Date: 2021-09-19 04:00:00+00:00
Description: The CDF is no longer on defense. En route home after their latest mission, Captain Jackson Adams and his covert unit are diverted for immediate reassignment. The Coalition Defense Force is undertaking a major refit of their long-range sensor network as the Terran Coalition navigates the troubled waters of a tentative peace with the League of Sol. PASCORE was designed to detect enemy incursions, and the expansion will extend the network’s reach to allies in neutral space and the Saurian Empire. There’s been no direct evidence of League interference, but Coalition Intelligence isn’t taking any c

Hazards Near

Deception Fleet Book Three

Daniel Gibbs

Steve Rzasa

Contents

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Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

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Hazards Near by Daniel Gibbs

Copyright © 2021 by Daniel Gibbs

Visit Daniel Gibbs website at
www.danielgibbsauthor.com

Cover by Jeff Brown Graphics—www.jeffbrowngraphics.com

Additional Illustrations by Joel Steudler—www.joelsteudler.com

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

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

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Battlegroup Z

Book 1 - Weapons Free

Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

Book 5 - Iron Hand

Book 6 - Final Flight

Echoes of War

Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight

Book 2 - Strong and Courageous

Book 3 - So Fight I

Book 4 - Gates of Hell

Book 5 - Keep the Faith

Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet

Book 7 - Finish the Fight

Breach of Faith

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Book 2 - Breach of Faith

Book 3 - Breach of Duty

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Deception Fleet

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Book 1 - Victory’s Wake

Book 2 - Cold Conflict

Book 3 - Hazards Near

Book 4 - Liberty’s Price

Prologue

Undisclosed Location

Sol Star System

21 February 2465

Light seared across Vasiliy Kiel’s field of vision. He blinked away sudden blobs, concentrating instead on his hammering heart. He would not allow himself to collapse into a blubbering mess like most people the League of Sol’s External Security Services interrogated. For one thing, even though he’d had his head bagged in a black sack, he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be tortured.

He appraised the young men flanking him. They would have been indistinguishable from the multitudes milling about Europe’s urban sprawls. Even their clothing was a nondescript mix of casual shirts, clean-pressed trousers, and black jackets. Nothing was brand-new, nor was it old and faded.

“I do not appreciate being bagged like a common citizen off the streets of Zurich, especially when I’ve come to give a full report in person,” he snapped. “Do yourselves favors, and give me your IDs so your punishments will be linked to the proper records.”

Neither man responded. They stared straight ahead at the opposite wall.

Kiel realized he wasn’t in an office, or even an interrogation room. The walls, floor, and ceiling were concrete, albeit colored in a variety of shades. The rusty metal hatch was the only way in or out. That he sat in a lopsided chair between his guards and the door meant they were testing his resolve—after all, he wasn’t restrained. He could, in theory, stand up, brush dust off his jacket sleeves, and march out.

He entertained the temptation for a pair of seconds before weighing it against the chance they would beat him—or more likely, shoot him in the back. Kiel instead straightened his sleeves, crossed his left leg high over his right, and clasped his hands on his knees. “If you’re content to wait, I am too,” Kiel murmured.

The hatch rumbled open, emitting a last-minute squeal when it settled into its frame. Another nondescript man walked through, but rather than evoking Kiel’s irritation, the person’s appearance jolted his senses. Kiel kept his hands locked in position.

“Kind of you to join me, Mr. Kiel.” ESS Director Dimitry Borisov consulted a tablet, refusing to meet Kiel’s gaze.

My tablet, Kiel noticed. The revelation should have startled him, but given a promising afternoon had become a situation from his nightmares, he pushed the observation aside.

“Leave us.” Borisov flicked through whatever he was looking at on the tablet’s screen.

The guards left the room without speaking. The hatch trundled shut, cutting off the echoes of their receding footsteps. Kiel guessed the room was immaculately soundproofed, beyond the dingy confines.

Borisov glanced up from the tablet and smiled. “You’ve had a run of bad luck—or are you one of the sort who does not believe in luck? Providence, perhaps?”

“I’m no supernatural fool,” Kiel countered. “Surely my record speaks to that, sir.”

“Of course, of course. I meant not to insult your loyalty, Mr. Kiel. The question looming before us is your effectiveness.”

Ah, yes. Kiel had wondered what manner of inquiry he would face upon returning to League space. The last half of the year hadn’t been his most sterling.

“The operation on Aphendrika cost us dearly, both in manpower and materiel,” Borisov continued. “Though I do note you should be commended for acquiring your own resources with which you supported said operation.”

“Sir, I did so as instructed so none of the funding could be traced back to the League of Sol and imperil our society’s survival.”

Borisov snorted, though the coy smile never left his face. “With the exception of Orbita stores vaporized in the confines of our own consulate. You realize we had to shutter the building as well as face increased scrutiny of the other facilities, which the Social and Public Safety Committee placed on Terran worlds as part of their idiotic attempts at appeasement.”

“Yes, sir, I did hear of the outcome.” Kiel’s jaw clenched.

“So? You have more to add?”

“Sir, I—”

“Speak, Mr. Kiel, because if you don’t, I will have to assume your tongue is no longer of any value and thus should be plasma torched from your mouth by the young operatives waiting outside.”

Sweat clung to Kiel’s back, even beading along his neck, but he refused to adjust his posture. “It was idiotic. The committee members had to know even the Terrans weren’t so naïve as to remain unsuspecting that we were up to something with the consulate as our base, though it provided us valuable cover.”

“Good. I concur. But the fact of the matter is, you and your people failed to drive a wedge between rival political parties, causing the Terrans to further unite instead of fracture. Then there is the matter of your most recent endeavor at Bellwether Station, which I consider the greater of the two failures. Reports indicate your people not only lost the data they initially took but had to extract at least one deep-cover operative.”

“Sir, if I may—”

Borisov dropped the tablet, his smile frozen in place. It clattered across the floor. Kiel winced, the only outward emotion he let slip, but to be fair, it was a custom model, one his tech Yahanotov had equipped with all manner of extra features. It might as well have been a second brain.

“Failure is intolerable.” Borisov stomped on the tablet, twice, four times, six, until the screen was fragmented.

It flickered a few times before dying. Kiel appreciated the symbolism.

“We tasked you with these assignments because of your impressive record abroad,” Borisov continued. “Your contributions to the war effort in the waning years of the conflict made the Terrans scramble throughout the border sectors. I could not have been happier. But this waste…” He dropped his smile, looking for all the world as if Kiel had stepped on a cherished puppy. “Waste is something I cannot abide. Our resources are not as unlimited as they once were. The Committee’s patience with ESS grows thin—as does ours with them. Letting our frontier worlds vote for their freedom was a terrible mistake, one from which I fear the League will never fully recover.” Borisov shook his head. “Vote. Freedom. Foolish words. As if any man or woman deserves the absolute right to determine his or her own future, like the Terran maniacs keep trying to prove. What does that freedom buy them? Chaos. Anarchy.”

Kiel nodded. What else can I do? Arguing political semantics with the head of the most feared security service in that half of the galaxy was a sure way to get oneself permanently disappeared—his current situation notwithstanding. Kiel’s mind was too busy churning out potential plans for his escape, so he didn’t dare say aloud that the only freedom he was worried about was his own.

Did the Terrans deserve to watch their loosely bound, so-called society unravel? Absolutely. Will I kick back and enjoy the spectacle when it finally happened? Without question. But if, by some cosmic fluke and despite his best efforts, it did not happen in his lifetime, well, Kiel would not lose sleep over the matter. For all their talk of the greater good of League society, Kiel had dealt with enough of the men controlling the upper echelons to know what really mattered—personal power.

“I expect a robust defense, Mr. Kiel,” Borisov murmured, “if you hope to prevent your execution.”

Kiel cleared his throat. “Director, I would first contest your use of the word ‘failure’ to describe my missions.”

Borisov raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Has the Terran frontier dissolved under the weight of a refugee crisis? Have we procured the schematics for a device that can ruin atmospheres?”

“No, sir. However, we have acquired something just as valuable.”

“Enlighten me.”

Kiel tapped his left temple with his index finger. “Knowledge.”

“Go on,” Borisov instructed and crossed his arms.

“You see, sir—” Kiel realized belatedly that he’d stood from his chair and begun to pace, unconscious of the abrupt movement. Cold sweat broke out, but Borisov nodded. Idiot, Kiel cursed himself. Don’t give the man a reason to pull the trigger. “During each of these operations, we became aware of forces moving against ours—not with the blunt tactics CDF used during the war, but subtler, quieter ones, which we did not detect until it was too late. I took steps to monitor this silent activity after the Aphendrika operation turned out the way it did.”

“Failed.”

Kiel shook his head. “No, sir, I again object to the use of that word. We were able to isolate frequencies used by CDF Intelligence operatives on-planet, ones which were changed but my people traced again while aboard Bellwether. It is my belief that this pressure forced the CDF teams to change their tactics and make missteps. We had them pinned down aboard Bellwether, though they managed to outmaneuver us in the final moments. Still, we now have partial IDs on two operatives.”

“I’ve seen your ‘partial IDs,’ as you call them.” Borisov sighed. “A man named Jack who looks like everyone we’ve ever seen of Anglo-Saxon–Germanic heritage. He could even pass as a Russian, Mr. Kiel. And the woman? There is no record of her anywhere. The ‘Gianna Willis’ façade crumbled once we pressed beyond normal civilian inquiry.”

“Which is precisely my point. Sir.” Kiel tacked the honorific on at the last second, reminding himself he wasn’t dealing with a dull criminal or slow-witted operative—he was dealing with a man who could kill him in an instant and face no consequences. Still dull and slow-witted, it seemed.

“Our people are outfitted in the same way,” he went one. “Ferenc’s true identity will never be found because he has none. I can be sure of who they are. All I ask is the continued opportunity to pursue them. Think of it, sir—these teams have been trained to do what we do. Infiltrate. Destabilize. Except what they’re infiltrating and destabilizing are our operations. I have suspicions they deliberately incited a turf war between rival cartels on Aphendrika so they could foul up our use of the cartels as a money and drug pipeline. They worked hand in hand with corrupt security officers aboard Bellwether right up until they turned against them.”

Borisov tapped his finger to his lips, a steady rhythm.

Kiel could tell he was making inroads as the director considered his case, but he wasn’t there yet. “Director,” Kiel said. “I’m not asking for special treatment or for an expansion of resources. All I request is the maintenance of what we’ve been allotted. Let me prove to you our worth.”

“And how do you propose to do that?” Borisov shrugged. “I don’t see many options here, Mr. Kiel. We had to rebuild your stealth freighter once already. A promising technical asset died aboard your mock-up corvette.”

“Corriveau, yes, sir. He gave his life in defense of the League.” Never mind that Kiel had placed Corriveau precisely where he intended the man to be. Son of commissars or not, technical wizard or not, Corriveau was an obvious security risk. If the Demir cretins hadn’t done their bit and killed him, as commanded, Kiel would have tracked him down and pulled the trigger himself. Well, that or instructed Ferenc to do the dirty work. “What I propose is completion of the task I already began—direct harassment.”

Borisov’s smile returned. “I read that. You contacted them directly then disrupted their communications again.”

I did just tell you that. Kiel kept the criticism internal. He reminded himself that Borisov, for all his danger and mystique, was one step removed from a politician, which in Kiel’s mind, made him functionally useless. But as dangerous as Borisov was, he held the digital purse strings, and Kiel needed those to stay loose. “Yes, sir. I think it has borne fruit. The more they make mistakes, the more we benefit.”

Borisov turned away. He paced a quarter of the room, staring at the distant wall, nodding to himself. Kiel saw the subtle bulge under Borisov’s jacket. If his arguments didn’t sway his superior, Kiel would have to be fast—disable the director with a chopping blow, steal his pistol, kill him. He had a decent chance of taking out both guards before alarms could be sounded. Of course, if someone else were monitoring Borisov’s vitals, that window of opportunity would slam shut.

Kiel had no weapons. He could feel their absence, meaning the guards had taken them during his abduction—probably when they administered the vigorous pat down.

“Mr. Kiel.” Borisov stopped his pacing near enough to Kiel that the latter could smell his breath.

Coffee? Disgusting. How could the man addle his brain with the sludge and expect to stay atop the intelligence crises afflicting the League? Never trust a man who doesn’t drink tea.

“Perhaps I rushed to judgment too swiftly. Your zeal is commendable and will serve you well on your next assignment.”

Kiel’s posture slackened. So, it had been a bluff. Either that or Kiel’s arguments had saved his hide. He wouldn’t bother analyzing which. The point was, he would live.

“But be advised.” Borisov put his hands in his pants pockets, a gesture which pushed back his jacket and let Kiel glimpse the shiny stock of a plasma pistol tucked into a shoulder rig. “The Committee does not suffer fools—nor do they want to be made fools—and neither do I. Bring us a measure of success on your next outing—tangible success, mind you, not vague promises of potential disruption. If you do, we shall revisit your assets and see if we can’t make more available. If you don’t, I will not summon you back to Earth again. Killing you in person is unnecessary. External Security is called ‘external’ for a reason, after all. Should I choose your time and place of death, it will happen, and you will be unable to stop it. Know this is the truth.”

“Of course, sir. I fully understand.” Kiel thought his abashed tone was top-of-the-line. Threatening me with death outside League space? The man really had become a politician. Kiel had no shortage of safe ports in neutral space, all of which were unknown to the League and ESS. Even Ferenc didn’t know about them.

Ferenc. The thought of his loyal second troubled him. It was possible his loyalty could be subverted. Then again, Kiel himself had planted such seeds of doubt in others. Borisov’s threats could have been phrased as such to make Kiel think the people he worked with could turn on him. He would have to establish firmer safeguards against such an eventuality.

“Cheer up, Kiel.” Borisov scooped up the broken tablet and gestured for Kiel to stand. He handed over the debris. “We have a rich target for you this time—Trenchant.”

“Trenchant?” He knew the name. Kiel frowned as he pocketed the tablet and the errant shards of what used to be its screen. “A tourist world? Equidistant from the Canaan-Churchill trade route and the League border. Medicinal producer. There’s an astrographic office there and a small CDF repair yard, but I can’t think of any other major assets.”

“We’ve caught wind of a refit project targeting the office you so correctly mentioned. No surprise, considering it’s three decades old, but what’s odd are the sheer numbers of personnel and resources routed to it. There’s long been hints of CDF Intelligence and Coalition Bureau of Investigation collaborating on long-range surveillance of our fleet movements, though no one’s ever been able to explain how they intercepted several of our incursions during the war at precisely the right place and time. This post could be the key to discovering what sort of network they have in place.”

“I see. When it’s under repair, it may be more vulnerable.”

“Exactly. The planet is prosperous, in its capitalistic way, which means there are decent levels of corruption—and barring any, you can use money to bribe your way in.”

Bribes work well in both our societies, Kiel mused. “Very good, sir.”

“Mission details are forwarded to you.” Borisov shrugged. “You may need a new device on which to read it. Don’t fail again.”

The hatch opened, admitting the two guards, as Borisov left between them. The taller of the two operatives handed Kiel the cloth hood. “One more trip.”

“Yes, how thrilling.” Kiel snatched it away and was about to pull it over his head when he saw the glint of a small knife at the bottom, one able to fit neatly into his palm. It was his own knife—missing since the pat down—which he kept inside his belt.

You see, Director? Kiel smiled inwardly. I was already aware of how well bribes work.

1

City of Pakal

Hue Tinh—Ferrara System

20 April 2465

Jackson Adams laughed and threw his arm around the shoulders of a human trafficker responsible for the kidnapping of seventeen girls under the age of eighteen. It was too bad he had to remain sober for the course of the operation, because even feeling slightly buzzed would be a welcome distraction from the burning anger underlying his persona.

That same persona was the reason he and Garrett got along so well. After all, who better to be drinking buddies with a trafficker than the man who could bribe cargo space on one of the dozen haulers working this backwater planet? Normally, Coalition Defense Force Intelligence wouldn’t bother with neutral system affairs, but Garrett and his crew had crossed two red lines—they’d abducted girls from Terran space, and two of them had been the daughters of active servicemen and women.

Garrett slapped Jackson’s back so hard Jackson almost dropped his drink. “Man, I tell you, JD, we’re going to make so many credits off this deal, you’ll be able to buy your own freighter and forget about bribing greedy captains to use theirs. Then we can really get the ball rolling on our transport business.”

“Hey, the sooner I see the deposits, the happier I’ll be.” Jackson’s voice was an octave deeper and much more gravelly than his normal one, courtesy of a modulator implanted next to his larynx. He steered Garrett away from the left side of the street outside the tavern because there were security cameras on that block. Not that Jackson worried his face would be captured—the temporary tattoo layer and alterations to his cheekbones rendered him unrecognizable to even facial recognition scans, if someone happened to be running them.

“He must stink like an open bar.” Lieutenant Brant Guinto, the communications and technical support specialist for Covert Action Unit 171, spoke as if Garrett’s very existence were a personal affront—which, Jackson reflected, it probably was. “But I guess intoxication is the least of his sins. His people are waiting at the end of the block, around the corner from the florist.”

Jackson spotted a silhouette move out of the cone of light cast by a streetlight. He forced a fake belch and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which gave him the excuse to reply via the transmitter woven into his right sleeve. Jackson made sure to slosh the nonalcoholic beverage over his shirt and swear. “Great. Gotta get the bots to scrub it out.”

“Forget it. Drop it in your drive plume, and let it burn up.” Garrett chuckled. “Buy a thousand shirts.”

“Only after I make sure the girls get loaded up, right?” Jackson grinned. “Gotta get an eyeful first.”

“Oh, you will, no worries. Not gonna let my new partner take ’em sight unseen. Maybe you’ll even get one for yourself.”

“Promises.” Jackson’s hand reflexively tightened on Garrett’s shoulder, but as sloshed as the man was, he didn’t seem to feel it. Jackson consoled himself by imagining it was his neck.

“Echo Four has visual,” Brant noted. “Five of Garrett’s men. Not sure why they’re hanging around the florist shop now, but you were right about the location—their communications pinged off the same repeaters I’ve detected over the past few weeks.”

Good deal. They were one step closer to hauling in the entire bunch, all six men. And hopefully, all seventeen missing girls.

CBI hadn’t seen them on the other end of the suspected trafficking pipeline, and even though Jackson trusted their intel, he’d harbored a nagging worry the scum they’d infiltrated had already gotten the girls off-world. But after a night out drinking—emphasis on Garrett’s rather than Jackson’s—the ringleader had been stupid enough to let details spill. The girls were there, not only on the planet but in the city, nearby.

“Echo Two reports she’s in position.” Brant’s snort carried softly through the transmitter planted under Jackson’s skin. “She sounds way too happy about the prospect of dealing damage, so I’ve reminded her we need Garrett alive.”

No mention of the other men. Jackson’s thoughts turned grim. Their fate would depend upon their reactions. Yet another reason Echo Four was on overwatch.

Garrett and Jackson rounded the corner, passing under the streetlamp. Brant was right—five men, a couple leaning against the building, the other three gathered in a loose semicircle.

“Hey, guys, you ready?” Garrett staggered away from Jackson, waving his beer bottle in one hand. “Crack it open. Gotta inspect the merchandise.”

A thin man of Vietnamese descent, Hoc, shook his head. “Sorry, boss. We gotta keep JD outside.”

“You—what?” Garrett’s ebullient mood vaporized faster than a puddle on a hot tarmac. “I’m sorry, did the beer mess up my hearing? Because I swore I just heard you call me ‘boss’ and then refuse to do what I told you.”

“I don’t trust him. He’s too nosy.”

Jackson barked a laugh. “No shit. You think I’m gonna agree to transport when I haven’t even seen the goods? How naïve do you think I am?”

“Shut up, JD,” Hoc snapped. “Len, get his weapon.”

Len, a huge blond bruiser the width of two security bots, moved to Jackson’s side. “Sorry,” he rumbled.

“You’ll be sorrier if you touch me.” Jackson dropped a hand to his holster, making sure the motion was plain for everyone to see. “Garrett, what the hell is this? I’m about five seconds from putting a pulse beam through your boy’s skull, and I haven’t even got my full pay.”

“Hey, whoa, wait a minute. Come on. Let’s relax.” Garrett poked Len’s chest. “You don’t touch this guy, you follow? Since when is Hoc giving orders?”

“Since your judgment’s impaired and this guy’s trying to steal what’s ours.” Hoc drew a plasma pistol.

Jackson felt an odd sense of relief. Hoc had worried him the most. He was clearly the smartest of the gang, IQ topping out above Garrett’s. That much was certain. But Hoc thought Jackson—or JD Reese, as his pseudonym had been established—was a rival cutting in on Garrett’s business. Much better than realizing Garrett was dealing with one Captain Jackson Adams, CDF Intelligence.

“All right, hey, what did I just say?” Garrett waved his bottle in Hoc’s face but didn’t search out his own firearm, which was for the best, considering he would probably vaporize his own foot, as unbalanced as he was. “We’re gonna sort this out right now, and you’re gonna let us into the damn room to inspect!”

“Echo One, keep them busy,” Brant murmured. “Echo Two reports she’s in.”

Jackson crossed his arms, doing his best to look irritated, which let him sneak a glance at his wrist comm. Pushing the comm against his chest activated a timer. Gina had one minute and fifty seconds. And a seventh crew member was still unaccounted for.

Gina Wilkes saw the man’s tall, slender form blazing reds, oranges, and yellows in her visor’s thermal vision. His heat signature was elevated. The poor dear, probably in his midtwenties, seemed stressed.

I’d be stressed, too, if I could hear my friends arguing outside while I guarded a room full of kidnapped teenage girls.

His distress was all the more amusing because he was upside down relative to Gina. She clung to the ceiling of the floral shop’s storage compartment, her formfitting black jumpsuit as dark as the unlit room. Garrett’s people had built a second space behind storage, just big enough for several triple bunk beds and a primitive toilet. Only one way in and out. The stressed guard was standing in the way.

Gina eased forward, the slick fingers of her suit maintaining their grip even as they let her slip along the ceiling. Great tech, but she resolved to work harder on both leg and arm day on the trip back to Canaan aboard CSV Oxford. The strain made her sweat all over, not the best sensation in the skintight suit.

“Echo Two, this is Echo Home.” Ah, Brant. Always there with reassuring news. “Echo Three reports the van is approaching. Ninety seconds.”

Plenty of time. Gina calmed her breathing and focused on the litany of spacecraft specs her mom would rattle off. It worked pretty well because, back then, she’d been bored, whereas currently, the similar boring thoughts worked to steady any residual nerves. In the second before she moved, Gina allowed herself a tight smile. I’m going to enjoy this, just a little.

She whistled. The guard spun around, and as he did, Gina’s visor switched into the hazy amber of night vision. How nice of it to resolve his features so she got a somewhat fuzzy view of his surprised face—still upside down—as her feet detached from the ceiling and swung around. Quite the satisfying sound of the man’s jaw snapping as her feet met it.

Gina’s hands popped free, and she completed the spin, landing in front of the girls. They whimpered and moaned but at least didn’t scream. Gina was about to congratulate them on their sense of operational security, but of course, that didn’t make sense. Anger beat at the doors compartmentalizing her senses as she realized the girls had probably been abused into silence.

“Echo Two, you have a bogey on approach, a bogey on approach,” Brant blurted. “He’s broken off from the rest.”

Gina dragged the young man’s limp form away from the door. She dug a strip of heavy-duty adhesive from her suit pouches and sealed his mouth shut.

The door to the storage room banged open. “Walter? Walter, get your ass outside! Hoc and the boss are about to blow each other away.”

How nice. A new target.

“Seventy seconds, Two.”

Gina rolled her eyes. He did such a nice job watching out for everyone on the team, but the term “mother hen” came to mind. Does he really think the life I spent after those memories of spacecraft gazing were less dangerous than working for CDF Intelligence?

The man who wanted a response from Walter barged into the room. He glared at the girls, eyes sweeping the area. The idiot didn’t even have his weapon off his hip. “First one who tells me what happened to Walter won’t get—”

Gina didn’t let him finish his threat. She leapt from her crouch in a dark corner, finally eliciting screams from the captives. Her new target shouted in surprise and outrage. He must have had a defense plan in mind of which he was very proud, but Gina swept her elbow across his larynx. The moment his hands went reflexively to the crushed cartilage, Gina kneed him in the groin, causing him to gasp in choking pain and double over. Then she brought her fingers together in a fist and slammed the base of his neck.

She had no idea if he was dead or not. She was on a tight deadline and had no time to check. Instead, Gina plucked her miniature pistol from her belt and shot both with stun rounds, the real, long-term kind, not her short-term untraceable kinds.

“Ladies,” she said, her voice lowered to its most soothing, “I know you’re scared, but we have less than a minute to escape. I promise you we’ll get you to safety, then we’ll make these scum pay. All right? Please, move.”

The girls, their clothing ragged and soiled, hurried for the exit as best they could, with Gina leading their corps. One black teen caught her arm, hands trembling, eyes red from constant, never-ending crying. “You—that was amazing. But you had a stun gun the whole time?”

Gina lifted her mask so the girl could see her smile. “I did. Where’s the fun in using it when I don’t have to?”

Chief Warrant Officer Ehud Dwyer grimaced as the he navigated the van into the alley. Damnation. Sure, he’d read the specs the LT had provided, and he could make heads or tails out of measurements as well as the next pilot, but the distance between the buildings had to be getting narrower. Wasn’t his imagination.

“Echo Three, this is Home,” the LT said. “Echo Two confirms exfil is proceeding. ETA twenty-five seconds.”

“Good thing I’ll be rarin’ to go.” Dwyer glanced into the back of the van and ran his fingers through the dark bristles of his haircut. Taking a crack at an undercover role like the cap’n had been fun and all, but he never wanted to color his hair any ridiculous shade like he’d had to aboard Bellwether. He was perfectly pleased to be the team’s wheelman—or wingman—again, thanks very much.

The van splashed through potholes that might as well have been reclassified as lakes as Dwyer braked by the florist shop’s delivery door. He checked his chrono—ten seconds. Better get a move on. He tapped the van’s control panel, and the left side hatch rolled up, leaving a yawning entry into the empty back of the vehicle.

The delivery door snapped open, metal banging against its ceiling housing. Gina was there, waving a passel of girls down the sloped ramp toward the van. She helped them clamber over the two rear wheels as rain plinked into the puddles.

“Ten seconds before the last call for boarding,” Dwyer hissed. “Get ’em in.”

“Hush.” Gina helped lift the last girl into the hatch then vaulted inside. The stench of body odor and sweat filled the vehicle. Gina slapped the back of his seat. “Go.”

Dwyer sealed the hatch and punched the accelerator. For a six-wheeled beast built for making urban deliveries, the van sure could move when it wanted to. “C’mon, honey,” Dwyer murmured. “Haven’t even had to drive fancy yet.”

Of course, when they burst into the streetlights, and the plasma bursts flashed around them, he figured it was a great time to put that to the test.

The van roaring through the alleyway intersection pulled everyone’s attention away from the impending clash for dominance between Garrett and Hoc. Jackson’s heart lifted as the van hurtled out of the shadows behind the florist shop. It would have been the perfect distraction except for the alerts flashing on every person’s comm units mounted on their belts.

“Proximity breach!” Garrett snapped. “Those bastards took the girls!”

Whether that was a code phrase to start shooting or not, his people took up the initiative. Jackson drew his pulse pistol too—and shot Hoc through the shoulder.

A couple of the less-distracted crew members spun around, ready to protect their new boss, only to find Jackson pressing his pistol’s muzzle to Garrett’s head as he held the latter in a choke hold.

“Drop them. All. Garrett’s coming with me.” No need to slip into JD’s slurred vocabulary. He spat his commands like a drill sergeant.

“Like hell he is!” Hoc snarled, grasping at his bloodied and charred shoulder. “Neither of you is leaving alive.”

“Hey, whoa, wait!” Garrett gasped the words through Jackson’s grip.

Hoc ducked out of the way as one of the men behind him lifted his plasma pistol. A gunshot rang out—not an energy weapon but a ballistic round. The man dropped to the street, blood staining his coat. A second shot rang out. Its victim curled on his side, screaming as he held his leg. Everyone else, Hoc included, took the opportunity to scatter for the shadow. Klaxons howled in the distance. Wouldn’t be long before patrol officers and their drones were on the scene.

“Hold tight.” Jackson pressed his hand against Garrett’s neck.

The patch adhered between his pointer and middle fingers dissolved on contact with the man’s skin, releasing a massive dose of sedative. Garrett slumped against him, his protests turned to mumbled incoherence.

A dark shape loomed on the road behind Jackson. The van screeched up to the intersection, slowing down only enough for Jackson to drag Garrett into the hatch and flop him onto the floor like a caught fish. He hopped inside and only allowed himself to relax when the door sealed him away from the chaos in the street.

“Good to see you in one piece, JD.” Dwyer was good enough to continue using his alias—a necessary precaution.

“Nice timing on your part, Sparks. Happen to leave a gift for our friends out there?” Jackson pointed at the road ahead. Several hovercraft, each one more expensive and tricked out with boosters than the other, lined the sidewalk by the bar.

“Sure did, but Echo Two called dibs.”

Gina winked at Jackson. “Ladies first is a nice tradition.” She touched the surface of her wrist unit.

An explosion ripped apart the center hovercraft—Garrett’s, Jackson noticed—and scorched the rest, leaving a small crater and plastic lumps smoldering in their wake.

“Echo One, this is Echo Home.” Brant sighed through Jackson’s link. “Local LEOs are on scene for Garrett’s gang. I think they’ll have a fine time parsing all the vids and scan data we were able to record, especially Two’s greatest hits when she retrieved the captives.”

“Appreciate the thoroughness as always, Home. You and Four are inbound?”

“We’ll meet you at the landing field, if Four decides to stop flying like one of my grandfathers. Uncle Rob has med teams ready for the girls. The sooner we get them aboard and reunited with their families, the better.”

Translation: Colonel Robert Sinclair aboard CSV Oxford was expecting them. And for the first time in four weeks, Jackson allowed himself to think about going home. If he was ever allowed to show his real face there again.

2

CSV Oxford

En Route to Canaan

22 April 2465

Halfway back to the Terran Coalition’s capital and Jackson’s homeworld, he knew he wouldn’t get his wish.

“Did you see the new orders?” Brant stepped through the open hatchway to Jackson’s cramped cabin. His Filipino features were contorted by exhaustion, though he’d returned his black haircut to regulation length and its normal precision slickness. “We’re turning around.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.” Jackson lounged on his bunk, feet up on the folding desk. He swung his legs fully onto the bunk, allowing Brant to make use of the chair.

“I’ll let you read it, but bottom line is we’re not getting leave before the next assignment.”

Not unheard of for Intelligence operations but out of the ordinary for Covert Action Unit 171’s past nine months. Jackson had been reviewing the individual reports filed from the mission they’d just completed, so he switched his tablet into its message mode. Sure enough, new orders—CSV Oxford was to change course and rendezvous with CSV Tuscon and other units as needed at the Trenchant star system. CAU 171 was ordered to the Astrographic Survey Complex on Trenchant Prime.

“Two lines,” Brant groused. “You would think they could give us more detail. It’s not as if Oxford’s signals section is overtasked at the moment.”

“Nothing more specific?”

“You read the same thing I did.”

Jackson smirked. “True, but you’ve gotten on Miranda’s good side, so I assumed she’d let you know any relevant scuttlebutt.”

Brant’s cheeks darkened. Chief Warrant Officer Miranda Eldred, formerly of Coalition Intelligence Service, was one of Colonel Sinclair’s key staff in Oxford’s operations center. She and Brant focused on the behind-the-scenes support for the team—signals interception, data encryption and decryption, communications disruption.

“Just came from there. All I got was a shrug.”

“Not even a smile?”

“Come on, Jack…”

“Relax, Brant. Briefing’s at sixteen hundred with the colonel and his staff, I see.”

“Better spread the word.” Brant’s tone was peevish, his words clipped. “Sparks will be hunting RUMINT among the other pilots before he’s finished reading half a sentence.”

“At least Sev won’t have any questions.”

“True, but we’ll be lucky if Gina bothers to show up at all.”

“Take it easy, Lieutenant.” Jackson frowned. “Whatever mood our change in travel plans has put you in isn’t her fault.”

Brant sighed. “Sorry, Captain. Her infiltrations—they never go as planned.”

“Neither does half our work, if you haven’t noticed. The results speak for themselves. We have Garrett transferred to CBI. The girls are on their way back to their families, and the rest of the trafficking gang is facing enough criminal charges to ship them off to Lambert’s Lament.” Jackson held up a hand to forestall any argument. “I’m not saying her methods aren’t careless, but given how we’ve had to bend the rules as of late, I’d be the galaxy’s biggest hypocrite if I complained.”

“Good point.” Brant brushed a hand through his hair. “I was just looking forward to going home. Graziella’s birthday is this weekend. We’re supposed to gather thirty-some Guintos on the island plus however many extended family can fly in.”

“Sorry to hear it. But you know the drill—duty is duty.”

Brant leaned in the chair and gazed at the crowded display shelf bolted to the bulkhead. Jackson’s collection of keepsakes had grown with the addition of a yellow leaf with blue-green stripes and a data module labeled “Nosamo Aerothermic.” He’d gathered the two gemstones, a crumpled pay chit, a porcelain mug with a broken handle, three leaves of varying shapes and sizes pressed between plastic blocks, and a burnt metal shard from recent missions. “You forgot to restock.”

Jackson snapped his fingers. He dug through his trouser pockets until he came up with a plastic block. A trio of shimmering purple petals were encased inside. “Gina snagged them from the florist shop, the one being used as the trafficking transfer point.”

Brant shook his head. “In the middle of dragging those girls out?”

“She didn’t say. I didn’t ask.” Jackson placed the block on the shelf. Each memento commemorated successful missions. It helped cement those events in his mind, lent them weight as real events. Given how much of his personality he had to fake, physical tethers were vital.

He caught his reflection in the tiny mirror over the bathroom sink crammed in a corner. At least he’d gotten rid of the fake tattoos and returned his complexion to its normal hue.

“What about you?” Brant rapped on the desk, reverting his attention. “Your business back at the ranch continuing in your absence?”

“Well… I was hoping to get back there.”

“No kidding? I thought your mother kicked you off the property.”

“She—wasn’t in the mood to talk, not after Dad passed.” To be fair, neither was I, Jackson corrected himself. But I knew I had to try, especially with the prospect of the merger between our ranch and the Castillos’ on the horizon.

“So, how is she doing now?”

“No idea. The only time we talk, she gives me yes or no answers about the merger.” Jackson set his tablet aside and rubbed at the bridge between his eyes. Time for a screen break. “Harry, of course, is all too willing to remind me of how I’m a failure to the Adams legacy. There’s not much I can do. I feel like I’ve run out of olive branches, and supply won’t restock for three to six months.”

“Doesn’t mean you should stop trying. This is your family. And unlike me, you don’t have piles of them to talk to when you’re at odds with one or two of them.”

Jackson made a face. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“It’s part of my job as your friend. Don’t whine.”

“Let’s leave family out of this for a moment. Back to Trenchant.” Jackson indicated his tablet. “Because I know when you heard of the place, you thought of the same thing I did.”

“PASCORE.”

Jackson nodded. The Passive Scan Observation and Reporting network spanned thousands of light-years of Coalition space, a collection of interlinked sensor platforms concealed in deep space and aimed at the League border. It was the key to spotting enemy infiltrations, and while not foolproof, it had prevented numerous incursions over its thirty-year operational span. Without it, the Third Battle of Canaan, more than a year ago, would have happened a long time before and turned out far worse.

“I can’t tell you much about PASCORE other than what appears on intelligence intercepts from time to time,” Brant continued. “Also, of course, Trenchant’s at the heart of the net.”

“Right. You saw the reports last month from Fleet HQ, though? A lot of tonnage is moving into and out of the sector. It has all the hallmarks of a major refit.”

“If they’re expanding the network, it’s got to be a SATO thing. The Sagittarius Arm Treaty Organization is what got the Saurians involved in our last mission. Otherwise, we might still be stuck on Bellwether Station.”

Jackson checked his chronometer. “Well, we’ve got forty-five minutes until the briefing. Let’s round up the rest of the team and find out why nobody’s going home just yet.”

Captain Alon Tamir and Warrant Eldred were already in the wardroom, on the far side of the table with holographic schematics arrayed in front of them, when everyone else arrived. Jackson’s team—Dwyer, Brant, Gina, and Jackson—took their customary places. Sev slipped into a darkened corner of the room, where he leaned, able to observe everyone.

When Colonel Robert Sinclair entered, strolling to his seat with the practiced ease of an officer in his prime, Tamir shot to his feet and snapped, “Colonel on deck.”

Jackson did likewise and braced to attention, as did Eldred along with Brant and Dwyer. Sev, of course, continued to prop up the bulkhead, as interested in military regulation as he would be in a one-way ticket back to League space—which was to say, not at all. Gina, though, leaned forward in her chair, chin propped on her hands. She winked at Sinclair.

Jackson smothered a smile at Brant’s subdued groan of dismay.

“Ahem. Good afternoon, all. Take your seats.” A faint pinkish hue colored Sinclair’s features, but he plowed into his meeting without commentary. “No doubt you’re all quite curious as to why your leaves have been canceled, so I shall do you a courtesy and not leave you wondering any longer. We have been reassigned to ascertain potential threats to the Astrographic Survey Complex on Trenchant Prime as they undergo a major renovation and refit, which is key to maintenance and expansion of the PASCORE network. In short, the success or failure of this refit will impact the balance of power as we navigate the unsettled waters of our tentative peace with the League of Sol.”

If anyone on Jackson’s side of the table had anything witty to add, they kept rejoinders to themselves. He, for one, sat impassive as Tamir worked his tablet’s controls.

A jewel of a planet sprang from the holographic displays. The sphere gleamed deep blue, like perfect sapphire, sprinkled with islands of mottled orange and yellow. Huge ice caps at either pole shone under sunlight reflected from a pair of small, hot stars.

“Trenchant Two is the primary settled world of seven planets in the Trenchant star system,” Tamir said, his enunciation precise. “The system sits on the third point of a long triangle with Canaan and Churchill as the nearer points. It was settled about a century after the diaspora and early on became a second-tier economic power in the region because of gozoa sap.”

“Sap.” Gina cocked an eyebrow. “As in, tree sap? The sticky stuff I used to comb into my brother’s hair?”

“I’m sure it was a similar chemical composition,” Tamir said dryly. “This product became a hot commodity not only because of its flavor but its medicinal properties. It’s been studied for well over a hundred years by the Coalition’s finest physicians, and they all concur it promotes rapid healing in many physiologies, especially Matrinid.”

“Trenchant Prime’s gozoa trees themselves kicked off an amazing tourist boom too,” Eldred added. She flicked her hand across her tablet, and a forest unfolded across the table.

Dwyer whistled as the scale of the treetops became evident. “What’re they, a couple hundred meters?”

“Two fifty or thereabouts,” Tamir noted. “Prime’s gravity is three-quarters of Canaan’s. Gozoa trees can reach up to four hundred meters under optimal conditions.”

“While it’s all very fascinating, what it points to is Trenchant’s vital role as a focal point for not only shipping but tourism,” Sinclair said. “Important enough the fleet has a small repair yard posted in geosynchronous orbit over Daranj, the capital city and home to Astrocom. It is also vital because of its location—and not just equidistance between two of our most powerful worlds.”

A galactic map floated above the rest of the images. Terran Coalition space was a blue stretch touching the dark violet of the Saurian Empire at one end and the green of the neutral systems on the other, with the League of Sol an ominous red blob pushing against it. Trenchant was a gold star nudging what Jackson recognized as the edge of the disputed areas during the war.

“Trenchant is at the center of the PASCORE network, the nexus for all the sensor platforms spanning our southern frontier, if you will.” Sinclair pointed to the flashing white Xs that appeared along most of the Coalition territory. “CDF is looking to extend that reach to our allies in neutral space and the Saurian Empire.”

“Do we know much about how far they’re going, Colonel?” Jackson asked.

“Not relevant to the mission, Captain, and sadly, above my pay grade.” Sinclair smiled. “Which isn’t to say I haven’t heard rumors. But for our intents and purposes, we’re focusing on the Trenchant astro complex upgrade.”

Jackson frowned. “Begging the colonel’s pardon, but it doesn’t sound yet like there is a problem. Usually, we’re called in to solve an issue, one that can’t be addressed through normal channels. Is the League disrupting the refit?”

“Not yet.”

The two words hung in the sudden silence of the room. Jackson watched his team react to the brief statement—Brant puzzling over the data hanging in the air before him, Dwyer tapping on his tablet as he considered the ship deployment roster, Gina gazing at the ceiling as if she were bored with the whole affair. Jackson glanced at Sev. The taciturn sniper shrugged.

“You want us to see if there will be any disruption,” Jackson said slowly, “and neutralize it when it happens. Prevent it before it can occur.”

“Correct, Captain. Though our orders are to neutralize the situation, not necessarily the people involved.” Sinclair’s expression went stony. “My superiors are keen to apprehend certain individuals who have proven a nuisance not only to CDF Intelligence but the national security of the Terran Coalition.”

“I see.” Gina glanced at Jackson. “It’s a trap, Jack.”

“Right.” Jackson met Dwyer’s startled look as the pilot stared at him around Brant. “The refit isn’t just to expand PASCORE, is it? It’s meant to make a lot of noise at Trenchant so the League will start snooping around—and we’ll be waiting for them when they do.”

“Indeed, though the refit is real enough. It was not supposed to start for another few months, but the chairman of the joint chiefs himself authorized its acceleration.”

“Why in blazes did he do that?” Dwyer snorted. “So League spies would come a-running?”

“He did it, Warrant, because the president of the Terran Coalition ordered him to.”

Dwyer’s slack jaw snapped shut. Even Gina made a soft grunt.

No pithy comment. She must be impressed, Jackson noted.

“How nice,” Gina murmured. “We’re bait.” She nudged Jackson. “I take back the wink.”

“This isn’t a matter of baiting a hook, Ms. Wilkes,” Sinclair went on, “though I have unfortunately heard it compared to such. For one thing, a wriggling worm hardly proves a threat, in and of itself, to a trout. Covert Action Unit 171, however, is not prey but predator.”

“So, the goal, then, is to insert ourselves into the refit operation and the surrounding community while monitoring for signs of the League.” Jackson rested his elbows on the table and watched for reactions from Sinclair, Tamir, and Eldred. “The refit itself has been moved up to give the impression it’s of more vital importance, thus drawing out Vasiliy and his people.”

Sinclair nodded. His face could have been laser cut from the bulkheads.

“Of course, we’re going to have to be even more on our game than usual,” Eldred interjected. “I’ll be working closely with you, Lieutenant Guinto, so we don’t let any secret comms traffic slip by.”

Brant frowned. “I think it’s doable. We’ve got recorded frequencies for the signals they used on Aphendrika and Bellwether Station. They’ve changed them by now, unless they’re completely stupid, which I doubt. Anyone who’s able to intercept and crack our comms is as good as I am.”

“Better?” Sev’s low, single-word question drew everyone’s attention away from the table.

“No, not better.” Brant’s posture stiffened like he was being interrogated. “Eldred and I have made our own adjustments. It’s going to be more person-intensive when it comes to operations—more frequent updates on the wrist units, for example. But the best way to keep the League from detecting our communications is to make them scattered, infrequent, and less reliable.”

Dwyer winced.

“I know it’s not the best option, but it’s one we have to accept,” Jackson said. “Colonel, besides the refit, are there any other operational details we need to know at this point?”

“Only that there are citizens’ groups protesting the refit.”

Gina rolled her eyes. “Don’t they have anything better to do?”

“We suspect we’re looking at local agitators stirred up by either criminal elements or ESS or both,” Sinclair continued without so much as a pause to acknowledge her comment. “It is their favorite ploy, after all. The locals involved, though, are apparently of the mind that with the war over, there’s no need for a border-wide surveillance system to warn of future League incursions. We are at peace, or so they keep reminding everyone.”

Eldred snorted. Jackson figured, by assessing everyone else’s expressions, that they felt the same way about the reality of League relations, political stances aside.

“Tamir will provide you our contact inside the protest groups.” Sinclair gestured—at Gina, Jackson realized.

She blinked. “Oh. I see. What are the odds the League is circulating my face since our run-in with the lovely Ciara Bui, who turned out to be one of their assets when she wasn’t fetching Ardalion Noor’s coffee at Nosamo Aerothermic?”

“The protestors don’t have face-to-face contact often, if at all, up until the moment of the demonstrations.” Tamir brought the image of teeming crowds holding aloft everything from torn packaging to portable holo signs scrawled with slogans like “CDF Go Home” and “No War, No Fascists” plus even more Jackson didn’t bother to read as the sheer stupidity of their messages escalated. “Intelligence has an asset in the community nearby, not based at the astrographic complex itself, who has already made inroads.”

Gina wrinkled her nose but nodded.

It was Jackson’s turn to nudge her. “If it were straightforward, you wouldn’t like it.”

“As long as I get to break into somewhere fun, I’ll try not to complain,” she muttered.

“Any further questions?” When no one offered any, Sinclair smiled. “Very good. Operational details are in your packets. They will be destroyed once read. Other inquiries may be directed to Tamir and Eldred. Dismissed.”

Those assembled got to their feet and braced to attention again as Sinclair departed. Jackson accepted the plastic envelope from Tamir but was already on the move, following Sinclair out into the corridor. Conversation broke out behind him almost immediately as his people peppered Tamir and Eldred with questions, no doubt pertaining to their own packets.

“Colonel? Could I have a word?”

Sinclair stopped by the hatch to the operations center, the nexus for CDF Intelligence work aboard Oxford. “Is there a problem, Captain?”

“No, sir. Not as such.” Jackson cleared his throat. “This plan… while I appreciate the higher-ups acting on my recommendation to take a more active approach to hunt Vasiliy and his ESS assets, I wonder if we’re overlooking a danger to the PASCORE network.”

Sinclair notched an eyebrow. “I’m not quite certain I heard you correctly, Captain. Are you insinuating the chairman of the joint chiefs, secretary of defense, and the commander-in-chief himself are making a mistake only you can rectify?”

Heat rushed to Jackson’s face. He managed to keep his bearing steady and demeanor cool so as not to wilt under Sinclair’s scrutiny. Absolutely. “Not at all, Colonel. I’m watching out for my people while doing my duty to the utmost—and my chief duty at this moment is to stop Vasiliy’s interference, as it threatens the Coalition’s security.”

“I see. Rest assured that all involved have weighed the risks and benefits of this approach.” Sinclair lowered his volume. “Which is not to say we aren’t taking a gamble. It was a nuisance and potential political disaster, not to mention the loss of life involved, when the League trifled with our border stability. But given their last such attempt to meddle revealed their desire for a weapon of mass destruction hitherto unknown to us, I surmise our betters are opting for a bolder course of action to stave off future disaster. I am glad to hear, however, that you are taking the matter seriously and heeding our conversation from the conclusion of your last mission.”

“Vengeance is the last thing on my mind, sir. I’m rooting for success.”

“Very good. If you have any other concerns, report them to me, and I will make sure they’re passed up the chain.”

Jackson let his placid expression slip as Sinclair departed. Vengeance? No. Success? Damn right. And if I get to personally bag this Vasiliy ghost, well, then I’ll sleep a lot better than I have been.

3

The White House

Lawrence City—Canaan

23 April 2465

President Justin Spencer watched the rain pattering against the floor-to-ceiling window of the White House executive library. No strolling through the courtyard gardens that day, which was a shame—they’d become perhaps his favorite refuge from the toils and tribulations of the office. That and the library was a phenomenal place in which he could reflect on the Coalition’s history.

The walls on either side were stacked with books both rare and recent, the oldest of which had already been tattered, well-read, and well-loved when they made the journey from Earth during the diaspora almost four hundred years ago. The newer volumes encompassed all manner of subjects, up to and including historical fiction from the war with the League.

But Spencer was nose-deep in a slim paperback of Basque poetry from the late nineteenth century, translated by a man named Romtvedt, when Vice President Eduardo Fuentes knocked on the open doorframe.

“Ed.” Spencer smiled and nodded. “Please, come in.”

“I thought you would have burrowed in here as soon as the clouds socked in the city last night.” Fuentes pulled out one of the chairs at the mahogany table at which Spencer sat. Its top was glass, reflecting bizarre, distorted versions of the rain-soaked garden outside the window.

“What’s on your mind?” Spencer stuck a bookmark between the pages and set the poetry volume down.

“I hate to tear you away from your historic works, but I’ve been going over the operational plans for this Trenchant mission and have additional concerns.”

Spencer sighed but not in a derogatory way. While he didn’t have the same political philosophies as his vice president, their mutual respect remained intact through what had been the tumultuous end to the war and the rocky few years after. Still, it wouldn’t be a typical week if Fuentes didn’t make him stop and rethink a recent decision. “I take it you’re not talking about any of the points you brought up in the briefing.”

“One, actually. The War Free Union.”

“Ah. Them.” Spencer folded his arms. “Go on.”

Fuentes smirked. “Hardly a ringing endorsement to continue, Justin.”

“I think Andrew and I made it clear how we feel about those—about the protestors on Trenchant, specifically those targeting the astrographic complex in Daranj.” Spencer had been about to use other choice—and probably unfortunate—adjectives, but they weren’t appropriate to a conversation with Fuentes.

“Understandable, given both your and General MacIntosh’s service to our nation,” Fuentes replied. “That doesn’t mean the concerns of those who’ve witnessed too much of war’s toll can be invalidated. There are veterans among them.”

Spencer waved a hand. “Look, Ed, I don’t want to get into a debate about the WFU—”

“And I didn’t appreciate the general’s term for them based on their acronym.”

“Ahem. Right.” Spencer snorted, which was better than the chuckle he’d originally queued up. MacIntosh, in his surly Scotch way, had referred to the War Free Union as the “Well, Effing Useless,” and Spencer could see the irritation return to Fuentes’s face. Secretary of Defense Celinda Snow had simply arched an eyebrow in the cool, calculating manner that made her so damned good at her office. “You’re worried?”

“Yes. Having our people infiltrate them smacks of national security surveillance of our own people, something to which I thought you would object.”

Spencer shifted in his seat. “Remember, I wasn’t initially in favor, months ago when CDF Intelligence apprised me of their idea, but if the end goal is to prevent League infiltration, we have to make compromises when it comes to individual liberties.”

“You sound as if you’ve been spending too much time on my side of the aisle, Justin.”

“Now, wait just a minute…”

Fuentes held up his hands. “I’m not insinuating you’ve budged on your principles, but allowing spies into WFU is at least nudging the line a few meters.”

Spencer exhaled. “I don’t like the idea. I’ll be honest. But I have guarantees from the higher-ups at Intelligence that they won’t be saving or storing data related to innocent civilians, no matter how distasteful I find their political stances.”

“All they want is an honest discussion about our level of militarization.”

“They harbor extremist elements that want to dismantle the Coalition Defense Force and siphon off its funding to expand a socialist agenda,” Spencer grumbled. “Let’s be honest.”

“Not all, and I would argue it’s a small faction.” Fuentes held up a finger. “I’ve had my fair share of fights with those politicians who favor such action. After what I saw during those dark days when the League’s fleets came clamoring for our blood, to Canaan’s very orbit, I am not about to stand by and allow silly sentiments about disbanding our entire military to gain traction. That doesn’t mean, though, that we can’t have a rational conversation about the levels of funding our defenders need.”

“Point taken, though I won’t agree.”

“And I won’t hold the disagreement against you.” Fuentes’s smile faded. “But these spies…”

“They’re sifting WFU for League infiltration while reporting criminal activities to CBI. Our people haven’t uncovered much of use, but I trust they’ll keep digging—which is where Covert Action Unit 171 comes into play.”

“Yes.” Fuentes frowned. “The security of the PASCORE refit will, I hope, continue apace. I’d hate to see it compromised.”

“Andrew is confident, given the number of contractors assigned to the job, that there won’t be any delays.” Spencer shrugged. “Of course, the sheer number of contractors will make it easier for Captain Adams to establish his cover among the enterprising businessmen who’ve picked up those contracts.”

