Date: 2021-08-19 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction

Cold Conflict

Deception Fleet Book Two

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

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Acknowledgments

Cold Conflict 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

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

Prologue

Bellwether Logistics and Supply Station

Caeli Star System—the Alvarsson Wedge

Between Coalition and Saurian Space

3 November 2464

None of the escape routes were clear. Captain Nelson Garza consulted his map display, but doing so for the hundredth time didn’t change the results. Security was too tight between Sector F Ninety-Eight and the nearest shuttle bay. Tactisar had people on every level. No doubt station sensors were scanning faces for him right then, which left the maintenance tunnels.

He kicked the grating free at the end. Cold air washed over him. Garza was in the station’s outer layer, which had minimal life support and was frequented only by technicians and repair drones. An airlock stood five hundred meters to his left.

“Vector One, this is Control. What’s your status? We lost you on the station sensors.”

That made sense. Garza rubbed at his wrist, formerly home to his comms unit he’d ditched in a recycler five minutes ago. The implanted transceiver and transmitter was his final link to his people. “Control, this is One. I’m in Sector F Ninety-Eight, making my way to a maintenance airlock. What’s your ETA?”

“Under ten minutes, One. May take longer. Patrols have thickened up out here. I’ve got a signal informing me all nonessential traffic is being stopped for a routine contraband inspection. Could take a bit to get around.”

A buzzing echoed faintly at the far end of the maintenance tunnel. Garza spun and dropped to a knee, plasma pistol aimed the way he’d come. A pale-blue light blinked.

“Stand by.” Garza lined up the shot and squeezed the trigger three times.

Plasma blasts seared globs of light across his vision. He’d hit his mark. The drone following him disintegrated in a shower of sparks and a puff of smoke, its smoldering remnants littering the access tunnel.

Dammit. Garza sprinted along the curved corridor toward the icon blinking on his map. “Control, this is One. They’ve found me. I need extraction ASAP at Airlock Two Niner Nine Eight Foxtrot, repeat, Two Niner Nine Eight Foxtrot.”

Shouts pursued him. He glanced over his shoulder. Searchlights bobbed from the end of the tunnel, illuminating the equipment lockers on the far wall.

“Roger, One. We’re burning your way now. ETA seven minutes.”

Garza doubted he had that long. He skidded on the metal decking in front of Airlock 2914D. It was sealed. The signage warned him, Access by Authorized Personnel Only.

He fumbled his lockbreaker before slapping it against the control panel.

“This is Tactisar Security Service! Halt where you are.”

Garza let go of the lockbreaker as it beeped and blinked through its decryption. He crossed the corridor, firing the plasma pistol into the distance. It was too dim down there for him to make out anything other than vague shapes, but at least one of the human-sized silhouettes cried out before falling out of sight.

The return fire was fierce. Blasts pelted the bulkheads, leaving deep, blackened scars where their energies had scorched the metal. A foul tang filled the air, which was already sharp with solvents. Garza pressed himself behind a support beam as the shots sizzled by. The moment they slacked, presumably to recharge, he leaned around and shot back.

His lockbreaker let out a final, affirmative beep. Garza snuck a peek. The hatch panel pulsed green. The airlock sprang open. He waited for the next lull in fire then sprinted the gap back the way he’d come.

Plasma blasts scorched his jacket. One grazed the top of his right shoulder. Garza gritted his teeth against the agonizing burn, but he was inside, out of their range. He ripped his lockbreaker free and slammed home the mechanism. The hatch sealed behind him.

Focus. He ransacked the lockers lining both sides of the airlock chamber. Medical supplies. Jackpot. Garza ripped open a painkiller and pressed it against the wound. The pain dulled into a throbbing ache. He shuddered a sigh.

The dull whump of plasma blasts against the closed hatch jogged him back to the task at hand. He stripped out of his jacket. Suits hung in the largest locker. He yanked one free of its hooks. Come on, come on. Criminals weren’t chasing him. Tactisar had all the access codes to get into everywhere on the station. If he could suit up and get into vacuum, Control could pick him up—

The hatch trundled open. Garza lifted his pistol but found himself facing four others, two of which were automatic blaster versions. He lifted his finger free of the trigger. No chance he could take them all down, not before being burned into the deck himself. It was better to hold off, wait for the opportune moment.

“Drop it,” said the lead security officer, a burly, dark-skinned man with brilliant-yellow hair and a mustache. Lightning bolts were shaved from his temples to the nape of his neck. He wore the standard-issue Tactisar vest, dark blue with silver stripes on the ribcage. A bronze octagonal badge was clipped above the left breast pocket—no name tag. None of the officers had one, just their badge number. Their clothing didn’t match either. It didn’t matter. Detective Ramsey Moss kept tabs on all his guys and gals, and he didn’t much care for Bellwether Station’s general populace knowing the names behind the force keeping them in line.

“I’m putting it on the deck.” Garza bent slowly, his eyes never leaving the man. He kept his left hand raised as his right completed the action.

The moment the pistol clicked against the metal floor, two officers swarmed him. They wrenched his arms behind him. Garza waited until he felt cold restraints curling around his wrists. He bashed his skull against the nearest officer’s nose. The man’s partner tried to jerk away, startled, but Garza clung to him and wrested the partner’s pistol free of his belt.

One of the other officers fired. The blasts hit the torso of Garza’s hostage, who let out a gargled scream before sagging against Garza.

“That’s not going to work for you, Nels,” the lead officer said. “I can fill his boots inside an hour. Want to try taking Paltz hostage too? I can put up two vacancy notices.”

Garza kept the body between himself and the others. He sidled toward the locker. “I’m getting my helmet and leaving, Ramsey.”

“Got a ride waiting? You’re going to miss it.”

“I don’t think so.” Boots clanked on the deck. More officers coming? Garza reached for the helmet.

Plasma blasts exploded behind Ramsey and his remaining man, turning the dim corridor into a fireworks display of riotous light. Ramsey pushed his man aside and fired into the corridor. He lunged for the deck, rolling onto his back.

Garza dropped the body shielding him and pulled the helmet onto his head. Terrible heat burned through his chest, knocking him clear back to the outer hatch. The helmet bounced free around his head, ringing his skull. His vision blurred and went red. Blood flowed from a cut above his eyes.

Ramsey sneered at him. He reached up and slapped the control panel.

“Emergency override accepted,” the panel intoned. “Compartment to seal and vent.”

No. Garza struggled upright. If he could seal—

The inner hatch shut off the sounds of battle. Ramsey’s officer, the one whose nose Garza had broken, scrambled for the hatch. He threw himself against the impenetrable barrier, clawing, screaming.

All the lights went red, and the outer hatch whipped open. The explosive blast of air flung Garza into space. The helmet spun off into the starry darkness. Garza missed it by centimeters.

His vision, already blurred from the blood and the blow, turned everything a crimson shade. Garza knew he was dead. In seconds, he would lapse into unconsciousness and die soon after—nothing could stop it. Regrets flickered through his mind in rapid succession—failing his mission, letting down his brother, never returning to Cuidadestrella.

“Vector One, this is Control! Where are you? One, come in—”

The signal fizzled out. His implanted transmitter wasn’t meant to take space’s hard radiation even intermittently. He tried not to think of what it was doing to his cells—not that it would matter soon.

Lord God, forgive me my sins and welcome me into your everlasting arms…

All he could do was fight against his seizing limbs to wipe blood from his eyes, clearing his sight, for a final look at the looming curve of Bellwether Station with Caeli’s blue giant star blazing atop it. Everything shone under the sharpest light he’d ever seen. The light built upon itself until he couldn’t see anything else. Hermano… cofrade… Even the burning in his lungs went away, and it was all peaceful.

Ramsey Moss kicked the bulkhead as the medic sutured his wound. “Shit! Doc, you’d better go easy if you don’t want to serve out the rest of your stint on the hot rock nearest to the sun. I hear the mining supervisors lost their last medic when her heat shield failed.”

“Shut up, Ram, and take your stitcher.” The medic shut off the device. He peered at the sleek patch of scarred skin. “Two doses, one in the morning and one in the evening. I’ll send you the prescription. Avoid getting shot.”

Once the medic left, Ramsey kicked the bulkhead again. “What’s the count?”

“Four dead. Hester, Sanchez, Venable, Folse.” Desmond Cho wiped grime from his face. “You spaced Nels, so we can pin the deaths on him.”

“ID on the shooter?”

“The drones are out hunting, but nothing yet. It seems like he had a partner.”

Ramsey snorted. “We sure didn’t pick you for your brains, Cho. Of course he had a partner. Our job’s to flush that rat out the next nearest airlock, too, unless we all want to follow Nels into the cold dark when the boss finds out. How about the trace?”

Cho shook his head.

“Son of a bitch.” Ramsey ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t get paid nearly enough for the headaches he’d had to manage the past month, not by half. “All right, signal our patrol ships—I want the body recovered. If he’s got an active transmitter, we might be able to dump data from it.”

“If it’s not fried,” Cho muttered, but he was already jogging down the corridor toward the two officers cordoning that point.

Ramsey scowled. Okay. Don’t freak out. The boss knew the cleanup was going to be difficult. But whatever Nels had been, he hadn’t been just another data thief snooping around Nosamo’s corporate files. None Ramsey had matched up with during his decade on Bellwether had fought like that.

His commlink pulsed.

Great. Just what he needed, the boss checking in.

But the signal wasn’t from the corporate enclave at the top of Bellwether’s dome. It wasn’t even one of the preset carriers the boss used when he communicated with Ramsey about the more unsavory aspects of station security. It was from Ramsey’s new benefactor.

A chill crept through him that had nothing to do with the low temperatures in the maintenance corridors. Ramsey made sure his people were out of earshot before he accepted the signal and murmured, “Detective Moss. Go ahead.”

“Perhaps, when I next warn you to treat a target with caution, Detective, you’ll listen.”

The smooth tones of his benefactor filtered through his earpiece. Ramsey held the anger and fear out of his voice as best he could. “Yeah, I think you could have been more specific.”

“Disdain for my intelligence gathering? It’s hardly like you to abstain from gratitude. You don’t need a scar to match the new one on your side, do you?”

“How did you—” Ramsey grimaced. The drones. One of the units bobbed in the air a few meters in the other direction, scanning for samples left by Nels’s would-be rescuer. “Nice. You’re watching me now, is that it?”

“Given how many times this Nels eluded your capture, I felt it necessary to step up my involvement. Your patrol ships will be too late anyway. Nels’s compatriots have already retrieved his body, but my people have been marking his transmissions. Don’t fear. We’ve dealt with similar situations.”

“I feel way better.” Ramsey wasn’t sure how much more bluster he could manufacture, but it was better than groveling before the man. He wasn’t even there in person. “We need to meet up. This is getting out of hand. If my boss finds out—”

“Calm yourself. He won’t. As for meeting, that’s out of the question. We’ll continue the arrangement with my representative making face-to-face contact.”

Wonderful. That guy. Ramsey rolled his eyes, not caring if the drone picked up the facial expression and beamed it back to his watching benefactor. “Fine. But if he doesn’t come with those code resequencers, our plan’s not going to get anyone rich. I’m not okay with that.”

“Funnily enough, Detective, neither am I, though my concerns extend beyond material wealth.” A chuckle shook the relay. “I do appreciate your flushing out our prey. His death will prove to our advantage.”

“Yeah? Counting on him having friends who’re going complicate things for my security force?” Ramsey spotted one of his men giving him a hand signal—the shooter was long gone. They’d lost the trail. Time for the drones to pick it up.

“If his friends do not come searching for him, I would be surprised, which rarely happens,” Ramsey’s benefactor said. “I want them seeking revenge, because when their emotions are running high, they will make mistakes, and when they make mistakes—let’s say perhaps I’ll join you in a toast when the Terrans realize just how badly they have underestimated their opponent.”

1

Western Steppes

Canaan—Terran Coalition

6 November 2464

Jackson Adams fastened the access panel on the skiff’s starboard hover nodule. “Try it again.”

The unit hummed to life, but as it did, a vibration grew. It continued to shudder until wisps of smoke bled from the panel’s edges. “Shut it down! Kill the power!”

“All right, relax!” Harrison Adams’s voice boomed from the control cab. “I’m doing it.”

The vibration subsided. Jackson coughed and waved the haze away from his face. The cold air made it settle around him instead of dissipating.

He reached for the panel. “Let me give it another shot.”

“Forget it. Your skills aren’t getting the job done.”

“Thanks, Harry, I hadn’t noticed.” Jackson tossed the adjustor into the tool bag at his side. He stood, brushing snow and mud from his knees.

The squall that had barreled through that quadrant of the Adams ranch had left a few centimeters. It was melting rapidly, turning the dirt to a viscous muck. As cold as the air was, the sun peeking from behind the clouds beat down on the back of Jackson’s head. Instinct drove him to face the source.

The rush of heat sent his heart rate soaring, only for a second, before he remembered where he was—on the repair field outside the homestead, not on the street facing Salvatore’s Ground Effect Garage. He’d worked undercover at the garage for a month while uncovering the League of Sol’s efforts to destabilize a refugee situation on Aphendrika, a Terran Coalition border world. Either the League or a local cartel had bombed the garage once one of Jackson’s coworkers had revealed to police the human trafficking in which Salvatore’s business was a silent partner.

Sudden heat brought to mind the explosion. It had for months. Jackson scowled at his inability to put the past behind him. What he needed was a new assignment, which was why he’d been elbow deep in repairing the family’s ranch machinery ever since his brother had been injured.

Shattered femurs, nerve damage—being thrown from the skiff during a freak windstorm had put Harry through the wringer at the clinic, leading to weeks of missed work and grueling rehab.

Harry climbed the ladder down from the control cab at the speed of a Goldberg snail. He winced as his boots hit the ground. A medical support exoskeleton wrapped around his legs, up his hips, and encompassed his torso. Pulsating lights dribbled down the core of each leg, showing battery status. The motors whined as Harry clumped through the mud. He was up to moving at half his prior speed, but Jackson knew he had a long way to go before he regained full mobility.

“We need to put in an order for a new regulator,” Jackson said.

“I’ll put the order in and get it routed through Mom’s account.” Harry stepped near enough to splash mud on Jackson’s pants. “Especially since you fouled up what was supposed to be an easy fix.”

“It’d be an easy fix if the equipment weren’t ten seasons out of date. Did you even consider updating it before Canaan’s star died?” Jackson regretted the snide rejoinder as soon as it left his mouth, but only by a little. The past weeks had ground his patience down to a thin layer separating the cool politeness from burning resentment.

“Nice. I appreciate the critique, coming from you. It’s not like we’re rolling in credits down here in the dirt, Jack, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m not even going to follow that one.” Jackson scooped up the tool bag and walked for the line of maintenance sheds on that end of the property. “You’ve got plenty of my money. Spend it.”

“Where are you off to?”

“Perimeter check.”

Harry snorted. “Seems like that’s all you do.”

“Well, since neither of us can fixed the damned skiff, I figured I’d better make sure the sensor posts are operational and our stock isn’t crossing onto the neighboring lands.” Jackson turned midstride and continued walking backward. “I’m doing my best here, Harry. You’ve got to meet me part way.”

“I never asked for your charity, Jack. If Dad weren’t in such bad shape—”

“Look, forget it. They don’t want me visiting. I doubt they would have even acknowledged my presence on the planet if I hadn’t been here to drag your excess weight around because you got careless.” Jackson pointed at him. “So, get your part ordered, and I’ll get it installed—and for the fortieth time, consider coming up with the money to make some genuine improvements around here.”

“Sure, we’ll remodel the whole ranch while we’re at it.” Harry scowled. “Any suggestions?”

“For starters, buy a skiff that wasn’t built before the League’s first invasion so you won’t fall off it again!”

Jackson slammed the tool bag onto the catch panel he’d rigged to the back of his skimmer. The dual-seat, lightweight sport hovercraft was spattered with mud across its entire hindquarters, the brown gunk making the yellow paint job all the more brilliant. He gunned the engine, the initial buzz transitioning into a powerful purr, and zipped away from the repair yard in such haste he forgot to put on his helmet.

The first mouthful of gnats he had to spit out reminded him. With the face shield down, he could breathe easier and reflect on the disastrous morning as the skimmer raced over rolling hills and threaded through frosted gullies. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried to reconcile. Hadn’t that been Brant’s advice? To turn the other cheek? The problem was that every time Harry opened his mouth, Jackson wanted to punch him right in the cheek.

He supposed the lingering resentment was inevitable. They’d brawled right before Jackson’s first deployment with Covert Action Unit 171, come to the same blows Brant had recommended they avoid. But his friend didn’t understand their animosity. Come to think of it, neither did Jackson.

Mom and Dad hadn’t helped. No one in the family understood Jackson’s desire to leave, to be out among the stars, to see the worlds of the Terran Coalition—and more importantly, to be the one stopping the League’s subtle plans to destabilize the war-weary nation. With Dad sick, though, and Harry injured, the homestead had dragged him back in, the pull as inexorable as a gravity well.

Colonel Robert Sinclair, his CO, had been kind enough to grant him extended leave with the understanding that Jackson would be called back to duty the moment the team was again needed. Jackson had found himself staring at his wrist comm for the last five days.

He zipped past the skiff terminal, where two more of the broad-bellied hovercraft were docked. A couple of the hired hands waved at him. He gave a salute in response. From there, he banked northwest, heading up the hills into the base of the mountain ranges cordoning the valleys. Their cloud-shrouded peaks were coated with even more snow than usual. He knew from the latest satellite images. The valley sprawled to his left, filled with cattle and grasses turning yellow in the midst of the region’s autumn.

His comm pulsed. Perhaps it was the colonel. Jackson frowned as he glanced at it. No, Harry. He clicked his jaw against the base of his helmet, activating the link between the communications setup inside and the signal routed via his wrist device. “Yeah?”

“Hey, while you’re out there looking at the posts, check West One Seven. It’s on the Castillo’s boundary.”

“I remember.” The Castillo property bordered the Adams ranch to the west. The easiest link between properties was a half-kilometer-wide pass bounded with tall red ochre cliffs on either side. “Got it.”

“So… look.” Harry’s exhale crackled through the helmet speakers. “The Christmas plans.”

Jackson blinked. His brother had avoided all talk of those plans for months. “What about them?”

“A couple of the hands had ideas for the ranches to combine their efforts—you know, a get-together like Mom and Dad used to throw with the neighbors when we were little. I said it wasn’t, uh, a bad idea. And you’re keen on it so… when you get back, maybe we can run through your ideas.”

“I—okay. Sure.” Whatever prompted Harry’s attempt at amends, Jackson wasn’t about to look into the proverbial horse’s mouth. “I’d like to hear what you’ve got in mind too.”

“Good. We’ll do that.” The pause was long enough Jackson thought Harry had disconnected. “Thanks.”

The signal cut, and Jackson was alone with his thoughts again—well, his thoughts and the cattle. He skirted a herd and angled the skimmer down a steep hill toward West 17. The sensor post was twice as tall as a man, a bundle of six poles spaced equally, like spaghetti clumped together. Jackson smiled at the memory of Mom cooking dinner, asking the young version of him to separate the stuck noodles. It had been his job to fix it.

The sensor post’s individual poles should have each had a blue light blinking counterclockwise, one after the other, at two-second intervals. Instead, all shone a steady red. Not surprising, given the malfunction notice streaming across Jackson’s helmet from his wrist unit. The presence of a Castillo hand already there to take a look was surprising, however.

The woman had left a long, broad hovercraft parked a few meters from the post. Jackson wondered if she was new to Castillo’s workforce, because she didn’t have one of their signature black jackets emblazoned with the family brand. She wore a thicker red winter coat with fur around the collar. And yet, her trousers were marred by the kind of grease stains one only received from working on ranch hardware.

“Morning.” Jackson dismounted the skimmer. “I appreciate you stopping to check on the sensor, but it’s one of ours, Adams gear. I’ll take care of it.”

“I know it’s yours. It’s not a problem to fix.” Her brunette hair carried blond streaks earned by a lifetime working outdoors. Pale-blue eyes watched him approached with the tool bag in hand. Had her face been less tan, her freckles would have stood out more. Her mouth lifted into a smile, prodding his memory. No, not a new hire. He should know her.

“Sorry, have we met?” Jackson returned the smile. “I’m usually much better with names and faces.”

“Since you haven’t been around much the past few years, Jay, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” She sidestepped him and opened the access hatch for the post’s control box.

Jay. Since when has anyone called me by that name? Very few back in the day, and none in the past decade. “Abby?”

Abril Castillo glanced over her shoulder. Thankfully, she seemed more bemused than irritated by his lapse in memory. “In the flesh. Nice to see you around the homestead again. Don’t tell me—Harry’s fall cracked his brain instead of his femurs, and you’re in charge.”

Jackson couldn’t suppress the laugh. It made a pair of nearby cows raise their heads, pausing in midchew. “No one would like the result, I assure you. Mom and Dad wouldn’t approve, in either case.”

“How is your father?”

“Not well. The DNA treatments can only do so much. At the rate he’s deteriorating…” Jackson shook his head. “Neither of them is interested in me taking over, even if Harry has to be rebuilt from a skiff’s spare parts.”

“I’d heard he wasn’t doing well. That’s why I’m out here. The folks have been keeping an eye on the boundary with your spread. I see no sense in passing by when you need a helping hand.”

“Thanks.” Jackson craned his neck, hoping for a better look at her handiwork. By the way she made the third of five bypasses, he knew he was dealing with someone who did more than tinker. “Abby, really? I thought you were all about the Colonial Rangers when you finished your required tour.”

“I wanted to do my duty, but my parents needed me and my sisters here. Too many of the crew went off to fight, especially in the last decade of the war. I had a duty to the family.” Abby fumbled the fifth bypass circuit. It buzzed. Her cheeks reddened. “That’s—sorry. I didn’t mean you weren’t doing yours.”

“It’s okay. You wouldn’t be the only one who thought so.” Jackson handed her the adjustor.

“Right. Thanks.” Abby whistled a tune as she finished the circuit bypass.

Jackson recognized it as one she used to play on her violin while he sat in a tree outside her bedroom window, three floors off the ground at the Castillo villa.

“Seriously, though—I heard you re-upped but then disappeared.”

“Nothing so dramatic.” The lie came easily, which was the hazard of his work. He was so used to concealing who he really was and what his true work entailed that he could spin a tale to practically anyone, like a bot programmed for only single tasks. “I did a stint with CBI before CDF Intelligence scooped me up.”

“Oh? A spook.” She grinned. “Let me guess—you know where all the secret files are stashed in the deepest bowels of Lawrence City.”

Jackson thought of his tense negotiation with a gas-poisoned cartel thug a few months ago. They’d faced off on the bridge of a CDF Border Patrol corvette, one stolen from a repair depot and refitted—allegedly—by rogue League elements, all for the purpose of inflaming a refugee crisis of the League’s own making. “Something like that. I have a spare recharge wire in the bag.”

“I’ve got one.” Abby yanked the burned-out wire and tossed it to Jackson. He caught it between two fingers. “So.” She twisted the wire into its new fitting. “Why are you here, if your parents aren’t glad to see you and Harry… well, he’s never glad to see anyone, is he?”

“They still need help. I promised to do what I can, no matter what, before I have to ship out again.”

“The noble son.”

“I can’t avoid the responsibility forever.”

“I know it.” Abby leaned back. “Give it a restart?”

Jackson tapped into the post’s control grid. First restart—red lights. Second, yellow. He counted to five before jumpstarting the program. Blue lights pulsed back into being, counterclockwise.

He grinned. “Nice job. Want to invoice me for materials?”

“What, and not for the time?” Abby laughed. “Please. Let’s say you’ll owe me.”

“Name the price.”

“Dinner. Soon. I won’t hold you to a date because I know you’ve got to go when the CDF calls, but I will remind you of your responsibility. Can’t avoid it forever, someone said, I think.”

“I think you’re right.”

Jackson’s comm pulsed. He wished it were Harry so he could brush his brother off and continue the warm chat under the morning sun, but that time it was Brant’s code. Whatever it was, Abby was definitely not cleared to hear it.

“Take it.” She touched his shoulder. “It’s nice to see you again, Jay. You know, my folks have been trying to reach yours for almost a year about formalizing the help we’ve been lending. It would benefit both our ranches if we were closer, more dependent.”

“I can see how.” Jackson wondered how close she intended—for the ranches. It wouldn’t be the first time a neighbor had offered a partnership or a buyout. Goodness knew three others had already combined their efforts into a cooperative to counterbalance their weaknesses. It might be time he had a look at the ranch communications. “It was nice to see you again too.”

Abby stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, the warm gesture just as soothing as it had been when they were teenage neighbors. “See you round, spook.”

Jackson watched her board the hovercraft and waited until the engine rumbled before he answered his comm. “Go ahead.”

“How’s life out in the sticks, Captain?” Lieutenant Brant Guinto was the most familiar voice to issue from his communications device. Anytime it was anyone else, Jackson was mildly surprised.

“Very few trees, Brant, so hardly the ‘sticks,’ but it’s been a peaceful experience.” He shook his head at the umpteen fights he’d had with his brother. “Well, the scenery is peaceful, anyway. I’m guessing you’re calling to bring me back in.”

“Colonel’s orders, I’m afraid. We’re redeploying in a couple of days. Everyone else is already back.”

“Oh? How’d the training go?”

“Sparks had a kick bothering the civilian contractors who’ve been refitting the new shuttle.”

“You mean the racer.”

“As Gina keeps reminding us, yes, the racer.”

“Speaking of—”

“She was busy making sure Sev didn’t shoot the wrong person when the regulars tried to pick on him for being, um, peculiar. Anyway, we’re headed out to the Saurian border, into the unclaimed zones. Possible League interference with Nosamo Aerothermic.”

Jackson was starting the skimmer’s engine when Brant spoke the name. “Really? We have to help them out? Did you ask Sinclair if this was a punishment? I thought we succeeded in our last mission.”

“Briefing’s at seventeen hundred tomorrow. That’s all I’ve got to go on. Seems like whatever Intelligence has stepped in with Nosamo has put the brass on edge. I’ll catch up with you when you get up to the fleet yards.”

“Thanks for the heads up. Adams out.”

Harry was gone. Jackson couldn’t raise him on the comm, but he’d left a message back at the house. Mom called me to the clinic. Dad’s treatment in its last stage. Talk Christmas later.

Jackson shook his head. He scribbled his apology and packed what few belongings he’d brought, including a few mementos of past missions—like a crumpled pay chit, a porcelain mug with a broken handle, a burnt metal shard from a hovercraft’s undercarriage, and the pale-yellow leaves striped with green-blue that Gina Wilkes had preserved from their last mission.

Familial reconciliation would have to wait. But Gina, apparently, wouldn’t. She was seated on a bench at the tram station when he arrived a half hour later, reading from a tablet just like a dozen other passengers waiting with her. She smirked as he guided the skimmer up the ramp onto the platform, the engine shut down but the hover nodules holding it aloft.

“You drag it around like a puppy. Should we repaint it and call it Rover?”

Jackson chuckled. “Fitting name. Better than Spot.”

“If you coated the flanks in leopard print…” She shrugged. “Have a nice vacation?”

“Better than yours, I’d bet.”

“Mandatory training.” Gina sighed. “How I let you talk me into these things is a mystery.”

“Not half as much as our new assignment. Have you heard anything they haven’t told us officially?”

“Brant didn’t tell you?”

“He didn’t have much to go on. Even Sinclair’s formal rescindment of my leave was vague. All I know is we’re headed out to one of the megacorps the Coalition keeps at arm’s length.”

Gina’s playful expression melted into one of genuine concern. “Word is that one of your own got killed, Jack. A captain with Intelligence.”

His guts twisted. No wonder no one was talking. He hadn’t heard of anyone dying in the line since the war. “League?”

“League, megacorp, some new criminal faction, who cares?” Gina closed down her tablet as the mag-tram raced into the station. “It’s always the most fun when we spoil their plans.”

2

CSV Oxford, in Orbit

Canaan—Terran Coalition

6 November 2464

It seemed as though Jackson had never left the wardroom aboard CSV Oxford. For him, the room was as much a home as the apartment he semi-frequented in Lawrence City when he wasn’t deployed. He certainly had a greater level of comfort wash over him when he took his seat around the long table, more than when he found himself back at the Adams ranch.

Lieutenant Brant Guinto glanced up from his endless streams of data spilling across his tablet screen. “The fearless leader returns. Vacation was that bad, was it?”

“I don’t think I want to talk about it anymore, Brant.”

“Not a problem. You spilled enough in your messages.” Brant lowered his voice. “Speaking of which, if you have any password problems with the old family comms—”

“I didn’t, thanks.” Nice to know his XO and friend had his back, but Jackson had retained access to the family messages, which meant it was simple to find the deleted notes the Castillo clan had sent Mom and Dad about a formal partnership. He’d stored copies in his personal account. Maybe he would get the chance to speak with Abby again soon. Who knows? His ownership percentage gave him some legal rights. “What’s RUMINT have for us? Gina tells me an officer was killed.”

“The colonel has all the data. I’m still locked out.”

“Locked out? Or choosing to stay locked out?” Jackson grinned.

Brant’s face flushed. “I do a lot of sneaking for this job, but I think the Holy Father would frown on me snooping into my superior’s files.”

“I was kidding, you know.”

“Well, in this line of work, one can’t be sure.”

A chief warrant officer clad in a standard-issue flight suit dropped into the chair to Jackson’s left. CWO Ehud Dwyer smelled of sweat and plastics, fresh from a cockpit no doubt. “Evenin’, Cap’n. Good flight back? Hope Gina didn’t bounce you off a bulkhead or two on her way through Oxford’s hangar.”

“My landing was flawless.” Gina sniffed. She leaned around Brant, her curls brushing the tabletop. “I’m sure we can pull up security footage if you’re going to sully my good name.”

“Sakes, no, ma’am. No need to put the LT to work this early.”

“I take it the Florio meets your standards, Warrant?” Jackson asked.

Dwyer let out a long whistle. “She’s a missile when flat-out burnin’, sir, and corners like a scared cat. Ken Lowe’s been stuffing her full of goodies for the next trip, plus sharing stealth plating I think might make even CSV Tuscon jealous.”

“Roger that.” Jackson turned at the sound of the wardroom door opening. Colonel Robert Sinclair strolled in, the veteran Intelligence officer as nonchalant as if he were off to his first round of tea. Captain Alon Tamir and Chief Warrant Officer Miranda Eldred followed, taking chairs to either side of him at the head of the table.

Jackson, Brant, and Dwyer stood and came to attention.

“Colonel on deck,” Jackson said sharply.

“As you were, gentlemen.” If Sinclair was irked by Gina’s lack of decorum, his precise British accent didn’t reveal any frustration. “Your seats, ladies and gentlemen. I trust we’re all well rested after a needed respite?”

“Some of us,” Gina murmured.

“Come now, Ms. Wilkes, surely a civilian contractor of your talents wasn’t unduly stressed by the required refresher training.”

“Easy.” The deep monotone came from Sevastopol Rast, the other civilian member of Covert Action Unit 171. He leaned against the bulkhead in the corner of the room opposite Jackson, his faced shadowed.

Jackson wondered how many people Sev would consider targets in his way if he needed to make a swift exit, not that Jackson would begrudge the man such cold calculation. If I’d grown up in the League’s harsh surveillance state with everything drained from my family for the good of society, I’d be suspicious of everyone too.

“He can speak for himself,” Tamir said. “I’m still sore.”

“You and me both, Captain.” Eldred winced as she shifted in her chair. “We’d better make those sessions more frequent if we’re going to stay hunched over our monitors for the rest of our careers.”

“I’ll pass the recommendation up the chain.” Sinclair toggled his tablet. “Speaking of said chain, that is from whence our next assignment originates.”

The holographic projector at the center of the table glowed, forming a huge, three-dimensional image from pale-blue light.

Jackson grunted. “It reminds me of a toadstool.”

“If one were grown to a diameter of ten kilometers, that would be an apt descriptor.” Sinclair gestured, shrinking the image into the context of a star system. “Bellwether Logistics and Supply Station, wholly owned and operated by Nosamo Aerothermic Technologies, is the center of commerce for the entire Caeli star system, orbiting a blue giant located twenty light-years outside Coalition space and twelve from the Saurian Empire.”

Jackson frowned. The specification made it sound like it was within neither nation’s boundaries, which made sense, given it was a megacorp. The Terran Coalition forbade their existence inside its space. “The Alvarsson Wedge?”

“Correct, Captain. This length of space was left untouched after the last round of conflicts with the Saurians led to our present informal alliance. Neither side wanted the flotsam within the few dozen systems in its length. Nosamo, though, was already in place, building the station as its seat of authority and monument to corporate power.”

“An idol,” Brant mused.

“In a sense.” Sinclair zoomed in again to the station. Indicators sprang from various levels as the computer highlighted slices. “Nosamo fabricates the most efficient atmospheric regulation towers in known space. Rumor of Matrinid technology incorporation abounds, but then again, one hears such talk about any advanced project these days. We do know many planets have long relied on their regulation towers to tame unruly planets for terraforming.”

“How does CDF Intelligence fit in, Colonel?” Brant asked.

Sinclair looked to Eldred, who took over the presentation by adding the face of a Hispanic officer to the display. “Captain Nelson Garza, Covert Action Unit Two Two.”

That caught the attention of everyone on Jackson’s side of the table. Even Sev uncrossed his arms and took a step forward. He seemed transfixed by the officer’s smiling visage.

“I knew there were more.” Brant tapped the table next to him. “Everyone said the existence of more teams was classified, but—begging your pardon, Colonel—spotting communications patterns similar to ours between Oxford and Intelligence HQ, not to mention other ships—”

“Quite astute and enough, Lieutenant.” Sinclair’s tone wasn’t less jovial, but there was no mistaking his desire to quash the line of the conversation—or, at minimum, redirect it. “Continue, if you would, Warrant.”

“Yes, sir.” Eldred cleared her throat. “Captain Garza was undercover on Bellwether, investigating Intelligence’s long-held suspicion that Nosamo rose to prominence in the past thirty years by systematically undercutting its competitors, specifically homegrown companies from Coalition planets.”

“Are we talking bribes?” Gina asked. “Because I would think that was the only chance they’d have to curry favor with Coalition officials. I thought one of the biggest areas of agreement across all political parties was not dealing with megacorps.”

“What we’re talking about is intimidation, blackmail, and privateering,” Captain Tamir said bluntly.

Warrant Dwyer scratched at his chin. “I’ll be.”

“More and more interesting,” Gina murmured to Jackson.

He ignored them both and leaned forward. “Did CBI or CIS have any input into this investigation? It seems more of a criminal matter.”

“It would be, but atmospheric regulation towers were classified as essential war materials, hence CDF involvement.” Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “Plus, our branch has maintained scattered assets within the Alvarsson Wedge, whilst the other two agencies did not.”

“It wasn’t considered a priority, sirs,” Eldred said. “During my time with CIS, the focus stayed on the League to the detriment of all other operations, but you can’t really blame the service when we were decades into a grinding war.”

“What happened to Garza?” Jackson dreaded the answer because it could easily be his worst nightmare.

“He indicated to his team his cover was breached in some way,” Tamir said. “They were attempting rendezvous and extraction when he was killed. Vector Two—his partner and fellow CDF officer—attempted to intervene but was nearly killed himself. You’ll find everything we have from Vector Control in the mission packets.”

Eldred distributed plastic printouts to the entire team. “They’re body heat sensitive. Read them, then administer your handprint.”

Jackson skimmed the brief before committing it to memory word for word. All those years of theater training paid off when it came to storing whole reams of text in his mind. Of course, that was but the first step in preparing to play a new role. By the time they arrived at the Caeli system, he wouldn’t be Captain Jackson Adams, CDF Intelligence.

“As you can no doubt see,” Sinclair continued, “details are few and far between. We don’t know who the contact is between Tactisar and the rivals who wish to steal Nosamo’s product. Nor do we have a proper sense of Nosamo’s internal safeguards, the ones surrounding the new project itself.”

“Has anyone notified their board of directors?” Jackson asked. “They’d be happy to get a warning, I’d imagine.”

“Repeatedly.” Eldred brought up a new portrait to which Jackson took an immediate dislike—a long, narrow face with Middle Eastern features and a distinct air of arrogance. The man looked like he couldn’t even be bothered to stand still for the image capture that created the portrait. “CEO Ardalion Noor. He’s run Nosamo for the past eight years, more or less unimpeded. The board is in his corner. When they’re not busy groveling to him, they’re running interference.”

“Which is what the brass encountered when they tried to tactfully warn Nosamo of an impending robbery,” Sinclair said. “If derision had a signal strength, one would be able to hear the board and the good Mr. Noor halfway across the galaxy.”

“So, we’ll need to be inside the company to get straight answers, assuming we don’t have any from Captain Garza’s team.” Jackson scratched his chin. “We’ve gone in with less intel before.”

“I’d like a closer look at all signal intercepts from their mission, sir,” Brant said. “It could be that they’ve missed something.”

“Quite likely. Did you have anything specific for which you’re hunting?”

“Uh…” Brant adjusted his tablet, as if he could find the answer in the edges of the frame. “It’s an ongoing project, sir.”

“I see.” Sinclair glanced at Jackson, who did his best to keep his face studiously neutral. “I take it this is related to the findings of the Aphendrika mission?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. Well, gentlemen—and Ms. Wilkes—”

Gina winked at him.

“We have no indication as of yet pertaining to League involvement. That being said, I am quite aware Lieutenant Guinto commandeered Oxford’s resources in the hunt for this unknown contact, which Captain Jackson encountered last summer.”

“Vasiliy,” Jackson said. “It’s the only name we’ve had to go on, but I’m convinced he was behind that operation. Our contact was no mistake and wouldn’t be easy to do. Only someone monitoring comms to the same extent as CDF Intelligence in those sorts of operations would have shown the same know-how.”

“I understand. I’ve seen the psych profile.”

Cool, calculated, unwilling to move with haste in the long game, but willing to sacrifice assets to preserve his own skin. Given how many times Jackson had found 171 stymied by unseen forces behind the visible actors in that mission, Vasiliy was not a man to be underestimated. “If he or anyone else with the League’s External Security Services is even peripherally involved, Colonel, we’ll want to stop them quickly.”

“Quite right. Which is why we’ve been cleared for departure in twenty-four hours.”

Talk about expedited. Jackson gave the printout a final look before he placed his hand upon it. The words fizzled, like text on a screen disappearing behind static of a garbled transmission, before vanishing entirely. The white sheet turned transparent.

Sev crumpled his blanked sheet into a ball and tossed it onto the table.

“Am I the only one raising a literal eyebrow at this line?” Gina was, in fact, making a face to match her comment. “The one in which ‘Target data and/or prototypical components must be removed to secure holdings,’ presumably outside Bellwether Station. It sounds like you’re asking us to steal Nosamo’s new tech before their own private security army can help someone else infiltrate the company and do the stealing.”

Sinclair nodded and smiled in response. “As fine a summation as I’ve heard, informal language apart. Perhaps I should have had you write it.”

Gina snorted. “No offense, Colonel, but I didn’t sign on to Intelligence—even from a contract standpoint—to push paper. I just want to know what I can get away with to help our mission’s success, especially if it’s criminal in nature.”

“We’ll keep that to a minimum.” Jackson made eye contact with his team members in turn, partially to make sure they were on the same page but also to divert the officers’ attention from Gina. “All clear on the basics? I’ll contact Tactisar and, through them, whoever is planning the theft. Gina will infiltrate Nosamo to give us a sense of their security. Warrant Dwyer and Sev are assigned the docks to scope out whatever we can about the missing Vector Two.”

“Roger that, Cap’n.” Dwyer jerked a thumb in Sev’s direction. “He ain’t much for chit-chat, but if push comes to shooting, I’d rather have him at my back than any of y’all.”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t like me that much, Sparks.” Gina pouted.

“No offense, darlin’, but you’re second place.”

Jackson shook his head. “Brant, you’ll coordinate from our base of operations, though Sparks can stand by to whisk you out to Oxford if things get too hot.”

“I’d rather stay on the station. It’s easier to hardwire into restricted systems that way.” Brant shrugged. “But I’d also like to avoid getting shot.”

“Pass the blanked briefs, folks.” Eldred tapped the table.

Three more empty pages joined Jackson’s and Sev’s. Eldred gathered them.

Jackson thought back to one of the details they hadn’t yet discussed. “Colonel, the brief mentioned there are a handful of Coalition companies developing the same kind of advanced atmospheric regulation towers as Nosamo, but they’ve been unable to deploy them.”

“Correct,” Sinclair said. “Publicly, you’ll find news networks speculating the Coalition companies are having a hard time recovering from the damage inflicted on our territories and shipping stocks during the war. Captain Tamir, however, will make available our files on piratical raids occurring not only around the Wedge but as deep inward as the core systems. These raids have resulted in lost materials and personnel critical to these other companies achieving the same level of success Nosamo enjoys.”

“It doesn’t take much of a jump to surmise Nosamo has a hand in those raids,” Jackson mused. “Something else we should prove.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny the suggestion has been put to me by individuals of much greater rank,” Sinclair said smoothly. “However, if your investigation takes you in such a direction, well, we would be obliged to act upon such information and share it with our CIS colleagues.”

Message received. Proving the connection between Nosamo and the raids was part of the mission, only it was being given with less direct an order than the briefing they’d just read. “Understood, sir,” Jackson said.

“Cap’n? If I could?” Dwyer seemed to be puzzling over something by the way he gazed down at his interlaced fingers, his frown deepening. “What sort of files do we have on Vector Control and Vector Two? It sounds like Control is a fellow pilot.”

“Right you are.” Sinclair gestured again to Eldred.

Two new pictures joined the swirl of information dancing around the center of the table. One was a black-haired Japanese woman wearing a flight suit similar to Dwyer’s. The other was a young man, smiling, with close-cropped hair. The lieutenant bore enough resemblance to Captain Garza that Jackson knew they were related before Sinclair spoke the names.

“Chief Warrant Officer Ixora Sakuri, pilot and Vector Control. Lieutenant Duncan Garza, infiltration and Vector Two,” he said. “The roster aside, you can see why we are so keen especially to affect Lieutenant Garza’s safe return. He and Nelson Garza are two of six siblings.”

A somber pall fell across the room. Sev was the only one who moved. “Ready,” he replied then left the briefing room.

Sinclair tracked his departure, mouth part open, but didn’t ask him to stay put.

“We’ll bring him home, Colonel,” Jackson said. “I’d appreciate if Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred can make the complete data available ASAP as promised.”

“Of course, chaps.” Sinclair deactivated the holographic projector. “Along with tracking and traffic data from Caeli over the past month. You’ll find that of particular interest, Warrant Dwyer.”

“Yes, sir.” Jackson had never seen his pilot sit so straight. “Begging your pardon again, sir, but I was hopin’ Warrant Sakuri would be available for debriefing.”

“She will upon arrival. We’ve had her maintain discreet stationkeeping in case Lieutenant Garza needed extraction.”

Gina’s expression softened. “So, the brother’s body—”

“She recovered it, yes.”

The sight of Harry broken in an infirmary’s special surgery ward flooded Jackson’s memories. He hadn’t been there, but Mom had sent the image along after Harry’s first notice about the accident. Jackson stood. “We’ll get it done, Colonel.”

“I very much hope so, Captain,” Sinclair said. “Not just for the Garzas but all those impacted by the rapacious greed we’ve seen at play. Nosamo must be held to account, and by the grace of God and the directive of our betters, we shall be the ones to see it through.”

3

The White House, Lawrence City

Canaan—Terran Coalition

7 November 2464

Justin Spencer, President of the Terran Coalition, admired the tenacity of the Saurian people as a warrior race. He also found them rigorously blunt and honest, refreshing traits when it came to political discussion. The latter made negotiating with them a pleasure. The former made their presence in the Oval Office an oddity.

The midday meeting involved Spencer’s trouble squad, as he referred to them in his private notes—Vice President, and one-time political adversary, Eduardo Fuentes; Secretary of Defense Celinda Snow; and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs General Andrew MacIntosh. Together, the foursome had streamlined the creation and deployment of Covert Action Unit 171 over the summer, which had resolved the so-called Cypriot Crisis satisfactorily. The Peace Union and other proponents of military dismantlement weren’t pleased CDF had played a vital role in securing the refugee flood, while more conservative factions of Spencer’s supporters grumbled that the president had been too soft on the displayed former Leaguers. In the end, a trafficking ring had been dismantled, the refugees given a chance to find freedom on a new world, and the League—who’s involvement had been denied across comm links and in curt discussions with diplomats—left to lick its wounds.

Void Captain Vekir Nalax swept his claws along the holographic report from Aphendrika, furnished to the trouble squad by Colonel Robert Sinclair and Captain Jackson Adams. The security liaison didn’t fit well into the human-proportioned furniture of the Oval Office, but if his reptilian frame was uncomfortable, he didn’t show it. Spencer would be disappointed of any Saurian who did. Nalax represented the newly formed Joint Security and Intelligence Directorate of the Sagittarius Arm Treaty Organization. While details of the fledgling alliance’s military aspects were still being hammered out, JSID had stitched together a decent cohort of expert officers from multiple nations.

“This reeks of the League,” Nalax snarled. “See? This is why they should have been burned in the cores of their stars and all their ability to build ships stricken.”

“That’s a bit of a harsh assessment of a nation that includes countless innocents, some of whom you just saw being rescued from oppression.” Fuentes stood off to the side, a glass of water in hand. “You’re well aware of my position on the matter.”

“Well aware, Mr. Vice President.” Nalax leaned on the dual words of the titles. “When your gutless, so-called ‘leadership’ gave the League a second chance to obliterate not only your world but mine. Were it not for the values I learned from the Terran CDF while in their officer exchange program, I would challenge your honor this very moment, as any true warrior of the Saurian Empire—”

“That’s enough, Void Captain,” Spencer snapped. “Our people have been through all this—the recriminations, the what-ifs, the decisions we all made that we wished we hadn’t, no matter the outcome. Furthermore, from what I understand, that’s not the reason you’re here at all, so I’d appreciate if you’d shut off any planned attacks on my vice president.” He might be right, but I’ll be damned if someone comes into my house and takes on my friend.

Nalax grumbled Saurian invectives through his gritted fangs. “I mean no disrespect, as you would well remember. My people value honesty. I was doing you the credit of being straightforward—offering the truth, as some of you humans say, ‘unvarnished,’ though I fail to see how preservation of dead tree planks has any bearing on frankness.”

MacIntosh chuckled into a steaming cup of coffee. “By God, but I miss having the Saurians around for these kinds of chats. Nalax, I’m all too happy to restart the officer exchange program if you can convince your bosses.”

“Perhaps another time, General. We, too, have observed that your species could use further training in the art of war from the best the galaxy has to offer.”

It was Fuentes’s turn to chuckle. Spencer shared a look with Snow, who diligently examined her notes and turned red with restraint.

“Void Captain Nalax, the matter at hand…” Spencer said.

“Of course.” Nalax waved a clawed hand. “When we heard of the Aphendrika incident on the news networks, Saurian command, as I said, detected the League’s stench. Your sharing of classified data regarding the crisis confirms our suspicions. This is why I have come—to bolster your experiences with those of our own.”

“Regarding the League?”

“Yes, Mister President. Specifically, regarding two attempts in four months to destabilize elements of our government.” Nalax ticked them off on razor-sharp claws in imitation of the human gesture. “First, two of our warships were tricked into destroying an independent merchant station on one of our far borders, which we had been convinced suffered a takeover by hostile, piratical forces. This was a lie. One hundred eighty souls perished, two-thirds of which were Saurian. The second incident took place last month, just three jumps from our capital. Criminal elements were caught selling a drug, tailored to Saurian biology, that took hold of a substantial portion of trainees at one of our primary academies. We are still analyzing the drug, but the level of sophistication involved in its manufacture suggests similarities to the Terran dealings with Orbita.”

“The League’s silent, homegrown scourge,” Snow murmured. “I wonder, Void Captain, if you could provide us with actionable intelligence.”

“I have been authorized to do so.” Nalax tapped commands into his tablet. Snow’s device beeped in response. “If there are further details not contained in the report that you need, I can contact our field commanders to obtain what is missing.”

“We all appreciate the candor and transparency,” Spencer said. “I trust you were able to at least tangentially connect these incidents to the League.”

Nalax scowled. “Not as well as we would prefer. The League skulks like vermin in the refuse. They’re fit only for burning out or stamping upon, preferably both. But the communications analysis does point in their direction. Make no mistake—as prey, the League is more elusive now that open war no longer exists. As predators, it lies in wait for the weak and the sick rather than striking with strength. This is why we came to you.”

Spencer wondered if Nalax was attempting human humor again. “I don’t follow.”

“The Terrans—all your species, if one can generalize—has a predilection for and genius at subterfuge. The League is employing indirect methods that the Saurian Empire, a nation of proud warriors, is regrettably both ill-equipped and unwilling to use.”

“Translation—they’re not fond of spies,” MacIntosh said. “And we’re better at intelligence gathering. As in, we lie better than Saurians do.”

“Quite the compliment, I suppose.” Fuentes sounded serious, but humor was clearly etched on his face, in the tilt of his smile and how he seemed ready to wink.

“My nation is vexed by the enemy,” Nalax said. “We do not have the ships or the manpower to invade the League. No one does. Even cross-border raids are out of the question, due to the range involved. We have no interest in losing what few warships we possess on attacks that do nothing to shift the balance of power. With planets voting to leave the League and join your coalition, the frontiers are changing, and worse, supply lines are long to the Orion arm. More avenues have opened for criminal activity. This is the purpose behind Saurian involvement in SATO—to consolidate our forces against the threats still remaining since the end of the war.”

“But you’re finding, like us, that some threats can’t be handled by launching missiles or firing cannons,” Spencer said.

“Yes.” Nalax hissed his agreement. “We must do more than mutually protect each other and our people through the strength of our warriors. Cunning must play a role where force cannot.”

“I understand.” Spencer nodded slowly. “Did you have something specific in mind?”

“We have a common enemy, besides the League,” MacIntosh said. “Nosamo Tech.”

Spencer made a face. He felt like he’d taken a bite of overcooked steak and there was no way to gracefully spit it out without appearing uncouth. “The megacorp out in Alvarsson Wedge.”

“We suspect them of fostering piracy in our fringe systems,” Nalax growled. “Raiders are numerous and not easily caught by our border craft. The fleet is stretched too thin. A recent capture turned up an intriguing cargo—atmospheric processors registered to Nosamo and bound for our most damaged colonies.”

“I thought you’d limited trading with megacorps.”

“Those strictures are not always followed, not when Saurian lives are at stake because of faulty machinery. Desperate beings will resort to desperate deals—in this case, violating such agreements and paying exorbitant fees to get their hands on the machinery they require.”

“These raiders,” Snow interjected, “you say you caught one? Why were they transporting cargo instead of raiding?”

“They achieved both, as best we can tell, by crippling or outright destroying transports carrying supplies on behalf of the Saurian Empire. Those ships that escape our claws evade pursuit in the uncharted systems along the frontier.” Nalax leaned forward in his chair. “As we were investigating these crimes, word filtered to us of your losing a man at Bellwether.”

“I can confirm the death of a CDF Intelligence officer,” Spencer said. “But I can’t speak to the circumstances yet. What I’m hearing from you, though, is a desire to kill two birds with one stone.”

Nalax seemed puzzled until his toothy sneer widened into the Saurian version of a grin. “One of your species’s better metaphors. That is what we desire, Mr. President, and we are happy to offer our limited resources aboard Bellwether.”

“You have spies there?” Fuentes asked. “I thought you abhorred the practice.”

“Aboard trading vessels that ply the region, yes, but members of the Clawless have banished themselves and are willing to trade information in return for quiet contact with their families.”

“I didn’t realize.” Snow glanced at the rest of the trouble team, including Spencer. “The Clawless is the term the Saurian Empire applies to citizens who refused to take up arms in the war.”

“Cowards,” Nalax sneered. “And heathens. But they have eyes, and they can smell, so we do not discount all they say. What tales they share tell of a corrupt company with the power of a nation, bent on twisting regional politics to suit its whims.”

