Victory's Wake
Date: 2021-07-19 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction
Description: The treaty is signed. The war is over. Or is it? In the wake of the bitter galactic conflict, a cauldron of desperate refugees is rife with rival cartels and flooded with drugs and weapons. In this pocket of lawlessness, old enemies are fighting a new war by proxy. Captain Jackson Adams of the Coalition Defense Force is tasked with gathering a ragtag crew for a black ops mission—infiltrate the cartels and discover the enemy’s ultimate scheme. But what they uncover is more horrifying than anyone ever anticipated.

Victory’s Wake

Deception Fleet Book One

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

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

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Acknowledgments

Victory’s Wake 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

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

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Book 1 - Breach of Peace

Book 2 - Breach of Faith

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Deception Fleet

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Book 1 - Victory’s Wake

Book 2 - Cold Conflict

Book 3 - Hazards Near

Prologue

Transport Tamara Jean

In Orbit of Karavas

Second Moon of Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

27 June 2464

Andreas Stefanidis knew leaving his ancestral planet would be difficult. Nine generations of his family had worked the fickle soil of Azar III until it was a treasure trove of grains, the breadbasket of its sector.

But after two centuries of watching their world’s abundance siphoned off for the League of Sol to consume, leaving the Stefanidises and thousands of others starving, he knew he had two choices, death or new life.

The League had lost the war with the Terran Coalition—badly. The grumbling of the local security officers revealed as much to Andreas. No amount of propaganda—and there were heaps of it—could hide the fact. That didn’t stop Azar’s commissar from rooting out disloyal citizens, with a fervor unmatched since the darkest days of the conflict. It was no time to harbor individualist sentiments. How could the League hold together after such a defeat if the people were not of one mind, one goal?

The commissars deployed fear and guilt to keep League citizens in line.

Andreas, though, couldn’t feed his wife and five children with propaganda, and the League tired of the growing unrest. He hadn’t sabotaged harvesting bots, but he hadn’t turned in the saboteurs either. All the while, border worlds that had changed hands during the war with the Terrans had gotten the chance to choose their fates through popular referendums. For the rest of the complainers, the people clamoring for a better life, the League was suddenly content to cram them aboard cargo transports and ship them out.

When one of those transports arrived at Azar III, Andreas had already sold everything of value his family couldn’t carry. He knew his neighbor would take good care of the plots of Andreas’s land he’d absorbed into his own for the good of the League. Whether or not he kept doing so after Andreas and his family left wasn’t his concern.

Andreas had saved enough to bribe their way aboard the transport and secreted more to start that new life. They’d departed ninety days ago.

At first, the crowded holds were an exciting maze for the children, a warren of sixteen corridors connecting four cavernous bays. As more people boarded, many of them unattached men of varying ages, families banded together in Hold Two. They used luggage for barricades. Parents kept watch over all the young, making sure none strayed beyond the entrances and exits. Singles and couples could stay in Hold Two, so long as they agreed to steer clear of the families and form groups of their own. Even aboard the ship, with a minimal and uncaring crew, the collectivist element of League society survived.

Weeks in, no amount of belongings could block all the crying of infants or shouting of adults. It didn’t matter much to Andreas, even though his family was one of those who erected the makeshift walls. He absorbed the noise into the background as he dreamt of what awaited—the Terran Coalition, the victors, people who prized freedom so much they’d stood firm, massively outnumbered and outgunned, against superior League forces. A motley collection of aliens and independent neutrals had flocked to their banner, allies against annexation into the League’s benevolent socialism.

Andreas had seen that so-called benevolence firsthand. It had worked his family to the bone while the commissar and his underlings had paraded around in clean, pressed uniforms aboard gleaming hovercraft. Not anymore.

He took in his corner of Hold Two, where the Stefanidises had set up a cramped but comfortable ten-by-ten-meter encampment. Soon, he would find new farmland, something he could buy that would be his, no one else’s—land he could cultivate and from which he could sell the produce to new neighbors without the government taking what wasn’t theirs and impoverishing his community, land where he and his family could live unmonitored, untracked, free.

“Baba.” Little Yira, his youngest at seven years, hopped onto his lap. “When will we be home?”

Andreas smiled and brushed her hair. “Soon. We must be patient. We must follow many steps, but we are not far. We have made the last wormhole jump.”

From across the encampment, his wife, Najwa, frowned. She knew as well as he did that their waiting had taken up half those ninety days, a month in orbit with a thousand other League refugees aboard the transport seeking refuge on Aphendrika. “Go and play, Yira.”

Yira kissed Andreas’s cheek and leapt down, boots padding on the metal deck plates. No sooner had she rounded the bend into the adjoining family’s space than giggles erupted—the O’Brien clan. No telling what sort of game they’d concocted. Last week, they were pirates in neutral space, racing through an asteroid field. Andreas shook his head at their boundless imagination.

“Is there news from the captain?” Najwa plucked dough from a food canister.

Andreas checked his tablet. “None. He is as vexed by the Terrans as we are. I don’t understand. We’ve crossed their border unhindered, entered the system, yet we’re held at arm’s length from the planet. Instead of working a new world, we’re spinning around a dead rock.”

The simple graphic of the transport’s orbit burned bright green. How many times have I stared at the ellipse, watching the white dot follow it ten thousand kilometers from the chunky gray planetoid with the tantalizing blue oceans of Aphendrika fifty times the distance away? Andreas shrank the image, reducing the asteroid and the transport to pinpricks of light with the gleaming planet at the center of the display.

“Any new arrivals?”

He tapped a command. Twenty-nine other dots appeared, tracing yellow lines around the moon. He highlighted one. “A freighter from Bannister, it seems, got here this morning.”

“Thirty ships. Tens of thousands of us.”

“That doesn’t even count the ships lingering on the edges of the solar system or elsewhere along the Terran border. So many people leaving the demilitarized zone…”

Najwa sighed as she shaped biscuits, using the open lid of a circuit junction box as a makeshift baking counter. “Waiting and waiting. For what?”

“Opportunity, freedom, all those things the League denied us.”

“The things we fought against—with the Terrans.” Najwa glanced at him. “You should mind your words.”

“The commissar doesn’t care about us anymore. He’s not looking over our shoulders.” Andreas scowled at the tablet. “We just have to make the Terrans see we’ll work hard to earn our place among them. As long as we can buy a place, start a farm—we’ll build a new community.”

“No one will accept us so quickly, you realize, possibly ever.”

“It doesn’t matter. We need the chance, however long it takes.”

A scream pierced the rumble of the cargo bay. Andreas knew its pitch instantly. He bolted from their corner, heading for a band of refugees clustered near one of the two corridor hatches. Voices rose. Boots scuffled. Andreas couldn’t see what was going on.

The shriek of a plasma rifle cut off the arguing. The crowd peeled away, men and women retreating into their family camps. Connor O’Brien was left in the grip of two burly men in tattered, grease-stained coveralls. Either one could have broken the arm he held, which was a testament to their bulk, given O’Brien was discharged League infantry.

“Let me go! Don’t put a hand on my boy!”

“Shut the hell up.” A third man punched O’Brien in the stomach. He glared down at O’Brien’s gasping form, scars practically writhing on his face under the glare of the bay’s garish lights. His left eye twitched, the red iris at the middle of the silver cybernetic pinpointing on its target. “You knew this was coming. This ride has a price. It just went up. Stay put, and you won’t bleed out in front of the kids.”

Kids? Two more men dragged away a tall preteen boy, who fought against them, and with the trio—

“Yira!”

A sixth man scooped her up, and she screamed again.

“Get away from my daughter!” Andreas charged into their midst. The weapons didn’t matter. All he saw was a brute taking his youngest, like she was a package to be delivered.

Tears streamed down her face as she cried for him, “Baba! Baba!”

He hit the man’s backside, his shoulder plowing dead center into his spine. He spun the man around and caught his nose with a swipe of his fist. Blood spurted onto his knuckles.

A rifle’s stock crashed into the back of his neck, the pain making the cargo bay spin. Andreas reeled, vomit rising in his throat. He hit the deck, vertigo overtaking him.

“Back off!” A pistol’s muzzle pressed to the top of his head. “Anyone else wants to be a hero, they’ll be the first to take a swim out an airlock!”

More shouts burst from the crowd. O’Brien broke free, bellowing, as more refugees joined the fray. He was atop the nearest man in a second and stabbed through the ragged coverall with a combat knife.

Rifles fired again—into the crowd rather than above it. The angry shouts became cries of panic. Flashes of plasma blinded Andreas. He gagged on the sudden stench of blood mingled with sweat.

When the chaos subsided and the crowd thinned, O’Brien lay facedown in a crimson pool. His wife screamed over him, shaking his body as if she could rattle him back to health. Two more bodies, men, lay curled up, clutching arms and legs as others tended to their wounds.

“Free lesson for the day.” The red-eyed man gestured with his pistol. “Let’s go, boys. Shoot anyone who follows.”

The gang dragged their captives out—Yira, Aidan O’Brien, and four others, aged eight through eighteen.

Andreas couldn’t stand. The pain in his head made him retch every time he tried to rise. But that didn’t stop him from dragging himself after the gang and clawing his way up the nearest bulkhead. Najwa caught up with him, bawling and swearing in Greek. His vision swam down a dark tunnel. The corridor’s hatch slammed shut, cutting off his last view of a screaming Yira before he passed out.

* * *

Vasiliy Kiel thumbed through the report on his tablet as he stirred his tea with his right hand. The cinnamon wafted from his desk, filling the office with a welcome distraction from the acrid ozone of plasma torches and the nose-wrinkling stink of industrial lubricants. “Resistance, Ferenc?”

“Minimal.” The messenger, a young man with a dirty, scarred face, stood at perfect attention. It was a ridiculous pose when compared with his ratty jacket and patched trousers. Even the boots were mismatched. It was the damned cyber eye that didn’t fit with his grubby appearance—a shiny new model. “We took some hits. Jasper’s getting stitched up. Ryu has a concussion.”

Kiel let his stare linger on Ferenc’s attire until the young man fidgeted. Good. Cybernetics or not, most people were rendered uncomfortable by Kiel’s eyes—one palest blue, the other dark brown. They couldn’t handle the contrast. “And the resisters?”

“We shot some,” Ferenc said.

“I suppose it could have been worse.” Kiel sighed. “Thankfully, the captain was an easy bribe. Let me know when the payment comes through for our first captive.”

“The first should be by the end of tomorrow—twenty thousand.”

“Not bad for a fifteen-year-old.” He gestured with the tablet. “Make sure half goes to the particle weapon emplacements and half to our agents in place. No sense shorting them when we’re this close.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kiel waved him off.

The hatch popped open, admitting a cacophony of sounds—torches hissing, workers bellowing, machines rumbling. When it shut, Kiel heard the soft undercurrent, a subtle vibration through the walls.

Refitting was on schedule. Money remained tight, hence the trafficking. Kiel scowled at the figures on his tablet. It was easy enough to insert his operation into what was already an endemic problem along the border, what with the horde of filthy traitors dumped out of the League’s figurative back door. He had no qualms about exploiting anyone who dared turn his back on the League of Sol.

So, his superiors’ requirement that none of the money spent on their operation be traced back to External Security Service—or any part of League officialdom—was a welcome challenge. He got free rein to vent his anger on those scum. The League gave us everything. Made me who I am. And they’d throw it away to gamble on a life of chaos with the individualists? Disgusting.

The irony of a Terran planet’s elites paying for fleshly entertainments—secret slaves, really—and thus giving him the funds for a weapon meant to strike at the Coalition’s weak underbelly made Kiel smile. If the plan worked. He wouldn’t celebrate yet—not a chance. Only when ships were burning over Aphendrika would he raise his mug in triumph.

He sipped at the tea. Too hot, but it would have to do. He would rather absorb the minor irritation to refocus his mind. He had a deadline, after all. Vasiliy Kiel had ninety days to make sure the Terran Coalition wished they’d never won the war.

1

Oval Office, the White House

Canaan—Terran Coalition

1 July 2464

President Justin Spencer knew that if he wished the war were still on, it must be a bad day indeed. Lord, sometimes it seemed easier then. The last nine months had been among the hardest of his life. Not even the time of nonstop combat on the CSV Zvika Greengold during the beginning of the war, where he flew multiple sorties a day, compared to this. Between the disappearance of the Lion of Judah in October of 2463 and the Jalm’tar crisis, the Terran Coalition had been pushed to the brink. And to think I once thought this job was what God wanted me to do. The newest crisis was an influx of refugees from the League of Sol.

Fresh off a cabinet meeting in which his secretary of state accused his secretary of education of being a League sympathizer, and the same education secretary fired back that his opponent was a prime example of “shameless capitalist scum,” his head throbbed worse than it had in a long time.

“I would ask if you’d care for a drink, Justin, but I’m afraid I have first dibs on the carafe.” Eduardo Fuentes, vice president of the Terran Coalition, settled into one of the Oval Office sofas. He rubbed at the center of his forehead and sighed. “Perhaps our wishes of a grand unification were a bit far-fetched.”

“It’s still early.” Spencer did get to the carafe, pouring water for himself and Fuentes. “Here you go, Ed. Thanks for backing me up in there.”

“Not at all. I was the one reluctant to join a partnership with my political adversary, but you sold me on it because we share the same goal—the healthy growth and security of the Terran Coalition.”

“And the freedom of its constituent worlds.” Spencer clinked glasses with him. “I refuse to leave such a guarantee out of the equation. It’s why we fought the war. I won’t force a more centralized government on our people in the name of security.”

“Believe me, I understand. I’ve certainly heard it repeated ad nauseam.” Fuentes smiled. “But I’m glad you stormed out of the meeting. I’ve always wanted to make a dramatic exit.”

Spencer chuckled despite the lingering ache in the pit of his stomach from the infighting he’d just sat through. Maybe Fuentes was right—they should have fired their loyalists and brought more centrist cabinet members aboard. No—changing people’s minds had been his goal, to show them that differing opinions could exist on the same team when everyone had eyes fastened on the big goal—the continued freedom and prosperity of the Terran Coalition. The problem was, it wasn’t just Terran lives at stake.

The door opened, admitting Secretary of Defense Celinda Snow and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Andrew MacIntosh. From the sounds of it, they continued their own private debate from the cabinet meeting.

“It’s a matter of logistics, General. Their numbers are tiny compared with the overall population of the Coalition. Resettlement can take place in an orderly fashion without CDF involvement.”

“There’s no way you’re going to let millions of refugee Leaguers onto Terran worlds without a military presence,” MacIntosh countered, his Scottish brogue all the thicker with his mood soured. “And that’s even if they’re let in at all, which I think I made it pretty damned clear they shouldn’t be!”

“Andrew, Celinda, have a seat. Now.”

MacIntosh dropped into a chair to the right of where Spencer stood while Snow sat beside Fuentes on the couch.

She had a tablet nestled under her arm, accompanying a binder bulging with printouts, but when she spoke, it was evident she had memorized every bullet point she carried. “Mr. President, the border situation is becoming untenable. I suggest that, regardless of what we all heard in the cabinet meeting, it be given the highest priority.”

“I agree, which I why I tasked you and the general with finding solutions.” He raised an eyebrow. “I wish we still had the Lion to deploy. It, along with General Cohen’s approach to things, would do much to calm the situation.”

“I still miss him—all of them.” MacIntosh’s steely gaze faltered, and for the briefest moment, he choked up. “We’ll forever be in their debt.”

Spencer forced himself back to the task at hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve given up already. We haven’t even officially named the task force.”

“That hasn’t stopped the media from dubbing it the ‘Cypriot Crisis,’” MacIntosh grumbled as he recovered. “It’s not even the name of the planet. It has to do with a tiny, contested island back on Earth. They haven’t given us one week’s peace since the treaty was signed. Isn’t it good enough we avoided total annihilation and set back the League’s ability to conquer us or anyone else by a decade or more?”

“If it bleeds, it leads,” Fuentes replied. “As for the crisis—which I would say is a perfect word—let’s start by acknowledging those poor souls crammed aboard countless freighters, who are here for the same reason we are: security. They want what the Coalition has to offer.”

“Which is admirable, but the numbers aren’t as tiny as you’d like to portray, and we all know that.” Spencer shook his head. “Six million refugees? With shiploads arriving every day. Am I correct in assuming we could be looking at another million within a month?”

“My projections show as much,” Snow said. “Sir, as I was saying—”

“They’re not just a drop in the bucket,” MacIntosh cut in. “They’re six million security risks. Opening the floodgates and letting hundreds of transports jump to whatever planet they like would be an open invitation for League infiltrators to sabotage key facilities along the DMZ. It’s bad enough keeping up with the logistics, given the beating we took at the third Battle of Canaan.”

“You have no proof of that.” Snow consulted her files. “Any incidents have been minor and unrelated to each other.”

MacIntosh cleared his throat. “Which is why I need our forces there, to get to the bottom of whatever the mess is while simultaneously keeping them away from civilians.”

“With all due respect, General, there are plenty of ships for Frontier Enforcement to hold the refugee convoys in place. No need to send fleet elements. You’ll only cause a panic among the same people we’re trying to help.”

“Madam Secretary, I’m trying to help the people on the planets below all those transports wondering if they’re getting a city’s worth of new mouths to feed overnight. Sending a few carrier battle groups to the border while toeing the line at the DMZ is the best way for us to maintain control over the situation.”

“All right, that’s enough.” Spencer walked between them. “I have to say, I’m on the general’s side so far. We’re still far too hurt from the end of three decades’ worth of constant fighting. The people are drained. They deserve the chance to rebuild without extra burdens.”

“I don’t agree that the refugees present too heavy a burden for us to shoulder as a society,” Fuentes said. “Justin, you view this coalition of free planets as a light on a hill—or on a star—so to speak. We’re a beacon of freedom to the rest of the galaxy. I agree with you, but we have to recognize our role as victors means we have added responsibility to help others who look to us as their protectors. These people are seeking a new life.”

“Seeking new handouts is more like it,” MacIntosh grumbled.

“Doubtless some of them are used to a collectivist society, General, but I’m sure plenty have come to us seeking our emphasis on individual freedom. They will certainly need help from whatever safety net we can offer until they get on their feet.”

“It’s the size and strength of the net that concerns me, Ed,” Spencer interjected. “Our resources are stretched thin across the entire Coalition, with the bulk of our rebuilding efforts concentrated along the same border you’d have refugees inundate. We have no easy solution. Maybe we can look at a sort of quota system to bring in a few at a time. Others we could redirect toward the neutral territories.”

“Surely you’re not thinking of asking the Saurians to take any in.”

Spencer shook his head and grinned wryly. “Even if they were so inclined, I doubt anyone fleeing the League is looking to join a warrior race.”

“My counterparts among the neutral alliances aren’t willing to entice refugees who have already skipped their worlds to double back,” Snow said. “They’re concerned enough about the rumors of human trafficking.”

“I saw your report.” Spencer’s gut tightened, and he felt the urge to crush his glass between his fingers. Those who would trade in the suffering of others were the lowest of the low. “General, where are you on combatting the problem? Whether or not we admit refugees, no matter the amount, we have to put a stop to something so disgusting.”

“On that much, I think we all agree.” Fuentes raised his glass in a salute.

“I’d be making better headway if I had more people on the scene.” MacIntosh raised an eyebrow in Snow’s direction. “CBI hasn’t been much help—they’ve got their hands full with Orbita again. It’s still seeping into the surrounding systems all up and down the border.”

“League agents? I thought we stamped them out.”

“Stamping out the cockroaches is never easy, and it takes a long time—and patience. Signs of League External Security involvement are cropping up again.”

“The general and I have put together as much intel as we can, but whoever is running this new trafficking ring is keeping things very quiet, very under the surface,” Snow said. “We don’t know yet how many ship captains are involved. Some refugees reportedly vanish without a trace, while others leak word of raiding parties boarding their transports with impunity.”

“Sending in the fleet definitely won’t work, then.” Spencer sat in another chair so he could face his advisors. He stroked his chin. “A task force appearing on the end of a Lawrence drive jump will send those cockroaches scattering for darkness. They need to be drawn out subtly.”

“Hmmm.” MacIntosh grinned for the first time since the meeting had commenced—and for the first time in a week, Spencer realized. “Madam Secretary?”

“It was your brainstorm, General.” Snow smiled and gestured he should continue.

MacIntosh handed Spencer a small tablet. It was blank until MacIntosh pressed his thumb to a corner and the words “CLASSIFIED ACCESS GRANTED – TS/SCI CAVEAT RIGHTEOUS ANGER – NO FORN” appeared on the screen.

Spencer gazed at the text that spilled onto the display. “An independent intelligence unit?”

“CDF Intelligence, combining small fleet elements, tier-one special operations units, and covert infiltration squads. We’re assembling the necessary rosters.”

“I see that.” Spencer flipped through the write-up. “And I like where this is heading. Celinda?”

“As you said, Mr. President, subtly is the key.” She tapped her binder. “We have several options we can activate, none of which will require an overwhelming military presence. The smaller and quieter we can keep their involvement, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I recognize you’re not wholly comfortable with a military solution, Madam Secretary, so we appreciate your compromise on this matter,” Fuentes said.

Snow nodded, her expression relaxed but some tension still in her frame, from what Spencer could detect. She probably wondered if she would be shot down in favor of a carrier group or destroyer flotilla.

“Andrew, I presume you’ve got a top candidate to head this force.” Spencer smiled. “And if you don’t suggest his name, I will.”

MacIntosh chuckled. “Are you kidding? The secretary and I discussed it first thing. He’s the pick of the litter.”

“I would not be surprised if he’s already found out at least the whispers of this project.” Snow shook her head.

“Colonel Robert Sinclair,” Spencer said to Fuentes. “Of the CSV Oxford.”

“Ah. The spook ship, I believe you call it. It’s geared toward signals interception, isn’t it?”

“Among other things.” Spencer reached the summary. “Covert Action Unit 171. That’s an awful lot of those to enact. Have you two figured out the funding? Because Congress won’t pass it anytime soon.”

“Deliberate misdirection, Mr. President,” Snow said. “Only one unit has currently been proposed. The number is for our League opponents, should they be sniffing around.”

“Her idea,” MacIntosh said. “More spook stuff, but we need it more than a barrage of missiles, I admit.”

“Great.” Spencer finished his water and set his glass on an end table. “What do you think, Ed? We leave this new unit to flush out the traffickers and their possible League supporters while we grapple over the politics of the refugees themselves. For the time being, they remain in orbit until we’re able to find a solution.”

Fuentes nodded. “I think that will work. Thank you, Madam Secretary, General. We should contact the colonel immediately.”

MacIntosh shifted in his chair. “Actually… he’s waiting in the reception area.”

Snow locked eyes with him in an incredulous stare. “You’ve already spoken to him about it?”

“Only that I wanted him here today to discuss a possible new operation,” MacIntosh said. “It turns out you were right—he’d heard whispers.”

“It’s barely been forty-eight hours.” Snow sighed.

Spencer shook his head but chuckled the whole time. “I’ll have the sentry send him in.”

* * *

Colonel Robert Sinclair was pleasantly surprised to find himself inside the Oval Office, a place he’d only seen before in public images. Even though it was one of the most securely guarded rooms on Canaan—and quite possibly in all the Coalition—he still took pride in being able to identify the two concealed emergency exits, should the need arise.

It was rather a shock to stand before the four most powerful people in government, however. Sinclair saluted sharply. “Colonel Robert Sinclair reports as ordered, sirs.” He made sure his posh British accent carried as clear as a bell throughout the office.

“At ease, Colonel.” The reply came from President Spencer himself. The towering man with the signature booming voice approached and offered his hand. “Thank you for coming and for your service during the recent conflict.”

Sinclair suppressed a smile at Spencer’s curt descriptor of the war, which had dragged on several decades, but given the man was also a veteran, he didn’t begrudge him trying to put the whole bloody mess in the rear view. “Thank you, Mr. President. I must say I’m delighted to be here.”

“Good. Then maybe you can give us an assessment of Covert Action Unit 171, as the general and Secretary Snow have designated it.”

“Yes, sir.” Sinclair cleared his throat. “I became aware of the proposed operation a few days ago. Word was this new unit would comprise various tactical and intelligence units combined into one group, which would operate relatively free of the normal chain of command.”

“This information was not directed down the chain of command, Colonel,” Snow observed. “Where did you get this ‘word,’ if I may ask?”

Sinclair did smile then. “RUMINT, Madam Secretary. I daresay it’s far more reliable than standard channels in many, if not most, situations.”

“The colonel’s missions commanding the intelligence force on the CSV Oxford are classified, but I can tell you, if there’s anyone alive who knows how to ferret out League spies, it’s him.”

“Thank you, General.”

Snow nodded. “I don’t suppose RUMINT has filled you in on the details of this assignment.”

“Somewhat, Madam Secretary. Unit 171 would comprise one or two ships plus a few detached squads of intelligence operatives and special forces operators.”

“That’s pretty thorough for rumor,” Fuentes interjected.

“Colonel, more specifically, CSV Oxford would be the hub for this action unit,” MacIntosh said, “continuing its primary role of signals interception and decryption. The plan is to put CSV Tuscon, a stealth raider, aboard.”

Sinclair cocked an eyebrow. “Major Mancini’s boat, Growler-class if I recall. With all due respect, sir, Oxford lacks the necessary docking space for such a craft. She’s not much bigger than a light cruiser.”

“Which is why you and Oxford were recalled and refits are underway,” Snow said.

“Ah. Thus the extensive nature of those refits.” Sinclair nodded, a grin forming. “And here we’d surmised you were upgrading our weaponry simply because the fleet is short on able-bodied combat vessels.”

Spencer passed Sinclair a tablet. Sinclair kept control of his facial expression as he read the list of requirements and suggested units for the operation. In a few places, however, he noted “commander’s discretion” listed where there should be specific personnel. “To borrow an old expression, it seems I have a blank check for a few aspects.”

“That you do, Colonel,” Spencer said. “I’m deferring to the secretary of defense and chairman of the joint chiefs on this one. Specific officer selection is up to you, as you will be moved outside your normal chain of command. Approval from General MacIntosh and Secretary Snow will be required, however.”

My decision and yet not. A fine way to keep the powers that be disconnected from blowback, should we fail. Sinclair didn’t mind. His kind worked best hidden in the shadows or disguised in plain sight in a crowd. “Very good, sir. Then I can make recommendations as to the Space Special Warfare unit that would best serve as the scalpel in this operation.”

“As long as it doesn’t impact other ongoing ops, it shouldn’t be a problem,” MacIntosh said. “To be clear, we need you and your people to get inside whatever the League’s doing with these refugees. Moles or terrorists could be planted among them.”

“Don’t discount organized crime either,” Snow added. “We’ve seen enough evidence of the League partnering with cartels to introduce narcotics among our people to know it’s happening again.”

“Ah, the scourge that was Orbita. Yes, I see.” Sinclair gave the tablet back to Spencer. “I should like a copy of these new orders, sir.”

“You’ll have them after a fashion. This is as off-the-books as we can make it.” Spencer frowned. “I don’t like the idea of hiding the truth, but I understand the necessity in times like these. We’ve won the war, Colonel—not as thoroughly as we should have. Still, a victory. The questions are how do we maintain that victory, given our losses, and what kind of threat does the League pose in its reduced state?”

“One doesn’t have to have an armada of battleships to inflict damage, Mr. President,” Sinclair said. “One doesn’t even need to leave a physical mark. Fear, doubt, seeds so planted among the populace would do the trick nicely.”

“You understand what you’re to do, then, Colonel.” Fuentes leaned forward in his seat. “If the League is stirring up trouble by thrusting these poor people on our doorstep, the people will need our help, and whatever the League is doing to them—and to the Coalition—has to end.”

“Very good, Mr. Vice President.” Sinclair shifted his eyes between them. “A game of chess. I do enjoy the occasion.”

“The key, of course, is getting the right people, ones you can trust to get the mission done quietly,” Spencer said. “Is that clear, Colonel?”

Sinclair smiled. “Mr. President, I do believe I have just the fellow for the job.”

2

Titania Outpost

Hebrides Major—Terran Coalition

2 July 2464

Jackson Adams leaned against the post supporting the awning of the requisition office. Terracotta tiles streamed water as the midmorning rain washed off grime from the previous day’s dust storm. He swiped drops from the corner of his tablet as he read the local news—a dust storm in the forecast for the next two days, downpour on the weekend.

How the settlers put up with the nonsense was beyond him. He was native to a more temperate homeworld. He wondered how old he had been when he’d put on his first parka for protection against extreme cold. Twenty, maybe, when he was halfway through the obligatory four years of military service all Coalition citizens owed.

Jackson shook his head and focused on the news—shipping reports mostly, names of transports, their cargo, owners’ names. So much damage to critical infrastructure still needed repair, even a year after the signing of the treaty. He marveled at the sheer tonnage with a couple dozen ships passing through the system every day, coming and going.

He looked up at an approaching hovercraft’s hum. The two-seater, dull gray with green stripes painted on the flanks, floated to a stop. Rain spattered off a transparent cockpit canopy. A hatch slid open on the passenger side, releasing the grating sounds of sonix music.

The older man behind the controls waved. “Ready, Jack?”

“Always, Vic.” Jackson hopped in and sealed the hatch. “Got the decoder?”

Vic, a squat, barrel-chested man in shipyard clerk’s garb, patted a tiny gray case nestled between the seat cushions. “It’ll work.”

“It’d better. I spent enough on the bribe to set me back a month.”

Vic chuckled as he eased the hovercraft away from the office and into traffic. Hauler trucks and personnel movers vied for lanes, two each way, but as soon as they hit the intersection a kilometer up, they joined the fast lane leading out of Titania Outpost’s downtown toward the sprawl of landing fields and warehouses that formed a semicircle south to east. “Relax. The payment will be ten times that, easily, for each of us.”

“Good to hear. As long as you trust the guy. I keep my scanners peeled.” Jack gazed at cranes lining the highway, each one involved in the assembly of a huge steel skeleton—new manufacturing centers. Hebrides Major was booming, no doubt, and Titania was its hub.

“She’s clean. I mean, she’s not going to backstab us, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve been passing classified stuff to her for a while.”

“Classified?” Jackson snorted. “That’s rich. Those shipping manifests might be full of military tech, but they’re hardly top secret.”

“Okay, sure. But that’s why I brought you on board.” Vic shook his head. “You’re jumpy.”

“No. Cautious. I’m allergic to lifetime imprisonment for violating the Official Secrets Act, and I’m not a fan of execution for treason either.”

“The war’s over, Jack. The politicians back on Canaan don’t care about treason crap anymore. Everybody’s got money to make rebuilding—well—buildings and weapons and ships all over the place. So what if we lift data on surplus weapons being shipped out to the border worlds? You’ve seen how many transports jump through here each week. We get paid a fortune to deliver this data, and the people farther up the food chain get even more money when they swipe those weapons.”

“You make it sound so easy. I just better get paid my cut of those sales later on.”

“And that’s why we’ve got Iris! You know how much she’s funneled back to me?” Vic chuckled. He patted the control console. “You think I afforded this hovercraft on a clerk’s salary?”

Jackson grinned in response. “I wondered. She’s moving a lot faster than the typical civilian model.”

“You bet she is.”

Vic guided them off the highway down a side road—really, a dirt path etched into the savannah surrounding Titania. Dirt had become mud, but once the storm subsided and the weather heated up again, it would become hardpacked. Their trip ended at a hulking warehouse marked “Yutai Imports Inc.,” though the paint on the side had flaked off, and gaping holes no doubt admitted local avians along with the rain.

Another vehicle waited inside the main door. The cargo truck looked four times as big as the hovercraft. A woman dressed in a violet jumpsuit with a black leather jacket slung over her shoulders sat on an empty container nearby. Two more people—huge men, well muscled and armed with plasma rifles—flanked her.

“That’s a lot of artillery,” Jackson said.

“I said relax. Iris is like you—paranoid.” Vic shut down the engines and opened his hatch.

“I’m cautious, not paranoid.” Jackson stepped out into the cavernous space, the hatch’s closing click echoing far off.

A pair of winged creatures took flight, squawking in panic. Jackson wrinkled his nose. The building stunk of mildew and rotting packing material.

“Victor Malehorn.” Iris had a sharp, insistent voice. “Good to see you in person and not as a holo.”

“Isn’t it?” Vic chuckled, spreading his arms wide. He put on a good show of being laid-back, but Jackson could read the tension coming off him like a warship’s weapons signature at close range. “And you’re a hundred times prettier.”

“I won’t argue with flattery.” Iris gave him a peck on the cheek as a reward but slapped his hand away when Vic tried to encircle her waist in a hug. “Oh. This is the new boy.”

“Jack Aiken.” Vic clapped Jackson on the shoulder. “I picked him up a couple of months ago when he tried to break into the depot’s secure files. I sent you the scans of his handiwork.”

“I hadn’t forgotten. It was impressive. It would have been more impressive had he not been caught.”

Jackson shrugged, hands still in his jacket pockets. Nobody had offered to shake, and he wasn’t about initiate one. “Everybody gets sloppy. You did when you snagged that piece of junk off the street.”

Iris’s musclemen shifted their weapons. They didn’t aim at Jackson, but he spotted the way their arms tensed and fingers crept nearer the triggers. Each gun would be up and sighted on him in an instant if they sensed a threat.

“Cute. I’ll admit I didn’t have time to sear the registry code off the flank, but needs must when you’re in a hurry.” Iris smiled. “I believe we have something for you.”

The taller of the two thugs headed for the side of the truck. He rolled up a door and removed a long, white ceramic container. It clinked as he walked back.

Vic would have dripped drool onto the damp concrete floor if he’d been any more excited. “It’s always nice to see you take the first step toward upholding our deal.”

“I’m not entirely without principles. Now, where’s my present?”

Vic nudged Jackson, who in turn reached up his left sleeve with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He withdrew the flat, slim memory stick with a flourish, holding it up to the pale glare of the overhead lights. It glittered like a shard of glass, fancier than most utilitarian units.

Its gaudiness and Jackson showing off the memory stick were necessary to keep everyone’s attention focused on his right hand while he eased the last two fingers on his left up under the same cuff. The tiny contact stitched beneath the lining read his partial dermal scan and crosschecked his DNA.

“Confirmed.” The man’s voice piping from the transmitter buried deep behind Jackson’s right ear had a nasal accent, one that had survived centuries through the diaspora from America’s Eastern seaboard to the planet of New Washington. A regular New Yorker, or was it New Jerseyan? “Phase Three in motion.”

Jackson couldn’t respond. He didn’t have to. He knew the role he was playing. Having a transmitter for secret communications gave him a distinct advantage, especially since the Terran Coalition banned even robotic limbs unless they were for therapeutic purposes. Augmentation was forbidden. Spies bent the rules.

“Please decode the data, Victor.” Iris flicked her fingers toward the taller thug. “Meanwhile, let’s have a glimpse at what you’ve earned.”

Vic took the memory stick from Jackson and plugged it into the decoder. “Coming to your account. It’ll all be there.” The glance he flashed Jackson said, It’d better be.

Jackson winked, his expression one of complete confidence. The data on the stick was legitimate, every byte. It had to be in order to pass the so-called “sniff test.” No sense in scaring off the black-market arms dealer by introducing suspicious data to a deal so rich. He hadn’t counted on just how rich until the thug cracked open the ceramic container. And he’d thought the memory stick looked opulent.

The interior shone with jewels—rare stones gathered from a stash the Coalition Defense Force’s intelligence units had been tracking across half the territory. They’d been stolen from a collection at the Royal Museum on Churchill, capital of the United Kingdom of New Britain. To call them a national treasure would be the understatement of the century. And there they were, stuffed into a box less than four meters from Jackson’s boots.

He grinned.

“Hell of a haul, isn’t it?” Vic must have mistaken his expression for triumph in their scheme. He took a step toward the container.

The thug aimed the plasma rifle at his gut. Iris wagged her smile, gaze still fastened on her tablet. “Now, now, no need to let avarice take the controls just yet. I have to be certain what you’ve brought me is worthwhile.”

“Come on, Iris. When have I ever come up short on a deal? You’ve got all the coordinates you’ll need to track down the weapons shipment across half the Coalition-League border.”

“True, but I don’t know him, no matter how much you vouch for his performance.” Iris tipped the tablet toward Jackson. “I will let the data speak for itself.”

Jackson glanced at his wrist communicator. Two minutes, thirty seconds. “Satisfied yet?”

She didn’t answer at first, paging instead through the readouts on her tablet—readouts Jackson knew would show her exactly what she wanted to see. Vic took to tapping his hand on his thigh, right near the pistol Jackson had seen him holster in a concealed pocket. He hoped Vic didn’t try anything stupid. After a couple of months working closely with the corrupt clerk, Jackson had developed a pleasant camaraderie with him. But mostly he needed Vic alive to testify to the clerk’s crimes. He couldn’t prosecute a dead man, after all.

“This will do nicely.” Iris deactivated the tablet. She waved a hand toward the open container. “Feel free to count your reward, gentlemen.”

Jackson joined Vic at the container, kneeling beside him as Vic dug his hands through the pile of gemstones. Jackson touched the transmitter inside his sleeve again. Even if Iris were carrying a device to pick up nearby communications, the bursts sent out by his hidden unit were meant to appear as background bursts, junk waves that leaked off the thousands of other signals prevalent in a modern, space-going society.

But Jackson’s waiting men knew exactly what to look for.

“Containment and extraction in forty seconds,” the curt man told him.

Vic chuckled. He held up a robin-egg-sized sapphire to the light, casting a pale-blue gleam on his face. “What’d I tell you? Ten times over.”

Twenty-five seconds. Jackson shook his head as he ran his fingers over firethysts from Canaan’s deep deserts, the heat from his body igniting reactive crystalline structures beneath the crystals’ smoky surfaces. “I’ll be the first to admit I was wrong for ever doubting you.”

“The rest of your fee will be paid when the items are acquired by our independent contractors.” Iris queued up an orbital transmission with the classified data attached. She tapped the send key. “Happy hunting to all.”

Jackson resisted the urge to grin at her. Gotcha.

The roar of hovercraft engines cut across the hiss of the rain. Iris’s thugs spun around, their rifles raised, but the rattle of precision ballistic weapons fire caused everyone in the warehouse to jump. Both men fell, writhing from the impact of stun rounds that didn’t kill them but left them incapacitated in less-than-comfortable ways.

Iris was out the door in a flash. She fired a compact automatic weapon as she ran, energy pulses lighting up the interior of the building better than any flood lamp. The blasts caught a Marine across his chest armor, dropping him to the floor. One of his compatriots knelt to help him as the armor sizzled where it had been struck.

Vic had his pulse pistol drawn, but Jackson cried out, “Get down!” and shoved him onto his side. Stun rounds cracked through the air overhead. Jackson pulled his own weapon, a modified plasma pistol, and fired into the advancing Marines. Normally, that would be a death sentence for anyone so stupid. But his weapon was modified to emit only the weakest of pulses. Even if he hit someone with the random shots, they would experience nothing worse than the stun rounds that had taken down Iris’s thugs.

A familiar hum sounded outside the warehouse.

“She’s lighting up your pal’s ride. Sparks is standing by on the trigger,” the curt man said.

“Drop the weapons! Drop ’em! Hands where we can see them!” Marines barked overlapping commands as they surrounded Vic and Jackson.

Vic yelped as he was rolled onto his stomach, his arms yanked behind his back. Jackson put up a similar fuss, squirming against his confinement, and made sure he could still reach his left sleeve’s transmitter.

“We got a runner, Sergeant!” a young female corporal shouted.

“Able squad is waiting down the road,” he replied. “They’ve got their orders to take her out if she resists.”

Jackson squeezed the transmitter in three bursts. No need for them to take the shot.

“Trigger confirmed.”

The hovercraft’s running lights receded in the distance, its green stripes catching the suns where they broke through the clouds. A tiny but brilliant pink tinge flashed as the plasma charge cut through the main coupling between the onboard powerplant and the hovercraft’s rotors. They cut out, and since the detonation had been a shaped charge that had also severed the line to the backup battery, the vehicle dropped a meter to the rough-hewn road. Plastic and metal peeled off as it screeched to a halt, smoke pouring from its underside.

A Marine hovercraft banked across the crippled vehicle’s nose, disgorging eight men in light tactical armor. Seconds later, Iris was facedown in the mud, swearing up a storm.

“Jack!” Marines hauled Vic to his feet. “Don’t you say nothing!”

“Me?” Jackson broke free of the Marines holding him in place. That earned him a boot across his shins. He landed on his knees, with a rifle’s muzzle to his spine. He let the pain of the collision register plainly on his face—one thing he didn’t have to fake. “You sold us out! I find you again, I’ll kill you!”

Vic’s expression blanched. The poor guy looked completely out of his head with panic. No doubt he’d daydreamed of another big, easy score without a thought to the consequences of dealing with people who would just as soon turn him over to safeguard themselves. Such were the dealings on the black market. Jackson hoped the lesson would stick, provided the guy cooperated.

“Shut these two up, and separate them!” the sergeant snapped. “I want the whole area locked down, pronto!”

“Yes, Sergeant. You heard him!” The corporal wrestled Vic away as the man blubbered his innocence. CDF corpsmen lifted the stunned thugs onto waiting stretchers as their escorts made sure they were bound, wrists and ankles. Another set of Marines sealed the container of jewels.

As soon as they swept the area clean and Jackson was the only one left with a handful of Marines, he sighed. “Outstanding work, gentlemen. Mind releasing me?”

“Roger that, Captain.” The sergeant keyed the binders’ release.

“Thanks, Sergeant.” Captain Jackson Adams, CDF Intelligence, ran a hand through his curly blond hair and let out a breath. It would be a relief, actually, to get rid of it and the ocular adhesives. They’d passed muster better than any wig or colored contact lenses, but despite what the techs assured him, the subtle, persistent itch had returned after five weeks. “Mind if I bum a ride, Sergeant?”

The Marine smirked. “Your op, sir, but we’ve got limited seating for cake-eaters.”

“Can’t blame you for that, Marine.” Jackson picked up the container of jewels and the abandoned decoder. He stuffed the latter and the still-inserted data stick into his jacket pocket. “I’ll give you directions if you get lost between here and orbit.”

The sergeant snorted but hustled outside to where the hovercraft assembled.

Jackson waited a moment before activating his wrist comm. “Home, this is Janus. Target secured. Package retrieved.”

“Janus, this is Home. Nicely done, Captain.”

“Tell Sparks I admired his handiwork, even if it’s not as bombastic as usual.”

“I’ll pass that along, sir. Good news on the transmission—SIGINT tracked it to a ship lurking on the far side of the second moon. It’s trying to head out to the Lawrence limit. It looks like a corvette modified for a courier run.”

Iris’s ship. Jackson nodded, even though First Lieutenant Brant Guinto couldn’t see him. “Have local patrols pick it up. Get CSV Yukon on the intercept.”

“Roger, Janus, we’ve got them moving. Oh, and there’s secure flash traffic for you on the VLF from Zeus.”

The news caught Jackson midstep. He let the jewel container rebound off his leg. Colonel Sinclair? He wondered what he’d done to earn direct contact from CSV Oxford. “Confirmed, Home. I’ll be back in a few. Janus out.”

Jackson glanced around the quiet warehouse. Sunlight streamed in through the holes in the roof. He caught his reflection in a nearby puddle. Whatever the colonel wanted, one thing was certain. Things were about to get very interesting. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

3

Fleet Yards

In Orbit of Canaan—Terran Coalition

13 July 2464

The lift hummed through the station, only a distracting beep for each level it passed. Captain Jackson Adams adjusted the fit of his uniform’s collar. Still too snug. He unfastened it, straightened a crease, then resealed the catch.

“Problem, Captain?” First Lieutenant Brant Guinto rocked on his heels. The stocky Filipino looked like his uniform was a comfortable pair of pajamas. He sported the flag of New Washington on his shoulder with the Roman Catholic emblem of yellow-and-white squares topped by crossed keys.

“Too many weeks spent in civilian clothes, Home.” Jackson used Brant’s code designation from their recent operation. “I forget how stiff they are. Give me a couple of days.”

“I’ll give you two minutes, sir, because I don’t want to stand next to you in front of Colonel Sinclair while you play with your jacket.”

Jackson ignored his jibe and instead checked his appearance in the dim reflection of the lift’s control panel. The blond curls were gone, replaced by sandy brown in a shorter cut—but not a regulation trim. No sense in doing so until he knew what his new orders entailed. His eyes were back to their normal dark brown instead of the obnoxious gray-blue ocular adhesives. Several scars had vanished, thanks to microsurgery reversal. He was himself again.

The lift doors opened onto a sprawling wardroom. Deck-to-overhead windows offered a breathtaking view of skeletal gantries cradling a long, bulky ship studded with antennae and knobby projections. It appeared as unassuming as any freighter, though to Jackson, the engines looked overpowered for a civilian model. If it weren’t for the space-suited figures swarming the exhaust cowlings, attaching panels he calculated were meant for disguise, and the way the weapons emplacements were exposed in deep cavities, he would have guessed it was a refit gone wrong.

“It’s never a pleasant sight for me, seeing her all stove-up this way.” Colonel Robert Sinclair approached from the far corner of the wardroom. “I am comforted knowing she’ll have longer legs and sharper teeth. Welcome, gentlemen.”

“Sir.” Jackson whipped off a salute smarter than he’d attempted outside the academy. Brant’s matched his in both formality and timing. “Captain Jackson Adams and First Lieutenant Brant Guinto reporting as ordered.”

Sinclair smiled, and though his salute was just as crisp, his smile hinted at a relaxed state of mind. “Very glad to see you both. At ease, fellows. Please, have a seat.”

Jackson and Brant joined him on chairs ringed so the occupants could all face the windows. “Thank you, Colonel,” Jackson said. “If you don’t mind, sir, we were expecting to be moved on to our next assignment. Rest and resupply, develop legends, and make contacts…”

“I’m aware of that, Captain. If you’re awaiting an apology, I shan’t have one forthcoming.”

Heat raced to Jackson’s face. He didn’t dare glance at Brant, should he find his second-in-command smirking. “No, sir. I understand. It’s the nature of the in-person request that threw me off.”

“A fair point. But the powers that be would rather there were not recordable communications, not for this assignment.”

“I see, sir.”

“Captain, Lieutenant, are either of you familiar with the refugee situation with the League of Sol along our border?”

Jackson glanced at Brant and saw the puzzled expression he thought his own mirrored.

“Bits and pieces, sir,” Brant answered. “But we’ve been on deep cover for a few months, Captain Adams the most. I ran the communications aspect, so I picked up dispatches… sir, I gather it’s bad.”

“Bad enough. General MacIntosh is convinced the League is sending agents in with the people fleeing their territory—wolves among the sheep, so to speak. Yet, we’ve also gotten wind of a major trafficking effort. Someone is cutting young people out of the fold and selling them.”

Jackson clenched his hands on the chair’s upholstery before he realized what he was doing. “Trafficking… in children?”

“Mostly teenagers. Though that does not make the situation any better. I have my suspicions as to the why. Trafficking is, unfortunately, lucrative. What better way to funnel money into an operation one does not want any record of? If I were League, and it were my command, I would hazard that finding a disreputable source of income that not only kept me funded but also gained access to criminal connections would be the best mode.”

It wasn’t news. Jackson had just finished pretending to be an information thief—in the company of criminals. “This is something you want us to look into, Colonel? You and—General MacIntosh?” His mind finally caught up with whose name Sinclair had mentioned.

“That’s right, Captain, the chairman of the joint chiefs. He and I had a very nice chat in the Oval Office about your work.”

Brant coughed, like he’d choked on something—likely an expression of surprise. “You were speaking with the president, sir?”

“The one and the same, plus the vice president and Sec Def Snow.” Sinclair smiled. “They wanted to know the best people I could find for this new task. I brought forth your names. Seems whatever this problem is, how deep it runs, I’m allowed the widest of berths when it comes to staffing a solution. Here.”

He placed a tablet on the low table between them. Jackson’s eyes widened as he read. Brant leaned in, his hand propping his chin.

“A five-person team,” Sinclair said. “Chosen to your specifications. You would be based on Oxford, which will provide necessary communications encryption and signals interception. I am choosing two platoons of Space Special Warfare operators who will be our combat arm. CSV Tuscon will project spaceborne power where needed She’s a stealth raider, and I must say, her skipper, Major Mancini, sounded positively delighted when I offered him a chance at something besides sniffing around League border posts in the dark.”

“And this team of ours—”

“Of yours. Make no mistake, Captain—I command Covert Action Unit One-Seventy-One, but the action group is yours. Your people are tasked with the infiltration and dismantling of whatever the League is up to. To that end, your actions will be sanctioned by the president himself, but as always, if you and your team are caught—”

“With all respect, Colonel, we know the drill.” He did, but Jackson also wasn’t keen on hearing a verbal reminder of how he would be disavowed by his nation if his identity were revealed upon capture, which was why CDF Intelligence worked so hard to prevent that from happening. “To be clear, when it comes to the composition of the team, I can choose its members?”

“You may indeed. Of course, all nominees will be vetted by myself. Am I correct in assuming Lieutenant Guinto will remain as your exec?”

“He will, sir, unless you see fit to replace him with one of your people.”

“Kind of you to give me the option, Captain.” Sinclair smiled wryly. “I am not, however, in the business of second-guessing officers whose field performance is outstanding. From what I read, your last assignment netted dozens of arrests and the capture of at least three ships involved in surplus weaponry theft.”

“Yes, sir.”

“An excellent conclusion, aided no doubt by your ability to maintain your cover for several months while gaining a corrupt data clerk’s trust.” Sinclair retrieved the tablet and tapped a series of commands. “But that’s no surprise, given your background. You were an actor, correct?”

“Ah, for a while, sir. I dabbled in school and was known to put on, er, morale-boosting shows during my service.”

“Very entertaining, sir,” Guinto offered, deadpan. “Especially when he portrayed famous officers, like General Cohen or—”

“I went for more formal training after completing my mandatory service.” Jackson spoke quickly before his friend could reveal any of the more embarrassing impressions.

“While you were with CIS.”

“Yes, sir.” The Coalition Intelligence Service was the foreign intelligence arm of Terran government, a civilian entity known for sometimes working in tandem with CDF. “That’s where I honed my undercover work before rejoining the military.”

“And your operational status continued through the end of the war, when you were credited—quietly of course—with the destruction of a supply depot in the disputed territories along the League border, were you not?”

“Yes, Colonel.” Why is he so keen on that operation? It was one of my last major actions before the more recent undercover mission, sure, but…

“Which marked the second and most extensive use you made of, shall we say, unorthodox civilian contractors.”

Jackson sat up straighter. Oh, boy. That was why the colonel was fishing.

“Sir, in his defense, Captain Adams knew the loyalties of those two were firmly for the League, and he’d seen them in action on their own before recruiting them to Intelligence,” Guinto blurted.

“I’m sure the good captain can speak for himself, Lieutenant, though speaking of loyalty, I do appreciate yours.” Sinclair indicated his tablet. “I wasn’t complaining about your selection, merely curious, given how you involved them in your actions then received backdated approval from your previous commander to do so.”

“Major Ritnour saw their effectiveness and agreed with my after-action report. Sir.”

“Ah. ‘The necessity of striking a blow at the League’s weak point in this sector overrides strict adherence to regulation.’ That is how you worded it.”

Considering that line was pulled from halfway through the third page of Jackson’s five-page summary, he was impressed Sinclair had dug that deep—though not surprised.

“Fear not, Captain. I am suitably sold on their abilities. They will be reminded of the chain of command once you read them into this new assignment.” Sinclair stood.

Jackson and Brant did likewise.

He handed them both sealed pouches that had been tucked into his belt. “Gentlemen, your orders and relevant details. You have until we sail on the twenty-first.”

“A week?” Jackson frowned. “Colonel, I’ve got two of my team ready at a moment’s notice, but the others…”

“They’re both on Canaan. No need to fret. I took the liberty of including their current whereabouts as well as when they will be most free in their schedules to accommodate a visit from you. The envelope also contains authorization for prepayment—a bonus, if you will, to entice said contractors, should they prove reluctant.” Sinclair saluted. “Carry on.”

Jackson and Brant saluted as he departed in the gravlift.

As soon as the doors shut, Brant exhaled. He sagged onto a couch. “That’s a heck of a thing, Captain. Do you think he wants us to eat the orders once we’ve read them?”

“They probably have chemically induced disintegration.” Jackson pocketed the envelope. “Did you catch everything on that authorization on Sinclair’s tablet?”

“Sure did. Somebody high up is keen on us being the knife stabbed into the League’s back.” Brant grinned. “Sounds about usual, doesn’t it?”

“That doesn’t bother me. It’s the whole mixing and mingling with a bunch of unknown elements. Special ops teams? They’re all flash and bang, no subtlety. And a stealth raider is one hell of an asset, but those are a lot bigger guns than we’re used to bringing.”

“Well, Yukon was a destroyer escort, not exactly an unarmed shuttle.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining.”

“Sure sounds like complaining, sir.”

Jackson shook his head. “Brant, we can get Warrant Dwyer on board easily enough, but Gina? And Sev?”

“Right.” Brant made a face. “You think Sinclair was serious about having their coordinates? God does like surprises, after all.”

“If it were anybody other than Colonel Robert Sinclair, I’d laugh all the way back to the airlock. But he’ll know exactly where they are, given how closely he dug into our mission reports and personnel files. That’s not the problem.”

“What is?”

“Whether there’s enough money in here to interest either of them. Come on. We’d better catch up with Sparks for the next shuttle to the surface.” And hope our independent types won’t mind throwing in for their country one more time.

* * *

Kolossi Landing Field

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

13 July 2464

Kiel handed the box of freeze-dried emergency rations to the next person then reached for another box. Fourteen men and women passed relief supplies to the edge of the metal fencing surrounding the landing field, where Terran Coalition Frontier Enforcement officers armed with ballistic rifles maintained a cordon by a double gate. Their angry commands kept the hundreds of refugees swarming the exit from getting too close, but even with such security in place, they were heaving boxes over the fence and into their midst rather than risking letting anyone out.

Several acres of Kolossi Landing Field, the second largest on Aphendrika and located on the southeast edge of the city, had been blocked off to keep the refugees in. Twenty thousand, by Kiel’s count. They’d snuck down late one night when a wave of shuttles and bulky barges had made a break for the planet’s surface. By the time local authorities had reacted and TCFE ships had raced to intercept, they’d been offloaded. Only the swift establishment of a perimeter within the field had kept them from spilling out into the city.

That was fine by Kiel. He’d sent the codes to freighter captains for authorized entry into Aphendrika airspace—a gift for their cooperation in the trafficking. They were perfectly happy to dump their cargo and jump free of the system.

Now, with himself and five of his people interspersed among Compassionate Stars Aid Group volunteers, he had the perfect avenue to disseminate another gift. The boxes did contain food, but into every tenth, Kiel’s agents had secreted Orbita—just enough to get a good portion of the refugees hooked, not enough to sustain them.

He smiled. They would indulge, they would become addicted, and within weeks of the first hit, they would be unable to satisfy their cravings. Irrationality would beget violence. Violence would incur a harsh response from the surly, underpaid TCFE officers already shouting threats at the people who’d fled to a Terran world from a mortal enemy’s arms.

Boxes broke open as they hit the ground. Men clambered over each other to get the contents. Women stood back, restraining children, screaming either in encouragement or fear. People threw punches. Bodies slammed against the fence.

