the parked gig, the jets kicking snow and grass into a cloud. Dwyer craned his neck so he could look through Novabird’s lower cockpit viewports. Boring gig, literally. No flashy paint, no logos, nothing to differentiate it from the other gigs of its class. Just a registry number and the name Stay Far Back.

Dwyer flipped a row of switches and swung Novabird in a tight half circle, bringing it into a hover three meters off the ground. The orientation kept the rear hatch away from the gig but the racer’s concealed guns pointed in the right direction. “Sev? No one’s shown their faces yet. How’s about you go knock?”

Sev stood at the ramp, clad in his active camouflage suit. It had already shifted colors to match Novabird’s interior scheme. “Ready.”

“Watch that first step.” Dwyer eased the racer’s nose up and looked back one more time.

Sev dragged his mask down and stepped out into the air.

* * *

Sev landed in a crouch and kept moving, muscles absorbing the shock, rifle raised. The gig showed no activity. The cockpit windows were too tinted for him to make out the pilot or crew. The hatch remained closed.

“Do you see it?” Father whispered. “Look behind the trees. Through the branches.”

Sev licked his lips. He could. He imagined the deer. The antlers—or were those branches? Or were the two overlapping? The rifle wavered in his hands.

“Do not shoot unless you are sure,” Father instructed, “because you may never get the chance again.”

Sev rounded the shuttle. His mask blocked the swirling snow, and the enhanced goggles let him see through the debris.

“Deadeye, this is Vector Two.” Warrant Sakuri had a calm voice with a cadence Sev had heard from his last schoolteacher. “The fuselage is coated with a generic scan diffuser—it’s why we couldn’t get anything off it sooner. But it’s clouding my readings. You’ll have to breach.”

Of course he would. Sev shook his head. He never assumed it would be an easy task. So he pulled the charges Warrant Dwyer had supplied from his pocket. Sev hurried to the left hatch and placed one on either side of the seal. Then he retreated to a safe distance before detonating. Twin flashes erupted. The hatch glowed with a spiderweb of fractures, shattered, and collapsed from its frame.

Sev tossed a third charge through the gap—nonlethal. A stun grenade. One was enough to knock out all the occupants of a gig that size. The grenade hit a wall too soon and bounced back. Sev swore. His pulse quickened—even more so when the wall moved.

An armed robot folded out through the open hatch, tearing the top of the fuselage like the contents of a can deciding to free themselves. It was twice as wide as Sev, the same height, and brandished a pair of autocannons.

Branches shattered. Wolves crashed from the underbrush, tackling the deer in a frenzy of growls and bellows. Bone crunched. Blood stained the snow.

“That’s enough,” Father murmured. “Back away. Quickly.”

Sev shot rounds into the bot’s sunken head, which he assumed housed optical scanners. Plastic and metal broke, spilling bits and emitting sparks. Good. It wasn’t bulletproof.

That was only a mild comfort when the robot left the fuselage’s ruined frame and stomped onto the churned-up, mucky ground in front of Sev.

* * *

“Dirty bastards.” Dwyer kicked Novabird around. “Run out those guns.”

Sakuri stared, mouth hanging open.

“Do it!” Dwyer snapped.

“Right. Yes.” Sakuri punched the controls and deployed the turret.

Which, Dwyer admitted, wasn’t the best option, given the robot’s proximity to Sev, but he hoped the operative would forgive him for getting a bit too close.

The robot’s autocannon swung away from Sev and angled.

“Dwyer!” Sakuri snapped.

“I see it!” He wrenched Novabird on its side. The autocannon flashed, and Novabird shuddered as her own turret belched in response. Damage-control alarms blared throughout the racer’s cabin.

“Impacts along the port wing assembly and engine cowlings,” Sakuri reported.

And not much on the damned bot besides. Dwyer saw her shots had gone wide, blasting chunks out of the rock spires. Where is Sev? The operative had found shelter behind another spire, where he could sink a few more rounds into the robot’s torso and optical ports. Meantime, the bot’s autocannons tried to shoot at both Novabird and Sev.

“We have another problem.” Sakuri held onto the console as the racer bucked under more blasts. “The gig’s power plant has redlined. It’s going critical.”

“Guess we’re doin’ this the hard way.” Dwyer punched the comms. “Deadeye, this is Nova One. Ready for extraction—I’m standing her on her tailfeathers.”

He cut the signal and looked at Sakuri. “As soon as I tip us, you get our guns to pummel the target.”

“Roger that.”

“Here’s hoping I didn’t stuff myself with MREs,” Dwyer muttered and pulled back on the control stick.

Novabird’s wings angled into a pitch the integrity alarms protested was five degrees beyond max. Dwyer heard the groans from the fuselage as the racer flipped up, its dorsal surface facing the bot. Fresh plumes of dirt washed over the landing side, obscuring the bot—until it fired again.

Sakuri’s return shots from the turret ripped it to shreds, ending the bot’s existence in a brilliant plume and black smoke.

“All aboard!” Dwyer shouted into the comm.

Wind roared through the back hatch, the grit spiraling into the cabin. Novabird’s ramp scraped a furrow into the grassland.

* * *

Sev saw his only escape. He sprinted for the ramp, rifle slung across his back, aware of the alarming whine from the ruined gig. His fingers closed around the handholds on the ramp’s right side, and he shouted, “Go!”

For a second, he worried Warrant Dwyer hadn’t heard him—until Novabird shot into the sky like a firework. Sev ground his teeth. His tendons burned at the exertion. Pull yourself up. He obeyed his commands, crawling up the ramp centimeter by centimeter, until the racer’s internal safety systems decided raising the ramp and closing the hatch wouldn’t amputate any of Sev’s limbs.

The hatch had halfway closed when the gig exploded. Novabird came out of its ascent into an arc, the entire craft tossing around in the worst turbulence Sev had experienced—and that included landing in the rain on Aphendrika. The thunder cut off as the hatch fully sealed. Sev rolled onto his back, panting.

Warrant Dwyer’s whoop echoed from the cockpit. “If that don’t beat all! Sev, buddy, you all right back there? Just you wait until we write up the after-action report on that maneuver. There ain’t an analyst alive who’d believe it if it weren’t for the black box data.”

“Why don’t we celebrate after we make sure he’s not dead?” Warrant Sakuri’s face was upside down over Sev’s. A warm hand touched his cheek. “Are you injured, Operative?”

“No.” Sev tried to lift himself from the deck but winced as pain shot through his left rib cage. He slammed back. No doubt he’d creased his skull too. Sev touched his hair, and his hand came away bloody.

“I disagree with your assessment,” Sakuri said dryly as she opened a medical kit.

“Yes,” Sev corrected himself.

13

Drake Waterfront Walk

Rand

Galt System

23 November 2465

The Fabians certainly didn’t waste time. Jackson hadn’t been on the planet a full forty-eight hours before he accompanied Farook, Nick, and Zack to the darkened end of the waterfront with backpacks laden with electronic gear and faces shielded by featureless masks.

Jackson had half a day to familiarize himself with the contents of his pack. A few items baffled him, but thankfully, he’d been able to access a database Eldred had transmitted through the weather updates on his tablet. A curious onlooker would have seen Jackson checking the cloud cover for the cold winter’s evening. But when Jackson tapped on the sensor imagery for greater detail, it opened a menu listing for the hidden files downloaded from Oxford after being bounced off who knew how many tablets.

The most obvious thing about the contents? Most of those mystery items weren’t legal. Jackson was certain CDF Intelligence would disavow him if he ever used one inside Coalition space. But out there, those concerns were moot.

More surprising was the cost. Jackson might not be as technically adept with counterintelligence devices as Brant, but he knew these were expensive. Plus, the masks weren’t simple face coverings—they allowed rudimentary night vision, had a passive friend-from-foe indicator, and filtered out harmful chemicals and noxious fumes. Whatever money sources the Fabians enjoyed, Jackson had a hard time believing it was a collection fund from eager individual donors.

His backpack also contained a plethora of wiring tools he was used to from his days working on the ranch and staying undercover as a skimmer technician. Jackson’s role was to piece together a signal booster and keep it not only running but disguised.

“We can’t let anyone find it.” Farook’s breath condensed in the frigid air. “For obvious reasons.”

Jackson nodded. Their group was clustered at the far north end of the boardwalk, where it followed twin steps and double ramps onto the rocky beach. Waves thundered against the coast. The stones scattered here and there were slick with ice, catching the gleam of periodic shuttles passing overhead.

Zack emerged from a crevasse between the farthest staircase and the sheer rock face cut by lasers to make room for the ascent to the waterfront walk. How the burly man had managed to squeeze back there, Jackson had no idea. “It’s clear. In here, my friends.”

“Keep it down,” Nick hissed. “Someone might hear us.”

“But no drones are on patrol, right?” Jackson asked. “I mean, you redirected them, didn’t you?”

“It’s not like they’re going to stay gone forever.” Nick scowled at him. He adjusted a readout on his tablet, the rectangle glowing softly against his arm where straps held it in place. “We shouldn’t have problems for the next thirty minutes, but that time slips away fast when we’re working. So stay near, and don’t lose any components in the sand, or you’ll be the one doing the digging when security shows up.”

“Enough of that.” Farook gave them each a stern look.

Zack seemed sheepish by the way he became interested in his belt pouches. Nick rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. Jackson, for his part, made sure Jason Alston returned the firm gaze with an obedient nod.

“Good. I don’t care how nervous you are. Know that God won’t abandon us now, on the eve of our next triumph.” Farook pointed up at the glowing purple peaks above them.

Auric Ex was the prime mercantile house dictating precious metal prices on Galt and, thereby, through the sector. Five tall buildings, each one alternating by ten stories from twenty to sixty, were clumped together like a crystalline growth that had emerged from the sea. Even that late at night, with the next day just around the bend, Jackson lost count of how many lights were on.

“No more than a few people are there in person,” Farook continued. “If the components malfunction, we will have to enter. Pray they continue to work.”

“Here.” Nick placed the first of many devices onto the comms’ hardline box tucked away in the crevasse.

Jackson couldn’t believe the brass-colored wafer, its surface riven with silver traceries, was something these guys could buy on the black market, but he pushed the concern to the back of his mind, as the tendrils were no thicker than human hairs. They dug through the edges of the box’s lid.

Jackson focused on his role. He held a pair of pronged data sticks between his gloved fingers. Each was loaded with programs designed to trick the diagnostic monitoring so the hard-line to those guardian algorithms would continue to report proper functions to the comms company’s technicians. If all went well, the Fabian cell could keep an eye on Auric Ex’s inner workings without anyone noticing the tampering.

Good thing he had gloves to keep out the cold and hide his DNA and other identifiers, because Jackson’s hands were sweating. Why does this make me more anxious than running from gunfire? It didn’t matter. He was thankful yet again that his role as Jason Alston allowed him to give free rein to his nerves rather than constantly concealing them.

White sparks spurted from the box lid. It popped open. Jackson’s eyes widened at the incomprehensible mass of circuits, wires, and ports crammed into the container. A row of three green lights were housed dead center. They flickered.

“There!” Nick snapped.

Jackson plunged the data sticks into the box, aiming for the open ports. He had one shot. If he missed, alarms would bring private security down on their quartet—and unlike local police, they weren’t even mildly concerned about taking in suspects for arrest and trial. They would likely deal with the saboteurs with plasma blasts.

Mercifully, he managed the insert on the first go. The green lights froze, flashed twice, then settled into a steady pulse. Farook inhaled. Actually, so did everyone, with varying degrees of vehemence.

Nick plugged a cable into his tablet and the other end into the comms box. He spun through screens filled with readouts so cluttered by text and other symbols they could have been doubly encrypted for all Jackson knew. Nick relaxed, his shoulders slumping for the first time in days.

No poker player, this one.

“So? What do we have?” Farook demanded.

“That worked. The diagnostics show this comms port operating within normal parameters.” Nick smirked. “Our entry looked just like the power outages that run through the waterfront walk every few weeks, thanks to the salt water seeping into the power grid.”

“Clever stuff,” Jackson murmured, remembering how Brant had used the same ploy to CAU 171’s advantage—cloaking covert operations in normal municipal malfunctions. Coupled with the money and Farook’s skill at misdirection when they traveled from the transport Harrison to Galt’s surface, he found himself more and more wary of the Fabians. Simple, earnest volunteers for the cause? They had greater attributes than at first glance.

“Good man.” Farook slapped Nick’s shoulder, the sound muffled by the padding of gloves and winter coats. He then checked his wrist unit. An orange light glowed at its side. “This box may think it’s doing nothing except routing local communications, but that doesn’t leave us free to use ours. The dampener will remain in place until we’re well away at the rendezvous. Watch the clock. We can’t stay blacked out forever.”

Right. Jackson was glad for the masks so he could nod and seem agreeable but still freely frown underneath. Having their comms and all other signals blocked by Farook’s dampening device made their operation more secure, on the one hand, but meant they would be without additional Fabian support unless it was deactivated. The way Farook spoke hinted he wasn’t controlling the dampener’s window either.

Of course, the signal blocking also meant Jackson couldn’t reach Oxford or vice versa. So much for “weather updates” lending a hand.

I’ll still have a way around the dampener if I really need it. Jackson couldn’t see the flitter but knew Tiny Tim remained on the prowl, watching for him nearby.

Heavy boots shuffled in the sand. “Our time, my friend,” Zack murmured.

Right. The break-in. No doubt Gina would have clapped her hands with glee or spun around or both. Jackson feigned all the enthusiasm he could muster. “You got it. I’m ready.”

“So we all hope, as long as you match the right wires,” Nick grumbled.

“My prayers go with you, brothers,” Farook murmured. “Be safe.”

Zack offered a jaunty but sloppy salute and led Jackson deeper into the crevasse. A drainage grate loomed ten meters in, a jagged hole already cut by a plasma torch. That had been Zack’s job earlier in the day, performed while wearing the drab coveralls of a Rand maintenance worker. He and Jackson hurried down the pipe, hunched over but moving with enough speed that the lights embedded every five meters or so made Jackson a bit dizzy.

The pipe ended in a large, square drain nexus, where seven other pipes converged. A ladder led up to a catwalk around the second floor of the two-story structure. Jackson clambered up first, Zack right behind him. The door to their left was ringed by red-and-white stripes of caution, emblazed with “Auric Ex—No Trespassing.”

Zack slid a composite baton from his belt and rapped on it.

His knock sounded like a vehicle-mounted pulse cannon fired at arm’s length. Jackson swore every security goon and drone within a klick would be there in seconds, brandishing weapons.

Instead, metallic clinks sounded along the door, and it trundled open. A woman wearing an all-black jumpsuit, cap, and boots greeted them. Her physique reminded Jackson of Gina—taut, athletic, capable of dealing damage. Her plasma carbine would certainly do the trick if her body failed. “Ya have it?” She spoke in a clipped Scots accent.

Jackson’s hand hung loose by his coat pocket, ready to draw the ballistic pistol loaded with stun rounds. He didn’t want to hurt the woman, not if he could avoid it, but he also didn’t want Zack to bludgeon her with the baton. A stun would be more merciful and buy them plenty of hours. But Zack handed her a set of bound plastic cards, and she lowered her weapon.

“A hundred thousand,” he confirmed.

“I was promised jewels. Coins.” Her frown deepened.

“Instructions for where to find them are on the bottom card. The top is fifty thousand credits. The rest is yours, assuming we get out of here.”

Jackson grunted. A hundred thousand credits? Half in jewels and rare coins? Coupled with the expense of the gear and devices, no wonder the Fabians had such success in sneaking into seemingly impregnable places and past guarded networks. All they did was buy access.

Surely being on Galt made people more susceptible to graft—but remembering his prior missions involving Coalition civilians and even CDF personnel, Jackson realized his own country wasn’t immune to the lure.

The guard pocketed the cards and stepped back from the door. “Stairwell at the end of the hall. Up two flights. Third door on the left. Bleed the buggers dry.”

“We thank you for your support, sister,” Zack murmured.

They made their passage free of interference. Whatever rank the security guard held, it must have been formidable, for no alarms sounded, and no one came running to intercede. Jackson eased open the unmarked door when they arrived two floors above the machine room entrance they’d used.

So many computers. Jackson couldn’t help staring at the racks upon racks of drives, the rainbow assortment of lights. The room stretched across several hundred meters and up—well, high enough Jackson couldn’t see the top.

Zack nudged him. “Your turn.”

That it was. Jackson consulted the tablet, happy to find Nick’s layout was correct. No doubt they’d bribed plans from the staff—maybe the same guard below. In either case, Jackson found the console he needed in a few seconds.

That was the moment. Jackson had the data spike, an innocuous-looking device shaped like a couple of pens squashed together with a hexagonal cross section, solid black except for a gold ring at either end. Once he attached it, the metals market would experience a fluctuation Farook had described as catastrophic but not permanent. Worse than the currency blip that had sent the Adams and Castillo families into a panic.

How many lives will it ruin? No doubt the Fabians were laser focused on the rich corporate owners. Those people will feel the pinch, but will their reactions cause innocent workers to lose their jobs? What about their children or the elderly family who depend upon them? Jackson couldn’t feign incompetence, not then, not if he wanted to remain in the Fabian cell’s good graces—and make inroads with Alexis and Winston, the two leaders he’d only just met. He had to go through with it. But if outside malfunctions mean the spike failed, well, surely those are acts of God, right? The devout Fabians might accept such a thought.

First things first. He removed an access panel under the correct computer. Nick’s snide comment aside, there were a lot of wires; however, Jackson had seen plenty more in the undercarriage of the ranch skimmers when he’d had them torn apart to replace faulty exhaust circuits. He plucked out cables connecting three nodes to their neighbors and attached the ones Nick had provided, in the proper order, all memory work.

Zack chuckled. “I wish I could record this to put a stop to our comrade’s incessant harrumphing.”

“Guess it will be your word on my side, then.” Jackson spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. Tiny Tim. The flitter bobbed on a cushion of air, disappearing into nearby shadows under a row of computer drives. All he had to do was deliver an interfering algorithm via a burst transmission at the same time Jackson inserted the data spike, and they would prevent the Fabians’ desired results. He reached the data spike toward the computer’s ports while squeezing the transmitter embedded in the lining of his glove.

Tiny Tim didn’t move.

“Take care,” Zack said. “The spike is fragile, or so Nick says.”

“I will. I am.” More importantly, Jackson took his time so Tiny Tim would send the signal. “Is our guard still back there?”

“She had better not be out in the hall.” Zack turned for the door.

The flitter scooted to the back side of the computer, hidden in the shadows, and latched onto the lattice of metal protecting the drive’s innards.

“Here goes.” Jackson inserted the data spike. Red numbers blossomed on the tail end—thirty seconds.

Tiny Tim’s wires extruded into the drive, feeling their way toward the data port and adhering to the spike itself. From there, Jackson could only hope the others played their parts as well as he did his.

* * *

East Quarter

Rand

Richards clapped his hands. “Okay. We’re in business. Janus has the spike in place, and the flitter is interacting with the software. Shutdown commencing.”

“Nice.” Garza kept his arms folded. He tapped his index finger to his lips. “Time frame?”

“Twenty-eight seconds. Plenty of time for our algorithm to override the spike. Its focus is on the programming that oversees the metals market prices. Whatever defenses it has in place are fairly standard, at least based on what we know about the components retrieved from the lab on Kishor.”

Gina was glad they knew what was going on, because she was too busy fuming about the morning’s fiasco. Dwyer and Sakuri were off mending Novabird’s pitted fuselage, making use of a hidden airfield kilometers away from the city. That left Sev to sulk in a corner of the hotel’s common room, gingerly testing the bandages wrapped around his rib cage. He had a few bloody scratches on his shirtless chest but, other than that, seemed no worse for wear.

“It was an assassin bot, Sev.” Gina shook her head. “Have you ever heard of someone taking out those models single-handedly?”

“No,” he muttered.

“Then cheer up. You’re not dead.”

“Yet.”

Richards made a sound like he’d choked. His face went pale. “No. That’s—hang on.” He slid lines of code around his screen and tapped commands into the console at a furious pace, each one followed by a muttered curse.

“What is? What’s happened?” Garza demanded.

“The spike—it fried our flitter before it could finish the transfer.” Richards clutched his forehead. “I can’t—we’re talking about a kill program designed to dismantle our algorithm the second it makes inroads.”

“Is it really that advanced?” Gina joined them, frowning. “I thought you tech types could counter those kinds of threats.”

“We can because they’re usually generalized.” Richards looked equal parts astounded and furious. “This—it isn’t fair. It’s not a basic defense. It’s not even second tier. Whoever designed this kill program knew how to disable ours and was familiar with the basic protocols I’d use to create the kind of algorithm Flitter Six-Two-Eight-Seven-Bravo carried.”

“Damn,” Sev murmured.

“Yes, even I got that,” Gina replied. “You’ve got a bigger problem than market sabotage.”

“Bigger, no, but more disturbing.” Garza glared at the readouts on Richards’s screen. “We have a leak inside Intelligence.”

* * *

Jackson was numb. He couldn’t register the hurried flight he and Zack took out onto the darkened beach. They met up with Farook and Nick two blocks away, behind a pair of deactivated hovertrucks.

“It worked!” Zack hissed. “I could not believe it myself until I saw the results.”

“Allah be praised.” Farook grasped Jackson’s shoulders. “We’ve struck another blow for the cause, brother. God is surely proud of what you accomplished here tonight.”

“I can’t see how it could be anything but.” Jackson focused instead on the tablet screen Nick held for them, like a father bearing a brand-new son, the contents detailing the sudden and sickening collapse of precious metals prices across multiple sectors.

I’ve completely underestimated them. We all have. Jackson felt nauseated. If they can foil the best our Intelligence techs can throw at them, we’re going to need different tactics to stop them. He would have to turn them against each other, fast.

14

CSV Oxford

Orbiting Fourth Planet

Galt System

23 November 2465

Sinclair sipped his tea. He grimaced. Drat. It had gone cold again. The bloody mug refused to retain heat. Of course, he would be better inclined to notice his beverage cooling if it weren’t for the reports piling up on his desktop screen.

“Yours cold too?” Major Nathan Mancini sat opposite him, ruminating over the same sour information.

“Are you offering to do yeoman’s work, Major Mancini?”

“No, sir. I’m just glad we’re on the same page is all.” Mancini tossed his tablet onto the desk’s transparent surface. The projected 3D image of Galt shivered underneath. “Well, this has turned into a grade A shitstorm—pardon the language, Colonel.”

“Apology unnecessary. I cannot think of a better moniker.” Sinclair shook his head. “Janus’s burst communique is correct, however, in that we all underestimated the skill and financial backing available to the Fabians. We had, I think, prepared ourselves for an adversary we assumed to not be on par with the League.”

“Sure, but you guys did drop Adams in with zero comms and support, which is much more difficult a task than he ever had when leading 171.”

“Yes, I understand. We were taking great pains to avoid even the hint of having one of our people spy among Coalition citizens.” Sinclair sighed. “I can see now that was an overabundance of caution on our part.”

“Yours or the administration’s?”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow.

Mancini held up his hands. “Just stating the obvious, sir. President Spencer’s made it clear how he feels about surveilling his own people, and I can’t blame him. In this case, though, we could have stopped this mess.”

Mess indeed. Sinclair tried not to dwell on the prices for precious metals. They should have been driven by not only the supply in each star system from which they were mined but also demand in whichever shipyards had the greatest construction need. Instead, the prices had dropped across the board, without regard for those factors. They had risen marginally in the past eight hours but were still mired in the worse doldrums since prewar years. Five decades of gains erased in a matter of minutes.

“What would be tremendous to hear from you is what you’ve discovered whilst lurking around the Galt System,” Sinclair said.

Mancini shrugged. “A bunch of nothing. No, correction—a bunch of relevant nothing. If we were anywhere else, I’d say the system was crawling with smugglers, but since most everything is legal, what’s there to smuggle?”

“I see. Difficult to ferret out suspicious activity.”

“No.” Mancini chuckled. “Everything looks suspicious to me. What good would I be as a stealth boat commander if it didn’t?”

“Fair point.”

“I was hoping this updated intel would give me something more to go on, and from the looks of it, I wasn’t disappointed.”

“Yes, especially as far as the Novabird incident is concerned.” Sinclair swiped Warrant Dwyer’s write-up from his tablet into the desktop, where a clip of the gun battle, as recorded by Novabird’s sensors, replayed. Sinclair froze it on one of the few clear images of the armed robot. “If you don’t recognize the model, Tamir and Eldred have dutifully uploaded the specifications.”

“Yikes.” Mancini leaned forward. He read through the framed text scrolling from the image. “Bakdash-Qing combat robot. Marginal AI. Able to independently assess and engage targets, within preset parameters but with linked oversight. Those are illegal, even on Galt.”

“Quite.” Sinclair smirked. “Amazing, isn’t it, how such a permissive government becomes suddenly restrictive about weaponry that can be used to overthrow said government.”

“Funny coincidence, to be sure.” Mancini grinned. “But ‘linked oversight’—I hope that means what I think it means.”

“We have a possible transmission trace to a cluster of asteroid settlements in Galt’s fifth orbit.” Sinclair dragged the Galt map into a globe then zoomed out until the graphic revealed the entire star system. Galt was a blue sphere in the second orbit, Oxford, a gold pip in the third. The fourth was occupied by three diffuse, rough ellipses of widely spaced asteroids. The computer informed Sinclair the belts were home to 36,872 rocks ranging in size from a beach ball to a continent. The readout highlighted two sections in hazy red. “It’s fairly narrowed down, though the results are indeterminate as to whether it was a vessel or a hidden outpost.”

“Could be either, given the speed of drift in the belts.” Mancini retrieved his tablet. “I’ll get those coordinates and go hunting. It’ll be a welcome change for the crew, and the sooner we get to deploy Master Chief MacDonald, the better.”

“I imagine that’s so.”

The hatch control panel chimed. “Warrant Eldred to see you, Colonel.”

“Send her in.”

Eldred stepped through and braced to attention upon seeing both officers. “Sirs.”

“Warrant.” Sinclair nodded. “At ease. What can I do for you?”

“It’s an urgent matter, Colonel.” Her gaze flicked to Mancini and back to Sinclair. “Operational security.”

“I see. Major, if you don’t mind…”

“Not at all.” Mancini rose. “The sooner I get Tucson underway with at least a clearer target, the better.”

The moment he departed and the hatch closed behind him, Eldred relaxed significantly. “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

“Granted, Eldred. You know I value your candor.”

“Thanks, Colonel. It’s about the situations we encountered yesterday.”

“Ah.” Sinclair steepled his fingers. “Do have a seat.”

Eldred sat opposite him, the opposite of at ease, Sinclair noted. In fact, her frown only deepened, but given the seriousness of the situation, he couldn’t blame her. “The Tiny Tim flitter—sorry, Flitter-Six-Two-Eight-Seven-Bravo—carried a program designed to stop the Fabians’ data spike from engaging. Lieutenant Richards and I created it based on the design specifications of the spikes that Tucson’s strike team recovered from the covert lab on Kishor in the New Israel System.”

“I understand. The Fabians had a counterprogram ready to stop this disablement, which is what should have us all worried, because it means they have knowledge of our protocols in this area.”

“Sir, more accurately, it means they have knowledge of what two CDF Intelligence personnel designed using Oxford’s secure data banks.”

Sinclair’s hands went clammy. He placed the mug on the desk for worry he would slosh its contents onto the expensive interface, and that wouldn’t do. “Let me confirm what I’m hearing, Eldred. Are you implying the details of what you and Richards created—specifically—were leaked off this ship?”

“Yes, sir, and I’m saying it, not implying it.”

“Bloody hell,” Sinclair murmured.