“A fact of which we’re well aware, Colonel.” Spencer frowned. “These Clawless—for our collaboration to be successful, we would need a means to contact them.”

“Do you have people willing to do so?”

Spencer glanced at MacIntosh and nodded.

“Right.” MacIntosh’s Scots accent thickened. “We’ve dispatched a team to investigate our man’s death, with the secondary mission of shining a light into Nosamo’s practices, as they directly affect the sovereign power of the Terran Coalition.”

Nalax’s scales twitched. He seemed to be reading the room, as it were—perhaps trying to determine the truthfulness of the words just spoken. They were honest enough, if missing a few details, Spencer thought. Cooperation did not include opening up Intelligence’s curtains for the galaxy to see, as far as he was concerned.

“I will converse with my superiors to see what data they are willing to provide,” Nalax finally said. “Know that there is still division among us, given Terran conduct at the war’s end—by which you could have doomed this entire region of the galaxy.”

“I’ll be happy to remind them of the blood humans spilled and the personal risks we in this room took,” Spencer said. “I’ll also be glad to show them the battle reports that clearly summarize how Terran, Saurian, and neutral fleets put aside their differences to achieve a goal that had eluded our civilizations for three decades—the defeat and defanging of the League of Sol. Whatever else you report to your superiors, tell them we won’t shy away from another fight, and right now, we’re doing our best to continue the very same fight in the shadows to make sure our innocents won’t face a repeat cataclysm.”

“A wise consideration.” Nalax rose from his seat.

Spencer and the others did the same.

“Let us show those who doubt our combined strength what our fledgling SATO alliance can achieve.”

Spencer hoped Nalax was right. From what he’d seen of the Aphendrika incident, the League was sure to try a destabilizing action again, and the next time, all involved would have to take greater care to make certain they did not tip the Coalition off its unsteady footing. It’s probably time to schedule a summit with Chief Minister Obe. Perhaps my relationship with him can be repaired.

Ramsey Moss waited outside the Smoky Asteroid Taproom in Sector C Eight. It had a ridiculous name—since when did asteroids emit smoke like the neon image above the door of one spraying its glowing green vapor?—but it was crowded, poorly lit, and noisy, the perfect place to have a huddled conversation he didn’t want anyone else to eavesdrop on.

His benefactor’s contact was there early. Ramsey scowled. It didn’t matter what time they set or whether Ramsey showed up a few minutes ahead of schedule. The guy always beat him. Ramsey slid into the booth. The opaque plastic panels blunted the worst of the grating music, converting it into a rolling thunder.

“Hey, Fernand.”

Fernand was an average-looking guy, dressed in black jacket, brown shirt, and gray trousers. His attire suggested a middle-class office worker—not a dockhand or a grifter or even an independent merchant. He wasn’t clean cut enough to be Nosamo but could pass for someone employed by one of the tech conglomerate’s many subsidiaries. Other than a cybernetic eye and a few scars, the young guy was unremarkable.

“Ramsey.” Fernand sipped his drink.

Water. Great stars. Who drinks water in a place like this?

“My boss isn’t happy with the way things turned out—accepting but not happy.”

Ramsey rolled his eyes. “I don’t really care, okay? I got people killed, and that means paperwork, the kind that brings investigations. If this were a regular police force, I’d be parked behind a desk with holos to review. You guys could have tipped me off sooner that Nels was up to something.”

Fernand sipped his water again. “Are you finished?”

“I could rant for a bit more, but I got work to do. So, say whatever you came to say.”

“Okay.” Fernand reached for his pocket.

Ramsey’s hand dropped toward the holster on his belt. “Now, wait just a damned second.”

“Relax. It’s a present.”

A tiny red datachip clattered onto the center of the table. Ramsey glanced at it without moving his hand in case it was a distraction meant to give Fernand the chance to shoot him. It was how Ramsey would have planned an ambush. “Early Christmas?”

“Get this into your data hub back at your precinct. I’ll send you a signal with installation instructions. Use whatever excuse you need to get it plugged in. When the time comes for the heist, the programming embedded in this chip will shield our activities.”

“How do you mean?”

“I won’t go into great detail on the technical aspects, but let’s just say it will make whatever protocol overriding you do when we steal Nosamo’s specs seem like external work from an unknown source. It’s adept at covering tracks and redirecting attention.”

Ramsey took the chip and slid it into a jacket pocket, all without taking his eyes off Fernand. “Thanks. What do I owe?”

“My boss says he’ll deduct the cost from your share of the profits we’ll realize on the successful completion of the job.”

“Great. Another deferred payment.”

Fernand stared at him. Ramsey wasn’t sure what was worse—Fernand’s lack of ability to have a normal conversation or his maddening unflappability. The guy could be programmed as thoroughly as the datachip, for all Ramsey knew.

“If you’re done whining, I have another question from the boss,” Fernand said.

Ramsey gestured for him to continue.

“What progress have you made on replacements?”

“For my crew? Shit. They’ve barely been cold seventy-two hours, and you want me to fill boots? It’s your turn to relax. I’ve got feelers out—the usual places.” Ramsey indicated the busy bar with his thumb. “Running security in a place like this isn’t for cops. You need people who are willing to cut corners and know how to keep the right individuals down. It keeps the population on their toes and doesn’t hurt bank accounts either.”

“What kind of feelers?”

“Quiet ones, okay? I have done this before. The trick is finding someone who’s got that law enforcement experience, especially with undercover investigations. That’s the only way we’re going to fit a new person into Nosamo as quickly as we can. There’s a handful of maintenance tech openings right now—some caused by the vacancies Nels inflicted, others just regular turnover. Any of them will work.”

“I’ll need to vet your possibles for the boss.”

“There’s a shocker,” Ramsey muttered, but he activated his tablet anyway.

A collage of sixteen portraits, men and women, filled the screen.

“These are the ones I’m culling. A couple already won’t work—they’re former CDF, and I do not need the heat if a do-gooder veteran gets spaced. The rest have shady enough backgrounds that I feel good about their potential, especially the ones who’ve been sanctioned by their former employers.”

“Criminal charges?”

“Some pending, some dismissed. Enough incentive for them to want an escape out to the dark ass-end of the galaxy.” Ramsey smirked. “Far enough from Canaan to avoid morals and near enough to the Saurians to smell them before they blast you out of space.”

If Fernand found the juxtaposition amusing, he didn’t show it. The man had as much personality as a bulkhead. “What’s your gut tell you?”

Ramsey perused his selection. He tapped one face—blond, brown-eyed, skin weathered by outdoor work, probably early forties. “This guy. Jack Arno. Ex-Colonial Ranger, born on New Washington. He got demoted for running a narcotics ring while he was supposed to be patrolling a bunch of settlements in the quieter regions of the planet, using his skiff for deliveries as well as rescue and interdiction. Took off from the force six weeks ago. He’s been taking odd jobs on his way out here.”

Fernand nodded. “Forward what you can to me. We’ll make sure he checks out.”

“Sure.” Ramsey felt better. At least he would have the chance to get somebody with half a brain and better experience than most on his team. Because he was really, really looking forward to getting rich.

4

CSV Oxford

En Route to Saurian Frontier—Terran Coalition

14 November 2464

Dwyer flipped a row of switches over his head. “Hangar Control, this is Novabird. Primed and ready for launch.”

“Novabird, Hangar Control. Hatch clear. You are go for launch.”

“Roger, Control. Good luck and Godspeed.”

The racer hopped off the deck and hurtled from Oxford’s primary hangar bay, swooping out toward the stars. Jackson, flying copilot next to Dwyer, checked the nav screen. No other ships were around. In fact, he didn’t see much of anything. They were six hours from the nearest settlement, which was a combination trading station and CDF forward listening post. The next commercial ferry to the Caeli system would be passing by in eight hours. Plenty of time for Novabird to get in the queue for the couple of Lawrence jumps to Bellwether.

From there, it would be another thirty-six hours’ travel time to the Caeli system. Adams wanted the travel history established at least part of the way back. His preference would have been to take a ferry all the way from New Washington or one of the core planets—anywhere but Canaan—so that anyone who got too curious and hacked their travel history would be satisfied it was a civilian shuttle hired out for the trip. But with the urgent need to contact Warrant Sakuri, hitching a ride on CSV Oxford, with its advanced antimatter-fueled Lawrence drive, meant significantly cutting down on travel time.

Which still left hours of relatively boring space travel. Fortunately, Jackson had plenty to preoccupy him on the daylong trip—memorizing his legend, for example, in playing Jonathan James Arno. Jackson shook his head and smiled. The guy was a real jerk—affable, to be sure, and able to strike up a conversation with just about any stranger while making the stranger feel like it had been their idea instead of his—but a definite hard edge. Hence the tattoos Brant was implanting on the backs of his hands.

“This would be easier if you didn’t feel the need to zoom in and out on Nav every five seconds.” Brant traced the dermal manipulator in a slow pattern below the knuckles of Jackson’s right hand. “Pretend you’re at a salon or something.”

“A salon?”

“I don’t know. It’s what my sisters do.” Brant made a face. “Gina? Tell him.”

Gina had a small pistol dismantled on the long couch bolted to the starboard bulkhead, in the passenger compartment aft of the cockpit. She stretched out in a languid pose that made Jackson wonder if she were preparing for a nap. “A salon? Too pedestrian. A private spa is the way to go. The more exclusive the membership, the better.”

“But you’re relaxed, and they expect you to. Hold. Still.” Brant exhaled. He withdrew the dermal manipulator. “That one’s done. It’ll be sensitive for an hour or so. Might itch. I’d recommend against scratching because it will bleed and possibly scar.”

“Sounds great.” Jackson admired the handiwork of the sun with a stylized face, like an image one would see on an ancient carving in Mesoamerica. “I can’t think of a better thing to worry about before embarking on a dangerous undercover mission.”

Dwyer chuckled. “Hate to say it, Cap’n, but you sound like Gina back there.”

“Since you’re flying and we’re at your mercy, I’ll refrain from a cutting comeback.” Steady clicks interrupted Gina’s commentary as she pieced her weapon back together.

“So I’m not completely wasting this trip immobilized, have you dug up anything of interest from Twenty-Two’s files?” Jackson asked.

“You saw the most obvious—that Warrant Sakuri is the niece of Nosamo board member Kahori Sakuri,” Brant said. “She hasn’t had contact with her aunt for years, but if you read between the lines, the warrant didn’t take too kindly to Sakuri’s ouster from Nosamo’s board.”

“I did see that. It was a big mess, all over the holonews networks—allegations of fraud and counter-allegations of trademark design infringement.” Jackson smirked. “Not exactly light reading. It’s a line of questioning we need to follow when we contact Warrant Sakuri. Captain Garza’s reports singled her out for high praise. I want to know if her personal connection resulted in errors that affected the team.”

“We certainly wouldn’t want anyone taking their mission personally, would we?” Gina murmured.

“I’m talking operational security, that’s all.”

“Of course.”

Brant glanced between them. “What’s that all about?”

“She’s worried the cap’n’s letting this Vasiliy fella get under his skin, LT,” Dwyer explained. “I told her not to fret.”

“Whoever it was that contacted me knew details of our mission and wasn’t afraid to admit League connections.” Jackson shifted in his chair. The dermal manipulator burned across his knuckle. He grimaced. “I’d be a fool to overlook it.”

“I didn’t say it was wrong to investigate. I’m warning about paranoia.” Gina holstered her weapon. “Leave that to me. I have a better temperament for it.”

“Obsession,” Sev grunted. “It fouls the mind.”

Jackson hadn’t realized Sev was awake. The operative stood at one of the equipment lockers built into the passenger compartment. He examined a bandolier laden with tiny explosives, handling the white and silver spheres as if they were rare pearls.

“I won’t disagree,” Jackson said.

Sev nodded. “Good.”

“More than one word,” Brant muttered. “He must be upset.”

“Enough of that.” Jackson craned his neck. “Gina, are you all set with Brant’s backstory for you?”

“Right down to the tragic details of the abuse I suffered at the hands of my uncle.” Gina let out a heavy sigh. “Which is why I focused on learning the intricacies of public relations in an attempt to gain favor from everyone I met. Sounds revolting. But between my personality and the credentials Brant worked up, I’ll dazzle my way into one of the open positions. I even have an interview lined up right after we arrive at Bellwether.”

“Same here.” Jackson winced again.

“Quit. Moving.” Brant sat back a minute later. “All right, there. You’re finished. Again, move slowly when you activate your tablet. And don’t touch your face either.”

Right. The implants to his cheekbones, jawline, and nose modified his appearance enough that standard facial recognition scanners aboard Bellwether shouldn’t be able to link back to any records of his true face and thus determine who he really was. It was a slim risk, in either case, since any public ID of Jackson had been falsified by CDF Intelligence. He was as much a ghost as a man could be.

Jackson did as instructed, fighting against the growing urge to scratch the backs of his hands. He felt like he needed sandpaper. “I’ve got the communique here from Tactisar Security Solutions’ human resources, copied to Detective Ramsey Moss. It’s an entry level officer position, full benefits, opportunity for bonus pay and swift advancement.”

“Bribes will furnish both, no doubt.” Gina leaned over his shoulder, her curls cascading into his face. “Oh my. He’s got a face cut by lasers.”

“Not bad looking, if you go for that sort of square-jawed, craggy kind.”

“I do.” Gina nudged him. “Find anything of interest?”

Jackson tapped the screen. A long list of bullet points filled one window. “Formal complaints lodged by citizens and traders stretching back over a decade. Doesn’t seem to have hampered his career.”

“Why would it, when your corporate benefactors enjoy the profits of your corruption?”

“When we get there, I’m gonna make sure he knows he’s got the best cop this side of Canaan comin’ onto his force.” Jackson leaned thick onto the accent, a staple of New Washington’s southwestern continent, where his alias had supposedly grown up before serving the bulk of his Colonial Rangers patrol career on the far frontiers of the Coalition.

“Not too shabby, sir,” Dwyer drawled. “Sounds like you waltzed out of Jaynesburg a full native.”

“Jaynesburg and Port Cobb. With a half dozen references Detective Moss can check on.” Jackson let the accent slip. “The goal, though, is to glean whatever we can about this new proprietary tech and figure out where Nosamo’s keeping it.”

“Their corporate network’s tight,” Brant said. “I’ve taken a few pokes. It’s very resistant to intrusion, but I’ve already seen gaps from afar that I can exploit. By the time we hit the station, I’ll know how to start my incursion. Having hardwired access will help. That’s where Gina comes in.”

“Always doing your utility work,” Gina sighed. “Please tell me Nosamo is the kind of megacorp that throws lavish parties for its investors.”

“At least three on the docket in the coming weeks,” Brant noted.

“Gina and I will split off immediately. Brant, make sure your departure’s staggered from ours. Sparks, you and Sev will be best put to use chatting with the local pilots. See what you can find out about the Garzas’ stay. The file from Twenty-Two says they were posing as bot mechanics. Start there. Brant will coordinate comms and dig into the electronic records from our fellow Intelligence officers, see if we can’t backtrace whatever channels Lieutenant Garza used to quietly communicate with the team.”

“If he’s smart—and following protocol—he’s already ditched his original devices and set up all new accounts on frequencies different from what he was using.” Brant frowned at Jackson’s tablet. “I’ll check first with Warrant Sakuri. She’s been monitoring for emergency calls, according to those files.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Jackson unstrapped from his seat and headed for the passenger compartment. “Everybody, get some rest before we hit the ferry terminal. I’m going to go fill out my application for my latest exciting career.”

While Novabird cruised across a desolate star system toward its rendezvous, CSV Oxford and the stealth boat CSV Tuscon had already arrived in the fringes of the Caeli system. As soon as they were clear of the wormhole generated by the Lawrence drives, Tuscon latched itself to Oxford so that its commanding officer, Major Nathan Mancini, could join Colonel Robert Sinclair in the operations center.

Mancini craned his neck as he took in the compartment. It spread over several decks teeming with officers and technicians. A plaque bolted up above the monitors read, “In God We Trust. All Others We Monitor.”

“I see you found your way, Major.” Sinclair joined Mancini at the hatch.

“Sir.” Mancini braced to attention. “Permission to come aboard, Colonel.”

“Granted, of course.” Sinclair half waved. “As you were. I trust your trip was uneventful?”

“Quiet sail, which is a lot more than I could say about our last op. Fun fact—smugglers get flashy and complacent when they’re running Orbita in lightly patrolled, distant systems, but when their ships get boarded one by one…” Mancini shrugged, but his nonchalance was balanced by a sly grin. “Let’s say they have a healthier appreciation for CDF now, even if they never saw us coming.”

“I saw the report. Fine work. You netted seven captures?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Godat lost the bet. He figured we’d only take five, which is fine by me because he’s the one who owes the officers dinner.”

Sinclair chuckled. “Well, then, let’s not waste any time on the off chance you want to enact a new wager.”

He led Mancini past the holographic displays and analysis stations to a sprawling holographic chart of the Caeli star system featuring all its major bodies. Three planets orbited a blue star—two gas giants at ten and eighteen astronomical units, respectively, plus a cold rock at twenty-five AU. One hundred twelve moons lay among them with very little else in the way of debris. Then there was Bellwether itself, orbiting Caeli at six AU.

“Our mission here is straightforward,” Sinclair said. “Monitor system traffic with special attention toward raiders who lurk on the fringes. RUMIT pegs Nosamo as being the sponsor, rather discreetly I might note, of several, uh, independent merchantmen whose activities run toward the unsavory.”

“Privateers, Colonel?”

“Loosely put, yes. Bellwether is not a government, so this is more akin to straight piracy. However, given the lack of any civil authority in the Alvarsson Wedge, they are the de facto power. To date, CDF Intelligence has not uncovered any overt signs of piratical activity. That is to say, we believe the ships act as typical merchantmen ‘by day,’ if you will.”

Mancini nodded. “It’s going to be difficult to mark individual ships, given the amount of traffic we’re expecting. What’s the current situation?”

“A moment. Captain Tamir?” Sinclair called. “Populate our board.”

Light rippled across the display. Mancini sucked in a breath. Hundreds of ships were underway into and out of Caeli, with wormholes blinking on and off. The tactical display dutifully listed basic classes and ID numbers where it could. “That’s… a lot of Sierras.”

“Quite. We’ll refrain from numbering all but the nearest. Now, from what we’ve ascertained, most of the attacks have taken place beyond the second giant’s orbit—Argenti, it’s called. Oxford will take up a wide orbit in its outermost ring of satellites. It has seven moons, ranging in size from thirty to six hundred kilometers in diameter.” A blue icon blinked in the position Sinclair described. “You’ll take Tuscon out to a broad ellipse along the ecliptic plane, which you’ll alternate with a perpendicular course, keeping Bellwether in your sights.”

“Understood, sir.” Mancini pointed to the swirling clusters of ship markers. “But will Oxford be all right out here? We’ll be too distant to help in a fight if you run up against raiders who think you’re a tempting civilian target. I realize Oxford has been upgraded with better armor and shields, not to mention your new toy—the double-barreled 250 mm magnetic-cannon turret.”

Sinclair smiled. “A pity we had no call to use it last time. No, Captain, you needn’t fear for us. The sensor module we employed at Aphendrika has been replaced with a weapons module.”

He called up a schematic on a separate monitor and highlighted a length of Oxford’s midsection. Technical readouts spilled onto the display as they summarized the new module’s abilities.

Mancini whistled. “Ken Lowe didn’t spare the guns, did he? A 350 mm magnetic cannon turret, triple barreled, plus two cruiser-strength neutron beam emitters. A… you’ve got to be kidding me. A muonic energy weapon? Do I even want to ask where a CDF vessel got Matrinid tech?”

“I believe it’s a gift from our new friends in the Neutral Alliance. Captain Henry—or Admiral, as I suppose he’s known these days—may have nudged his people in the right direction.” Sinclair winked. “But as one says when dealing with news networks, don’t quote me on it.”

Mancini chuckled. “I have to say, Colonel, I’m wondering if this ship should be flying escort for my boat and not the other way around.”

“An astute observation, Captain, but this time, I shall need you more than ever to be my eyes and ears deeper in the system. This weapons module has advanced sensors, which add to our capabilities, but they are nowhere near the powerful set we used on our previous mission. A necessary trade-off for operating outside Coalition space.” Sinclair directed Mancini to the analysis section, where Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred were huddled over a set of consoles. “We have a secure link ready to program between our two vessels, which will make for much easier tight-beam transmissions. It’s much more difficult for enemies to detect, I’m assured.”

“It sure will be, Colonel.” Miranda Eldred leaned back in her seat, grinning.

Given the skill with which she’d approached her new role in the CDF and her devotion to her duty aboard the Oxford, Sinclair opted to overlook her periodic lack of decorum. She had worked in a non-military role with CIS during the war. Besides, anyone who could figure out how to access Captain Tamir’s quarters while he was sleeping and apply shaving cream—which had been dyed a brilliant, glow-in-the-dark violet—to his outstretched hand deserved a bit of slack.

“It’s set on a modulating frequency the captain devised, one that will jump to the next available carrier wave at random intervals. You might experience delays but no more than a fraction of a second. Slick stuff.”

At the word “slick,” Tamir made a face. Sinclair noticed tiny purple flecks in the crook of his nose. Mancini must have seen them, too, but he locked his face into a serious expression. Oxford’s pranks were legendary even among stealth boat crews, it seemed.

“It’s a complex algorithm but one we shouldn’t have any problems getting Tuscon’s communication systems to recognize,” Tamir said. “I need to run a few more tests before we upload the recognition software.”

“Sounds good to me,” Mancini said. “I’ll let Captain Godat know you’ll need access to our comms. He’ll be your contact man.”

“I appreciate that, Major.”

“You, uh…” Mancini rubbed at the corner of his own nose then gestured to Tamir’s.

Tamir’s face darkened. He snorted out a laugh. “Blast it all, Miranda…”

She blushed, too, but seemed more pleased by the attention than anything else. “I’ll get to monitoring local comms, Captain. A lot of overlapping traffic is out here, and I doubt it’ll get sorted out if we spend time daydreaming of retaliatory pranks.”

“You’re right, of course, Warrant, but I don’t need the day to dream about them. I’ll have plenty of time off shift.” Tamir glanced at Sinclair. “We’re on it, Colonel.”

“I never dreamed otherwise, Butter Bars.” Sinclair let the familiar teasing but brotherly nickname hang in the air as he led Mancini back to the tactical hologram. “I trust your orders are sufficiently clear, Major?”

“Yes, sir.” Mancini reached for the display. “May I?”

“By all means.”

Mancini adjusted the view so it magnified Bellwether. “My primary worry is our avenue of approach should we need to bail out Captain Adams’s people. Tactisar doesn’t have much in the way of a fleet—mostly second-hand starfighters—but they do run sixteen gunships. They’re small craft, only thirty meters, but they pack a punch. Crewed by two, every square centimeter is packed with armor and weapons where they’re not filled with fuel or crowded with engines.”

“And I see Nosamo likes to keep them close.”

“Every last one within a single AU of the station.” Mancini frowned. “I looked over the specs for Adams’s new racer, the Florio? Beauty of a shuttle and faster than the bulk of small craft out here, but if they sweep in and she gets caught while she’s making a run for it…”

“I see what you mean. It will be Tuscon’s charge, then, to clear her a safe route.”

“Yes, sir. Which makes our coverage of the system even more piecemeal.”

“A valid point, Major. Work up a tactical response plan, and submit it to me by oh seven hundred tomorrow. I shall review it with my staff and, if necessary, make revisions, which we will then run by you. The gunships are a concern. I’m glad to see you’ve taken them into consideration.”

Mancini eyed him with what Sinclair could only describe as amused suspicion. “Is it fair to say you’ve got your own plan, Colonel, and you’re checking to see if mine’s up to snuff when compared with yours?”

“I shall neither confirm nor deny.”

“Sounds like a spook statement to me, sir.”

“Says the man in a boat that nearly every ship in this system will never see coming until it’s too late.”

“Meaning no disrespect. Just pointing out that the regular fleet boys would probably be clutching their rank insignia if they could hear how we operate.”

Sinclair nodded. “That, Major, is what puts us at a distinct advantage when dealing with the enemy. Our comrades are bound by doctrine. We…” He smiled. “Well, let’s say we have a little more freedom in such matters, now don’t we?”

“Colonel?” Tamir was over by the comms station. When he’d spirited himself there, Sinclair hadn’t the foggiest idea. “Incoming encrypted transmission. Signal’s faint, but it checks out with our protocols. It’s Warrant Sakuri.”

“The pilot?” Mancini asked.

“Of Covert Action Unit Twenty-Two,” Sinclair murmured. “And quite possibly the only survivor.”

5

Bellwether Logistics and Supply Station

Caeli Star System—the Alvarsson Wedge

15 November 2464

Bellwether’s docking ring was one of the biggest man-made structures Jackson had ever seen up close. It could easily fit a massive warship like CSV Audacious, one of those carriers capable of fielding more than five hundred combat spacecraft. At the moment, it was sheltering twenty freighters. And that didn’t count the forty vessels circling the station, sidling up to external docking ports when no internal berths were ready.

Traffic control had directed Novabird to a section reserved for private shuttles. Dwyer’s landing put them in a broad hangar home to at least a hundred other small craft, each one with a spacious berth fifty meters on each side.

Jackson left the shuttle first, without a backward glance at his teammates. Their cover was simple—three individuals who paid passage to Bellwether aboard a private shuttle run by Dwyer and Sev, all under assumed names, of course. Gina and Brant trotted down the shuttle’s ramp shortly thereafter, each bound for the apartments they’d rented for their duration. Nothing would connect them. Rents were being paid through three separate bank accounts, none of which had any obvious connections to CDF Intelligence. Jackson’s apartment would have to wait. He had an appointment.

“Echo One, this is Echo Home. How do I read?” Brant’s voice, tinny and small, filtered through the implant tucked behind Jackson’s right ear.

Jackson could answer verbally or send a response signal via the transmitter inside his sleeve. Those bursts would appear as background junk waves among the millions of day-to-day transmissions zinging between individuals and their person devices, their ships, and other sources.

Jackson toggled the sleeve transmitter to signal received as he kept walking toward the long, low-ceilinged arrival terminal. The name “Bellwether” was spelled out in green neon, flanked by shining chrome Nosamo emblems two meters tall. Hundreds of humans, Saurians, and numerous other species mingled among the bars, restaurants, and shops—the first line of many barriers intended to separate arrivals from their credits.

“Roger, One. I’ll send you the lay of the land once I get settled into my apartment. Gina’s on her way to Nosamo’s personnel department up in their corporate offices. Your station map’s been modified to update with our positions whenever you need. Godspeed.”

Jackson sent a repeat acknowledgement but kept his eyes on station security. He’d counted ten Tactisar men and women since disembarking. There, at the wide corridor allowing access to the arrival terminal, four officers stood watch. None had an ex-military bearing. One guy’s tattoos indicated gang-related activity wasn’t too far in his past. They didn’t seem overly concerned with checking people as they arrived. Rather, their attention singled out individuals every so often. The tattooed officer pulled aside a skinny young man without so much as a warning and handed him off to a squad of three more men who appeared from an unmarked side room.

When it was Jackson’s turn to pass, two officers looked up midconversation, paused for two seconds, then continued their rambling as if they hadn’t noticed him.

They did a poor job of hiding their interest. Jackson glanced at small tablets mounted to their shirtsleeves. Likely they’d been given orders to watch for him since he was supposed to interview for the vacancy.

Sure enough, the man in charge appeared in front of Jackson before he could reach the nearest cluster of seats. The officer, a dark-skinned man with brilliant-yellow hair, stopped in front of him with two female officers flanking his position. They did a passable job wandering away, as if they were keeping tabs on the flowing crowds, but Jackson could tell they were there to provide security for their boss.

“This is the guy,” the officer said. “Jonathan James Arno?”

“Yes, sir.” Jackson dumped his bags onto a nearby couch. He offered a hand. “Call me Jack, though. Even Mom does.”

“Detective Ramsey Moss.” The handshake was meant to test his strength—or tear an airlock from its frame. “Drop the ‘sir’ business, too, Jack. We’re not big on rank here, except for detectives.”

“You got it, si—sure thing. Haven’t quite gotten the Colonial Rangers out of me. They make a bigger deal of it.”

“That why you left? Besides being bored out of your skull trying to enforce federal regs on backwater planets?”

Jackson snorted. “Come on, Detective. I’ll pay you the compliment of assuming you’ve already sniffed out my background. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have brought me in for a talk.”

“Yeah, I have to say, your background sure raised eyebrows, mostly in good ways. Why’d you give it up?”

“The Rangers? I didn’t give a damn thing up. They booted me, all for being entrepreneurial on the side.”

Ramsey crossed his arms. “It’s not like you were selling used hovercraft when off duty. The Coalition frowns on drug trafficking.”

“You’re going to moralize to me too? Look, everyone who bought from me made a choice to part with the credits and put the product into their bodies.” Jackson pointed a finger at Ramsey’s chest.

The female officers twitched, hands going to their weapons, but Ramsey shook his head.

“Not my problem,” Jackson said. “Besides, we’re all about personal freedom, right?”

“Whatever you say. I’m just trying to get a feel for a guy who gives up a well-paid, respected post for a life on the fringe.”

“How about a guy who’s tired of following the rules? A guy who got run down by regulations.” Jackson sneered. “This time, I’m getting what’s mine, and as long as Tactisar’s the one who makes that possible, I’ll do whatever you need me to do, Detective.”

Ramsey’s grin broadened. “Now that’s what I like to hear, man. I value initiative. Not too much, mind you. You’re still gonna have to follow orders—namely mine. If that’s a problem, you’d better turn around and get your ass on the next shuttle out because you won’t be staying on my station. Clear?”

“Sure. You got it.”

Ramsey stepped closer until Jackson smelled the alcohol on his breath. “Really? Because that fire in your eye better not be directed at me. Ever. This isn’t like your planet-hopping days with your big, thick atmosphere for a shield. Bellwether’s my world, and I know a lot of unpleasant ways for you to leave it, especially if you piss me off.”

Jackson maintained his arrogant stance but made sure to let his gaze falter from Ramsey’s. Let the guy maintain his perceived dominance. “I said ‘sure.’ You’re the boss. Hey, I’m no vacuum for brains. I know I have to learn how things work around here.”

“Damn straight.” Ramsey consulted his arm-mounted tablet. “Says here one of your skills was cozying up to narcotics traffickers. Undercover work?”

“Plenty of it. It made for a good way to turn up new business partners. But I wasn’t actually undercover with the narcotics people. My job was to infiltrate the companies the traffickers used as fronts, from the legitimate employee side.”

Ramsey nodded.

“Why?” Jackson put on a puzzled expression. “You got snooping that needs done?”

“Maybe. I got someone I need watched. I think you might be the guy to help me out. You think you can do that?”

“Shit.” Jackson snorted. “I can sit on a cargo vault and count micrometeorite impacts on the underside of arriving shuttles if you pay me enough.”

Ramsey chuckled. “Good attitude. Kami? Check in with Desmond and the boys. Tell ’em we’re meeting up later. Sasha, stick with me and the new guy. Time to show him around.”

Kami departed, leaving Sasha, the tall blonde, following them at six paces, her icy stare all the more unsettling because of the shimmering bronze implant curving around her left eye. Jackson hoped his wrist scanner unit was picking up enough details for Brant to analyze later.

“Come on, Arno,” Ramsey said. “Let’s get you fitted with a vest and slapped with a badge. Then we can do whatever the hell we want.”

Gina Wilkes found her apartment easily enough. Intelligence had sprung for one of the more posh accommodations facing Eden Core, a huge cylindrical park at the center of Bellwether’s Sectors C and D. It was four kilometers across and half a klick high, filled with the flora and fauna of a dozen worlds. Strange Saurian plant life thrived behind transparent barriers, accessible by negative pressure airlocks. Visitors and residents alike swam and paddleboarded across the lake in the center, skirting the spray from a hundred-meter waterfall.

The Core was a delightful expanse of green, red, yellow, and brown in the midst of endless metal and other synthetics. The way in which the landscape flowed from one biome into the next made Gina homesick, though she was perplexed as to which home. One moment she felt it was an idyllic paradise. The next, she giggled at people playing inside what looked like a zoo for humanoids. Either was fine by her. The variation kept her alert, which was what she needed most as she stepped into the lobby of Nosamo Aerothermic Tech.

Nosamo’s offices and laboratories occupied Sectors A97 through A128, on sixteen zones spread across two kilometers. Gina took in the sumptuous furnishings as she waited, leg crossed over her knee, in a pale-gray dress that was meant to be equal parts professional and dazzling.

“Ms. Willis?” A slender young woman, Gina’s height with short red hair and a smile as bold as her outfit, stood nearby. Gina’s holographic profile glowed from the woman’s bejeweled wrist, which must have concealed a powerful device among its glittering gemstones. “Gianna Willis?”

“Gina, please.”

“Gina. Welcome to Nosamo Aerothermic. I’m Ciara. Delighted. Come with me.”

The pair walked beyond the glass curve of the massive reception desk and down white corridors alight with not only embedded video of numerous worlds and starscapes but actual paintings in both oil and watercolor. Gina tried to appraise them but lost track in the tens of millions. “You have such a lovely facility. I’m delighted you selected my resume.”

“We at Nosamo pride ourselves on human interaction over machines,” Ciara said. “A bot can certainly be an efficient liaison between customer and company. But the personal touch—the human touch—is what maintains the business relationship. I can’t tell you how pleased we are to have found someone who understands what that means.”

“I do so enjoy interacting with people.” Especially when I’m playing a role such as this. A gray cylinder hunkered in an alcove Ciara led them past. At first Gina mistook it for a sculpture until the red light on the side of the cylinder tracked her passing. Security drone, heavily modified in its appearance, but if it wasn’t hiding stun rounds or more lethal means of stopping intruders, she would be very surprised.

“So far, so good,” Brant said through her communicator. “I’ll dig up more detailed specs on their security systems once you’re done with the appointment and we can download the full scans. Even these initial looks are helpful. All I can say is, if we tried anything more active, I don’t doubt that bot would burn you where you stand.”

Really? How helpless does he think I am? Just because I’m squeezed into a dress rather than my ghost jumpsuit.

“In here.” Ciara waved Gina into a room with transparent walls, the farthest of which was an aquarium.

Ugh. It took all her training to keep a smile on her face. She hated fish. Slimy, scaly, with those idiotic faces. “My, how beautiful.”

“Beautiful indeed.” Ardalion Noor was as charming in real life as his images suggested. He was shorter than Gina imagined, clad in a tailor-made suit over a red silk shirt. He extended his hand, a platinum wristband shining in the ceiling and floor lights. “Good afternoon, Ms. Willis. I am delighted to meet you in person.”

“Thank you, Mr. Noor.” Gina returned his smile with her best.

She matched his hand for a shake, but he seized it—with a margin of possessiveness Gina found too narrow—and kissed her knuckles.

“Such a rarity, to meet a gentleman, especially this far out from civilization.”

“I think, Ms. Willis, you will find we here aboard Bellwether are quite civilized. One can build society in the coldest, darkest corner of the galaxy if one has sufficient willpower—and of course, provided one marries it with cutting-edge technology.”

“Which is why I came to Nosamo and am grateful you’ve granted me an interview. I want the same thing you do.”

Noor’s smile grew. “Do you?”

“The expansion of civilization. Nosamo has the means to continue this, free of the interference politicians like to inject. Your atmospheric regulation towers make the goal achievable.”

“Very good. I had a feeling you belonged. I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character, and given your background…” Noor tapped his wristband. Gina’s holographic face appeared, apparently summoned from the same database Ciara had accessed. “Two degrees in atmospheric terraforming. Hailing from Churchill’s most prestigious academy. Experience working for multiple corporations, including Apex Atmos and Trinata. You have glowing recommendations from people who used to be my rivals, which to my mind, does not disqualify you in the slightest. On the contrary, it makes your employment here all the more desirable.”

“I’m glad to hear it. As I understand the job description, my role is primarily one of customer care.”

“Yes, in a way. We’ll require you in technical oversight as well as interaction with our primary contractors. They are the ones we must keep happy. I’ll expect you to do so.”

“I will do my best.”

“No.” Noor’s expression hardened—not an obvious display of anger, but a tightening of his features without losing the charming smile. Gina knew he could be dangerous, even without the mission briefing files. “You will do what needs to be done, whatever the cost. Cost is not an issue. It never will be. Being Nosamo means you give your all.”

“I understand. I do.” Gina walked to the aquarium windows. “You know, my mother would often take me to the sea. Even when I was away at the academy on Churchill, she made time to visit so we could see the ocean, any ocean. It was something we loved since we were raised aboard a space habitat.”

“You see the beauty in this creation. It is why I have these aquariums throughout our offices—a constant reminder, our greatest role here is as a protector and improver of the same creation. We heal worlds. This is why I hold everyone in Nosamo to a higher standard, more than to which humanity is accustomed.”

Not egotistical at all, is he? Gina nodded. “Yes. I see that now. That’s why—” She let herself choke up. Instead of moving away from the repulsive display of fish, she pressed both her hands to the transparent barrier. “This is where I’m meant to be.”

“Echo Two, the microbots are in position. Stay put for ten seconds, and they’ll finish seeping through the membrane.”

Hopefully without making the tons of water burst through in a flood that could drown all three of us. Gina leaned in and sighed. She presumed she looked overwhelmed by a deluge of emotions, when the primary sensation she actually harbored was one of sickness. Those damned fish.

The microbots crawling down her fingertips weren’t the pebble-sized ones she’d used to sabotage the League consulate on Aphendrika. They were a tenth the size and wafer-thin, able to wriggle their way into the transparent wall, stretching their molecules apart until they could worm into the water and reform. Once reassembled, they would be just as effective as the regular microbots, staying hidden and on station over the next day before they disintegrated. Enough time to give Brant an initial peek into Nosamo’s network.

Noor’s hand rested on Gina’s shoulder. She let it stay there twice as long as she would have preferred. If it had happened in a bar, she would have broken one of the man’s fingers.

Instead, she glanced back at him, her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you for this opportunity,” Gina murmured.

“Thank you,” Noor said, “for believing in us. Ciara will settle you into your office. We’ll have a staff meeting for your section tomorrow morning.”

He left the room. Ciara maintained a respectful distance, presumably allowing Gina to collect herself.

“They’re through,” Brant said. “Getting a signal now. We’ll know more within twenty-four hours.”

Thank goodness. As Gina followed Ciara out of the meeting room, she fought the urge to scrub her hands with disinfectant. When we steal what we came here for, I’m going to flush every last slimy fish out the nearest hatch.

Tactisar Security Solutions was headquartered in the sectors directly beneath Nosamo, its offices, holding cells, and storage facilities taking up four square kilometers. A quarter of that space was dedicated to a hangar that opened along a sloped hatch, allowing gunships access to the region around Bellwether. The majority of Tactisar staff and officers lived in residential blocks nearby.

Ramsey Moss sagged into his chair. It had been a long day of traipsing around the top sectors of Bellwether, dragging the new guy along. But it was worth every second and his aching feet—Jack Arno proved a quick study when it came to memorizing locations. He grinned. That would come in handy when he had to keep an eye on Boyd.

Of all the dumb aliases. It hadn’t been Ramsey’s idea, but his benefactor had insisted, with his wishes enforced by Fernand. Oh well. It had worked out for the best, keeping the contact secret to all but Ramsey and the outside money. Boyd had been implanted deep in Nosamo’s infrastructure—but for that contact to be of any use when the time came for the heist, Ramsey needed another person he could trust. Venable had been the guy, but the bastard Nels had shot him.

His office door chimed. Ramsey saw Cho’s hazy image behind the semitransparent glass. “Yeah. Come in.”

Cho sat down opposite Ramsey’s desk. His hair was slick with sweat.

“Where the hell have you been? I toured the new guy over every square centimeter, and you couldn’t be bothered to answer your commlink, Sergeant?”

“Sorry, boss. We were running down a tip on Nels’s partner. We thought we had him cornered in Sector E, South Quarter, but there’s so much machinery…” Cho shook his head. “Anyway, we left sniffer drones in five packs. They’ll patrol their assigned areas, reporting in remotely every few hours unless we get lucky.”

“Better hope you do. Those robot trackers are decent, but they don’t beat a man on the scene. Any ID on the person?”

“None. Nels kept to himself before—well, before he tried to take off.”

“Keep me updated.”

“How’re things looking for the job?”

Ramsey shrugged. “As well as can be expected. Fernand passed me a signal from our contact with Apex. They’re ready to move payment—precious stones, artwork, the good stuff, stuff that can’t be tracked into our bank accounts. Once we get the plans to the rendezvous, we all get our cut.”

“Fernand. You trust this guy still?”

“His intel’s paid off every single time. If it hadn’t, we’d be short the extra credits we need to pull this off. Besides, the techs in on the plan are watching his signals. And there’s no denying that the money we’ve gotten so far is good.”

Cho shook his head. “This one has a lot of moving parts. It’s not like the scams we used to run.”

“You’re damn right it’s not. This is the real deal, Sergeant. We get it right, and we’re set for life.” Ramsey grinned. “Then we kiss that Noor prick and this whole station goodbye.”

6

Bellwether Logistics and Supply Station

Caeli Star System—the Alvarsson Wedge

16 November 2464

Chief Warrant Officer Ixora Sakuri, “Vector Control” of Covert Action Unit 22, sat alone on one side of Oxford’s briefing room table. A stern-faced young woman with a slight build, Sakuri seemed to sag against her chair, her flight suit rumpled. She reminded Colonel Sinclair of many fresh-faced recruits he’d helped train. Most didn’t make the cut, but she had the look of someone who could function under pressure. This time, the aftermath of such a pressure-filled situation had proven too much.

“Captain Garza and I were in constant communication up until—when his signal terminated.” Her voice shook on his name but steadied as she continued her report. She clasped her fingers to keep them from shaking. “He had suspicions someone in Tactisar had breached his cover, but I disagreed. So did Vector Two—Lieutenant Garza. Our concern was more that Tactisar had targeted him because of his actions. His cover held.”

Sinclair consulted his tablet. “The captain’s cover was that of a former CBI agent dismissed for bribery and corruption charges.”

“Yes, sir. It was the kind of position we knew Tactisar would approve of, given their record of providing ex-law enforcement with ‘second chances,’ as they call them.” Sakuri scowled. “More like a chance to stock their ranks with the scum of the Coalition who’d been turned out from their respective organizations for wrongdoing.”

“Do you have evidence of what happened, Warrant? What it was that breached Captain Garza’s security and made him the target?”

“Not conclusively, sir. But I do know Tactisar officers confronted the captain in his final hours, accusing him of informing to Nosamo, or at least attempting to inform.”

“Inform Nosamo of what?”

“Of Tactisar’s collusion with a rival company. They planned to steal the corporation’s newest atmospheric technology together. We determined this during our investigation, but Captain Garza was struggling to piece together who the benefactor was.”

Sinclair frowned.

“There’s no mention of a benefactor in your report, Warrant.” Eldred had stayed quiet during the questioning as she recorded Sakuri’s statements. “What was that person’s role?”

“Money. Support. We were pretty sure that was it. And by support, I mean weapons and tech.” Sakuri looked disgusted. “Whoever he or she is, they have deep pockets. Their drones, for example—I thought I had them all blocked so they would automatically ghost Captain Garza when he was conducting reconnaissance. We wanted his movements untracked for certain time periods. But they found him when he was trying to make his escape. It shouldn’t have happened.”

Sinclair entered his own note. Inform 171 to confirm drone tech shipments. He shunted it from his tablet to Eldred’s. He glanced at her and got a curt nod. “Were you able to retrieve scans of the drones? They’ll be invaluable to the current team when it comes to tracking them down and interdicting their efforts.”

“Yes, sir. We—I retrieved the data from Captain Garza’s wrist scanner.” Her voice faltered. “Sorry, Colonel. It’s…”

“This is not your fault, Warrant. I want you to put the self-blame far from your mind. Captain Garza was a brave officer who knew the risks of his perilous task. Your enemies are the ones responsible for his death. I need your assistance, you understand, if we are to find and secure Lieutenant Garza.”

“Yes, sir.” Tears glistened in Sakuri’s eyes, but she straightened in her chair. “Lieutenant Garza’s role as Vector Two, which I indicated in my report, was to shadow the captain. His cover aboard Bellwether was as docking-bay drone maintenance. Two hundred people are employed in that capacity. Since the—since Captain Garza’s death, the lieutenant has not reported to work or responded to my signals.”

“But you’ve been searching for him since,” Eldred noted.

“Every day, Warrant. Every minute until Oxford showed up.”

“I understand. I do. What I mean to ask is if you’ve been scanning for his communications frequencies.”

“And the public comms in case he tried to send a hidden message that way. I’ve received nothing.”

Sinclair watched as Eldred tapped her finger in a rapid rhythm on the side of her tablet.

“What, pray tell, is percolating?” Sinclair asked.

“Well, I was stuck on Sakuri’s description of the drones, so I pulled up their schematics. They’re configured not only for interior maintenance work but capable of withstanding hard vacuum conditions so they can scour the station’s outer hull for damage. Not all of them can conduct the repairs, but they routinely call in larger work bots to replace warped plating or seal impact damage. You said Lieutenant Garza worked on the similar hangar bay drones. Did he have contact with these security or surveillance models, the upgraded ones you believe were shipped in?”

“He did. I received a few of his scans before he went dark. Vector Two tried to draw Captain Garza’s attackers away before he was overwhelmed and had to fall back.” Sakuri’s expression tightened. “Do you think he might have found a way to use them?”

“It’s possible,” Eldred said. “Colonel, if Lieutenant Garza were able to get ahold of one of these upgraded drones, he could use its onboard communications—which are meant for greater range outside Bellwether—to attempt contact. Now, if Warrant Sakuri hadn’t picked up those signals, she either could have been out of range—”

“Or she could have been scanning for the wrong frequency through no fault of her own,” Sinclair murmured. “Jolly good. Coordinate with Captain Tamir. Tune our comms to the same wavelength used by those drones.”

“Relay satellites in the system should have records of past messages too,” Eldred said. “I’ll see if we can’t break in and pull those, assuming we’re not going to ask Nosamo for permission.”

“Hardly, Warrant. Nosamo is no more aware of our presence here than our targets.”

“Roger that, sir. I’ll get started.”

“In a moment.” Sinclair steepled his fingers. “Warrant Sakuri, you will check in with the chief medical officer and shipboard psychologist. Once they clear you for duty, I’d like you to remain available to assist Warrant Eldred and Captain Tamir in their investigation. I shall, of course, contact your CO and obtain authorization for a change of orders.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m happy to continue to do my part.” Sakuri chewed her lip. “Colonel, if I may—”

“Your input is welcome, Warrant.”

“I’d like to request flying retrieval or transport, should the need arise.”

“We have a full roster of pilots aboard, Warrant, but rest assured, if I think we can make use of your talents, we will.” Sinclair smiled. “You’re dismissed.”

“Sir.” Sakuri rose, braced to attention, then left the compartment.

Two seconds after the hatch sealed, Eldred turned toward Sinclair. “You didn’t ask about her connections to the Sakuri family from Nosamo’s board.”

“No. The moment wasn’t right. Guilt-ridden as she is, any attempt to question her family’s role in the corporation could lead to hesitance, or worse, outright fabrication.”

“Do you think she’d lie to a superior officer?”

Sinclair shrugged. “We all lie, in one way or another, Miranda. Just because I recognize the undeniable fact does not make me a full-fledged cynic. Assigning her to you and Captain Tamir will yield better results than if I press her from my position.”

“Understood.” Eldred rose. “Looks like I get to put my CIS training to good use, after all.”

“I indeed hope so.” Sinclair joined her at the hatch. “Compile our notes from this session with all the data she’s turned over, plus anything relevant you can pull from her shuttle. Prepare a compressed packet for Captain Adams. I’ll give final review and approval before you send it via secure tight-beam to Lieutenant Guinto.”

“Yes, sir.”

By the time they reached the control center, Sinclair was working through the highlights of Sakuri’s questioning. He didn’t have the impression the young warrant officer was hiding something, per se. Captain Garza’s death had clearly rattled her, but that she hadn’t offered anything about her personal connection to the Sakuri family hadn’t escaped his notice, either, even with Eldred pointing it out.

He knew the familial ties were a prime factor in her assignment to her op. Whether such a connection made her prone to mistakes, well, he would have to keep a sharp eye. Much rode on the psychologist’s report.

Sinclair frowned. He hoped, for Lieutenant Garza’s sake, it came back with few flags raised. Warrant Sakuri was the best source of information they had to attempt his rescue.

Jackson took a table near the windows inside Giardino Delle Stelle, a restaurant with sprawling tables set between actual streams of water. Crossing the narrow bridges over the gurgling creeks and onto faux stone paths made him feel like he was in one of the fairy tales Mom used to read to him when he could barely walk. There was always a great miracle at the end. He wanted to pull one off again.

The hovering servo bot, barely more than a cylinder with six ducted fans carrying a glowing globe, swung by to activate the menu holo in the center of his table. Jackson dismissed the bot and turned his attention to the spectacular view. The restaurant took up three floors looking out through a transparent wall into Eden Core. He still had a hard time believing the extent of the ecosphere he saw before him.

“Lovely sight, isn’t it?” Gina’s voice drifted over his shoulder.

He smiled, taking in her reflection in the wall. She’d sat at the table behind him, facing the opposite direction. “Gorgeous.”

“Now, Jack, that’s the part where you’re supposed to say, ‘Nothing in nature compares to your beauty,’ or something equally flattering.”

Jackson smothered his grin, trying not to break into chuckles like a teenage recruit. “My mistake. You want to take over running the op while I brush up on compliments for pretty women?”

“Good start.” A servo bot brought Gina a glass of red wine. It shimmered inside the glass as she swirled it. “And how was your first day at work?”

“Pretty good, honey.”

“The uniform suits you. It’s better tailored than your typical togs, though the vest is too bulky.”

Jackson glanced down at the black vest, with its Tactisar badge gleaming under the restaurant lights. He wore a tight-fitting blue shirt and a pair of gray trousers since the rest of the security company had nothing approaching a dress code. “Thanks. I think a vest would equally ruin your outfit.”

Gina giggled as she flicked through the holographic menu. Seriously, though, she was stunning in the red dress, complete with the starry jewels glittering at her neck. Jackson did his best not to turn around and appreciate her more fully, especially when it came to the slit up her thigh.

“And your day?”

“Orientation and familiarization with the systems for which I’m responsible. Simple stuff. Mostly.” She sipped her wine. “Home in my ear coaxed me through the rest.”

“How’d our small friends do?”

“They brought him lots of goodies, or so he says. You’ll hear from him later, once he gets it all sorted out. Our small friends have left the building, as the saying goes.”

“Glad they were useful again. Don’t worry. We’ll get you some more.”

“Thanks. So… your day went well?”

Jackson sighed. “If you call learning the best places to shake down merchants for protection money ‘well,’ then, yes. They want me posted inside Nosamo itself, which fits with what we read in the job posting. The bulk of my work would be internal security there, which should help us contact whomever the rival company has deployed.”

“They have a person on the inside already? I knew that was Vector One’s suspicion…”

“He wasn’t able to prove it.” Jackson spotted movement in the reflection, the servo bot, returning to take his order—having escorted two more people to their table, Tactisar officers, a man and a woman. The blonde was the one who’d provided backup for Ramsey at the first dockside introduction. “Looks like we’re not the only ones snooping for answers. Your nine o’clock.”

Gina raised her glass, signaling her servo bot for a refill. She turned and gazed out the window, giving her the chance to murmur, “Wow, they’re subtle, aren’t they? I’m pretty sure they’re staring right at you.”

“Mm-hmm. Let’s hold off on the rest of our debrief until later.” Jackson gave his order to the bot—a seafood and pasta dish accompanied by a vegetable, all of which were sourced from the Eden Core. He switched to his tablet, which had a local news network pulled up. But it also had his messaging board active. Coordinate with Echo Home on potential avenues of access.

The message blinked back from Gina twenty seconds later. Delighted to do so. Can’t wait to go shopping for the finest money can buy.

