Date: 2022-02-04 05:00:00+00:00

Ecliptic Flight

Deception Fleet Book Five

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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Ecliptic Flight by Daniel Gibbs

Copyright © 2022 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 in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. For permissions please contact info@eotp.net.

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Battlegroup Z

Book 1 - Weapons Free

Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

Book 5 - Iron Hand

Book 6 - Final Flight

Echoes of War

Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight

Book 2 - Strong and Courageous

Book 3 - So Fight I

Book 4 - Gates of Hell

Book 5 - Keep the Faith

Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet

Book 7 - Finish the Fight

Breach of Faith

(With Gary T. Stevens)

Book 1 - Breach of Peace

Book 2 - Breach of Faith

Book 3 - Breach of Duty

Book 4 - Breach of Trust

Deception Fleet

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Victory’s Wake

Book 2 - Cold Conflict

Book 3 - Hazards Near

Book 4 - Liberty’s Price

Book 5 - Ecliptic Flight

Book 6 - Collision Vector

Prologue

Freighter Amber Sun

Nandao Star System

League of Sol

3 March 2466

Garrison Cho checked the space-bound traffic around Nandao for orbital crossovers. Nandao’s flight control fed him myriad tracks and coordinates, sending repeated warnings about the fines that would be levied on him if he deviated from his departure route within three hundred thousand kilometers of the planet.

He shook his head. Galt was a rough-and-tumble world, free of most restrictions like those, so he could never get used to how many rules and regulations strangled the majority of galactic citizens. Such was the price of doing business with the League of Sol, he supposed.

It didn’t matter much. His two-hundred-meter-long Tradesman-class merchant vessel, Amber Sun, was loaded to the brim with lithium ore. Garrison wasn’t much for politics, so he didn’t know why the League was so keen on trading with independent worlds like Galt those days—and there were few like Galt that wanted to participate. The Sagittarius Arm Treaty Organization vacuumed up worlds every month, it seemed like, with fewer neutral planets remaining who were just trying to do business. I’m fine with taking League scrip as readily as Coalition credit.

Garrison checked the distances on the next orbit approaching. He got a green light from Nandao’s flight control.

“Ollie, clear those notices out of the comms, will you? They’re jamming up our bandwidth.”

“You’re telling me, Skipper.” Ollie, the comms technician, worked with his console like a man trying to replace the entire operating board in the middle of a system-wide reboot. “We’ll be lucky if we can get outbound nav coordinate updates at the rate they keep flooding us with stay-in-your-lane notes. Clearly, you’re not paying me enough for these headaches.”

“Then bug me for a raise after we get back to Galt and take payment from our buyers for the ore. I don’t have enough money.”

From the back of the bridge, Annette laughed. She turned in her chair at the sensor station. “If he’s getting a raise, I get one, too, in honor of my many years spent putting up with his whining.”

“Allah, preserve my sanity,” Garrison muttered.

“Don’t ask him, or he might side with your underworked—underpaid—shipmates,” Annette warned.

“Hear, hear,” Ollie agreed.

Garrison shook his head but chuckled. They were a good pair, better than most of the crew he’d rounded up in the past few years. No mistake, Ryan had the engine techs working in the best shape possible after eight months of near-constant haranguing, and Garrison was more than happy to split the profits into fair shares among the eleven people keeping Amber Sun not only running, but in the black. Even if he had to trade with the crazed Leaguers to do so.

Whatever. Garrison snorted at his own attitude. As long as he gave zakat to the charities Father approved, he could do what he liked with their ship and make the family proud.

His console’s screens blinked then froze. Static washed across them.

Garrison frowned. “Didn’t Ryan replace the data buffer on Console One a week ago?”

“Shit!” Ollie pulled the earphones from his head. A keening wail echoed out of them. “That’s a jammer, Skipper.”

“From where? Nandao control?” Even as he asked, Garrison knew the traffic system wouldn’t bother with something that dangerous. They just keep hectoring Amber Sun with demands to shut down and relinquish the helm for navigational override.

“Nothing I can see—hang on.” Annette peered at her screen. “I’ve got two ships coming in fast from the second moon.”

“Second moon? Ragye isn’t settled. Even the quarries are abandoned.” Garrison put Amber Sun onto a new trajectory and increased her acceleration by twenty percent.

That pissed off Nandao control because three more warnings blared across his message board, but at least they couldn’t get hollered at via the comms with the system jammed.

“I know, Skipper, but that doesn’t change where they’re coming from,” Annette argued. “Backtrace shows they probably originated from the planet proper, shot around the night side, and picked up a gravity boost from the bigger moon, Manjin, before shooting past Ragye. They’re really cooking too. Two minutes until they intercept us.”

“Pirates.” Garrison sighed. An unavoidable risk when traveling risky new cargo routes across lightly policed space. “All right. Try to signal them, Ollie. If you can break through the jamming, offer them eight percent.”

“That’s way too low, but I’ll try.” Ollie made a face. He slid commands around the comms screen. “Their jamming’s pretty weak—not military-grade, that’s for sure, otherwise I’d be screwed. As it is, I’m seeing it clear up already. But eight percent? Really?”

“It’s a negotiation, Ollie, not a—”

“Missile launches!” Annette blurted. “Two incoming! Impact in twenty-five seconds! Those are fighters, Skipper!”

Fighters? Is Nandao trying to shoot us down? And pirates—they wouldn’t try to destroy a potential windfall.

That was what Garrison thought in a half second. He slapped the engine thrust, sending Amber Sun into her best acceleration rate, which was a quarter better than what the Tradesman class was rated when buying a stock freighter. For the second time in his career, he was relieved he hadn’t given as much zakat as Father had demanded.

At the same time, he hit the starboard thrusters in a burst that set the deck plates rattling even harder than when the engines rumbled at their max. A loose plate shimmied beneath Garrison’s terminal. He stomped on it, settling it back into place.

“Countermeasures armed,” Annette reported.

Garrison launched the scatter pods. The tactical display mounted next to his nav console showed three green diamonds spiraling away from Amber Sun. They exploded into glittering clouds of sand grains—simple canisters of plain planetary material available from any coast, but when propelled from a fast-moving starship, they became millions of high-velocity projectiles. Well worth the cost he’d paid to whatever alien species had developed it.

The first missile, a red arrow on the tactical display, hit a cloud head-on and blew up. The second one skirted a sand cloud and suddenly changed course, probably because its drive had suffered damage. It, too, exploded, only a few thousand meters closer than Garrison would have liked. The fighters themselves raced by, whipping onto new vectors no civilian vessel could have managed.

Garrison glanced back at Ollie. “Anything?”

“That’s a big, fat negative.” Ollie glowered at his console. “The jamming’s cleared, though. If you want any other messages to go out, now’s the time—they’re looking for ways to reestablish.”

Garrison glared at the fighters on the tactical display. If they wanted to come after his ship in such a blatant fashion, in League space no less, he would bring attention, all right. “Set me up with an all-channels distress.”

Ollie tapped in commands. “You’re up, Skipper.”

“This is Captain Garrison Cho of the independent freighter Amber Sun, trading between Nandao and Galt. We are under attack by hostile starfighters of unknown ownership. I am requesting aid from League forces or any willing defender. We can compensate those who come to our assistance.”

The sensor console clamored again. “Double spread,” Annette warned. “Four missiles inbound.”

Garrison immediately realized his mistake—his initial trajectory evasion had put him into the crosshairs of the fighters when they came back for their counterattack, and he simply didn’t have the experience to anticipate how a craft moving that fast would react. He’d tussled with pirates in modified freighters, and even with their own fighters. But these…

“Impact in twenty-eight seconds.” Annette’s voice was hollow. “Scatter pods loaded.”

“Everyone to escape pods.” Garrison slapped the launcher for the scatter pods. “And toss the data buoy with whatever we have on them. There’s no way those are pirate fighters. Someone’s targeting us with top-of-the-line gear.”

The sand clouds dispersed, but that time, the missiles skipped around potential threats as if they’d been waiting for the moment. Garrison knew he was out of time, and the worst feeling was knowing he’d let down his crew.

Ollie and Annette scrambled for the bridge’s pod, shouting at Garrison to move. Not a chance. Paradise was waiting for him. He would go willingly into Allah’s welcoming arms if it gave his people the chance to live.

But as the red arrows merged with Amber Sun on the tactical board, Garrison could barely hold on to hope. He closed his eyes as a deafening roar shredded his senses and took his consciousness far away from the searing pain that swept through his body.

* * *

The White House Gardens

Lawrence City

Canaan

4 March 2466

President Justin Spencer took advantage of the sunny afternoon to conduct his day’s business outdoors. The garden beyond the Oval Office was blooming, with irises predominant among the walkway plants.

He hadn’t gone completely blue-collar. His crisp formal shirt was unbuttoned at the top, and he’d left his jacket over the office chair, so he imagined he looked less like a gardener and more like an executive who’d gotten bored or exhausted by the week’s tasks and craved a change of pace.

One hundred percent accurate. He grinned as he trimmed dead leaves from a cluster of flowers. It’s much easier to fix problems out here than in there. Not that I’ve completely forgotten them, but the noise gets to be too much.

Spencer had left his tablet propped upright on a nearby bench. He could see the screen’s text, with the lighting adjusted for the outdoors, and periodically paused in his manual labor to skim the next dispatch from the diplomatic corps.

It was on the seventh such glance he spotted General Andrew MacIntosh, chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, barreling toward him like a man trying to hurry but avoiding running at all costs.

MacIntosh caught his breath at the bench, bracing himself on a handhold. “Mr. President, this can’t wait. There’s been a terrorist attack on a neutral trader leaving a Leaguer planet.”

Spencer’s eyes widened. “Nothing like getting to the point, Andrew. Let me see.”

MacIntosh shook his head. Spencer frowned and wiped his hands as he stood. He’d expected a full report—preferably on a flat screen since holograms didn’t play nicely in daylight or even a printed sheet. But the general who’d helped lead them through the dark last years of the war with the League of Sol glanced sideways like he was expecting to be tackled.

“I’m relaying it in person for a reason, Mr. President,” MacIntosh explained. “A CDF Intelligence probe based out of New Rostov caught long-range scanner reading of the attack. As soon as the Intelligence unit there viewed the data, they transmitted it directly to us disguised as a stellar phenomenon report that looked like it should be telling us about travel hazards on the League frontier.”

“I don’t follow. Aren’t normal encryption protocols strong enough to resist interception?”

“Yes, sir, but…” MacIntosh scowled. “Sir, the attackers used Phantoms to shoot down a Galter cargo vessel loaded with Leaguer ores.”

Spencer stepped back, his legs jostling the bench. His tablet clattered onto the walkway. Spencer couldn’t care less about potential damage. “That can’t be. The SF-106 isn’t for sale to foreign powers. It’s our frontline mainstay space superiority starfighter and therefore off-limits when it comes to weapons contracts.”

MacIntosh nodded in polite response to what Spencer knew was an info dump, but Spencer couldn’t help it—the former pilot in him snapped out the details because the thought of anyone else flying the Coalition’s best was absurd.

“The data’s conclusive, Mr. President. We’re giving it a more thorough comb, but I don’t doubt it’s true.”

Spencer ran a hand through his hair. “But you’re coming to me in person and normal channels were avoided because what you suspect, I assume, is the worst.”

“That someone inside our own government supplied insurgents with our best fighter?” MacIntosh growled. “You’re damned right that’s what I suspect.”

“Then we’d better convene the others.” Spencer rolled down his sleeves and retrieved his tablet from the ground. “Get Ed and Celinda from wherever they are—in person. I don’t care how long it takes. No, wait—I’ll find Ed. You grab Celinda from her office.”

“You got it. And another one we’ll need…”

“You’re probably right.” Spencer brushed past MacIntosh as he strode toward the office. “I’ll contact Colonel Sinclair myself.”

1

Port Nomad

Western Steppes

Canaan

4 March 2466

Jackson Adams’ earliest memories of Port Nomad were day trips Dad took him on. There was always a part to buy or a vendor to pay or goods to retrieve for the house. Mom’s list seemed endless, especially for a six-year-old who was learning to ride a skimmer.

He didn’t find much had changed in more than twenty years. Port Nomad lacked the grandeur of a big city like Canaan, even though it had been settled less than a decade after the capital, but only Mercantile Hall was that old. The rest of the town, laid out in three grids of ten-by-ten streets, always seemed to Jackson like it had been dropped there from low orbit, with more stores than homes.

Flecha Norte sprawled over three town blocks in the northeast corner of Second Ward, the middle of the grids. It, too, looked like it had when he’d first seen it, Dad’s huge, rough hand grasping his tiny, soft one—a collection of slope-sided sheds and fabrication barns ranging in size from those that would barely contain a hovercraft to the looming, weather-beaten structures streaked with rust that Dwyer easily could have landed a couple of Florio Ionworks racers inside.

That was where Jackson found his brother.

Harrison Adams was hunched over the finishing line of a fabricator, the machine thumping merrily as it printed long segments that would wind up as hover nodule casings for ranch skiffs. A second machine took the segments and curved them into the right shape. A third applied a heat-sealed Flecha Norte logo. There wasn’t a skiff among the thirty spreads around the Adams and Castillo ranches that didn’t bear that bright-orange ring with black-and-silver mountain peaks inside.

Harry growled and smacked the underside of the conveyor. He straightened, hand on his back. “Just like the ranch. Never the right circuitry when you need it.”

“Ironic that you can’t fabricate those, isn’t it?” Jackson leaned against a support beam.

Harry glared over his shoulder. “You’re back for a second round?”

“You sucker-punched my face, Harry. I’d hardly call it a fair match.” Jackson shook his head. “I was hoping we could talk.”

Harry grunted and turned back to his work. He unlatched a compartment below the conveyor and removed circuit panels.

“Can we?”

“Talk? You always talk, Jack. That’s what you do now, right? Talk to people to make them believe you’re somebody you’re not then come back here every couple of months so you can talk to everyone else about the ranch. Who’s running our ranch these days, anyway?” Harry snapped his fingers. “Oh, I remember. Our rival neighbors.”

“They’re not rivals anymore, Harry. They’re partners. Mom and I agreed to the merger, and the Castillos have met us halfway. They’ve boosted us with extra hands, and we’ve provided expanded grazing for their herds, but the businesses still have their separate accounting.” Jackson shrugged. “I couldn’t see another way for the Adams Ranch to survive.”

“Yeah? You didn’t ask me.”

“I did, plenty of times. Don’t play the martyr.” Jackson pointed at Harry’s legs. “Your medical exoskeleton’s gone, so that’s good news.”

Which was true, so far as Jackson knew. The injury that had forced Harry out of fieldwork and into the shop was a large part of the reason Mom had gone along with the merger. There had been only so much she could handle with her husband dead, one son badly injured, and the other always gone. The fact that Jackson was preoccupied with undercover operations deemed vital to national security by CDF Intelligence mattered little.

“And there you go, changing the subject to avoid the real problem. Typical Jack.” Harry rummaged through a gray case on the floor next to his knees, fingers emerging with a circuit panel that wasn’t shimmering and new but wasn’t dull and bent like the old one he’d pulled free. A used replacement, Jackson guessed.

“I’m not… listen.” Jackson took a breath. Easy. You can’t make amends if you slide down the slope into another brawl. “Come back to the ranch. Let’s work this out. You still have your thirty percent share, even if you haven’t touched your profits. We can make this work. It’s what’s best for the family.”

“Oh, yeah? You say it’s what’s best.” Harry scowled. “Maybe I’d rather bide my time until the hearings come out in my favor. My attorney seems to think that’s the case. Or did your girlfriend tell you to visit and change my mind while she’s busy taking money out of our family’s ranch?”

Jackson pushed off from the post. Sorry, Brant. I’ve tried my best. “Your attorney? The guy who’ll tell you whatever you want to hear so he can keep grifting you for fees? Give it up, Harry. Let’s be honest with each other. I’m here to tell you to knock off the legal challenge. It’s not going to work.”

“Tell instead of ask?”

“It’s the same thing. Besides, I didn’t figure you’re amenable to polite requests these days, so I’m opting for a direct approach.”

“You’ve got balls.”

“Last time I checked. Can we knock off the nonsense for once, Harry?” Jackson could feel his blood pressure spiking and knew his temper was driving him in the wrong direction. He’d wanted to mend fences with Harry—perhaps literally once they’d fixed the figurative—but the moment they spoke, it was like they were both back on the ranch sniping at each other. “You can’t get past the basic facts. Mom and I have the controlling seventy percent of the ranch. We’ve signed the binding agreement with the Castillos. It doesn’t matter how many hearings you drag Ramon to. He’s not going to back down. You know him—he’s more stubborn than Dad was, probably more than either of us.”

“So, that’s your grand speech?” Harry straightened and threw aside a rag. “You barge into my job and make demands. Not a word about what I want.”

Jackson spread his arms wide in an exaggerated gesture. “Well, it sure doesn’t seem like you want the ranch when you’re spending all your time churning out parts for the same machines we used to run together.”

“I can’t believe you of all people don’t get it.”

“Of course I get it. You thought you were Dad’s anointed and that you had Mom under your thumb. There he was—Harrison Adams, the golden son. The one who stuck by his parents, the real man who knew what it meant to serve his family.” Jackson poked a thumb at his own chest. “Only, Jack came home. Jack, the wannabe actor who couldn’t help gallivanting around the galaxy instead of serving his country the way you thought best. He was only good at defusing crisis after crisis that he’s not even allowed to speak about. What a complete slacker.” Jackson knew he was pouring the sarcasm on heavily, but his good intentions had evaporated in the heat of Harry’s anger—and his furious response.

Being inside Flecha Norte didn’t help. Jackson couldn’t shake the feeling that Dad was disappointed—in him, in his relationship with Harry, in his partial management of the ranch the Adams clan has spent generations building.

“I’ll make you a deal, Jack.” Harry stood, coming toe to toe with Jackson. Not for the first time did he tower over his brother, body built like that of a cargo-hauling robot. “Back out of the merger. Pay whatever fees you’ve got to, and get the ranch back in Adams hands. Then I’ll drop the challenge.”

Jackson frowned. “That’s the same thing, and you know it. No. Not a chance. This is how our legacy survives. The Castillos and the Adamses.”

“Then I guess I’ve got more hearings to get ready for.” Harry brushed past him, their shoulders colliding.

Jackson held on to his anger, his fists balled for action.

“I need to place a parts order. Say hello to Mom for me.”

His departure left Jackson without a soul to talk to and nothing to kick—well, plenty of things to kick, but he would only have to pay damages to Flecha Norte. The men and women scattered elsewhere around the fabrication floor had been watching. They averted their gazes when Jackson glanced about him, but they weren’t fast enough to cloak their interest. Not that Jackson hadn’t noticed earlier.

“One of these days, Jack,” he muttered aloud. “You’re going to have to do better at convincing him like you do lying to people who are enemies of the state.”

The true irony, of course, was that he could never seem to lie to Harry.

His commlink vibrated. Jackson took the signal. “Yeah.”

“Ah. You sound terrible.” First Lieutenant Brant Guinto was on the other end. “Harry?”

“How’d you guess?”

“Because you only sound more guilt-ridden when you talk with me, and I’ve forgiven you.”

Jackson chuckled. Brant’s cheery tone did a great job of masking any dregs of hurt, but he knew his friend’s feelings were likely still raw. So were Jackson’s, if he were honest with himself. “What’s the word? We’ve got a new assignment, I suppose?”

“Roger that. The colonel wants us ready to ship out in twenty-four hours.”

“An emergency one.”

“You could say that. Our not-so-nice neighbors have angry kids who’ve decided to escalate from breaking windows to burning freighters—using our fighters.”

Jackson turned for the exit, walking as quickly as he could. If Brant was using coded language, the situation was bad because he was zealous about the encryption he used when contacting Jackson’s commlink. The only connection more secure was the transmitter and miniature comms embedded under Jackson’s skin beneath his ear. “You’ve got the others?”

“Sparks is making the retrieval, but…” Brant sighed.

Jackson knew that sigh. He walked out on the sidewalk, squinting in the late-morning sunshine. “Gina.”

“She’s not picking up. Signal’s clear. You want her location?”

“No, but give it to me anyway.” Jackson braced himself. “And let me know if I need to bring along a squad of Colonial Rangers to drag her back.”

* * *

Wingren City

Pentecost Island

Canaan

4 March 2466

The woman was tall, lithe, and angry. She leaned in from her place at the bar, whisky sloshing over the rim of her glass. “You heard what I said. Anyone who wants to drink here owes me fifty credits.”

Her friends, two young men with identical tattoos of red roses on their necks, laughed uproariously.

Gina Wilkes smiled. “What I understand is a whole family’s trying to have their reunion here this afternoon. They even paid the owner the fee. Right, barkeep?”

The bartender shrugged, his back resolutely turned from the confrontation. “Don’t push it, miss. I haven’t seen you around here before, but when Rosey says… just don’t argue with her.”

That would have been when a reasonable person would put up her hands, apologize for overstepping her bounds, and back away. Gina never considered herself reasonable, and lately, even that line had been pushed way out of whack. She burst out laughing.

“Don’t pay attention to the new girl, Ikumo.” Rosey set her glass on the bar and grabbed Gina’s collar. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Did you hear what he said? My place, my rules.”

“No, it’s not…” Gina giggled, interrupting herself. “What I mean to say is… are you serious? You’re Rosey, and you tattoo your thugs with roses? You’ve got to be shitting me. I’ve met fish with bigger brains than yours, and trust me, fish are the biological morons of the galaxy.”

Rosey snarled, a decidedly unfeminine sound, in Gina’s opinion. She tightened her grasp on Gina’s collar and drew back her fist for what she must have assumed would be a quick, brutal punch.

Gina snapped her head to the side, the blow brushing her ear instead of crunching into her nose. She brought her forearm up and crushed Rosey’s instead, sending blood bursting in a shade that matched those tattoos. Come on. Roses? They looked like a first-year student had etched them.

Rosey recoiled, releasing Gina so both hands could cradle her face. At least she only grunted instead of wailing. Backing up, she allowed the twin bruisers to lunge for Gina. No finesse. No tactics. They seemed to think all they had to do was grab for her and wrestle her away from their boss.

Dumber than Rosey. Gina snatched the abandoned glass and splashed the contents into the face of the cuter blond man, who howled. Alcohol apparently stung when introduced to the soft tissue around the eyes. Then she backhanded the second man’s jaw with the glass, shattering it in the process.

Rosey hollered, either from pain or at the incompetence of her henchmen. She dove at Gina with a knife—the one Gina had spotted tucked beneath her tunic ten minutes ago. Really, though. How could any self-respecting woman expect to conceal a weapon under a top that tight? The lack of forethought made Gina despair for her gender.

Gina slid forward and to the opposite side that time, slamming her right arm against Rosey’s throat and grabbing the knife-bearing wrist with her left. She twisted until Rosey dropped the blade.

Blond bruiser swung for her, and rather than avoiding the punch, Gina took it straight across the jaw. The blow left her stunned, staggering, but also drew Blondie in so Gina could drop the knife from her left and catch it in the right. She slashed it across his chest. Down he went, screaming, a jagged red line ripped through his shirt.

She heard the plasma pistol’s hum below the thumping music of the bar’s hovering speakers. If she timed it right, she could throw it into the thug’s face and likely still dodge the—

A pulse pistol whined. The flash could have been a lightning bolt in the bar’s gloom. The brown-haired thug toppled, his head rebounding off a stool. He lay on the tile floor, head bleeding, his hands pressed to a nauseating burn scorched along his right ribcage.

Jack stood in the doorway, his pistol leveled.

Ugh. Gina twisted Rosey around and bashed her face against the bar. Rosey’s body went limp. Good. Gina pulled her upright by her neon-green hair speckled with crimson. “Nobody else pays you, okay, sweetie?”

Rosey moaned but nodded.

“Good talk.” Gina hooked her foot behind Rosey’s ankle and tripped her, letting go with her hands at the same moment. Rosey hit the floor with a delicious thud.

“You’ve got to find better outlets for your grief.” Jack approached the bar, his stance supremely relaxed but his pistol still trained on the pitiful trio laid out before him. “And right now, we’ve got to go.”

“Maybe I’m thirsty.” Gina tilted her head. “Ikumo? A shot of Aliado.”

“On the house. For the rest of your life.” Ikumo poured from the tequila bottle into the tiny glass, his hand shaking so badly he slopped the liquor onto the bar.

“No. I pay like everyone else.” Gina swiped a credit chit across the bar, where a glowing red number showed her drink’s price. The numerals turned green—paid in full—and faded, leaving a yellow box behind. Gina squeezed the chit until it queued up a generous tip then tapped it against the box for payment. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”

“How’s your dad?” Jack propped his arm on the bar. He made no move to holster the pistol.

“Handling Mom’s death better than me since that’s what you really want to ask.” The tequila burned Gina’s throat but wasn’t enough to numb her pain, not by a parsec. “Two more, Ikumo.”

“Belay that, bartender.” Jack took the shot glass from her and turned it upside down. It clicked on the bar surface. “Let’s go.”

“Or what? You’ll use that one on me?” Gina laughed, but even to her ears, it sounded bleak. “I’d like to see you try.”

“And I like the way my nose looks before the next disguise gets applied, so no thanks.” Jack touched her arm—not an authoritative grasp or an angry pull. A friend’s concern, instead, relayed through a familiar sensation. A reminder he wasn’t about to abandon her. So far, he’d kept good on that promise.

Okay, so, maybe I feel a tad guilty for living like this, Gina admitted to herself.

“Gina, we’ve got work to do.”

“Don’t we always?” She sighed. “Dammit. I’d better still have my other parent when I come back this time.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“But you get why I said it.”

“Of course.” Jack glanced over his shoulder.

The other bar patrons—How did I miss that there were so many? Gina thought—had all left but hadn’t gone far. They were staring in the front windows.

Something about them gathered there made Jack smile. “Flecha Norte.”

“What?” Gina shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it here. Can it wait?”

“Sure thing.” Jack put his hand on the small of her back and guided her outside. “Because the local police will be here in three minutes.” He checked his commlink’s readout. “Maybe two.”

“Only locals?” Gina snorted. “I thought you’d have Colonial Rangers ready at the shuttle to put me in binders.”

His curious smile appeared again. “I thought about it.”

* * *

The CDF shuttle raced across the sunset, reds and oranges bleeding throughout the sky. Gina’s head rested against the porthole. She was asleep. Jackson didn’t need to see her face. He could tell by the way she breathed, slow and measured. So much for talking about what was bothering her. His guess? Like she’d blurted out, being with her father for several months hadn’t done enough to ease the pain of losing her mother. Really, she’d been grappling with grief since last fall, when she’d turned herself into a vigilante on Galt to save someone—anyone.

That was why Jackson wanted to detour back to the Adams Ranch before making the final rendezvous at the fleet yards with CSV Oxford. He’d been asked to report in when he and the civilian contractor were en route—which he had, and they were.

An hour or three more for him to tie up a few loose ends back home wouldn’t hurt anyone.

“ETA twenty-six minutes, Captain,” the young pilot noted.

“Thanks, Warrant.” Jackson read the news networks as the shuttle bumped through the last of the turbulence and the flight smoothed out. Its engines’ hum proved a soothing backdrop, which was good because Jackson didn’t like the headlines. No one had claimed responsibility for the destruction of the Amber Sun, but everyone deemed it terrorism. All the League of Sol had to say was a rote official notice that the Galter ship had behaved erratically and the fighters had been manned by criminals.

Criminals don’t blow up ships without a reason, so until Brant can prove to me the captain was a notorious smuggler, or the Galters were after something other than copious profit—which isn’t like them at all—I’m assuming terrorism. Except terrorism usually accompanied demands. So why were there none?

One article quoted an unnamed source within the planet Nandao’s traffic control saying that a military-grade jamming device had been used moments prior to the attack.

“Maybe there were,” he murmured, “but we didn’t hear them.”

2

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Canaan

4 March 2466

Gina snoozed in the guest bedroom at the back of the house, away from the murmur of conversation in the kitchen and dining room. Jackson closed the door gently.

“Hey.” Abril Castillo caught him around the waist with both arms. She brushed his cheek with a kiss. “How’s she doing?”

“Better, I think. She needed rest.” Jackson frowned. “You know, over the past few weeks when I tried to contact her, she’d make jokes about being up all night, every night. I can see it wasn’t all exaggeration.”

“Poor girl. She’s had a rough time. You two must be able to commiserate, having lost parents in the same span.”

“Well, Gina’s mom died a while back. She just didn’t know. And with Dad…” Jackson exhaled. Dad. It still stung that he was gone but as sad as Jackson felt when he dwelt on it, it wasn’t the same as when he’d thought Brant could die. Brant was a close friend, almost a brother—sometimes more so than Harry, even. Few could understand the bond of love and camaraderie between two men who’d given up so much of their lives to defend the Coalition.

Dad had provided well for his family and taught Jackson very important lessons in life. But the man had been a tyrant, and as soon as Jackson had been old enough to forge his own path, his dad hadn’t given Jackson a gram of support.

“Jay…” Abby held his face in both hands. “Still here? I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“No, don’t be.” Jackson smiled. “Dealing with enemies is easy. Family? Not so much. I’ll give Gina as much time and space as she needs when it comes to being there to support her, but we both still have work to do.”

“Will she be ready by the time you depart?”

“She has to be.” Because if Colonel Sinclair finds out, I doubt he’ll let a compromised civilian operative accompany Covert Action Unit 171 into the field. “Come on. Sounds like your dad is talking strategy again.”

The volume of sparring voices increased as Jackson and Abby walked back out to the long dining room table set off from the living area upstairs of the ranch house’s main entrance.

Ramon and Marguerite Castillo sat on one side of the table holding hands as Ramon gestured with the free one. “This is the last time I’ll let him drag me away from managing our ranches for another foolish attempt to overturn the merger.”

Danielle Novak, the attorney who’d witnessed and processed the merger, steepled her hands in front of her, her fingers colored pale blue by her tablet’s glow. “Mr. Castillo, please understand. Harrison has every legal right to challenge the agreement, as a thirty percent shareholder of the Adams Ranch, whether or not he agreed to participate in the merger signing.”

“I understand, but I also stand by my original statement.” Mr. Castillo scowled. “Foolish.”

“Let me try talking to him again.” Gloria Adams had her hair bound up, curls falling loose here and there. “We haven’t spoken since right before the signing, and Jack’s been doing his best to bridge the gap already.”

“Sorry to say it hasn’t helped much, Mom.” Jackson pulled up a chair next to her. “He’s adamant, but I could always give it another go.”

Abby circled the table and plopped down next to Mr. Castillo.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying,” Mrs. Castillo said, her tone gentle, “but as much as I know you and your brother love each other, I don’t think you’re the best one to talk to him right now.”

Jackson detected no malice or critique in her voice. She’d simply made an observation based on Jackson’s failures at getting Harry to the negotiating table—and there was no use framing those attempts as anything else. “You’re absolutely right. But Mom should try again. I agree. He might not listen, but at least they’d be less likely to come to blows.”

Mom wagged a finger at him. “The only blow should be the slap on the hind end I know he’s too old for.”

Novak let out a loud, snorting laugh. She quickly recovered her composure, straightening her suit jacket and putting the calm, solemn expression back in place. Adams was impressed. She’d have made a heck of a field operative in my line of work with that skill alone.

“As the attorney representing both your families in this matter—except for Harrison—I urge caution if this is the course you wish to follow. Harrison could use your reconciliatory gestures against you, presenting them as undermining efforts.”

Abby shook her head. “Nothing prevents contact between families while we’re waiting on the judge for a ruling. I checked the provisions.”

“You’re correct, according to the letter of the law. I’m advising you that other families have viewed such measures as otherwise.”

Novak’s admonition cast the table into silence, broken only by the gusts of westerly wind sending creaks through the house’s massive timbers.

“We do appreciate the concern, Danielle,” Mr. Castillo finally said. “But I believe we should err on the side of reconciliation, as you put it. I support Gloria’s idea.”

Jackson glanced at Abby.

She nodded. “I think we have three in favor, with Mom abstaining.”

Mrs. Castillo patted her husband’s hand still intertwined with hers. “Oh, I am not opposed, though I think it should be done carefully. Gloria, would you mind if I came with you? Harrison might respond better if someone who is not family is there to speak a word of wisdom.”

Gloria smiled. “Why, I think that’d be just fine, Marguerite. Thank you.”

“De nada. Besides, we can all agree I could support you should you opt for the spanking you’re eager to administer.”

Mr. Castillo burst out laughing. Abby covered her mouth, but she shook from her giggles until tears glistened.

Jackson leaned in and hugged his mom, chuckling the whole time. “Suddenly, I’m super relieved to be shipping out,” he teased.

Mom’s face was red, but she smiled along with the rest, apparently sacrificing her comfort for the amusement of the group. “And here I was wishing you could stay longer, scamp.”

“I do too. But you all know how the CDF is—they say jump. I say to which system?”

Mrs. Castillo’s expression sagged a bit. Their son, Enrique, was serving aboard CSV Ericksson on the “northern” frontier, patrolling the lightly explored but still uncharted regions—the same regions from which Gina’s father had returned last year upon retiring from the Coalition Far Survey Corps. With the war ended, one could argue Enrique was in far less danger than he could have been, but the Castillos and the Adamses were aware of how a serviceman could be killed as easily in peacetime as in war. Space was hostile. Then again, so was humanity.

“We’re glad for the time you were able to spend,” Mr. Castillo said. “And we’ll pray for safe travels for you and your team.”

“Thanks for that.” Jackson tapped the table, his thoughts spinning off on a tangent. “But while I’m gone, Danielle, could you check on the supplementary filing Mr. Castillo asked about? I saw it in one of Mom’s messages while I was on my last assignment.”

Novak nodded. “I have been. Ramon assures me it can be submitted within the week.”

“The goal is to remove Harry’s recourse for the challenge,” Mr. Castillo explained, “by proving his own actions were hostile toward the merger from the beginning.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult, considering Harry,” Abby murmured.

“No, it shouldn’t, but let’s remember—the goal is to at least satisfy him and optimally to bring him around to our side.” Jackson shook his head. “The ranches can’t go on, no matter how financially stable, without a united front between all the immediate family.”

“I don’t want it any other way,” Mom added.

It relieved him to hear her say that because Jackson knew he wouldn’t give up until he could at least have Harry visit as a friendly guest rather than skulking away from the ranch as an enemy. No matter how antagonistic Dad had been during the last years of his life, Jackson wouldn’t want to dishonor his memory by having everything he’d worked for continue on without his wife and boys together at the helm.

Besides, given what Brant had been counseling, Jackson had realized there was an eternal component to the enmity between the Adams brothers. My thoughts on God? Undecided, for the moment.

But Jackson knew he could die out there in space, and anything he could do to bring his brother back into the fold before that happened was well worth the effort.

* * *

CSV Oxford

Fleet Yards

In Orbit of Canaan

Jackson was surprised to find Oxford’s hangar bay had quadrupled in size during his absence. The rear bulkhead had been partially dismantled to allow personnel, cargo, and even the shuttles themselves access to an even larger hangar module that had been installed a couple of months ago. Jackson eyed the nose of a sleek black fighter with gray panels undergoing maintenance a ways past the access arch. He noted Marines posted in and around the new module, far more security than what was usually needed aboard the intelligence vessel.

Of course, it didn’t help that he found himself unfamiliar with the fighters, which he noticed lacked CDF emblems, pilot call signs, individual art that the fliers liked to express themselves with, especially during wartime—in short, everything they were supposed to have. He saw only individual numbers 01 through 12 on the squadron, the numerals faint outlines in a lighter gray.