“Get back! I said, get back!” A TCFE officer fired her rifle skyward. More officers joined her at the gate, stun prods ready at the gaps in the fence links. Energy crackled from the business ends.

Enough common sense seeped into the fracas to calm the worst offenders. Friends dragged brawlers out of the crush of bodies swarming the torn-open crates. Rations littered the grass. Groups of companions and whole families scooted back to the emergency shelters set up forty meters away, the beige prefabricated panels uniform in their drabness.

Like ants to their hills. Though Kiel couldn’t remember much more about the insects around the state education center where he’d grown up. Well, besides grinding them daily under his boots.

“That’s it for this load.” A blond woman wiped sweat off her brow. “Somebody want to take the truck back into the city for more supplies? I’ve got to go in with the patrol officers to see if any of the refugees need medical assistance.”

“I’m on it.” Kiel accepted the ignition fob from her. He started the truck then waved for his five men to hop aboard. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

That would be plenty of time for a new shipment of Orbita to make its way into the camp.

Cries echoed across the field. Kiel glanced back out of the cab. Eight women and two men pressed against the fence, pleading with TCFE and the blond medic from Compassionate Stars, Devereaux—Kiel finally recalled her name. They were going on about children.

“Are they going to be a problem for us?” Kiel asked one of his men.

“No, sir. Sounds like they were on the transports our people hit the other week. Not any of us, though. We’re following your orders—no one who’s on trafficking detail comes down for supply runs. Teams stay separate with the criminal elements we’re using.”

“Good. Make sure I see the rosters every evening. Slipping up gives people hope and makes them bold, makes them think they can go to the authorities to right their wrongs.”

“Understood, sir.” The man grimaced. “What if they wind up doing that anyway? These traitors are desperate. What if they get individualistic ideals about their independence?”

“Then we’ll continue our operation to antagonize the authorities by riling the refugees as much as possible,” Kiel said. “Until TCFE—and the Terran Coalition as a whole—will come to hate millions of intruders just as much as the fleets they thought they defeated in the war.”

Kiel steered the truck onto the main road, joining the stream of traffic heading into Kolossi proper. He checked his wrist unit—fifteen minutes to the Compassionate Stars warehouse, twenty-five minutes to load, five minutes for the detour to meet a second truck run by the Demir cartel and retrieve Orbita, and fifteen minutes allotted for the return to the refugee camp while his men inserted Orbita packets into random boxes.

Trafficked teens paid for the weapons and bribes. Demir sold the Orbita Kiel provided, taking a modest cut and giving Kiel the bulk of the profits. In exchange, they held on to all stockpiles of the drug, which meant the League kept its hands clean if local authorities or a semi-competent Coalition Bureau of Investigation squad rounded up hapless dealers.

More gunfire cracked as the truck dove away. Kiel smiled. It was just like his men had done to intimidate the masses aboard the freighters. Desperate? Yes, they’d be desperate, and that would make them dangerous.

4

Dean Forest

Canaan—Terran Coalition

13 July 2464

Chief Warrant Officer Ehud Dwyer banked the shuttle over the thickest forest Jackson had ever seen. Towering evergreens crowded the expanse to the horizon in each direction, with tall hills obscured under the verdant carpet. Here and there, rock had sloughed off after eons, leaving behind jagged limestone cliffs.

“There’s a gorgeous sight.” Dwyer’s accent hinted at the Appalachian settlements on the far side of New Washington, Jackson’s homeworld, but Jackson wondered if Dwyer had seen the planet at all since he was born on a freighter running supplies prior to the start of the war. “Don’t often get a close-up of terrestrial beauty, eh, Cap’n?”

“I wouldn’t mind more chances, Sparks.”

“Us pilots spend so much time in the skies and among the stars. I think we take it for granted.”

Brant shifted in his seat, sweat beading on his forehead. “Is that why we’re skimming treetops so close they could inspect the fuselage for missing bolts?”

Dwyer snorted. “Easy there, LT. I won’t sully my record with a dead officer on a milk run.”

“I’m more worried you might have high explosives under the floorboards when you belly flop us onto the landing pad.”

“I keep all the high-grade stuff for operational use, sir.” Dwyer glanced over the back of his seat, a grin brightening his olive complexion. “ I won’t let Hashem find anything aboard this bird except a plasma grenade or two.”

Jackson chuckled at the old joke. It wouldn’t be the end of an assignment without Sparks needling Home a bit—a good way to blow off steam. He checked rangefinder on the console. “Eyes up, Warrant. Target in six klicks.”

“Roger that, Cap’n. Already have a visual.”

A visual? Jackson didn’t see anything except trees and a cliff face looming to the northeast. Wait. There. A wisp of smoke curled from the right base below a jumble of boulders. Jackson squinted. It might be a red roof…

“Target acquired.” Dwyer dropped the shuttle into a steep climb, arcing at the top so he could put them on a descent right for the coordinates. “Clearing sighted. Looks plenty wide. Shouldn’t have to scorch any trees to make ’er fit—that would have been a damn shame.”

“No argument there, Warrant.” Jackson’s stomach lurched as the shuttle swooped across the trees, banked sharply again, then set down among a stand of pines. Engine exhaust whipped pine needles into a storm as the gear touched the ground.

“Smooth flight.” Jackson unbuckled and clapped Dwyer on the shoulder. “My apologies for any mess my XO made on your deck.”

Dwyer laughed as Guinto unstrapped, following Jackson out the rear ramp. The scent of pine sap and scorched grass wafted into the compartment. Jackson stopped for a deep breath of fresh Canaan air, his first taste of the unrecycled stuff since leaving Hebrides Major. It was so quiet there, beyond the dying whine of the shuttle’s engines—branches shuffling in the breeze, a hawk screeching overhead, but not much else. Tranquility.

The projectile caromed off the shuttle’s fuselage in an explosion of sparks, seconds before the rifle’s report reached Jackson’s ears. His hand went to his sidearm, but he knew better than to draw it—unless he wanted the next one in his heart.

“I guess he’s home,” Brant muttered.

“Sev! It’s Captain Adams!” Jackson hollered. “We’ve got a new contract, if you’re interested.”

The front door to the cabin hung open. Jackson saw the glint of a weapon’s barrel, then the whole long, customized sniper rifle emerged from the portal. The man holding it was tall, slim like an athlete, with broad shoulders, in his late thirties. The breeze brushed his shaggy blond hair. Blue eyes tracked Jackson then Brant then the shuttle. “Yes?”

“Nice place, Sev,” Brant said. “I guess you don’t get many visitors.”

Sevastopol Rast shrugged his left shoulder. The right supported the rifle, which didn’t waver—or lower. “It is.”

“The pay’s already authorized.” Jackson stepped forward, a plastic chit in the palm of his hand. “All yours, if you sign up and accompany us back to Lawrence City.”

“Did he shoot at my bird again?” Dwyer stomped down the ramp. He scowled up at the shallow dent above the open hatch. “Come on, now, Sev!”

“Easy, Sparks.”

“It’d be better for team morale, Captain, if Sev didn’t shoot at us every time we came to visit,” Brant said, “no matter where we find he’s living when we go looking.”

“It would, Brant, but it’s his way of reminding us of his sovereignty.”

“My land.” Sev leaned the rifle over his arm and stepped down from the porch. “Mission?”

“Infiltration of a trafficking ring out on the border.”

“League?”

Jackson nodded.

Sev spat on the ground. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Jackson handed over a slip of paper with the mission basics but hung on to the payment chit. “Take whatever you need. We’ll clear it with the higher-ups.”

Sev’s eyes narrowed. “Orders?”

“Only from me. We’ll keep the same chain of command. You do what I tell you, and I’m the one who answers to the brass.”

“Reckon you shouldn’t sock any more Marines in the jaw.” Dwyer rubbed his thumb at the depression, as if he could remove the dent. “I bet word’s gotten around.”

Sev smirked.

“I’d prefer nobody had any run-ins with fellow servicemen and women,” Jackson said. “This isn’t us playing in our own sandbox then shaking it out of our shoes before we get called in to dinner. We’re tied into a command structure with other units attached.”

“Headaches,” Sev said.

“For me, not you. But it also means more resources—and more backup when the shooting starts, which we will avoid at all costs.”

Sev nodded slowly. “Gear?”

“Any and all.”

He turned and walked back into the cabin. Jackson heard shuffling from inside.

“Does that mean he’s on board?” Brant asked.

The smoke from the chimney dissipated until it was gone. More shuffling. A rucksack flew through the door, skidding across the deck.

“I’d say it does.” Jackson smiled.

“Cap’n, I hate to be the purveyor of doom and gloom, but this is the fella who killed a nest of drug dealers to make himself the perfect lookout perch on our last op.”

“He did.”

“You think it’s likely the police on that planet are still wantin’ to prosecute?”

“I’m told CIS intervened, but I’ll keep him on a shorter leash this time around.” I’d better unless I want true innocents to die in the crossfire. “I know you have your reservations, Sparks, but this is the guy we need on the team—the one who’ll do the things no one else can stomach when we’re in our direst spots.”

“Roger that, Cap’n.” Dwyer didn’t seem happy with the answer.

“Just do your part, and make sure when you set off your next round of charges, you don’t accidentally blow his eyebrows off,” Brant said. “I think he’s still mad about that one.”

Sev came up to them carrying two duffel bags with the rucksack on his back. The rifle was nowhere to be seen, but Jackson wagered it was disassembled and stowed in one of the bags. “Ready, Captain.”

“Good to have you back, Sev.”

“It’s the League. I’ll go.” He brushed past Jackson, ignoring the open hand with the chit. “Get paid later.”

“That easy?” Brant muttered.

Sev stopped just shy of the ramp. He stared down at Brant. “Trafficking? Refugees? League killed my parents, sisters. I was eight. Came to Terrans. This is my life, my world. League won’t make anyone slaves again.” Then he disappeared into the compartment with a muttered, “Sparks,” as he passed Dwyer.

“That went better than expected,” Jackson said.

“I guess so.” Brant raised an eyebrow. “Which leaves Gina.”

* * *

Four hours later, Jackson threaded a path through the teeming masses cramming into Magemill Market. He knew exactly who he was looking for, and though half the crowd hailed from Gaelic ethnic roots, the rest were a mix of African, European, and Arabic peoples from across the Terran worlds. The independent commerce post boasted sixty thousand residents. Jackson would have sworn a quarter of them were buying and selling among the hundreds of booths. The scents of exotic foods, sounds of merchants haggling, sights of riotous colors, and roars of persistent conversation assaulted his senses.

Gina was there, somewhere, watching him. He locked onto a cloaked, hunched old woman with a cane, ready to step in front of her when she turned—except her tall granddaughter took her hand, revealing wrinkled skin and varicose veins. Next, Jackson followed a slender young lady in grease-spattered coveralls. He got within a meter of her before she turned aside to answer a friend’s shouted greeting. Wrong face.

Two more had the same features he sought—tanned skin, hazel eyes, curly black hair. Jackson shook his head. At least he could rule out the ladies shorter than he was. Gina would stand nose to nose with him when she showed up.

After half an hour of attempting to track her down, Jackson stopped at a stall hawking repurposed home robots for cleaning and repair.

“Got a DRD Six you’d like.” The merchant was kicked back in a chair, boots up on the table, tapping a steady beat. Baggy trousers and a leather jacket, the arms folded, obscured the person’s gender. So did the slouched hat with the brim lowered deep over the face.

The chin, though—and the smile. Jackson snagged the hat’s brim and lifted.

Gina Wilkes winked at him. She seemed more tan, more relaxed, like she’d spent the past few weeks sunning on the southeastern coastal beaches—which she very well may have done. Jackson would have to examine Sinclair’s records in greater detail. “Hey, Jack.”

“Gina.” Jackson put his hands in his pockets. “Nice to see you.”

“Same here.”

“Selling bots these days? Seems boring.”

“It is.” She kept up the beat with her boots. “I paid the vendor to take a fifteen-minute walk and let me meet with someone. For as much money as I gave him, I’ll be shocked if he ever returns.”

“All it took was money. Is that right?”

“Possibly persuasion.” She batted her eyelashes at him then laughed. “It was fun watching you get so close, and yet so far.”

“Not as far as you’d like. I noticed your booth from a block away.”

“Darn. I must be slipping.”

“You weren’t selling anything. Everyone else cares about making the money they need to support their families.”

“Goodness knows I don’t.” She stopped the tapping and let her legs slip underneath the table. “Either you’re here for a new toy, or Intelligence is about to make my life more interesting again.”

“It is a new assignment.”

“The border?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Gina shrugged. “Lucky guess. It’s all over the news. The talking heads aren’t talking about anything except whether to dump millions of people back on the League’s rocks or find rocks of our own to dump them all.”

“Got it in one.”

“And you’re here to put the band back together.”

“Ehud flew Brant and me out this morning. We’ve come from Sev’s place.”

“Oh?” Gina leaned forward. “I didn’t think Sevastopol wanted any interruptions, but if it’s the League—”

“He’ll make exceptions.”

“I’ll bet.”

Jackson slid the paper across the table with the pay chit atop, like he was buying himself a new floor-scrubbing bot.

Gina’s eyes widened as she read the details. “Wow. You’ve got some admirers up top, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. So, are you in?”

“Depends. How’s the pay?”

“Same as usual. Good. Better support, more leeway—”

“For me, not for you.”

“I’m the one in uniform, remember?”

“Not today. How long did you last before slipping back into the civvies? Twenty-four hours?”

“Probably less.” Jackson had on a simple sweater and pants.

Gina scanned the rest of the document then slid it back to him. “I’m intrigued. This ought to be a real PR coup for the Coalition. Rescued babies, tearful mothers. Is this why your bosses want it done quietly? So there’s no one to blame if it fails?”

“That’s the Gina I remember—cheery and optimistic. Are you in?”

She balanced the pay chit on her finger like a seesaw. “I’m weighing my options. You haven’t convinced me yet.”

“Then you can’t have the money. You know how this works.”

“I do. What’s my role? The same as usual? Infiltration and acrobatics?”

“Unless you’re joining a tech division to put your newfound bot-repair skills to work, then yes. Aphendrika is one of several trade hubs along the border. It gets a lot of neutral traffic—plus less legitimate business.”

“So, you really do need me.” Gina smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“Standard conditions apply. Disavowal, limited lines of communication…”

“No need to rehash the particulars from that end, Jack. I’ll follow your orders like a good girl. But I’m not turning my life upside down again. It’s been nice having free time. I’ll join for this mission, to see the problem through to the end, and when it’s done, so am I.”

“We don’t have an end date, I’d better tell you. No guarantees about it being a few weeks or months. The operation could stretch longer.”

“That’s okay. You have good judgment when it comes to striking at the right time.” Her expression remained cool. “Not the best, though, when it comes to some snap decisions.” So, she was still sore about their last mission and was finally getting around to saying what she really meant.

“You knew the op, Gina. If you’d moved out when I’d ordered you to instead of hanging back—”

“Then the last ship out wouldn’t have left me. I understand. An officer has to do what the brass tells him, doesn’t he?”

Jackson frowned. “Either I left then or the whole op would have been compromised. Lives other than mine and yours were at stake.”

“I said I was over it.”

“Somehow, I’m doubting your truthfulness.” Jackson glanced at his wrist communicator. He’d sent off a message during the last flight. No response to it. “Can you pack up? We’ve got a shuttle ready.”

“I know where to be, per your briefing paper there. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“Tell you what—keep the chit.”

She cocked her head to one side, as if she were listening for something or waiting for the catch. “What if I don’t show up?”

“Then I was wrong about you, and you were right.” Jackson smiled and gave her a friendly salute, two fingers to the eyebrow. It was his turn to fade into the crowd.

He felt Gina watching him the whole way.

* * *

Dwyer powered up the shuttle as Jackson took his seat. “Any luck?”

“She’ll be there.” Jackson checked his communicator again. Still nothing. He didn’t want to show up unannounced because that would just make Harry mad, probably precipitate. But seeing how the result wouldn’t be any different…

“You left her the money, didn’t you?” Brant looked up from a tablet.

“I did. She’ll be there.”

“Always is,” Dwyer added.

“One of these days, you’ll both be wrong, and I’ll be a happy man.”

“Until then, you’ll have to be content with us being right and you being surly.” Jackson leaned forward. “Warrant, I need you to drop me by the homestead. You and the lieutenant can return to the fleet yards. I can catch a tram into Lawrence City.”

“Sure thing, Cap’n.”

Brant grimaced as the shuttle raced into the sky. “I’d ask if you want backup, but you’d refuse, and honestly, I don’t want to be there for it. I would if you made the request, keep in mind.”

“Thanks, but this is Harry we’re talking about.” Jackson shook his head. “If my brother’s going to take out his anger on a target, it should be me, without innocent bystanders.”

5

Adams Ranch, Western Steppes

Canaan—Terran Coalition

13 July 2464

The Adams ranch was hemmed in by some of the tallest mountains on Canaan. Green hills butted up against their flanks. Clouds shrouded snow-covered peaks. In the long, broad valley leading onto the steppes, thousands of cattle roamed.

Jackson leaned on the railing of the skiff as it floated over the nearest herd, forty head of longhorns. Even thirty feet in the air, he could smell them. The stench made him long for the homestead and filled him with relief that he hadn’t chosen that life, all at once.

“You came all this way and don’t have much to say, Jack.” Harrison Adams, his big brother watched a monitor mounted on the skiff’s bulkhead. ID numbers for each animal filtered in as scanners pinged embedded tracking chips. Harry was taller than Jackson, broader, his features weathered by the outdoors. “Am I supposed to be glad the spy decided to grace me with his presence?”

“Start by not being an ass about it, Harry. I thought I would offer whatever help I could.”

“By help, you mean money. Government pay must be good, siphoning off whatever you can from the taxpayers.”

Jackson made a face. “It’s not like I’m sitting behind a desk, pushing data. I’m risking my neck for the Coalition, for our people. I earned every bit.”

“Come on. You’re no soldier. If you were, you would have upped with the Marines—or stayed in after your four years of compulsory was up.” Harry glared at him. “Instead, you took off for the cities and didn’t even give Mom and Dad the chance to figure out how they would keep things going.”

“They’re doing fine.”

“Yeah. Fine. Because Dad thinks it’s great when a son runs off and abandons his family.”

“Look, nothing I say is going to change what you think of me. I understand. But the offer’s still there. Do you want my help or not?”

Harry shoved the monitor into its alcove and turned toward Jackson. “I want you here as my partner in management, Jack. Dad can’t get around well these days. He’s going to need DNA therapy if he’s going to survive, which means Mom has to make sure everything stays in the black. The last guy we had running the north range took off for the neutral systems so he could buy into a get-rich-quick scheme. Money’s great. I need a partner.”

“A partner? You mean a flunky. I haven’t forgotten the way you always pushed me around when we worked side by side after I got done with my service. You didn’t treat me any better than the hired hands—or even the combine bots!”

“Just because you’re family doesn’t mean you get any special breaks. You have to earn your place, like everyone else. Instead you wasted your time.”

“On school. On getting myself into CIS. Doing intelligence work.”

“Spy crap.” Harry scowled. “Like I said, not real soldiering.”

Jackson spun away from the rail. “It really doesn’t matter what I say, does it? You’re going to find fault with everything I do. When I worked the ranch, it was always something with my tracking algorithms or the way I separated the herds. Then it was me never being around. And whenever I come back, we do this stupid sparring, when all I want is—”

“To help, sure, I heard you. So, transfer the money, and get back on your spaceship.”

Jackson seethed. He was ready to lay his brother out on the deck. He’d hit men for saying the same, whether in character when undercover or in the heat of the moment. But that wouldn’t get him anywhere. “Let me ask Mom about it, then.”

“She’s busy—took Dad into the clinic for another treatment.”

“Well, if I had her comm code, I could call her, but—”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you. Get over it.”

Enough of this. Harry tried to walk past him, but Jackson grabbed his shoulders and shoved him up against the bulkhead. “Will you knock it off for two seconds? The work I do is important, no matter what you think. I’ve had to stand back and watch people die. I’ve had to abandon others when I knew they could wind up captured and tortured. I’ve had to spend months lying to almost everyone around me just so we could stop threats to the Coalition that won’t ever show up on the news nets because my bosses want the public to stay happy with the way we’re recovering from the war. So don’t you stand up here on your safe little skiff and tell me I don’t know anything about soldiering! You hauled your fat carcass out of the service the second your term was up, and you haven’t looked back! Hiding behind your essential designation for running a food source. Hook the CPUs of two bots together, and they could do your work twice as fast with a quarter of the mistakes!”

Harry swung at him. Jackson dodged enough that the blow only grazed the side of his head instead of smashing into his nose then drove his own fist deep into Harry’s gut. But Harry tripped him, and before Jackson could adjust, he crashed onto his left knee.

Sloppy. He staggered away, bracing against the rail again, ready for Harry to come at him. If he was anything like he’d been, he would charge like a bull seeing red.

Instead, his big brother stood there, slumped against the bulkhead. He cradled his midsection with one arm. “I can’t believe I was stupid enough to bring you along. What an idiot I was—thinking you’d fall back in love with home after five seconds of flying over it.”

“I always loved you and Mom and Dad,” Jackson said. “But I hated this place because it turned the three of you into tyrants who never let me have a moment’s peace. All it does is suck the life out of you, never giving you enough no matter how many resources you pour into it. At least with Intelligence, I’m vital and independent. Not at the bottom of the food chain.”

He stormed past Harry and pulled the monitor out. Thankfully, no one in the family had changed the access code in years. Once he was in, he initiated the transfer from his accounts. “There. I hope it helps with repairs or whatever you need. Now, I’m headed off-world for a while. I don’t know when I’ll be back next, but when I am, I want to talk about Christmas.”

Harry laughed, but it was a cold, angry sound. “You think there’s going to be presents for you under the tree? Is that it?”

“I want to come back and spend time with you guys.”

“Do me a favor—don’t bother looking up the clinic. If you show up there looking to say goodbye, Mom won’t answer.” Harry headed for the control cab. “Let’s get you back to the terminal. If you walk the three kilometers in time, you should make the next tram into the city.”

As Jackson watched Harry go, he struggled to get his heart rate and his breathing under control. It was ridiculous. He could smoothly spin tales to criminals and traitors without worrying about his cover, but after less than half an hour with his brother, he’d gotten into a fight—however brief—and further alienated himself from his family.

Maybe Harry was right. Maybe everything he was doing was selfish, all of it for Jackson Adams instead of his nation or his people or even his kin.

But the more Jackson looked back on what his family had become, the gladder he was for sticking to the path he was on, no matter the reasons.

In any case, he was glad to be out of uniform. Walking the three klicks to the tram station from the skiff terminal would be far more comfortable in his civilian shoes.

* * *

Sinclair waited by the airlock leading from the fleet yard’s station onto CSV Oxford. He shouldn’t be nervous. It was his vessel, after all, one with which he was intimately familiar and which had served him well over the war’s past few years. Standing there, gazing through the windows at her form spotlighted in yellow glare, he couldn’t help but wonder what she thought of all the work done as of late. Would she even be the same ship?

Preposterous. It was only a collection of bolts and bulkheads. Even as he thought it, Sinclair knew he didn’t believe a word. A ship like Oxford was alive, as far as he and her crew were concerned, alive and home all at once. Nowhere else in the galaxy felt as comfortable. His apartment on Canaan might as well be a brig on a prison barge.

Which was why seeing Oxford with subtle differences to her exterior made him nervous.

“Hey there, Colonel.” Kenneth Lowe, president of Strathclyde Shipboard Integrators, strode up to him. The cheery man, pushing forty, had the grin of a person waiting to share a big secret. “Ready for the grand tour?”

“I daresay I know my way around the old girl more than you do, Mr. Lowe.” Sinclair meant no critique and carried no rancor in his tone. “But I shall be delighted to play the role of curious guest.”

“Trust me, you’ll get a kick outta all the modifications we made, all according to your specs, of course, sir.” Lowe punched the access code. “Come on.”

At first, Sinclair couldn’t put his finger on what was different. The deck and bulkhead carried the sheen of upgraded paneling, of course, but the corridors were the same. The layout seemed a tad off.

“Yep, this is one of the modules,” Lowe said. “We’ve reconfigured the hull so it can accept a whole range of ’em—hangar expansion for fighters, Marine barracks, cargo holds for extended duration missions.”

“I see. This current installation is the sensor expansion, I believe.”

“Got it in one, Colonel. The hardware is linked to your command center. Captain Tamir and Chief Warrant Officer Eldred are overseeing the final tests. Once it’s all up and running, you’ll be able to reconstruct a 3D scan of what a League commissar on Teagarden is having for breakfast.”

Sinclair appreciated the jovial exaggeration, even if it lacked technical specificity. He could get all the relevant details from Captain Tamir once the tour was concluded—not that he hadn’t already read every sentence in the overhaul report before Lowe had opened the airlock. “It sounds delightful, Mr. Lowe. I’m perfectly happy to haul a bigger belly full of sensors this mission rather than having to deal with a hold crammed with the Terran Coalition’s wayward children.”

“Hey, I’m not gonna tell any Marines they’re missing out on a deployment because you spooks want to play it quiet. Just know that if you need to, you could zip back here in a couple days, spend less than twenty-four hours in drydock, and be back out in space, equipped as a troop transport or a backup carrier.”

“Impressive, indeed. And as for those couple of days, I’m equally happy we’ll be able to get nearer to Teagarden faster, should the need arise.”

“Boy and will you. The new antimatter reactor’s purring. True, we had to rip out bulkheads and expand Engineering to compensate. Never mind lodging the new drives into the aft section. But yeah, you’ll cut your travel times down from a week and a half to a couple of days out to the border and back.”

That was delightful. One of Oxford’s advantages was her ungainly appearance. The other was her designation as a technical research ship, which implied a slow bucket. Being able to leap through space-time with the same speed as the Coalition’s most advanced carriers and cruisers would enhance her ability to subvert expectations.

“How about her teeth?”

Lowe grinned again. “We pulled ’em and gave her fangs—new missile tubes, doubled your concealed CIWS Point Defense Mounts, added one double-barreled 250 mm magnetic-cannon turret, also concealed. The panels are retractable. We’ve tested them with deployment times of three seconds max.”

“Outstanding.”

“Even with the upgraded shields and additional armor plating, I wouldn’t recommend wading into a brawl, Colonel. No matter how much reinforcing and arming we did, she’s still got the bones of a freighter. You push her too hard, and she’ll snap.”

“I quite understand. We do go way back, she and I, but I appreciate your candor. Rest assured I have no desire to slug it out with a destroyer anytime soon.”

They made it to the operations center floor, which took up several decks and was packed with every conceivable holo-projector display and sensor readout known to Terran technology. Sinclair smiled at the sight of the plaque bolted in their midst, bearing the CDF Intelligence motto “In God We Trust, All Others We Monitor.” As far as he could discern, some enterprising soul had given it a fresh polish.

“Colonel on deck!” Captain Alon Tamir leapt to his feet and braced to attention.

Scattered enlisted crew did likewise, each of them analysts or technicians responsible for assisting in the interception and decryption of whatever transmissions were their current target.

“Good to see you back aboard, sir.”

“As you were, Captain.” Sinclair noted that Chief Warrant Officer Miranda Eldred was a bit slower in her response. Given she was ex-Coalition Intelligence Service with barely a recruit’s worth of time spent in CDF uniform, he was willing to overlook such details, especially given her results. “And how are we handling the new coat of paint?”

“As well as can be expected, sir. We have glitches to work out.” Tamir glanced at Lowe. “No offense to our contractors. They did a great job getting everything torn out and plugged in, in record time. But it’s taking some getting used to.”

“They moved a half dozen consoles.” Eldred sighed. “I had all the subroutines planned just so. It’ll take the entire trip out to the border just to get them dialed back in, but that’s fine. It gives me time to catch up on my target practice at the range.”

“Ah. Feeling a tad rusty, are we, Warrant?”

“I’m not missing the fieldwork and the insidiousness of the decisions therein, Colonel. But riding the console doesn’t get the blood pumping as much as being steady on the trigger, I’ll have to admit.”

“Very good.” Sinclair leaned in close to their workstations. “I trust you’ll have this all sorted before departure, eh, Butter Bars?”

Tamir’s face flushed at the mention of his affectionate but old nickname, one that had survived through several promotions over more than four years of service. “Yes, Colonel, we will. But only if you remember which direction to face when giving us commands to set sail.”

Eldred broke into chuckles that she tried desperately to stifle but, failing, buried herself in running the new setup on her decryption console. Lowe whistled and feigned inspecting the sealant on a newly reinforced bulkhead.

It didn’t bother Sinclair. He could tolerate certain amounts of kidding aboard ship. It helped lighten the crew’s mood before they set their minds to the upcoming tasks, ones which required the best of their concentration. If the jokes failed, the pranks were sure to take up the slack.

“Sorry, Colonel, but I’ve got to jet.” Lowe checked his communicator. “I’m supposed to make sure a couple of raiders have enough spare parts before they ship out. You can find your way back to the airlock if you get stuck, right?”

Before Sinclair could respond with appropriate sass, Lowe scooted for the operations center exit.

Sinclair rocked on his heels. “I trust you’ve taken a moment from your busy schedules to peruse our orders?”

Tamir frowned. “Yes, sir, we have, and I have to say, I’m not sure about this arrangement. Captain Adams is effective, sure, but he’s not known for being a team player.”

“The man has a reputation for successfully completing his operations, Captain.”

“He does, but there are, ah, what I consider disconcerting elements.”

“Don’t mince words, Captain,” Eldred said. “You think he’s a maverick with a tendency to pull a rabbit out of the hat at the last minute.”

Tamir shrugged but didn’t elaborate further.

“And what’s your opinion of this new element, Warrant? Since we’ll all be working in close concert as part of this new unit, and given your past experience, I value your input,” Sinclair said.

“Well, Colonel, from a CIS standpoint, he’s good. He earned himself a decent rep.” Eldred snorted. “A better one than most of my fellow operatives could boast, with less collateral damage. I’m not saying he’s perfect. The consensus was that he had one major weakness.”

“Do elaborate.”

“His heart. He cares too much about people. He’d go out of his way to keep his cover intact, not only to protect himself and his team but to make sure the people his missions brought down got fair trials, decent treatment under the law. It didn’t matter what they did.” Eldred crossed her arms. “Which is likely why he didn’t stick with CIS.”

“This makes a difference to you, I see.”

“It does, sir. When I walked away from CIS, I—had a gap to fill. A chasm, really. The things I did needed forgiveness, and thankfully God was always there waiting to take me back in, no matter how long it had been since my last confession. I don’t know what faith Captain Adams follows, but if he’s had to deal with the same struggles I have, then he’s done an admirable job of keeping his hands clean. It can’t have been easy for him.”

“Very insightful. Thank you both. I think we shall endeavor to do our best to welcome these new assets into our fold. I’ll make their dossiers available to you. Captain, see to it their five-person team is berthed on Deck Nine, down near the shuttle bays. That should work to their advantage.”

“Understood, Colonel. I take it we’re departing ASAP?”

“Indeed, Captain. We have just a few more hatches to batten down, as the saying goes. Carry on.”

Sinclair left them to their tasks as he ventured deeper into Oxford’s corridors. He spent the next several hours familiarizing himself with the changes made by the SSI contractors. He had to admit Kenneth Lowe demanded perfection from his people. The work done was just so. Still, Sinclair made notes on his tablet to tweak a few things back to the way they’d been the next time his ship was due in drydock.

Then he made his way to the officer’s mess, where, at that time of shipboard day, he was the only person in attendance. The solitude was welcoming. He needed the space to be alone with his thoughts for this mission.

Eldred’s commentary about Captain Adams stuck in his mind. Given the decisions Adams had made in the past, Sinclair was wary of his impact on the Oxford crew. It also remained to be seen how Adams would cope with a full special ops team aboard. Sinclair smirked. They weren’t the kind of men who enjoyed working hand in hand with cake-eaters, no matter their groundside experience.

Ah, well. He resolved not to worry on the issue too much as he delved into the files related to the upcoming operation. It was the kind of assignment he relished—new elements, an untested set of capabilities, and behind-the-scenes work meant not only to protect the Terran Coalition but potentially to help innocents.

Sinclair pondered what Eldred had said about her faith and Adams’s. The work those men and women did had an inherent darkness. Analysts like Tamir were above it all, metaphysically as well as literally. They didn’t see the results of their actions in terms of human collateral. Eldred knew the very real and often very bloody costs. Whether Adams had grappled with that reality before, and to what extent, Sinclair knew he would have to ascertain.

He allowed himself a quick arrow of prayer to the good Lord for wisdom and began bringing together the plans for Covert Action Unit 171 in earnest.

6

Fleet Yards

Canaan—Terran Coalition

14 July 2464

An expandable, pressurized cofferdam connected Oxford’s main cargo hold to the station. A herd of service bots trundled back and forth with the supplies needed for the mission’s duration as deck crew supervised the storage process. Jackson stood to one side, watching the work and waiting for their last team member to arrive.

Sevastopol Rast had the contents of his duffel bag arranged on a set of short containers. Jackson lost count at fourteen of the number of weapons he’d brought along. The number of detonators and wiring packs easily dwarfed the array. Sev muttered questions to Ehud Dwyer, who showed off a set of miniature shaped charges, the same kind he’d used back on Hebrides Major when he’d disabled Iris’s hovercraft.

Jackson had wondered where the black-market arms dealer had wound up in the criminal justice system, so he’d looked up her docket—due to stand trial in a month or so. Victor Malehorn—Vic, as Jackson had known him in his weeks undercover, had turned state’s evidence. If Vic had tried looking up his former partner in crime, “Jack Aiken” he would be met with a wall of silence and subtle hints of incarceration at a military facility, standard procedure when one of Jackson’s aliases needed to disappear. It was either vanishing or death.

He’d died three times, as a matter of fact.

“All the gear’s accounted for, Captain.” Brant joined him by the yawning maw of the open cargo hatch. Stars glittered through the semi-transparent cofferdam walls. The floor and ceiling were solid connectors. “I got word from Colonel Sinclair—we’re pushing out of dock at oh nine hundred hours.”

“Thanks.” Jackson’s wrist communicator blazed blue light up at him. Ten minutes.

“She might surprise you this time,” Brant said. “Why wouldn’t she take the money and stay home?”

“It’s not as if Intelligence is giving it away. The chit is security enabled.”

“I don’t think that would slow her down, do you? Gina’s going to look out for Gina. She’s signed the Official Secrets agreement. She knows the penalty for going rogue, so she’ll stay under the scanners. But she’s not in this for her nation, Jack. She’s independent.”

“Everybody’s independent, Brant,” Jackson said. “That’s why the Coalition exists.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do.”

They lapsed into a companionable silence for a few minutes, which consisted of Brant reading his tablet loaded with their team’s equipment manifest while Jackson gazed at the last stragglers bringing containers aboard.

Brant cleared his throat. “So… how was the ranch?”

“The same as it always is.”

“I figured. Your new look is colorful.” By “look,” he meant the violet bruise above Jackson’s left eye.

It reached back toward his ear. Jackson shook his head, and it didn’t ache much at all. “I can’t seem to get through to them. Funny. I can talk just about anyone into anything when I’m running an op, especially if I’ve played the role of their best pal or newest business partner in illegal activity. Put me into an earnest conversation with my brother, though—worse than a reactor meltdown.”

“I can imagine.” Brant grimaced. “When you get my mother, my sisters, and my cousins all in a room, usually with my grandparents refereeing, it’s like boot camp without any drill sergeants keeping everybody in line. We manage to scream it all out in time for dinner, so everyone’s laughing by the end. I think it’s all the guilt we Catholics run on.”

“Sounds like a better end result than the Adamses can manage. I’ll be lucky if they let me back in the homestead.”

“Give them time. Between your dad’s illness and you brother’s stubbornness, I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

Patience, something Jackson knew he had a deep well of but, for whatever reason, couldn’t seem to access while he was in Harry’s proximity. Well, he’d better push it out of his mind for the duration of the trip, especially if he was going to take on another role as part of his cover.

Of course, those kinds of details were the perfect personal touches to work into a legend. The closer his cover story was to his real life—minus the CDF Intelligence service record—the easier it was to talk to people when they asked questions. It made it easier to lead them with lies into the trap set by the Coalition.

All in the name of keeping his people safe, even when everyone seemed happy to no longer live under the threat of war.

“Cap’n?” Dwyer gestured toward the dock end of the cofferdam with a bright-red square in his hand. Jackson realized with a start that Dwyer held a block of molecular explosive. If it had been anybody else casually wielding enough material to blow a hole the size of a cargo shuttle in the side of Oxford’s hull, he would have reprimanded them and written them up in a misconduct report to Colonel Sinclair. But he knew Dwyer would never be so cavalier with an object that posed legitimate danger. “Looks like the fifth finger of our hand decided to show up.”

Where…? It figured he would miss her, even when he’d made it his goal to stake out the cargo bay entrance. Gina Wilkes was framed by two young, tall Marine sentries. She wore a brown jumpsuit with gray panels, and sans hat, her curly black hair hung loosely at her shoulders. Green eyes glinted with either mischief or outrage. The hard set of her expression, smile notwithstanding, told Jackson she didn’t appreciate being kept waiting. It should have been the first item noted on her personnel profile.

“I can’t believe she cut it this close,” Brant muttered.

“What was that about Sparks and me being wrong, with you being a happy man?” Jackson couldn’t resist the dig and headed across the cofferdam before Brant could offer a friendly but sharp comeback.

The pale-faced, freckled sentry on Gina’s right saluted Jackson.

Jackson, in uniform and cover, returned the gesture.

“Captain? This lady says she’s authorized to board, but I’m only allowed personnel with the right clearance past this point.” The sentry checked the tiny screen mounted to his armored glove. “The ID code is valid, sir, but it hasn’t been updated through the proper channels.”

“I can vouch for both the code and her orders, Corporal. She’s here by express permission of Colonel Sinclair. Check your missives for COU 171.”

“Yes, sir, I did, but she’s, ah, registered as an independent contractor. She just didn’t look like…”

The rest of his sentence evaporated under Jackson’s stern gaze. He understood the problem. Gina’s appearance wasn’t any different than the repair teams and civilian contractors from SSI traipsing around the docks, but she was armed not only with a pistol strapped in a thigh holster but a stubby submachine gun slung from her shoulder.

“I told him you were my get-out-of-jail pass, Captain.” Gina’s voice was as sweet as syrup.

“She’s with us, Corporal. This is CDF Intelligence staffing prerogative—you don’t need to know why she’s here, only that she is, and she’s coming aboard. Let her pass.”

“Yes, sir.” To Gina he offered a nod. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Gina rolled her eyes as Jackson led her aboard the ship. “Ma’am. Just because he’s barely this side of twelve—”

“Take it easy. You’ve got to get used to the protocols again. A lot of hours will be spent with the folks in uniform this mission.”

“Which isn’t all bad.” Gina reached for his insignia, tilting it so it glinted in the overhead lights. “Seriously, though, I’ll try to be nicer to your friends. That isn’t to say I’m going to spend every night before bed reading the Code of Conduct and the UCMJ. I brought Melville and Tolkien instead.”

Jackson smiled. “Always nice to have you back. Did you get your payment deposited?”

“I didn’t even need you to unlock it.”

“Which I would have, if you’d asked.”

“Such a gentleman. I take it the boys are all waiting?”

Dwyer met them first, having jogged over from his inventory with Sev. “There’s our sunshine. Hiya, Ms. Wilkes.”

“Good to see you, too, Sparks.” Gina gave him a peck on the cheek. “And, Lieutenant Guinto—no flowers.”

“Welcome aboard, Gina.” Brant nodded.

She leaned into Jackson and stage-whispered, “Did he bet against me showing up again?”

Dwyer snorted his way through chuckles. Sev looked up from his stack of weaponry, continuing to clean the rifle he’d fieldstripped. “Gina.”

“Hello, Sev. How’s the cabin?”

“Done. Cozy.”

“Thanks for sending the photo of the bearskin rug. A neighbor of yours?”

Sev grinned. “A competitor for food. He is no more.”

“Always charming.”

Jackson took in the sight of his crew. “Well, everybody, this is it. As soon as we cast off, it’s comms blackout. I’m collecting all personal devices. Captain Tamir will coordinate with each of you for your quarters. There’s a staff meeting at oh eighty hundred thirty tomorrow in the officer’s wardroom, off the main operations center. Check your tablets and wrist comms for deck plans. Any questions yet?”

“Yes, sir, Cap’n.” Dwyer propped his boot on a box. “We’re going to hunt Leaguers? Does it mean a war is on again?”

“Not if we can help it, Warrant. Our role is to keep them from infiltrating the Coalition and put a stop to destabilize it. We treat this like a cartel—take them down from the inside. This has the highest priority, all the way down from the Oval Office.”

“Official sanction for unofficial dirty deeds.” Gina grinned. “Just like old times.”

“Old times but with the reactor cranked to max,” Jackson said. “Welcome to Covert Action Unit 171.”

* * *

Kolossi Landing Field

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

14 July 2464

Andreas Stefanidis stayed well back from the refugee crowds barging toward the perimeter fence’s gate. He had no desire to get lumped in with the unruly crowd whose antics had earned rounds of suppression smoke from TCFE.

Most around him were strangers. When word had filtered through the transport’s hold of an illicit shuttle run to the planet’s surface, Andreas seized it as the only way out of his depressed state. Najwa was inconsolable. Only the concerted efforts of neighboring families had kept her from completely breaking down. Connor O’Brien’s widow, Jillian, had merged her clan with theirs in each one’s best effort to keep them all sane. But Andreas had to find his little girl.

His pursuit of Yira’s kidnappers—the same men who’d killed Connor and seized Connor’s son, Aidan—had led him to the muddy landing field. Emergency tents huddled next to each other against the elements. No one knew when they would be able to leave or if they would be transferred. So far, no one had been shipped back up to the orbiting transports.

Instead, charitable organizations had distributed supplies. Medics had entered the makeshift camp, assessing individual health and evaluating camp conditions. But those visits had tapered off because unruly young men stormed the gates more and more often as TCFE admitted those who sought to help.

The officers didn’t take kindly to the disruption. Stun rounds whistled into the men nearest the fences, scattering the biggest of the crowds. A handful had to be dragged away by their compatriots.

Andreas scowled and went back to his prepackaged meal. What fools. He wondered how anyone was supposed to work their way to freedom when they rose up against the very people from whom they sought help.

An older, burly Asian man sat next to him. “Andreas.”

“Hello, Jian. Do you have news for me?”

“Of Yira? No. I’m sorry. My connections only go so far in a disorganized mess like this.” Jian had fled execution by the External Security Service for resigning his commissar’s post near the end of the war. Andreas had been given his name as a man with connections to the black market upon landing in that wretched field. “It seems your best bet is to make contact with the relief workers coming in. I overheard them discussing the trafficking problem among themselves the other day. But for now, I’d steer clear of the fence.”

“Yes, I noticed our young hotheads are busy antagonizing the guards.”

“They’re not ours. I did a head count.” Jian’s gaze followed the clusters of young men still milling by the gate as green-blue suppression smoke drifted around their ankles. “We didn’t have this many of Turkish descent when we first arrived. At least fifty more have snuck in.”

“Snuck in? How? The TCFE officers let only medical aid and food deliveries in with their volunteer deliverers.”

“Word has it some strip off their identifying gear and take places among us. I don’t know what they want, but it can’t be good. It stinks of League efforts to destabilize a situation, which is likely why drug use has skyrocketed.”

Drugs. Andreas had seen a few addicts back on Azar III. Here, though, more and more were showing signs of addiction—and withdrawal deaths had begun yesterday. Tension rose among a significant portion of the refugees, notably in young men and women—a manic tension. The slightest provocation led to loud arguments. Fistfights erupted daily.

Andreas didn’t know how the drugs had gotten in, but rumor pointed to officers selling it through the fence. He wasn’t sure about that myth. How much money did the refugees have among them? And why would they throw it away on drugs? “Whatever they’re taking, it’s hurting them badly.”

“That’s because we’re not dealing with the typical mind-numbing narcotics.” Jian’s voice was hushed. “It’s called Orbita. You wouldn’t have seen it used among our citizens. Our leaders manufactured it solely for export to disrupt our neighbors and make conquest easier. It looks like someone is hoping to achieve the same chaos inside these fences.”

Shouts exploded from the gate. TCFE officers were inside, armed, pushing forward in a defensive line.

Andreas grabbed Jian’s arm as he rose. “Come! They’re taking a woman out!”

Curiosity overcame him. Andreas led Jian to the far edge of a crowd.

An officer pulled on a woman, who screamed over the tumult, “Let me go! I won’t leave with you! Where is my husband?”

“Shut your mouth! I know you’re Demir. I saw you outside the fences last week sniffing around.” The officer shoved her into the cordon. “Restrain her, and clear the rest of these people out!”

Gunfire cracked. The officer sprawled in the dirt, howling like a wounded wild animal. Blood gushed from his thigh.

“Someone’s armed!”

Officers raised their riot shields, the electrified edges crackling blue in the dim overcast afternoon.

More gunshots. Another officer fell then a third—a woman, struck in the face. The penetrating round spattered gore on her partner. Andreas spotted a young man wearing tattered coveralls much like the rest of the refugees, waving a pistol. Turkish ethnic background, like Jian had noted.

The TCFE response was immediate. Officers opened fire with stun rounds at anyone and everyone, knocking down not just young men but elders, women. Andreas saw a ten-year-old girl slammed off her feet.

“Get down!” Jian flattened him into the muddy grass.

More stun rounds ripped the air above them. Shouts and screams pierced the sky, but shots still came from the officers. Andreas peered up through blades of grass as he covered his head. The few officers who had fired were restrained by their peers, their weapons confiscated, and the whole group—wounded officers, plus the still-yelling woman—retreated through the safety of the gate.

The suppression smoke rolled in thick, and as it blotted out his view, Andreas helped Jian upright, the other man hacking in a terrible cough. How am I ever going to find Yira and Aidan if these maniacs tear us apart?

Terrans sought help from deities. Such sentiments would have gotten him killed in the League, Andreas knew, but at that desperate moment, he was willing to consider any option.

* * *

Vasiliy Kiel waited until officers shoved the woman into a truck for holding. They left her there, shackled but unattended, as they raced off to tend to their wounded compatriots. He had plenty of time in which to slip in and use a plasma torch to sever the restraints.

“Where’s my money?” The woman rubbed her wrists.

Kiel took her around the back of a temporary container dump, where leftovers from the aid convoys were piled. “It’s been transferred to your people. Take the skimmer and rendezvous with them.”

She hopped onto the sleek single-seater hovercraft and took off toward the road, mingling with other vehicles and blending into the city itself. Kiel blew out a breath. It was a calculated risk, relying on the Demir cartel addicts to carry out his dirty work, but by the stars, it had been a success so far. Between slipping their people into the camp—armed—and riddling the refugees with Orbita, he’d gotten the outsized reaction he wanted.

A car pulled up nearby. Ferenc, his cyber eye shining, opened the passenger door for him. “I placed the call, sir. News drones are on the way.”

Sure enough, the camera-wielding robots whirred overhead. They flitted to the edge of the fence, where TCFE drones—slower, but armored and bearing stun devices meant to short out other bots—herded them away.

Kiel smirked. “I take it the crews themselves aren’t far behind.”

“They were pretty excited about the tip. I think they’re betting on a juicy story.”

“Aren’t we all?” Kiel gestured ahead at the road. “Get us clear before they lock this place down.”

Ferenc wheeled them toward the city, steering clear of the emergency craft wailing toward the fences. Patrol scout trucks raced around from opposite sides along the fence, apparently called in by the emergency at the main gate.

It was a decent first spark. Kiel glanced back at the chaos in the distance. Now to fan the flames.

7

CSV Oxford

En Route to Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

15 July 2464

Footage of the Kolossi Field Riot, as news networks had dubbed it, rode out on the repeaters to every corner of the Coalition in a few hours. Within a day, the story reached the neutrals and the Saurians. Everywhere it landed, pundits posed the same question.

“What is the Spencer administration going to do about it?” Sinclair read from the text streamer underneath a talking head’s hologram. He made a face as soon as the words left his mouth, as if he’d found them distasteful. “Bloody useless question if you ask me. Half the politicians want every refugee resettled inside our borders, while the other half want the transports crowding the sector turned right back from whence they came.”

“All due respect, Colonel, it’s a question that needs to be answered.” Jackson indicated the hologram. “But it’s not one we need to worry about.”

“Exactly so. The League is our focus. What do you think of the situation?”

“Honestly, sir? It’s a mess. They got weapons in there somehow. So, what option does TCFE have? Call in CDF to storm the camp, or do it themselves. It’s going to lead to more deaths next time. It’s bad enough TCFE lost one of their own. Her death won’t inspire restraint.”

“True. Then, of course, there’s the Orbita matter.”

“You think it’s the cause of the unrest?”

“One of the instruments, yes. I don’t have concrete evidence, but intercepts Captain Tamir has pulled indicate an uptick in shipments throughout the border systems, including Aphendrika. With so many refugee ships crowding the lanes to and from the planet, smuggling unfortunately gets a pass.”

Adams ticked off points on his fingers. “Human trafficking, Orbita, sowing unrest. Are we suspecting League involvement? If so they’re not very original, are they?”

“Not in the slightest. But they are effective, which is, of course, why we cannot leave this up to local law enforcement—or even the good chaps at CIS, no offense to your former associates.”

“None taken. They’re good, but I left their service for the same reason, Colonel. They just don’t have the leeway Intelligence affords its operatives.”

“Fine point. I trust, then, your people are prepared for this.”

“Yes, sir. I have our preliminary plan sketched out for the briefing this morning. Infiltration of the camp and the city of Kolossi shouldn’t be difficult. It’s the transports I’m worried about. Local intel is they do get supplies now and then, from relief agencies, so I’ll have to put a team member on one of those ships. Lieutenant Guinto is working on legends for us.”

“I don’t envy you, Captain, having to put on a new skin every time you do this work. I must say, it’s easier in that respect to remain in the operations center and parse signals from afar.” Sinclair’s smile seemed wistful. “Though I am not above engaging in fieldwork when the time comes.”

“RUMINT has it you engaged just before the war’s end, Colonel, with General Cohen himself.”

“He fancied himself more a rabbi at the time, but he was cured of the flirtation.” The comm unit on the table buzzed. “Go ahead, Ops.”

“Colonel, we’ve IDed CSV Tuscon on approach. Major Mancini’s requesting permission to dock.”

“Put us on intercept, and line him up for External Airlock One. Captain Adams and I will greet him. Remind staff our briefing is in half an hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sinclair killed the link. “Come along, then, Captain. We shan’t keep our missing wheel waiting.”

* * *

Jackson couldn’t help but admire Tuscon on the External Lock One’s display screen as the black-hulled vessel sidled up to the much larger Oxford. The raider reminded him of a missile, only sharply angled and covered with ridged panels, all part of a design meant to lessen its sensor profile and make it near invisible against the stellar background. If it had come near any vessel other than the technical research ship, no one would have spotted it until Marines had cut a boarding hatch through the hull.

Major Nathan Mancini joined them through the airlock and braced to attention. “Colonel Sinclair. Permission to come aboard.”

“Granted and welcome, Major. Delighted to have you. I don’t believe you’ve met Captain Jackson Adams, last of an undesignated Intelligence team and most recently appointed to Covert Action Unit 171.”

“Sir.” Jackson held his salute. “It’s an honor to meet you, Major.”

“Likewise, Captain. I had the chance to review your work on our way to the rendezvous. I’m impressed. The only question left is how well we can make this jury-rigged unit stick together when it’s been slapped into place at the last minute by the politicians back home.”

“I suppose we do need a cynic in our midst,” Sinclair said.

“Begging the colonel’s pardon, but I thought Intelligence ran on cynicism like our new warships run on antimatter.” Mancini gave them a sly smile.

“Perhaps so. Nevertheless, it’s good to have your lot thrown in with ours, even if the brass did the throwing.”

By the time they got Mancini back to the wardroom, a small crowd had gathered. Captain Tamir was there, along with Chief Warrant Officer Eldred. They clustered behind holos at the far end of the table, flanking Sinclair’s seat. Brant and the rest of the team were on the opposite end, spanning the left side. Dwyer sat to Brant’s left. A chair sat open between Brant and Gina, the cushion of which she patted when she saw him enter. Sev leaned against the bulkhead in the corner farthest from the door.

The man on the other side of the table had seen combat, years of it. Jackson knew immediately by the way he carried himself, the way he watched everyone and everything in the room. Like Sev but with less suspicion. He was assessing targets.

“Good morning, all. I trust Captain Tamir has made the appropriate introductions,” Sinclair said to start the meeting.

“All but the strange one in the corner,” the towering officer replied. “The most obvious target.”

“Sevastopol Rast.” Jackson narrowed his eyes. “Independent civilian contractor—destabilization. He doesn’t say much. I’m Captain Jackson Adams.”

“Master Chief Petty Officer Gordan MacDonald, sir. Commanding Alpha team, Space Special Warfare Unit Nineteen.”

“Master Chief MacDonald will provide the hammer to your scalpel, Captain,” Sinclair said. “He and his men have a penchant for getting into and out of dire situations with nary a scratch. Isn’t that right, Master Chief?”

“We’ve spilled our fair share of our own blood, sir.” MacDonald answered the question with the stern tone of a teacher correcting his student, though if a high-ranking officer like Sinclair took offense, the latter didn’t show it. “I can confirm the enemy pays a higher price than we do, on the regular.”

“I don’t think he’s grasped the subtlety of our work,” Gina whispered to Jackson as he sat next to her. By her volume, he knew she’d intended to be overheard.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your presence here is emblematic of the new era the Coalition has entered,” Sinclair continued, ignoring the way MacDonald glowered at Gina.

If the master chief isn’t impressed with spooks like me, Jackson thought, good luck getting him to appreciate our civilian contractors.

“Since the war’s end, the League has taken few steps to rebuild the fleet we and our allies thrashed above Canaan’s skies. They have, however, opted for a more invasive yet quieter path of disruption.”

Sinclair nodded at Eldred. She tapped a control. The wardroom lights dimmed, and a massive hologram portraying a star system expanded to fill the space above the table.

“Aphendrika, one of our younger settled worlds on the border of the demilitarized zone between Coalition and League space. Three days’ transit by standard Lawrence drive from the nearest neutral planets. K-type primary star, with a distant companion—red dwarf, 300 AU away, a small, rocky first planet, with Aphendrika itself next, plus three gas giants and tens of thousands of planetoids filling the third and sixth orbital slots in unusually dense fields of debris.”

Mancini let out a soft grunt. “Lots of places to hide.”

“Indeed, Captain. You see the difficulty in locating League units.”

“Yes, sir, but I wasn’t complaining. Makes it a lot easier for us to sneak up on whoever we’re targeting too.”

“That’s the spirit. Zoom in please, CWO Eldred.”

The image spun closer to the Earth-type planet in the second orbit—Aphendrika itself—and two moons, each a tiny gray sphere.

“Mary, mother of God,” Brant muttered.

Jackson assumed his XO was more concerned about the orbital tracks than the tiny satellites, because hundreds of them laced a spiderweb through the hologram. He couldn’t believe his own eyes. “When was this last updated?”

“Six hours ago.” Captain Tamir was young, about Jackson’s age, he figured, but with no inkling of inexperience. He addressed the room with the same confidence Sinclair exhibited. “The tracks are accurate to within a kilometer. As you can see, there’s no exaggeration of the refugee problem. The most recent census local authorities can manage is six and a half million with tens of thousands on the surface. You saw evidence of those at Kolossi Field.”