Jackson shook his head, bemused. If it were up to Gina, they would slip into Nosamo tonight and wing it, scouring the secure servers, and if they were discovered, all the better. Adrenaline was her weakness. As soon as I know who the salesman is, I’ll get you his contact info.

Here’s hoping he’s more charming than you.

They passed the rest of their evening in silence, ignoring each other until Gina left the restaurant after her third glass of wine, when Jackson was halfway through his entrée. Even the Tactisar people watching Jackson were distracted by her exit—and half the restaurant along with them. That allowed Jackson to get imagery with his wrist unit of his two followers as he waved to the servo bot again.

“I’ll run them through the Tactisar servers,” Brant said in his earpiece. “And yes, I’ve gotten access. You’d think for a security provider they’d be locked down tighter. It’s pretty embarrassing. But I’ll avoid leaving a review on their company profile. Stop by after dinner, preferably with leftovers.”

An hour later, Jackson crossed to the exit, a still-warm container in hand. His Tactisar tail had left.

Brant took a forkful of pasta and inhaled. “God bless you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Brant’s apartment was halfway across Sector E and equidistant between the Core and the station’s outer hull. Cramped, it reminded Jackson of the dive he’d been assigned back on Aphendrika, only with better lighting. A transparent door—now opaque by the controls—looked out onto a broad balcony. They were six stories up, in a twelve-story section lined with residences above an endless thoroughfare of shops and entertainment.

“So. The microbots.” Brant wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He pulled a crowd of data onto one of the four portable screens he’d set up in the far corner. “They pulled together a complete layout of the Nosamo complex, which wasn’t on station records, by the way. The heads there clearly don’t want people knowing what’s where.”

“Shocker. They have any luck with the labs?”

“Only that there’s thirty. But four have security so strong they’re essentially blacked out. Still, it narrows things down. We also have Noor’s office pinpointed, as well as the security rooms.”

“Which is where I should be posted soon.”

Brant looked at him. “Did you get the intel from Oxford I forwarded?”

Jackson nodded. “Warrant Sakuri’s been through a lot. I’m grateful for the information she can provide, but those drones—”

“I can trace them, what with the signal data she got from Lieutenant Garza’s scans. Reprogramming one? That’ll take some more doing.”

“Sparks and Sev have orders to capture one down on the docks while they conduct their reconnaissance for Garza. Which, by the way, any news on that front?”

“We’ve been here less than two days, Captain.”

Jackson grinned. “I have high expectations, LT.”

Brant took another forkful of pasta. “Don’t I know it. God the Father, grant me patience with you. Anyway, I’ll get to work on the drone project. Meantime, you should know the two Tactisar goons from the restaurant are looking for you again. I’m monitoring their own security scans, and they’re coming down the corridor, so you’d better hang here for a while.”

He changed screens. Yes, the man and woman were on patrol, looking like they were doing their usual thing of breaking up fights. They were definitely moving with haste, though, not normal patrol speed. “Good plan. Speaking of monitoring, have their scanners picked up anything on Lieutenant Garza?”

“Not yet, and let me tell you, they’ve been scouring every corner.” Brant tapped a third screen. “Which is how I plan to access the drones. One of these feeds is coming from those guys—I just have to narrow down which. Warrant Eldred’s scheme to backtrace the signals the drones use for summoning maintenance bots is a sound one, though. If Garza’s piggybacking in an attempt to call for help, we’ll find him.”

“All right. Keep it up.”

“This infiltration—you’re still waiting on the introduction, right?”

“That I am. No hints yet to who the rival company has inside. Ramsey must be keeping it all in his head or at least off network, I assume, since neither of us heard even a whisper.”

“I hate it when they’re smart like that,” Brant grumbled. “The man probably has a note scratched on plastic, or even paper, in his pocket.”

“Well, my pickpocket skills are rusty, and besides, I don’t want to throw that kind of suspicion on myself this early on.” Jackson clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure out a way to get it unless Ramsey jumps ahead and the rival infiltrator makes contact. Stay focused on your end of the plan.”

“Right. Finding Nosamo’s brand new, top-secret tech and locating our missing CDF Intelligence officer. Should be as easy as anything.” Brant rolled his eyes.

His negative attitude didn’t worry Jackson in the slightest. If anyone could dig through restricted networks and systems, it was Lieutenant Brant Guinto. “That, my friend, is exactly what I wanted to hear.”

7

CSV Tuscon

Six AU from Bellwether Station

Caeli Star System—the Alvarsson Wedge

19 November 2464

Major Nathan Mancini was ready for a second cup of coffee, but he didn’t dare break the spell his bridge crew was under. They’d been rigged for ultraquiet for the last six hours.

Lieutenant Olesen, the boat’s tactical officer, spoke softly from TAO as he highlighted a new indicator on the display. “Conn, TAO. Contact Sierra Four is continuing on course.”

“Pilot, match speed and heading,” Mancini ordered.

“Aye, Skipper, matching speed and heading.”

The vibration in the deck shifted subtly. Sierra Four was the brightest mark on the tactical display. It was the nearest of thirteen vessels Tuscon was tracking, and the only one acting suspiciously—because while it was being tracked, the unidentified ship was following a lumbering freighter flagged to a Saurian trade conglomerate.

“Sierra Four is not running with an active transponder.” Captain Patrick Godat, Mancini’s XO, squeezed in beside him.

“Color me unsurprised.” Mancini reached for the intercom mic. “Sensor Room, what’s the verdict?”

“Passive scans indicate a two-hundred-meter Tradesman-class merchant vessel, Major,” the sensor room’s senior chief responded. “Can’t give you more detail without going active, other than she’s been modified with upgrade armor and is putting out enough power I’d be willing to bet her shield strength is thirty percent above baseline for her type.”

“Manageable,” Godat murmured.

Mancini nodded. Even at a third stronger, the shields of a merchant ship of that class were no match for a stealth raider’s arsenal—not that Mancini expected to blow it out of space. He was stalking it, quietly, until it proved whether or not it was a threat. “Pilot, close the distance slowly.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

Standard rules of engagement were clear. If the Tradesman freighter proved itself to be a privateer, Tuscon would announce her presence as a CDF vessel and demand it heave to for boarding. But this space was unaffiliated. As such, CDF technically had no jurisdiction. Plus, hailing them would broadcast to the entire system the presence of a stealth boat when maintaining a low profile was the whole point of her existence.

“If we engage, everyone’s going to know we’re out here.” Godat, of course, had practically read his mind, like a good XO should.

“I know it, but they won’t realize who we are. Let them think the privateers or raiders or whoever’s preying on ships in the region has competition. Better yet, let the raiders suspect someone’s trying to take them out.” Mancini smiled grimly. “It’s not like the crew will be around to confirm suspicions, not while they’re locked up in Oxford’s brig.”

An alert sounded from the tactical display. “Conn, TAO. Aspect change on Sierra Four. Accelerating toward Sierra Seven.”

Sierra Seven, the Saurian freighter. “Our time to intercept?”

“Fifty seconds, Major.”

“Conn, TAO. Reclassify Sierra Four as Master One.” The blue dot representing Sierra Four turned red on the display. Mancini set his jaw. “Pilot, stand by full thrusters on my mark. TAO, firing point procedures, Master One, tubes one and two. Program the Hunter warheads to detonate one hundred meters behind their engines.”

“Aye sir, firing solutions set.”

“Make tubes one and two ready in all aspects. Open outer doors.”

“Tubes one and two ready in all respects. Outer doors are open,” Olesen confirmed.

Mancini stared at the display. The pilot kept the Tuscon acceleration steady, so they didn’t fall too far behind the target, but he held off ordering full speed until they had proof Master One was a threat. Then it would be Olesen’s job to cripple but not destroy the ship. A couple of well-timed missile explosions just shy of their engines should do the trick. Close-up weaponry would finish the job.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, missile launch detected,” Olesen reported. “Missile launched from Master One. Sierra Seven is engaging countermeasures and point defense.”

“Pilot, accelerate to full. Conn, TAO. Match bearings, shoot, tubes one and two,” Mancini commanded.

He held onto his seat as Tuscon surged ahead, chasing Master One as its opponent fired on the Saurian freighter. It didn’t take the attackers long to realize they had gone from being hunter to hunted. It pivoted on its axis and took off at a sixty-degree angle to its original course at a punishing speed that must have played havoc with the crew as the ship’s gravity tried to keep up with the abrupt change.

But Olesen’s targeting skills were up to the challenge. Both missiles exploded in Master One’s wake, above and below the engine quarter of the modified cargo vessel. The blasts were near enough they threw the freighter into a spin, trailing radiation and fuel as the engines sputtered.

Mancini grinned. The intercept numbers plummeted from the original fifty-second estimate as Tuscon raced toward the ship. “Get Master Chief MacDonald on the mic, XO. Tell him we’ll be good to board any moment.”

“Roger that, Skipper.” Godat relayed the information to Tuscon’s cramped hangar bay, where an assault shuttle was waiting with the Space Special Warfare team ready for launch.

“TAO, Conn. Master One has disengaged from Sierra Seven. They’re coming about.”

“Confirm, TAO. They’re moving to intercept us?”

“Confirmed, Skipper.”

“Sensor, Conn.” The sensor technician sounded puzzled. “Getting an energy spike off their core, sir. Its weapons are charging.”

Olesen made a face at his console. “Reading four plasma cannons deployed, Skipper.”

“No communications?” Mancini asked.

“None, sir.”

Mancini shook his head. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master One. Make tubes three through six ready in all respects. Open outer doors. Target their structural braces and engineering spaces.”

“Aye aye, sir. Firing solutions set. Tubes three through six, ready in all respects. Outer doors are open. Aspect change, sir—missile launch detected. Four headed our way.”

“Pilot, evasive action,” Mancini ordered. “TAO, match bearings, shoot, tubes three through six. Active point defense in automatic mode.”

Tuscon shuddered as four more missiles raced out of its bow. The rumbling took on a different pitch as CIWS emplacements engaged and batted down the enemy missiles, ripping them apart one by one until the stealth boat blasted through a cloud of fine debris.

Master One swatted at Tuscon’s missiles with her own PD turrets, but the superior technology of the Hunter warheads was on the CDF’s side. The shackled AIs performed tight maneuvers, evading most everything the enemy threw at them. While one missile exploded far from the target, the other three avoided the counterfire with a skill Mancini found a bit unsettling.

The blasts from all three ripped plasma cannons free of Master One’s hull, opening long gashes from bow to stern. The sensor readouts routed through Mancini’s console showed power levels falling off until the sensor tech confirmed the outcome.

“Reactor is offline, Skipper. They’re dead in space.”

“Good work. Bring us in to board. XO, give MacDonald the green—”

The explosion washed brilliant light across the displays around Tuscon’s bridge. Mancini gaped. Olesen swore.

“My God,” Godat muttered. “What happened?”

“Sensor Room, was that a reactor breach?” Mancini demanded.

“Negative, negative. I’m reading a massive weapons detonation.”

“Missile overload?” Olesen asked. “I’ve seen reports of it being done before—but I thought it was all RUMINT, sir.”

“Apparently not.” Mancini magnified the image of the charred hull, cognizant of the increased hushed conversation around the bridge. “Belay that chatter. Sensor, TAO. Coordinate to confirm there’s nothing alive aboard ship. Master Chief won’t appreciate booby traps.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Still sending them over?” Godat asked.

Mancini nodded. “We’ve still got to see what this was all about, maybe now more than ever. I don’t get it. Privateers are in this game for the money. And it’s not like capture equals death. CDF law offers amnesty, provided lives aren’t taken and civilians don’t experience direct bodily harm or terror.”

“They were afraid of being caught.”

“Exactly.” Mancini made a face. “So, who are they scared of?”

Warrant Ehud Dwyer took his attention off the fastener for a moment so he could read the tablet Sev silently held before him. “Pirates, huh? I don’t think we’re too surprised, do you? Half the reason we came out here was so our big brothers could rattle their hulls. Sounds like they rattled them plenty.”

Sev lowered his head, perusing the story flashing in from the local news networks. “Sloppy.”

“Only on their part, not ours. Can’t believe they went and blew themselves up. It’s not like we’ve never seen raiders pull a reactor breach, but to set off their weapon hold? Yep, I suppose ‘sloppy’ is the best word.”

Dwyer gave the fastener a last crank and tested the access panel. He was running routine maintenance on Novabird’s auxiliary comms, the last of such checkups he’d run over the past few days. It gave him an excuse to stick around Shuttle Bay Golf Sixteen West Eight. Dwyer chuckled. It sure was a good thing traffic control gave all incoming craft locator beacons or he would never find his way around the maze of a station on foot.

Cap’n’s plan was solid. It involved Dwyer making acquaintances with the other shuttle pilots, many of whom were sticking around after their initial passenger drop-off to see if they could wrangle new fares to the bigger bulk transports coming through the Caeli system. A sprawling, dimly lit lounge a half klick from Novabird’s berth, the Loose Aileron, was always full. Dwyer considered it a second home.

Pilots loved to talk, which made sense. After days or weeks on their own—or worse, with just one other person to talk to—they were dying for conversation, which Dwyer obliged. He hadn’t heard anything yet about the missing Lieutenant Garza—or Dunn Gonzales, his legend provided by CDF Intelligence—but he’d heard the murmured talk about a few techs who’d disappeared in previous weeks.

Being undercover was fine by Dwyer. He’d started out as a battlefield retrieval pilot, plucking downed men and women from the void while plasma blasts and shrapnel were flashing all around. He’d had three craft shot out from under himself. It’d been an exciting way to serve the Coalition—until Intelligence found out about his other skill set.

He had a knack for explosives and liked to tinker, which no one had noticed until he’d breached the fuselage of a League shuttle come to pick up prisoners on the same space battlefield where he’d been stranded after they’d shot his craft down. Dwyer smirked. Brass must have been mighty impressed when he’d called in for retrieval himself with a wounded pilot strapped beside him in the vented cockpit of the same League shuttle.

Sev grunted. He lifted his chin.

A woman in a hot-red flight jumpsuit headed their way. She pulled her gloves off, her grin broadening as she swept her blond hair into a ponytail.

Dwyer returned the grin. Only flaw in the cap’n’s plan? He made me dye my hair and shave the sides. Now how in blazes am I supposed to be charming when I look like a street punk? Good thing his zadye was gone—the old man would have reverted to good old sackcloth and ashes if he’d seen. Probably he’s lookin’ down on me now, wagging his finger at his poor, wayward grandson. “Mornin’.”

“Hey.” It wasn’t until the woman was right in front of him that Dwyer realized she was appreciating Novabird, not him. “Hell of a bird. I like the name.”

“Thanks. I etched it on myself.” Dwyer patted the fuselage right under the streaming wings of a stylized phoenix. “Ain’t seen you around since I put in. New?”

She chuckled. “Hardly. Ava Vardanyan. Shockwave Shuttles Ltd.”

“I’m Eddie Wyatt. Shuttles plural?”

“Two, as of this trip back.” Ava gestured down the berths at two craft side by side, one a sleek eight-passenger courier with variable geometry wings for easy atmospheric flight, the other a broad, wedge-shaped barge Dwyer guessed could carry forty. But more importantly, the courier was Florio brand. “Bought the Florio Ionworks Mark Six on our way back, me and my partners. I didn’t know anyone else operating here had a Thirteen stashed in their back pocket.”

“I’m not local. Sorry to disappoint.” Dwyer leaned against the landing strut, arms crossed, giving the impression he was interested in everything Ava had to say—which he was, sure, but he was also trying to give LT maximum mic pickup. “Passin’ through. I dropped some folks here a few days back but wanted to see if I could snag new passengers before I’m due for my next contract in a week.”

“Good luck with that. This place is so full up with pilots that sometimes I think we’d be better off paying each other for rides to the system’s edge and back so we can feel useful.” Ava pointed at Novabird. “Would you mind giving me the half-credit tour?”

“You bet.” Dwyer offered his arm.

Ava smirked but took it, putting her gloves into Dwyer’s chest pocket. Dwyer glanced back at Sev and winked. Sev muttered words Dwyer guessed were meant as insulting, but he went back to his tablet reading and let the tour proceed in peace.

Ava leaned nearer as Dwyer showed off the racer’s gleaming engine cowlings. “What’s with your loader bot of a man there? Don’t tell me he handles PR for your transport company, because I’d recommend he get a career change.”

“Nah. Severino? He’s okay. Don’t say hardly a word, that guy, which explains why I’m so keen on companionship by the time I hit port. I didn’t hire him for his people skills, not at all. He’s the one who makes certain I don’t put down in a place like this and wind up floating without a helmet outside an airlock, knife neatly inserted between my ribs, you follow?”

Ava nodded, still all smiles. “He keeps your ship for you.”

“For us. Partners, seventy-thirty split.” Dwyer grinned. “And if I ever get annoying passengers, well, I have them ask Severino any questions they may have. Funny how little I get bothered after that.”

Ava chuckled.

“Check this out.” They came around the backside of the shuttle. “See in there? I added a new set of boosters to the shield array. Ain’t going to get sneak attacked by missiles anytime soon.”

“Are those XDA Seven-Fives? You’ve either got a hell of a budget or a knack for finding unlicensed gear.”

Dwyer held his finger to his lips. “State secret, milady. It’d work out better if my drones hadn’t all gone on the fritz right after we set down. That’s part of why I’m still here—I need a top-notch repair tech to get ’em floating again so we can finish recalibration.”

“Good luck finding one who isn’t busy.”

“Yeah, they all seem busy. Word in the Loose Aileron is there’s a shortage. As in, some guys quit showing up to work when they shouldn’t have.”

Ava sighed. “Don’t I know it. Liz Wu was mine. You’ll never find a better drone whisperer. Girl could make them dance. I tried the other guy once, and he was good, but then he went—to a new job, I guess. Here one day, gone the next. Not uncommon for Bellwether, with new opportunities jumping in and out of the system.”

“You ever try Dunn? I forgot his last name…”

“Dunn. Garcia, maybe?”

Dwyer snapped his fingers. “Gonzales.”

“Right. I met him once. He was giving Liz a hand that day. Seemed to know his stuff. Not super friendly—” Ava took her gloves back. “Not like you. But a fine tech.”

“Is he around? I’ve heard good things, besides your stamp of approval, of course.”

“You know, he was still here before I left, and he was listed on the roster when I got back in. But his availability came up as ‘None,’ so I guess he’s down sick.”

“Huh. Guess so. Welp, do me a favor—you hear from him, have the guy drop me a signal, okay? Or at least put me in touch with him. I don’t want a half-assed job done on my racer.”

“I’m impressed you’d trust anyone here to put hands on her.”

“Needs must, Ava.” Dwyer gave a slight bow. “Shall we continue, milady?”

“Lead on, good sir.”

The privateer destroyed itself, as it was supposed to. Doing so limited exposure, which meant those in charge were shielded from scrutiny. If only there’d been another way.

Captain Zhou Yongrui leaned against his command console aboard the modified freighter Meng Po, wishing he could be anywhere else in the galaxy. He knew the privateer captain and crew were the foulest of reprobates, scum the League’s External Security Services dredged up to do their dirty work. He shouldn’t pity them. But after his near death and his ship’s equally near destruction at Terran hands, he found he had greater sympathy for anyone who made their living in the deep, cold black of the void.

Seventy-seven days, that was how long it had taken for him and the few people remaining as his crew to limp back to the nearest League forward operating base—plus another three weeks of skulking about until ESS had come for him. Zhou hadn’t been sure they would. He would have been disavowed had he or anyone in his service been captured. But ESS had been pleased with the way the stealth-enhanced freighter had performed. She’d undergone a week’s worth of refit and alteration, so from the outside, she didn’t resemble the vessel she’d been.

Still she was his ship, and he’d kept his vow to christen her. He smiled, recalling the commissar’s puzzlement when Zhou insisted on Meng Po. Old Lady Meng, as she was also called, made sure those who were to be reincarnated from Diyu didn’t remember their past lives in hell. They had to drink of the soup of forgetfulness, on Nai He Bridge.

Zhou wasn’t about to forget how he’d almost died. And in a strange way, he didn’t want the Terrans to forget either. Surely, they’d kept scans of the freighter on record. Hence her refit and new disguise. Still, her bones were the same. ESS intended her to be reborn, reincarnated without those memories that proved troublesome, but Zhou wouldn’t allow it. The crew, those remaining, knew who she was. Zhou knew. She knew too.

After weeks of haunting the system’s fringes, his mission had begun when the privateer had exploded. The rigged munitions had served their purpose. The realization made Zhou’s reconstructed left leg ache. He staggered away from the console to the tactical display. The ship that had destroyed the privateer in those frantic seconds was gone as surely as if it had been a ghost. His hunch had been correct. So had Vasiliy’s.

CDF Intelligence had come and brought their stealth boat into play again.

Zhou smiled. Just as well. I’ve been so looking forward to rejoining the hunt.

8

Bellwether Station

Caeli Star System—the Alvarsson Wedge

20 November 2464

Jackson walked the avenue between residential blocks, patrolling the lower level. Two more Tactisar officers strolled the upper level, a drone above them—a disc with rounded instead of sharp edges, painted black with blue panels. It bobbed along, taking scans and recording both audio and visual.

None for me yet, though to be fair, I’ve only been on the job a few days. Instead, he was saddled with watching for drug deals and basic-level crimes, B and E, assault. Jackson had brought in a handful of people in that time. Playing the part of a private security officer was different, though, than becoming a cop. Forget about oaths, serving the public. His job was to keep things peaceful for Nosamo and Tactisar. If the public benefitted, well, good for them.

A shout cracked through the rumble of local chatter. Jackson quickly stepped right into an alcove entrance leading through a clothing boutique. Boots slapped along the fake tile avenue.

“Thief! He’s got my merchandise!” An older woman yelled from so far back she seemed to be miniature. “Stop his ass!”

Neither of the two officers strolling up above made a move to intervene. Their drone didn’t so much as twitch, which meant they were not only watching the crowds but watching Jackson too. Nothing like being evaluated the first week on the job by having them track you in the field.

Jackson waited until the boot treads were a meter or so from the alcove before he stuck out his leg. The young man cried out. He toppled, sliding along the avenue, until his shoulder slammed into a concrete planter.

By then, Jackson was on top of him, plasma pistol shoved against his side. “Hold up here, kid. Hand it over.”

“Get off me, man!” The boy was pale skinned, bald, the top of his head plus his arms and neck covered with glowing green tattoos, which moved when he did. He had implanted technology above his ears—transmitters, maybe, for storing and replaying music. Not legal in the Coalition, but clearly the rules weren’t as big a deal out at Bellwether. “I didn’t take nothing!”

“Except for the Saurian silk stuffed in your pockets.” Jackson ripped the clothing from the kid’s baggy vest. “The shop owner’s going to press charges. But maybe we can come to an agreement instead of locking you up.”

“Screw you! I know what you guys want.”

“Lockup it is.” Jackson slapped restraints on the kid’s wrists. He adjusted the fastenings until the kid shouted. “Too tight? Let me know which pocket.”

“Right bottom vest! Ow, ow!”

Jackson rifled through the indicated pocket. His hand came up clutching assorted pay chits. The gleaming numerals told him he’d bagged at least six hundred credits. “Not bad for starters. Gonna have to be at least twice that before we avoid jail time.”

“I’ll get it. I have it!”

“You’ll find me at Precinct Six on Sector C, Carrington. Officer Arno, code one one two three one one. Eighteen hundred in two days or you’re getting slapped with theft and evading arrest. Good?”

“Yeah, yeah, ow! Whatever you say, man. Let me go!”

Jackson triggered his badge. It picked up a recording of the kid’s face, complete with his tattoos and implants. Within seconds, a database entry appeared on the tablet with the kid’s local ID. “Get out of here.”

He released the binders and hauled the kid upright. Blood dripped from a cut on the boy’s forehead. Jackson tugged on the kid’s vest and mopped up the wound. Then he shoved the kid along.

The shop owner appeared at his elbow. “Good on you! You showed his sorry self.” She reached for the silken garment.

Jackson held it out of her grasp. “Not how it works, lady. I’m new here, but you aren’t.”

The owner scowled at him, but then she looked up at the next level. Jackson did too. The pair of patrolling officers had stopped, their drone descending from on high.

“Come on. Just a token will do,” Jackson said.

“Fine.” She tapped commands into the small device attached to her belt.

Jackson’s tablet chimed in response. Precinct Six’s message board flagged him with an incoming note—and a transfer to be approved from her finances to his. Forty credits.

“Happy to serve, ma’am.” Jackson dropped the silk and walked off.

He ignored the profanities she muttered in his wake. The realization that he’d extorted both victim and perpetrator of the crime roiled his stomach, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Even if he returned the money when he was off duty, word would leak out that the brand-new Tactisar guy patrolling this sector had a soft heart when his buddies weren’t looking. It would blow his cover and ruin his opportunity. To fit in, and to succeed in his mission, he had to be the kind of Tactisar officer Ramsey wanted for his heist plans. Jackson had to be despised. So far, so good.

The drone hovered a half meter from his face. Jackson winked into the bulbous, domed visual sensor. He fanned the credit chits. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the boss gets his cut.”

“Damned right you will.”

Jackson detected movement beyond his peripheral vision, but given the crowds still flowing past the scene of the crime like nothing had happened, he wasn’t all that surprised Detective Ramsey stepped out of the line of travel like he’d gotten off a tram at the correct stop.

“Look, I know you like to evaluate the new guy up close, but isn’t this overkill?” Jackson asked. “People watching me when I go out to eat, tailing me when I do patrols. What’s this now, a supervisory checkup?”

Ramsey chuckled. He flexed his fingers.

Jackson dropped one of the pay chits into his palm.

“Slim pickings?” Ramsey asked.

“Will be soon, at this rate,” Jackson muttered, but he added a second chit.

“Much better.” Ramsey pocketed the chits. “Yeah, part of it’s an evaluation, but not just of whether you can do the job. I got to know whether you’re as good as you claim on your application, Jack. Whether you can keep track of multiple targets in a crowd or whether you can spot people who are out of the ordinary. You’ve got to notice things in this line of work, because it could be your next mark or the guy coming to kill you. We’ve had enough vacancies created by people I thought were good enough to know the difference but got sloppy.”

“You don’t have to worry about that from me. Last time I got sloppy, the Rangers did a class-A witch hunt. I know who I can trust—it’s me.”

“Good deal. Come on. We’ve got introductions to make.”

“Oh yeah?” Jackson snorted. “You got another crime I can foil to make up for what you took out of my hand?”

Ramsey slapped his shoulder. “Even better. You’re getting reassigned to upstairs. The richest mark aboard station.”

Upstairs. Nosamo labs and HQ, hopefully. “Can’t wait. Am I finally getting a new partner, then?”

“Partner isn’t the right term. Believe me when I say, though—you’ll like Boyd.”

They rode the high-speed mag-tram straight up the two klicks’ distance from Jackson’s patrol route into Sector A, the upper level of Bellwether’s dome. Jackson feigned boredom but kept a watch on the tram map’s indicator—and made sure Ramsey saw him stealing surreptitious looks.

“Echo One, this is Echo Home. Good news on the drone front. I know you’re busy, but give me the high sign if you’re ready for the information.”

Jackson blew out a frustrated breath, the outward sign of his supposed frustration, and straightened his shirt sleeves—one of which sported his hidden transmitter. A double squeeze, combined with the exhalation, was the coded signal for Brant to proceed.

“Roger, One. Word from Base—our pals have completed their analysis of the drone communications. The embedded signal underneath would be difficult for the average tech to install but not a tech trained by our employer. I’m working the decryption now with our pals lending their expertise. Between the three of us, we should have it soon. I’m praying we’ll be able locate Vector Two shortly thereafter.”

Translation, their “pals,” Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred, were working with Brant on cracking the code Lieutenant Garza had hidden inside the upgraded drones’ communications network.

And the sooner they could locate the missing lieutenant, the better. Jackson tried not to think about his body hidden between bulkheads somewhere aboard the colossal station, or drifting, his liquids crystalized, in the depths of space, gravity dragging it toward Caeli’s star. The young man had a family waiting back home.

The thought of delivering the heartbreaking news to Garza’s mother struck Jackson. He didn’t know how other CDF officers managed the duty. But it was easy enough to substitute another man’s grieving parents with his own.

Mom. Dad. He’d heard nothing from Harry since deployment. No messages waiting for him aboard Oxford, relayed from back on Canaan. Would Harry even tell me? For all his talk of wanting reconciliation, the uncomfortable undercurrent remained.

Then there was Abby Castillo—a familiar face he’d missed for years, and which he had a sudden desire to see again, up close. Whether or not they pursued consolidation of their family properties, Jackson knew it was a reconnection that hadn’t happened by chance. Brant would call it God’s will. Jackson didn’t know if such a thing applied to him.

He drifted out of his reverie as he and Ramsey disembarked at Nosamo, which had its own mag-tram terminal. Tactisar officers stood guard at every exit and corridor, though they lacked the distinctive armored vests. Men and women alike, they wore expensive formal shirts and slacks, shining shoes, lightweight jackets. The only similarities were the octagonal badges and the way in which they carried themselves—focused, trained, but with an edge of hunger to their gazes.

They probably get bored because it’s a bad idea to shake down corporate execs for bribes using threats of violence. Jackson chuckled inwardly.

“Main lobby,” Ramsey said. “We have connections here to all levels of Nosamo. Main offices, labs, engineering hubs, security substation. Backup air and power, separate from the station-wide grid. I’ll get you the specs so you can familiarize yourself.”

“Nice place.” Jackson had his hair trimmed short and neat, with a fledgling beard cut in the same fashion. He examined himself in the polished brass as they headed down the huge main corridor beyond the reception area unhindered by security checks. Doing so allowed him to steal glances at the embedded sensor panels in the ceiling and the security bots hunkered in alcoves like ornamental pieces of art. “Do I want to know how much it cost to build?”

“Nosamo’s HQ?” Ramsey snorted. “Take the Rangers’ annual budget and triple it. You might come close. The higher-ups are the kind of people who display their wealth to remind people who has it. There’s no questioning who runs things aboard Bellwether.”

Jackson nodded, but as they walked, he leaned a bit closer and muttered, “Thought it was us.”

Something he couldn’t define flashed across Ramsey’s lean face. Irritation? Surprise? Whatever the emotion, the only thing Ramsey let slip was a smirk that could go either way. “While the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

Jackson wondered if by “away,” he meant ensconced in corporate offices. He had a hard time believing, though, that Tactisar could get away with anything without Noor and the other executives keeping a close eye on their employees. Then again, the whole purpose of his tour was to meet a guy Tactisar had planted inside the company headquarters.

Ramsey’s commlink chirped. He looked at it—and stopped.

Jackson had to change course to avoid slamming into his new boss. “Problem?”

“Nope. Just a message I didn’t want to miss.” Ramsey’s voice carried a couple of notches louder than before. “Come on. I’ll show you around our station here.”

They were halfway down a long stretch of escalators to the next floor, offices arrayed around an octagonal courtyard filled with fountains and fragrant flowers, when Ramsey scratched at the corner of his mouth.

“Have to nix the meet,” he muttered.

Jackson had to pay close attention to his words because of his efforts to disguise his speech.

“Boyd is being watched.”

“Watched? What the hell?”

Ramsey glowered at him. Jackson shrugged. “Hey, whatever you say. I thought this contact was undercover. You telling me they blew it?”

“No. Boyd’s worried about surveillance. Things have tightened up since the incident leading to our vacancies a couple of weeks ago. Boyd’s going to reschedule after we get you in. He doesn’t think we can make it a casual meetup.”

Jackson resisted the urge to look around and see if they were being followed. None of the security posted in the courtyard seemed to be paying them mind. “I thought you owned this place.”

“You kidding? Tactisar is big, too big. No way everyone’s all in on our plan.” Ramsey acted like he was checking his messages again. “We’ve got enough, but so do the execs. So, we play it close to the vest, no pun intended.”

“Got it. Like the women behind us, to the right.”

Ramsey stopped at the holographic map of Nosamo’s complex and circled to the other side, as if he couldn’t find what he was looking for. Jackson did likewise, pointing at an imaginary target on the map. They could see two Tactisar women in corporate garb hanging out across the way, chatting by a drink station.

“Yeah, I’ve seen ’em before. Nice catch. They’re definitely on the execs’ bribe list.”

“Them bribing you guys to watch for some other folks who are planning something with a higher bidder,” Jackson murmured. “I’d write it all down except you’d kick my ass.”

“Yep.” Ramsey chuckled. “Security station’s this way. Keep an eye out for more followers, got it? Since that seems to be your thing.”

“Speaking of thing, what exactly are we looking to score? What’s Nosamo’s new toy I hear you guys whispering about?”

“Newest atmo tech. It’s supposed to be a game changer—as in, forget the bulky regulation towers Nosamo’s famous for. Compact, smart, but expensive. Nobody has anything close on the market. Well, nobody anymore. Nosamo makes sure of that.”

“Fits the rumors I’ve heard. Man.” Jackson shook his head. “Too bad about Boyd, though.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Ramsey nodded toward a patrol drone, the same kind Jackson had seen the two officers use right before Ramsey had found him on the avenue. “We’re not the only ones watching.”

Vasiliy Kiel gazed at the bank of image windows before him. Shadows of the good old days spent monitoring League of Sol citizens before he joined ESS and turned his focus outward, toward the League’s foreign enemies—keeping his eye on everyone and everything as much as was humanly possible.

He squeezed his tablet until his fingers left rainbow prints on its surface. It was better that way than his previous attempt to undermine the Terran Coalition. There was no sugarcoating the outcome—CDF Intelligence had outplayed him. Kiel recognized he had underestimated not only their tenacity and insight but their willingness to bend and break the moral codes he had assumed all Terrans held so sickeningly dear.

They have people unafraid to do what is necessary, Kiel mused. This makes them dangerous, though I don’t mind the challenge. What good is a hunt if the prey poses no threat?

The light above his office door flashed orange. Good. Back already. Kiel unlocked it from his console.

Ferenc entered, no more bothered by the glare from the dozens of screens than he was by the deep darkness of the rest of the makeshift command center. The abandoned machine shop was unlisted on station plans, out of use for at least a couple of decades. Water dripped from old conduits overhead. Kiel wondered if the musty smell likewise irked him. He decided he would have better luck discerning the nonexistent emotions of a bot.

“Ramsey is moving plans along,” Ferenc said. “He’s found a possible sub for Venable a new arrival, ex-Ranger for the Terrans.”

“A suitable criminal, one hopes.” Kiel stirred a cup of tea. At least the aroma pushed away the mingled stench from his immediate vicinity.

“He showed me the resume. Seems promising. The background check proves clean so far. I’ll run it through for a deeper scan.”

“Very well. I trust there have been no further issues with the drones.”

“No, sir. But the signal interruption is still a problem. Yahanotov is working on tracing it to its origin.”

“I thought it was a glitch, or so he claimed.”

“That was his initial suspicion. He was wrong.” Ferenc seemed to consider his next words with care. “It could be covert communication.”

“Ah.” Kiel returned to his screens. He set the search program to locate Detective Ramsey. “Then we may have a line on Nels’s partner, who along with Nels, cost us time and manpower.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.” Kiel expanded the screen the search algorithm presented. Ramsey walked by, a younger man alongside him. He watched as Ramsey’s fellow pedestrian turned toward the drone’s visual pickup. “This is Mr. Arno?”

Ferenc nodded.

“Keep watch on him, and of course, let me know the results of the deep background examination. If the Terrans have brought people aboard Bellwether to interrupt our work, I want to know soon.” Kiel smiled. “They took a great deal of time and energy to uncover our operation when we were rebuilding a warship inside an asteroid. This time, I wonder how they will fare when we leave nothing but a husk behind.”

9

Bellwether Station

Caeli Star System—the Alvarsson Wedge

21 November 2464

Ramsey was good for his word. He had Jackson assigned to the security substation inside Nosamo first thing the next morning.

The cold, white-walled offices were a far cry from Precinct Six’s dingy environs. The substation didn’t feel used, as if it had been a prefab shelter dropped whole onto the surface of a newly colonized planet. Jackson’s console was in a far corner, away from the main entrance. He had the barest glimpse of the long windows facing the hangar bay. Every half hour, the transparent wall rumbled with the departure and arrival of Tactisar gunships.

Jackson found the crisp, clean office as dull as his equally crisp, clean apartment, which was a kilometer away from the security substation. The accompanying work was equally dull, because it was clear the Tactisar staff nearest to Nosamo’s HQ were held to a different standard than their streetwise compatriots.

“Daily reports due at eighteen hundred hours.” His supervisor didn’t bother with ID, other than a badge bearing the number 505. He was tall, bald, Hispanic, and entirely devoid of personality. “You’ll find the duty roster in your introductory files. While on duty, you are not to speak to Nosamo staff unless they request your assistance, then any resulting consultations are to be kept in the strictest confidence. Your daily reports will include those conversations, which will be sealed in company classified records. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” It was simpler to act the obedient, duty-driven officer than the scoundrel Ramsey expected because the former was much closer to the reality of Jackson’s actual CDF service. “Looking forward to my first shift, sir.”

“Glad to hear it.” The supervisor’s voice took on a dry tone. “No doubt that’s why Detective Ramsey shuffled you up here. If you’d been the kind of wayward individual he calls an ‘officer,’ I’d have kicked you right back down-level. I saw your record. Seems you made mistakes and this is your mode of atonement, is that it?”

Jackson nodded, fully aware Ramsey had doctored his already-CDF-faked service records with the Rangers. Ramsey had excised certain crimes, casting “Jack Arno” as more of a victim of poor circumstance than a corrupt and greedy fallen officer. “I am doing my best, sir. Appreciate your giving me a second chance.”

“I don’t do thirds, Officer Arno. Remember that. Report to your shift.”

Two hours later, Jackson had a prime position in one of the tertiary junctions in Sector A Ninety-Seven with a clear line of sight to the bank of elevators leading from the main lobby. Hundreds of technicians, executives trailed by human or robotic assistants, and clusters of white-coat researchers streamed by his post.

It sure pleased Brant. “We’re clicking upward of fifty faces every minute,” Brant muttered through Jackson’s earpiece. “I’m cross-referencing with the company personnel files. You’d think they’d have stricter security protocols surrounding those, but the microbots didn’t have nearly as much trouble accessing personnel as they did trying to break through the lab’s firewalls.”

Which was why the team still hadn’t gained access. The microbots were gone, having disintegrated to avoid detection, leaving behind hardly any trace molecules. Jackson clasped his hands behind his back, tapping them against his belt in rhythm to the passing footfalls. Two more Tactisar officers were stationed with him in the tertiary junction, again identified only by their badge numbers, 773 and 296. Jackson crossed his arms, making sure his wrist unit could get clear sweeps with the embedded sensors.

“Not much of interest on their records. At least, nothing criminal is showing up, unlike for your buddies downstairs.” Brant’s tone perked up. “Familiar face at your three o’clock.”

Jackson didn’t look. In fact, he made sure he was inspecting a passerby in the opposite direction so when Gina’s laughter carried down the hall, he wasn’t paying attention.

She strode through the junction with two young women and an older man trailing her. The women seemed to follow her every word in abject worship, while the man frowned over whatever she’d just said. “I don’t think they’ll go for the concept, Ms. Willis.”

“Gianna, please, Aberforth.” Gina smiled at him. “And they will go for it because they’ll realize it’s in their best interests to partner with Nosamo by directly providing rare metals rather than fighting with the local merchant’s guild over shipping prices.”

“We can work up the new contract specs before they arrive, say, within the next two hours.”

“Call it an hour and a half. We shouldn’t keep the customer waiting.” Gina touched the shoulder of the willowy, dark-skinned woman tapping notes into a tablet at her right side. “Fillory, why don’t you arrange tables for us and the customer at Giardino? Tell Liliana I’m happy to send her the usual prepayment if she needs.”

“Of course, Gianna.”

“Wonderful. Aberforth and I will greet the customer’s shuttle at ten three zero hours.”

They passed into the corridor, their chatter melting back into the murmur generated by the rest of Nosamo’s employees. It sounded like Gina was doing just fine merging with the corporate culture. Her ability to turn a conversation into an opportunity was one of her shining abilities. Her talent for infiltrating otherwise-secure facilities and either retrieving or sabotaging was the other.

“Officer Six One Six.”

The redheaded woman wearing a sleek yet professional white dress approached him, holograms wavering in the air above the device she cradled. Ciara, Jackson recalled, though he blanked on her title and—

“Ciara Bui. Head of Operations, part of Ardalion Noor’s personal leadership staff,” Brant said in his ear. “She knows what goes on. All of it. Her personnel background is the most difficult to access, not because it’s locked but because there’s not much there. She’s the one Gina met her first day and who set Gina up with all her access codes.”

Jackson made sure he was extra attentive. “Ma’am.”

“No need for the formality, Officer.” She smiled. “Ciara is fine.”

“Yes, Ciara.”

“You’re settling in well? I see you’re the newest addition to our security ranks here in HQ.” She stood very close, enough so that Jackson could smell the faint perfume and see the fine hairs on her arm raise from the cool air of the station’s HVAC.

“I am, thanks. Spent some time down-level on regular patrols before Detective Ramsey shifted me upside.”

“I hope you find the environs more pleasing than your former post.”

Jackson nodded. “That I do. Is there something I can help you with, Ciara?”

“There is, as a matter of fact. I have a new employee on staff in whom Mr. Noor has taken a particular liking. While I trust his judgment—after all, I wouldn’t be in this post if I didn’t—I’m concerned by her background. She did work for two of our rivals at various points in her career.”

“All right.”

Ciara gave no further comment at that point, leaving Jackson to draw out her intentions. Clearly, she wanted him to guess. Or at least do more of the talking, which would incriminate her less.

“Does she need, uh, looking after?”

“If you think it’s a wise precaution.”

“I think… if you’re concerned, Ciara, then Tactisar should do its job and make sure this new gal isn’t a problem.”

“Correct.”

“You’d like this reported to you. Directly, I suppose.”

“I would.”

“Who am I looking for?”

“Check your surveillance equipment. She passed this way not a few minutes ago. Gianna Willis, operational support.”

“Well. Damn,” Brant muttered.

Jackson gave a curt nod, which he hoped would disguise his own consternation. He kept his face the same neutral mask he’d worn during the day’s patrol, though he did let a frown cross his lips.

“Is there a problem, Officer Six One Six?”

“No, there isn’t. I just…” Jackson cleared his throat. “Look. I’m new on this job, ma’am. Ciara. I don’t want to get in trouble with my supervisor, or Detective Ramsey. Then again, I’m not keen on crossing the CEO of Nosamo either, especially not you since everyone says you’re his right-hand person.”

“A fact you should remember above all else. When word comes down from me, consider it gospel from Mr. Noor.”

“So, he wants this done?”

Ciara just smiled again.

“Right. You’re not going to say.” Jackson blew out a breath. In reality, he was as happy as could be he was the one she’d asked to watch Gina. What better way to run interference? The question was why she picked him. A more troubling puzzle to be solved. “All right. I’ll take care of it.”

“Be discreet. I’ll make sure you receive any relevant information.” She leaned in close, hand pressed against his arm so her lips brushed near his ear when she next spoke. “You can do discreet, yes?”

“Yes. Of course.”

Ciara withdrew and walked off down a corridor. Jackson straightened his jacket, going for nonchalance as best he could. But the discussion they’d just had was very public. No way his fellow officers had missed it. He could see out of the corner of his eye two others whispering to each other, glancing his way but trying not to show it.

“One, want me to have Gina dig deeper on Ciara? I can contact her now, let her know she’s on their radar,” Brant said.

Jackson signaled in the affirmative. His hands had gone clammy, but rather than wipe them on his trousers and betray his sudden nervousness, he tucked them into his jacket pockets and dropped into a more relaxed stance.

His fingers brushed something small and plastic in his right pocket. Without removing it, he felt around, cataloging the sensations until he figured out the object, a tiny datachip. Not his. It definitely wasn’t there when he left on patrol, but Ciara had been near enough to drop it in. No doubt that play with her lips had been meant to keep his attention.

Jackson smirked. It was a hell of a distraction. She’d reminded him of Gina, which meant she was good—and all the more dangerous.

Gina spun her chair as she waited for Brant’s decryption program to run. It had arrived in her message inbox written in code, mimicking an invoice from one of Nosamo’s mining contractors. At least the endless meeting with those same contractors was over—two hours of her life she would never get back. And thus, Jack will owe me an expensive dinner at a venue of my choosing.

Her office was appointed with simple furnishings in black metal, glass, and gray cushions. A two-by-three-meter painting took up most of the wall to her left. Whimpering vines from one of the Saurian frontier worlds pulsed green and yellow to the right. Mercifully, it held no fish. She wasn’t sure how long she would last if that were the case, or how long the fish would last.

Her console beeped. Decryption complete. Gina grinned. She could rifle through Nosamo flight rosters at her leisure. But she had only thirty-second windows each time, separated by at least a few hours. She traced as much of the schedule as she could and copied the image to her personal tablet—the CDF-issued model disguised as a civilian unit, not the official Nosamo tablet supplied by her employers.

Hmm. It didn’t take long to spot discrepancies. Several freighters had come and gone within the past eight weeks, bearing the same cargo of either aerator wiring or regulator circuitry. They weren’t odd in terms of what they carried, but the amounts were similar. Gina read and reread the entries buried among the sprawling flight roster until it clicked.

In all six cases, the numbers followed a pattern.

She isolated the numbers and compared them separately from the rest. Yes, four digits, used in the six freight manifests. Someone had gotten sloppy. Either that or Tactisar’s inside person—this Boyd, whom Jackson had mentioned—was sending a message. Or both. It had been proven, after all, that when people tried to create false sequences like Gina had just examined, they used too many of the same numbers

Gina didn’t care which. She marked the similarities, jotted a note to Brant, and sent the localized tight-beam transmission. Her device obliterated the message as soon as it confirmed Brant’s receipt. Curious. The next step, of course, is to confirm the freighter was offloaded or loaded. All I’ve got so far is falsified digits in a file. Her job didn’t extend to snooping around the docks, not unless a customer was coming or going, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t direct someone else to do her dirty work.

Jackson. His disguise was perfect. And who better than the nameless Tactisar officers stationed at Nosamo HQ to peruse the local docks for security’s sake?

“Echo Two, this is Echo Home.”

Ah, there he was. Brant’s periodic talks through the implanted transceiver soothed Gina, like having a friendly conscience always looking out for her.

“Forwarding communications from Echo One. He’s been tasked to watch you, by the redhead in command. His words.”

“Roger that.” Gina kept her voice low, lips barely moving. The office was devoid of monitoring devices. Noor struck her as paranoid but apparently not overtly so. “I wouldn’t dream of disappointing Ciara. I’ll keep her in mind.”

“Confirmed. Thanks for the data, by the way. I’ll see what we can find. Godspeed, Two.”

Godspeed, indeed.

A message from Ciara—speak of the devil, as Brant would say—flashed across her device. Welton-Shinobi rep planning gathering tonight. 1730 at Rihon Flare. Dress appropriately.

Gina groaned. “If I don’t get the chance to break into this place and stun a few guards,” she muttered, “Jack will owe me two dinners.”

Brant held his breath and tossed off a prayer to Saint Joshua as he linked Jackson’s datachip to the bevy of intelligence hardware crammed into his office. The datachip had arrived via human courier, who’d practically hugged Brant when he’d paid triple the customary fee. The hand-scrawled note with it—crumpled on Brant’s console—read, Best I could do. Meeting in person an operational hazard. Plan for a group meet soon.

It made sense. Being a security officer meant Jackson was under tighter constraints than during their last op, when he’d posed as a skimmer maintenance tech. Besides, the less all five of them met up in one location, the less chance of raising suspicion. Still, Brant would have felt better to have Jackson by his side as the algorithm broke into the datachip, just in case it was a trap.

All his systems stayed green, no cascading viruses or breakware hiding behind root menus. Brant sighed. “Thanks for the grace, once again.”

He opened the files stored on the device. Boy, were they worth the initial anxiety. They contained complete floorplans of Nosamo’s HQ, including the Tactisar branch and, most importantly, the heretofore unavailable lab sectors—entry points, emergency exits, even life support and power grids.

Brant’s comm went off, shattering the silence of his apartment base, making him yelp. He should have kept the thing on silent pulse. “Echo Home, go ahead, One.”

“Tell me good news, Home.”

“Better than good. Praiseworthy. How about the full tour?”

“That’s what I like to hear. The redhead came through for us. Anything else?”

“Audio recording. Hold on…” Brant played it.

A woman’s voice greeted him. “Ram, hope this is the last piece. All it will take is the drones’ coordination to break through the last vault perimeter. Your security codes will get you in most of the way. Contact me for a meet—sorry we couldn’t make the first. Boyd out.”

Jackson’s grunt cut the silence afterward. Brant knew the sound too well—surprise, but of a pleasant sort.

“You know the lady?” Brant asked.

“It’s Ciara Bui, all right—the one who’s suspicious of Gina and who dropped the datachip in my coat. She’s Boyd, Ramsey’s person inside Nosamo.”

“From a rival company?” Brant frowned. “But isn’t she having you watch Gina because she suspects Gina of being the same thing—a rival plant?”

“That’s what I wondered. Could be she’s only trying to throw the scent off herself. In either case, I’ve got to get this to Ramsey. I’ll have to make like I snooped through it since Ciara didn’t tell me what I was supposed to do with the datachip.”

“Technically you didn’t, One. I did.”

Jackson chuckled. “I appreciate the spycraft tip, Home. Set up a courier to one of the public boxes Sparks is renting. I’ll pick it up there. One out.”

Brant removed the datachip and eyeballed it. One step closer. If he could just get those blasted drones figured out, they would have a real advantage when it came time for the heist—the real heist to prevent the Tactisar theft.

Brant grabbed for a lime-flavored fizzy drink popular in his apartment’s sector and took a swig before the plans gave him a headache again.

Ramsey stroked his mustache as he listened to Ciara’s message and didn’t make any commentary. Jackson waited in the corner of Ramsey’s office, arms folded.

Sergeant Cho was seated across from Ramsey. “She really came through.”

“Sure did.” Ramsey squinted at Jackson. “She made contact with you?”

“Yeah. She’s got me watching a new gal up there—used to work for Nosamo rivals. Ciara—or Boyd—thinks she could be a plant.”

“That’s a nice touch,” Ramsey mused. “Ought to keep the clean shoes on patrol up there occupied and away from her. Gotta hand it to Boyd—she’s got style.”

“I’ll say.” Jackson grinned. “You should have seen the way she put moves on me to hand over the chip.”

Cho coughed into his hand.

Ramsey rose from the desk. “What kind?”

“Hey. Just a flirt, an act.” Jackson held out his hands. “Nothing else.”

“Better not be.”

Interesting reaction to file away for later. “You got it, boss.”

Ramsey frowned. “Cho, I need you to verify what you can from this. Set up a meeting with Fernand. The benefactor needs to know we’re one step closer to pulling this off.”

“On it.” Cho was out the door before Jackson had the chance to follow up with questions.

“What else do we need?” Jackson asked.

“We have to find a guy,” Ramsey grumbled. “And since he shot a couple of mine, he’s not gonna be happy about it when we do.”

10

CSV Oxford

Seven AU from Bellwether Station—Caeli Star System

22 November 2464

Colonel Sinclair paced a slow circle around the exploded view of the privateer CSV Tuscon intercepted. Exploded was the perfect view. The holographic display was three meters across, the bulk of it filled by the debris from the ship. “Wind it back, Eldred.”

She completed the command. The explosion reversed, at one-tenth speed, until the privateer vessel was whole again.

“Ahead one half speed,” Sinclair ordered.

The recording played, with ignition beginning as a brilliant pinprick amidships.

“Hold.”

Eldred paused the recording.

Captain Tamir, standing a quarter of the way around the display from Sinclair, shook his head. “Four days at this, and I don’t think we’re any closer to determining an external source, sir. All indications say their weapons ignited.”

“I can see that, Butter Bars.” Sinclair had hoped for better news. “Bring up the real-time footage.”

“Aye, sir.” Eldred shrank the hologram to half size and filled the remainder of the display space with video imagery of the actual wreckage. Oxford loitered a few klicks away, having rendezvoused with Tuscon thirty-six hours before. Tuscon made sure the area was clear of scavengers before moving on to its next patrol vector.