“You spotted ’em, eh, Cap’n?” Chief Warrant Officer Ehud Dwyer eyeballed the craft with heavy disdain, arms folded and face contorted by a scowl, but he was working too hard at the indignation. Everything else about his body language conveyed curiosity mingled with admiration. Jackson could read it off him as easily as if he’d been holding up a holographic projection exclaiming, “What beautiful planes!”

He chalked up such defensiveness to the fact that Dwyer was standing under the left thruster assembly of Novabird, the team’s private transport. Most covert units had to contend with stealth shuttles or modified civilian vehicles. Few got both. Jackson knew Dwyer was used to the Florio Ionworks Mark Thirteen, with quad-burst engines and variable-geometry wings, being the hottest bird aboard Oxford.

“I’m worried, if I get too close, I’ll get shot,” Jackson joked. “You haven’t seen them drag off any bodies, have you?”

Dwyer snorted. “Nope. But a couple of jarheads warned off Brimeyer and Jimenez when they had their tablets out near Zero One. Said they were trying to look up specs. The Marines confiscated the device and shooed them away.”

Jackson’s smile faded. Whatever veil of secrecy the brass wanted to keep around the fighters would probably be better served if they didn’t have the hatch hanging open for anyone aboard Oxford to take a peek through the flexible cofferdam linking the ship to the fleet yards station. Oxford’s cargo hold, hangar, and attached module took up the bulk of the center-aft sections, through which all manner of supplies could be moved, be they explosive or nutritious.

Dwyer himself was tapping an orange case labeled Danger: Volatile Substances against his leg as he stared at the fighters.

Jackson knew the man was an expert in such things, but it made him nervous enough he cleared his throat. “Warrant?”

“Hmm?” Dwyer blinked. He stopped tapping. “Yes, sir?”

“Any thoughts on what they are?”

“RUMINT has it CDF’s space combat command has been snooping over the League border with new fighters optimized for high-speed pursuit and stealth operations. Haven’t heard of any skirmishes involving them, though.”

Jackson nodded. “I’d heard the same rumors. You think these are Chimeras?”

“That’s the scuttlebutt, Cap’n. Don’t know if it’s an official designation or not.” Dwyer scratched the back of his neck. “Wasn’t it a monster with all manner of parts stitched on? Dragon wings and donkey legs and some such?”

Jackson chuckled. “Something like that.”

“Typically, a lion with a goat’s head popping out of the back.” First Lieutenant Brant Guinto climbed down Novabird’s exit ramp. He flicked through blue text hovering above his tablet.

“Careful, LT. The Marines don’t like those.” Dwyer grinned.

Brant made a face. “As if they could read them.”

Jackson covered his mouth to contain his chuckles, not wanting to draw too much attention to their gabfest. But the Marines seemed content to gaze blankly from their posts, ignoring even the technicians authorized to work on the fighters.

“A chimera isn’t only a mythological monster,” Brant continued. “It can also refer to something hoped for but impossible to achieve—an illusion.”

“If I were them, I’d stick with it,” Dwyer said. “Catchy.”

“Too bad they’re not asking us,” Jackson offered.

Brant pocketed his tablet. His hand shook as he did so, but after he flexed it a few times, the tremors subsided. Jackson pushed back against a surge of guilt—the trembling was left over from the plasma weapon wound Brant had suffered on their Trenchant mission. They’d worked past his contrition and Brant’s distrust, but the physical reminder didn’t make it easy.

“I thought Gina was coming with you.”

“She is. I left her on the outer lock with Sev.”

Gina walked across the cofferdam with Sevastopol Rast following a step behind and to her left. His steely stare, locking on every person he passed as if they were potential assassins, combined with his looming physique to give the impression Gina had a bodyguard. The fact that he had a submachine gun slung over one shoulder, a pulse pistol dangling from a holster, and carried his disassembled sniper rifle in a long black bag only enhanced the image.

“Hey, there’s the man.” Dwyer slapped Sev on the shoulder, his grin getting bigger. “Did you get ’em?”

“Absolutely.” That was all they would get out of Sev on the matter, Jackson knew. Sev set his bag down and unzipped it. The most heavenly aroma drifted forth.

Gina stood on tiptoes and sniffed. “Hello, boys. We brought manna.”

“Amen, amen.” Brant closed his eyes and breathed deep. “This has to be the best coffee in ten thousand light-years. You know, Sparks, if I could get ahold of your supplier, we could set up an order and deliver network to every ship in the fleet and make so much—”

“No.” Sev stood quickly. He slowly raised a single finger. “Only us.”

“Easy, fella.” Dwyer swooped into the bag, producing three silver pouches. Each one bore a thick green ring centered around two stylized pine trees—one white, one black—no other labels. “Gifts for you all.”

“Did you remember one for Major Mancini?” Brant accepted the pouch with the care of a historian who’d found an original scroll of Scripture. “Miranda tells me he’s been begging her techs for intel on its origins.”

“’Course I did. It’s the only way to keep him off our scent.” Dwyer held out his hand to Sev without looking at him.

Still glaring at Brant, Sev gave him five hard enough Dwyer winced.

“Anyhoo,” Dwyer muttered, shaking his hand. “We’re all stocked for this mission.”

“Speaking of missions since we’re all so eager to get to work…” No one could mistake the dry sarcasm Gina’s tone bludgeoned them with. “What are we doing, anyway? Jack said stolen weapons were being used by League insurgents.”

“Leaguers fighting other Leaguers?” Dwyer glanced around their circle. “As much as I’d like to see the League of Sol trip and fall on its collective asses, a civil war ain’t the cleanest way to get what I want.”

“I get the sense it’s more people fighting for liberation. Not every League border world to which the Coalition offered membership voted to free themselves.” Jackson tucked the coffee pouch under his arm. “And I doubt the League’s gotten any nicer to its citizens since they lost so much of their fleet and a long strip of territory, not to mention the resources that came with those planets.”

“But no one’s gotten details, Gina,” Brant said. “So you’ll find out when we find out. The brass are keeping things quiet this time.”

“I love a mystery, except I’m usually the one who’s on the inside,” Gina replied.

“Well, if you get bored, you can always go back to vigilante work, assuming you still have the red suit.” Brant’s expression was as bland as could be.

Sev’s laughter rumbled across the hangar.

Gina patted Brant on the cheek. “Too pretty of a face to slap, Brant, otherwise…”

“Let’s all get settled into our cabins. The briefing is first thing at oh seven hundred tomorrow.” Jackson made a circle with his finger. “Round it up.”

They’d settled into familiar, overlapping chatter—with Brant defending himself from Gina’s verbal counterattacks—when a slim black man in a pilot’s uniform approached from the far side of Novabird. Jackson caught the glint of light of his major’s insignia.

“Sir.” Jackson braced to attention. Brant and Dwyer did the same.

“At ease, boys.” The officer nodded at Gina. “And girls. Happy to see the famed Covert Action Unit 171 aboard for this ride, even if no one will admit to me that’s who you folks are.”

“You know how operation secrets go,” Jackson replied.

“Captain, this is Major Cornelius Stone, 99th Reconnaissance and Intercept Squadron,” Brant explained. “He came aboard about a half hour ago.”

“Just checking out your gorgeous bird,” Stone admitted. “And by the way, it seems like you folks are interested in the Chimeras.”

“That’s right.” Jackson indicated the fighters. “Those are part of your command?”

“Yes indeed.” Stone grinned. “We’re here to unleash our monsters on the ones lurking in the League’s shadows.”

3

CSV Oxford

En Route to Freedom Station

5 March 2466

Major Stone escorted the team to Oxford’s wardroom, where Colonel Robert Sinclair sat at the head of the table. Captain Alon Tamir and Chief Warrant Officer Miranda Eldred flanked him.

They were so engrossed in their reports, it took a couple of seconds before Sinclair noticed the six new arrivals. “Ah. Very good. At ease and take your seats.”

They fanned out around the table, Stone opting to sit at the far end. Jackson, Gina, and Dwyer took the right side next to Tamir while Brant opted to sit across from Jackson—at Eldred’s side. The duo shared a nod, and Eldred immediately whispered to him. Sev, naturally, propped himself in the farthest, darkest corner from both the wardroom table and its overhead lights.

Gina nudged Jackson. “Who’s the quiet one?”

Another officer was present, a captain in standard-duty uniform, though he lacked any insignia besides Oxford’s ship patch. A Star of David flag on his shoulder identified him as Jewish. Blue eyes shone all the more because of his tan complexion and wavy brown hair.

Jackson noted there was a tablet in front of every seat. He supposed Sev would have to read over someone’s shoulder if he was so inclined, though Jackson had a hard time imagining him being that interested.

“I’ll cut right to the chase,” Sinclair began. “I am aware we have divulged precious little about this operation up to this point, far less than usual. Rest assured this is because of heightened security measures CDF Intelligence has put into place, given the troubles within our ranks since last fall.”

“I think he means the traitor,” Gina whispered.

“Thank you, yes, Ms. Wilkes.” If Sinclair found her insouciance endearing, he wasn’t letting on.

Jackson understood why. A noncom had endangered both Jackson’s team and Covert Action Unit 22 during the Galt mission by leaking sensitive information to Fabian—terrorists? Insurgents? Dissenters? He didn’t know the proper term and didn’t care. All that mattered was the woman had betrayed her brothers and sisters in arms, sending a tremor of suspicion and anxiety throughout the entire service. “Intelligence is working to prevent another such incident from happening, hence the presence of Captain Makis Halevi.”

Halevi nodded and received nods in turn.

“He will be observing our operations and conduct.” Tamir’s explanation was terse, his tone firm.

It was out of sorts for the officer, Jackson realized.

“Well, shalom, in that case, Captain.” Dwyer grinned.

Halevi’s face was impassive. “I am not here to fraternize, Warrant. Please keep your comments germane to the briefing.”

Dwyer frowned and turned to Jackson, who shook his head.

“Mr. Halevi is with Internal Review,” Sinclair explained.

It took all Jackson’s willpower to not roll his eyes. Brant failed to hide his reaction, which was identical. Internal Review or IR—better known to rank and file CDF Intelligence personnel as “Ire.” As in, it raised the ire of anyone who fell under their scrutiny. Much like internal affairs of a civilian police force, they patrolled Intelligence for malcontents—and in that case, traitors, it seemed. Which meant the brass didn’t know who was truly trustworthy.

Jackson shared a glance with Brant, who seemed equally troubled. Not a comforting thought.

“With that introduction out of the way, on to the larger problem at hand.” Sinclair gestured to Tamir, who input commands via his tablet. A holographic star chart sprang above the table, miniature suns drifting slowing across a galactic segment. “At 0935 local time on March 3, the Galt independent freighter Amber Sun broadcast a garbled distress signal at point forty-nine thousand kilometers from the planet Nandao. This is a League world fifty-five light-years from New Rostov, a former League planet now part of the Terran Coalition. She was set upon by two unregistered fighters that offered no warning other than communications jammers. The fighters made two passes, firing a total of six missiles, three of which impacted and destroyed the freighter.” Sinclair took a moment, interlacing his fingers before him, then gazed around the room, making sure he caught everyone’s attention before he continued. “We have high confidence that the fighters in question were SF-106 Phantoms.”

Gina let out a soft grunt. Brant blurted a word Jackson assumed was Tagalog and impolite. Dwyer looked like he wanted to leap out of his seat and fly across the Coalition to throttle whoever let such a travesty happen. Jackson himself felt as if his mind were asking a hundred questions at once.

Sev, as usual, distilled all the reactions down to a succinct point. “How?”

“How, indeed. That is the purpose of our mission.” Sinclair glanced at Eldred. “Though we have a lead as to the answer.”

She nodded. “Our initial intel has determined the rough operations of a weapons pipeline that’s the likely source of those fighters.”

Eldred linked her tablet to the projector. Three points of light brightened. “Freedom Station is the locus for security and settlement along the League frontier. It’s remained in our hands since the war ended, and every month, hundreds of settlers and millions of credits’ worth of food, tech, and weapons are routed through their to the worlds that voted to join the Coalition.”

A gold-dotted line snaked from Freedom Station to a bright-blue-white star. “New Rostov was the first of those liberated worlds to join,” Eldred continued. “The Leaguers stripped what lithium they could, but the people there—with help from new Coalition settlers—are using the leftover mines to boost their planet out of poverty. Terran tech keeps the planetary shield running that they need to protect the people from excess radiation.”

“You’re thinking the fighters wound up there,” Jackson stated.

“It’s likely,” Tamir replied. “To be honest, the Leaguers aren’t the only ones stretched thin after decades of hostilities. Given how many new systems voted for their freedom, CDF is hard-pressed to patrol all the viable routes. Smuggling is rife, and New Rostov is the only world within a couple hundred parsecs that has the port infrastructure to handle freighters. They have no orbital station, though—everything’s on the surface.”

“That should make it easier to infiltrate.” Gina reached for the map, her fingers grazing the spinning stars. They wobbled. “But how does this link to Nandao, where the attacks happened?”

“We’re… unclear on that point.” Tamir shared the same look with Eldred that she’d had with Sinclair.

Jackson perused the notes on his provided tablet as they spoke. “It says here Amber Sun was loaded with lithium. I take it Nandao’s rich in the same ore. It and New Rostov are fairly close.”

“Those systems were key to the League’s lithium supply. New Rostov’s vote to break away caught everyone by surprise.” Eldred scowled. “When Nandao did the same thing, the commissars were prepared and cracked down. We have no idea how many died, but it was a lot. Whole families, in some cases.”

Sev sucked in a breath.

“What we suspect is a smuggling route across the border, which is not undefended but neither is it crawling with League ships,” Sinclair said. “They lack the tonnage, as we do, and have not made efforts to rebuild their fleet, as one would surmise. What limited assets we possess inside the League indicate they have shifted focus to internal suppression of dissension on a scale not seen before.”

“Let’s not forget their outward emphasis on espionage,” Brant noted.

“Quite right.”

“Okay.” Jackson leaned forward and rotated the map. He brought the shining line linking Freedom Station to New Rostov and Nandao into focus. “So, we have an idea of the route being used and the source. What does Freedom Station’s commander have to say about all this?”

“She is understandably perturbed but admits there are gaps in the quartermaster’s inventory.” Sinclair sighed. “Sadly, the civilian contractors are more concerned about their rapidly rising profit margins than national security and are laxer than she would like when it comes to watching out for the black market.”

“And you don’t think they’re participating themselves? Cute.” Gina snorted.

“Gina.” Jackson held up his hand. “What I mean, Colonel, is do we know who’s funneling the weaponry down to Nandao?”

“We are, Captain.” Sinclair stood from his chair. “As far as we can determine, a cursory inventory check indicates up to two squadrons of Phantoms missing.”

“Well, shit,” Dwyer muttered.

“Precisely my feeling, Warrant.”

“That seems—impossible, sir.” Jackson checked notes again. Sure enough, on the last page, a summary forwarded from the joint chiefs themselves listed five bases from which supposedly mothballed Phantom fighters had slipped off the inventory.

“Hang on.” Brant looked up from his tablet. “You said we are.”

Pieces clicked together in Jackson’s head. “You’re not insinuating a third party broke in and stole the fighters. You think CDF officers are providing the weapons directly to insurgents operating on the League planet.”

“This is where your ‘well, shit,’ would have been better used,” Gina murmured to Dwyer.

He nodded, his expression dumbfounded.

“Sorry if I’m stepping on collective toes here, people,” Major Stone interjected. “But no way are pilots or ground crew selling off our birds to the highest bidders, even the down checked ones. Come on. Do you have any idea the fatality rate for starfighter pilots during four decades’ worth of interstellar war?”

“High,” Sev offered.

“Thanks, Igor,” Stone muttered. “Yeah, it’s high. So, we’re not about to toss the best weapon we have across a thousand light-years to a bunch of Leaguer rebels, even if they’re fighting to be free. Hell, they lose those, and we’d be giving the League the excuse to develop better craft based on ours.”

“Steady, Major.” Sinclair’s tone brooked no argument. “No one is stating such a connection, and we certainly did not intend to imply one. Our tenuous hypothesis is based on a more personal source.”

He looked again at Eldred, who seemed stiller and more formal at the briefing than any Jackson could remember—and the final piece fell into place. Miranda Eldred was a warrant officer in the Coalition Defense Forces, but her career in their ranks had been short because she’d spent most of her life in the Coalition Intelligence Service.

“CIS,” Jackson said aloud.

“I got word a couple of weeks ago from a colleague,” Eldred said. “She’s in CBI now but still maintains, um, unofficial assets along the League border. One of them mentioned an uptick in insurgent activity on Nandao and other nearby planets—bombings, environmental systems sabotage, information warfare. Freedom Station reported thefts or missing matériel within the same time period, items that could have been used for those purposes.”

“My God.” Brant winced and immediately made the sign of the cross. “I mean—CIS. You think they’re supplying the insurgents.”

“Without the knowledge or permission of the president of the Terran Coalition.” Sinclair swept the room with his gaze. “I must remind you all this is strictly classified. We are dealing with a potential disaster for the current administration, never mind our own commanders, if word reaches the news networks.”

“Especially since the treaty we signed with the League expressly states neither side is going to interfere in the sovereign governance of the other.” Brant sounded breathless.

Gina rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“I daresay nothing is amusing about the situation, Ms. Wilkes,” Sinclair snapped.

“Oh, of course there is.” Gina spun in her chair and launched herself into a stroll around the room.

Halevi kept his gaze locked on her, his stylus flying across his tablet. Jackson had almost forgotten the observer was there, so quiet had he been despite the constant flow of revelations.

“What do you think the League’s External Security Services has been doing since late 2463? Taking up knitting? We’ve all seen it—the five of us up closer than others. The Leaguers are using every underhanded trick they have to destabilize the Coalition. The only thing odd about CIS giving weapons to insurgents is that they haven’t done it sooner!”

“Not giving,” Tamir corrected her. “Selling.”

That brought Gina’s smug display up short. “Selling? What do they need the money for? Did I miss a budget cut?”

“That is another mystery for which we do not have an answer,” Sinclair said. “Our assignment is to shut down the shipments and apprehend whoever is facilitating them, no matter their affiliation with a branch of the Terran Coalition’s government.”

“Shutting down the shipments,” Gina repeated. “How nice. We gave the oppressed people weapons so they could strike out at their commissars and now, what? We say, ‘Oops, not authorized, have to take it back, so sorry’?”

“Gina.” Jackson leaned on her name. “Sit down. You’re not helping.”

He must have put enough steel behind his order because to his surprise, she obeyed. Of course, he was also pretty sure the temperature dropped ten degrees in her immediate vicinity. Gina refused to make eye contact.

“I think what she’s getting at, Colonel, is what’s the plan for when these insurgents are left high and dry after we cut the supply line?” Brant asked.

“There is no plan at the present.” Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “This mess is not of the administration’s making, and they would very much like it to remain that way. Now, by no means am I advocating sabotage of the matériel they currently possess. That is neither here nor there, as far as I’m concerned. But we cannot allow anyone within the Coalition’s official structure to keep supplying them, especially not when they’re profiting from the venture.”

“Whatever happens there, the insurgents are doing well for themselves.” Jackson held up his tablet. “The Amber Sun incident aside, they’ve crippled a patrol corvette at a repair dock, swatted a pair of Leaguer cargo vessels in deep space, and blown up a couple dozen military facilities across the planet. I’m impressed no one’s found them or their fighter base.”

“That’s why my contact’s theory makes sense,” Eldred replied. “They’ve got help.”

“What is this group?”

Sinclair gestured to Tamir. The star system wiped away, replaced by security footage from an unnamed location, though Jackson recognized the stellar coordinates as being in League space.

“This is the most recent footage posted on social media by the group.”

Grainy figures hurried from a dome. Five seconds later, it blew up, the searing flare obliterating whatever device had recorded the vid.

“Sloppy,” Sev grunted.

“Your critique aside, they’re kind of ballsy.” Brant’s cheeks reddened when Eldred elbowed him, grinning. “Well, I only meant they recorded themselves in the act?”

Sinclair held a finger to his lips and pointed.

The vid progressed. Nine people in combat fatigues and battered body armor appeared, holding League plasma rifles. They also wore a motley collection of face coverings, all with goggles shielding or at least shadowing their eyes. Not shocking, considering the intense surveillance the League inflicted on their own people, even on distant planets.

“We spill commissar blood to balance the scales weighed by the blood of our mothers and fathers, our sisters and brothers.” A stout, burly-chested man spoke. He sounded older to Jackson, his voice worn, kind of wheezy. “Stand with us for the freedom that should have been ours. The League stole our election, and we will force them to set us free since they deny us the right to exercise our choice.”

“Make no mistake.” This came from a taller, thinner man, his voice strong like a church bell. “Nandao voted to join the Terran Coalition. We will affirm that decision by any means necessary.”

The vid blanked.

Sinclair straightened his uniform tunic. “I’d say it’s high time we attend to the operational details. Captain Tamir? You have the floor.”

Tamir launched into the outline on their tablets, but Gina grabbed Jackson’s leg under the table. Her pulse was rapid. He could feel where her fingers touched his trousers.

He tilted his head ever so slightly and whispered, “What is it?”

“The—he’s there.”

“Gina? Who?”

“The young man who spoke. The second one.” She closed her eyes and took short, shallow breaths. “Kyle.”

Jackson’s heart skipped. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. I mean, I don’t know.” Gina stared at the blank hologram. “He sounded just like my brother.”

4

Otradny Continent

Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

5 March 2466

Benjamin Dravyn hated rain. His homeland was cool and arid. Precipitation was measured in how few centimeters per year.

God did have a sense of humor, then, because Otradny was the wettest place he’d ever been.

Benjamin stood under the steel awning, listening to the rain hiss off its rusty surface. Temblor vines shook under the deluge, their ends swaying in front of him. The continent was perpetually shrouded in mist, and when it wasn’t, thunderstorms spawned by frequent but low-power hurricanes clouded the skies. He’d been in Otradny for three months. It might as well have been thirty years.

The weather soured his mood, which didn’t make it easier to deal with the morons who were supposed to be fighting the League of Sol for control of the mudball.

“Ben?” Vance, his local contact, approached him from the archway behind. The young man always sounded apologetic as if he’d stepped on someone’s toe right before he asked them something. “The flight’s arriving.”

“Heard it. Thanks.” Engines roared overhead, invisible for all the cloud cover until they broke through. The SF-106 Phantoms raced at near treetop level, their exhaust sending waves across the emerald foliage of Otradny’s endless rainforests. Benjamin tracked them as they swung toward the cliff face then banked into a nearby canyon. The landscape as far as the eye could see was an unruly conglomeration of ravines, sheer cliffs, and slanted mountain ranges. The perfect geography for hiding a base of insurgent Nandaoites.

Benjamin brushed past Vance, the red-haired man following in his wake. Two women using plasma torches on exposed piping in the corridor squeezed out of his way. Benjamin found himself a half-meter taller than most Nandaoites, their ranks a mixture of Slavic, Scandinavian, and South Asian ethnicities.

He himself was bald and whiskered, his frame thickset but not burly. Shave his face and put him behind an office console. That’s my biggest asset—blending in as an average Joe. Benjamin sighed. Whoever signed off on the op should have picked the more muscle-bound type. Not a big deal. Running the shitshow didn’t require muscles. It required organizational skills and the ability to ride herd on the eighty-eighters.

Cheers greeted the returning starfighters. Benjamin waited by the entry, hands on his hips, as the pilots descended their ladders. Two dozen insurgents, mostly men but a few women among them, held their arms up, fists clenched. The pilots returned the gesture.

“One more lithium mine up in smoke!” Cai Feng beamed at the gathered crowd like a grandfather bestowing holiday presents. His gray beard and kindly gaze belied his skill behind the controls of such a lethal plane.

Benjamin waited until the cheers had dropped in volume, then started a slow clap, loud and obnoxious. He walked into their midst, making sure his boots hit hard on the concrete landing pad. “Good job. You hit the targets you were supposed to. A pleasant surprise, right?”

The younger pilot, a blond woman named Inga Petrova, flicked a gesture his way—her pinky and ring finger extended up, back of the hand toward Benjamin, the rest of the fingers folded down. Feng grimaced at the sight.

“What, you come in here to piss all over our moment, Ben? So brave to let us do the flying and fighting while you drop crumbs on your tablet,” Petrova said.

A few chuckles rounded the crowd.

Benjamin shook his head. “Were you scanned?”

“Of course.” Inga snorted. “We loitered enough there’s fresh plasma scarring on the fuselage.”

“They saw our planes,” Feng added. “No question of what they are.”

“Well, that would be great, T, except you’ve been striking targets for three weeks now, and the League doesn’t seem to care much.”

“Are you insane?” Inga glared at him. “They blasted another town’s water supply just yesterday.”

“Oh, sorry, I hadn’t noticed.” Benjamin pointed at the Phantoms. “These are supposed to incite the League against the Coalition and drag two nations back into war. Correct?”

“Yes, of course.” Feng sounded tired. “That’s the only way we can weaken the League enough to loosen its grip on Nandao.”

“Then the eighty-eight percent’s vote finally counts!” a young man snapped.

More cheers answered him until Benjamin stared around the circle. When the last echoes had faded, he continued, “They’re supposed to do that. But they’re not. Why? Because even the League isn’t stupid enough to tussle with the Coalition at the moment. They don’t have enough ships or manpower, and with the Saurians and Matrinids and every neutral system with a bloated sense of self-importance standing at the Coalition’s side, they would get stomped. Period.”

No one argued. Inga seethed—her default setting. Vance shifted behind him, clearing his throat lightly. That was a sure signal there was another supply issue that needed attending. There’s always something. Benjamin gave the assembled insurgents one last stern look. “The whole point is to blame the Coalition for your sudden windfall in arms and ammunition. That’s why I switched our target to an independent freighter—but you”—he turned and gestured with both arms to Feng and Inga—“blew the damn thing up too fast and slammed down so much jamming interference nothing got out. So, we’ll look for a new mark, one that will make the galaxy scream its heads off at how the Terrans lied and broke their treaty. That’ll damage a God-fearing society faster than any month’s worth of terror bombings.”

Vance cleared his throat. “Ben…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m coming.” Benjamin stalked to the other side of the hangar, leaving the 88ers to mutter among themselves. “What’s wrong?”

“The expected shipment of plasma rifle power packs is late.” Vance frowned over his tablet. “I contacted Luciana. She indicates the depot foreman’s people are getting more insistent and thorough when it comes to inspecting outbound cargoes.”

“Great.” Benjamin rubbed his forehead. Time to ask the bosses for more money. Again. They’ll love that. “Tell her to make the problem go away—quietly. I’m talking bribes and getting people framed for criminal activity so the depot has no choice but to fire them.”

“Will do.” Vance punched in notes. “Also, there’s a secure communique for you, routed through the encrypted channel. I flagged it. They marked the contents as Required Software Update from one of the tech vendors we’ve used.”

“Huh. Some news is better than none, I guess. Send it to my comm.”

Vance obeyed. The message showed up as an innocuous reminder, just as he said it would. Text only. Self-scrubbing. Yes, that was definitely from his superiors.

“Ben.” Feng was headed his way. “A word.”

“Sure, T.” Benjamin nodded at Vance. “You’re good, kid. Check on the next scheduled transport.”

“On my way.” Vance gave Feng a gloomy look before departing.

“You know, you don’t have to rain on our parades just because it’s always a downpour here,” Feng rumbled. “Inga’s an excellent pilot. The rest are handling the new weapons with ease.”

“Yeah, I get that. But my point still stands—we can’t lose sight of the goal just for payback’s sake.”

“Your goal and ours are different.”

“They don’t have to be, T.” Benjamin gave him a friendly smack on the shoulder. “My people want this war back on. The League hierarchy didn’t suffer enough when our so-called leaders signed that half-assed treaty. We get our war; you get your freedom. That’s the deal.”

“And it’s a fine one,” Feng agreed, “as long as you remember Ben Dravyn isn’t the end all be all of the 88ers. Our victory is.”

Benjamin nodded. “Roger that.”

As soon as Feng ambled away, Benjamin opened the message. It demanded a seventeen-character password, which he’d memorized before leaving Coalition space. The CIS cipher, routed through three public domain-transfer networks, took a few seconds to decode.

The words finally unfolded. “Last strike turned heads. Flag wavers clutching pearls. Be advised—parents have sent the good son to investigate.”

Benjamin rubbed his face. Crap. The president and his lackeys caught wind of the Phantoms’ strike? And tasked CDF Intelligence to sniff around?

His complaint to the 88ers was on the mark. They would need to make a more public spectacle, one the League couldn’t cover up and the Terran public would never miss.

Benjamin acknowledged the message and watched as it deleted itself. Then he went to find Vance in the landing pads below the fighter hangar. They had a social media agenda to push.

* * *

Port Gusev Transshipment Depot

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

7 March 2466

Natalie Ivanov wiped dust off her tablet screen. She scowled as more immediately piled on. It was a good thing the weather forecast called for the winds dying down in a couple of hours. She would have to stretch the inventory update for tomorrow if she couldn’t get it done.

Finally, she switched to a holographic projection. It was grainy, but at least the interface responded better as she flicked her fingers through the hazy list.

“Section Nine is complete.” Her husband, Gregory stood a dozen meters away, in the shelter of a warehouse’s wall. “All containers accounted for.”

“Good news.” Natalie waved her tablet. “So is Section Ten.”

“At this rate, we’ll be done by supper.” Gregory grinned. “And it’s your turn to cook if I complete my list before you do.”

“If, indeed.” Natalie brushed more dust from her visor. Less had accumulated than earlier. She checked her commlink and found the winds already subsiding. Thank goodness for that.

A freighter’s engines rumbled overhead. The ion motor burned white-hot in mimicry of New Rostov’s blazing sun. Not for the first time, Natalie was glad for the Terran-constructed shielding left in place years ago when the Coalition freed her planet. Without it, the star’s natural radiation would have doomed future generations to constant sickness and irreparable genetic damage.

For all her griping about the dusty, hot work, it was far better than toiling in the mine. The depot was lined with containers full of lithium ore extracted from deep below New Rostov’s surface by machines the people had bought from the Terran Coalition while utilizing more advanced safety gear that would keep the workers from inhaling toxic fumes.

Natalie still marveled at the sprawling transshipment depot. It was hard to believe that less than four years ago, all New Rostov could boast as far as infrastructure was dirt landing strips for the League freighters. Thanks to the Terran Coalition Agency for Interstellar Development, donated monies supplemented by government funding had built a proper landing facility for the handling of all manner of cargo.

As a result, New Rostov’s settlements had grown from drab hovels into bustling towns, filled not just with new citizens of the Terran Coalition trying their hand at all manner of trades and businesses but settlers who wanted to be farther from even the minimal restrictions on their lives and enterprises that the Coalition enforced back on the more populous planets.

Natalie smiled. Any arrivals who complained about oppression when it came to New Rostov’s local laws were quickly put into their place by the natives, who sternly reminded them they’d been threatened with death for voting their freedom into existence, which tended to shut up the complainers quickly.

Gregory slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her forehead. “Ready for the next round?”

Before she could answer, their commlinks buzzed in unison.

Gregory answered his first. “Foreman here.”

“Mr. Ivanov? Got a bit of a situation down here at Tarmac F.” One of the new crew, arrived from Churchill, if Natalie remembered. Clarence?

“On our way.” Gregory’s expression became grim. “Clarence, with security.”

“That isn’t good.” Natalie strode along with her husband. The pistols they wore in cross-draw holsters were loaded with stun rounds. They had rarely seen use, but with the absence of tight League control over the last three and a half years, criminal gangs had arisen. The Coalition didn’t have the vast network of surveillance apparatus and informants the League relied upon.

“Did you alert the Colonial Rangers?”

Natalie lifted her commlink, showing the red band circling the bottom. “The last two times we signaled for assistance, they didn’t show.”

Gregory shook his head. “It’s not their fault. They have a whole world to cover and barely enough people. We have to protect ourselves and our people, within the bounds of the law.”

Easier said than done. Natalie frowned when she saw the knot of people gathered under the Mark Seven-Seven twin-hull freighter sitting on Tarmac F. Clarence and two security personnel, wearing the same blue vests of Global Transshipment Depot employees, faced off against eleven men and women dressed in an assortment of wildly colored civilian clothes. All eleven were armed, either with pistols or blades. It wasn’t until Natalie saw the woman standing between them that she felt sick.

“There are my favorite people.” Luciana Encarnacion was tall and gorgeous, dark-eyed, lithe body clad in a white jumpsuit, black hair tied in a long ponytail, the ending third shaded neon yellow with orange streaks. Twin plasma pistols rode on her hips. She cocked a smile their way—though Natalie was certain it was aimed at Gregory. “Please tell your associates to clear our departure.”

“Not when they were loading two dozen more crates than are on the manifest.” Clarence showed his wrist device to Gregory, whose frown deepened. “I say, sir, whatever they’ve added to their holds isn’t showing up.”

“I understand.” Gregory glanced at Natalie.

She knew that look. It was resignation, and the subtle twitch of his fingers—two—meant the security guards behind Clarence appeared calm, not because of their training but because they had no intention of backing their boss up. Luciana had likely paid them off.

“Do we have an understanding, then?”

“No. No, we do not.” Gregory walked up to Luciana. Her people shifted their stances, which made Clarence and his security people fidget. All those restless individuals would do nothing to help the situation, Natalie was sure. “I’m logging this incident.”

Luciana laughed. “As what? A private shipowner loading her cargo in a depot that allows her to do that very thing? How is that a violation?”

“You have undocumented cargo.” Gregory tapped out notes on his tablet.

“I think if you check with the dockmaster himself, you will see my clearances are in perfect order.” Luciana held out a printed sheet of transparent gray. “I’m sorry your security personnel didn’t receive the updated version.”

Natalie joined the cluster, peering at the sheet with Gregory and Clarence. It certainly looked official—but then again, as she’d learned working alongside her husband, forgeries had exploded in recent years, thanks again to the less restrictive society New Rostov had become. Freedom means as much opportunity to do wrong as to do right. She was finding that sentiment to be true so far from the center of the Coalition.

Gregory refused to take the sheet. Instead, he squeezed the underside of his tablet. A thin strip of red tape printed from the left side. He tore the plastic free and handed it to Luciana. “Keep this with your records, please. I have forwarded the permanent file to the dockmaster’s office.”

Luciana shook her head, though she maintained her smile. “This is not the kindest way to do business. You would do well to take your cue from the neutral worlds—quite hospitable, not nearly as much literal red tape as here.”

Gregory smirked. “Perhaps there’s too much Leaguer left in me to get rid of all the bureaucracy.”

“Perhaps. Do not expect a fine.” Luciana dropped the receipt. The wind blew it toward the tarmac’s perimeter fence. “And do not expect a favorable review of this depot’s services. I’d gladly take my business elsewhere if there were another on this miserable rock.”

“Nothing’s stopping you from leaving our home far behind,” Natalie countered. “Plenty of ships come and go. One will not be missed.”

“Only if I do not spread word far and wide. Social media fills quite easily with all sorts of nasty rumors.” Luciana gave them a two-fingered salute. “Do us all a favor, Mr. and Mrs. Ivanov—do not come running when next my ship sets down. Let us conduct our business in peace. I will be paid for my deliveries, and your facility will thrive. Surely the dockmaster and the owners will reward everyone involved when that is the case.” She turned for the freighter’s boarding ramp, her people closing ranks behind her.