“Doesn’t look like something you need spooks for, sir,” MacDonald said. “Or a handful of spec ops. You need the fleet to sweep those rust buckets right back across the borders they crossed.”

“Hear, hear,” Eldred murmured.

“That’s not why we’re here.” Jackson’s comment caught everyone’s attention. He was fully aware he was outgunned by the combined experience of the two senior officers and senior enlisted man in the room, but he pushed ahead full thrust. “The League’s using the refugees as a front in their efforts to destabilize the border. Whether or not most of the people on those ships are really seeking a new life is irrelevant. That’s a job for the politicians. What we need to do is flush the League snakes out of the grass and cut off their heads.”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “A rather colorful comparison, Captain.”

“It’s how we dealt with spike vipers on the ranch, Colonel. I figured it applied.”

Dwyer chuckled softly.

“And who’s this guy? There’s an old maxim about too many chiefs,” MacDonald said.

Dwyer leaned forward, mouth curling into a sneer, which Jackson knew would unleash a snide rejoinder.

Jackson held up his hand, cutting Dwyer off. Best to preserve the peace—and he didn’t want his ace shuttle pilot getting stomped by MacDonald. “Warrant Dwyer is our team’s pilot and demolitions expert. Lieutenant Guinto handles communications, legend building, and personal alteration.”

“Alteration?”

“Disguise.” Jackson smiled. “Mostly mine.”

“And the civvies…?”

“Specialist Gina Wilkes handles infiltration, with Lieutenant Guinto handling the electronic aspects.”

“I handle the physical ones,” Gina said coolly.

“Got it. Plus Rast the creeper in the corner.” MacDonald snorted. “Where’d you dig him up?”

“Earth,” Rast said.

His terse reply shut down all sound in the room except the hum of the holographic projector and the whoosh of the air circulators.

MacDonald’s face could have been laser-cut from the bulkhead. “He’s serious? We get a Leaguer on this so-called team?”

“Sev fled here when he was young, just like the people on those ships.” Jackson stood and swept his hand through the orbital tracks. “Don’t make them all your enemy, Master Chief. I’ve spent enough time undercover among all kinds in the Coalition and over the borders. Everyone’s got their own motivations. Most don’t have anything to do with politics or patriotism.”

“Spooks. You guys make everything gray when it’s a simple black-and-white.”

“I’ll thank you two to relegate philosophical differences to the mess hall,” Sinclair said firmly. “Or the gym at the worst. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sure.” MacDonald snorted. “I’ve got a set of pugil sticks to share, Captain Adams.”

“Wouldn’t mind the chance to exercise, Master Chief.” Adams offered a tight smile.

“Do I make myself clear?” Sinclair repeated, the words sharper that time.

Jackson matched MacDonald’s “Yes, sir” with his own.

Mancini watched the confrontation with an amused expression while Jackson felt Brant’s sidelong glance and read the silent, Take it easy, implied.

“The first phase of this mission is simple,” Sinclair said. “Oxford will take up station above the third orbit, near a twenty-kilometer rock designated Base One for purposes of this operation. Major Mancini will deploy in Tuscon above the ecliptic plane on a patrol route, allowing him swift vectors into the system. He will be our interceptor, to project ship-to-ship power when needed.”

“Oxford’s armament has been upgraded to better defend herself and take the offensive if we have to, but we’d just as soon keep that secret,” Tamir said.

“Where do the spooks factor in?” MacDonald asked. “Because I’d better know where I have to look for them when they screw up and Alpha team has to blow the doors off to rescue their sorry butts.”

“Our role is to infiltrate the trafficking ring, get as close as we can to League assets, and expose them.” Jackson kept his tone level so he didn’t betray his rising frustration. Teamwork, indeed. “If we can find the right people, leverage certain informants, then we can pinpoint which ships are involved in the trafficking, and Tuscon can shut them down. I also want to take their money.”

“Right,” Eldred piped up. “If you can put a crimp in their cash flow, you can slow their operation and find out what other things they’re up to.”

“We’re already aware Orbita plays a role,” Jackson said. “How the League’s running it to the refugees, well, that’s also on our to-do list. Specialist Wilkes will be my groundside partner in this, undercover, though our contacts will be intermittent. Specialist Rast will remain deep shadow, running his own destabilization efforts on whatever criminal elements we uncover. Lieutenant Guinto will coordinate groundside via uplink to Captain Tamir and CWO Eldred aboard Oxford. Warrant Dwyer has overflight on standby to retrieve and relocate.”

“Don’t forget the occasional fireworks, Cap’n,” Dwyer drawled.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Warrant.”

Sinclair nodded. “Very good. Submit your briefs by seventeen hundred hours. We should reach Aphendrika early tomorrow morning, shipboard time. It’ll be midday by Kolossi’s clock. I suggest you all take time to prepare yourselves for deployment. Dismissed.”

MacDonald was first out the door, Mancini following. Sinclair excused himself to review the hologram of the Aphendrika system with Tamir and Eldred.

“Okay, folks,” Jackson said to his team. “Get geared up. Gina, Brant will get you your legend—”

“I already have it.” She held up a slim data card. “I was bored for much of the presentation.”

Brant patted down his uniform, a disgusted look on his face. “Of all—lifted it right out of my pocket.”

“From the other side of me no less.” Jackson smiled.

“See you in the mess hall, boys.” Gina winked as she left.

Sev followed her as Dwyer joined Jackson and Brant at the end of the table.

“Might want to keep an eye on her,” Dwyer muttered. “She’s got the knack for takin’ what isn’t hers.”

Jackson shook his head, a rueful grin on his face. “Which is why, Sparks, she’s going to be the one helping me steal from the enemy.”

* * *

Sinclair had assigned Jackson’s team vacant quarters on the starboard side, Deck Nine. Dwyer hustled off to the nearby cargo bay. Jackson entered his compact cabin with barely room for a bunk, shower, folding desk with a chair, and storage lockers.

“Cozy.” Brant leaned in the open hatchway. “I see you’re already making it home.”

Jackson had set up a row of memorabilia including two gemstones, a crumpled pay chit, a porcelain mug with a broken handle, three leaves of varying shapes and sizes pressed between plastic blocks, and a burnt metal shard. He fingered the last one. “From the bottom of Vic’s hovercraft after Sparks blew the undercarriage open on Hebrides Major.”

“It’s a weird little hobby, Captain.”

“Says the guy with two Bibles and a rosary.”

“To be fair, one’s a concordance.”

Jackson sat at the desk and ran his hand through his hair. “What do you make of all this?”

“Speaking freely?”

“Always, Brant.”

“I’m not worried about the various elements meshing. Tamir and Eldred are good people. I think I’ll get along just fine with them. MacDonald’s gruff, but he’s a grunt—I wouldn’t want anyone else at our back when the shooting starts. And Mancini soaked up the data in there like a sponge. He didn’t say much, but I could practically see him plotting course vectors. He probably does it in his sleep.”

“That’s good. I was hoping for the same thing.”

“What’s holding you back? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Jackson took the metal shard down and turned it over and over in his hand. “The three of us—you, Sparks, and I—we’ve got our mode. Gina and Sev? They fit well enough, but they’re wild enough cards we’ll have to watch them closely as we sniff out the League. The big problem is, if we screw this up, a lot more is at stake than a couple of arms dealers or a handful of corrupt clerks.”

Brant nodded. “We’re talking about whole families, including children.”

“Not to mention the security of the Coalition’s very shaky front door. I’m glad you’re so calm about it.”

“It’s not my calm. It’s whatever God gives me through his grace. I highly recommend it.” Brant rapped his knuckles on the frame. “Speaking of which, I’m going to hunt down the chapel then some chow. Coming?”

“I’ll meet you in the mess but pass on the preaching.”

“Suit yourself. God’s a lot more patient than any of us.”

After Brant was gone, Jackson spent a long time staring at his mementos, the reminders of successful missions. It was superstition, he supposed—gather enough, and he wouldn’t fail. If he did fail, the agony of letting the Coalition down—and getting his people killed—would be far worse than not proving his worth to his family.

8

Stealth Shuttle from CSV Oxford

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

16 July 2464

The shuttle was more cramped than the spacious passenger hauler Jackson had flown in to round up his team. The stealth model had six seats packed elbow to elbow plus a modest cargo space, which was filled with gear. Nothing about the boxy interior fit with the exterior fuselage, which was as black as the night sky through which they descended. It reminded Jackson of a knife blade.

Dwyer hummed a tune as he guided the shuttle into the forest on the opposite side of Kolossi from the airfield where the refugees had been cordoned off. Cockpit sensors let him make a landing in a snug clearing without aid of visible lights. “How’s that for you, LT?”

“Calmer, somehow.” Brant entered data into his tablet. “Maybe because it’s so dark out I couldn’t see how fast you were flying or how near the ground we were.”

“Didn’t need to skim the grass. Aphendrika doesn’t have scanners that’ll pick up this bird.” Dwyer patted the console. “I tell you what, Cap’n. I wouldn’t mind puttin’ in a requisition order for an STS-Twenty when this is all over.”

“Fingers crossed, Warrant. We might need Colonel Sinclair to intervene if we’re allowed to keep hardware this fancy.” Jackson was used to doing his insertions via beat-up civilian shuttles retrofitted by Intelligence. One such craft was stored up in Oxford’s hangar bay. “All right, people—Gina and I will take the skimmers into town. Sparks will drop Sev and Brant off at the safehouse, designated Echo Home.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Avery.” Gina slung her bag over the shoulder of her red leather jacket. The tips of her hair had purple-and-blue streaks, matching the false tattoos that had been applied to her skin.

For his part, Jackson had shaved the sides of his head and styled the top. He’d also quit shaving, letting the whiskers provide added camouflage. A few treatments from a follicle stimulator had given him a month-old beard in a matter of days. No wonder my chin still aches.

“Here.” Brant motioned for him to lean back in his seat then applied gray ocular adhesives. “Remember not to fiddle with your nose. It’s your skin, grown right from the mask vat, but it’ll still come off if you’re determined enough.”

Jackson blinked through the contacts until his vision adjusted. He checked his dim reflection in a blanked monitor. Yes, his nose did look sufficiently different—wider, with more of a Roman bump. “Nice work, as always.”

Brant shrugged. “It’s not as if you need a full facial prosthesis. Subtle variations are enough to fool scans. Now, if we were on a League world, you’d get the full disguise, but local security won’t be as picky.”

“It’s worked so far.” Jackson activated his wrist comm. Details of his alias, which he’d spent the last day memorizing, trickled across the screen before fading from view. He wasn’t Jack Aiken, underpaid data clerk. He was now Jack Avery, from New Washington, skimmer mechanic and failed businessman with a string of petty crimes—theft, fraud, public nuisance, slight limp to the right leg. “And the contact is expecting us?”

“Salvatore’s Ground Effect Garage,” Brant rattled off the business name like he’d been answering its comms signal his entire career. “At 30903 West Halys Street, Unit B. I made sure to forward a slimmed-down version of your resumé with just enough hints of your supposed run-ins with the law to intrigue him. Salvatore’s not above letting drug dealers and smugglers operate side businesses out of his place as long as he gets a nominal cut—and as long as his employees still do a good job fixing people’s hovercraft.”

Gina nudged him. “Sounds like your kind of man, Jack. When do I get to meet this paragon of humanity?”

“Eventually. When the time’s right. For now, you’ve got your orders.”

“Yes. Lounge about in my lovely apartment across the street from the League consulate.” She sighed. “Imagine waking up every morning to a gorgeous Aphendrika sunrise over their skyline only to have it ruined by dreary communist building blocks. I wonder how many varieties of gray they used on this one.”

“You’ll get enough of a chance to sample their opulence. Don’t worry.” Outwardly, Jackson projected calm, but inside, his heart accelerated like a fighter’s engines. This was the moment, right before deployment, when he couldn’t help but let his enthusiasm take over. His team had worked together before, so he knew he could expect the best from them, and he knew they’d taken down criminals and foreign enemies alike.

It was the one time he would give rein to his adrenaline. If he were any more excited, he would be on horseback alongside Harry, heading into the ranch with the sharp scent of newly fallen rain from a passing storm clinging to the sagebrush. “Sparks, you’ve double-checked Brant’s coordinates?”

“Ten-four, Cap’n. I’ll swing around the northeast so LT and Sev can hire a truck into Kolossi proper.”

“As offended as I am, yes, the coordinates are correct, and yes, I’ve already got the truck rented.” Brant snorted. “Come on now, folks, faking a profile to sign the rental agreement was the least complex part of this operation.”

“Good to know you’re not losing your edge,” Jackson said. “Okay, let’s move.”

Brant caught him in the narrow passageway to the cargo hold and landing ramp beyond. “Hey. Godspeed out there, Captain.”

They shook hands, their pre-mission ritual. That would, after all, be the last time he would see Brant in person for the rest of the operation if everything went according to plan. Which it rarely does. Hence the adrenaline. “You, too, Lieutenant. Keep the comms clear, and watch your six.”

“I leave the latter to the Holy Father, but I’ll spare a glance every once in a while.”

Rucksack in place, Jackson guided the slender skimmer down the ramp. The evening breeze was cool and damp, like there’d just been a rain, or another was on its way. Possibly both. Enough stars peeked through the cloud cover to hint at a dry ride to town. The glittering Kolossi skyline shone in the distance, ten kilometers away. It wasn’t as impressive as Lawrence City, back on Canaan, but there was a scattering of towers along the row of middle-height structures. A handful of construction cranes loomed over the scene, red beacons blinking, as the orange lights from fabrication drones circled them.

Gina’s skimmer hummed to life. She dropped a pair of goggles over her eyes. “Echo Two to Echo One, testing, one, two, over.” Her voice came in as clear as if she were whispering in his ear, thanks to the implanted transmitter. She was more than aware the Coalition banned those devices. How kind of CDF Intelligence to make an exception for its operatives.

“Echo One to Echo Two, copy. You’re five by five.”

“All these numbers. You could just call me ‘Sweetheart,’ and I could call you ‘Darling.’” Her chuckle hid any tension she might be feeling—not that Jackson could prove she was ever tense at the beginning of an operation. “I don’t envy your rules and regs, Jack.”

“You can call me whatever you want, Gina. I might not answer to your pet names, but you can try anyway.” Jack gunned his skimmer’s engine and gave a last two-finger salute to the rest of the team.

He led Gina out of the forest and onto the plains, leaving the stealth shuttle hidden in the shadows. The thrum of its engines rose above the gusting wind as it ascended toward the clouds. Within moments, it had faded from view.

“I’ll send you the consulate highlights once I’m established,” Gina said through their comms. She guided her skimmer with the ease of a pilot who could best the champions at the canyon races if the team stuck around on Aphendrika long enough. “Brant’s initial assessment says three men and one woman are on the External Security Services payroll, but I’ve noticed he usually misses a couple.”

“Yet another reason you’re invaluable,” Jackson replied. “You spot the things other people miss. But don’t let anyone know I used that word. They’ll be jealous it’s not on their evaluations.”

Gina laughed. “I’ll call you in a couple of days.” She cranked the controls and sent her skimmer off on a separate path.

Her apartment, and the consulate, were a couple klicks from the garage where Jackson was headed. The two of them crossing paths would be easy to arrange.

Alone with his thoughts, Jackson watched as the approaching lights of Kolossi beckoned. Somewhere among the bustle of a trade city, League agents were doing their best to subvert the Coalition’s handling of what could be an explosive situation. They’d already scored a hit then scuttled under the rocks, like those spike vipers plaguing the Adams ranch. Jackson would make sure they were stomped out good.

* * *

Lieutenant Brant Guinto wrinkled his nose as he followed Sevastopol Rast into the dank tenement. “I’m going to write Colonel Sinclair to see about expanding our budget for this off-the-books operation. In no way are these conditions sanitary.”

The apartment was a single bedroom with a slumped couch bleeding stuffing and a kitchenette missing half its appliances. A tiny, six-legged rodent scuttled into the bathroom as soon as Brant set down his bags, followed by three more of its best friends. Everything was stained. The evening breeze whistled through leaky seals in the three windows across the front of the living space.

Though “living” is a term I’d use loosely, Brant thought.

“Cozy.” Sev affixed a tiny sensor above the door panel on the inside then stuck a flat, transparent square on the opposite side. He shut and locked the door.

“Thanks. That’ll keep us informed if anyone approaches.” Brant found a three-legged desk in one corner and sighed. He would query a local fix-it shop later. For the time being, the double stack of scanner and comms monitoring hardware served as a decent substitute for the missing leg.

Sev walked into the kitchen and set up a stubby carbine mounted on a double tripod on the counter. He attached the same tiny sensor to the trigger with an added device that could actually fire the weapon. Then he sighted down the small scope.

Brant glanced from the door to the counter and back again. “I assume you have the bio-scan rigged so it won’t shoot me when I come back from getting a sandwich?”

“Yes.” Sev cocked his head, like a dog listening for a sound only he could hear. “Why?”

“I like to be thorough and also not get shot by my allies.”

Sev grunted.

Brant wired together the equipment, pausing only to look back where Sev was unloading supplies. “Are you going to leave it out on the counter? At least conceal it on the odd chance we get local LEOs stopping by with questions about whatever crimes I assume plague this neighborhood.”

Sev seemed to consider the suggestion. He reached for a quilted, mold-riddled cover and pulled it off a food rehydrator. It stretched just enough to cover the gun, with a little of the tripods legs protruding.

“I’ll give you middle marks for effort.” Brant shook his head.

He pushed his irritation at Sev’s sullen, paranoid mode aside, and within five minutes, Sev had the room secure and headed to the roof to find a suitable sniper perch. Meanwhile, Brant tapped into law enforcement comms, government news nets, and every signal he could within fifty kilometers. He streamed the most relevant channels through his portable computer, bringing up video in a collage he was sure would give Jackson a headache but, to him, was as soothing as a rainbow.

Speak of the devil.

The signal from Jackson was clean, as was the link to Gina. Sev’s and Warrant Dwyer’s comms lit up soon after as he routed them all through the main hub. Next up, a test ping to each of the four. Sev’s returned loud and clear, seeing as it was from the roof. Jackson’s followed then Gina’s. Dwyer’s reply ping took another three minutes, but Brant wasn’t concerned—he had to find a decent place to stash the stealth shuttle. They would need it for any infiltration aspects, especially if they uncovered facilities outside the city, and it made little sense to send it a few million kilometers away to where Oxford acted as Base One.

“Okay.” Brant made the sign of the cross and murmured a prayer to Saint Joshua, the patron saint of spies. Brant didn’t consider himself a brave man sneaking into hostile land, but he was on the lookout for enemies. “Let’s listen close for whoever’s out there.”

* * *

Colonel Sinclair strolled into the operations center, projecting the aura of a man unconcerned about the start of the mission. It was his job, after all, to exude calm while in command. His mind, however full it was with those very details, still harbored conflicting emotions about their purpose out there. In the end, what matters most is that we carry out our orders to the letter. The League’s interference must be exposed and ended.

Rather than share those nagging concerns, he said, “How goes it, chaps?”

Captain Tamir flashed a smile from his console, where he could oversee the work of the complete line of technicians assigned to monitoring the system-wide transmissions. “We’re getting initial signals now, Colonel. Filters are catching everything they should. CWO Eldred’s new algorithm is running baseline comparisons against known League codes, on the off chance they get sloppy.”

“What’re our odds they’ve not cleaned up their act?”

Eldred shook her head. “I almost feel sorry for them, sir. ESS is notorious for its arrogance. Leaguers might be professionals when it comes to oppressing their people on their home turf, but when ESS carries the same superiority complex over the borders, I’m surprised they don’t sidle up to the fleet yards and ask us in a whisper to hand over our secrets.”

The comment brought a smile to Sinclair’s lips. While League codes were tough, they were nothing Oxford couldn’t handle. Certainly not as bewildering as Saurian encrypts—which had the added complexity of being based on a reptilian language made up of different hisses. “Very good. What’s the overview thus far?”

“The overview is that the system’s flooded with comms traffic, understandably so,” Tamir explained. “I’ve got Takamo and Hardt focused on TCFE corvettes—thirty are deployed around Aphendrika. As near as we can determine, everybody’s sniping at each other about who screwed up and let all those shuttles dump thousands of refugees on the planet. Turns out another load snuck down earlier, during what’s local night at Kolossi.”

“Heavens. They’ve a rather large hole in their net if thirty corvettes can’t seal it.”

“It gets more interesting when we listen in on the other side,” Eldred said. “I have Dean, Spiedel, and Joyner parsing the freighter communications. It’s quite the mess, sir—overlapping signals sent by subpar equipment. But we’ve been able get an initial indication of foul play. Several captains claim orbital control gave clearance for barge trips to Kolossi Field, which Orbital Control vehemently denies.”

“Vehemently?”

“Yes, sir.” Eldred smirked. “We’re censoring the harsher language for your report, Colonel.”

“No need to sanitize on my account, Warrant.” Sinclair leaned over, peering at the data filling the screens.

“We’re still waiting on your approval to query TCFE and Orbital for their records so we can investigate further,” Eldred said.

“There will be no need for such a step. Continue monitoring all frequencies.”

Eldred glanced at Tamir. “Captain…?”

“You heard the Colonel.” Tamir shared a look with Sinclair. “In this situation, the lines blur fast. We don’t know to what extent Leaguers have infiltrated Orbital Control, or even TCFE. They could have agents inside or have bribed actual officers. Either way, we have to assume any overt questions from us will be intercepted.”

“Quite right,” Sinclair said. “Besides which, our orders explicitly prohibit direct contact with heads of Coalition and local agencies except in case of an emergency.”

“Understood.” Eldred frowned at the communiqués as she scrolled through them. “And that applies to the unit on the ground?”

Sinclair nodded. “A fact of which Captain Adams and his people are all too aware. Fret not, Warrant—this is how they work. Success means they return to us and their homes with no one the wiser. Failure earns them local incarceration until we can intervene quietly and without ruining their cover. Of course, there are more troubling outcomes, which all involved shall do their utmost to avoid.”

“Yes, sir. I see.”

“Keep up the good work, Captain, Warrant. I should be very curious indeed to see your analysis of the transmissions those freighters received, provided you can find the originals.”

Tamir wrinkled his nose, like the air circulators had failed and he’d gotten a whiff of an unpleasant odor. “If that’s a joke, Colonel, you’ve got to work on your material.”

“A lesson I shall take to heart, Butter Bars.”

* * *

Salvatore’s Ground Effect Garage at 30903 West Halys Street was a long, two-story structure that cut across two blocks. The upper floor arched over the alley, providing a walkway between otherwise-separated workshops. Wide bay doors opened on the alley from either side and from both West Halys and West Cooper Street.

Jackson caught the stench of burnt ozone as he settled the skimmer by the curb. A green neon sign pulsed against the dark evening, proclaiming the business name over the logo of a stylized skimmer atop a shooting star. His wrist comm told him local time was 1930 hours, but the shop was still abuzz with activity. He pinpointed three men working on one large hovercraft in the bay, while three refurbished skimmers sat on the sidewalk, sporting For Sale signs.

One of the men caught sight of him standing by the open bay door, shut off his plasma torch, and shouted deeper into the workshop. His alert brought a balding dark-skinned guy with a long, drooping handlebar mustache out of the recesses. He wiped his hands on a canvas apron, which Jackson found peculiar because one hand was a three-clawed cybernetic replacement.

“Nice rides.” Jackson patted the seat of the nearest skimmer, a model with white flames festooning a black fuselage. “I’m surprised there are no takers.”

“Yeah, well, ain’t many of those takers when these circuits-for-brains miss an unwired transtator on the intake valves.” Salvatore glowered at the men behind him, who studiously ignored his glare and buried themselves in their repairs. “But if you got the money, I’ll knock fifteen percent off asking price to get it the hell off my lot.”

“I’ve got something better—skills.”

Salvatore squinted. “You’re the kid, the one who sent me a long list of why he’s so much better at the job I’m already paying seven people to do.”

“Make it an even eight, and you can get full price for this ride.” Jackson crouched and pointed at the undercarriage, right behind the forward hover nodule. “Once I crack open a set of tools so I can replace the faulty connector. Here.”

Salvatore wheezed as he bent over. He rolled his eyes and muttered a string of obscenities Jackson cataloged as local, glad his wrist comm was passively recording so he could check them for etymological significance.

“I’ll be damned. That’s another good catch, kid. What was your name again?”

“Jack Avery. Off New Washington.” Jackson mimicked the eyeroll. “Not willingly.”

“Hey, who is out here willingly? Salvatore Benson.” They shook hands. “Listen, I ain’t the kind of boss who asks all those dumb questions.”

“What kind of boss are you? I want the kind who pays me what I’m worth. On time.”

Salvatore scratched at his mustache. “And I need someone who don’t ask dumb questions but who’s smart enough to catch the kind of money-costing mistake you just did.”

Jackson grinned. “Then I’m the guy you’re looking for.”

9

Oval Office, the White House

Canaan—Terran Coalition

17 July 2464

President Spencer wished he was watching the news on a flat-screen instead of a multi-view holographic display. It would have been much more satisfying to throw something at it. As it were, he consoled himself with glaring at the three talking heads who seemed to be taking great delight in recounting the “tragedies developing” in the Cypriot Crisis.

“This situation will continue to get out of control unless I can get Fleet elements on station, Mr. President.” MacIntosh paced behind the holos, his body distorted by the imagery. “Letting shuttles slip down to the surface… they might as well rename it Frontier Not Enforced.”

“Let’s not heap blame on our officers quite yet, General.” Ed Fuentes frowned as he watched the reports replay scenes of the shooting, the ensuing riot, and TCFE’s efforts to tamp it down. “The people in the camp weren’t rising up in mass revolt. Look at those images. It’s clear we’re dealing with a small subset of the population.”

“We don’t know that, sir.”

Spencer detected strain behind MacIntosh’s use of the honorific, a small wonder, given Spencer and Fuentes had been political enemies for much longer than they’d been partners in the Coalition’s government. MacIntosh remained loyal to his wartime president.

“We’re getting whispers that those refugees are nothing more than political dissidents freed from reeducation facilities or full-fledged convicts dumped out of League prisons,” MacIntosh pointed out.

Fuentes snorted. “With children? You see them there, don’t you? Did murderers have their little boys and girls with them while serving life sentences?”

His sharp rejoinder stopped MacIntosh. It was even odds he was surprised by Fuentes’s fire or irritated by the argument. “Refugees with families aren’t hiding weapons or spreading Orbita. If we get half the scum out of that camp—”

“There shouldn’t be a camp.” Spencer pitched his voice calmly but with enough of a stern edge to shut down their debate before it got up to full power. “There shouldn’t be a single refugee or freed criminal or whoever we’re dealing with standing on one scrap of Coalition soil without orderly processing and procedures. Instead, we have thousands packed onto a civilian airfield, and the people who are supposed to know best can’t give me any answers as to how this foul-up happened.”

Secretary Snow had remained silent during the brief tussle between Fuentes and MacIntosh, reviewing her latest notes, but she interjected, “Mr. President, Covert Unit 171 has only just arrived at Aphendrika. Colonel Sinclair assures us they’re monitoring the situation. Captain Adams’s team has taken their positions. It may be some time before they can ferret out the truth.”

“The truth is what we need as soon as possible, Celinda. It’s what we owe our people.” Spencer held up a hand. “I’m not looking for another argument. I’m telling you what’s on my mind. So, where are we when it comes to finding out the truth about these refugees?”

“Border has reported alleged bribery among several transport captains,” MacIntosh said. “Getting them to herd people onto barges was the simple part. Colonel Sinclair’s group is looking closely at those payments. The more difficult part to figure out is how they got to the surface.”

“I’m assuming Border’s interdiction leaves something to be desired.”

MacIntosh grimaced. “About as useful as an open airlock. They may have gaps in their net, sir, but the issue is we have several patrol boat skippers who claim they received orders to stand down as the barges and shuttles entered the atmosphere.”

Fuentes sucked air between his teeth. “Falsified orders? Can anyone verify?”

“I can only tell you what Border’s commander on the scene relayed to us, and he’s adamant no one was authorized to grant leeway. Everyone out there is briefed on our official position, Mr. President, so unless someone’s playing politics and deciding to stay mum—”

“Or the League’s operatives are hijacking our communications.” Spencer’s insides went cold.

MacIntosh didn’t have a reply. He looked equally sick.

“What we can confirm is that the signals came through proper channels,” Snow said. “At first glance, all appeared to be in order. But clearly, the command code from which they originated is fictitious. It’s yet another aspect Sinclair’s crew is working to crack.”

“They’re going to an awful lot of effort to meddle with people no one seems to want,” Fuentes mused. “If their goal is destabilization of an already tense situation, they’ve a fine knack for it. What about the people in the camp?”

“Mr. Vice President, could you elaborate?” Snow seemed puzzled by the question.

Fuentes glanced among the gathered group. “Very well. The president has made it clear they shouldn’t be on the planet. I’m respecting his decision and backing him up on it despite our disagreement. What sort of plan can we come up with to return them to their ships?”

“Sorry, sir, but that genie’s out of the proverbial bottle.” MacIntosh finally sat in a chair.

Good. Spencer had been about to order the man to hold still.

“The only way to get them off the surface is to bring more shuttles and barges down. TCFE would have a collective aneurysm. And I doubt the transport captains will want to stick their necks out again, not with us parsing their financials and comms logs to track down League influence.”

“Andrew’s right, as much as I hate to admit it.” Spencer leaned on his desk. “The media are watching the situation even more closely after the outbreak of violence. Our best approach is to maintain the status quo until we can get answers. Attempting to move people out of the landing field will result in another riot. However it happened, those refugees have been given their first taste of life on a new world. It’s not pretty, but it’s not under the League’s thumb, and I’ll wager they’re well aware.”

“Understandable, Justin, but dozens of aid organizations are already in place,” Fuentes said. “We could appeal to them to provide flights to orbit. Surely we could set out guidelines for an orderly withdrawal. Even one done in incremental steps will ease pressure on both the refugees and TCFE.”

“We can consider all options once we get clearer answers as to the extent of League action.” Spencer tapped a control on his desk. The holo news displays winked out. “I’ve had all of that I can stomach for the day. How are we looking for our presentation to the Assembly?”

Snow checked her comms device. “Thirty minutes until the hearing, Mr. President.”

“All right. Talking points, everyone.” Spencer ticked them off on his fingers. “Yes, we’re aware of the violent outbreaks in the camp. Yes, Orbita is suspected to play a role. Yes, the League has a hand in this. I don’t want to get into the weeds on every question. It’ll be bad enough when the Jessica Rhodes diehards sink their teeth into this issue.”

“Very true,” Fuentes noted. “I’ve heard rumblings that we’re not doing enough fast enough to bring the refugees deeper into the Coalition, finding them permanent homes.”

“Granting blanket asylum for millions of people we know nothing about would be a national security disaster,” MacIntosh grumbled. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll keep saying it.”

“We can postpone the debate for now, General,” Fuentes said. “I’m satisfied with presenting a united front, which I think we can do on the following—we want to keep everyone involved in this situation safe and avoid further violence.”

Spencer nodded. “That’s as fine a point as any. Why don’t you and Celinda reach out quietly to any of these aid providers you trust about utilizing their craft? I’m still not convinced we wouldn’t have a mob on our hands if we started moving people out, like I said, but there’s no harm in putting out feelers. Let me emphasize one word, trust. Word leaks out to the press, and there will be hell to pay.”

“Very good,” Snow agreed.

“That’s all for now.” Spencer reached for his tablet. “I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”

Fuentes, Snow, and MacIntosh gathered their materials. They left with a brief, “Mr. President,” passing the guards on the way out.

Only when the door had shut did Spencer lean back in his chair and let out a sigh. What had I been saying about the ease of fighting a war? He had targets then—simple, black-and-white action. This, though, was layered with so many pitfalls he felt like he had to tiptoe toward every decision.

He ground his teeth at the thought of not only the League working to undermine his nation, barely pausing since their ignominious defeat, but also the idea of the media and elements in the Coalition’s government wanting his administration to fail. It didn’t matter at what. And he was willing to bet most didn’t give two damns about any refugees.

Steady, Justin. He forced himself to see the other side, past his own anger. Quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger. Getting upset would not bring forth the righteousness of God.

Instead he focused on Fuentes’s arguments. His vice president was a good man, far more honorable than Spencer had first recognized when they were rivals. Their team up had revealed a person who held deep convictions and would not back away from them, even when they were in direct contrast to Spencer’s. It made him a valuable partner in running the Coalition and earned him Spencer’s respect.

Fuentes saw people on the run from tyranny who needed help. Spencer didn’t disagree. But how much help should the government provide, and how much should be left up to the individuals to decide?

MacIntosh wasn’t wrong either. No matter all the good intentions in the galaxy, they had no idea yet how many criminals, spies, or other malcontents the League had sent out with the refugees. Before they could help anyone, they had to determine who was in need—and who was a threat.

Spencer prayed for Adams, Sinclair, and the rest to have swift success because, more and more, it looked like lives depended upon them.

* * *

The fourteenth weapons shipment was lost.

Kiel slapped his hand against his office wall. It felt good to release his tightly wound tension, to feel the stinging in his palm, the ache in his wrist. I suppose it could be worse. It could have been the thirteenth shipment. My handler would never admit his weakness to anyone, but everyone knew the old fool clung to superstition like a pilot to his ejection seat.

Ferenc waited inside the door. He didn’t betray any emotion. While Kiel valued a steady, consistent second, it would have been nice to be able to scare the man every once in a while. “The smuggler ran into TCFE fifty light-years away. He couldn’t disguise what he was carrying. He had to make a run for it.”

“I suppose he did.” Kiel shook his head. “And the destruct protocol worked well, I take it?”

“Nothing left but free-floating particles, sir. Corriveau assures me it’ll scan like a reactor failure.”

“Good. As good as can be expected from an unfortunate delay, that is. Get me a full inventory of everything we were expecting on the transport. I’ll have to make new arrangements to replace what was lost.”

“It’s in your messages, sir.”

Indeed? Kiel checked. A copy of the manifest had been forwarded not five minutes ago—which would have been right before Ferenc walked into his office. “I don’t see why I need any computerized systems, Ferenc, when you could run the entire thing yourself.”

His second nodded in blank acknowledgement of the praise.

“Well, carry on. I’ll be out in a moment to inspect the handiwork thus far. Go fetch Corriveau so he can impart the technical details. I’m sure he has them ready.”

The ghost of a smile twitched Ferenc’s lips. Both knew full well Corriveau would be caught with his metaphorical pants down, if only for a few seconds, but so far, the only vice Kiel could discover to break Ferenc’s composure was sadistic pleasure at seeing the tech chief in a panic.

Ferenc left him to his thoughts. It would take days to get replacement shipments scheduled and paid for. The smuggler had, of course, only been paid a fraction up front, so Kiel wasn’t out as much money as he could have been. He consulted his wrist unit again. Sales from trafficking continued steadily, but the stock was depleted. They would need another raid soon, which was problematic, given the increased TCFE presence.

Kiel mulled this over. Orbita sales, however, were going very well. He could lean on the cartel but not too hard, lest they look to local trafficking. The Coalition would slap down hard on any suspected crime of that sort against its citizens. Plenty of refugee traitors to acquire before we resort to that risk.

He picked up a mug of tea from his desk. Ach. It had gone lukewarm. No matter. The flavor was still there. Kiel headed out of his office, into the work bay.

The tumult of construction hammered on his senses. Metal clanged against metal. Bots stomped in perfect rhythm, moving materials from one end of the bay to the other. The hiss of plasma torches provided a steady undercurrent as constant as the flow of air itself. Kiel craned his neck as he passed underneath one of the many catwalks protruding from the rock walls.

The interior of Asteroid APH-122704 had been laser carved more than a century ago, when prospectors fanned out across the star system in search of valuable metals. They’d taken all the rock had to offer then abandoned its hulk inside of a decade, leaving only a hollowed core and twisted gantries abandoned to the vacuum of space. It had lain fallow for well over ninety years before ESS probes arrived, scouting for Kiel’s base of operations.

It had done nicely. The main cavern was big enough to accommodate the eighty-meter frame of a Bulwark-class corvette. The sleek vessel had been ripped open, its guts exposed to the atmosphere for the first time in twenty-four years. Kiel could make out figures drifting near its dorsal spine, where workers welded new hull panels into place. Magnetic cannons jutted from their emplacements, open for inspection as men and bots finished wiring them into the primary power systems.

“Vasiliy!” Armand Corriveau leapt down from a third-story catwalk onto the second then slid down a ladder to land in front of Kiel. The diminutive technician, his hair an unruly mop and his beard a bedraggled tangle, picked at one of the six pockets covering the front of his coveralls. “I thought you were still on the planet.”

“Does my presence here prove a problem, Corriveau?”

“No! No, not at all.” Corriveau tried a smile, which faltered. His eyes couldn’t stay focused on Kiel, or anything else, for more than a couple of seconds. “You’re wanting an update.”

Kiel folded his arms and waited.

“Yes, very good.” Corriveau gestured at the ship under reconstruction. “The refit is progressing nicely. Another few days, and we should be ready to bring the reactor online. Don’t worry—the shielding I’ve devised will be adequate to disguise its signature from any sensors that may come near to our hidey-hole. Then, with the rest of the weapons en route—”

“The shipment was lost.”

Corriveau blinked. Then he laughed. “No, no. That isn’t funny.”

“Do you know me to be prone to jokes?”

“Quelle malchance! That puts us behind schedule.”

“There’s no need to state the obvious, Corriveau. Continue your assessment.”

“Ah… yes. Very good.” Corriveau motioned for Kiel to follow as he walked the railing separating them from the null-gravity section of the cavern, where the corvette floated. “Once we’re finished, she’ll have double the armament of a standard Bulwark-class. Computer upgrades should have all systems synced to a current TCFE version, so if anyone interrogates her command network remotely, they’ll see what they’re expecting—one of their own. I have, however, installed automated controls, which should reduce the crew to two dozen.”

Kiel nodded. “That certainly simplifies staffing for me. What about exterior markings?”

“I’ve narrowed down possible designations to six, drawing from vessels lost during the war. Patrol corvettes are only alpha-numeric designated, so we don’t have to worry about name recognition.” Corriveau frowned. “There is still the matter of impersonating an officer in charge. Do you have a captain selected?”

“Let me worry about that. Your only concern should be hardware.”

“Yes. Ah, the missiles next…”

The key to this phase of the operation. Kiel watched as rack after rack of small missiles was loaded into the bay behind the forward tubes. They were Arrowhead clusters, four warheads integrated into a single missile that could launch from the standard tube but then separate into their self-maneuvering components en route to the target—key for disabling a ship rather than obliterating it in a single volley like the bothersome Starbolts and foul Hunters. Using black-market weapons packages to expand the warhead yield had its advantages too.

“We should have them fully loaded by the end of the day.” Corriveau rocked on his heels, beaming. The man was clearly enjoying his role as proud father. “Once the armor is replaced and the concealed hatches secured, we’ll begin the overpaint. I decided against the additional sensor reflection panels you recommended for fear that even after we take pains to integrate them, too close of an inspection would tip off TCFE to our differences.”

“I’m not concerned with the vessel blending overall. Bulwark-class ships comprise twenty percent of the current flotilla around Aphendrika. They all should have been decommissioned halfway through the war, given their relative obsolescence, and replaced with the newer Pikeman-class. But the politicians representing the refit stations where they were undergoing modern conversions lobbied for an extension that won’t expire until a decade from now.” Kiel shook his head at the mishmashed politics inherent in a so-called “free society.” It led to opportunities like that. “I see your point, however. We can save the sensor reflection panels for our own craft.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Corriveau exhale. His reactions were far more satisfying than Ferenc’s bland indifference.

“Things are proceeding well,” Kiel continued. “I’ll have the rest of the weapons ready for you in a week or so. Much depends upon how quickly I can find smugglers and refill the order.”

“Well, yes, and this will only work if you can anger the Coalition to the point where they’re willing to take rash action,” Corriveau muttered. “The damned capitalist pigs are too busy licking their wounds and bragging about how well they defeated us to care about anything else.”

“You’re wrong there, Corriveau. They care too much—even the elements of their government, which are doing their best to remain aloof and logical throughout this ‘crisis,’ as the news has deemed it.” Kiel smiled thinly. “Images of the people suffering down on Aphendrika play poorly with the public, no matter whether they want the refugees shipped back across the border or scattered among every Coalition world. Your algorithms have made a great deal of difference with our social media campaign.”

Corriveau gave a slight bow. “It’s quite simple. People see faces of individuals. The Terrans are fools for such stories. A mass of people doesn’t move them. They can’t fathom the good of society. Why, if this were the League, we would have made sure everyone had a job and was fed!”

Yes, a grueling job mining ore for rebuilding our decimated fleets and a meal of the most basic rations to ensure they could keep up their strength for digging. Kiel left his commentary in his head. He knew Corriveau came from a long line of commissars, and while he wasn’t in the same career as his forebears, he likely retained connections. Even Kiel wouldn’t want to run afoul of political officers. “Don’t preoccupy yourself with their faults. Leave that to me. I only require your technical expertise.”

“Of course, Vasiliy.” Corriveau gave another little bow. “I only meant the individualism of the Terrans is their weakness. You see it in their politics.”

“Indeed, we do. No matter how much their leaders crow about their newfound unity between factions, our actions will be the wedge that drives them farther apart.” Kiel grasped the railing as he gazed up at the ship. “And this will be the hammer for the wedge.”

10

Kolossi

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

19 July 2464

Jackson lifted the goggles, wiping grease off his brow before it could drip into his eyes. The dual-seat skimmer with yellow pinstriping had taken him the better part of the day to fix, but he was pleased with how the job had finished. Ripping out a rusting intake and fitting in a new one—especially one cobbled together from spares in the back of the shop—reminded him of working on the family skiff back on the ranch.

Harry would critique the weld but accept the finished work. Jackson shook his head. Even if he thought he could do a better job. He grimaced at the reminder. Those details should stay pushed to the back of his mind. He was Jack Avery, skimmer mechanic, small-time criminal, not Captain Jackson Adams, CDF Intelligence. But he could play both roles with a troubled family background.

“Jack!” Salvatore hollered from the front of the store. “C’mon up here!”

Jackson shut off his torch and threaded his way past the other workstations. Mechanics had skimmers in various states of dismantlement and reassembly. He noted two of the seven were gone out on undesignated errands for Salvatore—“Parts,” Salvatore had said when he’d asked. But the bags they’d brought back the other day were far too big for the parts Jackson knew were needed.

Warm afternoon sun beat down from a cloudless sky. Salvatore grinned like he’d won the lottery. “Hey. That ride you fiddled with when you first got here? Just sold it. Even got ten percent more than I thought I would. So here’s your cut.”

“Thanks.” Jackson shook hands with Salvatore, allowing the latter to palm him a credit chit. When they parted their grip, Jackson spotted “200” in pale blue numbers on the chit. The image faded as the chit cooled from his hand’s brief contact. “Nice to finally work for a man who treats his people right.”

“I’d treat ’em better if they were more competent. Maybe you can give ’em some tips, and we’d be able to move more merchandise.”

“Look, it’s none of my business, but…” Jackson jerked a thumb back toward the garage. “Why keep the dead weight around? Seems like, with all the activity in Kolossi and in orbit, you’d have no trouble hiring replacements.”

“Too much headache. Besides, these guys are quicker on the skimmers than they are good at repairing them.” Salvatore chuckled. “Which I guess should be incentive for them to get the bare minimum work done so they don’t crash and burn themselves, right?”

“Right. Speaking of, I’m pretty good behind the controls. If you get a sick guy or need backup on your courier jobs—”

“Nope. Sorry. You’re too new. I won’t sign off on it.”

“C’mon, Salvatore.” Jackson grinned. “You’re afraid I can outride these spent thrusters you call mechanics even better than I can outfix them?”

Salvatore snorted. “You got a lotta nerve, Jack. Which I bet is why your record’s as long as a Kolossi city block.”

“What can I say? I jump at opportunities. I don’t always land. But sometimes I do, and it’s worth the risk.”

“Hmph.” Salvatore stroked his mustache. “Lemme think about it. Can’t hurt to have a backup rider, I’ll admit, but there’s people I gotta check with, you see? Meantime, you keep our skimmers selling, and there’ll be more of those bonuses comin’ your way.”

Jackson kept up his grin and slapped Salvatore on the shoulder, earning him a shake of the head but also a deep chuckle. He headed back to his workbench, nestling under the blue glare of a caged light. Two hundred would supplement his operations budget nicely—and knowing how Salvatore operated, he needn’t worry about the payment being traced. It was right off the top, skirting taxation.

“Better not spend it all in one place, Echo One.” Brant’s voice filtered through Jackson’s implant. “I’ve got Salvatore’s comms cracked. Let’s leave out the sordid details of his network chats with ladies of ill repute. It was easy enough to link him on local social media and start sharing personality quizzes. Brain-dead goon dropped enough private data he might as well have unlocked the back door himself.”

Jackson shook his head as he took up the torch again. He lowered his goggles, and the torch flared to life, sparks spraying as he started a second weld. He couldn’t talk back to Brant, not there, but he needed the intel all the same, so he hummed a few bars of an old folk song his grandmother had taught him. She would have used the fiddle, but—

“Most of what I’ve dug up is junk. Old friends who owe him money or vice versa. Couple kids checking in on his health. No mention of a spouse. Records show he was never married. He’s got a lot of income streams for a guy who’s run a skimmer repair shop forever. I haven’t sorted them all out—still working on it. Let’s say they’re less than legal, and leave it at that.”

Given the bonus, Jackson wasn’t surprised. He switched off the torch. The weld looked good.

“The more interesting part is his outgoing messages. Lots of them are to the mechanics—not a surprise there. But these are all coordinates, addresses, dates and times. He references ‘parcel’ here and there. I’ll triangulate the whole mess and see what we can figure out, but you need to check on Euke Till—tall, rangy, balding guy, lots of tattoos.”

Jackson bent over the skimmer, putting on a show of checking the vent clearances, so he could glance toward the very back of the workshop. Euke Till was the one grumbling over an upside-down skimmer, his mixed Asian and Indian features creased with frustration. Having only been there two days, Jackson didn’t know much about him except that he was one of the guys running courier jobs on the side.

“He’s got two ex-wives. Cracking into his finances—hmm. Lots of famine, not much feast. Alimony is bad for this guy. Good news for you is he’s in one of his famine periods. There’s your in.”

Jackson triggered the contact in the beltline of his trousers, sending enough of a ping back to Brant to signify confirmation. Then he ran the skimmer through a basic startup, making sure the vents stayed clear and the hover nodule took enough power. After a few minutes, he shut it down and let out a big breath.

Euke looked up from his work. Jackson nodded and smiled. He patted the skimmer’s seat. “Gotta love when you finish one up, right?”

“Sure.” Euke went back to his work.

Jackson ambled over to the upside-down skimmer. “Flarehawk Ninety? They’re discontinued, right?”

“Yes. Not everyone wants the newest, flashiest.” Euke bent back a panel so he could reach wiring. “We have a couple of people who bring in vintage models.”

“My dad knew a guy who liked to ride one of these back on the ranch. You could really open up the throttle over the savannahs.” Jackson shook his hand. “He wasn’t much for letting me ride.”

“Echo One, Echo Home. Keep on that. He had legal troubles with his father before his passing. Courts are still finagling. It’s costing him more money—and judging by his social media, he’s fired up about it. He’s linked to Salvatore’s.”

“Your father wouldn’t want you to get hurt,” Euke said. “It’s common refrain.”

“More like excuses. He drove me nuts. Last I saw him, we were in a shouting match.”

Euke frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

So was I. Jackson stomped right over the feelings the memory brought up. He was playing a role, drawing on personal material. “Not a big deal. But whenever I get to thinking about it, I get the urge to take one of these babies out and really see how they can race, which is why I’ve been pushing Salvatore for a chance at what you’ve been doing.”

“Doing… what?”

“You know…” Jackson gestured to the bag stuffed deep in the dark corner of Euke’s workspace. “Taking a scenic ride.”

Euke’s gaze shifted there then back to the wiring. “Work is work.”

“Yeah, and some work is more fun. Some work gets you extra money.” Jackson slid the credit chip onto the skimmer’s exposed vent cowling. “Look, Salvatore won’t let me go out on one of those… scenic rides. He’s got to vet me. But he trusts me enough to double-check your work.”

“I’ve noticed.” Euke’s tone was sharper. “Everybody’s noticed. It happens sometimes with the new talent. Then they figure out Salvatore even gets tired of his favorites.”

“No worries. I’m not under any illusions anybody here’s got to be my pal. You’ve gotta ask yourself, though, if Salvatore’s wrong. I mean, your work doesn’t need my checking. I’ve seen you—good hands, good eyes. So, if he’s made a mistake about me checking you, he might have made a mistake about me not being ready to courier.”

Euke looked up again, but that time, it was toward the front of the shop, where Salvatore gesticulated as he worked on an older couple eyeballing a red-and-black two-seat skimmer.

“Let me go with you next time—as your backup. Come on, we can tell Salvatore it was our plan to give me a test run, with me to watch out for trouble.” Jackson tapped the chit again. “Take one fifty. My investment.”

His fingertips pressed on the chit until the “200” glowed.

Euke closed the panel. He wiped his hands on a rag with precision Jackson had seen of doctors or knitters, people with such skill at a craft that they never thought about it on a daily basis. They just worked their miracles. But right then, Jackson was more interested in what was going on in Euke’s brain. He would have given anything to hear Brant’s play-by-play, except reading Euke’s thoughts.

“I think… I have to consider it.” But he produced a small, battered tablet from his pocket. He hesitated with the device over the chit.

The tiny pulse of a questing signal lit up the chit.

Jackson nodded. He pressed down with his thumb and forefinger to begin the transfer then dialed down by increments to one hundred fifty. A second, long press confirmed it. “I’ll trust you with it. Let me know. I’ll send you a comm code.”

Euke resumed his rewiring without another word.

Jackson went back to his station, fingers mentally crossed, until Brant contacted him about thirty seconds later. “Echo One, he got a message from Salvatore this morning. I’m running the coordinates. It looks like a privately owned landing field with a reputation for smugglers. They bounce between fields, I should say—this one and five others. I can get a couple of drones up, and we can post Deadeye too.”

Jackson sent back a double tap—confirmed.

“Roger, Echo One. Let’s set up in person so I can update your wrist unit module. Did you pick up anything you can send me?”

He triggered a data dump from his wrist comm. It sent all the information the tiny sensor had scanned in the vicinity of Euke’s corner—including the bag. It couldn’t go into great detail, but it had enough smarts to paint with a broad brush.

“Nice work. Got spectral analysis—all kinds of boring stuff, but I think you’re going to be most happy with the traces of Orbita. Not much. I doubt he’s using. But even at the molecular level, you see some spread from carrying.”

That didn’t surprise Jackson. RUMIT had already pegged Kolossi as a major hub for Orbita traffic and usage, as evidenced by the unsettled refugee camp. That was why they’d pegged Salvatore’s business for their infiltration. He was one of several businesses CBI had on their watchlist.

“Coordinates coming back to you for the rendezvous. I’m on standby for when we do that hardware swap. Good luck. Echo Home out.”

The shop’s noise level rose as more of the mechanics took in new repair orders. Salvatore was still out front, shaking hands with the customers. Business was brisk. Jackson took out a rag and began wiping down the hotrod skimmer, buffing out any smears.

It was up to Euke whether or not Jackson would get to join the ride. He could always try convincing Salvatore again. But cognizant of the trio of packets tucked into the lining of his vest, Jackson knew he had other options.

* * *

Brant rubbed his eyes. He’d packed saline solution in one of his many pouches, but he would be darned if he could find it. Endless hours of staring at data readouts had turned the surface of his corneas into sandpaper—or at least, something feeling like it.

Sev sat in a corner, watching a video on his tablet. Brant couldn’t make out what was said—his Russian was rusty—but it appeared to be a documentary on the trafficking scourge along the Coalition-League border. Sev seemed focused on it, his face twisted in a permanent scowl, as he dismantled and cleaned his smaller automatic pistol.

A notification lit up the corner of Brant’s largest screen. “Oh, joy,” he murmured. “Transmission number eight hundred forty-four, here we come. If I have to examine and dismiss one more delivery-drone encoded transmission…” He lost the rest of his sentence. No, he shouldn’t have any of those. His filters had already weeded out standard comms and other signal traffic within the first few hours in Kolossi. This, though—the algorithm had tagged it as suspicious because of the sheer power behind the transmission, as in enough brawn to make it from ground up beyond orbit and vice versa.

Even better, the algorithm had compared the transmission with Brant’s extensive databases and found a match.

“Looks like we got our first bit of luck, thank the Lord,” Brant said.

Sev peered over his shoulder, a blond eyebrow raised in question. “Good?”

“Yes. Good.”

Sev grunted, nodded, and went back to cleaning his weapon as the documentary droned on.

Brant shook his head and spun up a link to Oxford via a secure tight-beam transmission. “Base One, Echo Home, over.”

“Echo Home, Base One. Transmission secure. Eldred here.”

“Warrant, can you pull up those files from TFC 7791, the ship that intercepted the smuggler a couple days ago, the one that blew its reactor.”

“Roger, Echo Home. One moment… I have it.”

“They sent us their intercepts of the signals the smuggler sent out before their reactor accident?”

Eldred’s snort carried softly across the millions of kilometers as clear as if she were in the next room. “Accident, right. Vessel goes from running smoothly to blowing its stack in a matter of minutes. Border is suspicious, but those encoded signals are all the evidence they have beyond the space dust left behind after the explosion. You should already have it in the last packet I beamed.”

“I do, thanks. I’ve got a new one to send up to you. Let’s run a compare and contrast. I think we’ve got a repeat of the same code.”

“That would be good news. Standing by.”

Brant slipped the new recording into a packet that, if another party managed by some miracle to break his encryption and spot, would make the recording appear as a glut of personal photos, most of which Brant had generated using a sophisticated program for making fake identities. “On its way.”

A few minutes later, Eldred let out a low whistle. “Looks like we have a match, Echo Home. If this pans out, those extra rosaries I’ve been praying will have been worth it.”

“I’ll second that, Warrant. I can only do so much on this end. I’m counting on Oxford’s hardware being able to crack it.”

“I wouldn’t sell yourself short. From what we’ve seen up here, you’ve been busy getting a peek at finances and personal records galore.”

Brant grinned. “Let’s call it a decent partnership, then. If you guys can find a way through this encryption, it’ll be like having our ears pressed to the door of their secret meeting room, and maybe we can make some headway before anybody else gets hurt in this mess.”

“Sounds good to me. We’ll let you know when we get results. Base One out."

Brant cut the connection. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arm. How long had it been since he’d eaten? It was 1630 hours. He’d forgotten all about both meals, and he couldn’t care less.

“This is great.” Brant slapped his hands on the tablet, sending a rattle through his monitors. “Our first big score of the mission. I need to celebrate. How about we get—”

Sev snapped his fingers. When Brant looked up, Sev was shushing him.

Fine. Let him eat the freeze-dried ration. Brant was going out to get a sandwich or two.

* * *

“Captain?” Eldred tapped her screen. “Take a look at this.”

“Is this the side by side of Lieutenant Guinto’s intercept with TFC 7791’s?” Tamir bent over her station. “Yes, the similarities are there. I’d bet the probability match at ninety percent or greater.”