“I’m not operating under the illusion that this was anything other than deliberate self-destruct to avoid capture,” Sinclair said. “What I’m hoping to find is proof either way. Only then can we reinforce our supposition and make it fact.”

“The probes are nearly complete with their survey of the wreckage,” Eldred pointed out. “So far, scan results match what we’ve expected—molecular debris matching twenty Novaburst missiles, the cheap civilian models. Subtracting the one fired at the Saurian transport and the four let loose during the engagement with Tuscon, fifteen were aboard when they detonated.”

Warrant Sakuri sat beside Eldred. She shuddered. “it’s bad enough getting hit by one. I’m surprised there’s anything left of that bucket, even if it was two hundred meters.”

“No evidence all the warheads went off, though,” Tamir said. “One was more than enough to start a chain reaction. You can see, in the holo, the highlights of where the explosion ripped through the dorsal spine and ventral keel. Bulkheads the entire length of the Tradesman buckled. The onboard emergency systems were disrupted. Whatever wasn’t immediately vented to space was obliterated by the heat and radiation.”

“Blasted shame,” Sinclair mused. “I pity the poor souls aboard. Has everyone been accounted for?”

“Not… wholly, sir.” Eldred looked pale. “We found eighteen distinct DNA fragments but very little that could reconstruct bodies. We’re getting IDs from local law enforcement databases but haven’t seen anyone we recognize—or rather, that Intelligence files have flagged as being faces we should know.”

“No League operatives, then,” Tamir noted.

“While I would not put it past the League to be funding these privateers, let us keep in mind Nosamo is rumored to be shooting down the competition.” Sinclair gave a wry smile. “Though it would be quite sloppy of them to link private raiders to their bank accounts, wouldn’t you say?”

“Exactly what Captain Tamir and I thought, Colonel.” Eldred returned the smile. “Which is how we’ve traced payments for this ship’s crew through five shell corporations and three dummy accounts. It’s a dead end at the moment but not a shocking development. Nosamo’s banking security is almost as impenetrable as that of their labs. I’m coordinating with Lieutenant Guinto. With 171’s personnel on site, we both figure they have a better shot at linking Nosamo to the privateers.”

“Which is where Ms. Wilkes’s intelligence comes in handy.” Tamir routed data from his tablet onto another large screen. A shipping manifest filled every square centimeter. “She’s highlighted discrepancies in cargo supposedly arriving at and departing from Nosamo’s corporate docks.”

“I trust there’s no need for me to give the order to investigate thoroughly and in person,” Sinclair said.

“No, sir. Captain Adams informs us he and Ms. Wilkes are taking the necessary steps.”

“Very good.”

Eldred’s console chirped at her. She made a face, as if it had personally offended her with the results streaming across her monitor. Sinclair wondered if she would physically rebuke the recalcitrant computer.

“Missile residue scans are complete, Colonel. Nothing to indicate an external strike or reactor core breach, so we can eliminate those as possibilities.”

“Thank you, Warrant. What of the missiles themselves?”

“Sir, like I said earlier, there’s nothing left—hold on just a second, sir. Captain?” Eldred waved Tamir over. “What do you make of this?”

Tamir leaned over her shoulder and, in seconds, assumed the same puzzled yet pensive expression. “Tricionite. I wondered.”

“Right? Who would need that aboard a missile?” Eldred tapped commands into her console. A molecular diagram appeared, spinning slowly at the center of the monitor. “No question, though. Computer’s matched it to within seventy-nine percent probability.”

“Tricionite.” Sinclair stroked his chin. “Well, now. This does add a layer of complexity.”

“What am I missing, sirs?” Sakuri asked. “I’ve heard of tricionite—it’s used on the edges of the system by ice miners and precious metals prospectors. For plasma torch fuel, correct?”

“Indeed it is, Warrant, though there’s no need for storage of such a volatile material aboard a privateer, especially not near armed missiles.” Sinclair gazed at the exploded vessel. “It does have a secondary purpose among the vocations, which you mentioned.”

“A quick and dirty explosive,” Eldred said. “For blasting big but precise holes in asteroids before the prospectors hone in on their motherload with plasma cutters. Only the tiniest traces of it are scattered around the debris field—”

“Which has spread considerably since the initial explosion,” Tamir pointed out.

“But running a simulation backward shouldn’t be difficult. Give me a minute.”

Sinclair made his way over to where the other three had clustered by Eldred’s console. “Warrant Sakuri, some of your family were members of the Nosamo board from the corporation’s inception, correct?”

“Yes, sir.” Sakuri shifted in her seat. “They—we were the ones who first exploited the metals of Argenti’s moon and the water in the cometary cloud, both used in the initial construction and supply of Bellwether Station. We like to think of ourselves as being in the middle of the corporation, which we were, in terms of nomenclature—Nosamo, Noor-Sakuri-Morgan.”

“Though you’re no longer in the corporation’s good graces.”

Sakuri exhaled. “No, sir, we’re not. I’m sure you’ve already hunted up the details, but let’s just say no one left from my parents’ generation would mind much if the whole station melted in a solar flare—with Ardalion Noor at its heart.”

“I understand.” Given how many of that Sakuri generation had met with accidental deaths or debilitating disease, he couldn’t blame her emotional response. Nor would he question such a reaction from the remnants of the Morgan clan, driven out not long after the Sakuris. “Your family must have made extensive use of tricionite in its prospecting days. Do you know of anyone from your clan still actively working in such a field?”

“None. Those remaining live on the other side of the Coalition from this foul place.” Sakuri frowned. “Sir? I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

“Inquiring, not implying. I would appreciate your compiling a list of the best locales in the Caeli system for acquiring tricionite. Because if my suspicions are correct—”

Eldred slapped her console. Her face reddened when she realized everyone’s gaze had turned toward her. “Sorry, sirs. Simulation complete. Running.”

A faint outline of the Tradesman-class ship glowed on her screen, surrounded by a diffused cloud of just a handful of red specks. Those specks drew inward, coalescing smack in the center of the privateer’s belly, where the missiles had been stored.

“Adonai have mercy,” Tamir muttered.

“As I was saying.” Sinclair indicated the screen. “Someone has to answer for this crime.”

Dwyer and Sev followed the corridor deep in Sector F, past abandoned machine shops, shuttle maintenance bays, and the access ports to several of Bellwether’s massive water tanks. Dwyer couldn’t fathom the millions of liters those things held. He was sure Brant could tell him down to the drop.

“Here.” Sev pointed.

He was correct. Right turn at Junction F919. Dwyer frowned at the map glowing on his tablet. The regulars who lived and worked aboard the station must have been geniuses when it came to navigating, because the few dozen people they’d passed on the long, dark walk hadn’t been using any visible aids.

They’d also left Dwyer and Sev alone, which Dwyer attributed to the blessed hand of God for their protection. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Sev fixed everyone with an icy, targeted stare when they got too close. The three holstered pulse pistols between the two of them made for an additional deterrent.

“Ava said the shop where Gonzales worked is up ahead.” Dwyer made sure to use Lieutenant Garza’s alias. No telling if anyone was listening in, secreted in the deep shadows, even though Brant had assured them their wrist devices would alert them to snooping drones. Dwyer knew he could trust the LT to get a detail like that correct. “Let’s see if they can tell us the last time anyone saw him.”

“Echo Three, one of the signals routed through the Tactisar drones definitely came from here.”

There went the LT again, mumbling in Dwyer’s head. He wanted to shake the voice loose from his skull.

“Be advised, I’m tracking Tactisar squads four sections away from you stopping at each occupied business along the way.”

“I appreciate the heads up,” Dwyer murmured. “Y’all mind telling us when they’re close enough to smile and wave?”

“Echo One can probably spring you if they lock you up, but let’s not test the theory.”

“Roger, Home.” Dwyer glanced up at the neon sign, its letters spelling out H-A-X in alternating blue, yellow, and green. “Here we go.”

Sev grunted.

“Yeah, might be best if you let me do the talking.” Dwyer grinned and opened the hatch.

Light and sound poured out, smacking Dwyer’s senses as physically as if he’d been run over by a shuttle. The interior had the same pulsing color scheme combined with raucous, thumping music. Dwyer wondered who thought it would be a good idea to mimic a nightclub—surely not a soul could concentrate.

Yet, workstations lined both walls and the far distant back of the shop—far enough he wondered if the space had been converted from a hangar bay. Forty men and women, plus a trio of Saurians, wore headphones and labored over drones of every conceivable shape, size, and configuration. Dwyer spotted tiny room sweepers no bigger than his palm and hulking lifter bots four times as tall as a person.

“’Ere! Watchoo want?” The man who approached had to be in his eighties, a stump of a fellow with white hair splayed in all directions. He glared at Dwyer and Sev through an implanted scan-band, the milky white ruins of his eyes barely visible through the gridwork.

“Now that? That’s illegal, even for therapeutic work.” Brant sounded disgusted through the signal. “Don’t stand too close—it’s leaking enough trace radiation you’ll have to get treated if your exposure runs longer than a minute. But he can scan through the bulkheads if he needs to.”

Dwyer shifted his stance so he was sidelong to the strange old man. Just because he didn’t have kids—or even a spouse—didn’t mean he’d ruled out the future possibility. “Hey there yourself, friend. Name’s Eddie Wyatt. Got the Novabird in the docks, and a passel of surly drones don’t much want to do their jobs.”

“Walp, you come to the right place, boyo.” The old man’s accent was a curious amalgamation of cockney British and old American West. “Gimme the specs.”

“That’s for my guy Severino.” Dwyer slapped him on the shoulder.

Sev glowered at him then the old man before thrusting a plastic-printed report into the latter’s hands. The old man flinched but immediately cleared a space on the nearest worktable.

“Hey, I met a pilot who recommended your shop, you know.” Dwyer leaned an elbow on the table. “Ava.”

The old man chuckled. “Ava? Sure, she’s a good sort o’ woman. Finest of pilots, me boy. What’s she hafta say about this rusty old feller?”

“Says you got the best people under Bellwether, but she’s singin’ praises of Gonzales.”

“Dunn. Yep. The boy knew his bots.”

“Knew?”

“Nobody’s seen the laddie for days. Maybe a week?” The old man shrugged. “Can’t keep track of ’em no more. He was in and out for a while, always in a hurry, he was. Finally up and—” He snapped his fingers. “Gone. Didn’t even clean up his tools.”

Dwyer turned in the direction the old man pointed. A workstation between a tall, heavyset man and a Saurian with purple slashes painted on his exposed scales sat empty. Well, its stool was—the surface itself was cluttered with tools.

“Adjust your wrist ninety-six degrees.” The LT sounded as excited as when the cap’n had told him they would upgrade all his tech before the next mission. “The scanner module’s having trouble picking up biological refuse on the workstation, but there are hints it’s there. Could be Garza or at least where he’s been.”

“Hey, you think he left you any credits on there? A chit or two?” Dwyer took a few steps and craned his neck. He whistled. “Kinda was a slob.”

“Do not mock.” The Saurian snarled his words. “Dunn Gonzales did fine work at a quick pace, and he was not a fool of a human, like some. He bore the soul of a warrior, which he would show to any who dared cross him.”

Dwyer held up his hands, aware Sev had flanked the Saurian and, presumably, would defend Dwyer if things came to a fight.

I’d rather stick my head into a live ion engine port than tussle with a Saurian. “No worries, there, big fella. I was just askin’.”

“Tell you what, boyo.” The old man waved the plastic printout. “I’ll get Toruk there to fix dis. Hunnert now. Two hunnert when we is done.”

“As fine a deal as any.” Dwyer straightened his jacket. “Pay the man, Severino.”

“Got the scans,” Brant murmured. “I was right—bio debris. A few epithelial scrapings. But also… dirt. Hmm. Not dust or grime that builds up inside machinery, I mean actual soil. Running comparisons through the station databases for ag-combines, parks, the works…”

Sev held out a pay chit to the old man. He used his tablet to complete the transaction.

“Thank ye kindly,” the old man crooned. “Bring us yer drone, and we’ll get ’er done.”

“Roger and wilco.” Dwyer nodded. “Y’all have a fine day, now, you hear?”

As soon as the door shut and blessed silence returned to the corridor, Dwyer worked his jaw, trying to pop his eardrums. “I’m just glad I can hear again,” he told Sev. “Got no desire for a cochlear rebuild, am I right?”

Sev shrugged. “Data?”

“Sounds like the LT’s working the line. You notice the intercom wired to each workstation?”

“Yes.”

Dwyer switched to a low whisper. “How’s that look, Echo Home?”

“Looks a lot like the signal piped through the modified drones originated at that workstation,” Brant said. “I’ve got new coordinates for you—Sector E Forty-Five. Ag-Combine Noche Azul. The soil your scanner picked up matches the mix unique to them. Fair warning—it covers a couple square kilometers.”

“No worries. Been nice getting exercise instead of being cooped up in the cockpit. C’mon, Severino, it’s a long haul back to the tram.”

Sev grumbled under his breath.

Dwyer cocked his head. His ears were still ringin’ from that nonsense inside. “You say somethin’?”

“Dumb name,” Sev said.

Dwyer laughed. “Next time, don’t let me pick.”

Kiel scrolled through the incoming data. So many blasted drones, so little time. It had been perfect to have Tactisar swap them in, replacing older, damaged units with the modified bots provided by ESS through a third-party supplier, but he had upward of thirty to keep track of. He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. The headache lessened.

“I’ve managed to backtrace one signal in particular to Sector E. Several ag-combines are there—plenty of places to hide.” Ferenc could have been reading a dinner menu over the commlink, he sounded so disinterested.

When have I even seen the man eat? Kiel thought.

“I’m dispatching Drones Eighteen and Nineteen to look. I would go myself, but I’m due to meet with Ramsey to plan the final details. Boyd has provided the last bit of needed intel.”

“Worth every credit, given that’s all these wayward Terrans and neutrals worship.” Kiel scowled. The sooner the degenerate individualists were absorbed into the League’s socialist society and reeducated in the more morally pure ways to run a civilization, the better. The way they constantly put themselves first and everyone else second disgusted him. “Keep me apprised.”

“Nels’s partner. Your orders stand?”

“Of course. Bring him or her to me alive. Whatever they witnessed could be invaluable, especially if it implicates the good Detective Ramsey.” Kiel glanced at a nearby screen, across which Ramsey stormed down a busy avenue. “If his price becomes too steep, we have ways to negotiate the final bill.”

11

Ramsey’s Second Apartment

Bellwether Station—Caeli Star System

22 November 2464

Ramsey let Jackson into the apartment hidden away among thousands of others on the dozens of Sector C levels. The beige double hatch with tiny twin portholes, the half-height window to the left, the self-irrigated flowerbox mounted beneath the window, the cramped porch sporting two chairs and a table—everything was uniform, copied and pasted. Only the variety and number of flowers changed from apartment to apartment.

The inside was similarly spare—two chairs, one couch, a low table, all arrayed in the main living space. A kitchenette filled the space beyond. Two doors off to the left led into a bedroom and bathroom.

Jackson was pleased he’d taken the time to memorize the layout Brant had provided, even more pleased they knew it was listed under a payment ID versus a person’s name—one Brant linked to Rasmey’s accounts.

“If he was trying to hide it, he did a terrible job.” Brant sounded offended by the results of his investigation. “At least try to reroute the links so it bounces through a couple of fake accounts.”

Jackson leaned against the pillar of shelves separating the kitchenette from the living space. Not a single thing was on them except dust. “Who else is coming to this party?”

Sergeant Cho was already in the kitchenette, helping himself to a bottled drink. He offered one to Jackson.

“Thanks.” The clear liquid changed colors as he sipped, turning a translucent, glowing blue. No alcoholic content, but the sugars would keep him buzzed for hours.

“Got a couple more on the way, Boyd and Fernand.”

“Oh, yeah? This Fernand…”

“A go-between for our benefactor, weird guy but keeps up his end of the bargain.” Ramsey sank into a chair and slugged from his bottle. He gave Cho a look that Jackson couldn’t read. “So far.”

The door chime sang. Jackson glanced at Ramsey and Cho. Neither made a move but stared at him instead. Lucky me. Jackson hit the hatch panel.

Ciara walked through, but if Jackson hadn’t known “Boyd” was coming to the meeting, he wouldn’t have recognized her. She wore ill-fitting, stained coveralls, a midnight-blue pair the same shade as the tunic underneath. A gray cap slouched low, shadowing her face—which was bereft of makeup. No jewelry either. He couldn’t see much of her hair, but what little peeked from underneath was jet-black.

“Look at you.” Ramsey chuckled. “Our ‘man’ Boyd, slummin’.”

“It certainly isn’t the neighborhood where I spend my nights.” Ciara’s smile was sharp. “The men are well below par.”

Cho snorted.

“All right, no need to get personal.” Ramsey slapped the chair beside him. “Have a seat, gorgeous.”

Ciara did—but it was across Ramsey’s lap. She lifted her hat’s brim, allowing enough room for her to give him a kiss, not a long, passionate one but enough of a kiss to confirm their status. Cho suddenly became interested in his shoes. Jackson looked away but made sure he could see enough of the interaction peripherally—and kept his wrist unit’s scanner trained on the room at large.

“Enough of that.” Cho walked past them, near enough to disrupt the happy couple’s reunion, and punched the window controls. The view outside faded, the glass having opaqued until the exterior showed only shadows of station life beyond. “Did you bring us all something?”

Ciara laughed. “Don’t be such a cold moon, Desmond. I have plenty to share if you have the map.”

Desmond sat on the couch. He set a tablet in the middle of the low table and inserted the datachip Ciara had planted on Jackson. The detailed schematics for Nosamo’s core facilities appeared in three-meter hologram, the pale-blue wireframe filling most of the room. Ciara rose from Ramsey’s lap and twisted the holo, putting the disk-shaped complex on an angle.

“Nosamo Aerothermic is a two-kilometer compound thirty-two stories tall, covering the bulk of Sectors A97 through A128,” Ciara explained. “I say this for your rookie officer’s benefit, in case he’s been too busy shaking down petty thieves to study the schematics.”

“Funny lady.” Jackson indicated the hatch with his thumb. “Aren’t we waiting for a fifth guest?”

“Fernand don’t need to sweat the operational details yet. He’s just got to concern himself with the exit plan.” Ramsey grinned. “Besides, we’re all early. Go on, babe.”

“As you can see, the private hangars for Nosamo encircle its corporate facilities. The lab occupies the very center of A113 through A128, fifteen stories devoted to advanced atmospheric regeneration research.”

“Let me guess,” Jackson said. “Our target’s right smack in the center.”

“Bingo,” Cho muttered. “Give the rookie a credit.”

“Enough with the rookie crap.” Jackson tapped his badge. “This one might be new, but I wore the Ranger’s tin for eleven years, so you can—”

“Both of you, shut up.” Ramsey guzzled from his bottle. “Okay, the lab’s only got four access points. Babe?”

Ciara marked four golden diamonds around the highlighted lab, at Sector A120. “Each one is blast-reinforced. Two Tactisar personnel—”

“Who we’ll get rerouted to an emergency in the Nosamo docks,” Ramsey noted.

“—And two Stalwart-Series Mark Four security bots posted at each.” Ciara added her own tablet, projecting the image of a broad-bodied robot on multidirectional treads.

It had a heavily armored body with a squat head. A long red optical strip glowed, and if a bot could have a bad attitude, Jackson guessed that one could.

“That is a serious piece of security hardware,” Brant murmured. “Four plasma weapons mounted in pairs. Two ballistic rifles stocked with stun rounds.”

Jackson shook his head. “Those aren’t going to be fun.”

“Hence the drones,” Ciara said.

“Right.” Cho clinked his empty bottle against the edge of the couch. “Each drone we’ve received—the upgraded ones from our benefactor—is equipped with an embedded, dormant override program beneath its subroutines. Once in proximity to the Stalwarts, I’ll activate that program, and the bots will ignore us. They’ll even self-wipe our presence from their scan records and memory banks.”

“Oh yeah?” Jackson smirked. “You guys got this all set up. I’ll ask the obvious—why’d you bring me in on it?”

“Because we need someone to go in and grab the data, someone who’s used to bluffing his way through any unforeseen circumstances with people hostile to his intent.” Ramsey saluted with the bottle. “Why’d you think I was so keen on getting an ex-Ranger aboard? Your record’s stuffed to the bulkheads with undercover work, never mind you had to up the ante and keep your extracurricular drug runs secret from your bosses.”

“It didn’t really work out for me.”

“So? You got caught. After years. This is only gonna be a few hours.” Ramsey shrugged. “Besides, Cho will be with you.”

“To help me get the job done?” Jackson directed a withering stare at Cho, pretending the man was Harry for the moment. It helped channel maximum disdain, though he had to take care not to tinge it with the genuine concern he harbored deep down for Harry’s condition. “Or make sure he’s got a fall guy to pin this on if we’re busted?”

“A little of both.”

Ciara put her hands on her hips. “You could exercise more tact, Ram.”

“I could, but I prefer blunt honesty.”

“Except when you lie.”

“Well, hell, babe, who doesn’t?” Ramsey pointed at each one of them in turn. “You three could be lying to me right now, in one way or another—or together. We all lie. It’s how we get through life with what we want and how we protect what we have.”

Cho sighed. “Great pep talk, boss.”

Ramsey chuckled. “Hey, ironically, that was me being honest. Jack? Don’t sweat it. Cho’s there for the bombs. You’re there to make sure you and he get out in one piece.”

“Speaking of which—” Jackson swung the holographic map around so he could get a closer look at the lab core. “Where are the exits? Same way we came?”

“No.” Ciara used her right hand to expand the image. “A cargo transfer corridor extends from the lab into the Nosamo South Hangar. Double airlocks, one at each end. It’s used to get prototype machinery into the ships when the engineers are ready for field tests.”

“Codes for those?”

“I’ll have them the day of.”

Jackson frowned. “Cutting it close, lady.”

“Hey.” Ramsey’s joviality iced over. “Mind the tone, Jack.”

“No offense to you or her, but I like all the details squared away.”

“Who doesn’t? Getting those airlock codes isn’t as simple as signing out a cargo skiff. It’s got to be last minute. The less notice drawn to that kind of activity, the better.” Ramsey aimed his bottle at the image. “Once through the airlock, get to Berth South Thirteen. That’s where we’ll be and where your way out is. Don’t be late.”

“Or what? Cho and I get to spend the rest of our stay on Bellwether trying out Tactisar’s solitary cells?”

Ramsey snorted.

“I’m afraid CEO Noor won’t bother with the normal legal channels,” Ciara said coolly. “You’ll be spaced.”

Jackson chuckled. He let the belly laugh fade as he took in everyone’s earnest, serious expressions. Pretending to be shocked wasn’t a stretch because he could let his real disgust at Ciara’s revelation bubble to the surface. “You’re serious? Damn. Okay, don’t worry about it, I’ll have us out with time to spare. But do I have to be the guy to ask? What’s the data we’re stealing?”

“It’s called Project Life Swarm, CEO Noor’s pet project—his dream, really. The irony is this new technology would mean taking three times as long to purify a planet’s atmosphere than the regulation towers for which Nosamo is known—and which have made him wealthy.”

“So…” Jackson rolled his hands, indicating Ciara should continue.

“The difference is, when the atmosphere is purified, the technology can be removed and relocated to a new world. It doesn’t need to stay in place like standard towers do.”

Cho whistled.

“Those towers, they’re permanent.” Ramsey tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I’ve seen ’em out on Carrington Prime. They’re as ugly as sin, but without them, their atmospheric conditions would deteriorate.”

Ciara nodded. “Life Swarm is also nowhere near as bulky.”

Jackson gazed at the hologram, variables churning in his head.

“She’s right about a few things,” Brant said.

He’d been quiet for so long Jackson had almost forgotten he was listening to the exchange—and like many other missions, he’d found himself so deep in his role that his true self, Captain Jackson Adams, had faded into something akin to a faint memory. As if Captain Adams were the former role, and Jack Arno were the real him.

“Foremost,” Brant explained, “it’s not going to be a breeze until she gets those airlock codes. If you input the wrong one, the security measures are programmed to instantly seal the cargo corridor and purge the contents to space. But I’ve snooped around the drones—she can definitely override the Stalwart bots. It would be better if we get our hands on another drone and directly reprogram whatever their ‘benefactor’ has inside.”

Jackson folded his arms so he could conceal squeezing the transmitter embedded in his sleeve, thus confirming he’d heard and understood all of Brant’s communication. “Sounds like a hell of a gamble, but if I had a problem with gambling, I would never have made the money I did while smuggling. I’m good for it.”

“Me too,” Cho said. “I’ve got nearly everything from the armory I need. Sneaking explosives out isn’t easy—especially with the faked access you’ve got, Ram.”

“We’ll lock down the details soon.” Ramsey glanced at Ciara. “What about our problem lady, the one you’ve got my boy Jack here watching?”

Ciara raised an eyebrow. She gave Jackson a stern, questioning look.

“Hey, he’s my boss.” Jackson shrugged. “I figured you’d tell him.”

“She may or may not be an issue,” Ciara said. “I do not trust her, as she’s worked for not one but two of CEO Noor’s rivals.”

“And your background…”

“I’ve earned Noor’s trust.” Ciara ran her fingers across Ramsey’s hair.

He took her hand and kissed the knuckles.

“Like I earned yours.”

“Well, here’s hoping not exactly how you earned mine.” Ramsey winked at her.

Ciara laughed.

Cho just rolled his eyes. Jackson imitated being sick to his stomach, which earned him a sympathetic nod from the Tactisar sergeant.

“Hey, uh, boss?” Cho asked. “Kind of a joke, kind of not, but are we supposed to be taking notes for Fernand?”

The door chimed.

“Speak of the devil.” Ciara brushed past Jackson and opened the hatch.

Jackson, as curious as could be about the new arrival, didn’t want to give his interest away, so he didn’t snap right around. Instead, with arms still crossed, he did a slow turn of the head, keeping his expression bored.

Fernand was the kind of man even a practiced operative like Jackson could lose in a crowd. The red cybernetic eye would, of course, make him easier to track, but everything else—his bland features, his dull hair color, his duller wardrobe—marked him among the hundreds of thousands Jackson had passed during his time on Bellwether.

Normally, he would let the wrist unit’s scanner tag him for Brant’s analysis later, among the many other details they needed to review. But an insistent pressure grew at the back of Jackson’s mind. His memories pressed up against the present. It wasn’t a hunch—or a guess. He had seen Fernand before, somewhere.

“Hey, there’s the man.” Ramsey’s greeting and subsequent approach seemed too obsequious. Maybe he was trying to hide it from the rest of the room, but to Jackson, the corrupt detective seemed ready to defer to Fernand as much as Cho deferred to Ramsey. “Get lost?”

“I had to deal with other matters.” Fernand sounded as bored as Jackson was pretending to be, though it seemed less of an act. His cybernetic eye settled on Ciara then Jackson. “Your inside people.”

“Yes. Boyd.” Ciara offered her hand.

Fernand shook it. “Nice meet you, Ms. Bui.”

If Ciara was surprised by his knowing her true name, she took it in stride, offering a dazzling smile. “My, he has done his homework, Ram.”

“Told you he would.” Ramsey chuckled. “Fernand, this is Jack Arno, the new guy I was telling you about.”

“The Ranger? Good.” Fernand’s handshake was strong but not obnoxiously competitive—a firm, respectful gesture meant for an equal.

“Echo One, this is home.” Brant’s tone was strained. “This guy—I’ve seen him before. Running for a match now.”

Jackson’s instincts were correct. On one operation or another, they’d both at least seen the man if not interacted with him. Jackson grinned at Fernand while sifting through his memory but couldn’t recall shaking hands, or talking to, or even being nearby the guy. Maybe at a distance… “So, you’re from this benefactor, right? The one who’s got the money?”

“If you can perform your tasks and not get caught, yes, he has the money.” Fernand turned away from Jackson.

Guess that means I’m dismissed.

“We have a complication, though.”

Ramsey sighed. “I hate those. All right, spill it.”

“Are you certain—”

“This is the crew, right here. Don’t worry about leaks.”

Fernand frowned but continued. “I’ve located Nels’s partner.”

Dammit. Jackson triggered his transmitter, the sequence of pulses asking Brant to confirm what was just said.

“Hold on, hold on… yes, Echo Three and Four are en route to the target location. They’ve gone comms dark.”

“Sector E Forty-Five,” Fernand said. “An agro-combine, Noche Azul. He’s hiding thereabouts.”

“I’ll send out some of my people.” Ramsey sneered. “We’ll pin him to the bulkhead like a loose power coupling. Do you need drones retasked, or is that how you found him?”

“The latter. Drones are headed there this moment. I’ll keep you up-to-date.” Fernand considered the huge, glowing holo map. “I’ll also need a review of whatever transpired here so I make sure the benefactor is on the same page.”

“Big surprise,” Cho muttered.

“Confirmed. Noche Azul. I’ll send it to Three right now. Do you want them to abort?”

Jackson signaled back, Negative. Unfortunately, he had no excuse himself to leave—and if he bailed right then, with the newcomer Fernand around, he would look even more suspicious.

“Tarantado!”

Wait. When was the last time I heard Brant swear in Tagalog?

“Sending you an image, One. Fernand was on Aphendrika. Repeat, he was on Aphendrika.”

It took all his concentration to calm his racing heart as he turned his attention instead to the talk between Ramsey and his crew. His wrist unit was turned toward him, the screen dimmed so if any imagery or text came across, it wouldn’t blaze like a beacon. Jackson glanced down.

There he was—in extreme miniature but enough of a closeup to match faces. The picture zoomed out, so Jackson could see the context in which it was taken—from Gina’s apartment across the street from the League Consulate on Aphendrika.

Fernand is a Leaguer? If he was, he could be working with the elusive Vasiliy. Jackson leaned back against the shelves as the rest of Ramsey’s planning session unfolded. There was no way he was leaving that room, not yet.

12

Sector E Forty-Five—Noche Azul Agro-Combine

Bellwether Station—Caeli Star System

22 November 2464

Ehud Dwyer had never been inside an agro-combine before. He’d seen plenty of the planetside versions in his life, flown over a fair few during rescue missions for CDF in the waning years of the war with the League. And he’d read over schematics. Nothing had prepared him for a garden as big as a carrier.

Half of Noche Azul was as bucolic as an open field, with hydroponic terraces and long, stepped garden beds. Earthy scents permeated the massive space, which was interspersed by support posts wrapped in plant life. Name it and Noche Azul had it—grapevines, potatoes, strawberry fields, kale, lettuce, carrots, sugar beets, cucumbers, tomatoes, oranges.

Dwyer wanted to stroll every meter of the place and breath in the freshest air he’d encountered in weeks. But Lieutenant Garza was hidden somewhere in the veritable Garden of Eden, and he wasn’t getting rescued if Dwyer stood around gawking.

It would be no big deal to get in. Security was nonexistent, though there was a badge ID terminal for allowing access, which proved easy to fool when Sev inserted the handy override card Brant had provided. Then it was a matter of steering clear of human workers. Bots did most of the labor, trimming plants, gathering produce, watering, tilling, but Dwyer counted four individuals so engrossed in either repair or the harvest that he and Sev were essentially ignored.

“Signal.” Sev pointed down a long stretch of vegetables growing out of arched walls. Broad avenues branched off every forty meters.

The rocky path crunched under foot. The downside of all the beauty was the constant noise from machinery humming, water running through pipes or in open streams every so often, and a myriad of other sources. Dwyer maintained the same situational awareness he relied on when in the cockpit, flying through a hot zone—three hundred sixty degrees, a bubble he extended as far as his senses would allow. Which is to say, far less of a distance than Novabird could manage with her high-tech sensors.

Lights were dim but not absent in that part of the agro-combine, a dull, sunny glow. Dwyer walked across the intersection like he was on a stroll with the best girl on that or any other station. Sev stopped short, creeping closer to the edge, his pulse pistol drawn. Dwyer kept going, making sure his footfalls gradually left the rocky part of the path, before he doubled back.

Sev eased himself to the corner, getting a look down the corridor. He gave Dwyer a curt nod. Clear.

Dwyer gestured. Go.

Sev slipped into the corridor, pistol lowered but ready.

Dwyer’s hand rested on his holstered pulse pistol, ready to draw and shoot if needed. But there weren’t even bots flitting about in that section. The signal tracker pulsed against Dwyer’s wrist—fifty meters ahead, which was good because the corridor dead-ended in the dark metal of the combine’s bulkheads. But the bulkhead wasn’t bare. It was lined with hatches, tall like an airlock’s or cabin’s, with a considerable lip to step over.

“Echo Home, this is Echo Three,” Dwyer whispered. “Got a fix on target location. Advise as to environs.”

“Clear, Three,” Brant said. “Showing two maintenance bots within a hundred meters of your position. No combine staff nearby. Should have a clear route back to the entrance.”

“Roger and much obliged, Home.”

That end of the corridor, just beyond the last hydroponic racks, was more space station than garden, deck plating, no lights except a few orange backup beacons. Dwyer plucked a tiny flashlight from his belt.

Sev had another affixed beneath his pulse pistol’s barrel. The blue-white beam cut away the lingering gloom.

The pulse on Dwyer’s wrist reached a crescendo. A blinking indicator showed the signal origin as being inside the bulkhead. Behind an access panel emblazoned with a red-and-white warning strip. The notation read, in Spanish, English, and Hebrew, “OXYGEN FEED. PRESSURIZED. DO NOT TAMPER.”

Dwyer grinned at Sev. “I say we ought to tamper.”

Sev just snorted.

“No fun at all.” Dwyer stuck his fingers in the release port then nodded.

Sev backed up and raised his gun. Probably it was who they were looking for, but it could be any number of things in actuality—smuggler, drug dealer—so no sense in taking chances.

Here goes. Dwyer popped the hatch.

Nothing leaped out or shot at them, so that was a plus. First thing Dwyer noticed was zero oxygen feeds. Well, the feeds were along either side of the hatch, rerouted in an impressive but hastily done patch job. No sign of leaks.

The next thing he noticed was a compartment behind it, one which appeared to have held machinery or spare parts but had been emptied. The smell that rolled over him bespoke days-old human body odor and unwashed clothing. Dwyer sniffed. And… blueberries?

A shadow moved.

“Target.” Sev stepped in. He struck out with his free hand. And pulled out a young man in a rumpled jumpsuit.

The man cried as he crumpled onto the deck between them. Dwyer drew his pistol, sighting on the man’s back until he caught the white lettering on the charcoal-gray outfit. H-A-X.

“Hey. Hey! Take it easy,” the man said.

A flash of metal, sharpened. Sev struck with his pistol, knocking the would-be weapon out of the man’s hand. It looked like a section of piping sharpened to a cutting edge. Then Sev had his knee on the man’s back, pressing his shoulder blades so the man was face-first against the corrugated deck panels.

Where did the smell come from? Dwyer checked the compartment and found discarded freeze-dried food wrappers, crumpled water tubes, and yes, a handful of uneaten blueberries, likely pilfered from somewhere their target assumed Noche Azul wouldn’t notice a missing crop.

For all the commotion, the guy didn’t make a sound except for grunts. Good. He wasn’t one to talk under pressure. Dwyer knelt by his head, keeping the intersection in the distance within his periphery. “Dunn Garcia?”

“Screw off. If Zolo wants his money back—”

“Don’t care much about a Zolo, no matter how much you took from him. We’re here to get you off the station.” Dwyer wasn’t sure how to put it, so he figured it was best to jump right out that hatch. “She recovered Nels.”

Garcia—Lieutenant Duncan Garza—bore as much resemblance to his deceased brother as Dwyer remembered from the briefing images. His hair had grown out, and he sported a ragged fringe of whiskers well on its way to becoming a beard, but it was him. “You’re… here to get me out?”

“Call sign,” Sev grumbled.

“V-Vector Two. Vector Two.” Garza let out a ragged breath. “Gracias a Dios. I thought—I’ve been skulking around this foul station for weeks. What happened to Vector Home? Did she make it? You said she had Nelson?”

“Right on both. The faster we get you out of here, the sooner you get to see her—and pay your last respects to him.” Dwyer tapped Sev’s shoulder. “Let the man breathe.”

Sev got up, his gaze targeting the distant intersection. “Lingering.”

“Well, relax, fella. If we have any problems, Home will let us—”

Static squealed through Dwyer’s implant. Blast and damn! He was going the right way for a splitting headache.

Brant’s voice cut through the tail end of the interference. “… in, Three, this is Home. Repeat… you read?”

“Fuzzier than the wrong side of a pulsar, Home, but I read. What’s wrong?”

“… aware of your… exfiltrate with haste.” The static fell away, so much so that Brant was shouting into the link. “Repeat, enemy aware of your location. Vector Two being tracked. Exfiltrate with haste.”

“Shit.” Sev yanked Garza upright so fast Dwyer worried he’d dislocated the lieutenant’s arm. “Move.”

“What’s going on?” Garza was wobbly but alert.

“We’ve got to move. Someone else is onto your location.” Dwyer checked his scanner. No indication of nearby movement—yet. “Echo Home, this is Three. Request clarification. Tactisar or criminal elements?”

“Three, be advised, ESS or other League operative is in One’s vicinity at this time.”

Sev’s head snapped around. He and Dwyer stared at each other.

Lord God Almighty, keep us in the palm of your hand. Dwyer’s insides trembled, but he fought down the fear. He was supposed to be the pilot and the bomb guy, not out in the field. That was the cap’n’s job and Gina’s, even Sev’s.

When was the last time I got shot at? Quit panicking. Dwyer clenched his teeth. A man’s life is in your hands. He dug into his pocket. “Here.”

“Is it…?” Once Garza saw the mask, he quit asking questions and pulled it over his head.

The mask was a featureless gray with a fine mesh strip across the eyes and another rounded triangle covering the mouth and nose. Breathable, yet plenty to disguise a face from the naked eye with the added benefit of being sensor resistant.

Sev had already donned his mask, which made him infinitely more intimidating without a face to lend him humanity as he held both his pulse pistols. “Go.”

“Yeah, working on it. Vector Two, stay between us.”

Dwyer went first, jogging back the way they’d come. He shot a glance at each intersection they sped by, aware of the occasional bot. No people, still. Garza’s choppy breathing behind him was a worry—the guy was probably out of shape after three or more weeks stuck working drones and hiding in a wall. Sev was last, covering their rear but also available to lend supporting fire forward.

“Patrol drone incoming, eighteen meters ahead.”

The drone’s shadow flitted across an intersection, preceding the bot’s arrival—black and blue, like a particular cookie Dwyer had sampled in a tiny bakery hidden on the outskirts of Lawrence City. Red lights flashed as the drone paused, backed up into the intersection, and turned toward them.

“I’m jamming its signal with junk,” Brant said, “but you’d better keep moving.”

The pulse pistol’s report and the bulbous optical scanner’s explosion happened within less than a second of each other. Garza flinched. Dwyer looked at Sev.

“Solved,” Sev pointed out.

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Dwyer tugged on Garza’s arm. “You heard what the man said. Move.”

They followed their return path as quickly as they could, though twice they had to turn around when they took the wrong bend out of haste. Dwyer could hear more drones whirring as they closed in on his position, the sound coming from all directions. The damned things didn’t have to follow paths if they weren’t on a regular patrol, not out in the main fields—they could fly over the top of the hydroponic racks.

“Take the next branch on your right.” Brant’s console, clicking and beeping through Dwyer’s earpiece, gave him the impression the LT was searching for their best chance at escape.

“We’re almost at our exit.” Dwyer paused at a broad, open tract of deck separating the fields from another bulkhead edge of the agro-combine. Thick blocks of soil and transparent cylinders of water alternated every twenty meters. No sign of drones. No people either.

Sev snapped around, his pistols raised. “Incoming.”

Four patrol drones whipped over the tops of the distant harvester bots, like a fighter wing cresting a hill at low altitude before a strafing run. Dwyer knew the patrol drones didn’t carry lethal ordnance, but some were equipped with stun rounds, and he had no desire to be knocked on his ass—and out cold—for the next few hours.

“Get to cover.” He shoved Garza toward the soil blocks. They were three meters on each side, plenty good to block stun rounds. Of course, that wouldn’t prevent the drones from flying over or around.

“What are you doing?” Brant snapped. “The next branch to the right leads to a mag-tram terminal shut down for maintenance.”

“Having interference, Home.” Dwyer took a knee alongside Garza and sighted on the nearest drone. His pulse pistol flashed. Three shots sent the bot into a tumble, corkscrewing down into the field until it burrowed into a row of corn.

“The jamming won’t last forever. Tactisar’s alert is expanding. You need to get out of there soon before they cut off your route.”

“Roger, Home. Hang on.” Dwyer checked his map. He fought to concentrate as Sev’s blasts cut through the air, rattling his concentration. What blasted mag-tram terminal? Ah. There it is. Down the right-hand corridor, like the LT said. Why’d I ever doubt?

Twin explosions made him look up. Sev ducked back around a soil block as stun rounds pelted where he’d been standing. But two more of the original four drones were wreckage smeared across the deck, leaving the lone member of the flight angling higher—either for a better shot or to achieve clearer scans.

“Hey! Halt there!”

Oh, great.

Tactisar officers—three men, in their signature vests, but with additional armor strapped to their legs and arms—appeared. Helmets shielded all but their mouths, a mirrored visor obscuring their faces.

Sev pulled the triggers on both pistols, shattering last drone into smoldering plastic bits, raining debris onto their hiding place. “Problem.”

“You think?” Dwyer handed the pulse pistol to Garza. “Are you well enough to shoot back, LT?”

“I’ll manage.” Garza’s expression, while pained, was grim with determination. “For Nels.”

He got low to the deck and put warning shots into the bulkhead alongside the advancing Tactisar officers. They scattered for cover, the searing blasts from their plasma pistols slashing toward Dwyer, Sev, and Garza.

Dwyer let Sev and Garza return fire as he rummaged through his belt pouches. One small activator panel? Check. Two of my custom-made aerial explosives? Double check.

He flung them straight up. The little bots, each one the size of a man’s eye except flattened and equipped with four fluttering wings, sped over the soil block and hurtled toward the Tactisar officers—not directly at the men, Dwyer knew, but toward one of the objects near their hiding place.

Sev noticed and cracked off four shots at a water cylinder. Water knifed out in a pressurized spray, eliciting a cry from one of the officers. The drones landed above the line of punctures.

“Here goes.” Dwyer pressed the panel.

The explosion shattered the three-meter-diameter cylinder, flinging thick chunks of transparent material—along with thousands of liters of water. A wave swept two men off their feet, even as they shielded themselves from the jagged shrapnel.

It was as good a distraction as Dwyer could hope for. “Move it!”

Their breathless sprint put them at a set of sealed doors blocking the way into a darkened mag-tram tunnel. Before Dwyer could page the LT and ask him what he had planned, a tram sped into view. It jerked to a stop. The terminal doors slid halfway open.

“The override will last for twenty-five seconds, so get in and hold on,” Brant ordered. “I’ll get you as far as I can before you’ll have to change trams but only by bypassing the speed safety module.”

Dwyer didn’t feel like arguing at that point. He gestured for Garza and Sev to board the darkened tram. They’d barely slid onto the benches when the doors for the station and the tram slammed shut.

Speed safety module. I’ve ridden a handful of these things in the last few days, but how fast is their top—

The acceleration slammed them all against the seats. Sev yelped, a sound Dwyer never thought he would hear. Garza held onto the seat in front of him. Dwyer whooped. He could have been back in Novabird’s cockpit.

Kiel couldn’t make sense of the overlapping schematics. They looked to him an impenetrable mess of lines, circles, and mishmash colors. He knew he was glaring at the overlays of Bellwether corridors, mag-tram lines, and utilities.

Yahanotov, though, swiped through the images with the deft gestures of a conductor. The thin, rangy man hummed a solemn march as he went about his work.

“Can you see—”

“Wait one second,” Yahanotov interrupted.

If it’s more than that, I’ll have Ferenc shoot him when he returns—or I would if Yahanotov weren’t the expert I rely upon.

“There.” Yahanotov froze the endlessly scrolling images. “Ullrey Line, turned off last week for maintenance. It’s not supposed to be running, but a tram is on its way to Crux Terminal.”

“Get Tactisar to intercept,” Kiel demanded. “Preferably with greater skill than the idiots Ferenc sent to Noche Azul.”

“I’ve been trying. Tactisar is aware the targets are on the move, but—” Yahanotov flicked his fingers toward a comms display. “Interference.”

“From where?”

“It reads as a collapsed comms buffer but not when you examine it more closely. Someone’s jamming, or at least, making the attempt.” Yahanotov made a tsh sound. “Good attempt. It won’t last long. Tactisar’s algorithms are pretty good for civilian work.”

An interesting development. Kiel wondered if his goal of drawing out Terran spies once more had borne fruit. For the moment, he was more concerned with who had Nels’s accomplice and where they were taking him. “Trace it if you can. Let me know if it correlates with the interference we’ve been throwing onto known Terran Intelligence bands, or at least the ones where they lurk.”

“On it. What about the targets?”

“Make sure the likely hangar destinations have Tactisar officers waiting,” Kiel ordered. “And for pity’s sake, stow the plasma weapons. Live operatives are worth far more to the League than corpses.”

13

Bellwether Station—Caeli Star System

22 November 2464

Jackson found it hardest to feign interest in the heist planning when Brant kept a running update about the team’s ongoing escape.

“I lost track of them at Crux Terminal. The crowds there are thick this time of the day—a few thousand people.” Brant’s clipped tones betrayed his tension. “I’m pinging Three’s transmitter to pinpoint their location.”

To which Jackson couldn’t issue much of a response because he was still listening to Ramsey’s plan for extracting the Nosamo data from the core lab.

“This plan’s only going to work if your airlock codes are the right ones, babe.” Ramsey leaned close to Ciara so he could brush up against her and manipulate the map. “Otherwise, our boys are stuck inside.”

“Ye of little faith. Of course I’ll have them in time.” Ciara patted his cheek in a manner Jackson found patronizing. “If they don’t get out, I lose my share of the payday too.”

“If they don’t get out, everyone has bigger problems to face.” Fernand squinted at the map. “I’ll need a copy of this data for myself and the benefactor to review.”

“Sure thing.” Ramsey grinned. “As soon as you provide proof that you’ve disposed of our mutual problem in Nels’s partner.”

“I don’t recall that being part of our arrangement.”

Jackson could feel Ramsey was walking a thin line between standing up to Fernand and bowing to his wishes. For all his brave talk, Ramsey’s body language was off, and the sweat on his forehead Jackson was sure had nothing do with the stale air in the apartment.

“I’m surprised you all haven’t gone running out of here after this guy if it’s the same one Ramsey’s been complaining about.” Jackson chuckled. “He gave Tactisar a run for their money.”

“Watch your mouth,” Cho snapped. “How do you think we got the vacancy you’re filling?”

“Hey, no complaints, but if you’d let me out there, we wouldn’t be worrying about whether piddly drones could stun this troublemaker.” Jackson thrust a thumb at his chest. “My record stands. You’ve seen the arrests.”

“Yeah. Not too shabby for a Ranger with a drug-dealing habit.” Ramsey shrugged. “But I have plenty of guys and gals on my payroll. Fernand knows it, which is why he’s not running out of here either.”

Fernand read a message off his comms device. “This is no time to debate who is a better pursuer. Nels’s accomplice has escaped. He and whoever is extracting him have destroyed a half dozen drones and taken out three of your vaunted officers.”

“Taken out? Shit.” Ramsey reached over and slapped Cho’s shoulder. “Give him his copy of the data. Now. We’ve got to get on this.”

“I told you. It’s being handled.” Fernand held out his hand.

Cho rubbed at his arm, frowning. He removed a duplicate chip from his pocket and gave it to Fernand. “Don’t drop it.”

Fernand stared at him as he took the chip, turned away, and headed for the apartment hatch.

“Hold up.” Ramsey maneuvered past the tablet, his head distorting the holo maps, so he could block Fernand’s exit. “What else do I need to know from the benefactor?”

“You need to know he’s watching, and so far—” Fernand held up a finger. “So far, he’s pleased that you haven’t botched this entire operation. If he has to step in himself, he’ll be disappointed, and you’ll lose your share—among other things.”

He was gone through the hatch before Ramsey could react, which Jackson saw as a good thing because the fury on Ramsey’s face indicated he wanted to hit the man, links to a wealthy and dangerous benefactor aside.

“Prick,” Ramsey snarled.

“I can tail him,” Jackson muttered. “See where he’s headed—as in, make sure he’s gonna take care of your Nels-related problem like he said he was.”

Ramsey stood like a statue, glowering at the door. He looked at Ciara, who seemed to be mulling over their options.

“Got them,” Brant hissed. “Three, Four, and the target boarded a mag-tram for Soar East Station. The destination puts them within a klick of the right hangar berth. But I can’t keep Tactisar off them. If you leave now, you can intercept and give them cover, over.”

If he left right then, he could, but Jackson knew he would lose his chance at finding out who and where the benefactor was. He signaled back, Negative, and again for Hold. Meaning, he would hold.

“Roger.” Brant’s voice dropped into an operational monotone.

Jackson would hear about it, but chain of command held, even in—or better to say, especially in—the heat of a mission that had taken a turn into the unexpected. But Jackson could ameliorate the damage if Ramsey would see things his way.

Ciara nodded.

“Do it,” Ramsey snapped.

“But be discreet,” Ciara said. “This could be an opportunity to get the upper hand in any negotiations going forward.”

“Yeah,” Ramsey added. “And if you have to arrest our pal Fernand on dubious charges so we can hold him over the benefactor’s head, I won’t complain.”

“On it.” Jackson slipped out of the hatch and into the crowd.

As soon as he was enmeshed in the herd of pedestrians, he caught a glimpse of Fernand—the back of his head then his left profile, if only for a second. Jackson triggered his comm to Ramsey on the Tactisar channel they used. “Got the target. Proceeding toward Ishii-Abed neighborhood.”

“Roger,” Ramsey replied. “Signal if you need backup. Stay off the drones’ sensors, though—the benefactor’s got hooks in most of them.”

“Confirmed. Arno out.” The moment he disconnected, he switched onto his transmitter for Brant. “Echo Home, this is Echo One. Be advised, I will not make the intercept, repeat, will not make the intercept. Shadowing new target.”

“Roger, One,” Brant said. “They’re in for a tight squeeze if you can’t get to them.”

“I know it. Send Two the update. I’ll ping her. One out.”

Fernand crossed a busy intersection, disappearing for a moment behind a long stretch of vendor stalls selling everything from exotic pets—most of which had tentacles and were no doubt illegal on Coalition worlds—to prepackaged local foods. Jackson, in a fleeting fantasy, hoped their proximity to each other was unrelated.

His transmitter pulsed for his attention. “Go for Echo One.”

“One, this is Echo Two. You’re lucky I’m not stuck in my seventeenth client meeting of the week, otherwise I’d have a hard time faking a bathroom break.”

“Did Home bring you up to speed?”

Gina sighed. “He did. I have my other outfit in my carry bag.”

“Luck again on my part?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Operational preparedness. I can make the intercept, but it’ll be tight. Leaving now. Oh, and One?”

“Yes?”

“New target had better be worth it.” Her tone lost all traces of her usual sly humor. “And we’re going to have words when I’m done. Two out.”

Jackson blew out a breath. He sped his pace, cutting through a family with four teens, before finding Fernand several dozen meters ahead. “Pretty sure we’re all going to have words,” he muttered.

CSV Tuscon

Matching Orbit of Bellwether Station

Mancini drummed his fingers on his console. If he stared any longer at another civilian ship on his display—one more freighter taking goods from point A to point B—he was going to go cross-eyed, no matter what the corpsman aboard said.

So far, they hadn’t found additional suspicious craft beyond the raider that had blown itself up rather than being captured. The spooks aboard Oxford had taken over the investigation, leaving Tuscon to resume patrol. But either their one interception had been a fluke, or word had gotten around to other raiders of a warship prowling the Caeli system, on the lookout for would-be pirates. Mancini was willing to bet the latter.

“Conn, Comms,” the communications officer called out. “Incoming encrypted transmission from Oxford, flagged your attention, Skipper.”