“It fits, unfortunately, with what we know about the Novabird attack, which is that the gig Dwyer and Sakuri intercepted seems to have been a lure.” Eldred tapped her finger on the desk. “Whether or not the Fabians knew where Novabird was and why she was there is debatable, but what isn’t up for grabs is that the gig was remotely piloted and contained a combat robot meant to inflict maximum damage and casualties.”

“All the hallmarks of a decent trap, if I must say.” Sinclair idly stirred his tea with the plastic spoon. “You’ve seen the brief from Janus, correct?”

Eldred nodded. “The cell he’s with has a lot of experience with disguising their movements.”

“This would be an excellent time to tell me you know who this Farook fellow is.”

“Sorry, Colonel. If he’s Coalition, Farook Amjad is not his real name. His civilian records only stretch back a decade, and Tamir’s pretty sure half of it is fake. We’re digging deeper to see what else we can find.”

“And the other two?”

“Plain old civilians, both with criminal trespass records but nothing serious.” Eldred gestured at the market reports. “Apparently, though, they’ve put their vocational skills to good use.”

“Hmm.” Sinclair leaned back in his seat. “Did you have a solution in mind for this problem? I must say, the prospect of a traitor in our ranks inspires all sorts of drastic action on my part.”

“Captain Tamir and I think we need an outside assist, someone who can tie together more about this Fabian cell and the money sources while we watch for suspicious activity aboard ship.” Eldred smirked. “I know who I’d recommend.”

“So I suspected. I take it you’re here to ask me to make the call.”

“He hasn’t taken any of mine.” Eldred shrugged as if the refusals were minor inconveniences, but Sinclair didn’t need to be an intelligence officer to sense the hurt in her glance aside and crossed arms. “But I understand. He went through a difficult time. Scuttlebutt has it he could be reinstated soon.”

“RUMINT is partially right. He could have been a month ago.”

“Oh.” Eldred made a face. “Then why—”

Sinclair held up a hand and smiled. “Precisely what I intend to ask Mr. Guinto myself.”

* * *

Guinto Homestead

Rio de Bendicion—Esperanza Island

Canaan

First Lieutenant Brant Guinto ran through his third codebreaking exercise of the morning. He wiped sweat off his brow, not because of the complexity of the problem—it was tedious at best—but because the air cooling had malfunctioned. Again. Esperanza Island sat in Canaan’s steamy tropical climate bands, so in addition to heat, one had to contend with moisture, and that meant problems for most devices unless properly maintained.

He had to admit he’d let that maintenance slip ever since Jack and Gina had sent him the preliminary information related to their most recent operation. Of course, with the news about crashing metals markets dominating the networks, Brant had incorporated more details into his own picture of events on Galt. He just didn’t know what to do with it.

“Hey.” Graziella Guinto leaned on the doorframe to his room. The breeze from his ceiling fan ruffled her blouse and work pants, both of which were stained with soil the color and consistency of coffee grounds. “You’ve got a priority comms call coded family-personal-whatever.”

Brant frowned. “Who’s it from?”

“Do I look like the kind of sister who reads the sender on your messages before telling you?”

“Yes. And I don’t get why it came to the family’s main board instead of my personal commlink. That’s poor security.”

Graziella rolled her eyes. “Maybe it’s your friends trying for the hundredth time to get you to say ‘hi,’ and they’ve resorted to disguising their names because you won’t answer them.”

“I didn’t…” Brant sighed. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Anything to get out of the garden.” Graziella started to leave but caught herself on the frame. “If it is them, Brant? You really should return.”

“Oh? Why is that?” Brant held up his hand. It trembled until he forced himself to concentrate on touching the nearest console. Only then did it steady. “Because I’m one hundred percent operational?”

“No. Because I’m tired of you moping around the house, and if you don’t, you might wake up in the lagoon.” She blew him a kiss and disappeared around the bend.

He threw scorched wiring, but it missed, obviously, so he returned his focus to the puzzle. Done already? So much for that challenge. There are always those mission details…

Brant ran a hand through his hair. It wasn’t that difficult to figure out what the Fabians were up to. If they could get into secure hardwired drives, they had physical access—which meant they had excellent training or tons of money. Likely both. Nothing about Jack’s or Gina’s notes indicated League work at play.

“Of course not,” Brant muttered. “I mean, look at these schematics from Tucson’s raid. It’s toddler tech compared to what External Security Services provides the League.”

Toddler, maybe, but effective, which was why Brant favored the money angle.

He pulled up the family comms account. A message waited for him, all right, entitled, “Consulting Opportunity, Uncle.”

Brant chuckled. Which one? If it was for his skills, likely Uncle Marcos had come calling, and no wonder he’d done it quietly. Aunt Vivian would have his hide if he’d experimented yet again with more “efficient” ways to reprogram the household bots but had accidentally set them on a mess-making rampage. He opened the file.

“Good day, Mr. Guinto.” Colonel Robert Sinclair’s smiling face filled the screen. Judging by the reprint of the painting Fall of Nelson by Denis Dighton, he had recorded it in his office. “I do hope this message finds you well.”

Brant hopped up and slammed his door shut before skidding back into his seat. He pushed the air cooler’s circuit boards aside in search of a stylus so he could take notes because he had no doubt the colonel’s message would delete itself when finished.

“We find ourselves in a bit of a pickle with regards to the objectivist situation. The ungrateful children have managed a serious upset, one to test our mettle, and we have uncovered evidence of foul play within our own house. I’m reactivating your rank and privileges. My boy, I had hoped you’d rejoin us by now of your own accord, but given the direness, I have no choice but to dragoon you. Do give Colonel Pickering my regards when he arrives at the fleet yards for your transport tonight. He was already in the vicinity. And for heaven’s sake, send a kind word back to Miranda, will you? It would be quite the boost for morale. Ta and cheerio.”

The video blanked. Brant scribbled until his hand cramped, which took far less time than it used to. He had to stop and close his eyes as vertigo swept over his senses. Two things crossed his mind—Father God, I pray for continued healing of all that afflicts me and ask your forgiveness when I am guilty of uncharitable thoughts, and Dammit, Jack.

His console pinged. Brant opened his eyes. The message was gone—self-deleted, standard for a covert Intelligence note—but an attachment had appeared in his files. It was labeled “Travel Itinerary.” And it was encoded. Brant whistled. Boy, was it ever. Fortunately, it was nothing he couldn’t decipher without his trusty algorithms—not the homemade kind but the CDF variety. If he reactivated those, though, CDF Intelligence would be fully aware he was back in, so to speak.

Brant exhaled. What excuse do I have, really? He was going to continue healing. He knew God would not let him falter, not after that much progress, and it sounded like the others—his team and his friends—needed him. It was good to be needed instead of replaced.

He had to untangle his brain so he could decipher all the code phrases and meanings littering Sinclair’s message. The ungrateful children were the Fabians, and Brant bet the “mettle” reference was a pun for “metal”—metals market. Foul play in the house meant possible infiltration of Oxford’s crew by parties unknown. Brant felt sick. A spy, or worse, a traitor.

Colonel Pickering? Brant shook his head. He ran the attachment through the decryption protocols he used in the field, and once the document unfolded into dozens of detailed mission note pages, he saw the reason for the name drop—Pickering was Sinclair’s counterpart aboard CSV Manchester, a sister ship to Oxford.

“They want me there,” Brant murmured. “Actually there. In a few days? Manchester must have undergone the same refit. There’s no way to make such a fast turnaround without an antimatter reactor powering her drive.”

Even he didn’t have access to the latest specs on which warships came equipped with the advanced power plants, but that didn’t matter. Brant pondered the summaries detailing what had happened on the operation so far, pushing through the cobwebs that fogged his brain those days, and knew he’d seen patterns emerging. He could get things turned in the right direction. Can’t I?

“Brant,” he grumbled. “You’ve got to do something besides talk to yourself.”

* * *

Graziella was back in the gardens on the east side of the lagoon, at the rear of the family homestead. Medinilla magnifica surrounded her, pink blossoms clustered under their leaves like thick clouds guarding Esperanza’s tallest dormant volcanoes. She looked up. His shoes crunching on the white stone path didn’t lend to a stealthy approach. “Oh. This is exciting. The third kid shows up to help, does he?”

“Sorry, sis, but I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“Good first.”

“I’ll have the air cooler fixed in two hours.”

Graziella fanned herself with her floppy-brimmed hat. “Praise the Lord. No, seriously. And what’s the bad?”

“I guess it’s good, too, in a way.” Brant grinned. “But I won’t be coming to dinner.”

15

Fabian Enclave—District G2

Rand

Galt System

24 November 2465

Alexis swiped through the news networks, her smile growing with each talking head’s lamentation about the collapsing metals market. It wouldn’t last forever, their victory, but she hoped it was enough to honor Ron’s memory.

“Still soaking it up, are we?” Winston joined her at the catwalk.

They were deep inside the Fabian base of operations, high above the remaining cell members scattered at workstations on the levels below. Clusters of blue lights marked each one, while intermittent torch sparks added flares of orange and red. “I’d say two goals achieved on the same day are plenty to take pride in.”

“They are, and I’m thankful God’s granted us these larger steps toward our endgame.” Alexis tucked her tablet into her jacket pocket. “But I’m also concerned we’re drawing more attention to ourselves the nearer we get.”

“Understandable. Causing a blip in money markets is one thing. Deploying a weapon of aggression and oppression against the same government we think too warmongering for its own good…” Winston shrugged. “It’s bold.”

“Now you’re just flattering me.”

“No, not at all. You’ve been spot-on with your decisions, and I think you should know that admiration for these efforts grows every day.” Winston gestured to the people laboring over circuitry inside the base. “Two more cells arrived in the past twenty-four hours. We’ve added thirty people to our ranks here, and that doesn’t count those gathering elsewhere on Rand.”

“It’s a shame we can’t bring them all together, but it’s too great a risk, and there’s no reason to be reckless for appearance’s sake.” Alexis touched his arm. “Speaking of risks, I’m also thankful for the ones you’ve been taking—gathering components, exposing yourself to possible danger.”

“Thank you. I consider it the highest honor to serve God and our cause at the same time. If we don’t rattle the Coalition to its core, we can’t expect the people in power to change their ways.”

“True.” Alexis motioned for him to follow as she walked farther down the catwalk. “Which is why, for all our good news, I’m disappointed by Rissa’s refusal to die.”

Winston shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s my fault. I thought the men I’d assigned to bring her in were up to the task, but apparently, they were ill-trained.”

“I didn’t think so. You’re being too hard on yourself. Haven’t you seen the footage of the interdiction by Rissa’s saviors? Your men weren’t up against Good Samaritans, Winston. That woman and man were trained.”

“Yes, I think they were. That still doesn’t excuse the failure.”

“Well, we know your men aren’t perfect like you,” Alexis teased.

Winston snorted. “I don’t suppose you’ve had word on who they are? Those two?”

“Not yet. RUMINT has it the woman is Eidolon.”

“She is?” Winston stopped walking. He rubbed his chin. “That’s something. It certainly explains her prowess.”

“I don’t know if it’s true or who the man accompanying her is, not yet, but I hope we can uncover where they’ve taken Rissa. Silencing her is our best option.”

“I’ll say it now, and you can chastise me if you want, but you never should have trusted her so much.” Winston braced himself on the railing. “You had to know she was conflicted, but I think you were too naïve about her potential sympathy.”

“Maybe I was. It was something I felt led to do, as if God were directing me to toss a lifeline to a drowning soul.” Alexis pursed her lips. “A sad irony to how I thought it ended at the time, I suppose, but her survival—”

“Let’s not use the word miraculous, shall we?” Winston sighed. “What did you mean earlier by RUMINT?”

“Ron used to say it. Rumor intelligence. It’s a CDF acronym, a term playing on things like SIGINT for signal intelligence.” Alexis’s heart tripped. Why did he go so soon? Why did the Lord take him home before we were both ready? “In any case, I’m confident we’ll have an answer to that prayer soon.”

“Because of your source.”

“Yes, my source. Don’t pout, Winston. I’d share the identity with you if I didn’t think it in everyone’s best interest to keep as quiet as possible.”

“I understand. It’s not a question of trust, then?”

“In you? Don’t be crazy.” Alexis held his shoulders. “Why else would I put so much of our burden on you?”

Winston grinned, a bit of an aw-shucks appearance to his demeanor. “That’s quite kind of you, you know. Don’t let Perrine hear such an outrageous compliment—speaking of flattery.”

Alexis laughed. Perrine was headed their way, a fact Winston must have known, because he turned toward her as she climbed the last set of steps to their level of the catwalk.

“What news have you, Perrine? Are the new recruits to your liking?” Winston asked.

“More of them would be if they weren’t so green.” Perrine frowned at the people below. “They’ve got a bunch of useful skills, for sure, but applying them has proven tricky. Your gang that went over to Auric Ex knows their business, though.”

“Yes, they certainly do. Farook has proven exceptionally well suited.” As I knew he would—though in that life, he wasn’t “Farook.” His true identity is every bit as dead as Ron. It’s heartwarming to know he’s still able to serve the Fabian cause and lend a more professional air to how we do things. “Does that mean you approve of his bringing the cell here?”

Perrine gave her a sidelong glance. “I don’t have much say in it, do I?”

“Everyone has their say, Perrine,” Winston chided her.

“Not begrudging anyone.” Perrine tapped her boot on the walkway. “Nick has the technical wizardry we’ve needed for a while—it’s always been there, just in short supply. And Zack? The man is a great addition for morale’s sake, if nothing else. I understand he’s the one who handled the bribe.”

Winston nodded.

“Good for him, then. And the other one, who joined Farook at New Washington—”

“Jason.” Alexis gazed down to where the curly-haired man talked with Nick as the two huddled over their latest project. “I was impressed by his speech aboard their arriving transport. Farook gave me a recording.”

“Farook gave everyone the recording.” Perrine rolled her eyes. “It was a little too saccharine for me, but hey, I get it, he’s a new adherent. You have to cut them slack for being all dewy-eyed at that phase, right?”

“If only until they attain your exalted level of cynicism.” Winston made a face. “Come now, he can’t be that bad.”

“No, he’s okay. And Nick tolerates him because Jason has a good head when it comes to the kind of complex wiring they encountered at Auric Ex. Says he’s got a background working on skimmers. I would have asked him to look at the faulty thrusters on the gig if someone hadn’t blown it up.”

Winston pointed a finger. “I did not blow up the gig. That was our target, and it was a risk we all knew possible.”

“I have to say, I’m impressed by whoever was behind the controls on the bird.” Perrine smirked. “To stand her on her end like that—”

“They will continue to be a problem, since our surprise failed,” Alexis interrupted. “Can we go for a second try?”

“We can, but I don’t recommend it. Getting that bot took some doing, and it won’t be cheap to replace.”

“Money’s not an issue, not with our donor contributions coming through.”

“All right, then. I’ll contact the suppliers and see what they can provide. I assume you’ll want more than one this time.”

“Yes, please. Preferably models that aren’t grounded.”

“Consider it done.” Perrine lifted her commlink. “I’ve got to go check on Nick and his cronies. He’s had a breakthrough with the final spike. We might not have to wait weeks, like Winston here worries we will.”

“Good news all around.” Winston gave a mock salute. “I shall, in the meantime, put together another, more capable team to clean up the Sarissa Fei problem. Alexis, do be so kind as to provide me a location, should you hear of one—not RUMINT but hard facts, if you would.”

“You’ll know as soon as I do. Thank you both.”

Alexis watched them leave in hushed conversation with each other, marveling how God had brought each and every soul in the base together for their grand purpose. She wished Rissa had realized her role to play and embraced it. “It’s a shame,” Alexis whispered, “But I’ll have to make sure she dies this time.”

* * *

Jackson saw Perrine taking the stairs down from the upper catwalk, accompanied by Winston. “They look like they’re coming to check out our work.”

“You think?” Nick brushed grime off his nose. “Finish your soldering so we can put the third circuit into place.”

“Yeah, you got it.” Jackson reignited the tiny plasma torch, shielding his eyes behind the polarized goggles strapped to his head. The purple glare intensified, and a sharp scent filled the air. Their workstation, other than the grime Nick had on his gloved hands from the torch’s carbon scoring, was immaculate. Labeled boxes housed every component. The boxes were, in turn, arranged in neat rows and stacks.

Working with his micro-gauged tools meant Jackson had to rely on the magnifiers in his goggles while letting the lenses filter the glare. Every so often, he had to lift the goggles off his eyes and squint at his progress, since the side effect of the polarization was color change. The process required intense concentration, and funnily enough, Nick’s repeated interruptions didn’t help him maintain focus.

“Watch the next connection,” Nick said. “There’s a fine—”

“I saw it.” Jackson scowled at him. “Do you want to take care of this? Am I not doing something right?”

“If you quit screwing around, you won’t have any problems.” Nick turned back to his end of the bench, where he was running tests on the data spike’s housing so it would withstand countermeasures it might run into at the Galt Currency Exchange.

They had limited information on the precise nature of the physical defenses embedded in the computers there, from what Jackson could tell. It was the one weakness in their plan. Well, one of two. So far, no one had let it slip how they were planning to get inside. Jackson had done his own research and found the Exchange paid its guards far more than most facilities, and management relied heavily on security drones and armed robots to reinforce their will, where frail humans might succumb to greed. That meant the Fabians would have to rely on greater tech disruption. No wonder it had taken them so long to amass people and resources for the grand finale they had in mind.

Whatever Winston and Perrine wanted to talk about, their imminent arrival had Nick even surlier than usual.

Jackson smiled to himself. Perfect. This cell isn’t going to sabotage itself on its own. “My problems? What about yours? Is it because Farook was badmouthing you?”

Nick glared at him. “Shut up.”

“I mean, it’s none of my business, but he wasn’t hiding it.” Jackson put his goggles back down. “He kept talking to Zack as if—”

“Shut up.”

Winston and Perrine stopped at their table.

“Good day, gentlemen.” Winston sounded as cheery as Colonel Sinclair on his best day, though the accent varied somewhat from Sinclair’s signature lilt. “Perrine tells me you’ve good news for us regarding our final spike.”

“It’s cautiously good.” Nick’s tone lightened from how he’d been addressing Jackson, but his perpetual glower didn’t leave his face. “I’ve got a way to bypass the countermeasures I think we’ll likely encounter in the Galt Exchange, based on the latest information Zack could get out of a few people who work there.”

“He hasn’t blabbed to everyone, has he?” Perrine shook her head. “Because the key phrase is operational security, unless Farook didn’t bother to teach it to you.”

“We know, and we get it.” Nick’s reply carried a bite that made Perrine’s expression harden, but Winston either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “What I mean is, Zack is good about—he’s done decent work ferreting out the inside information we need.”

Jackson hoped that hitch was Nick downgrading Zack in front of the powers that be inside the greater Fabian organization. He’d tried planting seeds of doubt already, though his brief comments to Nick a minute ago had been the bluntest attempts.

“Jason, is it?” Winston leaned nearer. “How goes the circuitry preparation?”

“Pretty good.” Jackson smiled and waved his hand over the parts neatly arranged on his side of the workstation. “It’s fiddly work. I’d bet a good twenty-four hours per component. But it can’t be done any faster because if the torch overshoots its target, we singe the circuit, then we have to start from scratch. I, uh, gather we don’t have a lot of spares.”

“Some, but you’re right. The source isn’t infinite,” Winston noted. “I went to great lengths to secure what I could, so I appreciate your precision.”

“His work needs to be checked,” Nick interjected. “I’ve told Farook so, but he hasn’t made time for us to inspect Jason’s progress.”

“I’ll talk to Farook about it, but he doesn’t have the final say, and neither do either of you,” Perrine said. “Are we clear on that?”

Jackson had to bite back a “Yes, sir,” given her firm command. “Sure thing. You got it.”

Perrine locked her gaze on Nick. “And?”

Nick was stone cold, as stern as Harry when he’d last taken Jackson to task for—name it, really. For any repair Harry had felt was subpar or for any family gathering Jackson had missed. “Yes, we’re clear. I’ll have everything ready, and it’ll be sooner than what we originally thought. I guarantee it.”

“Very well, then, but don’t rush your work.” Winston pointed at Nick then Jackson. “The two of you. Together. I’m not pleased with the tension I’m picking up here. We cannot lose sight of our camaraderie. Our unity as Fabians is the thing—the only thing—we can rely upon as we wage our crusade against the corruption infecting the Coalition.”

“We will clean it up, no question,” Nick agreed.

“I know it. He’s right.” Jackson nodded then placed his hand on the workstation, next to his circuits. “This here? This is what I was meant to do, and I won’t let the Coalition keep me from using it to rip away the curtains the government puts between the people and the centers of power.”

Nick gave him a funny sideways look, which was fine with Jackson because he’d gone for grandiose to match everything ridiculous Winston had just said. Here’s hoping he’s still fuming over the possibility Farook doesn’t have confidence in him and is upset in some way about the work Nick’s been doing.

“Okay, boys, don’t slack off now.” Perrine grinned. “We’ve all got our deadlines. I’ll make sure the next cell down the row from you knows when and how you have to collaborate to get the spike ready. We have other cells working on a second and a third, but yours is showing the most promise. Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Nick stood. “We’ll be the ones to prove your faith right.”

As soon as Winston and Perrine left to finish their inspection, Jackson went back to the torch, chuckling in his head. Multiple cells competing to produce the best design? Sounded like capitalist economy to him. Definitely not the socialist pattern he would expect from the Fabians.

“Hey.” Nick was suddenly there, looming over him—an easy task, considering Jackson was both seated and hunkered at the torch. “Do you think you’re funny?”

“What do you mean?”

Nick grabbed his shoulder.

“Dammit!” Jackson yanked the torch back and switched it off. “Are you trying to ruin the whole setup? This is delicate work.”

“Farook. Tell me what he said.”

“It wasn’t anything—I mean, he thought the Auric Ex job took a bit too long and implied the tech was wonky.” Jackson made a face. “I didn’t even want to talk to him about it because it’s not true. You and I wore down the torches and worked on this stuff until our eyes burned, so I know that’s not right. He shouldn’t have complained.”

Nick stared at Jackson, unmoving, until he had apparently had enough, because he stormed away to his chair. It crashed against the table, toppling several storage boxes. A few heads turned their way. Jackson felt a twinge of guilt. That was his job. Infiltrate. Destabilize. But leaving the wreckage behind—even when it wasn’t physical—wore him down.

Fortunately, he’d had plenty of training with Harry playing the game. Yet in the moment, he wanted to heal that rift more than anything, more than completing his mission, more than preventing the Coalition’s economic ruin. I guess it’s good I have orders to follow and not my gut.

“Here.” Nick tossed a plastic sheet at Jackson. It skidded onto his lap. The sheet contained a list of five items scrawled in pen. “Get these. I need them to reinforce the casing.”

“I mean, pretty standard, but it’s gonna take me hours.” Jackson held up the list. “I’ll be gone super late.”

“If you’re back before lunch tomorrow, I’ll know you missed at least two items, so make it the next night if you can’t manage to complete your work,” Nick snapped. “Let Farook know so you can get tomorrow’s passcode and no one shoots you at the back entrance. And if you hear anything—I mean anything—else from him or Zack, you come to me. Your job is to follow my instructions.”

So much for the brotherhood of the Fabians. “Okay, relax. I’ll get it done.”

In truth, it was the best window of opportunity Jackson could have hoped for. He had his excuse to break away from the cell and the Fabians. Which meant he knew exactly where to go in the middle of his errands. To round up his old team.

16

East Quarter

Rand

Galt System

24 November 2465

Gina perched in the darkest corner of the florist shop’s roof, waiting. She hated waiting. Could I have broken into the store? Of course. But what was the point, given Richards had flitters burrowed in the walls.

Two days of hoping the Winston guy would reappear had gotten them nowhere until Richards had intercepted a comms signal indicating the man was on his way out. Gina had already been in the neighborhood, surveilling a probable drop site for illicit electronics.

By the time she reached the florist shop, her goggles highlighted Winston’s thermal signature walking toward his destination from three blocks away. It all seemed a great waste of her stealth suit, given its ability to block not only her body’s temperature but basic sensor readings.

“Eidolon, this is Vector One.” Garza sounded like a teacher warning his pupil that an important exam was about to begin.

Gina resisted the urge to remind him it had only been six months since her team had plucked him off Bellwether Station in a state of exhausted terror.

“Your target is inbound.”

“One, this is Eidolon. I confirm.” Gina flicked her goggles’ gaze toward the few dozen other pedestrians out at that time of night—most drunkenly swerving. Hmm. Winston’s readings definitely differed. “Are you getting these scans? He’s got some assistance, I noticed.”

“Roger. Vector Home is seeing what he can lift from the enhancements. If they take linked updates, he could find an installer and determine who we’re really dealing with.”

Clever, Gina had to admit. She watched as Winston crossed the street and entered the shop. “He’s inside, One. Get me the visuals from Home.”

“Home here, Eidolon.” Richards, by contrast to his commander, was as ebullient as a kid in a brand-new playground. “Visual and audio coming to you. Man, it’s so clear. The newer models? Worth every credit.”

“Zip it, Home,” Garza murmured.

The interior of the florist shop appeared semitransparent over Gina’s right-hand view, hazy and monochrome. The sound, though, was as crisp as if she’d been eavesdropping from a hiding place in a closet. Which would have been more fun.

“Where have you been?” The clerk reached behind the counter.

“You said you have something for me.”

“Yeah, your credits, Mr. Bot Legs.” She slapped the chit onto the interactive surface.

Winston arched an eyebrow. “Beg pardon?” He patted down his coat. “I haven’t carried one with me for quite some time, but you sounded convinced I’d lost something valuable.”

“Excuse me for caring about helping my best customer.” The clerk blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve got the last delivery back here. I’ll go get it.”

“Steady on.” Winston grabbed her arm—not urgently but enough of a restraint to prevent her retreating. “This chit isn’t mine.”

“Sure it is. The patrol officer showed me your face and everything.”

“Let me see the image.”

“I don’t have it, Winston. It was on her tablet, so just take the chit, because I don’t feel comfortable keeping it here, not when you insist on paying in hard currency.” She broke free and stormed into the back room.

Winston, meanwhile, turned the chit over in his hands a few times.

“No luck on following the leg mods by their links,” Richards whispered. “But I’ve got another idea, One, if you think this will work…”

Their comms indicators dimmed in Gina’s display, with a white line drawn between them.

Private channel. Leaving me out. The silence irked her, but it made operational sense—why risk discussing a plan, even using code, when they could do so in the privacy of the apartment? Plus, they could be asking Sarissa Fei if she had any insight into Winston, though she’d been pretty quiet since they’d rescued her.

One of the three images in Gina’s field of view shuddered, as if experiencing an earthquake, but the building underfoot remained solid. She realized a flitter must have broken loose of its burrow and flown out into the room, toward Winston, around his back, diving past his right arm to his leg.

“Hang on. Almost got it…” Richards spoke in a trancelike fashion.

Gina saw the up-close and detailed view of Winston’s pants leg, down to the individual threads.

“There. Embedded. Give it a second…”

Winston grimaced. He slapped at his leg, looking down with an irritated expression. The image broke into static.

“Damn!” Richards exhaled. “He swatted it.”

“Got to try, either way. We’ll have to task another to follow him when he leaves,” Garza instructed. “Eidolon, make sure—”

“Hold that thought,” Gina interrupted. “She’s back.”

The clerk returned with a dazzling bouquet of dark and light flowers. Gina wished she could see the colors and smell the scents. She would have better luck identifying them.

The flowers dragged up a recent memory of walking on mucky ground to a fenced-off area surrounded by industrial debris, her fingers clenched around her own bouquet.

“Eidolon? Do you read?”

“I’m here, yes. Be quiet.” Gina forced herself to tune back into the conversation.

“—questions was she asking?” Winston accepted the bouquet. “The patrol officer, that is.”