Clarence glared at his supposed backup. “Get back to your patrols, if you lot think you can handle that without anyone besides us paying you.”

The guards didn’t seem embarrassed. If anything, they gave Clarence rather snide looks in return. Clarence followed without so much as a “See you later” for the Ivanovs.

“That went about as well as we could have expected,” Natalie said.

Gregory glowered. “Yes. No one was shot.”

The freighter’s engines ignited. It lifted into the sky, swirling dust from the tarmac. Natalie covered her mouth and nose as the grains battered her goggles and the rest of her face.

Gregory was right. No harm had been done. Corruption under the Coalition wasn’t as bad as under the League, but it was still there, still allowing those who broke the law to profit rather than face consequences. Part of Natalie wished there were secret police who could infiltrate and arrest an organization like Luciana’s—whatever she was secretly hauling. But she’d also seen firsthand how giving such power to one organization meant losing control over the same entity until the average citizen fell into their grasp.

Her commlink buzzed again. She glanced at the sender code. “Colonial Rangers. They’ll be over this afternoon for a report and statement.”

“I suppose that’s something.” Gregory sighed. “As New Rostov grows, there will be more law and more enforcement to go with it. Meanwhile, we do what we can to make things better.”

Natalie’s visor darkened automatically as she gazed toward the brilliant sun and the freighter disappearing into its glare. “We will. We’ve come too far to let another petty little tyrant run our world.”

5

CSV Oxford

Orbiting Freedom Station

9 March 2466

Jackson was thoroughly versed in his newest persona by the time Oxford made its last Lawrence drive jump and blinked back into the proper universe within Freedom Station’s approach vectors.

He squinted his right eye, suppressing the urge to rub it. Every time. The techs swore the special corneal implants wouldn’t itch, but they did at the beginning and usually again after several weeks. Oh well. Small price to pay for a simple disguise and the ease of access to covert information, all while providing Brant with backup scan data.

His dossier was crammed full of details to memorize, not unlike when he got a script late before a play when he was in between government service. The roles he took varied from place to place—like the skimmer mechanic on Aphendrika or the corporate executive on Trenchant II. He never had favorites, never tried to think about them once the performance—or mission, he should say—was over.

It was hard enough keeping the details of his real life straight without bringing an alternate personality back to the dinner table.

This guy, though… Jackson grinned. JJ Accurso, hovercraft and skimmer mechanic. So, he had that technical background again. His preferred one, if he had to pick. A mild case of a criminal record—petty theft, breaking and entering, scams here and there. Good things to have on one’s profile when one was looking to link up with criminals.

The rest of the disguise?

Brant stood back. He tapped the follicle stimulator on his arm and grinned. “Looks good.”

“I beg to differ.” Jackson grimaced. His hair was cut far shorter than he liked, a bare-bones buzz cut, and was bleached too blond. Four lines of varying width circled from temple to temple around the back of his head, shaved there by Brant. The stimulator had made his sideburns grow clear down to his jawline. “I look like a punk Tactisar patrols would have scooped up on Bellwether Station for narcotics possession. And these itch.”

“That’ll take your mind off your eyes.” Brant chuckled. “How do you think I feel? I have two degrees and expert training in cryptanalysis and information warfare, yet here I am playing barber.”

“I hear it’s good to have a marketable skill if your first job doesn’t work out.”

“Careful.” Brant wagged the device. “I could have stayed back on Canaan, cutting hair instead of rejoining the team.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have this superb legend.” Jackson patted the tablet like it was a puppy. “Nice work.”

“Thanks. Miranda and I set up your dummy social media accounts—you probably saw those. Standard stuff. Pictures of hot women and tricked-out hovercraft. Crude jokes.”

“Ah. My specialty.”

“What’s Jack’s specialty?” Gina rested her chin on Jackson’s shoulder. No disguise for her, so far. That mission, she primarily would be concerned with nighttime raids and infiltration while masked and wearing her stealth-enhanced suit.

“Chasing girls—or pretending like he is.”

Gina snorted. “The latter. He’s practically a married man these days.”

Jackson blushed, which unfortunately made his pores tingle where the follicle stimulator had finished its job. “We’re not to that stage.”

“But closer?” Brant asked. “Because I need an excuse to wear a really nice suit, and as your best man—”

“You’d get the pick of the prettiest single ladies at the wedding?” Gina interjected.

“Well, no. Not what I mean.” Brant scratched the back of his neck. His gaze wandered around Jackson’s cabin.

“Oh, I suspect he’s got a guest in mind he’d like to invite.” It was Jackson’s turn to smile at his friend’s discomfort. “Miranda.”

Gina clapped her hand to her mouth. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” Brant frowned. “Miranda—Warrant Eldred is just—”

“Too late! You said her first name.” Gina slipped beside Brant and put her arms around his neck, then gave him a big, noisy kiss on the cheek. “I’m so happy for you kids.”

“Wow. Okay.” Brant extricated himself from her grip, which told Jackson she wasn’t trying to hold on, or he never would have gotten free. “You two are crazy.”

Gina glanced at Jackson, who shrugged. “I thought our choice of careers made that obvious.”

“Me too.” Jackson faked a whisper. “He’s getting old.”

Brant smirked. He held up the follicle stimulator, his hand trembling as he did. “You’re lucky I’m getting a better handle on this mess, Jackass, or who knows what your hair would have wound up like?”

Gina burst into giggles. Jackson laughed, too, Brant along with him. It bled off tension around the mention of Brant’s injury and brought them closer all at once. Having the release prior to the mission helped it proceed smoothly, Jackson was convinced, because he went in loosened up and could adapt to his new persona.

Breaking the rules is part of the persona too. Jackson smiled to himself. I definitely don’t have a problem with that, on or off duty.

“If you boys are done playing salon, I came down because I wanted to know if Brant had an update on our little side project?” Gina sat on Jackson’s bunk.

“Well…” Brant gestured to Jackson’s tablet. “Let me borrow that for a minute, will you?”

“Sure.” Jackson handed it over, his sparked curiosity intensifying when Brant slipped a tiny blue data chip into the tablet’s port. A series of readouts far more intricate than the legend he’d been supporting appeared on the screen. Brant turned on the holographic projector, putting the data up in the air. “Gina provided me with an audio recording of her brother, who’s about five years old. People change in that much time but not enough to fool a voice analysis program like Intelligence has kicking around.”

“Don’t be modest.” Gina crossed her legs and leaned back against the bulkhead. “He improved the program by adding comparison points so it’s—I don’t know the specifics but much better than the original.”

Brant grinned. “That’s true.”

Jackson crossed his cabin and shut the hatch. No need for word of their side project to become part of Oxford’s RUMINT web. “Did you get a match?”

“Ninety-two percent certainty.” Brant reached for two flowing waveforms and strung them together inside the hologram. A closeup of the masked figure from the insurgents’ vid floated alongside them. “Give or take four-tenths.”

Jackson shook his head. “I don’t believe it. Kyle. Really, Gina?”

“If you’re going to ask me if I had any idea he’d run off and become a terrorist on a League world, the answer’s no.” Gina’s tone was flat. “I thought Dad and I… we tried looking for him about a month or two after you went with me to tell him about Mom’s death. But I couldn’t get past what had happened to her. Gone, without me even knowing, without anyone telling us, only finding out because I went all the way to Galt.”

Jackson folded his arms. “I understand. But having Kyle in this group poses problems for us.”

Gina watched him, her expression wary. Jackson had seen that look before when an informant was deciding whether or not to trust him. “Are you going to tell Sinclair?”

“No. Not that I don’t trust him. But if CIS really is providing weapons—even starfighters—to League insurgents, we have to assume we’ve got compromised communications somewhere along the line.”

“If that’s the case, why’d the colonel let Captain Halevi in on the briefing?” Brant made a face. “Like a guy from Ire is going to keep his mouth shut.”

“About a classified briefing, yes. About our mission performance…” Jackson smirked. “He’s probably going to find a bunch there he doesn’t like. We need to keep this between us for the time being. If we can find a way to contact Kyle, or even extract him—”

“Assuming he wants to be extracted.”

“Which is why I need you to give me whatever background on him you can.” Jackson pointed to his tablet, the hologram still glowing in the air between him and Brant. “And you need to make sure that doesn’t sit on a network accessible to anyone.”

Brant ejected the chip and pocketed it. The displays died out. “This is the only record. I purged the console I ran the analysis on.”

“Good. Keep your tracks covered.” Jackson checked his wrist device. “Meantime, I’ve got to see if this source of Eldred’s has pieced together the right bits of intel.”

* * *

Freedom Station was a veritable city in space, the locus for all military and civilian traffic in the region. The League of Sol had built it as a monument to human hubris, the crowning achievement of a socialist empire that would never know defeat. Jackson gazed up at the sprawling silver surfaces as the shuttle glided into the nearest bay. He savored the irony that it now served as a glaring reminder that the Terran Coalition had ended the war with a hook dug into the League’s flank, providing a lifeline to the newly bustling worlds that had voted to leave their despotic masters and join a free republic.

The shuttle was a civilian model, one of several Oxford kept on hand for inserting operatives without raising alarm. Oxford herself circled Freedom Station in an orbit reserved for visiting commercial craft that didn’t require refueling or resupply—a shore leave lane, as Jackson understood it. Neither Sinclair nor Oxford’s CO wanted to reveal the ship’s true presence to the CDF contingent.

Dwyer set the shuttle down with a mild thump on its assigned landing circle. “All right, Cap’n, you have fun out there. Feel free to take a pouch of the Domino Mountain brand to barter for anything you don’t have the credits to buy.”

Jackson chuckled. “I appreciate the offer, Sparks, but this time, I’ll stick to nice, quiet conversation. See you back here at sixteen hundred.”

He and Eldred trotted down the ramp, dressed in civilian shirts and trousers with a green vest thrown on top. The pouches were stuffed with as many used components as Brant could rustle up from Novabird’s stores, the kind a CDF ship wouldn’t carry but a mechanic with a shady background like JJ Accurso would.

Jackson checked his wrist unit as he headed for the security scanners manned by CDF soldiers. The tiny screen showed him the image of CBI Agent Josie Lind, a Filipino woman with short white hair, in her midfifties. Eldred had provided the names of several places she frequented aboard the station, noisy bars or quiet parks in which one could meet discreetly with informants.

I wonder how she’ll take to being the informant this time around. It was a tricky prospect. Jackson pondered every way in which their meeting could go wrong as he smiled at the young CDF soldier during his ID scan.

The corporal nodded and replied, “Welcome to Freedom Station,” as soon as the falsified ID passed all the entry checks. Jackson followed the stream of visitors onto a broad promenade, watching the signs for the Gemstar District.

“Hey, man, don’t get lost in this place, okay?” A fellow traveler jostled him then put an arm around his shoulders. His words came out slurred. The unmistakable smell of a few drinks too many wafted over Jackson. “Where you headed?”

“Gemstar. I’ve got a few extra credits if you show me the way.” Jackson shrugged out from under the arm, putting a few paces between them but maintaining an easy smile.

“Sure, man, sure, lemme see.”

Jackson held up the credit chit so the taller man could squint, bleary-eyed, at the total.

“That’s all you came with?” The voice lost its slur, even though the gait was still more of a stagger than a walk. “Did you get a budget cut I was unaware of?”

“Your friend Eidolon said the same thing, Chaperone.”

“And so here I am, chaperoning.” Cam Tahatan still had his easygoing tone, even if his bronzed Amerindian features were slightly altered—new eye color, false cheekbones, tattoos covering half his face. “Eidolon’s on this, too, eh? Sounds like you kept the band together.”

“That’s the plan. So, how much do you want?”

Cam snorted. “Cover the drinks when we get there and call it good. I’ll be joining you and your friends at your new vacation spot, sooner or later.” He steered Jackson down a corridor that was half as crowded.

Jackson nodded. He’d wondered if Sinclair would bring the Intelligence operative into this mission, given the frequency of his appearances since the Trenchant II incident. Cam worked alone, which Jackson imagined to be far more dangerous without a team as backup, but Cam seemed to relish the challenge. His operational autonomy had proved advantageous on more than one occasion.

For the time, he was a handy go-between so Miranda Eldred didn’t have to leave Oxford and risk being spotted by CIS while looking up an old friend.

They arrived at a lounge called Nakatomi’s, which for some reason had a stylized image of a tall building as its logo. Old headquarters, Jackson surmised. A hundred people filled the seats, civilians from nine different worlds, if he correctly ascertained their styles of dress, plus Freedom Station itself. The people wore clothing that copied a military style.

CBI Agent Lind was in a far corner, back to the wall, eating a fruit salad and perusing news networks on the transparent table’s surface. Jackson admired how she had a clear field of view around not just other diners and the triple fountains spaced throughout the restaurant but the main entrance and twin bathroom alcoves as well.

“Hey, Josie.” Cam slid into a seat, gesturing for Jackson to follow suit. “Got that friend of a friend we’ve been waiting for.”

Lind glanced up. “Yes?”

“Afternoon.” Jackson nodded. “JJ Accurso.”

“Not interested in your name, civvy.”

“How about Vicky? She says hi.”

Lind stopped midchew. That was the greeting Eldred said she’d agreed upon—the use of her old nickname. Miranda Victoria Eldred had been Jocelyn Agnes Lind’s protégé before Eldred herself had left after a crisis of faith during a mission involving the long-missing and famed CSV Lion of Judah during the war.

“Does she?” Lind set down her fork and lifted a napkin from her lap so she could wipe her hands. The move was meant, Jackson realized, to draw his attention to the pulse pistol holstered on her belt, half-concealed by her vest under the table’s edge.

“She also says she misses Aggie’s superb aim when it comes to darts.”

Lind’s face relaxed a bit. “Vicky would know, considering I beat her almost every time. Cam, when you said you had a friend of a friend, I wasn’t expecting much.”

“Since when have I let you down?”

“Since you said I’d only have two smugglers to apprehend and there were nine.” Lind made a sour face like she hadn’t enjoyed that last bite of fruit.

Cam shrugged. He reached for a papaya slice dangling off the edge of the plate. “I didn’t leave you hanging, though, did I? Between the two of us, we nabbed them, and I disappeared so your record could enjoy all the glory.”

A fork stabbed through the papaya, mere centimeters from Cam’s fingers. His smile froze.

“I’ll tell you what I can, but be advised I don’t know who’s listening.” Lind’s gaze flicked behind them, taking in the chattering tables. She’d lowered her voice so Jackson had to strain to hear her over the music rattling the overhead speakers. “The League might not be into microbots and other fun drones our various agencies use…”

“No worries.” Jackson leaned on the table so his wrist unit was prominent. Its underside glowed orange, the light spilling into his sleeve. “If they’re lurking, this will redirect them to targets that aren’t us.”

Lind’s eyebrows raised. “You’re with—”

“A busy crew who tries to get things done quickly,” Jackson interjected. “The sooner you tell us what you know, or think you know, the sooner they’ll finish.”

She nodded. “I was with the service for thirty years. Didn’t know anything except how to uncover dirty secrets and take questionable actions, all in the name of winning the war. Make no mistake—the cause was just, but I found myself increasingly uncomfortable about what I did to support that cause.”

“So you left. Transferred.”

“Only after Vicky beat me to it.” Lind chuckled and shook her head. “I trained her to think independently and take action that wasn’t laid out in a rulebook. Ironic, I suppose, that the same training meant to be used in the service is what led her to quit.”

“And you, not long after.”

“That’s right. I submitted my resignation the second the treaty was signed. Of course, I was too stubborn to retire. CBI is a good fit—plenty of my contacts from the war days are still here.” She slid the papaya Cam had tried to steal around to her side of the plate then went back for kiwi.

Jackson checked his wrist unit again as she ate. No indication of electronic surveillance, which meant they weren’t on anyone’s scanners, so to speak.

“It was one of those contacts who signaled me a few weeks ago.”

“What did he tell you?”

“It was less of what he told and more of what he confirmed. See, I’ve been keeping an eye on shipments coming through Freedom Station. Not technically my department, but I like to dabble in things that I’m curious about—a holdover from CIS days. A couple of months back, I started hearing rumors about shipments meant for settlements gone missing and merchant cargoes coming through that get waived past customs.”

“Big-ticket items?” Cam asked. “As in the winged kind?”

“I can’t be sure. But after the attack at Nandao…” Lind glowered. “I know it hasn’t made the media yet, but RUMINT is spreading it overtime. Did the insurgents really hit the Galter ship with our obsolete fighters?”

Jackson shook his head. “Phantoms.”

Lind pushed her plate away. “Don’t think I’m hungry anymore. I thought there was a black market scheme going on, but I never considered… okay. I can give you what I have. That’s not a problem. But I need your word you can help out my guy.”

Jackson glanced at Cam, whose expression was blank. “I can’t make promises like that. You know how this works. But I can say we’ll do our best to get him clear if things go bad.”

“You don’t get it—he’s not with any agency. Never was. All he has is a trade depot security pension to look forward to when he retires in twenty or more years.”

“I understand that. Trust me, I have plenty of experience with civilian agents and know all about both their importance and their vulnerabilities.”

“Then believe me when I say I’m not willing to hand over what I’ve compiled until I have assurances you’ll keep him safe.”

Again, Cam seemed noncommittal. He certainly wasn’t being helpful with suggestions.

Thanks a lot. Jackson grimaced. It goes against the cold calculus of the operation, but… “I promise I’ll do what I can, but I’ll need his name, a way to contact him, and verification that you’re the one who sent me.”

“I have resigned from the service, but CBI isn’t a bunch of slouches.” Lind raised her chin in Cam’s direction. “He’s got it.”

Cam leaned back and scratched his chin with his left hand. The right rested atop a napkin on the table. Jackson spotted a credit chit tucked into the folds.

“Whoever’s moving this stuff has the money and the access,” Lind continued. “But it’s too big for a solo CBI agent to stop. These weapons? We’re not talking about charitable donations. They’re making good money, if my estimates are correct.”

Jackson slipped the credit chit out and whistled low when he saw the total emblazoned there. “That’s a lot of zeroes.”

“I’ll be in touch with Vicky if you need more.” Lind got up and left them sitting at the table. They stared at the chit.

“Well,” Cam said, “Think it’s worth your while?”

Jackson pocketed the card. He activated the menu in the center of the table. “Definitely worth the price of our drinks.”

As soon as the first beer arrived, he clinked glasses with Cam then spilled half the liquid down the front of his shirt.

“I get it,” Cam said, sipping his beer. “But what a waste.”

6

CSV Oxford

Orbiting Freedom Station

9 March 2466

Brant leaned back in his chair as the upload finished. Jackson had sent a burst transmission loaded with data from the supposed credit chit CBI Agent Josie Lind had given him. “Did she really cram everything she’d found onto this thing’s memory?”

Miranda nodded. “We used the same gambit during a long-term operation on Lusitania when we couldn’t be sure who was monitoring us—or if anyone was monitoring us. It’s especially effective because it mimics a banking transaction.”

“Sure.” Brant chuckled and indicated his console. “Even my comp is trying to figure out what these account records have to do with our current mission.”

“And it’ll keep wondering until I enter the correct decryption key.” Miranda leaned past him so she could tap the code into his console. “Assuming Aggie hasn’t changed it since she made the switch to CBI.”

Brant glanced at her. “Did she leave for the same reasons you did? Moral conflict?”

“God only knows—and I mean that in the most literal sense of the phrase. We’ve never talked about it.” Miranda caught his gaze with hers. “I’ve trusted few people with the ‘why’ behind my own resignation. Partially because it’s hard to have faith in anyone when you’ve spent so many years practicing what normal people call betrayal, but in CIS, it’s standard operating procedure to prevent the collapse of an operation or the capture of a CIS officer.”

“It’s not like CDF Intelligence is free of the same behavior,” Brant suggested. “We all make questionable choices in the name of national security.”

“Right. It’s living with them that’s the hard part. If you don’t mind my asking, how do you do it?”

“Prayer.” Brant shrugged. “I don’t mean to sound glib or trite. It’s the truth. God sustains me. I go to him with my worries and my guilt. There are things only He can forgive me for—because I can’t go on the news networks and ask Coalition civilians for the same thing. We keep secrets in this job, and we do it to protect people. I can only hope He sees it that way and try to repent where I can of the things that break His heart.”

Miranda stared at him. Maybe he’d said too much, but when it came to her, he felt he could be free with the absolute truth.

She responded with a small smile. “I’ve spoken to my priest about the same thing. I’m glad the two of us can work with the same foundation in place.”

“Me too.”

Brant’s console beeped. He mentally pushed aside the urge to reset the alert and instead opened the decrypted files. Agent Lind’s collected data spilled forth as images, brief vids, and pages full of shipping manifests. Brant’s hands input new commands, setting up search parameters based on the intelligence they’d received about the missing fighters.

“I’ll give your friend Aggie this, Miranda—she’s kept a close watch on shady dealings. Look at these transit delays.”

Miranda peered at the screen. “Right. They’re on random dates at haphazard hours, so at first glance, they don’t have a pattern until you look at the times of the delays themselves.”

“Between eighteen and twenty minutes.” Brant rubbed his chin. “That’s the trouble with people trying to disguise their criminal activity with random errors—we’re too human. We can’t randomize well enough, not like an algorithm.”

“And she’s taken it one step further.” Miranda crosslinked her console to Brant’s so she could examine the same data using her own tailor-made programs. “Locations.”

“That’s what we need.” Brant opened a secure line via the encrypted communications setup he’d established specifically for their mission. His heart rate accelerated when he spoke the code phrase he hadn’t used in a long time. “Echo One, this is Echo Home.”

* * *

Cargo Hold B-2

Freedom Station

Twin sentry robots guarded the entrance to the cargo hold, one of the six largest aboard the station, but the main hatch into that cavernous space remained wide open. Jackson frowned as he watched the bots from around a corner, where he stood behind an information panel’s transparent floor-to-ceiling surface. “Stalwart-series. Mark Sevens.”

“Mark Sevens?” Brant whistled. His voice sounded tinny through the implanted transmitter behind Jackson’s ears. “Freedom doesn’t skimp on hardware.”

“No, they don’t.” The bots were person-sized, bipedal, armed with projectile weapons Jackson knew were loaded with stun rounds only—though “only” meant immobilization and unconsciousness for hours after being shot. Not an experience he wanted to relive. He shifted, the huge damp stain on his shirt cold enough to be uncomfortable. “But I also don’t see any live guards.”

“Records indicate none on duty at this time of day.”

Jackson checked his wrist unit. 1306. He had plenty of time until Dwyer would return with their generic civilian shuttle and take him back to Oxford. “What about inside?”

“Standby. Chaperone, where are my eyes?”

Cam grunted. “A bulkhead access compartment doesn’t have a lot of room, you know that, right?”

Jackson grinned. The operative had squeezed inside the walls of a corridor running adjacent to B-2, which let him get near the life support vents for that section of the station. “Don’t complain too loudly, Chaperone. Echo Three and Echo Four once found a target hiding inside an agro-combine’s panel, where he’d been for days.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot, One.” The strain in Cam’s voice only increased. “Hold on. Deploying your little friend.”

A ghostly, distorted view of B-2’s interior sprang to life over Jackson’s field of vision. Cam had dropped a microbot into the vent, and the tiny construct, no bigger than the pebbles Jackson used to pile on the ranch’s entry road, zoomed into the cargo hold from the life support vents embedded in the wall. Containers of varying shapes and sizes, mostly gray but with scattered black, blue, and white, spread from wall to wall and up three stories of racks. The far third of the hold was dedicated to shuttle landing circles, six of them, as well as a large hatch from which a cofferdam could extend to freighters docked nearby. A transparent wall separated the loading area from storage.

Five people moved containers out of the hold.

“Well, they’re not on the schedule,” Brant noted. “A reminder, One—our little friend has a limited life, so you’ll have to get up close and personal for the next step.”

“I’m ready when he is, Home,” Cam added. “But make it quick.”

“Roger that. I’m headed in.” Jackson ran a hand through his hair, making sure it was as disheveled as possible. He untucked one side of his shirt, unzipped a few pouches on his vest so components dangled, and checked his breath. Thanks to his intentional spill, he stank of alcohol. His only regret was that he hadn’t tasted nearly enough to appreciate the entire glass of beer.

Jackson put on his best stagger, walking with enough speed to not take forever while keeping himself zero threat to the security bots. It wasn’t until he was a few meters from B-2’s entrance, passing by with a dozen other visitors, that he veered into their midst.

“Halt, citizen.” The left-hand security robot’s voice was calm like that of a mother soothing an unruly child. “This cargo facility is off-limits to unauthorized personnel.”

“Hey, no worries, man, no problem.” Jackson slurred the worries. He patted the robot on its arm, doing his best to ignore the ballistic weapon pointed at him—and the one on the right-hand bot that was also aimed his way. “I gotta see a friend about a thing, okay? He’s gonna vouch for me.”

“Okay, I’ve got the results from your scanner, One,” Brant said. “Their systems are compromised. I thought probably so. Let’s see. This upload will take advantage of the existing weakness, but you’re only going to have a few minutes once it’s active. Thirty seconds for download and install through their command and control array, four minutes of protection.”

Better than trying to bluff my way past a fully functional armed robot. Jackson wore his biggest, goofiest grin and made his right eye twitch as if he were having trouble keeping it open. “’S a heck of a word, right? Vouch. I like it.”

“Citizen, please remove yourself from the vicinity. You have thirty seconds to comply.”

Three timers appeared in Jackson’s field of view, a green one that read 0:26, a red one that showed 0:29—both counting down—and a white one that was frozen at 4:00.

“Well, lucky for you, my man, I don’t got time to stand here arguing with you.” Jackson sidled around the robot. “Excuse me…”

The robots slipped together so quickly Jackson could have sworn they levitated. They formed a shoulder-to-shoulder barricade that denied him entry.

“Citizen, please remove yourself from the vicinity, or you will be immobilized. Station security will provide immediate care should you be injured in any way. You have nineteen seconds to comply.”

Lucky me. I won’t need it. Jackson’s first timer read 0:16. “Sorry you guys feel that way. Really, I am, but I got to go see my pal, and he’s just not gonna be happy if I get zapped into a quivering lump out here, okay?”

“Citizen, you are in violation of Terran Coalition trespassing statutes. You will be detained and remanded… remanded… remanded.” The golden glow behind the smoky plastic of the robot’s single optical scanner flickered. It lowered its weapon.

Its partner followed suit a second later.

Jackson brushed sweat from his cheek. His red timer showed 0:03 seconds remaining. “Nothing like cutting it close, Echo Home.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, One. I have them restrained. Three minutes fifty-five seconds until I have to release them. Hurry up—looks like the programming our intruders put into place was designed only to make the bots ignore whoever’s in there outside a certain scan radius, so if you change your mind and want to trap them…”

“Negative. We need to trace them to their destination.” Jackson squeezed around the security bots and strode down the center aisle of the hangar bay. He glanced up and to his right at a silver life-support vent. “Chaperone, this is One.”

“I know, I’m here.” Cam sighed. “I’ve got the board open, so give the high sign when you want me to trip this alarm.”

“Can do.” Jackson could see the heads of five men in a line from a short stack of long containers that reached to a squat, octagonal barge. “There they are!”

Five faces swung toward him, as did the muzzles of five plasma pistols.

“Who the hell is that?” A tall black man wearing a red jacket scowled in Jackson’s direction.

“No idea.” A slender Japanese technician in a grubby gray jumpsuit prodded Jackson in the chest with his pistol. “Piss off.”

“Hey, whoa, man. Calm down, right?” Jackson stumbled left. He bumped against a container rack. “Y’must be here with Harry, yeah? Harry! I’m ready, man.”

“Screw this mess.” The Japanese guy lifted his pistol to Jackson’s head.

“Hey! No bodies. Too much mess.” Red Jacket gestured toward the bulkheads. “The scanners won’t glitch forever. Toss him back in the hall.”

“How’d he get by the bots?” another one asked.

“Probably we broke them too much.” The technician made a face. “He smells like he drank half a bar. Come on, buddy. There’s no Harry here. Get out.”

“Now wait a second.” Jackson reached for the guy but deliberately missed, then fell onto his knees. He made a couple of feeble attempts to get upright. On the last try, Jackson held up his hands, fingers spread wide.

“Plug your ears,” Cam muttered through the comms.

A klaxon reverberated off the bulkheads and down the aisles. The men loading cargo accelerated their pace. “Forget him! Get aboard!” Red Jacket yelled over the commotion.

The technician grabbed Jackson and hauled him to his feet. Jackson held on to the man’s arm with both hands, long enough for the second microbot—this one the size of a stylus’s tip and as thin as a fingernail—to crawl onto the guy’s sleeve. He could see the bot skitter toward the man’s wrist then begin dissolving, its synthetic carapace leeching its composite materials through the epidermis.

“One, this is Home.” Brant sounded as happy as a student who got perfect grades on his latest exam. “Getting a clear signal. You’re good to go.”

“All right!” Jackson slurred. “Relax, okay, man. I’m going, I’m going.”

The technician shoved him away and hurried up the barge’s ramp. Airlock warning lights flashed as Jackson backed away, the transparent walls sealing off the hangar at the end of the cargo hold.

His timer read 1:54. Jackson staggered toward the entrance, past the bots who stood quivering in the invisible grip of Brant’s restraining program. Onlookers had gathered by then, gawking at the alarms sounding from inside B-2.

“You’ve got security on their way, three corridors over and closing,” Brant warned. “Meet up with Chaperone. He’s got your exit.”

Cam waved from the end of his corridor, hair matted by sweat, sleeves rolled up.

Jackson joined him in a swift walk. A couple of passersby glanced at them, frowning, but the rest were too preoccupied with the sight of the twitching bots.

“B-2’s scanners are coming back online,” Brant reported. “My friend up here has a power grid interruption scheduled as soon as you reach the next intersection.”

Jackson saw the four-way up ahead. “Split here,” he instructed Cam. “Find a place where you can stay out of the way for a few hours.”

Cam chuckled. “Great advice. I think I know my way around the station better than you, or were you planning to shove yourself into an access panel too? I wouldn’t recommend it. Limited ambiance.”

The main lighting sputtered and died. Orange emergency strips along the deck and ceiling sprang to life. People all around griped and shouted. Everyone was suddenly very intent on their commlinks, tablets, and wrist devices.

Jackson’s unit glowed with a map of the current level of Freedom Station, with an arrow pointing to a compartment labeled Food Waste Compost Holding Number 3. He scowled.

Cam took one look, and his laughter shot up a notch in volume. He elbowed Jackson. “Have fun with that. Tell Eidolon this wasn’t nearly as much fun as our last encounter.”

By the time Jackson reached FWCH3, Cam had disappeared among the crowd. The alerts died out. The main power appeared to be functional.

“Security has the bots down for maintenance.” Brant sounded relieved. “They won’t get anything out of their memories, though. I have to say, it’s a lot easier to do my job when the bad guys use their brute-force attacks on programming first. They leave such a mess behind it’s the perfect cover for my much more subtle work.”

Jackson triggered the compost room’s hatch. The smell that greeted him was ripe, to say the least. “I’m really happy for you.”

“Don’t worry. Stay there a half hour, max. Security might drop their alert sooner than that, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Another voice, barely a whisper through the comms, laughed. Eldred, no doubt, seated right next to Brant. Jackson grimaced as he stepped inside and shut the hatch behind him. “I think I rather would.”

* * *

Brant’s estimate turned out near exact. He sent Jackson the all clear after twenty-eight minutes.

Clearing out of the area and taking a circuitous route back to the shuttle landing bay for his rendezvous gave Jackson plenty of time to think while he pretended to shop at every other kiosk and storefront he encountered. He didn’t see CIS giving stolen weaponry to League insurgents just for kicks. Where is the benefit to CIS besides a destabilized border world? Admittedly, that would serve the Coalition nicely. The League’s ESS had been trying to achieve the same result over the past couple of years.

But historically speaking, CIS was frugal, which led Jackson to believe they had been paid for the weapons. Fighters, even stolen ones in need of repair, weren’t cheap. So, who among the League—or outside it—is bankrolling the insurgents?

Jackson’s mind immediately skipped to Ardalion Noor. The disgraced CEO of Nosamo Aerothermic had been on the run ever since his failed attempt to sell an atmospheric rehabilitation system that doubled as a weapon of mass destruction, either knowingly or not, to League agents. CAU 171 had gathered evidence of his involvement with the Fabian plot last fall to tank the Coalition credit by sabotaging the currency exchange on Galt, but there hadn’t been so much as a whisper of a sighting of him since.

All his mental wanderings, coupled with his physical traipsing, brought Jackson back to Vasiliy. The League operative was a distant image and a disembodied voice, Jackson’s adversary for most of his missions as CAU 171’s commander and, more importantly, for the near death of Brant Guinto. He, too, had been inactive. Jackson knew ESS frowned upon its operatives’ repeated failure and usually punished such poor performance with execution. But Jackson felt uneasy about the prospect that first Vasiliy then Noor had been silent for a long stretch.

Enemies don’t just walk away, not ones as determined as Vasiliy.

But as much as he wanted to keep an eye out for his opponent—even with the man having vanished—Jackson brought his focus back to CIS and their goals. Is it a batch of rogue operatives? Or someone operating on orders from higher up? And isn’t supplying Coalition weapons in violation of the treaty a sloppy move? Especially if the League was suppressing whatever intel they had. Surely they’d noticed.

The revelation smacked Jackson at the same time a shopkeeper did when she mistook him for a drunken vagrant leaning too close to the crystal replicas of Coalition planets in her gift store. The Leaguers had to know and were hiding that they did. No diplomatic contact with their Coalition counterparts. No blaring it on the news. Why? They were within their rights to restart the war, but they clearly didn’t want to.

Which could mean someone on our side wants to drag us back into the fight. Jackson felt sick. Someone dissatisfied with the way it ended and needing further payback. They’re willing to frame the administration to get it. The problem, of course, was proving anything he’d just hypothesized.

* * *

Dwyer met Jackson at the rendezvous and shuttled them back aboard Oxford, though how he kept from cracking jokes about his commander’s appearance and stench was beyond Jackson. Jackson didn’t care. He was eager to see how the tracking mite performed, but Sinclair banned him from the operations center until he showered repeatedly.

Jackson hadn’t realized how badly he’d smelled until he met up with Brant and Eldred in the wardroom, away from prying eyes.

“The signal is weak but constant enough we’re getting a fix.” Eldred prodded a pulsing light in the holographic display of the local galactic region. “We’ve turned over the frequency to CSV Tuscon. Major Mancini’s watching for it now.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Tuscon’s down there already?”

“She was reconnoitering for a new expansion of PASCORE.” Brant referred to the Passive Scan Observation and Reporting network used by the CDF and SATO allies to conduct deep space advanced warning of border incursions. “Tuscon and Lubbock have skirted the border at a snail’s pace for a couple of weeks now but not in the vicinity of New Rostov. Colonel Sinclair communicated with Major Mancini about the importance of this assignment, but neither stealth boat’s been officially reassigned.”

“Right. No one wants to tip off whoever’s dealing the weapons.” Jackson rubbed his chin. “We should beat them to New Rostov anyway, given Oxford’s superior speed, thanks to the antimatter reactor.”

Brant nodded. “The tracker will let us know if and when they stop anywhere else along their route. Those containers they loaded? Freedom Station’s inventory says they were armament, fighter-grade, as well as energy weapon capacitors for Phantoms.”

“Great.” Jackson gazed at the star map. “Now we have to figure out who’s doing the buying and selling.”