“Comms, run it through decrypt and pipe it to my console unless it’s flagged my eyes only.”

“Negative on the latter, sir. Coming your way.”

Captain Godat frowned at him. “Colonel Sinclair’s found something on the fringes, you think?”

“It’s possible. If he needs backup, we’ll have to make flank speed. Pass the word to all hands.”

“Aye, sir.”

The message appeared, decrypted, on Mancini’s small screen—text only. His eyebrows shot up as he read it.

“Belay that, XO,” Mancini said. “Pilot, give me flank speed to Bellwether.”

“Pilot, Conn. Flank speed.”

“Aye, Major.”

Tuscon’s deck rumbled under his boots as the engines shoved the stealth boat on a new, high-velocity course.

“Time to arrival?” Mancini asked.

“ETA twenty-two minutes, sir.”

“Bring it up a notch. TAO, populate the board—designate all Tactisar gunships within response range of Bellwether Station as Master.”

Olesen gave him a momentary surprised look but immediately replied, “Conn, TAO. Designating all Tactisar gunships. Populating the board…” His hands flew across the console. “Master One through Nine, marked, Skipper.”

“Major?” Godat slipped by the command chair. “What’s the word?”

“Unit One-Seven-One has located their target, Vector Two. Echo Three and Four are extracting, but Tactisar units are in pursuit.” Mancini made a face. “If they make it to their craft, we’re to provide cover.”

“Cover?”

“Yes, XO.” Mancini watched the nine pips Olesen had marked on the tactical board, and eye the timer as it counted down past twenty minutes. “In case the station’s security force tries to shoot them down.”

Soar East wasn’t as crowded as Crux but still had enough people for Dwyer, Sev, and Garza to wind through en route to Novabird’s berth. Their masks were gone, discarded in a refuse bin as soon as they arrived.

“Security imagers in this section are on the fritz. You’re welcome.”

Dwyer didn’t like the constant edge to Lieutenant Guinto’s voice—better when the LT was laid back, because then his calm bled over into everyone else on the link.

“If more officers show up, you’ll need to drag on your gaiters.”

“Roger that,” Dwyer murmured. He’d already tossed his jacket and Sev’s into yet another bin where one meant to disintegrate and recycle trash into base elements—great way to get rid of coats wired with embedded transmitters. Dwyer didn’t want to think about how their operational budget would suffer to replace them, but at the moment, he had bigger problems.

Like the four guys standing watch at the long archway leading into the departure terminal for their hangar. The riotous colors and grating sounds of the shops, bars, and casinos beyond were the perfect interference for losing their pursuers—but the four men arrayed by the archway had to be Tactisar, too, despite wearing plain clothes. They had no visible weapons, but that didn’t mean they were unarmed.

“Trouble,” Sev growled.

Dwyer slowed their approach. He altered his trajectory so he and Sev shielded Garza from view. “Don’t get ruffled. If we take them out in plain view, we’re gonna have more trouble than we’re already in.”

“Those men… I saw one or two of them when Ramsey’s people killed Nels.” Garza’s voice rasped with what Dwyer guessed was equal parts anger and fear. “They see me, and we’re all dead.”

“Get ready to speed your approach,” Brant informed them. “Echo Two is getting into position.”

Two? Dwyer shared a look with Sev, who shrugged. The latter was ready to draw his pistols, especially as they neared the arch and the crowds thinned out.

Then the huge corridor’s lights blinked off. The cries and shouts of two hundred or more people rolled over Dwyer like a wave. Emergency beacons popped on within three seconds, but it took only that long for clumps of panicky folks to run in all directions. Mostly newcomers. The regulars were the ones who froze in place. And visitors should know better than to try to run in an unfamiliar station.

Dwyer saw one of the guards had disappeared. A hazy silhouette hurtled toward the next one. He dropped to the deck, obscured by the crowd—but Dwyer glimpsed his arms and legs flailing out of control before going limp.

“Make or break, Severino.” Dwyer waved them forward.

The trio wove through the thinning crowds and the arch as the other two disguised officers opened fire at the shape already twisting out of their reach.

On the upside, stun rounds wouldn’t lethally injure the bystanders screaming and ducking. The downside, those fleeing pedestrians made it more difficult for Dwyer and his companions to break through—and mired them in a heap of twenty scared travelers.

“Get out of there! Patrol drones inbound!”

Dwyer glanced back and hoped to God Gina had something fantastic up her stealth-camouflaged sleeves because he didn’t want to shoot into a crowded civilian area—and he would prefer if Sev didn’t either. But the drones must have pinged them because the remaining two guard shouted and aimed their automatic weapons his way.

Sev was fast. He shoved Dwyer so hard the next think Dwyer knew, he was on the floor, shielding his face from being stomped on. Sev’s pulse pistols flashed, and for a horrible second, Dwyer thought they would have dead officers—corrupt, yes, but dead civilians, nonetheless.

But the blasts were aimed wide, not only missing the officers but causing the drones to zero in on Sev. Their mounted stun projectors whirred into position.

Pulse flashes stabbed from the shadows beyond the guards. One of the drones exploded. Garza shot down the second one.

“You’ve got a ten-second window coming up if I can trigger another power surge—go!”

Before Dwyer could ask the LT what in the blazes he meant, it turned out blazes was what he meant, because every light fixture that had gone dark shone at the max end of its brilliance capacity, some so bright they hummed.

That time, Sev got their group moving.

Here we go again, Dwyer thought as he staggered and ran on a twisted ankle.

Kiel scowled as the drone feeds went dead. Again. At that rate, he would have to requisition more from his supplier before the heist unless he drew others off their preprogrammed patrol routes. “Are you certain the interference is recurring?”

“Very. It’s not the same signal frequency they used on Aphendrika but within a matching range.” Yahanotov tweaked one of his controls. “You were right to suggest jamming throughout the range earlier. I’m definitely getting pushback.”

Which meant whoever the Coalition had sent was using similar signals interception and disruption methods. Kiel smirked. He’d suspected CDF Intelligence was behind Nels’s actions, but this intervention confirmed it—to great effect. He spun back through his comms device, searching for the recording he’d made months ago, the one in which he’d taunted the person designated Echo One.

“No good on visuals,” Yahanotov muttered. “The feeds from stationary posts near Soar East were disrupted. Drones couldn’t give us faces either—though the runners did discard their masks.”

“A bold risk,” Kiel said. “Keeping them secures their identities but also draws suspicion. Blending into crowds was the right move. Where are they—”

An alert flashed on Yahanotov’s monitor. He swore in Russian. “First an outage, now a surge? Their tech is good, sir. He’s in and out of the power systems before I can react, which means Bellwether’s doing no good at all.”

“I’m shocked, really I am. Give me the link when you’re ready.”

“One moment… all right, sir, you’re up.”

Kiel reached for his mug. He blew steam from the tea and sipped. Adding honey soothed the sore throat the damnable filthy conditions seemed to render. “I know you’re listening,” Kiel began. “Perhaps you’d like to know I’m listening too.”

Ponder that. He watched the screens and waited for his enemy to stumble.

Brant’s fingers froze on his console. For a second, his mind, usually filled with procedures and counteractions to enemy stratagems, was blank. Fear chased his plans away.

But he forced himself to think by reminding himself he could rely on God for salvation and could wield prayer—something the same enemy thought a foolish waste—to real effect.

“Echo Home to all.” He kept his tone neutral, his words clipped. “Enact comms burn. Repeat, enact comms burn.”

The instant he sent the warning, Brant executed an emergency dump of all saved data and his herd of algorithms onto a portable drive attached to his setup. He yanked it free with one hand as he pried open a panel on the left side of the largest unit. A red switch inside was secured by a black strip of binding tape. Brant ripped the tape off and flipped the heavy switch. All his screens died. All lights on the myriad units crammed into the tiny loft went dark.

Brant scooped up his bag, pocketed the drive, and slipped out the front door into his neighborhood’s main corridor. He breathed deep and regular, offering up a prayer not only for his protection but that of his team. Anyone who came looking for the origin of what had been Covert Action Unit 171’s primary signals range would find cooling lumps of melted plastics and wiring, the sophisticated works reduced to an elemental mess.

Easy, Brant urged. They’ll know what to do. The backup’s in place.

And that time, they would make sure the enemy could never find it.

Gina caught the two officers in their rib cages with her last two disruptor rounds before she needed to reload. Which, of course, was when the lights blazed on. She sighed. Did the boys not realize the whole point of a stealth suit was negated in blinding illumination?

But when the signal burn message came through and Brant’s constant commentary went silent, she forgot her complaints. Dwyer and Sev were on their own.

Gina had to disappear, so she slipped into a side corridor and stripped from her suit, revealing a form-fitting civilian one-piece. In a few minutes, she ran into the crowds, which were still surging around the terminal, and made for an emergency exit like she was just as scared as another tourist.

Jackson stopped as Fernand entered a passageway. Without comms, he would have no backup. And the signal burn order was one he couldn’t ignore, not without putting the entire team in genuine peril.

He could almost hear Harry laughing at him. He was sure that bastard Vasiliy was.

He still had time before the rendezvous. He couldn’t catch up with his team, which left him on his own. Operationally, he was at the moment of greatest risk.

But it was twice now the League had latched onto their supposedly encrypted communications—once to flaunt, once to interfere. He had to stop them. Jack ground his teeth and stepped into the passageway.

14

Shuttle Bay Golf Sixteen West Eight

Bellwether Station—Caeli Star System

22 November 2464

Sevastopol Rast could not imagine a more chaotic scene, what with pilots and passengers scrambling for their ship throughout the hangar bay, and he had lived through riots on his homeworld when the League had brutally suppressed the impoverished citizens. So-called social equality mattered little when one side had the weapons and the other had rocks.

His objective, though, was clear—get Warrant Dwyer and Lieutenant Garza safely to Novabird and secure their exit route off Bellwether Station. Hiding aboard the massive space habitat was no longer an option. Tactisar was aware of their presence, and the League agents continued to hunt Garza, so Sev doubted they would have a moment’s peace.

Peace. “Guard yourself against fear, Sev.” Mother’s voice was as soft and fluid as if she’d been standing beside him. “Let peace remain in your heart.”

I will, Mother. Peace.

His shoulder collided with another man’s.

The squat brute glowered at him. “Watch it!” His spittle sprayed into Sev’s face.

Peace.

Sev swung his pistol, the barrel catching the man across the nose. Blood spewed onto his shirt, but the man had no time to react before Sev swept his legs out from under him. A quick stomp to the chest left the impolite spacer gasping on the deck.

There. Peaceful.

Warrant Dwyer shouted a warning or an order—the latter of which Sev figured didn’t apply to him, since he was a civilian—but he respected the deliverer. Garza had fallen. The man seemed exhausted, possibly due to malnourishment, though that would be up to Oxford’s medical staff to determine. What Lieutenant Garza needed was help. Sev holstered his pistols, hooked his arms around Lieutenant Garza, and hoisted the smaller man over his own shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

More people yelled. Why do they always have to yell? The sounds became an overlapping cacophony pounding at the inside of Sev’s head. He narrowed his focus—Warrant Dwyer running ahead of him, Lieutenant Garza’s breathing as he held on, his own boots slapping against the deck plates, Novabird resting in her berth like a falcon ready to take flight.

“Drones!” Dwyer’s cry came less than thirty meters from the boarding ramp.

Ten patrol drones swarmed the hangar, at first fanning out to scan for their targets then forming into a two-layer arrowhead when they found who they were looking for. Sev ran the scenario three times in a matter of seconds and knew he would be unable to shoot them all down without being stunned and taken into custody, never mind without risking injury to Lieutenant Garza.

He wished Gina were there to help him. No one would do better in such a situation. But he’d heard the comms burn message, assumed she’d followed the protocol and gone to safety.

Sev was still trying to calculate when he could drop the lieutenant and shoot when the roar of thrusters overwhelmed all other noise. The launching shuttle’s exhaust forced him to his knees, man-made winds whipping at his clothing. A Florio Ionworks Mark Six courier wheeled overhead, variable wings twisting as thrusters sputtered. The pilot was a marvel—more than once Sev was sure the courier would snap a spar when it came too close to the other parked craft or the hangar berths themselves.

Weapons flashes ripped through the incoming drones, turning them to smoldering embers.

Warrant Dwyer had made it to the hatch. He whooped and hollered, the name “Ava” clearest among the words—his pilot acquaintance. Sev grunted. Captain Adams was always going on about human intelligence. Sev could see then the advantage of curating such a resource.

Then he was at the hatch, dumping Lieutenant Garza through. Novabird’s engines already hummed through their startup regime.

“Seal it!” Warrant Dwyer shouted. “I’m puttin’ her on the roof!”

He was not exaggerating. The moment Sev slammed home the hatch, Novabird howled. The sudden acceleration would have knocked Sev to the deck had he not been holding one of the rungs welded by the controls. He could see the hangar berths at an angle approaching ninety degrees. It was a good time to strap Lieutenant Garza and himself in.

“The station keeps the primary hatches open during the initial stages of an emergency, just like they do during normal traffic,” Garza wheezed as Sev helped him to a fold-out seat. The straps clicked into place. “But if Tactisar is in pursuit of suspected criminals, expect them to try for a lockdown.”

“Relax.” Sev figured any instruction beyond that was unnecessary for the moment. He wished he could share his mother’s recipe for calming thoughts, but that was between Sev and her. No one else was worthy of the knowledge.

He fought his way to the cockpit and slid into the copilot’s seat. Warrant Dwyer was a different man when he was at the controls—he spoke with the same inflection, cracked the same jokes, but he never wavered in his concentration. Novabird responded as surely as if the man were taking flight with his own wings.

“Now for the fun part.” Dwyer’s tone had a hard edge to it, but he still managed a sly grin. “How’s about you unlock the weaps console and we get her talons ready?”

Sev nodded. The thought of removing the people aboard Novabird from danger filled him with calm.

Aboard CSV Tuscon, Mancini scowled at the tactical board. As if the normal Caeli system traffic wasn’t bad enough, Bellwether was disgorging shuttle after shuttle. Even some of the big freighters were scooting out.

“Space is filling up quick,” Godat murmured.

“It’s going to make interdicting all the more difficult,” Mancini agreed. “Comms, what’re we hearing?”

“Comms, Conn. I have overlapping signals between freighter captains and private shuttles, with Tactisar security bulletins breaking through every couple of minutes,” the comms officer said. “All approaching craft are being warned to maintain a holding distance of fifty klicks, minimum. They also say main doors are closing soon.”

“We’ll see if that prediction comes through. TAO, what’ve we got on Novabird?”

“Conn, TAO. Reading her drive signature leaving the docks now, through the ‘west’ hatch,” Olesen reported. “Aspect change, Master One, Two, and Three—they’re altering course to intercept Novabird and accelerating.”

“TAO, charge the EMP. Pilot, maintain present course and speed.”

“Conn, Pilot. Maintaining course and speed, aye, Skipper.”

Mancini checked the clock. Six minutes to intercept. “TAO, time until Master One through Three catch up with Novabird.”

“Conn, TAO. Estimated time until their courses converge is four minutes thirty—change in aspect. Novabird, accelerating on a new vector.”

There she went. Mancini allowed a tight smile as he watched the racer’s course alter at a startling speed. Let the gunships chase her heels.

“EMP, Skipper?” Godat asked.

“That’s what I’m thinking, XO.” Mancini reached for his coffee cup. Empty, save for sludge. “Tactisar doesn’t rise to the level of a traditional threat. But if they try to take out Novabird, we’ll disabuse them of the notion they’re in control of local space.”

Dwyer couldn’t help but grin at his displays as he banked Novabird past the hulk of a Saurian hauler as the shuttle entered Bellwether’s main docking ring. It warmed his heart to see how Ava Vardanyan used her Florio courier to sweep the patrol drones off his and Sev’s scents. Granted, he could have used a whole squadron of pilots like her, but he was happy for any intervention on his behalf.

He prayed for a bit more of the divine variety as he spun Novabird over and around a second freighter heading for the west hatch.

Bellwether’s docking ring was the rim of the giant mushroom shape, and with alarms flashing on every display from personal comms to shipboard nav systems, the cargo vessels inside were making their way cautiously but determinedly toward one of the four huge open hatches. Poor word. Dwyer watched their range to the yawning rectangles of star-studded space drop. Monster doorways is more like it. A pair of Audacious-class supercarriers could breeze out side by side with plenty of room for an Ajax destroyer to slip between. It should be no problem for his li’l old racer.

“Gunship.” Sev flagged the incoming mark on the tactical display.

“Sure is.”

Dwyer’s last maneuver had put two huge freighters between Novabird and the berth they’d blazed out of, but he had no doubts about the gunship’s nimble nature. The Trebizond-class was ten meters longer than Novabird, bulkier, with all six small-bore magnetic projectile weapons and a centerline plasma cannon. Dwyer glanced at Sev’s technical readout. It was the four gaping engines and the thruster ports studding the hull that worried him. Novabird was fast in space and equally fast in atmo because of her streamlined fuselage. The latter didn’t amount to a hill of beans without air resistance.

“Private shuttle Novabird, this is Bellwether Docking Control.” The voice pestering him through the station’s channel was female and sounded like his grandma being peevish about Dwyer swiping the last cookie from the jar. “You are not authorized to depart. Decelerate and depower your primary systems. Tactisar Security Solutions will rendezvous to impound your craft and remand you into custody.”

Dwyer killed the connection. “That’s a big nope, Bellwether Control,” he muttered.

“I take it this is a modification of your original extraction plan?” Duncan Garza slipped into another of the seats behind the cockpit.

“You could say that, sir.” Dwyer made himself cognizant of the lieutenant’s rank even as he pushed Novabird’s engines to their maximum thrust. The shuttle’s familiar hum doubled in volume, acquiring a buzzing edge. He’d never had the chance to see just how fast she could get them out of trouble until then. “Ideally we’d have kept you hidden at one of our safe points aboard Bellwether before shipping you out to Oxford.”

“Colonel Sinclair’s in the system?” Garza exhaled.

“Problem, sir?”

“No, I’m relieved, but I don’t think he’ll be as happy to see me as I will him.” Garza gestured to the cockpit windows. “Provided we get clear of this mess.”

Mess was the right word. More freighters were circling Bellwether outside the docking bays, following a counterclockwise orbital path. Emergency warnings were urging all craft to move away onto a fifty-klick course.

A new signal popped through. “Private shuttle Novabird, this is Tactisar gunship Tango One-Niner. Slow up and prepare to be boarded. You pass the hatch, we will open fire.”

“Friendly.” Sev followed up his laconic observation by flipping a row of switches over his head. A set of controls lowered from the cockpit ceiling.

“She’s armed?” Garza asked.

“Got enough teeth to surprise our civilian pals out there, yes, sir.” Dwyer aimed for the bottom left corner of the docking-bay hatch. A handful of other shuttles headed out along the same vector. He hated the idea of putting civilians in peril, but he was hoping Tactisar wouldn’t shoot for fear of the same.

Seven seconds to the threshold. “Here we go,” he murmured.

Novabird burst into open space, entering the mix of five shuttles at the same time. They all had to bend their course twenty degrees to starboard so as to avoid those circling freighters. Three seconds later, the tactical board squawked, and emergency lights flashed throughout the cockpit.

“Target lock,” Sev muttered.

“Good God.” Garza hunkered into his seat.

“I’ve already got his ear, LT, so hold on.” Dwyer spun Novabird and applied thrust, sending her on a wild tangent to the original course.

The tactical display informed him that bursts of mag-accelerated projectiles had lashed through their former vector, missing by a half klick.

“They hit one of the civilian shuttles,” Garza snapped. “Cold-hearted scum. You’ve got my permission to blow them out of space, Warrant.”

“Happy to oblige, LT, but the best we can hope for is to scratch their paint.” Dwyer ground his teeth as he wrestled Novabird through the overlapping freighter orbits.

None were particularly close, but at his speed and theirs, a mistimed maneuver would mean a tiny vessel colliding with a much bigger one at thousands of kilometers per second.

“Sev, give ’em that scratch.”

Sev gripped the controls. A glowing schematic of Novabird enlarged, showing the turret that popped from the dorsal fuselage, about halfway back from the cockpit. The compact CIWS unit with four barrels would make for a good antimissile defense, but against a ship near her size, it was just as useful offensively.

The first shots raked space near Gunship T-19, forcing it to roll away using RCS thruster bursts. The second punched holes in the forward armor.

“Venting,” Sev said. “Sealing.”

Great. Dwyer made a face. It was thin armor, backed up by emergency sealant for that kind of eventuality—handy when Tactisar had to spank pirates that weren’t on their payroll. “Hold on.”

Garza barked a warning, but Dwyer had already decided to play deaf. He didn’t need the jumpy LT telling him it was a bad idea to skim a racing shuttle within spitting distance of a huge ore hauler half the size of a Coalition cruiser. Dwyer ignored the proximity alerts and the glare of lights outside the cockpit windows. Some were portholes aboard the hauler. He wondered if he could make out staring faces. More proximity alerts. Three ships, arrowing on Novabird’s track from the opposite side of Bellwether.

“Damn,” Dwyer muttered. No way could Sev shoot through all three while holding off a fourth pursuer. “This ain’t gonna be pretty.”

“Get us out of here, Warrant,” Garza ordered.

Thanks, Lieutenant Obvious. Dwyer banked onto yet another vector, eliciting a screech from Novabird’s structural integrity monitors. Twisting the fuselage wouldn’t help them escape, but he was out of options. The pursuing gunship shot again. Novabird bounced as projectiles pierced one of her folded wings.

“Missile lock,” Sev intoned. “Three locks.”

All three incoming gunships had painted Novabird with their scanners. Dwyer’s chest tightened. Lord Almighty, I lay me down to rest by still waters and sure could use a shady glade in which to hide my weary head.

Sev grunted.

Dwyer’s gaze flicked to his display. An energy spike blurred the readouts. One of the three incoming gunships powered down in its aftermath—as in, it went dark, hurtling along like an asteroid. Novabird’s sensors, enhanced as they were beyond typical civilian models, tried to report another ship’s engines but couldn’t decide as to whether they were reading a pirate raider or having a malfunction. But Dwyer knew. He whooped and punched Novabird through a celebratory spin.

“Warrant, what in the blazes are you doing?” Garza asked. “The gunships are dropping like flies.”

“Roger, LT.” Dwyer chuckled. “That’s because the big old bullfrog that snuck up on them is on our side.”

“Conn, TAO. Master One disabled, sir,” Olesen said. “Charging for second shot.”

“Confirmed, TAO. Charge and stand by for my mark.” Mancini smiled at the indicator that had gone hollow on the tactical board.

Olesen’s EMP shot had slapped the lead of the three gunships, shorting out its systems and leaving it dead in space. Tuscon hurtled along in their wake, her own engines shut down as she tracked her next target.

“Conn, Sensor Room.” The senior chief sounded worried. “Novabird sustained damage to her starboard stabilizer, but engines are running at capacity. No indication of hull breach.”

“Sensor Room, continue to monitor. Pilot, maintain our present course but plot your intercept for Novabird,” Mancini ordered. “As soon as these local yahoos are down for the count, we’ll make for a rendezvous and pull her out of here.”

“Conn, Pilot. Plotting secondary course, aye, sir.”

Godat shook his head. “I’m kind of surprised they haven’t scattered by now, especially since it looks like a hole in space is flipping the off-switch on their power.”

“If they had brains, XO, they wouldn’t be corrupt local security.”

“Conn, TAO. EMP control reports fully charged,” Olesen called.

“TAO, firing point procedures, Master Two, EMP beam.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

“Match bearings, shoot, EMP beam.”

The second gunship of the trio blinked and went blank.

“Atta girl, Tuscon!” Dwyer watched the pursuing gunship even as he rejoiced. It had cut thrust and turned onto a new course, one that took it back toward Bellwether. Clearly, its pilot wanted no part of whatever was happening to its pals. Pretty soon, the third of the trio made the same decision.

The comms chirped. Sev ran the incoming signal through a decryption protocol because it appeared as an automated radiation protocol update. “For you,” Sev murmured.

Dwyer snorted.

“Novabird, this is Archangel One.” Major Mancini himself, if Dwyer had the voice correct. “We’re transmitting new vectors for you to follow for pickup and extraction.”

Garza sighed. “I appreciate the irony.”

“Me too, LT.” Dwyer replied into the comms microphone. “Roger, Archangel One, this is Echo Three and Four, bringing Vector Two home, over.”

“Confirmed, Echo Three. Nice job. Buckle in for the ride back.”

Dwyer let himself relax against his seat, arms trembling from the exertion of their escape. Soon enough, he, Sev, and Garza would be safe. But his thoughts were with Gina, Lieutenant Guinto, and the cap’n. The comms burn had put them all out of touch. No doubt the LT would use their backup systems to reconnect everyone. Until then, one wrong move could get any of us killed and quick.

The corridor was low-ceilinged and wide. Jackson couldn’t see far. He also couldn’t hear Fernand anymore, but he had to be ahead. Jackson knew from his mapping software that the corridor bent into a T-shape one hundred meters ahead with no rooms around into which he could have escaped. That deep inside the station’s guts, though, the map was glitching, his position off by too much.

Jackson switched on a beacon.

The first blow set his head ringing. The second caught the backside of his knee, forcing him to drop. More strikes had him prone on the deck, moisture seeping into his shirt. A couple of boots added to the rain of punches.

“Stop.” Fernand’s command cut off the pain.

Only his footsteps echoed in the silence, overlapping harsh breathing from at least three other people, Jackson’s assailants.

“Tell Detective Ramsey,” Fernand hissed, “trust goes both ways.”

His shoe crunched the beacon, dousing the corridor in darkness again. The footsteps departed—definitely four sets.

Jackson groaned as he rolled onto his side. He’d blown his chance at Fernand and the League connection, while his team was broken up and out of communication with each other. What a fool he’d been.

15

Bellwether Station—Caeli Star System

22 November 2464

Meeting at either Jackson’s or Gina’s apartments was a nonstarter, especially since Ciara had given “Jack Arno” the task of following “Gianna Willis.” They couldn’t take the chance of being spotted together, not even in close proximity, like during her initial report given at the Giardino restaurant.

The comms burn protocol dictated they rendezvous within eight hours at the second backup apartment rented under an assumed name. The first was included on their list as a misdirection for an enemy, should one ever get ahold of the protocol. They would show up to the first option and find nothing but an empty room—empty, that was, except for a drone that would immediately alert the team to the security breach.

Jackson hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The old, ratty couch slumped against the far wall of the loft apartment was the most comfortable piece of furniture he’d lounged upon in weeks, better than anything in his well-appointed Tactisar lodgings.

“You should take a sip.” Gina offered him her glass of wine.

“No thanks. I need to keep my head clear.”

“Is that what you call your actions? Keeping your head clear?” Gina snorted. “My mistake. I thought they were called Jackson running off on his own in breach of a clearly established protocol.”

“Since when do you give two damns about protocol?” He grimaced as pain gripped his head again. The medicine was wearing off. He shifted on the couch, trying not to scratch at the healing pads adhered to his major bruises. He had no broken bones, thankfully.

“Since you broke them. You never break them—almost never.” Gina paced the room. “Sev and Sparks wouldn’t have had to race out of here, leaving us without a ride, if you’d gotten to them. You were nearer.”

“And in the middle of a meeting with the people we’re trying to infiltrate. Gina, I had a line on a League operative—”

“Yes, I know, the same one as was on Aphendrika. You’re fortunate he didn’t recognize you.” She smirked. “Even with your modified brows.”

“Not a fan?”

“They do nothing for your charming looks.”

A monitor hummed to life. Brant was hunkered over a small case filled with pulsing electronics attached to a foldout screen. Data spilled across the bright surface. “Tapped back in. The new comms will be up soon.”

“Nice work,” Jackson said. “Anything we need to be aware of?”

“Dwyer and Sev got Lieutenant Garza out. Tuscon signaled—they have all three and are meeting up with Oxford. No indication either your cover or Gina’s was blown.” Brant raised an eyebrow, his expression cool. “Except for the beating you endured.”

Jackson shook his head, which turned out to be a bad idea because it still throbbed. The rest of his injuries were superficial. Whatever the assault was supposed to accomplish, it wasn’t permanent damage to the Tactisar officer called Jack Arno. “That was Fernand sending Ramsey a warning. I happened to be the most convenient message medium. He thinks Ramsey put me up to following him, which Ramsey did, though it served our purpose.”

“Captain, you could have been killed. A drone could have followed him just as easily. If I’d had one on hand to—”

“We didn’t have one. I was the closest and made the call.” Jackson knew the fallout from the past twenty-four hours was on him, and he was ready to assume responsibility. “Tell me about the signal intercept.”

Brant seemed as if he were going to add to his previous statement but instead continued. “Voice match is affirmative—it’s the same Vasiliy individual who contacted you at the end of our previous mission. I have no idea for how long he’s been monitoring our comms, but it appears this was the first and only incident of him breaking in. My guess, the interference we experienced was related. But I was able to get a fix on his communications. They’ve gone dark since then.”

“So, we’re both reassessing.”

“That’s my determination.” Brant got up from his chair, a pair of battered wrist units—older models by two or three years, Jackson realized—in his hands. “Here. These are tuned to frequencies used by sanitation monitoring systems. They don’t have near the strength our originals did, but they’ll have to do until we get new units from our stores aboard Oxford. Incidentally, I’ll need your current wrist units.”

Gina sighed heavily as she handed hers over. “Do you have any idea the time it took to amass decent restaurant profiles on there?”

“Glad to know your priorities are straight,” Brant muttered. “You can import them again. Yours and Jack’s are different models. I have service tickets out for the originals in case your coworkers wonder why you’ve suddenly downgraded.”

“At least mine still looks the part.” Gina held the used unit up to the light, examining the bejeweled surface.

“Make sure you pull the remaining data off mine,” Jackson said.

“I already had it downloading when you walked in the room.” Brant accessed the schematics Jackson had recorded at the heist meeting. A smaller version of the Nosamo offices in holographic form expanded onto the loft’s floor. “I was ready to go over the specifics, but we’re missing our two team members.”

Jackson frowned. “Is there something else we need to air first, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, sir. I think you know what it is. Your actions were reckless.” Brant crossed his arms. “Putting your team at risk for a single objective jeopardized the entire mission.”

“I disagree, given the single objective could be key to unravelling League involvement in not just this operation but other instances in which they’ve actively worked to undermine the Coalition’s national security. If you want to hear that I was reckless, then yes, I won’t disagree on that, Brant.”

“What I want is for you to ask forgiveness.”

“You—that’s ridiculous.” Jackson glanced at Gina, who regarded the scene with an odd curiosity. “Tell him.”

“Don’t look at me. Brant’s the theological expert. From what I gather, Catholics have a corner in the market on guilt, but I don’t think it’s a bad idea.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Jackson explained, “or that I need to be forgiven for. If you’d been in command, Brant, and made the same decision, I wouldn’t have held it against you.”

“Doesn’t change the resentment, Jack.” Brant looked up. “I’m not the only one feeling it, am I?”

“Shades of Eibenstock,” Gina murmured.

There it was—the asteroid in the room. Eibenstock, neutral outpost and site of their last mission six months prior to the Cypriot Crisis at Aphendrika. “We’ve been over this, Gina,” Jackson said. “My orders were clear—ship out. You delayed your own extraction to go after the people trapped by the mercenaries.”

“I took them out, set hostages free, and earned myself—oh, wait, I was left behind.” Gina snapped her fingers. “Did I get a medal from CDF for that one?”

“Gina…”

“Knock it off, Jack. Brant’s right. You screwed up. Sure, everything was ‘on mission,’ and you can make excuses all you want, but the team needed you, and instead you ran off after a League spy because you’ve had him in the back of your mind for months. No wonder you were hiding on the family farm.”

“It’s a ranch.”

“It smells, either way.” Gina snapped her wrist device into place. “I’ve got half an hour to get to work. If Jack’s supposed to be following me so Ciara Bui doesn’t get suspicious, he’d better do that. Keep me apprised, Brant.”

“Roger.”

The silence in the loft only deepened when she left. Jackson glared at Brant. “Forgiveness. Really?”

“I’m not your conscience, Jack, but I’ll tell you this much—there’s achieving your worldly goals, and there’s being right with God. Sometimes those clash.” Brant shrugged. “I can’t order you to do anything, though.”

“Damn right.” Jackson pushed off the couch. It was ridiculous. His team wasn’t a democracy—he gave orders and expected them to be followed. He left some room for collaboration and bending of the rules but only to an extent. “What I don’t appreciate is you undermining me in front of the rest of the team.”

“So that’s what’s bothering you? Protocol? It’s Gina, and I’m technically your XO. Being out here, hiding among the criminal element of the galaxy and acting like them every day, it’s no surprise our judgment gets warped from time to time. But when you stray off the straight and narrow when it comes to the team, you can be damned sure I’ll do what has to be done to goad you back onto it.”

The words battered Jackson worse than the beating he’d sustained because he knew Brant was right. How terrible had I felt when a man had died because of my actions on Aphendrika, a man I’d befriended while undercover? A man who might still be alive if I’d chosen someone other than Euke to make into a mark. He had to push that pain aside, or nothing would get done. “Let me know when we have more on those drones. They’re the key to the break-in.”

“Yes, sir.” Brant turned back to his work.

Jackson limped out a narrow access hall into the main corridors, shrugging into his Tactisar vest and wondering who was watching him.

CSV Oxford, Rendezvous Point with CSV Tuscon

Moons of Argenti

Colonel Sinclair appreciated the skill of Mancini’s pilot as he watched Tuscon dock with Oxford while both were underway, Novabird clinging to Tuscon’s hull via an extendable cofferdam all the while. Of greater importance, of course, were the new passengers arriving—Chief Warrant Officer Ehud Dwyer and civilian contractor Sevastopol Rast, both of CAU 171, along with Lieutenant Duncan Garza of CAU 22.

The latter rushed to Warrant Sakuri as soon as the two were reunited in Oxford’s briefing room. They shared a brief embrace before resuming something resembling proper military bearing.

“It’s good to see you again, Vector Home.”

“Likewise, sir.” Sakuri’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she smiled. “When Vector One—I thought the same thing had happened to you.”

“God must have decided it wasn’t my time, even if it was Nels’s.” Garza lifted his chin. “All the more reason we’ll do our best to honor his memory by assisting with this mission the best we can.”

“I’ve been trying to do just that, sir, from here.”

Sinclair cleared his throat. “Warrant Sakuri has provided intelligence beyond the scope of your original investigation, Lieutenant, which is why we were underway when Tuscon pulled you off Bellwether.”

“Thanks again for that, sir,” Garza said.

“As I understand it, you primarily have Warrant Dwyer and Mr. Rast to thank.” Sinclair nodded in the direction of the two CAU 171 team members. “Eldred tells me the comms traffic surrounding their, uh, mode of operations makes for most enlightening listening.”

Dwyer’s face reddened. “Not much to write home about, Colonel. Sev and I did the best we could in a hairy situation.”

“Indeed you did. I have no doubt Tactisar would send us their bill for innumerable wrecked patrol drones were they aware of CDF Intelligence’s involvement.” Sinclair gestured to Garza, who along with Sakuri, had sat to his left. Dwyer and Rast were seated to the right, with Sinclair himself at the head of the conference table. “I suppose I shall take solace in these modified drones being partial proof of League involvement.”

“They’re listening,” Rast intoned.

“Yes, quite. A more troubling aspect you have uncovered but a welcome problem. It means both investigations and their resulting overlap have pushed ESS into overplaying their hand.”

“Beggin’ the colonel’s pardon, but where are we headed?” Dwyer shifted in his seat. “Don’t mind voicing my urge to get me and Sev back to our people, sir.”

“I appreciate the sense of loyalty, Dwyer, but you’re correct. We’re headed to the system’s edge for a spell.” Sinclair tapped his tablet, calling up holograms of the planet Argenti and its moons.

The image shrank, revealing Oxford and Tuscon as white diamonds. The Caeli system’s third and most distant world, Stannic, was a frozen ball devoid of ships except for a handful of ice-mining vessels. Halfway between, specks appeared.

“There’s a thin, broadly spaced disc of cometary fragments trailing in a very elliptical orbit between Argenti and Stannic—no more than a hundred rocks scattered across the entire system. Warrant Sakuri informs us that they harbor a handful of possible sites used by firms in the manufacture of tricionite, which is useful in mining but also, as it turns out, rigging privateer ships for self-destruction,” Sinclair explained.

Garza scowled but didn’t seem surprised, which led Sinclair to believe he and Warrant Sakuri had already discussed the possibility.

Dwyer whistled. “Sir, am I correct in thinking that privateer didn’t blow up of its own free will?”

“It seems likely, Warrant. I was hoping you could weigh in with your expertise.”

“Well, I’ve never used tricionite myself, Colonel, as there’s much better alternatives in the CDF arsenal. But with compounds like that—refined from natural elements for industrial use, sure—they can be modified by a fella with enough time, patience, and money. Sounds like you’ve got somebody with all three. That said, I’d be happy to peruse whatever scans you folks have and can probably help narrow them down.”

“Much appreciated. I’ll see to it you’re paired with Eldred.” Sinclair magnified the image again, focusing on six flashing red icons. “These are the sites Warrant Sakuri deems most likely to either harbor tricionite stockpiles or manufacturing labs. Given the time gap between her knowledge and the present situation, one or more is likely abandoned. Master Chief MacDonald’s space special warfare team will conduct our raids while Tuscon and Oxford interdict any vessels in the area.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sinclair glanced at the notoriously tight-lipped Rast. “I will also require a full summary of your actions leading up to and during the escape from Bellwether. Spare no details.”

Rast locked his gaze with Sinclair’s and nodded.

“We have another matter to which we must attend—Lieutenant Garza.” It would be an unpleasant enough line of questioning, made more so with Captain Nelson Garza having been the lieutenant’s brother, in addition to CO and team leader. “What intel have you for us regarding Captain Garza’s death?”

Lieutenant Garza’s posture stiffened, as if the interrogatory had brought new life to his tired frame. “Sir. I witnessed Detective Ramsey Moss cycle the airlock through which Captain Garza was ejected. He did so knowing full well one of his own Tactisar men was inside with the captain.”

Rast issued a growl.

“Can you provide more than eyewitness testimony, Lieutenant, as valuable as that is?” Sinclair asked.

“Yes, sir.” Garza slid a small, battered tablet onto the table. It appeared he’d cobbled it together out of components from two devices, a Frankenstein’s monster of a job. “This was damaged during my initial escape after Nels’s—after Captain Garza died. During my time on the run and in hiding, I was able to gain access to a damaged patrol drone, one which I shot and destroyed. My skill with small bots was instrumental for my cover during the mission, Colonel, so I put it to good use again and found that drone in the shop Detective Moss used for quiet repairs.”

Dwyer made a surprised sound. At Sinclair’s raised eyebrow, he sat up straighter. “Sorry, sir, but I’m willin’ to bet that shop was H-A-X, where the LT had been doing his work when Sev and I went looking for him.”

“Right, Warrant.” Garza managed a wan smile. “I found more about the drones’ communication network in the recovered data, too, alongside video and comms chatter from Detective Ramsey and his people during the time he killed Captain Garza.”

“Outstanding work, Lieutenant.” Sinclair handed the tablet to Warrant Dwyer. “A second but more vital item of discussion for you and Warrant Eldred, I’d wager. Transmit whatever useful information can be salvaged to Unit 171, specifically Lieutenant Guinto. I daresay he’ll be pleased to see a breakthrough in his arduous labor regarding these modified drones.”

Dwyer took the tablet and stood, Sev mimicking his pose. Dwyer braced to attention and grinned. “Yes, sir, Colonel.”

“Dismissed until we can talk more later, gentlemen.”

Once the two had left, Sinclair turned his attention to the remaining members of Covert Action Unit 22. “There will, of course, be an inquiry surrounding the events leading up to and culminating in Captain Garza’s death. The two of you will be assigned admin leave until such time as the inquiry can take place.”

“With all due respect, Colonel, I’ll speak for myself and the lieutenant in our mutual desire to not be sidelined.” Sakuri’s response was firm, which Sinclair appreciated. “Our investigation shouldn’t be thrown off course by the captain’s death.”

“And it will not be. I fully expect your cooperation as we continue. Any inquiry will wait until we’ve returned to Coalition space and Canaan itself. In the interim, you’ll both remain aboard Oxford as liaisons to Captain Tamir and Warrant Eldred as they work with Unit 171. The status of your team, I’m afraid, will be left up to those higher in the chain of command, but rest assured I shall do what I can to push for its reinstatement and restaffing.”

“Thank you, Colonel.”

Sinclair stood. Garza and Sakuri did also, bracing to attention. “That is all for now, Lieutenant, Warrant. I shall interview you separately, Mr. Garza, once you’ve submitted your full report.”

“Yes, sir.” Garza nodded. “With your permission, Colonel, I’d like to see my brother’s body.”

“By all means, Lieutenant.” Sinclair clasped the young officer’s shoulder. “It would be an honor to escort you there myself.”

16

Cometary Fragment 084

Caeli Star System

22 November 2464

Tuscon slowed its headlong rush to the cometary fragment designated 084, making the last half hour of its approach rigged for ultraquiet. Master Chief Abraham Cosentino, chief of the boat tasked with wrangling all the enlisted crew aboard, enforced the quiet running with a zeal Mancini usually reserved for itinerant preachers. He’d once ran into a particularly fervent pastor who was convinced he needed to save Mancini from the clutches of the Antichrist. Mancini smiled at the memory of revealing to the preacher his family’s multi-generational Catholic heritage and the invigorating theological debate that had ensued.

“COB, don’t let them get the best of you,” he mentioned to Cosentino. “I don’t think there’s an enlisted rating on a single deck who isn’t terrified you’ll space them if they don’t shut off their personal tablets.”

“Bunch of screen addicts, Skipper,” Cosentino muttered. “I recommend we run drills on silent rig protocols as soon as we return to the Coalition.”

“Another set of those? I don’t object. XO?”

Godat issued a soft chuckle. “It does make for an entertaining few days. I’ll see to the scheduling.”

“Conn, Sensor Room.” The senior chief in charge sounded like he’d found extra credits on the floor right before shore leave. “Reading power fluctuations from Fragment Oh Eight Four.”

“That’s a relief,” Godat said. “The previous two were strikeouts.”

Mancini nodded. Those first fragments, coordinates provided by CWO Sakuri’s intel, were dead ends, but Mancini hadn’t been too dissuaded, considering the sheer number of possible targets among the widely spaced bits of space flotsam. “Sensor Room, maintain passive scans. I don’t want to spook anyone.”

“Conn, Sensor Room. Maintaining passive scans, aye.”

“What about tricionite?”

The senior chief blew out a breath on the other end of the intercom. “Conn, Sensor Room. It’s possible. Computer pegs it at thirty-six percent probability.”

“Given the overlap with the power surges, it’s worth a look. TAO, repopulate the board,” Mancini ordered. “Anything of interest?”

“Conn, TAO. Repopulating… negative. Still tracking the ice hauler we picked up an hour back, maintaining its parabolic course to Bellwether.”

“Very good, TAO.” Mancini swirled the contents of his coffee mug. Whatever the steward had put into it had made it, well, actual coffee. Damn fine brew. “Coordinate with Sensor. I don’t want anything sneaking up on us.”

“Sounding paranoid, like the spooks aboard Oxford,” Godat pointed out.

“Not paranoid—but more cautious than usual.”

“I was kidding, Skipper.”

“Figured, XO.”

Mancini became aware Godat was watching him instead of the tactical display. “Does this have to do with Aphendrika?”

“More so who we encountered there than the overall situation.”

“The stealth freighter.”

That was why Godat made such a good XO—he could read Mancini’s moods, anticipate his reactions. Mancini was also fully aware their encounter with the stealth freighter, a new League creation, had in fact left him wary. “The after-action report was clear. Something made the wormhole jump. Whether or not the ship was in one piece when it did, we’ve had no word. Even assuming it was destroyed, I have a hard time believing the League wouldn’t spring for more than one, given its success.”

“I don’t know about that, sir. We took it out.”

“We did.” Mancini swigged his coffee. “That doesn’t mean it failed to accomplish its mission.”

“Conn, Sensor Room,” the senior chief called. “Reading an engine drive. Faint but it’s there.”

“Confirmed, Sensor Room. TAO, designate Sierra Two.”

“Conn, TAO. Aye, designating Sierra Two.”

“What’s its course?” Godat asked.

“It’s… variable, Captain.” Olesen sounded frustrated. Unsurprising, given he preferred precise coordinates and vectors. “Sensors are telling me the drive is pulsing.”

“Pulsing?” Mancini frowned. “Sensor Room, what do you make of it?”

“Conn, Sensor. Could be a malfunction. Signature comes back as a Jubail-class freighter, fifty years old, give or take, judging by the radiation emissions.”

“Jubail-class.” Godat rubbed his jawline. “Not an ice hauler. Small capacity, high speed.”

“They make good smuggler vessels,” Mancini recalled. “Though smuggling doesn’t do you much good when you’re spinning on your thrusters out in the middle of nowhere.”

“What’s our call?”

“Pilot, alter course so we come in behind the freighter,” Mancini ordered. “Sensor Room, anything more from Fragment Oh Eight Four?”

“Conn, Sensor Room. Could be metallic structures on the surface picking up faint reflections in the same vicinity as the power fluctuations. And, Skipper? Tricionite readings coming back at fifty-nine percent probability as we’ve closed the distance.”

“Very good, Sensor Room.” Mancini set down his mug. “XO, get me Master Chief MacDonald. He and his boys are going for an excursion. And we have a freighter to shadow.”

Once Tuscon had settled into the wake of the Jubail freighter, making its slow approach, a stealth lander left her hangar bay for the cometary fragment.

Master Chief Petty Officer Gordan MacDonald, commanding Alpha team of Space Special Warfare Unit Nineteen, checked his ballistic rifle for the second time. He and the other five wore armored battle suits loaded down with weaponry and sensors. Tuscon’s techies had told him the iceball they were headed toward had no atmosphere.

“Listen up, people.” MacDonald’s voice sounded odd to him, reverberating inside his helmet while also transmitting through the comms. “The major says we could be looking at smugglers or pirates or who knows what else. It could even be Leaguers.”

“God answers prayers, doesn’t he, Master Chief?” Senior Chief Dennis Harrell thumped his fist on the bulkhead behind him.

“He’s got a good track record, Harrell, so don’t do anything that’ll give Him second thoughts.”

Chuckles, including a raspy hiss from the Saurian team member, Rucuk, rolled through the comms.

“Bottom line? We find any unarmed civilians, stun rounds. Hostiles will be treated with extreme prejudice. I’m not risking a single soul of the six of us. Copy?”

“Yes, Master Chief,” all five answered in unison.

The shuttle’s transport bay went red. “Alpha Team, making final approach. No signs of active scans or weapons emplacements. Facility presents as abandoned. Setting down in three minutes. Godspeed, Master Chief.”

“Copy, Warrant.” MacDonald gestured to the hatch. “Okay, kids—Three and Four, first down the ramp. Two and Six out next. Five and I flank.”

Less than three minutes later, the shuttle’s engines roared, and the entire compartment shook. “This is it,” MacDonald warned. “Look alive. This is why they send us and not the Marines.”

Harrell snorted. “Why bring the Terran Coalition’s misguided children along, anyway? They’d just eat all the coloring supplies aboard.”

“Cut it, Harrell.” But MacDonald turned away to keep the rest from seeing his smirk at the centuries-old—and good-natured—hazing between two elite branches of the armed forces.

“Setting down!” the pilot called.

The shuttle’s deck plates shuddered, and a klaxon split the air, the sound fading away as the compartment depressurized. Then the hatch popped, revealing a sprawling expanse of starry space.

Petty Officer First Class Esmail Rostami and Chief Petty Officer Amacio Mata went out first, rifles at the ready. Harrell and Rucuk were up next, the latter looming over the rest of the team members in his Saurian version of an armored space suit. MacDonald hustled down the ramp with Chief Petty Officer Ibrahim Ahmad beside him.

They scooted in a diamond formation, using their suit thrusters with care since the cometary fragment lacked an appreciable gravitational field. A false move would send a man spinning off into space. They closed the distance between a metal canopy gathering shadow and darkness against the rolling, icy surface of the cometary fragment. Headlamps flashed on, cutting stark swathes of light through the airless environs.

“Sensors blank except for those power fluctuations,” Rostami said. “Reading as a cycling scanner. Main reactor for the facility is putting nothing out.”

“Has to be backups,” MacDonald said. “Any sign of anyone moving around in there, Three?”

“Negative, One.” Rostami consulted a glowing rectangle on his left arm. “Scans from Tuscon, the shuttle, and my suit’s scanners all say the same thing—zero heat signatures indicative of humanoid life. That’s assuming nothing’s interfering with those scans.”

“Like what?” Harrell asked.

“Tricionite. It muddles the readings with its own signatures. Didn’t you read the briefing, Two?”

“Take it easy on him, Three,” Mata muttered. “Everybody knows he can’t read.”

“Enough of that,” MacDonald cut in. “Five, knock on the front door.”

Ahmad took up a position at the front of the diamond, by the main hatch’s access panel. “Three, I’m guessing you can’t crack it?”

“Not that I didn’t try. Power’s dead to the panel. Manual override’s shot.”

“No problem.” Mata set his charges along the center line of the hatch—top, middle, and bottom. “Charges set and armed. Fire in the hole.”

“Fire in the hole.” MacDonald and the rest spread out, echoing the call.

The charges blew half a second apart from each other. The miniature but powerful explosions forced the doors of the hatch apart half a meter.

Rucuk and Harrell took point, relying mostly on the Saurian’s superior strength to wrest the doors open wide enough to admit more than one man at a time.

“Three, get me eyes inside,” MacDonald ordered.

Rostami freed a tiny bot from his belt—an orbit studded with sensors and thrusters. It hurtled ahead, four brilliant beacons sweeping the dark interior with light as it transmitted visual and scanning data to all the team members. A few seconds later, the answer came through.

“Clear.”

Rostami and Mata floated into the broad space with the rest of the team right behind. Three transport shuttles were parked at odd angles. Beyond that, windows allowed glimpses into a quiet, abandoned workshop. MacDonald couldn’t begin to catalogue all the gear stashed inside—that was what the techs aboard Tuscon and Oxford were for. Airlocks also stood on either end of the wide hangar bay.

Something drifted on the other side of the glass.

“Got movement!” Ahmad snapped up his rifle.

“Hold.” MacDonald swept the scanner mounted to his suit’s belt toward the object, but he didn’t need the cold results of the readout to tell him what they all saw.

A dark-skinned woman, eyes wide, dead. The gouges burned in her chest and torso by plasma blasts were clear enough. Rostami’s spherical drone hovered by the window, lights shining as deep beyond as they could. MacDonald shivered at the several sets of unseeing eyes.

“Shit,” Harrell said. “Got to be five, six in there.”

“Give me a complete scan workup,” MacDonald ordered. “And secure a link to Tuscon. The cake eaters aren’t going to like it any more than I do.”

Mancini shook his head. The scans from PO1 Rostami’s apparatus and his surveillance bot were comprehensive—thirteen bodies, all killed by plasma weapons fire. The workshop Alpha Team found them in was rife with tricionite signatures. And Tuscon’s sensor room had gotten near enough to determine the power fluctuations were emanating from the shuttles, likely because they had been left on standby.

All the while, Tuscon’s pilot had done a phenomenal job shadowing the oddly behaved freighter as it circled the cometary fragment in a reverse spiral, without giving away the stealth boat’s presence.

But the discovery of the dead people—civilian technicians, by their initial appearance—changed everything.

“Comms, give me a tight band signal to Sierra Two,” Mancini said.

“Conn, Comms. Establishing a signal, aye.”

“Pilot, accelerate on matching vector. Sensor Room, active ping—let them know we’re here.”

“Conn, Pilot. Matching vectors and accelerating, aye.”

“Conn, Sensor. Active ping commencing, Skipper.”

Godat gazed at the tactical display. “Hoping to flush them out?”

“Hoping for answers.” Mancini emptied the last dregs of his coffee. “Comms, any forthcoming?”