“So, we’ll have a person inside the protestors and another with access to the construction teams as well as the teams’ upper management.”

Spencer nodded. “We’re taking a risk, of course, because hurrying the refit ups the chance for security breaches or even simple errors, but Colonel Siddiq has Andrew’s confidence—and is familiar with the kind of work Colonel Sinclair favors.”

“The silent kind, I would guess.”

“The very same.” Spencer shifted in his seat so he could better take in the rainstorm, which by then, had transitioned into a downpour. He couldn’t see much between the wall of trembling trees. “Ed, I won’t fudge this—I don’t like the expansive powers we’ve granted Intelligence during the last year, and at times, I think the covert action units take things too far. Their willingness to foment criminality nudges that same line you were talking about.”

“I agree there, Justin, but as we’ve pointed out, the situations we face are not ones which blunt military force can solve—though to be sure, the more surgical strikes by stealth raiders and even Oxford herself have proven our ability to do so in an understated manner.” Fuentes picked up the Basque title and perused the first page or two. “If we don’t want to risk open war again—something my likeminded members of the Assembly are working hard to avoid—this conflict must continue in the shadows.”

“I’ll be happiest when our people can get their work done in the light of day, though for now, I can’t disagree with their results.” Spencer shivered at the memory of the last such mission, which had brought to light a previously unknown weapon of mass destruction—one he’d promptly ordered destroyed, much to the consternation of the neutral megacorporation’s CEO and board, who still denied they had any clue what they’d accidentally created.

“When all is said and done, though, I’d like to remind Colonel Sinclair and his people that the citizens of Trenchant—the city of Daranj’s residents especially—can express their free speech without facing any reprisal and will avoid undue scrutiny when it comes to exercising that same right.”

“I think we see eye to eye there.” Spencer pushed out of his chair. “It’s nearly noon. Care to join me for lunch with the CBI director? I’ve got to bring Celinda along, too, so we can offer him similar assurances—though he’s more keen on catching agitators who are threatening the planet’s economy. Whether or not WFU has figured it out yet, if you cut off the military leg of Trenchant… that stool won’t stay upright on the last two of tourism and gozoa sap.”

Fuentes chuckled as he handed the poetry volume back to Spencer and followed him to the door. “Somehow, that sounds like a prank with which you’re familiar, Mr. President.”

“I would never admit it.” Spencer grinned. “But ask Colonel Sinclair to tell you the tale sometime. I understand it’s among the top ten of practical jokes endemic to life aboard his favorite ship full of spooks.”

CSV Oxford

En Route to Trenchant

6 May 2465

Jackson found the irony of their voyage to the Trenchant system supreme—taking two weeks for what should have been a simple set of jumps using Oxford’s advanced antimatter reactor. But the team needed time to prepare for the mission, which included Jackson figuring out who he was going to be that time.

His humor soured as he took an umpteenth scan through the legend Brant and Eldred had constructed. He would have had plenty of time to zip to Canaan, take care of the pressing legal issues surrounding the family ranch, then hustle to Trenchant. Canaan was fairly close, after all.

Nothing to be done about it now. Orders were orders. Still, he allowed himself the daydream of riding skimmers across the rolling steppes, him and Abril Castillo, as they discussed the future of their respective families’ holdings. The nearer to each other, the better.

“Coming along nicely, eh, Jack?”

Jackson blinked. Oxford’s sick bay returned to focus, the soothing lights and soft, bland colors in sharp contrast to nature’s palette. Brant flipped a tablet around so Jackson could see the glowing image of his body—in silhouette, thankfully.

“Between the uptick in calories and suspension of exercise, I think we’ve given you a more managerial look.”

“Sure feels like I’ve been letting myself go, but two weeks doesn’t amount to much.” Then again, as he examined himself in a mirror, Jackson had to admit the lines on his face looked smoother. The false nose and cheekbones grafted to his face helped. Specialized lenses turned his eyes a pale gray-green.

Really, the outward appearance was the easy part—letting his hair grow out, dyeing it coal black with the metallic-blue highlights popular in the local star systems, donning the expensive white shirt and dark-gray suit. Fitting the personality to his appearance had taken the most time. Jackson slipped on a matching jacket and checked the gleaming gold cuffs with a fastidious air.

“J. Jefferson Hayes, former owner and manager of Stellar Anomalies Equity Fund, newest shareholder of Vesper Composites.” Brant chuckled. “Don’t you look every bit the rich boss?”

“I would watch your tone if you ever want to succeed in my corporation.” Jackson kept his voice low, subdued, but with a steel edge. A far cry from the relaxed banter of Jack Avery, skimmer tech, or the sneer of Jonathan Arno, corrupt private security officer. “Is my shuttle prepared for transit to the surface?”

“Maybe you’d better check yourself, Mr. Hayes.” Brant shook his head, still smirking. “Your wrist unit is top-of-the-line this time—makes it easier to disguise all my bells and whistles. Nobody’s going to care if you’re fiddling with a Keeper’s Emerge Model Seven. And your sleeve transmitters are in place. Any problems with the comms implant?”

The last sentence filtered through the miniscule device buried beneath Jackson’s ear, coming through in a transmission only he could hear. “Quite clear.” He grinned and let his face relax. “Okay, I take back any complaining from the past fourteen days—more practice is better for this role. It took all that time just to keep myself stern.”

“I’ve yet to see a role you haven’t nailed.” Brant held his tablet up to Jackson’s face. A tiny white light flickered in Jackson’s left eye then his right. “Lenses functioning. No hiccups. Should help with the scans. Oh, and don’t forget—”

“Minimal communications. Be prepared for delays when you’re alternating frequencies. My easiest role is pretending you’re in charge.”

“Maybe we ought to have you impersonate a comedian next,” Brant muttered. “But seriously, I’m impressed how well you settled into this role. Stern and solemn isn’t your usual preference.”

“It was easier than I thought.” Jackson was on his way to the corridor but glanced back for a last smirk. “I pretended I was an upscale version of my brother.”

Oxford’s hangar bay had plenty of room for whatever small craft the vessel might need to embark, but for their voyage, the Florio Ionworks Mark Thirteen racer Novabird was the center of attention as CAU 171’s primary transport—though calling her a “transport” was like calling Oxford an “intelligence support vessel.” The title hardly did her role justice.

“She’s looking fine, isn’t she, Cap’n?” Dwyer jogged over, wiping his hands on a bright-red rag. His sleeves were rolled up, and unidentifiable stains slicked the hair on his arms. “Never got to get behind the stick of one. They’ve always put yours truly in the driver’s seat of something less flashy.”

Jackson grinned. “Yeah, not everybody gets to spend their days in a Mark Thirteen racer. The rest of the deck crew are a fair sight enamored with her.”

“I’d noticed.”

It was difficult not to with four deckhands performing maintenance work on the quad burst engines and variable geometry wings. The racer’s fuselage had been altered in several places with winglets and bulges that wouldn’t affect aerodynamics much but, when coupled with the fresh dark-blue paint job, disguised her from the last mission’s specs.

“She’ll be even faster with the cross vents we rammed through.” Dwyer stuffed the rag in his pocket. “Gotta say, Cap’n, your refit looks like it went pretty well too.”

“Thanks, Sparks. Planetfall is in less than twenty-four hours. Sad to say I won’t get much seat time in Novabird this go-around.”

“Well, sir…” Dwyer winked. “Can’t let you have all the fun, now can we?”

Jackson found Sev on the opposite side of the hangar, near the open bay doors. A force field kept the hangar from depressurizing, but seeing as how the field would let vessels in and out, it was the perfect barrier for use during range time.

Some enterprising rating had dropped a container on a tether into space. Sev held his ballistic rifle to his shoulder, sights in place, and was plinking the spare box.

“No worries about accounting for variable gravity, I take it?” Jackson asked.

Sev grunted. Affirmative, it sounded like.

“I’m going to need extreme flexibility on this one,” Jackson continued. “Gina will need overwatch when she’s involved with the protestors. You’ll have Brant’s back, too, especially if we need to relocate safe houses in an emergency like we faced on Bellwether.”

Sev nodded without taking his eye from the sight. He held a breath and fired again. A tiny, distant spark appeared on the target.

“Any questions about your orders?”

“No,” Sev said.

“Well, if there’s anything else, send me a message. Your input submitted last week was vital.”

“Understood.” Sev fired another round.

“Good talk,” Jackson murmured as he left the hangar.

Gina held herself aloft on the pommel horse in the ship’s gym, dressed in a dark-purple tank top and leggings. She must have been at her routine for a while, as sweat dripped from her face and ran down her arm muscles as she shifted from one hand to the other, legs outstretched.

Jackson sat on the weight bench nearby. “Busy?”

“If you’re here to talk, talk,” she gasped. “If you’re here to gawk, I can kick you in the face, and we can move on.”

Jackson chuckled. “You’re in that good of a mood, are you?”

“Look, Jack, I don’t mind sneaking around wherever I need to sneak and fooling whomever I have to fool.” Gina spun around and lifted her body until her toes pointed at the ceiling, her head toward the deck, arms nearly locked. “But Intelligence is planning to use me as a spy on domestic protestors. You can forget detailed reports.”

“Not part of the plan. Frankly, I don’t think Sinclair gives a damn about what the protestors do. We’re watching for the League—which is why maintaining discreet contact with Intelligence’s inside man is key.”

“Yes, I know. I memorized the briefing.” She flipped down off the pommel horse and landed in a crouch. Gina stood, her back straight, arms stretched over her head.

Jackson responded with a slow, measured clap.

“Dork.” She reached for her towel and snapped it at his face like she was armed with a whip.

“Hey!” He caught the end of it and wound the towel once around his fist. “Do you know how long it took me to get into my makeup?”

“A lot longer than it does me. I told Brant if he gets tired of staring at screens, he should take up hairdressing.”

Jackson burst out laughing. Gina yanked the towel free, but he didn’t care, and when she snapped it again, it barely stung. He was too mired in mirth. “No wonder he seemed so surly. Usually he’s so proud of his work, he’s bouncing off the bulkheads.”

Gina took a long swig from a water jug and toweled perspiration off her face. “Did I tell you Dad called? He sent a message right after we were done dealing with Garrett. I might get to see him when we’re done on this mission.”

“That’s great. How long has it been, two years?”

“Three. We message and vid, of course, but…” Gina’s smile was sheepish. “We can’t go on just that for the rest of his life. Anyway, he’s coming back from a survey expedition on the far frontier and put in a long leave before the rest of his people could. Seniority still has advantages.”

“I’m happy for you both.”

Gina’s father served with the Coalition Far Survey Corps. They kept in close touch but didn’t see each other in person that often. Jackson hoped that with retirement approaching, the veteran officer would be able to take some more time for his daughter. For all her talk of her mom, Gina wasn’t likely to reforge that connection anytime soon.

“Jack.” Gina’s hand was on his shoulder. “About your dad…”

He shook his head. “That’s done with. Now’s not the time for me to get into a discussion about the mess he left behind.”

“Eventually, you’ll have to deal with it.” Gina smirked. “And her.”

Heat suffused Jackson’s cheeks. “You know, the worst part about these assignments is I can’t order you to quit being a pest.”

She slung her towel over her shoulder and headed for the women’s showers. “If I weren’t a pest in general, you wouldn’t want me for these assignments. Go make sure you’re ready to fake being an entrepreneur while I slip into something more formal and stealth compatible.”

4

Astrographic Survey Complex

City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

7 May 2465

Jackson strolled through the front doors of Astrocom with the practiced ease of a man who had every right—and temporary security clearance—to be there. The complex itself was a sprawling assortment of domes and towers hunkered next to a twenty-story slope-sided building. The latter’s angle deflected the wind blowing off the bay, making it a perfect fit to the local architecture. The entrance hall, with two-story windows slanted to the left and perpendicular to the right, gave Jackson a stunning view of either the dark churning seas or the city of Daranj.

He was more relaxed by the ease with which he could breathe, thanks to not just the purified air in the complex but also the rows of potted lasaigarria bushes lining the entry. Trenchant’s atmosphere was similar to Canaan’s, but the oxygen content was lower and the trace presence of noxious elements high enough to irritate human lungs.

The Trenchanters hadn’t bothered with full-on respiratory masks, but everyone from the officers and enlisted ratings Jackson passed to the civilian clerical personnel and contract workers wore a neckband that provided minimal, unobtrusive filtering. Jackson found the thing an odd piece of decoration, but since his alias of J. Jefferson Hayes had never been to the planet, either, he didn’t have to act like he was used to it.

“Mr. Hayes? Assalamu alaikum and good day to you.” The complex’s commander, Colonel Imran Siddiq, approached with a broad smile and a hand ready to shake. A tall, lithe man with dark skin and shining blue eyes, he exuded confidence and pride—and given the breadth of his responsibilities, Jackson could understand why. He also wore a respiratory neckband like the others, his a flat gray with glowing green lights. Brant’s profile told him it was standard-issue for CDF personnel based there.

“Colonel Siddiq. Wa alaikum assalamu.” Jackson returned the handshake.

“Thank you. I must say, I was surprised to hear you purchased the controlling share in Vesper Composites. Aren’t they a wholly owned subsidiary of Strathclyde Shipboard Integrators?”

“They are, but my equity firm infused much-needed life into a moribund corporate culture.” Partially true.

CDF Intelligence fronted the money to buy Jackson’s leadership role by funneling credits through Galt and two other independent banks in neutral space. It didn’t hurt that SSI was already a key refitter of Coalition Defense vessels, so it made perfect sense that Kenneth Lowe would make sure Vesper Composites was assigned work on the PASCORE refit and upgrade. And since SSI had performed Oxford’s upgrades while under Lowe’s watchful eye, security clearance wasn’t an issue.

“Quite an impressive facility you have, from what I’ve seen of the plans.” Jackson took in the soothing expanse of the entry hall.

“Would you care for a tour?” Siddiq gestured past the armed guards posted at the entry corridors branching off either side of a curved reception desk.

Three clerks, two female and one male, fielded communications on glowing holographic displays encircling their stations.

“Though I must apologize for the disarray you may encounter.”

“Since my people are contributing to the disarray, I take no offense.” Jackson indicated they should continue.

Siddiq led them into the right-hand corridor, pausing only as the guard used a handheld scanner to verify Jackson’s ID from his wrist unit.

“Their system is top-notch, Echo One, but if I can fool it, ESS probably can too.” Brant’s voice was a familiar murmur through his embedded transmitter. “A full set of schematics are available in your ocular overlay—and not the stuff on the tourist maps, either, but the whole works, up to and including the classified PASCORE areas.”

Which, of course, was the whole reason for the refit and Jackson’s being there.

“The Astrographic Survey Complex is home to the most powerful set of stellar observation apparatus in the entire Coalition.” Jackson swore Siddiq’s stature grew by a half meter as they passed a glass wall.

Thirty technicians labored among a forest of terminals, holographic displays, and consoles ringed around a single huge hologram of the Sagittarius Arm. Stars glittered in the dim light.

“Our star system’s location makes it ideal for such work—in a region free from most interstellar debris and dust clouds, on a plane ‘above’ most of the rest of the Sagittarius Arm. We’re linked to three hundred eleven remote telescopes and sensors scattered throughout Coalition space, accessed daily to provide the best navigational data possible to not only the fleet but merchants and civilian travelers. This, of course, is advertised to the public at large and the bulk of the CDF.”

They reached an elevator shaft, which took them on a direct run to the ninth floor—which, Jackson noted, wasn’t listed on the elevator control panel. Siddiq held his comm over the panel until a red “Nine: Restricted” appeared over the choices for the eight aboveground floors and three sublevels.

“Of course, it is the public face that deflects from our most hallowed purpose.” Siddiq glanced at Jackson and raised an eyebrow.

Jackson’s only response was to nod, a curt gesture. “So I understand.”

“He’s not too bad,” Brant murmured. “Maybe not the best actor, like you are, but he’s not exactly a field operative either.”

Jackson agreed but kept his thoughts to himself. Siddiq’s gracious accommodation was indeed an act. The colonel had links to CDF Intelligence via the PASCORE project and so was aware that Intelligence had operatives on Trenchant. He didn’t know how many or even Jackson’s true identity—only that Jackson was an officer and the team leader. He would do his part to pretend J. Jefferson Hayes was an actual businessman.

“Perhaps we can take a stroll around the grounds at a later date, if you aren’t too busy,” Siddiq suggested. “I’d like to hear what you think of our foliage.”

He’s deployed the keyword—foliage—letting me know he’s concerned about the possibility of being overheard. Even as he reviewed the fact, Jackson heard Brant mutter to himself in Tagalog and tap commands into his computer.

Jackson smiled and nodded again as he waited for whatever inquiry his XO was making. “I’d be happy to, though I’m having difficulty getting used to the aerators.” He tapped the band around his neck. “I find they irritate my nasal passages.”

Siddiq chuckled. “Offworlders have that problem for a few days. You can see the base surgeon or any of the physicians in town for lasaigarria extract. It clears up the nuisance for seventy-two hours.”

“Thank you for the advice.”

“Echo One, be advised. I’m not detecting any passive or active surveillance in your vicinity, though there’s considerable interference from the complex’s equipment,” Brant reported. “The closer your wrist unit’s sensors, the better chance we’ll have to uncover any. Until then, we’d better stick to mission protocol and keep your conversations within the act—unless the boss man can find a quiet place to walk outside.”

The elevator doors opened onto a cross-shaped corridor. Jackson clasped his hand on his wrist behind his back as Siddiq exited ahead, allowing Jackson to squeeze the transmitter concealed in his shirt cuff. More sentries waited at the three hatches, one at either end of the other arms of the cross.

The one to their left, a burly black man, scanned Siddiq’s wrist unit. “Colonel, I’ll need to see your guest’s confirmation.”

“Of course, Corporal.” Siddiq indicated Jackson should step forward.

The guard slung the automatic ballistic rifle on its shoulder strap and produced a handheld scanner. He ran the orange glow over Jackson’s face. Lights flickered noncommittal yellow on the top edge as the corporal watched the readout.

“Identity confirmed. Match with Astrocom visitor records and CDF contractor logs—Jameson Jefferson Hayes, managing director, Vesper Composites.” A tinny voice recited the results from the scanner’s backside.

“All set, sir.” The guard holstered the scanner and took up his rifle again. He stepped aside.

“Many thanks.” Siddiq offered Jackson the chance to enter the hatch first.

Jackson walked into a dark room whose primary illumination came from forty display screens arrayed in overlapping semicircles. He counted sixteen warrant officers and four commissioned officers plus a gaggle of enlisted ratings, the latter of whom had circuit boards, wiring, and backup power cells strewn about the bottoms of innumerable consoles. Civilian contractors, about twenty, were intermingled with them.

“Your friendly post-briefing reminder—there are six hundred eighty contracted workers involved in this refit, all from Vesper Composites, Mosley-Dorsey, and Gollingstar Incorporated.” Brant sighed. “I’ve got the personnel files from the boss man’s office. Should only take thirty years for me to investigate all of them.”

Jackson let out a low whistle. “This is an impressive setup, Colonel. I take it I’m seeing the brains of the operation?”

“A lobe of it, anyway.” Siddiq chuckled. “We have two command centers that compare and contrast simultaneous readings from the sensor nets distributed the length of the Coalition. We can monitor the Lawrence drive signatures—or wormhole drives, I should say, since we’re watching the League—across a couple thousand parsecs.”

“Very good to hear. Also very good to know Vesper Composites can do its part to improve the hardware for those tracking systems and the communications links between departments, all at fair price to the Coalition, of course.”

“Of course. I was pleased to read Vesper’s response to the RFP issued last year and see the bottom line is not the usual eye-watering price.”

“We all made adjustments after the war’s catastrophic end,” Jackson said. “Our board believes in turning a profit while not gouging taxpayers.”

Brant gave a soft, slow clap. Jackson could picture him rating Jackson’s performance with a number in stars.

“Then no doubt you’ll be happy to hear PASCORE will be far more efficient and, even more importantly, predictive once this refit is complete. We’ll be better able to flush the spinemanders out of the grass, so to speak.”

Jackson gave him a puzzled look, but even as he did, the visual input in his contacts flickered to life. The image of a six-legged, needle-toothed lizard creature appeared, semitransparent so he could see his surroundings. The lizard’s neck and back frills fanned in warning before it lunged at a pudgy mammal twice its size.

“Consider watching your step if you’re outside city limits, Echo One,” Brant muttered. “We don’t need you losing a leg to necrotic poison.”

Gina could see Astrocom rising like the ancient D’Rebec Dodecahedron. It was, after all, set atop a ledge on the south end of Daranj, adding height to its twenty stories. Nothing else in the city was taller than twelve. Plus, the north end, where Gina’s temporary home was located, was on another rise, making her vantage point all the more desirable. She snorted. On any other planet, that was. The north end was the most run-down section of Daranj, twelve blocks by eight blocks of urban decay—a stark contrast to the gleaming domes and spiraling agricultural towers of the city’s other three-quarters. She’d stopped counting the number of crumbling walkways and hastily patched walls.

Her apartment was all right. Gina sighed. The studio with an adjacent bathroom was a far cry from her palatial suite aboard Bellwether Station, where she’d been an administrative assistant to one of the richest CEOs in the galaxy.

“Somehow,” she said to the dingy environs, “I doubt I’ll have to put as much effort into compiling a list of the best restaurants.”

That was Jackson’s role, this time. Not fair. But she supposed, as the team’s leader, he was entitled to enjoy the benefits of his position.

Time to get to work. Gina picked up a roll of black adhesive tape with a gold stripe down the right edge. She tore off two pieces, each strip the length of her hand, then made an X in the corner of her window. The tape came from a supply depot on the waterfront six blocks east. Her anonymous contact with the War Free Union had told her to make the purchase from that specific business and to mark the X after a certain time.

Gina stepped back and admired her handiwork—a bit crooked, very anticlimactic. “What now?” she asked. “Wait for whatever passes for a messenger pigeon on this planet?”

“Messenger pigeon?” Brant sounded puzzled. “I’m not in the mood for research projects, Echo Two, not with the piles of people Echo One has me sifting through, but if you want to forward me the relevant historical article—”

“Oh, no need to worry. I don’t know how to get by without my daily dose of your fretting.”

Brant’s irritated exhalation was the perfect response. “Keep watch, will you? Uncle Rob says your contact will check in as soon as he’s able. The X is your request for an invitation.”

“Here’s hoping I have something suitable to wear to the party.” Gina cracked open her carryall case. The violet-trimmed black jumpsuit was packed on top, her goggles nestled in the center like bird eggs.

She’d had time to spread the suit out on the sagging mattress—Jack will owe me, yes he will—and set the goggles atop it when there was a click at the window. A weather-monitoring drone hovered there, its triple turbofans bobbing as it fought against the afternoon breeze. Gina smiled at the lozenge-shaped robot covered with solar sheathing. The antennae covering the underside reminded her of jellyfish tentacles. “Home, this is Two. Can you confirm my scans? It seems I have my own silicon Montague outside the Capulet window.”

“Is that a romance vid? Two, I confirm, that bot has an EM band transmitter that isn’t standard. Open your tablet in preparation for a transmission, short burst.”

Gina snorted as she powered on the device and held it up to the window. Surrounded by philistines, honestly.

The tablet beeped, indicating an incoming message, then the screen turned blue. Yellow text spelled out 33001 Harbor Rim, 4 May, 2105 hours.

“You’d better memorize it,” Brant instructed. “The message is already half degraded in the tablet’s memory.”

“Already done,” Gina said, and good thing, too, for the text faded from the screen. Try as she might, Gina couldn’t get it to retrieve the message or even get the device to acknowledge it had received one. Fine by her. She would be ready.

“A defunct warehouse is listed at 33001 Harbor Rim, but…” Gina heard Brant tapping on his console. “Hmm. Recent power fluctuations and rise in traffic in the area. Social media queries turn up rumors of a nightclub in the basement.”

“So I won’t need work clothes for the first outing.” A corner of red fabric peeked from Gina’s bag. She drew the short, shimmering dress out and draped it over her arm. “But a disguise anyway.”

Dwyer trotted down Novabird’s main ramp. They couldn’t have picked a prettier place to park, thanks to the LT’s directions. Matraq Landing Field was a private piece of land ten kilometers inland from Daranj, hidden in a long, wide valley filled with gozoa trees—not the big suckers but more nursery height, thirty to fifty meters. Some enterprising soul had expanded a winding network of clearings among the canopy, where the huge, slender leaves swayed as the occasional thruster bursts from departing ships sent yellow ripples across the orange foliage.

“Damn shame you can’t breathe in what passes for air here for too long.” Dwyer itched at the aerator band. The fumes weren’t as noticeable after a few minutes, but he still found himself sniffing every few seconds. That was going to get old real fast.

Sev grunted, assembling his rifle while watching the glorious glow of the scenery, though Dwyer suspected the man was keeping a close eye for potential threats rather than actually enjoying his new environs.

Dwyer shook his head and grinned. “C’mon, Sev. What’s that sayin’ about stoppin’ to smell the flowers? Better make the tree sap or—” He coughed. “’Scuse me—or perfume of those bushes that’re supposed to help you breathe better.”

“Careless,” Sev muttered.

“Not careless, my friend, but relaxedly cautious.” Something moved out of the corner of his eye. Dwyer glanced at the nearby tree line, where the bushes swayed. Probably one of those fur-ball mammals the locals called eskuili—like a double-sized hare without visible legs, but the bio files in the briefing said they had six. No wonder they moved so fast they looked like they were floating.

The thing was already up the end of the ramp and hissing at him through a mouthful of fangs by the time Dwyer realized it was a nasty-looking lizard and not the fur ball. He yelped and fumbled for his holstered pulse pistol as he staggered backward, tripping over his own boots. If he’d been in Novabird’s cockpit spiraling missiles off his six, he’d have been a hell of a lot more graceful.

An energy pulse seared his left knee, screaming through the air as it struck the lizard’s face. The critter’s hiss ended in a choked gargle as the beam cooked it from the inside out, leaving a husk that smeared the rest of its way up the ramp until it bumped into Dwyer’s boot. He gazed down the sights of his pulse pistol, chest heaving.

Sev joined him, steam wafting from his pulse pistol of the same model. “Spinemander,” he noted. “Poisonous.”

“Uh, yeah. I remember. Thanks.”

A beefy hand clamped on Dwyer’s shoulder and turned him so he faced Sev. Icy-blue eyes locked on his. “Enjoy scenery.”

“Maybe…” Dwyer watched him head back into the cargo hold then triggered the ramp control. The pistons whined as it closed. “Maybe I’ll go admire from the cockpit.”

5

CSV Oxford

Orbiting the Third Moon

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

7 May 2465

Sinclair carried the two steel cups into the operations center, reveling in the aroma. “Earl Grey, by request.”

Tamir rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Sir? Thank you. I’ve been staring at these monitors too long.”

“Not at all.” Sinclair let Tamir take a cup before sipping from his own. “It has been a rather monotone forty-eight hours. Any fruits to your labors?”

“Nothing yet, Colonel. Eldred and I have been monitoring communications throughout the system with special emphasis on Trenchant’s near orbit. Civilian vessels have significant overlap—to be expected, given the rise in tourist traffic since the end of the war. Lots of annoying chatter, too, in the form of advertisements.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Eldred sat up straighter in her chair and worked a kink out of her neck. “You heard right, sir. These passenger liners ping each other with ads as they pass within three hundred thousand klicks or less—makes for next to no transmission delay. They pelt each other so the passengers aboard rival ships get ads flooding their personal devices, touting how superior a cruise line is to the service they’re targeting. Most have figured out ways to block the incoming signals, but it’s difficult to do without jamming local comms—and civilian passenger buckets don’t put jamming equipment high on their list of purchases.”

“Because it’s illegal,” Tamir added.

“Technically, yes, but I suppose a great many things are, which one could readily find on the black market or, if one is willing to make the trip, in neutral space.” Sinclair joined Eldred at her console, watching in fascination as she ran trace programs on myriad signals flooding Trenchant’s space. “I take it this clutter works to our advantage.”

“It does, sir, but unfortunately, it gives any Leaguers around a significant edge too.” Eldred tapped a row of undulating red squiggles in one corner of a display. “These, for example. I thought we were seeing a modified form of the same signal frequency ESS used on Aphendrika, so I checked in with Lieutenant Guinto. It took us a few hours, but he confirmed it’s only a badly tuned relay between garbage munchers.”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow.

“Automated midorbit ships that scoop up and recycle debris,” Tamir explained.

“I’m quite aware of what they are, Butter Bars, thank you,” Sinclair said coolly. “My unspoken question, though, was why Warrant Eldred and Lieutenant Guinto dismissed a possible threat so readily.”

“Brant may have his hands full, but he can crack these transmissions with the best of them, Colonel.” Eldred kept her tone level, but it was easy enough for Sinclair to detect the note of irritation at his having questioned her ability—which, of course, had been his goal. Sinclair needed to push his people to give their very best, and critiques produced the results he sought. “We haven’t completely dismissed it. Only moved it down the priority list.”

“Understood, Eldred. I realize there are so many malfunctions cropping up on an hourly basis—if not by the minute—but it is incumbent on us to remember the enemy, much like ourselves, makes use of such malfunctions to camouflage viable transmissions.”

“Yes, sir. I get that.” Eldred nodded. “But like I was saying, these civilian signals are the biggest pain. It’s not just text and audio. Some are even piping through full holo streams, crowding the bandwidth. I’d hate to be the civvies down on Trenchant in charge of orbital comms.”

“Comfort yourself with the knowledge you have far better equipment and training, thus making the task bearable.” Sinclair tapped the side of his cup. “Any evidence, then, to support the thoughts behind the mission? Have we succeeded in luring the desired prey?”

Tamir shook his head. “Uncertain at this point, Colonel. If ESS is operating here, they’re keeping quiet. We’re not tracking any suspicious space traffic either. Nothing lurking about the outer worlds in the system. Pirates steer clear of Trenchant, partly because of the constant patrols in this region.”

“What sort of physical traffic are you seeing on the system’s edge, then?”

“Ice haulers. Precious metal miners. An ancillary array is on the farthest planet out, linked to Astrocom, but it’s automated. They only run a ship out once every two months for repairs. TAO is monitoring those courses. So far nothing’s suspicious.”

“Very well. Keep CAU 171 up to speed on these developments as you compile them. I don’t want our people on the ground being caught unawares.”

“Yes, sir. Eldred and I have updated Guinto as often as we can, though we are following the protocols for this assignment and keeping transmissions both brief and infrequent.”

“Hiding them alongside some of those same ads we mentioned.” Eldred smiled. “Junk is junk, but never pass up the opportunity to make it work for you, like you said, Colonel.”

“Jolly good.” Sinclair raised his cup in salute. “And I say, Alon, you’d best not let your tea get cold. Heaven knows when I’ll be so kindhearted as to offer it again.”

“Probably sometime in the next century, sir.” Tamir took a long drink and licked his lips. “You weren’t peddling vacuum, were you? That’s a fine flavor. Standard-issue Earl Grey?”

“With a pinch of this and that to bring out its uniqueness.”

Eldred looked away, holding her mouth.

“Are you all right, Eldred?” Tamir seemed concerned.

“No, I mean, yes, sir. No problem. All’s well.” She blinked rapidly—were those tears? She was definitely holding back laughter to the point that her body shook as she tried not to burst.

“Nice look, Captain!” One of the technicians, a senior petty officer, down the row had no such compunctions.

“Nice…” Tamir lifted his hands to his lips. He gazed into the top of the cup. “Colonel…”

“I’m quite certain it will wash off in a few hours.” Sinclair chuckled because Tamir’s lips were stained a riotous neon pink. “Do enjoy your tea.”

He whistled on his way to his office as the laughter broke out in earnest.

CSV Tuscon

Above the Galactic Plane

600 Light-Years from Trenchant

Major Nathan Mancini grunted as the tactical display lit up with new data. The sensor room had jacked into the PASCORE grid in order to help monitor for disruptions. He was immediately impressed. It wasn’t as if Tuscon hadn’t made use of PASCORE during war years, but the network was more of a tool for generals and fleet commanders. A stealth raider’s captain was more concerned with local actions, specific targets. Still, he had to admit, it was fascinating to see the system function up close in that way.

“What are we watching for, Skipper?” Captain Patrick Godat sidled up to his station by the CO’s chair. “I can’t imagine how the brass keep track of every byte flooding in through the network.”

“No argument there, XO.” Mancini gestured to the display. “Every Lawrence drive wormhole opening within a thousand light-years of our position is right there for us to observe. Orders are simple—we keep an eye for changes to the network’s sensors, the physical hardware. The rest of the team back on Trenchant has to worry about the signals aspect.”

“Conn, TAO,” called Lieutenant Olesen. “Thirty seconds to target.”

“Roger, TAO. Put in on the board.”

The white indicator flashed then appeared inset on a separate screen. Nothing should have been so deep out in space, three parsecs from the nearest star system and much farther from a colony or even rudimentary outpost. No space stations, no asteroids, nothing but interstellar dust and radiation. And the first stop on their investigation.

The sensor buoy was twice as long as Tuscon, with its height equal to its length. Mancini’s first impression was of four huge, elongated diamonds joined in a diamond-shaped configuration. The filaments connecting one to the other were faint, glittering strings on the display.

“Looks like something my nephew pieced together for arts and crafts,” Godat murmured. “And half as strong.”

“I doubt it’s built for durability. The coating on its pylons is similar to what we use on stealth boats, though not as good. Their internal components are classified. More importantly, only a handful of other units know of their locations.” Mancini smirked. “Which is the other reason we’re here—to assist in the upgrade.”

“Since when are we a repair bucket, Skipper?”

“Since the brass only wanted Tuscon and CSV Virginia, plus four others of our class, out here nosing around in the dark. Whatever they’ve got planned for the overall refit doesn’t require a ton of action on our part—except for adding to this array and a few others what’ve been locked away in our hold.” Mancini clapped his hand on Godat’s shoulder. “Sorry, XO—nobody but the boat commanders were given the specifics, and we weren’t to reveal them until we reached the coordinates for the first buoy on each of our legs.”

“No problem there. I’d better get COB to round up enough ratings with EV repair certification to get in their suits.”

“That shouldn’t be an issue. Our roster always has twenty or so, and I made sure we brought the extra for this cruise. TAO, anything else on the board?”

“Conn, TAO. That’s a negative, sir. Sensor Room has no additional contacts within five light-seconds. PASCORE network records three wormhole transits out to two hundred light-years, all of them commercial transports.”

“Very good. Captain, have Chief Cosentino and his people suit up. The sooner we get the components installed and on our way to the next buoy, the better.”

“Yes, sir.”

An hour later, Mancini was back in his chair, blowing steam off a coffee mug. Only the first one of the day. Not too shabby, since he’d been trying to cut down. He reviewed the instructions on his tablet. They were oddly nonspecific and very precise at the same time. His people knew what they had to install and where to install it, but they didn’t really know what the component was made of, what it did, or how it would improve the array. Mancini shrugged. That wasn’t important, from his perspective. He had a job to do—protect the array and his people. Whatever the spooks wanted that thing to do, they charged him with making sure it could continue its tasks uninterrupted.

“Conn, Comms,” the communications officer reported. “Incoming from Chief Tabb. He estimates ten to fifteen minutes before the work is complete.”

“Tell him we’ll make sure to unseal the air lock when they’re ready to come back.”

The intercom crackled. “Conn, Sensor Room. PASCORE is feeding us a set of coordinates.”

Mancini glanced at Godat, who shrugged. “Sensor, say again? What coordinates?”

“It’s—potential target, according to the query I sent back, Skipper.”

“TAO, cross-check with Sensor.”

Olesen nodded. “Conn, TAO. I don’t have anything on our scopes except for the array.”

“Damned peculiar,” Mancini muttered.

“You hate peculiar.” Godat drained the dregs of his own cup of coffee.

“As I should. Sensor, give me a second sweep—passive only for now. Mission orders. TAO, coordinate and repopulate the board the instant we have a bogey. I don’t care if it’s a stray comet. I want it painted.”

“Understood, sir.”

Mancini hadn’t even settled back in his seat before the senior chief in the sensor room called out, “Conn, Sensor Room. Aspect change, inbound wormhole detected.”

“TAO, confirm,” Mancini ordered.

“Conn, TAO. Checking, Skipper—confirmed. One second—League signature.”

Mancini gripped the arms of his chair. “XO, get our people back aboard.”

“On it, sir.” Godat squeezed in next to the communications officer, relaying commands through him to Chief Tabb’s maintenance team out on the array.

Mancini stared at the eight tiny figures highlighted on another of his console’s displays then stepped down behind Olesen’s seat. “TAO, what’ve we got?”

“Small vessel, moving slow. Not stealth, Sensor Room indicates. Also not picking up life signs. Could be an unmanned scout—database is checking. Possible match with Rouen-class drone.”

Mancini scowled. Rouen-class were tiny boats, basically overpowered engines protected by armor and topped with more sensors than two stealth raiders combined. “Mark as Master One, and repopulate the board.”

“Conn, TAO. Marking as Master One and repopulating, aye.”

The blip appeared on the tactical display, and Mancini couldn’t help a surprised grunt. The Rouen scout was three-and-a-half light-years out. PASCORE is showing Master One that clearly? Being jacked into the system at this range certainly has its advantages. “Sensor Room, any indication Master One has found us?”

“Conn, Sensor. That’s a negative. If it is scanning the area, it’s doing so passively.” The senior chief sounded frustrated by his instruments. “It’s gone off the map, Skipper.”

“Rouen-class tend to run as silent as possible, saving their intel for massive dumps once they’ve snooped about,” Mancini mused. “But if we run up our Lawrence drive so we can intercept, we’ll only scare it off. TAO, any other CDF craft in the vicinity?”

“Nothing within ten times the distance, sir,” Olesen replied.

“Chief Tabb reports his repair team is nearly finished with the installation, Major,” Godat said from near the comms station. “Requesting permission to finish up before returning aboard.”

Mancini grimaced as he examined the tactical display. The targeting computers were helpful enough to supply the possible vectors for Master One based on its exit from the wormhole. Olesen and the sensor crew could watch as closely as they could and give Mancini the best guesses, but there were eight options. He wouldn’t get a firm choice until the probe fired up its drives. But if it was snooping around for evidence of the PASCORE arrays, Mancini wasn’t about to let it succeed.

“Tell Chief Tabb he’s got three minutes, then we’re picking him up,” Mancini ordered. “And have Engineering prep the Lawrence drive. Pilot, plot a course in the middle of the possible Master One trajectories, but do not engage until I give the word.”

“Conn, Pilot, aye, plotting intercept with Master One.”

“TAO, charge the EMP.”

“Conn, TAO. Charging EMP and energy weapons capacitor, aye.”

Mancini watched the charge rise on the ship-mounted electromagnetic pulse. It was his favorite piece of weaponry, if the League-crafted device even counted as such. It was perfect for shutting off the power to any threat, especially if he had to capture a dangerous target.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change on Master One,” Olesen called out. “Changing course—it’s headed our way, Major.”

“Time to arrival?”

“ETA four minutes until it can reengage its drive.”

Mancini punched up twin timers on his personal display. He wasn’t about to leave his people hanging in deep space, but he couldn’t let a potential threat to Coalition security get word across the border. “Stand by for EMP activation.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The seconds crawled by, punctuated only by the quiet murmurs from Tuscon’s life-support systems and the hum of the bridge consoles. Mancini tapped on his mug, gaze flicking from the tactical display to the spacesuited figures working on the sensor array to his timers then back around the circuit.

“Conn, TAO. Master One has engaged its wormhole drive.”

“TAO, give target destinate coordinates. Pilot, accelerate to intercept, minimal thrust—I want us on the move but not making enough of a racket so it will see us.”

“Conn, Pilot, aye, Skipper, accelerating to intercept.”

The displays revealed the telltale flash of a wormhole drive—or Lawrence drive, Mancini corrected himself. Why couldn’t Leaguers use the proper names for things? It seemed to enlarge as Tuscon headed for the coruscating energies, which then faded and gave way to a slender ship bristling with antennae on one end and engines on the other.

“Conn, Sensor. Master One is scanning the area,” the senior chief reported over the intercom.

“Conn, TAO. EMP and energy weapons capacitor fully charged,” Olesen added.

“TAO, firing point procedures, Master One, EMP.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

“Match bearings, shoot, EMP.”

There wasn’t much to see or hear except for bridge lights and a couple of console panels flickering with the momentary power drain. But the effect on Master One was immediate—the few tiny running indicators blinked out. The engines went dark. Tuscon’s scans revealed a massive drop-off in sensor activity, and the tactical board turned the red spot into a hollow circle.

“Conn, TAO. Direct hit.” Olesen grinned over his shoulder. “Dead in space.”

“Don’t break out the party hats yet,” Mancini warned. “XO, coordinate Comms and Sensor. Punch through to that thing’s brains. I want a download of whatever it’s been up to.”

“Probably it’s rigged to destruct, Major, but with the EMP shutdown, it shouldn’t be able to communicate with its reactor to do the deed,” Godat reminded him.

“Well aware, Captain, but we may have our hands on a League spy drone,” Mancini replied, “and I don’t want to know how many Hail Marys I’ll have to say to keep my hide out of purgatory if Colonel Sinclair finds out we blew this literally as well as figuratively.”

Tuscon crept nearer the Rouen-class scout. Chief Tabb’s people waited inside the air lock until reports filtered back from a pair of bots Mancini dispatched over to the target—they’d cut through the skin and disabled the linkages between the command computers and the tiny but powerful reactor. Master One was officially helpless.

Mancini allowed himself to relax as he watched the external vids. Four crewers affixed portable thrusters to the dead scout then jetted clear as Olesen guided their captured prize toward the open hangar bay doors. Chief Tabb and his other ratings waited there to guide it into a capture cradle, where magnetic locks would secure it from further damage.

“We’ve got a good look from the bot cameras,” Tabb said through the intercom. “No sign of explosives. Got the techs disabling any wiring they can find, though, to be safe. She’s as dead as an empty missile casing, Skipper.”

“Be sure it is, Chief, and keep standard capture protocols in place.” It wasn’t the first time Tuscon’s crew had nabbed League spy apparatus, though Mancini didn’t think they’d ever caught one so close to the PASCORE network.

“Sounds like we might have caught an early break,” Godat commented. “The brass ought to be happy.”

“Probably.” Mancini frowned over the imagery of the dead scout ship. “We’ll see whether or not they think it’s too close a catch.”

6

City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

9 May 2465

Vasiliy Kiel was torn as to which made him happier—that CDF forces had stumbled upon the clumsy scout ship or that his ESS superiors had been livid about the loss.

He wasn’t surprised they were being petulant and shortsighted. The higher-ups, those who didn’t put their lives at risk to protect League citizens from the infectious individualism the Terrans wanted to inflict on all peoples, had no concept of sacrifice. How could they, when they let corruption seep into their ranks, enriching themselves to the point they became a wealthy class on par with Terran capitalists?

A Rouen-class drone was expensive, yes, and they would get no data from it about whatever the Terrans were using to prevent incursions. What they would get, though, was a glimpse of how CDF protected the asset hidden in the void. Because Kiel had made sure he’d sent two scouts.

The second, to be fair, wasn’t a full-fledged ship. The Rouen had dropped a probe during its exit from the wormhole—a risky move, given the damage wreaked upon the smaller craft. Still, it had lasted long enough to yield intriguing results. A Terran stealth boat had disabled and captured the Rouen.

“Not a lot for me to go on.” Yahanotov, Kiel’s resident technical whiz, lowered the volume on a bombastic orchestra score booming from his console’s speakers. When he’d had the time to install a sound system fit for a high-end nightclub, Kiel had no idea, but the lanky man seemed unperturbed by the amount of hardware boxing him in if he had the right music to soothe his nervous tendencies. “These scans are almost worthless.”

“Yet, it is a stealth boat, is it not?” Kiel leaned by the windowsill, where he could peer through blinds at the broad street outside and watch Yahanotov’s screens over the man’s shoulder.

“It sure is. I can’t give you a registry.” Yahanotov snorted. “Like CDF would be dumb enough to paint it on the outside, or even have a broadcasting transponder. They were definitely hanging around out there, though. Fits with your chart.”

“Bring it up.” There went another hovercraft, a bulky transport with the company name “Mosley-Dorsey” stenciled on the side. The truck must have been heavy-laden because its back end was a half meter nearer the pavement than the front. Kiel smiled. It was the third transport that morning headed along the coastal route to the Astrocom facilities.

Yahanotov input commands, and soon, a huge star map filled the wall opposite the windows. Kiel was once more glad Ferenc had secured the lodgings in a tax sale after the artists’ combine collapsed under the weight of the rent. Those idlers had gotten permission from the building owner to strip cabinets from the west wall and raise the ceiling up to the bare supports, removing a drop ceiling. The result was Kiel had a lovely canvas stretching four meters from the floor, on which Yahanotov could project their findings.

Three red dots appeared in the map of Terran space. A fourth red marker pulsated farther along, in the direction of the Saurian Empire.

“Not much of a trail, but it’s better than nothing,” Yahanotov said.

“It is far more valuable than nothing.” Kiel spread his hands before the map.

Of course Yahanotov couldn’t see it. No matter. His role was to amass the data. Kiel’s was to provide foresight and vision.

“Every scout spent brings us a parsec’s distance closer to the truth, you see—the truth of how the Terrans can, if not halt, at least be forewarned of incursions we make along the frontier.”

“I’ll send off a message to HQ and see if we can requisition a couple more, if that’s what you want, but they’re not cheap.”

Kiel smiled, remembering the spark of hope he’d felt when Director Borisov acquiesced to his plans. “I have faith the funding will be there.”

Yahanotov snorted. “Careful with that word, boss.”

“Why? Would you report me to a commissar? None were in the neighborhood last time I checked.”

Yahanotov shook his head but didn’t answer, choosing to chuckle instead.

A red light pulsed in the corner of Kiel’s tablet. The same beacon shone on Yahanotov’s console.

“That’s Ferenc,” Yahanotov said. “He’s back early.”

Kiel could see that. The security feed from concealed imagers in the hallway showed him a nondescript, placid-faced man with unruly hair climbing the last few steps to their floor. He wore rumpled clothing and, even with the dull scarlet glow from a cybernetic eye, could have passed for hundreds if not thousands of others one would pass on the street.

“Are you concerned?” Kiel asked.

“Only if he was followed. This place isn’t as crowded as Bellwether. Not as easy to hide.”

Kiel nodded, hoping to assuage the man’s concerns, at least outwardly. Come now. Could an individual who spent all hours hunkered in front of screens be a trusted commentator on how to conduct covert operations in the field? “I trust his shadow will have taken care of any obstacles.”

The door buzzed. Kiel crossed to it and touched the access panel, unlocking it. He had his other hand near his concealed plasma pistol. Just because he was disdainful of Yahanotov’s weakness didn’t mean he wasn’t a cautious, sober-minded individual.

Ferenc entered the room. He glanced at Kiel. “Is there a problem, sir? I wasn’t aware I was a security risk.”

Kiel chuckled. “Blame Yahanotov. He seems to think you’re incapable of losing a tail since we came back to planetary operations.”

“I’m afraid I disappointed him.” Ferenc offered his tablet. “My report.”

The download between devices took only a few seconds. Kiel frowned at the results filling his screen. “This—is less than expected.”

Ferenc shrugged.

“That is all you have to offer?” Kiel held the tablet up in Ferenc’s face, as if Ferenc hadn’t compiled the very information Kiel had just viewed. “The Bodrogi have accepted you into their good graces, and in three weeks, you bring me word they are willing to invite us to a party? A soiree that is considered the social event of the year?”

“Correct.”

Damn Ferenc and his accursed calm. The man could step naked through an active wormhole in the cold depths of space and yawn.

“It’s as I’ll explain again, sir—the Bodrogi have influence in all aspects of Daranj society, especially when it comes to the poorer families. Those families rely on men and women who fulfill the construction jobs, the ones working side by side with lifter bots.”

“Yes, I understand. These people are responsible for the structure refit at Astrocom. That doesn’t help us yet, though, with access to CDF technology hidden within the walls.”

“It’s smaller steps than we’d like, but this society is more closed than we hoped for. Makes it more difficult to infiltrate. They watch for outsiders, and it’s only through a connected organization like the Bodrogi syndicate that we can move deeper.”

Kiel exhaled. He throttled back his growing anger because frustration at the work Ferenc had done would get him nowhere. Perhaps it was irritation at the lost scout ship bubbling under the surface that made him more sensitive to the outcomes. “All right. I can accept that if you can guarantee me results.”

“I’ll know more once the gala takes place in a few weeks. Not only will the local officers be in attendance, but the contract managers present on-world are invited too. Those are the kinds of contacts we need to make, unless we want to be content with a go-between handling the sabotage like we’ve already attempted. The Bodrogi can broker those introductions.”

“And they’ll let you in?” Yahanotov glanced over his shoulder.

“Circe has offered to get me proper attire.” Ferenc sounded miffed.

“I would have been happy to offer assistance in the matter, too, if you’d rather she not tag along,” Kiel said. “What else from your new criminal friends?”

“Access to the local communication nets. Minimal effort on our part.”

“So, I can stop trying to break in?” Yahanotov sighed. “That’s a relief. It’s a stout system for a civilian one.”

“They have bribed officials within the communications guild. The access codes are in my report.”

“Very good. I expect more in a few days.”

“I’ll give you an update then. We’re close to having a source inside the refit project itself, on the construction end. From there, I’m confident we’ll get a tech or two willing to turn.”

“Money is the key, of course—money and disillusionment. These War Free Union types are gloriously blind to the threat we pose to the Coalition. No doubt they assume the League would lovingly welcome their world and grant them free food, free jobs, free money—free everything. They want all our society produces with none of the effort, without sacrificing the one thing that holds them back.”

“Individualism.” Yahanotov made a face like he’d found an unclean console.

“Exactly that.”

Ferenc nodded. “What orders do you have for Circe?”

“Tell her to continue her surveillance.” Kiel reactivated the security feeds. The passersby were a mixture of races and species, with about three-quarters being human, primarily of Turkish and Hungarian descent. Many wore hoods against the drizzle falling from the sky, splashing through puddles a couple of centimeters deep on the sidewalks and street. “And accept her offer to have you properly attired for the gala.”

Two women stood talking behind a gozoa tree, while a third waited at a public transit sign, engrossed in whatever she was reading on a tablet.

“She’s quite good,” Kiel mused.

“Yes, sir.” Ferenc didn’t sound impressed, dutifully agreeable but not impressed.

The two women hugged each other goodbye. One hurried across the street to the transit stop as a hover tram whisked in from the next block. Her friend turned in the direction of the camera, her skin ghostly in the shadows of her fuschia-colored hood. Blond curls fell free around her chin.

She tapped her left index finger against her lips twice then walked away as if she’d never noticed the surveillance imager, which was fine by Kiel. He’d received the confirmation signal he needed.

“You see?” Kiel held the tablet toward Yahanotov. “Ferenc was not followed. Now, leave Circe to her work, and attend to your own.”

Jackson made the rounds of the refit yet again, that time without Siddiq as his polite but watchful host. His new security credentials allowed him access to all but the most sensitive areas of Starcom, which meant he could visit with as many foremen as he liked—while staying locked out of the PASCORE-sensitive control areas.

Janet Mendoza, lead program manager for Vesper Composites, was huddled in conversation with a dozen men and women on the far side of Astrocom’s main building when Jackson found her that afternoon. He could make out snatches of what she said in Spanish, though the Turkish was a new one to him.

“Ms. Mendoza?” Jackson smiled, hands clasped behind his back, as he approached the group. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Mendoza eyed him with the scrutiny of a boss sizing up whether a man would be any use on the jobsite. “Not a bother, Mr. Hayes. You’re the one who makes sure we all get our credits.”

That earned a chuckle from the technicians, who gave Jackson a more respectful distance. Well, maybe not respectful, but they at least didn’t dismiss him as a nosy console jockey.

“Glad to hear it. Would you have a moment?”