7

CSV Tuscon

200 Light-Years from New Rostov System

13 March 2466

Major Nathan Mancini scowled across his command chair’s console at the empty mug. It was still warm, and he didn’t feel nearly the boost he should have.

“Skipper?” Captain Patrick Godat, his executive officer, raised his own still-steaming mug. “Can I get you a refill?”

“No. I’m done.” He could still taste the bland flavor, caffeinated or not. “I’m not kidding, XO. I want COB to conduct a thorough review of the supply manifest when we get home. This should never be allowed to happen.”

“Understood.” Godat sipped his tea and made no further comment.

Mancini rubbed his forehead between his eyebrows and gazed once more at the tactical board. They’d been skirting the League of Sol’s border for three weeks, charting points where it would be advantageous and efficient to install sensor buoys that would extend the PASCORE network’s reach. Twenty-one days.

The coffee aboard Tuscon ran out after seventeen.

Mancini’s previous record without his lifeblood beverage was forty-eight hours. He’d managed, grudgingly, though his officers had commented on his rising irritability. Now, there he was, four full days without the only brew God intended for mankind, and they knew better than to bother him with chitchat. Tea provided barely the caffeine he needed, but he was sick of dead leaf water.

When he found out who in the galley hadn’t refilled the stores with coffee—especially the Domino Mountain brand they’d relied upon Warrant Dwyer for—they would be polishing the ion engine nozzles after every Lawrence Drive jump.

At least he’d had the distraction of tracking a contact instead of focusing on stellar anomaly charts. “TAO, what’s our contact up to?”

“Conn, TAO. Sierra One is powering for another jump,” Lieutenant Olesen reported. “I estimate the destination as either Yarborough, New Maine, or Akai.”

“Either? Tactical board arguing with you, TAO?”

“Negative, Skipper, but we’re way outside PASCORE’s range, so we have to rely on the basics.”

Godat cleared his throat. “Ten credits on New Maine. There’s not much there besides Amish farmers and settlements of fishermen.”

“Belay that, XO. This isn’t a gambling parlor.” Mancini maintained a watchful eye on the board, though, and figured Akai for a better destination, as it had a couple of orbital stations where one could make repairs if no one was looking too closely.

“Conn, TAO. Sierra One has jumped.”

“Sensor Room, get me a fix on its arrival point,” Mancini ordered.

“Conn, Sensor. It’s difficult at this range,” the noncom in charge replied. “Permission to ping Lubbock for the assist.”

“Sensor, go ahead.” Perhaps his counterpart commanding the stealth boat CSV Lubbock, Major Usman Ghali, was nearer. It certainly appeared Lubbock had fewer parsecs between itself and Sierra One.

The tactical board showed the blurred red area that was Leaguer space, with blue dots for the CDF stealth boats. Sierra One—the freighter calling itself Pufferfish, whose crew Covert Action Unit 171 had tagged on Freedom Station a few days ago—was a yellow circle. But it was hazy as Tuscon’s sensors waited on confirmation that it had completed the jump.

Sierra One reappeared at the Akai system. Godat smacked a console. Olesen stifled a cough that might have been a chuckle.

A sliver of Mancini’s surliness fell away. Too bad I passed on the bet. I could always use an extra ten credits. “Sensor, send our thanks to Lubbock and promise them we’ll return the favor.”

“Conn, Sensor. Aye, Skipper.”

Mancini squeezed through the bridge’s tight confines, past the other crew intent on their consoles. Tuscon wasn’t running on full Emissions Control Alpha, but she wasn’t blaring her presence to the entire galaxy either. Even without EMCON, that far from the League border, she might appear on their scopes, but Intelligence had assured him all they would see was another tramp freighter or similar civilian vessel. Still, Mancini took everything the spooks said with a few grains of salt, so Tuscon’s drive signature had been altered and diminished, meaning she couldn’t run off after a pursuit—but neither would anyone suspect a fully armed CDF stealth boat lurked at the border.

That precaution taken, he was glad to see his people treating it as seriously as a wartime deployment deep in enemy territory—with little chatter and plenty of attention to detail.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change on Sierra One.” Olesen beckoned Mancini forward.

“Looks like she’s hanging out, though, at this range, it’s impossible to tell where.”

“Sounds like we need to take a peek for ourselves,” Mancini murmured. “Comms, signal Lubbock. My regards to Major Ghali and inform him we’re jumping to the Akai system’s edge for a closer look at Sierra One.”

“Conn, Comms. Sending now, sir.”

“XO, charge the Lawrence drive.”

Godat nodded. “Aye, sir. Charging Lawrence drive.”

“Pilot, set jump coordinates for the Akai system, on the fringes of the local Oort Cloud. TAO, confirm.”

Mancini watched as Olesen conferred with the pilot, passing data between their consoles. “Conn, TAO. Coordinates confirmed. Should give us decent cover from local sensors, though there’s zero in the way of traffic control, as far as the almanac is concerned.”

“Always pays to be cautious, TAO.”

“Lawrence drive charged and ready,” Godat reported.

“Engage the drive, XO.”

Tuscon’s main screen revealed a sight that never failed to impress Mancini—the stable wormhole the Lawrence drive manifested between two points in the galaxy, its fringes a rainbow kaleidoscope, as the drive drew power from Tuscon’s reactor. The pilot steered the stealth boat through, and Mancini tried not to shiver, either from an adrenaline bleed off or his severe lack of proper caffeination.

“Conn, TAO. Coordinates match for Akai system,” Olesen called.

“Confirmed, TAO. Repopulate the board.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

The tactical board blinked and revealed a closer view of the Akai system, with its K-type main sequence star orbited by six planets and three loose debris rings. Sensor readouts returned drive signatures from thirteen vessels, most of which were in-system ice haulers or ore transporters. Tinier signatures from shuttles or the mining rigs themselves were difficult to spot at that distance. Mancini wasn’t worried about detection—Tuscon’s Lawrence drive was built specially to appear only as a background neutrino burst when activated—but the excess caution was in keeping with the delicate nature of the mission.

He tried not to think about people in another branch of the Coalition government spying on him as he tried to put a crimp on their illegal doings.

“Conn, TAO. We have Sierra One approaching Port Akai Regional Station.” Olesen highlighted the ship plus a new indicator near the system’s second planet.

Mancini glanced at Godat. “Speculation?”

“Could be refueling, but it’s not like four days is that long of a hike from Freedom Station.” Godat squinted at the displays. “It’s possible they’ll shift the cargo to another vessel and go elsewhere, leaving a new ship to complete the delivery.”

“Or they could be taking on more cargo—or splitting it up.” Mancini shook his head. “Not much we can tell about that from out here. TAO, any other vessels near Port Akai?”

“Conn, TAO. Negative. Nearest ship is a Starguild-class light freighter coming from the opposite side of the system and below the ecliptic plane. ETA to Port Akai four hours.”

“And Sierra One’s ETA?”

“Two hours, sir.”

“All right. We’ll stand off here for a while and keep tabs on them. Pilot, set coordinates for a jump that will put us behind Akai Three relative to Port Akai. We’ll take close-up sensor readings of their arrival as we orbit.”

“Should work,” Godat murmured. “As long as we take enough time to let the Lawrence drive cool off so we don’t risk throwing exotic particles the next time we light it up.”

Mancini checked the chronometer readout on his console. “We’ll make the jump at 1640, in one hour and forty from now. That’ll give us plenty of time to secure from the jump and take a quiet spin around Akai Three.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

Mancini reclaimed his seat. He frowned at the forlorn mug, picked it up, and stood again. “I’m headed to the galley to see what I can concoct that’s stronger than this swill. Captain, you have the conn.”

“I have the conn, aye.” Godat grinned. “Good hunting.”

“Conn, TAO.” Olesen looked over his shoulder, his expression bland. “There’s hot chocolate down there, Major.”

Soft chuckles rippled around the bridge. Mancini let them have humor at his expense. We’ll see if it’s so damned funny when I have them run back-to-back missile drills.

* * *

One hundred minutes later, on the second, Tuscon made its second Lawrence drive jump deeper into the Akai system.

Mancini had taken Olesen’s advice. The chocolate was a welcome break from the tea, it turned out, though it didn’t deliver nearly the buzz he desired. “TAO, repopulate the board.”

“Conn, TAO. Repopulating.”

The tactical display narrowed its view even farther, showing a detailed scan of Akai III, the planet shrouded in yellowish sulfur clouds. Sierra Two, as the Starguild had been designated, was still on course to arrive at Port Akai in about two more hours.

“Conn, Comms. Incoming secure tightbeam from Lubbock.”

Mancini met Godat’s curious look. “Comms, put it on the screen.”

Major Usman Ghali appeared, his head and shoulders blocking most of Lubbock’s bridge, but seeing as how the stealth boat was Tuscon’s sister vessel, Mancini knew he was missing little.

“Major,” Ghali said, his tone as smooth and cultured as always. “Delightful to see you doing well.”

“I’d be better if I weren’t low on an essential supply. What’s the good word?”

“We have been monitoring your Sierra One in the same manner, as you know, and observed the entry of Sierra Two into the system from coordinates ninety degrees relative to your position,” Ghali explained. “Sierra Two’s ID is falsified, my sensor chief insists, and further, her drive signature is similar to a modified set we observed on the Flareside smuggler alley five weeks ago.”

“Flareside,” Mancini mused. “The one that runs by the pulsar? Well, at least we know they’re up to no good, hiding their course that way. You don’t happen to have a true ID.”

“Do you doubt our skills?” Ghali smirked. “Or have you ascertained it already?”

“Come on, Major. It’s not a test.” Mancini grinned.

Ghali gestured behind him. “I am sending the correct registration to you now. May Allah bless its use in your pursuit.”

“Many thanks.”

The transmission blanked. Godat grunted as he perused his console. “There she is, Skipper—private merchant vessel Gone Fishing, one hundred meters in length, registered to Gracious Light Mercantile. Take a guess as to one of her many stops in recent months.”

“If I say New Rostov, do I get a bag of roasted blend you’ve hidden away?”

“No such beast exists, but you’re right.”

Mancini sighed.

As soon as Tuscon rounded the planet, her sensors updated the tactical display with much more detailed data than they gathered from the Oort Cloud. Sierra One maneuvered to dock. An ice hauler was tethered to the opposite side of the small, wheel-shaped station. Tiny was a better word than small. The two freighters put end to end were the same width as Port Akai.

“Okay, then,” Mancini murmured. “Let’s see what they’re looking to do.”

Over the next hour, as Sierra Two drew nearer, Sierra One did nothing. No crew transfers, no refueling, no external repairs. Mancini would have reported it derelict except its reactor was still humming along, according to the sensor logs, and it was connected to Port Akai’s information network for updates.

“Conn, Comms,” the petty officer announced. “Sierra Two has clearance to approach but has not requested a docking hardpoint.”

“TAO, where are they headed?”

“Conn, TAO. She’s making a slow circle around to Sierra One, sir.” Olesen frowned over his console. “Slowing with ion engines. Now switching to braking thrusters.”

The visual representation on Tuscon’s screen showed one of the options Mancini had surmised—Gone Fishing sidled up alongside Sierra One, the silent Pufferfish. Both vessels shared large cargo bay doors on their starboard and port hulls.

“Hell of a pilot there.” Godat sounded impressed. “I bet they’re not twenty meters apart.”

“TAO?”

“Twenty-two, XO,” Olesen confirmed.

Mancini watched as silver and brass metalworks extended from Sierra One, the first physical activity they’d seen since it docked. “There goes the transport tube.” He tapped the intercom. “Conn, Sensor Room. Get me as clean an image as you can of whatever they’re transferring between Sierra One and Two.”

“Sensor, aye, but I’ll need the helm to bring our course up to give us a better view.”

Mancini nodded. “Pilot, confer with Sensor and adjust our course accordingly. Ahead on my mark, thrusters only.”

“Conn, Pilot. Aye, Skipper. Checking coordinates. Course laid.”

“Mark.”

Tuscon eased onto a new orbital track that allowed her sensors to look down, so to speak, on the cofferdam between Sierra One and Two. The gridded walls didn’t let Mancini see what boxes were moving from Pufferfish to Gone Fishing, but that was what a deep scan was for.

“Definitely picking up charged particle leakage, Conn,” the sensor chief announced. “Looks good for Phantom energy weapons.”

“Stay focused, and run it through all the filters. I don’t want there to be any mistake.” Mancini felt jitters that had nothing to do with caffeine. It was the thrill of having guessed right and receiving the payoff for following his instincts—and the evidence too. “Compile everything we get for an encrypted package we can send off to Oxford.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mancini watched as the transfer continued. It was surprisingly short—twelve minutes, tops. And three minutes later, the tube retracted back into Pufferfish’s hull.

“Conn, TAO. Sierra Two shows increased engine activity,” Olesen said. “And we’ll be on the far side of Akai Three in ten minutes.”

Godat was listening in on the comms between Port Akai and the docked ships. “Sierra One has requested permission to disengage and depart.”

“They sure didn’t waste time,” Mancini mused. “Based on what we saw, no crew changed ships. TAO, can we confirm the tracker is still active?”

Olesen didn’t reply at once. He seemed to be interrogating his console, based on the rapidity with which he entered commands. “Confirmed, sir. Tracker is active and remains aboard Sierra One.”

“But the cargo is aboard Sierra Two, as far as we know.” Mancini glanced at Godat.

“Has either vessel filed a flight plan?”

Godat shook his head. “Sierra Two is maintaining comms silence like it did upon its arrival. Sierra One has permission to disengage from the station and depart but has not said where it’s headed. It’s not surprising. The regs are loose out here.”

“Regs and security both.”

Sierra Two put distance between itself and the station, ion engines aglow as it boosted deeper into interplanetary space. Sierra One, meanwhile, pushed away from Port Akai and ambled onto a different course without any particular hurry.

“Conn, Sensor Room. Sierra One is charging its Lawrence drive for a jump,” the chief noted over the intercom. “Preliminary trajectory indicates a return to Freedom Station or its vicinity.”

“Sensor Room, what about Sierra Two?”

“Moving off the ecliptic plane, destination unknown at this point, but she hasn’t run up her Lawrence drive yet.”

“Conn, TAO. Sierra Two’s initial course projections are up.”

Mancini nodded. He perused the yellow lines streaking across the expanded tactical display. And one of those possibilities…

“Allagash,” Godat said. “Next stop before New Rostov.”

“Then, we’ll take that one,” Mancini agreed. “Pilot, lay in a pursuit course for Sierra Two but give them a big head start. XO, standby to charge the Lawrence drive for a jump to Allagash. I want to be right behind them.”

“How about Sierra One?”

Mancini grinned. “Send to Lubbock with my compliments—they can trace her back to Freedom Station and wherever else she’s headed. She might not be our prime target anymore, but someone somewhere is going to be in a galaxy of pain when the hammer falls.”

8

Port Gusev Transshipment Depot

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

16 March 2466

Jackson was beginning to see why the League hadn’t put up much of a fight when it abandoned New Rostov after the planetwide vote for independence succeeded. Their recent military losses aside, the world was miserable. It soaked up so much solar radiation from its F-type star that it needed shielding to protect the inhabitants from short-term illness and long-term chromosomal damage. And even though it sported a decent variety of biomes, it was predominantly arid. The depot was located on the biggest, driest continent of them all. After four days of sweating, Jackson had about had enough.

“You don’t look to be having much fun, do you?” Clarence, head of depot security, had the grating habit of patrolling nearby with a beverage whenever the sun was at its highest and brightest in the sky, and the beverage was always laden with ice. The container’s sides perspired as badly as Jackson. “This row alone has three more stacks.”

“Hey, that’s me.” Jackson gave him his boldest grin. “Another day, another credit.”

“That’s all well and good, but mind your water breaks.” Clarence checked his commlink. “Another comes up in fifteen minutes.”

“Best news I’ve had all day, Big C. Don’t get too worn out by all that walking.” Jackson slapped a blue container filled with farming machinery. “Go find a shady spot and sit down.”

Clarence snorted but continued his rounds. So far, the employees didn’t seem like a band of brothers—or even friendly. That posed Jackson a special quandary since he needed intelligence, which was difficult to gather from people who didn’t speak to each other. It was even more difficult considering they didn’t congregate after work, despite the presence of four bars and eight cafes lining the curved road beyond the depot’s gate.

Thankfully he didn’t have to do all the searching on his own. His wrist comm kept him informed of the six drones Brant had surveying the property, which sprawled over sixteen square kilometers. None had turned up much out of the ordinary, except for scattered stashes of illicit narcotics.

“Echo One, given how much we’ve tallied up, I’ll be surprised if we don’t tip over a crate and find a bag of Orbita soon.” Brant sounded as bored as Jackson felt.

Of course, he’s air-conditioned, so he can’t complain.

“Too bad CBI won’t give us a finder’s fee.”

“Punch up a memo, and see if Uncle Rob will pass it along.”

“I’m just glad to be off Base One and away from our babysitter.”

Captain Halevi? Jackson hadn’t paid the investigator much heed, but then again, he hadn’t been stuck at one console like Brant and Eldred had during the mission prep. Jackson had been too distracted preparing for his new role.

He caught Natalie Ivanov’s reflection in his sun visor as the depot foreman turned down the aisle toward him. Fingers crossed for a change of assignment.

“JJ? Are you done with this section?”

Jackson waved a handheld scanner at the container to his left, which held tilling blades. “This one here’s the last of the bunch, but endless stacks are coming up.”

“Don’t worry about those—I’ll reassign Walt. We have a loader with faulty hover nodes. Could you take a look at it?”

Jackson followed up his silent wish by intertwining his middle and pointer fingers. “Inside the sheds?”

Natalie smiled. She was pretty, with a fair scattering of freckles and straw-blond hair, but Jackson had his own love back home. Besides, from a completely practical standpoint, he would gain nothing by earning the boss’s anger if he flirted too heavily with the man’s wife and co-foreman.

“No, sorry. It broke down by the east fence.”

That figured. The Ivanovs kept a double lane empty of containers around the entire depot, half of which was dedicated to four freighter and shuttle landing sites while the rest of it was crammed with boxes of all shapes and sizes.

“Lead the way, then, ma’am, and I promise I won’t pass out before we get there.”

“I have extra water in the scooter back here.”

They fell into step together, Jackson extending his stride to match her speed. Natalie might be a head shorter than he was, but she hurried everywhere. No wonder she seemed to keep on top of all the depot’s business.

Natalie powered up the two-seat scooter, and it shot off, eight wheels hissing along the hot pavement. “Gregory won’t say so, but he’s impressed with your work,” she explained, voice raised over the noise. “I never thought we’d find anyone to repair the forklift, not without spending a fortune.”

“No problem at all, ma’am.”

“You also should quit calling me ma’am, JJ. Natalie will do fine.” She made a face. “I don’t want to use or hear titles for a very long time.”

“What, after you gave them Leaguers the boot?” Jackson chuckled. “Shoot, I get it. Must be nice not having to watch your back for spies when you go buy food.”

“You have no idea the anxiety, the strain…” Natalie shook her head. “No. Not anymore. We’re free, and that means we won’t put up with others reporting on our daily lives ever again.”

“Preach that, Natalie.”

Brant made a disgusted noise through the comms. “You said that on purpose, didn’t you?”

Jackson maintained his easy grin. Sometimes life was too ironic to resist pushing against his false identity.

The scooter halted next to the loader, a beefy robot three meters tall—or it would have been three meters tall if it hadn’t been hunkered on its haunches like a metal-and-plastic gorilla. Or maybe the synthetic, enlarged version of a jackrabbit, except instead of two big back legs, it sported twin hover nodules the size of trash containers.

Either way, Jackson dismounted and popped open the primary access panel for the loader’s control systems. “Hmph. I think I can swap around the initiator circuits for now, unless you’ve got spares.”

“We don’t at the shop, no. I’ll have to order them.” The prospect seemed to bother Natalie more than buying new parts should. “If the dockmaster sees fit to actually spend the money budgeted for repairs on new parts.”

Jackson pulled the first circuit free then the next four. “Well, in the meantime, I’ll see if I can’t convince the control system to accept the wrong pieces for the right work.”

His commlink squawked, as did Natalie’s.

“Look alive, everyone,” Gregory boomed. “We have a freighter inbound.”

Jackson had to squint skyward even with the benefit of his polarized visor. A boxy cargo vessel descended, its thrusters hissing and retrorockets blazing as it arrested its fall.

Natalie adjusted a tiny control on the edge of her visor. “Do we have an identification, Gregory? I don’t recognize it as a regular.”

“They’re not responding to the transponder ping, but I’m not surprised if it’s one of hers.”

Natalie scowled at the last word. Whoever the “she” was who owned the “hers,” she wasn’t someone either Ivanov liked.

Jackson found the same controls on the side of his visor and dialed up the magnification. Natalie was correct—the freighter had no external ID code, not even a sloppily painted name to reveal her true identity. Fortunately, he had backup for his inquiry that the Ivanovs lacked.

“Your eyes are picking up the visor input cleanly,” Brant reported. “And Drone Six has a good view from its location. Drive signature analysis from the ship’s orbital track matches the one Archangel spotted at Port Akai. I can’t read much past the engine interference, but preliminary scans from Drone Six show significant particle leakage from a weapons-grade source.”

Jackson would have to confirm the particle readings up close, of course, but at least it helped determine they were dealing with the Starguild freighter Tuscon had followed. It made sense to use a light freighter like the one owned by Gracious Light Mercantile on a distant world such as New Rostov—since the frontier world lacked orbital port facilities, it saved considerable time and expense not having to shuttle goods endlessly from surface to space. Though, as Jackson braced himself against the dust storm the freighter’s engines whipped up, a hundred-meter vessel loomed ominously when landing nearby versus how it appeared when approaching from space.

The question was, to which vessel would the crews transfer the illicit cargo? Tuscon’s investigation hypothesized they were energy weapons for Phantom fighters, but they still had a long last leg to go across the League border—not long because of distance, but because they would have to make a few short jumps to avoid Leaguers pinpointing where they would appear on the wrong side of that invisible line.

“I need to meet our new arrivals!” Natalie shouted over the engine roar. “Do you need anything else?”

Jackson made a face. “Me? Nah. Give me fifteen minutes, and this will be your fastest lifting loader in the whole depot!”

Natalie smiled again, but the expression was tinged with worry. Jackson could read her concern as easily as he could portray a cocky mechanic. She walked away, headed toward the tarmac space where Gone Fishing had settled. And she wasn’t the only interested person.

Another woman emerged from a lane of containers with the freighter as her destination. No dust-covered, grimy work coveralls for her. The jumpsuit she wore was as stark white as the plasma pistols holstered on her hips were solid black. Three more women accompanied her, all carrying semiautomatic rifles. The ease with which they held their weapons and the loose triangle formation they employed around their leader told Jackson they were professionals. Mercenary soldiers, perhaps, or even assassins.

Jackson kept working. The actual rewiring was simpler than he’d let Natalie think, mostly so he could crouch by the loader and fiddle with circuits while he watched and recorded as much of the proceedings as he could. Plus, it really was an easy job. Anyone who’d spent years tinkering with cantankerous skiffs on a family ranch would have done it with one hand in his pocket and the opposite eye closed.

He suddenly missed Abby, the thoughts of the hard work at home conjuring up memories of her—then Mom and Harry. There was something almost pure about what Jackson did on the ranch, whether it was upgrading sensor posts or running herd analyses from the skiffs or tearing apart the innards of any malfunctioning machine to get them running again. Taking the mechanic guise was far more welcome than when he’d pretended to be a preening executive of a defense contracting firm.

His longing for Abby was accentuated by the mystery woman’s appearance, though her hair and eyes were both much darker than the former’s. The woman was of Hispanic background and moved with far more elegance than should be expected of a person who spent time around a transshipment depot.

“You have new guests, I see,” Brant mused. “I’ll pick up faces for the recognition program. By the way, Drone Six has a clear view and is running particle scans you’ll like—coming up close to what Archangel found. Also, Base One advises orbital traffic is clear. No other vessels are in the neighborhood, and those farther out are not powering up for a rendezvous.”

Jackson mentally crossed off a transfer between two freighters as the next option. A loader trundled into view, moving in reverse, with a long train of linked carts hovering behind it. Each was laden with tall brown cylinders bearing silver labels. He used his visor again to zoom in on the serial numbers.

“Checking against the depot manifests.” Brant grunted softly, his surprise evident in the pitch of his voice as he continued. “That’s flash-frozen foodstuffs—local vegetables, a few fruits, even beef. I didn’t know they had ranches on New Rostov.”

Jackson squeezed the transmitter woven into his sleeve, acknowledging receipt of the transmission. He smiled. No doubt in five minutes or less Brant would research and share all there was in the databases about New Rostov cattle.

Not for the first time, he was pleased Oxford’s upgrade a few years ago had included the installation of an antimatter power plant. Being able to conduct more and longer Lawrence drive jumps allowed the technical support vessel to reach New Rostov days ahead of Gone Fishing, giving Jackson time to get hired by the Ivanovs and start work in the depot while Brant set up shop elsewhere along Port Road. Jackson hurriedly replaced the circuits into the loader’s panel and slammed home the hatch. Better not waste the advantage.

He reactivated the loader. It lurched upright, hover nodules buzzing, then lifted off the ground. Jackson plucked the control wand free of its flanks and unlocked it with his handprint.

“Come on, pal,” he murmured. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”

Natalie was in deep conversation with the white-clad woman while the bodyguards—their most likely usage in that situation, Jackson realized—fanned out around Gone Fishing. No crew emerged, nor did any bots. A large loading hatch on the starboard side rumbled open, and a ramp extended to the simmering tarmac.

“… Given your last poor review of our services, I didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” Natalie made a sour face. “Security certainly didn’t hold you up at the gates, Luciana.”

“Clarence was preoccupied, from what I understand, and the young men running things in his stead were willing to be of service.” Luciana shrugged. “These fine people are here to take delivery of the foodstuffs my company owns for expedited delivery.”

Jackson could see the tiny logo imprinted on the containers as he approached with the loader lumbering alongside. Gracious Light Mercantile, again.

“This is your ship, then.” Natalie checked her tablet. “If we had known to whom it belonged, I could have planned a more courteous greeting, but since you didn’t respond to our transponder ping—”

“Just nervous about pirates and other criminal types.”

Natalie’s eyes narrowed. Jackson wondered if she had children because her face right then reminded him of his mother when she was severely disappointed in one—or more likely both—of her boys.

“I’ve noticed. It’s becoming a real problem on New Rostov,” Natalie said.

“Economic opportunity does breed those who would take advantage of honest, hardworking people.” Luciana’s gaze didn’t break from Natalie’s challenge, but she made a gesture toward Jackson. “Speaking of whom…”

“Hi, all.” Jackson was acutely aware as one of the bodyguards trained her semiautomatic rifle on him as he approached the group. “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am—Natalie—but this here’s a much happier loader. Those circuits were still good after I wiped two of them. It’s a temporary fix, mind you, but like I said before, with the right parts—”

“Thank you, JJ,” Natalie interjected. “Head down Aisle Four, and see if Gregory needs help moving containers forward to fill the space left by these.”

“Having parts problems, Natalie?” Luciana asked. “I’d be happy to sponsor whatever the dockmaster has trouble covering from his budget.”

“We’re doing fine, thank you. No.”

Luciana turned her attention toward Jackson. “And what do you say? Could you use more of the right parts you need?”

“I, that is…” Jackson scratched the back of his neck and grinned. “Shoot, miss, I make do with whatever we have on hand, but I’m not picky about where it comes from. Guess that’s what the higher-ups worry about, right?”

Luciana laughed. “Keep this one on the payroll, Natalie. He’ll get work done for you.”

Jackson didn’t enjoy putting Natalie through the humiliation, as kind as she’d been to him, but the show was all so Brant’s Drone Six could land atop the container stack ten meters from the edge of the tarmac.

“I’m waiting for the next gust, coming out of the south-southwest,” Brant said. “Flitters releasing.”

The wind caught grit in a dust devil that raked across everyone’s faces. For a few seconds, no one was looking at anyone else, and it gave Jackson the perfect excuse to glance down at his wrist unit. Drone Six’s indicator flashed with what the device rendered as a spray of sparks—flitter microbots, each equipped with a tracking mite. No way could Jackson place one he had in his pockets because none of the crew came out of Gone Fishing, and Luciana’s people weren’t about to let him nearer.

By the time everyone straightened up and Luciana brushed grime from her jumpsuit, the microbots had disappeared from Jackson’s screen.

“Two made it,” Brant said. “One on a foodstuff container, the other inside the ship itself. The rest were blown off course. I’ve sent them signals to disintegrate.”

It would have to do. The problem was, once the food cylinders were separated from the ships—or the weapon crates, for that matter—they would be tracking the wrong things. It was enough of a start that Jackson marked it as a win, for the time being.

“Enough dawdling.” Luciana clapped one hand on Natalie’s shoulder and placed a small item into her coverall’s right pocket. “I hope our disagreements haven’t impacted your business too badly, dear Natalie. See to it you get your loader properly fixed if your new man can handle it.”

The loader swept up the loading ramp as Gone Fishing’s engines rose to a whine. Luciana and her people left the way they had come, with the loader rejoining them as it dragged the empty train of carts behind it.

Natalie waved for Jackson to back away from the landing site as Gone Fishing rose into the air, causing a new miniature hurricane as it went.

“Sorry about that, Natalie!” Jackson shouted. “But I guess we’ve got what we need now, right?”

“JJ, if you think that I’m taking that woman’s foul money—” Natalie removed a credit chit from her pocket and snapped in half. “Then you still have much to learn about the people you work for.”

* * *

The silver Alcazar Fuego hovercraft pulled away from the depot entrance and joined the handful of vehicles passing on the main avenue perpendicular to Port Road. Most others, either hovercraft or self-driving aircars, had a tan or gray color scheme and, owing to the still-limited markets on New Rostov, were of only three brands.

Gina had opted for the Tython Midframe. She shuddered as she steered the four-seat hovercraft with generous cargo space into the flow of traffic five cars behind the silver Fuego. “Echo Home, this is Echo Two. I’m in the family sedan with eyes on the very nice limo.”

“Acknowledged, Two. Sorry we couldn’t spring for a nicer ride, but the idea is to maintain a low profile, and besides, the budget isn’t bottomless.”

Gina signed off. “Sure it isn’t,” she murmured. “But Sparks gets to requisition a racer while I’m driving a hovercraft my grandparents would have admired for its practicality.”

Sev sat beside her, his eyes hidden behind a polarized visor like was popular and practical—ugh, that word again—on the sunbaked planet. “Whiner.”

“Hey!” Gina socked him in the arm. Playfully, of course. Her knuckles felt like they’d punched hull armor. “Let me have my moment. Besides, it’s nothing a little breaking and entering won’t cure tomorrow night.”

“True,” Sev agreed.

9

Hunyuan Continent

Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

16 March 2466

Predawn soaked the shadowed hills in ruddy golden light. It was enough to make Benjamin save a still image of the landscape before him into his optical scanner’s memory banks. He had plenty of memory space for recording the operation to allow for a luxury like that.

Vance shifted in the grass a meter to his right. He sniffed.

“You okay?” Telemetry told Benjamin that Alpha Flight was inbound—ETA six minutes.

“Yes, sir.” Vance cleared his throat. It sounded like he had gunk in there. “I think it’s my allergies. They weren’t a problem in Otradny. The damp improves them.”

“That would have been nice to mention before we traveled halfway around the planet with you sniffling off my starboard side while we were zeroing in on the target.”

“Sorry, sir.” Vance sniffed and cleared his throat. “The meds should kick in soon.”

Not soon enough. The distant cries of gulls, the whisper of the ocean breeze across the hills, even the faint hiss of the surf against the shoreline—Vance’s allergic reactions cut through them all like a raucous late-night concert preventing a good night’s sleep.

Benjamin’s only solace was that there would soon be plenty more noise ruining the serene vista for everyone and everything within a ten-klick radius.

The League of Sol operated a processing center for the lithium it extracted across Hunyuan and two of the other four continents on Nandao. Processing Center 82 had only its numerical designation like the rest scattered across their empire. Two hundred forty-three people staffed it, and beyond the quintet of domes surrounded by steam vents and pylons, a residential block of depressing gray concrete dormitories clung to the shoreline. Five hundred eighty-six more civilians and families of military personnel lived there with the staff.

“Here they come,” Vance said.

Alpha Flight’s engines rumbled like the distant approach of thunder. Four Phantoms burst from the cliffs off to the right, coming in fast at only a hundred meters from the ground. Their exhaust set the winding river that looped around the processing center thrashing as water sprayed skyward.

“Alpha Leader to Guest.” Feng’s voice was garbled to disguise his identity but otherwise intelligible. “Targets are locked.”

“Alpha Leader, this is Guest.” Benjamin scooted forward so he could peer into the scope mounted atop the targeting laser perched on the hill’s edge in front of him. A faint green light shivered on the far end, atop Dome Two. “Targets remain painted. Execute.”

The fighters rose from the valley floor, climbing toward Processing Center 82. Alarms split the morning silence, erasing any disgruntlement Benjamin had about Vance’s sniffling and coughing.

“Point defenses are active.” Vance rubbed his nose and frowned at the portable console resting on the ground. “I have their coordinates. Transmitting.”

“Alpha Flight, this is Guest. Check your mailbox—presents for your holiday stay.”

“Roger and thank you, Guest.” That was Inga flying as Alpha Two.

Her fighter dropped sharply from the rest of the formation. Blue beams flashed down at the point defense turrets scattered around the processing center’s periphery. The thunder from the explosions reached Benjamin a few seconds later.

Vance’s console chirped after the strafing run with each explosion as if offering an electronic thumbs-up for the successful attacks. “Point defense eliminated.”

“Guest to Alpha Leader. Your way is clear,” Benjamin said through the comms. “Plow the field.”

The remaining three fighters dove for the processing center. Benjamin watched workers scatter from between the domes. A few shouted and waved their arms—probably directing their colleagues to safety. His insides tightened. Civilian casualties were a certainty, but he’d told himself to accept the collateral damage as soon as he’d shown up among the 88ers. They had no qualms about inflicting pain on their fellow Nandaoites, even though surely some had voted to join the Coalition just like the 88ers had.

Missiles streaked into the center. Dome Two cracked like a flimsy eggshell, the resulting conflagration filling the air with blistering flames and a towering column of smoke. The thunderclap carried through Benjamin, setting his body shaking. Even the hillside responded with a sympathetic tremor. Benjamin swore he felt the warmth of the flames from where he lay.

Two more domes joined the first one in the apocalyptic inferno. Nearby offices and storage bins melted from the unrelenting heat. The people… Benjamin willed himself to watch the structures and not the people.

Alpha Two rejoined her flight as the fighters banked low and fast over the ocean, their wings glittering under the dawn sun. They turned back for a second pass, which was all they needed to obliterate not just the last two domes but the bulk of the buildings in the processing center. Flames swept in all directions. A few pitiful streams of fire-suppression foam spurted from drones that took to the air. There was no stopping the conflagration as it consumed almost everything within Processing Center 82. Then the flames raced among the dormitories.

Vance cleared his throat again, but that time, he gagged. Benjamin looked over as his assistant turned his head and retched.

The sound of squealing metal carried across the plains. Or is that screaming people? They have better fire suppression in the residential complexes, Benjamin told himself. Look at how many more drones are holding back the blaze.

“Sir…” Vance took a drag from his water tube, and his voice stopped wavering. “Sir, inbound local defense from the base up the coast.”