“Conn, Comms. That’s a negative. Nothing but—”

An alarm sounded from TAO at the same moment Olesen reported, “Conn, TAO. Sierra Two is showing comprehensive hull failure.”

“What?” Mancini knew his blurted question was unnecessary as soon as he saw the tactical display because the speck that was Sierra Two had come apart into an expanding cloud of debris—but not the fuzzy cloud of an explosion’s leftovers. These pieces were roughly the same size, almost symmetrical in their distribution.

The eight tiny engine flares didn’t belong among debris either.

“Missile launch detected,” Olesen said. “Eight, repeat eight anti-ship warheads inbound.”

“TAO, activate point defense in automatic mode.”

“Locked and confirmed, sir.”

“Activate.”

The Close in Weapons System’s mounts rattled Tuscon’s hull from bow to stern, the vibrations setting Mancini’s teeth on edge. Even as it sprayed projectiles into the intervening space between the stealth boat and the incoming missiles, Tuscon rolled on her centerline. CIWS shots shredded the missiles as they swept in, reversing the outward race they made from the disintegrating freighter.

Three warheads made it through the defense, exploding in rapid succession. But Tuscon’s maneuverability carried her to the fringes of the blasts. The shockwaves threw the crew everywhere, slamming them into consoles, flinging them across compartments. Searing pain shot through Mancini’s left arm as he tried to brace himself. Godat doubled over a console, his breath escaping in a ragged gasp.

“Conn, TAO. Shields collapsed along port hull, holding fore and aft.” Olesen swiped blood from a cut on his forehead. His voice shook, but he clung to his console. “Casualty reports coming in from all decks.”

“Get—” Mancini coughed. He spat blood from his lip. “Get Alpha Team. Warn them. Transmit a tight beam to…”

Oxford was his next command, but he blacked out, the bridge combat lighting dimming to nothingness.

MacDonald’s insides went cold with sick as the terse message filtered through the secure link. “Fall back,” he ordered. “Fall back and secure the perimeter.”

“One, the power’s spiking inside those shuttles,” Rostami warned.

“You heard the Master Chief,” Harrell said. “Move!”

Tiny flares lit the shuttles’ hulls—explosive charges, MacDonald realized. He and the rest of Alpha team were already backing out from the hangar bay, thrusters sputtering. The hull seams gave way, the shuttles themselves fragmenting like the very comet chunk they’d searched.

Three Stalwart-Series Mark Five security bots flew out, their own thrusters spinning at randomized angles. Plasma cannons, two mounted to each one’s shoulders for six in all, glowed with threatening brilliance.

“Hostiles. Light ’em up!” MacDonald barked.

All six ballistic rifles peppered the armored bots as plasma blasts answered. Rostami, nearest to the first shuttle, took a burst across his right ribcage, the energy dispersal melting armor at that close range and burning through his space suit. But he maintained his aim, shooting into the Stalwart bot’s optical sensors at point-blank range. Sparks erupted in a silent halo as the combat-equipped robot died.

Ahmad rolled toward the comet fragment’s surface, scooting on his back as he prepped a new set of charges. Harrell swooped up, drawing the second robot along as they exchanged fire.

MacDonald swept to the left of the third bot as Mata went right. Their target picked MacDonald to chase, meaning several of his blasts singed the master chief’s armor but didn’t kill him, not yet. He bracketed the bot as he twisted upside down, the armor-piercing rounds punching into the weak joints where the bot was better articulated.

The distraction gave Mata the opening he needed to alight on the bot’s back long enough to shove his rifle’s muzzle up against a gap in its armor. “Deflect this shit!”

Emptying the magazine gutted the bot’s internal systems, reducing it to a stuttering hulk that crashed against the far wall as Mata pushed away. MacDonald dodged a flailing plasma cannon.

“Fire in the hole!” Ahmad flung his charges through the microgravity.

But the bot Harrell shot at must have detected the new threat, because it swiveled one of its cannons to scorch the twin discs until they detonated. The explosion sent everyone flailing—Ahmad and Harrell out of the hangar bay, Mata and MacDonald into the wall, Rostami’s writhing form into the opposite one.

Rucuk, though, appeared behind the remaining Stalwart bot. His snarl ripped across the suit comms and battered MacDonald’s ears as Rucuk tore the plasma cannons clean off the robot’s shoulders. Then he dug his armored suit’s claws—fitted over his own—deep into its turning neck, rendering it dead as surely as any explosive.

The instant it went limp in space, MacDonald jetted across the hangar bay. “Two! Give me a hand with Three. Check his suit meds—make sure they’re clotting the wound and conserving air. Five, signal the shuttle for emergency evac. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

17

The White House

Canaan—Terran Coalition

24 November 2464

The gardens behind the Oval Office were the perfect place both to relax and conduct business in a less-than-formal manner. Justin Spencer had found over the years that, invariably, having the option between two such settings encouraged more honest discussions.

“Your spies are sloppy.” Void Captain Nalax of SATO JSID held out a talon near a bee flitting among the tulips. The insect veered from its intended course and instead buzzed against the Saurian’s claw.

Well, if I wasn’t a fan of brute honesty, I shouldn’t have invited a Saurian for a chat, Spencer reminded himself. “You’re referring to the news from Bellwether.”

“The news, yes. Fortunately Tactisar wants to downplay this as much as you do. They seem not to have discerned Terran Coalition military intelligence involvement.”

“They have no reason to, and I’ll argue our people are not sloppy, even when they’re forced into a dire situation. The initial reports indicate League interference in their secure communications. That’s a suspicion we can’t overlook. I’d rather they take drastic action to keep themselves safe than continue to expose themselves to risk all for the sake of maintaining low profiles.”

Nalax bared his fangs. “Hiding and skulking. At least they showed their fierceness when confronted, during their flight out.”

“Yes, and Tactisar chalked up the incident to a smuggling operation gone wrong, allowing us to retrieve our missing operative and reunite him with his team. His intel has proved invaluable, from what Colonel Sinclair says.” Spencer shook his head. “This was all in the briefing, Nalax, so why didn’t you bring up your concerns with General MacIntosh?”

“I wanted to do you the honor of offering to have your back in battle, one warrior to another.”

“The general’s career is far more storied than mine.”

“True, and his legends are many.” Nalax clicked his claws.

The bee dove at him a few more times before flying off into the flowers. Spencer wondered if the bee knew, instinctively, that landing a sting through a Saurian’s thick scales was impossible for any insect originating on Earth.

“But you fight the subtler battles—the ones won with words and sly deeds. I am growing to appreciate these methods, given my new role in JSID. As such, you will be happy to know we have heard from our disgraced brethren among the Clawless.”

The pacifists? Spencer recalled Nalax mentioning their being traders in the vicinity of the Caeli system. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

The Saurian glanced up at the lush tree canopy before grimacing in the toothy manner of his species. “Agh. Another Terran saying. Your languages, they baffle me. But yes, as I promised, they have provided us with information about recent shipping activity and suspicious transportation. Much of it matches the reports from your warships in the region. There is, however, a freighter operated by Clawless that arrived in the system three days ago. It feigned engine trouble, allowing it to make a long, wide course around the system’s edge, where it put enhanced sensors to good use.”

“I don’t suppose they can shed light on what happened at the cometary fragment.”

“Only in that they recorded several vessels in the immediate vicinity during a twenty-four-hour period prior to your vessel’s incident there.” Nalax lifted his tablet. “You see the similarities in the drive, even at great distance.”

Spencer frowned at the display. Translating Saurian had never been his specialty, but the data were clear enough—a high likelihood a Tactisar gunship was nearby before Tuscon investigated the booby-trapped cometary fragment. “What about these other readings? They seem indeterminate.”

“Unknown. I should like to forward them to your Oxford for greater analysis.”

“I will do so. Thank you, Colonel.”

“It is my pleasure, Mr. President.” Nalax sneered. “I only hope your warships can sink their fangs into the neck of whatever predator lurks out there, as I long to.”

“They haven’t seen much privateer activity since the first one self-destructed, but it’s possible our stealth boat’s actions put the fear of God into them.” Spencer rubbed the red tulip petals between his fingers. The stems would need trimming soon. “Is that freighter of yours still available?”

“It is making its way toward Bellwether, though slowly. Tarrying longer will only raise suspicion.”

“Indeed it will. Care to make a trade?”

Nalax narrowed his eyes. “Proceed.”

“General MacIntosh tells me the distant probes dispatched by CDF along our nations’ mutual border have turned up recent activity of possible privateers heading for your territory. I’d gladly trade the data for two berths aboard the freighter.”

“Berths? For human passengers, I take it?”

“Our two men who risked their lives to save their brother-in-arms.” Sevastopol Rast wasn’t CDF, but given his affiliation with CAU 171 and his performance in the two most recent missions, Spencer figured he didn’t need to dig into details where Nalax was concerned. “I’d like to reunite them with their comrades, albeit in a quiet manner.”

Nalax’s chuckle was a harsh rasp. “And so the Clawless become more useful, this time as haulers instead of fighters. Yes, I would have gladly offered their services without a trade, Mr. President, though your data will prove most useful in our hunt.”

“I hope it will.” Spencer gestured toward the office. “Let’s catch up with the good general and see what we can do about helping both our peoples foul up the League’s plans. Then I’ll introduce you to the byproduct of our buzzing friends from the garden.”

Bellwether Station

Caeli System

25 November 2464

Getting out of Bellwether was a proverbial piece of cake compared to getting back in, Dwyer realized. At least when it came to his stress. The first bad news, they had to leave Novabird behind. Dwyer and Sev had to sneak aboard. He didn’t know how much Colonel Sinclair spent contracting that incoming Saurian freighter to provide passenger space, but it must have been a heap, because the Saurian crew were fairly polite. Dwyer couldn’t remember the last time he’d met one he could even call not growly.

Not that they were much in the way of conversation. The crew ignored Dwyer and Sev, giving them both time to work on updating their disguises. They’d had to improvise, what with the LT still with the rest of the team, but it turned out CWO Sakuri—Vector Two, from CAU 22—had a fair hand at facial prosthetics.

“It’s not top-of-the-line,” Sakuri had told them back aboard Oxford. “But we weren’t expecting to need them for deeper cover. Try to avoid fistfights. A couple good punches will take them right off—even hard slaps.”

“Don’t tell me we’re getting a demonstration.” Dwyer followed her instruction and pressed his fingers to both sides of his nose as the adhesive set.

“Negative. Unless you really want me to work out my frustration with Leaguers.”

Dwyer found himself with a nose that wasn’t going to win him any pageants. That was for damn sure. Sev found it humorous enough he actually chuckled, which made his bulbous cheeks all the more exaggerated. A closer look at the two would reveal their actual identities, no doubt, but both were altered sufficiently to throw off facial recognition scans of the quality Tactisar employed.

Would it work? The question bothered him as the Saurian freighter Grivask circled Bellwether twice more than a usual freighter approach. It sounded to him like Bellwether’s traffic control wasn’t taking chances, given the ruckus he and Sev had created in their escape. The Saurians snarled as their transit credentials got a once-, twice-, and thrice-over.

By the time Grivask opened its airlock at the appropriate berth in Bellwether’s docking ring, momentary fear stabbed Dwyer’s gut. It was one thing going into a new place at the start of an operation, but when returning, the risk level skyrocketed.

Sev nudged him, probably because Dwyer had yet to step out onto the busy concourse, where a customs official waited. “Peace,” Sev murmured.

“Sure thing. Thanks.” It wasn’t much of a reminder, and Dwyer didn’t know where on the scale of atheist to bowing worshipper Sev fell, but he appreciated the sentiment behind it. Almighty Lord, Father of Israel, pass a veil over the eyes of our enemies so we can walk unhindered among them.

Whether it was the hopeful prayer or the six hulking Saurians exiting with them that prompted the short, balding customs man to brush them through with only a cursory glance at their identification profiles, Dwyer didn’t know. But given past experience, he was inclined to think it was a little of both.

He allowed a tight grin as he and his partner separated from the Saurians amidst the humanoids swarming the concourse, heading for the team’s rendezvous point. Time for Round Two with Tactisar and their Leaguer sponsors.

The apartment was deep in a cluster of Sector B100 with lodgings for semi-permanent technicians. Dwyer wondered at the turnover rate, given the frequency with which he and Sev passed glowing green vacancy signs. The crowds thinned there, but the clusters around each food station and shopping kiosk made it harder to spot individuals.

Tactisar officers weren’t as common, either, even those reinforced by patrol drones. Dwyer kept his head down and tried to find something interesting to look at so he could excuse turning his gaze away whenever he spotted one. People brushing by in the opposite direction made it easier.

“How does the cap’n do it all day?” Dwyer muttered to Sev. “Strollin’ around, playing a part, watching his six and his twelve and everything else near and far. It’s exhausting.”

“Vigilant,” Sev noted.

“Yeah, I suppose. Same as being in a cockpit, right?”

“With a worse view but better chow,” someone said to his right.

Dwyer’s hand dropped to the edge of his jacket, under which was a pulse pistol concealed behind his belt, but the sudden pressure in his ribcage told him drawing would be a bad idea. “Hey, uh, don’t want any trouble now, friend.”

“I’m sure you don’t, Sparks.”

Sev chuckled.

Dwyer glimpsed their reflection in a storefront as they walked by, their new trio, and did his best to remain startled and dismayed when he saw Captain Adams in his full Tactisar rig. “I’ve never been happier to have the local law flag me, Cap’n.”

“Good to have you both back,” Adams agreed. “But let’s cut the chatter until I can properly shake you two down for my daily graft.”

He escorted them into a side corridor, one lined with doors and crisscrossing catwalks. Four floors up, the door to a loft—unremarkable from the mess—admitted them. Home sweet home.

Jackson made sure the loft hatch was secure before he faced the newly reunited team and let himself relax. He turned in time to see Gina plant a kiss on Dwyer’s cheek—the man could blush with the best of them—then on Sev’s. Jackson realized Sev’s cheek was double its normal size and somewhat lopsided.

“Gang’s all here, Jack.” Gina perched on the arm of the couch. “Does this mean the fun can begin in earnest?”

“I hope y’all are talking about the heist,” Dwyer said.

Brant looked up from an array of schematics spread across his displays. He rubbed his eyes. Jackson handed him one of the five small coffee cups set on an end table. “Thanks. Which heist are you thinking about, Sparks? Ours or theirs?”

Dwyer accepted a cup from Jackson and sipped. “Come again?”

“Brant’s right,” Jackson said. “But before we get started—Ehud, Sevastopol, I’ve come to realize I shouldn’t have put you all in the risky position I did. My actions stepped over the line from focused to selfish in my pursuit of the League. I hope you can forgive me for the lapse in judgment.”

Sev and Dwyer looked at each other. Jackson read their expressions as unsure of how to process the admission—well, Dwyer’s expression, anyway. In watching Sev’s face, Jackson might as well be trying to discern emotion from a destroyer’s hull.

“Shoot, Cap’n, I—we didn’t think you’d tossed us out a cargo hatch. I figured something else came up. It put us in a tight spot, sure, but… no point dwelling on it, sir. All’s forgiven.”

Jackson hadn’t noticed the tightness in his own chest until it eased. “All right, then. Thanks. Sev?”

The taller man watched him for two silent seconds, drank from his coffee, then rumbled, “Do better.”

Brant snorted.

“That is the plan.” Jackson clapped Brant on the shoulder. “And speaking of plans…”

“Right.” Brant worked his console, filling the loft with a smaller version of the plans Jackson had recorded during the meeting Ramsey hosted. Tiny projectors mounted in the corners of the loft allowed anyone to manipulate all or part of the hologram. A bulleted list spilled down into the air off to Jackson’s right. “I’ve summarized the fine points of Detective Moss’s plan.”

“A plan we now know is League sponsored because of him.” Jackson plucked a pair of images from the midst of the data and enlarged them to tablet size. “Goes by Fernand. Gina spotted him at the League consulate on Aphendrika. I’ve gotten a more personal introduction.”

“Hence his bruises.” Gina tapped the last drops of coffee from her cup onto her tongue. “What was the protocol about following potential ESS operatives into dark alleys?”

It was Jackson’s turn to feel his cheeks burn. “Later. In any case, as we all can see, the plan’s basic—use the modified drones to disable the Stalwart security bots. Have me and Desmond Cho infiltrate to steal the project data. Then rely on Ciara Bui’s codes to get us clear of the airlock leading out to an escape craft. From there, Ramsey Moss, Ciara, Cho, and myself are supposed to get to a waiting vessel farther from Bellwether, one chartered by Fernand and his benefactor.”

“Who we’re pretty sure is Vasiliy,” Brant added.

Dwyer whistled.

“League,” Sev muttered.

“The one who contacted me on Aphendrika, yes, and the same one who breached our comms here.” Jackson took a pair of wrist units from Brant’s desk and handed them to Dwyer and Sev. “These are tuned to our new frequencies.”

“Roger that, Cap’n.”

“So, the plan.” Jackson dragged the list closer. “It should work. The problem is I’m also fairly certain the goal is for Ramsey and Ciara to fly off with the data. I doubt they want to split the proceeds with me—or even poor Desmond.”

“You’re both disposable. What?” Gina shrugged when everyone looked her way. “It’s how I would play it. Fernand is the benefactor’s rep—without him, there’s no money. And he won’t be anywhere near the action anyway. As for the rest, they need Cho to plant explosives for a distraction plus any tech obstacles that get in the way. Jackson has to bluff through and use his supposed Ranger training to fight or intimidate. After that…” She pantomimed twin doors opening and flicked something imaginary out. “Spaced.”

“Not the synopsis I was going to give, but more memorable.” Jackson lifted his cup in salute.

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” Gina winked. “To be memorable?”

Jackson smiled. “One of us has to be.”

An incessant beeping interrupted their verbal sparring, much to Jackson’s disappointment.

Brant’s face brightened as soon as the annoying sound started. “That’s a bit of good news for us, lady and gentleman.”

Jackson leaned over his shoulder. “Care to share with the whole squad of trainees?”

Brant tapped his console with a flourish fit for a concert pianist. The holographic wireframe schematic of a patrol drone leaped into the center of the displays.

“Lieutenant Garza gave us this gift,” he explained. “The complete analysis of the modified drones the League’s been supplying Tactisar, the same ones that they plan to use in disabling the security bots around the Nosamo lab.”

“I knew we saved that fella for a reason.” Dwyer held out his open palm to Sev, grinning at Jackson as he did so.

Sev clapped Dwyer’s hand in response, also without breaking his stare.

“So, this is our ticket inside the heist.” Jackson’s heart raced with the welcome anxiety he experienced before a new operation. “Nice work all around. Remind me to buy the lieutenant drinks when we make it back to Canaan.”

“Back to the plan, Cap’n?” Dwyer asked.

“Simple. We hijack Ramsey’s heist. Gina’s right—Cho and I are likely dead men, which is why she’ll infiltrate the lab at the same time Ramsey’s people disable security”—Jackson enlarged the map, brushing aside the drone schematic—“here, at these maintenance shafts. Brant will commandeer a modified drone to make sure the relevant systems are shut down, allowing Gina access. She’ll join up with me as Cho is planting the explosives so we can make sure he gets disabled and caught.”

“What about the escape route?” Dwyer pointed at the cargo tunnel with its twin airlocks. “You’ll get stuck in there with Ciara what’s-her-face calling the shots.”

“That’s where you and Sev come in,” Jackson said. “If the doors fail to open, you’ll already be in the hangar bay, ready to blow them to pieces.”

Sev grunted.

“Knew we came back for a reason.” Dwyer chuckled. “Bad news—we left our ride hitched to Oxford. They’ll be looking for her.”

“Not a problem.” Jackson grinned at Brant. “Not according to our last comms messages from Oxford, right?”

“Right.” Brant activated another schematic, one of a short but wide craft with an angular hull. Jackson though the engine cowlings and sharp edges made it look angry. “Anybody in the room familiar with Saurian courier shuttles?”

Dwyer raised his hand.

“Yes, definitely more fun than droid repair dirtside.” Gina raised her glass in salute.

18

Sector B Seventy-Six, Bellwether Station

Caeli System

25 November 2464

Jackson made sure to tell Ramsey most of the truth at their next clandestine meeting to plan the heist. It wasn’t the first time he’d selected bits of what really happened and separated them from the rest.

“You see?” Ramsey stalked across the apartment—a new one recently registered under the name “Boyd.” Ciara leaned against the far wall, watching Ramsey as he stormed around looking for something to break. “This is what happens when you let a guy call the shots. I wondered how long it was gonna take before he started pushing my people around.”

“Fernand probably didn’t like being followed,” Ciara pointed out. “You did choose a man who’d been in the same meeting with him minutes before.”

Ramsey faced Jackson. “What happened to your vaunted Ranger skills?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Jackson scowled. “It’s hard to tell. Ranger doesn’t mean invincible or perfect, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean I can track a guy like Fernand without being spotted in a station where I’m still the newbie. I did the best I could. It’s not my fault his thugs got the drop on me.”

“You’re lucky they didn’t shoot you,” Cho muttered.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Ramsey shook his head. “We gotta move this up, the whole plan. The sooner we get the goods and get paid, the sooner we part ways with our pain-in-the-ass benefactor.”

“Not too soon.” Ciara put her hands on his shoulders. “I told you, I’ll have the last codes soon, and once I do, we’ll be ready. You and your boys should concentrate on the escape route—preferably by touching base with Fernand and making sure he’s not mortally offended.”

“Oh, he’s already sent me a signal.” Ramsey rolled his eyes. “A lot of bluster about being disappointed but still willing to go ahead, mutually beneficial deal, blah, blah.”

“Just don’t discount his concerns. We’ve come too far and taken too much risk for hasty action to blow our chances.”

“What she said,” Jackson muttered.

Ramsey glowered at him but sagged a bit, yielding to Ciara’s ministrations as she kneaded his neck and shoulder muscles. “Okay. We’ll steer clear of Fernand. Desmond, what about the bombs?”

Cho gave him a double thumbs-up. “Secured and ready. I’ve got them locked in a storage unit shielded from scans—you know, one of those smuggler boxes we confiscated. I told you they’d come in handy.”

“Good thing they did, because they took up way too much space.” Ramsey exhaled. “Right. Jack, stick to your schedule for the next few days up at Nosamo. I’ll get you in the right place at the right time.”

“Copy that.” Jackson grinned. “Looking forward to my chance at bluffing past a bunch of those clean suits upstairs.”

“They might be clean from corruption, but don’t mistake them for pushovers. They’re still Tactisar, which means they’re good.” Ramsey smirked. “They’re just not smart enough to work for me.”

“A few days.” Ciara abruptly crossed her arms. “So, we are accelerating the timetable.”

“Only by a hair. I want us inside the lab within seventy-two hours at the latest.” When Ciara opened her mouth, Ramsey held up a hand. “You said your piece, babe. This has gotta go faster. Especially since Nels’s partner got away. That’s gonna cause us a real mess if he blabs all over local space about what he saw or thinks he saw when Nels died.”

“It was a reckless move, by both of you.” Ciara’s mouth compressed into a thin, hard line, like an airlock slamming shut, before she added, “You never should have done that.”

“I didn’t have much choice. We can deal with it later.” Ramsey glanced at Jackson. “We good?”

“Depends.” Jackson grimaced as he walked toward the hatch—an easy fake because his hip still ached from the beating he’d sustained. “Are there more guys out there to slap me around if I step into the wrong place?”

“Don’t worry about it. Like I said, Fernand and I agree—we do this deal and part ways. The benefactor doesn’t want to draw any more attention than we do, not with Tactisar busy watching the ports for the people causing the latest ruckus. Keep your eyes on that Gianna woman, too, like Ciara said.”

Jackson shrugged. “Not a problem. She certainly makes it worth the look, but I haven’t seen anything odd yet. She goes to work, goes to her apartment, goes to dinner—solo and with rich clients, about half and half. Not jealous, are you, Ciara?”

“Not in the slightest.” Her tone was smooth enough Jackson had a hard time telling whether she was, in fact, envious of Gina’s position inside Nosamo—which made Ciara one cool customer, indeed. “Keep in mind, you should do your work and leave the analysis to me.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ramsey clapped his hands. Cho jumped in his seat. The guy had looked half asleep up until then—probably why Ramsey had made the obnoxious sound.

“All right, people, just a few more days, then we’ll be rich enough to go wherever we want in the galaxy and do whatever we want with the money left over,” Ramsey said.

Jackson flicked his gaze to Cho and back again. Even though the Tactisar sergeant had nodded and put on a broad grin, his expression held tension, and he tugged at the chair’s fabric. The man was nervous. Maybe he’d figured out the same thing Gina had mentioned to Jackson’s team—that the show belonged to Ramsey and Ciara. The way they clung to each other even then, lining up for a kiss, didn’t leave room for erstwhile partners.

Cho’s worry will be useful, Jackson realized. Provided I can keep him alive long enough.

Sector D Fifteen, Bellwether Station

25 November 2464

Vasiliy Kiel held his own war council, so to speak, in the same dank environs he’d called home for most of the month. It was necessary to take inventory of their operations. He was displeased.

Give me the days when dozens of men prepared a faux warship, not me and Ferenc and Yahanotov squirreled away in the Bellwether slums while we rely on Tactisar goons to do our dirty work. Kiel reached for his tea but recoiled when the liquid touched his lips—stone-cold, yet again. “None of what I see could be classified as good news, Ferenc.”

“No, sir.” The prospect of disappointing his boss didn’t seem to bother Ferenc any more than the announcement of a reactor meltdown would—which was to say, not at all. He simply paged through his report, the same one Kiel and Yahanotov were reading. “Whatever ship is out there used stealth tech to get the drop on the Tactisar gunships, and the remote sensors we planted at the cometary fragment weren’t able to get a good look before they were shot to pieces. The combat drones on the surface, though…”

Kiel smiled at the grainy, frantic images of space-suited soldiers firing in zero gravity. “Those aren’t mercenaries. We’re talking about trained soldiers.”

“CDF, sir. I’d bet on them being space special warfare, given the way they fight.”

“Hmm. The presence of a Saurian would seem to indicate you’re right, Ferenc. Our intelligence says the Saurians stick to elite combat units on the rare occasion they share personnel with the Terrans these days. I’d say we’re seeing tangible results of this SATO joke of an alliance.”

“Could be.”

“I take it Nels’s partner eluded us, then? When our mystery phantom ship shepherded them off to the system’s edge?”

Ferenc nodded. He brought up a chart that turned local space into a spiderweb of course projections overlapping in a rainbow of colors. “It’s possible the ship that plucked the fleeing shuttle away from Bellwether was the same one our drones encountered at the cometary fragment.”

“That does prove problematic if the man in question can be a reliable witness to Ramsey’s missteps.”

“It won’t be a problem after the heist, sir.”

Kiel chuckled. “While I appreciate your optimism, Ferenc, let’s wait until we have the technology in hand before we celebrate. Speaking of which…” Kiel swiveled in his chair, facing Yahanotov. “What news from the Nosamo labs?”

“That detective’s been right about a couple of things.” Yahanotov tapped his console. “We got our modified drones slowly filtered among the ranks of the other patrol bots in the vicinity. I’ve been running tests on the security infiltration—no problems anticipated. Simulations show ninety-six percent probability of success.”

“A piece of actual good news. What have you turned up on this Arno character?”

Yahanotov shrugged. “He goes on patrol, stands guard at Nosamo, goes out to eat—solo or with Ramsey. He’s been following a woman, though, like Ferenc said.”

“She’s a new employee with Nosamo’s corporate offices, used mainly for gladhanding customers.” Ferenc added the side portrait of a rather striking young woman to the mix of data. “Ciara has suspicions about her.”

“Ah, the irony.” Kiel smirked. “She has her codes ready for the heist exit, I take it?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve arranged the shuttles we need. We’ll only use one, but I have four standing by until the last minute to lessen the chance of authorities following. Captain Zhou assures me he’ll have Meng Po in position.”

“Good. From the sounds of it, he’s itching for another try at a Terran stealth boat, which given all three incidents we’ve seen if you include the unfortunate privateer, is the likely culprit scurrying about the system.”

“I concur.”

Yahanotov grunted. “Sucks, but yes. It’s probable. I have to say, I’m not happy about taking my chances with a stealth boat and whatever else the capitalists have snuck into Bellwether space.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll give them a target to go after, provided enough debris was left over at the cometary fragment.” Kiel glanced at Ferenc for affirmation.

“Plenty of serial numbers pointing to Nosamo purchases, but it will take them time to unravel the bills of lading,” Ferenc said. “The Saurians haven’t exactly been bashful on the news networks—they’ve been hunting privateers across this region for a while now.”

“True. I suspect they’d happily jump at a new enemy to devour, even if the intelligence comes to them from their Terran friends. And it’s a sure fact—though an odd one—that the Terran capitalists despise megacorporations like Nosamo.” Kiel scowled. “I suppose that’s their damnable religiosity and so-called ‘moral code’ coming into play against greed, avarice, and all the things that make their economy function.”

“It’s a miracle they haven’t destroyed themselves,” Yahanotov mused.

“Try not to use that word with a commissar in earshot,” Kiel said coolly. “Have you worked out the signal issue yet?”

“Er—no.” Yahanotov fidgeted with his main display board. “The Terrans—if that’s who we were really spiking—figured out our interception fast and shut their frequency down, hard. Not so much as a ping. I’m scanning all wavelengths, even the ones drones use for location verification, but if they have a new signal up and running, it’s a damned quiet one.”

“It did produce the desired effect.” Kiel stood and stretched his arms, taking care not to slosh his cold tea. He could use a long soak in a hot tub right about then. “It brought someone out of the woodwork—the wraith who stunned the Tactisar oafs that should have stopped Nels’s partner from fleeing. You noticed the pattern, didn’t you?”

Ferenc grimaced. “Short-term stuns, like at the Aphendrika consulate.”

“Indeed they were. Which means we’ve goaded CDF Intelligence into tipping their hand. Fingers crossed they continue their sloppiness, but that doesn’t mean we can assume further slipups—they’re, in general, too careful a bunch, as the outcome of our last venture proved. No, we shall have to continue quiet provocations.”

“And Ramsey, sir? He and his people expect payment.”

Kiel chuckled. “They’d be fools not to. I thought of unraveling that threat myself, but let’s have Ciara do the honors. I’m sure she’ll enjoy the look on her besotted detective’s face when she’s the one to space him.”

Sinclair didn’t like the results of the scans. They were too easy, too simple.

“Two of the five recovered serial numbers came back as matching those routed through Nosamo inventories,” Captain Tamir said. “And they were definitely manufacturing tricionite in the lab. It will take the techs some time to confirm the chemical composition is a precise match to that used in the privateer’s self-destruction, but the odds look good.”

“They certainly do, Butter Bars,” Sinclair murmured.

Tamir glanced over his shoulder. “Colonel? You don’t sound happy about it.”

“And why would that be, do you suppose?”

“Because it dumps the privateer destruction, the murders in the lab, and the attacks on both Master Chief MacDonald’s team and Tuscon herself right at Nosamo’s doorstep.” Tamir frowned. “Which is a lot of figurative fingers pointing their way all of a sudden.”

“Quite right. I daresay we’re seeing the handiwork of our League counterparts again. What of the drive signature scans you’ve been running? Any chance of snaring that wild hare?”

Tamir rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t the only one fighting a headache, Sinclair was certain. How many hours of sleep have I lost obsessing over competing theories? Matters had only gotten worse since MacDonald’s team had returned with PO1 Rostami in critical condition. The young soldier was recovering but was, for all intents and purposes, out of the coming fight—wherever it might be next. Major Mancini, meanwhile, had been fortunate to suffer no fatalities aboard his boat, though a dozen casualties needed serious care in Oxford’s more extensive sickbay.

“What he’s trying to say, Colonel, via his eloquent gestures, is he’s as tired as I am but that we think we can spot the enemy ship if it makes its reappearance.” CWO Eldred rubbed the center of her forehead as she spun through endless results compiled by the sensor room and TAO. “Captain Tamir spotted the drive signature anomaly first. I ran it through the databases to crosscheck with possible previous appearances. We got a few hits along the Coalition-League demilitarized zones half a year back then again at Aphendrika.”

“Ah. Major Mancini’s ghost vessel.” Sinclair folded his arms. “The one he was convinced gave us the slip rather than suffering destruction while under attack during a wormhole jump.”

“The very same,” Tamir said. “Right now, we don’t have enough data for a full comparison, but the partials are promising.”

“What’s the best way to get the data you need? Sending Tuscon back into the mix as soon as she’s able?”

“Yes, but also positioning Oxford so the two of us can triangulate.”

“Maths were never my strong suit, Captain, but I did rather well at geometry. We need three points to triangulate.”

Tamir grinned. “Absolutely, Colonel, which is why we’re working on tapping Bellwether’s detection grid.”

Eldred snorted softly.

“I certainly don’t recall hearing you say any such thing.” Sinclair nodded. “I’ll be curious to see what your further investigation turns up. As soon as you’re ready, let me know, and I’ll see to it we get underway for Bellwether.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything further from Captain Garza?”

“We’ve dumped everything he saved on the tablet into our computers. Lieutenant Guinto practically wept across the comms when we forwarded it to him. It looks like the links he analyzed with the modified drones verify League tech buried deep in their command structure.” Eldred grinned. “Guinto promises us a souvenir when this is all over.”

“I shall have to hold him to his word. Very good.”

“Understood, Colonel. And about the signal interference…”

“From Vasiliy, about whom Captain Jackson has become quite single-minded.” Sinclair’s tone cooled. He’d seen the summary of Lieutenant Garza’s escape, read Jackson’s account of his and his team’s actions. There was much to be desired. While protocol should never rule an undercover operation with an iron fist, safeguards existed for good reason. For Jackson to ignore one key aspect of those in the heat of the moment was troubling. “I take it Lieutenant Guinto is continuing to rely on your assistance.”

“I’m helping the best I can, sir, but Vasiliy—whoever he is—isn’t the typical ESS slouch. He’s switched frequencies, too, avoiding the band he used to track down the team’s communications network.”

“So, the dance continues,” Sinclair murmured. “The sooner we get Nosamo’s atmospheric project out of the League’s reach, the better.”

19

Sector A, Bellwether Station

Caeli System

25 November 2464

Gina Wilkes left her office with Nosamo corporate, tablet at the ready, humming a tune to herself. Where did I learn it? It must have been something her brother had done when Mom had dragged them out to the spaceport to gaze for hours in the evening at approaching and departing ships.

The message gleaming at her from her tablet was written in gibberish—gibberish to the untrained eye. It was actually an obscure dialect of Saurian, one rarely used outside two planets but which Gina could read provided the syntax was simple. She couldn’t do complex messages, more like, “The ship is pretty,” and such.

Brant had sent it. One of the many algorithms he had running had been busy rifling through the coded manifest Gina had uncovered. The results were intriguing. They indicated Nosamo was not only supplying privateers but occasionally granting them safe harbor for repairs.

The trick was getting visual proof. The cameras were no good—privateer vessels wouldn’t be very useful if they looked like what they did for a living. Gina had plowed through hours of footage until she’d gotten bored, so it was a good thing Brant’s computers had shared the workload.

All those freighters looked the same. Gina smiled. Well, not entirely the same. Thanks to Mom, she could eyeball the subtle difference between armed and unarmed vessels. Besides, a live inspection would help in other ways. Jackson was having a tough time keeping Ciara happy.

Gina made sure she appeared oblivious to her surroundings, especially Jackson in his Tactisar gear shadowing her from so far back he was practically an afterimage. It wasn’t difficult to maintain the illusion he wasn’t following because a handful of other Tactisar officers milled about.

Nosamo’s private hangar bays gleamed with white panels and chrome finishings, the floors polished black metal. Between freighters and Tactisar gunships, Gina spotted nine distinct classes, forty-two vessels in total. She was interested in three and only because the decoded manifest hinted these three often carried cargos of a suspicious nature. Gina’s examination of the security images revealed staff loading and offloading containers from those three ships. The problem was that a clerical snafu made those containers disappear once they left the ship. Odds were, they were empty.

“Ah, I see you’ve finally gotten away from your desk.” Ciara strolled her way—right in her path to the hangar. Not that someone as slender as Ciara could block a pair of transparent hatch doors big enough to admit a shuttle in a corridor twice as wide.

“And you’ve managed to escape Mr. Noor.” Gina added her sweetest smile. “What brings you to the hangar?”

“Mr. Noor relies on me to periodically check on all aspects of his business, including hangar operations. Especially when Tactisar has blundered a simple apprehension of criminals.”

“Oh, I heard about that.” Gina made sure to move aside in the corridor, both to allow staff walking back and forth unimpeded paths but also to guarantee Ciara saw Jackson doing what he was supposed to do—spy on Gina. She didn’t mind being the rival in someone else’s eyes as long as they thought of her as a conniving ladder climber within the organization.

Still, she allowed herself a daydream in which she throat punched Ciara and left her gasping in a heap—anything to ruin that ridiculously perfect hair and outfit. Especially the hair. “I can’t believe anyone living aboard Bellwether would be so ungrateful. They must be transient scum—not clients, obviously.”

“Obviously. To borrow your question, what brings you to the hangar?”

“Mr. Noor thinks it vital I’m passingly familiar with all aspects of Nosamo’s operations.” It shaded the truth. Noor had said so while Ciara was in earshot. Gina flicked her tablet like she was shooing and insect. “Not that the hangar is appealing. If I had a desire to walk around clunky cargo containers and avoid toxic solvents, I would have applied for a deckhand’s job. How much am I expected to spend getting this dress laundered if something spills on it?”

Ciara’s responding smile was sympathetic but only just. The woman didn’t miss a single soul passing them in the corridor during their conversation. Of that much Gina was sure. Only Gina’s best performance as equal parts snooty and competent would pass muster.

“Try to avoid the more caustic substances. They devour flesh,” Ciara said.

Gina wrinkled her nose. “I will, thank you.”

“Not at all. I’ll meet you at thirteen three zero for the Blackpoint LLC conference.”

“Yes, I reviewed your notes. Do they really require a bow or curtsey every time they stand?”

Ciara sighed. “Unfortunately, they do. I’d practice.” She was off, clearing a path through the streams of staff and their accompanying bot assistants without so much as a word or gesture.

Gina caught sight of Jackson sidling into an alcove near a water dispenser. Ciara stopped a few seconds later to take a drink.

“She really is watching you,” Brant muttered. “I suppose if I were Ardalion Noor, I’d value a key assistant who had as much zeal for my commercial empire as I did.”

“All the more reason she needs a swift strike to the ribs.” Gina smiled at the technicians who passed, adding a wink to the more handsome of the pair for good measure. “Commencing scans.”

She wound her way among the parked craft, mindful to stay within the striped lanes designating safe passage. A Tactisar gunship rumbled off its berth, heading for the nearest hatch. But Gina had her eyes set on a Mark Seven Seven twin-hull freighter, not unlike six others currently in port. Ungainly but sporting powerful engines for a civilian model, the Mark Seven Seven was known for its modular nature and reinforced hull spars, perfect for all manner of legitimate industry as well as more unsavory roles.

“Keep your wrist unit scanner still, Echo Two,” Brant reminded her. “You’ll have to come back and do all the work over if I can’t get a steady read.”

“I can’t very well wave my wrist over the target ships in a subtle manner.” The complaint was more to needle him than express real displeasure. She could stand by a ship and fake notetaking on her tablet while scanning the next berth without looking suspicious. Doing so also gave her the chance to get a closer look at the men and women unloading the Mark Seven Seven.

There were three of them, two female and one male, human, but despite their generic civilian togs, they had an air of danger about them. Clearly not cut out for infiltration. No, they were used to criminal work—watching over their shoulders, all sharp movements and stark stares at other techs who got too close to their loading areas.

Speaking of loading, the hauler bots moved the containers onto the ship with far too much ease. Gina called a young technician over and leaned in closer than was comfortable while she requested—eyelashes batting—he sign off on her inspection records. Doing so allowed her to shift the wrist scanner toward those containers.

“A gift from on high for the both of us, Two.” Brant chuckled. “Those crates? Empty—or at least, stuffed with air-filled packing pouches. I think we can ping this one as a privateer or another dirty Nosamo craft.”

Gina caressed the young tech’s arm as he left, having fulfilled his duty as an unwitting distraction. She enjoyed the way sweat beaded on his dark-brown skin. Any outward sign she was successful in her role was a good thing.

Cheered by the thought, she turned her attention to where Sparks’s explosives could cause the most chaos.

Brant considered it the highlight of his day when he got to run comms with Gina on a field op. She was so pleasant about the whole thing while still treating her work with the utmost seriousness. He always got a laugh out of the way men in particular melted out of her way, like she was clearing a path through a tray of ice cubes using a flamethrower. He wished he could have it so easy.

Tracing which of the modified Tactisar drones to hijack was a delicate operation, which was why the task had been foremost on his list ever since Lieutenant Garza’s report had filtered down from Oxford. Getting the proper codes and writing the program to use in the hijacking was manageable. But Brant had to pay close attention to the routes used by dozens of drones scattered across Bellwether’s square kilometers so he could reroute one that wouldn’t draw attention. Finally, he compiled enough data to pick PRD 311 and narrowed the time slot in which it could go missing.

Brant felt a bit ridiculous hunched over his screens, watching the tracking marker for PRD 311 as it approached the final intersection on its patrol. Standard procedure for the modified drone was to go dark from Tactisar’s view so it could head toward whatever nefarious task Ramsey had programmed it for—a perfect time to send it his way. Five seconds later, PRD 311 blinked out.

Brant’s program transmitted the next second. He dug under his collar for the medal of Saint Joshua then kissed it. Come on. Make your face to shine upon me, Father in heaven.

Not for the first time, he wondered if heavenly blessing for espionage actions that were considered crimes in any other line of work was a tactic God frowned upon. He decided further inquiry could wait until he reached the pearly gates and Saint Peter himself cracked a look at the books of Brant Guinto’s life.

A chime interrupted his musings. PRD 311 reappeared on his tracking scope. It skipped through ventilation ducts, bypassing corridors in which it might be seen, just like Ramsey and the League intended. Except the destination was the access tunnels behind Brant’s apartment.

A timer flashed into being across the top of the screen. Brant duplicated it on his wrist unit—eight minutes, seventeen seconds until the drone was expected back at the Tactisar drone bay where Jackson said Ramsey stored the drones. Subtracting travel time left Brant a minute and forty seconds in which to complete his next steps.

“Piece of cake, Lieutenant,” Brant muttered as he hurried out of the apartment and took the back stairs to the access hatches wreathed in shadow. “Like final quarter examinations, only with more of a life-and-death pressure instead of facing failing out.”

He received no answer to his pithy comment except his heart’s pounding and his boot steps scraping along the deck plating. He found the necessary access hatch, heaved it aside with his shoulder, and ducked as he crouched inside.

Tiny pinpricks of light grew into the familiar flashers of a patrol drone. The floating bot came to a hover a meter from his face. Brant, careful to wear thin gloves, pried open the components port on the drone’s left side, between two ducts. Once inside, it was easy to spot where the League had inserted the proper hardware to house new subroutines that would go unnoticed if uncorrupted branches of Tactisar decided to inspect the bot. If he hadn’t known the bot had been tampered with, he would have overlooked the tiny round module painted with black-and-yellow warning hashes. It was a dead ringer for the sensor buffer unit next to it. It could have been a backup except, when Brant checked his diagnostic tools, they told him it was drawing power on a different cycle than the true component.

Brant made sure to image the add-on then found the port housing the auxiliary data storage. He disabled the security interlock—which the drone was happy to let happen since, for all it knew, the programming Brant introduced was the proper stuff—and pulled the storage chip.

Sixty-eight seconds.

Simple steps, if he did them swiftly without fouling up—plug the chip into his tablet, install the sleeper program, reinstall, patch up the drone. Then it was a matter of clearing the other program he’d initially transmitted out of the drone’s systems. The sleeper would be his way into PRD 311’s brains from then on.

Twenty-two seconds.

Brant wasn’t big into coincidences, so it felt providential when he let PRD 311 scoot away as the timer hit those double digits, the same ones as the ill-fated covert action unit they’d been sent to rescue. Could be, when the cosmic dust settled from this mission, they would be granted the chance to rebuild.

Lord willing, as the saying goes.

Brant slipped out of the hatch and got back to the apartment in time to watch the hijacked patrol drone proceed on its merry way, with Ramsey hopefully assuming it was back to doing whatever dirty deeds he had in mind.

“Just goes to show,” Brant said, “the more you fiddle with a bot’s systems, the easier it is for somebody else to come along after you and do the same thing.”

He watched the screen for a minute and sighed. “And there’s the other danger of this working, talking to yourself.”

Better to spend time in prayer, then.

Bellwether operated on a twenty-four-hour cycle, which worked for the bulk of the population. For all their spreading out into the galaxy, Earth’s grip on their biology had held. Humans needed the day-night cycle, or they tended to lose sleep, which led to all manner of problems.

Past twenty hundred hours, Bellwether was on its “night,” during which public lighting dimmed and fewer personnel were stationed in various areas. Most of Nosamo’s employees were off shift with the exception of executives worrying over financials into the wee hours, lab techs plowing through the next problem vexing them, and the skeleton crews in Nosamo’s hangar bays continuing repairs and regulating the ongoing ship traffic.

Fewer people meant fewer obstacles. Gina preferred such.

It felt funny infiltrating the same huge, sprawling hangar she’d visited under legitimate means hours before. This time, she wore the form-fitting stealth suit of all black tinged with violet, the same one she’d used to help Sparks and Sev escape Bellwether with Garza.

Sev crouched beside her in a suit of the same cut and color except where the upper portions had blurred to the soothing whites and chromes of the hangar bay.

Gina touched his upper arm. He nodded. No comms for their op—the two of them, without backup, invisible to scanners and only apparent to the keenest of eyes that happened to watch the visual feeds. There were enough shadows in the hangar, even during day shifts, to obscure them. Still, one never knew until they put the tech to the test.

Gina led them in a crouched approach to the docked Seventy-Seven, putting each of them under one section of the twin hull. The charges were as long and slender as her index finger, nine in all, secure in her pouches. The best place to affix them was along the ventral seals for the landing gear. Gina inserted one, waiting a full three seconds before releasing the charge.

“All nine will cut with intense heat,” Dwyer had explained. “Ain’t pretty in terms of fireworks, but they’ll cut through the toughest civilian plating. You don’t need to dig too deep a hole to cause havoc.”

True. Plenty of delicate wiring or high-pressure coolant flowed beneath that plating. It was their job to break it all apart when the time came.

A terrible scenario in which a civilian tech found those charges and was incinerated played out in Gina’s mind, but she reassured herself with the specs—the explosives were laced with a chemical compound that, when triggered, would render them inert. The only thing to set them off would be the precise frequency in Dwyer’s arsenal.

Gina tensed as a technician walked by, deep in conversation with one of the freighter’s crew. Their voices were muffled enough she couldn’t make out their words, but the gist was friendly enough.

Is Sev ready? She glanced at him—or at least, where the fuzzy outline of her teammate hunkered by the opposite landing gear.

His outline wavered—a hand waving. He’d completed his task too.

Good. Two more installations to go.

Gina waited ten seconds after the men had rounded the aft end of the freighter before she eased out from beneath the hull. Her next target was a three-decked trireme with a wide, aerodynamic body well-built for atmospheric travel. It was forty meters away, past scattered cargo containers interspersed with mechanical stations.

She’d made it halfway through the maze when her wrist unit pulsed in rapid alarm. Oh, hell. Her muscles froze in instant response. Her heads-up display showed a patrol drone following a slow arc by the trireme.

No cover. No shooting it down. Gina held still, letting the suit do its job. The less movement by the wearer, the greater concealment it offered. She wished Brant could override or whatever it was he did, but it wasn’t one of the drones tied into Ramsey’s network of modified units supposedly provided by the League, just a regular, run-of-the-mill cop bot.

She watched it buzz by, neck muscles aching as she refused to let them so much as twitch.

Crash. The drone whipped overhead, its tiny engines whirring as it swooped so low the exhaust rippled the top of Gina’s hooded head. She gritted her teeth, willing the camouflage to hold.

“The hell’d you knock that over for?”

“It’s called an accident, Ari. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“You’ll still get your ass fired if it’s broken, Grif! Get a hauler bot over here, and let’s get it picked up before anyone finds out your klutzy self broke a couple hundred thousand worth of sensitive atmospheric monitoring gear.”

More footsteps and voices converged. A second drone appeared on Gina’s display, altering her to its patrol course from the far side of the hangar to check on the commotion.

A light touch brushed her knee. Her arm snapped around, almost of its own volition, ready to smash the larynx of whoever the nearest threat was. Sev caught her elbow but not without a grunt because her blow had raked his collarbone.

Gina let out a long, slow exhale. He was good, she knew, but it had been a while since they’d been on a mission together. Maybe he felt out of his element without a sniper rifle. If so, the distraction she assumed he’d caused was a perfect indicator he hadn’t lost his edge.

Breathe. Relax. Gina’s memories drifted back to her mother’s face, of all things, dappled in dusk’s orange, smiling as she framed the bulk of a heavy metals freighter between her fingers as the huge ship came roaring down to the tarmac. She’d found the greatest joy in the most mundane aspects of modern life. That joy hadn’t kept Mom from an ignominious death.

Gina wound the rest of the way through the maze of stacks, Sev right behind her, until they slipped beneath the trireme. No time for heartfelt reminiscing. Gina wasn’t about to die without having made a difference, but she wasn’t going to throw her life away over a stupid cause either. Life left her empty. The Coalition gave her a better way. Even then, the Coalition was a nebulous thing for her.

She glanced at Sev’s ghostly form as they planted the next set of charges. Jack had tried to show her there was more than herself to fight for, but he hadn’t been completely successful. The Coalition? Sure. She would do what needed to be done for it. But Jack, Brant, Sparks, and Sev? Gina would kill to protect them, like she already had, without feeling the pain of having done so. The only thing that worried her was waiting for the day when the pain caught up.

20

Freighter Meng Po

Caeli System

26 November 2464

Captain Zhou watched the tactical display with keen interest. The big mess of a few days ago had clogged space surrounding Bellwether with dozens of ships, most of them backed up because Tactisar was making it more difficult for arrivals and departures. And Tactisar itself was putting on a big show, fielding all its gunships within a three-hundred-thousand-kilometer radius of the station. No one was getting within a light-second of the station—or leaving without proper scrutinization.

Zhou snorted. No doubt half the show was to make up for their abysmal failure at stopping a single fleeing shuttle. In all fairness, it wasn’t their fault, since a ghost vessel had managed to knock several gunships offline during the chase—offline, but not destroyed, which pointed to the use of a particular kind of ship-mounted EMP.

The records Vasiliy Kiel had snuck from station security pointed to the same model used by League vessels, and since he was certain no other ESS units were operating in the area—and weren’t trying to sabotage their nation’s own operation at Bellwether—it meant someone else was using stolen technology.

One of those days, the League would stop underestimating the Terrans, but Zhou bet that wouldn’t be anytime soon.

“Tactical, anything new to add?” Zhou asked the young man seated at the station.

The officer—a Lieutenant Balland, Zhou recalled—frowned over his displays and the mishmash of ship courses projected on it. “Nothing yet, sir. Multiple inbound tracks on ten-plus new vectors. Comp is sorting them out. So far, they all read as civilian, though suspicious drive signatures are in the mix.”

“To be expected, given the privateers Nosamo uses to suppress their competition. Keep a sharp eye for anything indicating Terran military. Send CDF signatures through Tactical for comparison.”

“Aye, sir. Anything in particular we’re looking for?”

“Possibly, Lieutenant. We’ll know it when we see it.”

Zhou was, he realized, itching for a rematch, though if the odds turned out to be stacked against him, he wasn’t going to take insane risks—not again. Meng Po was a unique vessel, and until the League cobbled more together, he would do what was necessary to keep her intact while completing his missions. All the better that they had expendable resources in the system. As sickening as it was, the privateers dying in service of the League, it was for a greater good. He’d repeated that mantra over and over those past weeks.

“Captain, take a look at this, sir.” Balland indicated a single course highlighted in red. “What do you make of it?”