“She wanted to know if I could forward you the message, so I did.”

“By name?”

“Your…” The clerk’s hand covered her mouth. Her eyes went wide. “Oh. I-I didn’t mean…”

Winston sighed and shook his head. He set a small tablet on the counter and flicked through images until the screen displayed what looked to Gina like a street scene, albeit upside down. Winston turned the device. “Is this her?”

Gina sucked in a breath. It was Gina, though a fuzzier, indistinct version wearing a winter cap that shielded part of her face. A drone or a person had clearly taken it during the shootout that had erupted over Fei’s rescue.

“I don’t know. It could be.” The clerk frowned. “Was this when she was on duty?”

“I’m afraid not.” Winston pocketed the tablet and stepped nearer.

Gina was already on her feet, striding to the edge of the roof. “I’m moving in.”

“Not yet. Hold your position.”

She wanted to hold her fist over Garza’s nose. “One, maybe you’re going deaf far too early for your young age, but the target’s going to eliminate a loose end.”

The clerk backed against the cabinets at the far end of the counter. A vase toppled off the shelf above, landing with a muffled clank. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You know I’d never betray the cause.”

“You’ve always been a true sister to us.” Winston’s hand emerged from his jacket. He held a slim, glassy injector.

“Shit.” Gina crouched on the edge of the roof. She could see herself as a ghostly reflection in the darkened store windows across the street—a gargoyle dangling over the blank-eyed faces of clothing mannequins. “He’s going to poison her and cover up a murder.”

“I said hold,” Garza warned.

Gina’s grip tightened until she was sure she would crumble concrete or break her knuckles. Probably the latter.

“The charges are primed and ready, One,” Richards reported.

Charges? What charges?

“Execute,” Garza ordered.

Twin bright flashes lit up the store. Sharp cracks disrupted the audio. The video and sound feeds went dead. Gina was done waiting. She vaulted over the edge, swung in an acrobatic arch down to the windows, and hung there, upside down, clinging like an arachnid. A rapid deployment cable twanged in the cold evening breeze, mounted with a tiny motor to the rooftop she’d just departed.

Smoke wafted throughout the store. A shadow moved toward the front door. Gina dialed the heat signature assessment on her goggles. If it was the clerk, she would scoop her up, but if it was Winston… she didn’t want to kill the man. Yet. They still needed him when it came time to entrap and arrest the Fabians.

The imagery resolved into a definite female form, but another heat outline loomed behind the first. Gina pulled herself sideways, away from the storefront. The door swung open.

Gina let down and reversed her swing until she collided bodily and upside down with the clerk. The moment her arms wrapped around the skinny thing, the clerk screamed, a keening wail that lasted until Gina jabbed a sedative into her neck.

“Different needle,” she murmured as the motor dragged the pair back up the building via the deployed cable. “But you wouldn’t have woken up if he’d gotten to you with his.”

They reached the top and slumped onto the roof as Winston exited into the street.

“Nice work, Eidolon,” Richards said. “Stay put. He’s there. Still looking.”

“I see him.” Gina let the clerk slide gently off her and drew her pulse pistol.

Richards must have had another drone in the neighborhood—she suddenly had a bird’s-eye view of Winston turning sharply in the road, looking this way and that. Even from above and at an inconvenient angle, she could tell he was upset.

Shuttle engines rumbled nearby. Searchlights swept the air. Gina made a face. “Vector Home, are regular police patrols overhead in this quarter? Because if not, someone’s decided to bribe the cops into actually doing their jobs, and that’s way too coincidental for me.”

“Negative, Eidolon,” Garza replied. “That’s Chaperone en route for a pickup.”

“He can take my new friend, but I’m staying with the target.” And I have five good reasons why, maybe more, if he feels like arguing again. Gina noted that he could just as easily mean Cam as well as Garza.

“That sounds like a good idea, Eidolon. Stick close, and let’s see if we’ve spooked him into making bad decisions.”

“Those are my favorite. Eidolon out.”

The shuttle could have passed for a private security vehicle, not local police, by the fact that it lacked any identifying logos. It was painted slate gray and sported red-and-blue emergency flashers. Gina saw Winston slink away down the street, opposite of how he’d arrived, and across a corner as crowds gathered around the store, the smoke still spilling out its windows.

She stood and lifted the incapacitated clerk.

Cam had maneuvered the shuttle so close to the roof its jets kicked up debris among swirling snow. He clambered down the ramp, its end hovering less than a meter above the surface. “No dallying,” Cam said through his comm. “I’ve got another location to surveil, and this time, it’s a nightclub.”

Gina rolled her eyes, and Cam lifted the poor girl from her arms. “Far be it from me to make you late. I’m surprised you’re not in your finest suit.”

Cam winked. “It’s packed aboard. See you later, I hope.”

“Boys can dream, can’t they?”

The ramp sealed, plunging the rooftop back into darkness, and the shuttle engines screamed as it accelerated into the night sky. It wasn’t until the scream died off and Gina’s hearing returned to normal that she realized Richards was babbling at her.

“…he went to? Eidolon, this is Home. I’ve lost sight of the target. He’s gone. Maybe into an alley. I’ve got no assets, and Twenty-Two Bravo’s picked up nothing on its scopes.”

“Calm down, Home, while I—”

A soft rustle of clothing was followed by the crunch of boots on the rooftop material. Gina spun, raising her pistol.

Winston already had a plasma pistol aimed for her face from ten meters away. He was in the middle of rising from a crouch, his muzzle never wavering as he straightened his legs. She hoped she imagined the slight mechanical whirr but probably not, given what she knew about his prosthetics.

“I don’t know who the bloody hell you are, but if you’re a Coalition thug and not a greedy corporate spy, this is going to be quite satisfying,” Winston muttered.

“Maybe I’m both and you’re the luckiest man in the galaxy.” Gina’s gun was at waist level.

“Where is the girl?”

“You’re looking at her.”

“The one from the store.”

Gina snorted. “If you can’t figure that out, maybe they should have replaced your brain instead of your legs.”

“Eidolon, this is One. I have Chaperone coming back around for extraction. Deadeye is on overwatch.”

Of course Sev is. Gina was surprised he hadn’t blasted Winston’s head apart already, but Sev had shown a remarkable willingness to follow Garza’s orders, probably because of Dwyer’s influence. It certainly wasn’t Gina’s. Anyway, knowing Sev was ready to shoot gave her a warm sensation, like the memory of the last Christmas she and her brother had spent with their mother.

Oh, Mom. Bad idea. Gina’s gut clenched. I’m so sorry.

Metal rattled against metal from the back of the building. Winston’s gaze snapped, just for a second, to the right.

Gina shot three times.

Winston was already moving, the pulse blasts singeing his coat. They were so bright Gina’s goggles had difficulty dampening the glare. Winston returned fire on the move, the plasma bursts even brighter. Gina marveled at how their dueling weapons turned the nighttime rooftop into a flickering scene reminiscent of a malfunctioning vid replay or even the gaudy beams of a nightclub at full throttle. She suddenly wished she were dancing with Cam.

“Break off. Break off!” Garza snapped through the comm. “Do not engage!”

A little late. But it wasn’t until the concrete rim of the roof centimeters from Winston’s left foot blew apart in a spectacular spray of dust and pulverized fragments that Gina figured out her new team leader was shouting at Sev, not her. She snickered even as she flattened out behind a low-lying set of HVAC equipment. Sev altered his aim on purpose. There’s no way he missed or tried to disable the man.

Winston vaulted up three stories to the next building’s roof then jumped again, disappearing into the distance. Video feed from Drone 22B reappeared in Gina’s vision, but all it showed was a dark, jagged cityscape partially illuminated by streetlights.

“Get out of there, Eidolon, and report back,” Garza ordered. There was no mistaking the frustration in his voice, or the lack of Richards on the comms.

“Ten-four, sir, and out.” Gina wished she could smash the commlink against a wall, but since it was embedded under her flesh, it was for the best she couldn’t act on her impulse. Instead, she hustled for the back wall of the store’s roof and engaged her grav harness. It lifted her across to the business block behind, skipping the alley completely, allowing her to slip down another alley perpendicular to the source of the metal clanging.

She saw the person waiting in the shadow easily, which meant he wasn’t trying to hide. Gina found that vulnerability refreshing. It was nice to have an unmoving target at whom she could point her pistol when she landed. “If you’re interested in mugging or assaulting me, you can try, but I’ll kill you. I don’t mean that as an insult.”

“I wouldn’t take it that way.”

The voice had a different accent than what she was used to, but as he stepped out of the shadow, Gina couldn’t mistake the stance. When he lifted the brim of his bulky winter cap, the smile became even more apparent, and that was what did it.

“You came out here for a vacation, then I hear you’re playing vigilante.” He chuckled. “Was that before or after Uncle Rob roped you back into the game?”

She couldn’t believe it. After all those months, weeks and weeks of leading a brand-new life then letting the old one drag her back in, mixing some of her old teammates with ones she didn’t recognize even as allies, there he was, walking up to her like they were on one of their classic missions, like everything was going to be okay again. Something had to go back to normal again, as weird as her normal was compared to most people’s experiences in the galaxy.

“Jack.” She lifted the mask so he could see her smirk. “You’re such an asshole.”

17

East Quarter

Rand

Galt System

25 November 2465

Jackson found the gathering not as awkward as it could have been, all things considered.

The motley crew got their breakfasts individually, without much speaking, as Rand’s sun-bleached skyline turned the glassy towers into blue spires and white pillars. Jackson waited at the window, half seated on the couch cushion running the length.

First Lieutenant Duncan Garza and CWO Ixora Sakuri were in the kitchen holding a discussion in hushed tones, while Second Lieutenant Josh Richards sat on a stool, munching a banana. Sev stood in a far corner of the common room, staring at Jackson with what could either be murderous intent or bland curiosity—it was always a toss-up. Gina peeked into a bedroom where a young girl with pink hair lay snoring softly. Cam Tahatan leaned back on a sofa, his eyes shut, one hand clamped to his forehead, the other clutching a huge half-empty glass of water.

Only Dwyer paid Jackson any attention. “Sure is glad to see you again, Cap’n—in the flesh, I mean, since we’ve seen the surveillance footage.” He offered one of two green mugs full of steaming coffee to him.

“Thanks, Sparks.” Jackson accepted the mug and drank deeply. “Wow. That’s the finest brew I’ve had since we left Canaan.”

“Couldn’t help myself.” Dwyer grinned. “I might’ve requisitioned a bag of a home brand before we shipped. It’s what’s been keeping me and Sev bright-eyed and bushy-tailed while we’ve shepherded Master Chief MacDonald’s alpha team around.”

“Bracing,” Sev announced.

Jackson chuckled. “I bet it is.”

“Janus.” Garza approached from the kitchen with Sakuri at his right side.

Richards scooted by them and found his chair in front of his consoles. The reminder of Brant’s absence was irritating enough Jackson had to work to ignore it.

“Or Captain Adams, I should say. I didn’t get the chance to speak to you much when you and Eidolon got in late last night.”

“Past his bedtime.” Gina poked Cam’s leg with her knife.

He started then frowned at her but still shuffled his position so she could sit.

Garza glanced at Gina but continued coolly, “We’ve seen plenty from your flitter’s feeds, at least until it was fried the night the Auric Ex raid failed—or succeeded, depending on your perspective.”

“That wasn’t the cap’n’s fault, sir,” Dwyer interjected.

“Easy, Warrant.” Jackson nodded at Garza. “I appreciate the assistance and the candor, Lieutenant, and I’ll state for the record, I’m not here to push you out of the command chair. Colonel Sinclair’s orders are clear. Staying inside the Fabian cell is my priority. Running this team is yours. Seems you’ve got your hands full as it is. I don’t envy you.”

“We’ve had a rough transition, but things are coming together.” Garza peered at Gina quickly then looked away again.

“He keeps giving you dirty looks, Gina.” Jackson sipped his coffee, holding Garza’s gaze.

“I’m not surprised.”

“The rest of us aren’t either,” Cam added. “So, who’s in charge now? Not that I mind taking diverse and conflicting orders. I just need to know which person gets my loyalty when they yell loudest.”

“You heard Captain Adams, Mr. Tahatan.” Garza nodded. “We’re all on the same team here, and operationally, I’ll continue as Vector One.”

“Roger that.” Cam closed his eyes again.

“I’d appreciate any updates, sir,” Garza continued.

“First of all, I’ll pull rank once and only once—belay the extreme formality. Keep things looser, especially around me.” Jackson smiled. “It’s easier for me to switch roles if I’m not forced back into pomp and circumstance on my days off, understood?”

“Yes—that makes sense.”

Sakuri made a face but didn’t comment. Jackson wondered at her disgruntled state but figured it was a loyalty thing, much as Dwyer had stuck up for him.

“Secondly, here’s what I know—the Fabians have multiple cells working on variable versions of a data spike they intend to use to crash or otherwise ruin the Galt Currency Exchange. I’m hazy as to the specifics because they keep certain aspects compartmentalized, but what I can tell you from their rhetoric is they want to tank the Coalition credit so the economy collapses, the government falls, and they can replace what’s left with a socialist utopia.”

Silence blanketed the room. Richards even stopped chewing.

“Stupid.” Leave it to Sev to offer the first opinion.

“I think we all agree.”

Sakuri shook her head. “What do they think is going to happen? Their benevolent friends in the League will help them out? Is that before or after they conquer the Terran Coalition?”

“The Fabians aren’t united in their opinion of the League, just like they’re no longer a monolithic bloc of Christian socialists. But they have the skills, the tech, and the money.” Jackson grimaced. “As we saw with Auric Ex, they can definitely pull it off. The problem is they’re too good at keeping cells in the dark and using tactics we with CDF Intelligence would find familiar.”

“We noticed,” Richards said. “Your friends dropping you off from the transport? Pros. I thought so. They knew how to evade and misdirect. Good stuff.”

“That’s Farook. He’s in my cell and seems to have the good graces of Alexis and Winston. Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got Intelligence training, either Coalition or another nation. Do we have anything on his background?”

“No, but Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred are working the problem,” Garza said. “They have other issues to contend with too. Internal matters.”

Jackson checked everyone’s expressions. Not a single person made eye contact with him except Gina.

“Is anyone going to fill me in? Or am I out of the loop, given my post?” he asked.

“Traitor afoot,” Sev replied.

Garza sighed and shook his head.

Sakuri put her hands on her hips. “Lieutenant, request we exclude Mr. Rast from this briefing.”

“And have him do what?” Garza snapped. “Go incite a crime war? Wilkes did plenty of that sort of damage before we arrived.”

“Oh, I sure did, and if I weren’t so busy chaperoning the rest of you”—Gina nudged Cam—“no offense—there would be a lot fewer thugs out there torturing innocent souls. Sorry they’re not mission relevant.”

“I really don’t think you’re sorry, ma’am,” Richards muttered.

“What did I tell you about that word—”

“That’s it. Enough.” Jackson slapped the words through the air with the force of a drill instructor, channeling all his frustration and pain from the past six months into them. He glared at the assembled group. “I get the distinct impression that just because this isn’t the League screwing with us, you’ve all gotten sloppy. Correct me if I’m wrong.”

No responses but a lot of ashamed looks, except from Sev, of course.

Dwyer drained the last of his coffee with a satisfied sigh. “Don’t look at me, Cap’n. I daresay my flying’s never been better.”

“He is one of the best,” Sakuri admitted.

“Traitors?” Jackson gestured for someone, anyone, to continue. “You’d better elaborate, or I’ll have to get Sev’s input, and a whole paragraph could take weeks.”

Sev chuckled.

“We have evidence of a leak aboard CSV Oxford. A person or program tipped the Fabians off to Novabird’s flight plan and set a trap that almost killed our people.”

Our people? The way Garza said it struck Jackson as—well, how he would have made the same statement. The younger officer was genuinely worried about the welfare of both CAU 22 and 171’s personnel. “What else?”

“Your flitter, Tiny Tim?” Richards winced. “That’s on me—and others—but mostly me. I should have upgraded him enough to recognize the data spike used at Auric Ex would have a kill algorithm embedded in it.”

“Don’t take the blame, Lieutenant,” Garza ordered. “The fact is, Captain, Eldred and Richards have since determined the data spike not only had countermeasures in place to handle Auric Ex defenses but was designed to defend itself against Tiny Tim’s specific disruption surge. Our people custom designed the flitter’s protocols aboard Oxford.”

Jackson sagged against the window. The winter cold outside seeped through the glass. He rubbed his chin. “Shit.”

“Yessir, indeed,” Dwyer muttered. “More coffee?”

Jackson nodded.

“I have word Tucson is hunting for the ship or ships that supplied the combat robot to the Fabians—the one that almost destroyed Novabird,” Garza continued. “Have you heard or seen evidence of more?”

“Bots? No. But I’ll look now that I know what we’re up against. As soon as I get wind of the plan against the Galt exchange, of course, I’ll get it to you. Dead drop will be best.” Jackson frowned. “The Fabians aren’t as well organized as ESS Leaguers, but that apparently doesn’t mean they have shoddy tech.”

“Whatever their plan is, we’ll need you to wreck it from the inside.” Garza gestured to Gina. “And Eidolon—Wilkes here—will infiltrate from the outside to make sure of that. I’ll position myself within the exchange’s compound.”

“I don’t think they let hobos wander around in the lobby,” Gina teased.

Garza smirked. “I’m not surprised. Not a problem—I’ll find a way to blend in around the cetacean tank.”

Gina blinked then made a face like she’d tasted terrible food. “Of course they have a giant fish tank. Why wouldn’t they? Disgusting.”

Richards snapped his fingers. “Hey, Captain? Whatever they get up to, I got just the thing.” He plowed through a small box full of computer components and came up with a black octagon half covered in gray stripes. “Standard interface patch. Whatever security Galt Exchange uses to protect its mainframe, they’ll have to use one of these to bypass it. It should look the same—but if it doesn’t, transfer the program from here into theirs and overwrite the crappy software they’ve used.”

“Thanks.” Jackson accepted the patch. “But they’ve already beat us once at that game.”

“I know.” Richards grinned, even though he scratched the back of his neck in a sheepish manner. “That’s why nobody outside this room knows I built the thing.”

“Smart,” Sev pointed out.

“Um, thanks.”

“Right. So, if the three of us will be inside, we’ll need multiple modes of extraction.” Jackson pointed at Dwyer. “With you flying, Sparks, and Sev causing whatever mayhem he can with your explosive innovations.”

“Ah…” Dwyer glanced at Garza, who nodded. “Actually, Cap’n, I suggest Ixora—Warrant Sakuri, that is—fly the bird for the grand finale. I’d like to be on the ground to deal with the new charges myself. They’re finicky. But I’ll have a chaperone. The Chaperone.”

“I’m thrilled everyone thinks my call sign is hysterical.” Cam took a long swig of his water, shaking the glass to empty the last drops into his open mouth. “But right, I’ll be his way off the premises.”

“Okay, then.” Jackson reined himself in. It was Garza’s op to run—even if Jackson outranked him—because he had a more vital and dangerous role to play. “Look, I hate to cut this short, but I have to get back. Nick sent me on a long run for various components he didn’t have for the data spike sheath, and I’m pretty sure we could have programmed a delivery drone, but they’re trying to stay off any networks—that and he doesn’t like me.”

“Any reason?” Garza asked.

“He’s a dick,” Jackson answered. “And he’s paranoid. I’m playing on both to disrupt their tight-knit cell.”

“You think you’ll be able to?” Sakuri sounded unconvinced.

“Don’t worry.” Gina stood and reached for her coat. “Jack’s an expert in breaking up otherwise great teams.”

Dwyer sputtered on his coffee. Sev shook his head.

Sakuri glared at her. “Lieutenant, permission to—”

Garza held up a hand. Sakuri quieted immediately.

“Wilkes, go with him. Make sure he doesn’t have any trouble, but for shit’s sake, be subtle. I don’t need another public catastrophe.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” Gina snapped her fingers at Jackson. “Come on. I’ll help you with your grocery list.”

“Wait a minute.” Jackson intercepted her at the door. He pulled his coat off a rack. “What about this Sarissa Fei? Alexis and Winston are worried about her, I think, and rumbling among the cells is the two of them aren’t happy with each other about the failure to kill her—double failure, from what I gather. Is that the woman in the other room?”

Gina shook her head. “The pink hair is a store clerk Winston was trying to kill before you showed up with your cute diversion. Sarissa’s in the other room deciding if she knows anything about Alexis that’s useful to us. So far, neither one’s been chatty, and I’m beginning to understand why the League likes torture.”

She left him standing at the door, mouth open, feeling foolish. The sensation burned away, leaving anger and disappointment in its wake.

“Whatever happened between you two, Cap’n,” Dwyer offered, “you best fix it.”

“Don’t worry, Warrant.” Jackson zipped his coat. “I might have screwed up, but whatever’s got Gina this down is far more than my obsessions pulling our team apart. She’s hurt. And she’s been that way for a while, judging by the sound of her.”

“Mother,” Sev said quietly.

Jackson stared for a moment. His heart sank. “I’ve got to go. Thanks for the coffee.” It was going to be more difficult than he thought.

* * *

Reclamation Grounds

Southeast Quarter

Rand

The last piece Jackson needed was a simple carbon sleeve, of which the reclamation manager sold thousands. But when Jackson presented the list itself, the manager reached behind the bin containing them and pulled out a wrapped package small enough to fit in Jackson’s hand. No explanation, no demand for payment, no words spoken at all, actually.

“What do I owe?” Jackson was unable to believe anything on Galt was free.

“Sponsored item,” the manager grumbled. “Get lost.”

Hell of a salesman. Jackson left the reclamation yard, squinting against the morning sun. Where did Gina go off to? She’d traveled there near him but not with him, doing her best to blend with other pedestrians—and three times, he’d lost her completely. That made him smile. Few things made him happier than seeing his team do their jobs to their utmost, and with Gina, it wasn’t even a job, when he thought about it. It came naturally.

But when he backtracked down a side street, following the tall fencing around the reclamation grounds until the road petered out into snow-crusted plains, he found Gina standing by herself. She had wrapped her coat tight, shoulders hunched. The land before her was rumpled with small hills and shallow ravines, like it was home to an abandoned construction site.

“I saw the footage Cam recorded of Eidolon.” Jackson walked up next to her. “Reminds me of the Scarlet Primrose.”

“Pimpernel.” Gina’s eyes glistened with tears. “The Scarlet Pimpernel, by the Baroness Orczy. Five hundred sixty years ago.”

“The master of disguise. A prototype for all of us, really.” Jackson stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I think I read it in primary school. Either that or it was one of those books Mom forced me to pick up. Bet she wouldn’t have if she’d known how I would turn out.”

Gina shook her head and put her fingers to her mouth.

“Hey.” Jackson put his hand on her shoulder. “Talk to me. When you left Canaan, I thought we were solid, but I haven’t heard from you all this time. You were going off to reassemble the pieces of your family puzzle, but fast-forward and you’re on a vengeance spree aimed at the criminals who—”

“She’s here.” Gina pointed. “One of those. The third row—if you can call it a row. When you die in Rand, if you don’t have kin, after they’ve done their due diligence, or so they call it, they bury you out past the reclamation grounds. It has a public database on the last street corner. Nice of them, right? Only a half credit each access.”

Jackson didn’t have anything to add. It wasn’t the time. He knew, like with any of the roles he played, there was a moment to talk and a moment to listen.

“Mom died a year before I showed up.” Tears stained tracks on Gina’s cheeks. “I wanted to tell her—she was already dead. It was a degenerative nerve disease that hit her two years back. Two years, Jack. There I was, hiding out on Canaan then jumping off on your missions, doing—” She shook her head and clenched her teeth. “What was I thinking? What kind of daughter was I? Playing at being a Coalition hero when no one would know what I was doing and I had no way of explaining it to her.”

Two years. Gina had mentioned her father retiring from the Coalition Far Survey Corps earlier that year. “Does your dad know?”

“No. I haven’t contacted him. I can’t. What am I going to say?” She turned to him, still crying, and put on her fakest smile. “Hey, Dad, I can’t find Kyle, and it’s not just that your son’s missing, but your ex-wife, my mom, she’s dead, and nobody told us! Jack, she did such a shitty job with her life that the only good memories I have are those stupid trips to the tarmac spent memorizing ships when we should have been talking. And now I can’t! I can’t talk to her about anything…”

Jackson put out his arms. Gina crashed against him and broke into sobs. He held her close, one hand brushing her hair, the other pressed against the center of her back. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s—it’s not your fault.”

“That’s not what I meant. I should have been there for you. This mess I created because I was obsessed with Vasiliy and the League created far too much fallout. I can’t do anything now but clean it up. In the meantime, I should have been ready to listen to my friend.”

“I know. That’s what’s great about you—nothing gets in the way of you and your loyalty to your friends.” Gina pulled back and sniffed. “And I accept your apology. Again. Because I feel like you’ve given me a dozen.”

Jack grinned. “I try.”

“You do that. Thank you. Coming here means a lot to me.”

“We can get her moved if you want. Back to your home…” Which, now that Jackson thought about it, was one of the few things he didn’t know about Gina.

“No. This is… she died here. She should be here.” Gina let out a shuddering sigh. “Mom chose Galt, so Galt can have her.”

Jackson had no problem detecting the bitterness in her voice. “Don’t let it drag you down, okay? We can get through it.”

“Okay. We will.” Gina straightened her posture. “When I get in touch with Dad, when I see him… will you be with me?”

“Promise.”

“All right. Let’s get you back to your gang of crazy socialist insurrectionists.” Gina smiled.

“What?” Jack smirked. “Don’t be weird.”

“No, I’m not, but I’m glad for you and Abby. I’m happy you’ve found someone who loves you as much as you love them.”

Jackson blushed. How does she always manage to break through my masks?

Gina winked. She wiped at her tears. “Wow. I’m a mess. Give me the chance to break into the Galt Exchange, and I’ll be much happier. Oh, and, Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“Quit being a big baby and talk to Brant while you two are trying to save the Coalition.”

18

CSV Tucson

Asteroid Zones—Fifth Orbit

Galt System

26 November 2465

Major Nathan Mancini couldn’t decide whether he was happy there were few ships on the tactical board or disappointed. On one hand, Tucson relied on her stealth to avoid being detected while completing her mission hunting down the suppliers of the combat robot that had attacked Novabird. On the other, fewer ships meant fewer chances they would find the right vessel.

He consulted the readouts on his command chair’s panel. They were near enough to the coordinates provided by Oxford’s analysts. Unfortunately, the spooks couldn’t narrow it down any closer than a span of space several million klicks across, spreading along a quarter of the fifth orbit’s length and centered on the star system’s ecliptic plane. And while the asteroids were far between, they weren’t few, as he kept reminding himself.

“Thirty-six thousand eight hundred seventy-two.” Captain Patrick Godat, his XO, stood ahead of Mancini’s chair, near Lieutenant Olesen’s post. “Can you imagine cataloging those back in the old days on Earth? Squinting through telescopes at every blot and blur, trying to figure out if it was a man-made satellite or a rock winging around the sun that could blast civilization off the face of the planet?”

Mancini shook his head. “I try not to dwell on those historical maybes. Present facts. Those are my preference. The present fact is our quarry could be nestled up to any of those rocks. We’re not going to find them by wishful thinking.”

“I know. I was going to say we have it a lot easier.”

Master Chief Abraham Cosentino snorted. The boat’s highest-ranking noncom leaned against the bridge hatch, perusing a tablet Mancini was sure gave the chief of the boat all the reports from every station aboard Tucson.

“You disagree, COB?” Mancini winked at Godat.

“Begging the XO’s pardon, Skipper, but we don’t find anything by yapping about it either.” He patted one of the scanner consoles hanging over an auxiliary station. “She can sniff out anything when we’re running silent like this.”