Benjamin nodded. “Guest to Alpha Flight. The villagers are coming with pitchforks. Scatter and run.”

“Roger, Guest,” Feng replied. “Alpha Flight, by the numbers…”

The fighters peeled away one by one, taking off on four separate courses leading inland and down the coast. Benjamin was already packing away their gear, folding up the targeting laser and tucking the optical scanner into his backpack. He put the laser in beside it and helped Vance get the bulky console into its case, which Vance strapped to his back.

They ducked into the shadows of the tree line behind them, where it remained cool enough Benjamin was grateful he’d remembered his jacket. A new sound cut through the air, mingling with the roar from Processing Center 82’s destruction and the fading Phantom engines—League interceptors, their approach of a higher pitch than the front-line Coalition fighters.

Benjamin squinted between the rippling fern fronds overhead. Two interceptors, in all. He checked his commlink. “That was fast.”

Vance had one had to his ear, probably listening in on the local emergency frequencies. “Opal Base had them on standby for an exo-atmospheric strike.”

“Like we planned—they figured we were going to down another freighter.” Benjamin lost sight of the interceptors as they circled the devastation and disappeared behind the billowing black smoke. “By the time they get enough craft in the air hunting, Alpha Flight will have landed at their individual safe spots.”

“I have them marked on global positioning,” Vance replied. “But I had to reroute Alpha Three to a clearing eight klicks from the original cave—there’s been flash flooding this morning, according to weather radar.”

“Good catch.” Even with that slight delay, the four Phantoms would settle into clearings and caves scattered across Hunyuan’s southeast rim, where they could hide until the search settled down. Comms silence. Engines shut down. Sensor blankets in place, even over the fighters tucked below ground. Benjamin had insisted they take no risks of detection.

As soon as he gave the all clear later that night, based on Vance’s intel, each Phantom would make its way back to Otradny through the cloudy skies gathering on the day’s forecast.

Benjamin and Vance slung their backpacks into the back seats of a surveying aircar, one carrying the ID tags and stenciled logo of the Hunyuan Continental Geographic Corps. Enough of a disguise to keep the local police—and commissars, more importantly—off their case.

“Let’s get moving.” Benjamin checked his wrist unit again but that time grimaced as it rubbed against a tiny lump under his skin. “I don’t want to be late.”

Vance started the aircar’s power plant and steered it deftly down the overgrown path leading through the woods. “Time to the main road is four minutes, then eleven into Novvy Bereznik.”

“Make sure.” Benjamin hated the Leaguers’ ubiquitous ID chips. No government should ever track all its citizens like that, even though the ones he and Vance sported could be disabled at will, should they need to slip off the sensor grid, as they had. He recognized the juxtaposition of working for CIS and complaining, even internally, about surveillance, but he and his colleagues tried to draw the line at spying on their own people.

Unlike CDF Intelligence and their damned Covert Action Units. Benjamin made a face. His cousin would call the chips the Mark of the Beast, but Benjamin was more worried about the implications of military teams increasing their scrutiny of Coalition citizens.

All the more reason to restart hostilities, he thought as the aircar reached the nearest road and Vance opened up the acceleration. So we can turn the focus back to where it never should have left—the League of Sol—until the time we blast them back to the Stone Age.

* * *

Novvy Bereznik

Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

16 March 2466

The fishing town was as drab as any other across Nandao, its buildings the uniform white-and-gray concrete, their only variation being size. Boats streamed in and out of the C-shaped harbor, running lights winking at the beacon mounted on the end of a half-kilometer stone breakwater at the mouth. The only splashes of color adorned a cluster of glass pyramids at the center of town, home to offices for the Ministry of State Security and of course, the commissar.

Which was the biggest reason Benjamin loathed meeting so close to an urban area, even a small one with fewer than twenty thousand people. Sure, his contact would argue that being among other people was less suspicious than trying to have two vehicles rendezvous in the middle of nowhere—but Benjamin thought that complaint could be solved by having another HCGC hovercraft requisitioned.

Benjamin banished those thoughts as the dark-skinned woman sat down with him at the table. He glanced up and nodded. “You’re looking rested.”

“The trip wasn’t as long as I thought it would be.”

“Oh? In the neighborhood?”

She shook her head then activated the tableside menu. It froze, flickered, and vanished. She slapped the unit twice, forcing the listings to reappear.

“Sorry, it’s not the Elysian.”

“I would hardly expect a backwater planet to have dining establishments on par with Canaan’s finest.” She crossed her legs and folded her hands atop her knees. “And perhaps it would behoove you to not mention indicators that would ruin our cover.”

Benjamin snorted and set the tablet aside. “Since I don’t even know your name, it’s hardly a problem, and you said the planet, not me.”

She sighed as if regretting the students assigned to her classroom. “Shall we begin again? Your aerial show went well, judging by the news networks.”

“Thanks. Does this mean I get more equipment faster?”

“That is part of the purpose of my visit.”

Benjamin gestured. “And?”

“And, what?”

“Look, Cherice—that’s the name I’m giving you, by the way, since you refuse to provide me with even a fake identity.”

She smiled. “Not bad, Ben. I like the sound of it.”

“Does it compare to your actual name?”

“Not even close.”

Benjamin frowned.

“I’m sorry, were you demanding something, and I interrupted?”

A service robot rolled up to the table, sporting twin mugs of steaming-hot cider.

Cherice took hers and inhaled deeply. “This is astonishingly fragrant. Please, continue.”

Benjamin hated dealing with the case officers HQ sent out to check on him. It never got easier. Give me a simple yes or no to my questions. Keep me funded, and stay out of the damn way. Of course, blurting those sentiments aloud would get him nothing of what he needed or wanted. “You want money for whatever you’re using it for, right? The only way you’ll continue to get that money is if I have a steady stream of pretty and deadly toys for my buyers. They’re getting results. You’ve seen that.”

“I have seen, though the problem remains that the League is unwilling to draw attention to our supposed involvement in inciting their populace.” Cherice took another drink. “What are your plans to correct this problem?”

“My guy Vance has a social media experiment plotted out,” Benjamin explained. “It requires us breaking into local security wherever our clients have attacked so we can release footage to the rest of the galaxy bearing official League data stamps—otherwise, it’ll be too easy to dismiss as doctored.”

“That is one concern allayed.”

“The stuff you sent is performing well.” Benjamin spotted two men walking by at the fringes of his peripheral vision.

“What’s the matter?”

“Social and Public Safety Committee informers.”

Cherice flicked a glance in the same direction. “Oh. Those two.”

“You saw them.”

“Yes, moments ago. They have been quite obvious, given they’ve made two circuits along the same street. And you’re certain they are not state security?”

Benjamin shook his head. “Not stern enough. Plus, they keep taking pictures of people with their wrist units. We might as well hug and pose for them, big smiles and everything.”

Cherice chuckled. “You will be happy to know the next shipment has left the final checkpoint and should be here in a matter of days.”

That was good news. Benjamin had wondered about the holdup in getting more neutron cannons routed through New Rostov. “You realize, at some point, we’ll have to forfeit a shipment and let our couriers get caught.”

“It’s a risk we’ve anticipated,” Cherice agreed. “But if the evidence is to be stacked against the current administration, it’s a necessary one.”

“Right. I wanted to be clear because of the people we’re dealing with.” Benjamin tapped the table. “Between our clients and our couriers, we’re talking a lot of folks who prefer to solve their problems—and feel better about their disappointments—by shooting other folks in the face. And I like this face.”

“Even if it’s not your true one?”

Benjamin smirked. He’d had surgical modification prior to the mission, as was standard for any field operative, but he was always surprised how used to seeing his altered visage he became. “The real face is right underneath, and I’m pretty sure a plasma blast will ruin both.”

“We will do what we can to mitigate blowback, but your contingency should remain in place, should extraction become necessary.”

“Of course.” And his second contingency—in case CIS cut all ties and left him for dead, was also in place. He didn’t think it would really happen. They hadn’t abandoned him yet, not over his eight years of covert field service, but given that the mission was a far sight more dangerous and illegal than any with which he’d been involved, well, Benjamin wasn’t about to get complacent. “Pickup details for the shipment?”

“Forthcoming.” Cherice leaned over her cup, elbows planted on the table, hands warming in the steam. Not a bad way to take the chill off one’s fingers. “I hope you do not mind if I keep this conversation short, but we must attend to one more matter.”

Benjamin frowned. “The good son.”

“Yes. Our assets have lost track of the bus.”

“Shit.” Benjamin rubbed at his mouth as he bit back the rest of his commentary, which was way too vulgar to use in front of a lady like Cherice. It figured. CSV Oxford was perhaps the slipperiest ship in the CDF arsenal, such a ghost that half the time Command didn’t know where she was. That’s what you get when you equip a generic freighter hull with every intel goodie you can imagine and pay for, up to and including a cycling transponder. “What about the nephews?”

“Supposedly still scouting the border to expand the listening posts, but again, reports have been sporadic and cryptic. I will see what resources we have aboard.” Cherice shrugged. “But we had to pull assets last year when the Fabians caused such a stink with their embedded traitors.”

“Bunch of morons.” Benjamin sat back and folded his arms. “Maybe, for our encore, we round them all up, strip their finances, and dump them here. Let them have their socialist paradise.”

“I shall file a memo.” Cherice rose. “Excuse me while I use the ladies’ room.”

As soon as she was gone, Benjamin peered discreetly at her cider. A slip of plastic floated atop the cinnamon-colored liquid. A trash-cleaning drone trundled along the café sidewalk. He waited until the drone was parallel with his table—blocking the view of the two informants, who stood around talking about the weather in voices that carried across the street—before fishing out the slip. It contained times and coordinates for the next shipment’s supply drops. Benjamin smiled and tucked the plastic up his sleeve.

10

CSV Oxford

New Rostov IV

New Rostov System

17 March 2466

Brant leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Spending what seemed like endless hours staring at communications intercepts was not healthy for a standard tech, even with breaks.

His hands trembled as he returned them to the console. Brant frowned, focused on them, using the techniques the doctors had prescribed along with the regenerative medicines he still took on the sly from his teammates. Add to that the pain lancing up through his back.

“Hey.” Miranda’s word broke through the ringing growing in his ears. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine. I spent too long at this, and my body’s paying the price.” Brant breathed deeply until the trembling subsided. There. He started into his next algorithm for decrypting signals, which gave his fingers a direct task and further banished his tremors.

“You should get checked out by the ship’s surgeon, Lieutenant.”

Captain Halevi materialized behind and between Brant and Miranda like the specter he’d been since first appearing at the initial mission briefing. His tablet in hand, Halevi watched with unblinking eyes.

“I’ve passed his checklist, sir, so there’s no need.” Brant indicated his screen. “And this algorithm needs my attention more than he does.”

Halevi scribbled notes with his stylus.

“Is there a problem, Captain?” Brant swiveled in his seat and placed his hands on his knees.

“That depends, Lieutenant. I’ve reviewed your record. The decision to leave rehabilitation and return to active duty seems to have received more help from on high than the usual cases.”

“I spent a lot of time in prayer and meditating on Scripture, so I find that true, sir.”

Miranda snorted softly. She kept her expression impassive from what Brant could see, which was good because his indignation would evaporate if she started chuckling at his sarcastic responses. Especially because I have plenty more loaded and ready to shoot.

“I was referring to repeated interventions by Colonel Sinclair, to the point one could argue he pushed the medics tracking your recovery to accelerate the normal process.”

“He did no such thing.” That I’m aware of. “I signed all the relevant paperwork without duress and came back on active duty of my own free will.”

“Why?” Halevi pointed to Brant’s hands with his stylus. “You’re clearly still suffering the aftereffects of your injury. Recovery from nerve damage is a tricky thing, and though you’ve received the best regenerative care the Coalition and the CDF have to offer, it is not complete.”

“The doctors were clear, Captain. I could have these tremors for years to come, or they could stop next week. It’s a gamble at this point.”

“With that uncertainty comes pain, though, doesn’t it?”

Brant glanced at Miranda. She made eye contact with him, and whether or not she was advocating he maintain honesty—because it was generally accepted that trying to lie to Ire was a terrible idea—he found her solidarity encouraging.

“Yes, it does.”

“Then you understand my concern.” Halevi tucked the tablet under his arm and pocketed the stylus. “Pain makes people irrational. Irrational people seek relief from nonstandard sources—recreational drugs, affairs of the heart, and other addictive pastimes. Those pastimes in turn lead to poor decisions, which more often than not land the person in debt. And the surest cure for debt is money, Lieutenant. Given the nature of the Fabian intrusion into our ranks—one which was financed by corrupt money from a corrupt man—anything that could lead one of our officers who handles such sensitive and classified information to potential vulnerability is of the utmost concern to Internal Review.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Miranda blurted out, “I think you’re being unfair in singling out Lieutenant Guinto. If anyone recognizes his limitations and vulnerabilities, it’s him, and he has a way to handle both—with his faith. That’s what’s made him such a vital part of his team and this crew. You’re overlooking one of the strongest elements of Coalition society that holds us together, even in our separate religions.”

“On the contrary, Warrant Eldred, I have taken Lieutenant Guinto’s religious affiliation fully into account.” Halevi frowned. “And it’s a mistake to assume I’m singling him out. Everyone should expect this treatment. No one is above suspicion. If they hadn’t been before, if we hadn’t assumed that all personnel serving aboard Oxford were infallible heroes, from the lowest-ranking decryption specialist to Colonel Sinclair himself, Petty Officer Dean never would have had the chance to betray her country. Keep that in mind when it’s your turn to respond honestly to my inquiries.”

Halevi left but not in a huff. He seemed to Brant as unbothered as Sinclair when the colonel made his daily walkaround, polling the stations. Brant turned back to his console, shaking not from nerve damage but from nerves. His adrenaline had spiked harder than when he’d landed in the very firefight that resulted in his getting shot.

“Asshole,” Miranda murmured. “How are we supposed to maintain camaraderie when guys like him are digging into our profiles, assuming we’re all terrorists in disguise?”

“He’s doing his job.”

“Don’t tell me you’re okay with it.”

“Of course not. It disgusts me that he’d even entertain the notion I could be a traitor after taking a plasma blast for my nation and my friends.” Brant grasped the edge of the console until his shudders subsided. Father God, I thank you for the life you’ve sustained for me. Forgive me my hate toward Captain Halevi. His duty might seem unsavory, but I pray he’s not acting out of malice. Grant me Your wisdom to serve as I should. “But I know why he’s doing it. He has a point.”

“I’d comment about invading our privacy, but since I was CIS, that seems hypocritical.” Miranda sighed. “Plus, I’m sitting here, vacuuming up all communications, civilian and military, in a Terran star system.”

“We’re not reading them all.”

“No, the algorithms are, and parsing the language for hints of who’s smuggling Coalition weapons into a Leaguer star system in direct violation of the treaty.”

Brant grimaced. “I thought this was about Halevi, not us.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I still don’t like him or his job.” Miranda smirked. “Maybe I’m more a realist than I thought.”

Brant’s console chirped at him. The gloom cleared from his mind. “I think I’ve got a hit.”

“What is it?”

He swiped the data over the shared interlink between their stations. “Gone Fishing.”

“I’ve already checked a few inbound and outbound communications she had before making the first jump.” Eldred gestured to the tactical display gleaming with stars in Oxford’s operations center. “And we’ve established she’s not heading toward Leaguer space—at least, not directly.”

“That all makes sense, but what doesn’t make sense is the amount of time they spent uploading the newest nav charts from New Rostov’s buoy.” Each Coalition star system was home to several nav buoys that received periodic updates from not only local CDF and civilian agencies regarding spatial anomalies, but refreshed star charts of nearby systems sent out by the Astrographic Survey Complex on Trenchant Prime. “Look at this. Even Astrocom’s data doesn’t take up that much space.”

“And this is what they uploaded? Not what they transmitted from their ship?” Eldred’s fingers flew across her board, entering new code and issuing commands to her preconstructed algorithms. They started stripping the information apart.

“I’m guessing someone else tagged a special delivery for Gone Fishing as nav charts and slipped it among the buoy’s legitimate contents.” Brant set up a secure link to the buoy itself, one that allowed him to examine all its contents as well as its activity log for the past few months. Oxford was already maintaining a low profile in the New Rostov system, masquerading as a contract repair vessel, so it wouldn’t appear suspicious for the ship to be hanging around things such as navigational aids.

“It’s a list.” Eldred grinned. She expanded the isolated data on her screen. “Look at this. Neutron cannons, Javelin type-six missiles, composite armor, targeting software.”

Brant scanned the serial numbers accompanying each, and his heart sank. “None of those are legal for trade. They’re all restricted for CDF use only.”

“I think you’ve found the parts requests from our Leaguer insurgents.”

“Not the kind of folks who would know about dissecting a nav buoy’s innards.” Eldred’s programming had made short work of the list’s encryption, but figuring out who had put it inside the buoy and where would take considerably longer.

A new report spilled down Brant’s monitor. Or maybe it wouldn’t. “I have it.”

“Who?”

“Not sure of the who, but I have a time stamp and a signal origin, which backtracks to farther out in the New Rostov system.” Brant turned sideways and called to Tamir, “Alon? I need you to take a look at this.”

Tamir braced his hand on the back of Brant’s chair, glancing first at the screen then at Halevi, who was deep in his questioning of a comms officer on the opposite end of the ops center. “There’s an officer in dire need of loosening up.”

“Might be time to introduce him to Oxford’s long-standing tradition reserved for special guests.” Eldred’s grin seemed even more wicked than the one she’d just deployed.

Tamir snorted but remained focused on Brant’s report. “Good work, the both of you. I’ll get the colonel. Stand by.”

In the meantime, I’d better concentrate on why they encrypted a list of illicit weapons deliveries but fouled up so badly on hiding the where and the when. Brant picked one of his more thorough algorithms from a list. He hated nothing worse than an easy answer in a situation where there shouldn’t be one.

* * *

Suyetovo (New Rostov IX)

New Rostov System

Major Cornelius Stone led a four-fighter flight of SF-111 Chimeras from the 99th Reconnaissance and Intercept Squadron—the Griffons—through the distant black between the farthest twin gas giants in the star system. They had launched from Oxford as soon as Colonel Sinclair and his spooks verified the coordinate range from which the weapons list had originated. The Chimeras had left one at a time at staggered intervals, their drive signatures barely registering on even the most intensive scanner arrays. Anyone scrutinizing them would have assumed Oxford had tossed a few probes.

“Base One, this is Griffon Leader,” Stone reported. “Thirty seconds to target. Scopes are clear so far.”

“Griffon Leader, Base One confirms.” That was Sinclair’s right-hand guy, Tamir, watching their backs. “Suyetovo’s satellites show no power signatures at this range, but we’re limited by distance and the planetary shadow.”

“No kidding.” Freefall, Stone’s XO, made the announcement over the open channel between the four fighters. “It’s hard to miss that sucker from here.”

“Zip it.” But Stone had to admit, the kid had a point—the ninth planet was a monstrous gas giant, outstripping any similar world he’d seen in his service at ninety thousand kilometers. It was a deep, luminescent violet with blue shades. Stone couldn’t believe it hadn’t ignited as a brown dwarf, but it had a surprisingly low mass for its diameter. “Look alive, people. We’re eyes and ears for the spooks on this run.”

“My favorite part of the job, Grindstone,” said Blitz, flying as Griffin Four. Her Chimera was at the far end of their lopsided triangular formation, above and behind Bandsaw. “Staring at big planets and squinting at rocks.”

“As long as you don’t fly into the backside of one, and you keep your scanners trained where they should be, squint away.” Stone glanced at his own displays, which gave him a superb view of every object within their detection radius. The Chimera packed more sensors per square centimeter than even a ship like Oxford yet maintained the firepower necessary to carry out a strike or defend itself in a dogfight. And the craft had a sinister grace, with its triple arrowhead fuselage and low, sloped profile that Stone thought should give a bogey pause before the pilot engaged.

If they ever even see us coming. He grinned.

The nav system chimed, alerting Stone as the Griffins crossed deep enough into the Suyetovo’s gravity field for the fighter to make adjustments to their approach vectors. “All right, boys and girls, let’s stack the plates and give ourselves the optimal view—two moons coming up at bearing five-six, marks four-three and two-niner-eight.”

“Roger that,” Freefall replied. “Data compiling.”

His Chimera flew up over Stone’s, as Griffon Three and Four stacked themselves underneath, each fighter approximately five hundred klicks away from the next. Stone had developed the trick to maximize their sensor reach during a high-speed pass, giving them a rough idea of what they faced so they could decide whether to blaze through the area and return for a closer inspection when making a second loop around a planet or continue on if there was danger.

His comms light when dark. They would be out of communications range with Oxford on the far side of the planet. Stone tightened his grip on his controls.

“Lead, this is Three.” Bandsaw sounded puzzled. “I’ve got a report of possible geothermal activity on the fourth moon. Does that square with the almanac?”

Stone brought up Bandsaw’s readings and the nav details. “Negative, Three. She’s supposed to be a dormant iceball, but your guess is as good as mine as to how that gas balloon stresses out her satellites.”

“Permission to take us off track and investigate, sir.”

“Negative, Three. Mark it and stay on course. We’ll signal Base on the other side and take a second pass if the spooks think it warrants the peek.” Still, Stone kept a wary watch on the ice-covered moon, its surface grim behind Suyetovo’s shadow. He knew of such satellites shooting off plumes when the gravitational stresses from a gas giant were too much to bear. Maybe that explained the glittering specks he thought he saw.

His proximity alarm sounded before he could ponder it further.

“Contact!” Freefall called out. “Six drive signatures, shuttle size.”

“I see them.” The six indicators lit up Stone’s display. “They’re hauling ass our way. Zero comms activity.”

“They’re not responding to my hail,” Freefall muttered. “And they’re moving way faster than a shuttle, pulling twenty G’s, at least.”

“Drone fighters.” Stone pushed power to the Chimera’s neutron cannons. “Doesn’t sound like they’re coming to offer a tour. Griffons, pair off and engage, weapons free.”

The chorus of affirmatives echoed across the flight’s comms. Three and Four banked away from the stack, taking a long loop out and away from the incoming drones. Stone accelerated his Chimera up as Freefall stuck to his wing, bringing their track across the drones’ approximated intercept vector. Stone’s tactical display gave him the lowdown on the targets—boxy craft studded with maneuvering thruster wings and armed with four neutron guns.

Flashes ripped through space as the nearest drones opened fire, but the shots didn’t come close at all. “Geez, Grindstone, do they even bother programming combat bots with targeting sensors these days?” Freefall groused.

“You’re seeing our shroud at work, Freefall, as it screws up their systems with active and passive jamming.” Still, Stone wasn’t the type to run off with bandits like those on his tail. “Four, you ready?”

“Coming around the moon now,” she confirmed.

“Sounds good to me.”

The drones were still closing, but once Stone accelerated even harder, his Chimera effortlessly outpaced his pursuers. He let the comp get a strong lock for his active tracked LIDAR missiles then cut his thrust and used maneuvering jets to flip the Chimera end over end. “Griffon Leader, Fox Three,” Stone announced as he pulled the trigger.

“Griffon Two, Fox Three,” Freefall chimed in.

Their missiles blasted apart the two nearest drone fighters, reducing them to fine sprays of debris their four counterparts raced through. Two incoming blips appeared on the tactical display in Stone’s cockpit, though, as Three and Four whipped around the ice moon and launched their missiles.

Within seconds, they were left with the last pair of drone fighters, but those didn’t care about being outnumbered two-to-one. They hurtled onward, filling space with neutron blasts.

Stone rolled his Chimera, still flying along backward with his thrust cut, and Freefall matched him point for point. The first bandit shut off its engines, too, and spun to match.

“Griffon Leader, guns, guns, guns!” Stone barked as he pelted the bandit with neutron blasts.

It exploded in a brief flare against the starry background.

Another missile hit the final bandit from behind, obliterating it.

“Skies are clear,” Bandsaw reported. “No further contacts.”

“You still picking up that thermal activity?”

“Negative, Lead. That must have been the fighters launching.”

“We’ll let the techs mull that one over, Three. In the meantime, we finish our scans and get the hell back to Base.” Stone took a deep breath as the Chimeras reformed their flight. The entire conflict had taken seconds, whereas they’d spent several bored hours flying that far to the edge of the system. Typical.

“We’ve got good scans on the fighters, Lead, but I’m not picking up anything else manmade in the vicinity.” Blitz sounded especially frustrated and still keyed up from the exchange of fire.

“Pop a drone down to the ice ball, and let it pick up what it can,” Stone ordered. “As soon as we clear Suyetovo’s shadow, I’ll drop a second, and we can relay whatever it finds directly back to Base.” And then we can work on what asshole’s to blame for leaving a potential deathtrap behind for whoever came snooping.

11

Prosperity Glade, Port Gusev

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

17 March 2466

Luciana Encarnacion had the biggest residence on the edge of Port Gusev, a townhouse perched on a long hillside facing the depot. Hers wasn’t the only structure advertising the influx of new wealth—ten more surrounded it, each one fenced by stone walls encasing lush gardens. The whole neighborhood was similarly enclosed, with only one gate for ingress and egress at either end of the paved road. But Luciana’s was the most opulent, boasting white marble and copper flashings. It gleamed like a jewel in a display case.

Gina knew what to do with one of those. She crept along the east wall. No guards out there. Gina had only to worry about the imported succulents as she brushed through pale-green yucca plants, some of them two meters tall. They’d been specially engineered to thrive on the arid planet. Or at least, that was what Brant had insisted on including in the briefing.

I must have been really bored to bother reading that part.

Really, though, she found herself grateful for the lack of infrastructure. Never mind that Leaguers loved their omnipresent surveillance networks. Frontier towns never had enough money or tech to support such annoyances. No, she was just glad Port Gusev was still rustic enough to lack streetlights. Clouds blotted everything in darkness except for the gleaming showcase peeking over the four-meter-tall walls.

She snorted beneath her mask. It hadn’t taken New Rostov long to embrace the excesses available through spiking profits. To be fair, most of the rich were new to the planet within the past three years, giving the long-term residence their first real look at capitalism’s potential opulence. Many of the newbies bent the laws to take advantage of the lack of proper law enforcement. Seriously, when the Colonial Rangers have trouble keeping up with smuggling, who’s going to bother checking on infrastructure regulations? Regulations such as the standards for sensor posts along walled communities and the shrubbery specifications accompanying them.

Gina paused at the entry point marked on her wrist unit. She dimmed the display so it didn’t blaze like a beacon but was happy to see her estimation of the new local thugs had been correct. Regs stipulated sensor posts should be twenty meters apart, a holdover from League control. No doubt the Social and Public Safety Committee chased off New Rostov had wanted to know who was coming and going everywhere. They’d also dictated overgrowth should stay trimmed back from the walls to prevent dead spots in the frequent but clunky old sensors.

Not only had Luciana and her neighbors turned up their collective noses at such an oppressive rule and set their sensor posts forty meters apart—or more, like at Gina’s juncture—but they’d stayed lazy about letting huge branches droop over the walls.

It was calculated decadence, Gina was sure. “Look at me,” she murmured. “I’ve got so much money, I can waste water.”

Gina climbed the sheer wall, the fingers of her stealth suit clinging to the stone surface even as she slipped quickly up it. Her muscles didn’t burn nearly as much as the time she’d hung from a ceiling to literally get the drop on human traffickers. Where was that…? Hue Tinh, Ferrara system? Pakal was the city. Good food. Terrible crime.

She brushed through the leaves as she slid up and over the wall, slowing her pace to a few centimeters at a time. No interruptions from Brant. He knew better than to bother her at such a critical time. Gina was too warm inside the skintight suit, partially from exertion but also from the suit’s ability to hide her body temperature. It clouded sensor readings, too, but neither would be an advantage if she strayed off her course.

Gina carefully pressed the side of her goggles. The wrist unit’s screen appeared mirrored in her field of view. The sensor posts’ ranges were green ovals. Narrow black gaps separated them. She was right in line, though by her estimation, she had a half meter’s clearance on either side. Better roll sideways and tuck in the elbows.

A few seconds later, she was over and, with the barest whisper registering on her audiometer, landed on the emerald lawn inside.

A memory punched Gina in the gut—she and Kyle slithering past the railing at the spaceport. Not to watch the incoming vessels. Not a chance. That would have bored her silly, more than she’d been, apparently, when she’d read the nature reports for Port Gusev. No, Kyle had a better idea.

“C’mon, don’t wimp out now.” Kyle grinned. “You wanna fly, don’t you?”

Gina forced her awareness back to the present. Kyle’s voice, staticky from the insurgents’ transmission, filtered past her defenses. She ground her teeth. At least no guards were around. No way she would let her sentimentality compromise her safety.

“Echo Two, this is Echo Home.”

Brant’s voice helped Gina’s heart slow. Having him back in the comms chair meant the pieces of her life were back in place, giving her an element of control she hadn’t realized was absolutely essential.

“I have three live ones ahead.”

Three guards. Gina’s goggles confirmed their brilliant silhouettes. They were clustered in a trio, unmoving except for the gesticulating arms of the taller one. His gestures ended, and the other two shuddered.

Laughing. Gina smirked. “I think we missed the punch line, Home.”

“Roger that. I’ll tell you what—get me one of their comms, and I’ll break in just for you so you can hear the full content of the next joke.” Brant’s tone had gone dour and heavily sarcastic.

Too bad for him Gina was up for any challenge, intentionally given or not.

The trio broke apart. The tall one sauntered away toward the nearest house’s fence, one made of silver posts and black mesh. Definitely more functional than ornate, though Gina thought the designs worked into the mesh were whimsical in their depiction of native forest creatures.

“The pair are going around the next house,” Brant confirmed. “The solo target appears to be checking the perimeter.”

Checking it slowly, Gina noted.

His steps were staggered, and if he were supposed to be aware of threats, he sure was missing a lot of possible hiding places. Gina scuttled parallel to his weaving trajectory, mindful of fallen branches, but she encountered none. Kudos to the groundskeepers for keeping the lawn immaculate—because she really wanted his commlink.

“Two, are you—why are you shadowing?” Brant’s voice rose in pitch. “You’re out of the lane for a clean shot to the target dwelling.”

Target, target, target. Gina sighed and muted his connection so she could still see his words in text form but his voice wouldn’t keep her from her improvised goal. She pulled the trip wire from her belt and crouched in the bushes ten meters ahead of the guard’s course, which was taking him toward a fountain gurgling inside the home’s fence. It was much easier to ignore text than audio.

Gina sighted and fired the palm-sized launcher. The tiny grappling projectile punched into the fountain’s base. The guard was three meters from the wire, too busy humming to himself to have heard the soft hiss the launcher emitted. His beacon slashed left and right in a lazy, bobbing sweep, always at chest height. Never up. Never down.

There’s nothing worse than depending on a person who turns out to be sloppy about their work. Gina waited until he was two steps away and yanked tight.

His boots caught on the wire, and down he went, crashing into the shrubs at the bend in the fence. A pistol went flying. So did his beacon, the beam lancing crazily through the tree branches overhead. The commotion he created was so loud he might as well have been one of Jack’s cows crashing through tangled brush. He was about as graceful as one too.

Gina darted in, snagged the commlink dangling from his belt, and sprinted through the bushes.

“Brent? Brent, was that you?” The concerned call was distant, but the thumping footsteps and beacons closed in faster.

“Aw, I’m good. Lost my footing.”

“’Cause you’re half-drunk off your ass.” The nearest voice was nasal and annoyed. “Get up before the boss finds out.”

“Yeah, okay. Gimme a hand.” The sound of flesh slapping against cloth faded as Gina slowed her flight to a creep. “Shit. Shit and damn. I lost my commlink!”

Chuckles. “Welp, you’re screwed.”

He certainly is. “Home, this is Two. Sync this, will you?” She held the commlink over her wrist unit so the powerful transponder could connect to the pilfered communications device.

“Wow. Okay.” Brant chuckled. “Note to self—I’ll leave this out of the report if it works.”

“Mm, I think it’s still worthwhile.” Gina smiled. “He was a terrible guard.”

“Hold tight—got it. Connection’s stable. I’m in.” Brant’s hands faintly tapped his console. “You can drop it. I have the comms system routing through the neighborhood repeater to Deadeye’s overwatch. We can cut it off if the security protocols notice, but I’ll have plenty of warning. Now, get back on track, will you?”

Gina gave a mock salute no one could see and held to the shadows as she approached Luciana’s home from the opposite direction she’d intended. Didn’t matter. A power junction was there, too, for the compound’s backup generator. And it was bigger.

“Okay, this is not armed. But it will set off a tamper alert after it’s been opened for more than five seconds if the right confirmation code isn’t entered, which we don’t have because the utility company sets the algorithm to a rotating regeneration.” Brant exhaled. “It’s far less obvious to take the physical approach.”

The box was tucked behind a clump of bushes, hidden under trees, which was even better. The rich didn’t want ugly reminders of such practical things. Next time, Gina told herself as she reached for the access panel, they should paint it like marigolds.

“Yellow wire then red hatched with black,” Brant reminded her. “Steady… go.”

Gina popped the panel. A red timer counted down from 0:05. The yellow wire was precisely where Brant’s schematics showed, overlaid as they were faintly atop her true vision. Good thing, too, because it peeked from behind a bunch of components whose purpose Gina had no idea about. She sliced it with her knife then did the same to the red-and-black wire. Nothing happened.

“Good. Stand by.” Brant’s tapping mingled with the rest of the night’s sounds around her as she waited, her gaze locked on the second-floor balcony windows of Luciana’s townhouse. “Main power will go down in three seconds.”

True to his word, lights across the compound died—but not the sensor posts, according to Gina’s wrist comm. They were tied to different networks. Gina heard a deep hum from underground as the backup generators spun up.

It’s a shame there’s no connection they can send the power through.

She took off at a run for the wall surrounding Luciana’s townhouse. She could see the markers indicating each guard’s location. They’d all scattered, seeking the source of the power loss while more guards headed for the gates of each house. Overlapping chatter came through her comms as Brant filtered Luciana’s network, but Gina had no idea what the people working for the other houses were doing.

Gina took the wall at a run, pulling herself up and flipping over the top. It was far shorter than the compound’s exterior barrier—that one was meant for physical security and privacy. These interior fences and walls had decorative value only.

It was a short haul from there to the base of the house and the balcony above. Gina clambered up the marble, grip slipping a few times as she hurried, and pulled herself onto the balcony. She lay flat for a second, panting, as she waited to see if any guards showed up at the house. It all would have been so much easier with her grav harness, but Jack and Brant hadn’t wanted to take any chances with the sensor grid.

More footsteps sounded below, accompanied by shouted orders, that time from a female voice. Gina peered over the edge at a dark-haired woman clad in a shimmering-red bathrobe. Luciana Encarnacion. She was outside, rallying the troops—which meant she wasn’t inside.

Gina rolled onto her side and eased open the balcony windows. Unlocked, of course. Why would they be secured when the office was on the second floor of a house surrounded by unending layers of security and stashed away on a no-name planet?

She closed the door behind her and hustled to Luciana’s desk. It was made of gleaming, polished wood. The bulk of the surface was an interactive console with a holographic projector mounted at the front. Gina dropped a pair of flitters into the air, one of which zipped right to the desk’s data ports while the other circled the room, scanning for more computers or storage drives.

“Two, this is Home,” Brant said. “They’ve got a man working on the backup power junction. They’re not waiting for the utility company. Repeat, they are not waiting.”