Zhou leaned in. The course blinked out. Before he could ask what happened, Balland held up his hand, as if saying the captain should be patient. Then the drive signature reappeared, an indistinct version of its former self. So indistinct, in fact, that Tactical plotted five possible new vectors based on the last thrust applied and couldn’t seem to make up its mind which way the vessel was going—if it was a vessel.

“Tag it,” Zhou ordered.

“Which one, Skipper?”

“All of them, Lieutenant. The comp may consider this a glitch, but we’re not doing our due diligence if we don’t run down every possibility. Where’d it come from?”

“Off a course roughly perpendicular to the ecliptic plane,” Balland said. “I’m thinking it could be the mark we’re supposed to watch from out-system, at the cometary fragment ambush.”

“A solid hypothesis.” Zhou bounced his fist off the back of Balland’s chair. “Well done. Mark the possible new courses as Tango One through Five. Have the comp alert us if there’s another shift. It could be that whoever it is will be too smart to light off their drives again, but we could get lucky.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Luck. Zhou knew the Terrans placed all their hope in prayer, not luck. Fine by him. He would take whatever came his way if it meant winning. “Sensor, anything you can add to the analysis?”

Senior Chief Francois Ancel cocked his head, like a dog listening to a silent whistle. “I’ve routed everything I can pick up to Lieutenant Balland, Captain. If there’s a foul capitalist out there, we’ll smell him.”

“Make sure it’s the military variety, Francois. I’m not interested in snagging a hapless cargo vessel, no matter their political or economic philosophy.”

Ancel’s face reddened. “Of course, Captain. So far, the drive emissions from the Tango seem roughly the same as what we’d expect from local privateers.”

“Roughly?”

“It’s difficult to be certain when we’re running with passive scans, sir. Active pings will give us away as being something other than our cover.”

Zhou scowled but didn’t chastise the man for telling his captain the obvious. After all, he’d deserved it for asking a question with such an obvious answer. “Send a tight-beam to our assets on Bellwether. Perhaps the boss has an inside line on the station’s sensors we can use to enhance our results.”

“Aye, sir.”

Zhou returned to his chair. The latest message from Kiel was clear—he was to maintain his silent patrol and interfere where he could with any CDF Intelligence efforts, should they rear their individualist heads, but he was to avoid direct battle. Fine by him. Zhou was pleased Kiel had recognized his expertise in space-based matters. It made charting his own course much easier when he didn’t have to fret about ESS staring over his shoulder.

When the assets aboard Bellwether stole the relevant data and made good their escape, Meng Po would be waiting to scoop them up.

Seventeen three zero hours.

The heist is tonight. Jackson tried not to focus on the impending job, though he was well aware of the dual role he was about to play. The goal was always the same—get the technology. Ruin Nosamo’s lab, and get away with the rest of the team to prevent the League, either by itself or via Nosamo’s rivals, from getting their hands on it.

He slipped on his charcoal-gray jacket over his black shirt and slacks, the more formal outfit of Tactisar officers stationed to Nosamo’s upper-level offices. Cho wore the same set of clothes, though his were rumpled enough Jackson could tell they’d seen little use.

“This is it, boys.” Ramsey sat at the table in the darkened corner of the Smoky Asteroid Taproom. He was into his second ale, which Jackson wasn’t sure would help from an operational standpoint but was doing fine work making the detective chatty. “The big score. If you come through with this, you’ll never have to work another day for Tactisar or any other employer—which could be handy, considering you’ll be out of a job.”

Cho shook his head. The guy had far too much sweat on his face and kept rubbing his palms on his pants. Good thing I’m his shadow. Jackson sipped from a cider, not even pretending to keep pace with Ramsey. If Cho’s that nervous, he could blow both of us clear back to Canaan.

“Geez, Desmond, you need to lighten up.” Ramsey chuckled. “It’s just software. Ain’t nobody going to lose on this deal except the big Noor himself, and if he can’t afford it, well, that’s his problem.”

“So, who’s the buyer for this tech?” Jackson asked. “The benefactor really got a line on Nosamo’s competitors?”

“Probably. Who cares? All I know is he’s gonna pay us, then he can do whatever the hell he wants with it. And if he thinks he can stiff us on the agreed upon price, he’s gonna have a hard time finding it. Ciara’s taking care of that part.”

“What’s she gonna do, hide it in her dress?” Jackson kept his gaze locked on Ramsey as he took another drink.

“He’s got you there, Ram.” Cho’s laughter was too long, too high-pitched to be anything other than an outlet for nerves.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.” Ramsey rested his plasma pistol on the table. “Ain’t too late for me to burn you, Arno, if you don’t show some respect.”

“Oh yeah? I thought you needed me.” Jackson chuckled. He leaned back in his seat, drink in one hand, the other resting on the butt of his holstered pistol. “And don’t tell me you all of a sudden don’t, because sending in Cho alone guarantees he gets turned into free-floating particles.”

Ramsey glowered. “What’s that mean?”

Jackson seized Cho’s wrist, eliciting a cry from the Tactisar officer when he bent his arm so Ramsey could see his palm. “He wouldn’t be sweating worse if his room’s climate control was set at Tropical, Ram.” Jackson put an extra sneer on the familiar form of Ramsey’s name. “Cut the shit, okay? I want to know my take before I step over this line and put my ass in a great deal of potential danger.”

“That a fact?” Ramsey nodded slowly. “Okay, big man. Twenty million.”

It didn’t take acting skills for Jackson’s jaw to drop. “Twenty? With six zeroes after?”

“Plus the two following the decimal.” Ramsey gestured with his ale tankard. “Twenty mill each for you and Cho.”

Jackson glanced at Cho, who jerked his hand away but nodded as confirmation.

“Well. All right.” Jackson put on a slow grin. “Guess I’ll stow my complaining. Wow. Your benefactor must really hate Nosamo.”

“Nah. He’s a businessman too. Got his own money to make.” Ramsey chuckled. “And whoever buys Life Swarm can either make one doozy of a nice planet or turn it into an actual, honest-to-goodness hellhole.”

Cho looked away, sipping his beer and trying desperately to not be part of the conversation. Jackson frowned, looking first to Ramsey then Cho. “What, does it break or something?”

“No.” Cho coughed into his hand. “But think about it—Life Swarm rebuilds an atmosphere into something better, more breathable. If it’s reprogrammed…”

“It can make it worse,” Ramsey cut in, “for any bastard’s world you’ve got a desire to ruin.”

Gina smiled as the decryption finished its routine. Finally. Brant had promised success back when they’d first set her up in the office, but it’d taken days of patience for his programs to worm their way past Nosamo’s corporate security in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion.

“Cracked it,” Brant said. “How’s it look on your end?”

“Like a lot of gibberish, but I assume that’s the official lab reports on Project Life Swarm.” Gina wrinkled her nose. “No discussion about coming up with a better designation.”

“Right. I doubt that was high on their priority list. It’s a marketing…” Brant’s voice faded into a murmur.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you seeing this? The analysis in the second appendix.”

“Hold on.” Gina flicked past the pages and pages of charts, graphs, and pretentious descriptions. There, Appendix Two, the discussion of alternate and reverse usage. Her eyes widened. As limited as her scientific knowledge was, she could parse jargon with the best, and hidden among the jargon was the downside to Life Swarm. It could bring death.

“If the terraforming devices utilized by Life Swarm are altered, they can foul a habitable planet’s atmosphere,” Brant explained. “The devastation could be reversed, in theory, but by the time atmospheric towers were installed or the devices re-tasked once again, millions could be sick and dead.”

“No wonder the League wants this,” Gina said. “Even if they didn’t sell it to the highest bidder, they could find any number of uses. Imagine those new border worlds, the struggling ones just now voting for independence or to join the Coalition. It’s a weapon of retaliation if they wanted it to be—or they could give it to terror groups.”

“Either way, they could grab the Coalition and shake it by its foundations.”

An indicator appeared on Gina’s wrist unit. She only had seconds before she lost access and the Nosamo mainframe pinged her console as accessing unauthorized files. “Brant? What should I do?”

“Screenshot it with your tablet,” Brant snapped. “I’m doing the same. Do not copy the file or try to transfer it. The mainframe will know immediately, and you’ll be compromised. Cutting access in eleven seconds.”

Gina swept her tablet up and imaged as much as she could before the screen faded to its normal workstation surface. Her muscles tensed as she readied to flee in case something tipped off Nosamo that she’d been snooping around inside a file far above her pay grade. Nothing.

“I’m on with Echo One.” Brant sounded firm but worried. “Take your normal time off this evening, but get to your equipping point. Don’t go home to your apartment. The suit and your gear are already in place. Echo Three dropped them.”

“Roger, Echo Home. Two out.”

Gina dove back into her writeup of the meeting with Blackpoint LLC from the other day. She sang the praises of their mercantile representative, talking up the benefits of issuing Blackpoint a contract for circuit parts. They would provide them at a price eleven percent cheaper than the current vendor, and the product performed with greater efficiency, according to the tests Gina had requisitioned. All in all, it was a good business deal for everyone involved.

Gina submitted the report to Ciara and, her pulse still pounding, left her corporate office for what was likely the last time so she could plunge Nosamo Aerothermic into chaos.

Jackson couldn’t believe what he was hearing—not only from Ramsey, but from Brant’s hurried explanation in his implanted transmitter. “You’re telling me this tech is for a weapon of mass destruction? And we’re gonna hand it over to whoever’s got the most money?”

“Thought you were in favor of that.” Ramsey drained the last of his glass and belched.

“The money part, yes. Hell yes. I’ll take my twenty million and never see you guys again. But… look, I don’t want the guilt that’ll come when I see some sucker’s planet have its air ruined. What happens if it’s a planet we pick to settle on?”

“Quit worrying. It’s literally not our problem. Besides, the benefactor doesn’t care about the potential side effects. Why bother dealing with two-bit terrorists when he can make bazillions unloading the tech on Nosamo’s competitors? They’ll be way better funded.”

Jackson sighed. “I don’t like it. But the money… yeah, I can’t look away from that. It’ll help keep the Rangers off my six for the rest of my life. What about you, Cho?”

“It’s a side effect.” Cho wouldn’t make eye contact with the rest of them. “Let the Coalition and the League and the Saurians deal with it. There are plenty of places to live our lives in neutral space or anywhere else, as far away from here as we can get.”

“I knew he was in for a penny, as the saying goes.” Ramsey slapped Cho’s shoulder. “We’ve come too far in this to back down. Besides, quit worrying—if the benefactor tries to pull a scam, we’ll handle it. So, you two make sure you got everything you need. Five hours from now, we roll the last ball, and fingers crossed, we knock down all the pins in one strike.”

That we will. Jackson mimicked Ramsey’s grin and clinked glasses with him. And we’ll make sure you’re the last pin to drop when we drag you home for the murder of Captain Nelson Garza.

Kiel checked his chronometer. Nineteen hundred hours.

“Ramsey called.” Ferenc looked up from his portable console. “They’re ready to move at twenty-two three zero.”

“Excellent. I’m pleased he’s keeping to his new schedule. Ciara has the codes for the transfer tunnel?”

“She does. Yahanotov assures me he’ll be able to keep a close watch on everything transpiring in the vicinity via our modified drones.”

Kiel smiled. “And they’re all operating up to spec?”

“A few minor glitches, but he says he’s run his updates.” Ferenc shrugged. “It’d be simpler for me to make sure this all goes smoothly if you’d let me join the operation.”

“No. Ramsey’s people should be capable enough of getting the data out of the lab while simultaneously wrecking it. As long as Captain Zhou stands ready to facilitate the interception…”

“Which he is.”

“Yes.” Kiel’s smile faded. “I must say, Ferenc, I have qualms—not about the plan but the odd drive signatures Zhou is sniffing out. Should they prove problematic, we may have to reconsider our extraction.”

“I understand, sir. A passenger transport leaves in two days. I’ve booked the three of us tickets as a backup if we can’t get to Meng Po.”

“Good.” That was why he relied on Ferenc. Having so many variables to juggle in one operation meant one or more might get dropped. Kiel had learned long ago that he needed an extra set of hands to catch those. “Put the final pieces into motion. Send that to Ciara, and make certain she understands her role in ending this.”

“Yes, sir.” Ferenc keyed up a new message on his console.

Kiel considered his dingy surroundings. Only a few days more. Then we can return home for a spell, with our technological windfall in hand, and show those traitorous planets who dare abandon our society for individualistic existence that the League of Sol doesn’t take kindly to betrayal.

He walked toward the back of their shared workspace. “And if we stumble upon Terran scum in the process,” Kiel muttered, “all the better.”

21

Nosamo Aerothermic Laboratories, Sector A120

Bellwether Station

Caeli System

26 November 2464

The corridors leading to Nosamo’s laboratories were spotless, allayed in the same white and chrome as the hangar bay several levels up. Jackson had never been so cognizant of his reflection as he was then, so it was fortunate he’d maintained his scruffy appearance.

He and Cho strode toward the access door with the typical Tactisar swagger, though for the purposes of their job, they were both clad in the finer threads rather than the down-level armored vests and motley civilian clothing. Cho, thankfully, had turned all business after his long bout with anxiety in the pub. All well and good because Jackson didn’t want to subdue the man any sooner than necessary.

Jackson’s wrist unit pulsed. Ramsey chose text as the simplest, quietest way of contacting them—which was fine by Jackson, who had Brant on comms via his implanted transmitter. And while Ramsey knew the signal code to talk to Jackson’s wrist unit, he was unaware of the device’s true nature as a CDF Intelligence upgrade through which Brant could monitor all incoming and outgoing signals as well as conduct basic scans.

Twenty seconds to diversion, Ramsey messaged.

“Did you get that?” Cho murmured.

Jackson nodded, holding his face in an easy smirk. “Yeah. Which leaves the Stalwart security bots.”

“I’ve got them.” Cho consulted his tablet. “Don’t worry about it. Once the patrol drones upload the new programming, those Stalwarts will be as useful as a support post.”

“Sounds good to me. I’d rather not get ripped up by their autocannons, thanks.”

Cho glanced at him as they rounded a bend. “And you’re okay with handling the people?”

Jackson looked him in the eye and told him the absolute truth. “Cho, I have no problem handling anybody.”

“Heck of a line, Echo One. You should audition for War Patrol.” Brant sounded mildly amused, but only mildly. “Patrol drones are coming your way from an adjacent corridor—PRD 99 and our very own PRD 311. Make sure the latter doesn’t get blown up, okay? We don’t really have time to find another robotic traitor.”

Jackson toggled his sleeve transmitter to affirm, his mind already compartmentalizing the information and moving onto the next task. The Tactisar security post up ahead was a pair of alcoves, one to either side of the lab hatch labeled “02,” each one fitted with armored slabs, behind which officers could take cover. The Stalwart guard bots loomed ten paces in front of the hatch, not quite blocking the passage but ensuring an intimidating trip for anyone walking single file between them. The officers were at the left alcove, chatting, when they spotted Jackson and Cho approaching.

“Dammit,” Cho muttered. “It’s Rojas.”

Or as Jackson knew him, Officer 505—Detective Rojas, his supervisor. What’s the man doing up here on guard duty?

A mirror of the same question must have flitted through Rojas’s mind, because he frowned when he saw Jackson and Cho approaching.

All at once, their badges pulsed with red light around the fringes. A warning buzzer echoed from all four sets of wrist units. “Hangar emergency,” an artificial voice grated. “Nosamo hangar east. All personnel in vicinity respond. Suspects armed.”

It repeated twice before Jackson slapped his off. “Sir, we’d better get going. We’re the closest ones.”

“Right, 616.” Rojas turned to the other officer—Petrosky, Jackson realized as he gave the young blond woman a better look. “Go with them, 727. I’ll hold the post.”

The patrol drones swept in, circling toward the Stalwart bots in a hectic manner. Cho frowned at Rojas. “Sir, that’s not protocol. We’ll take over down here.”

“Why are you here, anyway?”

“Orders.” Jackson produced his tablet with a set of commands for them to inspect all the lab entrances and report directly to Ciara Bui, assistant to Mr. Noor—with her legit signature, no less.

He could tell Rojas was puzzled by the signed orders, but given the ongoing alert, Petrosky’s nervousness, and the sheer tonnage of patience Jackson made sure to exude, the pressure was building. Jackson could see it.

Meanwhile, Cho tapped messages furiously on his tablet. “I’m going to have to tell her we’re delayed, sir.”

Messages, nothing—he was inputting commands to the drones. PRD 99 and 311 hovered for a moment around the tops of the Stalwarts. The red eyes of the towering security robots flickered with a wild static pattern before settling down.

Reprogramming successful, Ramsey’s message read. Bots dumbed. Next phase.

“Since when does Ramsey care about orders?” Rojas snapped. “Don’t try evasive maneuvers with me, 307—Cho. You’re in shit up to your neck with your so-called superior.”

“Sir, we really don’t have time for this,” Jackson interjected. “It’s an emergency code in the hangar itself. I’ll stay right here with him until you get back. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll even task one of the hulks there to sit on his head if he gets out of line.”

Rojas sighed. “Fine. If you weren’t in Ms. Bui’s good graces… come on, Petrosky. Nobody’s dying up there on my watch.”

They hurried off, footfalls disappearing around the corridor.

“And that starts your clock,” Brant said. “PRD 311 is ready to disable its partner there once you give the high sign. Looks like cameras and scanners beyond the hatch are already glitching, courtesy of your lady friend Ciara.”

She had come through in that aspect. Of course, the most vital part of her job had yet to be done.

“Stalwarts are out of commission.” Cho hunkered over the hatch’s access panel. He punched in a code. “This is where we cross our fingers.”

“Already did.” Jackson waved a hand in front of a Stalwart’s optical scanner. No reaction. “And these things are really getting their brains wiped every few seconds?”

“Yeah. It’s working. Don’t worry.”

“I feel like I should be telling you that.”

Cho smirked. “It’s the moments before we do something like this that are the worst. When I’m on the task, that’s all there is, and I trust my tech more than any person alive.”

“Fair point.” Jackson often felt the same.

A green light blinked on the panel. Cho pumped his fist. “That’s it. Come on.”

The hatch split top to bottom, sliding apart into the walls. Jackson walked swiftly through, right behind Cho.

“Your scanner’s picking everything up five by five,” Brant noted. “All scanners and optical recordings in the lab are going dark. Oh, and Echo Two is already on her way down. Got a few complaints about the route.”

Jackson suppressed a smile as he and Cho pressed toward the lab itself, the hatch sealing and locking behind them as their patrol drone escorts hovered at their shoulders. It wouldn’t be Gina if she didn’t gripe about something, but that’s how I know she’s focused.

They came to a set of glass doors, which opened automatically for them. Pale-blue lights illuminated a vast workspace divvied up into three dozen stations. Jackson figured that section was at least half a klick on either side, the shimmer from transparent barriers separating those sections.

Cho consulted his tablet. “Ahead three hundred meters and up a level, at the core.”

“Got it.”

Four steps up an open-sided spiral staircase, they came face-to-face with a lab technician in a white coat and navy-blue coveralls. The tall, lithe man could have been a professional athlete, not what Jackson would have expected of a lab junky.

He also wouldn’t have expected the dark-skinned man at all because the lab was supposed to be shut down for the night. Ramsey and Ciara had made sure of it. Supposedly.

The tech glanced up. “Oh. Evening, Officers. What can I help you with?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Cho blurted.

“Well, I’m behind in my project, so I bypassed the lockout.” The man scowled. “I’ve got high enough clearance that some dumb maintenance order isn’t going to stop me. Is that a problem?”

Jackson patted Cho on the shoulder and stepped past him so he could smile at the tech. “Nope, not at all, sir. But I do have a couple of questions for you.”

Gina squeezed through the last bend before landing in a crouch inside the final junction above the lab. She rocked back onto her heels, gasping.

“Access tunnel my ass,” she muttered. “For a plate-sized maintenance bot maybe, not a woman who isn’t shaped like a stick.”

“Can we not do this right now, Two?” Brant’s fingers tapping on his console echoed through the communications link. “You’re in position.”

“Confirmed, Home.” Gina’s heads-up display showed her location on the lab schematics. Jackson’s indicator was down two levels and behind her, stopped midway. She lifted a tiny plasma torch from her suit and lit the flare, cutting into the vent outlined on the same schematics. “What’s the holdup with One?”

“Lab tech, working late. He’s handling it.”

“With a silver tongue, no doubt.” The vent panel wobbled as she came down the third side of it. Gina snagged a finger through the grate before completing the final cut, allowing the panel to drop free by a few centimeters but not clatter all the way to the floor. Still, she waited for Brant’s all clear.

“Alarms are silent. Move.”

No need to tell a girl twice. Gina set the panel aside and propped herself over the narrow opening. Fingers gripping the inside edges, she slipped headfirst through the new gap in the ceiling, braced for her descent. A quick spin in midair as she held on let her land feetfirst.

The storage room was completely dark, but to her, everything was a hazy amber, thanks to the night vision setting of her suit’s visor. Gina toggled an extra setting that overlaid heat signatures—both from lifeforms and the power sources of whatever bots and drones happened to be in the area. Nothing nearby except boxes.

She exited the storage room—a simple task, given it could be unlocked from the inside, presumably a safety precaution in case a tech was accidentally sealed in. The lab workspace outside was equally quiet but suffused with a pale-blue glow, like the moons back home reflecting on the sea. Gina again waited, watching, as still as one of the boxes she’d been among in the storage room.

For all her grumbling, Gina had to admit the drone PRD 311 had done an admirable job bypassing the security interlocks that let her get into the access tunnel in the first place. It had scooted off to make its rendezvous with Jackson and Cho but not before transmitting the commands Brant implanted alongside all the other modifications people had made to the poor bot. She found it really miraculous it hadn’t crashed—literally and electronically—from the conflicting demands.

A tech working late. It figured, and frankly she was surprised no one had foreseen the possibility. That was on Ramsey’s end of the planning. Gina smirked at the idea that Unit 171 was using the corrupt Tactisar detective’s heist scheme as part of their own. It was much easier to plan that kind of infiltration when someone else had already done a bunch of the harder work.

“Much obliged, Ram,” she murmured.

“Contact,” Brant warned.

Gina silently signaled back that she saw the heat signature, humanoid, female, moving with a peculiar grace. They were the strides of a person who knew she had limited time and was heading where she shouldn’t be but was determined to achieve her goal.

The pistol loaded with disruptor rounds rode on Gina’s belt. She slowly, deliberately lifted it free and took aim. The heat signature faded and vanished, the figure still in midstride. Gina raised the muzzle.

“What the hell?” Brant snapped. “Confirm you’ve lost her on scans.”

In a moment. Gina lifted her visor, letting her eyes adjust to the pale-blue light. The figure was still there, a dark silhouette. Whatever the woman wore, it wasn’t as efficient of stealth garb as Gina’s suit, but it masked her body heat well enough to throw off Gina’s wrist unit scanners and whatever other lab detection systems Brant had tapped.

“Two, I said, confirm.”

Yes, dammit, confirmed. Gina sent the reply.

“Visual established?”

Creepy he could see every move she made—but also reassuring to have a colleague watching over her. Gina duplicated the affirmative reply.

“Two, do not engage, repeat, do not engage. Shadow and report. I’ll check in with One, over.”

Shadow. Gina snorted. Not a problem.

She eased from her crouch and proceeded, ghostlike, across the lab floor, one wraith pursuing another.

“Echo One, this is Echo Home. Two has encountered unknown infiltrator, next level up, outside the lab core. I’ve ordered her to shadow. Do you want her to intercept? Over.”

The rising tension in Brant’s question didn’t help Jackson settle his mood. He imagined the lieutenant’s emotions bleeding out of the comm so badly that both Cho and the annoyingly diligent lab tech could hear. “Who authorized this late night of work, Technician?”

“I don’t have to tell you a damn thing about where I get my authorization. You think Tactisar can tell me what to do?” The tech prodded Jackson’s chest with his tablet.

“Tactisar can tell you whatever it pleases.” Jackson stepped closer, ignoring Cho behind him.

For all his bluster, the tech’s tells were appearing. He shuffled his feet after he spoke, and he stared at Jackson the entire time he talked. Those and other indicators were clear—the man was hiding something.

Jackson decided to press the issue. “Sneaking in here late. Acting hostile toward security. That doesn’t make me suspicious at all. I’ll give you five seconds before I take the tablet and download whatever shady shit you’ve got going on, then turn it over to your supervisor—or maybe Ms. Bui herself. She’d like that. Good pals with Mr. Noor, isn’t she?”

The man seethed, glaring at Jackson and Cho but not making a move either way.

“One, this is Home, advise. Intercept?”

Not yet, not yet. Jackson folded his arms, so he could slip a finger inside his sleeve and trigger the quick reply to hold. “Or leave now, and we forget this happened.”

The tech pushed between them, stomping down the stairs.

Cho exhaled. “Good one.”

“Thanks. I’d better tell Ram.” Jackson typed out a message on his wrist comm—actually two messages. One to Brant, telling him to watch the tech and make sure he did indeed leave through the lab entrance labeled “03,” which was where Jackson saw him head. The other was a copied, pasted, and modified version of the same message, that one to Ram.

He’s heading out. Keep it up. Boyd’s codes for the front door.

Front door, indeed.

The lab core was built of transparent walls, laced with a security grid Jackson could see glimmering even in the dim lighting. Only one door in and out, a red hatch twice as thick as those walls.

Cho had made himself busy, planting charges around it then spreading out to complete his work elsewhere in the lab. A total of sixteen explosives, high enough yield and flashpoint to obliterate the lab contents but not enough to breach other floors.

Jackson checked his tablet. Their window was getting slimmer. “Hurry it up.”

“Almost done.” And he was, joining Jackson less than ninety seconds after they’d reached that floor. “The data’s in there.”

“Our pal Boyd didn’t mention anything about the code for this door.” Jackson frowned. “She give you another one?”

“No. It’s same one.”

Jackson rolled his eyes. “Then you type it if you’re so sure.”

Cho snatched the tablet and punched in the same sequence they’d used to bypass the security locks at the front door.

The red hatch’s access panel flashed green. It hissed open, revealing a pedestal-type console inside a room barely big enough to accommodate two people. The white letters glowing in a clear screen read, “Project Life Swarm.”

“There it is.” Cho sighed. “Our jackpot.”

“Sure is.” Jackson drew his plasma pistol and rested the muzzle at the back of Cho’s neck. “Remove it, and give it to me.”

“I—what?” Cho flinched. He instinctively tried to turn around.

“Nope.” Jackson drove the muzzle against the vertebrae under Cho’s collar, making the Tactisar sergeant wince. “I’m not gonna say it a third time, Cho. Remove the module. Hand it over.”

“You backstabbing bastard.” Cho’s hands shook as he unplugged the module from the underside of the clear console. The project title faded from the screen. “What the hell do you think’s gonna happen when you show up at the ship? Ramsey won’t let you board without me. And the codes for the double airlocks in the cargo tunnel—”

“All on the tablet, courtesy of your guys’ foresight and planning. Many thanks. Turn around.”

Cho did. His face was contorted by fury but fear too. He wasn’t a guy ready to be a hero, well, or at least a brave criminal.

“One, what are you doing? Ramsey’s going to be monitoring all this.” Brant’s tone was taut. “You’re deviating from the op.”

Jackson knew he was, but he’d played a hunch—taking a rash action to provoke the other side into something similar. The original plan of he and Cho waltzing out to meet with Ramsey was clearly in jeopardy with the introduction of the woman Gina was tailing.

He reclaimed the tablet and shoved it into a pocket. “No hard feelings, Cho. But I figure I can get way more for this solo than splitting it four ways.”

“The benefactor won’t give you the money!” Cho snapped.

Jackson sneered and leaned closer, pressing the pistol to Cho’s chest. “Who says I don’t have my own benefactor?”

“One, this is Home. Two reports she’s lost sight of the intruder. You need to move. Now.”

Sounded like a good plan to Jackson. “Let’s go, Sergeant. I don’t have all—”

The blow came from his right and sent him reeling into a desk. Jackson corrected, turning his flail into a controlled roll, but still he ended on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs. He clutched the module in one hand, but his pistol had spun off into the lab’s twilight. More data modules, tablets, and storage chips spilled onto the deck.

A woman crouched near Cho, who had flattened himself against the hatch. Jackson had a hazy moment in which he wondered why Gina had just kicked him until the woman straightened, and he realized the suit was of an entirely different cut and color than Gina’s. The woman slid a formless white mask down from her face until it crumpled at her chin.

“I think,” Ciara whispered, “we’d better renegotiate the terms of our arrangement, Jack Arno.”

22

Nosamo Aerothermic Laboratories, Sector A120

Bellwether Station

Caeli System

26 November 2464

Jackson’s gamble to draw out the shadowy intruder had worked. His lower back wished it hadn’t.

“That’s not good.” Brant muttered in Tagalog as he entered commands into his console. “Our initial passes into her background didn’t raise any red flags.”

Clearly, they’d missed something. She wasn’t just a highly paid administrative assistant to a wealthy, powerful CEO. Ciara’s body language was entirely shifted from the poise she demonstrated when on the job and the languid way in which she carried herself around Ramsey. She was all action, a tensed muscle, ready to pounce. Like Gina, yes, but the comparison didn’t bring Jackson any comfort, considering the position he was in.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jackson tried to push himself up off the floor. Doing so gave him the advantage of placing a hand near his belt, where he’d stowed a compact particle pistol.

“Stay still.” Ciara’s voice carried the same sultry overtones of command except, instead of giving him a new job assignment, she’d scooped up the plasma pistol Jackson had dropped and was aiming it down at him. “I was right not to trust you.”

“By having me follow people? Funny way of showing it, lady.”

“Yes, but I was right, because here you are, trying to scuttle our plan by taking what’s ours.” Ciara glanced at Cho. “Did you have a chance to download or copy the module’s contents?”

Cho had turned his attention to the pedestal console. “No, and no remnants are stored on this unit, so he’s got the only copy in existence, as far as we know.”

“It is the only copy. I can confirm from Mr. Noor.”

Cho glared at Jackson. “What’s Ram want? Because I say we cut down the split to three.”

“Two.” Ciara pivoted her aim and shot Cho in the chest.

The plasma pistol’s shriek cut off Cho’s surprised yelp. The blast threw him over the console, where he slumped, arms spread, eyes wide in shock. Steam rose from the ugly, cauterized burn at the dead center of his shirt.

The assassination caught Jackson by surprise, too, but only for a moment. He rolled onto his side, drawing the pulse pistol from his belt, and swept it up over the side of a desk. He had time to fire off two bursts before Ciara—who had slipped around the edge of the Project Life Swarm enclosure—scorched plasma blasts across the top of the desk. They left blistering furrows where a flat work surface had been.

“You’d better get moving,” Brant snapped. “The patrol drones registered the weapons discharges. I’m sending PRD 311 to interfere, but you don’t have forever.”

Jackson ground his teeth. He sprinted from the ruined desk toward another workstation, one shielded with tall, semitransparent barriers a few centimeters thick. Given it was attached to a test unit that looked like it employed laser cutters, it was a decent gamble it was better shielded.

Ciara’s blasts seared the air in front of him—and cut off abruptly when weapons fire of a different pitch erupted from a new direction. Jackson slid on his knees, coming up ready to shoot around the side of his new sanctuary.

That was when Ciara lost her pistol to a well-placed strike to the wrist. Gina was a spectral being in her stealth suit, with only the purple outlines delineating her from an actual apparition. She tried to shoot Ciara in the head, but the latter deflected the blast with a blow that sent Gina reeling.

Jackson shifted his aim, but the way in which they fought left no room for a wide opening. One moment he had Ciara’s back in his sights. The next it was Gina’s. Though they were well matched, Gina’s more fluid, acrobatic style seemed to be wearing down Ciara, who favored shorter, sharper strikes of a martial arts Jackson found brutal.

Ciara dodged a blow from Gina that Jackson was sure would have left the other woman in a heap. She struck back with the side of her hand, catching Gina on the collarbone. Gina’s muffled cry brought Jackson to his feet.

A pair of patrol drones zipped up the stairwell.

Well, great. Jackson hurried across the floor, staying low. He shot the first drone down, but owing to his jerky movements and the adrenaline coursing through him, it took three hits and three near misses to do so. Which left the second drone plenty of time to pepper the air with stun rounds—nonlethal, to be sure, but he had no time to spend hours knocked senseless.

The crash of breaking furniture drew his attention from the remaining incoming drone. Gina had slammed Ciara onto another desk, leveraging her up and over. Ciara gasped, her breath knocked free—Jackson knew how that felt. Before Ciara could counter, Gina drew a knife from her suit and stabbed it deep into Ciara’s unguarded shoulder.

Ciara’s anguished cry brought the drone spinning off its intercept course with Jackson—and he abruptly realized why Gina had chosen that method of attack. The patrol drones, corrupted as they were by Ramsey’s and the League’s programming, still harbored basic, overriding protocols to respond to an injured person—the prime trigger being blood.

Jackson aimed for the last drone as it breezed across his field of vision—

Only for PRD 311 to barrel in from behind, knocking both out of the air.

The drones shed plastic bits and even some of their propulsion units as they bounced off workstations and left a path of ruined bots standing silent sentry deeper in the lab. Lights flickered on both patrol drones, but neither was going to be flightworthy.

“You okay?” Jackson panted as he approached Gina.

Gin looked at him, only her eyes showing, but the features under her mask shifted enough to tell Jackson she wore a sly smile. “I thought about stunning her, even for a minute, but it’s better if she can walk.”

“As long as she doesn’t bleed out.” Jackson pulled an aid patch from his pocket. It would be enough to seal the wound. “We have to do this carefully. Remove the blade when I—”

Gina gave the knife a twist and yanked it free. Ciara’s second shout was even more tortured than the first.

Jackson swore and slapped the aid patch down on the gaping, bloody wound. “Dammit,” he snapped. “I don’t want her dead. She’s vital to telling us about the benefactor and to testify against Ramsey.”

“Pretty sure she can do both with a prosthetic arm, if worse comes to worst.” Gina helped Jackson get Ciara upright. She bound the other woman’s hands behind her back. “Come on.”

“Wait.” Jackson moved to Cho’s body. He spared a brief grimace and closed the man’s eyes, expecting the same wave of grief and guilt as when the bomb had killed Euke on Aphendrika, but it didn’t come. Time for that worry later. Instead, he rummaged through Cho’s pockets until he found a slender black device studded with tiny controls. “The detonator.”

Ciara chuckled, a choking sound coming from her throat. “Do you think Ram was stupid enough to give Cho the only one?”

Jackson and Gina stared at each other for a moment, then forced Ciara ahead of them in a run for the cargo tunnel leading out of the lab.

Ramsey Moss stormed through the vast Nosamo hangar bay, cursing his luck and the incompetence of others. He hated having to rely on anyone else. Besides Ciara, of course.

He’d monitored the whole foul-up from promising beginning to disastrous interruption. Everything had worked—the drones, the codes, even Jack’s shooing the nosy lab tech along. Right up until Jack had gotten greedy and taken the data module for himself. It was a good thing Ramsey had made sure Ciara followed along.

Though her shooting of Cho… Ramsey scowled as he checked the charge on his plasma rifle. She shouldn’t have shot him. That drew too much of the wrong kind of attention. But it couldn’t be helped. Cho was never supposed to survive the heist. Neither was Jack. Ramsey hadn’t planned on taking the pair along for the getaway he had in mind with Ciara.

Time to clean up the rest of the mess. He pressed the button on the side of his small tablet. The rumble from Cho’s explosives sent tremors throughout his sector of Bellwether. His remaining scanner and camera feeds from the lab blanked to static until the tablet screen showed him nothing of use.

Sorry, Cho. But at least you didn’t have to worry about the blast taking you out. That left Ramsey without evidence to erase too.

He consulted his comm messages as he hurried toward the cargo tunnel. He’d called in an assist. Screw Fernand if he complained about it. The least he could do was use his hired thugs for something other than smacking around Ramsey’s people. His people. Ramsey shook his head. He would have to reevaluate that definition, pronto.

The rendezvous was still on. All he had to do was intercept Jack and—whoever the woman was. Take them both out. If he could use Ciara’s codes right, he might even be able to emergency vent, but that would be too dangerous. Sure, he could make a sweep of the whole catastrophe like he did with Nels if Ciara could get clear.

“Damned mess,” Ramsey muttered. Forget the vent. He would take personal delight in burning that bastard Jack into crispy atoms.

He could see the hatch for the cargo tunnel far off, around the curve of the hangar bay. That section was empty of personnel. Ramsey let himself grin at that aspect of the plan turning out all right. The so-called emergency would keep them going for a while.

The explosion sent him stumbling into a crate. His shoulder slammed against a support strut. Ears ringing, he instinctively ducked, even as the rumble faded. Where in space did that come from?

Emergency klaxons blared throughout the hangar, and beacons bathed the entire section in red. The vents worked extra hard to steer smoke rising from one of the freighters berthed nearby.

Seriously? The Seven Seven? Ramsey slapped the container. He didn’t have a clear view, but he could tell from the way the ship was canted onto its nose that the forward landing gear were wrecked.

Another explosion shook the hangar, that one farther, but he could see the jet of flame rip through the low, wide body of a long-range courier. It wasn’t going to get out into space without major repairs.

The cargo tunnel’s hatch issued an alert noise, warning anyone in range about a delivery coming out. Normally, Tactisar would be on duty to protect whatever the lab techs were shipping out. But it served to let Ramsey know his targets were approaching.

He’d propped his rifle across one of the cargo containers and taken aim when a gunshot ripped through the air just above his head. The round tore apart the container wall, spraying him with the shattered remains of atmospheric regulation circuitry. Ramsey turned toward the source of the gunshot. He couldn’t see a damned thing but fired anyway, the plasma blasts leaving bright afterimages in his vision.

Twin explosions, one right after the other, set his hearing ringing again. By then, shouts accompanied them as people came running—technicians, possibly, but Tactisar officers could be among the mix.

Ramsey didn’t figure himself for an idiot. He slipped between containers, not only to put cover between himself and whoever was shooting at him, but to make sure no one else saw him running around. Besides. He grinned. Better to get a clean shot at Jack Arno that way, even if he couldn’t look the bastard in the eye.

Sevastopol Rast frowned. He’d lost sight of Detective Ramsey Moss. Captain Adams’s orders were clear—distract and contain, don’t kill.

Sev didn’t agree with that course of action. It would be far easier to put down each one of the conspirators and be done with them. But doing so would ruin their chance to track League involvement, which stayed his impulse to shift his aim toward Detective Moss’s head just as much as the captain’s order.

“Four, this is Three. How’d the fireworks display turn out? Scanner readings ain’t the same thing.”

“Worked,” Sev grunted. He had recordings of the explosions, of course. Warrant Dwyer would have to wait until the rendezvous to admire them. They were quite clear, almost cinematic, if Sev said so himself.

“Super! Word from Echo Home—got a passel of guys on the way who ain’t in uniform and, judging by their assorted weapons, have mayhem in mind. Keep Ramsey busy until we can figure out if we can redirect them. I’m warming up our ride.”

“Confirmed.”

Sev waited until Warrant Dwyer cut the link then sighted down his scope. There. A shadow on the floor, down a gap no more than five centimeters wide. He took a breath, held it as the shadow grew darker, then fired. The round sparked off the metal deck plates. A surprised intake of breath, barely audible from Sev’s nest twenty meters off the hangar floor, followed the muffled crack from the rifle.

A new message appeared on his wrist device. So, Fernand was on his way with ten men and women, all bearing automatic plasma weapons.

Sev slid deeper into the shadows and moved toward a better firing position. Perhaps he would get the chance to do more than scorch boxes if they came any closer.

Jackson was painfully aware of how little cover the cargo tunnel’s outer airlock offered as red light from the hangar bay spilled through the opening between hatch halves. He knelt as far against the right wall as possible, down on one knee, ready to shoot.

Gina was on the opposite side with Ciara poised in front of her, Gina’s gun aimed a few centimeters from Ciara’s ear. “If your friends decide to kill us, I’ll be happy to oblige them with a different target,” she whispered to her captive.

“They won’t hesitate.” Ciara’s voice was firm. “I don’t mean that much in the grand scheme.”

“I think Ramsey sees it differently.” Jackson frowned.

Brant had warned him about the explosives. Judging by the smoke and emergency klaxons, they’d done their job. But was Tactisar security really rerouted far enough away that they weren’t flooding the area with officers?

Ciara chuckled. “Ram? He’d never have the balls to pull the trigger, the sop. No, he won’t shoot me, but my friends will.”

Plasma blasts shrieked into their midst. Jackson returned fire with his pulse pistol, staying low, moving swiftly out and right into the hangar. The blasts tracked after him, giving Gina time to shove Ciara ahead of her. They were near the cover of a dormant loader bot when Gina added her pistol to the assault.

Jackson glimpsed Ramsey, his expression one of fury, as he shifted his position between the crates. A rifle’s report sounded just as the new shot took a blackened chunk out of a box above Ramsey’s head, making him duck out of sight again.

“One, this is Home. We’ve got you on internal scans.” Brant sounded breathless, as if he’d been running. Jackson couldn’t make out the new sounds behind him, but he swore he heard someone whistling. “ETA six minutes.”

In any other situation, the wait Brant described would be a minor inconvenience. With plasma blasts flying and a number of Ciara’s compatriots on their way—not to mention the chaos of the emergency responses triggered by the demolitions set by Gina and Sparks—he could have been asking them to wait for days. “Happy if you could shave some seconds off that estimate, Home.”

“Jack!” Ramsey sounded hoarse. “I’m gonna shove your face down an engine cone while they light it up and watch you melt!”

“How nice of him to remember you on this occasion,” Gina said sweetly as she fired three more rounds at Ramsey’s hiding place. The pulse blasts burned three neat holes into a container.

“I’m memorable like that.” Jackson tried to estimate Sev’s sniper perch, but there was no use trying to mark the precise location, even though he’d ascertained from where the last shot had come. Sev would already have relocated. “He’s pulled out all the stops.”

A clattering noise built. It sounded like tank treads, only in miniature—too familiar a sound, Jackson realized.

Two Stalwart security bots rolled into view, flanked by a few handfuls of people. Jackson recognized Kami and Sasha, a pair of Tactisar enforcers he’d seen only on his first day aboard Bellwether. A couple of others had shadowed him while on his first patrols. The rest looked too rough even for corrupt Tactisar staff, with glowing tattoos, shaved heads, and cybernetic implants—either on their faces or replacing entire limbs. He thought he saw Fernand at the rear.

“Last chance, Jack!” Ramsey sounded considerably more upbeat than when he’d first threatened Jackson. “Toss out your guns, and let Boyd go.”

“Or what, he’ll space us instead of resorting to torture?” Gina rolled her eyes. She poked Ciara in the ribs. “Please tell me you did all the negotiating with the benefactor, not this oaf.”

Ciara smirked.

“Home, this is One,” Jackson murmured. “Could really have you step up your timetable. Four? New targets for you, Deadeye—the Stalwart bots. No need to exercise caution around them, but leave people alive for the proper authorities.”

Neither party made any moves nor discharged weapons. Even Ramsey shut up, though Jackson thought he heard the detective speaking in hushed tones into his commlink. Then the Stalwarts resumed their approach, their mounted plasma cannons rising up from the sides. Jackson sighed. The ballistic rifles, the ones attached to their frames and loaded with stun rounds, stayed stowed. So much for negotiating.

They didn’t get a chance to fire first, though, because the left-most bot’s head blew up in spectacular fashion.

The hangar filled with the barks and screams of weapons blasts, both ballistic and energy, as the attackers not only unleashed toward Jackson and Gina but went after wherever Sev was hiding.

Best thing we can do now is pray Brant gets here in time. Jackson put pulse bursts into the remaining bot’s torso. Hopefully, knowing him, it’s a redundant request.

Yahanotov winced as the gunfire resumed. “Meng Po’s physician says my hearing is too sensitive to weapons discharges.”

“No doubt your flesh is too.” Kiel shoved him and growled, “Get to the pods. Have it ready to leave when I order.”

“Where are you going?”

Kiel glanced at the flashes of light from the other end of the bay. “To make certain our people don’t fail in their objective again.”

“Ferenc won’t like that, sir.”

“If I cared, I’d ask Ferenc his opinion.” Kiel zipped the front of his bright-orange emergency technician’s jumpsuit and jogged around the corner toward the smoldering wreck that was the nose of a slender cargo courier. He waved at the assembled group of other techs and indicated the case he shouldered. “Hey! I’ve got E-Seal!”

“Man, finally!” Another tech motioned for him to hurry. “Boss wants these breaches shut ASAP. Thanks.”

“No problem.” Kiel smiled. “Happy to help.”

23

Freighter Meng Po

In Orbit of Bellwether Station

Caeli System

26 November 2464

Captain Zhou tried not to pace. It wasn’t the press of ships around Bellwether that worried him, as they closed to within ten thousand kilometers of the station. Meng Po was designed to hide in plain sight, after all. No, it was the flurry of messages from Kiel that had him unable to remain seated.

The heist had gone wrong—gunfire between assets, explosions crippling a handful of disguised privateer vessels in Nosamo’s hangar bay, and their operative, Circe—Ciara Bui, or Boyd among her aliases—had possibly been compromised.

He blew out a breath. At least Balland had good news.

“Comp is sixty percent certain we’re tracking the right drive signature,” the tactical officer said. “Not sure of the precise course—it keeps shifting by a thousand klicks or so every time Tactical recalibrates from Sensor’s updates—but it’s as close as we’re going to get, Captain.”

“That’ll have to work. Designate as Tango One for now.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

“Sensor, keep watch. If they make any sudden course changes, I want to know about them. And monitor comms for the high sign from the boss. The moment he wants extraction, we’ll have to make sure our course is clear to burn in and get him.”

“Aye, sir.”

Zhou considered the tactical plot. “Balland, overlay with our in-system asset vessels.”

“Coming up, Captain.”

The indicators for the hundreds of ships in nearby space dimmed a notch as six markers glowed green. Zhou nodded. A decent number. It would have been far easier to engineer Kiel’s extraction had the privateers hidden aboard Bellwether not suffered mysterious sabotage, but Zhou would make do with what he had. After all, he’d gotten a battered stealth freighter through a collapsing wormhole without losing the ship.

He snorted. Terrans would chalk up the incident to Divine Providence. If anyone bothered to ask Zhou, he would argue Providence shouldn’t cut things so close if it—or He, as the Terran superstitions supposed—was serious.

“Get me a coded line to our assets,” Zhou ordered. “I want them aware of our position and reminded they’re to heed our orders if we need them for cover during the extraction. Tell their captains we’re authorized to bump their next payment ten percent each if they comply and, of course, manage to survive to collect.”

“Understood, Captain,” the young woman at Comms answered.

Whether or not Zhou had authority to increase the payments was debatable, but he figured Kiel wouldn’t begrudge him once he pulled the ESS team’s bacon out of the proverbial—or perhaps literal—fire. Zhou glared so hard his nose wrinkled like he smelled something that stank. He would be lying if he said he didn’t miss the days of commanding a warship, hunting the dark for a worthwhile opponent. Meng Po had served him well, and it was his ability to pull her through scrapes that led directly to the kind of leeway he hoped Kiel would continue to allow.

Not that I have much choice, Zhou reminded himself. Serving a shady boss on missions of questionable impact and importance is a step up from facing public execution.

Rather than dwell on painful reminders of the past, Zhou shifted his attention to the drive signature Balland was tracing on the tactical display. Could be a glitch, but it was looking more and more like it was his CDF adversaries. Zhou settled into his chair, waiting.

CSV Oxford

Approaching Bellwether Station

Colonel Sinclair wasn’t impressed by the messages filtering across his tablet. Rather than the tightly controlled execution of the final stages in Unit 171’s plan, he had the impression the whole affair was becoming a cockup.

The tactical board showed Oxford forming one of three points of a triangle with Tuscon and Bellwether itself at the other two. Ships threaded their way in and out of the station’s vicinity, but everything in one-light-second’s distance of three hundred thousand kilometers was marked.

“Sir, Echo Home reports the suspected privateer vessels aboard Bellwether have been disabled,” Eldred said. “Sounds like they still have a mess on their hands—Echo One and Two are pinned down. Four is lending fire support. Home says he and Three are moving to retrieve, but they’ve encountered obstacles.”

“Haven’t we all?” Sinclair murmured.

“Tuscon’s lander could get their fast, Colonel,” Tamir mentioned. “I know Master Chief MacDonald has a man in sickbay—”

Sinclair cut off the suggestion with a gesture. “No, Butter Bars, the timeframe is too tight, even if we could get Alpha team aboard unrecognized as CDF forces. Using them on system’s edge to investigate the derelict lab was one thing. Inserting a Coalition strike team onto an independent station will only confirm our presence to League assets in the vicinity.”

“I’d maintain they’re already aware, based on the trap set back at the cometary fragment.”

“Valid point. But I’ll hold out optimism for the team. For the moment, our best bet is to be in position to pick them up once they depart. Eldred, I assume you have confirmation that the Saurian gift is in good working order?”

“It helps that it’s not the only such Saurian craft aboard the station, but yes, sir. Echo Three confirms he won’t have any problems behind the stick.” Eldred chuckled. “I’m happy to report he’s giddy.”

“In a professional manner, let us all hope.”

The comms console in the operations center chirped. “Incoming tight beam from Tuscon, Colonel,” the tech at the station called out. “Major Mancini has a possible hostile contact.”

“TAO, repopulate the board.”

“Yes, sir.”

The result was not as clear-cut as he would have liked. A single pip glowed red among the constellation of ship indicators flooding space around Bellwether.

“What am I seeing, Captain?”

“Possible ID on the ghost ship from Aphendrika,” Tamir reported. “Tuscon spotted it with the assist from Bellwether’s detection grid.”

Yes. The one which Eldred had tapped, in a somewhat-legal fashion, and Sinclair, for the good of the mission and the lives involved, had chosen to ignore. “What do we know about her?”

“Moving on a loose spiral toward the station.” Eldred made a face at her displays. “Must be trying to run silently, but the tech’s not on par with our stealth boats. If she’s receiving and sending comms, they’re secure. I think they might be piggybacking local signals among all the skippers out their pinging messages off each other and traffic control.”

“A prudent measure, not so dissimilar from our own.” If that was the same elusive ship that had vexed them on their previous mission, Sinclair couldn’t help feeling a begrudging respect for her captain. “Speaking of skippers, relay this information up to the bridge. I want to tighten the net with Tuscon so we can reel this problematic vessel in whilst putting us on a better course to pick up Unit 171.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Colonel.” Tamir joined Sinclair at the tactical board. “Take a look at this.”

“I have.” Sinclair didn’t like the analysis Oxford’s TAO had produced. Six ships were moving on courses that seemed to have nothing to do with each other but, when extrapolated, could lead them to rendezvous within a hundred klicks of the ghost ship’s suspected drive signature. “What do we make of it? More privateers?”

“I think so. These drive readouts aren’t far off from the vessel that self-destructed after its brief battle with Tuscon.”

“I concur. Get ahold of TAO on the bridge, too, with this as an addendum to our findings on the ghost ship. I won’t take any chances with us being out of sync.” Sinclair frowned. “And prepare me a response channel to Tuscon—the good major had best know what he’s facing.”

CSV Tuscon

Approaching Bellwether Station

Major Mancini wished he’d gone for a stronger cup of coffee, but maybe the twinge of a headache developing at the center of his forehead was a message he needed to lay off his caffeine assist. Or the headache could be the result of the encrypted message from Oxford.

“Well.” Godat scratched the back of his neck. “Six ships, maybe converging on Sierra One?”

“Not the best news, but I don’t see any reason to argue with Sinclair.” Mancini put his hand on the back of Olesen’s chair. “TAO, you’ve got the data—paint those new targets as Sierra Two through Seven.”

“Conn, TAO. Designating new marks from Oxford’s download as Sierra Two through Seven, aye.”

“Sensor Room, I want your focus expanded to these new marks but not at the expense of ignoring our immediate vicinity,” Mancini ordered. “Getting the team off Bellwether is the priority. Stopping any known or suspected League assets is gravy.”