“Conn, TAO,” Olesen called. “Sector Zero-Three-Eight complete. No vessels detected and no indication of the same codes used in the intercepted transmissions.”

“Confirmed, TAO.” Mancini reached for his mug. Dammit. How can I remember all the intricacies of commanding one of the Coalition’s premier stealth boats but never pay close enough attention to my coffee ritual to keep the cup from emptying? “Log with Sensor Room sent passive sensors to Sector Zero-Three-Nine. Pilot, maintain present course and speed. Thrusters only for trajectory correction if needed. I want us as dead as those rocks.”

“Conn, Pilot, aye, maintaining present course and speed,” the young officer at the helm replied.

“Conn, TAO, aye, Skipper. Collating results for Sensor Room.”

Mancini stretched his arms but restrained the tired groan he felt like letting loose. He wasn’t about to have the crew see him bored, nor would he embrace the temptation himself. Even with nothing happening—perhaps especially because nothing was happening—he would remain focused, and the crew needed to see him do so.

Besides, if I yawn, COB will go off on a rant about us being rigged for silent. Mancini smothered a grin at the running joke among Tucson’s personnel. He’s convinced the Leaguers can hear us breathing through the vacuum of space, so it would be no stretch for Galt’s patrols. Yet he has no problem barking orders at a hapless rating who steps out of line.

“More bad news, Skipper.” Godat lowered his voice as he approached the command chair. “We’re fresh out of the grounds Warrant Dwyer brought aboard on his previous assignment.”

Now that made Mancini groan. He didn’t care if snickers rippled around the bridge posts or that Cosentino frowned at him. Talk about a disaster of galactic proportions.

“Conn, TAO, I have a contact,” Olesen reported. “Coming around the shadow of Asteroid Three-Five-Zero-Zero-Two.”

“TAO, designate as Sierra One and repopulate the board.” Well, never mind the coffee. Mancini’s adrenaline spiked in a happily familiar buzz. “Sensor Room, give me the details on our new friend.”

“Conn, Sensor Room. She reads as a Type-Fifty Patrol Cutter, a hundred meters long, minimal armament. Spec books say she runs in packs, though I don’t see any other drive signatures on my scopes.”

Olesen cut in with, “Conn, TAO, designating Sierra One and repopulating the board.”

Lines flickered across the tactical display, marking the patrol cutter with a single pip. A second pip appeared on the far side of Asteroid 35002.

“Conn, TAO, a second contact, fifty thousand klicks to starboard.” Olesen scowled at his console. “She’s following the same course as Sierra One but was shielded from our sensors by the asteroid.”

“Okay, TAO, mark her as Sierra Two and maintain a continuous track on both.” Mancini enlarged the tactical board’s view on his console so he could examine Tucson’s heading. “Closest pass looks like we’ll come within a thousand klicks if they keep on their trajectory. Pilot, bring us about to two-two-six, mark one four, thrusters for a fifteen-second burst.”

“Conn, Pilot, aye. Preparing thrusters for fifteen-second burst to course adjust to two-two-six, mark one four.”

Mancini nodded. “Execute.”

Without her main engines running, it was more difficult to detect Tucson’s motion other than by watching the tactical board, but the thrusters did send a subtle tremor through the deck Mancini detected in the soles of his boots.

“It’s a funny thing, XO,” he said to Godat. “We’re not under threat of attack, even if the Galters find us, because this isn’t hostile territory and we’re not at war. But by the same token, we don’t want them to have even the slightest hint we’re out here. A stealth boat snooping around one of the most powerful independent systems in neutral space would just piss off our allies.”

“Maybe they should be better about crime in their neighborhood, and we wouldn’t have to.” Godat made a face. “Besides, that didn’t stop us from going on the offensive at Bellwether when push came to shove, and they were technically neutral.”

“They were also technically asshole megacorp types, so the higher-ups don’t worry about what they think of the Coalition.”

“So at worst, we get a stern talking-to and cause a diplomatic incident.”

“No, at worst, I think the Galters might fire on us and claim they thought we were pirates or Leaguers.” Mancini grinned. “But they won’t be happy with how it ends if they do.”

For all his talk, Mancini prayed his way through the Rosary in his head rather than tempt God with his rash attitude. Of course, he’d read God couldn’t be tempted, but Mancini knew he sure could. Keep us hidden so we might do our jobs and go home safely, Father.

The numbers on the tactical board ticked down, the distance between the patrol cutters and Tucson rapidly diminishing. Not rapidly enough, though. Mancini realized a few crewmen were holding their breath. Even Cosentino glanced at the ceiling, as if he could see Sierra One and Sierra Two through the bulkheads.

The distance hit one thousand kilometers then counted upward, eleven hundred to fifteen hundred to nineteen hundred.

“Conn, TAO,” Olesen murmured. “Sierra One and Sierra Two show no aspect change. They are continuing on their original courses.”

“Very good, TAO. Continue our passive scans of Sector Zero-Three-Nine, but don’t lose sight of our Galters.” Mancini tapped his console. “Sensor Room, any signs the cutters are heating up their guns?”

“Conn, Sensor Room, that’s a negative,” the senior chief in charge replied. “Their power levels indicate they’re operating at the same alert level as when we first picked them up.”

“Good news all around,” Cosentino muttered. “Skipper, I’m headed below to make sure the damage control parties are ready. You know how they can slack if I don’t keep on them.”

Godat raised an eyebrow at Mancini, a gesture Cosentino couldn’t see, and Mancini forced his face into a solemn expression. The current roster of damage control teams under Chief Petty Officer Phillip Tabb had an efficiency and readiness rating that was the envy of most noncoms in all the CDF.

“Of course, COB. By all means,” Godat said.

Mancini returned his attention to the tactical board. They’d scanned a good thirty-eight percent of the search area so far, and their encounter with twin Galter ships was the most excitement they’d had. If all went well, they should have the whole region blanketed in three days or less. It would be faster and easier to do with active scanners, but as he’d already told Godat, that wasn’t going to happen, not with the politicians leaning on the brass.

He checked his console. The last news packet he’d downloaded said the metals markets were finally getting back under control, but no one knew if the wave of layoffs would be reversed.

Better keep away from the Galter ships, as ordered. Mancini grimaced. The politicians have enough to worry about.

* * *

The Oval Office—the White House

Lawrence City

Canaan

President Justin Spencer had never made it an absolute rule that no one was to bother him in the White House executive library, but it was a known preference. Only the highest-ranking officials were permitted access, in no small part because everyone knew it was his sanctuary in times of extreme stress. He counted the past few days among them.

“Thank you again for breaking your own rule, Mr. President.” Celinda Snow stood opposite Spencer as he perused the rare and historical volumes packed into the library wall’s shelves. “But given the severity of the situation on Galt—”

“Celinda, do me a favor, and skip past the descriptions of the severity and get to the solutions,” Spencer interrupted. “Because I’ve fielded enough calls from irate CEOs and outraged political representatives who want to know why we aren’t moving fast enough.” What title was I searching for? Spencer shook his head in disgust at his distraction. “And don’t even get me started on the Galters. You’d think the market disruptions, as devastating as they are to galaxywide economic confidence, were happening on the other side of the universe for all the responsibility they take.”

“Our office and the State Department have offered them every conceivable resource to boost security with no strings attached.”

“Don’t give me false hope and hint that they’re taking any.”

“Hardly, sir. I would guess they’d refuse a helmet if stranded outside an air lock, provided we were the ones offering the help.” Snow looked like she’d been forced to eat a particularly vile meal. “What I can tell you is they appear unaware of our efforts in space and on the ground. They’ve chalked up any instability resulting from the current operations to local crime and the typical rampant corruption unique to Galt.”

“That’s a small blessing, I suppose, though it’s not reassuring.” Spencer turned away from his hunt. He would come back for the book later. “But our officer—she’s alive, I understand.”

“Yes, Mr. President. CAU 22 has her in their protective custody. Colonel Sinclair has high hopes they can safely transfer her and another potential witness off planet. Things are complicated by the potential leak with which they’re dealing.”

Spencer glowered. “I thought we handled this matter of treachery within CDF ranks in the aftermath of the Monterrey incident.”

“It appears the Fabian cells were able to dissipate and better organize while using covert methods that would make Intelligence proud,” Snow explained. “The current theory is the Fabians have enlisted the help of former Intelligence officers or operatives, though it has been a struggle to identify the individuals. What is apparent is the connections Alexis Barr forged in the four years since her husband’s death.”

The consequences of a few seemingly separate actions taken years ago had impacted the Coalition’s future. Spencer found himself wondering if the Fabian matter could have—or should have—been handled differently back then, but given the nation had faced its demise at the hands of the League of Sol, they had focused on little other than survival. “Let’s not drag out a quote about hindsight.”

“No, we won’t.” Snow held out her tablet. “Further reports from CBI, sir.”

Right. Spencer accepted the device and read what the Coalition Bureau of Investigation had been up to. It didn’t inspire great joy. “The Fabian cells are missing? Did I summarize that correctly?”

“Not missing but gone from their usual haunts. CBI has done a fair job watching them recently, though field agents report… inflexibility in CBI’s upper echelons when it comes to new investigative techniques. To put it bluntly, they’re still fighting the last war by hunting for League spies.”

“Well, I can’t blame them too much because I don’t want CIS snooping through the private lives of our citizens.”

“Of course not, Mr. President. If I may, though, our limited surveillance has led to these problems, in that we can’t dig as far into the lives of suspected Fabians and their cells without trampling the very lives you mentioned.”

Spencer smirked. “I can’t believe I’m going to be the one to trot out one of Ed’s pet concerns, but I’ve given as much leeway on the subject as I’m willing. You’ll find I can be just as inflexible.”

“I’m accustomed to it.”

Spencer couldn’t tell whether Snow meant the reply as a joke. Her deadpan was perfect.

“I want to be clear. This is part of the reason we have such trouble bringing the Fabians to heel. Their actions have not risen to the level of domestic terrorism, not within Coalition territory, and Galt seems unwilling to admit they’ve become a haven for a group they see as our problem and not theirs. They barely admit the Fabians exist.”

“But surely their objectivist rationale falls apart when it comes to money,” Spencer argued. “Aren’t they worried megacorps and governments won’t want Galt handling the currency exchange if they can’t provide better security?”

“They assure us they’ve hired the best.” Snow sighed. “But from what Colonel Sinclair reports about the Fabian predilection for bribes, they may be outclassed.”

“I know.” Spencer consulted her report again. “Closing in on fifty million credits spent over the last few months, from various untraceable sources, most of which claim to be private donors but some, I gather, CBI can prove are fake accounts.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sinclair is working the problem? Along with the infestation in his ranks?”

“He’s bringing First Lieutenant Brant Guinto back into the picture. Sinclair is confident Guinto’s working relationship with Oxford’s analysts can crack both.”

Spencer cleared the tablet. He handed it back to Snow. “I appreciate the updates. You saw my message about the next meeting?”

“This evening? Yes. I’ll have my staff prepare talking points on our responses, with the information redacted when it comes to its classified status.”

“Good. The last thing I need—and I have a lot of those today—is a representative from either extreme end of the political spectrum running to the press as an ‘anonymous source,’ saying how we’re letting the economy take a beating because Christian socialists are committed to turning us into the next utopia.” Spencer raised a finger. “Make sure to remind Andrew too. I want to talk to him about who among our neutral allies we could quietly send over to Galt in case there’s more trouble, especially with Tucson and Oxford having to maintain lower profiles than usual. We’ve leaned heavily on Saurian cooperation getting SATO off the ground, so I don’t think it’s unfair to ask the same of the neutrals.”

Snow nodded but added a slight smile. “I suspect they’ll remind us they’re responsible for saving the Terran Coalition.”

“Do they do that?” Spencer snorted. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Nothing is wrong with your sarcasm, sir. I’ll see to it.”

Spencer was sure she would and, on a more serious note, was equally sure the neutrals would assist in some way, especially if James Henry held the same clout he once had. But he would get to that later in the afternoon. Now, if I can remember the name of the book I came here looking for in the first place…

* * *

CSV Tucson

Fifth Orbit—Asteroid Zone

Galt System

They had crept through another four search sectors when the coded signal came through as flash traffic for Mancini, his eyes only. He took receipt on his console then read it twice because, the first time, he thought someone back at Canaan was having a laugh at his expense.

“Good news for us, Skipper?” Godat waited nearby.

“Not sure, XO. It’s news, and it doesn’t involve Leaguers or their disguised stealth freighters, so I’m happy about that.” But are the neutral systems really going to send a couple of ships over to Galt and lend a hand if things get messy? They’re supposedly on the way but… Mancini drank from his mug. Gah. He would have to see about getting Warrant Dwyer reassigned back to Tucson, or at the very least find out his secret source for heavenly coffee. “TAO, how’s it looking?”

“Nothing since we passed that gas scoop two hours…” Olesen’s board beeped at him. “Conn, TAO, possible confirmation of signal origin.”

“TAO, throw the coordinates on the board.” Mancini punched the intercom. “Sensor Room. TAO has a potential match. Do you concur?”

“Conn, Sensor Room, I concur. Likelihood is eighty-six percent.”

“I’ll take those odds. TAO, mark as Sierra Nine.”

“Conn, TAO, designating as Sierra Nine.”

The new icon appeared on the tactical board, unmoving. It was the third stationary man-made object they’d come across—well, not entirely stationary, as Mancini reminded himself. It wasn’t a vessel under power. And it wasn’t a space station, either, or didn’t appear to be. “What am I looking at, TAO?”

“Looks like a power source and structures built out of one end of Asteroid Two-One-One-Eight-Six,” Olesen answered. “Hard to get a detailed scan at this range.”

“Time to intercept?”

“Twenty-eight hours at this speed.”

“Any sign of other vessels?”

Olesen checked his console. “Negative.”

Mancini glanced at Godat. “Twenty-eight hours. We can push faster, but we won’t be running silent.”

“True. Will that spook them, or will they even be there by the time we arrive at this crawl?”

“A probe could get there faster if we can conceal the launch.” Mancini brought up the specs for a Mark III reconnaissance probe. Then he triggered the intercom again. “COB, get me Chief Tabb, and meet me in the probe bay. We’re going to try something fancy.”

“Sounds like a plan, Skipper. You wanting a stealthier-than-usual probe launch?”

“Assuming we can manage it.” Mancini cleared the channel. “TAO, advise me of any aspect change in the target.”

“Conn, TAO, aye, sir.”

“Mr. Godat?” Mancini smiled. “You have the conn while I see if we can snoop on the new target without the neighbors noticing.”

19

Fabian Enclave—District G2

Rand

Galt System

26 November 2465

Jackson caught up with Farook as the latter hurried down a gloomy corridor deep within the hidden base beneath the garage. “Hey. What’s all this about a briefing? I didn’t know we had briefings.”

Farook gave him a stern look. “I’d suppress the glib attitude if I were you.”

Zack followed quietly behind Farook, his expression one of solemn worry. Jackson looked back at Nick, who trailed by a few steps. No one seemed in a mood to chat, but unfortunately for them, Jackson couldn’t get answers without interrogation or conversation. Especially since Covert Action Unit 22 was listening in.

“Janus, this is Vector Home.” Richards’s voice was a bit jarring compared to Brant’s—less calm, quicker, with a keener edge. Not nearly as reassuring a presence over the comms as Brant. But he was new to his role, and Jackson had to admit his efficiency and skill had been up to the task so far. “Signal is coming clear. No signs of interception or attempted disruption. Vector One agrees, it looks like we’re undetected.”

Jackson squeezed the transmitter in his sleeve to reply in the affirmative, which was all he could do, of course. “Everybody’s in a hell of a mood, huh?” he continued to Farook. “I saw Winston earlier—he looked like he was expecting a chewing out.”

“It could be. He’s under a lot of strain.” Farook shook his head. “We’ve had far too many instances of interference with our righteous work.”

“Not with our tech, though,” Nick noted. “I’ve proven it’s flawless.”

“Nothing’s flawless,” Zack admonished. “We should all remember that. Hubris will be our downfall.”

Nick snorted. “Easy for you to say, when all you do is dole out buckets of money that aren’t even ours.”

“Be quiet,” Farook warned.

“Why? I won’t let him denigrate the hours I spend laboring over our data spikes, without which, I should remind you, we’d have nothing. We’d be back to throwing rotten fruit at CDF troops in body armor before they shoot us with stun rounds or gas us with suppression smoke.”

“Ehkras!” Farook halted and whirled in the hall. His hands were balled into fists.

He took a step toward Nick, who skidded, faltered, but braced himself as if preparing for a fight.

“How could we forget about your hard work, Nick, when all you do is grouse about how no one appreciates you? All you’ve done the past week is complain more and more insistently about how valuable you are to the cause. If only you’d put such fervor into taking risks beyond these four walls, as Winston and others like him do!”

“Easy, my friend.” Zack placed a hand on Farook’s shoulder. “This is not the time or place to correct our brother. Our leaders need us with them.”

“That’s right.” Nick sneered. “You’d better pray this isn’t to kick us out because we’re useless, or only Jason and I will be left.”

“Hey, um…” Jackson held up his hands. “I’m just doing what Nick tells me, and he’s right, from what I can tell. There’s no faulting our work.”

“We know, Jason. You both do good work.” Zack glanced at Farook next. “We all do. Yes?”

Farook exhaled. He relaxed his hands and straightened his jacket. “Yes. We all do. For God and for the cause.” He resumed his march, though at a quicker pace.

Zack waited for a moment, eyeing Nick then Jackson before continuing.

“Sorry about that,” Jackson said to Nick. “I don’t think they get us. What we do, I mean.”

“No, they don’t. But they will. The data spike—they’ll understand us. No one will forget how vital we are to the Fabian cause.”

All the better if it pushes you to screw something up, Jackson mused.

They arrived in pairs at a storage bunker lined with metal shelves, each one stocked with prepackaged food and water jugs. Jackson counted thirty-three others, plus Alexis, Winston, and Perrine, who stood around a broad, circular table. A hologram of the Galt Currency Exchange glowed in the middle.

“Good, we’re all here.” Alexis spread her arms. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve decided to adjust the timetable. Three days, and we go in.”

Jackson’s heart skipped. Too soon. We have too many questions left about who these people really are and who is running things behind the scenes. Outwardly, he grinned at Farook, who returned his smile.

“The bulk of us will make our entry through the cetacean compound at the exchange’s ground level,” Alexis went on. “Which is a departure from our original plan but, because of recent failures, can’t be avoided.”

Winston avoided her gaze. He crossed his arms and glowered.

Good. Jackson had wondered if Gina’s abducting the florist clerk would have ramifications within the Fabian organization. Apparently, one such happy side effect was the kindling of mistrust between Alexis and her right-hand man.

Alexis adjusted the hologram. A huge, sleek seagoing creature appeared. Jackson thought of a seal and an orca merged except it featured a long, oddly hinged jaw bristling with needlelike teeth. Six fins protruded in pairs along a slender body.

“A yar norkan eats half its body weight in fish every week, which is why people—especially gullible tourists—waste so much food off the piers by the exchange. But when they’re not feeding, they are incredible docile beasts, content to swim even alongside humans. The exchange’s sealed tank takes up half the lowest level and is the focal point of the grandiose lobby. We will split into four teams, with half entering via the tank crew hatches and the other two teams using these lesser-guarded doors.”

Four portals glowed red. “I don’t anticipate trouble, because we are spending ten million credits on ten guards who will gladly walk away with a feigned illness rather than continue serving the financial oligarchs.” Alexis smirked. “Once inside, one team will proceed into the data centers, where they will implant the spike. Here, again, we won’t have problems with flesh and blood, but there are security robots to consider. Winston?”

“This is where the other three teams will have their day.” Winston gestured at a long rack of weaponry behind him. “These plasma rifles have been modified to deliver disabling bursts to any electronic device, without running the risk of us vaporizing each other.”

Chuckles rippled around the room. Jackson could read the tension on everyone’s faces and in their postures. This was not a combat unit preparing for an op, nor was it even Jackson’s mixed bag of military and civilian operatives. They were a motley assortment of regular people—some scared, some angry, all feeling the strain.

A few, like Farook, were cool and calm. More than one here with the training that’s made their efforts successful, it seems.

“Janus, this is Home.” Richards’s voice rose an octave. “Be advised we are tracking multiple parties inbound to our location. Vector One indicates we may be forced to abandon to backup.”

Multiple parties inbound? Who? And how?

Alexis raised her hands above the murmurs spreading throughout the gathered group. “Before we get deeper into our planning, I want to comfort you all with the knowledge that yes, the rumors are true. Agents of the Coalition have followed us to Galt and have used their insidious means not only to violate our liberty but to attempt destruction of our plans for an equitable society. They want to remain in power. None of them can stand the thought of the equal redistribution of resources. How could they, when it means they will be cut off from the trough they’ve gorged upon? But I say you should be comforted because the bravest of our brothers and sisters are, at this moment, this very night, ready to sacrifice even their lives to bring our enemies to their ruin.”

Cheers erupted and shouts of joy. Cold washed over Jackson, making him feel ill, as he registered the stunned expression Winston wore. Alexis knows. Somehow, she knows. Jackson squeezed his hidden transmitter in the pattern meant to signal distress—not for him, but for the team, supposedly secure in their safe house.

He got no response. The soft buzz and sudden click in his embedded earpiece struck him harder than a blow to the head. The team—his people, both new and old—were in danger, and he could do nothing.

* * *

Gina was on her way back to the apartment through Rand’s dark streets when the emergency signal flashed across her comms—no words, no instructions, just a tone that pierced like a blow to the head. She dropped all pretense of being part of the pedestrian herds around her and ran.

The two men approaching from the side street right before the apartment were most obvious. They didn’t bother hiding the plasma carbines as they jogged to the side entrance. More men and women hurried to the front of the building from the opposite direction, but Gina couldn’t reach them, not in time to make a difference.

“Targets are on the fifth floor, center suites,” one man said to the other as his partner worked a plasma torch on the lock.

No need for them to subtly break in, Gina supposed.

“Hey, fellas.” She put on her sultriest voice.

The one who’d spoken spun first, carbine up. Gina smiled and continued her walk. It didn’t hurt that she had on tight pants and a form-fitting thermal shirt. His hesitance was typical for his gender and gave her the extra second to sweep up her pulse pistol and shoot him twice in the head.

The man with the torch yelped and scrambled for his carbine, but Gina shot him three times—twice in the chest, once in the face. She shoved his body aside with her boot. The door he’d been trying to enter was a service entrance to which only hotel staff and registered robots had access.

“Thanks,” she murmured to the dead men as she stepped over them and pushed her way inside.

Gina didn’t know whether she’d expected pandemonium or not but was mildly surprised upon finding silence—except for rapid footsteps far ahead. Her civilian commlink buzzed. She checked it, only to receive a generic public safety alert. “All residents for these premises are to remain indoors for the duration of this emergency. Patrol officers have an unsafe subject to apprehend. All residents—”

She snorted. A bullshit notice but effective. Given how corrupt patrol officers in Rand could be, no one in their right mind would step outside to challenge them, offering the assailants free range of the hotel.

Finally, the emergency signal cleared out of her comms. She triggered her transmitter. “Deadeye, this is Eidolon. Hostiles heading up the stairs to the fifth floor. They have your location. Can you evac?”

No response.

Gina ground her teeth. She reached the stairwell and eased the door open, peering upward through the slit between the door and its frame. Boots pounded on the concrete landings above, reverberating as they hit metal steps. Third floor. Fourth floor.

She could ambush them from behind, but she had only her plasma pistol and lacked her grav harness—no other toys she could employ. And as a single-person ambush, with at least six above her, she was as likely to get killed as she was to take anyone down. The best she could do was follow discreetly and hope for the opportunity of surprise.

Her comms chirped. “Eidolon, Deadeye.”

“Are you okay? You have—”

“Busy,” Sev grunted. “Preparing.”

* * *

Lieutenant Richards took three minutes and thirteen seconds to break down his consoles, ripping out vital modules and leaving inert casings. He had everything crammed into a snug backpack and a heavy case. He frowned. “That’s… huh. Unwieldy.”

Sev took the case without being asked and slung its strap across his back.

Lieutenant Garza brought Fei and the clerk into the central room. He was still dressed in his blue-and-gray civilian garb he’d worn while working on the cetacean care crew at the currency exchange. “Nova, this is Vector One. ETA?”

“Comin’ in hot, One. We’ll be over you in five.”

Five minutes. Three hundred seconds. Sev heard faint footsteps at the end of the outside hall. He’d already shoved one couch against the door. Grunting, he heaved a second on its side and rammed it perpendicular. The cross-shaped barricade wouldn’t slow their opponents for long, but he didn’t need a lot of time.

“We’re short on firepower.” Lieutenant Garza took a knee next to him and lifted a two-handed submachine gun.

Sev had seen a similar model in Master Chief MacDonald’s arsenal aboard Oxford.

“If I can’t hold them here, you need to get Josh out on Wilkes’s grav harness.”

Sev glanced behind them, where Fei checked the charge on a pulse pistol. Lieutenant Richards had one, too, but the clerk—she could very well be the first casualty in the upcoming fight. She wept as Fei whispered comforting words.

“Fei is the priority. She’s one of us.” Lieutenant Garza looked ill. “But if you can’t get the girl out…”

No. That won’t do.

Pounding erupted at the door. The clerk yelped.

“Rand City Security Patrol!” a woman announced. “Open up! This is a search sanctioned by the municipal government.”

Sev snorted. He lifted his rifle and adjusted the scope. His surroundings faded to black. Furniture and structures were outlined in white, with hazy gray fill. So were bodies. Eight people. They crowded at the front door, forming a breaching party. Sev was thankful that at least the hotel owners had only provided one point of entry to the suite.

Of course, if they have any cutters…

Two men broke off from the main group, one headed left, one headed right. They posted themselves at the walls by the bedrooms.

Sev glanced at Lieutenant Garza. “Bedroom walls.”

“Shit.” He grabbed Lieutenant Richards. “Get in the bedroom, and watch the corridor wall. If you see anyone start to cut through, shoot in the center. Come back here when you’re empty.”

“Okay. Right. Got it.” Lieutenant Richards hurried off.

Sev was soon alone as both officers took their places. The clerk behind him lapsed into whimpers. Fei shushed her. He could feel rather than see Fei’s pistol raised. The six ghostly figures in front of him fiddled with something on the floor.

“Deadeye, this is Eidolon,” Gina murmured into the comms. “Fourth floor landing. I’m coming up. Want me to shoot first?”

Sev smiled. The deer was gone. But he had a whole pack of wolves in his sights, the same pack clamoring to devour him. “Please.” His finger rested on the trigger.

Noise exploded all at once. A pulse pistol’s shrieks came from the stairwell, flashes cutting into the figure who’d gone to one of the exterior walls of a bedroom. Lieutenant Richards’s outline jerked, but he fired through the wall, lending his shots to the fusillade.

Plasma flared to Sev’s right as another assailant tried to breach the opposite bedroom’s wall, but Lieutenant Garza dropped the intruder with three-round bursts from his submachine gun.

Sev shot the woman, their leader, he presumed, through the head. He put a second round into the head of the man behind her and to her left. A third round slammed into the right-hand woman’s chest.

Plasma bursts tore through the doorway, igniting the couch. The clerk screamed. Fei’s pulse pistol covered the sound as she loosed six shots over Sev’s head into the melting and smoking mess that was his admittedly haphazard attempt at a barricade.

Aircraft engine noises rumbled outside. Sev didn’t look up—three people still occupied the hall, and weapons fire came from all directions—but he knew the pitch was wrong. It wasn’t Novabird.

“Deadeye to Nova,” Sev snapped.

“Yeah, I hear you, Deadeye. We’re inbound on an intercept course and a mite busy at the moment.” Warrant Dwyer’s reply was equally sharp.