“Ninety-seven point eight. Good eye, sir. I’ve had it through the first three filters, and it wasn’t until the third that this showed up.”

Tamir frowned. “Is it—I’m looking at a Typhoon encrypt.”

“A fragment of it, yes. But I’ve never seen it used this way. Typhoon is one of the newer League ciphers, from the last six months of the war. We cracked it, didn’t we?”

“Partially. We never had great success because, even when we did decipher the contents, they were garbled. This, though…” Tamir drummed his fingers on the console. “This looks like a mutation I’ve seen before. Pull up the Mode Four algorithms we’ve been running drills with. Send both through, and put a comparison to Typhoon in the mix. I’m willing to bet that will do the trick.”

“Bet? Care to make it interesting, Major?”

“Warrant, I don’t draw enough pay. But it’s been a while since anyone pulled a good prank on the colonel, so loser is next up.”

Eldred smirked. “I’ll take that action, Captain.” She queued up both transmissions for the next round of decrypt attempts.

* * *

Dusk painted the sky over Kolossi orange and pink. Spacecraft lights glittered among the few stars making their appearance. Jackson sank back against the cabinet of tools mounted on the wall. Another day, another credit—and plenty of intel from Brant he could review. Nothing yet from Gina, though she tended to stay comms dark until communication was absolutely necessary.

“Hey! Food’s here, ale too. On the house! Everybody grab somethin’ before we knock off. Been a helluva sales day, boys.”

The mechanics made their way up front, ragging on each other about their work, whether it was any good or not. Jackson got a thumbs-up from a few about the hotrod bike.

“Jack?” Euke stopped by his corner. “I’m sorry but… I can’t. Here.” He offered up his battered tablet.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Keep the money.” Jackson’s mind raced for his next option. “Maybe you’ll change your mind later. C’mon, let’s grab dinner.”

They joined the rest, grabbing for containers from a pasta grill down the street. Jackson reached for a can of ale, and as he did, he let one of the tiny packets fall from his hand onto an open box. The thin film around the packet dissolved on contact. Within seconds, the contents would spread into the meal. Thirty hours later, the person who consumed the meal would be at the upper end of awful symptoms—loss of energy, vomiting, disorientation, fluctuating fever. He would be in no condition to ride.

Jackson popped open a can of ale. If Salvatore wouldn’t put him on the courier route, and Euke hesitated to give him a spot, he would have to make his own.

11

CSV Tuscon

Aphendrika System—Terran Coalition

22 July 2464

Major Nathan Mancini kept his eye to the tactical board mounted above his command chair. He shifted his elbow so he could reach his coffee, taking care not to bump into his executive officer, Captain Patrick Godat. People thought of CDF ships as monstrous battlewagons with acres of room for weapons, fighters, and engines. Publicity offices didn’t give out snapshots of the claustrophobic interiors of boats like Mancini’s stealth raider.

Still, the cramped quarters meant room for little more than the basics, which in turn meant fewer distractions. Mancini figured it forced everyone to sharpen their focus.

That said, it was much better to focus when not hiding from the enemy for fear of being blown out of space.

“Conn, Sensor Room.”

“Conn here.” Mancini leaned toward the mic mounted to his chair. “Go ahead.”

“Scans coming back on target vessel, Skipper. She’s full up with spare parts for farming bots. Got a few null spaces where there shouldn’t be any. Should we go active and get a detailed read?”

“Negative. I don’t want to tip them off that they’re being followed. Stay trained on them, though. Anyone so much as flushes the toilet aboard, I want to know.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Sensor Room out.”

Mancini glanced at Godat. “Any aspect change on Sierra One?”

“None, Skipper. Target is staying on course, taking a wide parabola up and over the ecliptic plane of the system. Their CO must not want to do a repeat of the last smuggler tub TCFE let blow up.”

“That’s what I want to not repeat.” Mancini peered over the shoulder of the enlisted rating squeezed into an auxiliary engineering station next to him. “And it looks like their reactor’s steady. No fluctuations indicating a forced overload.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll catch them before they can punch the red button.”

“Master Chief MacDonald’s people?”

“Ready and raring to board.” Godat chuckled. “I think they’ve been ready since Oxford jumped into the system, frankly.”

Mancini nodded but didn’t answer—too many variables to keep track of. He took in the displays and consoles packed into the small, rectangular compartment. No excess chatter from the crew, just then, not as Tuscon was sliding through space with her engines shut down. Their initial acceleration at twenty percent of maximum put them a few dozen kilometers behind the smuggler, identified on the tactical board as Sierra One—a new contact, not hostile. Mancini’s board showed Tuscon would intercept in twenty minutes unless Sierra One increased or decreased its speed. Then they would have to go to Plan B.

“Conn, TAO.” Lieutenant Scott Olesen, the tactical action officer, called out his alert. “Sierra One change in aspect—cutting velocity.”

“Nav, report range to target,” Mancini ordered.

“Conn, Nav. One eight klicks and falling, sir.”

Mancini squinted at his miniature tactical board. Whatever sensors the smuggler fielded, they didn’t match a Growler-class stealth boat, which sported the most sensitive and powerful units in the galaxy. Still, Colonel Sinclair wanted it done quietly. Tuscon was drifting along at one hundred fifty meters per second to keep their originally timed rendezvous.

“Pilot, slow to one ten meters per second and recalculate.”

“Conn, pilot, slowing to one ten, eye,” answered the young enlisted man who controlled the boat.

“Conn, Nav. Intercept now in thirty-two minutes.”

“They’ve slowed a bunch,” Godat murmured.

“Not showing any indication they’ve seen us,” Mancini said. “Otherwise they’d try to make a run for it.” He tapped the control for his mic. “Mancini to MacDonald.”

“MacDonald here. Bad news, Major?”

“Afraid I’m going to make you late for your date, Master Chief.”

“Not a problem, sir, I’m a married man anyway, so I’d rather not give my wife the wrong idea. We’re packed into the shuttle and ready to bounce whenever you give us the green light.”

“You’re taking it pretty well considering you and your boys haven’t had any Leaguers to hunt for a long spell.”

“No complaints, Major. We’ll bring back a shipload of prisoners for you to question.”

“Roger that, Master Chief. I’ll keep you apprised. Mancini out.”

* * *

The smuggler vessel was a battered scow converted to run illegal goods by the addition of four engine exhausts where there used to be two. At the moment, it was running under the transponder Lucy Lee, with a false registry code scavenged from the wreckage of a freighter destroyed by pirates thirty-five years before. Its captain, a man named Akai, chewed on the corner of his lip as he watched the red lights milling on his sensor display. “Shit, Carlos. When they said Border had this place sealed up, I didn’t think they meant like an airlock.”

“Relax, Skipper.” Carlos had been Lucy Lee’s helmsman for most of his adult life. When he moved his hands, she responded in increments so minimal he swore he could feel the exact amount of thruster propellent expended. “I’m slowing us so we can find the best way in. We knew there would be a pile of TCFE ships when we got here.”

“The buyer didn’t say a damned thing about this many.” Captain Akai pulled up the last transmission he’d received from their client. “Comms, I’m forwarding you a confirmation code. Bounce it off the weather satellite at the attached coordinates.”

“Weather satellite, Captain?”

“Did I stutter, or do you have our cargo stuffed in your ears? Read and transmit.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

* * *

“Conn, Sensor Room.”

“Give me good news, Sensor Room,” Mancini said.

“We’ve got a tight-beam transmission from Sierra One. Looks like they’re querying a weather satellite, but there’s a whole lot of bandwidth behind the request.”

“Run it past the filters from Oxford. Let’s see what the spooks came up with.”

Holy Father, bless their work so we can get one step closer to ending this mess. He held the prayer in his mind as he reread the reports he’d received of youths being trafficked. Whatever the League was up to, Mancini had no problem classifying it as the devil’s work.

“That’s an affirmative, Skipper!” the sensor tech called back through the intercom. “Signal match is eighty-nine percent.”

“Nothing like getting a positive read on a catch before we reel it in,” Godat said.

Mancini smiled. “Pilot, shadow Sierra One and wait for my mark. XO, send word to jam their communications and sensors. Activate the EMP beam. The instant they’re dumb and blind, I want us on their roof. Have the stealth assault lander prep for launch.”

“Aye, sir.” Godat relayed Mancini’s orders. The flurry of responses indicated every crew member, plus MacDonald’s six-man team, was ready for action.

We’ll nail this one so fast no one’ll see it coming. Mancini tapped his coffee mug, his fingernail driving a faint click. No aspect change from the target.

“Conn, Comms,” sang out the petty officer at communications. “They’re taking an incoming transmission. Reply is being bounced off the weather satellite.”

“Roger, Comms. Sensor Room, commence jamming. Pilot, accelerate to intercept. XO—”

Godat looked up from his station. “Master Chief says the shuttle’s engines are hot and ready to launch.”

“Close the net,” Mancini murmured.

* * *

“What is that? What the hell is that?”

Captain Akai’s spittle sprayed the back of Carlos’s head.

Carlos grimaced but didn’t dare move his hands from the console. “I see it.”

“Contact bearing two four zero, mark three oh five!” the navigator snapped. “Where’d it come from?”

“Your scanners must have missed it.”

“No way! I just ran diagnostics last night!”

“Shut up, you two,” Akai growled. “Carlos, get us out of here!”

Lucy Lee couldn’t bolt like a corvette, but Carlos spun her on her axis as she hurtled along in a wide orbit of Aphendrika. Thruster indicators lit up until he had her aimed on a vector ninety degrees to their original orientation.

“Getting us out of here.”

He pushed the scow to her maximum acceleration, all six drive engines sending a tremor through the hull. It rattled up through his feet and set his teeth chattering until the vibration fell off.

Carlos grinned. Let’s see whoever’s out there catch up with us now.

“Who are they? Pirates? Leaguer privateers?” Akai paced the tight confines of the bridge.

“I can’t get a read on them. Just a ship, coming up on us fast. Intercept in five minutes.”

“Five?” The moron had to have faulty gear. Carlos glanced at the nav readout. Holy cow. That vessel made Lucy Lee seem like she was parked in orbit. Carlos gave the drive everything the reactor could spare, but his display shuddered, winked, then went dark. So did all the rest of their tracking and navigation screens. “What?”

“Major interference coming off our pursuer,” Nav said. “At least, it was, but I can’t get a read on anything. Navigation, long-range scans, close sensors—they’re all toast.”

“I can’t see our course either,” Carlos added. “I’ll have to run by calculations to get an accurate read.”

“Shields!” Akai cried.

“They’re not responding, Captain. Some kind of EMP beam. I thought only the League has those.”

“Dammit! It’s not the League, idiot, and definitely not pirates. They would have demanded our cargo or fired warning shots. Bring our point-defense turrets online.”

“Weapons not responding, Captain. We’ve got air, lights, and gravity, but that’s about it.” Carlos urged Lucy Lee to keep accelerating. “And the engines are burning as long as—”

The lights went out.

* * *

Master Chief Gordan MacDonald leveled his battle rifle at the blank corridor. Behind them, steam hissed from the still-glowing edges of the hatch Petty Officer First Class Esmail Rostami had burned through—no resistance so far. “Okay, people, you know the drill. Secure the reactor so these shits don’t blow the deck from underneath us. Mancini’s techies bought us some time interrupting shipwide systems, but it isn’t going to last.”

“Reactor’s one deck down and five sections back,” Rostami said.

“You heard the comms geek with the map. Move out!”

The squad proceeded with caution down the corridor. Emergency lighting cast an orange pall over the hatches and corners, making shadows sharper and disorienting. Their visors’ sensors made up the difference, stripping away the odd tones and replacing them with a more realistic representation of their route.

MacDonald froze at the first closed hatch in their way, fist raised. The rest of the team spread out in the corridor, some crouched, some standing, their lines of fire clear. Chief Petty Officer Amacio Mata brought up the rear, guarding the way they’d come.

“Unlocked.” MacDonald grunted.

“We draw straws to see who goes first,” Senior Chief Dennis Harrell muttered.

“I am willing if you Terrans have not the spine,” Rucuk, the Saurian warrior filling the sixth slot on their team, growled.

“Nah. I think Master Chief punches the go button, and we shove your ass through,” Mata said from behind them.

“Cut it. What’ve we got, Rostami?”

Rostami let a tiny insectoid drone take flight from his belt. It buzzed up into a nearby air vent, following its orders to get into the next compartment.

“One sec, Master Chief. Punching up visual.”

The drone’s miniscule cameras fed live imagery of Engineering to their visors. MacDonald scowled. Four people—two hunkered behind consoles, two working feverishly at the shielded access point to the reactor controls.

“Give them the chance to surrender. Knock them down if unarmed. Any signs of explosives?”

“Drone isn’t picking anything up,” Rostami said. “But these guys are smugglers, Master Chief. They’re not big on ideology unless you’re talking money.”

“They sure blew the shit out of the other smuggler ship, money or not,” Harrell said.

“Stand by to breach.” MacDonald slowed his breathing. Civilians or not, smugglers or more, they were unknown hostiles. He’d treat them as such to protect his men. “Ahmad…”

Chief Petty Officer Ibrahim Ahmad positioned his hand over the hatch release. He nodded.

“Go,” MacDonald rasped.

The doors snapped open. MacDonald and his men poured through, fanning out to contain the four crewmen.

“Show us your hands! Hands! Now!”

Protocol was to stun anyone they found, but Colonel Sinclair wanted lucid prisoners who could answer questions. Surrender was Option One for these guys if they didn’t want to wake up hours from then with the galaxy’s worst hangover.

Two pairs of arms shot up from behind the consoles, shaking. A plasma torch dropped from one. A third pair was already in motion as its owner spun around from the reactor controls, a pistol pointed at the intruders.

“Gun!” Ahmad’s burst toppled the man. The stun round reduced him to a quivering heap.

“Don’t shoot!” The fourth man sounded scared, his voice trembling, but he wouldn’t take his hands from the controls.

“I said hands! Get them up!”

MacDonald and Ahmad moved deeper into the compartment as Rostami, Ahmad, Rucuk, and Harrell trussed up the two who’d surrendered.

“Stay back! I’ve got—this is rigged to blow…”

“Bastard,” Ahmad hissed. “He’s really gonna do it.”

“Zip it,” MacDonald snapped. “Son, I’m not asking again. Put your hands up, and stop whatever you’re doing, or we shoot. Your friend’s already out. Don’t be next.”

It was about as reassuring as MacDonald could get. Had these been Leaguers spouting their fanatical socialist ideals while trying to burn his face with a pulse weapon, he would have shot them all and been done with it. But as scared as this guy was, he was unarmed—even though he had his hands on what amounted to a giant bomb.

“They told us if we got caught, we had to blow the ship,” the man sobbed. “The captain didn’t want to… not Lucy Lee. That’s why they ran. But they told us they’d come for our families if we didn’t. I’ve got three kids staying with my parents.”

Ahmad shifted his aim. The man cringed, his attention drawn away from the controls. He shielded his face as if his palms could deflect incoming projectiles. Instead, MacDonald took advantage of the distraction and clubbed him across the face with the butt of his rifle.

“Hell, Master Chief.” Harrell examined the bindings on the man he’d finished restraining like a chef admiring his favorite dish. “Who’re these poor saps working for?”

“Somebody who’s going to be awfully upset when we come knocking on their door,” MacDonald muttered.

* * *

Carlos whooped. He’d restored partial power to the helm, so he could at least maneuver. He still had no idea where they were, precisely, though he could estimate how far they’d gone on their course. If they could just get comms back online.

A heavy clang reverberated throughout the hull. Lucy Lee shuddered.

“What now?” Akai clung to the back of his chair.

Carlos was surprised the man hadn’t bolted for an escape pod. “Grappling magnets. We’re being drawn off course. Did you hear anything from Engineering?”

Akai straightened, as if remembering who was captain and who was helmsman. “The intercom’s down, but they know what they’re supposed to do.”

Sure. Blow us all to atoms, and our families get a big payout. Frankly, Carlos was relieved nothing of the sort had happened yet. He wanted to enjoy his share of the profit, thanks very much.

The bridge hatch opened. Akai turned, hands on his hips, attempting a ludicrous pose Carlos figured must be meant to reinforce his authority. “Nilsson, if you don’t have a damned good reason why—”

His implied threat was cut off by the chorus of loud, angry voices ordering everyone to “Show hands! On your knees! Nobody moves!”

Three men in power armor, brandishing huge battle rifles, barged throughout the command center. They slammed Akai up against his chair, and forced everyone to the deck.

Carlos knelt, fingers laced behind his head. He stared wide-eyed at the three soldiers, their armor bearing Coalition Defense Force insignia. Hell, there was even a snarling Saurian among them, looking like he was ready to bite heads off.

The leader, a man whose face seemed cut from the bulkhead with a plasma torch, focused on Akai. “You’re the captain?”

“I’m Captain Yoshiro Akai of—”

“Shut up. Rostami? Double-check Comms.”

“They’re still down.” Carlos’s admission stopped the younger soldier en route to the console. “Nobody’s been able to get word out since you did whatever it is you did to shut everything off. How’d you knock out all our systems at once? Some kind of disruptor?”

“Who’re you?”

“Carlos DeSilva, helmsman and first mate. I’m surrendering and ready to help however I can.”

“Carlos! You piece of shit. You open your mouth one more time, and I swear, they won’t be able to find your mother’s bones!”

The lead soldier gestured to the one guarding Akai, who promptly slammed his rifle’s muzzle into the captain’s gut. Akai collapsed, gasping.

“No offense,” the leader said, “but I gave an order to shut up. Discipline has to be maintained.” He approached Carlos, who was all too aware of how close the rifle was to his face. “Your people were ready to blow the reactor rather than be captured. Am I understanding you’ll cooperate so we get names and faces to go with the ‘why’ to that dumbass plan?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t know names and faces, but I can get you whatever’s stored on the ship’s main computer.”

“Awfully cooperative fellow, isn’t he?” The one called Rostami fiddled with the comms console. “Got us a link back to the boat, Master Chief. They’ve taken us in tow.”

“Good deal. Make sure everything stays locked down here. Have Harrell and Mata secure the rest of the crew in one of the holds—after they disable the controls for the airlocks.” The master chief reached for restraints tucked into his belt. “I’m not making any guarantees, Mr. DeSilva, but I am taking you into custody, so you’re not going to die for now. You are going to answer questions until you’re tired of talking.”

Carlos nodded. He didn’t resist as his wrists were bound and secured to his belt buckle. He’d take interrogation over being blown up any day.

* * *

“MacDonald to Tuscon. Target secured. One pulled a gun on us, but Mata stunned him. Won’t be much use for answering questions for a while. Seven other crew, including the captain and a first mate who promises to be chatty. Hope you’ve got friendly faces for him to talk to.”

“Roger, Master Chief. Transfer all prisoners to the brig. We’ll send over a prize crew to man the scow. Nice work. Tuscon out.” Mancini let himself relax at the positive report. Time for the higher-ups to take over. “Pilot, set course to rendezvous with Oxford. Comms, send a tight beam to Major Tamir. Let’s tell the spooks we’ve brought them an early Christmas present.”

12

Kolossi

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

22 July 2464

Jackson read the local news feeds on his tablet as he waited at the Soundwave café, on the edge of town facing the landing fields. The competing networks cast blame on everyone and everything they could, scrambling for explanations that would solve the refugees’ crisis. The Spencer administration issued statements about the situation being contained as experts examined options. Wonder what the talking heads would say if they found out our team was one of those options.

Brant sat at an adjacent table, his back to Jackson. He was wearing a cap and sunshades.

“Nice look,” Jackson said without turning his head or looking away from his tablet. He braced his hand against his mouth as if he were pondering some deep mystery of the universe. “This is why I’m the one who does the theater work.”

“Whatever you say. Thought you’d be interested in an update from Uncle Rob.”

As in, Colonel Sinclair. “How’re his houseguests?”

“Chatty. They’re telling him everything they know about the new neighbors, except their names. That’s the big secret.”

“Not willing to share, or they just don’t know?”

“Uncle Rob says they don’t know and believes them. All the correspondence was done without those specifics. But coupled with the messages I shared with Miranda, we’ll know when the neighbors talk to each other.”

Translated: The codes Brant and Eldred had intercepted and decrypted would let Intelligence access the communications from whomever was buying black-market weaponry from smugglers—probably the League. Given the gear MacDonald had found aboard Lucy Lee, they had something big in the works. “Any word about the spare parts?”

“Secondhand stuff used for wiring in ships.”

Jackson made a face. Command and control linkages. So, the League—assuming it was them—were refitting a vessel. The questions were, What kind, and why? “Thanks for the update. I’ll let you know how my ride goes tonight.”

“I didn’t forget about your safety equipment.”

Good. Sev would be in place in plenty of time to act as overwatch. “Appreciate that. I’ll see you later.”

Jackson wrapped up the remains of his sandwich and paid his tab before departing the café. As he passed Brant, he stumbled, dropping the wrapped food. It sprawled across the table. “Ack! Sorry about that.”

“No problem. Here.” Brant rewrapped the sandwich and handed it back. Jackson could feel the new rectangular lump inside. “Enjoy the meal.”

Jackson got out to the curb, where the yellow hotrod skimmer hovered. Salvatore had let him ride it for the past few days to make sure it was tuned up before it hit the sales block. Jackson smiled. He would hate to turn it back in when everything was all over. Rather than dwelling on the impending separation, he carefully withdrew the upgrade module Brant had stuck inside the wrap. It took less than thirty seconds to swap it with the existing module plucked from his wrist unit. The updates would be done by the time he made it back to the garage.

As he fired up the skimmer and headed back to work, Jackson spotted placards waving in the air above crowds at the landing field. Protestors lined the road leading past the makeshift camp, most of them proclaiming, “Freedom for all!” and “Let them out!” though some argued, “Send them back!”

No reports of any further violence directed toward guards, but even as he watched, an emergency response vehicle raced up to the gate. Bodies smashed against each other on the opposite side of the fence.

Another riot? Jackson hoped not.

He was a couple of blocks away when his comms implant buzzed him. “Echo Two to Echo One.”

Gina. “Echo One, copy. Long time no see—or hear.”

“What can I say? My days have been filled with sightseeing. You wouldn’t believe how much local architecture there is to explore, especially when the handsome young guards posted outside the League consulate are so kind and helpful directing a lonely newcomer around the city.” Jackson couldn’t see her face but could easily imagine Gina’s sly smile. “Say the word, and I’m ready for a more in-depth tour—self-guided, of course.”

The consulate was a holdover from the abortive and laughable treaty established by the Peace Union in place more than a year ago, when shortsighted elements leading the Coalition government thought they could appease the League. The result, a near annihilation of the Terran Coalition. But with the League beaten, its fleets demolished, the consulate and a few others like it had remained as a sort of pilot program while the two governments cautiously felt out the way forward.

Jackson could care less about the political maneuvering. First and foremost, it was a prime asset.

“It can wait until we know the League’s connection for sure,” he said.

“Spoilsport.”

“I don’t need you tripping any alarms before we’re ready to bail you out, you know.”

“Tripping alarms?” Gina tsked in his ear. “I’m hurt, Jack. I really am.”

“I doubt that. Any interesting news on movements?”

“Only their delivery trucks from local food and janitorial vendors. Don’t forget the occasional messengers. I’m forwarding my imagery to Brant. No doubt he’ll be matching happy faces before the day’s out.”

“Nice.”

“And a pair of helpful drones have told me there’s too much weight going in on some of those food trucks.”

“You got the delivery roster?”

“I can tell you every gram of what the Leaguers are eating.” She made a gagging noise. “It’s bland and vile. So whatever else they’re bringing in with the boxes of slop, it’s not a pile of napkins.”

“I knew there was a reason we counted on you to snoop.”

“Because I’m the best?”

“Let’s keep it a secret.”

“Be careful on your ride tonight. Brant told me.”

“Always am. Even more so with Sev watching me. Keep me apprised. Who knows? I might take you up on the self-guided tour.”

Gina laughed. “And have you trip alarms? Echo Two out, darling.”

“Copy, sweetheart.”

Jackson was still chuckling when he pulled up to the front door of the garage. Salvatore was already waiting in the office on the second-floor connector between both blocks of the business, gazing out a row of windows that allowed him to see all the work going on in the garage from either side. Euke stood by the door, wiping grease from his hands.

“Hey, there’s the guy.” Salvatore beckoned him closer. “Close the door.”

Jackson did. “I got your message. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is, I got a courier who can’t courier.” Salvatore shook his head. “Oswald’s come down with some nasty bug. I hope nobody else catches it, ’cause the last thing I need is the rest of us getting sick. I’m making sure he stays home for at least a week. Local medic thinks it’s food poisoning. Last time I order from that place!”

“Nasty.” Of course, that was precisely what the compound Jackson had put in the food was supposed to do. He had no idea what Oswald’s background was, but what mattered was a courier was sick and Salvatore needed a replacement. “When’s the delivery?”

“Easy, kid. You don’t get to go solo on your first run. Euke’s gonna take the goods. You’ll be backup.” Salvatore rested his elbows on the sprawling metal desk covered with plastic order sheets and dented tablets. He pointed at Jackson. “Keep an eye on how he does. Euke’s one of my best—gets in, makes the swap, gets out. We’ve got a good thing going with our clients, but I don’t trust ’em. If they try anything, you make sure the two of you get out with yourselves, and more importantly my skimmers, intact. Got it?”

“Yep, got it.” Jackson smirked at Euke. “What’s the cargo?”

“None of your business.” Euke stuffed the rag into his back pocket. “What’s the total this time, Sal?”

“Twenty thousand. Untraceable chits. Count it.”

“I always do.”

“And I always remind you, so when I count it again, I know it’s right.” Salvatore grinned. “Relax, boys. Jackson here was impressed by his bonus the other day. Well, we keep getting these right, we keep getting a little something extra from our clients.”

“You got it. Anything else I should do?” Jackson asked.

“Yeah. There’s gonna be a lot of activity at this meetup. Forget about all of it except for watching Euke’s back and making sure the deal goes down. Our clients frown on us talking about whatever else goes on. That’s why Reese doesn’t work here anymore.”

“Okay. No blabbing. Check. Where’s Reese work now?”

“He’s not currently employed, and he won’t be employed ever again, by anyone.” Salvatore’s expression hardened. “It’s a lousy thing, but these guys don’t play. And nobody talks. Get your skimmers packed up.”

Euke left the office, his expression one of stony silence. Jackson wondered if Reese had been a friend of his. One thing was certain. He would feel better once he got out in the open knowing Sev was watching his back.

* * *

The meet was set for 2305 hours. Weather conditions were cloudy, which was great for Ehud Dwyer because, if he had to do a flyover in the stealth shuttle, the lousier weather, the better. Plus, a lack of moon and stars only helped ruin visibility.

He was also happy the Kolossi region was a mishmash of woodlands and prairie. It meant he could easily find a clearing in which to stash the shuttle. His job was to drop off Sev and stay on standby to pull both him and Captain Adams out if things went bad. “Y’all stay out of trouble, understand? I didn’t park myself out in the boonies for a solid week so I could practice hammer-eights and breakaways. You just make certain the cap’n doesn’t get himself shot.”

Sev gave him a mock salute and trotted down the ramp. A light mist crept across the meadow where the shuttle had landed. Dwyer didn’t like it. They were hidden half a klick from a ledge overlooking the valley where the private landing field was located. Any fog would sink to the bottom, obscuring Sev’s view.

“Well, the good Lord never asked for any help with the weather,” Dwyer muttered. “Best make use of my time prayin’ and tinkerin’.”

He turned back from the ramp and headed into the shuttle’s cargo space, where he’d left his well-worn Bible sitting on a container next to a flock of explosive aerial drones. He didn’t want to have to use them, but if Sev and the cap’n needed a distraction… “Aw, who am I kiddin’?” Dwyer sat down and glanced at the open Bible. He read from the Gospel of Luke as he continued soldering. “God hates a liar. I can’t wait to set ’em off.”

* * *

Jackson and Euke braked at the landing field’s perimeter. Rusty sensor posts delineated the edge. Maybe one in four were still working. Jackson doubted they were even recording data, powered or not. The posts weren’t the only things in ramshackle condition. Two of the three hangars, each with enough room to host a half dozen barges, had holes in their roofs. Weeds sprouted from the expanse of black tarmac. None of which stopped it from being a temporary hive of activity.

A two-hundred-meter freighter took up much of the space on the field, its gray hull plating pitted by micrometeorites and scored by carbon from numerous reentries. Three barges, each one triple the size of the stealth shuttle, were parked nearest the fence posts. More importantly, Jackson counted eight armed men he could see and at least a dozen more milling around by the freighter.

A man armed with a pulse rifle met Euke. “You’re early.”

“Ease up.” An older, burlier man with a white beard elbowed aside the younger guard. “He’s new, Euke. Not used to your punctuality. But I see you got a new rider too.”

“Oswald’s out for a week, so I brought Jack along to learn the deal. He’ll go solo when needed.”

The old man nodded at Jack. “Come on over. You’ve got the goods?”

Euke unstrapped the bag from the back of his skimmer. He hefted it toward the middle barge. Jackson matched his ambling pace as he scanned everything he could see.

“Your wrist unit’s picking up good visual, Echo One,” Brant said. “Angle a bit toward the freighter—I want to see if we can get a registry ID, faked or not.”

Jackson did as asked, sweeping around by the barges to take sensor reads of them too. His wrist unit had decent sensitivity, however, couldn’t do as much as the handheld units Intelligence fielded. It was a tradeoff meant to reduce the risk of detection—hence why Jackson was only broadcasting basic video instead of a livestream of every byte he could record.

He was more concerned by a few of the twenty men in evidence around the field. Most were dressed in ill-fitting, dirty clothing, like the bearded guy and the young guard left back at the fence, and had a sloppy, careless manner about them—not watching all approaches, chatting too much. A handful, though, couldn’t hide their quiet watchfulness and their stolid manner, even though they wore the same clothes. Their posture was too good, their bearing too proud.

Jackson hooked his thumbs on his belt as Euke set the bag down and unsealed the top. He sent five taps using the transmitter.

“Copy. Five possible ESS or other League assets.” Brant grunted. “I see one of them. Didn’t let him out in the field with a bunch of covert training, did they?”

“Euke.” A tall, bald man of Scandinavian descent brought a small black box out of the barge. He towered over everyone else, a thick blond beard hiding most of his face.

He wasn’t one of the five Jackson had noted. As stern as his face was, his body language was languid. Still, Jackson made sure he was standing so his wrist unit recorded a clear image. He had a tiny tattoo on his left hand, behind the first knuckle—a red arrow, slanting up and to the right, with a cross for its left end. Twin dots speckled the cross.

“Checking for the symbol, though I’ve got a good hunch—yes. It’s the ancient alchemy symbol for iron. The Turkish word for iron is ‘demir.’ Word from the interrogations is Demir takes the Orbita and sells it on the street. The supplier gets a cut, and so do the delivery boys.”

The cartel then got the drug to market. It had to be the League supplying, same as they were sneaking it into the refugee camps.

But if Demir’s getting money back to the League, what’s it for? If it were me, Jackson pondered, I’d use it to fund whatever operation I was running. No strings.

“Evening, Arvid,” Euke said. “It’s all here.”

“Ja. I’m sure. I will count all the same. You will too.” Arvid held his palm atop the box.

The lid slid open. He handed it to Euke then knelt for the open bag so he could examine the contents. Orbita. Hundreds of pouches of tiny white tablets, microthin and wrapped in neat, twenty-dose batches.

Jackson pushed out of his mind how many people would be addicted. He wasn’t here to interdict, not yet. The goal was to trace the Orbita back to the supplier. One step at a time. It didn’t improve his mood any, so he forced himself to whistle and shake his head. “Talk about a score.”

Euke nodded. He mouthed numbers as he counted through the payment chits stacked in the bag. Jackson did too—forty chits. Euke pressed one. The number “500” glowed. He repeated the process for each one, fast but deliberate.

“I confirmed your cut is ten percent, split as your boss sees fit. Do you concur?”

“I concur.”

Jackson found it almost ridiculously formulaic, but then again, he wouldn’t begrudge a man of Arvid’s size any ceremony.

“But your parcel is short.”

The old man and young guard were back, their rifles raised. Arvid’s hand rested on the butt of a plasma pistol on his belt.

“Ah, Echo One? Sev’s telling me there’s movement at the freighter. Those five guys are taking a keen interest in your gathering. Get clear.”

Jackson quick-tapped his belt twice to signal everyone monitoring, Stand by. “Whoa, hey, what’s the problem? What’s he talking about, Euke?”

“I don’t understand. I counted before we left the garage.” Euke’s tone brooked no argument, and if he was scared, he didn’t let it show. “Three hundred sixty packets, banded in a dozen.”

“There’s three hundred thirty-six. One packet’s missing.” Arvid drew his pistol.

“Guys.” Jackson moved between them. “Let’s relax, okay? It’s gotta be a mistake.”

“Sev is locked on him. If things go wrong, he’s going to take the shot. Those are your orders.”

Dammit. Jackson pressed his hand to Euke’s shoulder. “Hey. What if they got dropped in the garage? We should go back and check. It’s got to be a mistake.”

“Or else someone is taking what isn’t theirs. I told Salvatore I wouldn’t abide pilfering. Once Demir makes a deal, we expect it to be adhered to—by all parties.” Arvid gestured with the gun.

His two guards took up positions to surround them.

“There’s no need. We can sort this out,” Euke said. “Let me contact Salvatore.”

“If anyone is going to contact Salvatore, it will be one of our people. And we’ll drag him back here if we need to.”

One of the five men jogged over. “What’s going on? Get him out of here.”

“There’s a discrepancy in the delivery.”

“Then sort it out later!” he hissed. “We’re transferring.”

And they were. Jackson could see a line of people being forced to walk from the freighter to a fourth barge, which he hadn’t spotted when they’d first approached. It was tucked around the back of a damaged hangar, visible through a gaping hole in the curved wall.

“Echo One, Deadeye is ready to execute. Do we have a green light? He can take all four of them.”

No. They would blow any chance of the operation succeeding. Jackson fixed the thought foremost in his mind because he could tell on further inspection that the people being herded weren’t adults. They were teenagers and younger.

He raised his hands, hoping to keep anyone from doing anything rash—he didn’t want Sev to fire, and he didn’t want any of these tense thugs doing likewise. He also hoped the wrist unit could get every pixel recorded from that range. “Let’s be fair about this. I’ll call Salvatore. Keep me here, and send Euke back. Send him with somebody if you need to. Treat me as collateral.”

Arvid considered the proposition. For a second, Jackson thought about giving the go signal. Clean shots. He could make a run for the skimmer, drag Euke along.

“Go,” Arvid said. “Hans, take Euke. Both skimmers. Make it clear his refusal to cooperate will cost him another courier, and this time, we won’t do him the courtesy of telling him where to find Jack, like we did Reese.”

Euke glanced at Jackson. “Are you sure?”

“Don’t worry about me.” Jackson smiled. “I’ll hang out here.”

“I don’t care who stays where, but it can’t be here,” the young man snarled. “Move it!” He stormed back to the freighter.

Arvid made a face in his wake but gestured for Hans—the bearded man—to escort Euke back to the skimmers.

“You, it seems, will have to trust your colleagues,” Arvid said.

“I’m a pretty trusting guy.” Jackson leaned against the barge, thinking, It’s up to them now.

* * *

“Shit!” Brant winced as soon as the word left his mouth. He glanced at the ceiling and made the sign of the cross. “Sorry. A plan’s not a plan until it survives first contact with disaster… Echo Three, this is Echo Home.”

“Shoot, Echo Home. This is Echo Three. What’s all the commotion? Sev tells me two skimmers went a-hightailin’ it out of there—”

“There’s a barge around the hangars getting ready to launch. Once it does, follow in and report back.”

“Yeah, that’s my plan, but the cap’n—”

“Send out your drones. Have them ready to spark.”

“Understood.”

Brant heard the shuttle’s engines hum to life.

“Prayers for the cap’n. Echo Three out.”

You’re telling me. Brant switched channels. “Echo Four, this is Echo Home. Copy.”

“Over.” Sev sounded bored, like he was birdwatching. “Go.”

“Hold your position. The second Echo One gives us the signal—”

“Execute.”

“Roger that.”

“You?”

Brant sighed. “I’m calling Gina in.”

13

Kolossi

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

22 July 2464

Gina Wilkes strolled up to the front of Salvatore’s Ground Effect Garage in the middle of the night as if she were ready for business.

The street was hardly deserted. Crowds of people, mostly young, wandered between bars and restaurants. Laughter echoed along the buildings, mingled with thumping music. Police drones flitted here and there, but by Gina’s eye, the only crime going on was public intoxication. She giggled, staggered, and bumped against the side of Salvatore’s front door.

The heavy barrier at the front of the shop was lowered. Skimmers for sale on the sidewalk had been stored in a neat row inside. Gina spoke into her comm as she leaned on the door, interspersing her slurred conversation with giggles. “But I’m so sorry you couldn’t make it! I know. I know! Be there next time, promise. Yes, I know…”

None of the passersby were focused—or sober—enough to pay attention, which she appreciated because she was running out of inane fake conversation by the time her lockbreaker flashed green. A series of buttons on the access panel clicked in the correct order, and the door popped open.

“Knock, knock,” Gina murmured.

No alarms triggered, either audible ones or those recorded on her wrist unit. Brant had been kind enough to tap into the building’s network to watch, but he hadn’t touched the security systems because he feared tipping off Salvatore. Gina wasn’t bothered. This was her specialty.

She eased inside, shedding her coat, revealing a skintight jumpsuit, black but for deep-violet tinges. The coat went under the folded signboard advertising fifteen percent off refurbished skimmers. She pulled a mask up and over her hair, which was secured in a tight bun, and down her face. The embedded sensors converted the darkened room into an amber backlit space, courtesy of the night vision setting.

“Echo Two, Echo Home. Switch your scanner over to ‘Narcotic.’ It’ll pick up the traces, same as Echo One’s device.”

Gina grimaced. How does Jack stand it, having someone mutter in his ear without being able to respond? That was why she didn’t let anyone but him stay on live comms with her unless they could have a two-way conversation. But she did as instructed. The device immediately pulsed against her skin as she swung her hand back and forth so it could ping any residual molecules of Orbita.

She swept her way across the garage, mindful of every piece of equipment, building a mental map forward and backward should she have to bolt. Gina opened a breaker box rimmed in red emergency markings and ran her finger down the panel, cutting the power.

Footsteps creaked upstairs. Gina froze. The owner’s apartment took up the second floor along with his offices. She checked her scanner. No indication of enough Orbita concentration for the two missing bundles to be down in the garage. They could have been lost outside, but given Salvatore’s record, it’s likely he pilfered and is willing to let the blame fall on his hapless employees. Which means the bundles are upstairs, in one place or another.

She needed Salvatore out of the apartment and absent from his offices, which meant she needed him downstairs—where she was.

Gina frowned. It’s never easy. She picked up a calibration tool from a workbench, held it at arm’s length, and let it fall to the concrete floor. The clang was as loud as a gunshot.

“Ah, you know I’m monitoring your audio, Echo Two? I heard that. Pretty sure half the block did too.”

She pressed the transmitter embedded in her sleeve to signal “Stand by.” Too bad there isn’t a sequence for “Shut up.”

Instead Gina padded across the floor to the racks bolted into the opposite wall, where the stairwell descended from upstairs. Salvatore’s thudding footsteps closed in. The second-floor door slammed open.

Gina pressed herself to the shelves. They were solid. She gave them a test shake. Only the barest shimmy.

“Who’s down there?”

She heard a switch flip right after his question, then Salvatore swore. The switch clicked a few more times.

“Damned lights gone out?”

“Negative on adequate traces,” Brant said. “You’ve got fifteen minutes until the two riders arrive from the airfield. Echo Four has overwatch on Echo One.”

Gina wasn’t worried about Jack. He could handle himself—always had, always would. Sev, though, could only stay tethered for so long before his urge to potshot Leaguers—and by extension, anyone working with them—took hold. She pressed her back to the shelves and slowed her breathing. Steady. Prepare.

The sound of Salvatore’s shoes on the steps changed pitch when they hit the concrete floor at their base.

Gina grasped the sides of the shelving and flipped up, feetfirst, until she faced into the shelves upside down. She held herself aloft, muscles tight, ankles crossed so they wouldn’t waver.

“Anybody’s in here, you better clear out.”

Salvatore was a large shadow below and to her left, ten meters away. She could discern the outline of a gun, not aimed at her, yet. He fumbled with something. A beacon’s beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the closed garage doors.

Gina climbed up the shelves, arms doing all the work, until her legs wrapped around the stairwell’s railing. She twisted midair, straining her midsection and arms, until she grasped the railing with both hands.

Salvatore swung his beacon around, shining it deeper into the garage. The rear doors to the alley gleamed in the golden light. “Last chance to clear out before I call the police!”

Gina suppressed a snort. Judging by the profile Brant had assembled on Salvatore Benson’s life, he would sooner leap out an airlock without a spacesuit into the face of a supernova than contact local law enforcement. If he didn’t bribe them before the call, they were just as likely to find something to arrest him for than they were to chase off any potential intruders.

Not her problem at the moment. She slid over the railing, the soft soles of her suit touching the upper steps. The door hung half-open where Salvatore had slammed it. Gina moved as fast as she dared, making no sound but trying not to creep since she was on a deadline.

Apartment to the left. Office to the right. The apartment’s door was a sliding screen, which was open wide into a room dimly lit by the city’s glow outside. The office? Shut, but the locks were electronic.

Salvatore called out another threat, that time from closer to the back door. Good. He was still searching.

The scanner pulsed where she stood into the apartment. Swinging it toward either door didn’t help narrow her choices. Gina ducked into his apartment.

Nothing but the basics there—bedroom, bathroom, small kitchen, living area in between all three with a huge curving entertainment screen and twin holographic projectors. Food wrappers were scattered on a divan. Gina panned her scanner through the room, but it gave her no indication of Orbita—not even traces.

Scratch one. Next room.

She went back into the hall.

Salvatore’s footsteps and grumbling increased in volume. A glow rippled up the stairwell as he reached the bottom.

Blast. Gina opened the office door and slipped inside as Salvatore tromped back upstairs, his irritation evident in the speed and volume of his steps. She closed the door behind her then crouched just beyond its reach, waiting.

Salvatore stopped at the entrance to his apartment. She could see part of his face in the glass, a dark, shadowy frown assessing the situation. She swept her hand to the back of her belt, where the truncheon was clipped. If necessary, a press of a button and she would have a meter-long staff, as slender as her pinky, with a powerpack capable of incapacitating four men at once and variable intensity settings.

Of course, there was also the pocket pistol on her opposite flank. She could shoot him. Then the threat would end. But that wasn’t the mission. Gunplay was a last resort and, for an infiltration, would mean she’d been sloppy. Gina would feel worse about that result than killing Salvatore.

Salvatore turned from the door, hands on his hips. He seemed to consider something, muttering softly, and still wouldn’t go into his apartment. Gina’s right foot shifted. She was ready to spring. He sighed and shook his head, then headed into the other room. The screen slid shut.

Gina exhaled. Finally. Without rising from her crouch, she aimed her scanner into the office. The pulse was quicker, more insistent.

“Echo Two, results indicate there’s a considerable source within a few meters. I’ll route the approximate location to your mask’s visor.”

A red smear appeared on the fringe of her peripheral vision, staining the amber night vision. It was in Salvatore’s desk—or rather, on it, as Gina saw when she stood slowly. Two bundles of Orbita underneath a sheaf of work orders. She lifted the orders with one hand, plucked the bundles with the other, and let the sheaf fall back into place with the gentle drift of autumn leaves.

The visual resurrected her memories of Tagneaux. She wondered if her brothers had improved their lot or were back in jail. Falling in with CDF Intelligence had been her only way out of that dead-end planet. At least she could send Mother a steady stream of income to supplement her regular pay. At times like those, Gina could see why people were lured by the League’s socialist siren song. Who wouldn’t mind having a guaranteed job and food on the table?

Of course, it came at the price of the government monitoring their every move and trying to read their every thought. Gina sneered. League or Coalition, she wasn’t about to let either restrain her. Convenient arrangements could always change. After all, even Jack had proven his loyalty lay more with his country than with her. She resolved not to take it personally.

And yet, you have to keep reminding yourself, don’t you?

Gina shook her head and tucked the Orbita into her belt. She squeezed her sleeve to signal she was exiting.

“Confirmed, Echo Two. Inbound skimmers, ETA eight minutes.”

Eight minutes? Gina sighed. Introspection slowed her down.

She paused at the top of the stairs and made sure the light switch was in the off position, then returned to the breaker box to reenable the power. All that was left was to peer out the front window, making sure the proverbial coast was clear, before stepping back outside. Gina doffed her mask, put on her coat, and made sure her hair was sufficiently mussed.

The few people walking past on the opposite side of the street would have seen a beautiful young woman leaving Salvatore’s in the middle of the night, blowing a kiss as the door closed. No doubt there would be hazy conversation about who she was and how a guy like Salvatore was lucky, but the promise of parties would draw anyone so distracted away from the scene.

Gina fumbled with her comm intentionally, let it hit the pavement, then knelt to retrieve it. The Orbita packets dropped beside the curb.

Four minutes later, two skimmers buzzed down the street, their hover nodules whipping up dust and debris. The two riders dismounted—Jack’s mark, Euke, and a bearded fellow Brant had tentatively IDed as Hans from audio and video surveillance. Euke looked positively ill, while Hans wore a stern, grandfatherly expression, which was incongruous with the rifle slung over his back.

Gina kept the scene in her periphery from across the street as she chatted with the tall, handsome young man whose arm she’d snagged as he walked toward a nightclub on the next block. He gaped in awe at what she assumed he considered his sudden shift in fortune.

Cute, in his own way, but not while I’m working.

“What’s, uh, your name?”

“Brandy.” She winked at him. “What’s yours?”

Euke bent, examining something on the ground. His face brightened as he rose, the bundles in his hands. He pointed, his gestures emphatic as he spoke to Hans, who Gina noticed seemed disappointed.

Poor fellow. I denied him the chance to shed blood. How cruel.

“Retrieval confirmed, Echo Two. Always impressive. I’ll pass notice to the rest. Their salvation is on its way.”

A fine night’s work. Gina glanced at her wrist unit. Enough time, she supposed, for a dance or two.

* * *

Jackson didn’t know how much longer he could hold his smile, so he was glad when Euke and Hans returned on their skimmers. He’d been expecting gunshots to drop targets around him. He’d also expected Salvatore to call back in an outrage, but Arvid couldn’t make his signal go through, courtesy of Brant’s handiwork.

“Found the rest of it,” Hans said. “Got dropped by the curb. We found it right there. Guess we’re lucky no one partying on Halys picked it up to add to the fun.”

“Yes. Lucky for Salvatore’s people, especially this one.” Arvid gestured. “You go, both of you. Tell Salvatore we expect less sloppiness next time. And to remind you…”

Jackson saw the punch coming. He had a second to decide whether to dodge, to block, or to take it. As Captain Jackson Adams, he was more than capable of defending himself, especially against a blow as telegraphed as that. But as Jack Avery, mechanic and troublemaker, he knew what he had to do.

He let the punch take him on the jaw.

“No!” Euke caught Jackson before he could go all the way to the ground. “He’s new. He didn’t foul up. It was my mistake.”

“True. Now you see your mistakes have consequences for others.” Arvid kicked the bag of pay chits so they scattered on the grass. “Get moving.”

He and his crew cleared out.

Jackson rubbed his jaw. The bruise would earn him credit. Dwyer would run a medscan on him per protocol. “Thanks. For having my back. Literally, it turns out.”

“It was supposed to be your job to have mine.” Euke’s tone was like a cross schoolteacher, but there was a smirk to his expression. “I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Let’s get the money back to our boss and hope our cut’s better than my last bonus.”

They mounted their skimmers. Jackson glanced back at the hangar concealing the barge, the one into which people had been loaded. Engines whined as they fired up.

“Send to Salvatore we’re on our way back.” Euke gunned his engine.

“I will.” Jackson tapped the message onto his wrist comm then sent a second on a different, secure frequency. E1 to EH. Task E3 shadow barge. Ship data to B1.

“Ready?”

“Sure. But…” Jackson frowned. It was easy to put on a concerned face. “What’s the deal with those people?”

“One of those things I told you we don’t speak about.”

“To others. Between us though, where’d they come from? Off that freighter?” Jackson blew out a breath. “I read on the networks there’s a whole bunch of people up in orbit—those dirty Leaguers—and I saw some at the Kolossi Landing Field.”

“They’re not League anymore. They’re nobody.” Euke gripped the skimmer controls. “Which is why they’re taken.”

“Man. Those guys out there with Orbita and stolen people…”

“Drop it. That punch was a nice, kind warning compared to how they deal. Keep your mouth shut, and forget about everyone but yourself, about the jobs.”

Euke raced off. Jackson followed, avoiding his dust cloud. The barge’s engine roared overhead as the craft cleared the hangars.

“Sparks is waiting on Deadeye, then they’re airborne,” Brant said. “They’ll hang back. I’ve transmitted everything we have on the ship to Base One and their units. Want Echo Three to force the target down?”

He could authorize it. Dwyer would stalk the barge, find a way to disable it, but that would be risky for the people—the youths—being trafficked. The subtler option was to call the local LEOs anonymously and give them the landing coordinates when the barge arrived at its destination. Risks. A lot of them.

Jackson lowered a visor to keep the grit from his face as he raced back toward the city.

* * *

Sev jogged up the ramp, but Dwyer didn’t wait for him to take a seat—hell, he didn’t even wait for him to get all the way inside the cargo hold. The stealth shuttle was already ten meters off the ground by the time Sev stowed his gear and strapped into the copilot’s seat.

“Where?” Sev asked.

“North by northeast.” Dwyer raised the ramp and pushed forward on the throttles. He lifted the shuttle into the cloud cover, where he could disguise their flight path while scanners tagged the barge. “Cap’n wants us to keep our eye on it.”

“Then?”

“Nothing. Not a damn thing.” Dwyer scowled. “He’s worried about tippin’ our hand too soon with the League, lettin’ them know what we know and that somebody’s on their six. I don’t like it one bit.”

Sev nodded. “Bad. But smart.”

“Yeah, I s’pose. Doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.” Dwyer turned the shuttle onto a new vector then locked in a pursuit course. “And here I was hopin’ we’d get to burn a few Leaguers out of the sky.”

14

Kolossi

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

23 July 2464

They met early the next morning at Gina’s apartment.

The loft was spacious, clean, befitting her personality. No clutter, furnishing with simple, spare pieces. A trio of houseplants added needed color splashes to the dull décor.

Jackson sat on the couch opposite Brant and Dwyer, leaning toward the holographic display emitting from Brant’s tablet. It was a 3D recreation of the secret field they’d visited last night, complete with miniature hangars, ships, and people.

“I ran everything we got on the five possible Leaguers past Oxford. Zip.” Brant flicked his fingers inside the holo then poked at all five men. Their hazy green figures turned red. “They’re going to send the details up the chain to Intelligence back on Canaan. Those men might have been used in prior operations, but if they were, we don’t have anything yet.”

“How about the freighter?” Jackson asked.

“I kept her on scanner until she broke atmosphere, but Sev and I were busy doggin’ the barge you had loaded with people.” Dwyer sipped a cup of coffee. He had dark circles under his eyes. Not a lot of sleep. Not a lot for any of them.

Jackson rubbed at his face. “If you’ve got a problem, Warrant, I expect to hear it.”

Dwyer grimaced. He glanced at Brant.

“Don’t look at me, Sparks. You know the drill,” Brant said.

“Yes, sir. We should’ve helped those people, dropped in Sev—he could have taken everyone aboard who wasn’t a refugee without a fuss.”

Sev perched in the corner of the room, watching through slit blinds at the League consulate across the street. He peeled skin from an orange, one thumb-sized portion at a time. He nodded at Dwyer. “True.”

“I don’t doubt you’d have succeeded, Sev, but anything we do to draw attention to ourselves now ruins our chances at exposing the League’s involvement in the refugee crisis. That’s why I didn’t send us in and why we didn’t contact authorities.”

“I know, Cap’n. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Fine. Your complaint will go in the after-action report.” Jackson steepled his hands in front of his face. “Anyone else?”

Brant shook his head. “Back to the freighter, Captain.”

“Right.”

“It slipped orbit not long after. I sent the scans on to Oxford and from there to Tuscon. They passed word to TCFE, who was supposed to keep a closer eye, but they lost it.”

Gina snorted.

“It’s not funny,” Brant muttered. “It’s criminal. I don’t care how many ships are in orbit. Border should be able to track a single freighter when we give them the precise scan data. Even worse is Oxford and dropping the ball. How are we supposed to—”

“Hold on, LT. This isn’t a disaster.” Jackson scratched his chin as he gazed at the holo of the freighter. “It’s just another piece of the puzzle.”

“Always the optimist, aren’t you, Jack?” Gina asked.

“I’m serious. If all three parties lost the freighter on their sensors, we have to assume it was because of the freighter itself and its controllers rather than incompetence on the part of two CDF Intelligence vessels and TCFE, which means we’re not dealing with a stock cargo vessel.”

“Stealth tech?” Gina pursed her lips. “A bit high budget for League, but they’ve done it before.”

“At Van Sant.”

Gina smiled. “Our first mission. How nostalgic.”

Brant blew out a breath. “The ship they ran at Van Sant was a modified gunboat, adaptable to stealth. This is an old tramp freighter, not much younger than the Lucy Lee scow Tuscon picked up. You’d have to put it through a major refit, strip it down to the struts, just to incorporate the hardware.”

“Which points to the League’s long game.”

“What’re we lookin’ at here?” Dwyer drained the rest of his coffee. “From what I saw on our replay of greatest hits, there’s all kinds of drugs, money, and people changing hands. Who’s getting what?”

Jackson tapped a command into his tablet. A chart of circles appeared in the air over the scene. “I’ve been working on that.”

“In between fixing skimmers,” Gina said. “Which, by the way, I saw the work orders on Salvatore’s desk. There are quite a few with your name on them.”

“What can I say? My skills are in demand, as were yours. Thanks again for bailing me out.”

“Not at all. Can’t wait for the next opportunity.”

Jackson grinned then indicated the chart. “Here’s what we have. Demir cartel—they run local drugs, covering most of Kolossi with tentacles out to a dozen other settlements on Aphendrika. Up until six months ago, they peddled everything except Orbita. The latter started showing up not long before the influx of refugees, but Demir isn’t the supplier. Salvatore’s is one of the businesses running as couriers—bringing Orbita to Demir. Demir pays up then marks it up and sells it on the streets. Kudos to Gina for confirming.”

“It’s not a problem to spot, not if you know where to look.” Gina leaned back and crossed her ankles on the table. Her bare toes wriggled the holos. “West Halys isn’t the only place to party. I’ve scoped out most of them. Orbita’s spreading. But I haven’t yet seen anyone moving product out of the consulate—which has been my prime target for a source point.”

“You’re thinking the delivery trucks. Any luck with facial recognition or other scans?”

“Not according to our resident tech.” Gina winked at Brant.

“Well, it hasn’t been for lack of trying. I found one possible…” Brant swiped a close-up photo. “This guy.”

Jackson squinted. The image was fuzzy, but the bare, dour face didn’t ring any bells for him from around the shop or Salvatore’s customers. The dirty face and scarred features weren’t anything that would stand out in a crowd. The cybernetic eye would draw a bit more attention, but only marginally so.