“Conn, Sensor Room. Aye. Tracking Sierra Two through Seven won’t be a problem—they’re not exactly hiding, Skipper,” the senior chief said. “But Sierra One keeps slipping off our scans.”

“Well aware, Sensor Room. Conn out.” Mancini returned to his chair. The bridge was quiet, save for the chirps and clicks from active consoles. COB had everyone under the tight leash of silent running, but Mancini knew Tuscon’s crew could leap to action in a heartbeat. Missile tubes were loaded. CIWS was on standby. Shields would snap on at his command. He swore he could feel the stealth boat seething under restraint.

Sure, he’d just told his sensor chief their goal, but if it came down to a slugfest between Tuscon and their League adversary, Mancini had to admit he wouldn’t be upset. In fact, he was ready to prove they could take the ghost out.

Nosamo East Hangar

Bellwether Station

Jackson dropped behind cover as he searched his belt for yet another power pack for his pulse pistol. Sev’s timely intervention had slowed their opponents’ approach, but unless he could get another clean shot at the second Stalwart bot, it was only a matter of time before the security drone ran over their position—or until more of the aerial drones showed up.

Gina shot another one of those as it buzzed around the taller stacks of containers wedged between two stories’ worth of racks. It bounced and clattered down to the deck. “I’d like to file the following report—not having fun anymore.”

“I’ll put it right next to mine.” Jackson peered around the lower edge of the shuttle he had for a hiding spot. The momentary lull in the shooting let him see the hired thugs had broken up into pairs. Two lay still on the deck. The Stalwart bot was turned toward the inner wall, plasma cannon pelting every catwalk and shelf it could target.

Of more interest was Fernand, who was talking to someone at the rear of the attack group.

Jackson couldn’t make out the man other than his orange jumpsuit, which signified emergency services, but whoever he was, Fernand was very much nodding at every command given. The boss’s raised finger was a nice touch. Jackson shifted his wrist so the scanner could pick up as much of the vista in front of the shuttle nose as possible.

A yelp brought his attention back to his current location. Ciara dropped behind the shuttle, chin turned toward her patched wound. The pale bandage had gone pink.

Gina slid by her side. “I thought we needed to relocate. Our new friend disagreed.”

“If you think you have a chance…” Ciara winced. She slumped lower.

“I think you need to shut up.” Gina pressed her plasma pistol against the prisoner.

Pain slashed across Jackson’s nose in the same instant Gina’s pistol fired toward the ceiling. He clutched his face, blood dripping from one nostril. He shook off the cobwebs in his brain and saw Ciara had gotten her bound wrists around Gina’s neck. Gina gasped, her hands clawing for purchase.

“The module,” Ciara demanded. “Or she’s dead.”

Jackson retrieved his pulse pistol. Shouts and scrambling footsteps told him their attackers were mounting another assault. And Ramsey could be sneaking up on them from his perch inside the maze of containers. He didn’t have time for hostage negotiations, but it was Gina. She was part of his team.

He could shoot. No question. But the risk of Ciara shooting at the same time was great.

Gina coughed. Her face reddened. She’d dropped her pistol.

Jackson’s finger tensed above the trigger. He could bolt with the module. Could I get past Ramsey? Probably.

More shots rang out. Sev, again, judging by the pitch from his rifle. The Stalwart bot’s plasma cannons answered.

Ciara rose, dragging the struggling Gina with her. “Ram! I’m coming out!”

“I’m right here.” Ramsey stepped around a stack of containers, his gun aimed. “Give her the module, Jack. You have your choice.”

Gina’s eyes watered.

“Now.” Ciara’s grasp tightened.

Shoot her—or Ramsey, the more obvious danger to the mission? Take the module and get to the extraction point? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d left Gina behind because of an operation’s demand. Jackson ground his teeth. What kind of man would I be if I did?

“Here.” He lowered his pistol just enough that he could step nearer, the module in his outstretched hand. “Let her go.”

Ciara smirked. “A fine trade.”

As soon as her fingers closed around the module, she lifted her manacled hands free of Gina’s neck and shoved her into Jackson. Ciara ran for Ramsey, who fired bursts from his plasma rifle. Jackson tackled Gina, shooting back as he went, then slid the two of them beneath the shuttle’s wings.

“That…” Gina coughed and rasped for breath. “That… was the nicest… thing you’ve ever done for me.”

“You’re welcome.” Relief at her survival faded into chagrin at having given up the very thing they’d worked weeks to obtain. “But if Ramsey’s goon squad obliterates us, I won’t mind if you take it back.”

Gina tried to laugh but winced and held her throat.

“Stay here?”

“Oh… sure. Girl could… use a rest.”

Jackson patted her cheek and, before she could weakly swat him away, rolled out from under the shuttle.

Ramsey and Ciara disappeared into the maze of containers, but Jackson had bigger problems—he faced five of the hired help, who sprinted for him, armed with everything from plasma weapons to ballistic rifles. The Stalwart bot must have given up on finding Sev because it swiveled in his directly. Jackson guessed he could either take it down or shoot three of the five incoming attackers before they burned him into the deck.

What does it matter if I can’t catch Ciara?

He forgot all that when the ugliest shuttle he’d ever seen came roaring in less than twenty feet off the deck, its thrusters toppling the forest of containers and sending not just the emergency techs but the gathered thugs tumbling. The shuttle looked like it was made of pitted cubes mashed together, as if someone thought an ancient hand grenade should be sawn in half and converted into a small transport.

“Echo One, this is Three.” Dwyer couldn’t have sounded happier if he’d found two more Florio Ionworks racers in a bargain sale. “Might want to keep your head down.”

The Stalwart bot exploded in a fireball under the barrage from the Saurian shuttle’s turret. That loss was enough to send the attackers—those still upright—scrambling for cover. Jackson took it as his cue to sprint after Ciara and Ramsey, noting as he did that Sev had emerged from a catwalk a few dozen meters beyond where even Jackson thought he might be hiding.

The shuttle swung too close to the catwalk, and Jackson thought Dwyer would tear the walkway off the wall, but the shuttle banked in time, leaving an arm’s length between the ship and the railing. Sev hurtled across the distance, slamming bodily onto the fuselage, his rifle slung over his back.

Jackson skidded around the nearest corner leading into the stacks when he heard a single plasma blast. He waited, weapon drawn, and ducked around in a crouch.

Ramsey sagged against a water silo that had been ripped open by a plasma blast—the same blast, Jackson figured, which had torn an ugly, blistered burn across his right ribcage. He saw no sign of the detective’s plasma rifle.

“I can’t believe it.” Ramsey glared at him as he fumbled with his belt for what Jackson assumed was another concealed weapon. “She shot me! Everybody except Cho screwed me over!”

Jackson closed the distance with three swift steps and bashed Ramsey across the face with the stock of his pistol. The corrupt Tactisar detective crumpled onto the deck, his breath coming out in a great huff.

“Too bad nobody valued his loyalty,” Jackson muttered. “But you? You’ve got a trial to face.”

“Jack?” Gina’s question was barely audible over the approaching shuttle’s roar.

“Are you okay? I’ll have Brant check out your injuries, but I’ve got to get after Ciara.”

She gave him the familiar sly smile. “Oh, don’t go gallantly chasing her on my behalf.” Gina held up the data module.

“You—that’s another one?” Jackson reached for it.

She pulled it back. “This is the real one. I took it from you after we subdued Ciara. No way would I trust she wouldn’t try something foul to get her hands on it. Better she thought it was still in your possession.”

Jackson shook his head, chuckling. “Probably the only time I’ve been glad I was pickpocketed.”

24

Nosamo East Hangar

Bellwether Station

26 November 2464

Kiel maintained a reckless level of optimism about the outcome of their operation right up until the Saurian civilian shuttle thundered overhead, turning the last piece of formidable weaponry he’d brought to the fight into molten scrap.

He saw no sense raising a fist or cursing foul luck. He’d even passed on the tempting idea of blaspheming the Terrans’ god—not that he thought he would get a reaction.

Instead, he grabbed Ferenc’s arm and hissed, “We’re done here.”

Ferenc shouldered his plasma rifle and nodded. The two of them walked away from the continuing fight, in which the remaining mercenaries—assembled of local criminals and a few of Ramsey’s die-hard Tactisar flunkies—tried in vain to shoot down the shuttle. Kiel couldn’t see where Jack Arno had gone, nor did he have any idea what had happened to Ramsey, but as far as he was concerned, the fewer people he had to drag from the mess, the better.

“Sir?” Ferenc had a hand cupped to his ear, presumably to drown out background noise as he received a comms message. “Circe’s retrieved the module. Ramsey’s down. She thinks he may be in custody.”

“Damnation.” Kiel ground his teeth.

It couldn’t be helped. Ramsey, fortunately, had only seen Ferenc’s face as “Fernand,” the contact for the benefactor. Circe, or “Ciara” as Ramsey had come to know her during their more intimate association, would prove difficult for the detective to find, even if he wasn’t languishing in a CDF holding cell.

Besides, surely ESS had an asset or two among the Terrans who could apply a well-placed plasma burst to end that potential leak.

Kiel and Ferenc followed a twisting path toward the outer edge of the hangar, with Kiel keeping a close watch on his tablet’s schematics. Two more rights and two more lefts, alternating as they neared the long row of docking ports for Bellwether’s repair pods. They were deployed with two- to four-person crews if maintenance required a more complex touch than the station’s drones could manage.

He became aware of soft footsteps as the cacophony of the gunfight faded. Someone approach from around the next bend. Kiel held up a hand.

Ferenc slid in front of him, plasma rifle raised. Admirable of him to interpose himself between danger and a superior officer. Kiel smiled tightly. Of course, he was required to do so. ESS regs were quite clear on the expendability of subordinates.

An object clattered across the intersection. Kiel thought it was a spare power pack. The muzzle of Ferenc’s rifle snapped to follow it. Circe was suddenly there, her rifle’s own muzzle centimeters from Ferenc’s left ear.

Kiel exhaled. “Well done. Your service to the League is commendable. Now kindly join us for the extraction without melting Ferenc’s brains.”

“Yes, sir.” Circe—Ciara, Kiel kept wanting to call her—held the weapon at the ready but not without a mischievous squint leveled at Ferenc.

The latter, for his part, seemed about as ruffled as a man trying to decide which tie to choose for a formal dinner.

Port Nova Echo Two-Eight-Eight, Kiel saw the black numbers on a glowing green background at the same moment the tablet alerted him to its proximity. The hatch leading to the pod was open.

Ferenc swept in first, rifle again aimed in case potential threats had crept in. Kiel made sure Circe went in next, with the data module, leaving him last to seal not just the port hatch but the pod’s.

“Everybody strap in and don’t bother me.” Yahanotov had squeezed into the pilot’s seat, suspended on gimbals in the center of an armored, transparent sphere. From it, he had a spectacular view of local space in a three-hundred-sixty-degree hemispherical dome.

Kiel shouldered in next to Ferenc on a narrow bench, where they both strapped in. Circe did likewise across from them.

“So? The data module for Project Life Swarm…”

She’d already lifted his tablet from his lap and plugged in the module. “One minute. The access codes could take a while to crack the—”

Circe’s face froze, an expression of astonishment dawning. Then she scowled, the rage so palpable Kiel swore he could feel it radiating across the tiny passenger compartment as the pod bumped free of the umbilical attachments mooring it to the port. “That dirty brat.”

“What?” It wasn’t going to be good. Why would it be, given everything else that had gone wrong? “Report.”

“She switched it.” Circe flung the tablet at Kiel like she was discarding a ruined helmet seal. Her scowl could have cut through the fuselage of the pod, which admittedly, Kiel knew wasn’t very thick. “She switched the project module with a blank one.”

Kiel stared at the tablet and the menu of—nothing. It reported the contents as blank.

Ferenc grunted.

Was he admiring the handiwork? I can’t blame him. Kiel rubbed the center of his forehead. “Please tell me you’ve a reasonable story as to when and how she did that.”

“It must have been when I was wounded.” Which was when Kiel realized she was wounded. Blood seeped from under a sloppily applied seal on her shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice. “She could have made the switch then, possibly on his instruction. It was Gianna, the one Mr. Noor hired into his ranks and who I had Arno following.”

“Coconspirators,” Ferenc mused. “Who you gave authorization to be in closer proximity.”

“Yes,” Circe snapped. “At least I’ve seen her face.”

“And she’s seen yours.” Kiel stuffed the tablet between the bench bindings.

“Which may only serve us as well as their possible identification of you may serve them.”

“This isn’t my real face, Vasiliy.”

“And you’re a naïve fool if you think you saw hers.” Kiel glared past Ferenc at the cockpit. “Signal Meng Po on our secure link. I want us retrieved so we can get the hell out of his damned system as soon as possible.”

Freighter Meng Po

In Orbit of Bellwether Station

The comms tech nearly jumped from her station. “Signal received, Captain! Triangulating location.”

Zhou kept his sighing inward. It would take a few more missions to get his crew seasoned. Only Balland and Ancel, plus a few engineers, had served with him last go-round. “Confer with the sensor officer. Ancel, make sure we’re dialed into the exact square meter. We won’t stay in the League’s good graces if we let the boss die.”

Ancel choked on a laugh but managed an “Understood, Captain,” in response.

The laugh was justified. None of them were in anything remotely near the League’s good graces, hiding behind the ESS shield as they had been.

“Contact, Skipper,” Balland reported from Tactical. “Tango One is definitely heading our way—trying to run silently, sir, but she’s a match to the profile of the stealth raider from Aphendrika.”

Zhou shivered, whether from the rush of adrenaline or from fear, he couldn’t tell, but he didn’t care. His job remained—get to Kiel’s team, and make sure his commander didn’t die. Which meant risking the same lives he’d felt uncomfortable seeing wasted days ago. “Tactical, match vectors and load tubes one through six. Full spread on my mark. Designate target as Victor One. Sensor, relay what Tactical’s got to our privateer friends, and tell them to earn that extra pay. Pilot, as soon as our missiles are away, burn hard for the boss’s coordinates.”

The chorus of confirmations told him that, as green as his crew was, they did know their jobs.

Zhou gripped the arms of his chair. Now if they can execute without getting us all killed, we can wormhole jump out of here to cause the Terrans headaches on another day.

CSV Tuscon

Approaching Bellwether Station

“Conn, TAO. Missiles in space,” Olesen called out. “Six incoming.”

“TAO, activate CIWS. Pilot, roll to the following vectors, and go to full speed.” Mancini tapped the course into his display.

“Aye, Skipper, activating—” Olesen swore midsentence. “Sierra Two through Seven are altering course, Major. They’re on a direct intercept for us. I read open missile tubes on all of them.”

“Designate as Master Two through Seven and repopulate the board.” The continuous shooting of the CIWS cannons as they flailed at the incoming missiles with high-velocity projectiles rattled Tuscon even as the engines set the boat’s whole frame rumbling. “XO, send word to Oxford—with seven bandits instead of one. She’ll need to get her hands dirty.”

Which, Mancini admitted as his crew carried out their orders, I’ve been wanting to see for a while.

Colonel Sinclair bobbed on his toes and clasped his hands behind his back as Oxford’s engines pushed her into the thick of the local traffic. He smiled as he imagined the confused communications between civilian captains as they tried to ascertain why a battered freighter was barreling through their midst.

Even more so when Oxford’s hull plating parted, and the dual 250 mm magnetic cannon turret was deployed.

“Missile launches from Master One, via Tuscon’s TAO,” Tamir said. “Master Two through Seven doing the same. Tuscon’s CIWS has engaged. Master One is already changing course while the rest converge on Tuscon.”

“They’re not the only ones, Butter Bars.” Indeed, Oxford’s CO had the pilot taking the ship on an intercept vector that would put them right between the six attacking vessels and the CDF stealth raider.

A moment later, Sinclair’s tactical display lit with the colorful streaks of Oxford’s upgraded weaponry. The deck plates shuddered as both the ship’s dual 250 mm cannon and the 350 mm turret in the weapons module fired with ominous pauses before the next salvos were readied. The neutron beam emitters blazed into the midst of the privateers. Sinclair thought some of the operations center monitors flickered under the power drain.

All in all, it made for an impressive display of firepower as Oxford hacked at the six privateer vessels from an unexpected angle. The coup de grâce, though, was the muonic cannon. One of the privateer vessels veered off and abandoned its compatriots seemingly without a second glance as soon as Oxford scorched its bow with a direct hit.

“I suppose they’ve never heard of a Q-ship before,” Eldred murmured.

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize ancient history was a specialty of yours, warrant. Warships disguised as merchantmen from Earth’s first global war?”

“One and the same, Colonel. I know CDF has made use of them before but not outside wartime, as far as I know.”

“Very true.”

Tamir cleared his throat. “Sierra Two and Five are without power. Three has broken off from the engagement and is withdrawing.”

“That didn’t take as much convincing as I would have surmised,” Sinclair noted. “Though clearly the CO had a shock-and-awe tactic in mind, Oxford is proving herself capable to provide offense, but she doesn’t have the endurance to engage in a long-running battle, which is why… yes. I see the CO has ordered for the Lawrence drive to be charged.”

“Understood, sir,” Tamir said. “Tuscon reports they’re headed in for rendezvous with Unit 171.”

“I sincerely hope they’ll singe the paint on our ghostly friend on their way.” Sinclair clasped his hands. “I grow tired of their interference.”

Freighter Meng Po

In Orbit of Bellwether Station

Unbelievable. Zhou couldn’t make up his mind whether to release the longest string of invectives he’d learned at the academy from the most ruthless trainers or offer grudging congratulations to the Terran CDF for having a second vessel hiding in plain sight.

Tactical was no help. Every time it pinged the battered freighter for ID, the result came back with a different name—San Tomas, Yokohama, Serrekunda, Ballinhassig. The supposedly secure transponder codes were so convoluted they made the privateers’ elaborate disguises about as impressive as a pair of antique spectacles on an otherwise-unchanged face.

And the weaponry. Zhou smelled neutral forces at work, given the motley collection of firepower, but the tactics—those hinted at CDF control. Clearly ESS had underestimated the lengths to which CDF Intelligence was willing to intervene in that fragile, post-war time.

“Captain?” The comms tech held an earpiece away from her head, allowing staticky speech to filter out. “The privateers are demanding direction, sir. They say they’re taking a beating.”

“Maintain comms silence,” Zhou ordered. “Nav, time to intercept?”

“Ninety seconds, sir.”

“Good. Wormhole drive charged?”

“Charged and standing by, Captain. As soon as the pod is secure, we can jump.”

Zhou stood by Balland’s chair, unwilling to look away from the blinking lights filling the board. “Tactical, designate that new bandit Victor Two.”

“Victor Two, aye, sir.” Balland input commands.

“What about Victor One?” Zhou jabbed a finger at the display. “Clearly they haven’t returned fire.”

“No, sir. They’re burning hard for us and have cleared all our missiles off their track. I have a second wave standing by for launch, Captain. Should I re-task to target Victor Two instead of Victor One? Or split the difference?”

The last time we took the stealth raider on, it nearly tore us to pieces—they took big bites out, in any case. How willing am I to endanger this ship and crew again? All for the glory of the League. His earlier bravado faded, and Zhou scowled. Kiel wouldn’t want him to risk his most secure ride out of the new mess. That much was certain. “Neither, Tactical. Whatever Victor One has in mind, they’re not planning on shooting us down, or they’d have done so. But let’s remind them we’re still watching. Keep the doors open, but do not switch targets. As soon as the pod is aboard, close them up prior to the jump.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Zhou considered the damaged and fleeing privateers on the plot. Victor Two continued its headlong rush, passing around the far side of Bellwether. Victor One—the stealth boat—wasn’t letting up its dogged pursuit of Meng Po, threading a new course through the chaos left by the brief battle.

“Captain, sensor report—we have the repair pod. Thirty-six seconds.”

“Nav, watch our vectors and speed,” Zhou warned. “Make sure whoever’s flying them out knows how to match course, or we’ll be scraping them off the hull.”

As he watched the tiny bleep grow ever closer to Meng Po, he pondered how another fight between his ship and the stealth boat would have ended. For the time being, though, he would be happy with not being dead and not killing the man keeping the League’s ire from wiping him out.

“Docking clamps in five,” Yahanotov intoned.

Kiel let himself stew for four seconds before giving his safety straps a final tug. The pod jolted hard enough he slammed the back of his head against the cushioned rest. Ferenc, of course, was as immobile as if he’d been welded to the pod’s fuselage.

“We’re secure.” Yahanotov swiped sweat from his face. Space, but the man reeked.

Before any of them could reach for their straps, a voice echoed through the intercom, “Hostiles engaged. Stand by for wormhole drive initiation.”

So, that was it. They were leaving the system empty-handed. Kiel willed himself to cool his fury. It hadn’t been the foiled destabilization mission from before. His superiors expected him to deliver a single item, and he’d failed. Repercussions would be swift. Kiel pursed his lips. If he applied the right political pressure to the corrupt individuals on whom he kept secret files, the fallout might not be so terrible.

Across the tiny compartment, Circe seethed and kept her arms folded. Even with her failure to steal Project Life Swarm, she had proven a useful asset and had provoked Ramsey’s corrupt Tactisar unit to inflict harm on Nosamo’s labs, thus giving the Terrans something else to focus on. Her interactions with the CDF spies could prove useful too.

As the thrum from Meng Po’s wormhole drive rose to a crescendo and plunged them through a breach in space, Kiel reflected on the fuzzy image of Jack Arno’s face that he recalled from Ferenc’s scans.

He had a hunch—always good to follow up on those, even though he preferred cold, hard facts. When he’d had Yahanotov scan for suspected CDF Intelligence frequencies, similar to those Kiel had intercepted on Aphendrika, he’d acted on a similar hunch—and now he had proof of individuals meddling in his operations. What he needed, though, was a true face and a true name to end their interference for good.

Jackson peered out of the Saurian shuttle’s narrow viewports as it streaked alongside Tuscon’s sleek, dark hull. If he hadn’t known the stealth boat was ready to haul them aboard, he would have assumed he’d encountered a blank spot in space, devoid of stars.

“They’ve skipped out of the system.” Brant monitored communications. He looked haggard, his expression drawn and pale. “I assume that includes your new lady friend.”

“And Vasiliy. He was here.” Jackson tapped his wrist unit. “You and I have scan data to review, right after we get the Nosamo files to a secure server.”

“Rest.” Sev was lashed into a seat, his eyes closed.

No visible wounds, that one, but his face was smudged with soot and his right cheek seared as if by sunburn—from a nearby plasma blast, Jackson assumed.

“We’ll get plenty of that too.” Gina patted his shoulder. “I, for one, am going to disappear for a few days after our return and debriefing—see what I can discover about dear Ms. Ciara Bui.”

“I reckon she’ll be top on our list if she’s a new player in these parts.” Dwyer snorted. “These parts being Coalition space and nearby.”

“They’re getting bolder,” Jackson noted. “Taking rash action.”

“You think we’re getting on their nerves?” Brant pressed his hands together like he was actually praying. “He said with fervent hope.”

Jackson glanced back to where Ramsey was bound, their one and only prisoner from this escapade. The corrupt detective was dozing, snoring like he was a contented bear, courtesy a sedative Gina administered. He grinned. “If we weren’t, we wouldn’t be doing our jobs.”

25

Oval Office—the White House

Lawrence City, Canaan

1 December 2464

Justin Spencer flicked through the last pages of the after-action report. No one in the office had spoken since General Andrew MacIntosh had arrived with the classified data, but as Spencer surreptitiously glanced at the others in attendance, he tried to gauge their responses.

MacIntosh wore a perpetual frown, but that was no sure indicator of his mood. Vice President Eduardo Fuentes had his hand to his chin, tapping his index finger on his lips as he read—a sure sign he was deep in thought. Secretary Celinda Snow sat with her hands folded and legs crossed, gazing at a painting recently gifted to the Oval Office. It depicted Canaan from orbit, the curve of the home planet filling the bottom third of the framed portrait while CSV Lion of Judah soared above, bound for parts unknown.

Not a pleasant reminder of the geopolitical situation they were facing. The flagship’s disappearance had everyone scratching their heads, but with the League making subtle moves all along the border sectors—and into key systems—nothing could be done besides continuing the search while devoting most resources to countering the League’s machinations. That and pray, of course.

Heavenly Father, be with the crew in whatever challenges they face. Spencer searched his heart for what he wanted to say, digging past the turmoil that threatened to overwhelm him on the darkest days. I don’t believe they’re lost forever. If they are, grant them your grace and eternal rest, but if they still live, I pray your will be done in their present situation. May they return to us in due time.

Void Captain Nalax shut off his tablet with a click of his talons, jolting Spencer from his meditation. “This resolution is satisfactory.”

MacIntosh snorted. “That’s all you’ve got? I can think of a much wordier description of what should have been a simple smash-and-grab. It begins with the prefix ‘cluster’ and I won’t utter the rest with a lady in the room.”

“I appreciate your tact, if not your assessment of the outcome,” Snow said dryly. “When, in fact, Covert Action Unit 171 achieved their goals and then some.”

“By causing a shootout and ship-to-ship action at the most heavily trafficked commercial space station in the Saurian border region?” MacIntosh shook his head. “Sorry, Madam Secretary, but when I think of CDF Intelligence, I expect much quieter outcomes, not all the flash and bang. If that’s what we’re willing to accept, we should have sent in the space special warfare teams and been done with it.”

“We would have handed the news networks, not to mention the League, a PR coup with such a blatantly military response.” Fuentes made a face as he set the tablet on the couch cushion beside him, next to Snow. “I’m not any more pleased with Oxford taking an active combat role in this situation than you are. While we did achieve our ends, I can’t help feeling a diplomatic response may have been a better option—continued negotiations with CEO Noor, for example.”

“That scum.” MacIntosh muttered.

Spencer held up his hands for silence. “People, I think the assessments you’ve offered have been on-target, for the most part. Andrew, we all wanted this resolved quietly, but the level of action the apparent League assets were willing to take to further their ends outstrips what they attempted on Aphendrika. Not only did they have Tactisar’s corrupt officers on their payroll—essentially convincing Ramsey Moss to undertake this heist for his financial gain—but they planted their own operative inside Nosamo to encourage him without his knowledge.”

“We’re still trying to unravel the role privateers played,” Snow pointed out. “Clearly they were taking pay from someone who may or may not have been the League—the phrase ‘benefactor’ is being tossed around a lot by the individuals CSV Tuscon apprehended. It’s entirely possible even they don’t know who they were working for.”

“This is true.”

Nalax snarled. “We have proven the greed of Nosamo paid for privateers to disrupt trade in the Wedge and beyond.”

“Yes, but how much of that was League prompted and how much was the megacorporation’s own doing remains to be seen,” Snow noted.

“It matters not. Both are guilty. They will be made to pay.”

“Hold on there.” Fuentes leaned forward from the couch. “I don’t think anyone’s discussed retaliatory action, and if that option has been raised, I will go on record right now as saying I do not approve.”

“No one’s retaliating against Nosamo,” Spencer said firmly. “They’re an independent concern outside Coalition space and a private company. While I may personally detest megacorps, we can’t afford another war.”

“And when they challenge the sovereign rights of the nations they border?” Nalax growled.

Spencer shrugged. “Nosamo isn’t coming out of this unscathed, keep in mind. We have the testimony of one Detective Ramsey Moss to see to that.”

“Yes, indeed.” Snow looked quite pleased with herself. “He is facing a murder charge for the death of Captain Nelson Garza as well as additional charges in the attempted killings of not only Lieutenant Duncan Garza but Captain Jackson Adams and civilian contractor Gina Wilkes. These charges and the accompanying hearings, of course, though limited in scope and attendance, will not feature the names of CDF personnel or adjunct operatives. But Moss has agreed to divulge whatever helpful information about Nosamo’s predatory actions, some of which were conducted in Coalition and Saurian Empire space. CEO Noor will have to answer for those, one way or another.”

“The Saurian Empire is eager to work with your government in this pursuit of justice.” Nalax showed his fangs. “Especially as it may lead to the coordinates of privateer bases of operation within our borders. Our captains are keen to clean out these nests of filth.”

“Hear, hear,” MacIntosh muttered.

“That’s all well and good,” Fuentes said, “assuming we’re not giving Nosamo back their project. Cornering the market on atmospheric regulation technology is one thing. Developing a weapon with catastrophic consequences for an entire world’s biosphere? It’s tantamount to a war crime.”

“You’re not wrong in your description, Ed,” Spencer agreed. “I for one am not satisfied with Nosamo’s claims that they had no intention for Life Swarm to do anything other than what it was marketed for—namely, rapidly terraforming a planet’s atmosphere to basic human survival requirements. Whether intentionally or not, they’ve created a weapon of mass destruction, one that I’m not willing to let fall into anyone else’s hands—or back into Nosamo’s. The data retrieved by Covert Action Unit 171 will be destroyed. Does anyone have any objections?”

“We may need to consider legal ramifications,” Snow noted. “But I personally don’t have a problem with the decision.”

“Nor I,” Fuentes added firmly.

“I still don’t like the idea of them getting off easy, especially if they knew it could screw up anybody’s world,” MacIntosh grumbled. “We didn’t stick two of our prize Intelligence vessels into this operation so Nosamo could get away scot-free.”

“Oh, I think SATO diplomats will be perfectly clear with Ardalion Noor that things could be far worse for him. He’s lucky I don’t let you drop a battalion of Coalition Marines on Bellwether so we can tear the entire place apart looking for other misdeeds.” That said, Spencer could tell by MacIntosh’s thickening accent that the general was pleased with the outcome. “As for Oxford, we all knew she and her crew would someday face a situation like this, Andrew. It’s why her upgrades were completed. From what Colonel Sinclair and Major Mancini report, the comms traffic during and following the skirmish indicates substantial confusion about what precisely happened. Right?”

“Yes, Mr. President.” MacIntosh exhaled.

“Besides.” Snow reactivated her tablet and flipped it around so the men could see the glowing screen. “We’ve taken a few preliminary steps to ensure Nosamo’s cooperation.”

Spencer knew what was coming but still smiled at the headlines and newscasters filling several windows on the tablet screen. All of them referenced recent revelations, anonymously leaked to the galaxy-wide press, of Nosamo’s involvement with predatory practices—and even communications showing they had hired privateers to prey on Coalition and Saurian competitors. Their stock prices were in free fall.

“I’ll be damned.” MacIntosh slowly grinned. “A leak, huh? What kind of intel did the press get their mitts on?”

“Confidential shipping manifests as well as footage comparing privateer vessels docked in Nosamo’s hangars with ships spotted by the Saurians within their empire,” Snow explained.

Fuentes’s expression was one of bemusement. “Please pass along our compliments through Colonel Sinclair to whoever the cinematographer was.”

“I will, Mr. Vice President.”

Spencer leaned back in his chair. “Well, Void Captain Nalax, what is the position of the Saurian Empire now that this is firmly in hand?”

“I still say we could have achieved a swifter resolution by blockading Bellwether Station and flooding it with Saurian warriors, who could have wrung confessions from every neck around which they clamped their claws,” Nalax replied.

Fuentes shook his head and sighed.

“But we are willing to continue this level of clandestine cooperation, as much as our society will allow. Elements of the Clawless provided surprisingly useful, given their cowardice.”

“For which Colonel Sinclair and his team are grateful. Trust me,” Spencer said.

Nalax nodded. “I will convey that thanks to my superiors. But the report you shared does raise continued concerns—the League’s ability to protect themselves from your interference and even endanger your operatives.”

Spencer’s smile faded. “The breach in communications is a problem. I agree, but Andrew and Celinda assure me our techs are working on a solution. This is the game, Colonel Nalax—we advance, then the enemy catches up and surpasses us, then we get a leg up on them in order to stay a step ahead.”

“It does seem, Mr. President,” Snow interjected, “that this operation wasn’t just about securing a potential weapon of mass destruction for the League while simultaneously finding a way to inject new funds to their covert operations that cannot be traced back to the government proper. We believe it was also meant to draw us out and deal CDF Intelligence a devastating blow—beginning with the death of Captain Garza. They did come close to debilitating two of our newly established covert action unit.”

“I’m well aware, Celinda.” Spencer scratched at his jaw. “Which is why I think it’s time we returned the favor.”

“You want to draw them out?” Fuentes looked astonished. “Actually invite League ESS to show up?”

“Colonel Sinclair is discussing the idea of such an operation with Captain Adams and his team,” Snow noted. “He informs me the captain is most enthusiastic, given he may have seen this Vasiliy contact—potentially the one and same as the elusive ‘benefactor’—during the shootout at Nosamo’s docks. Adams’s team was able to positively identify a man referred to by Ramsey Moss as Fernand in Aphendrika archival footage, and we are researching the true identity of Ciara Bui. She has since vanished from Bellwether and the Alvarsson Wedge. It’s reasonable to believe she was extracted with other League assets like Fernand.”

“We’re getting names because our teams are crossing paths with the League’s. I understand.” Fuentes raised a finger. “But keep in mind, we’re exposing our people too.”

“That’s a given, Mr. Vice President,” MacIntosh said. “But if intelligence officers didn’t take risks, we wouldn’t know a damned thing the League’s up to.”

“I don’t deny their bravery, General, but I want us all to be clear we would be increasing such risk for the chance to invite the League to strike at—what sort of target?”

“Preferably one located on our home turf,” MacIntosh commented. “Give them a tempting mark, reel them in, make sure the hook’s set, and—” He slapped his tablet with an open palm.

“Reel them in.” Nalax tilted his head, seemingly puzzled. “A reel of cable?”

“Fishing line,” Spencer explained. “Aquatic animals on Canaan are drawn to wriggling bait disguising a hook, and once they bite, the hook gets caught in their mouths, and the human reels them onto shore.”

“And once these animals are captured?”

“We eat them,” MacIntosh murmured.

Nalax’s fang-filled sneer widened. “Excellent.”

Fleet Yards

In Orbit of Canaan—Terran Coalition

3 December 2464

Jackson stood and braced to attention as Sinclair entered the room. “Colonel.”

“As you were, Captain. Have a seat.”

He did so, taking the opportunity to swipe his sweaty palms on his uniform trousers as soon as his hands were hidden under the table. It was just Jackson and Sinclair in the expanse of the briefing room, seated opposite each other.

Sinclair routed the mission report through the holographic project. Jackson recognized the details as his own, with supporting information from every member of his team. Brant’s data played the most important role since, in handling communications and scans for almost every aspect, he was the de facto recorder.

“This man.” Sinclair enlarged the fuzzy image of a person dressed in emergency-tech orange. Jackson recognized it from the final showdown in Nosamo’s private hangar. “You saw him conferring with the possible League asset Fernand, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In your report, you make the assertation this is Vasiliy, a suspected League operative who made direct contact with you in the wake of the Cypriot Crisis.”

Jackson nodded and repeated, “Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“Why—sir?”

“Why is this Vasiliy?” Sinclair interlaced his fingers and regarded Jackson with a calm, measured look. It didn’t help to relax Jackson—far from it. If anything, he felt like Sinclair’s gaze penetrated to his cellular structure.

“Sir, it was a reasonable conjecture to make at the time,” Jackson explained. “I based it on the way in which Vasiliy spoke with Fernand and the latter’s reaction—one of deference. He was taking orders.”

“You didn’t throw a ‘seemed to be’ in there, Captain.”

“No, sir. I didn’t need one.”

“Defend your hypothesis further.”

Jackson frowned. “Permission to speak freely, Colonel?”

“By all means.”

“My job is to pretend to be someone I’m not. It’s a skill set Intelligence values. When I go into an operation, I have to live a life that’s not mine while still carrying out my duties. Consequently, I’ve worked hard to make sure I can read people—by their words, their facial expressions, even their postures at a distance. When I saw those two speaking, my gut reaction was, ‘Fernand is taking orders from this guy.’ Given what I learned about Fernand from Lieutenant Guinto, it was a reasonable assumption to make.”

“Very convincing. But your gut, it seems, may not always be trustworthy.”

An icy sensation trickled through Jackson’s insides. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“Your decisions made at the time of Lieutenant Garza’s retrieval border on impaired, Captain Adams.” Sinclair’s tone wasn’t accusatory but did remind Jackson of an instructor disappointed in his trainee. The new image that appeared in the holographic display didn’t console Jackson either—it was Fernand from the back as he melted among the crowds in Bellwether’s busy corridors, taken when Jackson had followed him.

“I haven’t formally dinged your record because the retrieval was a success, but let us be frank—it almost bloody well wasn’t.” Sinclair shook his head. “Your focus on this Vasiliy person, Captain—it may well have clouded your judgement. Given the secretary of defense and chairman of the joint chiefs are considering our proposal to draw ESS into Coalition space with an operation of our design, I cannot afford the luxury of Unit 171 being led by a man who forgets where his focus should be.”

Jackson stiffened. “Colonel, my only goals are to stop the League’s interference and keep my people safe.”

“You would do well to remember the balance of those.” Sinclair sighed. “This is not an easy line of work. We operate in the gray. Our decisions carry the same ambiguity from time to time. But given what we know about these particular Leaguers, I urge you to be doubly cautious. You cannot afford recklessness when that is the very thing they wish you to exhibit.”

Jackson’s face burned. Sinclair was right, of course. It galled him just as much to hear the critique from his commanding officer as it had from Brant and Gina. “I understand, sir. My intention was only to serve to the best of my ability.”

“I know.” Sinclair flicked through the hologram to the profiles of Lieutenant Garza and Warrant Sakuri. “You’ll be granted leave whilst we plan our next moves, but during such, I’d like your input on how to reassemble Covert Action Unit 22. No doubt you’ve made contacts over the years who would be invaluable, both among the armed services and the, uh, more suspect civilian pools of talent.”

“Thank you, sir. I’d relish the opportunity. Could I request permission to bring in my teammates on the suggestion process?”

“You can and may.” Sinclair smirked. “One would hope Ms. Wilkes in particular could augment your decision-making. She and Lieutenant Guinto were the most… vocal about your lapse in focus.”

“Yes, sir, they were, and for good reason, which is why I encouraged them to file their own reports on the matter while also providing the recording of our interactions regarding that subject.”

The intercom buzzed. “Excuse me.” Sinclair tapped a control. “Go ahead.”

“Colonel, flash traffic of a personal nature for Captain Adams,” Eldred said. “Comes through with a medical emergency rider.”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. Jackson’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Mind if I take it on my tablet here, Colonel?”

“Go ahead, Captain. Warrant, pipe it to the captain’s device.”

“Roger that.”

The message overrode Jackson’s screens—and even as it did, he’d anticipated the possibility. That didn’t make it any easier to read when the glowing words finally appeared.

“I say, Captain.” Sinclair sounded worried. “Do you need a moment?”

Jackson hadn’t realized the tablet was shaking because his hands were. Whatever enthusiasm he’d felt for the upcoming project to ensnare Vasiliy and his League spies dissipated under the weight of the news. “I—no, sir. My brother—it’s from him.” He closed his eyes as regret swamped all other emotions. “My father is dead.”

26

Western Steppes

Canaan—Terran Coalition

3 December 2464

The rocky outcropping overlooked the pass leading to the Castillo property from the Adams ranch. Jackson let his legs dangle over the red stone as the westerly breezes sent waves across the sprawling prairie.

Brant cinched up the neck of his jacket. “Chilly up here.”

“It’s not much better down below.” Jackson squinted at the blue sky studded with cottony clouds. “Give it a couple of seconds. The sun’s just taking a break.”

No sooner had he made the pronouncement than Canaan’s sun reappeared from behind the biggest of the clouds. Warmth washed over Jackson’s face, ameliorating the autumn winds.

“Much better.” Brant gazed out at the herd moving parallel to where they sat, like troops on review, albeit at a lazier pace. “Did the attorney’s summation come through?”

Jackson nodded. “Dad left me his share of the property and the businesses.”

Brant whistled. “I can’t imagine Harry being overjoyed.”

“I haven’t heard from him yet. He and Mom have been in Port Nomad, settling affairs, seeing to Dad’s burial.” Saying it aloud didn’t make it more real. Jackson had known for a few years that Dad’s treatments were holding off the inevitable rather than offering hope of a cure. Still, realizing he’s gone… “This isn’t what I’m used to. I can’t make anything happen. All I can do is sit here and wait until they’re ready to talk.”

“Well, I’m here if you do need to talk.”

“Sorry, Brant, but you don’t have any legal authority when it comes to the estate, and I’m pretty sure you don’t want to get roped into my family business.”

“It’s not like I haven’t see you and Harry spar.” Brant snorted. “No, I meant, did you want to talk about your dad?”

“He’s dead, Brant. Add that reality to the list of things I can’t fix. And I’m not in the mood for a sermon.”

“Let’s call it advice, then. I charge less for advice than sermons.”

Jackson chuckled. “Okay, fine. Advise away.”

Brant sat forward, his legs safely tucked underneath him rather than swinging free in the wind. “We’re worried about you, friends to friend, me and Gina. The way things went on Bellwether—plus knowing that we were up against the same ESS operatives who caused such a nightmare at Aphendrika—it’s pushing you to make questionable decisions.”

“We’ve been over this, I think. I know what I did and how not to repeat it.”

“Gina gets that, and so do I. But my concern’s more of a spiritual nature. You need a compass, Jack, something more than duty to get you through what we’re facing. For a lot of people, it’s faith in God combined with family. Since you lack both, and I can’t help with the latter, I figure I should offer assistance with the former.”

“I’ve already got a Bible.”

“That’s always good. Try reading it.” Brant blew out a breath. “If it weren’t for God, I wouldn’t be able to do what I do—hanging onto the comms, checking on all four of you to make sure you’re not in danger, fighting with computer systems and security networks to keep you that way. It runs me ragged.”

“I know it does.” Jackson clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Which is why you’re the most valuable member of our team. I can’t thank you enough for pulling us out of the fire, repeatedly.”

Brant blushed. “Hey, I wasn’t bragging on myself. I just meant I think this must be how the Father in Heaven feels about his mortal children. His responsibility, his love, extends to all of us. You know the comparisons to His being a shepherd, right?”

Jackson pointed north. “Sheep are ninety klicks that way.”

“I’m serious. He wants you to come to him for rest and shelter. Take the time to receive His gift. It’s good for your soul, Jack, and I don’t use the expression lightly. If you’re going to make it through these upcoming operations whole, you’ll need Him—and more than that, you’ll gain the handy side benefit of eternal salvation of the same soul.”

“What’s the advice, then?”

“People get reassigned. Friends move on. Families grow, and people die.” Brant put his hands behind him on the rock and leaned back so he could stare up into the sky. “But God never leaves. He will always be there for you. Anytime you want the introduction, I’ll make it.”

Always there. Jackson watched the last of the herd saunter by. Since when has anything—anyone—been constant in my life? CDF was the current anchor, but Brant was right. Even their team wouldn’t be forever, especially if Jackson or Brant or Dwyer got promotions, new assignments.

A hum grew in the distance. Two skimmers, one of which looked like it was pursuing the other, closed on the outcropping. Jackson punched Brant’s shoulder, earning a yelp and a cross look. “Gina.”

“She’s, uh, tailing your brother, I think.”

Brant was right. Harry rode the front skimmer. They were distant enough Jackson and Brant had time to clamber down to their respective skimmers before Harry dismounted.

“When did you call Dad?” The first words out of Harry’s mouth were caustic and laden with grief. It wouldn’t take a trained operative to tell. “He told me he’d taken you out of the will.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Harry.” Jackson’s chest tightened. All he wanted to do was hug his brother and put the years of strife behind them, to be united in their mourning. But Harry’s stance was combative, hands on his hips, fingers curled into fists. “I didn’t know he’d reversed his decision until the attorney signaled.”

“Well, tell me your price.”

“Want… for what? My share?” Jackson’s heart ached. “I’m not selling, Harry. This is my home too.”

Gina lounged on her skimmer, a booted foot propped on the controls. She twirled a knife between her fingers—the same one, Jackson knew, she’d used to stab Ciara during their escape.

“The hell it is.” Harry poked Jackson square in the chest. “You were gone, again. Dad got worse, and Mom needed me—needed us both. I tried sending messages, but they restrict contact, don’t they? Peacetime and they still take taxes from me to pay leeches like you.”

Jackson balled up his fists, ready to strike, but found Brant gripping his forearm. Beyond Harry’s shoulder, Gina shook her head, her gaze locking with Jackson’s.

“Harry, it’s better if you go cool down.” Brant’s tone was as calm and direct as when he relayed intel to the team. “If you want to discuss it further, Jack will be along in a minute.”

Harry swore and stalked back to his ride. “If you think I won’t fight this, you’re wrong! It’s what you should have been fighting for your whole life.” He tore off, the skimmer dipping so low to the ground its hover units kicked up dirt clods.

Jackson watched him go. He sagged and shook his head yet again.

Gina slid from her skimmer. She gestured with the knife, not sparing a second glance at Harry. “He’s charming, did I mention? Nice of him to skim all the way out here to insult you.”

“He wasn’t entirely wrong,” Jackson muttered.

“Don’t start down that road again.” Brant’s wrist unit beeped. “I’ve got to go catch the tram. Gina, are you riding back with me?”

“No thanks. I’ll hop the next one.” She responded to Brant but hadn’t stopped watching Jackson.

If they weren’t operatives on the same team, he would be worried about the calculating look she was giving him.

“You’ve had your counseling session, right, Lieutenant? It’s my turn.”

“Angels and ministers of grace, defend us.” Brant made the sign of the cross.

Gina gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. “I’ll miss you too.”

Murmuring in Tagalog, Brant mounted his skimmer and sped away.

Jackson chuckled, glad for the chance at the good humor his friends provided. He turned to Gina. “So, we were hanging off the edge of this vantage point. Care for a climb?”

Gina looked to the top and made a face. “Are you kidding? The grass is lovely down here.”

They sat side by side, elbows touching, as the breeze rustled the distant aspens. Cattle mooed off to their left.

Gina sighed. “It’s not a spaceport, but it does the trick nicely, doesn’t it?”

Jackson nodded. “I try to get back here after every deployment. Really I do.”

“No need to convince me. I’ve seen your flight records.” Gina snapped her fingers. “I almost forgot. Hold out your hand.”

Jackson did as instructed. Gina flipped a data module toward him. He snagged it in midair. “Your souvenir from Bellwether.” She beamed. “It’s even got their logo. A bit crass, but I did the best I could.”

“Please don’t tell me this is the classified data I turned over to Colonel Sinclair.”

Gina giggled. “Now, wouldn’t that be a sight when he plugged it in and realized he got a blank one too? No, it’s a spare. I picked up a handful when I intercepted Ciara, before I pickpocketed you and made the switch.”

“What’re your diabolical plans for the others?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll start a collection of keepsakes like you do. Why take them, anyway? Just hanging on to a more tangible memory than a report?”

“Something like that. If I can touch it, I was really there, and I didn’t imagine it all. Playing those roles feels like dreaming.”

“I understand.” Gina reached up and, with a gentle touch, plucked a stray blade of grass from his hair. “Do you miss him? Your father?”

“I hadn’t spoken to him in a long time.” The chest ache returned. “Still wish I could have had one more day, even if I had to drag him from the house for a final talk.”

Gina sighed but didn’t comment further. She rested her chin on her knees, arms hugging her legs.

Jackson didn’t know how long they sat there until his wrist comm chirped. The time stamp told him they hadn’t moved for fifteen minutes. He wasn’t surprised when he saw the sender and her ID code, Castillo, Abril.

“Pretty name, Abril.” Gina hadn’t looked over, so far as Jackson could tell, but she smiled all the same. “Is this the one who made the offer? Handy with sensor posts. You owe her dinner, right?”

Jackson smiled. “I do.”

“Then get moving.” She poked his shoulder. “You need a good woman around.”

“I thought that was what you were here for.”

Gina stretched her legs and yawned. “Me? Good? You’re cute.”

Abby Castillo waited for him down at the property line, West One Seven sensor post. She was not dressed to go to a fancy dinner, or any kind of dinner, but instead wore grease-stained coveralls and a thin sweater over top.

“Hell of a first date.” Her smile was kind, sure, but Jackson could detect the concern in her expression.

“Then you’ll forgive me if I beg off,” he said. “I know I owe you—”

“This isn’t a good time. I know.” Abby reached for his hand. “I am sorry for your loss. My parents send their condolences too.”

“Thank you.”

“But I’d be lying if they didn’t have other reasons for wanting us to make contact.”

“Really?” Jackson felt himself slipping into the familiar routine of guarding his speech, attempting misdirection, but fought the instinct. It was Abby, after all. “We haven’t even had the funeral yet.”

He’d kept his tone light, but Abby’s smile faded. She kept her hand on his, though. “We both know Harry won’t let you maintain your inheritance without a fight. My parents are willing to back your legal defense.”

“In exchange for the merger we discussed.”

“It makes the most sense—our workforce is bigger, more experienced. We can fold in whoever you want to keep, reassign our people to your spread, even rebuild the machine shop—but not without your approval.”

A partnership. He’d pondered it off and on while on deployment but hadn’t had time to focus. Standing there, though, on the boundary between their neighboring ranches, the realization crushed him—he could do it, for the good of his family’s legacy, only because Dad was dead. The Castillos could buy them out with Jackson using the leverage of his inheritance.

“There’s only one problem, if you’re assuming we can bypass Harry,” Jackson pointed out. “Mom.”

Abby nodded. “My parents tried reaching out to her, even after you left, but this… no one wants to bring it up when she’s grieving.”

“No one except me.”

“Jay, if it were anyone else, I’d say give it time, but you…” She gave him a small smile. “You’re bound to be off saving the Coalition again soon. We lack time.”

“Yeah, we do, don’t we?” On impulse, he brushed his hand along her cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned into the gesture. “We should get dinner, you and I, tonight.”

“Are you sure? Your family—”

“Will have to do without me. If I interject myself into their affairs now, I’ll only drive a bigger wedge between us.” Jackson frowned. “I was kidding myself when I held out hope at reconciliation.”

“Don’t give up.” Abby hugged him. For a moment, they were teens again, riding the hills along their properties. “Please. I know you. It’s not in your nature.”

Jackson thought about Harry, Mom, his team—and Vasiliy. “No, it isn’t.”

They were to meet at Osteria La Barchessa, a restaurant dating back four generations in Port Nomad, at nineteen hundred hours. Jackson struggled with his memory. Haven’t I been there with her once before? Prior to signing up for service? Surely he had a memento in his apartment.

But half an hour before Jackson was due at the tram station, he pressed the greeting panel at the Adams ranch house. It was an odd sensation, standing in the warm-yellow glow of the porch light outside the front door that he used to run in and out of unfettered. He’d maintained access, of course, up to and including his visit prior to the Bellwether mission.

It didn’t feel right, though, waltzing in for this conversation, given how furious Harry was. Jackson didn’t want to speak with him at the moment anyway.

The door opened—no hatch, but a big wooden unit with a carved A surrounded by etched mountains. The woman inside was shorter than he remembered, then again, she’d loomed over his memories in a way beyond a physical presence. Her curly brown hair had gone gray with white streaks. She was dressed in comfortable work clothes, including a maroon sweater Jackson knew she’d spent weeks knitting by hand. Some traditions never died.

“Jack?” Gloria Adams’s face went paler than Jackson thought possible. “You’re here? Now?”

“Hey, Mom.” Tears brimmed in Jackson’s eyes, turning his mother’s visage blurry. He brushed them away with the back of his hand. “I—I’m so sorry, Mom. When I heard Dad—I wish I could have—No. I should have been here for you. Can I come in?”

Gloria’s eyes were already red from crying, but she didn’t seem to have any tears left. Her expression hardened. “Harry’s making an appointment with the attorney. I’ll call you in the morning.”

She shut the door. Electronic locks clicked. The porch light died, leaving Jackson in the dark.

THE END

Deception Fleet: Book 3 – Hazard’s Near: Captain Jackson Adams and his team set a trap for the League, only to find themselves ensnared. Will the cost of his drive to find Vassily cost Jackson more than he can bear to lose? Find out in book 3!

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Acknowledgments

I hope everyone continues to enjoy the Deception Fleet series. We’re aiming for something a bit different than set piece battles, and it seems to be coming along nicely.

Captain Adams and his team have many more adventures in front of them - and their stories will be told!

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