Damn. That shrank her timeline considerably. Gina consulted her wrist unit. The first flitter had nestled itself securely in Luciana’s desk and was linking into her systems, which meant Brant could directly access whatever secured data the smuggler boss had stashed there. But the second flitter had come up empty—the desk held the only electronic resources in the room. Gina sent the kill notice with a tinge of regret. The microbot fizzled with a spark and a whisp of smoke.

She turned toward the window but froze midstep, spotting a book on a round table perched by a plush chair. Gina ran a finger down the spine. Jamaica Inn, by Daphne du Maurier. So, Luciana was a fan of classical literature too.

“This encryption is weak, but I’m not getting anything of interest,” Brant groused. “So far, whatever she has recorded on the desk matches with legitimate accounts. I’ll have to cross-reference but… Two, you need to get moving. They’ve brought in a second staffer on the junction. Our intel didn’t indicate anyone working in the compound had that kind of expertise.”

Which, in all honesty, they should have. It made perfect sense for the compound’s reclusive occupants to want people on-site who could handle major malfunctions without having to allow outsiders in.

But the book bothered Gina. For one thing, it was the only book in the room. Paintings decorated the walls, and statues filled a handful of alcoves, but there was no evidence of a library. And secondly, while it appeared well-worn from frequent reading like Gina’s volumes, only a few groups of the pages seemed misshapen. It hinted Luciana was rereading certain sections.

“Give me a few more minutes.” Gina plucked the palm scanner from her belt. She opened the book to the inside of the back cover.

“Negative, Two. You don’t have a few seconds. Aerial drones are headed in from the utility company.”

“Well, then you boys had better reroute them because I’m busy, and I need a few more minutes.” She held the scanner over the book and flipped the pages swiftly but taking care not to miss one. The scanner’s pale-purple light flickered as it recorded the open surfaces.

“Hang on,” Brant muttered. “But be ready to run.”

Gina glanced at the window. “That’s my default position.”

* * *

Sev lay on a hillside 1.5 klicks away, the rich people’s enclave framed in his rifle’s sights. He’d had so many opportunities to eliminate Luciana’s guards one by one without them having the slightest idea from where they were being attacked, but Captain Adams had made it clear he wanted no deaths, not even injuries.

Compassion is for the weak. Sev’s service instructor, a part of his compulsory education, courtesy of the Ministry for State Security, had drilled the phrase into her students. Compassion risks diluting your sense of duty to society.

It was nonsense, of course, but it was part of what made Sev so cold toward others. He resisted the urge to care about the welfare of people who he would never again see, especially those who made a life out of hurting others. He had no qualms about ending their existence. But he now had people he cared about. No one would be allowed to hurt them.

His sights hovered on the head of Luciana, who was yelling at one of her guards. She stood by the door to her house and seemed ready to go back inside. Gina was still inside. Sev’s finger hovered over the trigger.

“Echo Four, this is Echo Home.” Lieutenant Guinto sounded frazzled. The poor man. “Utility drones are inbound. I’m also getting chatter from the Colonial Rangers—they’re letting local police handle the requested emergency response.”

No order given. Sev shifted his aim. Twin pinpricks of light headed from the city toward the compound. It was a simple enough problem to solve, and he didn’t even have to concern himself about the moral quandary of taking a life. Sev bracketed the first utility drone, aiming for the power plant pulsing in the middle of a white plastic casing. Deep breath. He exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The shot shattered the drone.

He selected his next target, gave himself three seconds, then shot a second round that sent the other utility drone tumbling out of the sky. That drew the attention of the patrol drone, which halted midair, presumably to extend its scanners toward the source of the gunfire. Sev’s third shot broke it in half.

“All targets are down,” Lieutenant Guinto reported. “Head for the rendezvous, Four.”

“Acknowledged.” Sev dismantled his rifle and shimmied down the ridgeline’s crevasse. From there, he slunk along a maze of dry creek beds toward the hovercraft he and Gina had appropriated.

He hoped he’d bought her adequate time. It would have been easier to do so if he’d taken the shot at Luciana. But that wasn’t his call to make. Compassion, his trainer’s voice sneered. Sev glowered at the memory and locked it away.

* * *

Gina lay flat on the balcony again, the door behind her shut. The book lay on the round table where she’d found it, seemingly untouched.

Waiting for the green light so she could make her escape was the hardest part. She tried not to second-guess Brant. He was the one watching over everything going on. But she itched to make her own decisions, take her own actions when she thought they were right.

Gina wondered if that was what Brant’s religion was like, though admittedly she had far more proof of an all-seeing, benevolent power than Catholics like him.

The more she lay there, the more she fell back into her thoughts of Kyle—hiding inside the fence, the shuttle mere meters away. “I’ve got the access code,” her brother whispered. “Don’t worry about it. We get inside, and we’re free to take off wherever we want.”

A beacon flashed in their faces.

“Hey!”

“Two, the drones are down. You’re clear.”

Gina lunged over the balcony, held on to the railing, and dropped to the ground. She came out of a roll at a run, heading for the opposite side of the compound from where she’d entered. No guard markers on her display. Up over the wall surrounding Luciana’s house. Through the lush gardens. The exterior wall loomed. In seconds she’d made it past that final obstacle too.

She crouched among the yucca plants, panting, to see if there’d been any pursuit. Her hand rested on her pistol, loaded as it was with the custom stun rounds that would induce a few minutes of paralysis and unconsciousness, unlike the regular munitions offering the same effects for hours. Nothing.

The compound lights flickered back on.

“Two, Four is en route to the extraction point.” Brant sounded as exhausted as she felt. “One point six klicks. Backup power’s restored, so I hope you didn’t forget anything.”

“Negative, Home. I’ve got the scans ready to upload when I return.”

“Why did you want that book, anyway?”

“Jamaica Inn talks about a young woman who’s orphaned and finds a new family with her aunt and uncle.” Gina smiled. “Turns out the uncle is linked to a smuggling ring.”

12

Bishop Woods, Port Gusev

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

18 March 2466

Bishop Woods didn’t have the benefit of unlimited wealth like Prosperity Glade and thus lacked equally unlimited water, but Jackson thought the developers had made good use of their resources. Eight apartments were arrayed at the points of the compass, with a single fountain dribbling in the center. The water spread out in meter-wide canals to the entrance courtyard of each building, all of which had been repurposed from drab Leaguer housing into individually decorated neighborhoods.

Covert Action Unit 171 had an apartment suite rented on the ground level of Northeast, as the building in that location was so aptly named. It cost little because of its proximity to the underground garage, so Jackson was sure CDF Intelligence wouldn’t begrudge him cashing the difference out onto credit chits he could use for bribery. Never hurts to be prepared.

The team was gathered in the living space. Two bedrooms branched off to the left. Dwyer was in the kitchen working his caffeinated magic, though he seemed glum to Jackson. Of course, he hadn’t had much cause yet to utilize his piloting experience.

Brant and Gina were reviewing printed pages that flashed by on Brant’s display screens. Sev stood in a corner, where he could watch out the slatted window shades and also see the apartment door. He took long, slow sips from his mug.

“Here you go, Cap’n.” Dwyer offered Jackson his own cup of steaming coffee. “And one for you, LT. Gina?”

She shook her head. “Not this morning.”

“Heretic.” Brant inhaled and sighed. “Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.”

“Pretty sure that song wasn’t referring to this.” Jackson tapped his cup.

“Are you kidding? Do you need an etymology lesson on all, or can you take it on faith?”

Gina nudged him. “Take a break, Father Brant, and give Jack the good news.”

“Yes, please.” Jackson leaned back into the lumpen couch. “I could use it.”

“All right.” Brant pushed the scanned pages aside and pulled up a small chart of local space, which included both sides of the League–Coalition border. “Gone Fishing is due to arrive at Nandao tomorrow. So far, so good, in terms of our tracking device.”

“I like the sounds of that. What about the results of your nighttime raid?”

“I’ve had no luck on Luciana’s personal computer, so far. Everything I pulled could be explained as legitimate business and aboveboard transactions. She’s not storing evidence of her smuggling operation there, and given I found links to her personal tablet and commlink, I doubt she has data on either that would be helpful. Loads of contact signals, though. I’m parsing those to see what pops up.”

“That doesn’t sound like good news, Brant.”

Gina held a finger to her lips. “Don’t spoil it.”

Jackson grinned and held up his hands, taking care not to spill the precious coffee. “By all means.”

“Gina was the one who spotted the book, actually.” Brant glanced at her.

She smiled.

“Ah, so we were waiting for your moment, not his.” Jackson chuckled. “And I take it you scanned the entire thing rather than steal it.”

“Against my better judgment, yes, but I saw Brant’s point—we can’t minimize signs of a break-in if I grab a rare book from Luciana’s collection.”

“As boring as the book is,” Brant interjected, “it’s what’s contained on the pages that’s more interesting.”

Gina made a sound of disgust. “Jamaica Inn is not boring.”

Brant let out a deep, loud, exaggerated yawn. “Okay, if you say so.”

“Philistine.” Gina slapped his shoulder.

“Kids.” Jackson rapped his knuckles on the wall. “Focus.”

“Sure.” Brant enlarged the scanned book again. “Most of the volume is free of handwriting, though Gina spotted several clusters of pages that appeared to have been manipulated more than once. She was right.”

Dwyer choked on coffee. “That must’ve stung, LT.”

Brant continued without acknowledging the zinger. “Luciana took notes about her operations in the blank spaces between paragraphs, never on the edges. She used an ink that starts out visible and fades as it dissipates into paper, but I was able to reconstruct it by programming an algorithm to rewind the rate of decay.”

He turned away from his console and faced the rest of the team—possibly watching Dwyer for a reaction—then tapped a single panel on his console. A string of red letters and numbers glowed on the pages.

“Wow,” Sev murmured.

“I’ll second that.” Jackson pushed off from the couch and approached the console setup so he could get a better look. “How’s this compare to the data you’ve already pulled together?”

“Most of it is numbers, but I’ve started getting hits when cross-referencing with what Oxford and Tuscon have gathered so far—the date for Gone Fishing’s arrival and departure, for example. There are also four mentions of the same coordinates at the system’s edge, near Suyetovo, which as near as I can figure is where another ship dropped in and transmitted the list of required items.”

“The list you and Eldred found embedded in the nav satellites,” Jackson added.

“It looks like it.”

“So, how does this help us now?” Gina leaned back in her chair and put her stocking feet on Brant’s console.

It was a marker of Brant’s increased patience and the team’s comfort level with each other that he didn’t shove them away, as far as Jackson was concerned.

“Given enough time, Miranda and I can work backward, hopefully picking up what ship was out there, or move forward so we can shadow whatever ship comes back,” Brant replied. “Either way, it’s not something I’d think Colonel Sinclair wants Oxford to do.”

“No. He’ll have to redirect Tuscon.” Jackson frowned. “Which could be tricky if we’re trying to avoid CIS.”

“Assuming they’re actually in on this mess, Cap’n,” Dwyer pointed out. “Which, I’ve got to admit, y’all, I’m having a hard time believing.”

“The circumstantial evidence is stacking up, Sparks.” Jackson scratched his chin. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but we’re going to shut it down regardless. Brant, is there anything else in there that points to a person? Names are what I need.”

“No, Luciana’s careful about that.” Brant scrolled through the pages. “But we’re talking ninety-three percent likelihood it’s her handwriting, based on the records she’s signed at the transshipment depot.”

“Even code phrases will help, you know.”

“Yeah, and the comp is still chewing on everything I’ve found, so it might…” Brant frowned. “Huh. Okay, there’s one for you.”

“What?”

“A name—or a code name. Gaddiel. Sounds Hebrew.” Brant looked up at Dwyer that time.

“Well, sure is.” Dwyer tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling as if he could find the answer in the perforated tiles. “It’s, um… oh. That’s worth a chuckle. Gaddiel was one of the ten spies with the bad answers.”

“The what?” Jackson didn’t like those kinds of riddles.

“In the Tanakh,” Dwyer explained. “It’s Moses sending Joshua, Caleb, and ten other fellas to scout out the Promised Land, but only those two had anything good to say. C’mon, LT, speaking of Philistines…”

Brant snapped his fingers. “Okay. I remember. Numbers 13.”

“Bingo.” Dwyer grinned.

“He’s right, Jack—Gaddiel was the name of one of those twelve spies or scouts, depending on the translation. He and nine of them were intimidated and afraid. Heck of a code name choice.”

“Not a bad piece of misdirection,” Jackson said. “Like how there aren’t one hundred seventy-one covert action units. Okay, watch the name. See what else turns up.”

A commlink buzzed.

“Work beckons,” Gina noted.

Jackson swept it up to his ear. “Hey, there, Natalie,” he answered, switching into JJ Accurso’s twang. “What’s goin’ on?”

“People are here asking for you.” Natalie sounded perturbed. “Luciana’s people. Are you in trouble?”

That’s interesting. “Me? Shoot, no. Maybe she just likes meeting the new hires.”

“Yes, that is true.” Natalie sighed. “Be careful with her. I know it’s tempting to make easy money beyond what we can pay you—”

“Boss, I’m not ungrateful, but when a man’s got debts to unsavory folks, he’s got to siphon off every credit he can.” Jackson winked at Gina, who rolled her eyes. “I’ll get back there ASAP and make sure I keep both eyes open.”

He signed off. Dwyer started a slow, deliberate clap.

“Are you kidding?” Gina folded her arms. “Two out of five stars. Unconvincing.”

“I don’t know. I thought he had an easy-to-talk-to air about him.” Brant tried not to laugh.

Sev grunted. “Sounded like Sparks.”

Dwyer sputtered his coffee. He wiped the brown liquid dribbling down his chin. “Hey, hold on a second!”

Jackson headed for the door, chuckling. Everybody’s a critic.

* * *

Otradny Continent

Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

18 March 2466

Benjamin found it amusing that a growing portion of his assignment for the mission was to spend time on the social media networks pervasive throughout both Coalition and Leaguer space.

He didn’t have a personal profile. That would be a waste of his brainpower. Besides, he didn’t know what he would put under occupation. No, it was far better to secure his privacy, and given his line of work, it was even better to be a ghost, electronically speaking. But that didn’t stop him from dipping his toes, so to speak, in the seething ocean of misinformation and ill will.

Sure, things out in the networks weren’t nearly as bad as the early- to mid-twenty-first century back on Earth. Talk about a mess. Ironically, it was the World Society—great-grandpa to the League of Sol—that had clamped down and dismantled most of those early forums, though not without coopting elements for their own use in controlling the masses. The opposing powers had, ironically, left the nets unregulated in the name of freedom and reduced government interference. That didn’t stop Benjamin from wondering how things would have turned out four centuries later if they had shut off the spigot of animosity that’d kept the people distracted and disunited.

Benjamin stopped in the middle of typing his latest comment. He supposed it didn’t matter. His attention belonged in the present, dealing with the current problem—getting the rest of the galaxy to notice what the 88ers were doing and making it look like the Coalition was knowingly supplying the insurgents, in contravention of the treaty.

“Sir?” Vance stood in the doorway to his office. He edged forward, avoiding the persistent drip coming from the hatch’s seam.

It wasn’t the only leak in the compartment, though Benjamin had stopped keeping track—or asking about repairs. The 88ers had laughed in his face at the first request.

“In the middle of ranting, Vance.” Benjamin saved his progress. “I could use happy thoughts.”

“Here’s one for you, then—Gone Fishing is due to arrive tomorrow, midevening Otradny time. They report no issues in transit so far.”

“That is good news. Extra neutron cannons will go a long way.” As in, they would help him get two more Phantoms in the air and cause all that much more damage. For the freedom fighters, of course. Benjamin looked more closely at Vance. The younger man appeared far less pleased than he should have at delivering that ray of sunshine. “What’s wrong?”

“Um… the drone contingency activated.”

Benjamin slapped the console. His half-finished comment posted. “Shit.” He poked the screen, highlighted his post, and deleted it. Then he glowered at Vance, fully aware the drone contingency activation wasn’t Vance’s fault but not giving a solitary damn right then. “When?”

“Twenty-one hours ago.”

“The fighters?”

“Destroyed, sir.”

A bit of Benjamin’s anger dissipated as confusion took hold. “All of them?”

Vance nodded.

“CDF must have found them.” Benjamin swiveled his chair in a full circle and scratched the back of his neck. He stopped so he could catch the humid breeze coming in the open window of his office. Damp, yes, but still soothing. “Give me the BLUF, Vance.”

“I…” Vance frowned.

It was the first time Benjamin had seen him irritated. “Sorry. Bottom line up front.” He’d worked with Vance so closely on the mission, he sometimes forgot the man was Leaguer, even if he was a revolutionary fighting on the right side.

“Oh. There are no local sensor records of what attacked. New Rostov doesn’t list any CDF vessels on station at the moment, just a couple of corvettes operated by the Colonial Rangers, and they stick close to the primary planet’s orbit. All I can determine is the fighters reacted to an invasive scan, attempted to eliminate the threat, and were promptly destroyed.”

“Other fighters?”

“Possibly, but no carrier craft are in the vicinity. The readings relayed by our dormant satellite couldn’t make anything out other than a drive signature from a shuttle.”

Benjamin made a face. None of that made sense unless CDF was toying with a new gunship—a modified corvette equipped with stealth tech and multiple CIWS mounts? Maybe, if it were designed by a… wait a second. Oxford had undergone a major refit, though the details of that work were classified, but there was no denying the modular nature. She could have hauled fighters into the New Rostov system.

If that’s the case, what kind of fighters are we dealing with? A couple of programs were vying for funding and attention from the brass. Benjamin would have to discreetly inquire of his handlers.

Vance waited for a response. Benjamin had no intention of giving him further insight. CIS might have him aiding like-minded rebels, but they were still Leaguers, and Benjamin was still a Terran. Those people weren’t his people. If this flops, the less the 88ers know about us, the better.

“We’ll have to keep a closer watch,” Benjamin said. “I’ll talk to my bosses. See what I can arrange.”

“Won’t the shipments be in danger, though, if we don’t take decisive steps?”

Benjamin glared at him. “I think I said I’d take care of it.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Benjamin indicated his console. “Anything else? I’ve got to get back to this.”

“Only that the 88ers didn’t have any better luck getting into the League’s social media.” Vance joined him by his chair. “They have it locked down pretty tight.”

“That’s not the problem. The tricky part was coming up with a convincing profile—namely, one of an outraged parent who just lost his kids in a cowardly rebel raid.” Benjamin grinned as he resumed typing. It wasn’t a bad piece of work, all things considered. Maybe he would save the tidbits for a novel if he ever had the chance to retire. “And the video doctoring you did is pretty amazing. Have a look.”

Vance smiled as the clip of the Phantoms’ bombing run commenced. It was taken by a drone, shaky and blurred, but there was no doubt it had been recorded inside Processing Center 82’s grounds. Vance’s contribution, which Benjamin could tell he was proud of based on his suddenly boosted posture, was to run it through an encoder meant to mimic League security scans and add the same graphics it used. “Thanks, sir. Convincing when you add it to the narrative you’re faking. The words will get people mad enough that they’ll overlook any flaws in the videography.”

“There’s enough distrust of the Terran government, that’s for sure, especially when you count families and friends of the Fabians the Coalition rounded up in the fall.” Plus, the Peace Union party, while diminished after its brief and disastrous administration failed, still had enough clout to raise holy hell about that kind of thing. Never mind that they would have no proof. It would fit their narrative, to borrow Vance’s description.

Flame and smoke obscured the recording, but only for a while. It cleared long enough for Benjamin to see a couple of bodies, the clothing charred, sprawled across the broken and scorched concrete. He added a time stamp to his post so people could see precisely that if they chose. He also made sure he had enough references to “innocent victims” and “warmongering capitalist dogs” to satisfy the people for whom those were trigger words.

And speaking of satisfaction, Benjamin submitted the post.

“Good luck with that,” Vance commented. “League censors won’t let it get far.”

“Unfortunately for them, I’m not the typical citizen slaving in mines or stuck on unemployment while the commissars monitor my every detail.” Cherice had given him a backdoor key, of sorts—a cipher that, once embedded in his posts, rode into the censors’ mainframes and hopped across network after network in random fashion. “The more people flag it for deletion, the more they’ll inadvertently share it. And my contact is out there, too, making sure it shows up in the competing networks across neutral space. From there, it’s a quick hop to the Coalition.”

Vance shook his head. “Do you think this will do the trick?”

“It had better,” Benjamin muttered. “Because the truth isn’t going to get us anywhere.”

“I hope so, sir.” Vance headed for the door. “The fighters should have checked back in by now. No losses reported. I’ll give you a full accounting.”

“Thanks, Vance.”

Another young man appeared as Vance departed. “You wanted to see me, Ben?”

“Sure thing. Come on in, Kyle.”

The dark-haired, olive-skinned man had a lanky, athletic frame that his flight suit didn’t seem to fit. His perpetual smirk made him seem like he had a plan in mind, for good or ill, and Benjamin knew Kyle was sharp enough to execute either. “What’s the good word?”

“The good word is I’ll be able to get you out of a simulator and into a real cockpit soon.” Benjamin grinned. “How’s that sound?”

“Perfect. I’ve been wanting to get a real crack at these Leaguer tyrants. Anything I can do to make them bleed is worth the wait.” Kyle stood up straighter. “I promise I won’t let you down.”

* * *

Port Gusev Global Transshipment Depot

New Rostov III

Luciana’s idea of a quiet chat with Jackson was what she’d advertised—just him and her, walking through a narrow passage between shipping containers. He was sure she had bodyguards positioned nearby, and Brant confirmed it three seconds later.

“I need a favor.” Luciana handed Jackson a white box. “There’s a barge landing at oh seven thirty tomorrow morning, Pad Seven. You’ll see it in the port records. Give this to the man unloading cargo.”

“Can’t leave it with the managers?” JJ grinned.

“For obvious reasons. But you seem to have an easier attitude.” Luciana smiled back. “If you don’t want to, drop it at the dockmaster’s office. He’ll handle the rest. If you chose to carry out this task, you’ll find your pay in Locker 307.”

“Let me mull it over. I’m all about paying my debts, but I don’t want to irk the Ivanovs. They’ve been good to me.”

“Don’t worry.” Luciana chuckled. “They’re used to being disappointed.”

“Echo Home to Echo One.” Brant was terse, agitated. “Bodyguard coming around the southeast corner. And we’ve got a problem—coming across the nets. I think that’s the message he’s bringing.”

Message? On the nets? Jackson kept his face calm and bemused as the bodyguard held out a tablet for Luciana to read.

“Oh, now there’s something. Looks like I owe a man a drink. Come on,” Luciana said.

As soon as they departed, Jackson brought up the news nets on his wrist unit. He stared at holographic headlines and commentators venting their outrage. “Coalition fighters used in terrorist raids,” he murmured. “Insurgents field Phantoms.”

“Uncle Rob isn’t happy about this,” Brant said.

Jackson tucked the white box into his pocket. “I don’t imagine he’s the only one.”

13

Interstellar Intelligence Complex

Outside Lawrence City

Canaan

19 March 2466

George Parry steepled his fingers in front of his face as he watched President Justin Spencer deliver his comments to the assembled press.

“No, we have not determined the origin of those images. We are investigating the—”

“How can you claim those were not Coalition fighters that we saw?” a reporter interrupted. “The recording shows they are clearly Phantom SF-106s, which can’t be sold or traded, per military regulations.”

“What I’m saying is that, if those are Coalition starfighters, we will be looking into where they came from and how they got into insurgent hands.”

“Is it the administration’s position that they have lost the fighters and are now hiding the fact from the public?”

“No one is hiding anything, but I can’t comment on classified aspects of an ongoing review.”

The reporter pressed. “Why is the Coalition supplying weapons of this kind to rebels on a Leaguer planet? Isn’t this prohibited by the peace treaty?”

“You’re right. It is.” Spencer’s hands tightened on the podium. “Which is why we are using every available means to uncover the truth about these attacks.”

Parry could read the frustration in his expression—no one in the room or watching the broadcast could miss it.

“What of the rumors of CDF fleet maneuvers in the area of Freedom Station? Is that a precursor to a first strike?”

Spencer’s eyebrows raised. Parry smiled in response. I’m glad that anonymous tip of mine paid off.

More questions burst into the exchange, overlapping as Spencer tried to reply over them. Finally, the press secretary came up and whispered to him.

Spencer issued a final and firm, “That’s all the time we have for questions today.”

The press secretary ushered him from the podium as burly security officers formed phalanxes around the pair.

“Well, it’s a start.” Parry’s words echoed in his empty office. The broad windows offered a pleasant view of forests, lakes, and in the distance, Lawrence City’s skyline. Near enough to see the capital but far enough away to keep out of the public’s notice. Parry liked it that way.

He opened a set of links on his desk’s display surface so he could see how numerous commentators were reviewing the president’s statement. Spencer had reacted quickly and decisively to the controversy, as Parry had known he would. The president was a sucker for honesty and forthrightness. Running his private spy squad must be killing him.

Not that Parry had any intention of revealing the existence of the covert action units to the public. They were far too valuable, an excellent deterrence tool wielded against the League. He considered them the ones best suited to keep External Security Services at bay, and they seemed to have gotten the job done, considering how quiet ESS had gone after their initial year of incursions.

But such a tool had to be wreathed in top security clearances and had to use every underhanded method available to beat the enemy—all things a good man like Justin Spencer had moral qualms about. All the better that George Parry lacked them.

His console beeped. An orange light flashed.

Parry tapped the acknowledgment button. “Go ahead.”

“Sir, you have an incoming transmission, Black Level.”

Parry straightened in his chair. It was about time. “Put it through. I have the cipher for the day.”

The comms signal appeared at the center of his desk display, pushing aside the screen he’d opened. Parry entered a nineteen-digit-and-letter code, one that sat on a scrap of paper he’d plucked from his pocket. The signal glowed green at the proper receipt, so Parry tossed the scrap into an indentation at the corner of his desk. The indentation opened. The scrap fell in, and a flash of light and heat marked its immolation.

The screen in the middle of his display went black then filled with pixilation before resolving into the dark-skinned face of a young, beautiful woman. She shivered and stuttered, all of which were the result of extreme distance and decryption. Parry frowned as indicators flickered below and to the right of her image. He reminded himself that the comp was doing its best to stabilize the transmission—not an easy feat, considering the security buffers through which it passed. A small price to pay for live communications carried out real-time across more than four thousand light-years.

“I take it everyone is enjoying the show.” Cherice’s voice was scratchy but pleasant.

“It seems so. Father is flustered and defaulting to blunt honesty.”

“Too bad for him.”

“He seems upset about the deaths.”

Cherice shrugged. “As we knew he would be. Our clients want to make a political point, and we’re not about to tell them how.”

“Of course. You received your last delivery?”

“Yes. Everything was included. No need for a refund.”

Parry nodded.

“You can expect a transfer by the end of local day,” Cherice added.

“That will work.” Parry glanced at the comparative clocks he’d set up in the corner of his display, comparing Lawrence City time to that of wherever Cherice was transmitting from. “Our accounts are looking healthy.”

“As they should. I’m glad they’ll be spent on a good cause.”

“You know they will.”

“New instructions?”

“Yes. The good son is already out there, presumably sniffing around the transfer point.” Parry knew Oxford and CAU 171 were in that region, but he couldn’t get a read on precisely where. Ever since those damned Fabians had overplayed their hand, CDF Intelligence had clamped down on its already-secretive operations records. “Make sure there are obstacles, but I don’t want him to get hurt. He’s on the same side as us, even if we’re at cross-purposes.”

Cherice’s expression was inscrutable. Parry couldn’t tell whether that was due to the transmission lag or the operative’s poker face. “Of course.”

“It’s not optional.”

“I know. We’ll keep him in the dark and unhurt.”

“Make sure the clients are leashed, too, when it comes to them. That’s your friend’s responsibility.” Parry had no desire to see CAU 171 crippled by the insurgents either. Whether or not the team stopped the insurgents was beside the point. Their goals were not his.

“I will. And I’ll update you as soon as the next party is planned.”

“I’m sorry I can’t attend, but give everyone my best.”

“Understood.” Cherice glanced away. “I wonder if I can put in an order for two more whole units instead of just their accessories.”

More fighters? Parry shifted in his chair. “Doable, yes, but not easy. The supply is under scrutiny.”

“I’m aware, but if we can escalate—”

“I’ll see what I can do. Anything else?”

“No.”

“Good. I have your back.”

“You always do.” Cherice smiled. “Farewell.”

The image went blank. Gibberish and more pixelated characters filled the void as Parry’s comp deleted its record of the call, going so far as to damage a memory component in the process. Parry reached under the desk, found the appropriate access port, and pulled it free. The component, too, wound up in his desk’s concealed incinerator.

He returned his attention to the news networks. Some supported and praised Spencer’s honesty, raising questions about the military’s way of handling the matter without blaming the president entirely. Another small but vocal subset ranted conspiracy theories about Spencer’s incompetence or his latent warmongering.

It was the latter Parry wanted to emphasize. Benjamin Dravyn was doing a good job with false accounts pushing that narrative. But Parry knew that, however it was achieved, they would have to get to the point that some element of the League would be enraged enough to mount a punitive strike against the Coalition. Such a direct action would force a response from Spencer and the CDF, which would give Parry and his superiors the pretext to hit back even harder. Nothing less than a stab to the heart of Sol would do.

It didn’t matter to Parry, actually, who did what. The League was showing admirable restraint, though. But any more damage to the lithium trade conducted with Galt and a few other neutral systems could push them over the edge. Parry shook his head. It all had to land in Spencer’s lap, framing his administration for a major foreign policy debacle and forcing its undoing.

As for the money Parry was making from selling the weapons to the insurgents, well, he’d already moved sizeable sums around to shadow accounts. He inserted a data chip into the desktop console and examined his records. Yes, a few more large deposits, then he could begin the major transfers out.

Galt bankers didn’t care, after all, who was getting money from whom, not even when it appeared to come from ESS and wind up in Justin Spencer’s pockets.

The thought of the president—that damned, smug fool—only angered him, even though he should be pleased by the man’s impending downfall. Parry slipped a tiny photo of himself and a woman in CDF uniform from inside his pocket. They were the same age, and one would think they were siblings, judging by their features, but she’d been a first cousin. Practically a sister, though, given the small size of their families. Parry had been so proud of her when she’d been promoted to major.

I’m sorry, Sheila. Parry’s eyes stung, but he refused to cry. His chest ached. I know this isn’t what you want, but if that bastard won’t take the final steps to carve out the League’s heart once and for all, then he’s got to go.

The intercom buzzed again.

“Yes?” Parry replied.

“The director is ready, sir.”

George Parry, deputy director for operations of the Coalition Intelligence Service, stood and straightened his suit jacket. He made sure the lapel pin of the Terran Coalition’s flag rode prominently on the collar. “Thank you, Avela. I’ll be right down.”

He left his office to confer with his boss and colleagues as to how they could solve the mystery of who was trafficking in stolen CDF fighters. Parry smiled. Luckily, he had the best people already looking into the matter.

* * *

The White House

Lawrence City

Canaan

19 March 2466

Justin Spencer sagged behind his desk, exhausted. “How do you do that every day?”

Press Secretary Tomas Escarra shrugged. “It’s like handling a classroom full of surly teens, except they’re asking one person all the questions instead of the other way around. Taking this job after a career in teaching wasn’t much of a stretch.”

“Better you than me. I’d rather be back in a cockpit with Leaguer fighters gunning for me.”

“Sir?” Rios, one of Spencer’s security officers, poked his head in the open door. “They’re here.”

“Thanks. Send them in.” Spencer glanced at Escarra. “Tell me that was it for today.”

“Oh, for today, but there’s always tomorrow.” Escarra checked his commlink as he strode for the office exit. “I’ll be in touch when I hear more.”

“Thanks.” Not really. I wasn’t exaggerating by much when I made that quip about the fighters.

No sooner had Escarra left than Secretary of Defense Celinda Snow and General MacIntosh entered, heads lowered in hushed conversation over whatever Snow’s tablet revealed. Spencer had no idea MacIntosh could be so quiet.

Vice President Eduardo Fuentes was right behind them. He brushed by Snow on his way to Spencer’s desk. “We’re on sifting sand here, Justin, I must say.”

“I know it, Ed. That’s why I said what I did.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, that was probably a mistake,” Snow added.

Spencer frowned. “I don’t believe it was. The video from Nandao spooked the public. I needed to address it head-on, being as transparent as I could about what we knew without jeopardizing operational security.”

“You did well on that score,” MacIntosh agreed. “But I don’t like it when the media get nosy for these kinds of things. They’re looking for scandal.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, General, but if any of this mess is tied to the administration, that’s what they’ll find.” Fuentes shook his head. “The Peace Union is apoplectic, of course. The more rabid among them think I should denounce you and resign from the vice presidency. An even smaller subset wants me to run against you in the next election—or replace you when they file articles of impeachment.”

MacIntosh muttered something that, in his thickening Scottish brogue, sounded like “arseholes.”

“Impeachment? Are they serious?” Spencer knew he shouldn’t be amused but couldn’t help smirking. “They’ve missed their chance to kick me out for far more serious oversights than misplaced starfighters.”

“It’s all bluster—for now. I’ve tamped down on the most outspoken as best I can.” Fuentes shook his head. “Posturing for votes, I’m sure.”

“But more seriously, folks—how sure are we those are our fighters?” Spencer asked. “There’s no missing the League date stamps. Celinda?”

“The initial analysis points toward legitimacy, but I have turned a copy over to CDF Intelligence for further scrutiny.” Snow looked at MacIntosh. “The general and I have not yet given it to our CIS counterparts, though I understand Director Pelletier has convened an emergency meeting of his department heads.”

“Pelletier. The man’s past his prime,” MacIntosh grumbled.

“Take it easy on Frank,” Spencer countered. “He’s a thousand times better than Elizabeth Balodis ever was. I won’t regret her resignation. Frank’s been invaluable to my postwar assessments—which makes it all the more frustrating if CIS could be involved in this mess.”

“I’d advise against contacting him directly,” Snow said. “He could very well be the top of this conspiracy or, if he isn’t, be inadvertently feeding information to those who are.”

“That’s a given, Celinda, though I appreciate you reminding me.” Spencer planted his elbows on the desk. “Give me good news, instead.”

“CAU 171 traced the most recent shipment to Nandao and has retrieved important intelligence from a smuggling ring on New Rostov,” Snow continued. “Captain Adams is closer to joining this ring in hopes of uncovering more information. CSV Tuscon and CSV Lubbock will continue their surveillance of shipping to and from Freedom Station under the guise of surveying for the PASCORE network expansion.”

She passed Spencer her tablet. He perused the bullet points listing the operational status thus far. “This source on Freedom Station—a reliable person?”

“It appears so. Colonel Sinclair has taken steps to lock down and compartmentalize information surrounding the operation, given the breach aboard Oxford during the Galt mission.”

“He can’t be pleased about having IR nosing about, though.” Fuentes frowned.

Spencer assumed he was reading his own copy of the report on his device.

“The colonel assures us he is handling it.” Snow cocked an eyebrow. “But back to the video, Mr. President. The most curious aspect, aside from the real possibility it was a third party that created it and not League security, is how it bypassed the social media controls. The League’s draconian measures should have deleted it instantly—or better still, prevented it from ever being posted. But not only did it get out of Nandao. It rode the networks clear into the neutral systems. Galt, Gilead, Trinidad—their nets are wide open. By the time League censors stamped it out within their own star systems, it had reached far into the rest of the civilized nations.”