“Sure.” She checked the large shock-resistant wrist unit she wore. “All right, you’ve got your assignments for the rest of the day. I don’t want the colonel sending me nasty notes about screwups if something identifies a warship as a nebula or vice versa. Get to it.” Mendoza’s smirk slipped as soon as her people dispersed. “Is there a problem, Mr. Hayes?”

“Not in the least. I wanted to see how Vesper’s staff were handling the refit and address any problems which may arise.”

“We’re not having any—problems, that is. Not unless you count having our completion date pushed up without explanation.” Mendoza scowled. “They shortened leaves and extended shifts. Pay doesn’t seem to be a problem, which is good, but my people need time to blow off steam, even when they’re working on classified systems they can’t talk about.”

“That makes sense to me. Can I do to anything help, from a managerial standpoint?”

“No offense, Mr. Hayes, but I have Vesper’s operations under control. I get you’re our newest and greatest shareholder at the moment. Work ethic is more my concern. Ken Lowe made it pretty clear we’re not supposed to take any crap from anyone or put up with ridiculous demands or requests that impede our progress.”

“Glad to hear it.” Jackson indicated the long hall off which banks of sensor equipment stood ready. “So, does that mean there have been no problems I need to be aware of? Because I can smooth things over with Colonel Siddiq, and I think it’s important Vesper’s board be aware of issues with our proprietary components.”

“No issues. At least, none that are our fault.”

“I’ll need more elaboration than that, Ms. Mendoza.”

She swiped sweat from her forehead and motioned him to follow.

Jackson did, making sure his wrist unit was recording the conversation. Surveilling a hardworking overseer such as herself wasn’t his favorite pastime, but he didn’t actually know if she was innocent. He tamped down the guilt. It’s supposed to be innocent until proven guilty. How did I wind up in a field that demands I reverse that assumption?

Mendoza glanced over her shoulder. “I didn’t want to get into this in front of my teams. There have been some issues, none that will set back the refit—not if they are stopped. I figure you should know about them since they involve your products.”

“Our products.”

They wound up facing four of the sensor banks. Each one was a rounded rectangular column twice as tall as the average human. Blue lights trickled down each of the four sides, like rain dripping on an exposed stanchion. The section of Astrocom they were in housed two dozen sets.

“The brains of the operation.” Mendoza slapped the nearest column, the sound meaty against the plastic shell. “Housed inside Vesper’s trademark reinforced interwoven composites. Easy guess from the name, right? We even install the internal cradles for the memory modules.”

She swept her wrist device along the nearest stream of blue lights. They froze and turned yellow, then the side popped open. Mendoza swung it the rest of the way aside, revealing the insides packed with enough circuitry, connections, and memory modules to keep Brant entertained for weeks.

“Here. You see it?” Mendoza tapped one of the twelve flattened black-and-silver spheres.

Jackson peered inside, using his left hand to brace himself against the open side of the sensor column. The stance let the installed scanners probe the interior with much greater accuracy than his human eyes could manage—and alerted Brant automatically to their findings.

“Echo One, this is Echo Home,” Brant chimed in. “If we were looking for evidence of tampering, this is a good start—substandard memory module casings.”

“Those casings look—shoddy,” Jackson murmured.

“You’ve got an eye for the product after all.” Mendoza grunted. “Not bad for the new suit. Yes, they’re shoddy. A better word would be crap. Sure, they held together during installation and the system boot up for these new towers, but you see those edges? How there’s a slight warping?”

“I see them,” Jackson lied. Every module looked identical from his vantage point.

“There’s maybe a two-millimeter difference in the straightness of those edges,” Brant noted. “Consider me impressed that she spotted it without aid. I should ask her to count the number of angels on a pinhead next.”

Jackson smothered a smile and opted instead for a befuddled look. “So, Ms. Mendoza, what does this warping mean?”

“It means someone swapped in cheap-grade casings every so often, hoping we’d never notice, but when those casings fail due to heat strain because they’re made of inferior materials compared to our composites, the entire column will shut down. If we’re unlucky, and there are more than we think in each of the new columns erected within the past few weeks, a shutdown like that could permanently wreck them.”

Jackson scowled. There was no need to fake the expression. “Any thoughts on how it happened? I won’t stand for our people tampering with our materials, even if it happened when the bots shaped them back at the factory.”

Mendoza shook her head. “Not what I think is going on. These are actual memory modules, not fakes, but someone’s repurposed them with Vesper’s logo. When you scan the material, I’d bet it’s only rated for civilian commercial use, nothing as high-grade as what Astrocom gets up to.”

“Then, the question is who else makes those modules?”

“Lots of firms throughout the Coalition but only one working here, where the swap could be easily made. Gollingstar. It’s a homegrown Trenchant corporation known for having a stranglehold on local tech.”

“Any chance they have unsavory connections?”

Mendoza shrugged as if she didn’t have an answer, but she whispered, “Bodrogi.”

He’d heard the name turn up in the team’s report, though sparingly.

“One, the nightclub where Echo Two’s headed tonight is purportedly owned by the Bodrogi syndicate, and three, Gollingstar board members have family connections. I’d say Mendoza’s onto something.”

Jackson rubbed his chin. Brant sounded worried but confident in his analysis, which was all Jackson needed to confirm it likely truth. “Have our people swap these out, quietly. If anyone asks a reason, tell them your new on-site manager demanded the work be redone because he didn’t like the way it looked.” He smiled. “No better time to blame it on the boss than this, don’t you think?”

Mendoza stared for a moment then chuckled. “Not bad, Suit. Not bad. Hope you don’t mind, but I already had the teams starting. That’s why we were meeting when you interrupted.”

That made it Jackson’s turn to laugh, which he did. “I think, Ms. Mendoza, you’re turning out to be my favorite PM. I’ll leave you to it.”

He waited until he was back among civilian tourists outside the work zones before he linked audio to Brant. “Home, this is One. Advise Two she should be on the lookout for our local competition. Here’s hoping they’re on the VIP list.”

“Roger, Home.”

“Local competition” was enough instruction for Gina to watch for Gollingstar reps at the nightclub. The “VIP” list was code for the League’s External Security Services and anyone who might be an agent or operative, but in Jackson’s mind, the “VIP” was singular. Vasiliy.

7

33001 Harbor Rim

City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

9 May 2465

It was past nightfall when Gina arrived at the abandoned storage structure, with its walls leaning in like drunk old men supporting each other after a twenty-four-hour bender. But the nightclub hidden underneath was even darker than the cloudless evening—just the way she liked it.

Getting in took less than a minute because she presented her tablet so the hulking, tattooed bouncer could scan the screen with the refractive band affixed over his eyes. She found his breathing a severe irritant—either he had allergies or his nasal passages couldn’t abide the aerator around his neck. He sounded liked a misaligned thruster.

The screen displayed the taped X from Gina’s window. She experienced a moment of panic. How could they confirm I received an invitation when the message deleted itself? The answer came when the words reappeared, as if from the ether. Brant must be impressed. Gina tried not to squint at the pale-blue text that filtered across her field of vision via the linked contact lenses that not only turned her eyes a gold-rimmed green but received simple notes from his console. He hasn’t said a word since I arrived.

The tattooed giant straightened and let Gina walk past.

Walk, nothing. She made an entrance. Music pounded at her senses as she waded into the crowd bathed in midnight with only pink and purple circles on the floor to light the way. Everyone in attendance, male and female, was either heavily modified by makeup or tattoos or had extravagant aerators covering three-quarters of their faces. Parsing identities would be difficult at best. Then again, that was the point. Gina smiled, both for her own satisfaction and to project confidence.

“Two, time for a check-in,” Brant said. “Here’s hoping you can hear me over the racket. I’m having trouble getting faces matched to those we have from files compiled on WFU, Gollingstar, and Bodrogi, but keep scanning—I’ll have answers, even if it takes most of the night.”

What a shame. Gina paid for a short, fizzy orange drink and sipped, shifting eye contact from one handsome man to the next as she prowled the perimeter of the main crowd gyrating in the center of the dance floor. Maybe I won’t give Jack as hard a time as I first planned.

Other women returned her gaze, too, but she could feel mostly curiosity or jealously in her wake.

Two swift dances later, both of which left her breathless and wishing she’d never been crazy enough to sign on with CDF Intelligence’s madcap schemes, she sidled to the end of a long, C-shaped couch and sagged against it. Not much appealed about the rock-hard surface that drew her interest except for the man at the center of the C.

He was medium height with coal-black hair. Three streaks were shaved through either side from his sideburns all the way around the back of his head. His eyes were so blue they appeared as pale as moonlight blazing against his dark Amerindian features. Atop gray trousers, he wore a sleek black shirt with a green tinge that rippled whenever light shifted across its surface. The most intriguing part was, aside from a cursory glance in her direction, he ignored her presence.

Gina slid closer along the couch. Time to deploy the tedious code phrase. “Have you tried one of these? Sweet, with a bit of spark.”

She referenced her drink, the one she’d picked off the menu because of its name, not its flavor. Intelligence supplied the choice—it was part of the signal.

The young man looked at her. “Too much of a sweet thing kills.”

“Two, that’s confirmed.” Brant sounded relieved. “He’s your contact.”

Yes, I know, because I’m not an idiot, and I can remember a basic phrase protocol. But she didn’t say it aloud because Brant wasn’t a field operative. She couldn’t blame him for his concern. It was endearing. Jack would’ve gotten an earful, though.

She let her smile bleed through as she closed the distance along the couch. “Hi. I’m Gina.”

“Cam Tahatan.” His voice was pitched low with a musical quality.

Gina pegged him as trained, if not from schooling then at least by hobby—probably signing in whatever church he attended. “Well, Cam, I have to say, as far as first contacts go, this is the most enjoyable I’ve had in a while.” Gina sipped her drink.

“You don’t have to keep up with that sludge just for me.” Cam smirked. “There’s a reason it’s called a Sour Nova.”

“Gah, it’s disgusting, isn’t it? Why is it still on the menu? Or is it new…?”

“Nope. Owner’s had it listed for ten months. He’s got his servbots programmed to offer it discounted, targeting newcomers. But locals aren’t dumb enough to pick it up.”

“Only visitors like me.” Gina raised an eyebrow. “So much for keeping a low profile.”

“Ah, it’s part of your cover, though.” Cam wagged a finger at her. “Idealistic crusader come to Trenchant to raise a fist against the oppressive military class and punish them for decades of ruinous war that almost lost us the Coalition.”

“Yes, I know, better society, free services, and a pony for everybody.” Gina sighed. “So, I take it you’re my introduction to this exciting world of smelly protestors.”

“You’re correct. There’s a demonstration tomorrow at nineteen hundred downtown. I’d like you to be there—for the cause.”

Still holding her drink, Gina tapped her right thumb against the inside of her left pointer finger, the subtle sign given between members of the War Free Union. “I’ll be there. Why nineteen hundred?”

“Have to wait until everyone gets off work.” Cam winked and reached for his glass, a stout tumbler nearly drained of a sparkling green liquid. “Not all WFU believers are hardcore socialists—or even socialists of any kind. Those extremists make up a tenth, if that.”

“Let me guess. They’re unfortunately the loudest.”

Cam nodded and took a drink.

“What about you?”

“Me? Observe and report.” He lowered his voice even further. Gina leaned in, her nose close to brushing the stubble of his jawline. She put her hand on his knee, cementing the illusion they were flirting while overcoming the obstacle of the club’s background noise—which in truth also made it near impossible to hear what they were saying unless they were a meter away. “And occasionally foul up their plans when the need arises.”

“Sabotage targeting Coalition civilians?”

“Nothing so dramatic. I’m not going to get my ass kicked by my bosses—we all know the brass up the line aren’t comfortable with even the surveillance aspect. I’m talking a hovercraft that won’t start here and a malfunctioning voice amplifier there. Minor embarrassments.”

“Well, how will—”

Cam snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her still closer. Gina mentally ran through the steps to slip her knife from a hidden seam on her dress and bring it against his jugular without anyone seeing, but his hurried whisper stopped her. “Your targets, newcomer.”

He’d brushed against her enough she was facing two women of Middle Eastern descent walking by, arm in arm with a short, rotund Asian man. They were striking ladies, in part because one had her hair streaked with brilliant pink where it rested on bare shoulders, and the other had a cropped haircut as white as a centenarian’s.

“Who’s the fantastic trio?” Gina murmured.

“Laila and Qisma al-Omer, escorting Kubo Yodo. He’s the chief operations officer for Gollingstar. The al-Omer sisters are Bodrogi.”

“Not just eye candy.” They couldn’t be. Gina read their skills from the way they walked—casual, of course, exuding desire, but they were primed to strike. She didn’t know what kind of martial arts training they had, but it was enough to make them formidable in a close-combat situation. She guessed they excelled with knives and misdirection above brute strength.

“No. Assassins. Distractions.” Cam backed away and smiled at her. “Which isn’t to say the latter aren’t fun.”

Gina didn’t bother disguising her disdain. “Is this the first time you’ve been paired with a woman? Because you’re employing all the subtlety of a sixteen-year-old boy.”

Cam chuckled then held the back of his hand to his mouth to prevent from choking on his drink. “I’m young at heart, I suppose.”

“Cute. Was there a point to these targets?” Gina touched one of her firestar gem earrings. “I have a present for an interested party.”

“Qisma, it turns out, is an ardent upholder of WFU tenets.”

“A criminal assassin who wants less military presence on the planet she exploits?” Gina touched her breastbone and batted her eyelashes. “I do declare.”

Cam chuckled again. Gina couldn’t blame him—she’d pulled off a pretty charming Old American South accent.

“Come on, newcomer. I’ll make the introductions.”

Gina took Cam’s proffered arm and let him lead her to where the al-Omer sisters and Yodo laughed by a tall, round-topped table. Neither woman had a drink, but Yodo had a flute of champagne.

“Mr. Yodo?” Cam smiled, somehow even more handsome than a moment before. “My apologies for interrupting.”

“Ah! Mr. Tyler.” Yodo gave an abbreviated bow, which Cam mimicked. “Delightful to see you. It’s been, what, six weeks since the kerfuffle by the Astrocom gates?”

“Kerfuffle?” Brant blurted.

Gina nearly jumped at his interjection.

“How old is this one? Two, Yodo is the person who needs your bug—of course, get both sisters, too, if you can manage.”

If I can manage? It’s a good thing I like Brant. Gina tugged on Cam’s arm and pressed against him. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. Gina’s going to join us at the protests.” Cam raised his glass at the al-Omer sister with the white hair. “Figured you’d want to meet a new recruit, Qisma.”

“Always great fun to have another troublemaker aboard.” Qisma nudged Yodo. “Sorry, Kubo. It’s your meal ticket, but we can’t put off the revolution.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m all in, dear Qisma. Let me drain them of this last round of capital, then I’ll be happy to funnel whatever you need. The irony will be delicious. Gina, it is nice to have a fresh face in our ranks.”

“Gina Amari.”

She offered the same bow, but Yodo intercepted her hand and kissed her knuckles. She tried not to gag. His mustache was drenched with sweat. It might as well have been a lick from a rain-soaked terrier.

“Happy to be of service,” she finished.

“Thank you, my dear. You’ll be a welcome addition to the cause.”

Gina giggled and played with her earring. The glittering light camouflaged the release of three microbots from the jewelry’s backside. They swooped behind Gina’s head and up into the dazzling overhead strobes. They were as tiny as pebbles, their miniscule, diaphanous wings sending them around the room until they alighted on the clothing of three targets—Laila, Qisma, and Yodo.

“Flitters engaged, Two,” Brant muttered. “We’ll see what kind of security functions they have at their respective homes or headquarters, but if our little pals can sneak through a League consulate and a corporate office, I’ve got high hopes—and a lot of prayers.”

Gina was glad he did. While she never put much stock in specific deities, or narrow religions, she wasn’t about to dissuade others from doing so. After all, it was best to hedge her bets in case she turned out wrong.

Jackson threw his jacket over a chair and sagged onto the largest of three couches in his living room. No discount loft for the supposed executive—J. Jefferson Hayes had a full suite on the uppermost floors of the Luxe Well, one of the most expensive and certainly exclusive hotels in Daranj, a few blocks down the street from the entrance gate to Astrocom. Between the huge bathroom complete with jacuzzi, the full-size kitchen, bedroom, and living room, Jackson was sure Dwyer could maneuver Novabird in for a landing provided the walls and ceiling could open wide enough. He kicked off his shoes and went for a tall glass of water from the dispenser. After a long swig, he splashed more water on his face, especially at the corners of his eyes. Trenchant’s atmosphere wasn’t agreeing with him.

His tablet chirped from its post on the dining room table. Jackson acknowledged the incoming message. “Echo Home, this is Echo One. Good news?”

“On both fronts, Gina’s and yours. She got her flitters into place. I’m getting good reads off two of them—Kubo Yodo with Gollingstar and Laila al-Omer, the latter being supposedly a Bodrogi enforcer. The third one, sent to Qisma al-Omer, didn’t survive a security sweep. A focused scan can short out their system.”

“What’s the chance of it being traced back to the family?” Jackson used the code for CDF Intelligence.

“Zero. The flitters are a personal design modified off tech confiscated from neutral system infiltrators years back. Nothing’s registered.” Brant sounded supremely pleased. “So we’re good there. And speaking of good, I’ve got possible sites for Gollingstar’s origin point of those faulty module casings. Should have it narrowed down once we break Yodo’s systems.”

Jackson nodded. “As soon as you have something, let me know. Echo Three and Four are getting antsy. I hear Three didn’t take too well to local wildlife.”

Brant chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m sure they’ll be happier once they’re able to cause a mess. Also, there’s a personal note for you—had it sent hard copy to your room. Should be there in three seconds.”

Jackson had just counted to two when the door signal chimed. The vid screen atop the control panel showed a drone from the local package delivery service, TrenchEx, hovering outside. “Yes, it’s here. Message me if there’s anything else or if our nasty neighbors poke around.” Neighbors meaning the League.

“Roger, One. Have a good night.”

“Likewise.” Jackson shut the tablet off and opened the front door.

The drone accepted payment from his credit chit—the thing was loaded with thousands, so he wouldn’t go short soon—and disgorged a memory stick a few centimeters long. Personal message, Brant had said. Jackson had a good idea from whom it came but didn’t relax until Abril Castillo’s face filled his tablet screen.

“Jay, I hope you’re doing well.” She smiled. “Miss you around here. You’ll be happy to know the lawyers made progress—with your mom, that is. My parents were able to arrange a visit with her and legal reps from both families. She’s agreed to the merger.”

Jackson tapped the tablet to stop the message playback and braced his hands on the table. Relief washed over him like the galaxy’s most soothing shower. Thank God. Brant would see this as an affirmation of faith, and maybe it is. If my mom can have a change of heart about something as vital as the future of our ranch…

He restarted the message, in which Abby continued, “Now if we can get Harry to the negotiating table, things will really look up. I’m not going to lie, Jay—I don’t have the greatest hope he’ll budge. Harry’s angry with you for your life away, upset with us for what he sees as intrusion into family affairs, frustrated his healing is taking longer than he wants. I think he’s also still grappling with your father’s death in ways he won’t discuss.”

“Truer words,” Jackson murmured. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about Dad either.

“By the time you get back from your next deployment, I hope my parents will have made more headway. We’ll have documents to sign and witnesses to gather.” Abby’s smile grew. “And another dinner, I hope. This time, we’ll cook it together.”

Much better than dining at a crowded restaurant. Jackson’s mind wandered out of his executive persona to a warmly lit kitchen at Abby’s home, the single-story she maintained on the Castillo ranch, a fireplace and a bottle of wine, rain pelting the windowpanes.

“Miss you. I think I already said it.” Abby laughed. She reached out for something, maybe to adjust the video settings, but Jackson realized she was just touching the screen. “Come back to me.”

The recording ended on her frozen face. Jackson returned the gesture. These were the moments when he would be perfectly happy stepping away from the spy game. He’d done his part. Haven’t I? Put in plenty of years, stopped the League on enough occasions. Despite what Harry always insinuated—and sometimes shouted aloud—Jackson had served his country. He was proud of that service, if not the ways in which it was done, and would leave it up to others to fulfill if a new life beckoned.

And yet, Jackson knew too much about the League, specifically, the ESS. He knew to what lengths they were willing to go to disrupt his nation. If they succeeded, there would be no safe harbor. They’d demonstrated time and time again their goal wasn’t the assimilation of the Terran Coalition but its obliteration. If anything, his last mission at Bellwether solidified that in his mind, when he’d discovered the League trying to steal proprietary atmospheric renewal tech that could be used to destroy a world’s atmosphere. They’d progressed from political disruption to pursuit of weapons of mass destruction in a short span.

“And we’re right back at it.” Jackson shook his head and drained the rest of the water from his glass.

He knew he was putting a huge weight on his shoulders, but he didn’t much care. All thoughts of future bliss with Abby—and apart from his family—vaporized. Now wasn’t the time to daydream. He had a team to lead, people to protect, and an enemy to lure. He only hoped that by setting that lure, Covert Action Unit 171 wouldn’t be the ones getting snared.

8

Blaise Memorial Community Field

Downtown, City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

12 May 2465

The Blaise Memorial Community Field sat in roughly the geometric center of Daranj, where six wide avenues met in a traffic circle. At five hundred kilometers across, it was a miniature park complete with three towering stands of spindly gozoa trees clustered near six ponds. Locals called it Blaise Hex despite its circular shape.

Gina didn’t much care what it was called, only that it was the focus of the afternoon’s action. Easily a thousand people thronged in and around Blaise Hex. Police were in attendance, too, fifty officers plus a hundred patrol drones overhead. Each officer had a sentry bot as a partner, a short security unit one meter tall perched on four independently swiveling wheels and topped with a stun-round launcher. The local cops must have been pulling their punches because, by the time Gina crossed the street, three wheeled bots were coated in purple paint.

About half the protestors hoisted signs decorated with the previously mentioned paint or sprayed with black-and-silver slogans. Gina dutifully swept her gaze across the wording, in case Brant would find them useful in identifying who produced them, but she focused the bulk of her scans on the people gathered. So many faces—like the nightclub, only it was much harder to hide blemishes and wrinkles in the light of day.

Cam stood at the base of a portable holographic projector spraying the phrase “Blasters for Bread” in a rainbow array. People of all ages, young teens through elderly with walking assists, continued their chants in a discordant cacophony.

“Glad you could make it!” Cam said.

Gina got close to him so she could lower her volume. She hated shouting—might as well be back at the spaceport where her mother made her recite incoming craft specs. “With all these lovely people packed shoulder to shoulder? However could I refuse?”

Cam snorted but kept pumping his fist in the air alongside the other diehards. “Play nice, newcomer. These are the true believers, so if you’re one, too, you’ll fit right in.”

She raised her fist in perfect synchronization, and when an old man pushed a placard into her other hand, she whooped and cheered. It didn’t matter that she would much rather be back at the nightclub, dancing. “How long will it take for you to stop calling me newcomer?”

“Depends.” Cam smirked. “How many generations plan on calling Trenchant home?”

Oh yes. Gina sighed. This is going to be a very long afternoon.

Brant had two screens taking up the bulk of his view—a long, rectangular one giving him multiple angles of the protest, courtesy of the secure patrol drone feed he’d broken into, and a tall, square one split into four images. He made a face as his gaze lingered on Jackson’s hotel suite. At least Brant’s abode was comparable to Gina’s cheap apartment that time. One day he would have to impress upon his CO that as the team member who did the most sitting around, he should be entitled to the finest digs. After all, who would guess CDF Intelligence would put its finest info tech up in lodgings rivaling the average CEO?

His comms panel blinked. Satisfied with Gina’s position within the crowd, Brant let loose an algorithm that would search the hundreds of faces for the al-Omer sisters then answered the call from Echo Three. “Three, this is Echo Home. I copy.”

“How’s the weather up there?” Something went clunk in the background, followed by a sharp bang. “Home, if you tell me it’s all sunshine and gozoa leaves, I might just up and quit.”

“Then I won’t say a word, Three.” His reply didn’t stop Brant from forwarding three images of the protest, complete with wide-angle shots of the balmy, sun-soaked Blaise Hex. “What’s your position?”

“Less than twenty clicks from target. Echo Four is ready for drop. Sure is glad to hear the water temperature’s pleasant, even if we’ve got five-meter waves in the chop.”

“Watch that wind speed when you come across the bay,” Brant warned. “Just because you’re going to take a toy out of the bathtub doesn’t mean you have to fall in.”

Dwyer’s chuckle was as relaxed as always, even as rumbling bled through the transmission again. Brant saw the weather scans from his position, less than sixty klicks southwest of Daranj, detailing a long, narrow cold front cutting across Orantes Bay.

“Roger, Home. Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m too fond of this bird.”

“Keep me apprised of target condition.” Brant tapped another control on his console, which lit up a detailed orbital scan of Orantes Bay. He grinned. Eldred sure knew her sensor work—she’d trained Oxford’s high-gains right where he needed them. Too bad the vessel’s orbit meant he only had a half-hour window in which to shake the branch and see what fell loose.

“Copy, Home. Turbulence ain’t gettin’ any smoother. Will apprise. Three out.”

Brant immediately scrambled the frequency then instructed a background program running on his console to shift the link with Novabird between two others. He pulled up a fourth frequency, long used by drug smugglers, dissidents, and other anti-government types, for his next communique. “Echo One, this is Echo Home. Migration almost complete. Standing by for census.”

Jackson leaned against the chest-high railing on the Astrocom tower’s twentieth floor. He peered through one of the eight observation poles set at regular intervals around the perimeter, allowing for a breathtaking view of Daranj, the island’s inland terrain, and the archipelagoes stretching to the horizon in all directions. He’d already made sure to save and forward a captured image to his persona’s server. Abby would love such a vista, provided he could get clearance from Intelligence to get it past censors.

He used his thumb and forefingers to squeeze the inside of his right sleeve, sending an acknowledgement signal back to Brant. Jackson preferred to run a single operation at a time, but that day, it couldn’t be helped—Gina’s planted flitters had provided tantalizing access into Gollingstar’s shipping manifests and Bodrogi syndicate’s communications. A cross-reference of the two, overlapping the delivery information Jackson had finagled out of Program Manager Mendoza, had yielded a second delivery of faulty, disguised memory module casings on their way from the southwest to Daranj’s port in time for the next installation.

“One would think they would have a better use for their time.” Colonel Siddiq joined him, hands clasped behind his back. Wind ruffled his black hair peppered with gray. He actually clucked his tongue—Jackson hadn’t realized anyone still did so. It left Jackson with the distinct impression he should be ashamed he’d forgotten an assignment to turn into Siddiq. “At least they had to wait until they finished work for the day, so they were being productive up until this point.”

“Certainly is a lively bunch.” Jackson chuckled. “I wonder if they’d be holding the same protests if the League had won.”

“From the inside of a concentration camp until the torture started.” Siddiq’s frown deepened. “Local LEOs do a fine enough job keeping them in line, though CDF has caught a handful sneaking into Izarrak Yards. Concerning enough, I’d say, though all they wound up doing was splattering hard-to-clean paint all over the dock access.”

Jackson glanced skyward. The geosynchronous Izarrak Yards were visible as a faint silver web, smaller than his thumbnail at that distance. He recalled it having three of the six slips filled with a couple of troop transports and an astrographic scout vessel. “It’s still a concerning breach of security.”

“It is, but you try convincing my counterpart up there to take seriously any hint of threat from these people.” Siddiq shook his head. “Franky, I think Trenchant produces an inordinate amount of sympathizers. As long as our police can maintain law and order, though, my complaints are met with indifference.”

Law and order. Jackson nodded his agreement, though he found the phrase amusing since his people were about to become pirates.

Orantes Bay

Southwest of Daranj City

Dwyer grimaced as Novabird bounced through another pocket of turbulence. Containers stashed in the racer’s cargo hold banged against each other, but with the constraint webbing in place, they weren’t going any farther than a couple centimeters.

“Sev!” he hollered. “Two minutes to target!”

How he could hear the responding grunt over the combined racket of Novabird’s engines, the gale’s pounding winds, and the slashing rain against the fuselage was a minor miracle. A quick glance over his shoulder reassured him Sev was clad in his adaptive camouflage suit, a pulse pistol strapped to his hip, and his carbine loaded with stun rounds secured to his chest. He’d already pulled his mask down, leaving a faceless mottled-black surface with a single pale-green strip running down the center.

No, sir, no way would I want him to be the last thing I saw. Dwyer shivered but managed to give Sev both a grin and a thumbs-up.

Proximity sensors caught his attention. The hydrofoil’s spray was visible as twin streaks of white against a gray background. Dwyer had already killed his running lights and transponder, thanks to the handy modifications he’d made to the civilian racer model.

Sev punched the hatch release. Wind roared into the cabin. Dwyer was glad he’d remembered to clean up any loose items from his and Sev’s time spent waiting at the secluded forest landing field.

“Drop in thirty!” Dwyer called.

The idea was simple enough—race up to the hydrofoil, get onto its upper deck, and let Sev jump. The vessel’s sensors might detect Novabird’s presence, but its upgraded fuselage coating would reduce its scanner signature to that of a drone. And by the time the crew drew straws to see who was going to brave the storm to go abovedeck and take a peek, Sev would already be about his work.

The shadowy form of the hydrofoil took shape, running lights flashing through the rainstorm’s gloom. Dwyer grinned. Those folks were hauling legitimate cargo, so far as Daranj surface port authorities knew. No reason to hide.

He checked his timer. Ten seconds. As soon as it expired, the timer triggered the interior light over the hatch to switch from red to green.

“Godspeed!” Dwyer shouted.

Sev returned a thumbs-up and was gone through the hatch.

Wind battered him but only for a moment. Warrant Dwyer’s blessing rang in his ears. Silly that he’d shouted it, considering their linked comms, but he understood the need to use those as sparingly as possible as the team guarded against possible League listening.

In a dark, fatalistic way, Sev hoped they were listening. Let them come to him. He would gladly face whoever Vasiliy was and put his body between his teammates and death.

He hit the upper deck, boots absorbing the shock, and let the forward motion carry him. The rain-slicked surface let him slide along until he stopped himself against the comms and sensor posts protruding at a forty-five-degree angle alongside the signals mast. Red and green running lights cast his surroundings in eerie unicolor shadow.

“Down,” he muttered into the comms. The mic pickup, implanted by his larynx, translated all his speech into clear words regardless of external volume—no worries about the wind carrying it away.

“Roger, Four. We are five by five.” Dwyer sounded relieved.

Novabird’s engines roared overhead as the racer soared away, though they soon faded, sounding to Sev like an afterthought in the storm’s winds. Sev looked behind him. The sky was lighter on the horizon. His wrist unit told him he had ten minutes until the storm’s edge reached the hydrofoil. Perfect.

“Try not to worry about how much time is left.” Father guided him through the remaining equations on an early exam. “Focusing on the proper solution for one problem at a time will help you solve each one faster, then before you know it, you’ve finished everything with minutes to spare.”

Sev crept toward the starboard edge of the upper deck, where a ladder led below, his pulse pistol drawn. Thank you, Father, though this time I can only afford a margin of seconds.

The hydrofoil had three decks above water: the upper, which contained all manner of sensors; the second, which had the bridge forward and crew cabins aft; and the lower, home to vital machinery and cargo. A second, longer hold was below the surface.

“Echo Four, this is Echo Home.” Static rived Lieutenant Guinto’s voice until he muttered in Tagalog and tapped on his console. A squeal pierced Sev’s hearing, then the static disappeared. “Four, is that better?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Interference from the storm. Check your wrist unit—uplinked with orbital scan results on the hydrofoil.”

Sev did as instructed. A tiny schematic of the hydrofoil greeted him, the orange image speckled with six black stars—six people, three of whom were moving, and three of whom were stationary.

He slid down the ladder to the bridge deck, avoiding the windows and lights. Sev reached onto the backside of his belt and retrieved an oblong canister. He set it gently on the deck, as if he were putting down an infant to nap. Except he wanted the opposite result. “Time to wake,” he said.

The canister split open, the exterior folding up as dozens of tiny, spindly legs sprouted from the sleek robot inside. Nine orange optical scanners glowed amidst whiskery antennae. The bot skittered aft, disappearing down a secondary hatchway.

Wind and rain lashed at him, but Sev could already detect the storm’s fury subsiding. He checked his timer. Eight and a half minutes.

“Depletion unit in place,” Brant reported. “Activation—now.”

The hydrofoil’s lights flickered then died. The engines sputtered, tried to restart, and failed. The last sound remaining, a hum emitted from the sensor array topside, faded. Sev knelt by the nearest hatch, carbine raised.

The protest was on the move. Gina noticed it like a pilot would notice a shift in the wind. One moment the reflecting pools were the focus. A few minutes later, the roundabout street. It took only a few zealous leaders, propped on the shoulders of their comrades or shouting messages from drones buzzing overhead, to get the crowds moving. The problem was Gina couldn’t see the destination from where she was. Time for more intel.

She caught Cam’s shoulder. “Where are we going?”

“Not sure. No government offices are down that street.” Cam made a face. “Hopefully we haven’t moved into the smashing-windows phase. Last time the protests veered in that direction, the police were more than happy to deploy stun rounds and suppression gas, but so far, they’re hanging back. Give me a second.”

He slipped deeper into the crowd, where Gina could see him asking questions of a few protestors who held voice amplifiers to their mouths. She took a deep breath from her aerator—the prolonged outdoor exposure was making her nasal passages dry and her eyes itch. So much for having an extra spy in their midst.

“Echo Two, this is Home.”

Ah, there’s Brant. Her eyes and ears.

“About a quarter of the crowds have streamed down Sennebec Street. Business and office registry doesn’t list anything of interest, but if you take that road, you wind up at the docks… hang on.”

She didn’t like hang on because her brain was already going where she figured his was.

“That’s confirmed.” Brant came back across the embedded comms, his voice tight. “The docks at the very end of Sennebec are owned by Horizon-Arch Transport LLC, a Bodrogi-run legitimate shipping concern. Two large vessels are coming in from the northeast, with slated arrival times identical to the target.”

The target. Dwyer and Sev were taking care of the hydrofoil. Gina scanned the crowd once again and glimpsed Qisma al-Omer ahead, clinging to the edges, not putting nearly as much effort into the role of a true believer. Someone would have to be at the docks to meet the hydrofoil, but if Sev succeeded, the ship wasn’t going to arrive, and that someone would be left standing around empty-handed—or possibly break off from the crowd if their mission aborted.

“Hey.” Cam reappeared at her side. “There’s talk of a big gozoa sap shipment coming for the refineries. The hotheads at the fore of the crowd want to dump containers overboard. They’re thinking about cordoning off the boat as a way of leveraging their demands.”

Gina snorted. “Until the police leave them all twitching on the pavement or flopping on the pier like fish dropped from a net.”

Cam chuckled. “I didn’t say it was a fantastic plan. I just said it was their plan.”

“We’ve got another issue—our target is supposed to arrive at the same docks.”

Cam’s eyes widened. “So, we need to play spotter.”

“Exactly.” Gina lowered her voice. “Echo Home, this is Two, acknowledged. Put Chaperone into our comms. We have to part ways.”

“Sweet sorrow,” Cam murmured.

Gina rolled her eyes, though she appreciated a man who knew his ancient classics.

“Confirmed, Two. Chaperone is in the loop. Passing word to Echo One.”

Jackson followed the crowd as the mass of tiny figures surged toward the docks. Brant was right—that complicated their operation but had potential to yield results. He glanced over his shoulder. Siddiq had moved along the railing, deep in discussion with another of his officers.

“Home, this is One, acknowledging Chaperone’s inclusion. Two and Chaperone—get me visuals on the meet and greet. I want to know who’s going to be very disappointed this afternoon.”

He spotted the large cargo movers on the horizon, distant flecks against the dark sea. The scene brought to mind the depths of space, which reminded Jackson of the scout ship CSV Tuscon encountered. Fingers crossed, the League was stepping up to the trap. Jackson hoped it would hold when his team sprang it.

9

Orantes Bay

Southwest of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

12 May 2465

The first person out of the hatch was a woman with broad shoulders, five piercings in each ear, and a plasma rifle that Sev was certain couldn’t be legally obtained on Trenchant. She didn’t see him crouched there, even a meter away, because the hatch swung open to her left, blocking Sev from view.

He caught the hatch, turned sideways so it could slip past, and fired a stun round into her upper back. The woman only had time for a startled cry. Her limbs spasmed, the voluntary nervous system disrupted. Sev caught her as she fell—a chivalrous gesture, according to a small section at the back of his mind, but of more importance was reducing any racket.

An argument’s echoes filtered through the open hatchway. Doubtless the hydrofoil’s crew was trying to figure out why they’d lost all power and were suddenly adrift. Sev set the unconscious woman on the deck only after making certain the railing would keep her from sliding off into the sea. No deaths that time around, if they could be avoided.

Sev vowed to fulfil Captain Adams’s commands because he was a good man, and in Sev’s estimation, those were hard to come by in a galaxy riven by war, greed, and politics.

“Where’s Zara? Go check and see why she left the hatch hanging open!”

A fine opportunity. Sev stepped through and fulfilled Zara’s task.

“She got it!” The responding voice was younger and nearer.

“Go make sure she didn’t lock herself out, and get up to the comms tower! I can’t send a distress if the auxiliary won’t fire up!”

Sev sidled along the corridor, carbine raised. Muttering mingled with the sound of footsteps soon became intelligible speech. “Can’t it wait until she fixes the generator? Nope, guess not. Riley gets sent topside while the engineer—”

Riley turned out to be a mere boy, no older than eighteen, gangly in the universal way human males were at that age. Sev thought Riley’s eyes might bug out of his head when he found himself facing the carbine. Sev put a finger to his lips. Riley nodded until Sev gestured with the carbine, making his meaning clear—hands up. Back up.

“Riley? What the hell are you doing?”

With poor Riley as his hostage, Sev rounded the corner into the bridge. Like the corridor, orange emergency lumens set into the floor and ceiling lent adequate backup illumination to the ship’s control center. It was a large enough space to accommodate a bank of four consoles wrapping in an arc under the forward windows. The pilot’s wheel and controls took up the middle two.

The pilot himself was even taller than Riley, but he’d filled out his lanky frame. A pair of burly dark-skinned men—twins, Sev saw when they looked at each other—flanked the pilot. A tall, slender woman stood at a fifth console in the center of the room, surrounded by glowing charts and readouts. Four. Riley made five. Zara, six. All targets accounted for.

“Hands,” Sev snapped.

Everyone in the room spun and faced him. One of the twins—his hair a hideous glowing scarlet—was fast enough to reach for a holstered plasma pistol but not before Sev dropped him with a single stun round to the chest. Riley yelped and staggered back, his arms shaking.

“Empty hands,” Sev snarled.

Despite their angry expressions, none of the remaining crew were apparently willing to take a risk against Sev’s wraithlike, disguised form as he trained a weapon on them.

“You can’t hijack my ship without power.” The female captain, who had a jagged scar cresting her chin, glared at Sev as if she could will him to burst into flames. “So take what you want and leave.”

“No.” Sev reached behind his belt and thrust a ring of binders toward Riley. “You leave.”

Sennebec Street

City of Daranj

Gina and Cam were separated by the crowd as it surged between buildings, so much so that she couldn’t see him among the hundreds of heads shouting around her. But the locational data Brant provided not only marked him on her wrist unit but highlighted Cam’s presence in a faint orange silhouette only she could see, courtesy of her enhanced contact lens.

The virtual presence assured her, even if they were refraining from communications. Knowing Brant watched over them—with Jackson on the high ground, for a change—let her concentrate on Qisma.

The Bodrogi enforcer hadn’t left the crowds, but she’d remained at the periphery, where she could maintain the appearance of participation. Still, it was obvious to Gina that Qisma was searching for something or someone. Her gaze flicked to the nearby docks every few seconds—so regularly Gina bet Brant could provide her with the precise timing.

Her concern was understandable. The large container ships had accepted the help of automated tugs as they made their final approach into the Bodrogi-controlled port, but there was no sign of the hydrofoil. Transport trucks and cargo hovercraft lined the piers, awaiting their goods.

Gina smirked. You’re going to have a long wait, girl.

Her wrist until pulsed. It fed her a message from Cam. “Three men. Third hovercraft in line. Seen them at the club.”

Wherever Cam was, he had a better view of the piers than she did. Gina spotted a quartet of protesters clambering atop a luxury hovercraft, the kind equipped with a robot driver and appointed with enough chrome to make it shimmer under the afternoon sun. The youths helped each other onto the long, broad roof and hoisted their banners aloft, the red-and-gold cloth whipping in the wind off the ocean.

“Keep your eyes open, boys,” Gina murmured. She climbed onto the hood and held out a hand. “Hey! A little help?”

“Come on up, sister!” The young man who pulled her up grinned for a split second before resuming his fevered chant. “No guns for gozoa!”

Poor rhythm but catchy. Gina scanned the pier as she echoed the kid’s chant. Yes, there were the three. She made sure to keep them in her sights long enough for Brant to record.

“Two, this is Home. I need a cleaner shot of their faces.” Brant’s eagerness couldn’t have been more obvious if he were hoping to hit an actual jackpot. “I can run through local facial recognition databases if we get them, but given their custom aerator design, I think they’re our troublemakers—two of them, anyway.”

Good enough for her. She leapt down from the car and joined the press of mostly students as they approached the docks. She’d never let Qisma out of her sight, even when the woman had faded to Gina’s periphery. Then Qisma disappeared in the crush of people working their way along the fencing and barricades.

Plenty of police officers guarded the gates, which were large enough to admit the kinds of ground transports used to haul the goods into Daranj. But given how many protestors pressed into the intersection ahead of them, the officers must have called for backup because a few squads of CDF reservists bolstered their position.

“Brilliant,” Gina muttered. “Give the angry people a living, breathing representation of the very thing they oppose. Hope you guys are watching this.”

Dumb policies didn’t concern her just then. Instead, Gina wove between the protestors, sliding through gaps while tapping a brief message to Cam. “Our surly sister. Follow me.”

A quick peek at his orange silhouette told her Cam had received the note and was closing in on her route—which she soon realized was a dead end because she glimpsed Qisma jogging between stacked containers and dodging hauler bots before she again vanished—on the wrong side of the fence.

Where did she go?

Brant’s scanning had made it much easier for Jackson to keep track of the commotion far below, in part because of Jackson’s own lens and his wrist unit working in concert with the observation scope.

“Home, this is One. I’ve lost the target.” Jackson swiveled the scope. “Anything from Two or Chaperone?”

“Negative.” Brant exhaled. “I’ve got her last known trajectory charted. Feeding it to all of you now.”

The glowing red line turned to dots past the fence before petering out like a lost thread rolling under a chair. Despite the situation they faced, Jackson allowed a small smile. It’d been a long time since he’d thought about Mom knitting by the home fire while a tiny Jackson read through a book of his favorite plays.

“Got her!” The resounding slap through the comms must have been Brant bouncing his hand off a console in victory. “Pier Four, across from the three men Chaperone IDed.”

“Roger, Home. Two, can you follow?”

A grunt turned Gina’s feed to static. Her icon on Jackson’s scans seemed to be intertwined with the fence. “Our elusive lady found a gap in the fence—not a big one.”

“Did you fit through?”

“Of course I fit, One. I’d like to see your fat—”

“Leave specific body parts out, Two. You and Chaperone can still head her off.”

“Yes, I know. Pursue and observe?”

“All the intel you can muster. Don’t engage.” Assuming, of course, they don’t engage either. Jackson frowned. “Home, what’s the word from Three and Four?”

“Three reports lights are out,” Brant noted. “And he’s heard back from Four—almost ready to disembark. Just getting everyone their transfer tickets.”

Jackson snorted. He swiped through tiny timers on his wrist unit until he found the one synchronized with Dwyer’s and Sev’s. The storm had subsided, which meant minimal risk to the crew Sev was off-loading.

Had I thought of them as pirates earlier? Too romantic a view. It was sabotage.

Orantes Bay

Southwest of Daranj

The sun shot beams through the thinning clouds as the storm swept itself away, leaving the hydrofoil bobbing on still choppy but subsiding seas. Sev leaned over the railing. He could almost imagine himself on a pleasure cruise.

Mother and Father would have been delighted.

“Hey!” The captain was the last one down into the bright-orange inflatable raft, a lifeboat big enough for eight.

Riley and the others shifted the stunned twin and still-unconscious Zara into secure positions.

“We could have made a deal for whatever you wanted off my ship! There’s a lot of money involved.”

Sev shrugged. He tossed a beacon into their midst. “Not interested.”

Novabird swept down onto the opposite side of the ship, its jets riling the seas as it hovered there in wait.

“Four, if you’re not too seasick, get your butt in gear,” Dwyer said over the comms. “I’m sending my buddies down to take care of the rest.”

Sev circled around the deck, stopping only to extend his hand so the depletion bot could skitter back to him like a loyal pup. He made sure to pat its synthetic carapace before lifting it to his belt, where it used its myriad pincers to grab ahold.

A buzz filtered through the air, a subtle vibration at first but growing in intensity until eight small bots the size of Sev’s palm whipped past him. They swept up and over the hydrofoil then ducked down toward the waterline.

“Four, this is Three.” Warrant Dwyer’s voice rippled through Sev’s comms. “’Bout time you disembark, Deadeye, unless you’re planning to see how long you can hold your breath.”

Novabird pivoted in the air, the underside boarding ramp extending toward Sev. He stepped up onto the railing and pushed off like the task was no more taxing than hopping a street’s curb over rushing water after the rain. Sev caught an internal handhold, and no sooner had his fingers tightened around it than the racer lurched away from the hydrofoil, angling into the clearing skies.

Sev let the hatch seal, cutting off the roar of rushing wind, before he reported, “Clear.”

“Roger that.” Dwyer gave him a thumbs-up over his shoulder without glancing back. “Nice work back there. Hang on—the wayward crew’s backed off enough from their former ship, so I think it’s about time we pulled the plug at the bottom of the tub, don’t you?”

Sev had no earthly idea what Warrant Dwyer was yammering about but had a clean view of the hydrofoil through one of Novabird’s viewports when the eight bots ignited their explosive payload. Jets of water shot up from the equidistant points, followed by brief plumes of flame and lingering streams of smoke. The vessel was half under, listing slightly to starboard, within seconds.

Good. By the time Sev settled into the copilot’s seat and secured his harness, the exterior monitors revealed nothing but the sensors atop the hydrofoil slipping beneath the waves.

Gina crouched beside a towering stack of shipping containers. Come on. This is ridiculous.

Qisma had caught up with the three men by the hovercraft, covered in a cargo ship’s looming shadow. Easy enough to see her talking to them, and they had their privacy, thanks to the ongoing protest’s increasingly rowdy tone. Even the patrol drones deployed by Daranj police and the local guard were focused on the fence line. But short of throwing a rock or whistling, Gina wasn’t having any luck getting the men to look toward her so she could scan their damned faces.

Probably that had to do with the smell. Her stomach churned at the fishy stench coming from trawlers anchored nearby. She tried not to gag. Fish. Disgusting. And not the clean kind in aquariums, either, though those induced the same reaction. If her brother hadn’t shoved her into a fishery’s tank when they’d been on a class tour, a tank full of writhing, slimy creatures—

“I’m in position.” That was Cam, on the opposite pier.

“Wrong place, Chaperone.”

“The crowd didn’t make free movement easy. Almost militaristic of them, don’t you think?”

Gina rolled her eyes but did grant him a smile, even if he couldn’t see it. “So, you’re the distraction?”

“That was my thought. Do a guy a favor. Don’t let them shoot me if I screw this up, okay?”

“No promises, though I’d hate to waste Uncle Rob’s resources.”

“Nice. Chaperone out.”

He’d barely cut the signal when Gina heard a sharp pop followed by a long hiss. A feathery white stream of coolant billowed forth from a row of hauler bots standing hunched by the pier, presumably waiting for unloading orders. Two of the men reacted with the speed only ex-military personnel could manage, drawing weapons and pulling Qisma into cover. The third man ducked and winced but had the presence of mind to shield himself as if he expected incoming debris.

More importantly, all had turned enough for Gina to get a clean read on their faces. Her wrist unit pulsed with a signal from Brant acknowledging receipt of the data. Next step was for him to confirm at least the two had Bodrogi connections, but that third guy—his aerator was much more functional without the gleaming decorative surface. Anyway, Brant would tell Jackson first, which was to be expected.

Gina sent Cam a message. Nice show. Back to the party. Then she made her way through the container maze, ready to rejoin the fervent but misguided protestors.

Brant’s initial analysis was the most welcome news Jackson had received in days—one of the men waiting at the pier was on the Gollingstar payroll. A refit technician. The kind of person who would have access to the sensor memory modules that had been switched. His appearance on the docks with known and suspected Bodrogi enforcers certainly cemented the connection to the hydrofoil loaded with more of the faulty modules, which had been intended for the Astrocom project work site—the same hydrofoil Sev and Dwyer had sent to the bottom of Orantes Bay.

Jackson smiled as he watched police cut through the protestors with wedge formations of human officers and security bots, overflown by patrol drones. A few individuals flung empty containers at the encroaching phalanxes. Police warned them to back down—a few well-placed stun rounds followed by streams of suppression gas cleared the worst of the offenders, with only cosmetic damage done to a few parked vehicles.

Still, Jackson found the protest’s occurrence too convenient. It was possible the al-Omer sisters, conspiring with Gollingstar’s Yodo, had used it intentionally, but they could have also directed the entire event solely for the purposes of covering the receipt of the faulty modules.

But given the collapse of Astrocom’s network would benefit the League and thus draw them out like Jackson’s superiors hoped, he kept scanning the dispersing crowds from the observation posts, watching for people with cybernetic enhancements. There were quite a few.

Still, Fernand, as he was designated by CDF Intelligence, couldn’t be the only ESS operative working the region. Vasiliy had to be pulling the strings. And what about the woman who’d nearly killed Gina and him on Bellwether? Jackson scowled. If the League were there, he had to gather better evidence to prove their involvement in a criminal enterprise influencing corrupt contractors. And he would make damned sure to be waiting for Vasiliy with binders when the man fouled up so he would never see the light of another sun from whatever hole they locked him in.

10

West Strip—City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

13 May 2465

The neighborhood of bustling shops, busy open-air restaurants, and loud streetside vendors smelled far more damp than Kiel appreciated. He’d long ago found dry weather suited him best, dry and cool. The morning promised to be muggy, as considerable cloud cover was still in place after the previous night’s rainstorm. The temperature had already climbed to the point Kiel realized he should have left his light, semiformal brown jacket woven of local materials back at the apartment they considered headquarters.

I suppose I could relocate to an eating establishment with climate control. Kiel wiped cold condensate off the side of his glass. But I do prefer this vantage point.

The West Strip streets running toward the center of the city from Daranj’s edge were all on a downhill slope. His seat at Gaudix Grille afforded him a fine view a full kilometer along the roadway, especially since his seat faced the sidewalk while his back was to a wall, not a window.

Still, he nearly missed Circe as she slipped into the chair at the table beside him. She’d traded her hooded, rain-resistant gear for a flowing black dress festooned with red flowers. Neither did she sport the blond cut that had given her a professional look as part of Ardalion Noor’s executive staff aboard Bellwether Station, but rather she wore long, curly brown hair. Nothing could disguise the subtle smile she gave Kiel as she passed him by no matter the alterations made to her cheekbones to throw off facial recognition scans.

Not that Kiel was worried about lackadaisical Terran public security. How did they maintain control over the populace without constant surveillance? And don’t get me started on the complete lack of informants willing to turn in their family or even peers for the good of the state… Kiel mentally shrugged off the thought. Instead, he perused the menu set before him and said, “This is a poor development.”

“Shipping security was our allies’ concern, not mine,” Circe murmured. “And it’s nice to see you again.”

“Charmed.” Kiel sighed. “Those units now rapidly corroding a few hundred meters under this planet’s seawater were supposed to provide us a significant disruption to the Astrocom refit and thus buy us time to determine what precisely our rivals find so important about an astrographic survey station.”

“It’s more than a ‘station,’ I’d say. There are too many personnel, too much security, for any of us to get close unless we take major steps.”