“Mark him as Case One.”

“Done and done, Captain. I’ll let you know if anyone else matches up.”

“Okay. So… League provides Orbita to Demir. Demir sells it, but they also pay up, presumably, to the League. We have to prove the connection.” Jackson waved his hand at the holo scene. “The money, though—it’s funding.”

“Makes sense to me,” Dwyer said. “If the League’s skulkin’ about, they’d want a steady source of cash, and getting deliveries from socialist turf would be risky.”

“Even electronically,” Brant pointed out. “All financial transactions inside the League are monitored, tracked, and the Coalition keeps a sharp eye on anything that comes across the border into neutral space.”

“Drug money. An easy cash flow.” Jackson frowned. “Of course, we can also assume if the Orbita is coming from the League to Demir, it’s one of the two who are getting it into the Kolossi camp and the refugee ships.”

“League could be funneling it through another source,” Brant said. “The criminal elements in the camp could be Demir—”

“Or the League could pay an out-of-work young person to drive by in a hovercraft and wing a couple packets over the fence,” Gina said. “With all the protestors lurking around the fences, it’s a wonder TCFE doesn’t clear them out down the street with Active Denial or stun rounds.”

“Forget about Border for now,” Jackson said. “They’ve proven they’re as porous as a strainer. When it comes to the refugees, and the trafficking, we know the League is trafficking. Based on the reports coming from the freighters to Border, they’re either straight operatives or they’re local agents—probably both. Signal Oxford, and crosscheck what we scanned from the scene with what’s come from the refugee ships.”

“We got the coordinates on where the barge landed,” Dwyer added. “Ain’t but a thing to sit on it for a while, see where people get taken.”

“If not us, we’ll get local LEOs to do it. The trafficking is another source of income for whatever the League’s real game is.” Jackson traced his finger through the chart. “Money from drugs, money from human trafficking—for what? I’m willing to bet if we find out where the freighter went to, we’ll get some more answers.”

“What’s the play in the meantime?” Gina indicated the consulate through the windows. “If it’s more answers you want, let me go looking in there. Brant’s been kind enough to help prepare me.”

As if on cue, the apartment’s lights, and everything else electronic, flickered and died—everything save Brant’s setup.

He grinned. “Funny. This section of town and a few others are experiencing power hiccups. Usually just for a few minutes, but they’ve been lasting longer.” He checked his wrist comm then tapped a couple of commands on his tablet. The lights came back on.

“Just be sure no vital systems are affected—medical centers, local law enforcement, and the like,” Jackson cautioned.

“Already worked into the algorithm, Captain.”

“Good. For the moment, I’ll keep my ear to the ground inside Salvatore’s. Brant has his marching orders in terms of data. When we’re finished here, everyone leaves by their preassigned exit vectors, staggered.” Jackson deactivated the holo. “Standard protocol. You first, Lieutenant.”

Brant gathered his gear. “Lucky me. Sev, I’ll see you back at the post.”

“Not right now.” Jackson turned around. “It’s time for him to put some pressure on Demir.”

Sev nodded. “Very good.”

* * *

The warehouse boasted four thousand square meters of storage. Racks towered four stories with conveyors linking the upper levels. Elevators and even more conveyors could shunt whatever goods were needed from one end of the building to the other. The far third of the warehouse opened to allow shuttles to land. Two were nestled in the northwest corner, leaving ample room for one of the barges that had been part of the secret rendezvous the other night.

Sevastopol Rast watched the warehouse from a broken window in a dilapidated structure across the street. His sniper rifle perched on a tripod, the muzzle aimed into the yawning shutters allowing access. He saw people milling about from his vantage point, each of them miniature figures, like toys.

He’d had toys decades ago. He could still feel their rough plastic forms, cooled from his father’s 3D printer. The printer was supposed to be used for his work, creating replacement parts for the local commissar’s robots, but Father would sneak whatever he could to supplement the Rast household’s dreary existence. When everything around them was endless blocks of numbingly uniform concrete housing cubes, lined up in a grid across the outskirts of Warsaw, the blooms of rainbow plastic were luxury.

Rainbow like the flowers in Gina’s apartment. Sev hated them.

His directives were clear. Wait until the barge was being unloaded, then coordinating with Warrant Dwyer, well, he would interrupt the process.

No deaths. Sev would acquiesce. Captain Adams was a good man. Unnecessary death burdened him. He had an artist’s soul, for all he hid behind rules and regulations. He had simply found his true calling then a way to apply that calling to fighting for his nation, for the freedom of his people. Sev admired that. He had learned to do the same.

Sev sighted on a squat robot with broad shoulders as it carried Orbita from the open duffel bag and placed bundles inside various other containers. Some were rugged bags. Others were boxes labeled with local delivery or business markings. Still others had plastic taped over a logo, though he couldn’t make out for what company.

“Sev, when you’re working with clay, you must mind your hands.” Mother worked on a government farm combine. She repaired machinery but nursed a desire to be a potter. A few people paid her in food and other goods for her pieces. Even with his finger poised over the trigger, Sev could feel her warm hands enveloping his tiny ones.

“You need only a little pressure. See what your little hands can do…? No, no, you are tense. Relax. Breathe out.”

Yes, Mother. Sev took a breath then let it out slowly. The air trickled between his lips.

Hold. Pause. Fire. He pulled the trigger. The shot hit the bot’s head in the center of a broad, glassy optical port. The incendiary round ripped the head clean off, tearing it apart even as it exploded in a small but brilliant fireball.

Cartel thugs shouted and scattered. They all ducked—good training. But they drew their guns, close-range plasma weapons, looking for a nearby target.

Let me give them one.

Sev had a palm-sized device fixed to his tripod. He found the flat panel without looking, his fingers pressed against the side. Warrant Dwyer said it would read an individual finger’s pressure and prints when he chose. He pressed with his pinky.

A second explosion sent a ripple up the east side of the building, toppling containers and sending a rack squealing from its bolts. It crashed into its neighbor. More boxes fell. The cries reached Sev down the street as the debris pinned several men.

It sounded to Sev like one of Warrant Dwyer’s drones, the units he’d been unable to deploy last night, had found its mark. Sev hoped Lieutenant Guinto was getting a good read off their telemetry—they were, after all, recording whatever data they could prior to Sev destroying them.

The cartel people sprinted out of the warehouse to a collection of hovercraft and customized trucks waiting inside the fenced yard. No, fellows, too soon to leave. Sev fired three more rounds in rapid succession, making sure to pause his breathing for at least six seconds before shooting. One round exploded inside the windscreen of an off-road, eight-wheeled vehicle. A man fell out, slapping at flames that licked his jacket. The other two pierced the powerplant on the back end of a hovercraft—an expensive model. Sev wondered at how much it could have been sold for to feed his family, back on Earth, before it, too, erupted into a fireball.

The drug runners had regrouped behind hulking heavy-lift mechanized suits. Each one was the size of a mastodon skeleton—Where have I seen one? Sev frowned. Surely from an Earth educational video. Was there a museum near my home?

The suits gave the cartel cover enough to deploy their own weapons. Plasma blasts struck the building beneath and around him. Dust shivered from exposed supports. Sev frowned. Unacceptable. He pressed another button.

Incendiary rounds fired from guns secreted in another unoccupied building situated ninety degrees from the address of Sev’s hiding place. The shots sparked inside in the barge’s open cargo hatch. Sparks. Warrant Dwyer would appreciate that. Sev added to the confusion by detonating another pair of drones, one farther back in the warehouse and another ten meters over the crouching group of drug runners.

Their shots went wild after that as they diverted fire to the other building and the rear of the warehouse. Meanwhile, flames caught the stacked Orbita ablaze. More bundles smoldered.

A good start, but I have two more drones remaining. Sev removed the rifle’s magazine, found a second, smaller magazine on his belt, and rammed it home. He sighted, breathed, paused, and shot again.

The round zipped into the Orbita, releasing nothing but a puff from where it dispersed the drug. Within seconds, twin airborne robots buzzed at the stack from opposite directions and exploded. Flames turned the profitable, addictive drug into a mound of blackened, smoldering goo as flames melted it from the inside.

Emergency klaxons sounded. Red drones with white stripes, emblazoned with the logo of the city’s firefighting services, appeared on the horizon. The squadron of six bots paid no heed to the ongoing gunfire or the scattered cartel members, concentrating instead on putting out the blazes, like they’d been programmed to do. They emitted low, rumbling sounds without unleashing any visible propellant. The wave extinguishers battered the fires into submission like a pack of groaning beasts. Again, Sev wondered about the mastodon. Had it sounded anything like these artificial creatures?

More sirens and klaxons approached. His wrist comm buzzed. Emergency services en route. Patrol and Fire. Recommend withdrawal.

Sev tapped his preprogrammed response, Copy. He set the final triggers. Deep thumps came from the building across the way, where his remote guns were stationed. Smoke poured from the windows—and from a floor below him, where he’d planted a separate flash bomb. All spark and smoke, as Warrant Dwyer would call it. Sev stripped his rifle and tripod, stashing them in his backpack, leaving only the base module as a compact semiautomatic weapon tucked inside his jacket.

As he went down the back stairs, he paused to draw a mark on the hallway door with a permanent marker—a red circle, bisected by three equal diagonal slashes.

One gang war, as ordered.

* * *

Dusk painted the sky its usual vibrant colors. Jackson watched from his apartment with the local news network running off his tablet in the corner of the room.

“Unnamed authorities familiar with the case indicate the Red Ring cartel, which has made inroads among the narcotics traffic over the past decade, was responsible for the raid. Police arrested several members of the dominant Demir cartel fleeing the warehouse, which was leased to a third-party holding company registered in neutral space. So far, authorities say they have received no information about where Demir got its Orbita supplies, which were burned up in the attack. The CDF has publicized the League of Sol’s introduction of the drug to Coalition space at Gilead during the last few years of the war…”

Jackson smiled. Let the local Leaguers feel the heat for a while, now that the general populace is aware Orbita is out in the open. Of course, Red Ring would deny any role in the attack, but their denial wouldn’t stop Demir from striking back. Eventually, they would lose enough money and people to sit down. Constant warring was bad for business. In the short term, though, the disruption of Orbita sales was a win.

“Should interrupt Salvatore’s courier runs too,” Jackson murmured to the empty room. “Though if Demir needs those damaged skimmers repaired, that could be helpful.”

The imagery on the tablet’s projected wall screen shifted to a long line of fencing. “The Cypriot Crisis continues, though with a bright spot of good news—forty-six refugees were rescued from what was an apparent attempt at trafficking. Rumor has circulated for some months that the League refugees arriving in our system have been targeted by criminals, but this wasn’t proven until late last night, when police received an anonymous tip…”

No. Jackson slumped into a seat. He ran his hand through his hair.

The recording showed uniformed patrol officers leading teenaged children of varied races, all dressed in tattered clothing, out of a barge—the barge Sparks had tracked from the hidden landing field.

He was relieved the children were going to be reunited with their families—albeit either back aboard the orbiting ships or crammed inside Kolossi Landing’s makeshift camp. But the police would involve the Coalition Bureau of Investigation, which would conduct its own investigation. Both would complicate matters for Unit 171, which hadn’t alerted either to its presence out of an abundance of caution when it came to possible League infiltrators in either organization.

Someone had called the police—someone who knew where the ship was going and what cargo it carried, someone who was trying to be a hero, someone who had put the entire operation in jeopardy.

“The League,” Jackson said, “is not going to be happy.”

15

Secret League Facility

Aphendrika System—Terran Coalition

24 July 2464

Forty-six people. Kiel didn’t care about their age. Adult or not, they were either fleeing the League or dumped outside its borders, which meant they didn’t matter—not as persons, as individuals. What mattered was their price. Between eight and twelve thousand apiece. Kiel squeezed the tablet until the screen developed a dent. Half a million credits.

Ferenc and Arvid waited for a response, a sound, anything to indicate his reaction. Kiel wouldn’t let them see his fury. Arvid shifted his stance, twice, three times, until he settled onto a lopsided container. Ferenc stared, arms folded.

Blast and damn, Kiel fumed. One of these days, I will get a rise from the man, short of pulling a trigger in his face. “Where are they?”

“As near as we can tell, being held at Kolossi camp, while TCFE attempts to reunite them with their families, if they have any,” Ferenc said. “I’ve heard they’ve had some success.”

“You’ve heard. That’s wonderful.” Kiel turned and flung the tablet with all his strength. It whipped past Ferenc’s left ear, crashing into the far wall. The plastic casing shattered. Arvid flinched, his gaze jumping from Ferenc to Kiel and back again. “I’d prefer you had certain evidence instead of hearsay.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Work harder, and replace the lost shipment with four times that many.”

“Sir, we’re lucky they didn’t pick up the Picton once she broke orbit.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it. The obscene amounts of money our superiors poured into her refit has everything to do with her success.” Kiel pointed a finger in his face. “And you’d better make sure she’s recouping every single cent. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you.” Kiel spat the word, his lips pulled back in a sneer as he took a step toward Arvid. “You were supposed to guarantee silence on our transfers. I never would have brought our goods into the same location from which you traded the Orbita if I’d known you would be this sloppy. Didn’t I tell you to seal the last leak?”

“I—yes. You did. And we took care of the man, one of the skimmer couriers. He is dead.” Arvid’s tone was quiet, clipped. He had the posture of a student called to apologize in front of an instructor. Fool. An ESS supervisor would have struck the instant incompetence was recognized. “I—don’t know what happened this time.”

Kiel leaned in and wiped soot from the man’s shirt, rubbing the scorched carbon between his fingers. “I suppose it’s difficult to remember, given the catastrophe you’ve suffered today. Didn’t you also tell me Red Ring wouldn’t be a problem anymore, with us supplying new weapons to the vaunted Demir cartel?”

“They caught us by surprise!”

“Obviously.”

“Sir,” Ferenc interjected, “Red Ring hasn’t made any moves against their rivals for ten months. Word is trickling in that they deny any role in the attack.”

“Bullshit!” Arvid snapped. “Who else would want to put us out of business? You chose us, and they’re jealous, so they torch our Orbita, wreck our craft…”

“My Orbita. Which I give to you to sell so you can earn a profit and I can take what I demand for my enterprises. Those same enterprises will now suffer because your incompetence let half a million credits walk off a barge into the embrace of police and CBI.” Kiel drew his plasma pistol and centered it on the man’s forehead. “I tire of excuses.”

“Hey!” Arvid sprang up, his hand slashing toward the weapon.

Kiel pulled the gun back, ducked the bigger man’s attack, and reversed his grip. He cracked the gun against Arvid’s jaw just under his left mandible. Arvid shouted, grasping his neck, but when he recovered enough to go for Kiel again, he found the muzzle of the latter’s pistol blocking the vision in his left eye.

“You really should keep both,” Kiel murmured. “Ask Ferenc. Having a cybernetic replacement installed isn’t a picnic. Who is your courier?”

“S-Salvatore’s guy was running that night. Euke Till. He’s done runs before. Never said a word. He had a new guy with him…”

“There’s always a new guy,” Ferenc said.

“Quiet.” Kiel withdrew the gun. “And?”

“I don’t know how the dispute took place, but it had to do with a miscount of Orbita.”

“Euke’s bag was short,” Arvid wheezed. “I sent one of the boys back to Salvatore’s with him and kept the jabbering guy as collateral.”

“And you found the missing Orbita?”

“Euke did.”

“This Euke. Again.” Kiel glowered at Arvid. “You have contacts on local police? Lean on them. Bribe them. I want the name of this ‘anonymous’ tipper.”

“I’ll have Corriveau pull signal records too,” Ferenc said. “We can trace the call if the police aren’t able.”

“Good. Dual efforts never hurt.” Kiel raised an eyebrow. “Arvid? Stop cowering and get back to work.”

The Demir enforcer left the room.

Kiel sighed. “I much prefer intrigues on League planets, you know. Much simpler when we have access to everything and everyone. Imparting fear required less work.”

“Yes, sir.” Ferenc retrieved the broken tablet. “Salvatore’s?”

“I know. Prepare a suitable message and run it by me before you execute.”

“What about the refugee camp, sir? The Orbita’s been circulating well there. I know we’ve tapered off, hoping to incite another riot when it runs short—”

“It’s fine. We’ll simply push up the timetable. I’ll reach out to our contacts on the inside.” Kiel smiled. “And I think, draw attention skyward so we can regroup on the ground.”

“Why do you think Red Ring is deliberately picking a fight now?” Ferenc frowned. “Jealousy, as Arvid said?”

“Perhaps. What did our people find of the attackers?”

“Three burned-out rooms in two buildings, melted weapons, shrapnel and other debris in the warehouse—possibly drones used in the attack.”

“No bodies? Signs of life?”

“If Red Ring sent people, they didn’t use many.”

Kiel accepted the bent tablet from Ferenc. He dusted off its surface. The screen hiccupped but loaded the data he needed. “Keep looking. Something’s afoot here, between this attack, the loss of our refugees, and the disappearance of Lucy Lee. One smuggler caught by TCFE doesn’t surprise me. But a second? So soon? And to just vanish…” He shook his head. “I don’t like it. After weeks of smooth operations, there are too many glitches.”

“CDF?”

“Their Intelligence apparatus, so to speak. All the blathering from Canaan certainly makes it seem like the government is hands-off except for TCFE crowding orbit. But as we well know, there are so many factions jockeying inside the Coalition—even in the White House itself—I wouldn’t put it past a few enterprising souls to have gone for a quieter option, off the books.”

Ferenc nodded slowly. “Coalition operatives.”

“It’s a possibility, which means we’ll have to be more observant. Pass the word to our people. Get me all visuals from the landing field. I want to know if anyone else was in the area.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll give you options on Salvatore’s within the hour.”

“Ferenc?” Kiel pocketed the tablet. “Move the choices that will reduce his business to a smoking crater to the top of the list.”

* * *

Andreas Stefanidis threw a box at the fence, then he knelt and picked up another.

The crush of people around him was enough to suck the breath from his lungs, but he was beyond caring.

How many days have I been stuck in this wretched hellhole of trampled waste and squabbling factions?

There were still thousands of refugees in the camp. Supplies came in, but with the discovery of Orbita among the people, TCFE had clamped down on the flow, reducing it to a trickle as they examined everything sent. A few of the charitable organizations had taken offense and tried to find ways around it, including tossing containers over the fences in the dead of night. Still others suspended their shipments, pledging to clean up the mess on their end.

The youth didn’t improve the situation. Every morning, and every night, clusters of men assaulted the gates, fences, or random refugees. They were daring TCFE to send its officers in. It resulted in more suppression smoke plus the occasional patrol drone swarm trying to bind the ringleaders, like the lassoing tricks Andreas had seen in old pirated videos aboard the transport.

The chaos left people like Andreas and Jian—people struggling to keep themselves together and find their families—with no avenue but desperation, which was why Andreas was hurling empty ration containers at the guards along the fences.

Jian stood beside him, doing likewise while shouting for justice. “Clean the rabble out!” he yelled. “We’ll show you who they are! Come in and take them!”

Andreas didn’t want to cause a riot, but having TCFE’s officers clean the camp was the only way he could see to separate the people seeking a new life from those abusing them. The predators were caged with the prey.

It also didn’t help that Andreas saw fewer and fewer people using the drugs. The kind making its way around the camp must have been very addictive because withdrawal seemed to be driving the already desperate refugees mad with symptoms he was sure would kill them. Even then, a brawl broke out on the edge of the crowd, drawing fifty men and women into a wild melee. Everything was a weapon—boxes, belts, tent poles—but he saw the glint of metal from knives.

“Smoke!” a woman cried.

Suppression smoke, again. Shouts rippled through the crowds. The heightened cries overwhelmed Andreas as he slammed into several people, hands shoving. The tangle of limbs threatened to trample many.

Jian shoved a torn cloth into Andreas’s hands. Andreas pressed it to his face, body odor choking him. The sickly mist blew across the crowd. He gagged as the smoke seeped around his makeshift mask, but it wasn’t enough of a dose to affect his nervous system. People convulsed all around him as the herd broke, everyone pushing to get as far away as they could. They dropped in pairs and trios, limbs trembling but refusing commands from their nervous systems.

Jian coughed, his body wracked with spasms, but Andreas led him through a gap in the mob. He supported his friend’s arm over his shoulder.

“Hold your breath until we are clear!” Andreas urged. “Not much farther.”

Only when they both slumped against a hard-sided shelter did Jian finally suck down air, the coughs subsiding. His legs shook, but it seemed he still had control of them. Hundreds flopped in the dirt, stricken by suppression gas until they resembled dying fish left on a drought-ravaged shore. A half dozen more lay still, their bodies surrounded by spreading pools of darkness. They’d been caught in the brawl at the edge of the mob, where Andreas had seen the makeshift cudgels—and the blades.

Andreas held his head in his hands. What more can I do? He was powerless. At least under the League’s watchful, oppressive eye, he could act when needed to protect his family or provide for their table, even if he had to do so in secret. There, he was just a prisoner, not a citizen of any country.

How in the universe did the Terrans put any stock on an all-powerful deity when situations like this happened? How could they stand by and let them happen? Where was their so-called God?

All that, with trucks bearing the Compassionate Stars logo sitting outside the fence, as the NGO representatives argued with guards.

“I only want to see my family again,” Andreas murmured.

“Take heart.” Jian rasped. He cleared his throat and nodded in thanks when Andreas handed him a water bag. Jian slurped greedily. “We’ll see them yet. There’s hope for us all when we continue to band together like this. I, for one, won’t let the scum infesting our ranks spread. Will you stand with me?”

“I will try. For Yira.”

More shouts, from nearer the Kolossi terminal.

Now what? Andreas wanted to curl up and rest, finally rest, but he knew if it was yet another instance of thugs hidden among the refugees, trying to steal goods, he would join Jian and others in fighting back.

“Children! They’ve found children who were taken!” The woman’s words tore past Andreas like a receding siren as she ran toward the terminal.

Jian and Andreas stared at each other. They helped each other up and jogged as best they could in the direction, as did nearly a hundred more, with Jian limping as he shook off the effects of the suppression smoke.

What was the woman so frantic about? Had children truly been recovered? Need pressed Andreas along until he was practically dragging his friend.

There. A TCFE shuttle hunkered by the terminal. Twenty officers cordoned the area just outside the fences as the ramp lowered. Dozens of young people, none older than twenty by Andreas’s reckoning, disembarked in groups of six or seven, each one led off by an officer.

“Get them into the south holding zone,” an officer instructed. “We’re going to have a devil of a time confirming IDs. Check into the complaints list—I want to know if anyone has lodged a missing person report with specific names.”

Some of the children were in tears. A few openly sobbed. A pair of young boys started a shouting match with TCFE until the officers took them to the ground and bound their wrists behind their backs.

“Our children! Let them in! We’re here!” The woman rattled the fence.

Dozens more mothers, fathers, and even grandparents joined in a wailing, chanting press. It was the mirror of the mob Andreas had just left.

“South holding area,” Jian muttered. “I haven’t heard such a site mentioned before.”

“I don’t know what’s going on. I only—”

“Baba!”

Yira? Andreas’s fingers squeezed around the fence links until he thought he’d cut them off.

It was Yira. She was among a dozen children who trailed three officers approaching from around the side of the terminal, where several vehicle bays sat shut, just beyond line of sight from the camp.

“The hell are you doing, bringing them out here, Travers?” the officer in charge barked. “I’ve got forty-six incoming brats, and you decide it’s a good time to take kindergarten for a stroll?”

“Sorry, sir.” The younger man, who was in front of the children, seemed puzzled. “I had it radioed in we were supposed to bring these ones recovered out to meet the barge—”

“They’re from the other batch! And these are joining them. Turn around, Travers. I don’t need another damned scene.”

“Yes, sir, sorry.”

The guards waved at their charges, sending them back the direction they’d come.

“No! Baba is here!” Yira ran for the fence.

“Yira! You’re safe!” Andreas thrust his fingers through the gaps.

“Stay inside!” A guard’s truncheon whacked him across the knuckles. Andreas withdrew, cursing as the man scooped up his daughter. She screamed, tears soaking the TCFE uniform as he carried her back to the holding area where the rest of the youth were being taken.

“Bring her back! Give me my child!” Andreas’s anguished shouts were drowned by the rest rising around him as refugees lent their voices to the clamor. He was so close. She’d almost touched him.

“Clear these people out!” the lead guard snapped. “I want them back—”

Gunfire snapped. A crimson stain burst from the man’s shoulder. Another guard went down, screaming, his shin a bloody mess.

“Andreas! Get down!” Jian grabbed him, tried to pull him away from the fence.

Shots came from all directions—inside the fence. Refugees scattered, some hunkering together rather than taking the chance at getting hit while running. Finally, the far gates opened, and scout 4x4s raced in, each carrying six TCFE officers. They laid down fire from their weapons.

Andreas saw two women hit immediately but no blood. Stun rounds?

A gun lay in the dirt.

Jian gasped. Andreas caught him, again, wondering if he was still suffering from the suppression gas. But Andreas’s hand was damp where it touched Jian’s chest. His fingers came away sticky with blood.

“S-stop this…” Jian sagged into him.

Andreas cried for help as the mayhem swirled around him, unsure anyone would hear or care.

* * *

Jackson scowled at the images flicking across his wrist unit, miniature scenes of devastation. TCFE had finally lost their patience. They’d stormed the camp, strafing with stun rounds and gassing as they went. Hundreds were injured. Dozens of refugees dead in the ensuing stampedes. Twenty-nine TCFE officers killed, too, shot or stabbed.

“It’s death come to purgatory,” Brant lamented. “It’s all getting passed up the chain too. No way CDF lets this slide.”

“They’ll have to send Fleet elements in. The Spencer administration has to boost public confidence with Frontier Enforcement under the gun, literally, and the confirmation of human trafficking won’t help their reputation.” Jackson muttered under his breath as he guided the skimmer toward Salvatore’s. He spotted the shop’s neon sign up the block.

Euke waved as he rode his skimmer through the front garage door, returning from a lunch pickup. A food truck, he’d said. Great Greek cuisine.

“Get on the link to Oxford, and see if they—”

The explosion threw Jackson’s skimmer like it was a kite caught in a gust. The automatic safety bags burst open the moment the vehicle went sideways, bouncing Jackson onto the pavement. He tumbled head over heels, tucking his arms around his head. Heat raked his body. Broken glass and shattered concrete scraped his exposed skin.

Brant shouted in his ear, but the buzzing and ringing made it impossible to decipher. Jackson lay on the sidewalk, his limbs aching, a sharp pain in his head. He wiped blood from his eyes—a superficial cut on his forehead.

The garage lay in ruins. The blast had torn through the garage, ripping up into the office and apartment on the second floor. Flames shot from the roof, generating a column of black smoke. Charred debris littered the street, wrecked vehicles and burned bodies too. Salvatore’s sign was a twisted, melted version of its neon self, protruding from the wall of the building behind Jackson.

He triggered the emergency transponder on his wrist and prayed for the best.

16

Kolossi

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

24 July 2464

Jackson blinked away the fuzzy, bright light. His head spun, and his body ached, but otherwise, he felt no worse than if he’d been out far too late and had way too much fun. Memories of the horrific explosion trickled into his consciousness. Fun was the last thing on his mind. He had to fix it. But when he tried to sit up, a wave of nausea rolled through him.

“Hey, easy there, Cap’n.” Dwyer, clad in civilian coveralls and a short-sleeved shirt, stopped his rise with a hand to the shoulder. “Doc’s orders. You’ve got enough drugs pumped through you to knock out a whole herd of your family’s cattle. Plus, I’m not keen on you ralphin’ all over the upholstery.”

Upholstery? Jackson squinted at his surroundings. He was in the back of a well-appointed off-road truck, one built with comfort in mind and enough seating for eight. Half those seats, though, had been stowed for a makeshift cot to which he’d been secured with straps and cushions. A medical scanner was lodged to his left. An IV dripped whatever meds he was on through a clear tube into his left arm.

“Awake?” Sev drove as if he were searching for a parking spot at a busy shopping complex, seemingly unhurried, but Jackson recognized the tension in his movements.

“Yeah, he’s up. Got a minor concussion and contusions out the wazoo, not to mention bruised bones. I mended those as best I could, but short of Oxford’s sick bay, you’re gonna have to take it easy, okay?”

“Doesn’t sound like that’s an option, Warrant.” Jackson winced. He was right about the concussion. “How’s it look back there?”

“Bad, Cap’n. The shop’s toast. Your boy Euke? They’re peeling his DNA up off the streets—at least, the LT says that’s what’s in the local LEO’s databases. He’s vacuuming up as much comms traffic as he can, with Tamir and Eldred feeding him cross-system traffic.”

“Then the word’s getting out.”

“Everywhere,” Sev muttered.

“That’s a ten-four.” Dwyer adjusted the medication level on Jackson’s IV regulator.

Jackson’s pain immediately lessened.

“News hacks are already tryin’ to figure out if the same goons who shot up the refugee camp are the ones who blew up Salvatore’s and the other shops.”

“What other shops?”

“Hang on.” Dwyer reached ahead and tapped Sev on the shoulder. “Take a right on Two Twenty-First and go up to Maroni Street. Gina’s waiting around back.”

Jackson reclined, letting the meds do their work as buildings flashed by on either side of the truck. They stopped a few minutes later by a two-story house with a rental sign glowing in the front window. Sev seemed to be waiting for something then abruptly cocked his head to the side, as if hearing a dog whistle. He drove down to the next block, took a right, then another right into the alley. Backside of the house, Jackson realized.

Darkness enveloped the compartment as Sev backed the truck into a garage bay. The rear door cracked open. Jackson gazed into Gina’s upside-down face—smiling, which due to his inverted perspective, meant she was actually frowning. “Well, you’re not dead.”

“Disappointed?”

“Don’t be an idiot.” She and Dwyer pulled him out on a slab—a paramedic’s carry slab. No wonder it felt like he was lying on plastic.

“Let me get off this thing.” Jackson swung his feet over the edge—slowly—and waited for the garage to quit spinning before he attempted standing. So far, so good. He held back bile.

“Yes, a great idea. Why not run a few sprints around the block, lift weights, enroll in martial arts?” Gina made a face. “Sparks, slap the man if he tries to exert himself. I’ll be upstairs with Brant.”

Dwyer shook his head, grinning as she went. “Yes, ma’am. If I were you, Cap’n, I’d heed her advice.”

Pain lanced through Jackson’s skull as he nodded. Sev took up position beside him, his face stony in either concern or apathy.

“Why don’t you two get me upstairs onto whatever passes for a couch so I can start solving this mess before it gets any worse?”

Upstairs was a home in dire need of renovation, with peeling paint and sloughing insulation panels. The door controls blinked at random intervals. Brant muttered a long string of Tagalog as he fiddled with a trio of cables connecting his portable tablet, decrypt-encrypt box, and sensor rig to the home’s power source. He’d turned an old parlor by a bay window into his office.

“He’s here.” Gina poured mugs of tea in the kitchen. “And he’s not dead. What have you got for me?”

“Captain?” Brant stood in front of Jackson as Dwyer and Sev helped him onto the couch. “Feeling okay?”

Jackson grimaced at the newfound ache in his lower back muscles. “No. Report.”

“Four hundred eight wounded at Kolossi fields, with fifty-three more dead among the refugees and whoever the criminal element are in their ranks. Thirty-one TCFE officers and support personnel dead, either killed in the shoot-outs or succumbed to their wounds. The reports are messy, but TCFE is claiming they were using stun rounds until they took live fire from elements among the refugees. They shot back accordingly. Looks like drone surveillance backs them, but good luck getting the hard facts out past sensational headlines.”

“Damn. And Salvatore’s?”

“PD confirmed Euke Till is among the deceased. Salvatore was in the back half of the building, not his apartment or office. The front half of the building, both floors, is a total loss. The back half suffered structural collapse, but Salvatore survived. He’s in Emerald Emergency Center downtown with a police guard.”

“They think he was targeted.”

Brant nodded. “Red Ring is suspected, given, uh, their recent attacks on Demir and Salvatore’s suspected ties with the latter.”

“How likely is that? Raids on competitors are one thing—blowing up a shady businessman is another.”

“I didn’t buy it either.” Brant returned to his setup and enlarged the picture on his tablet. “Gina grabbed me scans from across the street, supplementing the drones’ overhead view. PD’s initial findings and comments to the press suggest a bomb planted inside.”

“They’re wrong.” Gina handed Jackson a steaming mug of tea. It smelled strongly of mint. “Mind the temperature. The flash point was a skimmer.”

“Euke’s.” Jackson felt newly ill. The sensation had nothing to do with his injuries or the medicine. “His was the last ride to enter, right before the explosion.”

“Makes sense.” Dwyer leaned over Brant’s shoulder. “If you take the ignition temps, see? Ain’t no chance it was deep inside the structure. Would’ve been hotter at the ten-second mark. Well, it wasn’t planted. It was carried in, like you all said, on the skimmer. Explains why there’s nothing left of Euke’s ride. Shaped charge. I’d bet real money on it being League design. I saw those deployed during the war, when ESS was embedded with regular military units and running disruption operations along the border. Small, hard-to-trace, high-yield explosives meant to obliterate a target but keep the damage focused.”

“The reconstruct is pretty clear,” Brant said. “Pulling local surveillance footage from the bar down the street and the shop a couple of doors up from Salvatore’s gave me all the details I needed. Sorry.”

Jackson rubbed at his forehead. Fatigue threatened to push him back down. “For what?”

“Well… the guy, Euke. You’d made a good connection with him.”

Euke. With financial trouble stemming from two divorces and his father’s estate. He’d made the perfect target to gain Jackson access to the criminal enterprises and uncovering those enterprises’ links to the League. Except he was dead.

“He made the call, Jack.” Gina crossed her arms. She watched Jackson intently, as if he might fight or flee—or pass out. “Brant worked the signal back to its source. It wasn’t difficult to decrypt.”

“And if I did it so easily, some League goons working half as hard would have done it by now too.” Brant didn’t seem comforted by the notion.

Jackson could kid himself all he wanted about responsibility. Calling the cops on the human trafficking operation had been Euke’s decision—and it had been a hell of a decision. He was a man who’d made the wrong choices, wound up deep in a criminal operation, yet saw innocents suffering and took a stand in his own way. Jackson considered whether he could leak information to the news networks about Euke’s call, but retaliation against Euke’s remaining family was a real possibility.

Who’s to say my presence at the meet the other night didn’t trigger Demir’s suspicions? Or the League’s? Maybe Euke wouldn’t have made the same call some other night, on a courier run without Jackson, if Oswald hadn’t been incapacitated. Consequences. Like a flash flood in a dry canyon. They start out from the smallest of drops, each action, compounding until the effects touch everything in their path. He allowed himself a handful of quiet seconds. Enough. Jackson looked up at the rest of his team, expression firm. “Okay. Our next priority is to find a way into Demir. My cover should be secure. Brant, tap into Demir—”

“I’m insulted you think I haven’t already done it.” Brant sighed.

“And see what chatter you get about this incident. Put in a signal to Oxford too. I want a word with their new friend, Carlos DeSilva, the talkative one. He could be our next way in. Sparks?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure Gina gets a full analysis of the bomb used, anything she and Brant haven’t already gotten from their scans. I want her to know what she’s looking for.”

Gina smiled. “Ah. I finally get to take the tour.”

“Right. As soon as possible. You’re looking for any physical proof the League proper is supporting operations here, and if you can pull records of their personnel stationed on Aphendrika, all the better. ESS likes to stock the diplomatic posts with so-called ‘cultural attachés.’ See what names we can dig up. Brant will cross-reference those with the faces we’ve already pulled from your surveillance. And speaking of which…” Jackson cocked an eyebrow as he glanced at Brant.

“Still nothing back. Whoever’s running this show and providing the muscle in terms of League bodies, we haven’t seen them on our side of the border. Intel’s hard to come by from good old Sol, too, because their society is so heavily riddled with informants and commissars.”

“Keep at it. Sev? Pick new targets. As soon as Demir retaliates, hit back hard. If we’re lucky, we can catch Leaguers in the mix.”

Sev nudged Dwyer. “Drones.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dwyer said. “I didn’t expect you to go through half a box at once. LT, you got any spare nav components I can sneak off with?”

“I’ll check my kit.” Brant consulted his tablet. “We’ve got this location for the next twenty-four hours if anyone needs it.”

“First thing’s first. Call Sinclair.” Jackson stood from the couch. He wobbled but brushed away Dwyer’s helpful hand. “I’m fine, Warrant. Let’s get the shuttle prepped, and let Colonel Sinclair know we’re coming to speak to his guest.”

* * *

The first stop he made when arriving aboard Oxford was sick bay.

“You’ll heal,” the corpsman, Vasquez, pronounced. “The regen treatment will take a few days—”

“I don’t have the time.”

Jackson was halfway off the bed when Colonel Sinclair entered sick bay. Jackson braced to attention but knew, between his sloppy appearance and the stiffness with which he moved, a first-year conscript would have done better.

“I daresay I’ve seen you in better shape, Captain.” Sinclair waited, hands clasped behind his back. “Your man’s report did not inspire great optimism.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But your request to interview the prisoner has been granted.” Sinclair motioned for him to follow. Once they were out in the corridor, free of the listening ears in sick bay, Sinclair continued in hushed tones, “Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred inform me they’ve intercepted more communiques utilizing the same frequency Lieutenant Guinto first identified, the same variety that led us to capture Lucy Lee. They give further assurance they’ll soon be able to crack the code itself, which needless to say, would be a tremendous boon.”

“It would be, sir.” Jackson felt the first surge of optimism since the explosion blacked out his world. “Anything I need to know about the prisoner?”

“First Mate Carlos DeSilva. Quite a pragmatic fellow. He’s already pointed us in the right direction when it comes to more drop-off points for illicit weapons. I have Major Mancini scouting those locations.”

Jackson nodded, his mind a whirl of questions as a Marine private guarding the entrance to the interrogation rooms off the brig saluted them. The young man was armed with a pulse pistol. Another Marine, likewise armed, stood sentry inside the locked door, where a tall, slender Hispanic man in a pale-gray jumpsuit was shackled to the table.

“Mr. DeSilva, good day.” Sinclair sat in one of the chairs. “I have someone who’d very much like to make your acquaintance.”

“Sure, Colonel, but, uh, I don’t know what more I can tell him that you don’t already know.” DeSilva glanced at Jackson. “He’s CDF?”

“I want inside Demir.” Jackson skipped whatever pleasantries were headed his way. “Can you get me there?”

“Inside…? Wow.” DeSilva’s shoes shuffled, clattering his binders against the legs of his chair. “That’s, uh, that’s who we were delivering through. I don’t know the to, you see—already told Colonel Sinclair as much.”

“But Demir is overseeing these purchases?”

“For a third party—or fourth. Whatever. The same people who are moving Orbita down on Aphendrika are giving us the coordinates for the shipment drops. Sinclair has those too.”

Jackson saw Sinclair’s subtle nod out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t know who’s giving orders from the top?”

“Nope. Only Demir’s top guns would have that.” DeSilva licked his lips. “You guys are keeping your word, right? You’ll get me relocated? New identity?”

“CBI handles those aspects in exchange for your sworn testimony,” Sinclair said. “Affidavits of which we have plenty. I would answer more of the good man’s questions, to the best of your abilities.”

Jackson leaned forward, hands on the table. “Who did your captain contact with Demir to get the information?”

“Captain Akai?” DeSilva snorted. “He didn’t call them. They called him. I met a contact once, when Akai had me lead the crew offloading a shipment on one of the bazillion rocks in orbit. Big, burly blond guy, size of a carrier.”

Jackson’s heart skipped. He hoped it was anticipation, not a side effect of the medicines coursing through him. “Goes by Arvid?”

“Arvid? No. Haakon.”

“Bearded? Bald?”

“Two more strikes, man. Curly locks. Five-o’clock shadow, maybe, but no beard.”

Jackson called up images on his wrist unit. “Borrow your tablet, Colonel?”

“Of course.” Sinclair slid it over.

A tap of commands, and Arvid’s glowering face filled the rectangle.

DeSilva whistled. “Honest-to-God twin right there. Same expression as Haakon, right down to the eyes—even the same color. Haakon’s got a burnt left ear though. Looks like plasma damage.”

Enough for a composite sketch. I’ll get it to Brant. “Mr. DeSilva, have you made any substantial contact with this Haakon? Enough so he’d know who you were?”

DeSilva shrugged. “Enough I could talk him up. Not that he was outgoing.”

“What’s on your mind?” Sinclair asked Jackson.

“There’s been no word from Lucy Lee since Tuscon took her,” Jackson murmured. “If I can make contact with Arvid again, through Haakon—leveraging what DeSilva here knows about them—”

“You could work your way into the Demir cartel and get us closer to their League backers.”

“Yes, sir.” Jackson frowned. “The problem is time. The League’s taking bigger risks. And the shipments—how many have there been?”

“Unknown, but Mr. DeSilva claims Lucy Lee was on her third when it was caught, and we know of at least one other smuggler destroyed by TCFE in the attempt.”

No, a second infiltration would take too long. He would need weeks to earn their trust, like he had all the way back on Hebrides. Salvatore’s had been a lucky break, a result of Brant’s research combined with falling in with the right person. To replicate—wait. The ships.

“Command and control linkages,” Jackson said. “That was the cargo, right?”

“Indeed,” Sinclair replied. “Though Mr. DeSilva does not know for what vessel they were intended. Do you?”

DeSilva cleared his throat. “Well, no, we never heard, but Haakon did say he was tired of hiding inside rocks. I assumed he meant the tiny crater he had his ship crammed into—the one we transferred our stuff onto.”

“What if Carlos, here, escaped?” Jackson asked. “I could pass word to Arvid, say Carlos is an old friend of mine—that’s how I wound up on Aphendrika in the first place for the job at Salvatore’s. I could promise him the retrieval of the illicit parts Lucy Lee was carrying.”

“You and Carlos?” Sinclair pondered the situation. “Risky, given Mr. DeSilva’s novice nature and your recent injuries—as in, the ones from which you’ve not yet healed.”

“That sells it even more. I make Euke out to be the snitch they already view him as—bring in Carlos and the parts as a peace offering. Hopefully, it’ll get us to wherever the League is doing their refit.”

Sinclair nodded slowly. “Let’s make the necessary arrangements. We can set Lucy adrift. Mr. DeSilva can take the proper steps to alert the contacts, tell them they were jumped by pirates or rival smugglers, or some such, from whom he was able to escape. Captain Akai and all hands were killed.” He smiled at DeSilva. “I’m afraid, good chap, we shall have to rough up your vessel a bit to sell the story.”

“Do what you have to. It’s better than being blown to bits.”

“Anything else you’ll need, Captain?” Sinclair asked.

“Yes. A TCFE shuttle. No pilot—Sparks will handle the controls.”

“What about me?” DeSilva asked. “You’re not going to dump me, are you?”

“Definitely not,” Jackson said. “I’ll be at your side, so don’t worry—if this goes wrong, Demir will kill us both.”

17

League Consulate

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

25 July 2464

Twenty thirty hours. Gina crouched on the rooftop of the building next to the League consulate. As she looked up at the sixth story, two floors above her, a light mist beaded on her goggles. Streetlamps turned the night sky a dull red fading to black.

“Echo Two, Echo Home. Thirty seconds to dark.”

She triggered the appropriate response. Gina could see a couple of figures moving past the glowing rectangles of consulate offices. The wrist unit glowed with the details of a small map, marking her position in relation to nearby buildings. The databanks contained schematics for all six floors, in miniature but easily accessible.

The seconds ticked by, highlighted in dull red above the map. Gina concentrated on her breathing. Her break-in at Salvatore’s had been a simulation by comparison. This was a secure League facility, not militarized by any means, but one into which people couldn’t stroll. There were multiple obstacles to overcome.

Gina clipped the grav harness straps around her waist and made sure the shoulders were snug. She smiled underneath her mask. Obstacles mean this will be a lot more fun.

The timer expired right as Brant intoned, “Mark.”

The city lights up and down an eight-block stretch went out for three or four blocks on either side. A jigsaw-shaped pattern outlined the blackout in gold on her map. Here and there, orange emergency beacons sprang to life in apartment windows. And in the consulate windows.

Gina dropped her goggles, the night vision bathing everything she saw in sharp amber representation. She took four strides to the edge of the roof and stepped off, her hand pressed to the harness control mounted on her left shoulder.

Her stomach lurched as she dropped a meter. The antigravity field, tenuous as it was, kicked in, lifting her swiftly up the two floors to the consulate’s roof. She waited until her head was at the same level as the metal slats camouflaging the heating and ventilation equipment stacked behind them—building code requirements, the files claimed, a handy screen for surveillance equipment too.

She tucked her shoes against the rough concrete, finding purchase against a decorative lip, then grabbed a slat with one hand. She killed the antigravity with the other.

“Four drones.” Brant monitored the rooftop view with his own bot, cruising in a broad circle over Kolossi, about five hundred meters above. “Stand by for targeting. I’m scanning for their communications frequency.”

Gina held onto the slats. She could see the bots floating on standby, simple motion-detector sensors with the trigger set for humanoids. A sparrow wouldn’t set them off, or the bigger winged lizards that enjoyed snacking on the former. Assuming, of course, they functioned properly.

Her wrist unit vibrated. Signal received. Gina pulled the dispenser from her belt and poked it slowly between the slats. Playtime, ladies.

She squeezed the release. A swarm of glittering microbots, each one no bigger than a pebble, floated free, drifting on miniscule, diaphanous wings. They split into four clusters, easing up behind the primary antennae the security drones used for data transmission and communication. Once there, they extended tendrils into the gaps, connecting with the circuitry. The pulses they sent deep into the security drones registered as green dots on Gina’s wrist device.

“Okay, you’re good, Echo Two. The drones think they’re in diagnostic mode, and they’ve refrained from reporting in.”

“Roger, Echo Home. I’d blow you a kiss but for the mask and the kilometers of distance.” Gina pulled herself up the slats, spared a quick glance at the dormant drones, then flipped over. She landed on the roof, crouched, waiting.

She already knew there were no alarms up here. The League relied on the drones to watch the surroundings. And the power outage had killed the external cameras for the seconds it took her to gain the rooftop.

“No alarms triggered,” Brant said. “I’ve got heat signatures on the move, one in the stairwell—fourth floor—on the way up.”

Gina ran for the roof-access door. She leapt up onto a nearby air conditioning column before jumping again to the overhang shadowing the door. There she waited, prone, fingers gripping the edge.

“Fifth floor. Internal cameras are down. Scanners still up, but I’m feeding enough interference through the drones via their command links that the techs downstairs will be swearing clear through until daylight.”

Gina heard the echo of footsteps on metal.

A slim young man in a security uniform stepped out, his hand beacon sweeping the area. The beam settled on the drones. “What’re they doing?” he muttered, then, more loudly into his communication, “Security, this is Balkus. The drones are stuck in a dormant state. Did someone decide this was a good time for diagnostics?”

Gina didn’t wait for the rest of the conversation. She flipped over, swinging herself down through the gap as the door shut. She drew her pistol in one fluid motion, training it first on the inside of the door before covering the stairwell down.

“Scanners marked on your map. First round of flitters disengaged.”

Sadly, that meant the microbots were dissolving. The drones would be back to their patrol in moments, which made no difference because, of her possible exit routes, the roof was not one. Gina examined the scanner placement as she descended the steps. She hated the idea of expending all the flitters on this op. At the same time, it was silly to become emotionally invested. But given their limited AI, and ability to execute basic commands, they were to her like members of the team.

Ah, well. Gina deployed the next batch.

They whipped free from the container, moving at a blistering speed compared to their slower upstairs comrades. Their wings skittered along the walls. She watched her map as, one by one, scanners began failing at a greater rate—aiding Brant’s work introduced by the first swarm. Gina tapped a swarm of five to detour at the third floor and head into the data center. They would destruct at the first sign of interference if anyone was on duty or safeguarding the consulate’s records.

Gina passed the door to the fourth floor, where the guard had originated, and kept going.

Brant hadn’t taken the scanners completely offline nor was he totally successful at knocking down their capabilities. The redundancies built into the network prevented total collapse. But that was where her jumpsuit came into play. It muted her biosigns, scattered thermal detection, even soundproofed much of her ambient noise. She was a ghost—though, not invisible.

The stairwell ended at the ground level. Gina paused by the door, sidearm raised. The miniature map on her wrist showed two heat signatures stationed in the lobby—more guards. She flicked off the safety.

“The garage is through the lobby, third hallway, straight back. Locked. Both guards should have card access.”

Hmm. If they didn’t, she would have to resort to the lockbreaker again. The specialized disruptor rounds she carried would buy her less than a minute to gain entry—and she’d better not miss because while they were designed to leave little to no trace, they were hideously expensive.

Murmured conversation. A long ramble with interspersed arguments. A pause. It started up again, longer. Gina pushed through the door. The conversation continued as she made her way down the hall, sticking to the shadows.

“And if I get posted to another bullshit planet like Aphendrika, I don’t care how many commissars are listening in.”

“Hey, seal it. You may not care, but I don’t wanna be standing next to you when they drop you into a dark mining hole so you can dig up precious metals until you’re eighty.”

Two men stood by the lobby, heat signatures confirming their location. It was a broad, roughly oval space, reaching up four of the eight stories, no lights except a few emergency bulbs.

The guards’ voices dripped boredom, condescension, but they were physically restless, shuffling out of position every few seconds. Gina crept to the corner of the lobby. She slowed her breathing, letting her senses absorb every detail of the moment around her—the stale, recycled air, the hum of bulbs near failing, the squeak of the guards’ boots on the floor.

“Who cares? We’re stuck on this dirtball in a leaky building that can’t even afford security upgrades. And these power outages! All the power outages.” The taller of the two shook his head.

Gina could read the disdain on his face from ten meters away, in the dark, but she was more interested in the automatic-fire energy pulse rifles he had slung over his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about requesting a transfer,” he continued.

“No way. I’ll stay right here, thanks very much. What, you think I want ESS shoving a microphone up my ass? I’ll make another round, see if Balkus found out what’s up with the drones.” Footsteps started toward Gina.

“They’re crap drones. That’s what’s wrong.” Another set of footsteps followed. “Wait up. I’ll come with you.”

“We’re supposed to watch the lobby, Jance.”

“Relax, Torge, all the refugees and Orbita freaks are out at the landing field.”

“Sure but—”

The pistol’s bark was muted by the suppressor attached to the barrel, but the sound still cut through their debate. Two disruptor rounds caught Torge in the chest. He flopped onto the floor, muscles trembling, eyes wide and unseeing.

Jance had impeccable reflexes. He ducked and dodged sideways, his automatic weapon lifting, but he wasn’t even aiming toward her. She estimated he was staring a couple meters to her right. Gina’s shot breezed over his head. She cursed herself for not anticipating which direction he would go. Two more shots put him down, the automatic limp in his grasp.

Gina hurried across the lobby. She knelt beside Torge, whose tremors had subsided first. Key card, key card—on his sleeve. It rode in a clear pocket, making it easy for the guard to swipe his wrist past a door control panel. Gina plucked the card and ran for the hallway.

Her timer counted down. The stun rounds would keep the men incapacitated but relatively unharmed. Well, there’d been recorded cases of people suffering fatal heart attacks or permanent nerve damage from overexposure. Gina permitted a tight grin. Those outcomes didn’t bother her, no matter how far down the League chain of command these men were. Enemy was enemy.

A reinforced door blocked the end of the hall. Gina held up her wrist. No one in the garage. No drones either. Just a room locked tight.

She swiped the card. Green light. Access granted. She opened the door but didn’t go through, instead using her pistol to keep it from swinging shut. Still time.

With twenty-three seconds remaining, she skidded on her knees beside Torge, shoved the card back into his sleeve pouch, then bolted one more time for the hallway.

One of the men moaned. Fabric rustled against the marble floor.

Gina ground her teeth. She slid beside the control panel, retrieved her sidearm, then slipped into the garage. The door clicked shut behind her. A red light shone on the panel mounted on the opposite side—locked again. Gina exhaled.

“Thank God. Okay, you’re still not showing on any scans. Building alarms inactive. I think you’re set.”

Fine by her. Onto the messy part—not morally disagreeable or anything like that, actual mess.

The garage was large enough to accommodate two elegant, armored hovercraft, both bearing official League markings and diplomatic IDs. Containers stacked along the rear wall framed a pair of double doors. A third vehicle sat ahead of the hovercraft—a delivery truck. Standard civilian markings, though one panel covering its flank appeared paler than the rest.

Gina frowned as she removed a set of vials from her belt. Where have I seen those trucks before? Probably running numerous, sundry supplies across the city. The design had been standardized throughout the Coalition decades ago. Model Nine-Five G. She shook her head and inspected the boxes. They were unmarked. Gina popped the top on the closest one.

Brant’s whistle fed through her earpiece. “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” she whispered.

He no doubt saw what she did via the goggles’ sensory pickups—hundreds of Orbita packets, enough to make a person rich beyond their dreams, perhaps not beyond her dreams. The temptation was there—fake a sensor glitch, kill the goggles’ feed, stuff as many as she could into her belt and the grav harness, which had its own compartments.

Gina smirked. Jack would be mortified if she went through with it. He would find out eventually. He was smart like that.

Instead, she slipped the top from the vial and held it at arm’s length. A pale-violet liquid, oily in the way it flowed, dripped onto the packets. A hissing rose as it changed color, turning brown with black spots where it ate through the packets. Orbita turned to mush, the chemical bonds breaking down and radically re-forming into a lumpen solid—like charcoal, Gina realized. Her sensors told her the chemical had eaten its way down to the bottom of the stack, scorching the sides and bottom of the container as it rendered every molecule worthless.

She cracked into the next container and repeated the process. Eighteen more after that. It took time, but when she hit the halfway mark, she’d gotten into a rhythm.

Halfway through, her brain made the connection she’d struggled with when she first entered the garage. The eleventh container’s contents sizzled as she walked around the side of the transport truck. Gina inspected the edge of the pale panel. Not plastic body, an adhesive covering. She peeled back an edge.

“What’s that?” Brant asked. “It’s a logo…”

“Compassionate Stars. One of the biggest aid groups bringing supplies to the refugees.” Comprehension blasted across Gina’s mind like a supernova. She opened the back of the truck and found stacks of supplies. She glanced back at the Orbita before opening one of the boxes.

Dehydrated fruits. Various other rations. Blankets. Clothing. And more Orbita.

“You’re recording all this, I hope,” Gina murmured.

“You’d better believe it,” Brant said. “No wonder drugs keep popping up in camp. They’ve infiltrated the aid groups. Well, that gives me a shipload of surveillance to reexamine.”

Gina closed the box, shut the truck’s hatch, and made sure the sticker was reapplied. Then it was back to the Orbita containers. Only a few minutes had elapsed between her entering the garage and when she’d destroyed the contents of the nineteenth container using her third vial.

Glare seared across her vision. She cringed but managed to keep her mouth shut. Shouting was a bad idea, generally speaking, for the situation. Gina lifted the goggles so she could blink away blobs.

The lights were back, full force.

“They restored power!” Brant hissed. “Their backup generator’s not supposed to be operational. Our intel established they were still waiting for the old one to receive parts.”

“Clearly, they found a way around the inconvenience.” Gina kicked the lid off the final box and dumped the last of the vial. She dropped the goggles over her eyes, making sure she disabled the night vision setting. “Orbita’s done. What about the third floor?”

“Negative, Two. The swarm you sent disintegrated before they could connect to the databases. ESS protocol has sensitive information stored off network.”