The assailants shouted at each other, retreating down the corridor away from Gina’s assault. She’d hunkered in a doorway alcove and didn’t seem worse for wear, at least as far as Sev could tell through his scope. But he did make out the word “roof” among the panicked orders the attackers yelled. Not acceptable.

Lieutenant Garza sent bursts from his submachine gun through the wall, cutting off their escape. Sev couldn’t make out his next order over the comms, not with all the tumult enveloping him, and it didn’t matter because he was on his feet, stalking the last three wolves as he walked across the common room.

He sighted and shot them, one after the other, until the only sound was the ringing in his ears and the thunder of the aircraft outside.

The engine roared. Sev spun around, rifle raised to the window, but all he saw was the back side of a small shuttle as it dropped into view, heat from its fusion engines distorting the air in rolling waves. It was a klick away when it suddenly fired from a small, concealed turret on its dorsal fuselage.

The stream of answering fire tore through its centerline, ripping apart the white heat shielding until it hit the engine mounts. The explosion left a miniature sun, followed by a smear of smoke. The detonation set the entire hotel shaking as if an earthquake had struck.

Novabird swept through the cloud of debris, pivoted, and raced for the roof.

Gina stepped through the jagged, melted hole that had been the suite’s front door. Her clothes were singed. She had blood on her arm, but she was walking. Still alive. “Our ride’s here,” she panted. “Anyone coming?”

20

CSV Oxford

Third Orbit

Galt System

27 November 2465

Brant found it surreal to accept a cup of cinnamon tea from Miranda Eldred, the two of them surrounded by the forest of monitors and holographic displays crowding Oxford’s operations center. He’d arrived late last “night” according to shipboard time, with only a brief chance to review the updated reports on the current mission. It was equally odd to be present in his duty uniform. Definitely not a standard operation for him. But the capper was the lack of Colonel Sinclair. He hadn’t met Brant upon arrival, nor had he come by to greet Brant in the ops center.

As soon as the steward departed with his drink tray for the officers and enlisted crew, Miranda leaned in. “Colonel’s in a meeting with Alon and the upper brass,” she murmured as steam rose into her face. “RUMINT is working double shifts, I don’t mind saying, ever since the attack yesterday.”

Brant sipped his tea, glad for a drink that could soothe his stomach. “I’m glad everyone made it out okay.”

“They did, thanks to your crazy man, Deadeye.” Miranda shook her head. “Where did you guys dig him up? Because his service jacket—well, his dossier, I mean—that might as well be blank.”

“Cap—Janus knows his background. I can’t tell you much other than that.” Which was true. Jack had never gone into the sordid details of how Sevastopol Rast had gone from being a juvenile defector of the League to a destabilization operative of unparalleled skill and few words. “Did you spot anything that could help us out?”

“Not so much as a flutter. If anyone aboard is feeding our intel to the Fabians, they’re doing it in expert fashion. I’ve been monitoring every comms channel, every encrypted signal. Hell, I’ve even put a tag on the passive pinging Oxford’s nav uses to keep track of local satellites. Zilch.”

“That’s puzzling for sure.”

Miranda smirked. “I was hoping you had a ‘eureka’ and a solution for me, Brant.”

“I’m not that much of a miracle worker.”

“Baloney. We’ve partnered on too many of these ops for you to play the humility card with me. Tell me you have something.”

It was Brant’s turn to smile. “Ye of little faith, Warrant. I didn’t say I came empty-handed. Excuse me.” He changed chairs into one right next to hers, where he could access one of the consoles. Brant aimed a data chip for the input slot. His hand trembled, scratching the chip against the drive. Not now. Come on. Brant exhaled deeply and tried again. It took a third try before he jammed the chip into the receptacle.

The computer flashed a warning about “Unverified Information Source,” but Brant cleared it in a second using an override code he’d developed during the first week of the Aphendrika mission. In his downtime. Of course, he wasn’t ever going to let Jack know he had downtime built into his routines.

Streams of numbers and indexed text trickled down the screen. Brant made sure the monitor was privacy shielded so only he and Miranda could read it. He also made sure his data chip stayed plugged in so the secondary algorithm living there could watch for subtle access by whoever was spying on the spies.

“I cross-referenced the dates and times of the incidents with Oxford’s data recovery logs,” Brant explained. “The attack on Novabird, the raid on the safe house, and the intervals you supplied during which you cooked up the programming stuffed into Tiny Tim. I wanted to see if there was any unusual comms activity.”

“And?”

“Nothing. I came up empty, like you did—until I looked deeper at the probe synchronization pulses.”

Miranda blinked. “The probes? We have six of those perpendicular to the Galt system’s ecliptic plane relaying data about incoming ships by bouncing their readings through a dedicated channel linked to Oxford. I hid the channel inside Galt’s satellite communications network.”

“That’s what I’d figured, so I dug back through the mission parameter summaries and found the frequencies you chose.” Brant tapped a panel. Undulating lines crossed the monitor. “I must have spent half a day staring at the things off and on, running them through every analysis I could think of alongside the other signal bands Oxford uses.”

“What did you match it with?”

“It was less of what I matched it with and more of what I listened for.” Brant picked up an earpiece from its sanitization slot on Miranda’s console. He handed one to her and secured one in his ear. “Listen.”

She frowned as she held the earpiece, her gaze drifting from him as she concentrated. “I recognize the hum. Those triple tones underneath. That’s what the probe relay sounds like when translated.”

“Listen more closely.”

Miranda squeezed her eyes shut.

Brant watched her. “Can you hear it? Between the second and third pulse… hold on, let me decrease the modulation.” He adjusted a control. The waves slowed.

Eldred’s eyes flew open.

Brant held his finger to his lips.

“It has another pulse in there, on a different frequency,” Miranda murmured. “It’s masked by the probe signal, layered underneath. I can’t believe they—whoever it is—broke this through the security protocols we have in place to prevent misuse.”

“I figured that. I might have seen it sooner if…” Brant shook his head. “This is why I shouldn’t have left.”

“What do you mean?”

“I should have come back sooner. If I had, if we’d been working together, we might have stopped whoever did this.”

“Well, I should have found it myself, with or without your help, because that’s my job, not yours.” Miranda placed her hand on the console. “This is my ship, my people. Lord knows it took a long time for me to get to this point, but when the colonel took me on, I knew I was going to have to let go of my life with CIS. I got a new life—Oxford and her people. You just forgot that you had that life, too, until you stepped away from it.”

“Thanks.” Brant glanced around. “The question is how do we proceed from here?”

“I know what the regs say, but that’s not gonna work in this situation, not with a possible breach aboard.”

“You’re right.” Brant ran through a list of possibilities in his mind, each more ludicrous than the next. Jack would get himself insinuated in the ranks of the traitors. Gina would sneak into their cabins. Dwyer would swoop in for aerial reconnaissance—no, that wouldn’t work inside a ship—and Sev? Brant didn’t want to think about who he would shoot.

“This is what we do.” Miranda turned to her console and started typing. “I send Colonel Sinclair and Alon an update on what we have about a possible Fabian meeting spot. Coordinates. They’ll forward the coordinates to Janus, and when they do, we’ll monitor the probe relays to watch for the same modulation used to hide the traitor’s communications.”

“What coordinates? Do you have new intel?”

“No. I don’t.” Miranda grinned. “We make sure to tell Sinclair and Alon that, of course, but as far as everyone else knows, it’s a legitimate lead derived from a trusted source.”

“Right. I like it.” Brant opened a new subroutine from the depths of the data chip he’d accessed. “I’ll key up a program we can use for the trace. It shouldn’t be too out of the ordinary because whoever’s been doing this will know what to watch for. Do you have something I can base it off of?”

“Check the file on weather updates. Alon and I used those to send notes through Janus’s tablet when he was inserted into the cell.”

Weather updates. That would work. The signals carrying them were commonplace, found in everything from a child’s info wrist unit to a secure corporate database. Brant entered lines of code, building the new program from the ground up. It would take a while. But if I focus on the essentials…

Miranda’s console chirped at her. She raised an eyebrow. “Oh. That’s nice.”

“What is it?”

“A name for Janus’s buddy.” Rather than speak it, Miranda tapped the name glowing on the screen—Farook Amjad.

Only the face was not the one from Brant’s files. It was a slimmer, older visage with gray hair at the temples. That man, older by a decade, wore a CDF Intelligence duty uniform like Brant’s and Miranda’s.

“Mr. Guinto.” Colonel Sinclair smiled as he approached from the entrance to the ops center. “Glad to see you settling in.”

“Thanks, sir.” Brant nodded at Miranda. “We’ve got good news for you.”

“And I you. A rather fast shuttle just docked, and I understand the pilot and crew would be delighted to get reacquainted.”

Brant’s heart hammered. The team? Aboard Oxford? He didn’t know if he was ready to see them again. And he was in a minor panic because surely Sinclair realized the risk he was taking with them coming back aboard.

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “Guess we won’t need those coordinates after all. You go. I’ll keep working on the program so we can stop this leak once and for all.”

* * *

Gina knew their evacuation from the so-called safe house had been anything but orderly, so she expected security aboard Oxford to be high when they arrived. She didn’t foresee a squad of Marines, plus Captain Tamir, along with a quartet of med technicians.

Garza and Sakuri helped Fei and the clerk disembark. The clerk. Gina realized that in all the crazed fight and flight, she’d never found out the poor girl’s name. At least she hadn’t become a physical casualty of their battle.

“Give them their scans here,” Tamir ordered the med techs. “I don’t want them leaving the hangar bay just yet. Lieutenant Garza, I need a word.”

“Yes, sir.” Garza made sure the techs got Fei and the clerk seated on a pair of cargo containers before joining Tamir in hushed conversation.

Dwyer sauntered down the exit ramp. He rolled his sleeves down. “Welp, I reckon this is all we get for a welcome wagon, eh, Sev?”

Sev grunted. He shifted the weight of Richards’s equipment container on his shoulders.

Gina glanced around. Dwyer was right. Aside from Tamir, the Marines, and the med techs, the hangar bay was empty of personnel. Much of it was doused in darkness. She frowned. Whatever was going on, Sinclair must have wanted as few eyes on Novabird’s arrival as possible.

One more set, though, was apparently okay because Gina spotted Brant hustling toward their knot as fast as he could without jogging. She thought it a mirage, a hallucination, but as soon as he grabbed her shoulders, she registered his grin as genuine and the greeting as true.

“Brant! I can’t believe it.”

“I know. Who let me aboard?” He hugged her. “Thank God you’re okay.”

“Hey! LT.” Dwyer slapped him on the back. “The good Lord Almighty’s given us one heck of a gift together, hasn’t he? Did they drag you off Canaan to play with their comps?”

“Something like that. Eldred and I are hoping to catch the traitor aboard, the one responsible for these messes.” Brant gestured to the medics checking out Fei and the clerk. “We think we’ve pinpointed how they’re communicating with the Fabians.”

“But you’re okay?” Gina cocked her head. “You seem—better.”

“Getting there. I couldn’t sit this out, though, not anymore,” Brant said. “Have you heard from Jack?”

Gina looked at their tight-knit group. Richards hung back with Sakuri, not far from the medics. “He was all right, last I saw in person, but if someone aboard is leaking secrets, I don’t know how long it’ll last.”

“Cap’n can handle it,” Dwyer interjected. “I think that goes without saying.”

“Well, we can damn sure make it so we’re there to help him handle it,” Brant replied.

Sev nodded. “Yes, sir.”

It buoyed Gina’s confidence to have four pieces of their five-person puzzle in place. But if they didn’t get more answers soon, they would be walking back into the same dangerous situation.

“I’m glad you’re all safe.” Tamir approached with Garza in tow.

Brant and Dwyer braced to attention. Gina folded her arms, waiting for more information, let alone orders.

“But we’re needed in the wardroom.” Tamir looked at the two civilians who had ridden with the teams aboard Novabird. “All of us.”

* * *

The clerk drained half a lidded cup of water. She cleared her throat twice. “My name is Ellie Terzich. I’ve worked for Lana Flora for three years. Winston, um, came to me four months ago with a lot of money. He said I’d get more every week if I took parcels—I mean, held on to the parcels for him so he could pick them up. Little ones.”

“Where did you get the funds?” Tamir recorded notes on his tablet.

Gina could see the fear on Ellie’s face. “I, um, I don’t know. They were in my account. No name. Just a bank number.”

Brant hunched over his own tablet, which Gina realized was synced to Tamir’s. He took the bank number Tamir must have pulled from Ellie’s financial institution and looked like he was tearing it apart. Probably not what was really happening, but Gina wasn’t about to ask for details. She was more interested in Ellie’s answers.

“Winston never told me anything,” Ellie continued, tears brimming. “All I wanted to do was help the cause, but I didn’t want anyone to get hurt. No one was supposed to get hurt!”

“But people would lose their money and, some, their jobs.” Tamir’s tone was admirably patient. “The economic disruption the Fabians desire would have that outcome, no matter what he promised you.”

“I should have realized it.” Ellie sniffed. “But he kept saying the benefactor could get them jobs. He had so much money…”

The benefactor? Gina ran through the mentions from her mission notes, from things Jackson had said, from dozens of tiny bits peppering the operation.

“The benefactor?” Tamir asked. “One?”

“Winston only said it a couple of times. Just a ‘he,’ that was all.” Ellie shrugged. “He said the benefactor wanted to boost the cause because of all the things he’d lost. But then Winston wouldn’t talk about much else. I still—he was going to hurt me, wasn’t he? Was he going to kill me? I can’t go back there. They’ll know where to find me! You have to keep me safe.”

“We will. Our people can offer you amnesty.” Tamir glanced at Gina where she sat next to Brant, with Garza on her right. “But we’ll get to that in a minute…”

Brant motioned for Gina and Garza to follow him out of the wardroom.

“What’s this about?” Garza asked.

“The bank codes.” Brant scowled at his tablet. “They’ve been bounced all across the Coalition on their way to Galt, like whoever sent the money was trying really hard to hide the origin. But they kept looping back to a transceiver on Galt itself, which means it was meant as a misdirect. The benefactor got sloppy. It makes me think of a money scammer who got cocky back when Jack and I had one of our first assignments. He was a CDF pilot trying to hide what he’d skimmed from officer pensions.”

“Okay.” Gina couldn’t care less about pensions and scamming but needed a target. The right target. “How does that help us?”

“It helps us because Miranda has access to a gigantic database of bank codes, legitimate and otherwise. We can cross-check them against the ones that have figured high on CIS and CBI watchlists, the ones that surveil accounts linked to terrorist organizations or even potential League sources.”

“Then we should get those to her as soon as possible,” Garza said.

“I did.” Brant held out his tablet. “Captain Tamir’s and mine are linked to hers, bypassing the Oxford’s mainframe. We knew we needed a way to communicate that wouldn’t be detected by whoever’s been feeding information to the Fabians.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Gina murmured. “Does this mean we’ve got something actionable? Because I would love the chance to break into a place that belonged to the rich and obnoxious, especially if they’re helping the Fabians muck everything up.”

Eldred strode around the corner, Sinclair right behind her. She came up short at the sight of the trio clustered outside the wardroom.

Brant and Garza braced to attention. “Colonel Sinclair, sir,” Garza said. “I should report to you that—”

“Can we skip all this?” Gina interrupted. “Please? The sooner we get what we need, the sooner we can get our asses back to the surface and help Jack bring these people down from the inside out, preferably after we slap together all our gadgets in the back of Novabird before we hit the atmosphere.”

Garza glared at her. Eldred looked like Gina had slapped everyone in the corridor. Brant bowed his head and rubbed his forehead, muttering Tagalog. Sinclair, though, raised an eyebrow and considered Gina with a cool, collected look, as stern as anything her dad had ever given her when she was a little girl.

For maybe the third time in her life, Gina wondered if she’d said or done something that had irreversibly ruined her chances.

“By George,” Sinclair finally said. “I’m not much for your candor, Ms. Wilkes, but in this case—perhaps just this one—I will make the exception. To cut to the quick, I’m happy to say we are seventy percent certain the Fabians are being paid by the apparently still-quite-wealthy Mr. Ardalion Noor.”

“I’ll be damned,” Garza muttered. “Sir,” he added.

“Quite so,” Sinclair answered.

Gina glanced at Brant, who had snapped back to life, then Eldred, who grinned like Jack had when he’d hit on a key element in one of his portrayals.

“What does that mean for us?” Gina asked.

“It means we can cut them off,” Brant explained. “We can throw a wrench into their works but only at the exact right moment.”

“I’m on board for that,” Garza said. “My team’s ready for anything.”

“So glad you’re that sure of yourself,” Gina countered.

“That was meant to include you, too, Wilkes.”

Gina’s cheeks flushed. Okay. She was letting the chaos of the last day get to her. Enough of that. “Sorry, Duncan. I should have known that.”

Sinclair nodded. “Very good, all. This is our time to press the advantage. Remember—we’re not dealing with external enemies but internal ones, which means we must continue to tread as carefully and firmly as we can. As Mr. Guinto said, we must do so with precision.”

“As long as we know when the right moment is, Colonel,” Eldred noted.

“That,” Sinclair said, “is up to Janus.”

21

Galt Currency Exchange

Rand

Galt System

27 November 2465

The truck rumbled along the final approach to the currency exchange’s main entrance, a long stretch of Rand pavement lined with spindly whisper pines. Jackson straightened the sleeves of his shirt. He wore the blue-and-gray outfit of the exchange’s cetacean maintenance staff, as did the other nineteen people in the compartment.

Farook, Nick, and Zack passed the drive in silence. Few people seemed in the mood to chat. Jackson was still relieved the team had fought off the ambush of their safe house, but the failure of those hired guns to eliminate their targets had only deepened the discontent among the Fabians.

“Front gate ahead,” the driver called over the intercom. “Everyone have your IDs ready.”

“A precaution only,” Farook explained. “Zack will take care of the guards here.”

“He of bottomless pockets,” Nick grumbled.

“Shut your mouth, and concentrate on your role,” Farook snapped. “Everyone is relying on us, and I don’t just mean the brothers and sisters in these trucks. Don’t further disgrace yourself by failing where you should have an easy success.”

Nick’s expression broadcast plainly what he thought of Farook’s admonition. Jackson couldn’t be happier to see his handiwork bearing fruit so quickly. The tension rising within the Fabian ranks exacerbated their mutual dislike.

Zack dismounted through the truck’s side door. Jackson strained to hear his murmured conversation with the gate guard, but by the time he thought he could make out a word or two, Zack clambered back aboard, grinning. “Like manna from heaven,” he declared. “Our way is cleared thanks to our benefactor’s generosity.”

“Well done, brother.” Farook looked around the compartment as the truck rumbled in. “Team One will go first. Two follows only when we establish the internal scanner shutdown. Keep your weapons ready.”

The ten members of Team Two cradled the modified plasma rifles. Jackson wouldn’t get one, but he had a pulse pistol concealed in the event of an emergency—plus a decent stash of sedatives that would knock down anyone he didn’t want to shoot. Which, frankly, was everyone involved. Most of the Fabians had not committed violent acts. Jackson wasn’t surprised Alexis and Winston had hired mercenaries for their dirty work.

The truck lurched. The engine dropped into the same monotone rumble.

“We’re here,” the driver announced.

Farook and Zack led the way out the double doors into a concrete unloading area that reeked of fish. A handful of robots on treaded tracks rolled here and there, moving large sealed containers. No people in sight.

Once everyone had disembarked, the truck turned and faced the yawning loading area doors, engine still idling. Ready for a swift getaway, Jackson knew.

“Access point is up here.” Nick brushed by Farook, heading for a door at the top of a ramp on the left side of the room. He planted a small data tablet beneath the controls and punched in a code. The tablet screen pulsed red, with white lines of text skittering across its surface. Nick waited a few seconds more, until the screen stopped pulsing and turned a solid green, before swiping his forged access card.

The door’s locks disengaged with a trio of clanks then slid aside. The fishy scent intensified. Jack realized he was really smelling sea air, which explained why he kept thinking of CAU 171’s last mission together on Trenchant II. It was a staler, brinier scent, not as fresh and wild as what he remembered from there.

“Follow me.” Farook led them into a broad, brightly lit pavilion encased under a sloping glass wall.

A water tank spread out a couple hundred meters ahead. Lights embedded in the sides gave the depths a blue glow. A pair of yar norkan surfaced, spraying water in a coruscating shower that made it appear to be raining inside.

“God in heaven, but they’re beautiful,” Zack murmured.

“Yeah, they are,” Jackson agreed.

“Quit gawking,” Nick growled, “and get the breaching code uploaded for the next checkpoint. Watch your footing. I don’t have the time or patience to train a replacement if you fall in.”

Once Nick stormed out of earshot, Zack leaned in and noted, “Especially the patience.”

Jackson snickered, but he withdrew his tablet and brought up the program Nick had requested. It was their key to get deeper into the currency exchange, but it wasn’t anything Jackson had contrived. Sure, he had provided his limited mechanical expertise to build the hardwired interface, but Richards had surreptitiously created the code itself, allowing Jackson in his Jason persona to pass off the result as his own.

So far, Alexis’s assurances that they would meet no opposition held true. No guards. No employees. Not even a single security drone. That changed as they fanned out into the lobby.

Six security robots swooped in from the side hallways that led to their charging cubicles. Each one was the size and bulk of Jackson’s torso, with four ducted turbofans and a pair of stun-round launchers hanging beneath. An orange light flashed back and forth across an optical scanner band on the drones’ front arcs. “This shift is not authorized,” they said in an eerie female monotone. Jackson thought about the ancient Greek myth of the sirens, though there was no chance he would be enthralled by the creepy simulacrums. “Stand by for credential interrogation.”

“Take them,” Farook ordered.

Team Two’s members lifted their modified plasma rifles and pelted the drones with shimmering blue-white blasts. The drones swiveled and bucked, but the attack had been sudden enough they wound up in a cross fire. A couple even bounced off each other, cracking their plastic outer shells. The result? All six drones clattered onto the gleaming tile floors, their optical scanners flickering.

More plasma bursts echoed from elsewhere on the floor. The other two teams marched into the expansive lobby, Team Three led by Winston and Team Four led by Alexis, with Perrine among Team Four’s ranks. They wore a mix of business-casual attire and technical-staff worksuits, the kind of garb the employees on the upper levels of the exchange’s towers would be found in.

Winston looked at the battered drones and nodded. “Quite nice. We left another four in a similar state by our entrance.”

“We can celebrate the minor achievements later,” Alexis chided. “Take care of the security hub. Now.”

If Winston was happy with Alexis’s stern tone toward him, he did a bad job of showing it. Jackson didn’t have to be an expert in reading facial expressions and body language to see the way his face turned to a stony version of its normal self. Rather than argue with Alexis, though, he pushed aside a few Fabians and positioned himself in the lobby’s center, standing atop the great sprawling logo of the Galt Currency Exchange. Winston crouched, the enhanced motors in his prosthetic legs whining, then leapt skyward. He ended his four-story bound on the lip of a windowed alcove.

“Is he, uh, trying to get noticed by everyone in the building?” Jackson whispered to Farook.

“No. It’s not an office but the primary security scanning node for the whole complex.” Farook took his own tablet out of his uniform and activated a holographic map of the exchange. The node he’d mentioned flashed red. “Unreachable except for a hallway that’s locked down by three points of access, for which we don’t have the codes.”

“Or the bribes.” Zack shook his head.

“But Winston has a simpler method.” Farook smiled and gestured.

Overhead, Winston fastened three small devices to the windows then leapt back down. His landing cracked the center image of the exchange logo, a stylized stack of coins. Winston kicked one piece free, picked it up, and grinned. “Down it comes,” he said and squeezed a silver control in the palm of his hand.

Three sharp cracks boomed throughout the lobby. Shattered glass rained down, forcing the Fabian teams to scatter. Noxious smoke and bright flames sputtered from the alcove where Winston had planted his charges.

A new alarm sounded. “Farook!” Alexis snapped. “Get your team—”

“We have it.” Farook hurried forward, his people following. He pointed to the consoles mounted on either side of a huge double doorway made of real wood and also bearing the same exchange logo. “Nick, Jason, get it stopped.”

Nick took the left and Jackson the right. They plugged their tablets in using the hardwired interface. The keening alarm made it difficult to concentrate, but Jackson focused on the code. It sprinted across his screen, filling the entire surface. Nick’s console chimed and turned green. Jackson’s followed suit a moment later.

The doors hissed and parted on their hydraulics. A cheer went up from the scattered Fabians. Even though he was in his guise, Jackson couldn’t resist shaking his head because the CDF officer in him couldn’t believe their lack of operational discipline.

That derision faded as eight more security drones flew forward, repeating their refrain, “This shift is not authorized. Stand by for credential interrogation.”

A dozen Fabians opened fire with their rifles, filling the air with searing energies and setting Jackson’s ears ringing from the weapons’ shrieks. One of the security drones made it through, suffering a partial hit. It staggered in the air, appearing through the fusillade right in front of Alexis.

She seized it in both hands and held it firm as the turbofans whined in protest. Jackson heard a faint whirring, too, like he’d detected when Winston used his prosthetic legs to their maximum effect.

Alexis slammed the drone against a wall, shattering a light panel and crumpling the robot. She dropped it to the floor.

Then she faced the rest of the Fabians. “Teams Two and Three, remain here. One and Four, you will follow me to the data center and to our destiny.”

And this, Jackson thought as he hurried into the broad corridor with half the Fabian intruders, is where I pull the rug out from under that destiny.

He could only hope Gina and the rest could play their roles to perfection, or else it would be him against thirty-nine opponents. Those were some terrible odds.

* * *

CSV Tucson

Asteroid Zones—Fifth Orbit

Galt System

The probes circling Asteroid 21186 had done their jobs admirably. Mancini watched the pair as they coasted at opposite points of an ellipse with the rock at its center, each one nearly invisible to standard sensor packages except for the encrypted transponder and the intermittent updates they issued.

Mancini knew nothing, but the best scanners—like Tucson’s and possibly the League’s best spy vessels—could come close to detecting them. So when they kept sending in their updates without Sierra Nine showing any signs of reacting, he felt much better.

“Your modified thruster packs are holding up, Chief,” he said to Tabb across the intercom. “Fabricate a dozen more kits for us when this is all over. I think they’ll come in handy.”

“Will do, Skipper,” Tabb answered, the pride evident in his voice.

Mancini cut the intercom.

“It was partly your idea, sir,” Godat reminded him.

“Well aware, XO, but I’m not about to usurp credit due to the chief for all the hard work he and his people put into those probes. Besides, they need the boost more than I do.”

“True.” Godat grinned. “If word got around that a stealth boat skipper was playing maintenance tech with probes, they’d wonder if you were really doing your job.”

Mancini chuckled and raised his mug.

“Conn, TAO,” Olesen called. “Aspect change on Sierra Nine.”

“TAO, update the tac board.”

The marker for Sierra Nine showed movement, all right, as it drifted out from the asteroids. The engine signature died out, and the tactical computer projected the best guess for its continued course, within ninety-two percent probability.

“Sierra Nine ignited ion engines and engaged thrust for ten seconds before shutting them down again and reverting to thrusters only, Skipper,” Olesen explained. “She’s trying to be as quiet as possible.”

“Let’s watch her, TAO, and see how it plays out.” Mancini enlarged the schematic on his console, a detailed profile courtesy of the probes’ transmissions.

Gatchell-class freighter, Series Two, tri-hull configuration—one central hull for the bridge, comms, engineering, and propulsion, plus two cargo pods of identical size set at right angles to the core. The probe sensors didn’t penetrate the hull enough to determine what they carried, but clusters of faint energy signatures bled through, so whatever was inside had independent power sources.