“That is your assignment. You would do well to not fail at it, as you did before.”

“I did not fail.” A satisfying edge crept into Circe’s voice. Kiel had hoped he could prod her intensity. “It was a matter of being overmatched in skills by an unanticipated opponent.”

“Another failure on your part.”

Circe fell silent. She could have pointed out that the interference by Terran spies at Bellweather was something Kiel, as the team commander, should have foreseen, rather than blaming it on an underling, but taking responsibility in such a fashion was idiotic when there were plenty of subordinates to blame. She must have known, as surely as Kiel did, that criticizing those in power was good for only one thing—bringing the state’s wrath down on one’s head. No doubt, it was a penalty she wished to avoid.

Kiel smiled. So, she can be taught. “Well, then. We have to assume the modules were spotted by the Terran spies or their associates inside Astrocom. The sudden strike against the hydrofoil shipment can be no coincidence. This means the modules cannot be our continued avenue of sabotage. They will be on guard for similar efforts.”

“I agree.”

“Suggestions to remedy the new impasse? Preferably before our one-eyed compatriot meets face-to-face with the local family in control.” As with most public situations, Kiel preferred vague references. After Aphendrika, he was taking no chances when it came to the enemy and unseen surveillance devices.

“There’s always direct infiltration of the facility, but I wouldn’t recommend it unless it’s a last resort. For one thing, while we do have access to the schematics, they’re out-of-date copies, and we have no idea which compartments house whatever it is the Terrans are hiding. I would be going in blind.”

“Less than desirable.”

A server bot floated between them, brandishing a tall, fizzing purple drink.

Circe accepted it. “I agree. Another option is personnel disruption.”

“As much as I wouldn’t mind eliminating direct threats to our operation, pulling the trigger at this stage brings too much attention.”

“I didn’t mean that. I meant removal.”

Kiel pondered the suggestion. It wasn’t without merit. Bodrogi dabbled in every criminal undertaking known to mankind—those established from the beginning of man’s crawl out of the primordial ooze plus those added through technological advancement. That included kidnapping. Removing a key figure, such as a program manager or company executive from among the contractors, would stall the project, hopefully long enough for Kiel and his people to determine its true nature.

Of course, an abduction would increase law enforcement activity, but that was what Bodrogi was for—to absorb and redirect such attention. Using paid criminal elements to conduct the League’s dirty work had proven effective so far, as it kept the actual intelligence officers removed from the front lines, so to speak.

“Coordinate with Yahanotov,” Vasiliy murmured. “Inspect the list of known and new VIPs on the project. I want your top five recommended targets by the end of the day. Once we have a sufficient set of choices, I will have Ferenc make contact and secure a team for the abduction.”

“I’ll do that. I’ve seen the list already and have a few suggestions.” Circe swirled the contents of her glass. “Speaking of our surly neighbors, and coming back around to the tragic loss of cargo, Laila’s unhappy too.”

“Understandably so. How much more does she need to improve her mood?”

“Twenty thousand.”

Kiel sighed heavily and rubbed at his forehead. Damned capitalists and their insatiable appetite for money. It was decidedly the downside of working with criminal types. They were always so ready to push the boundaries of established agreements. Who does al-Omer think I am? Not some flunky to be pushed around. If he tired of them, nothing would stop Kiel from making sure Bodrogi was wiped out in a hail of rival gunfire or whatever staged demise he chose.

Steady. Just because they’re maddening doesn’t mean they’re useless. But this hemorrhaging of funds will further irk those higher up the food chain at ESS. Kiel pushed the worry aside. So far, Director Borisov had kept to his word—funding continued. Besides, if it dried up, Kiel could always resort to past practices and get directly involved in criminal enterprise.

Come to think of it… “Once we establish our list, let slip to Laila we will give her forty thousand, but only if the ransom is successful,” Kiel said. “I’m sure she’ll be better able to sway her sister at double the rate. Don’t you agree?”

Circe laughed softly. “You could say she’d be twice as effective. I’ll let her know.”

“And how is dear Qisma?”

“Furious about the shipment. Frustrated with Yodo because the loss has stolen his bravado. He’s not willing to make the shipments, which means Qisma doesn’t get paid by us to transport and install. Then she can’t pay her people the promised bonuses.”

“A shame, all around. One we will soon remedy.” Kiel tapped the table as he sifted his mind for another detail he was forgetting.

“Do you want me to dip into the reserves in the meantime? Laila might not be content waiting for a larger payout, especially an uncertain one.”

“Of course. I think a handful of distira coruscates will be plenty, eight of the silver-blue variety… market worth should approach nine thousand.”

“I’ll get them from the stash. It should shut her up.”

Ah. Shut her up. Shut him up. “I understand our inside man was out in the open this time too.”

He felt rather than saw Circe wince. “Yes. Down at the docks, during the protest. I don’t know what possessed him to get out of the vehicle like that and accompany Qisma’s people. Laila thinks her sister is tightening her grip on power.”

“Unfortunate, because we shall have to remove him now that we can no longer make use of his technical skills and access. Remind Laila that if her sister disappoints us, we won’t be as fond of her either.”

“I’ll do that. What do you want for the inside man?”

What indeed? So many options. The quiet ones were the best, of course. “Make arrangements for a waterborne disposal, preferably tonight.” Kiel gazed toward the distant harbor. “After all, why should we waste such a beautiful environment when nature has given us a broad expanse of open ocean?”

Brant spun himself in his chair. “I’ve got him.”

“Him? Our third party?” Gina leaned to one side but didn’t think she needed to get up from the couch. She had a fine view of Brant’s forest of screens.

“Yes. A Gollingstar technician by the name E. Stephen Burnett. He’s been with them for eleven years, good service and skill rating, has received two promotions. Pay isn’t so great, but it’s not terrible either.”

“Please tell me you’ve dug up the dirt explaining why this model Coalition worker decided to aid sabotage against an Intelligence installation.”

Brant made a face. “I can’t see any evidence from his social media or work records that he’s even cleared for Astrocom’s true purpose. For the most part, he was stuck on sensor refit and upgrade, which as far as he seems to know, has only to do with improving stellar surveys.”

Gina cocked an eyebrow.

“I know, right? The dirt.” Brant manipulated his console, and a torrent of data spilled down. “He likes to gamble. A lot. Apparently there’s a species of oceangoing mammals here, ceraptons, that can be easily trained to race. Big money in betting on the outcome, but Burnett has terrible luck.”

“How terrible?”

“For a single man making a good salary, there’s precious little in his bank accounts. Both of them.” Brant shrugged. “I checked the balances.”

Gina shook her head, but she smiled the entire time. Remind me never to cross CDF Intelligence, if I were so inclined. Hiding from someone like Brant would be next to impossible unless I fled to the League—and where’s the fun in that? “I didn’t remember seeing any ads for cerapton races. I take it attending one’s not as easy as heading to a horse track.”

“Hardly. The forums and nets Burnett frequents have lots of chatter about ‘bottom courses,’ so I’m guessing underwater, but it looks like you get sent a code before you can head out to one—coordinates that delete themselves.”

“Seems a good guess.” Gina stretched her arms. “What’d Jackson have to say about all this? I assume he wants us to bring Burnett in.”

“Us being you and Sev—one for persuading, one for intimidating.” Brant held up his tablet. “I’m shunting details your way. Be careful with this guy, Gina. If we can get him to talk—”

“I know, yes, he can let us in on what Bodrogi’s up to and whether we can exploit a connection to the League.” Gina checked her own tablet. It chirped upon receipt of Brant’s data transfer. Burnett was a tall man with brown hair and an earnest smile. Poor dear. No wonder he got so in over his head when it came to gambling. Gina noticed an indicator among the data. “Is this his hovercraft?”

“That’s the one. Cumulus DRX Twenty, fully sealed like the rest of the vehicles produced on Trenchant—nice when you don’t have to run the aerators during your whole day of errands.” Brant tapped his tablet, and a portion of the hovercraft schematics pictured on Gina’s device glowed. “This is the interesting part—it’s been modified for underwater travel. Those pump jets? And the cowlings for the fans…”

“Piqued my interest too. I think we can pick him up the next time he tries for a gambling run.” Gina searched the information for Brant’s summary and found what she was looking for. She glanced up at him. “Nightly? Really?”

Brant winced, but he nodded. “I told you the guy had a problem.”

Jackson was on his way out of Astrocom when Brant’s coded message came through. Good. They’d narrowed the target and were ready to proceed. He sent the confirmation signal. Nothing for him to do from the operational end but keep apprised of the situation.

“Mr. Hayes? Do you have a moment?”

He stopped inside the parking lot. The long rectangle was covered with a thin but sturdy transparent mesh, which kept out the irritating toxic chemical elements from the atmosphere. Row upon row of hovercraft and ground vehicles stretched toward the double gate where CDF guards waited.

Jackson glanced back. “Ms. Mendoza? Of course. What can I do for you?”

“I thought you should know one of the Gollingstar guys just got fired.” Mendoza smirked. “I don’t know who he is, but rumor among the crews is he’d been poking around the sensor towers. Same ones where I found those faulty memory modules.”

“Doesn’t sound good for Gollingstar corporate, does it?” Jackson hadn’t anticipated word leaking so quickly or the company taking swift action against their employee. Surely it would have brought less attention to reassign him or fudge records, wouldn’t it?

“Yeah. But it’s funny how all the rumors are popping up now. No one’s ever said much about him that I know of, and trust me, I get all the gossip coming up from my people and down from the suppliers. Yesterday, zero. Today, everything.”

“It is… funny.” But Jackson didn’t think it was.

Coincidence was what normal people thought of those kinds of changes. For a man in his line of work, the sudden uptick in chatter was for targeting purposes. Put pressure on the Gollingstar technician. Take away his job, his contacts, his money, keep pushing and prodding until he’s desperate—or until he looks desperate. Then he has an accident. Or he does something reckless he otherwise wouldn’t do. Runs away. Drives too fast. Kills himself.

“Let me talk to Colonel Siddiq. Keep what you’ve heard to yourself.” Jackson barely remembered to issue his trademark “Mr. Hayes” smile so Mendoza wouldn’t see him brooding about possible futures. Only one he had to prevent.

As soon as he was through the main gate, Jackson signaled Brant. “Echo Home, this is One. Have Two and Four intercepted the target? Do they have the location?”

“Uh, negative, One. They’ve only just left. I have tracking on the target’s home but—hold on.” Brant’s voice dipped an octave. “Two is reporting. They’re at the target’s home. He’s gone.”

“Dammit.” Jackson steered his hovercraft onto a side street, the engine whining and the auto-nav protesting his override. Safety warning. Velocity unsuited for commercial zone. Jackson pushed through the override until he attained the speed he wanted. “Where’s his vehicle?”

“Sending you the telemetry now.”

“Get Two and Four out of there. We’re not the only ones looking for the target.” Jackson ground his teeth. “And send a signal to Uncle Rob. We’ll need overwatch on this one.”

Gina waited in the hall, pulse pistol drawn. She was clad in her enhanced stealth suit. Sev was on the other side of Burnett’s apartment door, his form invisible against the chipped beige walls.

The flitters swept back into the hall and confirmed their initial peeks by downloading their full scans to her wrist comm. Gina wrinkled her nose. Empty. Not ransacked. Just—empty. “What’re the odds our boy has stepped out to get a bite to eat?”

“Slim,” Brant said. “I’m tracking his ride. One is in pursuit.”

Huh. Even with his body camouflaged, Sev’s puzzled turn of his head was visible. Gina knew what he was feeling. Jackson should be directing not chasing. At least it wasn’t after armed thugs, like he’d run into on Bellwether.

Sev glanced back. “Movement.”

“Roger that,” Brant agreed. “Six men. Four coming up the main stairs, two up the back. They’re armed with plasma weapons.”

Of course they are. Gina sighed. “Well, come on,” she said to Sev. “We’re not going to get to waltz out the front door on this one.”

Sev grunted. He gave up his position and ducked inside the apartment, his boots whispering across the floor.

“Glad to know you’re ready to have fun too.” Gina slipped a short knife with a narrow, slender blade from her belt and followed him. Then she flipped herself up to the ceiling and clung there, boots and gloves sealing her into place.

11

CSV Oxford

Orbiting the Third Moon

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

13 May 2465

Sinclair was perusing the latest communications intercept reports when Tamir summoned him to the operations center. He counted the interruption a blessed relief. Thus far, Tamir’s and Eldred’s efforts had narrowed possible League transmissions to four frequencies, but in doing so had discovered the frequencies would suddenly go silent. Then a half dozen new potentials would arise, most of which proved to be nothing more than junk meant to clutter and distract.

Sinclair shook his head as he approached the hatch. Bloody Leaguers can learn a thing or two, can’t they? He recalled a historical article he’d read back in school about an old carnival game on Earth, one involving the player whacking rodents on the head as they popped up faster and faster from random holes.

Tamir caught his eye as he entered the operations center. “Colonel, Echo Home has alerted us to a situation.”

“Involving the team?”

“One of their targets, a Gollingstar company technician believed to be aiding the League efforts.”

“Probably inadvertently.” Eldred gestured at her screen.

Sinclair glimpsed a profile filled with personal details he would rather not know.

“The man shows no sign of League sympathies, and both his and his family’s service records are spotless. In any case, he’s running.”

“I see. What prompted this action on his part?”

“Sudden censure and leaking of personal data.” Tamir showed Sinclair a flurry of social media posts.

Sinclair frowned. There was more than he thought a major celebrity would warrant, let alone a nameless technician.

“Captain Adams suggests, and we concur, that the League is creating a new narrative in which the technician is driven to desperate actions.”

“And so is eliminated,” Sinclair murmured. “Damned clever, I must say. What does Adams need from us besides the continued comms intercepts and sensor overwatch?”

“Only that, sir, and whatever electronic interference he can muster.”

“Jolly good. I think, Eldred, it’s time you two put your interference protocols into play.”

Eldred grimaced. “Aye, Colonel. It’s, um, it still has its glitches, but I’m confident we can iron them out as we go.”

Sinclair arched an eyebrow. “You’ve had a full week to whip your algorithms into shape. I don’t expect perfection, but failure should be remedied by immediate strategies to improve the odds of victory.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll get to it.”

Which Sinclair knew they would. He wasn’t concerned about Tamir’s or Eldred’s abilities, or those of the SIGINT crew under their supervision. He was more uneasy about whether their success would come before the potential informant Adams was pursuing met an untimely demise.

There’s always a break in the clouds. Gina found her mother’s favorite saying nauseating in its optimism. For a natural cynic like herself, it reeked of desperation and naivete. On the other hand, remembering the phrase helped her appreciate when things did go right in instances where Gina expected the worst. Hence why she smiled when the first two men sent to kill E. Stephen Burnett turned out to be street-level thugs absent of military gear. She hadn’t really expected Leaguers to have the balls to drop a fully equipped stealth tactical team onto a Terran planet, but surprises were surprises.

All that Gina considered in a few seconds as she swung her feet free from the ceiling and planted them on the chest of the nearest man. He hurtled back the way he’d come, stumbling like a drunken fool and flailing his arms. That was an immediate signal to his partner, apparently, who fired in Gina’s direction, though given her speed and that the room was still dark, he forgot he didn’t have much of a target.

Twin flashes from Sev’s pulse carbine blasted him in the chest.

Gina was out in the hall, where the first man pushed to his feet. He brought his plasma pistol to bear, but Gina ducked under his arm, slipped in and around, then stabbed him between the ribs from behind.

“Get her!”

The other four thugs had arrived. They stormed the hallway, oblivious to the death of one of their people. Again, unsurprising. The men were burly, tattooed, and outfitted in the same bedazzled aerators signifying their importance as Bodrogi enforcers.

Gina grinned beneath her mask. As if that meant anything to her team.

Pulses ripped through the apartment wall, cutting into the men’s ranks. One of the four went down, screaming and clutching his bloodied and burnt knee. The others did the only rational thing—they fired back through the wall at Gina.

“Sorry,” Gina whispered into her hostage’s ear. She pulled him in front as a shield, where his body spasmed as it absorbed plasma blasts. Her safety momentarily assured, she fired back over the dead man’s shoulder. Another of the quartet fell.

The remaining two must have had the amazing brainstorm that they weren’t facing a soft civilian target and, confronted with the obliteration of two-thirds of their force, backpedaled the way they’d come.

Gina dropped back, too, pulling the dead body as continued cover so she could reach an alcove behind and to her right.

The flitters she’d used to scan the apartment came buzzing out and exploded with light, four miniature solar flares blasting across the visible spectrum. The remaining thugs shielded their eyes and cried out, even as they fired wildly at the new threat. Sev took full advantage of the distraction and knelt around the corner of the apartment door for a clear line of fire. Two bursts dropped the attackers.

“Two, this is Home.” Brant sounded as breathless as she felt. “Local LEOs on the way. The apartment’s emergency management system activated as soon as it detected weapons’ fire. It’s not the smartest but knew enough to call for help. Get out of there. Rear stairwell.”

Gina was already sprinting that way. She could hear Sev’s measured breathing as he followed. They reached the stairwell door, which had been propped open. Gina waited, pistol raised, as Sev once again knelt. She signaled with her hands. I’ll go high. You go low.

Sev moved right as she did. Gina’s adrenaline spiked, only for the moment, until she saw the stairs were clear. But they weren’t out of trouble yet. The flitters returned to Gina’s side from the hall, hovering over her right shoulder. Six minutes of flight time left before they disintegrated. The tiny bots weren’t meant to linger long, especially on infiltration missions, when their remains could point toward a perpetrator. Gina sent them down the stairs for one last look then followed, with Sev right behind.

“Access road behind the building is clear,” Brant reported. “Your attackers look like they left their truck running—the power cells are at max, but it’s in standby. Give me a few seconds, and I’ll override the navigation systems, see if I can break into the control code.”

Right. Escape by ground. Gina was so used to Dwyer airlifting them she could have slapped herself for misremembering.

“One orders you to ground. Head to the refuge point. I’m contacting Chaperone for additional support, should you need it.”

Then they were out in the dusk, the Daranj cityscape bathed in fuchsia and tangerine from the bloodiest of sunsets. Gina flung open the door to the transport truck and dropped into its driver’s seat. She had a repeat of her panicked reaction because the control panels were all locked red. Please. Not now. Make it work.

One by one, the rounded rectangles flashed to green. Gina exhaled.

Sev slammed his door shut. “Go.”

Always nice to have people around me who are focused on the priorities. Gina urged the truck onward, its power core humming as it rumbled out onto the street. Here’s hoping we’re not in one of Bodrogi’s.

Kiel scowled as he watched the alerts appearing on Yahanotov’s screens. “Where is Circe?”

“I-I don’t know. All I get from comms is static broken up by gibberish.” Yahanotov swiveled in his chair, fingers flying from one console to the next. “This is tremendous interference, nothing like we saw on Bellwether.”

“Pull up our mission logs from Aphendrika. I want a comparison.”

“Now? Circe is making contact with Laila, and she—”

Kiel clipped the back of Yahanotov’s head with his hand. “Now. Unless you want to participate in Mr. Burnett’s severance plan.”

“Yes, sir.” Yahanotov’s voice went monotone as he set about his task.

Kiel couldn’t care less. Having a team of individuals dedicated to the defense of the League and the preservation of a unified society was fine, but Kiel was still in command and was not about to miss the opportunity to remind an argumentative subordinate.

He had no doubt, though, what the problem was, even as he watched Yahanotov scramble for data and as the low-volume communications trickling from the console argued about the source—it was the Terrans’ work. The swiftness with which they responded to targeting Burnett, never mind the decisive action they’d taken in sinking the hydrofoil and its smuggled goods, told Kiel all he needed to know. They were hunting.

“There it is.” Yahanotov shook his head. “The signals were faint back on Aphendrika, but there are enough similarities I can say you’re dealing with the same people. This time around, though, the carrier output is tremendous. We’re not talking about a portable comms array or even a vehicle-mounted setup.”

“Orbital?”

“If not right up there, then at least in the system.”

Kiel nodded slowly. “The Terrans have stepped up their game. I must say, I’d be disappointed in them if they hadn’t.”

His commlink buzzed. Kiel made another face at the modulated signal—Ferenc. “Go ahead.”

“The party of six is canceled.”

Damn. The code indicated the Bodrogi enforcers sent after Burnett hadn’t just been foiled but eliminated. “I confirm. Status of the host?”

“On the move. Two houseguests reneged on invitations.”

Yahanotov glanced up from his consoles.

“Get me building security images.” Kiel didn’t bother with stating now since the slap was still recent. To Ferenc, he continued, “What does your counterpart have to say?”

“She’s unhappy. Understandably. But I’m tracking—host. She should—able to keep her rendezvous—him.”

“Ferenc’s signal is going too,” Yahanotov muttered. “I’ll modulate again, but he’ll be offline for a while. And he’s correct. I’ve got him following telemetry for Burnett’s hovercraft. Give me another couple of minutes, and I can break the navigation security.”

“Good news is welcome.” Kiel killed the connection with Ferenc before it became even more garbled. He watched the blips appear on Yahanotov’s map of Daranj then initiated a transfer so the same data played out on his tablet. Burnett’s vehicle was a gold star heading along a coastal road.

“Got something else.” Yahanotov grinned. “Circe. She got ahold of Laila’s social media account, messaged one of the fake profiles I set up to keep an eye on the Bodrogi syndicate—anyway, she says the Bodrogi lost the truck used by the six hit men. It’s been stolen. I should have its location—”

“Yes, soon, make it happen.” Kiel allowed himself a tight smile. Even if our plans experience a roadblock, perhaps we can throw up another for our enemies.

Jackson braced himself as the hovercraft went into a slide around the next corner. A flurry of alerts and warnings flashed across his nav screen, most from local traffic monitors and a handful from irate drivers direct beaming their frustration at him.

“Target is six blocks ahead,” Brant reported. “And I’ve got word from Base One—they’re tracking an aircraft inbound without a registered flight plan. Daranj Aerial Control has no records on it.”

“Roger, Home.” Bodrogi syndicate, Jackson would bet, but he couldn’t picture them strafing a civilian car in the middle of the city—unless they were planning to nail Burnett once he was over the horizon.

Jackson’s nav showed his hovercraft, Burnett’s as a red dot, and the supposed underwater racing-slash-gambling facility twelve klicks offshore—over the horizon for most observers, not out of range for even basic radar, though. They would still have to make it look like an accident.

“One, this is Home. Recommend you break off pursuit.”

Jackson glared at the comm pickup. “Are you serious, Home? I’ll intercept in a few minutes. If Two and Four are compromised, and Three can’t make the rendezvous before I do, we lose the target.”

“You’re not driving a stolen or unregistered vehicle, One.” Brant snapped out the code number. “It’s registered to the proper owner. You.”

Mr. J. Jefferson Hayes. Jackson hated it when Brant was right, but Burnett could be a key link to Bodrogi and, through them, the League operatives. “I’m not breaking off until you can confirm Echo Three is en route.”

Brant sighed like he was an instructor dealing with a stubborn pupil. “You know I can’t make it an order.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t work that way.” Jackson jerked the steering controls left as he narrowly avoided a parked vehicle. “But I promise I’ll take it under advisement. One out.” He cut the link.

His prior conversation with Colonel Sinclair stuck in his mind. Am I refusing to fall back because I’m hell-bent on vengeance? Jackson didn’t think so. True, he was willing to bend protocol if it meant getting closer to stopping Kiel, but skirting the rules was what he did all day, every day on missions. Then again, the last time he’d thought the same way, he’d nearly put the entire team at risk.

Jackson tightened his grip on the controls. How could Brant be so sure of himself? Not in an arrogant way. He was warmly confident in not just the rightness of his actions—which he rarely decided in the heat of the moment—but in his devotion to the team, to each of them. The man was worried about souls instead of just bodies. Does that make the decision easier or harder? Jackson frowned. It didn’t matter. He had a minute to make up his mind.

Dwyer piloted Novabird above a thin layer of clouds, mindful of his dual targets—an unidentified aircraft and a wayward ground vehicle. Well, maybe he should have said water vehicle.

The hovercraft sped through an intersection, smashed an ornate wooden guardrail, and rushed clean out onto open water. That made it a lot easier to track, by Dwyer’s estimation, considering it was pearly white and sending its own trail of spray.

“Echo Home, this is Echo Three,” Dwyer called. “I’ve got eyes on both prizes, over.”

“Three, this is Home. I’m splicing in One on the channel. You are clear to intercept the unidentified craft.”

“Confirmed, Home.” There was the cap’n, as promised. “Knock them out of the air, Sparks, but make it accidental—like you’re a sloppy flier.”

Dwyer snorted. “I’ll do my best to not be offended, One. Three out.” He smirked at the nav displays. “Sloppy, my ass. I’ll make it a graceful error.”

Doing so involved disabling three proximity sensors and the subroutine tied to them ’cause nav was fixin’ to holler at him for turning Novabird on a course curving toward the airplane from above. “Easy, girl,” he murmured. “We’re just going to add some turbulence to their ride.” He banked Novabird into a dive.

The racer appeared from nowhere, angling toward a stubby, broad-winged airplane. Atmospheric only, by the looks of it, Jackson noted. And its pilot must have been so intent on its quarry it didn’t notice the more powerful vessel bearing down on it.

“We’ve got a laser lighting up the target,” Brant announced. “The unregistered plane is drilling a hole in the hovercraft.”

The wharf Burnett had run was only a block away. If Jackson was going to veer off, it was the time to make the call. Even if Dwyer flubbed the intercept, could I reach Burnett’s hovercraft before it sank?

But the racer rolled hard away from the plane, as if realizing its error. The sudden change in course, coupled with the intense backwash from the racer’s ion engines, flipped the plane nearly ninety degrees. It struggled to maintain its flight path then turned hard to the north.

Brant’s sigh echoed through Jackson’s transmitter. “Hovercraft’s in the clear. I’m breaking into his nav—again. Whoever’s on the other end of taking it over is a good wrestler, but you should see how clumsy his algorithms are.”

“Good work all around. Three, shepherd our wayward target back in. Keep to the rendezvous. I might be late.” Jackson eased off the accelerator. His nav informed him local patrol cars were closing on his position. “Seems I’ve got to explain why the new Vesper Composites investor decided on a dangerous joyride this evening.”

12

20 Kilometers West of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

13 May 2465

A sprawling, luxurious estate was the rendezvous for Covert Action Unit 171. Jackson craned his neck at the three-story atrium. Lightning flashed through one of the jagged cracks in the transparent dome overhead. The mansion had belonged to a gozoa merchant up until thirty years ago, when he had died and left everything to three squabbling children, their mother having long ago left with her share of the family fortune. Their legal battles had ended with the building abandoned due to unpaid taxes, and once the nav beacons had failed and the hardened path became overgrown, Trenchant reclaimed man’s intrusion.

Shrubbery forced its way up through broken tiles. Jackson stepped lightly up the stairs to the second floor and brushed aside ratty plastic sheeting that gave the appearance it had been hung ten years ago, as stained with dirt and water as it was. Sev had actually hung it in the past hour, shielding a hallway from view and blending with the other tarps that had really been there for a decade.

Sev stood outside a door. It had a new set of air barrier seals. He opened it, and Jackson reveled in the literal breath of fresh air he took as he stepped inside. Sev joined him and sealed the door behind them. Gina leaned against the wall, listening as Dwyer wrapped up what must have been a lively tale, judging by his beatific expression and wild gestures.

“How’s our guest?” Jackson joined Brant at a portable console set against the far wall.

Brant’s expression was stolid. “Quiet since we convinced him we’re not going to kill him. How was the local brig?”

“Jail. Needed a good scrubbing, but I wasn’t about to complain. Vesper Composites kindly posted bail via their attorney.” Jackson smirked. “Have to say, it sounded like Major Tamir enjoyed playing the role over the comm.”

“Glad someone’s enjoying himself.” Brant returned his attention to the console.

The main image was of the next room, in which Burnett was lashed to a single chair, blindfolded. Four spotlights, one mounted in each corner of the ceiling, blazed down on him.

Jackson glanced back at the others. Sev had joined Gina for the end of Dwyer’s adventure story.

“So, how about you get off your chest whatever’s got you treating me like I’m home past curfew?” Jackson asked.

“The whole pursuit, sir.”

“Don’t pull that on me, Brant. If you’re pissed off—”

“Of course I’m pissed off,” Brant hissed. “It was just like Bellwether.”

“It was not the same. I held back once I realized you were right.”

“But you still took off after him in the first place, even when you knew your team was tracking him, like you didn’t think they could succeed.”

“That’s ridiculous. I know their abilities, their skills. They’re as capable—”

“You didn’t show them. Show us. What we all saw was our CO coming to take over like we were a bunch of cadets.” Brant poked him in the chest, an awkward gesture because Brant was seated and Jackson leaning over him. “Don’t let it happen again, okay? Because it’s hard for me to believe you when you say you’re not obsessed with catching Vasiliy when you pull stunts like that. It’s dangerous, especially for you, and if you wind up like Captain Garza, we’ll—have to scrub the whole mission.”

“You say that like it’s the worst outcome.” Jackson tried a smile with his friend. “Just think if I owed you money.”

Brant shook his head. “I’m serious.”

“Don’t be so hard on him, Brant.” Gina patted Jackson’s shoulder. “As a big-time exec, he’s got to blow off steam every once and a while, and what better way than breaking cover to chase a runaway hovercraft before a crime syndicate can destroy it?”

“Glad everybody’s a critic,” Jackson groused.

“Oh, you think you’d be used to it with your theater background.” Gina pinched his cheek and grinned. “Too bad this isn’t ancient Earth, and I don’t have rotten vegetables to throw at you.”

“Go on and grab a spinemander from outside.” Dwyer shivered. “I’ll headshot one of those critters. Make me feel better about ’em scuttling all around.”

“I’ll keep the advice in mind.” Jackson held out his hand. “Sev, masks?”

Sev produced three simple hoods from his belt, each made of an adaptable mesh. Jackson donned his and was immediately pleased to see—well, to see. It made him think of playing hide-and-go-seek with Harry back on the ranch, using one of Mom’s afghan blankets as a barrier—loose enough to gaze through but tightly woven enough to hide himself.

Gina and Sev also donned masks. “Ready when you are, Mr. Hayes.”

“Not for this. No names, no designations, only our numbers if you really have to.”

“Mr. One, then.”

Jackson swore he could see her wink even through the mask.

Sev sniffed. “Stinks.”

Dwyer rolled his eyes. “Probably because it’s been clinging to your unwashed self when you folks did your runnin’ in a stolen Bodrogi truck, mind you.”

Jackson led them through another door, which linked to a short hallway. The sealed air barriers rippled under the wind’s influence at the far end. Lightning flashes made it glow like an otherworldly portal. Thunder sent tremors through the old mansion’s floor. The wall to the right showcased a pale rectangle, where a painting or display screen might have once hung. The ornate wooden door to the left sported another of the seals.

“Knock, knock,” Gina murmured.

Jackson did not perform the suggested warning. Instead, he barged in, letting the door slam against the other wall.

The harsh bang made Burnett jolt in his chair. He sucked air between his teeth. Gone was the jovial expression from the technician’s ID. “Who’re you? What do you want?”

“I want to talk about failure, Mr. Burnett.” Jackson snapped his fingers, Sev’s cue to shut the door.

“He doesn’t like failure.” Gina put on a soft, sultry voice, in stark contrast to Jackson’s firm command. She walked a slow tread behind Burnett and let her fingers trail ever-so-softly across the back of his neck.

Jackson waited until he detected the subtle relaxation in Burnett’s posture before reaching out and ripping the blindfold away. “Hey! Eyes here, little traitor.”

Burnett blinked, bleary in the sudden spotlight. He looked from Sev in the corner, arms folded, to Jackson, then over his right shoulder at Gina. Everyone wore a variation of simple black shirt and gray trousers.

“What? Traitor? I’m not a traitor.”

“Is that so?” Jackson held out his right hand, palm up, without turning away from Burnett.

Sev dropped one of the false modules there.

Jackson shoved it under Burnett’s nose. “You don’t recognize this, I take it?”

Burnett recoiled. “No, I—what I mean is—”

“We get it. We really do.” Gina’s languid stroll took her behind Jackson. “They probably paid you a lot of money. What better way to keep up with the gambling debts? You must keep picking the wrong cerapton most times you get undersea, right?”

“I…” Burnett swallowed and shook his head. “I don’t know what—”

Jackson growled and snagged Burnett by the collar. He dragged the man forward so the chair legs scraped the floor. “Enough of the bullshit, Mr. Burnett. We know you swapped in these fake Vesper modules. We know Gollingstar made them. We know Bodrogi scum had them shipped and paid you for the installation. Only thing we don’t know is why they did it and why we shouldn’t shoot you for betraying your country.”

“My—what?” Burnett’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t betraying anyone! Astrocom’s one big giant telescope!”

“But you know there are people who need top secret clearances to work on it,” Gina said. “That’s the rumor, isn’t it? Big companies making the big bucks on contracts to do work you don’t even know what for, and meanwhile, you’re stuck in debt.”

“They paid me well. I’m not complaining.”

“You’re also not talking,” Jackson snarled. “I want names.”

“Easy.” Gina touched his arm—Jackson’s signal to shift the script. They’d done the good-cop, bad-cop routine enough to be as choreographed as a pair of dancers.

Sev was there to provide extra menace, an easy feat with his ominous silence and towering, muscled frame.

“I—I don’t know names. I mean, names of people. Who paid me.”

Jackson backed up. He crossed his arms. “Is that so?”

“Yes! That is, the pay always came through an intermediary transfer. Sometimes in credit chits left in my hovercraft before I headed to work.” Sweat soaked Burnett’s shirt. The room stank. “Oh, God, please, you’re not going to kill me…”

“No one’s killing anyone.” Gina lowered her voice. “Except the people who were paying you.”

“They were the ones sending you out to sea,” Jackson added. “We dropped six of their enforcers’ bodies at your front door. Network update—they weren’t there to make sure your holos were loading properly.”

“What? Kill me? No. No way. They said they needed my help. They said Vesper was trying to sabotage the facility, and I…” Burnett shook his head. “I thought… those modules were going to fix…”

“No.” Jackson resisted the urge to scream. The way Burnett kept mumbling and stuttering, it would take him forever to finish a thought if Jackson didn’t keep interrupting. “It’s called sabotage. You’re the saboteur.”

“No!” Burnett strained against his bindings. Tears glistened in the corners of his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to do that. I wanted to stop sabotage. That’s what they told me I was doing. It was my job to inspect and replace memory modules. The faulty ones, the ones they said were placed by a traitor inside Vesper, I took those out and put ours in. That’s why they paid me.”

“Sorry, friend.” Gina took a knee in front of him. She laid her hands on his arms. “They lied to you. The people who paid you used your caring, your heart, to try and inflict damage on Astrocom’s top secret project.”

“No.” This time, Burnett’s response was tepid. He’d wilted. Jackson could tell by his posture, his tone, his facial tics—he was trying not to believe what Jackson and Gina were telling him, but in his mind, he knew what they were saying was true.

“We can show you all the proof you’ll ever need. This is your chance to make it right, though.”

“Give us the names, and you stay off Lambert’s Lament,” Jackson interjected. “Which is much better than my preference for a firing squad.”

Burnett’s head sagged. His shoulders rose and fell. He wasn’t crying but breathing deeply, as if he were trying to keep himself from panic. The reality was sinking in. Good. Jackson didn’t want to have to keep up his harsh act.

“Look,” Jackson continued. “If you’re not culpable, there’s nothing to worry about. But we need your help, like she said. Even if you don’t know names, you can get us to the people who do.”

“But I told you, I don’t know their names. I’ve met some, sure—”

“That’s close enough.” For government work was how Jackson had heard the saying go but decided to leave that off the statement. “What you have to do now is identify them to the best of your ability and be willing to testify when the need arises.”

“If…” Burnett blinked. “But you just said they tried to kill me.”

“Don’t worry.” Gina must have been smiling behind her mask—that was what it sounded like to Jackson. “Witness protection is available. You can make remote testimony. It would mean starting a new life, possibly off-planet, but if you stay here and do nothing, well, the only people looking for you will be the ones interested in completing that task.”

Burnett shuddered.

“Take a few minutes. Think about it.” Jackson leaned in and lowered his voice to a steely monotone. “If you have trouble deciding, consider that you’ve lost your job, been disavowed by your Gollingstar employers, and had your face plastered across every social media net from here to the other side of the Coalition. Everyone thinks you turned criminal and went crazy, ending with an almost suicidal run out into the ocean. You don’t have many options. Don’t squander this one.”

Jackson stormed from the room, leaving Sev inside the doorway as a silent guard. Gina joined him back in the main room with the rest of the team a few minutes later.

“What’d you say to him after I left?”

Gina snorted. “The same thing, only nicer. I have to say, the stern version of you was intriguing. If we start disobeying more orders, will he come out and play more often?”

Jackson opted to ignore the commentary. His pretend foul mood lingered. “Brant, did you get much of a read on him from our sensors?”

“As good as can be expected from brief touches through the scanners embedded in your wrist units.” Brant pulled up readouts and inset them over the image of Burnett in the other room. “Heart rate, respiration, perspiration all indicate a scared man who’s telling the truth as far as he knows. I can’t be completely certain, but the algorithm is settling on eighty-five percent.”

“That’ll have to do. Let’s give him three minutes then go back in. Make him sweat some more.” Jackson ran a hand through his hair. “Did the whole affair get us any closer to tracing our League counterparts?”

“Eldred and I have narrowed a few bands. They’re as good as we are when it comes to switching them.” Brant smiled. “Have a little faith.”

I could use a huge heap of it. “Let’s stay on top of it. The more we can make them scramble, the easier it will be to catch them in a mistake.”

Kiel sat behind the tinted windscreens of the compact hovercraft, arms crossed, fuming. If he’d had any doubts about the entire Astrocom affair being a baited trap, the timely intervention that stopped Burnett’s abduction and killed off a whole squad of Bodrogi enforcers would have blown the remainders away. At least he still had the links to the crime syndicate, no matter how tenuous.

“I am not about to loan you any more people, given how many you lost.” Qisma’s irate voice through Kiel’s tablet speakers matched her angry gestures, which he could see from half a block away. “Find someone else to provide flunkies.”

“Be reasonable. There’s no one else. Your group made sure of that.” Ferenc sounded like he was reminding a child to fasten its shoes. “But we need another person to continue the sabotage.”

“Your boss is too picky about what he does and does not need.”

Ferenc shrugged. “If the boss was not unreasonable, I’d be worried.”

“This new idea of his is worse.”

“Abduction is one of many services your organization offers.”

“Yes, it is, but we need more time to assess the target—”

“Already done.” Ferenc transferred the data Yahanotov had provided via a link to Qisma’s tablet. “Get this ready. The boss will pay well once you have the guy in your possession. Hold him until we give further instruction.”

Qisma glanced at her tablet. She seemed to consider.

Kiel’s commlink chimed. He kept the frequency he shared with Ferenc open but shunted it aside as the new call came in. “Go ahead.”

“Thought you’d like to know Laila is on board.” Circe’s voice came in surrounded by laughter. Wherever she was, there were a lot of people having a very good time. “The distira coruscates were delightful, according to her, for down payment. She shared with Qisma, which is why she’s standing there, weighing your offer instead of dismissing it out of hand. It doesn’t hurt that you’re going to pay another hundred thousand for the kidnapping.”

Yes, indeed. A pittance compared to what the incursion drone cost, which was lost probing the Terrans’ scanner systems far off. Speaking of which, it was about time for another feint. “I trust Laila has had some success convincing her sister?”

“Some. It isn’t Laila’s place to decide—Qisma has command, which is Bodrogi’s key to success, of course.”

That it was. Qisma and Laila, the sisters who had inherited the family business from their mother while the street bosses took on the frontline work and presented the known face of the syndicate, were the true power behind the scenes.

The best kind, Kiel reflected. The kind which I prefer to control.

“All right.” Qisma pocketed her tablet. “We’ll make the necessary arrangements and wait for your signal. But if CDF gets involved, we’ll dump the hostage and close this down.”

“That’ll work. Don’t get skittish.” Ferenc wagged a finger. “Otherwise, you won’t get paid.”

Qisma turned and stalked back to her vehicle, muttering imprecations in what Kiel guessed was Turkish, but he was too pleased with the outcome to bother activating the comms’ translator circuit.

Ferenc climbed back into the hovercraft and sealed the door. He reached up and turned off his aerator. Then he sneezed. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don’t spray me, and you’ll be fine. I take it the target is acceptable?”

Ferenc nodded.

“We will wait a day or so—until the uproar from Burnett’s disappearance has faded, though I am loath to delay longer since it’s apparent he didn’t vanish on his own.”

“You think the Terrans have him?”

“Possible. Unfortunate, if so. In the meantime, we shall find another way to disrupt the Astrocom work. I think it’s time we give it a more personal touch. Have you still been listening?”

Circe’s laugh cut across the open comms. “I’ll see if I can tear myself away.”

“Do that.” Kiel smiled. “We have another chance to succeed, which is necessary for the security of the League of Sol—and to our continued existence.”

13

Meng Po

Four Orbit

Trenchant System

14 May 2465

Captain Zhou Yongrui flicked through the endless list of instructions and data from the boss. Will there ever be a day when Kiel doesn’t give me a pile of things to do, point by point, instead of a general set of orders? Micromanaging was his least favorite thing in the entire galaxy.

He supposed he couldn’t complain. Zhou had his own ship, his own crew, and was largely free of the naval regulations and, more importantly, the political bullshit, which had nearly gotten him executed. At least Kiel didn’t flaunt the fact.

“So, we have everything the boss found in the past few weeks.” Zhou announced this to Senior Chief Francois Ancel, his sensor tech. “The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

“Well…” Ancel scratched his chin. “It’s simultaneously a lot and not very much. Kiel’s people provided us enough analysis to last years if we wanted to delve into the fine details. The whole point is he’s hypothesizing there is a ship nearby putting out enough interference to foul up the ground communications and sensors. Whoever it is has targeted the channels used by ESS operations. Even with constant modulation, this interference has damaged Kiel’s ability to maintain communications between his groundside elements.”

“It makes sense. Look at those spikes—too powerful to be coming from satellites or local comms.”

“I concur. I think, though, we can use the satellites to trace where the interference originated.”

Zhou nodded. “Tactical, refresh the board, within one light-second of Trenchant II.”

“Aye, Captain.” The young Lieutenant Balland at the tactical station responded with a surety Zhou knew had been missing months ago. Even having just a couple of missions aboard Meng Po under his belt had given him experience that would serve him well, especially since the missions were undertaken with ESS oversight. “Bringing it up now.”

The holographic display rippled as a dozen new contacts appeared as points of light moving in glowing threads, circling Trenchant. Zhou frowned as he stepped nearer. Forty-six ships, not counting smaller craft-like shuttles.

Where to start? “What do we have for Terran warships?”

“Two Ajax-class destroyers on patrol between Trenchant and the moons,” Balland reported. “Four CDF transports of varying tonnage, two of which are in Izarrak Yards for repair and upgrade. Six Trenchant patrol corvettes. The rest come back as civilian models, mostly Terran, a few Saurian and neutrals.”

“Tag all of them,” Zhou ordered. “Tango One through Forty-Six. Sensor, pull whatever personnel you need from other departments and distribute the boss’s data. We can start running comparisons on every ship out there.”

“Every, Skipper?” Ancel looked puzzled. “Surely those lizard-faced—”

“Make no assumptions, Francois,” Zhou cut in. “You should know better. We all should, in this line of work. Frankly, a Saurian ship or one disguised like it would be my first bet. Our enemies escaped in one back at Bellwether, didn’t they?”

Ancel blushed. “Of course. Right away, Captain.”

Balland piped up, “Tango One through Forty-Six marked, sir. Shunting the telemetry down to Sensor.”

“It’s a start. Bring up the profiles—to my console, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, sir.”

Zhou let out a surprised grunt when the information swamped his command chair’s screens. That was a lot of data. Ancel and his people had their work cut out for them. Already Zhou could see a handful of candidates they could discount—the interference cataloged by Kiel’s team was far too complex for the equipment on some of the ships. Those would have overloaded themselves, completely shorting out their comms and possibly the backups.

“Keep up our sweeps,” he ordered, “but make sure they stay passive. We’re out here on the move like all the rest of the commercial traffic. Hone in on the two destroyers first, though they’re too obvious to be the real troublemakers.”

“But that would be a good way to hide, right, sir?” Balland seemed to mull over the possibility. “Obvious in plain sight.”

Zhou rubbed his forehead. “Too much of this espionage bullshit. Give me a target, and I’ll burn it out of space.”

“One would think, Captain, you’re still sore we didn’t get our rematch with the Terran stealth ship.” Ancel’s tone was as innocent as a child’s, but Zhou spotted the smirk right away before his sensor chief could banish it.

Zhou knew some captains who wouldn’t abide a joke at their expense. Good, capable officers, tactically sound. They were dead by the time the war was over. Not Zhou. He’d made a career out of bending the rules when common sense dictated the need. That line of thinking had almost led to his execution. Still, he couldn’t trade the experience, nor would he second-guess his decisions.

Zhou sat in his chair and drummed on the arms. “I’m a patient man, Francois. I’ll get a crack at them—and don’t worry, I’ll get a crack back at you for that one.”

Balland snorted but leaned closer to his displays, as if he could bury his amusement.

Eight hours later, Ancel had eliminated thirty of the forty-six ships from the list. The last sixteen, though, proved a problem—two Saurian warships, one of which was in the port for repairs, the other being its escort; six neutral freighters; eight Terran-flagged cargo vessels.

“All of these have reinforced comms arrays,” Ancel explained. “They could have put out the interference, though, if there are modifications under the hull we can’t scan, at least can’t scan passively.”

“That’s a start.” Zhou blinked away the dryness in his eyes. Too many hours staring at screens. “Do we have likely suspects among the remaining lot?”

“Not yet. We’ve come up against an electronic wall.” Ancel shook his head. “The problem is whoever conducted the interference is either a genius or has far more computing power than anything we have access to—or both.”

“Let’s not give them too much credit.” Even as he tried to take the air out of Ancel’s statement, he knew both his sensor chief’s observations were probably correct. CDF Intelligence was not full of slouches—at least, not from what Zhou had experienced ever since Kiel had scooped him up for the new, subtle war against the Terrans.

As much as he preferred the stark certainties of a straight-up battle, he had to admit, he liked the hunt in the dark. But he needed a target, not a star field full of possible ones.

“Our best chance at IDing the enemy ship is to wait until they try again,” Ancel said. “We’ll be in much better shape then and won’t have nearly the delay.”

“Good. So, let’s get into position.” Zhou eased back into his chair. “Helm, take us ahead, orbital approach speed, and line us up for one of the outer slots. Queue up Identity Number Seven—private merchant Joyner. Run out the fabricated flight plan. The boss can run a shuttle up to us on remote if we need to fake cargo transfers.”

“Yes, sir,” the helmsman responded.

Zhou nodded. “Our turn to watch, but not just to wait. We’re tiptoeing through a dark forest while our enemy is doing the same. All everyone’s hoping is that the other will be the first to step on a dry branch and make that crack that sounds like a gunshot.”

CSV Tuscon

950 Light-Years from Trenchant

14 May 2465

Mancini raked his hand through his hair. It’d been too easy to think nabbing that Rouen-class automated scout ship near one of the PASCORE buoys would lead to a colossal breakthrough and be enough to call the Leaguers to task. So far, no dice, as the saying went.

Chief Tabb’s techs had come up empty, even though they had torn the scout apart, leaving its innards spread across the entire hold. But it wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before. Frankly, Mancini came away unimpressed. He’d known CDF Intelligence technology was ahead of what the League could scrape together, but he hadn’t expected to see by just how much.

“Pretty sure my kids could build better spy drones from parts we have lying around the workshop,” Tabb had pronounced.

But as they dragged aboard the third such unmanned scout they’d captured, Mancini was beginning to wonder if that wasn’t the point.

“Since when does the League throw away money?” Godat scowled. “A Rouen isn’t top-of-the-line, but it’s not discount, either, Skipper.”

“Are you kidding? They poured designer drugs across our borders. All they need to do to up their espionage and destabilization budgets is bleed their people with more taxes.” Mancini shook his head. “Better not get me started. Back to your question. Whatever they’re trying to achieve with these scout runs must be worth the cost. The likely scenario is probing the PASCORE network itself, charting where it exists, what the response time is between detection and reaction, and how willing we are to defend it.”

With that out of the way, Mancini pulled a marker from his uniform pocket and etched a tiny letter “R” on the arm of his command chair. Then he drew a slash through it. The marking was identical to two others.

Godat chuckled. “Three intercepts, three kills, eh, Skipper?”

“Have to do something to boost my own morale, XO.” Especially given he would much rather be on the prowl for enemy ships instead of babysitting.

Tuscon’s main screen showed the crews busy deploying another sensor buoy. The coordinates were classified, but CDF still needed people on-site to bring the buoy online and also needed a ship to make sure it was protected. A single modified freighter hung against the starry background as a rainbow’s worth of lights blinked around the half-assembled buoy. Thirty bots and twenty technicians, according to the latest readout.

Mancini supposed his grumping wasn’t necessary. He didn’t fault his superiors for choosing a stealth boat like Tuscon as the escort for such a deployment. Sending a ship of the line would draw too much attention to that region of space, when attention was what everyone wanted to avoid. Of course, having Tuscon on hand made it much simpler to respond clandestinely to a threat if the League put its intelligence to use.

None of the scouts had been able to transmit new scans once they stumbled upon the other buoys, or into the sectors nearby. Tuscon had seen to that by first disabling them with its EMP then dismantling the captured ships.

“Conn, Comms,” the communications officer called out. “Incoming packet from CSV Oxford, encrypted.”

“Comms, route it to my console.” Mancini checked the code file for the day and entered the appropriate key to decrypt the message. He grunted.

“Problem?” Godat appeared at his shoulder—an easy feat, given the stealth boat’s compact control room.

“Things are heating up at Trenchant,” Mancini noted. “Sabotage, attempted kidnapping or assassination, sinking of smugglers.”

“Hardly fair when the people on the ground have more fun than we do.”

“No argument there. The colonel sent us what his crew have managed to decipher when it comes to enemy communications. He thinks it could be useful while we’re out here with an ear to the stars for interloping Leaguers.” Mancini reached for the intercom. “Sensor Room?”

“Conn, Sensor. Go ahead, sir.”

“I’m forwarding a report from Oxford. There’s an attached analysis I want applied to our passive sensor sweeps.”

“Confirmed, Skipper. I’m on it.”

Mancini shut off the mic. “Comms, likewise for you. Watch the signals for anything we can use in that regard. Maybe we can get ahead of some of these scouts if we can differentiate their communications from background noise, like Sinclair’s people figured out.”

“Conn, Comms. Working the analysis into our routine, aye.”

Their swift responses brought Mancini the reassurance that came from working with a seasoned crew. With those two stations acting in tandem with Olesen, TAO could give them a better picture of what threats they might face, especially when they were linked into PASCORE. Mancini marveled at the current state of the tactical display. But more impressive was its predictive nature.

He wasn’t privy to all the details. Still, it was evident PASCORE had given Tuscon a few vital seconds’ warning when the first Rouen scout had appeared a week ago. It wasn’t a matter of being tipped off by a League wormhole drive opening a portal light-years away. PASCORE predicted the enemy ship’s arrival.

Frankly, Mancini didn’t care how it worked. All that mattered was it did work. Hence Tuscon’s ability to nab three scouts in a row, three League ships with moderate stealth capabilities that otherwise should have gone unnoticed until they’d cut deeper into Coalition space. Mancini, his arms folded, rubbed at the sleeve patch indicating his Catholic affiliation. He grinned. Far be it for me to ruin a miracle, even a technological one.

The intercom activated. “Conn, Cargo Hold.” Chief Tabb sounded disgruntled, as if Mancini had told him to unpack, move, and restock every item sealed in storage within the next hour. “Skipper, can I get you down here? One of the boys thinks we’ve got something funny from the scouts.”

“Cargo Hold, anything we’ll need to jettison?”