Blast. There went half her objectives and possibly the most vital.

“Cameras and sensors are rebooting. Whoever’s running their security is pretty good—I can’t keep them out of there for long. Get out.”

Gina shook her head as she reached the rear doors of the garage. What does he think I’m doing? Straightening my hair? She slapped the lockbreaker against the control panel. It hummed as it worked against the League software. The sequence took longer than she would’ve liked, but the panel blinked green. The doors parted, trundling on a recessed track.

A machine shop lay beyond. Fuel, tools, and various other supplies were stored in neat lockers. Gina couldn’t care less what kind of calibrator League mechanics used on their hovercraft. She was more interested in the ventilation shaft for the air conditioning towers on the roof.

“It’s not wired, Echo Two. And there’s more security guards on the move. They’re checking all spaces. Looks like a couple also examining the guards you knocked down. Fanning out to all floors and rooms.”

Voices, faint at first, filtered through the hallway door leading into the garage. They faded again as the machine shop sealed up. Gina climbed atop the lockers. Her multi-tool contained enough options for unfastening bolts and cutting screws. The panel dropped loose. She caught it before it could raise its own ruckus.

The voices grew louder again. In the garage. Gina confirmed the presence of three heat signatures displayed on her wrist device. She clambered into the confines of the duct, pressing against its sides to avoid falling out. Not that she had major concerns. Her goggles were mere inches from any side, no matter which way she turned her head.

Okay. She scooted up until there was enough room to reach below, orient the grate into the proper position, and solder it with two quick bursts from the torch. It would never pass close inspection, but in under two minutes, it wouldn’t be her problem.

Gina climbed the duct to the fifth floor, where it opened into a junction the size of a closet. Cool air breezed along. Even without the building schematics, she would have known where to go—toward the exterior vent.

“Got it!” Brant’s end of the transmission made a muffled thump. He must have pounded his fist on the desk. “Fan’s offline.”

With the barest sliver of space, she shimmied through. The blades scraped the top of the grav harness. Dwyer could critique her damage later, but ahead, light filtered through the vent. Warmer air seeped behind her goggles.

Gina removed the hatch in the opposite order of how she entered the duct—cut it free with the torch then soldered it back into position as she clung to the side of the building. The backside of the League consulate, fortunately, was home to a small courtyard shielded by foliage—with cameras below.

The second the vent hatch was firmly in place, Gina let herself fall back toward the green canopy as she triggered the grav harness. It floated her across the treetops. She spun as she went, angling for the apartment roof beyond.

Not all the leaves were verdant. A third were pale yellow, streaked with blue-green. Gina plucked a stem or two as she cleared the last tree. She killed the grav assist, alighting on the rough asphalt covering that shielded the apartment from Kolossi’s elements.

“Extraction en route, Echo Two. Forty seconds.”

Plenty of time for her to traverse the next two roofs and climb down the designated fire escape to the alley below. She would be stripped to civilian gear when Dwyer arrived with the truck.

“Even Deadeye thinks you outdid yourself,” Brant added with a chuckle. “I think he said two whole words. ‘Very good.’”

Gina glanced at the horizon as she hurried across the rooftops. Sev watched from two kilometers away from the moment she went in until she made her exit. Had anyone followed her, or a drone buzzed her, he would have swatted it down.

I can see why Jack values his service so much. Having a team does make the night oh-so more relaxing.

“Copy, Echo Home. Tell Echo One the mission was a success.” Gina smiled as she twirled the leaves in her fingers. “And let him know I’ve brought him another souvenir.”

18

League Consulate

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

27 July 2464

Kiel knew his tea would scald his hand if he crushed the cup, but he did so anyway. The pain was cathartic, and it saved him from putting on a spectacle for his people.

The Orbita was ruined, all of it. Enough had been stored in the consulate garage to bring the refugees to ruin and madness, all in the name of drawing TCFE into a deeper confrontation. But a saboteur had left him with piles of solidified gunk, fit for nothing.

“I’m waiting,” he said softly, “for answers.”

Ferenc scrolled through his tablet. “It’s, uh, unknown how exactly the Orbita was ruined. ESS technicians are analyzing the remnants of the compound. It’s a molecular disassembler unlike anything they’ve seen, so it will take time to determine the manufacturer.”

Kiel glanced at his right-hand man. Ferenc’s face was as impassive as ever, yet the hitch in his explanation hinted at his level of disturbance. Good. If he was afraid, it would be Kiel’s first victory in the new campaign.

“You’re certain whoever broke in here did this?”

“Yes, sir. The Orbita was fine before the other night. I inspected a few containers when they were delivered. And I saw the contents again earlier this week, when the newest shipment went out to the refugee camp.”

Kiel knelt by the containers. He wore a pair of gloves, as did all the technicians examining the room. The scorch marks along the containers’ edges were disconcerting. He swiped with his finger. “What about door logs?”

“They were affected by the power outage, but we’re pulling those.”

“Tell me about the outage. It wasn’t the first, was it? I recall a few more in reports filed by our staff, and there were mentions in the local news networks.”

“Correct. It’s been an ongoing problem in the immediate district and surrounding neighborhoods. In fact, there was another earlier this morning. It hampered our efforts to retrieve security footage.”

“Yes, the worst of which was less than thirty-six hours ago, late at night, during which the guards reported being stunned.”

“I’m checking scans from that evening, sir. The outage was a bad one—not as long as others, but it impacted more systems.”

Kiel frowned. “The timing is too suspect for my liking. Examine all door logs and cross-check with employee statements, especially security. I want to know who was where at every second. This act of terrorism has cost us millions and, more importantly, has limited our ability to disrupt the refugee situation.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Where are the two men who reported the intrusion?”

“This way.”

Kiel wiped the now-lukewarm tea on his pantleg and tossed the cup aside. Let sanitation bots clean it up. If he hadn’t been at the concealed shipyard, overseeing the finishing touches on the refit, he could have been planetside. He could have responded to the infiltration report. “I trust we’ve begun interrogating the staff.”

“Consulate security has, yes, sir, but they’re confident it isn’t any of them. None have given any hint of disloyalty.”

“Clearly they haven’t tried hard enough.”

They found the two security guards in a conference room—Jance and Torge. They were in the middle of telling a supervisor some aspect of their story but cut off as soon as Kiel and Ferenc entered. Doubtless they knew the plainclothed men were not regular League officials.

“Mr. Kiel.” The supervisor rose. He offered his hand. “I want you to know we—”

“Get out. I have your report.”

“Uh, sir, but I—”

Kiel slapped him, a powerful, backhanded blow that sent him reeling. “Get. Out.”

The supervisor fled. Kiel turned, his gaze settling on the guards. “You were both shot.”

“We, uh, think they were stun rounds. Torge was hit first.” Jance swallowed. “I, uh, saw a shape move in the shadows.”

“A person or a bot?”

“Person, sir, I think. Too big to be a drone.”

“Yet, your drones were malfunctioning that night, so it could have been.”

“I guess—I mean, it’s possible, sir.”

Kiel strolled the room. “What else did you see? And hear?”

“We didn’t see anything, sir, because the backup generator was on the fritz. We didn’t hear much either because we were, uh, reviewing protocols—out loud.”

Torge glanced at him but remained silent.

“I have a follow-up question.” Kiel leaned over the table. “Where—”

“Sir?” Ferenc looked up from his tablet. “I have the doors report.”

Kiel indicated he should read aloud.

“The hallway entrance to the garage was accessed by Officer Torge at 2234 hours.”

Torge cleared his throat. “That’s not possible. I was conferring with Officer Jance around the same time. Then we were knocked out for less than a minute…” His eyes widened.

“Yes?” Kiel asked.

“What time was it when we came around?” Jance stared at his partner.

“It might have been around then. My comm said twenty-two thirtysomething when I came out of it. You were still down.”

Door access, yet neither had been conscious. Kiel snapped his fingers, drawing their attention. “Do either of you have family for whom you should be concerned?”

“Sir?”

“I need to know who else will be punished for your mistakes when you’re both executed for incompetence.” Kiel gestured to the door. “Find your supervisor. Consider how best the three of you can make up for this failing.”

The guards scurried out, knocking over a chair in the process.

Ferenc looked up from his tablet as if nothing more interesting than a weather report had concluded. “Executions, sir?”

Kiel made a face. “I don’t have the time or inclination to waste people. Once word of their incompetence reaches the political officer in their home jurisdiction, there will be penalties aplenty. So, the door…”

They examined the control panel once back in the hallway. Kiel cocked his head. “There are scuff marks at the bottom corner of the doorframe. You see?”

It was Ferenc’s turn to kneel. His cybernetic eye whirred as he focused on the scratches. “Metallic paint, used in coating firearms—similar to what’s on League weapons but different composition.”

Kiel rubbed his chin. “Stun rounds are good for hours?”

“Usually, sir.”

“But these men reported incapacity for far less. Something more subtle at play.” Kiel looked down the hallway then back to the door. “A swift person could stun the guards, take one’s key card, unlock the door, then hurry back to replace the card…” He closed his eyes, envisioning an androgynous figure in action. “But the door would shut itself, so he had to prop it open with the very same weapon he used to incapacitate the guards. Replacing the card would leave no one the wiser about the garage until security made rounds a few minutes later, when the lights were restored.”

Kiel opened the door and walked into the garage. He perused the room, stopping when he spotted the wide-open entrance into the maintenance shop.

A technician was already in there, running a sensor over every surface.

“What have you found?”

“Traces of melted metals and plastics,” the woman said, “concentrated by the lockers.”

“He came in here after destroying…” Kiel stopped. He smiled then pointed up.

The overhead vent was ever-so-slightly crooked.

Ferenc snorted. “I’ll go examine the exterior hatches.”

“They’re long gone,” Kiel said. “But security didn’t report any data breaches after the outage, did they? So, I suspect this was a hasty exit. Still, though—no trace of the person on either cameras or scans, only intermittent registration of movement.”

“Plus the molecular debris, possibly from microbots.”

Microbots, stunned guards, malfunctioning monitor drones on the roof, a stealth entrance near undetectable—and would have been entirely so if not for the recently upgraded generator switching online when it did—all resulting in the destruction of the one thing no one would ever think to find in a consulate’s garage.

“Ferenc,” Kiel said. “We have spies on our hands.”

“Terran operatives, sir? Like you surmised.”

“Yes. Which makes it all the more imperative we step up our efforts. Get Corriveau on the comms. I want the ship launched as soon as possible.”

“Not all the sensors are—”

“We’ll make do. We have to.” Kiel sneered. “These are not local police, Ferenc. These are highly trained, well-equipped CIS assets. Finding cockroaches would be a less fruitless task. Our best chance at success is to simply outrun them.”

* * *

President Justin Spencer rubbed the bridge of his nose. If he read another report, he was certain his eyes would fall out. He was in the White House’s rear courtyard, sheltered from public view among trees imported from a dozen member worlds. Bees buzzed around flowers, the petals shifting color from reds to pinks as the insects took the pollen offered. He would much rather review the latest from Aphendrika in relative serenity than be surrounded by his office, especially on such a gorgeous, warm-weather day.

Nature’s beauty helped soften the blow. Dozens were dead, and riots were ongoing. Crime spiked, as it appeared two drug cartels were warring for dominance.

Spencer frowned. What he didn’t like was the role his people played in it.

Colonel Sinclair’s coded memo was clear. Unit 171 was responsible for sparking the violence between the cartels. On the upside, they’d managed to bring the spread of Orbita to a halt, both in the drug dealers’ storage facilities and—he had to give credit where credit was due—inside the very walls of the local League consulate.

The methods rankle me, Spencer realized. But I’d have a hard time passing judgment on the outcomes.

The problem, of course, was that Coalition citizens had died, beyond the TCFE officers who’d been caught in the riots, people caught in the crossfire of warring factions. How many were victims of League violence? If the League hadn’t interfered in a Coalition planet, would they have died? Spencer shook his head. He had a lot to sort out, a lot to keep him up at night.

“Justin?” Ed Fuentes approached from the back entrance of the White House.

Marine sentries shadowed him.

“There you are. This should have been my first place to look for you. Do you have a second?”

“Of course.” Spencer gestured to the sentries, who maintained a discreet distance as he and Fuentes strolled deeper into the courtyard. “You’ve seen the latest?”

“From the Cypriot Crisis? Yes. I know you don’t approve of the moniker, Justin, but whatever the name, I think it’s risen to the level to designate it as such. It sounds as though your team of operatives has had success. At least they’ve crippled the Orbita supply on the planet.”

“Thank God. I’m glad it didn’t take longer to annihilate that scourge.” Spencer indicated his tablet. “But the refugee situation itself hasn’t stabilized. TCFE has managed to interdict a few smugglers here and there, however, they’re stretched thin.”

“Yes. The neighboring systems are seeing the influx spill over, though not as badly as at Aphendrika.”

“Any luck from your conversations with the aid groups?”

“Compassionate Stars was willing to take the risk, however, a surprise inspection by Border uncovered Orbita among the aid supplies.”

Justin grimaced. “Has it—”

“Oh, I’m afraid so.” Fuentes produced his own tablet, opening to a news headline, “Orbita Found in Compassionate Aid.” “Social media already has commentary to the effect that this administration planted it there in an effort to destabilize the camp and force the removal of the refugees.”

“Dammit!” Spencer glowered as he read the article. “They didn’t even bother asking us for a statement?”

“I’m sure the call is coming any minute,” Fuentes said dryly.

“And we have the proof of League involvement sitting right in the basement of their consulate.”

“Images which would benefit us to release.”

“Yes, Ed, but if we reveal the destruction of the Orbita stash and where it was, the public will know we sanctioned a mission violating the League’s diplomatic sovereignty, which to my mind, they deserved.” Spencer shook his head. “It was all done quietly. A fire, at least, would have brought the local department running and opened up their consulate to public scrutiny.”

“I understand the team has been in a similar situation, when they found evidence of trafficking.”

“Correct. A private citizen wound up sharing a tip with police and was killed for it.”

“I just came from talking with Celinda. She’s about to go over the fence and join General MacIntosh.”

“All right. They’re not going to twist my arm very far, with things going as they have. Clearly TCFE can’t handle the situation, and with at least one stealth-capable enemy vessel out there, even Oxford and Tuscon are hard-pressed to track it down. Sorry, Ed, but it’s three to one on this decision.”

Fuentes held up a hand. “Not at all. I’ve never had an issue with the rationale. My preference was always to keep military involvement as minimal as possible, which is a stance I believe the Coalition should take as we dive into this postwar era. Overreliance on saber-rattling won’t serve us well as we face new challenges.”

“Some people won’t respond to anything but that rattle, which is why we have to be ready to use the saber when other methods fail.”

“I don’t agree, but in this situation, I believe our backs are up against the proverbial wall. Peace Union is sniffing around for votes to pass a resolution.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Sending Fleet elements now will forestall such a show of no confidence in your administration.” Fuentes smiled. “Our administration. I’ve placated them with hints of action and let slip a few rumors about increased aid but made no promises.”

“Sounds like a positive step to me. Who does MacIntosh have in mind for this foray?”

“Brigadier General Travis Milliken.”

Milliken, commanding officer of the Fifteenth Space Action Group—fourteen vessels, mostly frigates, centered around the new CSV Marcus Aurelius, one of the impressive antimatter reactor cruisers.

“He’s had good reports. He was responsible for keeping pirate incursions down during the war, from what I recall.”

“He was. Our neutral friends can’t stop singing his praises, according to General MacIntosh, though Celinda has reservations about the same experiences.”

“What kind of reservations?”

“He’s apparently made public comments to the effect of ‘the only good Leaguer is a dead Leaguer,’ though they were made during the last few years of the war. His command reviews have all been stellar, to date.”

Spencer brought up the image of General Milliken on the tablet. No nonsense about him, if the photo was any indication. “Thanks. I’ll review his background and get word to Celinda for approval. Where is the Fifteenth Group now?”

“At New Washington, for leave and resupply. They’re due to depart next week.”

“We may have to cut that short. The sooner we can back up TCFE, the better.” Spencer exhaled. “I’ll have Andrew send word to Colonel Sinclair. We’ll have to read General Milliken in on the major aspects of the operation.”

Fuentes nodded. He seemed out of sorts, though, as he watched the bees.

“Is there a problem, Ed?”

“I’m trying to tell myself we haven’t failed,” Fuentes explained. “Sending the Fleet to handle this crisis escalates matters. It also tells the public we can’t fix problems without the military.”

“No, what it tells our people is we value their security, and just like during the war years, we will defend them against encroachment. Don’t worry. I’m not casting the refugees as enemies, but the best way we can calm the public—and as you’ve said, the inflammatory rhetoric circulating anonymously—is to project our strength into a fragile situation.”

“Agree to disagree, I suppose,” Fuentes said. “My worry is strength will result in breakage when dealing with fragility. By the same token, calling the League out publicly will only serve to strain already tense diplomatic bonds.”

“Trust me, I’ve considered the same thing.” Spencer raised a finger. “But sending the Fifteenth will send a message to the League as well—that we’re still ready, willing, and able to defend ourselves. We can’t show them weakness. Lord knows they’re more than happy to strike the moment we do.”

Fuentes nodded. “I see your point. I have an appointment with a few Peace Union legislators. Lunch later?”

“Sounds good. Thanks again.”

Ed’s departure left Spencer alone, with his own guards scattered throughout the courtyard. Spencer sat on a stone bench, the tablet’s reports still glowing. He tapped them away, prepared to block out the overwhelming information for a while, but instead he called up a search bar linked to Coalition astrographic surveys.

When all was said and done, the refugees would have to go somewhere, Spencer knew. Are the choices limited to sending them back into the League’s iron grasp or flooding the Terran worlds with people they can’t support? Because if we let this group in, tens of millions will follow in weeks, as long as the League keeps throwing them out.

He keyed in new terms, searching for a better solution.

* * *

Brant blew out a breath. Waiting for results was the worst part. He could feed in all the data he wanted, but it was up to the computer to give answers when it was ready. No amount of complaining would hurry the process.

Running facial-scan comparisons took longer than most tasks, so he busied himself parsing the relevant social media posts about the Cypriot Crisis. He’d constructed an algorithm to collect ones of similar tone. To be thorough, he’d modified it to catch political stripes of all kinds.

The strident tones of Peace Union supporters demanding all refugees be brought in and supported didn’t surprise him. What did were the equally vehement opposers who wanted every person shipped back across to League space—or just plain dumped into space—because their posts shared structural parallels. So much so that the algorithm was convinced of a seventy percent chance the same person or program wrote them.

The computer beeped. Facial comparison complete. Brant scowled. None of the faces—including especially the man with the cybernetic eye—matched known League assets.

He gave the social media a second look. “So if you’re running this operation and writing this junk,” he muttered, “let’s see if we can’t find out where you are.”

19

Private Landing Field, Near Kolossi

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

29 July 2464

Arvid shook his head as he walked around the battered scow that was Lucy Lee. “I heard you were good at the helm, Carlos, but I didn’t know you were this good.”

Carlos DeSilva grinned. “I can’t take all the credit. Leave it to the Border guys being too busy with hordes of refugees to worry about one tramp freighter loaded with junk.”

He leaned back against Lucy Lee’s hull, next to Jackson, who shifted his weight from the left leg to the right.

Jackson tried not to favor the left—it still throbbed after overuse. He knew he looked just as battered and bruised as the smuggler ship. Makes for a great cover, Jackson thought. Too bad it’s authentic.

“And you.” Arvid cocked his head. “I’m surprised you’re still alive, given what I’ve heard about Salvatore’s.”

I’m sure you did hear about it. “Hey, I’m just lucky I was out on my break. Others weren’t.”

“Like Salvatore. Recovering. I hope someone brought him flowers.”

“I’ll make sure he gets some, if I see him.” Actually, he’d already been to Salvatore’s recovery room.

The poor man—well, as much as Jackson could feel sorrow for a small-time criminal involved in drug dealing and human trafficking—wouldn’t be walking for months. He’d barely responded to Jackson’s quiet inquiries, which the latter had couched as subtle but insistent requests for new job possibilities. What Salvatore had managed to whisper, between ragged breaths, was Arvid’s name. Confirmation for Jackson that he was on the right path bringing Carlos in, thus giving him access to Demir via Haakon, the twin brother.

Arvid glanced at Jackson, likely puzzling over his tone when referring to Salvatore, which Jackson had meant to keep snide.

“What? I’m not gonna shed tears. Salvatore skimmed way more off our pay than was reasonable. Barely knew the guy. So, if there’s a better deal now, I’m ready for it.”

“Seems you’ve found the better deal already.” Arvid indicated the scow.

“Yeah. Carlos and me, we go back a ways.” Jackson nudged Carlos. “The Venturi run? Three years ago? Great way for me to make easy money.”

“It was. Except we got caught.” Carlos snorted and rolled his eyes.

He’d really been caught on the Venturi, but of course Jackson had been nowhere near it. All part of the new additions to his backstory. “You got caught. I skipped out. See, this one time—”

“Shut up,” Arvid said. “All right. Haakon says you’re good to go? Then we need to get these parts delivered. Load up.”

They’d made it to the bridge when the proximity sensors wailed their alarms over the ship’s speakers. Haakon, Arvid’s twin, was hunched over Navigation. “Bror! Patrol shuttle! It’s coming up over the horizon, low to the ground. They’ve active scanned us.”

“Dammit,” Arvid snapped. “You. Carlos. Get us airborne.”

“I’m working on it. Jack, get on weapons. There’s not much but point defense. Maybe we can scare ’em off.” Carlos ran Lucy through a preflight so fast, Jackson’s rear had just touched the cushions when the scow lurched off the tarmac.

“Closing fast,” Haakon muttered. “Hold—there is a signal coming through.”

Arvid took the vacant captain’s seat.

Carlos glared sidelong at him before returning his attention to the helm. “Let us hear it.”

“—Scow Lucy Lee, this is TCFE overflight. You are a wanted vessel and charged with breaching the blockade of Aphendrika. Land immediately, and power down. Prepare to receive boarders.”

“Bastards.” Arvid’s fingers bent the flimsy arms of the chair. “Go faster.”

“Working on it.” Carlos checked the altimeter. “Stand by for main drives… now.”

The sudden thrust shoved them all back into their seats before the ship’s gravity could compensate. Jackson chuckled at his own burst of adrenaline, even though the acceleration made his injuries ache. He checked the laser turrets—powered, ready, good mostly for intercepting projectile weapons or incoming missiles. “Target locked,” Jackson called out. “Ready to fire if we have to.” And we will have to.

* * *

“Welp, there we go, LT.” Dwyer shut off the shuttle’s alert. “Lucy’s painted us. Can’t say I relish the thought of gettin’ this bird cooked with lasers, even if she is a borrowed ride.”

“All part of the plan, Echo Three,” Brant said. “We need to put on a good show. Besides, you get to put a warning shot across her bow.”

“If I can catch her,” Dwyer muttered.

“Then get moving before she boosts too far, because you won’t be able to.”

* * *

“Your last warning. Reduce speed, land immediately, and prepare to be boarded, or you will be fired upon.”

Jackson had to hand it to Dwyer—he could smooth over his accent until it was imperceptible when needed. “Hey, didn’t anybody hear me? I’ve got the shuttle targeted.”

“We will not engage TCFE unless we have to,” Arvid said. “We won’t make the same mistake as the others.”

“Yeah, but if we—”

“I said no! Not unless we have to.”

There. That wasn’t just anger—that was fear. Arvid didn’t want to fire because the real person calling the shots didn’t want him to. Jackson held up his hands and acted surprised. “Okay! Sorry, man.”

“Stand by to warn them—”

The tactical console blatted. “Better do it now!” Jackson shouted. “Incoming fire!”

The shuttle’s shots skipped off the scow’s blunt nose but didn’t do any damage other than gouging the hull plating. Carlos slid Lucy Lee onto a new vector, adding to their velocity with one of the auxiliary boosters mounted alongside the main engines.

“Fire!” Arvid snapped.

Jackson touched the control and, on impulse, prayed. He wasn’t much for religion, not the public worship kind, anyway. Hanging around Brant for years, though, gave him an appreciation for the divine, particularly the God of Abraham. So, he figured it couldn’t hurt to ask. Brant would back him up, as always.

The sensor readout told him he’d scorched the shuttle’s underside, which would keep it from rising above the atmosphere—shielded or not, the heat-resistant panels were necessary to keep it from burning up on reentry.

Sure enough, the little ship turned back.

“Nice shot,” Carlos said.

“Yes, it was,” Arvid admitted. “But they have no doubt sent a warning to the other vessels in orbit. This is when you prove to me Lucy Lee is worth her reputation as a smuggler—given she was already caught once.”

“A fluke.” Carlos grinned. “Not this time.”

He killed the engines, letting the scow race past a gaggle of ships. A pair of Border vessels had detained three freighters. Carlos nudged Lucy Lee onto a vector skirting their edges, all without applying engine thrust, making like a rock—until he’d slipped alongside their perimeter, and the nearest Pikeman-class corvette whipped around to target them.

The next round of acceleration slammed Jackson against his restraints. He slapped the console and whooped, even as the spike of fear inherent in that part of any op stabbed through his chest. Zero comms, for the moment. No Brant guiding him, not until he got to wherever they were headed. Fingers crossed Major Mancini was ready.

* * *

CSV Tuscon took up a shadow course once Lucy Lee’s engines cut out again. Mancini ordered the pilot to accelerate around the opposite side of Aphendrika from the smuggler ship, then he, too, shut down engines once the gravity assist slingshotted them to a velocity approaching their targets.

“Conn, Pilot. Drive secured.”

“Confirmed, Pilot. Let’s see where she takes us,” Mancini said. “Here’s hoping Captain Adams doesn’t run into any onboard interference. COB, rig for ultraquiet.”

“Rig for ultraquiet, aye, Skipper.” Master Chief Abraham Cosentino’s voice boomed in response. He was, as chief of the boat, senior enlisted advisor to the captain and XO. “Secure all nonessential machinery.”

Mancini eyeballed his display as the alert strobe bathed the control room blue. A few of the crew shuffled out. Monitors blinked off. All over the ship, the noises of Tuscon’s operation died off. “TAO, repopulate the board. Sensor Room, what else have we got?”

“Conn, Sensor. A couple more Sierras to mark, sir. Probable smugglers. There’s hundreds of ships out there.”

“All the better for us. We can hide among the piles of drive plumes and reactor signatures.”

“Aye, sir. Painting them up.”

Captain Godat leaned in. “Once we’re in close enough to wherever Adams is leading us, you’ll be wanting an active deep scan of the location, I’m assuming.”

“We’ll get whatever we can and bring in Oxford on the data. If there’s what we all hope is hiding out there, Master Chief MacDonald won’t be so bored anymore.” Mancini expanded the view on his display. Sensor wasn’t kidding—hundreds of ships, from Aphendrika, the planet, out several orbits. Who knew how many more lurked about the asteroids? It didn’t help that the system was a messy one, full of debris.

“Conn, Sensor Room.” The senior chief came back with an insistent tone. “Have a possible bandit. A vessel burned right after we did, for the same length of time. Computer thought it was an echo lensed by the planet’s gravity well, but I took a second look—definitely a different signature.”

“Sensor Room, where?” Mancini brushed past Godat as he stared at the tactical screen, over Lieutenant Olesen’s shoulder.

“Aft, five thousand kilometers before it blinked off passive scans.”

“Stay on it.”

“Active scans?”

“Passive only. I don’t want to tip them off.”

“Aye, sir. Contact designated as Sierra Two. Sensor Room out.”

Mancini frowned at the new indicator. It was marked to show the current position was estimated—even with Tuscon’s state-of-the-art sensors, they couldn’t be sure exactly where the ship was, if there was one. Not that Mancini doubted his crew, but machines could make errors. Hence the need for people to confirm the information instead of relying on what they were fed.

It went against the mantra of the silent service. No mistakes. Ever.

“Coming up on a cluster of asteroids, sir,” the pilot said. “Sensor has twenty-three objects, still clicking upward.”

“Confirmed, Pilot,” Godat said. “Status of Sierra Two?”

“Picking up thruster bursts only. No sign of deceleration from the primary engines yet.”

“Maintain present course.” Mancini took a sip of coffee. Gah. Lukewarm like engine grease. “What do you think, XO? Have our spooks found the League’s spider hole?”

“They’ve found something, sir,” Godat mused. “I don’t think Adams would have put himself onto the same ship as the cartel’s enforcers if he weren’t confident he’d get a step closer. I’d have put in for a few days’ medical leave after nearly getting myself blown up.”

“Good joke. You know I’d never let you take leave.”

“Fair point. What was I thinking?” Godat shook his head, though he grinned. “Are you telling me CDF forgot to put a clause in the peace treaty about stealth boat crews getting better benefits?”

“I’m sure it was the first thing they cut out.”

The officers lapsed into an amiable silence as Tuscon cruised behind Lucy, far enough to remain undetected but near enough their sensors could track her moves. Other than a few course corrections, she made no sudden adjustments—no surprise, Mancini knew, because TCFE wasn’t chasing. One might put it down to skill or good luck, but it didn’t hurt that Colonel Sinclair had signaled the TCFE ships in the immediate area to ignore what had gone on—no official explanation given.

Mancini had just set the mug back down for the fifth time when an alarm bell clanged twice.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, missile launch detected, location unknown.” Olesen snapped. “Two, repeat, two missiles launched. They’ve acquired us and are homing.”

Adrenaline jolted Mancini. “Pilot, evasive maneuvers. Come to heading zero-two-four, all ahead flank.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Tuscon lurched as their inertial compensator caught up with the sudden acceleration. Twin markers blinked on the tactical display—missiles fired from behind them.

“TAO, designate Sierra Two as Master One,” Mancini said, using the term for a confirmed hostile vessel. “Give me updated vectors.”

“Uh, sir, Sierra Two didn’t fire those missiles. We don’t have a contact yet for the hostile.”

“Belay that order, then, TAO. Focus on finding me something to shoot at.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Working backward on the missile trajectory now.”

That would give them a better set of coordinates to look toward, and coupled with other factors—acceleration of the missiles, initial speed when they were launched—they would be able to get a lock.

“Conn, TAO. Time to impact, twenty-five seconds.”

“Electronic countermeasures activated,” Godat said.

One of the missiles veered suddenly off course, corkscrewing on a trajectory taking it to the fringes of the approaching asteroid field. A few seconds later, it exploded.

“If we weren’t on everyone’s screens before, we are now,” Mancini said.

Of course, Tuscon could fight and was a potent first-strike boat, but she was meant to splash a target after approaching under extreme stealth, not be the one ambushed.

“Where’s the other missile?”

“Still on us, Skipper.”

“TAO, activate point defense in automatic mode.”

“Locked and confirmed, sir.”

“Activate.”

The rumble through Tuscon’s hull sent Mancini’s coffee mug to the edge of its perch. He caught it before it could drop the lukewarm contents onto the deck. The CIWS guns sent out a barrage that bracketed the incoming missile, shredding it until the payload ignited in a flash even more brilliant than the first.

Only then did Mancini let himself breathe. Thanks be to God we caught the launches in time.

But the damage had been done. He’d been forced to kick on Tuscon’s drive, which was as good as a spy screaming his presence in the middle of a late-night break-in. Any ships nearby would know another vessel was out there.

“Pursuit course, Skipper?” Godat asked.

Mancini’s orders were to shadow Lucy Lee and investigate whatever the League had hidden at the end of her run. But the hostile was still out there, a ship capable of sneaking up on a stealth boat, which was nothing he was willing to leave at his back. The threat to CDF personnel alone made him go cold. “Sensor Room, give me good news.”

“Conn, Sensor Room. I’ve got a trajectory for the hostile, sir. Designating it Master One. She’s turning back out into the system, running for the asteroid field on a vector ninety degrees to original and up thirty over the ecliptic plane.”

“Pilot, lay in an intercept course, flank speed.”

“Intercept laid in, aye, sir.”

Tuscon surged after her attacker. The distance closed.

“TAO, firing point procedures, Master One, Hunter missiles, tubes one through four.”

“Firing solutions set.”

“Make tubes one through four ready to fire on all aspects. Open outer doors.”

“Tubes one through four ready, outer doors open,” Olesen added.

Mancini prayed for the souls of whoever was on Master One, because if he ended their lives, he wanted to do them the courtesy of receiving forgiveness before they faced eternity. “TAO, match bearings, shoot tubes one through four.”

Four missiles raced out into the void, blazing for Master One. Tuscon’s sensors had it locked, so no amount of evasive maneuvering would help.

Mancini scowled at the detailed scans Sensor routed to the command center. “That’s a match to the freighter Adams’ people spotted down on Aphendrika.”

“Yes, sir, it is. Coming back to within ninety-four percent certainty. Different registry and ID.”

“Stealth coatings?” Godat asked.

“Not as good as ours, Captain, but better than anything that’s typical League.”

One by one, the missiles winked out. Mancini blinked. Even with the time delay from how far out they’d traveled, they shouldn’t have exploded by then.

“PD fire.” Olesen sounded awed. “They flooded space with xaser bursts around them, sir. Micrometeorites took at least one out too. I’ve never seen a perfect kill ratio on Hunters before.”

“Conn, Sensor Room. Master One has gone dark. They’re in the field now.”

Damn. Mancini glanced at Godat. “Better secure a tight beam to Colonel Sinclair. There’s still time for us to double back after Lucy, but he’s got to know the freighter we’ve been looking for isn’t anything like the typical smuggler.”

Godat nodded. “The League’s upped their tech game.”

“And I’m not going to give them a second chance to test it,” Mancini said.

* * *

Jackson stood by Lucy Lee’s cargo hatch as robotic loaders tromped back and forth between the ship and the reinforced cavern. They stacked the parts deliveries outside another hatch, one he assumed led deeper into the asteroid.

“Five more minutes, and we’re unloaded,” Arvid said. “Be sure the drones take every box from the hold. I want nothing left behind.”

“You got it.” Jackson gave him a thumbs-up. The gesture didn’t get a reaction beyond a sullen look as Arvid turned for the ladder out of the cargo bay.

“Are you, uh, taking notes?” Carlos whispered to him.

Jackson smiled. “You bet I am. If they’ll let me get into these smuggler runs more often, I’ll pull in more money than I would have off Salvatore’s shop.”

Carlos stared at him a moment then grinned. “Yeah, sure will. I’m headed back up to the bridge to make sure we’re ready to shove off as soon as the goods are unloaded.”

“See you there.”

It was a relief to watch him leave. As good a job as he’d done playing his part, Carlos was a civilian interloper to the operation. Trusting him to keep the story straight—and his mouth shut at inopportune moments—hadn’t failed, yet, but fear was a powerful motivator.

Jackson, meanwhile, made sure his wrist unit was soaking up everything it could via the sensors Brant had custom fitted. Its prior upgrade meant the memory space could be filled for hours. Jackson wanted to take no chances, especially when he noted the gun emplacements tucked into the mouth of the cave, obscured by the new stacks of containers.

He was one step closer to shutting down the League’s aims in the Aphendrika system. He would gladly risk his own neck to see the mission through, but there was no need to be reckless—not when other lives were depending on his actions.

Pain lanced up his leg. Jackson shifted weight. When he did, vertigo rushed through him. He braced himself on the hold’s bulkhead. His body felt like he was riding the family hovercraft again, at the ranch, so much so he could smell the sagebrush after the rain.

Steady. Jackson knew there was no room for error. Almost there.

20

Kolossi

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

30 July 2464

The moon was a glistening crescent, overpowering the stars and turning the cloud tops pale blue. Sevastopol Rast could have gazed upon the vista for endless nights.

“Drop zone comin’ up, Sev. No stopping this time—I’ll slow a bit, brush the tall grass, and you roll out. No fuss, no muss, roger?”

“Roger.” Sev secured his backpack’s straps and clutched the carbine close to his chest. He was clad head to toe in mottled black with shifting designs, an adaptive camouflage meant to mimic most surroundings. It was having issues with the stealth shuttle’s interior. Nature was more its speed.

“Down in five,” Warrant Dwyer said.

The shuttle’s dive through the cloud cover was choppy. Unsurprising, given the rainstorm pounding a hundred square kilometers across a long cold front. Sev positioned himself at the side hatch, hand poised on the release.

“Eight meters and descending. Good luck and Godspeed, Deadeye.”

Sev flashed him a two-fingered salute and triggered the control.

Bitter, damp air rolled into the cabin. The ground was a dark mass of swirling grasses and muddy puddles. Rain pelted him as he dropped a visor across his face. The soft hiss of the seal around his eyes meant every centimeter of his body was concealed.

Warrant Dwyer kept counting, but Sev didn’t need the numbers. When he was ready, he leapt.

The moment of flight was glorious. He imagined never touching down, instead soaring beyond the shuttle, back through the clouds, clear into orbit. What would it be like to Lawrence jump through a wormhole? What if my body could survive the titanic pressures of space-time, distorting itself to link two places dozens of light-years apart?

His boots hit mud. Sev crumpled, rolled, and came up in a crouch. The sticky, hot exhaust of the stealth shuttle washed over him, the sound barely rising above the tumult of the storm. Two minutes later and his ride was gone, leaving Sev alone outside the old farmhouse.

“Brick structure with concrete reinforcing,” Lieutenant Guinto said into his earpiece. “Uninhabited for seventy-nine years. Locals consider it of historical importance—apparently it was part of a big family’s original homestead before they moved into Kolossi proper. Good news is the city never labeled it on the official register.”

Good news indeed since Sev planned to destroy it.

Four hovercraft were clustered by the low stone wall surrounding the property. Golden lights glowed in a few windows. Sev hurried across the intervening distance. He vaulted the fence, mindful of his steps but aided by the driving rain and the soft ground.

Heat sensors showed seven people inside. Red Ring cartel. Even if he’d had no intelligence on it, one of their favorite stashes of illegal weaponry, the tattoos arcing across their foreheads, and their bare shoulders were dead giveaways.

“Echo Four, Echo Three. I’m comin’ back for my first pass. ETA three minutes fifty-six seconds. Might want to get cookin’ before I blow the roof off.”

Sev propped the carbine atop a collapsed windowsill. He didn’t know the target’s name, only his profile—enforcer responsible for nine murders, which included three police officers, trafficker of drugs and stolen weapons, various, sundry assaults. Demir cartel had him posted as one to kill on sight.

Sev sighted, breathed, pulled the trigger.

The man dropped from view. His companions shouted and swore. A table of ammunition fell in a cacophony that masked Sev’s second shot. Another man went down, injured and screaming but with a survivable wound. Survivable, if not for the incoming strafe.

Sev retreated across the wall. He hunkered against the wet stone as gunfire ripped out of the house.

“They’re retreating for the hovercraft, carrying the wounded target.”

While Sev was grateful for the extra set of eyes from Lieutenant Guinto’s ever-present drones, he did wish the man would leave him to his work. The captain wouldn’t bother him that much. He would spot him and be done with it.

Sev waited until he heard the hovercraft whine to life. The carbine poked over the top of the wall, water dribbling from the stock. His goggles had delicate enough sensors that he knew he’d interrupted the unloading of their ill-gotten weapons. A precise shot into the cache of explosives concealed beneath a tarp—the back end of the hovercraft erupted into a fireball that went hissing up into the sky. The driver leapt free, swiping at the flames licking his jumpsuit.

“Echo Four, Echo Three. Forty-six seconds. Haul ass, my friend.”

Sev sprinted for a stand of trees a few hundred meters away. He didn’t look back for the house or the hovercraft or the stealth shuttle he knew was coming back for its attack run. He didn’t stop until he splashed into the creek running between the trees, their half-meter trunks as sturdy a cover as he could find in the middle of the rolling fields.

Twin missiles streaked from the shadows, plowing through the clouds. The house vanished in the explosion, reemerging as a blackened, roofless ruin of its formerly rustic self. The blasts’ echoes continued like thunder, with sharp cracks from ammo cook-off continuing well after the hovercraft had blazed off into the distance.

A clean op. In and out in a few minutes—with witnesses to the devastation left alive to spread the word.

Sev allowed a tight smile beneath his mask. Let them seek retribution from the scum already after their hides.

* * *

Colonel Sinclair paced the line of monitors in Oxford’s operations center. Timing two raids simultaneously wasn’t impossible, and wasn’t inherently more dangerous, but it did require a degree of concentration and coordination from all parties involved that made successful outcomes less likely. So he was delighted to hear confirmation from Echo Home—Lieutenant Guinto—that the attack on Red Ring cartel had gone smoothly.

“Red Ring should be ready to retaliate, sir,” Captain Tamir said. “Given how fast they’ve responded to past attacks.”

“Which shall only serve to make their Demir rivals more reckless. I daresay Captain Adams has certainly chosen unique individuals for his team. Keeping Demir off-balance is a welcome distraction.” Sinclair checked the timer on the nearest console. “ETA to Tuscon’s arrival?”

“She’s taken up a holding position twenty klicks from the target asteroid,” Eldred said. “No enemy vessels indicated. If that new stealth bucket is out there, she’s just as quiet.”

“Any reaction from the storage facility?”

“None, sir. Automated turrets not responding.”

“Very well. Open a channel to Tuscon, tagged to Captain Adams,” Sinclair ordered.

“Aye, sir.”

Sinclair cleared his throat. “Base One, this is Echo One. All signs point to a quiet reception. Do you concur?”

Despite his calm exterior, Sinclair didn’t care for the several seconds’ delay. He drummed his fingers, willing a swift response.

* * *

Jackson finished fastening his helmet before he responded. “Echo One, sir. Tuscon concurs—there’s no sign of activity. Not so much as a sensor lock.”

“That’s confirmed.” Mancini was on the comms channel too.

Jackson smirked a bit at the pique evident in his voice. Jackson hadn’t meant to step across Mancini’s authority as skipper of the stealth boat, but on their mission, lines of communication needed to be more fluid. He doubted Mancini would be comforted by that operational philosophy.

“Tuscon is standing off in weapons range, Base One.”

“You have authorization to disarm the target, Tuscon,” Sinclair ordered.

“Affirmative, Base. TAO, precision fire on those turrets. Leave the front door without a scratch.”

“Aye, sir,” came the youthful reply.

Jackson, down in Tuscon’s cramped shuttle bay, couldn’t see the action but felt the deck sway underfoot as the boat’s weaponry did its work. Around him, MacDonald’s Space Special Warfare team loaded their gear into the shuttle.

“Make way for the cake-eater spook.” That was Harrell, who passed Jackson with two satchels in hand.

“Shut your trap, Harrell,” MacDonald said. “The captain knows the deal. He stays in the back, where the League won’t intentionally shoot him and we won’t accidentally put rounds through his faceplate.”

A tall, hulking Saurian in his native armored suit grimaced, his fangs gleaming in what Jackson assumed was his species’ version of a grin. “He shall be lucky to not find my claw marks on his backside.”

“Rucuk for the win.” Harrell chuckled.

“Sounds like the best strategy to me.” Jackson got a green light from his suit’s systems. Cool air hissed from his life-support pack. “I’d prefer better recon before waltzing into a place I don’t know, but if I can’t have it, I’ll take Alpha Team.”

“Appreciate the attitude, sir.” MacDonald hefted his battle rifle. “Me, I’m just as comfortable blowing a sizeable hole in the front door if we knock and nobody answers.”

“Mancini to Echo One. Weapons emplacements eliminated. You’re go for launch.”

“Roger, sir.” Jackson would rather have his own people along for the mission—Gina and Sev on the ground, with Sparks either flying overhead or blasting hatches off their mounts while Brant guided them—but he meant what he said.

There’d been time for him to review personnel files for all the key players with Covert Action Unit 171. MacDonald’s, while heavily redacted even for an Intelligence officer with Jackson’s clearance, had been longer than most, packed with commendation after commendation. Not much else could he say about the leader whose team had rescued none other than General David Cohen when Leaguers tried to take over CSV Lion of Judah during the climactic Third Battle of Canaan.

“We’re ready, Master Chief.”

“Heard it, and roger, Captain. Alpha Team, load up!”

* * *

Eldred frowned at her display. “Captain? Come take a look at this.”

“Got a hit on the League intercepts?” Tamir leaned over the console.

“Yes, sir. The signals match with Lieutenant Guinto’s analysis. They usually degrade to gibberish before we can pinpoint where they come from, but these are holding on longer.”

“Get a fix. Task all our resources to follow them to their origin.”

“Already on it. Hainsley!” she called to the tech a couple stations away. “Boost the gain on Antenna Five.”

“Aye, Warrant.”

“How’s it looking, ladies and gentlemen?” Sinclair asked.

“Possible point of origin for those League transmissions, Colonel,” Tamir explained. “Looks like it’s aimed at the surface of Aphendrika.”

“Incoming from Echo Home,” Eldred announced.

Sinclair motioned for her to play the transmission.

Lieutenant Guinto’s voice filtered through the speakers. “Base One, Echo Home. Somebody’s dumping a ton of data through a rapid download, bounced off weather satellites over Aphendrika’s northern hemisphere. Backtrace puts it in your approximate neighborhood. Decryption report headed your way.”

“I’ve got it, Colonel.” Eldred’s jaw dropped as the text filled the screen. “You, uh, might want to forward this to the tactical team, sir.”

Sinclair’s eyebrow lifted. I should say so. Bloody hell. “Comms, get me the Tuscon again, secure tight beam.”

“Secure link ready, aye, Colonel.”

“Oxford to Tuscon,” Sinclair said, his tone somber. “Tell our chaps whoever is on that asteroid is preparing them a warm welcome.”

* * *

Jackson grimaced as the shuttle jounced against the rocky curves of the asteroid. His heads-up display flickered as new data appeared about their location, Asteroid APH-122407. One of millions flitting around Aphendrika’s debris fields and, like many others, abandoned after earlier mining efforts.

Colonel Sinclair’s message was both reassuring and worrying. The former because they knew they were on target. The latter because sneaking in was out of the question.

“All right,” MacDonald said. “Three and Four, you get to knock. Five, you’re with me following up. Two and Six, flank with Echo.”

“Grapples secure!” the pilot shouted.

“Go! Go!” MacDonald’s command snapped across Jackson’s helmet comm. The shuttle’s hatch popped open. Rostami and Mata were first out, rifles up and fanning out across the landing area before the ramp touched the ground. They took swift but cautious steps, lest they launch themselves out of the asteroid’s weak gravity. MacDonald and Ahmad followed, with Harrell and Rucuk flanking Adams.

“Three, breaching charges.”

“Yes, Master Chief,” Rostami replied.

Rostami hustled to the door, with Mata covering him. Rostami planted explosives at the bottom corners and one on the seam. He waved for everyone to take shelter.

Jackson hunkered by a ruined gun turret. Debris still sparkled in a dissipating cloud above the wreckage. Rucuk crouched near him. Jackson swore he could feel the Saurian hissing, transmitted through the ground and into his suit.

“Fire in the hole!” Rostami called through the comm.

“Fire in the hole.” MacDonald and the rest of the team echoed the warning.

Flashes erupted from all three points simultaneously. The hatches buckled and ripped free of their hinges. Large pieces spun off into and out of the cave.

“Three and Four, sweep it,” MacDonald ordered.

Rostami and Mata moved in before the chunks had cleared the area. The rest of the team followed, floodlights sweeping the cavern walls. Sensors checked the room with equal vigilance. Jackson frowned. So far, they weren’t picking up anything. MacDonald and Ahmad checked an adjacent compartment, one reinforced with bent scaffolding.

“Clear,” Ahmad said.

Jackson stayed between Harrell and Rucuk as they moved past another long, broad extension of the main cavern.

“Six reports clear,” Rucuk added.

“Shit,” Harrel muttered. “What kind of lousy Leaguer base is this?”

“They could have cleared out after Tuscon grappled with that disguised freighter.” Rostami sounded annoyed and confused. “Maybe they scraped the place clean and left all this crap because it’s worth nothing.”

“Scanners pick up anything?” MacDonald asked.

“Negative, Master Chief. No weapons. No Orbita.”

“What about the power source, Echo?”

Jackson had his own scanner and pointed ahead. “In there, where the passage narrows. Power readings are consistent with a primary reactor.”

“All right, stay frosty. Two, Six, take point. Echo, Five, with me. Two and Four, flank.” MacDonald gestured with his rifle.

They proceeded in close groups, going single file as they navigated the corridor. Rock smoothed by a cutting laser reflected their search beams. Jackson’s heart pounded. Not out of fear—but he felt like he was on the cusp, a step away from entering a room where he would find the League’s operatives with weapons or drugs or prisoners—or all three.

A cold sickness washed over him as he crept into the next cavern, at the end of the walkway. It opened up into a huge space, one that had been scoured for precious metals decades ago. Broken catwalks and collapsed shaft supports floated lazily in a hollowed-out ellipse big enough to fit Oxford.

A reactor, its exterior battered and streaked with grime, sat in the dead center. The tall column next to it was a signal booster built for the express purpose of receiving transmissions from any source and rerouting it.

“Dammit.” Harrell kicked a loose rock. It spun off into the distance.

MacDonald glanced at Jackson. “Not what you were expecting, Captain? I was hoping for some more targets, personally, or maybe a ship.”

“There should have been one. The parts were dropped here. Another shuttle or barge must have been waiting to take them to the real location, the one where we should be.” Jackson slung his weapon over his shoulder and shook his head. Blast it all.

“Hey, uh, Master Chief?” Mata pointed. “Your ten o’clock. Blinking light.”

“That better not be an explosive, Three, because we’ve got scanners crawling out our asses.”

“No way. It’s not…” Rostami grunted. “That’s what that other signal is. It’s a camera, with a transmitter going through the booster.”

“A camera.” MacDonald rolled his eyes. “I bet it’s not for security.”

“It isn’t.” Jackson glared in the same direction. “It’s for me.”

* * *

Kiel sipped his tea as he watched the grainy images of space-suited men—and one Saurian—milling in miniature about the cavern. All except for one individual, who stayed motionless, looking right at the camera Kiel’s people had left behind.

“Sorry we couldn’t shake hands,” Kiel said into the quiet of his office. “But I do hope we can be properly introduced sometime.”

21

Kolossi

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

1 August 2464

Gina Wilkes vowed to ignore her comm notifications. They’d been full of nothing but bad news. Tuscon being jumped by a League stealth ship—the raid on the supposed hideout coming up empty. She shook her head. At that rate, she would be the only one who could walk away from the op with her head held high.

That wasn’t fair to the others. They’d all done their part as a team. She couldn’t help but wonder, however, if Jack’s injuries weren’t getting to him. He’d been wounded before. Hadn’t I stopped his bleeding with my bare hands and a torn jacket a couple years ago? Ever since the bombing, he’d seemed preoccupied. Well, if anyone knew, it would be Brant.

Her comm lit up. Gina grimaced and leaned back from the scope she had trained on the League embassy. The flow of trucks in and out had ceased since she’d melted the Orbita supply. Imagine that. This night was especially quiet.

Echo Two, Echo Home. Be advised message to consulate from unknown party on encoded League frequency.

“Isn’t this a nice change of pace?” Gina murmured.

Brant had been crowing about his ability to crack the League’s messages but hadn’t found much more than shipping times and dates—hence Oxford and Tuscon being able to intercept smugglers.

Movement. Gina’s gaze flicked to the window. She tipped up one of the slats in the blinds. Three men hustled out a side door. Military training, she could see it in the way they controlled their movements with precision one would think reserved for bots. They piled into a hovercraft parked by the curb. Two were big, blond men—one bald and bearded, the other clean-shaven with curly hair Gina found suitably attractive. The Demir cartel brothers, Arvid and Haakon. Must be a special occasion for them to be seen out in public together. One of them had a cybernetic eye.

Ah, yes. Case One, the human enigma. Even with the cybernetic eye, facial rec searches had turned up zero, which didn’t surprise Gina. Whatever operation the League was running on Aphendrika, it was clearly meant to be off-the-books, so they wouldn’t leave a profile lying around in consulate servers. Or maybe they had. She would have found out definitively if she hadn’t had to cut her infiltration off.

Gina pondered her next move. Jack was still off-world, holding court with Colonel Sinclair and the rest as they regrouped from the flopped raid. Sev and Sparks—who knew? Is it Demir or Red Ring they’ll hit this time? She’d lost track. Brant, of course, was doing his best to watch everyone.

Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. That was the saying. She shrugged. This would be more fun than filing a plan of action.

“Echo Home, this is Echo Two. I have a lead. I’m following it. Going off comms. Don’t miss me too much.” She killed the link. A quick inventory—pistol in a cross-draw holster, pocket pistol in a belt pouch toward the back of her left side, extendable knife tucked into her boot’s sheath. First, though, she would change into something more comfortable.

By the time she got down to the street, clad in her infiltration suit, the hovercraft was three blocks away. Not worried about speeding citations, apparently. It was marked, courtesy of Brant, on her wrist unit. She smiled. He hadn’t even asked what she was up to—probably because he’d been paying close attention to the video streaming through the scope to his warren. She could count on him to have her back. A nice feeling.

Gina put on her helmet and fired up the skimmer’s engines. She burst out into traffic and took off after her targets.

* * *

Ehud Dwyer hummed a Jewish folk song as he tapped his boots against each other. He had them propped on the TCFE shuttle console, a CDF cap tipped low over his face. Sunlight warmed the cockpit through the clear canopy.

His comm beeped insistently. Dwyer scowled. How’s a fella supposed to get even five seconds of downtime?

“Answer.” Sev was reassembling his rifle for the third time that afternoon. Easy to tell when the poor guy was nervous. Why he was nervous was anybody’s guess, and Dwyer sure as hell wasn’t gonna ask. It would take forty years to get a decent answer at the rate Sev dribbled out words.

“Yeah, all right.” Dwyer propped up his cap and punched the switch. “Echo Home, this is Echo Three. I thought we were fixin’ to lay low after Deadeye blasted that Demir shipment to itty-bitty particles?”

“Change of plans, Echo Three. Echo Two is shadowing possible League Assets out of the city. Destination unknown, but I’m betting it’s one of those five discreet landing fields we learned were trafficking sites.”

Dwyer ran the shuttle’s start-up sequence. “Roger that, Home. You want us on overflight, I reckon?”

“Copy that but stay downrange. I don’t show any birds escorting the League assets, but if they come by…”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve still got the loaner.” Dwyer eased back on the controls, lifting the shuttle off the forest floor.

Sev walked to the back, balanced like he was raised to walk inside a barge, and sealed the open hatch. Dwyer hadn’t forgotten. He just knew Sev would handle it. A couple weeks working together, and they’d established a decent rhythm. Which is great, because Hashem knows the conversation ain’t nothing to write home about.

“Affirmative, Echo Three. I’m sending Echo Two’s locator coordinates. Keep your eyes open.”

The numbers blinked onto Dwyer’s navigation screen. Hmm. He’d parked the shuttle a couple of time zones away, where it was still late afternoon, with dusk rapidly approaching. Night had already fallen in Kolossi. It looked like the League boys were keeping to their modus operandi of meetings in the dark.

Dwyer set Brant’s coordinates as the new destination and turned the shuttle onto its new heading. “Ten-four, Echo Home. Let’s see what our gal’s dug up.”

* * *

The hovercraft was in an awful hurry. Gina made sure she was well behind it, back several klicks so they couldn’t see they had a pursuer. No running lights, either, so they must have been using night vision to compensate.

They’d need it as they navigated into a set of broad, winding canyons, cut long ago by the now narrow, muddy rivers trickling through the bottoms.

Gina wove the skimmer around rock outcroppings ten meters tall, some as big as barges. Spiky plants clung to their undersides. A hazy-blue phosphorescence cast an eerie glow throughout the canyon as the night grew darker.