“Conn, Sensor Room,” the senior chief called in. “PASCORE alert—incoming Lawrence drive signature.”

A little warning was better than none. Mancini shifted his screen’s view, accommodating the update from the Sensor Room and the tactical board. Moments later, a white flash heralded the arrival of another ship in the Galt system.

“Conn, TAO, new contact, showing as a Tradesman-class merchantman. Trajectory indicates rendezvous with Sierra Nine.”

“TAO, designate new contact as Sierra Ten and update the board.”

The moment Olesen complied, the tactical display alerted them to more contacts in the sky. “Two more coming from the fourth orbit, Skipper,” he reported. “Two Type-Fifties. Distances are too great to determine precise courses, but the comp can give its best guess.”

“All right, TAO, designate as Sierra Eleven and Twelve.” Mancini shook his head. “Space is feeling crowded. Light up their courses.”

The tactical display glowed with overlapping arcs. Mancini exhaled. A lot of possibilities. Too many decisions. “Sensor Room, any sign our guests have spotted the probes?”

“Conn, Sensor Room, that’s a negative. If they have, they’re not giving indication.”

“Conn, TAO, Sierra Eleven and Twelve are pinging the area with active scanners,” Olesen added. “Sierra Nine and Ten are maintaining low power and minimal power signature.”

“What about that signal? Can we verify?”

“One second. Interrogating the probes again.” Olesen chewed his lip. “Conn, TAO, independent confirmation from both—98.6 percent match based on Oxford’s signal interception.”

Good news, of course, but with the Type-Fifties on their way, Mancini had limited options. If Tucson took its time and captured the Gatchell, they might arrive too slowly and draw the patrols’ attention. But if they burned in fast, they would definitely do so—only with more time to get away once they accomplished their goals.

Lord, safeguard my people, and grant me the wisdom to spare lives by my choices. It was the best Mancini could ask for.

“Pilot, plot an intercept course to coincide with the rendezvous of Sierra Nine and Ten. The Gatchell has to deliver its cargo to the Tradesman, and we need proof to tie to the Fabians. This is our chance. Take us in at standard cruising. I want us to look like we’re a patrol ship that’s popped up on sensors, just like the Type-Fifties.”

“Conn, Pilot, aye, standard cruising.”

Tucson’s engines rumbled to life underfoot.

Mancini smiled at the familiar vibration. “XO? Get COB on the intercom—I need our power signature to mimic that of a Type-Fifty. And put the word through to Master Chief MacDonald. He and his boys are going on a field trip.”

* * *

Galt Currency Exchange

Rand

Gina stood by the railing along the Drake Waterfront Walk. She leaned against the cold metal, blinking away the snowflakes as they drifted down from the night sky. Few lights illuminated the exchange from the inside and out, giving it a foreboding look rather than making it the glittering palace it usually resembled.

“Eidolon, this is Vector Home,” Richards said. “Janus is inside. Fabian teams have breached the main lobby doors. They’re splitting up, heading to the data centers. Vector One reports you have a green light.”

Ugh. Easy for him to say. Gina pulled down her goggles and breathing mask, then secured her hood around her face. The patchy ice reflected her as a crimson wraith.

“I hate fish,” she murmured.

“They’re not technically fish, Eidolon.” Brant’s voice was a balm for her nerves, like it’d always been, even as he nitpicked. “Database pegs them as seagoing mammals. I can download the entry if you want.”

“That sounds amazingly boring. Thanks, Echo Home.” Gina couldn’t repress her smile. “Next time, you swim with them.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Nova One and Deadeye are standing by for your entry.”

Here goes. Gina flipped over the rail and plunged into the icy harbor.

Glow stripes along her suit lent a red luminosity to her surroundings as she swam through the murky water toward the illuminated circle at the base of the exchange’s yar norkan tank. One of the long, sinuous creatures cruised from the harbor’s dark environs toward her, closing the gap to five meters. Gina’s heart pounded. The thing could bite her in half—no, correction, it could swallow her whole.

“Breathe deep, Eidolon. Your vitals are spiking.”

Brant doesn’t sound worried, so why should I? The thought lowered her heart rate by a few beats per minute.

“Yar norkan are curious about humanoids. It’s thought that they see us as peers. Continue your swim, and let it approach. You’re not food. Don’t worry.”

Gina didn’t want to ask how many people the sea creatures attacked each year. Instead, she kept swimming as the yar norkan first shadowed her then rotated so it could stare with a single pale-purple eye.

“Hey, friend.” Gina’s breath came in gasps, but she continued on, making broad, powerful strokes. The ringed entrance lay just ahead. “I’m just sneaking inside to stop the bad guys, so let’s not cause each other any problems, okay?”

The yar norkan let out a low, undulating cry, more like a low, before swimming ahead. It entered the ringed entrance with Gina concealed beneath its lower fins.

The blue glow of the central pool was a welcome light source, letting Gina kill her personal illumination. She spotted four Fabians in their cetacean-crew garb right at the edge of the aquarium pool, partially shielded by the emerald fronds planted as decoration throughout the lobby. More yar norkan swirled about her, nipping at each other but ignoring her.

“Eidolon, Vector One reports he is ready for your signal,” Richards said. “Vector Two is in the sky for our patented distraction, whenever we want the fireworks.”

Gina swam directly for the surface, most of the Fabians in her sights. “Go.”

Purple, pink, and red sparks exploded above the slanted atrium roof, bathing the lobby beneath in the same colors. The literal fireworks set the entire glass framework shaking. Fabians shouted, several pointing their rifles up.

Gina triggered her grav harness right before she reached the pool’s surface, the added acceleration propelling her like a torpedo. She spun so her boots slammed into the backside of the closest Fabian.

Sounds assaulted her. Angry yells came from the left—until a pistol’s retort cut above them. By the time Gina righted herself, with a groggy Fabian woman beneath her legs, the other five were sprawled on the tile, twitching as their bodies struggled against stun-round impacts.

“More of them farther down the hall.” Garza was blond, his face covered with swirling black tattoos, his nose too pointy. He’d come in with the second Fabian team. “Let’s treat them to a nap.”

“Happy to.” Gina smiled as she saw Fabians jog around the corner, their eyes widening as they took in her red outfit. “I think they’re going to find out I’m not as much of a fan of their cause as they assumed.”

22

Galt Currency Exchange

Rand

Galt System

27 November 2465

The final set of doors separating the Fabian intruders from the exchange’s primary data center were a complete contrast to the ornate barriers they’d encountered on other floors. These were a pair of metal hatches, magnetically reinforced, with a single small control panel allowing access.

Nick removed the panel’s surface and dug into the overwhelming mix of wires, circuits, and lights embedded behind. “Four minutes,” he announced.

“Cut it shorter,” Farook demanded.

“Why is it you people who have no concept of how complex this work is always demand it be done in a shorter time span?” Nick sneered as he pulled wires here, inserted his own custom-made bypasses there.

“Maybe we suspect you draw out the time to an exaggerated length so you overplay how important you are,” Farook countered. “By Allah, if you’d simply shut your mouth and get it done—”

That brought Nick to his feet, a sputtering, miniature plasma torch in his hands. “Listen, you sanctimonious—”

Cloth whispered against plastics as Farook drew a plasma pistol from his uniform’s pockets. Jackson was sure it had not been modified like the rifles Team Three toted so they’d only cause permanent damage to robots.

“What is this? Stop it.” Alexis stepped into their midst. “Don’t forget your place in the brotherhood. Is this what you’d have us become? Warring children? That’s what the oligarchs expect, for us to let our passions tear us apart. I want you to be better than them.”

Jackson put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “Easy, man. Douse the torch. I can help.”

Nick glared at him but put the torch back to its proper use. He did, however, hold out his hand and add, “Get me two delta connectors.”

“Right.” Jackson knelt and dug through his pouches for the right components. His fingers closed on two, and he handed them over.

“Farook.” Alexis gestured to the pistol.

“It’s merely a precaution,” Farook replied smoothly, “to make sure he remembers his place. Surely even among brothers we need occasional discipline.”

“We do.” Alexis grabbed the barrel and twisted, her face contorted with the effort, until the front third of the pistol snapped off. Sparks fizzled from underneath. “And I’ll be the one to decide who gets that discipline.”

“Alexis!” Perrine hurried up to them. She dripped sweat onto her business attire. “Intruders are downstairs. Winston’s people engaged them.”

“Security?” Alexis locked onto Zack with a stern look. “You were supposed to bribe the entire night watch into staying away.”

“I did! They should be.” Zack plucked at his beard. “Each one received enough to never have to work another day in his life if he so chose.”

“It’s not security.” Perrine’s face was taut with fear.

Jackson could see her on the edge of panic, and the same worry appeared in the others’ expressions. With the right push…

“Eidolon is here.”

Murmurs and curses rolled over them. Bingo. Jackson dropped an adjustor he was using to make a delta connector fit. “But she’s against corruption. She can’t be after us. Why would she turn on people who support her principles? Does that mean the capitalists have gotten to her too?”

“Shut up,” Nick snapped. “Ignore them. We’re almost done.”

Alexis covered her mouth with her hand. She seemed to be calculating.

“Alexis? What do we do?” Perrine leaned nearer, her voice dropping. “Winston says there’s a man with her dressed in the cetacean worksuits—not one of ours. He must have snuck into our midst as we entered.”

“Traitors and infiltrators,” Alexis murmured. “Team Three—Raoul, you take Perrine and the rest of your group. Leave me one with their plasma rifle. Hold them as best you can. We can’t have them cut off our avenues of escape.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Raoul, a hulking young man with a long, drooping mustache, spoke to a woman, Olivia, and led the rest of them back the way Perrine had come.

Perrine clasped her hands around Alexis’s hand she had used to crush Farook’s pistol. “Be careful. If this has been fouled up behind, we can’t be sure it’s smooth sailing ahead.”

“I will take care of what’s before us.” Alexis smiled. “Just keep the way clear for when we return, Eidolon or not.”

Perrine hurried off after the group, which left Alexis and Olivia with their plasma rifles, plus the ten-person Team One, which, as far as Jackson knew, was unarmed. Of course, Farook had produced a plasma pistol out of his pocket, so he doubted that was truly the case. After all, Jackson was armed too.

A light blinked green on the door panel’s innards. “Got it,” Nick announced. He punched in a code on the panel dangling from a mishmash of wires.

The doors rumbled open.

Jackson sucked in a breath, as did a few others in their group. Zack murmured a prayer.

The room before them rose ten stories to the apex of one of the exchange’s towers, ringed with a spiraling ramp all the way to a huge skylight. Consoles were everywhere. Monitors pulsed in a low-energy sleep mode. A four-meter white octagonal column stood at the center of the room, surrounded by eight terminals and their chairs. Blue lights glowed at each seam.

“That…” Nick cleared his throat. “I read all the specs until I had them memorized, but I’ve never actually seen an Anthem Polestar Eighty-Eight Hundred before. A lot of people think they’re full AI, but that’s not credible.”

Jackson’s eyes widened. His astonishment wasn’t all an act. “It better not be thinking, because it’s going to be pissed off if we try to take over its brain.”

“It’s not sentient,” Alexis interjected. “It’s just a tool, a very expensive one built with the profits the oppressors have taken from the downtrodden people across the galaxy. If Eidolon can’t see the truth of it, we’ll have to show her ourselves. Get to work.”

Nick and Jackson headed to the consoles, checking for the right one that gave hardwired access into the currency exchange network.

“This one.” Nick pulled a panel off the side of a terminal a quarter of the way around the column. A dozen data ports encircled a central access node.

“Carefully.” Jackson knelt beside him. “I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t. Don’t worry.” Nick smirked. “We’ll get it right, if only to spite the rest of these condescending assholes.”

Jackson grinned in response, even though he felt a bit sick at the thought he was about to sabotage everything the man had worked for. He reached for the tools he needed in his worksuit pouches and, as he did, triggered a signal for the next phase to begin. Here’s hoping Richards is as fast as Brant.

* * *

CSV Oxford

Third Orbit

Galt System

Brant snapped around in his chair as the console chirped at him. “Okay, they’re in the data center,” he announced to Miranda. “How are we looking with the satellite network?”

“Dicey but getting there.” Miranda swiped lines of code across her screen like she was cleaning smudges off her surface. “I have six of the eight pathways locked down. If Janus can’t stop the data spike from there, we’ll be able to block the exchange from impacting the broader currency market. Whatever they crash down on Galt will stay on Galt.”

“Only if you get the other two blocked.”

“Ye of little faith, Guinto.” Eldred smiled at him.

“Oh, it’s felt fairly little lately. Believe me.” Brant smiled back but kept his attention on his console, where he monitored comms with Gina and Garza inside the lobby, Richards and Sakuri aboard Novabird, and Dwyer and Sev outside the facility. The latter duo were on foot, which Brant imagined must be like ice-skating without lessons for Dwyer—though he’d proven adept at fieldwork back aboard Bellwether station. “Captain Tamir? How’s our other project, sir?”

“Coming along nicely.” Tamir squinted at his screen. “I’m getting the interruptions you two hoped would happen when you let certain things slip. It won’t be long before I can pinpoint from where on the ship it originates—then it’s a simple matter of locking out the offender’s console.”

“A simple matter is precisely what I prefer, though the good Lord rarely grants more than one at a time.” Sinclair prowled the ops center, casting a watchful gaze at Brant and the others while maintaining vigil over the tactical display. Whatever Tucson was up to, tailing two ships while maintaining distance from Galt patrol cutters had divided the colonel’s attention, though Brant knew it wouldn’t diminish his focus. “Keep me advised.”

“Yes, sir.”

Brant’s earpiece squawked. Static interference. Probably a result of energy weapons in the immediate vicinity. “Echo Home, this is Vector One.” Garza’s voice rose over the shrieking blasts in the background. “Eidolon and I could use an assist. We’ve taken a half dozen out of the picture, but they have reinforcements coming down the hall.”

“Stand by, Vector One.” Brant switched frequencies. “Chaperone, this is Echo Home. What’s your status?”

“Chaperone here.” Cam sounded tense but not overly stressed. “Nova One is halfway through setting charges. Deadeye has gone off, against my recommendation, I should mention, to take up position on the other vehicles.”

“Confirmed, Chaperone.” Brant brought up security footage from the exchange, though he couldn’t get all the screens he needed because the Fabians, likely, had knocked the system down. Even his skill didn’t let him reboot an entire security system from scratch, especially in a private company. Still, he could get eyes from Richards’s drones that showed Cam and Dwyer hunkered by a delivery truck. Two bodies lay twitching a good distance away. “What’s your ETA?”

“Give us half a minute, Home, and quit badgering me about ETAs.” Dwyer placed an object under the front of the truck. Brant saw his form, glowing in the drone’s night-vision sensors, give a salute. “Fireworks round two, on the count of ten.”

“Get clear and light them.” Brant switched over to Garza. “Vector One, be advised, further fireworks in ten seconds.”

* * *

Gina swept the leg out from under a petite woman clad in a cetacean worksuit. The plasma rifle clattered to the floor. Gina hit her with a stun round then slid underneath a set of benches as more plasma blasts singed the tile.

“Watch your head, Wilkes,” Garza ordered. “Echo Home says incoming pyrotechnics.”

“Oh, good.” Gina glanced up. “I was hoping for something more—”

An explosion overpowered the constant staccato of weapons discharge around them. One of the lobby doors, far ahead and to their left, blew off its hinges, reduced to shattered embers of plastic and metal. Flame roared inside, and a pillar of a similar hue shot up from somewhere outside the building. The Fabians were in disarray, most of them having given up on shooting.

“Eidolon, this is Echo Home!” Brant shouted through the thunder that buffeted Gina. She was sure he could hear the feedback through the comms. “Get back into the pool.”

“Umm…” Gina glanced at Garza. “Did you get that?”

“No way in hell I’m swimming through there,” Garza muttered.

“You don’t have a choice. Until Sev can get inside, you’re out of cover.”

He wasn’t wrong. Gina ducked as renewed plasma blasts scorched the benches. At least it seemed to be less.

A second explosion made more Fabians scatter from the pack, but that time, the sound was nearer, behind Gina’s position. Machine bay? Maintenance garage? She had no idea, but whatever was going on, the Fabians were in short supply of calm.

Gina grabbed Garza and pulled him toward the tank. “You’d better just hold your breath.”

“The yar norkan have fled into the bay,” Brant informed her, “according to what I could wheedle from the building’s maintenance systems. But don’t stay in the water long.”

“Good advice.” Gina shoved Garza in and dove after him.

The cool water was a blessed relief from the heat put off by the plasma weapons. She found Garza in the gloom, with her suit’s red lights casting his face in a bloody glow. Gina shut her mask and goggles, then handed him a rebreather, which he adhered to his nose and mouth.

A dark shape writhed far below, at the ring of lights around the exit to the bay.

What’s that saying about the devil you know or the one you don’t? She hoped Brant had a better plan than dive and hide, because her first swim had gone well, but she didn’t trust massive sea creatures to be amiable a second time. Besides, now she smelled too strongly of fish.

* * *

CSV Tucson

Asteroid Zones—Fifth Orbit

Galt System

Sierra Nine, the Gatchell-class freighter, loomed on Tucson’s main screen, its trimaran hull more like a bundle of pipes than a spacecraft.

“Sierra Nine is not responding to our hails, Skipper,” the comms officer said.

“Comms, repeat on a loop, ‘Relinquish your cargo, and power down your weapons. Stand to, and prepare to be boarded.’” It was by no means an idle threat. Mancini had dispatched MacDonald’s alpha team aboard a stealth shuttle ten minutes ago. Tucson’s sensors pinpointed it lurking along Sierra Nine’s ventral hull.

“Conn, TAO, aspect change, Sierra Eleven and Twelve,” Olesen reported. “Both are accelerating. Trajectory altered to match ours and Sierra Ten’s.”

Sierra Ten—the Tradesman cargo vessel. Who knows what its holds carry? Didn’t matter. Mancini wanted them both. “XO, signal to the shuttle and tell MacDonald to hold his distance from Sierra Nine for the moment. TAO, how’s the EMP?”

“Conn, TAO. EMP fully charged.”

“Redesignate Sierra Nine as Master One.”

“Redesignating target as Master One, aye.”

Mancini smiled. Tucson’s EMP charge had a particular energy signature, and like that of most weapons, the charge could be traced back to its manufacturers—which, in its case, was the League of Sol. The fact that it was now CDF property was beside the point. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master One, EMP beam.”

“Firing solution set, Skipper.”

“Match bearings, shoot, EMP beam.”

The blast struck the Gatchell freighter amidships, causing its shields to fizzle and running lights to flicker. Its ion engines sputtered and died, leaving the cargo vessel hurtling ahead but powerless to accelerate.

“Conn, TAO, Sierra Ten is running.”

“TAO, recharge EMP. Redesignate Sierra Ten as Master Two.” Because Mancini would be damned if he left without both prizes.

“Aye, aye… Conn, TAO, new contacts, two Lawrence drive jumps incoming. Reading Holden-Nagata Mark Seven’s, similar drive signatures, heavy shielding—they’re loaded for bear, Skipper.”

Mancini chuckled, glad to bleed off some of his tension.

“Well, from what I hear, James Henry is fond of the class,” Godat observed. “Glad he’s decided to share with his allies.”

“Only if he’s utilized them right.”

But given the way the twin Holden-Nagatas burned straight for the Type-Fifty Patrol Cutters, Mancini knew he shouldn’t have worried about the neutral ships’ tactics. They were putting on a fine show of being raiders—which, for all intents and purposes, they truly were. So, it was satisfying when the Type-Fifties cut their thrust, reoriented themselves on their axes, then accelerated on a new vector that took them away from Tucson’s own raiding path.

“Conn, Comms. Incoming message from Blue Falcon.” The comms officer snorted but regained his composure enough to continue. “Their skipper requests a ten percent cut of whatever we confiscate.”

Mancini opened and closed his mouth, unsure of how to respond. It was, after all, the first time he’d been asked to share the bounty of a piratical act.

“Advise you send that one up the chain to Colonel Sinclair, Skipper.” Godat shook his head and chuckled.

“Rightly put, XO.”

Olesen cleared his throat. “Conn, TAO. EMP control reports recharged.”

“Very good. TAO, firing point procedures, Master Two, EMP beam.”

“Firing solution set, Skipper.”

“Match bearings, shoot, EMP beam.”

The second strike sliced across the Tradesman’s starboard side, cutting all power throughout the ship.

“That’s what we need,” Mancini said. “Contact the shuttle, XO, and give MacDonald the green light. And tell him not to damage the goods aboard, if he can, because I have a feeling we’ll be redistributing them, as ironic as that is.”

23

Galt Currency Exchange

Rand

Galt System

27 November 2465

There were no more wolves. Only deer. Sev shifted his position atop the office tower a block away from the currency exchange. His post gave him an unimpeded view of two-thirds of the lobby, the people milling about all fuzzy, colorful shapes beneath the atrium skylight. Plasma flashes washed them out here and there, but timing between them wasn’t an issue.

I’m not afraid, Father. I am at peace.

He sighted on a plasma weapon’s flash, slid his aim a hair right, exhaled, and fired. The stun round dropped the Fabian attacker into a flailing heap. Second target. Same procedure. One pull of the trigger, one down. He shot a third time then a fourth then a fifth. The Fabians were making it too simple. Don’t they know to seek shelter? No. The fools—though frightened for good reason—tried to shoot back but, not knowing from where the attacks originated, blasted indiscriminately at the atrium ceiling.

Sev switched over to his active comms. “Eidolon,” he murmured. “Problem.”

* * *

Gina heard Sev’s warning but didn’t have time to answer it. The yar norkan burst through the bay exit, apparently forgetting it was supposed to swim playfully alongside her like its friend had earlier in the evening. Too bad. Maybe he—or she—was just hungry. Gina had never gotten around to asking Brant for identification differences between the male and female of the species.

Bottom line, she hoped Sev had a handle on the Fabians above because she had to get out. She slapped Garza’s arm and pointed. His eyes went even wider at the sea beast swimming their way.

Fortunately, she hadn’t made them go far, only ten meters from the edge of the tank, but it felt too distant. She reengaged her grav harness and put her arms around Garza’s waist. The sudden rush of a modified gravity field’s activation propelled them up and into the air above the tank, with the yar norkan lunging through the water after them.

Gina twisted around, relieved to see the Fabians in retreat—the ones left standing. A dozen or more were stunned, their friends dragging them out to safety. Guess even crazy radicals aren’t willing to leave anyone behind.

She landed with Garza in a rough tumble, smashing through a line of fraying palms in ornate planters, the latter of which weren’t sturdy. Good for us, Gina noted as they broke five. Garza, to his credit, came out of the tumble wobbly but shooting his pistol. He missed the Fabians, as they’d managed to find cover farther down the hall.

The yar norkan let out a bellow, which sounded all the more bloodcurdling when not muted by thousands of liters of water. Gina craned her neck, watching as the creature slammed its tail then its head against the far wall of the tank. The tremors reverberated in the atrium ceiling, which was already riven with cracks spreading out from countless plasma blasts. The edges still glowed.

Distressed metal moaned. The few Fabians remaining in the lobby shouted and ran.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Gina muttered. “One! Get to cover!”

Garza didn’t look around, didn’t ask, and thankfully didn’t argue. He dove for the nearest wall, where alcoves formed cozy seating areas. He rolled onto his side as the bulk of the atrium skylight gave way.

Gina found another pair of benches. Her slide took her too far, so her legs were still dangling when the first shards of glass rained down. She cried out as they stabbed into her thighs and calves but dragged herself under and curled up as tight as she could, the pain screaming through her.

The thunderous crash drowned out the rest of the noises until nothing was left around her but dust and the harsh crackle of falling glass.

* * *

Jackson slid the bundle of cabling over his knee and spliced in the final patch. “That’s it. Run the diagnostic for me?”

Nick checked his tablet. He nodded. “The connections are solid. We’re ready.”

Alexis stepped past Farook, who’d been watching Nick work ever since they’d entered the data center. “Give me the spike.”

Nick glanced at her then at Farook.

“You heard her orders,” Farook demanded.

“Orders? I think I’ve had enough of taking anyone’s orders. This isn’t the military. It’s supposed to be a brotherhood and a sisterhood.” Nick scowled. “I think you’re done being the favored children.”

“Nick, c’mon. Quit messing around.” Jackson preferred they kept messing around to give Richards’s code time to worm its way in through the patch Jackson had finished installing. It was supposed to clear out the remaining security barriers, allowing the Fabians to use the data spike without the exchange’s computer noticing, but Jackson had tossed the real one in the snow before they’d boarded the trucks. Richards had been right—the patch was the same design, a standard casing that could be bought from most parts fabricators. It was one of the five things on the list Nick had punished him with, the bullshit errands, or so Jackson had termed them. He would never complain about such onerous work again.

Farook glared at Alexis. “You see? This is why I was armed. Discipline, Alexis. We’ve always lacked discipline. Ronald would agree with me.”

Alexis slapped him—his shoulder, not his face, which was better than the typical move because the blow flung Farook into a wall ten meters away. He collapsed in a heap, sweat pouring down his face, clutching his left arm.

“By God!” Zack hurried to his companion. “By God, Alexis! What do you think—”

“It’s by God that I’m doing what I do!” she snarled. “Listen to him—going on about discipline. And this one…” Alexis pointed at Nick, who seemed suddenly unsure about his supposedly righteous protest. “Selfish. Both are distractions from our purpose. I won’t tolerate any further. Do you understand me? Am I making myself clear?”

Shouts broke up the argument. Winston and a younger man ran into the room, both sweating, both sporting bruises and cuts. “Alexis, we have to go,” Winston panted. “We have to leave right now.”

An explosion rumbled in the distance. “That’s the third one I’ve heard,” Jackson pointed out—rather helpfully, he thought. And while they were all busy standing about in growing anger at each other, he slipped the rogue patch deeper into the computer terminal’s innards.

“Be quiet,” Alexis ordered. “Winston, if the situation’s really that dire, maybe you shouldn’t be up here complaining.”

“They’ve destroyed our vehicles!” Winston insisted. “The entire atrium ceiling has collapsed, and the lobby exits are damaged. Bribes or no bribes, emergency services will eventually show up because the building’s automated sensors are still calibrated to record fires or other environmental issues. We can’t delay any longer.”

“Then I won’t.” Alexis grabbed Nick’s wrist and squeezed until bone popped.

He shouted. His fingers spasmed, letting the data spike fall.

Alexis caught it. She shoved him out of the way and walked to the terminal bearing the exposed data ports. “This is our gift to all the people of the Coalition and beyond. Tonight, we strip away the riches withheld from those who need and deserve them most, including us, and tomorrow, we start pulling from power those who dared hoard it.”

Not for the first time in his career, Jackson found himself crossing his fingers—but he also squeezed the embedded transmitter in his shirt sleeve to warn Oxford.

Alexis inserted the data spike. The effect was immediate—the lights on the computer column flickered and died. They reappeared a few seconds later, flashing red before settling into orange then returning to blue. Physically, at least, it seemed anticlimactic to Jackson. Until Alexis started crying.

“It worked?” Winston leaned over the console, bracing himself with both arms as if he could fall over at any moment. “The value of the credit—it’s already sinking! Thank the Lord, indeed.”

Jackson rounded the terminals to where Nick stood, his expression pinched as he cradled his wrist. Come on, guys. Don’t let me down.

* * *

CSV Oxford

Third Orbit

Galt System

Brant grinned. “Nicely done, Janus.”

“They’ve uploaded it?” Miranda grimaced. “I see it—the exchange is trying to update itself through the satellite network, but it’s not getting anywhere. Our blocks are holding.”

“That’s a relief.” Brant had daydreamed about what kind of chaos could unfold across the Coalition if the credit crashed. Not just huge companies and governments would suffer—even people who ran trades from their homes could be ruined. “I’m linked to help if the blocks start crumbling.”