Godat chuckled, but despite his amused expression, Mancini had meant it seriously. Being paranoid about booby-trapped League devices was the best paranoia an officer could hold onto.

“No, sir, nothing dangerous, but… odd.”

“I’ll be down in a second.” Mancini slid from his chair. “XO, you have the conn.”

“Aye, sir, I have the conn.”

And Mancini was relieved for the uptick in potential intrigue.

Jokes about sabotage and bombs aside, the cargo hold did resemble a blast zone. Pieces of League ship were scattered everywhere. Scattered was a poor word. Chief Tabb would never scatter anything. Similar fragments and like circuitry were arrayed in clumps across the open deck. Most of the engine parts and other components, which were inferior to Coalition versions, had been dumped in deep space or were being melted down for reuse as plating patches stored in the event of a hull breach.

Chief Phillip Tabb scratched the back of his neck with the brim of his cap. His coveralls were spotted with three different shades of lubricant stains. “Hey, Skipper. Take a look at this.”

The “this” was a smattering of tiny, gnarled—insects? Mancini frowned. He would have to talk with the technicians responsible for cleaning Tuscon’s interior when they got back to the Canaan fleet yards—at least, that was his initial thought. It wasn’t until he knelt on the blue tarp and peered closer that he realized he was looking at bots. They were about the size of ladybugs and round, though their tops were a drab, pitted gray and the underside black riven with miniscule silver traceries.

“Tell me those are inert, Chief.”

“Yes, sir. Deader than dead.” Tabb had a portable scanning device in one hand, which he waved atop the pile of miniature corpses. “Remind you of anything?”

Mancini glanced at Tabb’s readout. “Well, our databases seem to think they resemble the flitters Intelligence operatives like to use, only dumber. The bots, that is.”

Tabb chuckled. “Yeah, our spooks’ tech has a lot more finesse. These things are built for bumbling around. They’ve got enough propellant in them, though. I bet they can get around in vacuum as easily as atmosphere.”

“Where’d you find them?”

“Sealed in packets, lined up in launch tubes.” Tabb brought up a new schematic, a familiar wireframe of a Rouen-class. “Never seen a modification like this one, have you, Skipper? Launch tubes embedded in the forward hull but no bigger than a rifle barrel.”

“Can’t say I have, Chief. What’s their purpose?”

Tabb shrugged. “That’s gonna take me more than an afternoon to figure out. Whatever happened to them when we jolted the scout fried their innards. The micro circuitry’s a mess. If there were any sensors for snooping about, those got melted off too. What I can tell you is the first scout launched some. The others didn’t, as near I can find.”

“Launched.”

“Yes, sir. I was gonna check in with Sensor Room and see if they can confirm a point of impact.”

“On us?”

“Maybe.” Tabb indicated the schematic. “I shouldn’t have compared these suckers to rifles. They’re more like shotguns—several packets, magnetically connected, blasted out at once in a broad, high-velocity spray.”

Mancini nodded slowly. “Given how far away the Rouen was when she appeared after her jump, if she’d launched then, the spray could have hit us and the first buoy.”

“That’s what I figure, sir.”

“Any evidence the other two scouts launched?”

“No, sir. They’re fully stocked up, but those little buggers are as fried as the rest on both craft.”

“I’ll count that as a blessing. Confer with Sensor. We’re going to run a deep-level scan of the entire ship. Pull all your people off this project and get them out on the hull with our repair bots. I need ever millimeter examined.”

“Great minds, Skipper. I’ll get right to it.” Tabb tucked the sensor unit under his arm and headed toward his nearest cluster of technicians, issuing orders on the fly.

Mancini crossed the hold to the nearest intercom and punched the panel. “Conn, Cargo Hold.”

“Go ahead, Cargo Hold.” Godat sounded like he was bracing himself for an unpleasant task.

“Have the pilot belay our next jump. Prep me a secure tight beam to Colonel Sinclair—we’re going to hold off on our next buoy rendezvous until we run a deep-level scan of the entire boat.”

“Aye, Skipper.” Godat cleared his throat. “This scan—what are we looking for? Something Chief Tabb found?”

Mancini swore he could feel his skin crawling. It happened any time he was around swarms of bugs. Apparently it didn’t matter whether they were biological or synthetic. “There’s the distinct possibility League scouts have been dropping presents for us and the PASCORE buoys, at least dating back a week. We’re going to find them and uncover what they’re doing.”

“Understood. I’ll call down to Engineering, see if they’ve had any problems. Last thing we want—”

“Interference with the reactor, I know.” Mancini winced inwardly at the idea. It was one thing to lose his boat in the heat of combat, defending the Coalition from its enemies. It was another to go out in a blaze of separating atoms as a reactor malfunction tore everything into their constituent particles. “We’ve got a potential pest problem, and if the League has anything to do with it, getting rid of them is going to be far from pleasant.”

14

Astrographic Survey Complex

City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

15 May 2465

There was little doubt the project had hit a snag. Too many sensor towers were sealed shut by caution tape, those units being the ones in which Burnett had planted the faulty memory modules. A new shipment was on the way, but it could take another week to arrive.

To say Colonel Siddiq was not pleased was the understatement of the millennium. “Gollingstar is through.” Siddiq stalked the corridors.

Technicians and CDF staff parted long before he arrived, as if his foul mood were a physical presence shoving them aside. Jackson had to lengthen his stride a half step to keep up.

“Once the review board finishes with them, they won’t have a contract available until Trenchant’s star uses all its fuel and turns to a cinder.”

“I think that’s a bit harsh.” Actually, Jackson did not. All the evidence Burnett had recorded so far indicated Yodo was involved but revealed no signs anyone else in the company had a clue what he was doing. Even the workers at the supposedly decommissioned plant where the faulty modules were disguised as belonging to Vesper Composites were operating with the understanding they’d been picked for a quality control security exercise. “After all, a review board hearing will make the whole matter public.”

“Public outcry might be the best thing for the company to experience. Certainly, given the sentiment against corrupt corporations, it wouldn’t hurt for them to see their stock rating plummet.”

“They’ll suffer enough damage having to withdraw from the contract while the investigation continues. But let’s keep in mind that same public focus would also draw unwanted attention to the refit itself. Last thing either of us wants is to provide more ammunition to the protestors, who seem to be expanding their ranks by the day.”

Siddiq’s stony expression softened a bit, enough Jackson could tell he’d made his point—a good thing, too, because after a couple hours’ worth of arguing, Jackson was running out of said points.

“That is a valid concern, Mr. Hayes. I realize my—rants were out of line, but I think you can understand my frustration. Watching for external sabotage is one thing. To endure setbacks because of corruption inside a Coalition company…”

“Rest assured, Colonel, the proper remedies will be brought to bear.” Jackson smiled.

Siddiq smiled back, though his had a slier edge to it. “I should have faith they will be, given our mutual acquaintance. I have neglected my own faith, also, by not remembering the admonition of the Prophet, who tells us vengeance belongs to God only.”

“Like I told you.” Brant’s voice cut across Jackson’s hearing. “That’s two to one, Echo One.”

Jackson shook his head, but he was still amused. He’d often wondered what it would be like to hear the voice of God. Countless people had claimed to have done so over the centuries. But given his uncertainly about the divine, it didn’t seem likely it would happen to him. I guess, for the time being, I’ll have to be content with Brant acting like the angel’s trumpet.

“But the pace of the work hasn’t slowed, from what I can tell,” Jackson continued. “Or I should say, from what Program Manager Mendoza tells me.”

“She is a taskmaster, that one,” Siddiq agreed. “No, my friend, the progress on the sensor capacity upgrade is delayed by seven or eight days, according to the last update. This unfortunately throws a wrench into the rest of the refit. The physical replacements can proceed, of course, but before we can reboot and run the entire system in its improved format, every piece of hardware must be in place.”

“Understandable. No point in restarting every time the next component appears.” Jackson made a face. “But when you say reboot—surely that doesn’t incapacitate the PASCORE network.”

They arrived again at the left-hand “lobe,” as Siddiq had deemed it, which Jackson discovered was referred to only as “Mirror.” Siddiq led them into a dark corner—quite the feat, considering Jackson couldn’t see anything in the space other than what was illuminated by screens, consoles, and handheld devices.

“We can take down sections of the network on command. Those lapses last for ten seconds maximum, which, for programmers and technicians like ours, is an eternity.” Siddiq chuckled. “You should see the poor souls sweating whenever we do. But no, there is no need turn everything off.”

“They seem busy enough monitoring PASCORE without worrying about the refit’s complications.” Jackson indicated the cluster of five techs muttering over the readout in the center of their consoles. He tried squinting so he could make out the coordinates cluttering the three-meter sphere but gave up when doing so made his head spin.

“Yes. They grapple with a constant influx of sensor data compiled by the buoys stretching the length of the Coalition.” Siddiq kept his voice low, as he had during their entire conversation, no doubt because the true nature of the PASCORE network was not something J. Jefferson Hayes should know about, at least not the complete truth. “Lately there have been—unsettling indicators in certain regions. Our operators here coordinate directly with CDF Intelligence.”

Jackson nodded. Siddiq’s confirmation matched what he’d already heard from CSV Oxford, relaying the incidents in which CSV Tuscon had been involved. The League was probing the border network, a common enough occurrence and one which both governments downplayed. The Spencer administration was a far superior defender of the Coalition, as far as Jackson and most everyone serving in the military was concerned, but even they weren’t willing to openly needle the League over every minor provocation. Hence the silent war Jackson and his team had been waging.

“I think it fair to say, Mr. Hayes, there will be opportunity to expand Vesper Composites’ contract, what with Gollingstar having to take a step back.” Siddiq’s tone was louder, his stance less furtive. “Perhaps we can even find ways for you to move along our work up at Izarrak Yards. Goodness knows the captains are unhappy with the slowdown since CDF pulled technicians from there to help expedite the Astrocom refit—and some of those captains are Saurian, so you can imagine their, uh, unique outrage.”

Jackson chuckled. “I can imagine, indeed, Colonel. We’ll be happy to oblige in whatever ways we can.”

“Echo One, if you have a chance to get somewhere private, we have an update on the angry neighbors,” Brant interrupted.

Text flashed across Jackson’s wrist unit. He triggered an affirmative response to Brant then smiled at Siddiq. “Apologies, Colonel, but I have a call to take. I’ll stop by with Mendoza to see how our aspect of the refit is going, then I can check with our corporation about increased supply.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. Hayes. I look forward to hearing good news.”

Don’t we all? Jackson made his way up from the tower to the observation deck where, mercifully, the wind was not blowing at what felt like a thousand kilometers per hour. It would have been easier on his nose and throat to stay indoors, where he wouldn’t have to rely on his aerator, but being up top meant a lower likelihood of audio surveillance. “Echo Home, this is Echo One. What do you have?”

“A signal. The best kind you could hope for. I consider it an answer to prayer.”

Jackson glanced at the text on his screen. It looked like gibberish to him, but as he examined it, the numbers, letters, and other glyphs resolved into just numbers. “By answer to prayer, I assume you mean this will get me in touch with someone I’ve always wanted to talk to.”

“Since Salvatore’s, yes.”

Jackson’s heart skipped with the jolt of adrenaline. He’d worked undercover as a skimmer mechanic at Salvatore’s Ground Effect Garage in the city of Kolossi on Aphendrika. His team had uncovered and stopped the League’s destabilization efforts that included everything from human trafficking and illegal drug distribution to driving a wedge between refugees and the CDF. When it was all over, a man named Vasiliy had broken into Jackson’s comm and taunted him.

“How long do I get?” he asked Brant.

“A couple of minutes, maybe. You’ll see a timer. It has a thirty-second window before they can trace the transmission.” Brant cleared his throat. “Assuming you still think this is a good idea.”

“We’ve been over this. It’s PSYOPS.”

“Okay, then, whenever you’re ready. I’ll be monitoring and blocking the entire time. Home out.”

Jackson leaned on the railing. He gazed out at the sprawling sea and the islands dotting the horizon. That was it—the numbers were right there on his wrist device. Burnett had given Colonel Sinclair and his people the comms code he’d used to get through to Qisma al-Omer, and through that connection, Brant and Eldred had combined their efforts to pinpoint what they were pretty certain was the primary signal the League team was using to communicate.

Good idea or bad, Jackson needed to take the next step. He needed Vasiliy to know he was watching, and he wasn’t going away. It could be as simple as wanting to make the man feel the same strain Jackson did. Which was fine by him.

Jackson tapped his wrist unit. Static hissed in his earpiece before clearing into a low hum. Then the hum died out.

A voice on the other end demanded, “Who is this?”

“Hello, Vasiliy,” Jackson answered. “This is One.”

Kiel’s grip tightened on his commlink until he was sure he would shatter it. Echo One, whom Kiel had harassed briefly at the end of the ESS foray to Aphendrika. It had been, if he was being honest, a moment of extreme hubris. Perhaps it was fate his enemy would eventually find him, as Kiel had first found his enemy. “Ah. I was wondering if I would hear your voice again. Of course, I expected it to be on the occasion of your detainment, when I would remind you of the proper balance of power.”

“Really? I think you misunderstand the meaning of the phrase.” The voice had a casual air and was tinged with amusement, as if the speaker could barely be bothered with the call he’d initiated. “You’re on our turf, Vasiliy. Did you really think we’d be on the defensive throughout the entire game? I have to admit, I’m having a great time watching you scurry around trying to break things.”

“Do you care to make a point?” Kiel gestured furiously at Yahanotov, who was already hunched over his console, hands flying across the interface. Ferenc hurried to a tablet on the other side of the room and picked it up. He immediately frowned at the information sliding across the screen.

“Keep him talking,” Ferenc murmured.

What the hell does that moron think I’m doing? “Let’s be clear, Echo One. I’m not fond of wasting time, especially on insufferable know-it-alls.”

“Hey, I’m just returning the favor. You were such help last time around—or the last two times, I should say—or however many times you’ve failed.”

Failed. The word pierced Kiel like a knife. It was all too easy to imagine an ESS assassin wielding such a weapon, given Director Borisov’s lingering promises of pain and death, should Kiel not provide results.

Yahanotov grumbled. “Wherever he’s signaling from, there’s so much junk generated alongside it I can’t pinpoint an origin—and they’re trying to do the same thing with our location, so I have to divert resources to prevent our discovery at the same time. Get him off the comms, sir.”

“Good luck convincing him to disengage,” Ferenc muttered.

Ah, but he knows me too well. The risk is worth it if we can beat this interloper at his own stratagem. “Failure implies overfocus on a single goal,” Kiel snarled. “I am happy to take opportunities as they arise. One never knows when one could be presented a more tempting target while in pursuit of the primary one.”

“Listen, Vasiliy—I’m all about fouling up whatever pathetic plan you’ve cooked up next because nothing makes me happier than daydreaming about you losing.”

“Nothing?” An opening, how nice. “Then you must have a poor excuse for a life, if my undoing has become the focus of your existence.”

The link’s ensuing silence let Kiel divert his attention to Yahanotov, who had a deepening scowl welded in place. Ferenc, meanwhile, seemed—worried? Impossible. The man had never known a day’s anxiety his whole life. Kiel was willing to bet on the fact as surely as he would wager on the sun rising tomorrow. It wasn’t until Ferenc strode to the window that Kiel realized what it was that had his second-in-command concerned.

“You keep violating our borders and testing our will, like we didn’t win the war and send your substandard fleets limping back home.” Echo One’s voice had gone stern. “Applying pressure isn’t going to have the effect you want, Vasiliy. We won’t break. Your repeated provocations make us fight back all the more because we know what it’s like to face the annihilation of our way of life and triumph.”

“I thought it was God’s will you have victory, One, and not your own. Isn’t that how your infantile reliance on a destructive myth works?” Kiel smiled. He could almost feel the frustration growing as the verbal sparring continued. Like any situation, he would bend it to his purposes, just as he’d done with Borisov, and buy himself more time.

That was, until Ferenc grabbed his arm. “Sir. We have to go. Now.”

Of all the impudent… Kiel jerked free and covered the audio pickup of his comms. “You’d better have a fantastic reason for bothering me instead of doing your job.”

Ferenc’s expression shifted from his newly discovered worry to stern anger. He seized Kiel’s arm again and, to Kiel’s utter shock, dragged him to the window. “They found us.”

No need to ask for clarification. Kiel recognized the truck slipping into an alley down the block and across the street from the former artist’s loft in which his people made their base of operations. It was the same vehicle Bodrogi had used for their botched attempt to abduct the Gollingstar technician, the same vehicle that had gone missing after someone slaughtered the Bodrogi crew driving it.

“God or not,” Echo One snapped, “I’ll see you in hell.”

Kiel pushed past Ferenc. “Melt it down,” he ordered Yahanotov. “Bring everything that’s vital and destroy the rest.”

“But, sir!” Yahanotov sprawled across the console, frantically unplugging connections like he was trying to save the life of a terminally ill patient. “This setup isn’t replaceable, not fully. The backup terminals at our—”

Kiel stopped in midstride and sighed deeply. “Ferenc?”

Ferenc drew a plasma pistol and aimed for Yahanotov’s chest, his face regaining a measure of its customary bored calm.

“Melt. It.” Kiel stabbed a finger at Yahanotov. “Retrieve the auxiliary memory, and move your torpid ass unless you want a firsthand experience at Terran interrogation techniques.”

Sev was first through the door into the vacant apartment. He signaled it was clear. Gina swept past him, pulse pistol ready. Good. Brant’s floor plans, pilfered from city archives, were correct when they showed the dimensions and layout of the residential space.

She glanced up at the ceiling and smiled. “Four, why don’t you knock?”

“Yes.” Sev pulled a quartet of silvery triangles from his backpack. He flung them overhead, one at a time, until they formed the four corners of a lopsided square. Then he tapped a command into his wrist unit and stood in front of Gina, his towering form a shield.

Even with her mask and visor in place, she winced at the actinic glare that erupted. Brief, searing heat bathed the room, followed by a billowing cloud of dust. The torched section of ceiling—plus the ruined floor of the loft above—crashed down behind Sev.

“Okay?” he asked her.

Gina patted his shoulder. “I am, thanks, but we could have just backed away.”

Sev shrugged. He indicated the gash above them. “Ladies first.”

Gina chuckled as she took a few quick steps, leapt toward the gap, and hung onto its charred edge. The materials crumbled in her grip, but she only needed a few seconds so she could flip up and into the next floor. She gave a twist midair, and as she cleared the floor level—even upside down—she could see they were too late.

“Home, this is Two.” Gina bent backward and landed in a crouch. She swept her aim around the room, making sure she didn’t miss a single nook or shadow with her pulse pistol. No signs of life. The most obvious indicator was everything being in the proper place—couch, chairs, tables, kitchen appliances, holoprojector—and sealed in plastic, which in turn was covered with a thin layer of dust.

A grunt echoed from below. Sev’s fingertips appeared on the edge of the hole. He dragged himself up into the apartment, where he froze. Sev cocked his head to one side. “Empty?”

“That’s how it looks.” Gina consulted her wrist device. “Not a life sign for meters. Echo Home, this is Two. Breach successful but negative sign of the target.”

Brant swore in Tagalog then whispered what sounded like an apologetic, “Forgive me, for I have sinned.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Blast it. They spoofed us.” Brant sighed. “Probably because I was fending off their attempts to trace us while I was tracking them down. The address was altered before I homed in. You’re on the wrong side of the street.”

Gina rolled her eyes and walked to the other side of the room, where she had a grand view of the loft with soaring windows. “Change of plans, Four. We backtrack to the truck and get across—”

The only warning she had was the flash of light. An explosion ripped apart the front of the loft. Gina raised her arms as a shield and threw herself sideways, fully aware she wouldn’t be able to dodge all the incoming damage.

Sev collided with her as their window shattered, filling the air with razor-edged shards. Gina felt their fiery impact on her arms and legs, a handful of cuts, but was more concerned about her back when she and her savior smashed into an empty set of cabinets. A thunderous roar rendered her temporarily deaf. Sev lifted his mask, wincing as he rolled off of Gina.

She patted his back, coughing as smoke drifted through the damaged wall. “My… hero.”

Sev gave her a thumbs-up.

15

Oval Office

The White House

Lawrence City—Canaan System

16 May 2465

Justin Spencer had never seen Eduardo Fuentes so furious. The vice president circled the office, gesticulating as he spoke like an impassioned preacher behind the pulpit, except his words were anything but uplifting.

“This is a disaster!” Fuentes snapped. “Innocent civilians injured and we squandered a lead on the League agents’ whereabouts. It doesn’t sound to me like the trap was successfully sprung. If anything, your prey triggered it and left the hunters scrambling to clean up the mess.”

General MacIntosh sat so stiffly in his chair Spencer could have been convinced mythical Medusa had turned him to stone. “With all due respect, Mr. Vice President, you’ve got no clue what you’re talking about, as usual.”

“I beg your pardon. Did I hear you correctly?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your ears. I spoke plainly.” MacIntosh slapped his tablet against the arm of the chair. “We knew drawing out the League and taking the offense instead of playing defense would come with risks. You said so yourself.”

“First of all, I was concerned about the risks and hesitant to approve the operation because of them.” Fuentes ticked off reasons on his fingers. “Secondly, I specifically referenced the covert unit personnel. Civilians were supposed to be out of the equation.”

“Mr. Vice President, as much as you’d like to ignore the fact, we’re still at war. Nothing’s declared, and no one’s marshalling their fleets, but it’s a war all the same.”

“The continuation of politics by other means, General? Are you going to quote Clausewitz to me?” Fuentes snorted and crossed his arms. “I am familiar with the man.”

“Gentlemen, let’s take it down a notch.” Spencer brought them both glasses of water. “Time to cool our tempers. Infighting won’t help us smooth out this latest wrinkle.”

The water had two purposes—to soothe parched throats but also to shut them up so Spencer could get a word in edgewise. They offer good advice, with their opposing perspectives, but at times their ideologies get the best of them and prevent us from reaching practical solutions. “I’ve reviewed the update from Colonel Sinclair, as you both have, and can’t find much fault with how things are going. He’s got a Coalition citizen in custody who offered us actionable intelligence, which in turn led to CAU 171 making this communications breakthrough.”

“It was a direct provocation and damned sloppy.” Fuentes wiped his lip with his knuckles.

“No, it was a calculated risk,” MacIntosh countered. “Their goal was to push the enemy off-balance, just like the Leaguers did to our people on Bellwether, when they broke our signals, and earlier on Aphendrika, when they did the same. We spent too much time worrying about how they were going to compromise our operations when we should have been shooting holes in theirs, something we’re remedying.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you on that point, General, but I’d be happier about the whole affair if our units could strike a blow against the League without its agents blowing up a housing complex.”

“The destruction itself isn’t the problem.” Celinda Snow flicked her hand across her tablet, which converted a newsfeed displayed there into a holographic projection.

The scene from Daranj on Trenchant filled a hazy spray between the Oval Office’s occupants as the headlines drifted across the bottom, reminding Spencer of the cost—hundreds of thousands in damages, thirty-three injured, thankfully no one killed, but dozens left homeless as utilities struggled to restore services and inspectors checked the building’s structural integrity before allowing anyone reentry.

“It’s what it tells us about our adversaries,” Snow continued. “They could have enacted a similar protocol to the one used by CAU 171 when they had to abandon their safehouse on Bellwether Station—slag the computers. The bombing was unnecessary.”

“It gave them the excuse to rile up those moronic WFU zealots.” MacIntosh glowered at Fuentes. “By pinning the bomb on one of Colonel Siddiq’s people.”

Spencer winced inwardly at the next image that appeared—Janet Mendoza. “The Vesper Composites PM is not one of his, strictly speaking, but I see your point—the optics are terrible.”

“How did we miss her posting anti-military sentiments on her social media?” Fuentes demanded. “She should have been flagged as soon as Vesper brought her in for this project. She’s clearly a security risk.”

“Ed, we’re not about to start invading people’s privacy, and all her comments were locked behind her profile’s security wall. Of course, they’re out there now, but there’s still no definitive proof she had anything to do with the bomb.”

“What matters more is public perception, Mr. President,” Snow pointed out. “Her manifesto is spreading across the networks. We can easily prove she was innocent, a victim of League information manipulation, but by then, the damage will be done. It’s clear the League prepared this in advance as a last-ditch measure to divert attention, and though I despise their methods and everything they stand for, you can’t deny its effectiveness.”

“Have we at least gained anything from the League’s extreme reaction?” Spencer spread his hands. “Andrew, I’d take wild guesses at this point.”

“Fortunately, Mr. President, Colonel Sinclair has more than that. Lieutenant Guinto, with 171, has the signal profiles that several of the Leaguers were using to communicate—so they’re denied those just like that.” MacIntosh snapped his fingers to accentuate the point. “The Gollingstar technician, Burnett, is cooperating so well I think we could get him to sign on with CDF Intelligence tomorrow if it gave him a chance for payback, but so far, all he can prove to us are his contacts within the Bodrogi syndicate.”

“Those will be helpful, as we’ve already seen.” Spencer sat behind his desk and leaned on his elbows. “As messy as it’s been, the team’s efforts are paying off. These are troubling developments, but as long as we can keep the pressure on, I’m confident we can show the League that interfering at Trenchant isn’t worth their time. The goal again is to make the accelerated espionage they’ve been experimenting with over the past year too costly to maintain.”

“Which brings us to the other issue at hand.” Snow swiped across her tablet.

The footage from Trenchant vanished as a star field took its place. Six red dots glowed in a ragged line.

“The PASCORE network.”

“You’re talking about the ships caught sniffing around?” MacIntosh snorted. “It’s not as if we have any doubt those are League vessels—a couple of Rouen-class scouts are pretty obvious.”

“Diplomatic queries didn’t pan out, though,” Fuentes said. “The League claims every ship we’ve caught was one sold off after they lost the war, surplus equipment they rid themselves of to boost their treasury.”

“Possible but not probable.” Snow frowned. “The tactics are not ones used by pirates testing our borders, given the proximity to the new and existing PASCORE buoys.”

“You think they really are testing the network while it’s undergoing its upgrades, Celinda.” Spencer didn’t phrase it as a question because he’d been convinced of the same thing.

“I do, Mr. President. CSV Tuscon and CSV Lubbock have both retrieved whole scouts. These have been fully automated with a degree of sophistication not found in piratical fleets or even most neutral self-defense squadrons. I suspect more are out there probing the border so as to determine what the buoys are for.”

“The League knows we have border detection,” MacIntosh added. “They’re not stupid, but they don’t know how broad or sophisticated the network is.”

“So, they send their drones to test the line while inciting protestors on Trenchant until we have this mess.” Spencer prompted his tablet’s feed to link with Snow’s so another news holo appeared—thousands of people thronging the security fences surrounding Astrocom.

“Again, let’s not conflate all the protestors with being League stooges.” Fuentes took his customary chair and drained the remainder of his water. “That said, I will not argue with anyone that criminal elements have gained a voice inside the movement. Colonel Sinclair’s updates from his planted man have made as much clear.”

“We need to give Siddiq permission to lock down travel to and from Izarrak Yards,” MacIntosh said firmly. “I don’t care if it is a civilian transshipment point. Too many people are hitching rides and trying to sneak into the CDF portion of the yards.”

“One thing at a time.” Spencer tapped his finger on the desk. “Andrew, get ahold of Void Captain Nalax. Let’s see what units he has available on the Saurian end of the network. We could use an extra set of eyes.”

“The Saurian branch of PASCORE is not operational yet, Mr. President,” Snow interjected.

“I understand, but if the League’s snooping the whole length, I’d prefer advance warning before they stumble onto that end of the work.”

“I’ll get it done,” MacIntosh confirmed.

“Good. Meantime, coordinate with Siddiq, and have him put travel restrictions into effect. Make sure the Saurians are on board—I don’t want their nationals in an uproar, since they use Izarrak too.” Spencer frowned. “As for the situation with Mendoza, it’s clear from the refit progress notes that she has to stay on the job. Is she using base housing?”

“That’s where she’s billeted, Mr. President, along with most of the project’s upper management.”

“All right. What else…?” Spencer shook his head. “Other than prayer, of course.”

“I think, Justin, that is what we should have started with,” Fuentes answered with a smile.

And one of these days, I will actually remember.

20 Kilometers West of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

It was a good thing Jackson had so much practice playing at being someone he wasn’t. That morning, he was a diplomat, the very person Siddiq needed to hear from.

“I can’t very well stave off the hordes at my gates and complete this project on time, Mr. Hayes.” Siddiq’s tone was icy, devoid of his signature cheer. He wasn’t taking the news of Mendoza’s supposed insurgency leanings well. “I need solutions, and I need them now.”

“It may not seem like it, but this is a good development,” Jackson said. “We know we’ve hurt their efforts if they reacted in such a drastic fashion. Keep her on the job. Make sure she stays on the base. I’ll be over later to speak with her. And don’t worry—my people are doing their best to remedy the damage.”

“They’d better. I can only issue so many denials in a given day. Your bland corporate response won’t do us any good either.”

Jackson exhaled. “It will have to because it’s the truth—Vesper Composites stands behind its employees and will provide the best legal defense possible. There’s no truth to the accusations.”

“Prove it, then, so we can all get back to work.”

The signal cut off. Jackson rolled his eyes.

“That’s my job,” Gina noted.

“You don’t have a monopoly on disdain.”

“If anyone would, it’d be her.” Dwyer sat on an ammunition crate in one corner of their briefing room, next to Brant’s portable console. “What’s the word, Cap’n?”

“The word is we clean up the mess while the League scrambles for cover.” Jackson placed his hand on Brant’s shoulder. “Any luck from the explosion residue?”

“It could have come from any number of producers, but since Gina and Sev got me better-than-usual samples—”

“Welcome.” Sev tested the bandage on his arm.

“There’s more than residue.” Brant indicated the readout, which showed a dizzying array of molecular bonds and composition reports. “The databases narrowed down these spores to an uncommon variety of ficus lyrate—fiddle-leaf fig tree. They only grown on three island chains on the southern edge of the habitable band.”

“So, you can tell us where the bomb was made.”

“Sure, and better than that, we can pin it on the Bodrogi because only one of those fig tree areas contain chemical manufacturing plants that police suspect are on the syndicate’s payroll.”

“Sounds like we’ve got another road trip, Gina,” Dwyer said.

“If by road trip, you mean flight, then yes, because I’m not getting on a boat anytime soon.”

“Why not?” Brant asked. “It would be less conspicuous.”

“Fish,” Sev muttered. “Slimy.”

Gina backhanded him in the chest. Dwyer broke out in chuckles as he polished what Jackson assumed was a handful of tiny spherical explosives.

“Let’s leak this one to LEOs and CBI.” As much as they had on their plate, it wouldn’t hurt to have the Coalition Bureau of Investigation brought in for what was technically a local crime. “Gina should be out with her protesting pals.”

“Cam is giving us a nice recording of the ground game.” Gina pointed to a small monitor at Brant’s left. “I can get back in, but I shouldn’t be seen at every single one.”

“I agree, but he’s got something better in mind.” Jackson glanced at Brant. “You decrypted the message?”

“Coming to her comm.” Brant swiped across his console.

Gina’s wrist unit beeped.

She smiled at the message. “Oh, I see. Qisma’s doing more shopping. I wonder what she’s got on her list.”

“Fingers crossed it’s more explosives. I’d take corrupted memory modules again.” Jackson frowned. “And speaking of corrupted—”

“Don’t worry. Eldred and I have our systems parsing the social media junk our League friends vomited all over the networks about Mendoza.” Brant glared at yet another readout. “They’ve really got a thing for ruining people, don’t they?”

“Par for the course in their own so-called civilization,” Jackson reminded him. “Every report we get from inside their borders mentions informants turning on civilians daily—family members spying on family members, friends ratting out friends. This is nothing new for them, and I’m sure Vasiliy is happy to spread the hate.”

“We can clear Mendoza, but it’ll take time.”

“I don’t expect immediate miracles.”

“Just eventual ones?” Brant shook his head. “Since you mentioned the word, it was a certifiable one that Vasiliy didn’t track us down before we found him.”

“Almost found,” Gina noted. “You got spoofed.”

“Thanks for bringing it up. Again.”

“Don’t get all pissy. You didn’t nearly get blown up.”

“Easy, gang.” Jackson pulled up a chair and sagged into it. “You’re right, Brant, but I trust in you, and you trust in your God, so that makes a formidable bulwark against disaster.”

“I’m not joking, Jack. That risk—”

“A necessary one. We flushed them out of hiding and disrupted their plans.”

“At the expense of civilian homes and a woman’s reputation.”

“All things we can fix, unlike a League success.”

Brant sighed. “I don’t like it, but since I’m the only one registering complaints, I guess I’ll quit being contrary.”

Jack frowned. “Brant, as XO, I expect you to curb my excesses. It’s how we make this team work.”

“And I can always slap him if need be,” Gina pointed out.

Sev snorted.

“Thanks for the support,” Jackson said dryly. “Any other concerns?”

Dwyer looked from him to the others and back again. “Um, none here, Cap’n. Mr. Burnett was awfully thankful for his free ride up to Oxford, where no soul plans to kidnap or kill him.”

“Glad to hear it. Gina, as soon as you’re able—”

“Already up.” She stood and stretched her arms. The motion reminded Jackson of cats on the ranch after a good sunning. “Come on, Sev. Let’s get the truck ready to roll.”

“Oh, hey.” Dwyer hopped up then carefully set his explosives into their padded containers. “About that—she’s all set with the new registration codes and public ID. The extra plating means she won’t look a thing like Bodrogi’s missing truck.”

“It isn’t like they reported it stolen to the police,” Gina teased.

Dwyer’s cheeks reddened. “Well, sure, but—”

Gina took his hand. “Come on, then, show us all the bells and whistles.”

Dwyer launched into a list of technical details that faded into unintelligible chatter as the trio headed deeper into the abandoned mansion.

Jackson swiveled in his chair so he faced Brant. “Anything else?”

“Only a reminder of what I keep cautioning against.” Brant crossed his arms. “Don’t let vengeance drive you. Whether or not we get Kiel—you get Kiel—he’s going to face judgment. Probably not on your timescale or anyone else’s. Trust that justice will be served.”

“Easy for you to say. That’s what you believe.”

“It’s what’s true, and yes, I do believe it.” Brant dug under his collar for a crucifix.

The sight of the tiny, gleaming body spread against what was essentially an execution device made Jackson shift in his seat. Even if plain crosses were plentiful on Canaan, they didn’t compare to the sacrificial representation.

“Without the promise of eternal consequences, this universe, this existence, can be bleak and dark. I’m not just worried about your life and your career, Jack—it’s your soul at stake too. Because threatening someone to see them in hell, no matter the intimidation intended, isn’t the kind of thing a man should do lightly—or at all, for that matter.”

He was serious. Deathly so. Jackson knew Brant wouldn’t have said something unless he was really bothered by what had transpired. “Okay, then, let’s make a deal—I’ll keep the first two things you mentioned safe, and you help me with the third.”

“There’s only one person who can safeguard your soul.” Brant turned back to his console. “You’d better pray there’s still a chance He’s got the patience left for it.”

16

33001 Harbor Rim

City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

16 May 2465

The sudden silence outside the nightclub’s back entrance jolted Gina as badly as stepping into the raucous party had when she arrived earlier in the evening. It was coming up on midnight, and the revels showed no sign of ending.

Revels? Gina rolled her eyes. I really am getting old.

The pinpricks of red light far down the alley told her she’d missed Qisma’s car, which wasn’t a problem, as she was supposed to follow at a distance. The time glowed up at Gina from her wrist unit. Cam should be here any minute. How nice of him to let a lady wait longer than necessary in a grungy alley.

Empty, crumpled containers lined both sides of the street. A pair of dented, rusty bots lifted them one at a time into an automated trash barge. The twin artificial workers clumped behind the tracked barge as it trundled along the other side, occasionally scraping its sensor outriggers against the building next door.

“Echo Home to Echo Two.” Brant yawned. “Sorry. Late night we’re having. I thought you’d like to know the nightclub’s security feed has a man staggering down the hall toward the door you just exited through.”

The door banged open. Gina nudged her wrist unit, sending the acknowledgment signal. She was thankful for the warning, really, but had seen the drunken oaf ogling her for the last fifteen minutes before her scheduled rendezvous.

“Hey.” The taller, thin man’s breath was a welcome distraction from the stench of rotten garbage only because it was so much worse.

“You’re a regular wordsmith, aren’t you?” Gina smiled over her shoulder. She batted her eyelashes for good measure. “Do you use that line on all the pretty ladies you follow into dark spaces with the hope of assault fresh on your mind?”

The look of confusion on his woozy, angular face was almost enough to make her laugh. Rather than follow up her witty commentary with his own, the man reached for her arm. Gina sidestepped and, slipping the knife from inside her dress, thrust the blade down into his arm.

His howl was drowned out by the rumble of an approaching car, a six-wheeled sports off-roader, the kind Gina had seen advertised for wilderness excursions. At least Cam had had the sense to order the silver model instead of the hideous fuchsia from the ad.

“Sorry, if you were trying to give me your comms code, I missed the digits. Can I get you to repeat them?” Gina twisted the blade then wrenched it free.

The man flopped onto a box full of disposable cutlery, which burst under the impact. Gina nearly gagged. Just when I thought the smell couldn’t get any worse…

“You’re early.” Cam leaned on the hood of the car’s still-churning engine. He had his hand behind his back, fingers tucked into the belt, where Gina assumed he’d concealed a weapon. “Can I help with anything?”

“No, I think he’s through trying to paw ladies for the evening—and possibly for the rest of the year.” Gina got into the car. “Hurry up.”

Cam shook his head but got behind the controls. “You have the target?”

“Of course. Turning right on Jasta.” Brant, her curmudgeonly guardian, was feeding her real-time tracking data on Qisma’s car. “I’d say try to keep your distance, but since you’re late—”

“I’m not going to get into that, newcomer, so let’s focus on the deal.”

Gina peered at him in the dim lighting of the car’s interior. His typical casual smile was gone, replaced by blandness. “You’re upset.”

“I am not.”

“Upset and petulant. Is it because you were late?”

“I was not! Never mind. Let’s call it even. ETA six minutes to the reclamation yards.”

“Cam, don’t be a child. What’s the problem?”

Cam ground his teeth, making only the second lapse in personality Gina had seen from him. “Your team—it’s taken me months to worm my way into WFU and get the trust of not only ardent protestors but the likes of the Bodrogi, who are not big on trust, as you might have guessed. Accelerate into the past couple of weeks, and you people have upset a great deal of the local balance of power. Who knows how long it will take me to tip it all back?”

Gina made a face. “Nothing about our mission briefing said we’d have to tiptoe around an operative who, apparently, has become too comfortable with his local role. I appreciate the inroads you’ve made, but we’re here to put a crimp in the League’s plans, and if that means toppling a crime syndicate in the process, I consider it a happy side effect.”

“Typical. The brass sends their heroes in from Canaan, and after you shake the tree to get what you want, the rest of us—the ones working the cases endlessly—we get to calm the hornets down.”

“Then maybe you should get a bigger swatter or more industrial-strength insecticide.” Gina crossed her arms.

“Is that all Echo One cares about? The kill?”

Gina jabbed a finger toward his face. He’s lucky it’s not my knife. “You don’t know what he cares about. He’s the kind of man cursed with an overabundance of conscience. Don’t ever presume anything else.”

“Fine.” Cam’s grip loosened on the controls. “I apologize, then.”

“Good. Remember we had this talk.” Gina put her seat back and wriggled onto the rear bench. “And keep your eyes forward while I change into something more casual.”

By that, she meant her ghost suit, of course. As she unzipped the dress, she returned her attention to the blaze of city lights streaking past the windows. She didn’t harbor ill will toward Cam. Really, she didn’t. He just didn’t understand who Jack was and why he did the things he did. But Gina knew, perhaps better than anyone.

Jack wanted to do the right thing and help people. Gina wanted to help people too. As for the doing-the-right-thing part, well, as far as she was concerned, that was negotiable.

Qisma’s car, a sleek black luxury model, stopped on the southwest edge of town, where the last few buildings gave way to open grassland bordered by the towering spindles of gozoa forests. Beacons Cam passed sent a warning to their car, peppering them with reminders of the dangerous fauna and the hazards of being out in the open air without an aerator for long periods of time. But Qisma had parked beyond the beacons, by a large warehouse.

Cam parked a couple hundred meters away, among thick shrubbery. Gina led them to the warehouse, keeping low and on the periphery, guided by Brant’s map.

Two other vehicles stood in attendance—a compact, two-seat hovercraft and a gray skimmer with gold trim.

“Two, I have eyes in the sky from Base One,” Brant reported. “Five individuals entered the building—Laila al-Omer and a woman, followed by Qisma and two bodyguards. Life signs indistinct. No surveillance imagery available.”

Not a problem. Gina plucked a tiny bot from the end of her knife and tossed it into the air. It flitted away, diving into a narrow breach in the wall. She would get three minutes, max, before it disintegrated, but that would be enough of a peek. Audio was a nice touch too.

The transmission sputtered, but after a few seconds, it cleared into Laila saying, “… would take longer to get the delivery.”

“Just because you can’t guarantee supply by sea doesn’t mean I can’t by air.” The tiny, pixelated image on Gina’s wrist unit resolved into a smiling Qisma as she leaned against a stack of green crates. Qisma popped the top on one and flourished her hands, as if introducing a magic act. “Thirty charges per case. Six cases.”

The flitter hovered in the shadows, near enough to give Gina a clean view not only of the pyramidal explosives secure in foam trays but also the people gathered in the room—Laila, Qisma, and two men, one black, one Asian. Qisma was dressed like Gina had been, in a slinky skirt and top meant for a night out on the town. The men were in casual but crisp suits. Laila, though, was clad in dark clothing better adjusted for remaining unseen. She stood away from the group, arms folded, frowning.

Four. Brant said five. Gina glanced at Cam and gestured for them to move inside. Cam nodded. He pointed farther down the wall, where the corrugated metal had long ago been peeled back. Gina returned the nod and squeezed through the gap. The inside of the warehouse was sticky and warm, socked so full of humid air Gina started sweating instantly. It took her ghost suit a few seconds to activate its cooling circuits.

A message from Cam crawled across her comm. “Headed to car. Ready for extract and/or pursuit.”

Solid plan. Gina’s suit wouldn’t appear on scanners, and its dark coloring would obscure her as she stuck to the shadows. Cam, however, didn’t possess a similar outfit, so his best option was to stay with the vehicle and be ready to drive off, either with or without her.

Gina crept around to the far side of the warehouse, nearest the gathering and their illicit explosives. The flitter’s audio feed didn’t reveal any tantalizing tidbits of conversation other than Qisma and Laila insulting each other over recent failures. Gina smirked. I bet they’d love to have a chat with me about those failures, seeing as how most were my fault.

Dirt crunched nearby. She froze. The sound was faint enough to be missed under all the other ambient noises, like the low rumble of conversation and the distant keening of insect swarms. Brant, though, had uploaded a modification to Gina’s suit that amplified sudden audio input, complemented by an approximate location indicator. As a result, Gina saw the shape before it saw her. It was a woman, clad in a sleek bodysuit, and for a minute, Gina thought she’d stumbled upon a mirror—except the suit was the wrong cut and color, with a blank white mask where her visor should be.

Those few seconds of advanced warning gave Gina the chance to duck behind rows of metal shelving before the woman fired a plasma pistol at her. The brilliant flare and ear-piercing shriek of the weapon altered the atmosphere in the building. Shouts and footsteps erupted. More lights glared on. Gina leapt onto the shelving, clambered up two levels, and shot out the offending lights, plunging her row back into darkness.

“Two, this is Home. What’s going on?” Brant demanded. “I’m picking up weapons discharges. Please advise.”

I’d advise I better keep my mouth shut. Blabbering in the midst of my escape will only get me shot. Gina crawled down the length of shelves. The woman who’d shot at her appeared at the far end of the aisle, pistol raised, and started a slow sweep of both sets of shelves.

Gina knew immediately who it was even if she didn’t have the encounter on Aphendrika memorized. She recognized the languid, lithe movements of her opponent’s body—Ciara Bui, primary assistant to Nosamo Aerothermic Technologies’ CEO, Ardalion Noor. Except the name was a fake, likely created for her infiltration of the role many months before CAU 171 showed up on the scene. Ciara, or whoever she really was, worked for the League.

The good news for Gina was Ciara’s suit wasn’t nearly as sophisticated as hers. It could shroud body heat, sure, but Gina’s wrist unit could still get a decent sensor fix on it, enough for her to route the data back to Brant.

“Great,” Brant murmured. “Her. Hold on tight. Transmitting exit vectors. I’ve contacted Chaperone. He’s going to take care of your lighting issue.”

As if on cue, the entire warehouse went dark. Every light cut off—not just the main sources of illumination but even the tiny orange emergency beacons that popped on for a few seconds. Gina exhaled. That would help. The trick, of course, was getting by everybody else on her way to the nearest exit. A thin green line traced a path on her wrist unit’s diagram of the warehouse. A gold X marked the spot where she needed to go.

Search beams flashed through the darkness—four of them, though none came from Ciara’s last position, which meant Qisma, Laila, and the bodyguards were on the move. Speaking of movement, Gina’s visor tagged Ciara still working her way down the aisle. She was right below.

Gina rolled to her right and dropped into the next aisle. She was up from her crouch and running for the exit Brant had marked. The search beams cast insane shadows as they whipped in her direction. An explosion shattered the night’s quiet. Red and yellow seeped through the holes in the rusted sides of the warehouse.

“My car!” Qisma screamed.

Gina winced, even though the woman was her enemy. It had been a very nice luxury ride. Seeing the flaming wreckage as soon as she burst out the open door into the fields hurt Gina as much as if it had been her own vehicle.

Cam’s rented car roared up, spraying dirt and grass as all six wheels ripped up the undergrowth. Gina flung herself at the open door.

Plasma blasts pierced the air around her, shattering a window and searing plastics, leaving molten materials in its wake. Gina swung around and returned fire, the pulse pistol adding to the chaotic flickers in the dark, but barely had her feet pulled inside before Cam accelerated.

“What the hell?” Cam shouted. “That was not observe and report!”

“I noticed, thank you. Shut up and lose them!” Gina wrenched the door shut, leaned out the open window, and fired back.

“Watch out for the paint!”

“I have bad news for you.” Gina ducked inside as a flurry of plasma blasts ripped through the window and the headrest of the front passenger seat. “You won’t be getting your deposit back from the rental agency.”

Cam sighed. “On to Plan B, then. Ditch the vehicle and blame it on thieves.”

“Ah, classic.” Gina peeked over the edge, but the weapons fire had ended. She could make out a cluster of people silhouetted in front of the fire consuming Qisma’s vehicle. “If it makes you feel any better, we have positive proof Bodrogi is getting high-grade explosives.”

“Better let your boss know.”

“Oh, I will.” She’d deliberately killed her audio during the escape for fear Brant’s constant reminders would trip her up, make her lose focus. Gina switched it back on. “Home, this is Two.”

“Two! Where have you been?”

“Running for my life, which shouldn’t be surprising. Did you get all the transmissions?”

“Every byte’s worth. I’ve forwarded them to Base and Echo One. We’re trying to establish a trace—I think I can link it to the chemical plant we’re going to tell the authorities about. You, on the other hand, better enact Protocol Six.”

Six—split from Cam, make her way to one of the several backup apartments the team had rented for this occasion, four hours’ sequester to make sure she wasn’t followed, then establish a new rendezvous with Sev and return to her actual temporary abode. “Confirmed, Home. Sorry about the mess.”

“I’m just glad you’re alive, Two. Home out.”

Gina sagged into the cushion. Exhausted, yes, but what a rush.

“Where to?” Cam asked.

“Wherever you have in mind to ditch our damaged car,” Gina replied. “Then we part ways. Thanks for a lovely evening.”

“Funny, newcomer.” Cam grinned over his shoulder. “I was going to tell you the same thing.”

North Gardenside

City of Daranj

Kiel found the new accommodations soothing. Certainly, the décor was comprised of chipped tile and peeling paint, but the surrounding greenery more than made up for the structural and decorative deficiencies. He pressed a hand against the glass, wishing, for a moment, the gozoa trees sprouting from the courtyard were growing inside so he wouldn’t have to put on the damnable mask just to go touch one.

“She’s back.” Ferenc sat on a stool at the nearby counter, reading from his tablet. His hand drifted to the holstered plasma pistol on his right thigh, even as he languidly swiped through whatever story he read.

“Very good.” Kiel resumed his most authoritarian pose, with his fingers clasped behind his back. He absolutely would not show the rest of his people how anxious he was, though it might manifest as irritation or outright anger. Thus was his personality, loath as he was to admit it.

Circe wandered into the lobby, dressed in loose slacks and a colorful blouse, a backpack slung over her shoulders. It was easy to couple her youthful face with the casual wardrobe and assume she was a student on a traveler’s adventure. “Hello, gentlemen.”

“Do you have them?”

Circe smiled. She plunked the backpack onto a stool next to Ferenc’s and unsealed the top. “I do. They are fresh off the vine or right from the farmer’s market, whichever you prefer.”

Kiel glimpsed foam trays of silver pyramids and returned the expression. “A very nice haul indeed, though there are fewer than I expected.”

“It couldn’t be helped. After the attack, Qisma demanded she keep half, and Laila insisted on holding a quarter for herself.” Circe shook her head. “I don’t think either of them were impressed by our little Terran showing up.”

“That damned extravagant vehicle of Qisma’s couldn’t have been worth half our haul. I find it hard to believe.”

“I don’t. You should have felt the upholstery. But it doesn’t matter. These will work. We will have to adjust our timetable and our targets.”

“Very well. We can review the possibilities. And as for targets—Ferenc?”

“Sir, we are ready whenever you give the signal.” Ferenc shut off his tablet. “After conferring with the al-Omers, they have pegged the gala as the best time in which to carry out the abduction.”

“You’re certain they can handle it? This is a hugely public affair.”

“Their reasoning is this will be more people and thus easier for Bodrogi to make their way in and out. More options for disguise, considering how many staff will be employed by Astrocom, who are local catering and bartending contractors.”

Kiel nodded. As little as he trusted the al-Omer sisters, at least Laila seemed to value Circe’s input and had responded accordingly to suggestions Kiel had fed through her. No sense in bucking the partnership—yet. When the Bodrogi outlived their usefulness, or things became messier than they were, Kiel relished the thought of obliterating the greedy scum. Had they been on a League world, he would have turned them all over to the commissars and watched with contentment as their assets were seized, their people imprisoned, and their lives completely upended.

“Sir.” Circe frowned. “I know it was her. From Bellwether—Giana Willis, her alias, I assume. But the way she moved… I have no doubts it was the same operative.”

“Troublesome but not unexpected. You should hope she didn’t similarly notice ‘Ciara,’ but this could work in our favor since we know those frustrating Terrans are working against us here.” Kiel was aware he sounded like an irked parent but didn’t care. They had work to do. “Time to coordinate our final efforts—and if we’re fortunate, Yahanotov has good news for us from a more distant front.”

17

Astrographic Survey Complex

City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

18 May 2465

Jackson couldn’t ignore the whispers buzzing from work group to work group. They moved with the speed of the flitter bots Gina favored and dissolved as quickly when a supervisor interrupted.

The false news spreading across social media—and onto the mainstream networks, if the collection of headlines he was reading were any indication—only served to dampen morale. Janet Mendoza was confined to her base office and quarters, pending investigation. Colonel Siddiq restricted access to the Mirror and the Curb, both halves of PASCORE’s most sensitive operations. Neither of those things meant the refit’s completion was in peril, but it did slow it down, by virtue of the technicians losing a capable supervisor while still waiting on those replacement memory modules to show up.

Jackson shook his head. The League had done a number on Mendoza. That much was certain. He swiped through the headlines again as he walked across Astrocom’s barracks level, nodding absentmindedly at the young guard who let him pass into the civilian contractor section. Nothing about the accommodations had changed, save for the lack of as many armed security guards as in Astrocom’s main facilities. But another guard was posted outside Mendoza’s office.

“Good morning, Private.” Jackson put on his best CEO smile. “Is the PM in?”