“Including ours.” Spencer scowled. “Though I’d never use the word ‘civilized’ to describe social media.”

“Be that as it may, Intelligence does not think it’s coincidental or evidence of League sloppiness. Chatter indicates they’re just as perplexed.”

“What she’s hemming and hawing about, Mr. President, is CIS has used similar tactics before,” MacIntosh cut in. “So I’m putting my money on their involvement.”

“It’s sounding more and more like it.” Spencer gave Snow back the tablet. “This smuggling pipeline—do we shut it down now? Or wait until we have names and faces to go with this fiasco?”

“Names and faces, that’s my preference,” MacIntosh answered. “True, we’d stop the flow of weapons, but we’re still left with the question of just who was responsible and why.”

“Never mind there will still be operational Terran starfighters killing League personnel and civilians,” Fuentes pointed out. “I cannot imagine the Nandao insurgents have become that desperate.”

“Living under the League of Sol’s thumb will crush whatever qualms you might have about committing acts of violence, Mr. Vice President,” MacIntosh said. “Especially if these 88ers really voted for independence and got screwed instead of free.”

“Considering all that, Mr. President…” Snow seemed to have trouble with her next statement as if wondering how much she should tell Spencer. “Our answers lie over the League border, in the Nandao system. Whoever is aiding the insurgents is likely there. The fighters most definitely are.”

Meaning, she wants me to give approval for covert military action over the border of our sworn enemy, in peacetime. Spencer hated the idea of stooping to the very course CIS—rogue or otherwise—was making it seem like he relished. Insane. He’d seen too much war. The three years of peace, though rife with challenges, were a welcome breather for all Terrans to exercise their freedoms and live their lives without fear of destruction.

But there was no denying the League had tested Terran patience by probing the border with subtle incursions—and some more blatant.

And in a way, we would be ridding the League of a problem, too, though I wish the insurgents could succeed in their fight, even if I’m disgusted at their methods. “Take the stolen fighters off the table,” he said quietly, “All of them.” God in heaven, don’t let that be a mistake.

14

Port Gusev Transshipment Depot

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

19 March 2466

Jackson had no problem carrying out Luciana’s instructions. The unidentified barge had barely touched its landing struts to the tarmac when the boarding ramp opened and the cargomaster disembarked.

“Morning.” Jackson grinned. “Picked a fine day for a jaunt down through the atmosphere, didn’t you?”

The man glowered at him. He held out his hand.

“Right.” So much for small talk. Jackson moved in closer and did his best to conceal the transfer. “She didn’t mention you’d make it obvious, pal. Excuse me for trying to be discreet.”

“Shut up. Move out of the way.” The man turned then whistled.

More crew emerged with a loader bot hauling containers down the ramp.

Jackson held up his hands and backed away. He saw Natalie walking up from an aisle between stacked containers. “They’re early by a couple of hours,” Jackson reported.

“Yes, I noticed.” Natalie brushed past him. She zeroed in on the cargomaster. “Sign here, please.”

He tried giving her the same dirty look he’d used on Jackson. “I’m not signing—”

“If you don’t sign, I’m obliged by Coalition mercantile law to notify the Colonial Rangers on planet of an illegal landing,” Natalie interjected. “They will have gunships circling your boat before you can finish offloading your legitimate cargo and start taking on your contraband. I’m fully aware I can’t stop Luciana’s trade, thanks in no small part to my supervisor, so I’m not trying to, but you can be damned sure I will file all the proper paperwork in the meantime. Sign here.”

The cargomaster muttered under his breath but stabbed the proffered tablet with a stylus.

“Thank you.” Natalie withdrew from their midst and found Jackson at the edge of the tarmac.

“Fun group.” Jackson took the opportunity to continue updating the transshipment depot’s manifest by running a handheld scanner over the ID codes embedded in each container. “Do you have a category for illicit cargo in that thing?”

Natalie gave him the side-eye. “So, you’re on tryouts for Luciana, are you?”

“Wasn’t a big thing.” Jackson shrugged. “I give them a box and earn extra pay. It doesn’t cost you anything.”

“Only our reputation.”

“Natalie, I don’t think that’s something you and Gregory have to bother about. The dockmaster’s running this place. Whatever goes on is his problem.” Jackson shook his head. “You guys are just like me—you work here.”

“Of course you don’t understand. How could you?” Natalie gestured to the tarmac and the rows of containers beyond. “I’m sure wherever you came from in Terran or neutral space was a thousand times better than what we suffered through under the League. New Rostov was a poisonous hell. The Coalition’s turning it into a place of opportunity. Everyone living here wants the same chance to improve their lives and leave a legacy when they die—except in come the criminals eager to make a fast credit without worrying about long-term impacts to our world.”

Jackson glanced at her. “It doesn’t sound like you want to share New Rostov.”

“I should, but you’re right, I don’t.” Natalie sighed. “We never had to deal with newcomers unless they were workers dumped here by the League to slave away in the lithium mines. Instead of hardworking citizens, though, we get rich thieves barricaded behind their garden walls, using our lack of infrastructure to their advantage.”

“If it’s such a big deal, why not go to the Rangers like you said? I’m sure they’d love to drop a net over the whole smuggling mess.”

“There’s not enough of them. I don’t think New Rostov is important enough in the Coalition to warrant more officers or greater scrutiny.” Natalie turned away, clutching the tablet to her chest. “You don’t see, do you? It’s important enough to me and Gregory and all of us who were resigned to calling ourselves Leaguers but now are proud to call ourselves Terrans.”

Jackson’s heart sank, though he maintained his puzzled and somewhat arrogant expression. It did him good to hear Natalie speak that way, though he couldn’t do much to change the situation. The mission was clear—stop the flow of weapons and cut off the insurgents.

“Echo One, this is Echo Home.” Brant, of course. He’d been listening in, as he did most of the time Jackson was out in the field. “Whatever that barge is up to, I don’t think it’s related to the birds we’re looking for. Drone Three is picking up traces of narcotics. Shocking, I know. That’s something we can refer to the local authorities.”

For all the good it will do. Jackson put a hand on Natalie’s shoulder. “Hey, I’m sorry I can’t do better, but I have to watch out for me, you know? It sucks, but it’s part of the Terran deal, especially out here, away from the big planets.”

“I understand that. I’m not advocating a return to the League’s way of doing things. But consider what this place means to me before you take more of Luciana’s money.”

Natalie left Jackson to his inventory task, and while Jackson did get back to the monotonous scanning and visual inspection, his brain was already formulating another plan.

“One, do you read?”

“Yeah, I do,” Jackson murmured. The rumble from the barge’s engines made it easy to respond audibly, as did the fact that he was working on his own. “Tell me my good deed didn’t go unnoticed.”

“That’s affirmative.” Brant sounded pleased, though Jackson couldn’t determine whether it was with himself, his algorithms used to listen in on Luciana’s comms, or Jackson’s role. Probably not the third and final option. “They’ve signaled your side boss about the successful receipt of the package.”

Side boss. Jackson smirked. “I’m expecting a call from her later today if this goes well. Link Echo Two in, will you? I’ve got an idea.”

“What kind of idea?” Wariness crept into Brant’s voice. He sounded remarkably like Harry when Jackson proposed a fun way to get out of work on the ranch.

“A bad one.” Jackson looked back and saw Natalie disappear around a stack of crates. “But I think it will do good.”

* * *

Bishop Woods, Port Gusev

New Rostov III

The comms channel lit up. Brant nodded. Luciana was calling Jackson—or rather, JJ Accurso, the newest employee at the Port Gusev Transshipment Depot.

“Green light.” Miranda monitored from Oxford via a secure tightbeam. Not the same thing as sitting beside her, working their decryption magic together, but Brant would take it as second prize in a heartbeat. “She’s communicating from her hovercraft, headed west along Port Gusev’s entertainment district.”

Brant snorted. He’d seen the city’s schematics. The district amounted to four blocks of eateries, stores, and gaming establishments, all new since the League’s withdrawal. But Miranda was correct about the call origin. Brant had an algorithm tasked with analyzing the signal for any hidden background data.

Meanwhile, another program trundled along in the background, minding the star system’s navigational satellites. It parsed every upload and download as the few ships passing through New Rostov refreshed their charts. With any luck, they would get a fix when and if the ship that transmitted the order list to Luciana for the insurgent weapons—and stolen starfighters—reappeared.

Brant pressed his earpiece into place. Static sputtered but settled into a soft background hiss.

“You delivered the parcel.” Luciana’s voice was surprisingly soothing.

Brant felt himself relaxing into his seat as if he were getting ready to enjoy an informative newscast by a favorite commentator before he remembered he was on duty.

“That’s so nice. Not a lot of people take me up on the first offer.”

“Hey, I’ve been saying it, so no harm in one more time—I like the extra money.”

Jack’s accent made Brant grin.

“Does Warrant Dwyer know how much like him Echo One sounds?” Miranda murmured. “I’m tempted to run a side-by-side voice analysis.”

“No kidding,” Brant replied.

Jackson continued. “The boss was upset, but I get that. She’s a good lady.”

“Yes. That does make her a pain. I can’t help admiring her for her principles. After all, what better life could she expect? These Leaguer drones… you can’t put too much responsibility on them. Oh, they go on and on about how much they love their new freedom, but they would drop it all if their old overlords showed up tomorrow.”

“Yeah? Long live the nanny state.”

Luciana laughed. “You could say that. Did you find the credits to your liking?”

“Um, hell yes, ma’am.” Jackson chuckled. “Some more of that, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t at all. The next job’s easy. Observation.”

“You mean watch somebody?”

“I mean plant a device so I can do the watching.”

Well, this is new. Nice to get an admission of something beyond boxes full of illegal goods. Maybe she’s setting up the Ivanovs. Brant checked the drone feeds. Jackson leaned against a shipping container, shaded from the blistering sun, talking into his commlink. Gregory and Natalie were on the other side of the complex, in deep discussion.

“This security guard at the depot can be a nuisance. Clarence. I had the dockmaster reassign him away from the tarmacs and at the gate instead, but he’s still harassing my employees.”

“Have we looked into him before?” Miranda asked.

The shared link flashed on Brant’s screen. The profile for Clarence Carter, head of property security at the Port Gusev Transshipment Depot, appeared. Miranda was reviewing it, Brant realized while sharing live the outcome to his console.

“Hold that thought.” Brant increased the signal volume.

“Clarence? Aw, he’s okay. Uptight, sure. I take it he’s not getting any extra goodies in his stocking come Christmas.”

“Sadly, no. He rejected that option a long time ago.” Luciana sighed. “My problem is that he has been talking about my subtle business offworld and creating potential roadblocks. I need to hear what he’s saying.”

“No prob. I’ll plant the listening thingy.”

“That’s wonderful. Locker Three-One-One. I’ll give you further instructions tonight on where and when to place it. As before, you’ll be paid when my people confirm the device is in place.”

Brant’s gaze flicked to his drone readout. Four was idling on the northwest corner of the depot, so he dispatched it to Locker 311.

“I won’t let you down, but I might have to ask for more this time.”

“Oh, really?” Luciana sounded as amused as Brant felt. “One job and you get a raise.”

“Well, apparently, I’m in demand, so how about ten percent up?”

That earned a laugh from the smuggler queen, as Brant had started thinking of her. “Call it five, and don’t push your luck further. I’ll be in touch.”

A light on Brant’s console blinked off, indicating she’d ceased the call. Brant punched over to Jackson’s frequency. “Echo One, this is Echo Home.”

“Loud and clear, Home.” Hearing Jack’s regular voice was jarring for a second or two after listening to him roleplaying as JJ. “I’m headed for the locker. I take it you’ll tell me what’s in the present before I unwrap it?”

“Drone Three is on site.” A small screen showed the drone’s vantage. The cluster of locker doors bobbed into view, with 311 in the center. “Turning up the scanners.”

The doors faded to ghostly silhouettes, allowing Brant to get a rough idea of what was inside. The depot purported to use scan-safe lockers, but really, no such thing existed, not when Brant could call on the best surveillance toys CDF Intelligence had to offer. He cycled through the various sniffers for biological threats then electronic then explosive.

“Bingo.” Brant whistled as he read the drone’s analysis. “So, she was sort of telling the truth. A listening device is in there. Looks like a high-end model the Colonial Rangers use—not impossible for a civilian to get her hands on, but she forgot to mention the shaped charge planted at its core.”

“She’s not interested in what the target has to say, then.” Jack’s voice shook a bit. He was a hundred meters from the lockers, still on the move.

“Oh, it’ll function as a bug. Looks like the charge comes complete with a remote detonator, not an automated or timed one.”

“Makes sense. She likes the control. What’s your take? Is it safe enough for me to pick up?”

“Your wrist unit’s drone scrambler will do the trick. Activate it when you’re within twenty meters. It’ll block the signal but won’t tip her off—unless she decides to blow you up.”

Jack chuckled. “If she does, we’ve got bigger problems. Okay, I’ll retrieve it and rendezvous at the safe house after I get done with work. Let’s see if Sparks modified our new toy.”

“Roger that, One. I’ll ping him. Home out.” Brant waited until he could confirm Jack’s signal inhibitor had saved the charge’s receiver then opened a new channel to Novabird. The racer was parked at a civilian terminal three klicks from the apartment. “Echo Three, this is Echo Home. How would you like a new science project?”

Dwyer whooped. “Anything’s better than screwing around with the ion engines’ fuel consumption efficiency for the fourteenth time. When are y’all gonna give me a bird’s-eye view of the shenanigans?”

Brant watched as Jack opened Locker 311 and removed the listening-device-slash-bomb. Drone Three’s scanner started constructing a detailed wireframe. “Sooner than later, Sparks. Sooner than later.”

* * *

CSV Oxford

New Rostov IV

New Rostov System

Robert Sinclair planted himself by the main tactical display in Oxford’s ops center, watching as Tamir finished up a hushed conversation with Eldred. “I arrived for an update, as summoned, Butter Bars, so it had best be outstanding.”

“It is, sir. I—” Tamir turned toward him but froze, mouth open.

Sinclair didn’t like being left out of secrets, or surprises, which he gathered was right behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, back the way he’d come, and found himself staring at Captain Halevi of Internal Review.

“Where are they?” Halevi snapped.

“I beg your pardon?” Sinclair’s posture stiffened, which he didn’t think was possible, but the younger officer’s gall brought out his irritation.

“My quarters. They’ve—everything is—”

Sinclair heard a soft snort. He couldn’t tell, but Eldred seemed to be leaning so close to her console she was in danger of her face touching the screen—and her shoulders shuddered.

“Captain, perhaps you should calm yourself and start from the beginning.” Sinclair projected maximum calm into his voice. “Is something missing?”

“Where did they put my furniture?” Halevi demanded.

“Your furniture.” Sinclair’s vexation faded as the humor of the situation dawned on him. “From your cabin.”

“I have no other with me,” Halevi growled. “And I certainly gave no permission to—here.”

He thrust a plastic sheet at Sinclair, who took it and read the bold print, “Cabin Resources Reallocation Service, as Requested.”

“My heavens.” Sinclair arched an eyebrow. More snorts filtered across the ops center, from multiple sources, he noticed. “I suggest you get ahold of COB and see if there has been a tragic misunderstanding. Perhaps such a reallocation was performed in error.”

“This is their idea of a practical joke, and I will not have it. My personal effects—” Halevi crumpled the plastic and, as God was Sinclair’s witness, shook his fist in Sinclair’s face. “I am putting this in my report.”

“That seems wise,” Sinclair replied smoothly. “Though perhaps you should save such action until you find your tablet.”

Halevi glared around the bridge. He stormed out through the hatch.

True chuckles rippled around the compartment.

“Oh dear,” Sinclair murmured.

“Captain?”

“Yes, Colonel?” Tamir, bless him, must have strained every muscle in his face to keep from laughing.

“Do spread the word that Captain Halevi’s effects—and his cabin’s furnishings—are to be returned to their rightful place by twenty-one hundred hours. I trust that is sufficient time.”

“Plenty, sir.”

“It didn’t take half that long to empty the space,” Eldred whispered.

Ah, yes. Oxford’s legendary reputation for pulling pranks to break up the tedium of signals interception and observation would definitely remain intact. Sinclair would have it no other way. Besides, he had no qualms about the insufferable snot being taken down a few pegs. Halevi had done nothing but irritate each and every member of the crew with whom he’d come in contact.

“Out of curiosity—and you have my word the details will not appear in my official log for the day—to where, pray tell, did Halevi’s belongings fly?”

“All over, sir,” Eldred offered. “The brig, hangar bay, cold food storage…”

“I suggest we get his chair back first, Colonel,” Tamir noted.

“Oh?” Sinclair gestured to a console. “Do enlighten me.”

Tamir grinned. He slid into his seat and activated security cams—not internal, Sinclair realized. “Take a look.”

Sinclair finally let himself chuckle too. One of Oxford’s many standard chairs, the same kind found in every officer’s quarters, was fastened to the outer hull plating just aft of the Number Nine sensor prong.

“Classic.” Eldred’s voice filled with admiration. “Who knew about this perk for joining the fleet?”

“Jolly good.” Sinclair shook his head, still smiling. “But if it proves too much of a nuisance, I won’t mind if it’s the last thing retrieved.”

An alert chirped on Tamir’s console. “Hang on. Incoming vessel at the edge of the system. TAO has designated Sierra One.”

A new indicator appeared on the ops center tactical display.

Sinclair peered at the readout. “A high-speed courier. Curious indeed.”

Eldred turned in her chair. “Colonel, it’s initiating a link with one of the navigation satellites under our watch. A lot of data is coming through, encrypted.”

“Can you break it?”

“Sure can, sir. It’s using the same scheme Brant and I cracked. One second—” Eldred nodded. “Confirmed for Phantom fighter specs and auxiliary parts, plus weapons emplacements.”

“Good show.” Sinclair clapped his hands together. “Comms, prepare a secure tightbeam to Tuscon. Major Mancini will no doubt be delighted to know we’re ready for him to pounce.”

15

Near Suyetovo (New Rostov IX)

New Rostov System

19 March 2466

Nathan Mancini nodded as he read the decrypted message from Oxford. “Okay, people, we’ve got the green light. TAO, redesignate target as Master One. Pilot, plot an intercept course.”

Godat sidled up to him as the “Ayes” chorused back from the bridge stations. “I’m guessing good news?”

“Sierra One’s downloading the same kind of data used to communicate with the insurgents.” Mancini gestured to the readout on his command chair. “A mega-sized shopping list.”

“I suppose that’s better than them trying to repeatedly broadcast from inside Leaguer space.”

“Fewer chances for the secret police to catch them, yes, but if you slip up and let Lieutenant Guinto know you’re playing around in computer systems you should stay out of…” Mancini grinned. “God have mercy on your soul. Pass the word to COB—we’ll break from silent running any moment.”

“Aye, sir.” Godat got on the intercom and repeated the warning.

“Conn, Pilot. Course laid in,” the young man reported.

“TAO, how’s Master One behaving?”

“She’s not doing anything but circling the edge of Suyetovo’s moon orbits,” Olesen replied. “Signal strength is strong between Master One and the satellite.”

“Good. TAO, charge EMP beam.”

“Aye, charging EMP.”

Mancini’s mind spun with the calculations until he had to punch them into his chair’s console. Given Tuscon’s position relative to the gas giant, its moons, and Master One, they had five options for a speedy approach, none of which offered a chance to disable Master One using the EMP beam unless Tuscon decelerated.

Which meant TAO would have to take the shot on the fly. Mancini grimaced. Risky, and if it were any other junior officer besides Olesen, he would work out a different plan. Mancini tapped in intercom. “Mancini to Master Chief MacDonald.”

“Here, Major. Am I hearing right from COB, we’re ready to lock and load?”

“That’s affirmative, Master Chief. I’m sending instructions to the shuttle pilot now.” Mancini input his directives through his console with the intercom channel held open. “We’ll shut Master One down and drop you for a running intercept.”

“Roger that.” MacDonald grunted. “We’d best breach the engine compartment directly. Whoever these guys are, I’m not going to give them a second to overload their core.”

“I concur. Prep your team and board the shuttle.”

“Already prepping, Major. MacDonald out.”

“Conn, TAO. EMP is fully charged.”

“Stand by.” Mancini exhaled. He couldn’t spare brain cells for a coherent prayer, but he offered contrition for his sins and a blanket request for the safety of his people—plus a plea for all souls involved. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master One, EMP beam.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

“Pilot, I’m sending you modifications to your approach. Execute on my mark.”

The pilot’s eyes widened, but he grinned in response. “Conn, Pilot. Aye, Skipper. Ready to engage main drives at full acceleration.”

“Here we go,” Godat murmured.

“Pilot, execute.” Mancini gripped his chair’s arms.

Tuscon bucked as she accelerated into a loop, carrying her between the orbits of two large moons and toward Suyetovo’s southern polar region. Master One appeared as a blip on the screen, sort of blurred. Mancini realized the distortion was due to the monitor vibrating because Tuscon’s deck, bulkheads, and consoles shook under the tremendous and sudden acceleration.

It was only a few seconds before Tuscon rounded the planet, putting Master One square in its sights. Mancini finally got a good look at the ship, magnified on the main screen—a sleek, atmospheric-capable courier, sixty meters long with spindly wings and an aerodynamic body no space vessel needed.

“Conn, TAO. Target is in range,” Olesen called.

“Match bearings, shoot, EMP beam,” Mancini ordered.

The beam snapped across the kilometers between Tuscon and Master One. Lights flickered and died on the smaller ship.

Mancini held his breath.

“Sensors show weapons and propulsion offline,” Olesen said.

“Comms, did they get off a transmission?”

“Conn, Comms. Negative,” the petty officer answered. “I get no emergency beacons either.”

“TAO, recharge EMP.” Mancini glanced back at Godat. “What’s MacDonald’s status?”

“Shuttle is away, Skipper,” Godat said. “ETA ten seconds to boarding.”

It might as well have been ten years.

Olesen cleared his throat. “Conn, TAO. EMP control reports recharged.”

“TAO, hit them again.”

The second shot sent the drifting courier into a spin. Mancini spotted the stealth shuttle, bracketed in blue light on the tactical board, hurtling toward the courier. It cut its engines, whipped in a precise hundred-eighty-degree turn, and matched the disabled ship’s vector and velocity.

Godat whistled. “I think it’s safe to say Warrant Dwyer would be impressed.”

“Looks like his training rubbed off on our pilots,” Mancini agreed. “Pilot, maintain this course, but bring us alongside Master One at a safe distance.”

“Aye, Skipper.”

“Conn, TAO. Shuttle has intercepted Master One and is proceeding with explosive docking.”

“How long before that courier’s reactor can go critical?”

“Call it three, maybe four, minutes.” Godat paged through screens full of schematics courtesy of Tuscon’s databases. “Unless they have a shortcut.”

Mancini could just make out the spray of sparks in the tiny gap between the courier and the shuttle. “Godspeed, Master Chief.”

* * *

Master Chief Petty Officer Gordan MacDonald dove through the jagged wreck that had been the starboard hull plating of the courier ship’s engineering compartment. Breaching pylons had anchored deep, aided by explosive rams, to secure the shuttle to its prey like a sleek black parasitic insect. MacDonald glimpsed the silver ribbing of one pylon as he landed, battle rifle raised.

Rucuk, the Saurian warrior who was Six on their team, charged with him. MacDonald might have been fully clad in CDF combat armor, but Rucuk’s gear had been extensively modified to fit his huge, scaly frame—and he’d insisted on opening his face mask when they made entry. It made it far easier for him to roar, a hideous, rasping sound MacDonald was relieved wasn’t aimed his way.

Senior Chief Dennis Harrell and Chief Petty Officer Amacio Mata, Two and Four, were already in, the first ones through the breach. They shouted demands at a single individual.

MacDonald’s helmet identified the problem—a pulse pistol wielded by the lone crewman still on his feet. A woman and two others were down, drab brown jumpsuits torn, and exposed skin bloody. No ID, no patches, no markings of any kind. The one facing him—an overweight man with a blond buzzcut and sweat stains drenching his shirt—stared in abject terror. That’s more for Rucuk than me.

MacDonald put a stun round into that sweaty chest without further preamble.

The rest of the team had already made it into the compartment, spreading out in pairs. Harrell and Mata secured the hatch leading out of Engineering. Petty Officer First Class Esmail Rostami, Three, went for the primary console as Chief Petty Officer Ibrahim Ahmad—Five—checked the three injured crew.

“How’s it looking, Three?” MacDonald bound the sweaty guy’s hands, no simple task when he was still spastic from the stun round’s impact.

“So far, so good, Master Chief.” Rostami’s hand that wasn’t holding a rifle flew across the control panel. “Console’s dead. I don’t see evidence they tried to manually blow the reactor.”

“Five, confirm that.”

“Nothing hinky back here, One.” Ahmad stepped over the inert crew. “One of these guys has had it, Master Chief. Shrapnel punched a hole in his head.”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” Harrell muttered.

“Two, do something useful and take their IDs. Scans, too, for the spooks.”

“Roger that, Master Chief.”

Ahmad examined a loose panel. “They pried this open, One, but they didn’t have time to fiddle with the reactor. Backups look fried too.”

“They would be, considering the major slapped them twice,” Rostami noted. He wrenched open the side of the console and plugged in a portable auxiliary power source. “Give me a couple of seconds, and I’ll tell you where everyone is.”

“I’d say make it one, but you’d probably already—”

“Got it.” Rostami grinned.

“Master Chief, the nerd’s showing off again,” Ahmad complained.

“Let him have it. No girl, no poker skills…” Harrell let out an exaggerated sigh. “What’s he got left besides his tech toys?”

Mata snorted.

“Four life signs ahead,” Rostami reported. “Two in the corridor, two on the bridge.”

“Any surprises?”

“Like what?”

MacDonald rolled his eyes. “Last time they were automated combat bots, Three, so preferably nothing bigger or more dangerous.”

“Nothing like that. No power sources at all except the backup reactor that somebody on the bridge keeps trying to manually connect.” Rostami sounded cheerful. “But I took care of the linkage.”

“Permanently?”

Rostami held up a small bundle of cabling.

Harrell chuckled. “Nerd for the win.”

“Never doubted him, Two. You and Four take point. Five, stay here with Three. Six, you’re with me.”

The four of them tasked with clearing the rest of the ship formed a fire team wedge with Harrell on point, Mata in the automatic rifleman spot, and Rucuk at the rear. MacDonald took the squad leader’s position. “Open it.”

Mata glanced at Harrell, who nodded before pulling the manual override for the hatch. The lever activated an independent explosive charge that could force the closed doors open in case an emergency sealed them. The halves sprang apart.

Their wedge swept into the corridor, which according to the schematics Rostami fed into their helmet visors, was the only passageway. All compartments branched off of it, most of which were for cargo and crew cabins.

“Two tangos coming up, three doors from your position,” Rostami reported through the comms.

A tiny drone hovered above MacDonald’s right shoulder, turbofans whirring as it scanned the area around them and transmitted results to Rostami, who forwarded them to the team. MacDonald watched two red dots milling about the bridge but was more interested in the ones Rostami had just mentioned, each waiting inside the hatch of sealed cabins.

“If you’ve got their shipboard comms, patch me in,” MacDonald ordered.

“Working on it… there. I’m running it with the power pack I brought for the console,” Rostami replied. “You’re live, One.”

“To the remaining crew aboard ship,” MacDonald said. “This vessel is under our control. One of your people is dead. Three are in our custody. Stand down, and surrender your weapons.”

No response. MacDonald cut over to the squad channel. “Stay frosty. Four, you picking up any explosive signatures from the drone?”

“Negative, One.” Mata sounded disappointed. “I don’t even think they had time to boobytrap this boat and leave me anything to defuse.”

“We could just bust in and plink them, One,” Harrell muttered. “Even odds, and we have battle armor.”

“Archangel was clear, Two. He wants talkers.”

“I meant we can stun them.”

The hatches popped open, and men in space suits sprang out, plasma rifles flashing.

“Taking fire!” Harrell shot back.

The team split, two to each corridor bulkhead, their rounds hammering the opponents but, to MacDonald’s consternation, having no effect. Not just space suits—full gear, MacDonald realized in that second. Their armor appeared lighter but still offered enough protection to shield them from the effects of stun rounds.

“These bastards are armored!” Mata snapped. “Way to jinx it, Two!”

“Eat shit, Four!” Harrell broke a cabin hatch open and grunted as a plasma blast seared his right shoulder, slamming him against the frame when he tried to duck inside.

“Lethal ordnance!” MacDonald ordered. He thumbed the selector on his battle rifle over to live rounds instead of stun. His next burst shattered the helmet of the adversary hunkered on the starboard side.

Mata was at Harrell’s side, helping him into the cabin. Foam trickled from Harrell’s shoulder wound. The armor’s systems sealed not just his injury but the breach in its protective layers.

“Fire in the hole!” Mata called.

MacDonald caught a golden flicker zip down the portside bulkhead. “Down!”

He and Rucuk dropped to the deck as a brilliant flare turned the entire corridor white, so white MacDonald thought he would go blind in the moment before his visor clamped down with its reflective shielding. When the glare cleared, MacDonald saw the mangled body of the remaining shooter crumpled in a heap halfway into his cabin. Smoke rose from his body. A short but intense streak of carbon scoring led directly to him from a smoldering divot in the deck.

“One! What’s your status? I’ve got injuries on Two and both targets down.” Concern laced Rostami’s query, but his voice remained steady.

“Harrell’s wounded,” MacDonald replied. “Mata and I took out the attackers.”

“I’m fine. I’m good.” Harrell sounded woozy. Probably the painkillers injected by his armor. “Gimme a sec.”

“Take five. And by that, I mean Ahmad. Five…”

“On my way, Master Chief,” Ahmad answered.

MacDonald could already hear his boots pounding up the corridor. “Right. Four?”

Mata hesitated before leaving Harrell. There was no mistaking the fury in his expression, even partially obscured behind his visor. “Yes, Master Chief.”

“Knock for us.” MacDonald glanced at Rucuk. “Six gets to introduce us.”

Mata went for the manual override to the hatch while Rucuk took up a flanking position behind him. MacDonald positioned himself on the opposite side. He gave a last look down the corridor. Ahmad leaned out of the cabin and gave a thumbs-up before ducking back in with Harrell.

“The two targets are stationary, One,” Rostami informed MacDonald. “No signs of explosive signatures.”

“Confirmed.” MacDonald caught Mata’s eye and nodded.

Mata cranked down on the control. The tiny charges popped, spraying sparks onto the floor, and the doors sprang apart.

Rucuk lunged first, going high with MacDonald low. They didn’t wait for surrender or communicate demands. Each shot multiple bursts toward where Rostami’s readings told them the targets were located on the bridge.

They hit consoles. Plastic and wiring ripped apart, sending more sparks fountaining. Rostami’s drone zoomed into the compartment and to starboard, its tiny black lenses swiveling as it searched for visual confirmation of its scan data.

“Two bodies,” Rostami said. “I’ve got two bodies.”

MacDonald came around one destroyed console and found the first—a middle-aged man, gray in his air. Blood smeared dark skin where he’d shot himself through the temple. Brown eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling.

“This one has done the same,” Rucuk snarled. “Denied us a complete battle.”

The man at the end of his battle rifle had also killed himself, mouth agape at either the momentary pain or the surprise that he’d gone through with it.

“Stay back until we’ve confirmed they haven’t set up a bomb.”

Rostami’s drone flitted down between the bodies and spun around.

“Negative for explosives, Master Chief.” Rostami exhaled.

Only four consoles occupied the bridge—two sensor and engineering systems posts, which were what MacDonald and Rucuk had shot, plus a pilot’s station and command chair-slash-comms board.

MacDonald confirmed both were intact. “We’re clear up here. Ahmad, how’s Harrell?”

“I did my best, Master Chief, but this jackass is still alive.”

Rucuk grinned, his fangs a hideous display. “Does this mean I do not get the chance to honor his memory by devouring his carcass?”

“Nobody touches my carcass!” Harrell winced, but at least the slur was gone.

MacDonald let them have their levity. A brief break was all right, given they’d just killed two people and come to the realization that whoever was running the courier vessel didn’t want to be taken alive. “Rostami, double-check our prisoners for suicide aids.”

“Roger that, Master Chief.”

MacDonald switched his comms over to Tuscon’s frequency. “Archangel, this is Alpha One. Vessel is secured. Minimal damage to shipboard systems. But we’re running low on people for you to talk to.”

16

Otradny Continent

Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

20 March 2466

Benjamin toured the makeshift hangar, Vance in tow. Insurgent technicians had the two unarmed Phantoms torn apart, which wasn’t worrying because they were fitting them with the four neutron cannons Gone Fishing had delivered the day before.

So far, so good. The other Phantoms had performed well in their raids. Frankly, I’m happy these Leaguers haven’t strapped the guns on backward.

“How’re we looking on inventory?” Benjamin asked Vance.

“We’re caught up, sir.” Vance paged through his tablet. “The plasma rifle power packs finally arrived. I haven’t heard back from the Yellowjacket yet, though. They should have delivered the latest shopping list yesterday.”

“They might have had to run comms silent and take a more circuitous route back if the League’s patrols are as much a nuisance as they claimed last time.”

“That seems probable.” Vance showed Benjamin the screen.

Benjamin grimaced. Yeah, the League was riled, as evidenced by the six more ships they’d sent to what was normally a quiet stretch of border. He might have to give the Yellowjacket another couple of days’ leeway before expecting their return. “Send a message asking if they need interference on this side so they can slip back through.”

“I’ll do that.”

Benjamin walked under one of the disassembled fighter’s wings. Feng was at the rear, having a stern discussion with two technicians who looked puzzled by whatever he was trying to impart.

“Don’t let me find more of these.” Feng held up a bundle of wires. He shoved it into the nearest technician’s hands. “Get back to work.”

“Trouble in the socialist utopia?” Benjamin asked.

Feng sighed. “These kids. They’re so used to taking shortcuts in hovercraft and atmospheric strike plane repairs because we never had the right supplies or enough time. Now that we have both, they’re having trouble slowing down and doing precise repairs.”

“I take it you’re giving them enough of a kick in the ass to set things right.”

“They’re scared of me, so that helps.”

“Good to hear because it would suck if you can’t get my squadron’s operational strength up from four to six—and if the neutron cannons fall off midflight.”

Feng snorted. “Don’t worry. They’ll stay attached. But you’ll be lucky if they fire.”

Benjamin shook his head. He spotted Kyle midway across the hangar, seated in the cockpit of Alpha Two. Inga spoke to him from the boarding ladder, pointing to controls with one hand and gesticulating with the other. “How’s the kid acclimating?”

“You know Kyle—plenty of simulator time. Inga took him on a test flight yesterday. He didn’t crash.”

“Are you always this enthusiastic?” Benjamin slapped Feng’s shoulder. “Cheer up. The League’s shuffling ships toward the Terran border. The Coalition’s news networks are chewing on a major scandal, and we just dropped off our order for more starfighters. All in all, we’re pissing off a lot of people, which is good news for Nandao.”

“Is it?” Feng frowned. “Is that what I tell the families of the dead technicians from the processing center—or the survivors who lost family members?”

“Don’t get soft on me, Feng. When I got here, you guys were sticking timed explosives to the bottoms of commissar hovercraft. It didn’t take you long to graduate to their offices and their homes. Killing civilians is collateral damage.” Not that Benjamin gave two shits about dead Leaguers. CDF should have atomized every settlement, from one edge of the Orion Arm to the other, if it meant neutralizing the League of Sol’s threat to extinguish the Terran Coalition. “The focus is on League military and infrastructure, but sometimes you have to show the population that their leaders can’t protect them.”