“Thanks.”

A message flashed across his screen. His and Miranda’s, Brant realized. Someone’s attempting to use the probe relay. Traced it to Console Eight. – T

Tamir. Brant glanced at him, but Tamir wisely wouldn’t make eye contact. Talk about a cool customer.

Miranda cleared her throat. She opened a schematic on her console to the operations center. Console Eight was on the other side of the compartment, where six crew faced just as many monitors as she and Brant. Brant locked on Console Eight. A female noncom occupied the seat. All he could see of her was black hair cut short.

Sinclair turned from the Tactical console. His face could have been carved from hull plating. Brant sank a bit in his chair, as if Sinclair’s cold fury targeted him.

“Captain Tamir, join me,” Sinclair said.

Everyone’s attention to their consoles wavered as Tamir got out of his seat. His bootsteps mimicked Sinclair’s as the officers crossed the room. They stopped at Console Eight.

“Petty Officer Second Class Rebecca Dean,” Tamir said. “Stand from your station, and place your hands at your sides.”

The woman’s shoulders tightened. She didn’t get up.

Sinclair touched his commlink. “Sergeant Keach to the ops center with your sidearm.”

The hatch sprang open, and a young Marine strode in. A pulse pistol rode in a holster strapped to his belt. He settled into parade rest.

Dean sighed. She got out of her chair and faced Sinclair and Tamir.

“We intercepted transmissions originating from this console,” Tamir continued, “sent in secret and in violation of—”

“I know. I sent them,” Dean interjected. “You wouldn’t understand because you love the endless wars and unstoppable money wasted on them. I won’t apologize, not with two dead brothers and nothing—nothing—changed about the fools who rule us.”

“Take her to the brig,” Sinclair ordered.

Keach escorted Dean from the ops center without further words. Brant marveled at how much more silent the compartment seemed, even though no one had been talking prior to the confrontation.

“Lock down and reset this console, Butter Bars.” Sinclair sounded suddenly tired. “Lieutenant Guinto? Status on our operation.”

“Warrant Eldred and I have the updates locked out of the Galt satellite network,” Brant reported. “Even if the credit value is rewritten, it won’t get off planet.”

“Jolly good. What of the spike itself?”

Brant glanced at his readouts, which were routed from the exchange’s mainframe through a breach in the security web Richards had established. “It’s fighting its way in, but the patch Richards developed has it faltering. I’d estimate complete failure in seven minutes.”

“Then we’ll pray a bit more for eight minutes,” Sinclair replied, “and hope we can extend the same mercy for Petty Officer Dean.”

* * *

Stealth Shuttle

With Gatchell-Class Freighter

Fifth Orbit—Asteroid Zone

Galt System

The shuttle’s breaching charges blew apart Master One’s outer air lock hatch. Made a fine mess of it, too, with fragments littering the compartment.

“Amateur hour,” Mata muttered. “That’s why you never let an automated system do a man’s job, Master Chief.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time you blow something up, Four.” MacDonald was first through the broken hatch, with Ahmad by his side. “Expect demerits for sloppiness.”

Harrell and Rucuk followed up, sweeping cumbersome Saurian battle rifles ahead. The heavy plasma weapons weren’t typical armament for boarding parties, but considering the last time they’d gone in with standard ballistic rifles, they’d encountered a League trap in the form of a combat robot—and finding the source of similar bots was the whole point of Tucson’s slow crawl through the outer belts—MacDonald wasn’t about to take chances where he didn’t have to.

Rostami and Mata were last. “Confirming the shuttle’s sensor readings, Master Chief,” Rostami reported. “Eight life signs, human—five on the bridge, two in engineering. Twelve independent power sources in Cargo Module Beta.”

“Copy, Three. Pop the inner lock, but keep it intact.” MacDonald smirked. “And do it professionally.”

Mata muttered obscenities in Spanish but chuckled in the midst of his insults.

Rostami hustled to the front of the pack and hunkered over the control panel. MacDonald didn’t pay attention to the witchcraft he practiced when getting them access. He was satisfied when the hatch opened with no fuss.

MacDonald and Ahmad secured the corridor, covering each direction. Harrell and Rucuk reinforced their position, crouching with the plasma battle rifles ready. Mata and Rostami filed in, sealing the hatch behind them.

“Four, Five, get to engineering,” MacDonald ordered Mata and Ahmad. “Two, you’re with me to the cargo hold. Six, with Three, take the bridge first. Move.”

MacDonald and Harrell led the way, with Rostami and Rucuk watching their six. They split off at the nearest access ramp, with MacDonald and Harrell following the markers for Cargo Module Beta on the ship’s starboard side.

“This is Three,” Rostami said over their squad channel. “Life signs are staying in their previous locations, but I’m reading power spikes in the cargo modules. Doesn’t look like an overload. I’d say whatever’s stored there is waking up.”

“Lucky us,” Harrell grumbled.

“Stow it.” MacDonald checked the last corner. He gestured to Harrell, Clear.

Harrell swept around the corner, his battle rifle trained on the hatch to Cargo Module Beta. MacDonald came up on his right. “Hatch is sealed but unlocked.”

“Confirmed.”

“Stand by.” Vibrations carried through the deck plates. MacDonald pressed his helmet against the bulkhead. Stomping, metallic, coming from inside. “You hearing this, Two?”

“Wishing I weren’t, Master Chief, but hey, at least we have easier ROE when it comes to bots.” Harrell boosted the power level on his Saurian battle rifle.

“Amen to that.” MacDonald stayed off to the right, Harrell to the left. MacDonald reached over and opened the hatch.

The doors sprang apart. Ballistic rounds blasted out, punching holes in the opposite bulkhead—which didn’t border on the outer hull, MacDonald noted.

He pulled a low-yield thermal explosive from his belt, punched the activator, counted to two, then tossed it in. “Fire in the hole.”

“Fire in the hole!” Harrell hunkered down.

The resulting blast sent a Bakdash-Qing combat robot staggering out of the hatch, one set of ballistic launchers torn off and a smoldering gash down its left side. Harrell shot it, center mass, with the Saurian weapon, the plasma beam reducing its core to a molten mess that buckled onto the deck, where it sizzled and popped.

“Hell, Master Chief, whatever you two did cut the power levels drastically.” Mata’s comment was interrupted by shouts—Ahmad, MacDonald recognized. “Engine room secured. Three civvies lying on the deck, prone, no weapons. They were still trying to find the backups, and the core’s clean, One. No signs of tampering.”

That took half the strain off MacDonald’s mind right there. Whatever the Fabians might be, they weren’t suicidal, and apparently those guys—Fabian or hired scum, he didn’t care—shared the same philosophy.

Harrell entered the hold first, stepping over the ruined bot, with MacDonald behind and to his right. The container’s confines stretched far to their left, with hundreds of containers strapped to the slanted shelves. Of more pressing interest were the four damaged combat robots, which appeared to have been marching for the hatch when MacDonald had heaved his grenade. The seven standing behind them were only singed and were taking their first steps forward as he and Harrell found cover behind the fallen bots and toppled containers filled with electronic components.

“Four, this is One,” MacDonald said. “It’d be great if you found a way to disable these things from the bridge. Pretty sure the colonel wants evidence that’s still intact, if possible, and you know how much I like giving the cake-eaters what they want.”

“Stand by, One.” Rostami’s breathing was measured, easy, which meant he was focused on a technical issue. In turn, that meant an imminent solution because Rostami’s brain wouldn’t quit when it had found such a problem. “Six and I have secured the bridge. Confiscated two firearms.”

“Any trouble?”

Rostami chuckled. “Not once a Saurian charged them with his homegrown rifle capable of turning a body into goo, no.”

“Master Chief?” Harrell gestured with his weapon. “Permission to shoot? Because those boys look like they’re determined.”

The seven bots stomped their way in a tight arrowhead formation. “Four, you need to shut them down, or Two and I will slag them, and I’d rather not do that, capture orders aside, because who knows how thin this hull is?”

“One second.”

Three bots opened fire, projectiles punching into the bulkheads. MacDonald’s helmet warned of inner hull damage but gave no alerts for decompression. “Enough of that bullshit. Two? Engage ’em.”

“Your will be done.” Harrell’s first shot ripped the front of a bot open, reducing its optical scanners to bubbling plastic and metal. It melted clean in half.

MacDonald shot rounds through the second bot’s face, too, then shifted aim for the right leg, which was a far bigger target than a person’s. The attacker toppled sideways like a fallen tree, weapons fire battering the third bot until they were both enmeshed.

Harrell fired three more blasts that fused them into an unrecognizable heap. “Damn!” He withdrew a hand from where he’d cradled the weapon. “The manual didn’t say it’d get that hot.”

“Well, we know it isn’t you, Four,” MacDonald countered. “Rostami? Any day now.”

“Copy, Master Chief—got it.” Rostami exhaled.

The last four bots stopped. Just stopped. They sagged one at a time, legs folding. Their optical ports dimmed.

Harrell whistled. “Nice, Four. Weapons systems remotely disabled, fingers crossed?”

“They are, Two, but I’ll be down there in a bit to help you pull the linkages just in case.”

MacDonald chuckled. “There’s always a just in case. Send us the specs, Four, and we’ll get started. Two, let’s make sure the weapons are safed, see if we can’t save Rostami time and us a surprise headache.”

“Roger that.” Harrell started off across the field of destroyed robots.

Meanwhile, MacDonald switched comms frequencies. “Archangel, this is Alpha One. Ship is secure. Targets neutralized. We’ve even got some prizes for our friends, like they requested… but good luck getting ten percent out of them.”

24

Galt Currency Exchange

Rand

Galt System

27 November 2465

Whatever jubilation the initial drop in the standard Coalition credit’s value produced faded as the numbers highlighted on the console slowed their precipitous decline, steadied, and froze, albeit at a value fifteen percent beneath the starting point.

“What’s wrong with it?” Alexis grabbed Nick’s shoulder.

“I don’t—let go.” Nick squirmed but couldn’t free himself from her grip. It didn’t help that his wrist had to be in agony from when she twisted it with what were apparently prosthetics just as potent as Winston’s.

“Why has it stopped?” Winston peered at the terminal. “I can’t fathom what’s taking it so long.”

“Perhaps…” Farook coughed.

Zack helped him cross the room, though his injuries didn’t dim the fire in his expression as he glared at Winston then, especially, Alexis. “Perhaps you should let the man with the technical expertise examine what’s the matter instead of fouling it up yourself.”

“Shut your mouth.” Alexis turned toward Jackson, who had placed himself halfway between the gathering knot of Fabians and the exit to the room. “Talk to me.”

“It’s got to be something wrong in the spike itself.” Jackson frowned as if earnestly trying to figure out the puzzle. “I followed all of Nick’s directions.”

Sparks sputtered from underneath the terminal. Smoke poured out. That would be Richards’s patch, having first halted the data spike’s invasive program then melted down the controls, leaving the credit’s decline frozen. The blue lights of the computer column blinked off, one by one.

“No. No!” Alexis pushed Nick so hard he slammed against the terminal behind him. She clasped the offending console, fingers leaving imprints in its sides, as if she could throttle it into obedience. “Not after all this time.”

Winston stared, his face haggard. His euphoria seemed exceptionally short-lived. “Alexis. If it has failed…”

“We must fix it. We don’t have time to start over.” She pulled the data spike free and pressed it against Nick’s chest. “Do what you can. Make it function.”

Nick’s mouth twisted into the bitterest sneer. “Do it yourself. My work was perfect. I can’t help you supplying me with shit parts.”

Farook broke free of Zack so he could confront Nick directly. “You apologize to her!”

“We don’t have time for this. For any of it.” Winston tried to get between the triad of angry Fabians. “Alexis, it’s over. We have to break out. Security could arrive any moment, and without our transportation, we must escape on foot.”

“We can still hold them off.” Jackson stood with Olivia, the member of Team Three carrying a modified plasma rifle like Alexis had brought. “Come on.”

“No one asked you, Jason.” Nick scowled at him. “Maybe you can fix our impossible breakdown. Farook would like that—a worthy replacement for me.”

“You insufferable idiot!” Farook punched him.

Nick took the hit and immediately clubbed Farook with a plasma torch. They grappled with each other, trading blows where they could, but it was a pitiful brawl, given both men were already injured.

“I said, enough.” Alexis seized both of them by their throats. They gasped and gagged, their enmity toward each other forgotten. “We’re too close to fail. Let security come. If you can make this right, I—”

“It’s… not my fault,” Nick rasped. “You can… go to hell.”

Alexis tightened her grip.

Jackson knew he should slide out, maybe take the plasma rifle with him. But if he did, she would crush Nick’s throat, and his death would be on Jackson, Fabian traitor or not. And Jackson was realizing he’d been responsible, directly or not, for a lot of blood staining the stars.

Damn it. Screw protocol. He grabbed the plasma rifle from Olivia’s hands—she being too appalled by the sight of her beloved leader choking the life out of her brothers in the cause—dialed up the dispersal width, and fired into the midst of everyone gathered.

The concussion alone scattered the cluster of Fabians like dried leaves. Alexis tumbled over a terminal. Nick lay on his back, struggling to breathe. Farook slumped over a terminal, knocked out cold. Winston slid on his side until he rebounded off the computer column. Three others, Zack included, squirmed on the floor, their muscles twitching as they tried in vain to get back upright. The plasma blast wasn’t enough to kill a person, but the discharge was painful in the extreme. It had the added benefit of sending sparks skittering up and down Alexis’s arms as well as Winston’s legs. Olivia stared at Jackson, suddenly aware of what he’d done.

“Sorry.” Jackson yanked the pistol from her belt and backhanded her across the jaw, knocking her out cold. Then he backed from the room, closing the door after him. His last image of the Fabian ringleaders was Alexis using her legs to worm along the floor, as her arms refused to function.

He blasted the control panel, locking the only means of entry or exit, and sprinted for the lower levels.

* * *

Sev jogged toward the exchange complex, arriving as curious onlookers thronged the perimeter sensor posts but didn’t step foot inside. It seemed the building’s security had a foreboding enough reputation they weren’t willing to test by approaching too closely. And no one gave him any guff, likely because he wore the solid-white jumpsuit of one of the many emergency medical services contracted by Rand.

“Deadeye, this is Vector Home,” Lieutenant Richards said. “Intel reports a fourth vehicle set aside for the escape route, but I can’t see anything from up here. Can you confirm on the ground?”

Sev leaned his rifle atop a sporty two-seat hovercraft with so much chrome and such a flawless paint job he felt the stirrings of his socialist society upbringing creep out of his childhood memories. Ostentatious. Wasteful. Taking resources that could be better spread to the less fortunate. He snorted. That was what he had been taught. In truth, the commissars in his hometown drove the best, newest vehicles worth far more than any possession the rest of the community owned.

“Deadeye, do you copy?”

Sev sighted on the building. Two dozen cars sat in the east parking lot, a mix of company sedans, four-wheel, automated units with the capacity for five passengers. A light glinting in one open window looked like a commlink screen. Sev smiled. An automated ride doesn’t need one of those, now does it? He activated the targeting laser. “Home, Deadeye. Target lit.”

Warrant Sakuri answered. “Roger, Deadeye, this is Vector Two. Target is marked. Give them a warning, will you? Vector One doesn’t want casualties.”

“Copy.” Sev tilted his aim by a few degrees, enough that the targeting laser sparkled across a console. The commlink light wobbled. A shadow burst from the sedan, stumbling as it raced out of the parking lot.

A second sedan backed away, its rear colliding with the front of a vehicle behind it.

“If a second deer flees, you have to choose whether or not the shot is worth the effort,” Father explained. “But do not take it if you are unsure you can live with the result.”

The sedan’s power plant glowed with running lights bleeding through open vents. Perfect entry. Sev fired two rounds, punching gaping holes atop those vents.

The power plant casing buckled and blew up, showering the vehicle with smoldering fragments. The sedan faltered, rolling into yet another car as it ran itself down. Its driver, too, fled on foot. Sev tracked the tiny prints on the snow-covered asphalt. “Done,” he reported.

Novabird’s engines hummed. The racer banked around the far side of the exchange towers, running lights doused, a gray shadow against the gloomy night sky. It swept down onto the parking lot. Tracers from all four barrels of the recessed compact CIWS unit peppered the first car, punching gashes through it until it exploded. Novabird’s wings twitched, and she tipped left, her shots raking the second one until it, too, was a fireball.

The violence of the attack sent the onlookers running away. Sev rolled off the car and landed in its shadow, dismantling his rifle. He stuffed the pieces into his bag, got to his feet, and ran along with as panicked a look as he could manage.

“Targets neutralized,” Richards said. “Rendezvous with Chaperone and Nova One at the following coordinates for extraction.”

Cam Tahatan and Warrant Dwyer. That left only the captain, Lieutenant Garza, and Gina to retrieve. Sev kept the faked worry in his expression because he would not be settled until they were all safe.

The screaming sirens of emergency drones flew overhead. Farther up the street, black hovercraft bearing the currency exchange emblems pushed their way through bottlenecked traffic.

Hurry. Sev slipped down an alley and put on more speed, circling back toward the exchange, but he had meant the admonition for his friends too.

* * *

Jackson burst into the lobby past the Fabians who’d taken shelter there. He took in the dozen plus who were stunned. No way they would escape custody—and those still conscious clung to those who were knocked out, making sure their friends were cared for.

The lobby beyond was a wreck. The atrium collapse littered the expanse with bent metal supports, crushed plants, and heaps upon heaps of broken glass. A few Fabians pulled debris off their companions, but even those trapped seemed able to move.

A brilliant patch of red blazed from the other side by the cetacean tank. Gina. Jackson’s heart stuttered. He wanted to run over, give what aid he could, and get her out of the mess, but that would ruin his extraction options. This could only go one way after the stunt he’d pulled upstairs.

Garza was there, applying wound clotters to bloody gashes on Gina’s legs.

Jackson approached, his stance cautious but sloppy as he forced himself to disregard his CDF training. “Hey! Get up. Now.”

Garza glanced over his shoulder. “Easy. I’m just helping a wounded person.”

“You two did this,” Jackson snarled, his voice raised. He wanted the Fabians to hear him, after all. “Attacked us. I thought you were the people’s hero.”

Gina’s goggles were up, so they could match each other’s gaze. Jackson could plainly see the pistol at her side. He let his aim waver, something his drill sergeants would have screamed at him for. She reached for it, snapped it up, and winked at him.

Jackson braced himself. This is gonna hurt.

The stun round struck him dead-on. His senses felt like they were dissolving, the scene before him compressing as he fell backward down a deepening black tunnel. He knew he would be out for hours, which meant he would be helpless.

They can get me out of here, he told himself as he drifted out of consciousness. They always do.

* * *

Alexis found herself strapped to a stretcher, the overhead lights of the currency exchange’s corridors flashing by. Two security officers in solid black escorted her as a young blonde in a white med tech jumpsuit pushed her out. Her heart felt empty. Ron had to be disappointed. How could he not be? She’d let her zeal get the best of her. The cause could have been salvaged.

But when she turned sideways, tears flooded her eyes. Med techs scanned her fallen comrades. Those still awake were bound and detained by the faceless, armored exchange security. Even Jason, who’d panicked and stunned them, had been brought down—but for good. The med tech standing by his hovering gurney drew a black cover over his listless face, a cover that sealed itself around the edges. The stern-faced young man shook his head as he guided the gurney out of the lobby.

Snow began to fall. Alexis blinked away the combination of precipitation and tears. The wind whipping down through the gash in the ceiling reminded her of the night she threw Rissa into the Atlas River. Where is she now? Does it matter? There was no mending that broken friendship, like there was no bringing Jason back from the dead—or even the mercenaries hired to hunt down their enemies.

The CDF had won. Alexis doubted her informant in orbit could tell her more. She hadn’t heard from the informant in a while. Everything had collapsed.

“Ron,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I failed.”

The med tech set her stretcher by another. Winston sat upright, gazing glumly at his inert legs.

“Winston.” Her tears wouldn’t stop. “I’m so—”

“Don’t. Please.” He didn’t sound angry, only exhausted. “I’ve given everything to the cause, to our Fabian brothers and sisters… to you. We were so close. What happened?”

“The Coalition. They escaped our assassins. It had to be them.” Alexis squeezed her eyes shut. “They ruined everything.”

“If that’s true, then yes, they did.”

“What will you tell them?”

Winston glanced at her. “Never you mind. I will say what I need to say so my life can go on and I can carry out the cause. If that means I confess, then I confess.”

“You… you can’t.”

“Unfortunately, Alexis, I no longer take orders from you.” Winston turned away. “Perhaps I never should have.”

It was only then Alexis realized how much she’d lost. Everything.

* * *

Gina sagged against the seat behind Novabird’s cockpit and let Dwyer strap her in. He fussed over the bandages on her legs. “The other LT did a pretty good job patching you,” Dwyer commented. “Maybe he can teach a refresher on field medicine.”

Gina ignored his grin. She was preoccupied watching the darkness beyond Novabird’s open landing ramp. Sakuri was at the pilot’s controls with Richards beside her. Garza sat behind, draining a water tube. Cam sat to his right, rubbing his hands together and blowing to warm them.

Come on, Sev.

A light blinked on. It wobbled maybe a dozen meters from the ramp. Gina grabbed Dwyer’s arm. He shifted in his crouch, a pulse pistol raised.

Sev’s face appeared, ghostly in the light’s glow. He nodded, no urgency or worry to his expression. Gina had seen that same look as he decided what to have for breakfast. The man bled nonchalance. But she was more concerned about the stretcher and its occupant.

Sev pushed the gurney up the ramp. “Go.”

The hatch whined shut as he cleared the hinge, and Novabird’s engines thundered as she lifted off. Gina had to hand it to Sakuri—not only did she have a deft hand at the controls, as evidenced by the lack of bounce as Novabird breached the clouds covering Rand, she was also skilled enough Dwyer didn’t feel the need to hover over her shoulder and make sure she treated the racer right.

Sev locked the stretcher against a bulkhead. Satisfied it was secured, he unsealed the edges. The black cover peeled back.

Jackson’s face was pale, but his chest rose and fell steadily with his breaths. Gina saw green lines and numbers on the readouts for the stretcher’s embedded medical sensors. His body was handling his stunned state well. Gina forced herself to relax.

“How is he?” Garza called from his seat.

Dwyer crossed the swaying deck with ease. He leaned over the med displays. “Good as can be, LT. Should come out of it in a few hours. Probably gonna have a nasty bruise.”

“A stun round at close range will do that.” Gina released her straps and put weight on her legs. Gah. Yes, that hurts, badly. She ground her teeth and took shuffling steps to the other side. “Clear a seat for me, Sparks.”

He made a face but didn’t argue. Dwyer helped her into a chair ahead of the stretcher.

Sev put a hand on her shoulder. “Good?”

Gina patted it. “Better now. I’m glad you’re back—that we’re all here, actually.”

“Almost.” Sev frowned and moved forward to strap himself in.

Almost. He was right. Brant was aboard Oxford. Thirty minutes, a bit more, and they would all be back together. Then Jack and Brant would have to work out their issues, or Gina would dangle them in front of Oxford’s ion engines.

“Can you hear me?” Gina found Jack’s limp hand and squeezed it. “You two have a lot of work to do, so start planning.”

25

CSV Oxford

Santa Cruz System

28 November 2465

Jackson dreamed of Abby. He felt bad he hadn’t thought of her in the past week, but it wasn’t surprising, given how he often lost himself in a role and that he was in deeper cover than usual with no personal communications received. His dreams made up for the absence—laughing at dinner with her, skimmer racing over the ranch steppes, locked in an embrace as they kissed.

So it was a complete disappointment to see Colonel Sinclair’s face first when he regained consciousness.

“Sir.” Jackson slurred the word. He tried to sit up but rolled sideways instead.

“Steady, old chap.” Sinclair caught him by the shoulder. “I daresay the med tech will banish me from sick bay regardless of my rank if I cause further strain.”

“No problem, Colonel. I’m just regaining my bearings.”

Garza was there, too, back in CDF uniform, though his face and hair were still in civilian guise. “Captain. Glad you’re all right.”

“Likewise, Lieutenant. Thanks for all you did for Gina.”

Garza shrugged. “Wilkes is a stubborn woman and a frustrating operative, but she proved her worth time and time again. I kept her under my care like I would any member of my team.”

“She recovered well from her wounds,” Sinclair added. “I understand she refused the cosmetic repairs that would have eliminated her new scars.”

Jack grinned. “For now. She’ll have to get them blotted so she doesn’t have distinguishing marks on another mission.”

Garza snorted, but his expression was good-natured. “That’s what I told her.”

“What’s our situation?” Jackson asked.

“Underway at Santa Cruz. Tucson is off on a secondary assignment to intercept the benefactor responsible for funding the Fabians and creating this mess in the first place.”

Jackson glanced at Garza.

“Ardalion Noor,” Garza explained.

“Damn.” Jackson ran a hand through his hair. Bad idea. His head swam. “Noor. I knew he was loose, and it makes sense he’d hold a grudge, but the Fabians?”

“Enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Sinclair noted. “I hope Ms. Barr and Mr. Cole will give up the intel needed to prove that connection even more so than Warrant Eldred has.”

Jackson made a face. “I wouldn’t bet on that. One of the others might be more likely to flip—Nick, maybe, or even Zack. But Alexis and Winston are hardcore believers.”

“Not in each other, apparently, as Mr. Cole has exhibited quite a willingness to discuss matters Ms. Barr would rather remain unsaid—such as confirming Ms. Fei’s story that Barr tried to recruit her to commit acts of sabotage against Halsey Station.”

“Well, that’s a hell of a turn. Do we have them in custody?”

“Not yet,” Garza replied. “Galt Exchange’s private security contractors have the Fabians, but they contacted CIS and CBI through our embassy in Rand. They’ll have to negotiate how to treat the matter. It just stinks we can’t admit we’re the ones who foiled them in the first place.”

“True.” Sinclair chuckled. “Fortunately, local media is touting the miraculous intervention of the vigilante Eidolon. She saved Galt’s economy from ruination. Apparently, even the poor she was championing are happy with that result.”

“Miraculous is right.” Jack shook his head. It didn’t spin that time, so he smiled. “But speaking of Fei earlier…”

“Ms. Fei should be able to resume her normal life in due course, though CBI is requisitioning a protective detail over the coming months. We’ve—you’ve both effectively decapitated the Fabians and removed much of their upper torso, if I might add, but there’s no need to tempt them with a potential target. As for the florist shop clerk—”

“Ellie Terzich,” Garza reminded him.

“Yes. We have offered—through our Galt intermediary—protection, should Ms. Terzich choose to testify against Mr. Cole and the Fabian operation. I gather she has no kin on Galt but is, in fact, a native of Trinidad Station. We may be able to work out an arrangement for her.”

Jackson nodded. “I’m just glad no one’s been able to take any further potshots at our teams—which reminds me, Lieutenant. I apologize I wasn’t able to warn you about the attack on the safe house. I was out of the loop in the organization.”

“Not your fault, Captain.” Garza glowered. “We had a traitor aboard ship, like I said, but your old pal took care of that.”

“Brant. He’s aboard ship.” Jackson had heard, of course, but without Brant’s voice in the comms, his presence was as mythical as that of Santa Claus.

“Indeed. He was vital in helping Eldred and Tamir stop the leaks. The petty officer in question is finding time in the brig not at all to her liking.” Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “And I’m afraid her future with the CDF will be quite dark indeed.”

“I’m just glad she didn’t know any of my details, or my cover would’ve collapsed a long time back.”