She was young and pretty, but apparently, he could have saved his charm for the upcoming gala because she remained stone-faced. “No visitors, sir. Colonel Siddiq’s orders.”

“I see. Well, you should check those orders again, Private, because he’s granted me a special exemption. I’ll let you check.” Jackson went back to perusing his tablet’s articles but, instead of actually reading the news, opted for Brant’s most recent message—a summary of the raid CBI and local cops had conducted on the southern chemical facility. The sight of Bodrogi thugs in binders, led into waiting police transport VTOL craft, buoyed his spirits.

Of course, some of the explosives were still unaccounted for—the ones Gina had spotted the other night. Neither she nor Cam Tahatan, aka “Chaperone,” had been able to track them down over the past thirty-six hours. Brant assured Jackson he could build an algorithm into the team’s sensor network to sniff out the devices, and once ready, he could upload it into Novabird’s scanners. Dwyer was itching to get back in the pilot’s seat, so much so he even welcomed a routine sensor sweep of Daranj.

The private cleared her throat. If she was apologetic about missing the updated orders, she neither looked nor sounded like it. “Let me check with Ms. Mendoza, sir. One moment.” She stepped to the intercom plate mounted by the door and mumbled into it.

The response was muddled by static, at least from the comfortable distance at which Jackson stood, but the private turned back to him and unlocked the hatch.

“Go on ahead, sir. Please hand over any communication devices or other hardware that may be used—”

Jackson held up a finger to silence her. He hated playing his imperious role on a young soldier, but he had neither the time nor inclination to try a subtler way around—and Siddiq was in a foul enough mood it was best Jackson avoided him entirely. “Private, that won’t happen. Complain to the colonel if you will, but I’ll sort it out with him over dinner at the Luxe Well.”

He brushed by her, not sure how he would react if she accosted him, but apparently, she wasn’t willing to raise a stink about the CEO of a military contract company who was dining with the base commander. Probably good practice, no matter where she’s posted.

Mendoza’s office was stark, utilitarian, everything Jackson had come to expect from the PM of Vesper Composites’ crews. She was at her desk, a plain semicircle of glass and steel, with invoices glowing through the multifunction touch surface.

“Hayes.” Mendoza didn’t look up. The screen’s glare lit her face—small wonder, given how dark she’d kept the office. Even the windows had been opaqued. “Come here to let me go?”

“Why would I do that? Have you done something wrong?”

“I said enough to get me canceled.” Mendoza scowled at her screens. “I’ve seen all the news before Siddiq embargoed my communications and Vesper cut me off from the company databases. But I’ve got reports to file and scheduling updates to make, so if you’ll let me get back to my work—”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Jackson gestured at an empty chair. “May I?”

She shrugged.

Jackson sat and smoothed out wrinkles in his slacks. “Here’s what I see—a hardworking, dedicated leader of Vesper’s work crews, who for no apparent reason, went rogue on social media and made wild statements against not only CDF but the Coalition in general, lambasting its government, calling them greedy and bloodthirsty and—well, treasonous. Yet all these supposed ‘old posts’ are only now being noticed.”

“I didn’t write a damn bit of them!” Mendoza snapped. “Sure, I grumped about the jobs I’ve worked because who doesn’t? But someone out there took my words and rewrote them. I tried sending CBI a signal to report a privacy invasion. Good luck getting them to believe me. They wouldn’t even if this stuff hadn’t gone wildly public.”

“Why is that?”

Mendoza raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding. Are you the only one in the Coalition who doesn’t know my family name?”

“Mendoza is hardly rare.”

“Yeah, but when word spreads that your brother is Thomas—” She shook her head. “It was hard enough convincing Vesper’s management I was fit for this job, let alone anything attached to a CDF contract.”

Thomas. That one. Jackson’s insides twisted. It took all his talent to keep the anger from bleeding through his CEO mask. “I take it you mean Captain Thomas Mendoza, formerly of CSV Monterrey.”

“Arrested and tried for treason. They would have executed him, too, if he hadn’t turned major evidence that helped nail down the way the League was involved.” Mendoza waved her hand. “Didn’t matter much to anyone who’d seen the reports. People love to talk about personal responsibility and how it makes us different from the Leaguers. You know what? It’s bullshit. You’d think my parents, my brothers and sisters, my cousins—everyone in our family spread across nine worlds—you’d think we all conspired to overthrow the Coalition. CBI and CIS hounded us for months. Ernesto, our youngest, wound up in the hospital on suicide watch.”

The outrage Jackson felt subsided as guilt took its place. Captain Mendoza had been XO of the Monterrey when his CO had tried to assassinate none other than General David Cohen, the famed wartime CDF leader, aboard CSV Lion of Judah. Subsequent events had revealed a cabal of Coalition officers and even citizens who called themselves Christian socialists—people who believed they could strip away the abusive, dictatorial edges of League society and turn their own nation into an anti-capitalist utopia. Jackson considered them blind to the realities not just of war but also of the League’s cruel nature, which was at the center of the problem rather than the periphery.

Still, it didn’t mean everyone involved was evil, and it certainly didn’t mean their families should be punished if they showed no signs of collusion themselves. But can I honestly say I haven’t fantasized about extreme punishment for Thomas Mendoza and his family? Because if Mendoza made a terrible error, no matter what his motives, then surely the family had condoned it or somehow fostered it. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. We shouldn’t be about bloodline vendettas, not as a society and definitely not as a government.”

“Yeah, we shouldn’t. But here we are, and here I am.” Mendoza leaned back in her chair and spread her arms wide. “Just me, sitting on my ass, playing with paperwork until the CDF and Siddiq and everybody else higher up the food chain decides I’m not actually a domestic terrorist in training.”

“If it’s any consolation, I believe you’re innocent, and I’m doing all I can to convince the colonel.” True enough. Jackson had forwarded the evidence Brant and Eldred were working on that indicated League tampering with social media accounts. They were making headway, but even with definitive proof, the damage had already been done. The public would find it difficult to erase what it had seen, especially given the knee-jerk reaction by news network talking heads.

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” Mendoza offered a wan smile. “Tell—make sure the guys and gals know I’m doing okay, will you? I don’t want them to think I’m hiding in here.”

“Don’t worry. I can frame it as a tale of persecution.” Jackson winked. “Besides, they’ll be too busy struggling to keep up with demand while you’re taking your vacation.”

Mendoza chuckled, but the laughter quickly subsided. She seemed to Jackson to grow more pensive. “I don’t like this. First the crappy modules, then the Gollingstar guy disappearing and their company falling through, now the bombing and me being blamed… it smells like major industrial espionage.”

“It certainly does.” Vasiliy’s plan, no doubt. Jackson’s wrist comm pulsed with a reminder—the gala was tomorrow night. It might be his best chance to reassure Siddiq everything was under control and it was the League who was on the run, not his team. “We’ll do our best to find the true culprits and punish them rather than letting you and your people suffer.”

“That, Mr. Hayes, is about all a gal can pray for.”

Sinclair entered the Oxford’s briefing room and found both Tamir and Eldred already in attendance with a holographic spray showing Captain Adams and Lieutenant Guinto sharing a secured link from Trenchant II. “Good day, gentlemen. I’m glad we can gather to put our minds together on this one.”

“Thank you, Colonel. Brant has this line encrypted and can guarantee our discussion safe for…” Jackson glanced off-screen. “Ten minutes, tops. I recommend we review where we’re at first then get to next steps.”

Sinclair gestured. “By all means.”

Jackson touched a panel before him, and an outline appeared both in his view and in Oxford’s briefing room. “The first indication of outside action was the faulty memory modules repurposed to look like they were made by Vesper Composites when they were, in fact, installed by a Gollingstar employee. Whether or not Gollingstar was entirely complicit in the matter, we can’t be certain, but we do know, as soon as word of the switch leaked out, a massive misinformation campaign targeted the employee in question.”

Burnett’s face flashed into view. “Echo Three was able to intercept and interdict criminal forces intent on either capturing or eliminating the technician,” Jackson continued. “Simultaneously, Echo Two and Echo Four took out a TAC team sent by the Bodrogi syndicate to the technician’s home.”

“Since his rescue, the technician has turned over evidence that’s proven invaluable,” Guinto interjected. “Eldred and I were able to compare the contact signals he provided with the possible League communications she and Captain Tamir had been monitoring from Oxford.”

“Your comparison was fruitful, from what I understand,” Sinclair noted.

“Yes, sir,” Eldred said. “We narrowed the field from eight choices in our most recent sweep to only one and were able to pounce on it.”

“We knew we had a limited window in which to act,” Jackson pointed out, “so I tasked Echo Two and Echo Four with homing in on the signal with orders to capture or kill the League assets.”

“But they spoofed us,” Eldred muttered. “I should have seen it.”

“I share blame for that too,” Guinto added. “Whoever they have running tech and communications for them is a maestro. We were going back and forth blocking our own signals from trace while trying to interfere with the others, but he—or she—had us fooled until the last moment, when the signal clearly resolved.”

“Prior to the explosion, I take it.” Sinclair glanced at Tamir and Eldred.

Both stiffened in their seats.

“We had no indication to that point of either the syndicate or League elements stockpiling explosive devices with that yield and intensity,” Tamir explained. “The gathered data pointed to their taking more subtle methods to interrupt the PASCORE refit process.”

“Until they felt the pressure,” Jackson said, “which was entirely the point of my making direct contact with Vasiliy.”

Sinclair frowned. “I believe, Captain, you and I have had this conversation before, so I shall approach it from an oblique angle—everyone here is aware of prior contact between yourself and the ESS operative thus mentioned. Your signal to him this time was intended to draw him out, correct?”

“Yes, sir. I wanted to rattle him, Colonel.” Jackson’s jaw clenched. He radiated determination even through the holographic transmission. “I believe I was successful. We forced them to abandon the site they were using as a safe house without endangering our own position.”

Guinto’s gaze flicked to Jackson, only for a second, but Sinclair noted it. “I must remind you this disruption, however advantageous to our operation, has not endeared us to those in higher political office back home. The resulting travel restrictions in and around Trenchant have created a further uproar, and the League took advantage of your actions to conduct a second misinformation campaign, this one against a trusted PM inside the most secure levels of the PASCORE refit. Her family connections to past… unpleasantness does not help matters.”

“We’ve tamped down those posts as hard as we can, sir,” Eldred pointed out. “Both by pressuring the networks to delete some and by combatting the false intel through fake accounts. But you know the trick of all this—the first post is the one everyone remembers, whether it’s true or false. All the arguing later might turn some people around, but the initial outrage remains.”

“Hence the increased protests by the War Free Union.” Sinclair shook his head. “At least we can point to tangible results with the bomb factory being put out of commission.”

“Yes, sir, CBI was most cooperative—and we’re happy to let them take all the credit.” Jackson flicked the image of Burnett away, replacing it with an aerial view of a dilapidated warehouse, one Sinclair recognized. “Courtesy of Oxford’s orbital scans. Echo Two infiltrated the abandoned facility and was able to confirm League involvement with Bodrogi as well as pass on detailed sensor readings to us for further analysis.”

“We’ve already put it to good use.” Guinto grinned. “And I think Eldred will concur. The two of us cooked up our favorite algorithm yet, one we’re about to release into the Daranj air-quality monitoring system as well as the network that takes updates from individual aerators.”

Sinclair cocked an eyebrow. “To what end?”

“To sniff out the bombs.” Jackson tapped the aerator ring around his neck. “These things, it turns out, aren’t only for filtering the harmful gases in Trenchant’s atmosphere—they also monitor personal O2 and toxicity levels. The aerator’s software uploads them to home systems and, in most cases, shares them with physicians and Daranj’s public health center.”

“This is a rather egregious breach of privacy, you realize.” Sinclair leaned forward on the table. He folded his hands, fingers tapping against his lips for a moment as he pondered. “Given our mission as of late, it is hardly the worst, but I must impress upon you to delete all data you retrieve from this course of action.”

“Of course, Colonel. It’s on our list.”

Eldred cleared her throat. “Bottom line, sir, we can trace the explosives and deactivate them before anyone else gets hurt.”

“Jolly good. Make it happen.” Sinclair exhaled. “Keep me apprised of the situation on the ground. We have our hands full up here with the intel we received from Tuscon. It seems our friends across the border aren’t just trying to pick PASCORE’s brains but are also poking at the hardware in place along the frontier. Lieutenant Guinto?”

“Yes, sir?” Guinto replied.

“I shall have Warrant Eldred pass along what information we have received, especially regarding the bugs—robotic mites, I believe Major Mancini has deemed them. Given your team’s expertise with diminutive assistants, I believe you will be invaluable to that analysis.”

“Thank you, Colonel. We’ll get right on it.”

“Anything else?” Sinclair received only silence from the rest of the team. “Very well, then. The bombs are your priority—but so is gathering intelligence from this upcoming gala. Do try to make any further actions as subtle as possible.”

Jackson smiled. “That’s what I aim for, sir.”

The transmission cut. Sinclair sighed and shook his head. A white lie, that, but Sinclair recognized that not everything would always go according to plan. He resolved to be pleasantly surprised when it did.

Meng Po

Third Orbit

Trenchant System

Zhou stepped through the hatch onto the bridge and stretched his arms. He hadn’t had enough sleep, and his muscles were complaining, but when Ancel buzzed through to his cabin, he wasn’t about to roll over and shut his eyes again. Not when the news was so good.

“We think we may have her.” Ancel smiled as he brought up the comms profiles on his console. “I’ve narrowed our options to three.”

“All right.” Zhou accepted a steaming mug of tea from the comms officer. “That’s a hell of a lot better than sixteen, Francois. What specifically can you show me?”

“These three vessels are registered as neutral survey craft, freighters of varying tonnage—”

Zhou waved a hand. “Skip the technical details. What makes them of interest?”

“All three have bounced signals requiring far too much bandwidth between themselves and Trenchant’s communications satellite array. It could be we’re looking at black marketeers conducting secret deals, which explains why, along with a half dozen others, they haven’t done much but lie about in orbit around the third moon. These three have also checked regularly with orbital control, giving updates on repairs or upgrades they say they’re making.”

“Hmm. A lot of excuses to parse through, but promising.” Zhou gazed at the three sets of squiggly lines undulating across Ancel’s display. “Are they near each other?”

“Relatively. Measured in tens of thousands of klicks.”

Zhou nodded. He clapped Ancel on the shoulder. “Nice job sniffing out the capitalist stench from this far away. Not an easy task considering smell doesn’t travel through a vacuum—or if it did, we’d be too dead to catch a whiff.”

Ancel chuckled and shook his head as Zhou walked over to his command chair.

“Tactical, designate as Tango One through Three. Grab all the data from Sensor and highlight,” Zhou said.

“Aye, sir,” Balland replied.

“Helm?” Zhou slipped into his seat. Careful. The upholstery’s so comfortable since the refit you could fall asleep. Good thing the tea isn’t decaf. “Plot me a course that brings us into Trenchant’s near orbit and lets us maintain passive scans on our three new friends. I want close eyes on them for when they make a mistake because that’s the only way we’re going to catch them.”

18

CSV Tuscon

1,380 Light-Years from Trenchant

19 May 2465

Major Mancini didn’t like the results of Tabb’s investigation. For one, it came up empty.

The mites, as the crew had taken to calling them, were nowhere to be found aboard Tuscon. They’d ran the deep scan twice while as many techs as Tabb could spare had crawled over the boat’s hull. All they’d found were shredded molecules. It seemed the mites that had impacted had self-destructed. None of the inert ones left in the League’s vessels, unfired, had destroyed themselves.

So, barring any hard evidence, Mancini had gone ahead and ordered the Lawrence drive activated to take them to the next rendezvous point, where two PASCORE buoys were in the final stages of deployment.

“Skipper?” Master Chief Abraham Cosentino approached with a mug of coffee. The smell was oddly tantalizing, a far cry from the usual sludge available from the boat’s galley.

Mancini grunted and shook his head. He was staring at the tactical board as a trio of repair ships circled the twin buoys. No sign of League activity. No sign of other ships at all, he noted, within Tuscon’s normal sensor range.

“What’s got his system rebooting, XO?” Cosentino sounded puzzled.

“Don’t take it personally, COB. The skipper’s got a lot on his mind.” Humor tinged Godat’s voice. “I suspect he’s still itching when he thinks about those mites the League stuffed into their automated scouts.”

Cosentino chuckled. “If I see any more, I’ll make sure Chief Tabb comes running with a plasma torch. Skipper? I’m affixing your mug to the chair.”

“Thanks, COB.” Mancini reached back without looking, fingers scrabbling until they touched the mug’s warm brim. He took a sip and stopped. “That’s—where on Canaan did you dig this up?”

But Cosentino had already left the bridge.

Godat gestured with a mug of his own. “Seems COB has a stash he’s not willing to share that often. I can’t place it, but if I didn’t know better, it was from one of those coffeehouses on New Washington—you know the ones outside Lincoln Base?”

Mancini snapped his fingers, a smile finally settling into place. “That’s it. I can’t believe he still has some. We haven’t put into port there for, what, three or four years?”

“Conn, TAO. I have wormhole signature,” Olesen called out. “Confirmed for CSV Lubbock.”

The comms officer’s panel chimed. “Conn, Comms. Incoming message from Lubbock. Major Ghali for you.”

“TAO, repopulate the board with new contact. Comms, put Major Ghali on my console.”

The pip for the stealth boat CSV Lubbock flashed onto the tactical display. At the same time, Mancini’s chair display blinked to acknowledge a new transmission. Mancini punched the number. “Major Ghali. How are things on your end of the PASCORE net?”

Major Usman Ghali grinned back at him, aquiline nose and sharp features accentuated by the dim lighting aboard his equally cramped boat. “They have been quiet, as of late, with the exception of an automated scout ship we intercepted. I understand from Command you’ve had the same dealing.”

“Three of them. They’ve been a nuisance so far, and I think we’ve prevented them from transmitting any findings, but I’ve been told more stealth boats and support tenders are being tasked to the net.”

“This is good news, if correct.”

“What, you think HQ is being less than transparent?”

Ghali raised an eyebrow. “Shocking.”

Mancini chuckled. “Well, steer clear of our sector, will you? I can’t have your boat’s stealth attributes fouling up my TAO’s scans.”

“I shall do my best to avoid making your assignment more difficult, seeing how strenuous it must be for an officer of your inexperience. Lubbock out.”

Mancini shook his head, still chuckling, as the transmission cut. “You’d think he was a decade older than me. He only beat me out of the academy by two years.”

“I’m sure your scores were better, Skipper.” Godat’s face was a mask of solemnity.

“They weren’t any worse, XO, but to call them better…” Mancini shrugged. Best to keep his officers in the dark as to how superb his academics were unless he wanted “brainiac” added to whatever nicknames they used for him in private. “TAO, hook us into PASCORE, and let’s see what’s on the horizon today.”

“Conn, TAO. Linking to PASCORE network, aye, sir.” Olesen input the access protocols.

The effect was immediate. The tactical display’s effective range leapt out beyond the light-seconds across which Tuscon’s Sensor Room focused, fuzzing at around two hundred light-years. Lawrence drive signatures appeared, scattered here and there—civilian cargo convoys, destroyer patrol groups, even intermittent blips that Tactical surmised were distant stealth boats.

Probably deployed on the same mission we are, babysitting. Mancini noted Lubbock moving off along a course where it could provide better coverage of the immediate sector it and Tuscon occupied. But the expanded view lasted only a few minutes. Jagged lines skipped through the display, then it reformed.

“TAO…” Mancini braced a hand on the back of Olesen’s chair.

“I saw it, Skipper.” Olesen flicked through a subroutine on his console, one Mancini recognized as being used for diagnostics. A series of green bars appeared, cascading one at a time on the side of the report. “Tactical board shows itself clean of malfunction or error.”

“Then what did we just see?”

The lines appeared again, more pixelated that time, and widened into broad black gashes. They remained far too long, refusing to disappear.

“Conn, Sensor Room.” The senior chief sounded curious. “Sir, is TAO running a systems upgrade? Because I’m getting disruptive feedback through PASCORE.”

Mancini glanced at Olesen and raised an eyebrow.

“Negative, Sensor. We are showing green across the board.”

“TAO, Sensor Room. It’s not on our end either. I had Kapersky pull out the modules—no faults, no melts. Everything’s running green here too.”

“I’m going to need some answers soon, people,” Mancini said firmly. “Because I won’t be caught blind out here, especially if we know the League—”

The black lines cleared off the tactical display, but so did the expanded reach provided by PASCORE. Mancini stared at Tuscon’s normal sensor reach.

“Did we just—lose connection?” Godat murmured. “To the most powerful scanner array fielded in the entire Coalition?”

“Sir, yes, sir, we did, but the drop came from the buoys themselves.” Olesen reached for a control, stopped himself, then input a new set of commands. He scowled. “Comms, TAO—check your outgoing.”

“My outgoing…” The comms officer swore then grimaced. “Sorry, Skipper. A code went out as a rider.”

“With what message?” Mancini turned slowly. “I didn’t authorize any transmissions.”

“Begging the skipper’s pardon, sir, but when TAO pinged the PASCORE net and established a link, we carried it out through the secondary communications array. A code attached itself. Here.”

The gibberish filling the comms screen wasn’t like any military encryption Mancini had ever seen. It definitely didn’t remind him of anything Intelligence mucked about with. But there was no denying it had started aboard Tuscon and ended inside the buoys.

An alert beeped on Olesen’s console. “Conn, TAO. Buoy Two-One-Nine has initiated emergency shutdown. Last message—corrupted operating system. Buoy Two-Two-Zero sent out the same warning.”

The readout on Mancini’s chair confirmed Olesen’s strained announcement. Both buoys had been columns of green light reflecting operational status. They’d faded quickly to stubs of deep orange. Emergency notes filled the margins.

“What the hell is going on?” Godat asked.

Mancini glared at the comms display as if it were a person who’d offended him. “Comms, get ahold of Chief Tabb. Feed him that code, and have him compare with whatever tidbits he was able to dig out of the mites he recovered.”

“The mites are gone, Major.” Godat frowned at Mancini’s display.

“I know it, XO, but as much as you all were teasing me about itching when I was around bugs”—Mancini involuntarily scratched at the back of his neck—“I think whatever the Rouen shotgunned across space wound up biting us and infecting our system—and we just passed it along to the buoys.”

The Curb—Astrographic Survey Complex

City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

Colonel Siddiq had one arm in his jacket as he rushed into the room occupied by PASCORE’s analysts. Several had moved over from the Mirror to the Curb during refit and made the room feel doubly crowded. It was usually buzzing with activity. That afternoon, it was in a furor. Voices overlapped, a few rising to stridency.

“Colonel on deck!” The voice cut through the noise, reducing it to murmurs. Captain Laura Boyer glared around the consoles at the other officers and enlisted personnel. “Cut the chatter. Sir, we have a situation.”

“I saw the alert. How bad is it?”

Boyer gestured at the sprawling holographic display in the middle of the room, a duplicate of the huge map in the Mirror, with Coalition and League territory delineated in their respective blue and red. The PASCORE network was a spiderweb of golden motes suspended between them, curving through Coalition space. Seven motes pulsed a deep crimson.

“By Allah,” Siddiq murmured. “I have never seen so many down at once.”

“I know, sir. The emergency protocols by sector kicked in, but whatever the contamination is, they weren’t fast enough to prevent the spread.” Boyer touched a control, and the map perspective zoomed. Two white diamonds grew right alongside the pips for Buoys 219 and 220. “The stealth boats CSV Tuscon and CSV Lubbock are on scene. Major Mancini, CO aboard Tuscon, sent us an encrypted tight beam signal indicating they may have introduced the malfunction when they established their link with PASCORE. Apparently, the League scouts they and Lubbock intercepted were loaded with bots primed with whatever this malevolent code is.”

A small rectangle flashed to life. Siddiq grimaced at the writhing digits and symbols filling the screen. “Do we have an inert copy of this for Decrypt?”

“Yes, sir. Chief Thompson is on it.”

“Good.” Siddiq crossed his arms. “Options, then.”

“Colonel… if the localized fail-safes against this kind of infiltration have failed, it’s only a matter of time before the entire network crashes. Each sector’s conglomeration of buoys reinforces itself, but once they’ve all gone down, whatever virus is flailing about in there will try to access one of the next sectors down the link.”

It was not a list of options but as succinct an explanation of the problem as Siddiq expected. Boyer had not stated an option, no doubt because Siddiq’s request had been more a plea for something he knew didn’t exist.

“We have to turn off the region,” he said.

Boyer’s face paled, but she nodded. “Yes, sir.” She reached into the collar of her uniform and withdrew the chain that hung around her neck. It held a silver cross outlined in red and a tiny black data stick no bigger than a fingernail.

Siddiq pulled a similar chip from his shirt. A chill crept through his body. The sweat brought on by the initial burst of adrenaline had evaporated. He knew what he had to do. Allah grant me the strength to carry it out. “Oversight Two.”

Senior Chief Lorenzo Thompson sat at the console nearest the map. He tensed at his controls because not only was his task to oversee the general health of the PASCORE network but there in the Curb was where changes could be implemented to the vast array. “Yes, sir.”

“Initiate total shutdown of Region Thirteen on my authority as PASCORE commander. Code of the day is Omega Hotel Sierra Hotel India Tango.”

“Yes, sir, prepping for Region Thirteen shutdown.” Thompson slashed through a series of menus. “Authorization confirmed by code Omega Hotel Sierra Hotel India Tango.”

A buzzer sounded throughout the Curb. Siddiq could feel the tension spread among the staff. This is an emergency which we have only every simulated.

“Colonel, Captain, present your access chips,” Thompson said stiffly.

Boyer set hers against a black panel adjacent to Thompson’s console. Siddiq did likewise.

“Access confirmed,” Thompson reported. “Shutdown of Region Thirteen commencing.”

Siddiq watched Thompson’s console as the orders went out to three other staff in the Curb. Then he turned his attention to the holographic map. A swathe of Coalition space roughly four hundred light-years in diameter, shaped like a squashed lens, dimmed. Double red lines traced a path around Region Thirteen, encompassing twenty buoys, including the newly activated—and currently defunct—219 and 220.

One by one, the remaining eighteen golden pips blinked, became red, and finally faded to gray. The region retained its outline.

Soft exhalations filtered throughout the Curb. Siddiq had held his breath, too, but wasn’t quite ready to relax. “Captain, work with Decrypt on a solution to this—desecration. I will not leave our forces to more incursions for longer than necessary.”

“Yes, sir.” Boyer threaded a path between the consoles, snapping orders to a cluster of enlisted technicians.

Longer than necessary. Every hour, every minute the network was inoperable heralded danger, not only because it limited the eyes and ears of CDF’s most advanced warships, those guardians of the border, but also because it blinded them to the future. That was PASCORE’s true genius and the greatest advantage behind the refit—the longer warning time in which the complex algorithms linking the sensor buoys could predict where and when incoming wormholes would open as a distant drive powered up.

Siddiq had seen the technical readouts describing PASCORE as a shackled hive mind. The moniker made sense—all those interlinked buoys behaved, in a way, like cooperating neurons. Except the League had successfully infected healthy cells, resulting in what was analogous to brain damage. He prayed it was reversible.

“Chief Thompson, prepare a secure coded transmission to CDF vessels in the region who have access to the network.” Siddiq shook his head. “We will have to explain the need for increased vigilance because I am certain our enemies meant for this disruption to provide them the perfect avenue into our nation’s very heart.”

“Understood, Colonel.” Thompson input a new command but paused. “The report is already going up the chain, sir. Do I need to set up any secondary communiques?”

“Yes, one.” Siddiq felt ill. “I have to inform the president.”

Oval Office

The White House—Lawrence City

Canaan System

Spencer was out in the White House’s garden when the message arrived.

He couldn’t make himself believe what he was reading on the tablet. PASCORE shut down, part of it anyway, to prevent a virtual contagion’s spread. His first, selfish instinct was to blame Colonel Sinclair and Captain Adams, but he knew the true fault lay with himself as commander-in-chief. Those kinds of failures were his to own, especially when the office of the president and his highest-ranking advisors had concocted the plan to draw the League in.

I don’t suppose we’ll reach a day when we conquer our pride, will we? Spencer sent the thought heavenward, as much a plea for help as a rhetorical question. Call it victor’s arrogance. Whatever the term, Spencer knew it would be out of his hands when it came to fixing the matter.

His commlink chirped. “Go ahead.”

“Mr. President, priority encrypted signal from the chairman of the joint chiefs.”

There are times I’d rather meet God face-to-face than deal with Andrew in all his fury. “Put him through.”

The voice was far more blunt, and its Scottish accent thickened with every syllable. “Have you seen this?”

“Yes, Andrew, and I want you to stay calm while we fashion a solution.”

“Oh, I’m calm. I am.” The burr grew stronger. “I’m already mobilizing fleet elements to plug the gap until those idiots at Astrocom turn the lights back on.”

“That’s hardly fair. I understand they had to shut everything down or risk the entire network’s collapse. Give them time.”

“I’m planning to do that by dropping stealth boats in the shadows to sink anything that tries to sneak through in the meantime.” Macintosh muttered something unintelligible.

Spencer appreciated that he didn’t share the worst of his anger-driven profanity.

“And I’m also noticing you have yet to counter that plan.”

“Because I’m authorizing it without hesitation. I won’t stand by as the League attempts, again, to undermine our national security. Send me the details, and I’ll sign off.”

“Understood, Mr. President.”

Spencer clicked off the commlink and took a last few seconds to enjoy the solitude of the garden. It was tempting to spend time out there, among the natural blessings God had abundantly provided on Canaan. More often than not, the united Terran people viewed their discovery of the world centuries ago as a miracle, one that saved them from annihilation. Time and again, it seemed additional miracles prevented the total destruction of the Coalition, when League fleets arrived in orbit around that very planet.

It was Spencer’s job to ensure the miracle of peace continued. Well, not his job alone. It would take far more than the best and brightest among the Coalition’s leaders could provide. We’re in Your hands, as always. Spencer took a last look at his sanctuary before he started the walk back to his waiting office. Be with us whether we win or lose, but give us victory again if it’s Your will. Spencer hoped it was.

19

33001 Harbor Rim

City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

20 May 2465

The Astrocom-sponsored gala attracted the cream of Daranj’s high society, from wealthy businesspeople to media stars, powerful shipping magnates and, of course, contract managers for the various companies undertaking the Astrocom refit.

Jackson’s black suit was about as formal of wear as he’d put on in two years, CDF dress uniform aside. The tight collar didn’t bother him. The custom fit certainly didn’t. Those would likely be the most comfortable clothes he’d ever worn.

It was the kind of role Jackson should have enjoyed—strolling up to the ballroom with the stars glittering overhead through the transparent dome and the stunted gozoa trees framing the outside of the hotel, their tall, slender leaves brushing against the walls. He took the proffered glass of champagne and fell into pleasant conversation with an action movie actor and his gorgeous wife. The man was apparently a co-lead on the local spin-off from War Patrol and performed to great acclaim, but honestly, Jackson was more interested in the woman’s questions about the Vesper Composites, seeing as how she was director of a software-development firm. Besides, Jackson was never much for military dramas, especially ones heavy on cheesy melodrama and light on accuracy.

For all Jackson’s acting, though—the irony of which did not escape him as the holo thespian refused to shut up—the mission’s latest developments hung over him like a storm cloud invisible to everyone else in the room. The PASCORE net collapse was infuriating, especially since Jackson couldn’t figure out whether Vasiliy’s interference on Trenchant II was a ploy to draw attention away from probing the network buoys or vice versa. One thing was certain—his adversary was anything but sloppy and left nothing to chance. The two were tied together. Whether it had any purpose beyond causing havoc, well, that was what Jackson had to uncover.

The other damper on the evening affected everyone, not only him. A string quartet entertained the crowd with variations on Trenchant’s latest music scene. Jackson recognized a few hits from last year. But even their enthusiastic playing and the steady chatter of the hundreds in attendance couldn’t drown out the rumble outside. Jackson caught glimpses of neon light from the protestors’ signs. The crowd had gotten bigger since he’d left Astrocom in the late afternoon.

“Echo One, this is Echo Home.” Brant’s voice was somber. The PASCORE network’s infection had hit him particularly hard, given his line of expertise, and Jackson was sure that, among juggling his other responsibilities, he was trying to find his own way to fix the problem. “Be advised local PD has cordoned off your block. Protestor count has exceeded five thousand. They’ve got traffic blocked from the Astrocom gates for a couple of klicks in either direction.”

Jackson’s shirt sleeve had a tiny transmitter embedded near the cuff link, so making the affirmative response could be done quite subtly—such as when Jackson faked thoughtfulness at the next inane comment out of the actor’s mouth. The man insisted on talking about how great the latest ratings for the holo drama were while his wife shielded her own smile. Meanwhile Jackson inwardly grumbled at the fact that the moron didn’t even realize officers should never salute enlisted personnel.

“Glad you agree. That guy’s reviews have tanked at three and a half stars, by the way, after four seasons. I don’t think his character survives.” Brant must have shaken his head, judging by the pause and when he continued. “Update on the truffle hunt—my friend and I have promising leads. There’s a handful of strong possibilities within city limits. I should come up with a better, more specific answer within twenty-four hours.”

Music to Jackson’s ears, even better than the quartet. If we can interdict those bombs… hold on. He caught a flicker of red in his peripheral vision. A woman in a sparkling dress. Or that was what it looked like, her moving through the shifting tides of well-clad attendees. It was her profile that jogged his memory.

Remembering someone, in Jackson’s occupation, was always a bad thing, but then again, he’d always chosen a first-name alias to avoid a conflict. On the rare odds a person recognized him and hollered, “Hey, Jack!” he would have a reason for the name.

Before Jackson could follow after his hunch, Colonel Siddiq and his wife, Amara, appeared in his path. “Mr. Hayes.” Siddiq raised his glass in salute. “I trust you’re enjoying the evening.”

Jackson clinked his glass but sloshed the contents a bit when a waiter bumped his side. “Careful there.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Who was that? Jackson glanced back, but the waiter was gone, white jacket lost in the sea of other white jackets, mingled with black and gray plus every other brilliant color of the rainbow. All he could see was a man about his height, plain brown hair, neatly cut.

“One, if you could quit looking at every person who passes by, I’d have a much easier time getting facial recognition to cooperate.” Brant sighed. “And I know, I know—situational awareness is paramount when in the field. Humor me this once, will you?”

Jackson smiled, which had the unfortunate side effect of making the actor think he wanted to hear another anecdote. Jackson would rather have one of those venomous spinemanders Dwyer was telling him about latch onto his ankle for a snack.

He returned his attention to Siddiq. “I am trying to. News as of late… hasn’t been the best, but I’m confident it will improve.”

“I hope so too.” Siddiq shook his head. “These are the days that make me yearn for retirement.”

“And what will I do with you moping around the house?” His wife laughed. “You would be miserable without a challenge to solve.”

“Colonel? Hank Hitori, star of War Patrol.” The actor interposed himself and offered a hand to shake. “Do you have a second in which I could pick your brain about what all goes on inside Astrocom? I mean, there’s got to be fodder for stories.”

Siddiq grumbled a response, but Jackson missed it because Brant spoke through the transmitter, “Hang on—possible hit from building security feeds. Delivery sister. Putting it on your wrist.”

Jackson raised his glass for another sip and saw the tiny headshot of Laila al-Omer scowling in profile. He recognized the grainy image as being one Gina had recorded during the aborted reconnaissance at the warehouse.

“Do excuse me. I have to take a signal.” He handed his empty champagne glass to the actor, who stopped midstory and put on a shocked expression, like he had been, well, electrically shocked. Then Jackson took the actor’s wife’s hand, murmured, “Delighted to have met you,” and kissed her knuckles before departing swiftly through the crowd.

“I’m disappointed, One.” Brant had to take a breather to stop chuckling. “You aren’t going to offer a CDF endorsement for the next season of War Patrol?”

“Where’d she go, Home?” Jackson took the chance of speaking aloud because, with all the noise around him, he could fake answering a wrist comm call.

A miniature floor plan popped into view. “Forty meters ahead, second door on the right. It leads into an adjacent hall, the one with spillover seating.”

Jackson wove a tight path, making sharp turns through the milling guests every so often. That allowed him to see the way he’d come and make sure he wasn’t followed because he still had the nagging feeling he wasn’t the only one watching for familiar faces at the soiree.

Nothing. He frowned. Jackson hoped he wasn’t becoming easily distracted. That was a death sentence for anyone in his career.

Few people, if anyone, were out in the hall where Brant directed him. A handful of couples sat at widely scattered tables, deep in close conversation—lots of laughing, lots of whispers. Jackson couldn’t help running a mental tally of which ones were going to have more fun at the after-party than at the main event.

There, sparkling red dress at the far end of the hall—alone. “Does she have any friends?”

“No one shows as peculiar on the feeds. Hotel help. Maintenance bots. A few guests not in the main ballroom.”

“Good.” Jackson eyed one of the emergency exits he passed, guarded by a Stalwart-series Mark Seven security bot.

It was a sleeker, smaller version of the bruisers he’d encountered aboard Bellwether, no weaponry but equipped with four arms that ended in undulating artificial tentacles instead. Like a robot octopus playing butler, it couldn’t stun or kill, only restrain and call for law enforcement.

“Send to Echo Two—get her to a breaching point ASAP.”

Gina was on the hotel’s roof, gazing down one of the slanted sides toward the huge crowd roaring below. Cam was in the mix, somewhere, synced into the same comms as the Echo team. “Two here. I’m ready when you are.”

“Sending you coordinates to delivery sister,” Brant said.

The numbers and a pinpoint glowing on her wrist device’s map were all she needed. Gina adjusted her goggles and tossed her legs over the edge of the building. She pushed off.

The fall was glorious—a sensation of panic, for only a second, followed by the rapture of unaided and uncontrolled flight. True, it was only downward, but Trenchant’s abbreviated gravity made it feel like she could flap her wings and soar away. Gina allowed herself the fantasy of setting out solo, finding a new life, leaving the Coalition and the League—even Jack—no responsibilities, no threats, no attachments, no heartache that inevitably came with the latter.

Nice dream. You’d never do it. For all the talk, the slyness, the posturing, you care too much about many things. Gina sighed and opened her eyes. She hated it when her brain was right. It made arguing with herself less fun.

“Twenty meters.” Brant sounded upset, like he always did when she made a drop.

Gina cut in the antigravity generated by the grav harness secured to her back with shoulder and waist straps. The invisible field arrested her fall, giving her time to tuck in her legs and somersault midair. The sloped awning over the emergency exit Brant had marked was right below.

A thunderous boom shattered the steady rumble of the night’s protests. The accompanying fireball bathed the entire glassy side of the looming hotel a beautiful muddle of yellow, red, and orange—like a peach’s skin, Gina realized.

Horror clenched her stomach. She touched down on the awning. “Home, this is Two. What the hell was that?”

“Stand by, Two.” Brant’s response was stern and clipped.

Other voices, tinny and distant, filtered through the comms feed.

“A hovercraft exploded. The crowd is surging—patrol drones can’t pinpoint who’s going where.”

“Home, Two, this is Chaperone!” Cam shouted, and even still, the screams almost washed him out. “There are too many injured down here to count. I’m out of the way—got hit with shrapnel at the fringe.”

Gina pivoted in her crouch. “One, are you getting this?”

“Confirmed.” Jackson’s whisper was ludicrous in what Gina knew was a crisis moment but made perfect sense considering he was still inside the gala following Laila al-Omer. “Home, what’s the word from Sparks?”

“He’s making a pass now, One. The enhanced sensor data from him combined with the patrol drones…” Brant’s signal squawked then turned clearer. “There’s a match to the sniffer program, likelihood sixty-five percent. The explosives used were probably the same ones the al-Omers provided.”

“We’ll need more proof than that.”

Gina checked her wrist unit. Laila was approaching the door. She was less than ten meters away. “Hate to interrupt, boys, but I need clearance if you still want me to bag our guest.”

Jackson exhaled. “Negative, Two, I’m calling it off. Rendezvous with Chaperone.”

“Guys, I’ve got a better lock on a positive indicator,” Brant interjected. “Three or four concentrations with probability in the upper nineties. Either the people who set the charge or those who have more bombs are the in crowds right now. I’m extrapolating coordinates based on the nearest selection of aerators that recorded the chemical footprint.”

Laila was five meters away. “I can take her, drag her out, and be out in the street in less than five minutes,” Gina protested.

“But if she resists more strongly than you think, we could lose our window on the bombers, and that’s the kind of connection that will help us put Vasiliy down,” Jackson snapped. “This is an order, Two. Get moving. I’ll handle Laila.”

Gina gripped the edge of the awning. She could swing down, break the door open, and stun Laila into submission before either her target or her annoying boss could respond.

Another explosion brightened the night, the sharp crack sounding to Gina like a secondary blast after the first eruption. Dammit. If she disobeyed, more people would get hurt, and the scum responsible would get away. Fine.

“Chaperone, this is Two. I’m headed your way.”

“Ready and waiting.” Cam sounded exhausted but relieved.

Gina flipped off the awning, landed behind a row of parked hovercraft, and sprinted into the shadows. Brant had better be praying for our success because we’ll need it.

Then maybe, just maybe, she would start seriously considering a job change.

“Excuse me, Miss.” Jackson waited until Laila looked back over her shoulder before flashing his best confident CEO smile. “I think Mr. Hitori was trying to get your attention back there, but you know how busy an actor of his caliber can be.”

Laila’s beauty stunned him for a second because he’d never seen her up close. Every centimeter of her radiated allure, from her black hair streaked with pink to her red lips pursed in a smile and all the way down the curves of her body wrapped in the shimmering red dress.

“It isn’t every day I have an actor fawning after me, Mr. Hayes, though I’ve met more CEOs tonight than ever in my life.”

“It can’t be helped.” Jackson gestured behind him and offered his arm. “Come on back to the party, and I promise we can avoid him.”

“Oh? You think so little of a holo star?”

“Only the ones who think too much of themselves.”

Laila laughed. She slipped her arm around his. Her perfume threatened to interrupt Jackson’s senses. “You haven’t even asked my name.”

“The people in the know told me who you are, but I wouldn’t presume.” He grinned—while pressing his forefinger and thumb together tightly, forcing a tiny multipronged injector laced with powerful sedative to extrude from the false covering atop his thumbnail.

“Laila al-Omer.” She leaned in closer. “I hope we can enjoy the rest of our time together, Mr. Hayes.”

A quick, sharp pain lanced through his shoulder. Vertigo washed over him immediately. He started to reply but found he couldn’t speak. Sounds turned to mush.

“One? One, this is Home. Do you read?” Brant sounded distant, at the far end of a cave.

Maybe he was hiding in one, like a grumpy bear awakened from hibernation. The cartoonish image of a furry Brant made Jackson chuckle—but shouldn’t I be worried? About something…

“Your vitals dipped—blood pressure, neural response… One, please respond.”

Jackson sank to the floor, tired, dizzy, sick. Didn’t want to vomit on Laila’s dress. Too pretty. He squinted as a trio of shiny black dress shoes approach. Uh-oh. Dangerous shoes. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Get him up.” Laila’s voice was angrier but still seductive. “We can take him out the back.”

“Be careful.”

That other voice—from a while ago? Elsewhere? Or did Jackson imagine it? Damn, his head was a mess.

“Ransom is only worthwhile if the abducted party is in good health at the end.”

“I don’t need pointers from you. Tell your keeper to take a tighter hold of his leash.”

Two men in waiters’ outfits hauled him upright. Jackson’s head bobbled like a broken stabilizer on a skimmer—and suddenly his heart ached to be back on the ranch, swooping along the taiga with his family behind him and Abby ahead.

The face crystalizing before him was an unwelcome jolt of reality—the bland expression, the unmemorable features, the brown eyes. One of those eyes was fake. Jackson could tell on closer inspection. A faint red glow escaped from behind it.

“Well.” The voice clinched it. Fernand, he’d been called back on Bellwether Station. Fernand, who was working with the League. “He’ll want to see this for himself.”

An electric sting coursed through Jackson’s body, setting off a high-pitched squeal and pitching him into darkness.

“Dammit!” Brant yanked the earpiece away and winced. He switched on the console’s speakers instead. “One, this is Home, respond. Repeat, One, verify connection.”

Nothing. The transmitter showed a dead link. The tracker was offline too. Nothing but a close-range EMP burst would do that, which meant one had been used to stun Jackson.

Brant grabbed the sides of his console, willing his friend and CO to reappear. “Come on, Jack. Come on.”

Still nothing.

Brant squeezed his eyes shut. “Merciful God in heaven, protect his life and watch his soul. Forgive me my sins. Lead me to his deliverance.”

He couldn’t devote more than that to Jack’s spiritual aid, not right then. He switched frequencies and initiated a purge on Jack’s transmitter—because whoever had him had taken steps to prevent their being tracked but could conceivably reactivate the link, thus backtracing to Brant’s location and potentially every member of the team.

“This is Echo Home to all units.” Brant took a breath so the shaking in his voice stopped. “One is compromised. Repeat, One is compromised. Switching to Nova Protocol. Proceed accordingly.”

Then he killed the links and started shoving equipment into his bag. First step of the protocol—everyone else into the field to look for the team leader while he quarterbacked from a secure location. Brant snorted. But if Jack was so hell-bent on breaking protocol, Brant could be too. His friend was out there, and the League be damned if Brant let them get away with it.

Screw the bombers. Gina plowed through the stampeding protestors, shoving them left and right. When that wasn’t fast enough to clear a path, she drew her pulse pistol and fired bursts overhead. That scared them.

Get out of my way!

She burst into the clear with the hotel’s side in sight. There—the emergency exit was left flung open but no people in sight, no vehicles. Gina sprang through the open door, her pistol aimed. Again, no one. The hotel’s emergency announcement repeated, “… civil unrest outside. This is Luxe Well Security. All guests are asked to make their way to the main ballroom. You will be safeguarded here from the civil unrest outside. This is Luxe Well…”

“Shit.” Gina spun around but jerked her pistol’s muzzle up once she realized she had it pointed at the center of Cam’s forehead.

“Easy,” he said. “Take it easy.” His face was smudged with soot. Blood caked the right side, but it was from a superficial cut. He’d already used emergency adhesive to seal it.

“He’s gone.” Gina stormed past him. “I have to rendezvous.”

“What about the bombers?” Cam pointed to the streets. “They’re out there, and I can’t get them alone.”

“Brant will toss the evidence to CBI.” Gina checked the charge on her pistol—five-sixths full, not good enough. She ejected the power pack, tossed it aside, and slammed a new one home. The weapon hummed in her hand.

“Hey. Hey!” Cam grabbed her arm. “I know you’re upset, but think this through—you can’t get sloppy. So, what can I do to help?”

“You can keep us off comms with Oxford.” Gina whirled on him and jammed the muzzle up under his chin. “You can shut the hell up and tell me where I can find Qisma al-Omer.”

20

Undisclosed Coordinates

Island of Paravan

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

21 May 2465

The ranch was on fire. Flames swept every hill. The grass was burnt down to stubble. Jackson turned, hoping to find the house still standing, but all that was left was a blackened skeleton. The heat blistered his skin and singed his sinuses. He could inhale nothing but fire and smoke.

“Look what you did!” Harry loomed over him, twenty feet tall, a burning giant.

His eyes were as brilliant as a sun, so bright Jackson couldn’t look at him anymore, only collapse and shield his own face.

“You destroyed everything! How could you fail us?”

His words echoed in a terrifying rumble. It intensified until it became a high-pitched ringing. Jackson clapped his hands over his ears and shouted.

Bitingly cold water crashed over his head.

“That should wake him up.”

Jackson sat up with a jolt so severe his back muscles cramped. His breath came in ragged gasps. Calm down. Focus on your surroundings. Pain means you’re not dead—not yet.

He was tied to a chair in the middle of a forest clearing. Gozoa trees hemmed him in as far as he could see in all directions. The pale-purplish grass had gray speckles on the tips. The blades tickled his toes. Toes? Yes, they’d taken his shoes, socks, and shirt. His trousers were soaking wet, as was the rest of him, thanks to the water streaming over his head and shoulders. He coughed and tried not to choke.

“That’s enough.”

That voice again—from Bellwether. Fernand. He stood in front of Jackson, arms folded. If he was bothered by the tattooed Bodrogi goons pouring water over his prisoner, he could have fooled Jackson—the man displayed all the emotion of a pedestrian waiting to cross a busy intersection.

“Who are you?”

“Jay…” Jackson coughed. His voice was hoarse, his throat raw. He felt as if he’d gargled with rocks—not that he’d ever experienced the sensation, but it was the only thing painful enough his brain could come up with.

His aerator was gone. How long have I been breathing Trenchant’s atmosphere unaided? Jackson pushed to the back of his mind the public safety warnings and health notes he’d read prior to the mission. Whatever the chemicals floating around in the air, they would not be good for him in the long run.

“J. Jefferson Hayes,” Jackson continued. “Former owner and manager of Stellar Anomalies Equity Fund, newest shareholder of Vesper Composites, manager on-site for the refit at Astrocom. Why, are you fellows looking for work? We have a few shift openings—”

The man on his right struck him a blow to the ribs. Jackson’s speech devolved into another fit of coughing.

“You think you’re funny, man?”

“There was a time, but let me tell you, with that attitude—” Jackson coughed again, his throat rasping until he gagged. “With that attitude, my PM wouldn’t put up with your bullshit for a full day.”

The man hauled off with his weapon of choice, a personal defense baton, until Fernand ordered, “Stop.”

Jackson squinted through itchy, sleep-addled eyes. “Thank you for that. I could use another nap.”

“I asked you a question, and you lied to me.” Fernand shook his head.

His expression of disappointment reminded Jackson of his dad registering his disapproval for the way his youngest son handled a skimmer for the first time. That lesson had ended with ten-year-old Jackson smashed into a ditch, hollering for help to pull the dead machine off him while his dad begrudgingly heaved against it.

That isn’t helping me build rapport in this situation. Jackson shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. My position here with Vesper on the Astrocom project is why you abducted me, right? Isn’t the point to get the most ransom off me you can?”

“We do want the money, yes.” Laila al-Omer stepped through the doorway.

Jackson glimpsed a vehicle’s shiny fuselage glint in the morning sun—hovercraft or shuttle. Either way, it was a way out.

Laila, meanwhile, had her hair bound up in a short braid, her face scrubbed of makeup, and her slinky red dress replaced by a tall-necked purple shirt and brown trousers. “I think we can easily get ten million.”

“Ten million? For me?” Jackson nodded. “It seems fair. But if you want it, I suggest you quit the torture. The shareholders frown upon abuse of employees, especially people who own large amounts of stock.”

“You’re not a shareholder. A corporate shareholder wouldn’t have a wrist unit that melts to slag the moment we removed it. Vesper is a cover.” Fernand leaned in. “You were on Bellwether.”

Jackson grimaced. “The station? Out by Saurian space? I’m sorry. Vesper Composites frowns upon doing business with corrupt megacorporations.”

Fernand gestured.

The blow returned, though Jackson had braced himself as soon as he finished the sentence. He wasn’t too surprised Fernand detected more than a passing resemblance. Jackson’s facial implants were best used at a fair distance to muddle facial recognition, but upon closer examination, a determined enemy could tell he was looking at someone familiar. It might not be an exact match, but even the suspicion was enough for a man like Fernand—and Jackson himself—to draw conclusions.

It was then that he noticed he was the only one outdoors without an aerator. No wonder his breathing felt labored, like he had been on a long mountaintop hike. The burning had fueled his nightmares as he’d emerged from the haze of whatever Laila had dosed him with.

“I know you were there. So does Vasiliy.” Fernand rocked back on his heels. “He can’t be here right now. But don’t worry. We’ll put on the show, collect whatever ransom we can, then take you home—to our home, I should specify. Only after your friends show up to rescue you. Given the way your team has operated, Vasiliy is confident they won’t leave you behind.”

Jackson made his chuckle as lighthearted as he could. “I don’t know who you think I am or what you think I’m capable of, but think about this—the only people coming for me are a dedicated team of very intense, very expensive lawyers. You’d be luckier going up against a whole city block full of WFU protestors.”