Her wrist unit pulsed. The hovercraft had stopped.

“The canyon you’re in widens into a broad plain three klicks across. Kind of a giant sinkhole. I’ve got a couple outbuildings on the drone’s sensors but not much else.”

Gina found Brant’s reassurance soothing but knew she’d feel better once the situation’s variables presented themselves up close. She cut the skimmer’s speed, letting it drift on hover nodules behind a clump of the mushroom-shaped outcroppings. Gina dismounted and lay flat on the ground. She set her goggles’ magnification high.

The three men were talking. Brant’s drone couldn’t be seen—she’d be severely disappointed in him if it could. The bearded one, Arvid, kept looking up.

“They’re waiting,” she murmured.

“Roger that. I don’t—wait a second. Where’d the freighter come from?”

Gina could already hear the low rumble of engines in the atmosphere. Sure enough, the freighter Jack had seen at the other secret landing field crested the canyon rim. It spun in midair, aiming the way it had come, then settled to the ground, jets kicking up a dust storm.

It settled far too quickly for a vessel of its supposed provenance.

If that’s an actual freighter, Gina thought, then Sev is the galaxy’s most talkative human. “It moves like a gunboat.”

“Sure does. The drone’s not happy about whatever it’s got on its hull—a stealth coating, probably, not as robust as what our boats use but enough to throw off typical readings.” Brant sounded peeved, as if the vessel’s existence annoyed him.

“With as much dust as they’re throwing up, I’m amazed you can get any reading.” Gina pinched a fingerful. Her goggles, equipped with basic scanners, told her the glitter was more than just pretty. “The metallic composition’s not friendly.”

“I can tell. Update from Echo Three—he’s fifty klicks out and closing.”

In the TCFE shuttle. Gina frowned. “Negative, Echo Home. Wave them off. If the ship has stealth tech, it’ll have upgraded sensors, won’t it? It’ll spot the shuttle long before it gets here.”

“It’s possible, but Echo One’s standing orders are to get this ship tracked. Echo Three knows the drill—pretend to be a standard Border craft harassing it into orbit so they can outrun it, but at least we’ll get better telemetry.”

All well and good. But Gina was there, and as she watched, a glowing rectangle appeared under the freighter. The trio headed for a ramp extending below it.

The freighter engines never fully shut off and wound back up the moment the men were inside. Dust swirled, turning everything into a blur.

“Let’s see if I can’t lend a hand.” Gina took off running.

“Echo Two! Maintain your position! Do not—”

She slapped the comm into silence. The wind whipped around her, obscuring her vision so much the freighter was a huge grainy shadow. The hovercraft? To her left, twenty meters.

Gina pulled the tracker from her pocket. It wasn’t a powerful beacon—meant for following ground craft over distances much shorter than one dealt with in space. But it was so small it was difficult to detect. She was counting on it to remain hidden and on Brant to work his magic.

The engine pitch rose again. So did the freighter.

Gina flung herself at a landing strut. Finding purchase in the upper portion, her boots scrabbled for grip on the smooth metal surface. Where do I put it?

The strut lurched. It began to fold into its compartment.

The best spot for the tracking beacon was wedged into a crevasse between pistons. Two seconds later, the yellow glow of the magnetic lock appeared. Then Gina flung herself from the strut before it could fold shut.

The ground was unyielding, as her body discovered. Gina managed to roll half the distance to the hovercraft then dove the rest of the way underneath before squirming around to check on her handiwork.

The freighter’s lifting jets receded, and so did the dust. But if the shuttle’s still inbound… She checked her wrist unit and exhaled. Brant must have had them hold position because the shuttle’s marker on her map was low to the terrain, twenty kilometers away.

Gina rested her head and regained her breath. Fingers crossed.

* * *

Kiel strode the length of the work bay, admiring the gleam of the Bulwark-class corvette. Errant panels had been welded down. The weapons emplacements were hidden. Aside from a handful of workmen and bots still floating about, the cavern was devoid of personnel. He’d sent the bulk inside, where they could complete the wiring for command and control linkages.

Soon she would fly.

Corriveau dogged his steps. The man whistled as he flicked through his tablet’s endless array of reports, each one bearing large schematics pertaining to one part of the refit process or another. “All is well, Vasiliy. Those parts Wraith brought in were just the thing. I’m surprised even she was able to sneak past the CDF vessel once you’d engaged it.”

“Such a trick won’t work again,” Kiel mused. “Coalition stealth boats are dangerous. Have you ever heard of a barracuda?”

Corriveau frowned. “A new weapons system?”

“No. It is an Earth fish. Fast, silent, deadly… engaging a Growler-class stealth boat is tantamount to suicide. Misdirection is our aid. Thus how I lead our CDF friends to the waypoint. A couple of right moves, and they believed it to be our primary base.”

“I still couldn’t believe it! Coalition special forces, here?” For a technical savant, Corriveau could be exceedingly dull.

“You thought the Terrans would stand by while we made merry havoc of a refugee crisis we created? Not President Spencer. The man bent many a rule during the war, aided and abetted by his favorite general, Cohen.”

Corriveau spat on the deck. He muttered a long string of French curses.

“My sentiments also. No, their response here has been as subtle as ours. The raids on Demir and Red Ring continue, exacerbating their tensions.”

“Are you planning to help them? I should say, the Orbita—”

Kiel glared at him. Corriveau’s face blanched. He was the only one who kept mentioning the drug.

“Gone. No matter. We’ve moved into the final phase of this operation. All that remains is to tidy up our messes before we light the final spark. Here.” He gestured for Corriveau’s tablet. With a few quick swipes, he brought up two windows—one of a Terran news post, the other of a long stream of social media invective railing against the foul League refugees. Kiel smirked. He was rather proud of the most recent batch. “You see? The more military-minded among the Coalition government have prevailed. General Milliken’s Fifteenth Space Action Group is on its way, fourteen CDF warships.”

Such a pronouncement was cause for fear among even the most stouthearted League soldier, but Corriveau clapped his hands and beamed at Kiel. “Bravo!”

“Yes, indeed. I’ve made sure General Milliken sees these posts. He’s a stalwart warrior, but even the most dedicated can be prone to distraction when he shares the same opinions as others upset by the refugee presence—especially when there’s a concerted effort to inflame his already-tense position.”

A klaxon sounded from the auxiliary hangar. “Ah, good,” Kiel said. “Ferenc should be back. Come with me.”

They passed a pair of armed men in the passage leading off the main cavern. The smaller hangar could accommodate barges and shuttles, so the freighter had to squeeze in. The pilot did the job admirably. Kiel nodded. As well he should. Their lives depended upon his skill.

Ferenc came down the catwalk first, as bland as ever, which made the bluster exhibited by Arvid and Haakon all the more amusing.

“When are you going to stop Red Ring?” Arvid snapped. “We have lost fifteen people! Do you have any idea how many hundreds of thousands we owe? And every time we strike back, they or their Terran friends deal a more devastating blow!”

“Have you tried discussing the matter with your rivals?” Kiel asked. “Pointing out you are just as much victims as they?”

“They won’t listen! They refuse to even come to the bargaining table.”

“Possibly your prior interactions didn’t inspire confidence in your truthfulness.”

“Listen,” Haakon grumbled. “We did everything you asked. The Orbita got delivered. We made the sales and split the money, as instructed. You have to do something to stop this! You can’t pick up and leave without taking care of the situation.”

Kiel crossed his hands behind his back. “I concur.”

Ferenc drew his plasma pistol and shot Haakon through the head. Arvid whirled, reaching for his weapon. Ferenc’s second shot punched through the bridge of his nose. The brothers lay slumped over each other on the catwalk.

Ferenc stepped over the bodies and holstered his pistol. “Their leadership is effectively decapitated, sir.”

Kiel glanced at him. A joke? Not like Ferenc at all. “Very good. Dispose of these. Inform our people on the surface to cut all ties with Demir, no explanation, no communications—just vanish.”

“Yes, sir.” Ferenc walked past, issuing orders into his comm.

The sound of Corriveau being violently ill made Kiel turn around. The poor man wasn’t cut out for this aspect, but he needed to see there were real consequences, actual prices to be paid.

“This operation is not all about schematics and technical data, Corriveau. When we are finished, we will all have blood on our hands, whether literally or figuratively. I wanted to make sure you saw this.”

“I—I understand.” Corriveau wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood straighter, pretending he hadn’t vomited on the deck. “We do what we must for the good of the League and its society.”

“As always. Report back to the ship. Advise me when we are ready to launch.”

“Not long, Vasiliy. Within a few hours.” Corriveau risked one last glance at the bodies before scurrying off.

Ah, yes. Fear. Whatever its faults—though Kiel would never utter such a thing aloud—the League knew how to elicit fear. Fear meant obedience. Obedience meant a smoothly running society.

Kiel looked at the dead brothers. “Too bad you were individualists,” he murmured. “You could have learned the same lesson.”

22

Kolossi

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

1 August 2464

Brant stormed around the room like an irate drill sergeant about to give recruits the dressing-down he thought they so justly deserved. Jackson was content to let him get his gripes off his chest.

“You jeopardized the entire mission!” Brant glared at Gina. “Running into the freighter’s wash like some secret agent from the holovids.”

“We’d already established the dirt’s metallic content in the region could conceal me, Brant.” Gina flicked through the surveillance imagery on her tablet, scrolling past picture after picture she’d recorded from her apartment window and the pursuit. “It was a calculated risk. Our priority at the moment was to track the stealth-modified freighter, wasn’t it?”

“It was, but not by taking a chance that could tip them off even more about our presence!”

Gina smiled. She turned her tablet, allowing everyone to see the archived footage of the melted Orbita from the League consulate. “I’m pretty sure this did the trick.”

Brant muttered Tagalog expletives and walked back to the window. They’d gathered in another of his safehouse locations, the basement of a seedy nightclub in the city’s east quarter. It had taken two hours, given the precautions of arriving one or two at a time and sneaking in through the back-alley gate. The bribe was worth the privacy. They were seated around a dingy storage space, using wobbly chairs leftover from the last time the club had purchased furniture.

“LT’s right, Gina,” Dwyer said. “Our plan was solid. You put us all in danger—they could have spotted Sev and me and burned us out of the sky.”

Sev grunted.

Gina set the tablet aside. “Boys, I’m sorry if you’re offended and hurt because I broke protocol, but let’s all remember that’s why our dear captain signed me up for this venture in the first place. It’s what I do. If you wanted someone who follows the letter of every order, you should have grabbed a uniform from CDF Intelligence.”

“That’s not the point,” Brant said. “The risk—”

“The risk was justified.” Jackson stood from his chair, wincing as his muscles seized up. He waved off Dwyer’s hand. “She’s right to an extent. Her ability to react with a moment’s notice and not wait around for orders is part of why I brought her aboard—why she’s been with us on prior ops too. Any of our actions can potentially put somebody else at risk.”

Gina sighed. “Frankly, I was getting desperate. It feels like we’re no closer to nailing the Leaguers, and meanwhile, they’re pitting their stealth tech against ours.”

“I agree with the latter but not the former. The raid might have been a bust, however, there’s good news alongside the disappointment. MacDonald’s team wasted no time scrubbing the fake cavern for traces of League involvement. We’ve got parts with serial numbers, so there’s a start. The signal repeater isn’t League design, but given time, we can trace it to the point of sale via the manufacturer.”

“Then there’s the social media.” Brant’s tablet lit up. “Have you guys been checking the posts I forwarded?”

“Sure thing, LT.” Dwyer grinned. “Though I bet Sev’s as sick of reading politics as I am. Course he won’t say much about it.”

“Dumb,” Sev grumbled.

“I won’t argue it.” Jackson joined Brant and indicated several posts. “Brant’s analysis has helped Warrant Eldred, and the techs aboard Oxford swept the region for an origin by accessing the media networks on and around Aphendrika. They’ve traced it here.”

Brant triggered the holographic projector. The star system’s orbits appeared then faded from view as the image zoomed into a patch of the inner asteroid belt. Green dots outlined a swath.

Dwyer whistled. “I get that the LT figures all the junk’s been written by one fella, but I got news for y’all—that’s at least a couple trillion cubic klicks. ‘Narrow’ compared to an entire solar system but gonna take time to sweep, especially with all the debris providing hundreds of hiding places like the one the captain found.”

“Correct. Which is why Oxford’s already sent probes into the vicinity.” It was Jackson’s turn to smile. “And this is where Gina’s risk pays off.”

Hazy red blotches, much smaller than the green zone, appeared inside it. Brant looked suddenly sheepish.

Gina’s legs dropped off the couch as she stared. She’d gone from lounging like she was reading the morning news to perched on her seat, ready to spring into action. “It worked? You knew it worked, and you were sitting there, whining at me about—”

“Enough.” Jackson closed the image. “He was right about risking their safety. If there’d been time, you should have run it by me. Brant’s my XO—which means he commands in my stead when I’m out of comms. I need you to back him up on that, Gina, even if it means we lose an opportunity. I’m not taking uncalculated risks.”

“Yes, sir, Captain.” The smirk softened the irritated tone.

“And, Brant—” Jackson glanced at his fellow officer. “Hear Gina out. She can be a good judge of these situations, especially regarding thinking outside the box.”

Brant sighed. “Roger that. It was a good idea.”

“Hold on now.” Dwyer slugged coffee from an insulated container. “You’re telling me that short-range tracker is pinging back at us? And we can get a reading even if it’s diffused? How in blazes are we even picking it up that far out?”

“The signal repeater,” Brant explained. “Every six hours or so, the trackers like Gina planted tap into a local network to verify global positioning. I had a program designed to talk to trackers—well, to make them do whatever we need them to do within the confines of their basic software—which in this case, meant pinging off the signal repeater the League left behind in the asteroids in order to verify its location.”

“Nice,” Gina said. “But the League will still be monitoring the transmissions to and from the repeater, won’t they? They’ll catch on if they haven’t already peeled the tracker off their hull.”

“Even if they do, we’ve got enough hits compiled to know where they’re likely hiding.”

Dwyer slapped Sev on the shoulder. “I don’t know about you all, but that sounds great to me. What’s our next play?”

“We monitor and standby until we find out exactly where the Leaguers are hiding their project. Then we flush them out. Tuscon is already watching the same tracker. When they get a clear fix on the stealth freighter…” Jackson shrugged. “It’s all theirs. Sparks, return to our shuttle and get her prepped. Make sure TCFE gets their ride back, with our thanks.”

“Can do, Captain.” Dwyer chugged the rest of his coffee. He stretched his arms. “I have to say, I’m not looking forward to clunker birds like that one once this is all said and done. I’d like to resubmit my request for us to keep our shuttle—you know, sir, especially if we win.”

“I’ll pass it up the chain of command.”

Sev shouldered his bag. “Demir?”

Jackson shook his head. “Don’t bother. They’ve been scattered the past few days. Wherever Arvid and Haakon went with their League chauffeur, they haven’t returned, and no one seems to be able to raise them. That’s the RUMINT from Carlos.”

“Oxford confirmed my signals monitoring too,” Brant said. “The chatter among Demir frequencies we cracked isn’t reassuring for our favorite cartel. They’re still trading punches with Red Ring. Local LEOs have cracked down, what with the very public nature of the feud. I’ve been sending what data we have over to the CBI agent in charge.”

“Aren’t we in the sharing mood?” Gina murmured.

“It’s still anonymous. Command will clear up any misunderstandings.” Brant looked at Jackson. “Right?”

“We’ll leave that to the colonel. Okay, people, let’s head out.”

After the other three emptied the room, Brant caught Jackson by the stairwell door. “How are you holding up?”

“These?” Jackson indicated his wound patches. “They hurt. I suspect they’ll work for a while. The free trip to Oxford’s sick bay helped.”

“No, I meant…” Brant tapped the side of his head. “About Euke.”

Jackson’s insides churned. He thought he’d put the sickness over Euke’s death aside. But all Brant had to do was ask a single question, and it came crashing back. “It’s not the first time I’ve had an informant die.”

“It isn’t, but you’re taking this one personally.”

“Last I checked, having a conscience wasn’t a liability.”

“Definitely not. But you don’t have to carry around the guilt. Euke was involved with shady actors. He knew the risks—just like we all knew the risks of our operation. Even when Gina ran off after the freighter, I wasn’t worried about my life—I know where my final home is. I was upset because I didn’t want the rest of our team hurt. Euke wasn’t on our team, but you made a connection with him. You had to.” Brant touched his heart. “That sticks around here, maybe even more so when a man’s killed like he was.”

“I know. I’m taking responsibility for my actions.”

“Don’t let responsibility become blame. He didn’t have to call in the traffickers. Maybe he was trying to make amends.” Brant frowned. “God’s greatest gift to us is forgiveness. His Son paid the ultimate penalty. We can be thankful it’s given. Take solace in knowing it’s true, okay?”

Jackson wasn’t so sure about it. After all the lies he’d told over the years, all the actions he’d taken against individuals both guilty and innocent, forgiveness seemed a tall order. He knew billions of people relied on the promise, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Not then. Not yet.

Funnily enough, it was easier for him to extend that forgiveness to others than to himself. The echoes of his argument with Harry before his departure filtered through his memory. There was another place Brant’s talk of forgiveness could do real good.

Jackson nodded. “I’ll do what I can. In the meantime, I’ll leave most of the praying to someone who’s more of an expert than I am.”

“Not an expert, Captain, just trying to be faithful.”

“Then keep it up. I’m not about to start an argument with God when one of his followers is going to help us stop the League from inciting bloodshed.”

The question is, Jackson pondered as they headed up the stairs, whether everybody else involved in this crisis is as willing to keep the peace.

* * *

Colonel Sinclair watched as the fourteen ships of the Fifteenth Space Action Group blinked onto the tactical display from their Lawrence drive-generated wormholes. Already he could see how tight a leash General Milliken kept his people on. The formation was near perfect in its arrangement settling on the periphery of the TCFE blockade—two Ajax destroyers, seven frigates, and four Pikeman corvettes centered around the antimatter cruiser, a good balance of speed and firepower.

“Comms, secure link to CSV Marcus Aurelius. I understand the general’s been briefed on our operation, but let’s be courteous, shall we?”

“Aye, sir, secure link established. Marcus Aurelius responding.”

Sinclair gestured to the main screen.

Brigadier General Travis Milliken was a burly man, muscles bulging against his uniform. The neatly trimmed sideburns were brilliant white against a dark-brown complexion. His stern countenance relaxed so subtly that Sinclair was sure most people would have missed the signs. “Colonel Sinclair. How goes the hunt?”

“We are drawing the net as I speak, though thus far our quarry has proven both elusive and dangerous.”

“Command gave me the gist of your operation but left the details out. I’d appreciate a more thorough version.”

“And you shall have it within the hour, General. I trust you’ve made contact with TCFE?”

“On my way in, yes. They’re not too thrilled about an entire fleet showing up when they claim the situation is under control.” Milliken snorted. “It took five minutes of me dumping their own reports back in their laps to point out otherwise.”

“From what I have been told, the refugee fleet is becoming rather unsettled. Captain Tamir, your analysis?”

Tamir nodded. He brought up the report on his console then mirrored it to both Oxford’s main screen and over to Milliken’s display via the secure transmission. “What you can see here are ship movements over the past week. Border’s kept them away from the planet, but every so often, clusters of barges try to sneak down. Since then, the main influx Border has upped their shuttle patrols above and inside the atmosphere. But each day, more of the refugee transports nudge closer to low orbit in greater numbers. TCFE frequencies are full of commanders complaining about scraping their hull plating off on reentry.”

“How close are we talking?” Milliken squinted at his display off-screen then scowled with such ferocity Sinclair thought the man seemed personally offended. “There’s been half a dozen near collisions in as many days. If we’d sent the refugees back, we wouldn’t be having this issue. Since when do we place the welfare of Leaguers—and traitors to their own country, at that—above citizens of the Coalition?”

“I hear your concerns, General, but the situation has only been inflamed by covert League action. Our people on the ground have cut them off at the knees, as it were, when it comes to slipping Orbita into the camps and using sales of the drug in Kolossi to finance their operations. Likewise, trafficking has been interdicted, as TCFE has caught more smugglers, and local arrests have shone a spotlight on the matter. CBI is taking steps to round up cartel members implicated in both crimes.”

“Whatever the civilians are doing isn’t my problem, Colonel Sinclair. My mission is simple—keep refugee haulers from getting onto Aphendrika. No more of this standing about. Captains are authorized to detain whatever ships come into their range, by force if necessary, especially if they’re armed and looking to provoke us.”

Eldred made a face at the latter phrase, but Sinclair ignored it, trusting her to stay out of the general’s line of sight. “I have no intelligence about armed refugee transports, sir. Perhaps you would share your source?”

“It’s not on the news networks, if that’s what you mean. I’ll send you the posts. Infer from them what you will. My group, however, will prevent any further attempts by the refugees, League led or not, from infiltrating the Coalition.” Milliken’s transmission cut off.

Sinclair shook his head.

“Sir, any idea what he’s talking about?” Eldred asked.

“Likely he’s been filling his head with the same social media posts Lieutenant Guinto brought to our attention,” Sinclair said. “Wrap up everything you have on the subject, Warrant, and send me the packet. I’ll supply the good general with solid, actionable intelligence once I see what he’s using as his sources, lamentable though they may be.”

“Colonel?” Tamir indicated the tactical displays. “CSV Brandywine is breaking off from the main formation, with two frigates in tow. They’re headed for the new flotilla of refugee ships hanging near the moon Karavas.”

Sinclair frowned as the three markers did indeed veer away from the Fifteenth Group. “We had all best pray General Milliken keeps a cool head, no matter how he’s been riled, Butter Bars. There’s no indication those transports are armed, and if one of our ships fires upon them—well, to say there will be hell to pay would be the grossest understatement of the century.”

* * *

Kiel was grateful for the CDF group commander’s zeal. It made deploying his ship all the easier.

TFC 9091 drifted on a sidelong, quiet route without using its engines, heading toward the TCFE flotilla on thrusters only. Corriveau keyed in commands, fingers drumming on his console as he awaited confirmation from the network linking the Border vessels. Finally, it chimed in the affirmative—TFC 9091 was recognized as being part of the blockade. Forged orders verified its transfer from the Beghara system forty light-years away, where a refit depot was backlogged with repair after repair. Civilian and government ships were packed into queues there as human and bot crews painstakingly fixed the damages incurred during the long war.

“Border Command, this is TFC 9091.” Ferenc spoke through the mic pickup with smooth cadences, conveying a veteran skipper’s experience. “Major Ferris reporting for duty. Apologies to the rest of you for being so late to the game.”

“Rather now than never, 9091.” The voice on the other end sounded like it could use equal infusions of sleep and coffee. “Sending you coordinates in which to park. Review the operational guide when you’re in position. Keep a sharp eye for refugee ships trying to slip the blockade. More of them get down on the surface, and you’ll be commanding a scrap scow.”

“Roger, Command. Awaiting orders—9091 out.”

Kiel smiled. “Job well done, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Our legend for Ferris will hold up if they check. ESS planted the background files as thoroughly as they could.”

“So far, I’m impressed with their diligence.”

The screen spreading before Kiel and Ferenc showed the bridge crew equally diligent at their stations. The helmsman steered 9091 toward a gap in the blockade created by a quartet of other corvettes spreading out. Kiel appreciated their thoroughness, too, though he would have been disappointed if they’d gone to all that trouble only for the harried TCFE officers not even to bother checking.

He watched the splitting formation of CDF warships with keen interest. It was perfect. While Border corvettes were well armed, they weren’t on par with destroyers and frigates and certainly not an antimatter-powered cruiser. Even Fifteenth Group’s corvettes carried more weaponry. Not as much as Corriveau had stuffed into 9091, but then, that was the point.

It was time to wait for the opportune moment. The stealth freighter’s captain had his orders. At the rate desperate transport captains had tried to break free of the blockade—encouraged to do so in part by generous bribes from Kiel via the Demir cartel—another group should make its attempt within twenty-four hours. All it would take was those transports blazing past Border ships, getting too close, and someone in Fifteenth Group having too itchy a trigger finger. And if the potential threat wasn’t bad enough, well, Kiel was sure he could supply the danger.

He leaned back in his chair. Of course, it was far more sensible to remain on the asteroid while the hired crews did their work. None of them knew they were working for the League’s External Security Service—only that their boss was a taskmaster who paid them well.

Kiel smiled. Let the Coalition enjoy chasing a ghost.

23

Kolossi

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

1 August 2464

Jackson skidded the skimmer to a stop, sending dirt clods and clumps of grass flying. Sev, waiting on the shuttle’s ramp, glared down at the bits soiling his rifle’s stock.

“No need to rush, Cap’n. You know I wouldn’t leave you in the dust.” Dwyer stacked another supply container and lashed it down.

“Be careful with those,” Brant warned. “Last time you extracted us, I had to spend half a week recalibrating the decoder modules. They’re sensitive.”

“So am I, LT. I recommend not getting me upset before I have to engage in fancy flying.” Dwyer winked and trotted into the cockpit. “Besides, we’ll be back for the full cleanup soon enough.”

“Has Gina arrived yet?” Jackson pulled his gear from the back of the skimmer.

“Here.” She walked around under the starboard wing. “I wanted a few more minutes in the open air before we’re stuffed into spaceships for the next couple of days.”

Jackson breathed deep. “It’s a nice world. I’ll miss it.”

“Speaking of…” Gina plucked leaves from her pocket.

They were a pasty yellow with blue stripes. Jackson hadn’t seen any of their variety before coming to Aphendrika.

“For the collection.”

“Thanks, Echo Two.” The leaves were vacuum-sealed in plastic. “I got your message, but I suppose things were too busy for gift giving.”

“We’ve had other things on our minds.” Gina glanced into the late afternoon’s cloudless sky.

“Tell me we made a difference here,” Jackson murmured.

She looked at him. He supposed his jovial features had hardened. It was a legitimate question, one that haunted him as the final moments of any mission crept up. They’d stopped the drug shipments, hurt the cartels, and brought trafficking to the authorities’ attention—not all of those in the order or manner in which he would have liked.

“We made a difference. We always do,” Gina whispered. “Even if we didn’t, I’d pretend we did. Makes it easier to sleep, Captain.” She was off into the shuttle, teasing Sev about the dirt on his rifle.

He grumbled a single response before joining Jackson at the bottom of the ramp.

“I think this one’s coming with me.” Jackson patted the seat of the flame-yellow skimmer. “Call it a trade for the one I brought to Salvatore’s.”

Sev knelt, admiring the chrome. “Shines.”

“Captain!” Brant hollered from the cargo bay. “Base One is on the link. They’ve got a lead for us to follow.”

“What kind?” Jackson pulled the skimmer into the bay and secured it with cargo webbing next to Gina’s ride.

“The kind that tells us what the League’s been working on this whole time.”

* * *

Tamir and Eldred glowed in miniature on the shuttle’s comm display.

He grinned. “They’ve got a stolen ship.”

“Stolen?” Jackson frowned. The shuttle bounced enough he had to steady himself in the screen’s visual pickup. He glanced at Dwyer, who shrugged and continued their climb. “The stealth freighter’s a modified stock scow. They could have just bought one.”

“Wrong ship, Captain.” Tamir tapped his console. Data flowed onto Jackson’s screen. “We finally decrypted all those transmissions that have been flinging back and forth. Hundreds of messages, all dealing with bills of lading. Warrant Eldred had the bright idea to feed them all into the computer and see what you could use them for.”

“I’m guessing it’s not to refit a stealth vessel.”

“It was the command and control linkages that tipped me off.” Eldred shifted in her seat. Her excitement practically bled through the screen. “There wasn’t enough of it for, say, a destroyer but way too much and too intricate for a privateer-type freighter. Once the comp got ahold of the specs, though, it matched up nicely with a corvette.”

“A corvette. Like the ones in Fifteenth Group and in the blockade.”

“One point for you, Captain.” Eldred introduced five ship schematics into the display. “The Coalition has produced five classes of fast-pursuit and patrol corvettes in the past forty years. The computer pinged all five as possible, but I didn’t think it made sense for the League to pick any class at random.”

Jackson’s own words from a second ago chilled him as the import of the analysis sank in. “The fleets in this system are only fielding two—Bulwark and Pikeman-class.”

“And he gets point number two,” Eldred said.

“The issue, of course, is we’re looking at well over twenty vessels,” Tamir added. “Colonel Sinclair concurs—he thinks it unlikely we’re talking about the fast-pursuit Pikemen in the Fifteenth. They only just arrived.”

“Which means the League has built themselves a TCFE version,” Jackson mused.

“And those have been arriving in batches since this whole mess began.” Eldred dropped another stream of data into the report. “Seventeen in the past few weeks, spread out in singles, deuces, and triples.”

“Anything odd about their arrivals? Something we could use to determine which one is the League vessel?”

“Nothing yet. I spoke with Lieutenant Guinto—he’s working on a way to interrogate the Border ships’ transponders to check for anomalies,” Tamir said.

That explained why Brant was hunched over his device in one corner of the shuttle, ignoring the turbulence and even the conversation, courtesy of his headset.

“Hang on.” Jackson knew he’d skipped something important. “How do you know it’s stolen?”

“We worked backwards once Eldred had completed the analysis. There’s a handful of shipyards along the border that took bad hits during the frantic fighting at the end of the war—not only from League forces but pirates taking advantage of the chaos. Unsurprising, given most of us didn’t know whether Canaan would be around or if the Coalition would survive. A few dozen ships went missing from those yards. Most were hulks, so badly damaged they needed complete overhauls to be combat effective. Eight were in better shape. We’re waiting on the report to come in about their classes.”

“Let me know as soon as you receive it, sir.” Jackson had to remind himself he was working back in the chain of command. No more fixing skimmers at all hours of the day. “We’re ready to infiltrate when you do.”

“The colonel is briefing Master Chief MacDonald’s team. I swear I can hear them cheering from here.”

“Sirs?” Eldred cleared her throat. “One more thing. In those signals we decrypted, the amount of weaponry they talked about exceeds what anything in those classes would need, except maybe the CDF versions.”

Jackson stared. “What for?”

“That’s what we’re all puzzling.” Tamir shook his head. “We’ll keep you advised, Captain. Meanwhile maintain your course to rendezvous with us. Oxford out.”

Jackson leaned back in his seat, deep in thought. The League stole a corvette and spent a pile of money fixing it. No wonder they were so keen on spreading Orbita around and even dabbling in trafficking. They weren’t out to strengthen Demir or any other cartel. As he’d suspected, they needed off-the-books money—a lot of it.

“So…” Dwyer scratched his chin. “The League packed a mess of weapons into a Coalition corvette and—what, it’s out there? Hidden with the rest?”

“Hidden in plain sight or stashed away among those areas Brant found. We can lend our sensors to the hunt Oxford and its probes are already conducting.”

Dwyer flipped a row of switches. The shuttle’s thrusters urged it onto a new course, taking it out and around the orbiting ships. Blazes, there were a lot of them. The tactical display was a constellation of transponders, with the fourteen CDF Fifteenth Group vessels, fifty in TCFE, and so many transports Jackson didn’t bother counting. As he watched, two indicators turned red, as did one of the Border ships.

“Close,” Sev intoned.

“Yessir. Near collision.” Dwyer frowned. “’Bout the third one in a couple of days, according to Border Command’s flight control. They’re lucky nobody’s taken a potshot. I read RUMINT some of them refugee buckets are armed.”

“Not true,” Brant piped up.

Jackson had wondered if he could hear anything through his headset.

“Those rumors originated from whoever’s been junking up the networks with their incendiary posts on both sides of the controversy, getting people boiling.”

“Hell of a way to provoke people.”

“Yes…” Jackson slapped the comms console. “Yes, it is. And you know it’s not only civilians absorbing it all. General Milliken knows the border regions well, earned his rank fighting pirates and smugglers out here, but he’s got a sharp edge when it comes to anyone sneaking into Coalition space. That’s what made him so good at his job. If the League’s flooding the network with those posts, spreading rumors about the refugees, they’re manipulating everyone’s emotions and exacerbating an already-tense situation. Plus, refugee ships keep trying to run the blockade. Too many close calls, one ship fires, another fires back—”

Gina swore softly. “They’ll be the ones shooting both ways to trigger an incident.”

“Right. Using the stealth freighter and their fake corvette loaded with illegal weaponry.”

“Then we best find both ships before any fool on either side starts the fireworks,” Dwyer said. “I don’t suspect the folks back home will take too kindly to an incident involving innocent people.”

“Which is the point—make the Coalition appear unstable, jeopardize its image in the wake of the treaty, and spread doubt not only in the government but among its allies.” Jackson scowled. “One thing’s for certain—our League counterparts are good at this game.”

“It only means we’ll have to be better.” Gina smiled. “Are you up for that?”

As long as I don’t screw this up. “Absolutely,” Jackson said.

* * *

TCFE’s command in the system assigned TFC 9091 to the central of five orbits stretching out to three hundred thousand kilometers from Aphendrika. Six corvettes swept each of the broad circles in the silence of space, herding transports away when they came too close to the planet or sending their shuttles on boarding missions when warning signals didn’t work.

Kiel kept watch on his displays, which showed him not only 9091’s tactical sensor output but that of the stealth freighter. The latter sat on the fringe of an eight-ship cluster, looking for all the galaxy like yet another transport laden with refugees. It drew little attention on sensors, though the regular updates it sent to Kiel seemed dogged by a malfunction.

“This ripple at the end of their signals, Captain.” Corriveau waved his hands at the comms panel, as if he could either fix it or send the recalcitrant machinery away. “I checked their communications array myself when Ferenc came back to the asteroid with those—with his two passengers.”

The ship’s captain, a hired thug named Moller, shoved him aside. “We didn’t mess with it.”

“I didn’t ask for your input,” Kiel snapped through the relayed signal. “Corriveau, you’re certain it was functioning properly?”

“I would never sully my reputation by claiming it wasn’t.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. What would cause such a ripple, then?”

“Another signal. Such as an unshielded array inside the ship, perhaps if it belonged to a field unit accidentally switched on.”

“He’s right,” said the young man at tactical. “I’m getting the same ripple. It reads on my scopes like a navigational ping only far weaker.”

“Damn. Send to the commander—go dark on all communications except tight-beam laser. I don’t want to chance Fifteenth Group noticing their irregularity.” Kiel scowled. TCFE ships lacked the fine-tuned military vessels’ sensors, but even they might notice if they looked closer. What else could interrupt—it hit him. “Moller, get a message on tight beam to Zhou: Send repair drones over the hull discreetly. I suspect they’ll find the ship’s been tagged.”

“Tagged? By a tracking device?” Moller typed the message, but his face pinched with disbelief. “My guys would have—”

“They should have noticed, yes, but we were arrogant in our belief that our Coalition friends were farther from the truth. I hope they aren’t any closer.”

“Got it, boss.”

Kiel shut down the communications monitor.

* * *

Zhou Yongrui read the incoming message from 9091. He sighed. Typical. Vasiliy Kiel operated with the classic paranoia common to ESS. Fine. Zhou would adjust and stand by for his orders. “Put out repair drones. Boss thinks we have a tracker.”

“Aye, Captain. Deploying drones.”

Zhou eased into the leathers of his command chair. Fine situation to find himself in—commanding a ship most would look down upon unless they examined it closer, the skin of a freighter but the bones of a warship with the blood and nerves of a spy vessel. Not a top-of-the-line design, yet not a clunker.

He smiled at a recent memory. Good enough to outmaneuver a CDF stealth boat, even if only for a second.

Zhou watched the drones’ image feeds on his console as they combed the hull. Sadly, in masquerading as a typical freighter, they had the same boxy hull design, which made it easier for things to stay hidden in the nooks and crannies. But he didn’t consider himself in a place to complain. Had Kiel not scooped him up, following his dishonorable discharge, Zhou was certain he would have been spaced by his commissar. He snorted. Because he lost. In fleet action. One League ship against three CDF, more advanced vessels, an engagement in which he destroyed one and crippled another before he faced the prospect of losing his entire crew. That was all that mattered to Zhou in that moment—not the war, not the League, not the good of society, certainly not the damned commissar who brayed for him to press home the fight. Zhou had surrendered.

He was exchanged for other POWs and sent back to the League, toward what he knew was a death sentence from the very people he’d fought for.

Enter Kiel. So, Zhou had new loyalty—to his boss, to a new crew, a new ship.

“Sir!” the sensor man called out. “We have it. It’s a civilian tracking device, Captain. Computer thinks it’s the same kind groundside investigators plant on criminal vehicles.”

“Impressive.” Zhou scratched at the corner of his mustache. When had they planted it? There’d been a handful of times the ship was planetside, so it could have been one of those. It didn’t matter when or how—it mattered only that the trackers had been found.

The ship. It needed a name. Kiel wouldn’t allow him to christen the freighter properly, a courtesy every ship deserved. As magnificent as she was to fly, she needed an identity. Perhaps, when this is all ended, the boss will allow it. Even a nickname would suffice.

Zhou straightened his jacket. “Instruct the drones to remove the device.”

“Not destroy it, Captain?”

“Did I stutter, Francois?”

“No, sir, not at all. Instructing the drones to remove and deactivate—”

“You’re still not tracking my orders, mister. Remove only. Get it to the techs. I want to see if we can find out who is following us without them knowing we’ve discovered their tiny spy.” Zhou gestured at the screen. “Let’s make him feel at home. Let him continue to update whatever and whoever he’s updating. There’s no reason to be discourteous.”

He swiveled in his chair, facing the tactical station. “Tactical, get me targeting solutions on six nearest TCFE targets. Keep them free-floating. We await the boss’s orders. When he strikes, we strike.”

Then he would show the League and the Coalition how to truly win.

* * *

Brant ripped off his headset. “Got it! The ping from the tracker. It registered. Only for a moment, but I have a clean set of coordinates.”

“Send those off to Tuscon,” Jackson ordered. “Here’s hoping this time they can take them out, though my guess is Colonel Sinclair will want the ship intact and prisoners questioned.”

“On it.” Brant shunted his findings into an encrypted message and transmitted the data secure to Tuscon, with a copy to Oxford.

Jackson glanced at Dwyer. “How’re we looking?”

“Five by five, Cap’n. ETA sixteen minutes to Base One. Easier to rendezvous when home is comin’ to you.”

“Any indication we’ve been noticed by the stealth freighter or any of the Border corvettes making odd moves?”

“That’s a negative to both. Border ships are following their assigned orbits, as ordered. The stealth ship—yeah, I’ve got its location here per the LT’s analysis. Looks like she’s floating quiet-like with another bunch of refugee transports. He sure he’s sure?”

Brant made a face.

“Hey, I had to ask, sir. I have to know who to avoid if the shooting starts.”

The comms panel beeped—incoming from Oxford. “This is Captain Adams.”

“Captain Tamir here. We have those specifications about the stolen corvette—she was Bulwark-class.”

Jackson highlighted six pips on the shuttle’s tactical display. “Narrows our search considerably, sir. Anything else you can tell us?”

“Four have been here since the first few weeks of the blockade. One came in eight days ago. The other arrived yesterday.”

“Who’s the newcomer?”

“TFC 9091, out of Beghara. CO is a Major Ferris. Warrant Eldred’s running background on both records, but she’s already making that face she makes when something doesn’t smell right—electronically speaking.”

“Tell her I’d trust her nose, literal or otherwise, over the records at this point, Captain.”

“Affirmative. Oxford out.”

Jackson watched 9091 as it continued in its orbit. If Tuscon was tasked to board the stealth freighter instead of destroying it, Oxford would have to send marines onto the corvette at the same time. Otherwise, any action against one League vessel might spook the others.

“Sparks? Bend our course so we take the scenic route,” Jackson said.

Dwyer raised an eyebrow. “Nearer to the TCFE ships, Cap’n?”

“Just in case we need to lend a hand.”

“I was hoping to avoid that,” Brant murmured. He touched the crucifix tucked under his neck.

Gina stretched her arms and yawned. “I wasn’t. It would feel heavenly to get out of this seat and get some exercise. Don’t you think, Sev?”

The sharpshooter loaded a magazine into his carbine. “Heavenly.”

Jackson hoped he wouldn’t have to make use of their talents in a more overt way. The team operated best from the shadows. But he wasn’t going to shy away from the fight if the time came. His brawl with Harry resurfaced in his memory, tightening his gut. Then we’d see who really served his nation, wouldn’t we, big brother?

24

Undesignated Stealth Freighter

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

1 August 2464

The message came through to Zhou as a ship passed by two other flotillas of refugee transports. The others were separated by twenty kilometers. Zhou’s group would come within twelve at their closest approach. With groups of varying size orbiting at innumerable distances and velocities, tracking them all was proving a headache even for the navigation console.

But the instructions were clear: commence firing sequence Alpha.

“Tactical, give me firing solutions for tubes one and two.”

“Aye, sir, locked on.” The tactical officer made a face. “Sorry, sir. I can’t believe we’re going to shoot at our own people.”

“They won’t feel but a scratch if you do your job right, Lieutenant. Prepare to fire on my mark. Open outer doors.”

“Yes, sir. Tubes are ready. Outer doors are open.”

The freighter’s concealed missile tubes were disguised to resemble debris chutes and maintenance hatches. Popping them open wouldn’t cause alarm, especially given Zhou still had repair drones on the outer hull.

“Safeties modified on missiles in tubes one and two. Detonation range set per instructions. Yield unmodified.”

Zhou didn’t consider himself superstitious. Who would admit such a thing, with commissars watching their every move and surveillance networks on every world? Even the littlest, most innocent slips could land one in a rehabilitation camp. But there were no political officers on this mission, not with ESS people among the crew. So, Zhou crossed his fingers. If this goes wrong, Kiel will be free-floating atoms, and I’ll get us the hell out of here as fast as possible. “This is it, gentlemen. Tactical, align vectors and fire, tubes one and two.”

The deck shuddered, the vibration traveling through his boots to his teeth. Twin missiles leapt the relatively short distance between the refugee conglomeration and the nearest two TCFE corvettes—one of which was TFC 9091.

* * *

“Missiles launch detected,” Olesen called. “Two anti-ship warheads inbound.”

Mancini glared at the tactical display. “Origin?”

“Among the cluster at these coordinates, Skipper. I can’t get a fix as to whether it’s from Master One or not.”

Master One. The stealth transport. Assuming Lieutenant Guinto’s tracking device was operating properly.

“Conn, Tao. Impact flare. Both detonated in the vicinity of TFC 9091.”

“Vicinity? Can you tell whether or not they impacted the corvette?”

“Negative, sir, not at that close range to each other and at our orientation. If they didn’t impact, then they scorched the hull plating with the detonations.”

“Sensor Room,” Mancini said into the intercom. “Those missiles, did they hit 9091?”

“Conn, Sensor Room. Checking our readings and cross-referencing with the long-range gear on Oxford.” Silence filled the frequency for what felt like forever. “Affirmative on the detonation, sir. They were set off five hundred meters and one klick away from the corvette, respective.”

“Might as well be a hair’s breadth in space,” Godat murmured.

Mancini was about to agree when Olesen said, “Aspect change, Sierras Twelve through Twenty-four. TCFE corvette’s shifting to intercept.”

“Coming to the aid of a brother under fire, Skipper.” Godat checked his display. “Signal Oxford?”

“Roger that, XO. Tight beam to Colonel Sinclair so he knows what we know. TAO, backtrace those missiles.”

“Sixty percent probability they originated from the coordinates provided for the stealth freighter,” Olesen answered. “Can’t tell what’s out there, though, without engaging active sensing.”

“Which I’d rather not do, not yet. Pilot, bring us about, wide arc beyond and behind the coordinates for Master One.” Mancini reached for his coffee. He had a feeling he would need a refill by the time everything was said and done. “As quietly as we can, and as quickly as we can. Time to get back in the hunt.”

* * *

Colonel Sinclair hurried down to the center of Oxford’s control center. This really was a moment in which he spared a glance at the In God We Trust banner because he felt as if his people were monitoring everybody else in the entire star system. “Report.”

“Reading debris around 9091, Colonel,” Tamir said. “Unsure to what extent it indicates their damage. Tuscon informs us the missiles were set to detonate close to but not on the target.”

“Likely, they’re a tad shook up but nothing more. We’ve seen this gambit elsewhere—faking a hit by dumping garbage out of the holds. What response from 9091?”

“Outer doors open but no return fire, not yet. What do you suppose they’re waiting for?”

“Colonel.” Eldred beckoned him closer. “Incoming transmission sent across all channels by 9091.”

Sinclair gestured for her to replay it over the speakers. A man’s voice intoned, “Stand down, and prepare to be boarded. Repeat, you have fired upon a Terran Coalition TCFE vessel. Any further action will be considered hostile. Stand down, and prepare to be boarded.”

“Loop that voice and scrub it through the analyzers,” Sinclair said. “See if we can’t find out which bloke is calling the shots over there. And they still haven’t shot back, have they?”

“No, sir. Not even neutron beams.”

“Sounds as if they want CDF to be the ones to retaliate,” Tamir said.

“Quite possible. Compose a message to TCFE command, Eldred. Tell them we request they hold their fire until we can ascertain the true source of the hostilities. Leave it unmarked except for CDF Intelligence’s seal.”

Eldred looked perplexed. “Sir? Nobody even knows we’re in the system.”

“Oh, I have no doubt between Captain Adams and Major Mancini there are plenty of spacers out there trading rumors of Intelligence in action. Besides, I’d much rather have them puzzling over the message than targeting civilians. Send it now.”

“Understood, Colonel.” Eldred had the message bounced out into the star system in seconds. “Should I copy General Milliken?”

“Colonel,” one of the technicians said. “CSV Marcus Aurelius and four frigates breaking off from Fifteenth Group. They’re on an intercept with the refugee ships at the coordinates where we recorded missile launch.”

“Bloody hell,” Sinclair murmured. “Raise the good general, if you would. Still nothing from 9091?”

“Nothing, but maintaining course and speed, Colonel.”

Then I’ll be damned if I know what their game is at this point, Sinclair mused, except we here must keep General Milliken’s force from playing it. This Leaguer must be one cool customer.

* * *

Corriveau hunched over his console. “I don’t understand! I oversaw the final diagnostics myself. They should be working!”

“I hear your words, but what I see are my people attempting to launch missiles, and yet nothing is happening.” Kiel could pity Corriveau for shaking with fear.

After all, Moller did have his hand clamped on the back of Corriveau’s neck, yanking it backward until his head was staring up at the ceiling. Kiel found satisfaction, even though the scene was relayed to him in miniature. “Explain to me why fire control acts like it’s responding, and yet nothing that can destroy other ships is leaving our hull.”

“There must be a breakdown in the command and control linkages. The wiring we installed—”

Moller dragged him from his seat and shoved Corriveau for the hatch. “Get down there and fix it! The boss wants us ready to shoot, and I’m not sending my guys outside to launch missiles by hand!”

Kiel’s pity for the technician subsided as soon as he was gone. A major malfunction in a complex and rushed refit was one thing. This kind of breakdown was another. Too timed. Too targeted. Kiel leaned across his console. “Ferenc? Call up the files on our departed Demir allies. I think Arvid and Haakon have had revenge from beyond the grave.”

Ferenc nodded. “You think they sabotaged the wiring?”

“Either that or Lucy Lee brought us a bad batch, which makes no sense for a smuggler. Perhaps one of our dealers on the other end shorted us. It doesn’t matter now. We’ll discover the cause.” He switched back on the continuous signal to 9091. “Moller? Send down to Engineering that Corriveau will need all the help he can get. You need to fix this immediately.”

“Yeah, I know, boss. I know.”

“You’ll be less blasé about the whole affair when your pay comes back short by twenty percent.” Kiel slapped the console, cutting the signal.

* * *

TFC 9091 refused to counterpunch its attacker, even as ships in the vicinity jockeyed for position. Jackson imagined their techs scratching their heads at the problem, at least until they uncovered the substandard wiring—five meters of it—coated to resemble the proper stuff, but the coating was laced with flitters. They would have broken down and interrupted the links after the first few tests.

Jackson hadn’t told Carlos, of course, so he could plausibly deny knowledge of sabotage. No sense in giving the man another secret to hide when he went into isolation.

“Still not shooting,” Brant said. “Nice… our trick worked.”

“Even nicer once we close the gap.” TFC 9091 was near enough Jackson could make out its distinctive sleek lines as a miniature on the main display. Jackson pointed at the screen, magnifying the image using the shuttle’s sensors. “Bring us in on the starboard flank, behind these midline bulges.”

“Aye, Cap’n. Thruster blister,” Dwyer said. “Excellent choice. It’s a blind spot for their sensors at close range. Tight fit, though.”

“Can you make it?”

“Blindfolded, sir.”

“Let me know if you need Sev on the hull with beacons to guide you in.”

Sev snorted.

Jackson clapped Brant on the shoulder. “We’ll have to cut our way in.”

Brant brought up more detailed schematics than the basic hull design Jackson had been reviewing. He highlighted the length of hull behind the blister. “There’s a weak seam on Bulwark-class, here. It’s part of the reason the design bureau greenlit Pikeman-class as a replacement. It’s a good place to peel her open, assuming the Leaguers haven’t also realized the vulnerability and reinforced it.”

“Airlock?” Sev asked.

“They’ll expect a boarding party at the front door, so we break in through the roof.” Gina tightened the straps on her suit. It was a modified version of the one she’d used infiltrating Salvatore’s garage and the League consulate, only hardened against vacuum and threaded with a passive life-support system. A slim pack on her upper back held the air reserve as well as the propellant tank for embedded thrusters fitted to the waist and wrists. The whole suit was black with gray panels and laced with a sensor-reflecting mesh.

“She’s right. A hull breach will be a surprise,” Jackson said. “Of course, it will set off the structural integrity alarms, which is where Brant and his skills come in.”

“The sooner I can patch into their security network, the better.” Brant ticked off points on his fingers. “Internal and external cameras, motion sensors, life sign scanners…”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Jackson helped Gina with the last catches on the back of her neck then turned so she could do the same for his suit. “Ready?”

“I’m never not.” Gina smiled. “Though, it’d be nice to hear encouraging words from Brant, something other than happy sensor readings.”

Jackson nodded. “Lead on, Lieutenant.”

Brant leaned his elbows on his console and made the sign of the cross. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our deaths…”

* * *

Sinclair paced the control center until he was certain he would wear ruts in the decking.

“Incoming hail, Colonel,” Eldred said. “General Milliken on a secure channel for you.”

“Main screen, if you please.”

Milliken’s scow filled the monitor. “Colonel, I’m not in the mood for interruptions. Clear this channel, and we can both get on with our missions.”

“I’m afraid, General, it would be the wrong mission. I’m speaking of the profiles we sent you not long ago.”

“Good stories, those. I’m waiting for the proof instead of spook fairy tales.”

“Sir, the missiles fired are the proof.”

“My TAO tells me the refugees have taken to lobbing projectiles at TCFE corvettes. I’m on my way to discourage them from a repeat.”

Sinclair shook his head. “The trajectories can be unclear when viewed from the wrong vantage point. So many transports clustered like grapes make it difficult to determine who fired what, but Tuscon informs us the stealth freighter they’ve been pursuing has finally made an appearance. Major Mancini is investigating as we speak.”

“You expect me to stand back and not remind those rejected Leaguers whose space they’re barging into? This is the Terran Coalition, Colonel, not some neutral backwater world. These people need to respect order. I won’t have a single ship taking potshots at our people, CDF or TCFE.”

“I understand, General, but rash action is precisely what our enemy longs for us to commit. This is their scheme. I’ve already advised TCFE command in the region to stand down while we assess the situation.”

“Yes, I’ve seen your ‘advisement’ and am still contemplating a formal complaint up the chain of command, except I’m not sure how far up it would get.” Milliken smirked. “To your credit, I think it would land on General MacIntosh’s desk.”

“If not the Oval Office. Sir.”

“You can’t send further orders like you’re a flag officer, Sinclair. That’s my role, and I won’t see it usurped.”

“With respect, I do carry flag rank for this operation.”

“For what, your spook tub and a stealth boat? Don’t split hairs with me.”

“General Milliken, I must insist,” Sinclair said sternly. “Thrusting Fifteenth Group into this situation will only lead to the worst of outcomes. If you fire upon the refugee transports, the League wins. Period. All the news networks will show are a state-of-the-art cruiser leading warships they have seen defend our territory for decades and firing into the masses of victims desperate to reach a new home. The divisions among our people over this issue will only deepen. Partisan infighting will dissolve any chance for meaningful compromise, and through our inaction, our enemy’s influence will grow.”

Milliken’s frown deepened. Whatever he was thinking, it wasn’t translating to action. Marcus Aurelius and her escorts continued their new course toward corvette 9091 and the transport fleet. Sinclair hazarded a glance at the tactical display. No reaction yet from TCFE besides raising shields and pulling their vessels away from the refugee ships—which could either mean moving themselves out of potential danger or clearing lanes of fire.

“Open missile doors on five corvettes,” Tamir said.

Sinclair nodded. “Maintain our watch, Captain.”

Milliken let out a breath. It reminded Sinclair of an old grizzly rumbling in the woods. “All right, Colonel. Let’s take a closer look at your data. I’m not afraid of rolling the dice, but I also won’t put my people in harm’s way over League refuse. I’m instructing our ships to take up shepherding positions—to show we mean business—but to keep their outer doors shut and firing solutions frozen until my word.”

“Thank you, sir.” Relief flooded Sinclair.

“But if those buckets so much as toss a ballistic round and chip the paint on a single CDF vessel, no amount of politics will save them from retribution. Marcus Aurelius out.” Milliken’s face vanished, replaced by the starfield outside.

“Get me Major Mancini,” Sinclair ordered. “I want that stealth ship reeled in and Master Chief MacDonald boarding it.”

“And the corvette?” Eldred asked. “Captain Adams has already redirected his shuttle.”

“Jolly good. Let’s make his initiative an order, shall we?”

* * *

Jackson pounded his fist on the console. “We’re up, people. Warrant, park us. Gina, Sev, stand by at the hatch. Lids down and locked. We’re cutting life support.”

“I can jam their comms as soon as we’re down, Captain, but to short-circuit their internal systems, you’ve got to get me hardwired in.” Brant’s voice was tinny through Jackson’s suit helmet. “I need about twenty seconds.”

“You heard the man.” Jackson checked his pistol then secured it in its holster. “Head for the auxiliary control room. It’s marked on your deck plans.”

Gina hefted the plasma weapon, the strap weighing down her shoulder. “Do you boys always bring Saurian battle rifles, or was this special ordered?”

Dwyer cracked a grin. “Better to be prepared than wishin’ for what you don’t have. Hold on, kids. We’re coming in quick. Might feel a jolt.”

Jackson tried not to watch their velocity relative to the corvettes, but the jolt as the shuttle rapidly decelerated was enough to send pain through his elbow as he clung to a handhold in the bulkhead. A second, bigger jolt almost put him on his knees. Gina rebounded off Sev.

“Down and grapples locked!” Dwyer hollered.

The hatch flew open. Gina and Sev fired the red beams at the hull, digging black trenches as air hissed into space. Metal plating brightened, bubbled, and instantly cooled.

Jackson glanced at his wrist unit. Dwyer joined him, ready with his rifle and a string of explosive devices riding on his belt. Dwyer tapped the side of his helmet and gave him a thumbs-up. Jackson returned it, not mentioning he was trying not to think about what would happen if the shuttle were spotted before they got aboard. He had no desire to be scraped off the hull.