Sinclair nodded. “We took stricter protocols than usual with you deeper inside. But I am worried for the future of our operations. The president has been very clear about avoiding loyalty tests for CDF officers, but given what’s transpired, I have no choice but to recommend the entire crew undergo debriefings by Intelligence inspectors. I’ll not have us set sail on whatever our next operation is until I can be quite certain this breach will not be repeated.”

“Dean served under Major Drymand prior to the Monterrey incident,” Garza explained. “She wasn’t considered a potential threat back then.”

“Still, we shall have to shore up our defenses.”

Jackson wasn’t worried about defenses. He found himself stuck on the fates of the three men he’d pretended to befriend—and who he’d betrayed. After all, how much of it was pretending once I got deep into the falsified relationship? There had to be some element of truth. Faking liking a man took effort. Maintaining a cover was easier when he could establish camaraderie. “So, with the Fabians—anything you can tell me about Nick and Zack?”

“Yes, the men in your cell. Both are awaiting transfer to CBI custody, as I said of all the Fabians. They think you’re dead, by the by. Quite crestfallen about it—at least, Zack is. Mr. Gao, however, is a tougher nut to crack. He did, after all, see you turn your weapon on the lot of them.”

Nick. The one Jackson had manipulated the most. He would have to work overtime to banish that guilt. “And Farook?”

Sinclair’s face tightened. “Farook Amjad is not his true identity. Eldred had to pull some strings with CIS, but she uncovered him by a different name altogether. Suffice it to say he was a family friend of Major Drymand and former CDF Intelligence before he was thought lost on a mission against the League in the waning years of the war. We might never have made a final connection but for Ms. Fei’s recollections of Ms. Barr’s acquaintances—and people who served in Ms. Fei’s unit. A genetic match was the final proof. All the more reason why her testimony will be vital.”

“Farook, a spy. Like me.” Jackson sighed. Whatever energy he’d regained at the beginning of Sinclair’s visit was fading fast. “It makes sense, given how well organized the Fabians were when it came to the craft.”

Sinclair checked his commlink. “I think it best we let Captain Adams continue his recovery, Mr. Garza. It’s only oh five hundred thirty shipboard, after all. When you’re up to it, Captain…”

“Yes, sir, I’ll have my report done ASAP.”

“Jolly good.” Sinclair gestured to Garza, and the two of them departed sick bay.

Which left Jackson plenty of time to slouch back against the bed and run the details of the last few weeks over and over in his head, wondering if he could have prevented more—or ended things sooner. Eventually, though, his tiredness drowned all those worries, and sleep welcomed him back.

* * *

The long rest did Jackson good. By 1220 hours, he made the trip back to his temporary cabin aboard Oxford with its familiar bulkheads, cabinets, and bunks. It also held his shelf of mementos from his various missions.

The last one was the clincher. Jackson picked up the plastic envelope containing a bloodstained scrap of camouflaged material. He could still smell the gozoa sap prevalent on Trenchant II. At least this time around, he hadn’t had to fight his way through the wilderness on a planet that wouldn’t even let him breathe properly.

“I wondered what had happened to the jumpsuit to leave such a weird hole.”

Jackson turned. Brant stood in the open hatch. His stance was awkward, as if he couldn’t decide whether to be at parade rest or lean against the frame in a casual fashion.

“Hey.” Jackson held up the envelope. “Gina’s idea of a reminder.”

“Subtle.”

“She’s anything but. Want to have a seat?” Jackson replaced the envelope.

“Not really. Do you need one?”

“No. The movement’s good.” Jackson tried a smile, though it was difficult to fake. It was Brant, after all. “I heard you’re quite the celebrity aboard for tracking down the traitor.”

“Yeah, she was sitting right behind us. That doesn’t speak highly of our detecting abilities.” Brant opened his mouth, apparently to say something more, but then quit.

“What?”

“I’m not here to talk about the mission, Jack.”

He’d suspected that. Jackson could fool a lot of people, but Brant wasn’t one of them. He’d packed away a lot of thoughts about what had transpired between them, storing each one in the back of his head like classified cargo, and there he was, forced to take inventory. “So, not the official debriefing?”

Brant folded his arms and waited. He seemed calmer, somehow, than Jackson remembered, though the gesture did stop the tremors Jackson noticed in his hands.

This is ridiculous. What am I, eight years old, shuffling my dirty boots on the living room floor while my dad chews me out for a tiny mistake I made as if it were high treason?

Except Brant wasn’t hollering. He didn’t even appear upset. Well, then, no sense in coming at it obliquely. Jackson knew what was bothering him. Acting like a best friend to the Fabian cell had only made things worse.

“I know I don’t have any right,” he blurted. “But all I can do is ask your forgiveness. I know my obsession with stopping Vasiliy put our team in danger and got you injured. That’s why you haven’t been here. It cost me my command and my friendship. Who knows what we could have averted and how much damage we could have prevented if I hadn’t been blinded by revenge? I keep running the possibilities over and over in my mind. My selfishness broke our partnership. It’s not something I can fix on my own if it can be repaired at all.” Jackson stopped for a breath. He felt winded, like he’d run up a towering flight of stairs. Get a grip. “But I know forgiveness is what you value, so it’s my only hope of getting restarted.” He left it at that.

Brant watched him, and Jackson didn’t like that point in the conversation—in any conversation, really—where one person had all the power and the other was completely at the former’s mercy. If he’d been on assignment, making a delicate negotiation, he would be looking for extraction before it all went sideways.

“I appreciate you saying that,” Brant replied. “As much as I want to, I won’t lie to you—I came very close to staying away from everything. Doesn’t matter why. No, that’s not true either. I was bitter. Angry at you and at God. I had to work things out with Him first on the trip out here and set aside my sin. He knew it was necessary before I heard what you had to say.”

Jackson didn’t know how to respond. He couldn’t say anything more, afraid he would screw up his chances. Brant had every right to tell him to go to hell, something for which Jackson had fully prepared himself, and that would be it. They would be done. And so would the team.

“Jack.” Brant exhaled. “We’re friends. We always will be. When I left that shuttle, went into the field, that was because I had to. I was trying to save you from yourself. That was a mistake. Only God can save you. But this—you’re taking the first step. So I forgive you. It’s done.”

“That’s—thanks. Thank you.” Jackson blinked back tears. Ridiculous. Can’t I put on a better face? The hard part of the negotiations was over. He’d convinced Brant.

Did you though? Brant is willing to wipe the board clean. He wasn’t going to repopulate the targets—it would be blank space. The thought hammered at Jackson. You’ve got a lot of gall, thinking you somehow swayed the guy you damaged into changing his mind.

“I’m not…” Jackson cleared his throat to try again. “I don’t think I deserve it.”

Brant held out his hand. Jackson took it like he was hanging onto an air lock’s safety rung. Brant then clasped his other hand around Jackson’s forearm.

“Ako ay nagpapasalamat na mayroon ako sa buhay ko,” Brant said. “We both can be thankful for what God has given, brother.”

“I know we’re not brothers,” Jackson replied, “but I’m not ashamed to wish we were.”

“Don’t start thinking about trading Harry in.”

Jackson smirked and shrugged. “Too late.”

“I’m serious though. We’re sharing in this forgiveness, but there’s a chance for the same reconciliation between you two.” Brant smiled. “There’s a passage of Scripture in which God asks Cain where Abel is after Cain has just murdered him. Cain replies, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ You won’t like this, Jack, but you are his keeper. I’m yours, too, but because I hope you’ll join me in the faith.”

“I’m not much of a joiner, except when it comes to the CDF.” Jackson scratched the back of his neck. “Probably explains why I enjoy fleeing into undercover work every chance I get. But I see what you mean. You’re right, I guess. It won’t be easy.”

“Mending fences never is. It’s not about forgetting what was done or said but stepping past it, embracing the restoration of relationship.” Brant clapped a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “Because that’s the crux of what God’s accomplishing with us through his Son’s sacrifice.”

Jackson felt as if he were standing in that air lock again, except he was preparing to free jump into a spacewalk with Canaan’s globe turning in majestic splendor beyond the compartment’s safety. His breath faltered. “I’ll try. I will. But you’ve got to hold me to it.”

“No chance I wouldn’t.”

Jackson shook his head and abruptly felt the need to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Brant eyed him with amused suspicion.

“Nothing.” Jackson steered him toward the hatch. “Except that if you’d decided to stay away from CDF and the team, you’d have made one heck of a preacher. Come on. I’ve got a report to write for the colonel, and we’ve got catching up to do.”

* * *

Coppervane System

Terran Coalition—Near Saurian Space

30 November 2645

Mata set his charges and ducked back around the corner. “Fire in the hole.”

The rest of MacDonald’s alpha team echoed the warning. MacDonald hunkered down behind a massive stone slab. The whole desert on that rock was littered with them, chunks as big as shuttles. A prime hiding place for a smuggler’s den—even one that Ardalion Noor’s money had bought a few months back.

The explosives ripped an arch around the hatch. It groaned and toppled outward, a perfect entry ramp, sending up clouds of dust that blended quickly with the swirling orange grime filling Coppervane’s atmosphere, what there was of it.

“See?” Mata crowed. “Professional.”

“Permission to kick him in the rear, Master Chief.” Harrell headed in with Rucuk by his side.

“Denied. I don’t want anyone bogged down by his weight carrying him out.”

Chuckles rippled across the comms, brief as they were. The men were cautious but not tense, a good balance. Rostami and Ahmad went in next, their search beams joining the first two’s. A utility chamber spread out before them with workstations on one side and a beat-up skimmer on the other. MacDonald and Mata brought up the rear. “Full sensor workup, Four,” MacDonald ordered Rostami.

“Negative for life signs, One,” Rostami replied. “Drones are coming back blank, too, but I’m sending them deeper. Power plant scan confirms Tucson’s initial sweep—place reads as abandoned.”

“Hey, One?” Harrell sounded perplexed. “You’d better get a load of this place.”

The team had cycled through a larger air lock, two at a time, and entered a sprawling compartment filled with elegant furniture, water fountain, deactivated holographic projectors, and a full kitchen that had to be twice the size of Tucson’s galley. More rooms were evident down a long corridor beyond. The place reeked of opulence. Whoever had left had done so in a hurry, or else they would have taken the ancient oil paintings from the walls and the grand piano on the middle dais.

Rostami shook his head as he aimed a sensor unit around the room, lingering on the piano. “It’s all clear. Particle drift from the generators indicates they were shut down twelve, maybe sixteen hours ago.”

MacDonald shouldered his rifle. “Well, shit.”

“You said it, Master Chief.” Harrell plinked a key on the grand. “Next stop?”

“Key off the damn instrument, and clear the area, sensors or no sensors. Find any system with a memory core, and pull it. Wherever Noor got to, he might have been sloppy enough to leave us directions, or at least an indication.”

Ahmad and Rostami had already gone down the corridor, checking rooms. Rucuk snarled and kicked a couch. It slid eight meters in the lower gravity.

MacDonald understood his frustration all too well. The major wasn’t going to like the discovery, and frankly, neither did he. “Archangel, this is Alpha One. Den is abandoned. Target is in the wind.”

Ardalion Noor had left them in the dust, literally.

26

Oval Office—the White House

Lawrence City

Canaan

2 December 2645

Ed Fuentes started off the meeting in the aftermath of the joint mission to Galt with a recommendation Justin Spencer wouldn’t have found more surprising than if it had come from Andrew MacIntosh.

“Every single Fabian in capture on Galt must be remanded to full Coalition custody as soon as possible.” He paced the outer edge of the Oval Office. “The longer Galt drags its feet on returning these people to us, the less time we have to trace others who may have valuable, actionable intelligence we can use to arrest those with links to the attacks.”

“It isn’t a matter of forcing Galt to bend to our will, sir,” Celinda Snow reminded everyone. “Galt’s diplomatic ties with us are tenuous at best, but they did accept CBI’s offer to share in the interrogation process.”

“Yet they still remain on Galt.”

“Because their crimes were committed on Galt’s soil in ways that affect their populace and, more importantly to them, their business.” Snow’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Apparently, if we had wanted their greater cooperation during the war, all we would have had to do was dangle the implicit threat of League interruption in their vast market network.”

“Well, I’m not about to argue with Ed’s take on the situation, though I hope Celinda can assure us all that our diplomatic corps is doing its utmost to get the Fabians extradited.” Justin flicked a hand through the holographic report scrolling across the surface of his desk. “I’m not about to rush the investigation, however—it should be done right and without overlooking any details. Overlooking things is how we got into this mess with regards to Major Drymand’s widow and the ex-Intelligence officer calling himself Farook Amjad.”

“I understand, Justin, but…” Fuentes took a breath. “It’s no secret I and members of my party believe in some of the basic tenets that drive the Fabians. But we can’t advocate for those changes if a group of radicals has taken elements of our platform and morphed them into a call to anarchy, coupled with their aim of destroying Coalition society before rebuilding it from the wreckage.”

MacIntosh grunted. “I think I need a med scan, Mr. President. He’s making far too much sense.”

Spencer chuckled, but in seeing how impassioned Fuentes was about the matter, he cut off his mirth quickly. “I’ll see what kind of additional pressure we can put on the Galters, Ed. In the meantime, we’d better take a second look at how this problem arose—and you’re not going to find it nearly as amusing, Andrew.”

“I figured not.” MacIntosh’s Scottish brogue thickened. “You already have my recommendations for ways we can address security breaches.”

“Those are all well and good,” Snow noted, “but they do nothing to address the root cause.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We need to ferret out Fabian sympathizers within the armed forces.”

“Do you really want to duke it out over loyalty pledges again, Madam Secretary?” MacIntosh growled.

“Certainly not in a physical sense and not in a rhetorical one either.” Snow’s expression tightened. “The president and you have made it clear where you stand on that point, so I won’t belabor it. However, I think we must task Intelligence with putting its ear closer to the ground. Mr. President, you neglected to mention Petty Officer Dean, whom I find to be more troubling than either Barr or Amjad. She is a currently serving noncommissioned officer aboard an intelligence-gathering vessel whose operations are quite sensitive and undertaken in volatile regions—often where it is not, strictly speaking, legal to be. Yet she was willing to consign her own people to death.”

“She had other allegiances,” Fuentes said. “And she let those allegiances overrule her oath to the Coalition.”

“Madam Secretary, I know what you’re getting at, and I’ll concede Intelligence has to check under more rocks than it did, but I’ve got to remind everyone we have to take care how we do this.” MacIntosh slapped his tablet against his leg. “Our people’s morale will shoot right out the air lock if they get wind of a witch hunt in the ranks. I don’t want suspicion cast on any person in uniform who says something out of turn, no matter what politics they spew. A lot of them are young. Young people do dumb things. Didn’t you?”

“Quite a bit,” Fuentes answered.

“I don’t think I’ve broken the habit,” Spencer added by way of lightening the mood.

Snow, though, raised an eyebrow. “Never.”

MacIntosh looked floored, as if he didn’t see which way his argument could go, until that sly smile returned to Snow’s face. Then he snorted a laugh. “Right, well, that was on target.”

“I think we all see your point, Andrew,” Spencer continued. “There has to be a balance, but by the same token, we can’t sit around and hope for the best, not when those very few bad apples nearly caused an economic collapse. I have no issue allowing Intelligence to conduct discreet inquiries. Frankly, I think our servicemen and -women would be puzzled by us doing nothing, given what will happen when the news media get their hooks into these stories.”

Fuentes gestured with his tablet. “They’ve already begun. Apparently, Galt’s administration leaks as much as ours.”

Spencer rolled his eyes. “Great. I was looking forward to yet another press conference with inane questions thrown in my face.”

“Weren’t we all?” Snow wrinkled her nose. “As distasteful as it may seem, Mr. President, getting out in front of these rumors with hard facts—without jeopardizing classified information, of course—is the best choice.”

“Well aware, Celinda. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Spencer brushed aside the final pages from the report. “At least they’ve lost interest in the metals market fluctuation already, since it’s stabilized to near-normal levels.”

“I have representatives willing to propose legislation that can ease those impacts,” Fuentes interjected. “One-time payments, which I think is only fair, given our people had a hand in failing to prevent a terrorist action that didn’t make things easier for common citizens.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” MacIntosh looked dour at the possibility of what was essentially a temporary government subsidy, but he didn’t seem as disgruntled as usual.

“I’ll lend my support to this one but only since it’s limited in nature,” Spencer said. “I don’t agree that was entirely CDF’s fault, given how little everyone knew about the technological prowess of the Fabians at the time. That said, I have a suggestion on how to reimburse ourselves for the expenditure.”

Fuentes frowned. “I don’t think it’s big enough to bankrupt the Coalition, Justin.”

“No, but a symbolic transfer is in order.” Spencer grinned. “There’s plenty of Ardalion Noor’s seized assets to cover the cost, and since he’s made himself unavailable to stand for his actions, I say we put them to better use than he would, since his aim was peddling a weapon of mass destruction in the guise of atmospheric regeneration.”

“I’d be happy with that.” Fuentes smiled in response.

Of course, we’ll all be happier when we find him and he can stand trial. Spencer knew that would have to be a priority for the administration moving forward if they were going to put the Fabian threat to rest. It was bad enough when the League fomented unrest in the Coalition. Spencer felt a hundred times worse knowing his fellow citizens were willing to do that dirty work on their own.

* * *

Wingren City

Pentecost Island

Canaan

Gina stepped onto the pier, her travel bag slung over one shoulder. The sea spray and ocean breezes should have helped her mood, and they did rid her of the stale air aboard the shuttle, but her insides still roiled.

Dad stood at the far end of the pier, waiting with a handful of other locals as disembarking passengers waved for their attention. He was more tanned than she expected, as though he’d made up for years in space by spending all his time on a beach. Close-cropped black hair had gone silver at the temples with flecks atop. His beard was still as neatly trimmed as the last time she’d seen him ship out. When he saw her, he held up his hand in casual greeting.

Gina froze.

“Hey.” Jack leaned in. “I’d say take your time, but if more passengers try to squeeze by us, we’ll end up in the harbor, and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather only get wet after I put on my swim trunks.”

She elbowed him. “Jerk.”

“That is me.” Jack smiled. “I’m right here, okay?”

Gina exhaled. No one was shooting at her, hitting her, or otherwise trying to end her existence. She could do this. “Okay.”

They walked the rest of the way to Dad.

He held out his hand. “So, this is the guy you brought home to me?”

Heat rose to Gina’s face. “Dad, he’s not—”

“Captain Jackson Adams, sir.” Jack shook hands. “Pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

“No need for the sir, Jack. Owen Wilkes, Coalition Far Survey Corps, retired.” Dad let go of Jack’s hand and scooped Gina up in a hug.

She felt all her fears melt away, which only made what she had to tell him even harder to get out.

“It’s so good to have you back with me, Georgine.”

Jack made a noise like he was clearing his throat.

Gina glared at him. “Allergies?”

“Sure. Has to be something in the air.” Jack seemed to be doing his best not to make a sarcastic comment.

Fine. He was one of a handful of people who knew the name on her birth certificate. Dad was the only person who insisted on using it regularly. Gina had a feeling that was going to change.

“You were pretty coy over the comms about the sudden need for a visit.” Dad watched her.

She didn’t think she could break free of his gaze if she wanted to. Is he sad? Does he suspect? Surely he had sources, too, after his years spent exploring the Coalition’s “northern” frontier.

“I take it you have something important to say.”

“It’s… I…” Gina choked on the words. Any bravado she had disintegrated.

Jack’s hand gripped hers.

She gave him a smile then made eye contact with Dad. “I found Mom.”

Dad’s expression sagged. “Oh. She’s… not here with you, I can see.”

“No, Dad.” Gina shook her head. The tears came forth, and she refused to stop them. “She’s on Galt. I think we should bring her home.”

Dad gathered her up in another hug. She buried her face in his shoulder and cried, her grip tightening on Jack’s fingers.

“I’m so sorry, Georgine. I lost track of her and knew she was ill but… Dammit. I should have gone looking.”

“It’s okay. It is. I could have gone for her sooner, but… you know how she was about speaking with us.” Gina sniffed. “And Kyle… Dad, I don’t even know where to—”

“We’ll find him. I’ve been trying to make contact ever since I pulled the pin on retirement. Didn’t have much luck.” Dad’s smile was sad, and his eyes were full of tears too. “Why don’t we give it a try together? He should know, if he doesn’t already.” Dad glanced over her shoulder at Jack. “My house is a ten-block walk from here. It’s a nice stroll, especially with the weather as balmy today as they forecasted. Care for an early lunch?”

Jack was no fool. Dad was being polite, but Gina knew he really wanted time alone with his little girl.

Jack shook his head. “You two go ahead. I’ll check out the port town before I catch up.”

“All right, then. Address is in your commlink.” Dad touched the send key on his. “Come on, Georgine.”

Gina took his hand as they headed up into the town. She looked back at Jack and mouthed, Thank you.

He winked then redirected his course toward vendor carts set up just off the pier, becoming another tourist among the dozens milling about.

Gina leaned in closer to Dad. It wasn’t the reunion she’d pictured, but it would have to do. She had her work cut out for her, piecing a family back together.

She was thankful Jack could be a part of it.

* * *

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Canaan

3 December 2645

The evening was unseasonably warm, without a hint of precipitation. Jackson eased into a chair next to Abby’s as they looked out from the deck onto the hills. “I guess we’d better get down to business.”

Abby smiled at him. “It’s not as if you missed much. The skiff we were on before you left? Back in the shop with command-control failures. Enrique did his best to prevent the mainframe from crashing, but he had to ship out last week. That left us without crew who have your technical expertise.”

“I figured it would be something like that.” Jackson arched an eyebrow. “But you didn’t send me any messages while I was away.”

“I tried once, early on, but CDF blocked it and bounced the note back with an excuse about operational security.” Abby shrugged. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t offended.”

“That’s a relief. I’d hate to pit you against Intelligence’s communications censors.”

Abby laughed. “You think I can frighten them?”

“Maybe not frighten but sternly convince.” Jackson paged through his tablet. “Nothing is in here about the legal channel, though.”

“Ah.” Abby swirled the crimson contents of her glass of wine. “Papa has his hands full with attorneys. Harry’s representative is pushing for a hearing in a month, maybe two.”

“Sooner than I expected.” Jackson rubbed his face. “I thought for sure I’d be Dad’s age when it got settled. All right, if he’s ready, I can be too. No sense in putting it off.”

“Are you okay? This time back, you seem more preoccupied and quieter.”

Jackson considered that, watching the scattered trees’ branches sway in the wind. “Things are better between me and Brant. He said—well, I’m going to have to take a different approach to the Harry problem. And after the people I met on this last mission, the steps I had to take, let’s say I haven’t been a fan of myself for a while now.”

“Protecting the Coalition’s an important calling, Jay,” Abby reminded him. “I wouldn’t want anyone to take that away from you.”

“And they won’t. That doesn’t mean I have to be satisfied with how I go about it.” Jackson shook his head. “I get so damned tired of the lies, Abby. Yes, they’re told to enemies, and in most cases, to bad people, but it’s still so… it’s like I’m scraping off bits of my good side every time. Don’t get me wrong. We’ve saved more lives than I can count, and we’ve prevented truly horrific things, but the end result doesn’t help me feel cleaner.”

Abby propped her chin on her hand. “So, what do you need?”

“Brant suggests I need forgiveness, the heavenly kind.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Do you? We’ve never been open about our faith, but if it’s pulling you…”

“I don’t know if I want it to pull me or not.”

Abby nodded. “But God isn’t apt to let us alone. If He’s going to pull, He’s going to pull.”

“Okay, but it’s not like you’re rushing off to church every Sunday.”

She played with the rim of her glass. “I’ve considered it.”

“Since when?”

“For a while now. I didn’t want to say anything because I didn’t want a conversation like this.”

The latter half of her admission stunned Jackson more than the former. What Abby did with her spiritual life was between her and God—but to not want to tell him about it meant she lacked trust in him. “Abby, I’m sorry. I should never have given you that impression, inadvertently or not. If this is calling to you, I’ll be there.” How can I do any less than support the woman I love when she’s struggling with her Christian faith after I flew halfway around my home world to be at Gina’s side in her time of need?

“Thanks, Jay. I’ll take you up on that—but maybe next Sunday.” Abby raised her glass. “This weekend, we strip circuits from a cantankerous skiff.”

“Hear, hear.” Jackson matched her toast, clinking glasses.

And no matter what else, he thought as he sipped the drink, it’s high time I called Harry so we can start down the road that leads to putting our family back together.

Epilogue

Undisclosed Location

Terran Coalition System 112

3 December 2465

Ardalion Noor’s profile images always depicted him as handsome and lacking a care in the galaxy. When he was on the run and dragged from a comfortable hidey-hole, his unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes didn’t do much good for his appearance.

“Why have you brought me here?” Noor snarled. “I demand explanations! Do you know with whom you’re dealing?”

“Demands, demands, demands.” Vasiliy Kiel took the seat opposite Noor’s. Kiel’s chair was leather, more luxurious than any he’d ever owned—certainly nicer than what the League of Sol provided him. Noor, by contrast, shifted his weight as his rusted metal chair wobbled on four legs of unequal length. “Does that work for you? Do you find your underlings respond better when you demand things? For me, I feel threat of death is more efficient. Ferenc?”

Ferenc sighted on Noor’s right temple with a plasma pistol. The fulfillment Kiel experienced when Noor’s blustery façade evaporated into a wide-eyed, worried stare couldn’t be measured.

“Let’s not be rash, friend.” Noor licked his chapped lips—a side effect of being denied food and water for a day and a half. “We can come to an arrangement, can’t we? Those Coalition bastards may have stripped me of my company and let the fools I displaced pick over the corpse, but I am not without means.”

“As I noticed.” Kiel leaned forward, hands on his knees. “The problem, Ardalion, is CDF Intelligence noticed too. As we speak, the networks are queuing up stories provided by our dear Coalition adversaries about how you funded the pitiful excuse for revolutionaries the Fabians thought they were. While I admire your willingness to throw whatever you had left into one last chance for revenge, your method was clumsy. That’s not simply my opinion, you see. Ferenc ran an analysis that took him three days to compile.”

“Two days,” Ferenc corrected him.

“Was it only?” Kiel shook his head. “You see how we lose track of time on this slimeball world? But that’s fine—it’s quite the perfect location from which we can plot our operations. The difference is I’ve been honing my patience, whereas you have none. It comes down to a simple remaining fact. Those assets you crow about are being stripped away.”

“Only the ones they know of,” Noor scoffed.

“Oh?”

“Of course. I have millions those dolts know nothing about skimmed from legitimate Nosamo accounts. I had plenty of enemies before that fiasco with Project Life Swarm. Only an idiot would fail to create contingencies for contingencies.”

“And you can still access these contingency funds?”

“Yes!” Noor must have sensed the line of questioning turning in his favor—at least, Kiel hoped that was the impression he’d given. “I can get you whatever you need.”

Kiel waved at Ferenc, who withdrew his pistol. Noor sagged against his bindings.

“That”—Kiel smiled—“is exactly what I hoped you’d say.”

THE END

Deception Fleet: Book 5 – Ecliptic Flight: When advanced CDF technology falls into the hands of League insurgents, Jackson Adams and his team must get to the bottom of the crisis before time runs out for the Terran Coalition - and another war breaks out.

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Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

Book 5 - Iron Hand

Book 6 - Final Flight

Echoes of War

Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight

Book 2 - Strong and Courageous

Book 3 - So Fight I

Book 4 - Gates of Hell

Book 5 - Keep the Faith

Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet

Book 7 - Finish the Fight

Breach of Faith

(With Gary T. Stevens)

Book 1 - Breach of Peace

Book 2 - Breach of Faith

Book 3 - Breach of Duty

Book 4 - Breach of Trust

Deception Fleet

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Victory’s Wake

Book 2 - Cold Conflict

Book 3 - Hazards Near

Book 4 - Liberty’s Price

Book 5 - Ecliptic Flight