Fernand turned back for the concealed vehicle, leaving Laila standing there, hands on her hips.

She examined Jackson with the malice of a childhood bully considering how much cruelty to exert when finding a defenseless infant animal. “Let’s see how he fares with Round Two, boys.” Laila pulled a commlink from her belt. “While I make contact with the local Vesper reps and start the important talks related to Mr. Hayes’s value.”

Jackson refused to close his eyes, gritting his teeth instead against the slow, deliberate strikes from the baton. He would not focus on anything but his team in hopes they could read his mind and stay away. Don’t come after me. Fulfill the mission, and go home.

Home. Fernand had warned of it with a hint of longing, which could mean only one thing—Earth, and the heart of the League of Sol. Not on his life. Jackson would find a way to avoid a sentencing to lifetime imprisonment, torture, and likely execution. No one other than he would die for his mistakes.

CSV Oxford

0700 Hours

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

Overlapping conversation rippled throughout the operations center, with Tamir and Eldred at the center. The increasing volume told Sinclair that, as he entered the sprawling compartment, things were rapidly spinning out of hand.

Well, we can’t have that, now can we? “That will be quite enough of the extraneous chatter,” Sinclair called out, taking care to modulate both calm and command in his voice.

The murmurs died out until the only sounds were, again, Tamir and Eldred issuing their orders to the enlisted personnel on duty. Sinclair made his way to the holographic tactical display of Trenchant II, where several square sectors had been enlarged to hundreds of times their normal magnification.

“Status.”

“Echo One’s transmitter and locator beacon have failed,” Tamir reported. “Echo Home also deliberately disabled any attempt to reboot the two for fear they could be used to backtrace One-Seven-One’s locations. He is rendezvousing with Echo Three and Echo Four in hopes they can use Novabird as a search platform. We’re providing them with whatever we were able to scan from orbit last night and this morning.”

“And what do we have along those lines?”

“Lots of hovercraft and truck traffic in and out of Daranj, sir.” Eldred highlighted a square on the globe, inside which the capital city glowed as an urban sprawl wrapping its tendrils around a broad bay. “The abductors were smart—no odd air traffic in or out of the city last night. We have suspicious ground-vehicle movements narrowed down to twenty.”

Sinclair arched an eyebrow. “Hardly narrowed.”

“When you consider the hundreds flowing along the west and south roads to Fleur Port and Stieffel, it’s about eight percent of the total.” Eldred grimaced and took a long slug of coffee. “Apologies, Colonel. That’s the eyestrain talking.”

“Forgiven and forgotten, Warrant. I need solutions.”

“Understood. Echo One is taking our data and running comparisons on known registrations, seeing which ones come up as a match for Bodrogi.” Eldred snorted. “At least we know it isn’t Qisma al-Omer’s town car.”

Sinclair suppressed a smile. Not very professional to relish the fiery destruction of a Coalition citizen’s personal property, even when said citizen was a crime-syndicate leader responsible for untold suffering. “Surely we have another means of tracing Captain Jackson.”

“There is.” Tamir loaded the schematics for three different transmitters of varying size and composition.

Sinclair recognized straightaway the standard implant that let field operatives hear transmissions. The second was the one typically woven into their sleeve, allowing one-way confirmation signals. The third, though…

“The shirt beacon went dead too.”

“Jammed?”

“No, sir. I believe the captain’s abductors removed his shirt and destroyed it.”

“Which means they detected it.” Sinclair frowned. “I trust this verifies League involvement, as we have no record of civilian tech able to pick up the signal that beacon sends.”

“It could be as simple, though, as them accidentally discovering the transmitter when removing his shirt—tearing the cloth and finding evidence of the circuitry.” Tamir shook his head. “In any case, that leaves us only the aerator module.”

“Ah.” The third schematic, Sinclair surmised. “Undetectable?”

“They could find it but only if they stripped the aerator down to its components.” Eldred made a face. “They have no need to do so because aerators’ location options—tying them to the same network we’ve been using to track those explosives—can be shut down using a simple switch.”

“Can we trace this hidden device? I assume your answer is yes, given you’ve taken the time to explain its presence and purpose.”

“We can, sir, because it disguises its pulse as infrequent pings off neighboring devices, but those are pretty weak. Oxford needs to crank up its sensor gain for us to detect them. Novabird can scan for them, too, but not as well, even with the closer proximity.”

Of course, increasing the sensor reach meant more active scans, which would signify that Oxford was something more than the freighter she usually pretended to be. Sinclair frowned. This is the game, isn’t it? Counterbalancing risk with risk—in this case, the risk of a valued operative disclosing classified intelligence to the enemy or dying while resisting interrogation attempts balanced against the possibility of breaking Oxford’s own cover. “I shall speak with the CO, advise him of our plan, though I doubt he will be pleased. Prepare your search grid, and advise Echo Home.”

“Aye, sir.”

Sinclair glanced at a smaller screen inset at Eldred’s elbow. Five comms channels—Echo Home and One through Four. One was dark, understandably so. But so was Two.

“Do tell, Butter Bars.” Sinclair put no levity behind the nickname that time. “Is Echo Two suffering a comms malfunction?”

Tamir cleared his throat. “No, sir. She’s—gone dark, Colonel.”

Which meant they had potentially lost control of one of the two civilian members of the team, a woman who possessed not only the skill to infiltrate and exterminate but who also held, in Sinclair’s estimation, the least respect for the chain of command.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured.

Qisma al-Omer owned one of the poshest mansions overlooking Daranj, perched at the end of a long, winding driveway of sparkling white gravel. Gozoa wood beams buttressed gleaming stone walls. The windows had to offer breathtaking views of the bay and Daranj’s harbor far below. Gina figured it was as good a time as any to see for herself.

Cam’s newly acquired all-terrain truck burst through the trees at the far northeast edge of the property, churning up decorative grasses and careening between sensor posts. It, too, was six-wheeled, though it was painted a bold orange and seemed better built to transport soldiers than go off-road adventuring. A red-letter warning flashed across the windscreen: “Turn back. You are trespassing on private property.”

“Through the garden entrance?” Cam gripped the controls with white knuckles.

“Yes, please.” Gina made sure the carbine strap was secure. She hadn’t bothered with her own restraints. “Don’t brake on my account.”

Cam sighed and shook his head but pushed the vehicle’s acceleration.

Three of Qisma’s bodyguards appeared from a door inset in the three-story window arch facing a luscious garden filled with exotic flowers. Gina had three seconds to admire the beauty as well as the guards’ dedication before Cam’s car bashed through trellises and ripped apart shrubbery she was sure cost thousands to maintain each year.

Plasma blasts scorched the truck, but it paid them no heed other than to issue bland warnings about failing structural integrity. Gina leaned out her window and fired. Her shots dropped the guard on the far right. The others fled, apparently deciding Qisma’s pay was not good enough to risk getting run over.

“Window up,” Cam grunted.

Gina had just obeyed when the truck crashed through the arched window, roaring into a cavernous living space filled with expensive-looking couches, actual oil paintings, and at least one antique clock.

The truck tore everything in its path apart before Cam’s braking maneuver spun it in a half circle, leaving hideous black streaks on marble floor. Gina felt bad about that, though not as bad as she did about the devastated garden.

The two remaining guards came around the corner, guns drawn. Gina shot them through the rear windows and flung open her door. Cam dove out to the left, plasma pistol blazing at the next guard who hurried in from an adjacent guard. Two more hustled Qisma out of the living room, firing with automatic weapons as they retreated.

Gina propped the carbine onto the open door, its window lowered again, and shot them both, four pulls of the trigger, four rounds. A plasma burst singed the door, spraying sparks across her cheek that burned like errant campfire embers.

Qisma dropped to her dead employees, scrabbling for a weapon.

Gina made it halfway to her, switching to her pulse pistol. “Leave it.”

Qisma’s hand closed on a plasma pistol, but she didn’t lift it. She stared at Gina, eyes wide, hopefully with fear and anger. Both made people do stupid things. Gina itched for Qisma to give her the excuse.

“Hey.” Cam came around the vehicle, his pulse pistol also trained on Qisma. “We can’t stay long.”

“I wasn’t planning to. Qisma is going to tell me where to find J. Jefferson Hayes, and we’re going to leave.”

“Hayes? The CEO?” Qisma blinked. “You think I—”

Gina shot her in the shoulder. Qisma’s screams rattled the remaining windows.

Gina gave her no time to deal with the new pain of a burnt shoulder. She first kicked the plasma weapon away then shoved Qisma onto her back. “Same question, new body part. Where is he?”

“Laila—she made the deal. It was for ransom.” Qisma panted her answer. “What are you, his hired security?”

“I try to be, but he doesn’t sign my pay chit.” Gina stepped on Qisma’s wounded shoulder and ground her boot.

Qisma muffled her own cries by biting her lips, sweat soaking her face.

“Where?”

“Paravan. I don’t know the coordinates. It’s an island—”

“I can read a map, thanks.” Gina shook her head. “I should kill you, for the people you murdered in the streets last night and for taking my friend.”

“We didn’t set off those bombs! I would never—not the WFU. Those are my kin.”

“Kin? Your scummy sister’s a lot friendlier with the people who wanted those bombs.”

Qisma looked crestfallen. “Laila… knew? But she said… they promised…”

“All bullshit.” Gina had no idea if it was, in fact, bullshit, but it sounded good. And it could drive a wedge between the two powerful women. After all, Gina knew the lies that came with siblings. She’d dealt with plenty of her own.

“I’ll kill you for this,” Qisma suddenly snarled. Her rage was palpable, but the uncertainty at what Gina had said seeped through.

Gina could tell. She knew when people believed her, which made it so much easier to lean deeper into a lie. “I’m sure you’d like to, but I’m not going to kill you.”

Even though Qisma deserved it. Brant, though—he would frown upon such an extrajudicial killing, especially one not sanctioned as part of the op. For some reason, what Brant thought of her morality was beginning to be important. And there was Jack.

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Gina leaned down and brushed dust from Qisma’s pale hair. “I’m not here to get Hayes back. I want to know where he is so your sister can cut me in on my take for being so lax with security. He was an easy mark. I’ll leave you with that thought—and Laila sends her best, of course.”

She bashed Qisma across the face with her pistol’s muzzle before the outraged syndicate boss could fully register the shock.

Cam had left the truck’s power plant rumbling.

Gina climbed back in. “I’m ready to go.”

“Yeah? Are we planning a scenic drive to Paravan?” Cam glowered at her. “It’s a hundred klicks from here.”

“A very important detail for when I call in. Drive to these coordinates.” Gina flashed her wrist unit blazing with the rendezvous instructions. Then she switched over to a new frequency. “Echo Home, this is Echo Two. Sorry about the delay—I had errands to run, but I’m bringing a present to make up for it.”

21

Sunvines Neighborhood

City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

21 May 2465

Brant had to face facts—he was in command. Logically, he’d tried to prepare himself. He was Covert Action Unit 171’s executive officer, so that was what he did in crisis situations. He took charge. But the need had never arisen. Jack getting captured was either bad luck—and he’d had close scrapes before—or was the result of his getting sloppy.

Brant had tried at first to ignore the possibility, then when he couldn’t in good conscience, he’d warned his commander and his friend. Pride went before the fall. Brant had heard plenty of homilies on the subject, especially from Father Calinao, who seemed to have it as a favorite topic.

It wasn’t until Gina arrived with Cam Tahatan, both battered and Gina bloody, that Brant realized the crux of the moment. The team was gathered, plus one, and they weren’t willing to wait around for orders.

“So, you know the island.” Dwyer sat on the edge of the kitchen counter, tapping his finger incessantly on the tile top. “It won’t be a problem at all for Novabird to do an overflight, especially once we get a fix in from the bomb sniffers.”

“I’m pretty sure they’ll be watching for us from the air, and they’ve already seen your bird in action. Don’t forget.” Gina wiped blood from her knuckles. Brant hadn’t asked whose it was or where she’d gotten it. “It made an impression when you dive-bombed their enforcer plane.”

“As far as air traffic control’s concerned, that was an accident, a near miss.”

“Pilot error.” Sev stood in a far corner of the living room assembling his sniper rifle, though he watched through the huge window’s blinds as he did so.

Dwyer gestured at Sev as if to say, “See? He agrees,” but didn’t add commentary.

“We’re not flying out to anywhere, not until we get orders from Base.” Brant sat in the middle of the living room with his console set up on a portable workstation. He’d gone back for his gear after meeting up with Dwyer and Sev. The screens were full of data pouring in from his and Eldred’s algorithms that were chewing their way through the aerator network. They’d already pinpointed several Bodrogi enforcers tied to the other night’s bombings and, he hoped, getting them closer to wherever the remaining explosives had been taken.

“Listen to you.” Gina shook her head. “Orders. We don’t need orders, Brant. We need Jack, and we can find him, thanks to me.”

“Thanks to you, we have an irate Bodrogi syndicate crime lord who is probably scouring all of Daranj for you and Cam.” Brant glowered over his console. “Do you have any idea the chatter you two kicked off?”

“Don’t look at me,” Cam protested. “I was her chauffeur.”

“Thought you were ‘Chaperone,’ pal,” Dwyer muttered.

“You did a piss-poor job living up to either name,” Brant snapped. “I don’t care how persuasive she is—protocol is protocol.”

Gina leaned in Brant’s face. “Quit hiding behind protocol, and let us get out of here so we can go find Jack before they kill him.”

“That is all we have. Don’t tell me to discount it because, if I hear that talk out of you one more time, Gina, so help me, I’ll strip you of your clearances and have Oxford send down a shuttle to drag you back to orbit.”

Gina reeled back from Brant’s onslaught as if physically struck. The odd part was he hadn’t even raised his voice. Brant had heard himself deliver every word with firm authority, the kind he’d observed Jack employ when he knew a job had to be done and no one wanted to do it.

“You’ll—no, I don’t…” Gina sputtered. She took a step toward Brant, finger raised. “Listen, when I get—”

Sev put a hand on her shoulder. Gina’s speech faltered. Brant’s heart ached because she looked lost, on the verge of giving up, and it was only Sev’s intervention that reined her in.

“Easy.” Sev gazed at her then nodded at Dwyer before staring at Brant.

“Are we good?” Brant asked.

“Yes, sir.” Sev’s tone was soft but stern.

Gina sagged. She wrapped her arms around her middle, her expression—what? Brant wasn’t as good at reading people as Jack was. No one could match him. She was probably, if Brant had to guess, upset and searching for answers.

You have to have them. Even if you don’t believe them. It sounded ridiculous, but Brant quashed the fear. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—none would let him down, nor would all the saints in heaven. He could imagine the ethereal cheering squad. Wow. That’s a bit over the top. Isn’t it, Lieutenant Guinto? Brant found himself grinning. It didn’t matter if it was over the top. What mattered was it worked.

“Listen, everyone, we’re going to find him. That’s part of our mission now. But we can’t let slide our operational goal—the newest of which, prevent whatever chaos the Leaguers and Bodrogi have planned with these bombs.” Brant raised an eyebrow. “Gina? Can I have your attention with the rest?”

She nodded but didn’t give an affirmative answer.

That’s better than her saying what she’s really thinking, which has got to be so unrepeatable she’d make every nun within a hundred klicks of Our Lady of Roxas stuff her ears.

“Eldred has Oxford’s sensors cranked to the roof, which isn’t helping the ship stay subtle but is doing wonders for our search.” Brant flipped a holographic map into the middle of the room. “These red blotches are the highest concentrations of explosive residue sniffed out by the aerator network. Judging by how many devices have gone offline since we started this hunt the other day, I’m guessing both the League and Bodrogi have surmised the same thing we did—sniffing for the explosives has helped CBI drag a couple dozen gangsters off to jail.”

“Best news I’ve heard in a week,” Dwyer muttered.

“And this is where it gets better still—I’ve forwarded the, um, intelligence Gina and Cam gathered today up to Eldred, who’s dumped it into her programs.” Brant turned the globe of Trenchant II and zoomed in on an island chain. “Paravan, the third largest of this archipelago, is showing positive for the right chemical traces. It won’t be long before she narrows the precise coordinates.”

Sev grunted.

“Exactly what I thought.” Brant beamed. “It is great news.”

“It sounds like,” Gina added softly, “you’re about to drop the other boot, however.”

“There is that.” Brant swept away from the islands and off Trenchant into orbit. Fuzzy red streaks wafted between tiny dots representing ships and the blue curve of the planet. “Someone’s moving the stuff up. I don’t know where yet, or how much, but there’s a simple guess…”

“Izarrak Yards,” Cam blurted. “CDF and Saurian military ships are in dock. Never mind the civilian contract vessels tending to them.”

“You’re right. That’s where we’re also concentrating scans.” Brant glanced at the team members. “You see the dilemma—two likely targets, one bird.”

Dwyer shook his head. “She’s fast, XO, but Novabird would be hard-pressed to zip over to Paravan, scoop up the cap’n—even without a firefight, mind—then boost back into orbit before something blew up. Unless you’re thinking Oxford dispatches a shuttle.”

“Sending even a stealth shuttle over from Oxford to Izarrak could be too risky.” Brant frowned. “We don’t know the League’s sensor capabilities or whether they have a ship. I don’t want to risk spooking the actors at play up there. Colonel Sinclair and Captain Tamir agree.”

“All right.” A slow smile blossomed on Gina’s face. “You sound like you have a plan, and given that you seem disgruntled, it’s one you won’t enjoy implementing—but I will.”

“Sparks, you and Sev will take Novabird and sidle up to Izarrak as fast and quiet as you can.” Brant pointed at Cam. “Chaperone? I need you to help us steal a ship.”

“Me?” Cam scowled. “Is that all I am? Transport? You’re making it awfully hard for a deep-cover covert operative to maintain that tenuous cover.”

“Sorry, Cam, but you’ll have to be reassigned once this is all said and done.”

“I know. It’s obvious. Don’t bother with breaking any more laws, though—I have a personal shuttle, short range. It’ll be enough.”

Brant’s console beeped at him. Coordinates spilled down one side of the screen—on Paravan Island.

Thank God. “Everyone, gear up. Two teams, no mistakes.”

Each person moved off with Dwyer catching Sev in a hushed conversation. Cam got on his commlink, presumably to confirm his new and troubling orders with Sinclair.

But Gina joined Brant at his console. “You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re doing great.” She kissed him on the cheek. “I’m going to gather reloads for my carbine. Can I get you a pulse pistol?”

“Please.” Because he definitely was not staying behind for the mission. Preserve Jack for us, Heavenly Father, and spare lives this day, especially those of my teammates. It would be nice, Brant realized, if He spared the temporary team leader’s too.

CSV Oxford

1200 Hours

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

Eldred presented the data to Sinclair on a tablet with three reports culminating in a single set of coordinates. If she’d been any more keyed up, she would have bounced on her heels. “The summary, Colonel—analysis of ground-vehicle traffic compared with flights in and around Paravan Island, the probable signal reads from Captain Adams’s aerator transmitter, and the dispersal patterns from the chemical signature of the explosives obtained by Bodrogi and the League.”

“Jolly good work,” Sinclair said. “I trust this has all been forwarded to Lieutenant Guinto.”

“The bits he didn’t have, yes, sir, but he was able to detail a fair amount himself, especially after obtaining intel from a high-ranking Bodrogi source.” Eldred smirked. “I understand Echo Two planted severe seeds of doubt in Qisma al-Omer’s mind, so we’re waiting on her making contact with her sister to solidify those coordinates.”

Sinclair read the report. The combined results put Adams’s location at the southern tip of Paravan Island, a much smaller region to search but still about twenty square klicks. “Of course—the trace Guinto put on Laila al-Omer’s commlink.”

Eldred nodded. “We have high hopes—”

“Confirmed,” Tamir interjected. “Qisma is placing a call right now. I have intercept from Trenchant communications authority and pinged off local repeater satellites.” He produced a graphic on his main display, which showed the web spreading from Daranj out to Paravan’s island chain. The lines ended on the southern tip, at a yellow star pulsing against the forested terrain.

“I think you’d best revise these coordinates.” Sinclair smiled at Eldred. “And get them to One-Seven-One posthaste.”

Eldred grinned back. “Aye, Colonel.”

Meng Po

1202 Hours

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

Chief Ancel spun in his chair. “Captain, I have them.”

Zhou glanced over his shoulder. “Are you certain?”

“As certain as I can be, based on the data we’ve gathered. Only one of the three suspected vessels has put out an extraordinary amount of bandwidth over the last twenty-four hours, with most of that activity beginning late last night.”

Late last night. Zhou checked his latest reports to and from Vasiliy. That fit the timeline of the harebrained abduction. Zhou was never much for the criminal types, as much as he understood the need to ally with them for deep-cover operations conducted in enemy territory. Besides, being ardent capitalists for the most part, they were predictable—shovel more credits or jewels or art or anything that could make them wealthy, and they would do his bidding.

But their activities unsettled Zhou. He’d known the mission wouldn’t give him the straight-out ship-to-ship brawl he craved. His prospects had fallen even further when it appeared the Terran stealth boat that had dogged Vasiliy’s plans for months wasn’t nearby either. “Pinpoint our primary target, Tactical.”

“Aye, Skipper. Pinpointing Tango Two.” Balland shifted the tactical display’s focus to just one ship—a neutral origin. Nothing special about it. Meng Po refused to classify it as a particular model, even, which wasn’t out of character for cobbled-together, heavily customized, independent cargo vessels.

“Transponder for Tango Two comes back as Methinks to Myself,” Balland continued. “Galt flagged.”

Zhou snorted. “Every neutral freighter and their little brother’s is flagged as being from Galt. Perfect cover for spies and malcontents. Redesignate target as Victor One. Comms, get me a secure tightbeam to the boss—I’ve got a present for him.”

Though, remembering what the ship had done at Bellwether—if it was the same ship—he didn’t relish the idea of putting his crew at risk when facing a converted freighter with the firepower of an advanced Terran destroyer. He almost wished it were the stealth boat instead.

Undisclosed Coordinates

Island of Paravan

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

Gah. These trees.

Kiel brushed aside the fronds as he stepped from the path into the clearing. The sooner he was rid of the foul-smelling planet and its coddled flora, the better. He caught a tantalizing glimpse of Ferenc’s shuttle tucked farther back, obscured from view beneath the dense forest canopy. They would depart before too long—their second base was cleaned out. But first, Kiel had someone to meet.

The man was still bound to a chair in the middle of the clearing. Kiel reveled in the way the man’s eyes flicked from shrub to shrub. He was watching for the local fauna, those disgusting spinemanders Kiel knew lurked behind every leaf. From that distance, he couldn’t be sure. The resemblance to Jack Avery of the Tactisar security force on Bellwether Station might be there. Ferenc’s forwarded images certainly emphasized it. Either way, Kiel was going to enjoy himself.

Ferenc waited at the clearing’s edge. He stared at Laila, who stood on the far side with a cluster of her goons. She was hollering into her commlink with all the subtlety of an enraged guard dog.

“What seems to be the problem?” Kiel asked.

“She’s having a disagreement with Qisma,” Ferenc said. “Who is under the impression Laila sold out her sister to us.”

“For what reason?”

Ferenc shrugged, about as bothered by the possibility as by a rainy forecast. “Greed. Jealousy. Apparently a man and woman raided Qisma’s estate, killed her guards, threatened her for the location of Mr. Hayes, and at least according to Laila, fed Qisma lies.”

“Well, then. Our counterparts have been busy, haven’t they?” Kiel gazed at Hayes. “So, is it him?”

“Facial rec can’t confirm, and I don’t have DNA samples from Jack Avery, but the voice is similar—” Ferenc shook his head. “The more I think about it, the more I question myself.”

“Certainty can be a dangerous thing.” Though I wouldn’t mind being certain all the time. It would take the danger out of most gambles. “Let’s try—”

Kiel’s commlink buzzed, as did Ferenc’s.

Kiel answered his first. “What is it?”

“Sir, there’s an incoming shuttle. No registered flight plan. It isn’t responding to our transponder queries.” Yahanotov sounded on the verge of panic but was doing a reasonable job of holding himself together.

“Wonderful.” Kiel rolled his eyes. He looked again at Hayes, who continued squirming in his chair. Pathetic. He hoped it wasn’t the man he’d been pursuing, or he would be—

“Sir, I’m also picking up chatter on local patrol bands,” Yahanotov interrupted. “Someone gave an anonymous tip of weapons smuggling at our location. Police craft have been dispatched.”

Of all the damn headaches. “Get off the hydrofoil and onto the shuttle,” Kiel ordered. “We’ll be aboard momentarily. Do you have word from Circe?”

“She’s almost in position. A few hours tops.”

“Some good news, at least.”

Ferenc covered the audio pickup of his commlink. “Sir, I have our way home on the other signal.”

Zhou? What did he want? Kiel shut off his commlink and swiped Ferenc’s from his outstretched hand. “Go tell Laila we’re leaving, and if she doesn’t want to spend the rest of her life in Daranj’s finest prison, she’d better power up her own craft and be long gone when the authorities arrive.”

“Yes, sir.” Ferenc trotted toward the knot of Bodrogi people.

Kiel counted to three to ward off the urge to yell at the incompetency on display, except when it came to Ferenc, then said into the commlink, “Speak.”

“Boss, we have our nosy neighbors in our sights. How should we proceed?”

The Terran ship? Zhou had managed to find it. Kiel sneered, but his sudden glee was tempered by the knowledge that he’d seen the playback from the battle at Bellwether, when the ship had taken on a squadron of privateer vessels—not something with which to be trifled.

“Sir!” Ferenc sounded startled.

How is that possible? Kiel saw three things in rapid succession—Ferenc’s alarmed expression, the tipped over chair, and Laila leading her goons into the woods, with Hayes a distant figure disappearing among the trees.

Suddenly he cared little for risks and only wanted death. Who could blame me? “Close the distance to those infernal Terrans,” Kiel growled, “and ram them.”

22

Meng Po

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

21 May 2465

Zhou held the tablet at arm’s length. He had to be hallucinating. It wasn’t happening again. It couldn’t be. Ram them. The comms system was kind enough to record what Vasiliy must have thought would be his final message to the loyal, obedient Captain Zhou Yongrui right before his glorious sacrifice for the good of the League of Sol. Another trusting citizen willing to do his part for society.

Zhou scowled. He was willing to serve, all right. He’d done so for years—and when he’d tried to save his crew, the best symbol of the very society the League supposedly worshipped, his government had threatened him with disgrace and execution.

If he thinks I’m throwing away my life and those of my crew to maybe strike a blow against a Terran ship that will obliterate mine, he’s as insane as the out-of-touch politicians who command us. He dropped the tablet onto his seat.

“Captain?” Ancel followed him from the sensor station. “Do we have orders?”

“Oh, we have orders, Francois, but I’m opening them up to broader interpretation.” Zhou gestured at the discarded tablet.

Francois glanced down. His face paled. “Mon dieu.”

Zhou put a finger to his lips. “You don’t want me to have to report your blasphemy to the commissars when we get back, do you?”

Ancel snorted then resumed his more professional demeanor. Both knew the odds of Zhou reporting anyone’s anything to commissar was as likely as Sol going nova in the next thousand years. “How do you interpret those orders, then?”

“Ramming can be construed as disrupting the enemy. There has to be another way to do so.” Zhou scratched his chin. “This is a whole other matter than dealing with the scum of the galaxy. These Terrans might be deluded and narcissistic, but they’re not as rapacious as the pirates we…”

His thoughts caught up with him and interrupted his speech. It was an unorthodox idea, for sure. Then again, hasn’t everything about my service this past year been unorthodox? He was a disgraced League Navy officer commanding a stealth-modified freighter deep in enemy territory during a time of supposed peace.

“Captain?” Balland looked up from Tactical. “Victor Two is on the move. If we don’t accelerate and match at least a parallel course, we’ll lose ranging when they crest the curve of the planet.”

“We won’t be chasing them.” Zhou grabbed Ancel’s arm and pulled him back to the sensor station. “Package up everything we have on Victor Two—their false transponder, the huge bandwidth, all the data showing how suspicious they’ve been behaving. Put it into an info dump that looks like something we as an independent freighter would notice about a possible pirate ship lurking in order. Get that packet over to Comms.”

“Captain?” The comms officer seemed puzzled. “Am I transmitting to the surface?”

“Negative. You’ll be contacting orbital traffic control and alerting their enforcement division. I want every patrol corvette and each cargo vessel within a light-second of Trenchant to know there’s a wolf in the fold.” Zhou grinned. “We’re not going to ram a damn thing, ladies and gentlemen, because when we’re through with our enemy, he’ll have wished we did.”

CSV Tuscon

1,380 Light-Years from Trenchant

As soon as the boat emerged from its most recent jump, Mancini was up out of his command chair. “TAO, sweep the area and repopulate the board.” He must have said it five times in the past twelve hours.

“Conn, TAO. Repopulating the board,” Olesen replied.

“Conn, Sensor Room. Receiving updated scans from Lubbock,” the senior chief reported. “Major Ghali indicates he’ll be ready to jump again in forty-five minutes.”

“Confirmed, Sensor Room.”

Mancini paced behind Olesen’s chair, no mean feat considering the tight confines of a stealth boat’s bridge. He watched as Lubbock blinked on the tactical board. Red dots appeared in rapid succession.

“Conn, TAO. Seven marks incoming.” Olesen punched commands into his console. “Drive signatures consistent with modified Golgotha-type patrol ships.”

“Golgothas?” Godat looked like he’d eaten an unpleasant meal and couldn’t find a polite manner or place in which to spit it out. “We’re talking bargain basement patrol craft, Skipper.”

“They’re still armed.” Mancini brought the sensor readouts onto his console. “Even if it is the oddest mix of magnetic cannons and plasma weapons I’ve ever seen. Comms, send them a canned warning—this is a restricted Coalition border zone, and they have to stand to for inspection.”

“Conn, Comms. Aye, sir, sending.”

Mancini watched as Lubbock altered course, putting the Tuscon’s sister ship into a broad arc. She’d come out of it on their starboard flanks, which was a perfect pincer when coupled with Tuscon’s approach from their port side. “TAO, What’s the status of Zakresk?”

Green numbers counted down in the upper right corner of the tactical display. “Conn, TAO. Zakresk estimated arrival in four point seven minutes,” Olesen noted.

“Then we’ll make do with what we have. Comms, response from these interlopers?”

“Negative, Skipper.”

“Give me the mic.” Mancini waited until the comms officer gave him the high sign and cleared his throat. “This is Major Nathan Mancini of the CSV Tuscon. You have breached our sovereign space with dark transponders and have refused communications. I hereby order you to cut power to your main engines, safe your weapons, and stand to for inspection.”

Seconds flicked by on the bridge’s chronometer. The comms officer held his earpiece but shook his head.

Mancini sighed. “Have it their way. TAO, consider them all hostile and designate as Master One through Seven.”

“Conn, TAO. Designating Master One through Seven, aye.”

“TAO, firing point procedures, Master One, tubes one through six, Hunter warheads.”

“Conn, Sensor. Picking up wormhole fluctuations.”

Light flickered on the tactical display. Olesen’s head snapped up. “Four, repeat, four incoming marks, varying starship classes. Drive signatures indicate civilian models, heavily modified. Their shields went active as soon as they emerged.”

Mancini’s pulse ticked up. “TAO, designate new incoming as Master Eight through Eleven and add to the missile-tracking roster. Sensor, coordinate with Lubbock on all incoming readings and vice versa. I don’t want anything sneaking up, especially since we’re right smack in the middle of the hole punched through PASCORE.”

The affirmative replies from his crew lodged in Mancini’s mind as he weighed all his options. Already the eleven ships were veering off on independent vectors with no seeming similar destination in mind except to plunge deeper into Coalition space. In theory, Tuscon and Lubbock could hold them off. Then again, he might only have to target one ship if they had anything like a fleet or squadron command structure. Cut off the serpent’s head, and it should writhe.

“Conn, TAO. Master One through Three are accelerating. Sensor readings indicate they’re working on repowering their wormhole drives.”

“Enough fooling around. TAO, match vectors, all tubes, shoot, two salvos.”

Tuscon shuddered as it fired a salvo of six Hunter missiles followed seconds later by another six. The Hunters raced into the midst of the onrushing ships as their point defense weapons pelted nearby space with high-velocity projectiles.

“Conn, TAO. Hunters running hot, straight and normal,” Olesen announced, his voice tight. “Fourteen, repeat, fourteen marks.”

“TAO, active point defense in automatic mode.”

“Aye, sir.”

The sheer volume of defensive fire was hellish for the Hunters to avoid, but their robust AIs did their best. Still, only one of the first wave of missiles made it through, the explosion tearing a bow-to-stern gash in one of the Golgotha freighters. It staggered off its course from the rest of the group. Mancini didn’t have high hopes for the second wave until new pips—friendly ones—appeared on the tactical board.

“Conn, TAO. Lubbock has launched six Hunters.” Olesen sounded as cheered by the prospect as Mancini felt.

The additional six swept in from behind the bizarre convoy, managing to destroy an unmarked, unregistered civilian ship Tuscon’s computer had difficulty classifying. It exploded with such ferocity Mancini had no doubt it had been laden with far more explosives than any ship of that type should legally contain.

“Conn, Sensor Room. We’ve got wormhole spikes again.” The sensor chief spat a curse to emphasize his irritation.

Eight more dots appeared from varying vectors.

“God in heaven,” Godat murmured.

“Comms, send to Zakresk and inform the void captain if he doesn’t get his scaly ass here, there won’t be any targets left.” It sounded bold enough for Mancini, so much so he almost believed it himself.

The Curb—Astrographic Survey Complex

City of Daranj

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

It was what Siddiq knew as one of his worst nightmares—reports of a border incursion and the beginnings of a battle in the heart of the very network he oversaw that was supposed to keep such things from happening. The long war with the League had shown him PASCORE’s strengths and weaknesses, but a fault like that was still galling.

“Colonel? We’re ready for the test run.” Boyer had her sleeves rolled up and a grease stain marring a cheek. Apparently the captain had pitched in with the technicians, who’d been working for almost forty-eight hours on a solution to the electronic plague that had infected Region Thirteen.

Siddiq consulted his tablet. Four simulations, all with green lights. A test run was the proper next step, but not that day. “I’m overriding the procedure. Prepare to reinitiate all twenty buoys of Region Thirteen.”

Chief Thompson looked as haggard as Siddiq felt. “Aye, Colonel, preparing reinitialization of PASCORE Buoys Two-Zero-Nine through Two-Two-Eight.”

Siddiq swiped his access chip and waited as Boyer did likewise with hers. Thompson punched in the relevant commands, murmured something under his breath that might have been a prayer or at least a fervent wish, then sent the final instruction.

“Access confirmed,” Thompson reported. “Reinitialization of Region Thirteen commencing.”

The only thing Siddiq could do was offer his own supplication. O, Allah, it is Your mercy I hope for. Do not leave me in charge, even for the blink of an eye. Allah knows best.

“Without a test run…” Boyer brushed hair from her face. “Sir, the backups could collapse, and there’d be no rebooting. Or the infection could spread if the algorithms aren’t adaptive enough.”

“I understand, Captain, so I trust in your work and in God’s provision,” Siddiq answered.

The double red lines around Region Thirteen vanished. Nothing happened to the twenty gray pips inside. Siddiq thought his heart would stop right then—and in a guilty bit of thanks, was pleased the mess would be someone else’s problem if he were gone.

Then the buoy indicators gained a soft red glow, which brightened to brilliant scarlet before finally blinking gold.

“They’re clear,” Thompson reported. “The bug, or whatever it was—you did it, Captain Boyer.”

“Not just me.” She grinned. “About a dozen more brains than I can fit in my tired skull.”

“We can give many thanks later.” But Siddiq let his own smile shine. “Contact Tuscon and Lubbock—they have their eyesight returned.”

CSV Tuscon

1,380 Light-Years from Trenchant

Mancini braced himself as the triple explosions rocked Tuscon.

“Conn, TAO. Shields are holding,” Olesen reported. “We lost eighteen percent on that. Tube Four reports a jam.”

“We can’t shoot back if we can’t reload,” Mancini snapped. “XO, get COB on the line, and have him pull from aft damage control if he needs—”

“Conn, Comms. Incoming signal encrypted from Astrocom on Trenchant. We’ve got a green light.”

Green light? But even as he said it, Olesen slapped his console in apparent joy—and Mancini nodded as the blank section of the PASCORE network lit up.

“Back in business,” Godat said.

“Right we are, XO.” With Tuscon linked back in, PASCORE was relaying data on the intruding ships—down to eight of the eleven—forward to other CDF units dozens, even hundreds, of light-years away. Mancini grimaced as three of the eight ships jumped out of the area, only because he hadn’t taken them out, but knew they were headed into the iron jaws of a destroyer group coming up from Churchill.

“Conn, Sensor. Lawrence drive detected, Saurian type.”

The Saurian cruiser Zakresk leapt onto the fringe of the battle, the sharp-edged, jagged tooth of a warship firing into the midst of the remaining intruders. A Golgotha freighter shattered under the onslaught immediately, and one of the modified civilian ships tried to run only to have its engine mounts rip free. The entire vessel blew in spectacular fashion.

Mancini’s conscience began to bother him about casualties, especially reports coming in from Tuscon’s decks noted injuries and no fatalities. “Correct me if I’m wrong, XO,” he said to Godat, “but I haven’t seen a single escape pod. Have you?”

“No, sir, and if I can be so blunt, these ships have been piss-poor when it comes to maneuvering.” Godat raised an eyebrow. “Are you thinking it’s a bigger brother of the feints those Rouen scouts were making?”

“Right down to the robot brains for pilots.” Mancini reached for his mug only to find it empty. No fixing that for the moment. “Sensor Room, as soon as Zakresk mops up the rest of this mess, give me detailed readings on the intruders’ courses both into and out of the battle. TAO, analyze their maneuvering—see if you can spot patterns.”

The skirmish didn’t last much longer. A cruiser like Zakresk made short shrift of modified freighters and haulers. Even so, Mancini was proud Tuscon’s missiles caught the final Golgotha in the middle of a pass before Zakresk could finish the job.

“Conn, Sensor Room. I got a more detailed scan of that last Golgotha before she blew—no sign of a single beating heart aboard.”

“Drone ships.” Again. Unreliable but cheap. Another League stunt? What’s the point, other than to show PASCORE had flaws? Mancini shook his head. That, he decided, was a problem for the brass to solve.

CSV Oxford

In Orbit

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

An alarm sounded throughout the operations room, cutting off in a squeal of static that made Sinclair cover an ear. “What in the blazes was that?”

“Update from the bridge, Colonel.” Tamir stared at his screen. He started to say something, closed his mouth, expelled a breath, then tried again. “We’re being jammed.”

“Jammed?”

“On all frequencies—comms, sensors, both passive and active…”

Sinclair’s heart jolted. The League. They’d pinpointed Oxford, here in the Trenchant System? But that was impossible. The kind of power needed to swamp the CDF spy ship wasn’t available outside a planetary array.

“I can’t believe it,” Eldred growled. “We’re tapped into shipboard comms—it’s orbital control’s enforcement division. They have three satellites pointed at us and are pumping enough through to swamp an entire task force.”

“Let me hear it.” Sinclair stepped up to their consoles.

Eldred tapped a command and turned up the volume. “… in violation of Trenchant Safe Navigation statutes. Repeat, Galt-registered vessel, we have disabled your communications and scanners. CDF patrol vessels have been notified of your activities on suspicion of piratical behavior. Depower your engines, and safety your weapons, or you will be charged in violation of Trenchant Safe Navigation statutes. Repeat…”

“For the love of Pete,” a technician muttered.

Sinclair glowered at the console speakers as if the device had personally offended him—and given the way the day was turning out, perhaps it had. “Give me a link to the bridge. The CO will need my Intelligence verification codes to prove to these provincials that we are not, in fact, a criminal element in need of prosecution.”

“Understood, sir,” Tamir said.

“Numb as hakes, all of them,” Sinclair muttered.

“You can’t blame them, though, given how funny Oxford does act,” Eldred pointed out. “I’m surprised we don’t get picked up more often.”

Sinclair gave her a stern, withering look, which got her to return her attention to her display but did not, he suspected, erase the note of glee he detected in her voice. “Do make yourself useful, Warrant, and see if we can’t determine who among the departing vessels lodged this spurious complaint.”

“I’m right on it, Colonel.”

As badly as he was irked, Sinclair couldn’t banish the twinge of admiration he experienced when he looked at the tactical display and read the names of myriad merchantmen entering and leaving Trenchant’s nearby orbits. A clever move, whoever you are, one which I must say worked to your advantage. With comms and sensors temporarily down, Oxford was blind and deaf to the fate of Covert Action Unit 171—even as their hidden enemy was not.

“A right clever move indeed, you crafty bugger,” Sinclair murmured.

23

Undisclosed Coordinates

Island of Paravan

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

21 May 2465

Jackson stumbled. Hell of an inglorious end to what he figured was going to be a dramatic escape. He tumbled through a patch of briars, the thorns ripping across his bare skin, but shoved himself upright out of the ski. Jackson pushed off a tree and kept moving.

“Up ahead! Forty meters!” Laila’s voice.

Funny how it didn’t sound as sultry as it had when the two of them had verbally sparred. He was still chagrined she’d gotten the upper hand—and didn’t mind admitting the hidden sedative she’d injected was a nice touch. It was what he’d planned to do to her, though he hadn’t been fast enough.

More concerning was Fernand’s presence. Fernand was a Leaguer—more than that, Jackson and the team were fairly convinced he was ESS, based on his involvement not only in the Bellwether fiasco but on Aphendrika too.

Jackson’s path was a game trail, one well-used enough he could sprint without fear of too many obstacles, save for the occasional root, obviously. It dropped off into a broad ravine ten meters ahead. He shifted his course, running up to and along the edge before skidding down to the bottom on an angle. Twenty meters down, his shoes glided along loose gravel and dirt clods.

How on Canaan did I trip over a damned root but manage that maneuver? Jackson shook his head and kept running.

A shout followed him—that one masculine and much closer. The familiar shriek of a plasma pistol’s discharge rent the quiet forest. The trunk of a sapling, no bigger around than his arm, burst into a steaming, pulpy stump with charred edges.

Running wasn’t going to get him away. For one thing, he had no idea where he was, other than he was on an island, thanks to careless Bodrogi enforcers flapping their gums. Still, Jackson rolled his eyes with a vehemence he was sure Gina would appreciate. The entirety of Trenchant II’s habitable zone was riddled with archipelagos, thousands of islands scattered across the equatorial regions. Getting to the coast might help him determine where he was, especially as night fell and he could get a glimpse of the stars, but he would still be stuck. The only option was to get back to the ersatz camp and commandeer whatever vehicle his opponents had.

The ravine flattened out into a gully and up ahead cut back into the forest where a trio of hills intersected. Old growth, judging by the number of downed, rotten timbers. It had good cover, which was something he needed soon.

Jackson felt more winded than usual. A coughing spasm racked his body. He collapsed just inside the forest canopy. Come on. Get up. But his body wouldn’t heed his commands because his lungs felt like they were on fire. Jackson coughed again, gagged, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It came away bloody. Great. He didn’t have enough to worry about without lung damage.

Something hissed nearby. A spinemander gazed at him, beady black eyes like tiny pearls. Its brilliant-green tongue flicked in and out, testing the air. Jackson gritted his teeth, desperate to hold back a cough because, while he could see the critter, he wasn’t entirely sure the six-legged, needle-toothed lizard had spotted him—at least until it flared its neck and back frills then lunged for him.

“Shit!” Jackson rolled aside. The spinemander’s claws raked his shoulder as it hurtled past. Venomous? Brant had mentioned—dammit, but he couldn’t remember. It had better have just a dangerous bite. If his transmitter hadn’t died, along with his wrist unit, his contact lens screens could have reminded him with a handy readout.

He got back to his feet and yanked a drooping branch free from a leaning tree. Jackson scraped his instant club against the trunk, breaking off limbs. “Come back, little fella,” he muttered.

It whirled and hissed again before charging for his legs. What kind of hearing did a spinemander have?

Jackson’s one and only swing cracked it in the face, sending it spiraling to the right. A dull thump ended its path. Pale-yellow blood smeared the stick.

He braced himself, panting. “Well, Harry,” Jackson gasped, “that’ll… teach you to… pick me last for baseball.” Though maybe he would have been better at golf.

Boots scrabbled on dirt. One of his pursuers had found the gully.

Jackson headed deeper into the forest, frantically scanning his surroundings for a hiding spot. Those bushes? Too sparse—wait. There. He ducked so he could squeeze between rotten logs, a crevice formed by three tree trunks that looked like they’d been blown down in a windstorm.

The dark, pungent cave of moldering wood pressed in on all sides except where he could gulp breaths of fresh air—the same air, Jackson knew with exquisite irony, that ravaged his lungs from prolonged exposure minus his aerator.

The boots stepped nearer, more lightly. Brush shuffled. A man cried out, his plasma pistol screeching. The stench of burnt meat hit Jackson a moment later.

“Poison lizards,” the man growled. “You’re shitting me.”

Jackson held still, shoes propped against the back of his enclosure. He needed the man to take a handful of steps forward. The guy’s knees were visible. If Jackson could get behind him—

The legs moved ahead. “This is Reis,” the man grumbled. Static sputtered from a commlink. “Yeah, no, he’s down here somewhere. I think… No, I’m not sure! But you’re the dumbass who missed her last shot! Shut up. Okay, fine, I’ll work my way back around. Reis out.”

Jackson propelled himself through the gap like a cannonball the moment the commlink clicked off. He slammed the branch into the back of Reis’s left knee, breaking it—the branch and the knee. The twin cracks were sharp, but Reis let out only a grunt of surprise. He toppled but still had the pistol in his grip.

Jackson grappled with Reis, wrapping his legs around the man. He brought one half of the branch up under Reis’s neck, crunching against not only his throat muscles but the aerator too. Something cracked inside, and the device quit wafting out its chemical treatments. The plasma pistol’s muzzle swayed centimeters from his face. A finger wavered near the trigger. Reis sputtered, struggling to breathe, due to the pressure and his sudden lack of a functional aerator. He punched at Jackson, trying to shake him loose, but the blows were wild, unfocused, and Jackson was too numb to any pain other than the ache growing in his chest.

Finally, Reis gave up, but his free hand slipped to his belt and pulled a survival knife stud off its hook. Reis triggered the handle, and a nine-centimeter blade sprang free.

Jackson let go of the branch, grabbed Reis’s gun hand with both of his, and pulled forward.

The plasma pistol’s report wasn’t as sharp as usual—Reis’s chest muffled the sound—but the blast killed him instantly, leaving a deep, burnt gouge where his heart resided. His arms went slack a second later.

Jackson fell back. He pushed the body off, making sure to keep a firm grasp on the pistol. Breathe. Focus. Get up—which he did, but only after seizing the commlink and chastising himself for being careless enough to ruin Reis’s aerator.

Okay. He knew how to get back to the camp, but he wasn’t going to simply reverse course. Jackson resolved to keep following his course, and since the Bodrogi were expecting Reis to come back around that way, movement shouldn’t startle them.

Besides, he’d glimpsed another man approaching Fernand as he was breaking free of his chair’s bindings. Jackson had immediately flashed back to that final, frantic shoot-out aboard Bellwether—and if the man’s arrogant stance hadn’t convinced him, the voice issuing commands had solidified Jackson’s hunch. Vasiliy.

Spinemander hisses crept up from behind him. Jackson flinched as four sets of beady eyes glared from the underbrush. A couple scurried out, tongues flicking near the very dead Reis.

“You guys can have him.” Jackson jogged off into the forest, arcing his path back around toward the clearing where he’d been held prisoner. He had the sneering face fixed in his consciousness, right down to the different-colored eyes—one dark brown, one pale blue. “I’ve got someone else in mind.”

Cam’s shuttle was a stubby, pearl-white-and-gray civilian model with surprising acceleration and maneuverability. Even better, it had a registration beacon that responded pleasantly to Brant’s expert manipulation. They’d flown the last couple of hours completely off anyone’s flight plans, though he had no doubt whoever was running tech for the ESS team had spotted them coming.

The shuttle lurched. Brant held onto his seat, palms sweating. He made the sign of the cross.

“Doing that twenty times won’t make this any less rough,” Cam pointed out. “You wanted us to go in fast and unnoticed, so I had to go as low as possible.”

“I’ve only done it three times,” Brant argued. “And I didn’t tell you to—” He closed his mouth against another lurch, one from his stomach acting independently of the rough air. “To pick all the turbulence you could find.”

A red light flashed on the nav console. Cam slapped it into silence. “Well, you’ve gotten your answer to prayer—no more flying at this level. Someone down there has us on their scopes.” He nosed the shuttle toward the water.

Brant grabbed the sides of his seat and shut his eyes. “Gina, if we make it—”

“I’ll shoot him, sure.”

Brant peeked at her, strapped into her seat, holding the carbine in her hands as comfortably as if she’d been cradling a favorite pet—or even an infant. Gina winked at him and added, “Don’t forget to pull up before impact, Cam.”

“Back seat pilots, all of you.”

Cam brought them level at far too few meters above sea level, Brant noted from the console and also from his tablet’s link. But he also spotted trees poking above the sunny horizon, which meant—Brant flicked onto the next screen. Yes, Paravan Island was only a few dozen klicks away.

“That’s the clearing?” Gina squinted at the map, leaning near enough her hair brushed Brant’s cheek.

“It is, according to the coordinates Eldred nailed down before Oxford went off-line.” The latter event was still troubling, given Brant had to quit pinging the ship for data and overhead scans so as to not risk exposure of either party during the final approach. “The last imagery she provided showed a hydrofoil moored here with a shuttle tucked into the trees. There might be a second shuttle.”

“I won’t be shooting anything down because having a weaponized aircraft is a good way to make Bodrogi and the local authorities suspicious,” Cam reminded him. “But I’ll do what I can to play havoc if they try to escape.”

“Good. We’ll probably need you to.” Brant checked his pulse pistol’s charge.

“It’s still full,” Gina whispered. “You haven’t shot anything.”

“I know that.” Brant reduced his reply to a murmur.

“Stay aboard the shuttle, then. I can take them.” Gina’s smile never shifted, but the rest of her expression did, becoming a mask so devoid of anything but determination Brant was glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of her wrath. He bet Qisma al-Omer had wished so too.

“I know that too.” Brant tried to match her confidence with the reserves of bravado he could muster. “But who’s going to have your back if both of us are in the shuttle and you’re alone on the ground?”

Gina cocked her head. “You’d do that? For me?”

“I’d do that for anybody. Any one of us.” Brant drew in a breath, the act shakier that he would have liked. “Because we’re not going to get out of this mess if we don’t stick together. I hate splitting up the team. That’s when we’re the most vulnerable. But I had no other choice. So, those of us who aren’t separated have to do an even better job of protecting each other. It’s what I expect of Sparks and Sev. It’s what I expect of us.”

Gina wiped at the corner of her eye. “That’s without question, Brant Guinto, one of the kindest things…” She sighed. “I wish Jack could see you like this.”

“Thirty seconds to target,” Cam said firmly.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get him back. Thanks for being so sweet.” Gina lifted her carbine. “But stay away from Laila, will you?”

Izarrak Repair Yards

In Orbit

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

Sevastopol Rast found the atrium surprisingly breezy for the core structure at that level of a space station. It was four decks tall, two hundred meters across, and wide open, with walkways crisscrossing at each level. They formed connections to the broader avenues encircling the area.

At least the noise didn’t bother him too much. He was perched in the darkest corner of the upper pylons, where no access was allowed, but when he sedated the guard on duty at the nearest hatch and wore the guard’s jacket, access was no longer a question.

His rifle’s scope was trained on the crowd surging around one of the gateways, beyond which CDF auxiliary guards waited. Their weapons were likely equipped with stun rounds, but Sev wasn’t concerned with the safety of the crowd. It was a weak point, structurally speaking, and the sniffer program had led him here. The chemical concentration indicated someone had six bombs in play.