25

TFC 9091

Aphendrika Solar System—Terran Coalition

1 August 2464

The new set of alarms battered Corriveau worse than any damage Moller could inflict. “What’re those? What are you fools doing up there?”

“We have a hull breach, Deck Four, behind the starboard thrust blister.” Moller sounded bored. “I’m sending a damage repair team. It’s probably junk that hit us when the missiles exploded.”

They were too far away for any such damage. Corriveau knew his calculations had been accurate. Of course, he thought he’d figured correctly when the wiring was installed, and look how that had turned out.

“Keep me informed of everything, Moller. Vasiliy is depending on us.” Corriveau removed his goggles. “Try this one.”

The technician ten meters away in the cramped conduit access crawlway held his diagnostic tool at the nearest junction. Green lights flickered. The tech gave Corriveau a salute.

“Good.” Corriveau sighed. Only seven more to check.

The alarms cut out. Corriveau worked his jaw so his ears would pop. “About time, Moller.”

“That wasn’t me. We’ve had a malfunction in—”

“Stop talking to me about malfunctions!” Corriveau shimmied backward out of the conduit. “You said you were sending people. Fix the problem!”

He expected the bumbling oaf to demand punishment for him, but at the moment, Corriveau didn’t care about threats from Moller or even Kiel. This was his child. The project had consumed his waking hours—and those when he was supposed to be sleeping—for months. He would not let inferior workmanship end his care, not when they were so close to triggering a grand incident among the capitalist scum.

The lights in the corridor were red—unsurprising, given they’d experienced a hull breach. Corriveau tapped his comm to pester Moller again but heard nothing but static. Intolerable! Basic communications shouldn’t be affected.

A crewman in a full vac suit rounded the corner, lugging his torch. Corriveau planted his hands on his hips, bringing the man’s stride to a halt. “You! Don’t pretend like you’re more than a glorified hired hand. We have political prisoners toiling in our mines who serve society better! I am the oversight engineer for this project, and you will come with me so we can fix this wiring. Now, Get me the bridge on comms!”

The man cocked his head. He raised the torch, the heated plasma singeing the front of Corriveau’s coveralls. The man’s finger rested on the trigger.

“What…? Stop it!” Corriveau held out his hands—and wondered why the man was dressed in all black. None of their vac suits were so sleek.

“Engineer,” the man grunted through his helmet’s tinny speakers.

A slimmer, shorter man and a lithe woman joined him.

“Good catch, Four. Two?”

“Engine compartment is thirty meters ahead and down a deck.” The voice, though muffled, sounded oddly sweet. “Isn’t that right, oversight engineer?”

Corriveau was far too aware of the pulse pistol she had trained on his abdomen—and the massive Saurian rifle too. He lifted his hands. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Then be a darling and escort us,” she said. “We could use the company.”

Which was an easy task to fulfill. All thoughts of Vasiliy’s anger, even when he had Ferenc shoot those cartel brothers, vaporized in the face of the immediate threat from the intruders.

* * *

Jackson took the engineer’s comm. He made sure the man stayed away from any access panels as they made the rest of the trip to Engineering. There he hoped and prayed they would snag a tech to do their dirty work. The guy could be an even better prisoner.

They paused before the double doors to the engineering compartment. “Avoid killing anyone if you can help it,” Jackson told Sev.

“Sure.” Sev lugged the Saurian rifle like he was hefting a whole person. It wasn’t his only weapon by far, but he didn’t seem to want to waste it since he’d carried the device all that way.

“Mind the clock,” Brant said into Jackson’s receiver. “They’re locked out of comms, but it won’t take long for them to figure out it’s a physical problem.”

“We’re on it, Home,” Jackson said. “Trust me, none of us want this bucket incinerated.”

“I might, but only after we’re away.” Gina took aim with her pistol.

“I thought that was implied.” Jackson motioned for the engineer to move. “Open it.”

“If you want to trigger a reactor breach, you’ll be doing us all a favor.” The engineer’s hand was poised over the door panel. “Our employers terminate those who disappoint them.”

Gina nudged the back of his head with her pulse pistol. “I don’t suppose this helps you decide, does it?”

“One would be quicker.”

Jackson shook his head. “No time for this.” He pressed the engineer’s hand to the panel. The hatches parted.

Sev barreled between them before they were a meter apart, brandishing the plasma rifle like a club. The first tech to turn around went wide-eyed for one second before Sev clobbered him. The second shouted but wound up with the butt end buried in his stomach, forcing him to his knees.

The other two men were built like cartel enforcers. Jackson had seen plenty of their ilk back on Aphendrika. Their stance and the way they were standing around while the other two techs had been working told Jackson plenty—that and the ease with which their hands dropped to the pistols on their belts.

“Leave them!” Jackson pushed the engineer forward, arm on the man’s shoulder. “Leave them, or he dies.”

The men glanced at each other. Jackson scrutinized their body language, tried to ascertain what they were calculating. He realized too late when the first one’s tension fled his face.

“Down!” Jackson pushed the engineer toward the deck and fired.

The leftmost of the two men squeezed the trigger. Plasma flashes ripped across the compartment, heat washing over Jackson. His shot went wide, catching the one who’d fired in the shoulder. Gina’s found the center of the man’s head.

The second dove for the cover of a long, broad console. His was an automatic, the bolts tearing apart panels and scorching the bulkheads. Sev took deliberate aim with the plasma rifle, even as an energy bolt slashed across his torso, and fired through the far end of the console.

The blast melted half the station and didn’t leave much of the gunman hiding behind it.

“Secure the hatch!” Jackson snapped. He rolled the engineer over.

The man’s eyes were glassy, unseeing. Steam rose where the plasma blast had dug a hole in his chest. Gone, as was their chance of making it a clean shutdown of the reactor.

Gina sealed the hatch. “Sev! Plasma rifle.”

Sev handed over the heavy weapon then dragged the first technician he’d socked off the deck. Blood poured from the man’s nose, and he was missing a tooth on his lower jaw. Sev thrust him forward. “Fix?”

“He’ll do. Are you okay?”

Sev’s suit already hissed with foam, not only sealing the tear but adding antiseptic to his wound. “Sore.”

“I’ll bet.” Jackson dragged the engineer over to the console. The second thug lay dead behind it, the gaping wound from Sev’s shot a crimson bullseye. “Scram the core, and take it completely offline. Disconnect us from any bridge overrides.”

“We’ll be dead in space!” the man protested.

“Better than being spaced.” Gina said it nonchalantly over the Saurian rifle’s hiss as she sealed the center of the hatch. “That should buy us time.”

A rumble echoed farther down the corridor. The deck vibrated under Jackson’s boots.

“Home, this is One. Your handiwork?” he asked.

“Negative, One, that’s Sparks. Had to clear four people with rifles headed our way. I’ve cut off the bridge from life-support control, but it’s a temporary block.”

“Stand by.” Jackson glowered at the young man. “Environmental systems?”

He swallowed and pointed, finger shaking, at a smaller console to the right.

“Thanks.” Jackson linked his wrist unit to the station then inputted a series of commands as Brant fed them through the device. “Sev, get him to take the reactor offline. Give him a tour if he won’t cooperate.”

The tour began with the dead engineer and was past the first of the two dead thugs when the technician vomited. Sev glowered at the mess on his boots.

“Okay! Okay. I’m working on it. Just don’t kill me.”

“No promises,” Gina said.

“Two?”

“Yes?”

“Give it a rest.” Jackson entered the last bit of code. “That’s it, Home. How’s it look from your end?”

“It’s looking like I can pipe nasty but nonlethal coolant from belowdecks into the crew compartments. I’ll try to herd them all to the bridge.”

Jackson did the math—five in Engineering, four in the corridor. “What’s the crew capacity of a Bulwark again?”

“Specs say forty-five. With all the wiring I’ve seen on the scans, I think this one’s rigged to run with half that, maybe less. Sparks?”

In the silence, Jackson could hear only two sounds—the technician’s frantic grunts as he sent the reactor through the shutdown protocols and the boots on the deck outside their hatch.

“Roger. One, Sparks says he’s getting eight heat signs that are cooling off, plus another nine still active. A hot one’s right by you.”

“Confirmed, Home. He’s getting the reactor killed in…” Jackson rapped on the central console with his pulse pistol.

“There. Almost—got it.” The tech slumped against the bulkhead, his shirt soaked with sweat.

The steady, background hum powering 9091 faded into nothing.

Jackson nodded. “How’s it looking, Home?”

“That did the trick, One. She’s powered down. They’re trying to boot auxiliary, but it’s not going to go to their weapons, if you’re worried about it.”

“Everybody’s worried about it. What about the coolant?”

“Rerouting it now. I’d recommend keeping your suits buttoned. It won’t kill anyone, but they’ll be puking for a few days.”

“Roger that. Sev, bind our two prisoners. Lash them to the consoles if you have to.” Jackson followed the instructions on his wrist unit to lock down all access from the engineering compartment. No sense in leaving prisoners behind if they could sabotage the mission—and he wasn’t about to kill anyone else.

As soon as he finished, he noticed Gina taking time to lean over each of the victims. She spent a few seconds motionless, face-to-face. “I have them recorded.”

“Don’t forget him.” Jackson indicated the engineer. He didn’t fit the mold of the cartel thugs or even the nervous technicians. He’d had more to his bearing.

“One, this is Home. There’s a secondary access out of Engineering behind the tertiary access frame. I figured you’d want to know since you torched yourself in.”

“We had a plan for getting out, but I appreciate the shortcut.”

The highlighted frame appeared on their wrist comms. Sev headed there, Saurian plasma rifle in hand.

Jackson marked the bridge with the quickest points between. “Feed me locations on the remaining crew. I’ll get us there ASAP. Just make sure no one else out there starts shooting.”

“I’ll do what I can, but you’d better move—patience is in short supply beyond this hull.”

* * *

Zhou frowned at his readouts—and the accompanying communication. It was even odds as to which bore worse news. TFC 9091 was powerless. Continuing on her original course, yes, but the reactor had gone into shutdown—no reply on the comms, no weapons fire, not so much as a target lock or a sensor ping.

“Captain? Kiel wants a response. He’s… inquiring as to the situation.”

“Yes, I’ll wager he is,” Zhou muttered. “Tell him I’m busy. Repopulate the board with the latest scans.”

Targets shifted across the tactical display. A few TCFEs repositioned. The CDF ships showed no signs of slowing their approach or rerouting their course. But those were Kiel’s problems. Zhou was more interested in the stealth boat, which of course, wasn’t making itself known. Fine with him. He had no interest in an easy mark. “Transfer the helm to me.”

His console lit up with helm control. He eased the freighter onto a new course, shadowing four transports that had decided not to stick around the place from which missiles had launched. They were arrowing toward a formation of forty-plus refugee ships, which by Zhou’s read of the navigational tracks, was about to get more crowded. Zhou preferred to keep more insurance around. “Sensor Post, any reactions from the rest of the ships?”

“Negative, sir—hold on. Three engine signatures. One’s a patrol corvette. The other two were intermittent, so I’ll have to work backward, see if I can get a better analysis.”

“Mark those two as Tango 112 and 113. Highlight for me. I want them watched.” Either could be their stealth friend. Zhou knew the only way to get him to appear was to make moves of his own. “Tactical station, generate targets. Pick a few more of the Border ships—and an Ajax destroyer.”

The tactical officer gawked at him. “Sir, I—”

“Target locks, mister. As ordered.” Zhou spun his chair. “We won’t fire until 9091 is in a position to fire back. Wait for Kiel’s command. As for our fellow wolf, well, if he shows his face, I’ll be happy to bloody his nose.”

* * *

Kiel was in the mood to break things, but nothing was available besides his coffee mug—so he smashed it with the last dregs of his tea.

“No luck with comms to or from 9091.” Ferenc and his damned calm. He sounded as if he were giving the scores from the latest grav-dart tournament. “The reactor powered down. They’re as useful as a rock.”

“I can see, thank you. What of Zhou?”

“He’s standing by with weapons ready. He could fire on a few more Border ships, try to provoke them.”

“I doubt he’ll have luck. Someone higher up the rungs of command must be giving them a hold order, given how many of the ships have doors open yet aren’t shooting back.”

“Yes, sir.”

However, if Zhou had the presence of mind to target a CDF warship, the outcome would be the same as Kiel desired—news network imagery of Terran Coalition military firing on civilians. The political fallout would be devastating, which would distract the Terrans from the League’s larger endgame in the Sagittarius Arm.

Kiel accessed the hangar bay cameras. “See to our exit, Ferenc. It’s time to prepare for the next venture.”

* * *

Major Mancini didn’t like the way the tactical display was shaping up. Too many civilians running around and too many armed vessels in the mix. Lots of overlapping comms chatter. It would be easy for mistakes to happen. “Pilot, what’s our range to the firing coordinates?”

“Ten thousand kilometers, Skipper.”

“Cutting it close. TAO, repopulate the board.”

“Aye, Skipper,” Olesen called. “Repopulating the board.”

Godat pointed at the newly adjusted spread of markers. “Here. This bunch is separating. They’re redistributing themselves and merging with the larger flotillas.”

“I see them, XO. Which one is our stealthy Leaguer? Sensor Room, best guess?”

“Conn, Sensor Room. Got a lot of drives burning out there, sir.”

“Give me the best scans you can. I want to match one to our friend from before.”

“Active sensors, sir?”

“Passive if you can manage it, but if we come up empty, we’ll go active to flush him out. All we’re waiting for him to do is make a mistake.”

“Aye, sir. Sensor Room out.”

Mancini puzzled over his display. The control center was crammed with crew, hushed conversations overlapping alongside the chirp of sensing equipment. Which one’s the hunter? What would I do if I were in my opponent’s boots? I’d be looking for me.

“TAO, Conn. Targeting sensors on one of the TCFE corvettes—it’s gone, sir.”

“Tight-beam them a warning!” Mancini snapped. “They need to hold their fire if—”

“Missile launch! Two shots fired!”

The missiles streaked into the narrow gap between the refugee transports and the three nearest corvettes. One of them, designated BPC 7176, dropped countermeasures, which splintered the first of the two missiles.

The second one burst into four projectiles. One exploded off the flank of a refugee transport, and two more turned into blazing lights by TFC 9091. The fourth caught additional countermeasures and fizzled out.

“Backtrace!” Mancini ordered. “Sensor Room, what’ve you got?”

“Conn, Sensor Room. Three probables for launch vectors. Engine signatures—it’s too diffused, Skipper. Confirm active sensors?”

Mancini ground his teeth. They had to act fast, which meant the advantage of stealth was out the airlock. “Confirmed, Sensor Room. TAO, paint target as Master One, and plot firing solutions as soon as we have confirmation. Pilot, lock in a new course to the corresponding coordinates and engage at flank speed on my mark.”

The chorus of “ayes” melded into one note of assurance that his people were ready to do their jobs and their duties.

Godat leaned away from his mic. “Damage control standing by, Skipper.”

“Roger, XO.”

“Conn, TAO. Target acquired. Designated Master One.”

The pilot added, “Course plotted and laid in, Major. Standing by.”

Mancini crossed himself. God in heaven, protect us as we wade into the unknown. I commend my soul to the Almighty and His Savior. “Mark.”

26

TFC 9091

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

1 August 2464

Jackson stumbled against the bulkhead. The corridors shook under the impact of whatever had hit. “Keep moving!”

Sev rounded the corner ahead of him, crouching as he went. Gina followed, aiming high. Between the three of them, they had the corridor covered in case they encountered resistance. So far, though, they’d seen only three crew, all technicians wearing the same jumpsuits. They were curled on their sides, moaning, with good reason.

Jackson’s helmet display warned him of toxic gases, courtesy of Brant’s rerouting shipboard coolant. Jackson checked his seal, for paranoia’s sake. What kind of spy would I be if I didn’t worry about those small details?

“One, this is Home. You guys holding up okay in there?”

“Rattled but otherwise unhurt, Home. What about from outside?”

“Well, the blasts didn’t shake us loose, so that’s a good thing. Sparks is sealing minor breaches in the fuselage, and there’s a rip in the cofferdam connecting us to where we cut through 9091’s hull. Nothing we can’t handle. You should see how many ships are swirling around, though. Like leaves in a dust devil.”

Jackson preferred not to imagine the chaos. “We’re coming up to the bridge. Standby.”

His sensor feed showed five heat signatures beyond the bridge hatch, which was locked down. They were moving but barely. The coolant leak must have successfully infiltrated even that compartment.

Sev tried the controls. The console blatted a negative response. He popped the panel and tugged on the manual override. It budged. “Ready.”

“Hold on.” Jackson took up position on one side of the hatch and Gina the other. “Okay—go.”

Sev cranked the control. The hatch rumbled apart slowly—nothing.

Jackson glanced at Gina. They didn’t need comms. He indicated to her then the floor then the hatch. She acknowledged with a subtle dip of her chin.

Gina went first on the left, with Jackson on the right. Jackson’s helmet tagged the five bodies inside. Two were on the deck, crawling. One clung to the tactical station, another to the comms console.

The guy in the middle was the key. He was a bruiser, like the two who’d drawn on Jackson down in Engineering. He was also the one in charge. Jackson knew it the second he saw him, even though the man could barely stand.

“Nobody moves.” Jackson’s helmet speakers amplified his demand throughout the bridge. “Give up your weapons, and you live.”

The captain turned around.

“Plasma pistol.” Gina shifted her aim.

“Hold your fire.” The man was armed—Jackson knew it before he’d turned—but his stance hadn’t been the kind one took before shooting. It was the body language of a man considering his options. Jackson wanted to give him better ones. “You—you’re in command? Surrender the ship. Your vessel is incapacitated, and so is your crew. Everyone still alive will be arrested.”

“It’s—that’s not what we’re paid to do.” The man’s voice was ragged, like he’d gargled on hull plating. His eyes went unfocused. He swayed and reached for the chair. His pistol rose.

Boots clinked as Sev came up behind Jackson. His carbine’s shadow fell over Jackson’s helmet. “Ready,” Sev said through the comm.

“Activate the safety and place the weapon on the deck.” Jackson took a step toward the captain. He lowered his pistol.

“Jack, don’t,” Gina warned.

“Not gonna get guarantees from anybody,” the captain slurred. “Boss won’t like it if we don’t get the job done.”

“You’re through with the boss. We can get you out of here.”

“Nah.” The captain shook his head. The pistol wavered. “Got to clean up.” His arm whipped up, planting the barrel above his right ear.

Jackson lunged for him, shoulder lowered. A single blast went off. Jackson’s impact pushed the captain against his console, jogging his aim. A bloody line marred the side of the captain’s head. A scorch mark creased the ceiling.

“Hold him!” Jackson ripped the weapon free, fending off flailing arms.

Sev put the captain in a restraining grip, dragging him away from Jackson. The captain snarled and swung for Sev’s face. All that earned him was damage to his own face as Sev planted him nose-first into the bulkhead.

Gina was busy binding the rest of the bridge crew’s wrists. “They’re not going anywhere. Can we have Brant clean the filth out of the air now?”

“You copy, Home?” Jackson asked.

“Roger, One. Scrubbing through the air filters. I’m assuming you want comms unlocked.”

“Just enough for a secure link to Base.”

On cue, a light flashed on the comms console. Jackson unloaded and secured the captain’s pistol before punching up a new transmission. “Base One, this is Echo One. We have control of TFC 9091. All opposition ended.”

The British accent answering was filled with relief. “Very well done, Echo One. We will pass the word up the chain. Do you require extraction?”

Jackson glanced around the bridge, at its incapacitated crew, and took in the red warnings flashing on every systems panel. “Not needed, Base, but we wouldn’t say no to a tow.”

* * *

Sinclair smiled at the request. “Affirmative, Echo One. We shall see what we can do. Await further instruction. Base out.” He turned to Tamir. “Get me the Marcus Aurelius.”

“Aye, sir.” Tamir brought up a new secured transmission.

“This is Colonel Sinclair aboard CSV Oxford. TFC 9091 is under CDF Intelligence control. Our operatives have captured or killed combatants who appear to be local cartel muscle as well as privately employed technicians. This vessel is not TCFE. I recommend you broadcast a warning to all civilian ships to disperse and reinforce with TCFE command to refrain from engaging any vessel that may fire upon them. I’m sending our report of the situation with data from the boarding.”

Sinclair didn’t know if Milliken deliberately kept him waiting or if there was a lag in communications aboard Marcus Aurelius. Either way, it was all he could do to mask his frustration when the general finally appeared on the screen.

“Your gamble paid off, eh, Colonel?”

“Yes, sir, it appears it did.”

“Well, I’m not one to argue with results. I’ll have comms relay the good news to our units. What about this supposed stealth freighter, then?”

“We have the situation well in hand, General,” Sinclair said. “Our goal now is to prevent them from causing any loss of life, because were I in the shoes of our adversary, I would recognize the situation is lost. And thus, I would be desperate to do what damage I could.”

* * *

Zhou cursed as the tactical display filled with the active scanning from the entire Fifteenth Group. It was bad enough the Terran stealth boat was burning straight for them. His options were limited. If he maintained his present course and speed, either that vessel or one of the frigates would get near enough for sensors to reveal the peculiar nature of his freighter. And the League’s latest tech project would fall into Terran hands, positive proof it was a League-sanctioned and ESS-run operation.

If he ran, his ship’s full capabilities would be on display—and recorded by every tactical system and navigation console on hundreds of vessels.

Kiel’s order burned on Zhou’s screen: attack as many civilian vessels and TCFE vessels as possible to mimic the very gunfight they’d been trying to provoke. Easy for him to say, as he scuttles under a rock while I maneuver with a stealth boat in my wake.

“Tactical report, sir—stealth ship on fast approach. They have locked onto us. Outer doors open. They have Hunter missiles armed in the tubes.”

Zhou glared at the main screen. The broad hull of a repurposed ore hauler slipped away. The bigger vessel was five hundred meters long. Plenty of cover. “Match vectors, Tactical, and fire tubes one through four.”

Missiles lanced out into the darkness, curving around the ore hauler. They streaked into the stealth boat’s face.

“Point defense, watch for incoming fire,” Zhou said. “I don’t want a missile slipping into our engine nozzle.”

“Aye, sir, point defense active.”

Their pursuer swatted down the missiles one by one. Zhou nodded. Their captain was skilled—he had no doubt. Tactical and Sensor posts muttered their difficulty at tracking the boat, even as Zhou ordered a second flight of missiles fired.

“Time to wormhole drive readiness?”

“One minute twenty-eight seconds, sir.”

Close. They were edging nearer the drive limits, where they overlapped between Aphendrika and its moon. Once there, he could engage the wormhole drive and jump to safety light-years away.

“Missile launch! Two marks, incoming! Xaser point defense is tracking.”

“Dammit. Keep the civilian craft between us and them.” Why is the stealth boat insisting on chasing us down, when the freighter’s destruction would only serve the League’s goal—Terran military destroying a civilian ship?

The realization hit him. All but the more advanced sensors would not see the stealth boat for what it was, supposing it was an opportunistic pirate battling a rival. And his opponent knew it.

“Clever,” Zhou mused.

* * *

Mancini held onto his chair as the debris from the last missile battered Tuscon’s shields. “Damage report.”

“Minimal, Skipper,” Godat said. “Shields are holding. Point defense almost missed the final one.”

“I noticed. TAO, status on our shots.”

“Approaching Master One’s point-defense range. They’re engaging.”

“Match bearings and shoot, tubes five through eight.”

“Aye, sir.”

Four more missiles raced after Master One. The first two vanished from the tactical board, picked off by defensive fire from the freighter.

“Blast it all,” Olesen muttered. “Chewing our Hunters to bits, sir. Not supposed to happen.”

“Remind us to file a report with the fleet yards when we get back,” Mancini said dryly.

“Lost the lock.” Olesen tapped new commands into his console. “Missiles reacquiring.”

“Too much traffic out there,” Mancini muttered. “XO, time to Lawrence limit?”

“Fifty-seven seconds.” Godat started a timer on an overhead screen.

“Retask those missiles. Shut them down if you can’t. We’re not going to be responsible for civilian casualties, no matter what it looks like to people out there.”

“Aye, sir.”

One of the missiles sputtered and winked out. Another banked onto a twisted course, coming back for Master One. Two more raced in behind it. Olesen had used the first to get the others back on their original trajectory.

“Time to intercept?”

“Missiles will reach target in nineteen seconds.”

Mancini held onto the arms of his chair. He didn’t like cutting it close. Not with so many other ships filling the sky. Under normal circumstances, he would call on Marcus Aurelius and Fifteenth Group to interdict, but with everyone so anxious about even appearing to trade shots with civilians—well, he and Tuscon were on their own.

“Missile impact imminent.”

The first of the three missiles nearing the target vanished, victim to xaser PD again. The other two struck home.

* * *

Zhou clung to his console as the freighter bucked with the impact of twin missile strikes.

“Direct hit amidships. Shields failing!” his tactical officer called.

“Engines?”

“Operational but thrust is falling off. Acceleration reduced.”

Zhou glanced at the timer. Thirty seconds to jump. “Constant fire targeting Victor One, all tubes. Arrowheads only. Give them enough to cover our exit.”

As the timer spun down, and his ship shuddered under the repeated launch of its remaining missiles, Zhou began to see why the Terrans liked to pray.

* * *

“Heaven help them,” Mancini murmured as the tactical board came alive with missiles. “Pilot, accelerate us into the midst—draw as many of those missiles as you can. Comms, signal Fifteenth Group—any vessel near enough—to deploy whatever countermeasures they can.”

Tuscon rolled onto a new vector and blasted toward the missiles, her hull trembling as the engines maxed out their thrust. CIWS fire added a different vibration to everything else Mancini could feel through the deck plates. Missile after missile blinked off the board as Tuscon swept toward them, clearing them away from civilian ships.

TCFE corvettes hurried in, too, not firing their own weapons but filling space with countermeasures designed to draw off and disable missiles, even with simple tricks like casting a spray of metal spheres into their paths. Any missile hitting the inert balls shredded like tissue paper.

“Master One is coming up to the Lawrence limit, Skipper,” Godat said.

“As soon as you can get a clean shot, hit them again. It’s our last chance to stop them from leaving. Sensor, Conn. Tell me you’ve got all the data we need on Master One.”

“Affirmative, sir. Between the engine signature and the emissions tampering, it’s plenty to show the ship’s been heavily modified and is not a civilian vessel.”

“Nice work. One way or another, we’re going to need everything you’ve picked up.”

“Major! The lane is clear.”

“Shoot,” Mancini said.

* * *

“Limit reached, Captain.”

Zhou dropped into his seat. “Charge the drive.”

“Aye, sir, charging.”

The wormhole drive drained power off the main reactor until it had reached critical mass, breaching space and forming a connection between two points separated by light-years. The swirling mass of color and energy lifted Zhou’s spirits more than any sight he’d seen in years.

“Sir! Victor One has closed range and is firing!”

No. Not now.

The blasts ripped into the freighter, sending the shields into the red zone before they flickered and died. The next shots sent thunderous ringing throughout the hull. Alarms clamored for attention where the compartments vented to space and plating peeled off.

Inertial forces threw Zhou to the deck. He struck his head on a console post. His vision went blurry, and his hearing became a muddle as alarms and shouts vied for priority.

Bad timing, it was all wrong for the middle of a jump.

When his senses cleared, the only sounds he could hear were the klaxons. He dragged himself upright. The tactical officer was down, groaning. Two more crew were dead. Sparks rained down in a half dozen gaps in the ceiling and bulkheads.

First. Check coordinates. It took Zhou four attempts to tap the right panel on his display. The screen hiccupped before showing the ship’s current location.

It was not their intended destination but a dead star system, just an M-type dwarf surrounded by the crumbling remains of whatever dirtballs had been winging around it. Uncharted. Unsurveyed.

Zhou rested his forehead against the display. So, not dead, not all the way. He still had a chance of survival. It wouldn’t be the first time. Eventually, he would get back to where he needed to be. And if Kiel had a problem with that, well, let him come calling.

* * *

Kiel and Ferenc were squeezed into a shuttle, cruising slowly through the asteroids. Ferenc handled the controls, monitoring their flight path as if he were taking Kiel on an inspection tour—not unlike when they’d first arrived in the damned Aphendrika star system.

“The freighter is away, but she’s left debris,” Ferenc said. “The information packets are ready to be transmitted.”

“Send them. Make sure it’s sloppy enough for CDF to pick up so they can feel like they intercepted it. I want fingers pointing in the right direction, which is to say, not at us.”

Ferenc nodded. He sent out the transmission.

Kiel willed himself to relax. They’d failed. The Terrans had seen through enough of the ruse to prevent the outcry he’d hoped for. But his part in it was done. Others would take the blame, shielding the League. All the ends would be tied up—only one left.

“She’s armed and ready, sir.”

Kiel reached for the panel pulsing red on the shuttle console. He tapped it.

It was three seconds before Asteroid APH-122704 exploded into a spray of debris and dozens of huge chunks because of signal delay.

“Sift through that,” Kiel said.

27

Oval Office, the White House

Canaan—Terran Coalition

2 August 2464

Justin Spencer flicked through the last of the lengthy report from Colonel Sinclair aboard CSV Oxford. “I have to say, I’m pleased to hear we all came out of this relatively unscathed. Peace Union isn’t calling for my removal, so there’s a good start to the week already.”

“Yes, Mr. President, though I would have preferred more concrete evidence tying the whole affair to the League of Sol.” Secretary Snow sat poised on the edge of the couch, looking like she could up and pace at any second. “There’s simply not enough for anything definitive.”

“There should be, based on Captain Adams’s intel,” General MacIntosh said. “We have the proof of Orbita stockpiles inside the League consulate, for pity’s sake!”

“They’ve accounted for it on page forty-three.” Eduardo Fuentes let out a long sigh. “The fragmented data recovered by Oxford after the asteroid’s explosion explains it neatly, doesn’t it?”

“Too neatly.” Spencer skimmed back to the summary. “The consul general has been removed by security staff and returned to the nearest League world, where he awaits diplomatic censure, according to this.”

“Translation? Execution.” MacIntosh shook his head. “Fine way to prevent leaks.”

“It is, if you’re the kind of government that routinely kills its people to maintain control. In effect, they’re pinning the Orbita sales and human trafficking on the consul general, saying it was conducted in tandem with Demir cartel, which matches what our people uncovered on that latter aspect.”

“This engineer Captain Adams mentions, the one shot by the cartel members aboard the corvette…” Fuentes consulted his own copy of the report. “He was League too?”

“Rogue and dissident, dismissed from their technical research divisions at the end of the war. They have the files and everything to prove it,” Spencer noted. “Convenient.”

MacIntosh pushed out of his chair. “All too convenient, Mr. President. So much for the spooks ferreting their way to the enemy’s side. If it weren’t for Major Mancini and the exceptional performance of CSV Tuscon, we would have one devil of an incident to manage.”

“I don’t think that’s a fair assessment, General,” Snow countered. “Covert Action Unit 171 fulfilled its mandate to the letter. Tuscon would not have known where to look for the other stealth craft if 171 hadn’t uncovered and broken the encoded transmissions used by the League operatives.”

“We still don’t know who they were, do we?” Fuentes asked. “Or even if they were truly involved. I consider the report from Captain Adams, Major Mancini, and Colonel Sinclair thorough but recognize they may have made false assumptions. How much does coincidence play into the events that took place? And can we really say it was the League masterminding all of it? Couldn’t it have been rogue elements coordinating with the Demir cartel?”

Snow shook her head. “Very unlikely, Mr. Vice President. This has all the hallmarks of a League operation, though it was more complex than usual and lacking in the overt presence they favor. Look at how it was set up—nothing can be traced back to them. Even the so-called ‘captain’ of the corvette TFC 9091 was nothing more than a Demir lackey, albeit one with the relevant experience. Intelligence has identified all personnel aboard the corvette as either cartel or local hires brought in for their technical expertise. No one who we’ve been able to question can even name their boss, as they refer to him. All we have is a reference to a Vasiliy by the engineer Corriveau’s messages.”

“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down to the League of Sol, Celinda,” Fuentes said. “I’m not discounting their involvement altogether, but we have to be careful to avoid jumping to the wrong conclusion.”

“Sorry, Mr. Vice President, but the secretary’s right—this is ESS at its finest, or worst, I should probably say.” MacIntosh paused by the mounted display screen showing the current status of vessels in and around Aphendrika’s star system. “The corvette, for instance—we’re unraveling the false paperwork used to sneak it out of the depot where it was supposed to be undergoing repairs or headed to the scrapyard. Masterful stuff.”

Spencer set down his tablet. “Folks, I think we have to admit we’re seeing a new approach to how the League is conducting the war—and make no mistake, that’s what it is, an extension of the last conflict. They may have accepted the treaty from a military standpoint because they lacked an alternative after we eliminated most of their home defense fleet, but it’s obvious they’re not content with the status quo. This is the reason I greenlighted the team on your recommendations. We need to put out these fires as soon as the League’s intelligence apparatus tries to spark them, before they grow into uncontrolled blazes. As far as I’m concerned, the initial operation was a success.”

“I agree, Justin, but I want to go on record as saying I’m not pleased with all the methods employed.” Fuentes raised a finger, his expression pinching. “Most especially, the instigation of a gang war between two powerful criminal enterprises, which may have, for all we know, resulted in civilian casualties. Never mind the known injuries and deaths surrounding the bombing.”

“No argument there, Ed, though for clear reasons, we’re not keeping a record of this meeting.” Spencer glanced at Snow. “I want it to be known, Celinda, Andrew, that I concur with the vice president. We have to ensure our methods don’t rise to those of our enemies. The whole idea of invasive surveillance, even in the cause of what’s right, makes my skin crawl when I think of the civil liberties we violated.”

“I understand, sirs, but keep in mind, things are not as black-and-white as you’d like when it comes to the world of intelligence, especially as it concerns actions our operatives take in the field.” Snow indicated the Oval Office. “This space is supposed to be where we share the truth. Our people are out there trying to find the same thing, but they must engage in subterfuge and outright lies to do so. We have to be comfortable with the notion on some level, or our efforts are doomed to fail.”

Spencer nodded. “Which I understand, even if I can’t entirely condone the worldview behind it. In any case, I trust General Milliken can keep a handle on things as we take care of the rest of the Aphendrika situation.”

MacIntosh chuckled. “Oh, he can and is, though he’s still miffed at Sinclair for smooth-talking him and at me for backing up Sinclair. We came too close to a shooting match with unarmed civilians, Leaguers or not, and I think the realization shook him. He’s applied stricter discipline to TCFE as his ships ride herd in orbit.”

“Which brings us to the second order of business.” Spencer transferred the proposal from his tablet to the main screen, pushing the Aphendrika graphic aside.

A simulation ran, showing the gradual movement of transports from the planet’s orbit to a star system seventy light-years away.

“My proposal, as I’ve constructed it with Ed’s input and modification, is to have the Fifteenth Group and a detachment of TCFE corvettes escort the refugee fleet in four flotillas from Aphendrika to the Dulanto system. It’s just beyond our border, but not claimed as part of neutral space. There’s a handful of small mining concerns exploiting the iceballs in the outer system, where there’s a massive gas giant, but inward to the F-type star is a single world capable of supporting life.”

“It’s not ideal for settlement,” Fuentes said. “The weather’s unsettled. Colonists would have to live inside a narrow habitable band around the northern magnetic pole, where it’s more temperate, but we’re still talking about fishable seas and a few thousand square kilometers of landmass.”

“The refugees can start anew on Dulanto, as a territory of the Terran Coalition. They can build whatever they like on land that belongs to them, with some oversight, but not formal membership in the Coalition. Consider it a middle ground. Now, this isn’t to say we’ll be dropping them off on a wild planet with only the shirts on their backs and whatever meager supplies they’ve brought from home. That’s where Ed’s legwork comes in.”

“Compassionate Stars and a number of other nonprofits, including the Jewish Galactic Service, Salvation Army, and Humanist Progress have committed to providing initial aid,” Fuentes explained. “We still need to approach the Assembly for a one-time grant so we can supply heavy machinery the refugees wouldn’t be able to replicate.”

“I’m behind that as long as we’re careful not to include any export-restricted technology—which includes the last three generations of industrial-sized 3D printers. The last thing we need is League agents sending the specifications back home.” Spencer expanded the display to show the spinning blue-gray ball of Dulanto. “Andrew, any concerns?”

MacIntosh shook his head. “Dulanto’s near enough to our patrol routes, CDF already checks in on the miners from time to time, and we’ll add a patrol craft or two on a rotating basis. Not much pirate activity out that way.”

“I consider it an adequate compromise between the current competing factions in the assembly and between divergent views of the Coalition at large,” Snow added. “The people involved wouldn’t be citizens, but as General MacIntosh stated, we would be in a position to offer protection until they can stand on their own. As for costs, the amount requested by Vice President Fuentes is minimal when it comes to our treasury yet generous compared to what the refugees have in terms of resources.”

“We’ll also provide advisors who have expert knowledge of our constitution, people who can direct these former League citizens on the best way to set up a functional democracy.” Spencer smiled. “What we consider the best way, in any case.”

“Seems to be working well so far.” Fuentes set aside his tablet. “And at some point in the future, they can decide what they want—full membership in the Coalition, joining the neutral worlds, or maybe they’ll want to go home.”

“In time, I’d like to believe we can develop a methodology allowing us to accept whoever wants citizenship into the Terran Coalition,” Spencer began. “Ed, I know you want that now, but we need to ensure our security first.”

“We could always offer lie detector tests,” Fuentes replied. “Those are allowed in military tribunals.”

“No. They’re forbidden in civilian courts, and for a good reason. It’s a slippery slope to introduce them for any other government function.” Spencer detested the devices because they invaded the brain’s privacy.

“I look forward to the day when we’ve rebuilt enough civilian population centers and healed our nation. Then our citizens will welcome all newcomers.”

Spencer thought about how Fuentes characterized the Terran Coalition, a shining city on a hill. It was a beacon of light in an otherwise dark corner of the galaxy. “Someday. Hopefully soon.”

“Shall I convene the Cabinet?” Fuentes shifted in his seat.

“Absolutely. They all have copies of the proposal. Now’s the time to push for a resolution of this former crisis and to give these people the hope they’ve been seeking.” Spencer rose from his desk.

Snow and Fuentes did likewise.

“The best thing we can offer besides that is freedom.”

* * *

Kolossi Landing Field

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

August 4, 2464

Andreas could not believe the moment was happening. It seemed he would be stuck in—what did a few Terrans call it? Purgatory, a limbo between life and death. But after he helped Jian with his last dose of antibiotics for the day, he couldn’t stop himself from running for the fence.

“I’ll be okay. Suzanne will come by in a while to help pack my things. She’s—been a great help in my recovery.” Jian’s smile was weak, but his color had improved every day since being treated for his gunshot wound. “You go. Be with her. This is your time.”

Andreas grasped his friend’s hand, tears warming his eyes. Kefi. It summed up Andreas’s heart, his soul, as an indescribable joy rolled over him like the winds on Azar III—the winds he would never feel again.

He didn’t despair. The word had come down early that morning, they would all be going to a new home. The Terrans would shepherd them to a planet belonging to no one, unclaimed by any political power. There was talk of it being a protectorship of the Terrans but left to the administration of the refugees. A wild and untamed world. A place of possible danger, yes, but of equal potential. And Andreas would bring his family there, his entire family.

He joined hundreds of others gathered by the fence. TCFE officers, men and women who seemed exhausted when close up if Andreas looked beyond their battered armor and crooked visors, separated them into groups of fifty. There was no shouting, no beatings, no anarchy. The criminal elements had been cleaned out after that fateful last riot. The refugees—the true ones—banded together against the threatening few in their midst. Once the first dozen had been trussed up and tossed at the feet of TCFE officers, cooperation had become much simpler.

An officer at the head of each line called out names while the tablet he or she held displayed a hologram of a child’s face.

“Please come to the front in an orderly fashion as your minor’s name is called,” the female officer in front of Andreas’s group shouted. “Have any ID you may possess ready. Liam Harp! Kylee Tarasco!”

Andreas stood on tiptoe. He couldn’t see much beyond the occasional flicker of the holo—no way to make out the face.

“Aidan O’Brien!”

Andreas hurried forward as quickly as he could without shoving. It took every ounce of restraint not to barge through the masses. There he was—Aidan O’Brien, haggard but seemingly well-fed, his eyes red-rimmed and sporting dark circles. The strain of the past month had hardened his countenance, but he broke into sobs when Andreas embraced him.

“Shh, it is all right. I am here to take you home.” Andreas held up his ID, a holdover from Azar III’s League security requirements. “My name is Andreas Stefanidis. Jillian O’Brien, head of her family, aboard the refugee ship Tamara Jean, has granted me temporary custody of Aidan until we are returned to orbit.”

The officer, named Vitarelli, glanced at the line of barges beyond the far side of the fence. Logos of seven different aid agencies festooned the wings. “Let me confirm with our databases, sir.”

A few swipes, and she offered them a tight smile. “Excellent, sir. I’ll need you to sign and retinal confirm.”

Andreas did both, shaking so badly he had to redo the retinal scan twice. Officer Vitarelli didn’t seem bothered. If anything, her expression brightened. Possibly she was just happy her miserable duty was over—or perhaps she could find joy in a reunion even among people who had nothing to do with her own. “Thank you, sir. Please step aside.”

Aidan hugged Andreas as they moved off, unable to speak. Officer Vitarelli called more names, but to Andreas they were muted. He held the boy—near as tall as a man, he noticed—and vowed silently that his family would be there to support the O’Briens however they could on their new world.

“Yira Stefanidis!”

It was then Andreas’s turn to collapse. Yira leapt upon his back. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not yet, for fear he was imagining the reunion out of his long-standing grief. But her giggles and Aidan’s choked laughter forced him to turn around.

“Baba! Baba, I’ve missed you!” She peppered his face with kisses, her tears mingling with his. “The police people said I can go with you! They told me we can go home!”

“Not our old home, Yira, but yes, we have a home, a new one. We get to build it whatever way we like. Doesn’t that sound exciting?”

“Yes, Baba! Where is Mama?”

Andreas scooped her up in his arms. He pointed up at the sky. “Far above the blue, Yira. She is waiting with your brothers and sisters and our friends on our transport. Once we return, we have one last journey to take—a short trip, so you won’t get too tired.”

“Oh, good. I am tired.” She buried her face in his shoulder.

“Did they treat you well? The officers?”

“TCFE was nasty at first, but they mellowed,” Aidan answered. “The ones who stole us… they were way worse. I broke an arm trying to fight them, but then TCFE and the police came and got us out—”

“I am sorry you had to face it alone. But you survived. And Yira…” He kissed the top of her head. “Did you look after Aidan for me?”

“I tried, Baba, but he kept getting in the way of the bad men. I couldn’t go after anyone and kick them like I wanted!”

Aidan’s face reddened.

Andreas touched his shoulder. “Thank you for protecting my daughter.”

“I—you’re welcome. Father would have wanted me to be there for her.”

“He was right to trust you. He would have been proud.”

Andreas led them into the encampment, to the tent he shared with Jian and two dozen others.

Suzanne, a tall woman with red hair, was stacking bags beside Jian. She smiled when they approached. “You found them! That’s wonderful.”

“It is.” Jian let her help him stand, grimacing as he got upright on wobbly knees. “This must be Yira.”

“Yes, my youngest daughter. Yira, this is my friend Jian and his friend Suzanne.”

“Hello!” Yira hugged Jian around the middle.

He winced but returned the hug.

“Are they coming with us, Baba?”

“They are, Yira. They’re coming home with us. We’re all going to our new home.” Andreas fought the urge to parade them all to the barges, commandeering the craft into orbit so they could be back together as a grand family once again. Soon enough.

He let them settle into a warm circle of storytelling and companionship, thankful for the chance once more to be free of captivity. Sunset was turning Kolossi’s sky a familiar dusty orange. The first stars, the brightest three, winked down. Andreas dug through a backpack for a tablet, hoping it held an intact astronomy program. He wanted to find Dulanto among the night’s constellations. He wanted to see it for himself.

28

Aphendrika—Terran Coalition

5 August 2464

Captain Jackson Adams sat on the front end of the hovercraft, his jacket zipped against the early-morning chill. First launch should be any moment.

On cue, three barges rumbled to life on the far edge of Kolossi’s landing field. They took to the sky one at a time, joined thirty seconds later by three more barges. A TCFE shuttle swept in from the terminal buildings, maintaining escort as they ascended.

“And here you’d wondered about making a difference.” Gina Wilkes walked to the front of the hovercraft, travel cups of coffee in her hands. “I thought you could use one.”

“Thanks.” Jackson took a sip, letting the steam warm his face. He swiped his jacket sleeve across the hovercraft’s nose, drying the dew sparkling there. “Join me?”

Gina slid up, the cup cradled in her hands. She blew out a feathery breath. “You know, when I was little, my mother would take me to the spaceport and make me watch the shuttles come and go. She could pick out makes and models—thought it was all very fascinating.”

Jackson smiled. “Is this where you tell me you’ll tuck this moment away as another fond memory reminiscent of your childhood?”

“Oh, not a chance. I found it excruciatingly dull. I threw chunks of paving at my brother while she droned on.”

“If you feel the need, I promise I’ll turn my head.” Jackson chuckled. “You’re right, though—I did need to see the results in person. Reading the relocation plan off a tablet isn’t the same thing as watching the ships depart.”

“Kind of Colonel Sinclair to give you the brief shore leave.”

“Oh, he couched it in terms of Covert Action Unit 171 conducting its final sweep through the properties we occupied, one last look for evidence of our stay.”

“I’m sure Brant is having a blast.”

“He is, actually.” Jackson tapped his wrist unit. A slew of comms contacts rippled down the tiny screen. “He checks in after each sweep. I think he’s disappointed he couldn’t find any listening devices or snooping bots.”

“Is that why he was so gloomy? I reminded him we won, but he didn’t seem interested.”

Jackson shrugged. “He’ll get over it.”

More rumbles echoed across the plains. Six more barges launched, followed by another trio.

“How do you think they’ll do out there?” Gina asked.

“As well as they can. The Coalition’s going to help get them going. The government’s leaving it up to nonprofits and private entities to furnish the bulk of the assistance, but I think once they connect with the miners around the gas giant, they’ll be able to boost themselves.”

Gina sipped her coffee. “Too bad we need Sev. I think he’d have hitchhiked on the first barge out if he knew he could build another cabin wherever he wanted, on a world almost free of people.”

“Speaking of the devil, how’s he doing?”

“Skin repair’s holding. The plasma burn was shallow, so that’s a relief.” Gina smirked. “You wouldn’t know he’d been injured at all by the way he carries himself. Though I did poke his wound to make sure he could still react.”

“You didn’t.”

Gina raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Do you even know me?

Jackson laughed again. It felt good to relax, even for a few hours, to enjoy company and a small corner of the world he’d had to infiltrate.

His comm pulsed. “Go ahead.”

“We got the last of the places cleared out,” Brant said. “It took longer than I thought because, shockingly, Sev is more paranoid than I am.”

“Color me unsurprised, Home. What’s your ETA?”

“Give us ten to get the truck turned in and another fifteen to get to you via public transit, then we’ll be ready to lift.”

“Roger that. One out.” Jackson glanced at Gina. “Half hour before we lift.”

“Plenty of time.”

Jackson took another swig. “This is about the best brew I’ve had since we left Canaan. Where did you get it?”

“I found a place a few blocks from here, not far from the café you liked.”

“Soundwave.”

She nodded. “Grounded Grounds.”

“That’s… a dumb name.”

“Did I say they had excellent marketing? No.” Gina prodded his arm. “But their coffee is divine.”

“I won’t argue the point.”

The drone of barge and shuttle engines rolled continuously from the airfield as vessels kept leaving and a few began returning. Jackson caught a change in pitch from one craft’s engine right as Gina looked skyward. A civilian gig, halfway between the size of the stealth shuttle and a passenger barge, dropped onto the grass thirty meters away. It was a sleek pale-gray vehicle with variable wings that could rearrange for spaceflight and atmospheric maneuvering.

Dwyer hopped out of the hatch before the engines, grinning as if he’d been awarded command of an entire squadron. “She’s a beaut, eh? Coming all the way back with us to Canaan.”

“How’d you manage that? I thought the shuttle was your one and only.”

“I had a good chat with Major Mancini and Colonel Sinclair. I convinced them we might need a civilian model I can, uh, modify so we can better slip in and out of any tight spots. They gave me a small budget and told me to stick within it, make sure I came back with a craft appropriate to the situation, as the good colonel put it.”

Gina gawked. “They let you buy a racer?”

“Well…” Dwyer shrugged, his cheeks reddening as he became very intrigued by his boots.

“Hold on.” Jackson glanced between them. “It’s a racing shuttle?”

“Some Intelligence officer you are. Florio Ionworks Mark Thirteen with quad burst engines, variable-geometry wings, capable of accelerating to—” Gina stopped as Jackson snorted into his coffee lid. She smacked his arm. “What?”

“Must be how your mother sounded.” He winked at her.

Gina rolled her eyes.

“So, uh, we’re all set to lift once the LT and Sev get back,” Dwyer said. “I brought down a message for you, Cap’n. Got bounced all the way out from Canaan to Oxford. Family priority. I figured it should come in person since we’re still sticking to operational comms until we’re back aboard for the trip home.”

“Thanks, Warrant.” Jackson held out his arm so they could touch wrists. The message transferred into Jackson’s queue.

Hey. I took a tumble from the skiff in the middle of a windstorm that blew through here last week. Shattered femurs, medics say. The rebuild’s going to take a while, which means Mom has even more to do, in case you’re wondering. Dad’s treatments aren’t going well. Degenerative neurons. Bottom line, the ranch might not make it another two years, or even until next summer. Figured you should know.

Harry

Jackson must have let too much emotion color his expression, because Gina gazed at him. It was possible she’d snuck a peek at his message. He didn’t know how long he’d stared at it.

“Do you need some time?”

“Tell the others to stand by when they get here.” Jackson slid off the nose of the hovercraft. He zipped his jacket. “I’m going to take a walk and get a refill.”

* * *

Harry. Damn.

Jackson had reread the message six times before he got to Grounded Grounds. The outside tables were packed with people, but he ordered his new cup and found a chair in the corner of the fenced-off dining area. People of all ages and varied nationalities conversed, the topics hitting on the refugees, the skirmish in orbit, and the asteroid explosion, with a few local matters such as crime thrown in the mix.

There he was, having snuffed out the League’s efforts to incite panic and discord in the postwar Coalition, and Harry’s snide message had snuffed out any pride in his accomplishment. Didn’t Brant warn me about excessive pride? Sure, but can’t I revel in the feeling a bit?

Then came Harry, the reminder of his familial failings. Jackson didn’t need the accompanying guilt. Nor did he need Harry’s insinuation he forgot about the Adams ranch whenever he took a jaunt into space.

Jackson scowled. As if he’d been on a pleasure cruise for a month.

He keyed up the record function, ready to give his brother a piece of his mind, but paused before words left his mouth. What good would it accomplish? Harry was right about one thing—the family needed help. With Harry injured, it fell to Jackson to do what he could.

“Harry, it’s Jack.” He took a breath. “I’ll be back to Canaan before long. I should have personal time. Let me see what I can do. I won’t be staying, so we’ll have to come up with a long-term solution, at least while you’re on the mend. Tell Mom and Dad I miss them. Looking forward to the visit.”

It was as neutral as he could get. Still, his frustration pounded inside his head. There would be plenty of time to brainstorm on the way back, but in the meantime, it would suffice.

The comm pulsed. Brant. “I take it we’re ready?”

“Ready to launch, One. See you in five?”

“Make it ten. I don’t think Oxford’s going to leave without us.”

“Sparks wants me to mention if we had our own ship—”

“Our own…? The man just got a new rig. I don’t think CDF Intelligence is going to pony up for a jump-capable vessel. See you in nine. One out.”

Jackson had returned to his coffee when the comms pulsed again. “Eight minutes, Brant,” he muttered before confirming the link. “One here.”

“Good morning, One.”

The voice was smooth, deep, with a slight accent. Static sputtered through the connection. Jackson checked the signal report—no identifying code. The origin was scrambled. “This is One. Repeat, please.”

“Let’s not play any further games. I wanted to congratulate you for meeting the challenge. Your interference cost me my goals.”

Jackson checked his surroundings as he acted as if he were checking his pockets for a missing object. Everyone within eyeshot seemed to be in conversation with an acquaintance, no one on their own, speaking into a comm.

“Identify yourself.”

“I think that’s a terrible idea, operationally speaking. Don’t they teach you proper protocols in the Coalition Intelligence Service?”

The mention shoved a cold spear into Jackson’s chest. He triggered the record setting on his wrist unit. “If I had your name, I’d know who to thank for an entertaining few weeks.”

“The feeling is mutual. Let’s be clear—this was not a trial run or a minor inconvenience for your people. The guns have stopped firing from an official standpoint, but the war continues. It will never end, not until one nation is in ruins and the other rules over its shattered remains.”

“Then you should know I won’t let that happen.”

“I’d be disappointed if you did. Where is the thrill in the game if the opponent is subpar?”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Come now, One. We both know it is. It’s the only game that matters—the maneuvering in the shadows, conducted out of sight of politicians and pundits, the game in which the rules change and the man who doesn’t adapt winds up dead. Do me a favor. Save your best plays for when I am in the audience to appreciate your act on the stage. I know you’re here, on Aphendrika. I know you’ve been here the whole time.” The words sputtered the more the contact spoke. Whatever signal he used to intercept Jackson’s comm must be falling apart. “Next time our vectors cross, I’ll be watching with a keener eye.”

“And I’ll know you’re out there too. You shouldn’t have tipped me off.”

“No, I shouldn’t have, but I wanted you to know your opponent is no phantasm. I’m—”

The signal cut. Jackson was up and striding down the sidewalk, watching for a shooter or pursuers. He called Brant. “Home, this is One. Did you get that interruption?”

“Interruption? I caught a bandwidth drop and interference but—”

“It was him. Whoever the League sent to do their dirty work. He’s on-world, or at least, he was.”

“What? Send me the signal! You recorded it? I can trace—”

“You can try, but I doubt it’ll do you any good. He wouldn’t have made the call if he’d thought he’d be in danger.”

“God help us. Who was it?”

Jackson scanned the morning pedestrians, the traffic humming by, the sounds of a city coming to life. So many people. His opponent could be behind him or half a world away, but Jackson knew the name to give him—the only one they had from Corriveau’s files.

“Vasiliy,” Jackson said. And I will find him.

THE END

Deception Fleet: Book 2 – Cold Conflict: The shadow war has begun. Caught between a hostile mega-corp and League operatives, can Captain Jackson Adams save the day once again? Find out in book 2!

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Also Available from Daniel Gibbs

Battlegroup Z

Book 1 - Weapons Free

Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

Book 5 - Iron Hand

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

Acknowledgments

First, I’d like to thank Steve Rzasa for working with me on the ever growing “Gibbsverse”. (No, I haven’t come up with a cool name for the all-encompassing series, yet. :) )

I hope you, dear readers, have enjoyed Victory’s Wake, and will continue to enjoy the Deception Fleet series. It will be a look at the Terran Coalition trying to win the peace, and through the lens of some new characters, as well as familiar ones.

As always, I give thanks to those brave men and women in the US military I have had the pleasure of working beside for the last fifteen years. Thank you for your service.

Finally, I give thanks to God for the words I’ve written and the life granted to write them in.

Until next time, Godspeed.

- Daniel Gibbs