“Damn but Echo One would handle this better.” Warrant Dwyer’s worry leaked through the transmitter. Sev found the noise as irksome as a mosquito, but he couldn’t very well slap the tiny embedded communications device from his head. “A lot of people are yelling down here. I’m continuing the sweep.”

Sev adjusted his aim. There he was, clad in a grungy jacket and coveralls, with the brim of a cap pulled low over his eyes. The scope zoomed in enough Sev could see the gambling app Warrant Dwyer was supposedly playing as Lieutenant Guinto’s sniffer program scanned the area around him. The tiny bars at the upper right jumped from yellow into orange, indicating Dwyer was close.

“Do not worry about whether you will fail because you will get one chance.” His father’s orders rang in the back of his mind. “Whether you succeed or fail is irrelevant. What matters most is can you live with yourself with either outcome? Only then will you be at peace.”

Peace. Lieutenant Guinto talked about “the peace of the Lord.” He would say it to others of his kind, wishing it to be with them always. Sev couldn’t image what it would be like to have peace always. It seemed impossible. Well, that wasn’t something he could worry about right then. He had a single task.

“Deadeye, my readings are spiking red. Indicators say within two meters.”

The crush of people waving signs and raising fists made it difficult to say who was who, but that was why the lieutenant had come up with the plan he had. Sev approved—it was the kind of mind game Captain Adams would have concocted.

Sev’s finger rested on the trigger. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. “Fail or succeed, you must live with the outcome.” Sev decided he could do that.

“Bomb!” Warrant Dwyer hollered. “I’ve got a bomb!”

Eight people were around him, pressed in close. Seven faces stared at him in abject horror. One woman, though, just looked confused. Sev fired.

The shot struck her in the heart, punching through her body. Another woman behind her screamed and fell, clutching her leg. Dwyer dropped between them as the crowd broke apart in a frenzied stampede.

“I’ve got ’em—in her jacket. Six charges.” Sev almost couldn’t hear Dwyer over the injured woman’s crying. “Hold on, ma’am. I’ve got a medic’s kit—Four, I’m sending you a face scan too. Pretty sure Echo Home will want a peek.”

The pretty face filling Sev’s tablet, a small unit hitched to the side of his rifle, did seem familiar. But the haircut was wrong, though flattering, and the cheekbones—it was as if an artist had tried to sketch a person Sev recognized and had failed. But he was too busy dismantling his weapon and hurrying for the atrium to appreciate the significance, at least until he found Warrant Dwyer talking with the CDF soldiers who’d emerged to secure the dead body but respond to the “discovery” of the weapons.

“Sirs, we need to get you out of here,” the young corporal said. “I have word from Astrocom we need to cordon this area and stand by for investigators from the surface. You’ll need to be available for questioning.”

“Question all you want once I get my friend to sick bay.” Warrant Dwyer got Sev to help him load the injured woman onto an automated stretcher. She was quite groggy, thanks to the sedative Sev slipped her.

“All right, but you”—the corporal indicated Sev’s uniform—“bring him back.”

“Understood.”

They’d gone ten meters when Warrant Dwyer hissed, “Celia Bui.”

Of course. The assistant to Bellwether’s CEO, the woman who turned out to be a League operative running a double cross.

The corporal swore. Smoke rose from the woman’s commlink, which had melted into a lump of blackened plastic and was sputtering sparks. Sev looked back at her. He wondered if she had resigned herself to the outcome of her success or failure. Father would have appreciated that she looked so much at peace.

Paravan Island

Trenchant II

Cam’s shuttle roared over the beach, its thrusters obliterating the antennae and scanners aboard a small hydrofoil. Wind rushed through the open hatch. Gina clung just inside, her carbine at the ready.

“Coming down!” Cam shouted.

The shuttle wheeled over the clearing and dropped into its center. Gina jumped out, landed in a crouch, then waved for Brant to join her. He hit hard but was up in a second, his pistol raised and the tablet strapped to his arm.

“Movement to the left!” Gina spun around.

Brant could see shapes emerging from the trees, but he was more concerned about the empty, smashed chair and the ruined remnants of a wrist comm nearby.

This is the right place, he mused as Bodrogi goons burst into the clearing and opened fire. But where the hell is Jack?

24

Island of Paravan

Trenchant II—Trenchant System

Jackson evaded whoever was out there looking for him through no great skill of his own. With his senses hazy from the last dregs of the sedative and increasingly addled by the poisons in Trenchant’s atmosphere his lungs labored to filter, he didn’t see how he’d done anything but stumble around. Maybe there was something to Brant’s insistence that God was interested in the affairs of mortal men because Jackson easily could have ascribed divine intervention to his unintentional stealth.

He was, by his best reckoning, a few hundred meters from the clearing when a shuttle shot overhead, its engines whining. Weapons discharges shattered the normal noises of the forest a second later.

They’re here. They found me. The realization that his team had come to rescue him buoyed Jackson’s spirits for the first time since he’d stepped into the ballroom at the Luxe Well, his target framed in his mind.

But the shuttle he’d seen was a small civilian model, so whatever team Brant had assembled couldn’t be more than a few people. Novabird’s absence meant he was either holding the larger, faster craft in reserve—no, that wouldn’t make sense, not given the apparent tactic of blazing in and blasting away. Novabird must be somewhere else, which meant Dwyer was flying it. And if he was elsewhere, he wasn’t solo. More likely, he was paired off with Sev for a mission—that had been past precedent.

Jackson shook his head. “Hypothesize later, Captain, before everyone gets shot,” he muttered. He jogged around a copse of trees and dropped behind a veritable wall of shrubbery thirty meters from the edge of the clearing.

The shuttle sat in the middle, its jets kicking up enough dust and fallen leaves to turn what had been quiet, flat ground into a whirlwind. A female figure clad in a familiar black-and-purple suit crouched in firing position as she shot a compact carbine. Gina.

Next to her was a man in rugged civilian clothes meant for the outdoors, colored to match the mottled yellows, oranges, and grays of the local fauna. A combat helmet and visor hid most of his face. Jackson thought it was Sev at first but, remembering the taciturn sniper’s height, realized the stocky frame could only belong to one person. Brant?

Their opponents had spread out among the trees, returning fire with plasma pistols. Jackson spotted Laila snapping orders. Fernand was just visible through the whipping haze of dirt and leaves, beyond the shuttle’s tail, cybernetic eye gleaming.

“Get around them!” A Bodrogi man came crashing through the underbrush to Jackson’s right, hunkered low to avoid being seen. He had a commlink to his mouth. “And where the hell’s Reis?”

Jackson pivoted in his crouch, leveled the plasma pistol he’d taken off the late Reis, and shot the man three times in the chest. The look of surprise froze on the man’s face as he tumbled through the bushes, sprawling on the clearing’s hard dirt.

Gina spun, her carbine’s sights catching the sun as she aimed for the disturbance.

“He’s over there! He got Yancey!” Laila slapped one of her people on the arm. “Kill him!”

Gina plucked a black disc with gold lines crisscrossing it from her belt. She squeezed it until a red light flashed. “Move!”

Jackson sprinted from cover, sending wild, misaimed plasma bursts in the rough direction of his attackers. Simultaneously, Gina flung the disc like she was skipping stones on a pond—which, impressively, she mimicked by bouncing the projectile off the tipped chair to which Jackson had been bound. No telling if he hit anyone, but the Bodrogi were trying their hardest to hit him. Directed energy burned the air around him, singeing his flesh like he was getting the galaxy’s worst sunburn. His addled brain reminded him how red he’d cooked himself on the brightest, longest days working on the ranch’s hills. A sudden, terrible longing to see those hills struck his chest.

An explosion boomed far to his left, where Gina’s projectile had landed. Jackson glanced at the fireball that knocked over trees and wreathed the enemy position in smoke. Angry shouts vied with an ongoing scream that elicited a bit of pity from Jackson, even though he fought against the feeling.

“Hurry!” Brant appeared at his side. He grabbed Jackson’s arm. Jackson appreciated the camaraderie but wished Brant hadn’t—the supportive gesture made him want to sag out of relief.

The shuttle whined again as it shifted on its jets, moving its sleek sides to shield Jackson, Brant, and Gina from the Bodrogi still recovering from the explosion. Doing so, though, revealed Fernand emerging from his hiding place. And Vasiliy right behind him.

Fury rose in Jackson’s chest. The man didn’t appear as anything special, only—to Jackson at least—as the symbol of everything foul the League had tried to achieve in the past year. So much for the peace treaty. When would the politicians learn? No amount of posturing and wrangling would eke out a workable deal with Leaguers like Vasiliy. There was only one way to deal with him. Jackson broke free of Brant’s grasp and pushed ahead, shooting.

What now? Brant stared, mouth agape, as Jackson changed from a staggering, bruised, and battered version of the confident commander he knew to a man possessed. Jackson advanced on the two men partially concealed on the clearing’s far side, toward the shuttle Cam had reconnoitered from the air. Plasma blasts singed the trees. The man with the cybernetic eye took a hit, twisting as he fell, but return fire forced Jackson to the ground.

That was when another man stepped out of the woods, oblivious to the danger posed. Tall, handsome but not in a way that would draw a lot of attention in a crowd. Those opposite-colored eyes should be concealed, though. Then Brant realized why Jackson had gone off the edge. He was finally facing his nemesis—and becoming a complete fool in the process.

A shout from behind startled Brant. He instinctively ducked and, when he turned, saw Gina also on the ground, grasping her shoulder. She was farther toward the shuttle’s nose, too distant for Brant to administer aid but near enough he could tell it was a surface plasma burn. Even as he noted the minor injury, Gina got back to her knees.

Laila al-Omer broke through the smoldering underbrush, her jacket torn and smudged. She was armed. Brant shot before he could think, four quick rounds from his pulse pistol. They lanced over Gina’s head and struck Laila center of mass. She crumpled face-first at Gina’s feet.

It was even odds as to whether Brant or Gina was more shocked. The sight of the woman’s body dead on the ground immediately sickened Brant, even though he knew it had been necessary to save Gina’s life. It was different than entering code to kick off actions that resulted in death. She had died by his hand. God, forgive me.

Jack. Brant hurried for his friend, who by then was back upright, fifty yards from Vasiliy. “What are you doing? We have to get out of here!”

“Not until he’s gone,” Jack snarled. “Stay out of the way.”

Ferenc was down. He was alive, thankfully, though Kiel was disturbed by how much his survival mattered. “S-Sir…”

Yes, probably he had a warning to administer about keeping his superior safe, and Kiel appreciated the devotion. He really did. But Hayes—Jack Avery—whoever the thorn in his side was, he’d proven too tempting a target.

I will strike a blow for the League of Sol that Director Borisov can’t deny. Ridding space of this pest will only serve to free our hands as we chip away at the Terrans’ corrupt empire from the inside out.

It should have been easy, too, with his target scrabbling for the pistol he’d dropped so clumsily. Watery coughs racked his body, ending his attempt to grab the weapon. One of the attackers, the one clad in local camouflage, exchanged words with him, even as the would-be savior pointed a pulse pistol in Kiel’s direction. But the man didn’t fire.

Neither did Kiel, not when the man was armed—and dammit, he gave Hayes the plasma pistol back. That left two armed men facing one, though Kiel liked his chances at cover just behind him. He wasn’t all that far from the forest.

“Sir…”

Ferenc, again? “Stay down. I have this.”

“On… my commlink. Yahanotov reports Circe is dead.”

Kiel knew it was impossible for his blood to actually freeze unless he were very dead, but something like the sensation struck him. Dead? Impossible. She was far too skilled.

“The bombing… they’ve stopped it.”

Well, all the more reason to end this nonsense. He’d had enough of Terran interference in his operations—but the fool with Hayes stepped in front of him. They appeared to be conversing. Who’s chastising whom?

The man glanced back at Hayes. Kiel had only a second to decide. In it, he ran a brief but precise calculation. If he killed Hayes, he would have no adversary left. What kind of victory would it be if I were to continue unopposed? A win, yes, but a weak one, one not worth his strength and cunning. Forget Borisov. He would instead pronounce mercy and not kill his counterpart. So, he shifted his aim and shot the man guarding him in the back.

Jackson glared at Kiel. “Stand out of the way, Brant.”

“I’m not going to let you do this. Gina’s injured. Bodrogi is regrouping. We have to leave, now.” Brant’s aim was steady as he watched Vasiliy from that far away. “Get onto the shuttle. I’m making it an order.”

“Not how that works, Lieutenant.”

“Then consider this—in your anger, do not sin.” Brant glanced at him, eyes hidden behind the mirrored visor.

Jackson saw his haggard self in the reflection and recoiled at a bruised face twisted with anger, with hate.

“If you let yourself fall—”

The plasma blast screamed behind him. Jackson flinched at the flash of light. Brant’s body convulsed, steam rising from between his shoulders. He fell forward. Jackson had to drop his pistol to catch him.

“D-Don’t… let your…” Brant’s voice was a choked whisper.

“Brant? Hey. Hey!” Jackson eased him down. There was a horrific black-and-brown burn on his back, the flesh ripped and red at the center. “Hold on, you hear me?”

He looked up, still eager to make Vasiliy pay—but the man was gone, a silhouette alongside another that receded toward the shuttle parked deeper in the forest.

“Jack!” Gina slid beside him. She grabbed his shoulder. “We have to move! Cam says there’s incoming aircraft, both security patrols and possible Bodrogi reinforcements. We don’t want to be anywhere near here when either show up.”

“Brant… he’s…” Jackson couldn’t believe it. Brant was supposed to be the safe one, the man behind the scenes, the link between the team members. He pressed his hand to Brant’s neck. A pulse. There was a pulse. Weak, fluttering but present, nonetheless. “He’s alive. Help me get him aboard.”

“I ought to shoot you in the ass and drag him onto the shuttle myself,” Gina snarled, but she joined Jackson in lifting Brant as carefully as they could. She sounded choked, like she was upset—whether from sorrow or anger, Jackson couldn’t tell. He wasn’t about to fully trust his instincts in the moment.

As soon as Brant’s boots cleared the door, Cam shouted, “Hold on!” and the shuttle lurched into the sky. The underside of the fuselage thumped with the impact from plasma and ballistic shots. Jackson reached out and slammed the control panel. The hatch swung shut, cutting off the torrent of wind.

His adrenaline subsiding, the coughs came on full force. Gina leaned over with an aid kit.

“No, I’m… I’ll be all right. Get to Brant first.”

“Of course that’s what I’m doing,” Gina snapped. “There’s an aerator in the kit behind that seat. Turn it to the fourth setting so it can work on healing your lungs instead of just doing preventative care.”

Jackson complied, arms shaking as he lifted himself into the copilot’s seat. Gina settled into her role as medic without complaint, giving Brant several injections, cleaning the wound, and applying tissue-repair patches.

Cam exhaled a shaky breath. “Incoming craft, but we’ve breached the cloud level. I’m taking us back to Daranj—unless you need to completely bail.”

“No. We still have a rendezvous to make.” They needed to return to the mansion, remove any and all remaining equipment, and finalize their mission.

The mission. Jackson could hardly make himself look at Brant. What did the mission matter when this man who trusted me as a commander and a friend suffered grievous harm? Someone would pay. That time, Jackson knew, that someone was him.

Yahanotov was silent at the controls as the shuttle swept low over the waves. Kiel didn’t bother asking for an update on nearby contacts—he could plainly see the enemy shuttle had vanished, as surely as if it had been a heat-generated mirage. Four Bodrogi craft converged on the island. One of them signaled Kiel directly.

“You,” she growled. “You let them kill my sister. I should have been the one to punish her for daring to turn against me. There isn’t a place in this galaxy you can hide from our people. The syndicate will never forget your treachery.”

“No, I am sure you will all remember with burning passion for the rest of your lives.” Kiel gestured to Ferenc. “Do the honors.”

Ferenc had his left arm and shoulder bandaged but otherwise—and besides looking ghastly pale—didn’t seem much worse for wear. He tapped commands into the tablet resting on his lap then pressed his palm to the reader screen that appeared.

A brilliant flash turned the horizon white. The remaining explosives—the ones Bodrogi had so helpfully amassed—detonated on the deck of the hydrofoil anchored near the forest clearing. Yahanotov’s scanners showed the full extent of the devastation as the blast wave caught two of the syndicate’s shuttles in the air, shattering one and throwing the other into the remaining two companions. Everything within a kilometer was turned to ash until the smoke obscured all but the tallest blackened gozoa trees at the far fringe.

A clean slate, once again. Kiel settled his head against the chair. Except, of course, for Circe.

Yahanotov cleared his throat. “Do we have to go back for her? For her body, I mean.”

“No. Any devices on her will have disintegrated by now. We have that much in common with our adversaries, even if their technology is markedly superior.” Kiel closed his eyes, trying to picture Circe’s smile. He couldn’t. Ah, well. She had been a valuable asset, and it was a terrible waste to lose her so soon in the campaign, but such losses were to be expected. After all, he was on his second technician, after—what was his name? Yes. Corriveau.

“As for her physical form,” Kiel continued, “even CDF will be unable to link her to us. She was no one when she was not Ciara Bui.”

“She wasn’t ‘no one,’ sir.” Ferenc sounded oddly sullen.

Kiel ignored his counterpoint. Of course Circe was someone—a loyal citizen of the League, who long ago gave up her life before she was called upon to make the final sacrifice. Whoever she had been, whatever shred of individuality had remained, the League—ESS in particular—had stripped it away, as it should be. She’d lived the purest expression of the socialist life. So, she was in fact, no one. But Kiel would be certain her efforts would not be forgotten, even if she, by necessity, would.

The shuttle continued climbing toward orbit until it leveled off. Kiel, expecting to see the blackness of space speckled with stars and the accompanying commercial ship traffic, was irked when he opened his eyes and instead saw the oranges and pinks of sunset. “Did I stutter when I gave the order to continue on? I have a connection that will allow us to procure transport out of this system.”

“Yes, sir, but…” Yahanotov’s face reddened. “I have a priority-encoded communication from Captain Zhou aboard Meng Po.”

Kiel sat upright as stiffly as if he were back in Borisov’s nameless, featureless interrogation chamber. “Impossible. She was destroyed when she rammed the Terran vessel spying on us.”

“Captain Zhou reports Meng Po is intact,” Yahanotov continued as if he hadn’t heard Kiel’s protest. “He tricked the orbital patrols into thinking the Terran who’d been interfering was actually a pirate ship, which got them to jam the vessel’s comms and scanners. It’s moving off from orbit with a pair of police catamarans moving to intercept. Captain Zhou believes he has removed them from the board, as he puts it, for at least the next twenty-four hours.”

Ferenc snorted.

Damn him and his implacability. “I don’t care what Zhou thinks he has accomplished,” Kiel growled. “He has ignored my director order. If he thinks there won’t be consequences once I get back aboard—”

“He also apologizes for the delay.”

Kiel glared at Yahanotov and spoke the next two words with all the severity he could muster. “What delay?”

Yahanotov indicated his nav board. “He’s sent us coordinates at the edge of the system, which he says are a quiet zone in which we can safely rendezvous away from the authorities and where CDF won’t look for him, since he’s now flagged by orbital patrol as reporting a crime.”

Kiel wanted to break something or shoot someone. Given the scarcity of their remaining equipment and the relative fragility of the shuttle’s fuselage when compared with the weapons he had aboard, neither was a smart decision. He opted to sit, fuming, at not only the blatant disobedience but the fact that Zhou had succeeded in his defiance.

“Turn us toward the coordinates,” Ferenc said. “And tell Captain Zhou we’ll see him there.”

Yahanotov obeyed. At least he hadn’t taken leave of his senses.

Meanwhile, Ferenc leaned over and whispered, “Sir, he’s got to have more leeway for this sort of thing. We can’t continue to operate under strict ESS rules, or we’ll all wind up dead, and our operations will have been for nothing. Look at the feints we directed toward the border, getting them to open a gap on their own while we prodded the Astrocom project. They’ve got something big out there, and we were able to slip by it.”

He was right, Kiel knew, but he didn’t want to admit it. Borisov might even see the chaos they introduced as a win. It didn’t matter much. The next phase of Kiel’s plan would take him out of Borisov’s reach for a long while—and would put him ever closer to the Terran Coalition’s heart.

25

The White House

Lawrence City—Canaan

30 May 2465

The mood in the Oval Office was tough to read, but Justin Spencer was willing to place himself in the crowd of cautious optimism. “Does anyone have comments on these final reports?” He tapped the screen of the tablet he held as he stood by the office windows, trying not to be distracted by the gorgeous sunlight drenching the blossoming gardens outside.

General MacIntosh snorted. “We didn’t completely screw everything up, and we bloodied the League’s nose in a back-alley tussle so the quiet war didn’t become a full-fledged street brawl.”

Celinda Snow frowned at the description but didn’t offer a counterargument.

Eduardo Fuentes, on the other hand, gave a curt nod. “That is as fair a summary as I can make, Justin.”

“Does this mean you and Andrew are in agreement with the outcome?” Spencer smiled. “I think I may have to call for a med scan.”

“Your senses have not left you. Despite the missteps along the way, Covert Action Unit One-Seven-One was successful in stopping the League’s attempts at minor sabotage with Astrocom and preventing a terrorist act.” Fuentes glanced at MacIntosh. “Though again, I am not pleased by the endangerment of civilian lives in what should have been a surgical strike.”

MacIntosh shook his head. “Politicians love that word, don’t they? Surgical strike. You make it sound like we throw a knife across a room and hit only the bad guy. Nothing about strikes is surgical, Mr. Vice President. Casualties are always a danger. In the case of the bombing the team stopped, I’d say one gunshot wound and a few bruised bones were a good trade for an explosion that could have ripped the side of Izarrak Yards clean off.”

“Still, all these deaths…” Fuentes sighed. “I understand the criminal nature of the individuals killed, but keep in mind that some experience socioeconomic factors that lead them into a life in which they have no other recourse, given the pervasive lack of a complete safety net in our society.”

“Here we go again,” MacIntosh muttered.

Spencer rapped his knuckles on the window frame. “Ed, we’ll leave the social spending debate for the cabinet meeting this afternoon, but the fact is the syndicates operating in our space are cooperating with the League’s foreign intelligence apparatus. I don’t sleep well at the thought of Coalition citizens dying, but they’ve chosen to work against our national security—that and I won’t begrudge our operatives the right to defend themselves.”

“But you’ll keep my protests on record, yes?”

“In the general summary, yes, but keep in mind these meetings are at a level of classification so high we will end up denying we even had them.”

“I understand.” Fuentes didn’t seem mollified but at least settled for a quiet, thoughtful stance instead of an outraged soliloquy.

“All right.” Spencer massaged his brow. “Celinda, where are we on the other end of space with the PASCORE network breach?”

“Intelligence assures me they’re concocting a defensive measure capable of repelling the infectious ‘mites,’ as the stealth boat crews have deemed them.” Snow flicked past several screens on her tablet. “The infection itself was more the issue than the delivery. Colonel Siddiq has shared the particulars of the remedy his people used.”

“That’s good to hear. And the incursion itself?”

Snow glanced at MacIntosh. “All of the vessels which broached the PASCORE net were either destroyed by CDF and Saurian forces or self-destructed.”

Spencer frowned. “Am I reading this summary right? They were all automated?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. President,” MacIntosh replied. “Not a human body aboard a single one. It was rudimentary stuff, based on the maneuvers Tuscon and Lubbock analyzed. Typical shoddy Leaguer tech—not that we can get them to admit it.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“They have deflected all inquiries into the event with suggestions that we should pay closer attention to the oppressed worker class along our border.” Snow rolled her eyes, something Spencer never thought he would see, then looked almost bashful at what must have been the equivalent of a profanity-laced tirade. “League diplomatic channels imply the people in the systems that voted to join the Coalition after the war’s end are being treated as second-class citizens and so, somehow, hired and equipped these vessels for a protest event.”

“Right. A protest perfectly timed with a cascading failure of our advanced early-warning network?” Spencer sighed. “I’m glad you handle most of these calls, Celinda.”

“It’s perhaps time I requested a raise, Mr. President.”

MacIntosh about choked on his coffee, managing to avoid a spill only by clapping his hand over his mouth, but he kept right on chuckling.

“While Andrew recovers from Celinda’s sudden bout of wit,” Spencer said, trying to keep himself from laughing too, “I’d like to forward his suggestion of a joint fleet exercise with the Saurians—in our territory, along the League border. Void Captain Nalax would be with us today, but his superiors have recalled him to compile reports on their forces, given the experiences we’ve both had with the League in the last year.”

“Compiling reports.” MacIntosh shook his head. “Poor man. Yes, I think it’s about time we put this SATO business to good use and show the Leaguers we’re not sitting around, scratching our rears—though since we’ve cost them an operative this time, it’ll be an extra reminder.”

“If we’re going to do this, I suggest getting ahold of James Henry and seeing what the neutral alliance can put together with CDF on the other end of the Coalition. A pair of simultaneous war games would be even more impressive.”

“Hmm. The secretary of defense and I will make the contacts, Mr. President.” MacIntosh shared a look with Snow, who nodded in reply.

“Let’s do that. As far as our goal of drawing out the League and trapping their operatives, well, as was stated earlier—marginal success.” Spencer sat behind his desk. He gazed at each one of the attendees in turn. “The evidence indicates they took the bait but proved more formidable than we first thought. As Andrew stated, though, we’ve shown the deadly seriousness with which we’re taking these breaches—which, as far as I’m concerned, are the League continuing a war they never had any intention of stopping, treaty or no treaty.”

Fuentes leaned forward in his chair. “I’m afraid you’re right, Justin—as much as I didn’t want to admit the truth, with that same stubbornness my party proved could be disastrous in those final, horrific days when Canaan faced obliteration. It’s incumbent on all of us to remember that, no matter what we believe the Coalition should be, there will be no Coalition if we allow the League of Sol to gain the upper hand.”

“Sober and vigilant,” MacIntosh added. “They’re the enemy, not anybody in this room or serving in these halls.”

“Agreed,” Snow said. “We must all focus on the greater good of our civilization.”

“While protecting the God-given rights of our citizens.” A lesson, Spencer mused, that was worth learning and relearning until they got it right.

He turned to Colonel Sinclair’s addendum to the report—Captain Jackson Adams’s debriefing. Unfortunately, sometimes people do let personal agendas get in the way of the very “greater good” Celinda mentioned. I only hope Captain Adams understands that before it’s too late.

CDF Medical Station Avicenna

Lawrence City

Jackson felt like he was graduating school all over again when the medic smiled over the readouts on her respiratory analyzer. “Congratulations, Captain. You’re back to ninety-six percent of normal lung capacity.”

“Thanks. I’m happy I don’t feel like I have to cough every five seconds.” Even as he said it, a tickle grew in the back of his throat. Jackson swallowed and focused on anything but that sensation. Like the fact that he was on hiatus from his assignment, for one.

“You’re cleared to leave once you give us your imprint and signature.” The medic held out a tablet. “The front desk says you have visitors outside too.”

“I’ll be right with them.” Jackson pressed his thumb to the tablet and signed with the stylus the medic offered.

He was in the room where he’d been undergoing treatments since his return from Trenchant and hadn’t seen anyone he knew since arrival. That hadn’t stopped messages from crowding his commlink. One was even from Mom. Colonel Sinclair or one of his people must have forwarded it. He couldn’t bring himself to answer.

All he knew, besides his hiatus, was Brant’s recuperation was going well. His mobility was questionable, and the brain fog—Jackson felt sick thinking about the injuries.

Nothing’s going to get better if you stay sulking in here. He pulled on his long-sleeved black shirt sans insignia. Besides, no one will let you. But when he reached the front desk, he fought back the overwhelming desire to run away.

Colonel Sinclair waited there, in casual duty uniform, hands clasped behind his back. He was having a delightful conversation with an older middle-aged woman, one Gloria Adams.

“Mom?” Jackson blurted the word without preamble.

Her expression morphed from one of polite cheer to astonishment and relief. It pained Jackson just to see the emotions surging across her face.

She seized him in a hug. “Jackson, my boy.” Mom’s voice cracked. “Please forgive me.”

“What? I…” Tears burned Jackson’s eyes. Not in front of Sinclair.

But the colonel had suddenly become very interested in a spacescape painting sprawled across the reception area’s far wall.

“No, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown up like that when I did. And all the crap with Harry—”

“Please. Stop talking.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Jackson grinned at the automatic response.

Mom tapped her index finger on his chin, that familiar gesture from childhood saved for quiet moments between the two of them—far better than a door slammed in his face. “It’s my turn. We’ve been awful to you, and—it’s no excuse, my behavior. I resented being stuck with the ranch while you were free to run around the galaxy. Your father… he understood, I think, even though he’d never admit it, but when we saw the news about some plot the Leaguers were up to on that planet with those refugees—the stolen ship and all—and the government said we’d been spared whatever it was, he said, ‘Wonder if that’s Jack.’ He kept all of your messages home saved on his device.”

Well, damn. Jackson wiped away the tears and hugged her. “I should have been here for you, for him.”

“I understand why you couldn’t. Maybe we can work on changing that.” Mom bit her lip. “I’ve spent a lot of time talking with Pastor Jesse and his wife—you remember Rosemary, don’t you? The redhead a few years ahead of you at school? They talked me gently through the frustration and sorrow. We have to make up for lost time.”

“We will.” It shouldn’t be a problem at all, actually. Jackson glanced at Sinclair.

“Oh, the colonel contacted me and came by the ranch a few days ago. Very nice man. Kind and polite. He told me about the difficulty you’d been in—generally, not the specifics. I think you’re very lucky to have him as your commander.”

If only I’d listened more to his admonition and advice. “I think so, too, Mom.”

“You’d better talk to him. I’ll be waiting outside at the tram. Abril’s coming over for dinner tonight.” Mom frowned. “I like her, Jackson. I really do, and I think she’s good for you, but I’m not sure about this merger idea. The Castillos have always supported us, and we’ve been there as good neighbors too. Still—the ranch has been our family’s lifeline for three generations.”

“It still can be. We’re not the only ones who gain from the partnership. The Castillos need the assistance as well.”

“That’ll be something we save for dinner, then.”

“Is Harry going to be there?”

Mom shook her head. “He’s been spending a lot of time in Port Nomad. I sent the message about your injury and return—he should have gotten official notice, but you know him.”

“I do. We’ll take small steps.”

“That’s a good idea.” She patted his cheek. “Go talk to your boss.”

Sinclair nodded as Jackson approached. “Captain.”

Jackson managed a tight salute. “Sir. I meant to thank you for having my back in the official report.”

“Of course. I never hang my people out to dry, so to speak. What you and your team accomplished was nothing short of remarkable, given how our adversaries worked so intently against our plans.” Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “However, I trust you understand the action I took.”

“I do, sir.” Bile rose in Jackson’s throat, but he continued. “My actions resulted in the injury of my subordinate and put the rest of the team in danger.”

“Indeed they did. It was the very reckless disregard I warned you about at the end of your prior mission. This has been marked on your file, and we will continue to monitor your performance accordingly.”

“Understood, sir.”

Sinclair sighed. “Jolly good. Do not, for a second, think this means you’re off the hook when it comes to your special assignment—consider the hiatus equal parts punitive and restorative. You’re a good man, Captain, and have the potential to be a fine leader, if you can let yourself and your passions get out of the way.”

“I will do so, Colonel. You have my word.”

“Do not make such a promise if you doubt you can keep it.” Sinclair offered a hand. “Godspeed, Captain. I shall see you again ere too long. Rest assured, the Leaguers aren’t done with us yet.”

Jackson watched Sinclair walk into the flow of passing pedestrians, and a block later, he couldn’t find the man. I’d do well to follow his example, in both the way he commands and his spycraft.

Mom waved at him from the curb. “The tram’s coming! About ten minutes.”

“Be right there.” Jackson trotted down the front steps of the medical station, reveling in the way the sun warmed his face. A cool breeze drifted through Lawrence City’s busy streets. But mostly, he enjoyed being among a crowd of the people he’d sworn to protect.

“Such a dutiful son.”

Jackson’s head snapped left. He saw no one except a businessman talking far too loudly into his commlink. The hand that suddenly held his turned his gaze back to the right.

Gina walked alongside him, their fingers intertwined like they were a newly dating couple. She wore silver mirrored sunshades, her hair long and curly as it spilled down around her neck. The white blouse speckled with yellow flowers stood out against her bare, tanned shoulders like the clouds scudding across the blue sky.

“Hi.” Jackson didn’t know what else to say because her comment was the first she’d spoken since the mission. “This is a welcome surprise.”

“Because a pretty girl holds your hand for no apparent reason? Or because it’s me?”

“Both. Gina, look, I—”

She tipped her sunglasses down so they were eye to eye. “I’m heading out this afternoon. Galt.”

Galt? “I thought you didn’t have anything to say to your family.”

“Supposedly, you had nothing to say to yours.” She winked at him. “Yet, here we are. I just wanted to say goodbye—and be careful.”

“I’m on hiatus, Gina. No trouble to be had.”

“That isn’t what I meant. Here.” Gina pressed a small plastic envelope into his palm. “Your souvenir.”

“Better not be a gozoa leaf.” Jackson unfolded it. “If I see another of those stupid things—” He cut off his own wry statement when he saw the scrap of camouflaged fabric.

It was the same color as Trenchant’s foliage, and it bore a dark, muddy bloodstain long since dried.

“That’s a hell of a thing to give to me.” His voice was ragged.

“It’s the best I can do for you.” Gina’s eyes glistened with tears. “And it’s my job, Jack—to tell you when everything’s going to be okay and to tell you when you’ve been an asshole.”

“Which one is this?”

“Both.” She kissed his cheek. “See you around, Captain.”

Jackson stared at the swatch of clothing. It was from Brant’s jacket, the one he’d been wearing when Vasiliy shot him in the back while Brant had been trying to protect Jackson. What kind of a friend had I been, then? What kind of a commander? Sinclair was right. His time away would be when he would have to fix himself. Gina had been right too. He’d been an asshole.

“I’ll miss—” He glanced back, but Gina was already gone, disappeared as thoroughly into the crush of Coalition citizens as Sinclair.

It was okay. The time would pass, and before he knew it, he would be back with his team. Sinclair had promised as much. Still, the nagging doubt arose in Jackson’s heart. Have I fouled things up so badly no redemption is possible? Gina had left him, after all—had left all of them, if she really was heading to Galt in neutral space.

Jackson shook his head and pocketed the fabric scrap. He wouldn’t let the team collapse. The near catastrophe was his fault, so it was his to fix. So many things demanded his attention.

Mom stood at the foot of the tram’s boarding step. She waved again. Jackson waved back. First, he would make amends. Then, everything after.

26

Our Lady of Roxas

Rio de Bendicion—Esperanza Island

3 June 2465

The convent’s three spires rose like white needles against a cloudless sky. Jackson squinted at the gold crosses perched atop each one. He could almost make out the inscribed Spanish words for Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. He probably should have packed sunshades. Just as well because he wasn’t there to sightsee.

A nun dressed in a habit of powder blue and white guided him past the iron gates, through a garden filled with chirping birds and gurgling fountains. A strong floral perfume wafted along with the ocean breeze. Still, Jackson kept his arms close to his sides—being around all the greenery should have been a treat, but after his escape from Paravan Island’s wild forest, nature didn’t hold much appeal for him. The nun led Jackson to the adjacent hospital, all glass and metal compared with traditional white stone and blue tile of the convent.

A priest in a dark-blue cassock approached from the reception area, where Jackson saw medics in standard clinical gear. “Captain Adams?”

“Father Ciriaco. Thanks for meeting me.”

Father Ciriaco was Jackson’s height, head shaved bald, with a wiry beard and mustache, the coal-black hair riven with chalky white. He smiled and clasped Jackson’s proffered hand between both of his. “I am thankful you have come. Brant has spent most of his time here resting since our physicians completed the surgeries. His nerve damage is healing, thanks be to God. The flesh is strong in the good sense of that expression.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Jackson walked beside Ciriaco down a hall with patient rooms to either side. “And otherwise…?”

“Brant—if you know him as I do, as I know his family—is a man of great heart. His thoughts are always for others first.” Ciriaco sighed. “Unfortunately, I think this aspect has suffered the most damage. A few of his sisters have been to see him, but as a rule, he has refused visitors. Most of his family have tried to come by, but I must respect his wishes, difficult as they may be.”

Jackson’s stomach twisted. If Brant didn’t want to see his own kin… “This was a bad idea, my coming here.”

“Not at all. It is important you two see each other.” Ciriaco fixed him with a stern gaze. “You have much you must discuss.”

“I agree.”

They halted outside a door of frosted glass with the black number 109 printed in the center. A medical scanner mounted to the wall took readings of their temperatures and conducted a cursory sweep for infectious organisms. Fifteen seconds later, a green outline shone around the silhouettes of their bodies, and the door slid open.

Brant lay on his back in bed. He was paler than usual, and Jackson thought he’d lost a few pounds. Otherwise, he was the same man. Jackson broke through his anxiety like he’d surfaced from a near drowning. The hardest part, seeing his friend hooked up to monitors and medical scanners, was over.

“Good morning, Brant,” Ciriaco said. “I’ve brought you a visitor.”

“I heard his voice out in the hallway.” Brant sounded exhausted, as if speaking the sentence used up most of his energy for the day.

“Hey, Brant.” Jackson grinned, though he didn’t have the confidence necessary for the real deal. He had to rely on his acting skills, as much as doing so chagrined him. “How are you feeling?”

“Alive. Better than dead.” Brant glanced at him then back toward the window. “Thanks, Father.”

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Not now. Having you stop by for matins earlier was enough of a boost.” Brant smiled but didn’t break his gaze with the gardens outside. “See you at vespers?”

“That you shall.” Ciriaco placed a hand on Jackson’s shoulder then left the room.

Which meant Jackson could stand awkwardly by Brant’s bed on his own. Great. “I’m, uh, just going to take a seat.”

“Sure.”

Jackson pulled a chair over. Its legs made a long, hair-raising screech on the tile floor. Brant looked at him.

“Sorry.” Heat rushed to Jackson’s face.

Brant chuckled. “I never thought I’d see you stumble around, Mr. Element of Disguise.”

“I think you mean element of surprise.”

“You know what I’m trying to say. Where’s all the bravado now?”

“I’ve got a few shreds. Most of it’s back on Paravan Island.”

Brant’s expression hardened.

“I’m sorry.” Jackson spread his hands. “I know I’ve said it already, but it obviously didn’t take, since you haven’t talked to any of the team since you got here. So, yes, I’m sorry for what I did and what I didn’t do.”

“What you didn’t do.” Brant exhaled. “Which would be taking everyone’s advice to steer clear of your obsession with Vasiliy.”

“Yeah, that. Thanks for the reminder.”

“I’ve had nothing but reminders while I’ve been stuck here.” Brant raised his right arm. His hand shook, the fingers trembling. “Do you see this? Do you see what that blast did to me? I can’t control the way they move. How is that going to work when you’re out in the field, surrounded by people who will kill you when they find out who you really are, and I’m the only one who can misdirect them?”

“Your improvement—”

“Don’t use that word!” Brant lashed out at the bedside desk. A tablet crashed to the floor. Indicators on his med scanner flashed orange. “Of course I’m improving, but that isn’t the same thing as being me. I can’t even read the news without my attention wandering. I get exhausted from sitting or lying down too long—then, when I get up to walk, it feels like fire burning under my skin. Never the same place twice either.”

Jackson looked down at his shoes. Nothing he could say would make things better, and given his line of work, it made him feel utterly helpless.

Brant rested his head against the pillow. “I know I’m supposed to forgive you. That shot—it could have killed you if I hadn’t moved. I ask God every day why I did what I did and why I was stupid enough to put myself in the line of fire. I never should have left my consoles or got aboard the shuttle. God puts us in situations and places, but we’re the ones who take the steps. But forgiveness…” He shuddered, as if a chill had rolled over him. “I’m not there yet, Jack.”

“I get that. I can’t blame you—only me.” Jackson stood. “You don’t need me here. You need your faith and your family. God will take care of you.”

Brant glanced up at him. “Is that you saying it or repeating what you’ve heard from me?”

“Who knows? At times I have trouble telling where one ends and the other begins.” Jackson extended his hand. “Let’s at least stay in touch. We shouldn’t ignore each other’s messages, not after all we’ve been through.”

For a moment, Jackson envisioned Brant angrily rolling over in bed and ignoring the gesture. He didn’t know what he would do if that happened. It was the darker future, the one he desperately hoped—prayed—wouldn’t come to pass.

But Brant matched his grip. “I might be able to save you from our enemies, Jack, but I can’t save you from yourself. Only God can.”

“I’m beginning to understand, but I’ll need your guidance. So, when you’re ready, come see me.” Jackson tried another crooked smile. “Because I wouldn’t trust anyone else behind the comms as much as you.”

Brant nodded. “See you around.” And after a breath, “God bless.”

It wasn’t until Jackson was back in the gardens, following his nun escort to the gate, that he let his mask slip. What have I done? At what cost have I pursued my vendetta? First Gina. Then Brant. The two people he trusted most in this life holding themselves at arm’s length. He didn’t know if he could bear it.

If not for Abril, and Mom, he was sure he would be crushed under the weight. And there was his duty—the unshakeable belief in the Terran Coalition and everything it stood for. Brant was right. Jackson knew he couldn’t save himself from himself. But he would be damned if he couldn’t save his people from their enemies. The question remained. How much am I willing to give up in pursuit of that belief? He’d better answer, and fast.

Adams Ranch, Western Steppes

Canaan—Terran Coalition

4 June 2465

The sunset spilling over the hills was almost enough to take Jackson’s mind off his miseries. Abby, standing next to him, did a far better job.

“Where are you this time?” she asked.

Jackson shrugged. “Everywhere I’ve been for nine months. Not that I can name them. But I feel like I leave a piece of me in each role I play, while bringing some of it back here at the same time.”

“Just so long as I’m with Jackson Adams.” Abby nudged him, a mischievous smile in the warm glow of the porch lights.

“He’s the only one you’re going to get.”

“Lucky for you, he’s the only one I want.” She pulled him close for a kiss.

Like Jackson thought, being with her was worth coming home. Whether or not the rest of his visit would be similarly enchanting, well, he didn’t really care.

“Excuse me.” Ramon Castillo leaned on the doorframe a few meters behind them, something like a smirk lurking beneath a bushy mustache. “If you’re not too preoccupied, I believe Mrs. Adams is ready to sign.”

Jackson broke off the kiss, even as Abby moved to intercept him. “Yes, sir, on our way.” He found it amusing how he reacted to Mr. Castillo—because that was the only way he could think of him, from a gangly teen’s perspective—in the same way as he did to Colonel Sinclair. Deference with a tinge of healthy respect bordering on fear.

“Abril…”

“Yes, Papa, we’ll be there.” She winked over her shoulder. “You’re embarrassing him.”

Mr. Castillo snorted but didn’t seem too outraged by their public display of affection. Jackson took Abby’s hand and led her inside the upstairs living area. Ramon Castillo’s wife, Marguerite, was already at the long dining room table, with Mom on the other end. Danielle Novak, the attorney overseeing the paperwork, sat between them. A pair of tablets glowed in front of her.

Mom patted a chair, indicating Jackson should join her. He sat to her right, with Abby taking the seat on his left.

“I’m glad we could all be here for this—almost all of us,” Mom said.

“As we’ve discussed, Mrs. Adams, Harrison’s claims are equal to yours and Jackson’s.” Novak had a warm but precise way of speaking. “When Mr. Adams passed, as per his wishes, his majority share of the ranch was divided equally among the three of you.”

Jackson accepted the tablet Novak slid between him and Mom. Dad and Mom had each controlled thirty percent, with Jackson and Harry each claiming twenty. Dad’s death had boosted Mom’s share to forty, Harry’s to thirty, and Jackson’s to thirty. With sixty percent required for any legally binding agreement, per the ranch charter, he and Mom didn’t need Harry’s approval.

“I hope we can all agree this is a great new era for our families.” Mr. Castillo signed and pressed his thumb to the tablet before passing it to his wife. Mrs. Castillo and Abby each approved their copy of the document in turn. Their signatures and imprints faded into view on the Adams’s tablet, shared across the synced document.

The other two Castillo children, son Enrique and daughter Laura, were serving in the CDF and couldn’t be present, but Jackson nodded as their signatures appeared underneath those of Ramon, Marguerite, and Abby.

“Go ahead, Jackson.” Mom touched his hand. “This is our future.”

Jackson glanced at Abby, who grinned at him. “Yeah, it is.” He signed and pressed his thumb then let Mom do the same.

“That has it. Congratulations.” Novak nodded to each family in turn. She gathered up the tablets. “I’ll complete the filing tomorrow morning. Where this all goes next is up to you.”

“It goes next to dinner.” Mom winked across the table. “And Jackson’s cooking.”

“I—what?” He chuckled. “I didn’t bring a chef’s costume along.”

“Now we know what you weren’t up to,” Abby teased. “Shouldn’t that be classified?”

“No more wasting time, then.” Mr. Castillo stood and spread his arms. “Jackson, mi hijo, you must get the steaks while I get the wine.”

“Best idea of the evening.” Jackson shook hands and clasped arms with Mr. Castillo, marveling at how, scarcely more than a decade ago, he would have been stammering and intimidated by the man who was his business partner, in effect.

The door chime rang. Someone was downstairs.

“I’ll get it,” Jackson said as he headed for the steps. “Wine before steaks.”

He left the happy chatter above and let the sensation of love, of family, break through the clouds of doubt and guilt. He needed that moment. So did Mom. Too bad Harry wouldn’t see why.

Jackson opened the door. His eyes widened.

Harry was there. He leaned against a skimmer, the craft’s engines humming as it floated ten meters from the door. Harry had let his beard grow. When he stepped away from the skimmer and stalked forward, it was with a pronounced limp, left from his bone-crushing injury he’d suffered at the end of last summer. “So, you did it?”

“Harry, look, we tried to explain, but even Mom knows—”

Harry punched him in the face. Jackson hit the wall. He managed to brace himself from toppling, but the blow reawakened the vertigo left from the Bodrogi sedative and the ravages of Trenchant’s unfiltered atmosphere.

“You son of a bitch,” Harry snarled. “Dad’s not even cold in the ground, and you’re up there celebrating. I’ll see you in court.”

He mounted the skimmer, and it howled away into the night as Jackson watched, blood dripping from his nose and seeping between his fingers.

This, he reflected, is going to be a long hiatus.

Epilogue

Undisclosed Location

Terran Coalition System 112

29 August 2465

Vasiliy Kiel sipped his tea. Ugh. He’d let it go stone-cold. Nothing to be done because the galley appliances were on the fritz again. The whole structure was on the fritz, actually, because of intermittent power outages.

Ferenc appeared in his doorway, clad in a thick thermal jacket and wearing a red knitted cap. It looked far warmer than the standard-issue synthetic hats Zhou had bought from a trader on the fringes of the system.

Kiel swirled his tea, as if he could will it back to warmth through kinetic motion. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

“I think you will, sir. Yahanotov says the last software packet we stole from the wreckage is the key. He’s booting it up.”

“Oh. You should have led with that, Ferenc.” Kiel pushed out of his seat. The hydraulics underneath squeaked. They squeaked like distressed mice every time he got up or sat down. Kiel ground his teeth. It was too bad he needed every single person working on the facility, or he would have ordered Ferenc to bring an expendable one in and shoot him—or her—to ease his strain.

He walked out into the base, shoes clumping on the rusty metal deck plates. His office was in the far corner of the central habitat module, a thirty-by-thirty prefabricated structure his people had bought from a nearby company that created them for settlers. Two months in, seven units were joined in the shape of a cross. Kiel sneered. He enjoyed the irony.

The reactor unit was housed at the south end of the cross, a hundred meters from the base. The power control module, the one nearest to it, was home to three technicians buried amidst a mass of couplings and regulator computers. Yahanotov, whiskers overgrown on his face, wiped lubricant off his brow. “Oh. Hey, boss.”

Kiel gestured for him to continue.

“Right. I have the last program running. Should be less than a minute.”

“I told him that if this doesn’t work,” Ferenc murmured, “he has to go with Zhou on the next supply run.”

“Quite the motivation to not fail.” Kiel peered out the nearest grimy window. Everything as far as he could see was pink mist and spongy purple moss. Most of the small planet, with its subpar gravity at nine-tenths of Earth’s, was covered with rancid swamp. Thick, deadly rainforest smothered the rest, except for where jagged mountain ranges extended for thousands of klicks in endless swirls across the landmasses. Going outside without a full environmental suit meant death. Forgetting a weapon meant inviting attack.

The good part of all that bad news was few people settled there, except for the hearty colonists who had hewn habitats out of the rock face overlooking the rainforests. Eventually, their investment in cultivating exotic plants for experimental medicines might pay off.

Kiel hoped his stratagem would bear fruit much sooner.

A hum ran through the power control room. Pale emergency lights blinked out, replaced by the constant glow of the main illumination banks. Kiel heard the distant clunks as other systems came online—hopefully, that included the galley.

“Reactor’s holding steady at ninety-five percent,” Yahanotov reported. “Give me a few days, and we’ll shave another percentage point off, sir.”

“Very good. Continue your work.” Kiel gestured for Ferenc to follow him back out.

They turned left into one arm of the cross-shaped base, where numerous pistols and rifles were stocked—plasma, pulse, ballistic—some legally acquired, some pilfered, some seized from the wreckage of a pirate ship wandering through the edge of the system that mysteriously exploded when it struck a random mine. Kiel smiled. Well, seemingly random.

Ferenc checked his tablet. “Captain Zhou has a potential buyer for the Saurian battle rifles. She wants six.”

Kiel shook his head. “Tell her four and four sonic disruptors in place of the two. Otherwise she gets none.”

“Understood, sir. Shall I broker the deal?”

“Do it, and quietly. We must continue to build our force without drawing undue attention so we can be prepared for our next orders.”

“Which are coming. Correct?”

Kiel glanced at him. “Do you doubt our mission?”

“Only, sir, that I have not seen communications from Director Borisov that this is authorized.”

“Unfortunately, Ferenc, I don’t have the written clarity you seek.” Kiel faced his subordinate, watching the human eye and the artificial sensor for reactions. He received none—shocking. “Rest assured, our cause is pure, even if our methods have become less so. This war will not be won by traditional means. If you’re uncomfortable with that, I have sad tidings for you—a transfer cannot be arranged.”

“I understand, sir,” Ferenc said softly. “But I should point out the Terrans don’t believe we are at war. Only we do.”

“No, you’re wrong. Many Terrans—the socialist brethren among them, perhaps—see the war as being over. Others among the appallingly patriotic, too, who were worn to the bone by decades of death and destruction. But there are some, a rare subset, who are vigilant.” Kiel raised a finger. “This makes them formidable—and dangerous.”

He unzipped his jacket as warmth spread throughout the complex and plucked a tablet from an inner pocket. A swipe produced a holographic map of the Terran Coalition, a blue smear of filth. A white circle pulsed within the quarter nearest the League’s border. Kiel felt a pang of homesickness. He might never see Earth again—but since his last visit there had involved a threat of execution, perhaps it was not such a bad future.

“Dangerous, Ferenc.” Kiel handed over the table. “Which, once we’re ready, is what we will continue to be.”

THE END

Deception Fleet: Book 4 – Liberty’s Price: With his team scattered across the galaxy, Jackson Adams takes on his next assignment alone. As an attack on the financial system sends galactic markets into free fall, Jackson must find a way to get his team back together and face the enemy. Read Book 4 Now!

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www.danielgibbsauthor.com/standfirm.

Also Available from Daniel Gibbs

Battlegroup Z

Book 1 - Weapons Free

Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

Book 5 - Iron Hand

Book 6 - Final Flight

Echoes of War

Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight

Book 2 - Strong and Courageous

Book 3 - So Fight I

Book 4 - Gates of Hell

Book 5 - Keep the Faith

Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet

Book 7 - Finish the Fight

Breach of Faith

(With Gary T. Stevens)

Book 1 - Breach of Peace

Book 2 - Breach of Faith

Book 3 - Breach of Duty

Book 4 - Breach of Trust

Deception Fleet

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Victory’s Wake

Book 2 - Cold Conflict

Book 3 - Hazards Near

Book 4 - Liberty’s Price