“That’s hardly going to endear them to us, their countrymen,” Feng said.

“True, but that’s not why you’re doing this. The League stripped away the legitimacy of your referendum. You’re restoring that.” Benjamin shrugged. “It’s not as if the people are going to elect the 88ers once the League backs away. You’re tainted by the violence, that’s true, but you’re paving the way for the effective moderates to get things done.”

“As long as this plan works, I can stomach the destruction.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, we’ve got a big target that should avoid nearly all civilian casualties. Vance?”

Benjamin’s assistant held his tablet between the gathered trio. A hologram sprang into the air, blue-and-green light creating the schematic for a box containing a handful of ships.

“The mobile repair dock at Ragye?” Feng asked. “You’re joking, of course. We already caught plasma blasts when we skirted its gravity well to shoot down the Amber Sun. I don’t think the navy will miss if we try a second time.”

“You’re not listening. The MRD is the target.” Benjamin reached for the hologram. He spread his fingers, expanding the image. “Vance has all the intel here, and I’ve confirmed it with the Yellowjacket and other sources. The League has two Cobra-class destroyers and two Lancer-class frigates laid up for maintenance and repair. One of the destroyers arrived yesterday. As far as we can determine, they’re headed out to the border with New Rostov to clamp down on smuggling.”

Feng examined the schematics. “Four fighters, though, against that…”

“Six, Feng. We won’t roll this op until the other two are armed and operational.”

“But this is an orbital emplacement for naval repair. It’s not a processing station.”

“The MRD?” Benjamin rolled his eyes. “It’s a metal box, Feng. Minimal defenses. This is a straightforward bombing run.”

“I’ve worked out a line of attack.” Vance adjusted the image so thin red lines corkscrewed out from Nandao in a series of orbits that swung past the planet’s other moon, Manjin, before cutting through the heart of the MRD. “This should bring you in minimal contact with the defensive systems.”

“Inside the dock?” Feng’s eyes widened. “They’ll tear us to shreds!”

“They’re not going to direct point defense guns at their own ships,” Benjamin snapped. “Calm down. Vance has the plan worked out, like he said. A couple of fighters will take out the defensive emplacements along your approach vector. The MRD has no fighters of its own, so they depend on those guns.”

“What about the ships? The frigates are death for small craft.”

“They would be if they weren’t stacked on top of each other and between the destroyer like bricks. Don’t worry about it. We’ll run the simulations, get Kyle more live flight action, and be ready to strike soon.”

Feng crossed his arms. “How soon are you thinking?”

“Seventy-two hours.”

“Three days? That’s insane.”

“No, it’s too cautious for my book. We have to keep pressure on both the League and the Coalition.”

“And what if they don’t come back? My pilots.” Feng shook his head. “Inga can be an ace, as far as I’m concerned, but the others…”

“We’ll do what we have to. I’m not about to throw away your pilots’ lives.” Or the millions of dollars in military hardware you paid for because I’m not entirely sure we can replace lost fighters. “Kyle’s got this. You and Inga are the veterans. We’ll go over the flight roster, plow through those sims like I said, and be ready when the time comes.”

Feng peered at the hologram then locked his gaze with Benjamin’s. “No civilian casualties?”

“Like I said, minimal. Plus, three days from now is a weekend.” Benjamin grinned. He’d been saving that last nugget of intel for maximum impact. “The MRD officers have a deep-cleaning scheduled, so most of the workers will be off-site.”

“Leaving only the ships’ crews.”

“If that’s a problem, you’d better turn in your flight helmet and hang up your suit because I’ll need someone else in the cockpit.” Benjamin leaned against the Phantom. “We all know the League doesn’t have much left in the way of a fleet. Four ships like these aren’t small potatoes, not anymore, Feng. We blow them apart, the League will be furious, and that means they’ll take out their anger on the Coalition.”

“Which they’ll only do if they have suspicions about where the Phantoms are coming from.” Feng nodded. “As long as you’re sure they can reasonably suspect someone’s smuggling them across at Nandao and New Rostov.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Benjamin glanced at Vance. “Because we’ve been dropping anonymous hints to the fact. One of these days, we’ll give ESS a hot tip about when the next shipment’s coming.”

Feng paled. “You’ll give them the ID of Gone Fishing?”

“ID? Nothing.” Benjamin pushed off from the fighter and stepped into Feng’s personal space, in his face like the sternest of drill sergeants. “I’ll give them her damn telemetry and sit back while the League burns her from space if it gets me my war.”

* * *

Bishop Woods, Port Gusev

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

Jackson had to admit the courier ship Master Chief MacDonald and his team had captured was a handsome vessel. The Yellowjacket had the hallmarks of a speedy craft equally as at home in space as in atmosphere, sporting powerful ion engines coupled with sleek variable wings.

Dwyer whistled. “She’s a beaut, Cap’n.”

“Don’t say that loud enough for Novabird to hear,” Jackson warned.

They gathered around a hologram of the courier hovering a meter off the apartment’s main room floor. Brant had turned one of his monitors so everyone could see the split screen of Sinclair, Tamir, and Eldred in Oxford’s wardroom and hull camera footage of the Yellowjacket docked to Oxford’s starboard side. Miniature space-suited technicians flitted about the courier’s engineering section.

“We’re nearly done with repairs to the section of hull Alpha Team breached,” Sinclair said. “The auxiliary engineering and sensor stations on the bridge suffered rather ghastly hits, so our people have replaced those with comparable units. A tad of an upgrade, actually, what with the recall transmitter and receiver wired in, which allow the vessel to fly to a preprogrammed landing site for swift retrieval. Otherwise, her internal arrangement and equipment are standard for a Wasp-class courier, with one exception—her engines are exceedingly overpowered for her size.”

“What about comms?” Gina took the couch all to herself, with her feet propped on one end. She sipped a glass of wine.

Jackson noted she seemed to be enjoying her lack of active operations that go around, her infiltration of Luciana’s compound aside.

“Has anyone called looking for their wayward ship?”

“They did, about four hours ago.” Eldred looked up from her tablet. “Brant and I took a while finding the correct response key.”

“Which was a pain because it was written down, not stored on any file we could break into,” Brant said.

“The older of the two men who shot themselves had the codes,” Tamir noted. “We surmise he was the captain, but we have no idea what his true identity is. All four dead have had their profiles wiped clean. Even the DNA databases came up blank.”

“Prisoners?” Sev asked.

“Not saying a word. Steadfast silence.” Sinclair shook his head. “My mother would have been proud of them if they’d accompanied her to church as children. We have them isolated from each other in the brig, with visits from Captain Tamir and Captain Halevi. The latter is quite good at unsettling them with pointed questions—”

“When he’s not bothering the rest of us,” Eldred muttered.

“So I have every confidence he will convince them to be forthright.” Sinclair gave Eldred a raised eyebrow that must have been his signal to refrain from commentary. “The contact came in from someone named Arbiter, referring to the possible captain as Facilitator. Arbiter asked Facilitator to upload a new request and further entreated another individual, codenamed Cousin, to fulfill the order with due haste.”

“Well, we’ve got ourselves the perfect way to figure out what’s being said,” Jackson said. “Monitoring comms means we can verify Luciana’s involvement and shut down the smuggling pipeline and, if we’re lucky, lead us to whoever is at the top.”

“There’s more to it than that, I’m afraid.” Sinclair leaned his elbows on the table. “I have word from on high that our mission parameters have been expanded to destroy the fighters currently in operation.”

Gina made a choking noise. She held the back of her hand to her mouth. Sev seemed mildly puzzled like a dog who’d heard an unfamiliar sound. Jackson nodded slowly because he’d spent a few restless nights wondering if that request was coming.

“Hang on a sec.” Dwyer looked around the room. “Y’all mean what I think you mean? ’Cause those fighters aren’t exactly in our neighborhood, if you catch my drift.”

“No, Warrant, they are not, but we’ve been authorized to bend and, if necessary, break not just rules but boundaries.” Sinclair took a moment to consider his next words. “Which is why I am tasking Ms. Wilkes and Mr. Rast to take the Yellowjacket to the insurgent base to achieve our new objective.”

It was Jackson’s turn to be surprised. “Sir, with all due respect, as the team leader and primary specialist on assuming covert roles, I should head this mission.”

“Your cover is intact, Captain, is it not?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“I shan’t break it and jeopardize our progress with regards to breaking the smuggling ring and apprehending its leaders. Ms. Wilkes and Mr. Rast are it.”

“But without Sparks as their pilot—”

“Warrant Dwyer has his own tasks to complete, if I understand correctly.”

Dwyer scratched the back of his neck. There was no mistaking the mess of circuits and wires spread on a folding table before him. He’d been working for hours on the listening device Luciana had intended as an assassination tool for Clarence, the depot security manager. “Yes, sir, Colonel, but I can—”

“Sir, I understand you wouldn’t want to put the team leader at risk.” Jackson folded his arms. “And I’m not being arrogant here. Gina’s infiltration skills are a different set than mine. So, unless the higher-ups want that different kind, I think either the team as a whole should go or I should be sent in solo.”

“That’s not a good idea.” Brant stared at Jackson.

“I’ve done it before.”

“Boys, there’s no need to fight over it.” Gina drained the rest of her glass and set it on the same table Dwyer was using for bomb dismantling. “Uncle Rob is right. Sev and I will go.”

Jackson made a face. “But I don’t understand why splitting up the team…” His expression stiffened. “Wait.”

“I knew you’d get it eventually, Jack.” Gina reversed her position on the couch so her face was closer to the smaller trio of Sinclair, Tamir, and Eldred on the screen. “Sev and I are civilian contractors. If we get caught, it’s much easier to disavow us than a few men with military records, no matter how redacted the particulars are.”

Jackson knew she was right. He mentally kicked himself for not realizing it sooner. That was the primary reason Sinclair wanted Gina and Sev on the mission.

“Expendable.” Sev sounded, of all things, amused.

“You and me.” Gina winked at him.

“I trust that clears everything up.” Sinclair’s tone had gone firmer than usual. He seemed more devoid of his trademark dry wit.

“Yes, sir.” Jackson, too, slipped back into the precision he usually reserved for when he was out of cover and back in uniform. “Understood.”

“Jolly good. I want the Yellowjacket to depart by nine hundred hours tomorrow. Warrant Dwyer will transport our two assets aboard no later than five hundred hours.”

“Will do, Colonel.” Dwyer answered without looking up from his project.

“Rest assured, all, Ms. Wilkes and Mr. Rast will not be going alone. I daresay Major Stone has a role to play. If there’s nothing further, Captain?”

Jackson shook his head. The transmission ended.

Brant snorted. “That doesn’t sound like we’ll have any problems, does it?”

“Stow it, Brant.” Jackson eyed Gina. “You’re okay with this?”

“It doesn’t really matter if I am or not, Jack. I think the phrase your type uses is ‘following orders.’ This is the best play.” Gina kicked her feet back and forth. “Besides, how better for you to realize what an asset I am than if I’m off across the League border?”

“So, that’s all well and good, and I have no doubt you can handle the Leaguers, but what in Sam Hill did the colonel mean about Stone?” Dwyer scowled. “Unless he’s talking about Oxford taking a stroll into enemy territory, which is not what she’s meant for.”

“Sparks has a point. Tuscon, Lubbock, or another stealth boat would be a more obvious choice to sneak past border patrols.” Jackson noticed Brant was engrossed in his console, back turned to the rest of the room, whereas before he’d been managing the technology for the shared communications. But even then, he hadn’t said much. “Brant?”

“Hmm? Yeah?”

Aha. “What do you know?”

“I—okay. I may have done off-the-books research, but I don’t think the colonel was keen on it being shared… and I know Major Stone isn’t.”

Jackson pulled up a chair and sat in it backward, so his arms rested atop the backrest. “Out with it.”

Brant sighed. “I bypassed the security lock Stone had on the 99th squadron files and cracked into the Chimera schematics.”

“Ooh.” Gina reached for the wine bottle at the far end of the couch. “I’m going to need another glass for this. Sev?”

“Please.” Sev crossed the room from his perch in a shadowed corner and let her fill him a small cup’s worth of wine.

“I pulled the details on a secure download and stored them on a data chip…” Brant smiled. “It’s a bit of a hobby, really. In any case, the Chimeras have miniaturized Lawrence drives. They’re capable of twenty-light-year jumps, with risky navigational precision at those ranges.”

“Damn,” Dwyer muttered.

“I’ll say.” Jackson’s grin grew. “Maybe this won’t be as bad as we thought. It sounds like Colonel Sinclair and the brass have a plan in place for dealing with the Phantoms if we can’t catch them on the ground. Which means, Gina, you and Sev just have to worry about wrecking the insurgents’ base of operations.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Gina replied. “The bigger problem is getting Kyle out alive.”

“Assuming he wants to come. If he’s with the insurgents—”

“He’s being as big a bonehead as he always was. Don’t worry. I’ll talk him out of it.”

Jackson shared a quick look with Sev. No one had told Sinclair about the possible family connection, and Jackson knew if anyone could keep Gina on mission, it was Sevastopol Rast. He had to, or else Sinclair would be forced to cut them both off from rescue. And no way in hell would Jackson abandon Gina, even if it meant she lost her brother forever.

17

Private Landing Field

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

21 March 2466

Gina wished she hadn’t gone for the second glass of wine or stayed up reading as late as she did. It was Luciana’s fault—the lateness part. She was the one who’d insisted on keeping her secret notes in Jamaica Inn, so Gina had fallen asleep reading the classic novel. Both meant she nursed a headache and yawned continuously as she and Sev loaded their gear into Novabird.

Jackson waited by the ramp in New Rostov’s early-morning chill. “Are you ready?”

“Ready, yes. Awake, no.” Gina squinted at him. “How are you so alert? And don’t tell me you’ve showered and shaved.”

Jackson shrugged. “Nothing like repeated drills at zero dark thirty to get prepared for missions this early.”

“Jack, if you’re still trying to talk me out of this—”

“I’m not. I want you to consider what’s going to happen if Kyle decides to stay behind.”

“And I want you to consider I’m bringing him home.”

“Dammit, Gina, don’t be stubborn about this.”

“As opposed to everything else I’m so reasonable about?” Gina patted his cheek. “I’m glad you care. I really am. But this is a family matter, so don’t get in the way.”

“Sinclair’s wrong, you know. The two of you being civilians doesn’t diminish your role on our team. The five of us have to stand together.”

“And we do, but not all the time. We make exceptions when the job calls for it.” Gina smirked. “Which we all figured out last year.”

Jackson sighed.

“I don’t want you to give up worrying about me,” she continued, her tone serious that time. “But I’m not backing down. Sev and I will get it done.”

“Just watch your six.”

“That’s what Sev is for.”

“Gina…”

She kissed him where she’d patted his jawline. “You be careful too. Don’t let our new favorite crime boss kill anyone innocent, and try to get enough evidence to lock her away while you’re at it.”

Gina let Dwyer retract the ramp and close the hatch before Jackson could change her mind.

* * *

The Yellowjacket was a gorgeous ship. No one had mentioned the plush appointments in the cabins—well, those not damaged by plasma burns and ballistic-round impacts. It figured that neither the Alpha Team nor Sinclair’s inspectors were interested in the six kinds of leather used in the upholstery or that the showers would run as hot as she liked, a fact she exploited within three minutes of investigating the accommodations.

At 0845 hours, she sat in the command chair, her hair still damp and smelling of lilacs. “How’s the helm feel?”

“Comfy.” Sev sat bolt upright in his chair.

Gina frowned. “Then maybe act like it? It’s thirty-six hours minimum to Nandao, assuming we don’t hit any League patrols. Probably eight hours more if we have to get creative.”

“Course plotted.” Sev indicated the nav board, which featured a golden corkscrew twisting through the light-years separating New Rostov from Nandao.

Not bad. That should get us there in thirty-eight without touching any major sensor sweeps. Gina glanced at Sev. “Do you think this is a bad idea?”

“No.” Sev grimaced. “Tricky.”

“It is that. But… you understand, don’t you? Mom’s gone. If Kyle is, too, Dad and I…” Gina had to quit speaking before her voice cracked. Her eyes burned already with the prospect of tears. She’d shed so many when she’d found Mom’s grave on Galt and again when Dad had hugged her after retiring back to Canaan. “I have to try.”

Sev nodded.

“So, you’re with me, right?”

Sev reached across to her console and patted her hand like a patient father reassuring an anxious child. “It will be okay.”

Aw. Gina turned so she could wipe the tears. “Good. I wanted to make sure so I don’t have to lock you in your quarters if you try to mutiny, seeing as how I’m the captain, and that’s the worst offense.”

“Good luck.” Sev tapped in commands. The deck plates vibrated as the Yellowjacket’s engines came online. “Skipper.”

Gina chuckled and reached for the earpiece that would keep her in touch with Oxford’s comms people. The yawning starfield displayed on the main menu caught her gaze. It was nice seeing space without overlaid map lines, political designations, and course vectors. She could almost imagine everything was okay and no one was battling over stupid things. They were all happy to be with their families and content to enjoy life, so long as everyone else did the same.

Sentimental bullshit. It’s still a comforting dream. The good news was there were eight minutes left on the clock, so she wouldn’t have to put up with Sinclair chastising her for lateness. “Base One, this is Echo Two,” she said into the comms. “Stinger is ready to depart.”

At 0857, Sev activated the Yellowjacket’s compact Lawrence drive, and the courier dove headlong into a churning wormhole.

Gina didn’t feel anxious until the interstellar passageway sealed behind them like it had never been there, after dropping them in the void. Even better. I’ve got another stupid code word to remember.

* * *

Otradny Continent

Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

Benjamin was pleased to find a cometary debris forecast for local space traffic waiting on his tablet. He had no interest in such things, especially since Nandao had little in the way of cometary debris, but tapped the notification anyway.

His delver’s incoming signal light flashed as it connected through an encrypted satellite that acted like it was part of Nandao’s space hazard monitoring system. The Yellowjacket had placed it in orbit a few months before when they’d first arrived in the system. Benjamin found himself smiling at Cherice instead.

“Good news—Facilitator reports an imminent return. The ion engines acted up, so they had to take time for repairs,” Cherice said. “The bad news—Cousin may have difficulty gaining more of our favorite avians but will do their best all the same. The shopping list has been forwarded.”

Not terrible but not great. Benjamin knew the Yellowjacket’s engines were overpowered, but he couldn’t deny they were still a great asset, especially when they needed a hasty retreat. As for the fighters, Benjamin wasn’t surprised. His superiors insisted on being overly cautious on their end as if they were the ones stuck in a damp, dreary jungle running an insurgency on a filthy Leaguer planet, not him.

Benjamin scratched his chin. He would have to make do, like always. At least the list of needed weaponry, including two more fighters, was in the chain, so the smugglers could take care of procurement and delivery.

“All remains quiet, as concerns the good son,” Cherice continued. “Our plant in IR confirms they’ve made little headway into their investigation, thanks in part to IR having a man aboard who is fouling up their work.”

“I’ll bet.” Benjamin chuckled. For all the jokes among CIS officers about their agency being paranoid, CDF Intelligence showed no hesitation about embarking on their own witch hunt at the single sign of treason performed by a solo Fabian.

Of course, given what he knew about Intelligence’s Internal Review division, he didn’t entirely trust them to be forthcoming, but they had some real hard-asses in their ranks who would love nothing more than to see CIS succeed in bringing down the Spencer administration. Benjamin just hoped his superiors hadn’t overplayed their hand.

“I’ve been assured by Light that the snooping issue on New Rostov will soon clear up.”

“Isn’t that a relief?” What Benjamin wouldn’t do to be rid of CBI’s meddling. “Okay, Dravyn,” he muttered. “You’re starting to sound like a melodramatic villain. Focus on the op.” Benjamin let the message delete itself, cleared the notification, then wiped the comms log. The device was programmed to do so on its own, but Benjamin figured there was nothing wrong with being extra zealous.

He instead opened the layout of the MRD and let its hologram fill a goodly volume of his office’s airspace. Vance’s idea was on the right track, though Benjamin reached into the holo and shifted the fighters’ trajectory a couple of degrees to account for the latest intelligence he’d received—technicians had installed a third sensor tower right before the cleaning sweep. The scan radius increase was minimal, meaning the fighters could still skim by if they stuck to Benjamin’s adjustments. He also ordered a five percent increase in acceleration at the fifteen-second mark before reaching that post.

Benjamin stepped back and swiped his hand through the holo, triggering the playback. He grinned as six holographic Phantom starfighters launched from three locations across Nandao, took separate paths into orbit and around the moons, then swept together into an arrowhead for the run at Ragye’s MRD. They took their shots as directed and blasted sensor towers into fine dust—with only one shot.

The simulation showed five of the six fighters making it through while turning the four Leaguer ships into gutted hulks. The MRD suffered some damage but not enough to cripple it. “Better,” Benjamin mused. “Not the best but better.”

Expecting perfection might be a bit much with those pilots. Benjamin checked his commlink. They still had a little less than two days before the strike. Even if they took out half those ships, it would piss off the League.

Someone knocked four times on his door. Vance. Benjamin could tell by the pause between the third and fourth knock. “Come in.”

Vance’s eyes widened at the frozen holographic tableau. “How many times have you run this since telling Feng the plan?”

“I’m pretty sure you could tell me since you keep everything organized, but it’s fourteen. Or sixteen. I think.” Benjamin’s eyes burned. He rubbed them, which served only to irritate them further.

“You should take a break, especially if you’ve been up all night without sleep.”

“I can sleep when the operation’s over.” Or after I conk out during a planning session. “We’ve got some good news. Do you have more for me?”

“Yes, sir.” Vance took a seat next to Benjamin’s desk. “The last word about the cleaning is it’s good to start six hours ahead of schedule.”

“I can work with early. Any catch?”

“No. My contact has the updated schedule.” Vance passed his tablet to Benjamin.

It sure looked legitimate. The navy’s seal and letterhead glowed prominently on the top quarter of the page. “Memo from the MRD commander to the head of maintenance,” Benjamin murmured. “Looks like the good commander wants to get out of orbit sooner so he can meet up with his mother.”

“Girlfriend,” Vance said. “He has a female acquaintance in Novvy Bereznik—a new one this month.”

“Does he? You trust this source?”

Vance shrugged. “I pay him three times his monthly wages every so often, so he’s loyal. And the girlfriend is what you’d call an open secret. I understand the base commander is a bit of a loudmouth.”

“God bless corrupt officers.” Benjamin pulled up a chair. “Get me Feng on comms. We’d better push up the training. Then I can sleep.”

* * *

Port Gusev Transshipment Depot

New Rostov III

Jackson was a half hour into his daily routine—which he’d decided was the most boring job he’d held in his life—when Luciana contacted him.

Finally. He accessed the text message she’d sent. So much for later in the day, when she said she’d give me instructions.

The note was as plain as plain could be: He rides the blue skimmer with white stripes parked at the far end from the gate, away from other vehicles. Paranoid about scratches. Place the device on the underside of the steering yokes.

It made sense. The charge, Dwyer had confirmed, wasn’t enough to turn a vehicle into a ball of flame, but it could certainly destroy the front end of a skimmer and tear Clarence to pieces in the meantime. Jackson had no doubt Luciana meant for the detonation to look like an accident.

But since the device was also a fully operational bug, he could only surmise she wanted to know to whom Clarence was speaking as well. Which, it turned out, Brant and Eldred had tracked down. Clarence Carter was CBI Agent Josie Lind’s contact.

“Echo One, this is Echo Home,” Brant said. “Local LEOs on their way.”

“Roger that.” Jackson headed for the gate. It was about time for Clarence to leave on his lunch break, which he did every day at twelve hundred hours on the dot. Jackson intercepted the security boss at the gate. Sun gleamed off the polished skimmer sitting farther down the fence. “Hey, Clarence! Where ya headed?” Jackson knew quite well it was either to Rosita’s or Onyx Blade, depending on whether he wanted Mexican food or a sandwich and beer with live music.

Clarence grimaced. “Don’t rightly know, yet. I fancy a long spin around town before I settle.”

“That yours down there?” Jackson whistled. “Mighty fine. Alden Twenty Ex, ain’t it? I used to work on them a few jobs back.”

“Sorry, lad, I’ll not let you tinker with this one, no matter how skilled you are with the loaders.” Clarence brushed past him but, a moment later, made a choking noise. “Oy! What are you fellows doing?”

Two uniformed cops attached a negation collar to the skimmer’s control yokes.

A third one halted Clarence’s onrush with an outstretched hand. “You’ve been cited for illegal modifications to a ground effect vehicle, sir.”

“What? What kind?”

The officer didn’t look up from her wrist unit. “Downloadable software that skims credit chit balances from outdoor dining facilities. Looks like your vehicle’s been in quite a few over the past few weeks.”

“Nine, according to what I preprogrammed,” Brant said through the comms. “He’ll be without a vehicle for a few days until they discover it was planted by a malicious hacker somewhere.”

Clarence was busy shouting at the officer, so Jackson could cover his mouth and mutter, “Shame on him, whoever that is.”

“They won’t take him into custody. It’s a fineable offense, and it’ll be dropped, like I said. But he will need a ride.”

Jackson stepped up behind Clarence as they watched the police tow the skimmer away. “Now that right there’s a damn cryin’ shame, Clarence. I tell you what. I got a rental ride, so let me take you to lunch. It’s on me.”

“What?” Clarence rubbed his forehead. “Oh. Thanks. That’s rather sporting of you.”

“Sure is. C’mon, I’ll even let you pick.”

* * *

They wound up at Rosita’s because Clarence thought the bigger crowd at the outdoor seating area would cheer him up. Jackson agreed, mostly because it gave him a better way to talk to Clarence without being overheard.

He waited until Clarence went to the restroom to report to Luciana. No go on the plant. Cops took his skimmer.

The reply came back in seconds. Get into the impound yard and proceed.

Someone’s watching her commlink, Jackson mused. Hmm. She’s intent on maintaining the illusion of an accident. Harder to do with a bomb in one’s home—easier on a vehicle. Jackson typed back, Will do, boss, and sent the message before Clarence rejoined him at the table.

“I do appreciate this.” Clarence sagged against his chair. He used the sweat from his ice-laden drink to cool his forehead. “I can’t imagine why they think I’m the one perpetrating the fraud.”

“You don’t seem all that surprised about the mess, though.”

“Surprised they took my skimmer, yes. Surprised I am being targeted?” Clarence’s expression was wry. “Hardly. I’ve heard you accepted payments where I have not, JJ. I suspect this is your new side employer expressing her disdain for my turning down her bribes.”

Jackson spread his hands wide. “Hey now, I didn’t say a thing about nothing, and as for the money—”

“Don’t worry. I shan’t raise a stink, as it were, not with the dockmaster on the take.”

“Then why’d you come to lunch?”

“Because the Ivanovs think highly of you, and I don’t trust you.” Clarence drained the rest of his glass. “Two compelling reasons for me to remain vigilant.”

“Can’t fault you for that.” Jackson grinned. “Maybe I got a way for us to both get what we want.”

“How do you suppose?”

Jackson placed a bundle of cloth on the table. Clarence opened it and stared.

“If you’re thinkin’ that’s a bug, you’d be right, yes, sir,” Jackson said.

“Bollocks,” Clarence muttered.

“The boss lady wants to know who you’re talkin’ to that’s giving her a hard time. I figure, let her listen because if you give her more than she’s bargained for—” Jackson snapped his fingers. “That there will end your ride real quick too.”

Clarence looked up and mouthed the word, “Bomb?”

Jackson nodded.

“Bloody hell.” Clarence leaned forward in his chair. “Very well. I had no idea she was this, uh, displeased with me. What did you have in mind?”

“Let me worry about the particulars.” Jackson swirled beer in his bottle before drinking the rest. He added a belch on the end, one he was sure Harry would be proud of, even given their state of perpetual enmity. “I got just the gal for the job.”

“Echo One, this is Home,” Brant cut in. “What gal?”

18

League Navy Mobile Repair Dock Six Delta

Ragye, Second Moon of Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

22 March 2466

Kyle Wilkes hadn’t thought in a million years he would wind up in the cockpit of a Phantom, heading out to fight the Leaguers, especially since his family had never placed a great emphasis on military service. Well, he figured he couldn’t exactly call it the same thing as signing on with CDF.

Kyle’s fighter was Alpha Five, flying as wingman for Inga in Alpha Two. He couldn’t help but notice how smoothly she navigated their invisible checkpoints as they swung around Nandao’s curve, on the way to the gleaming white orb that was Ragye. Kyle felt he was too rough with the stick and too jerky with the thrusters, but he must not have looked too bad because Inga wasn’t snarling at him over comms.

His targeting scope bracketed a tiny silver speck near the moon and dribbled initial sensor readings across his display. There was the dock, all four ships confirmed inside.

His palms sweat inside his flight gloves. “Take it easy,” Kyle murmured to himself. “Like just another drill. Don’t think about anything else. Follow the vector. Stick to the plan. Hit your targets.” Easy to say. Hard to execute.

Kyle still couldn’t believe his dream had worked out. It wasn’t until the war had ended that he’d realized what a crucial mistake Mom had made. They’d spent years in neutral space before winding up on Galt, trying to get away from Dad and from the war, though Kyle could never figure out what Dad had done, or Mom had, either, to lead to breaking up their marriage. All he knew was that when he hit seventeen, Kyle had broken free to live on his own in the neutral systems. It was the best way for a young man to find his freedom, no matter what the Coalition told him about that word.

Freedom. Kyle snorted. Their “freedom” would have signed him up for mandatory military service. Potential death with no choice on his part. I sound an awful lot like a diehard Galter. What if I do? He was more of Galt and Trinidad Station and the freighters running the trade routes than he was of anywhere else.

His comms crackled. “All fighters, this is Alpha Leader.”

Cai Feng sounded like what Kyle expected from a leader—confident, calm, determined. That he was out in front and flew the same missions as his people only made Kyle respect him all the more.

“We’re coming up on Manjin. Configure for the first burn, and prepare to execute on my mark.”

“You heard him, Alphas,” Inga said. “Get sloppy there, and you’ll dig your grave in a crater long before you get your shot at the Leaguers.”

Kyle added his confirmation to the comms replies. He programmed the flight computer, which held all the coordinates and durations for the engine burns, to follow the right vector into the MRD. The wrong one would expose them to the sensor towers before they could take them out.

Sensor towers. Sweat beaded on his forehead. It trickled down his nose. Kyle strained his neck so he could wipe it off on the inside of his helmet’s face shield. Sensor Tower Three was his responsibility. He double-checked the targeting systems. It was locked in.

Nandao’s sun blazed over the moon as the fighter shifted its course to follow the rest toward Manjin. It was like a giant flashlight shining in Kyle’s face.

The fence. He remembered the fence.

“I’ve got the access code,” Kyle whispered. “Don’t worry about it. We get inside, and we’re free to take off to wherever we want.”

A beacon flashed in their faces.

“Hey!” The security guard rushed at them.

Kyle kicked. His boot caught the man’s nose. The crack and the shout startled Kyle more than being caught. He grabbed Gina’s arm. “Come on!”

“No! We can’t!” Gina’s eyes welled with tears. “What about Mom?”

“She doesn’t care! And Dad’s gone! Come with me.”

Gina yanked her arm free and stomped on Kyle’s shoe. He crashed against the fence. She was off like a rocket, sprinting into the darkness.

Dammit. Kyle pulled back on the fence—

Hands seized his arms and shoulders, dragging him down—two more security guards.

“You’re coming with us, kid.”

The proximity alarm chimed. Kyle blinked. Ragye was much larger outside the cockpit. The MRD was recognizable as a wireframe box. Four League warships nestled inside, their cabin lights and running beacons dark, chilling him.

“Five, this is Lead,” Feng said. “Tower Three is coming up.”

“Roger, Lead. I have the target locked.” Kyle’s mouth was dry. He forced himself to mimic Feng’s calm.

“Start your run, Five. Good luck.”

Kyle glanced at Inga’s fighter, flying above and ahead of him. He jostled the controls so his Phantom’s wings wagged. Hers responded.

“Here we go,” Kyle murmured. “Sorry you’re not here to see it, sis.”

The two fighters accelerated toward Ragye. The moon’s gravity was weaker than a typical Earthlike planet, but it boosted Kyle’s Phantom enough he was able to kill the engines as it swept around. Before he knew it, he was approaching the MRD’s cavernous entry section.

Kyle maxed out the Phantom’s thrust, jamming himself into his seat as gee forces hammered his body. His flight suit compensated, but even so, blackness pressed at his peripheral vision.

There it was—the sensor tower, a spindly collection of crisscrossing supports that reminded Kyle of spiderwebs clinging to sticks. His targeting computer chimed, a friendly sound, like his commlink letting him know he had a missed call.

Kyle thought about the news reports from inside the League and from the border, of the tragedies Sol inflicted not just on the people it warred with but its own citizens. Arrest. Abuse. Torture. The massacres on Monrovia.

“Alpha Five, Fox Three.” Kyle stabbed his thumb down on the firing control.

The missile launch shook the Phantom, but it was such a superbly constructed craft it barely wavered off course. Thrusters corrected for the shift. Kyle stared as his missile streaked toward the ever-larger tower, reducing itself to a brilliant pinprick. A brief fireball marked its destruction.

“Sensor gap!” Feng snapped. “All fighters, commence your runs!”

“Stick close, Two,” Inga ordered. “And nice shooting.”

Kyle grinned.

The six fighters raced into the broad, yawning MRD frame—three kilometers wide, according to Kyle’s scanners. His targeting computer slapped red brackets across the canopy screen. Damn. A dozen point defense emplacements. Kyle frowned at the plans displayed below. Vance’s intelligence was off by four.

“Alpha Lead, Fox Four,” Feng announced.

“Alpha Six, Fox Four!” That from another pilot.

Explosions lit up one of the Cobra-class destroyers as Javelin anti-ship missiles slammed into it, gutting the vessel amidships. A frigate’s starboard hull opened to space, a blast having ripped out the weapons mounted there.

Kyle launched his Javelin to the attack as the Phantoms slashed across the line of docked ships. He was astonished at how suddenly agile the Phantom became once it dropped one of the larger missiles—agile but skittish. It wasn’t until then that the point defense activated, its response stunted by the loss of the sensor tower. Tracers filled the docking area, mingling with debris. Kyle grimaced as the Phantom took a hit. The shields held.

“Two, Five, the guns ahead are coming alive,” Feng said. “Take them out.”

“Roger, Lead,” Inga replied.

“Confirmed, Lead.” Kyle pushed his fighter ahead as he bucked and weaved through the PD rounds streaking across his flight path.

More explosions—the first frigate was broken in half, and the second destroyer was venting atmosphere. So much was happening at once, and too many objects filled his display. Kyle was tempted to shut everything down and fly on visual. He instead turned his neutron cannons on the nearest PD mount and shot until it was an expanding cloud of glittering fragments and sparking circuits.

Inga took out two more but had to roll away from the incoming fire at the far end of the dock, which the flight was rapidly approaching. Kyle yelped and followed her lead but wasn’t fast enough to avoid the PD guns’ hammerblows. He targeted the next mount, but his fighter slewed off course as a result of the impacts.

“Lead, this is Six!” The young pilot sounded panicked. “I’m caught in the crossfire.”

Six still had a Starbolt anti-ship missile strapped to a wing, which appeared to make it more difficult for him to maneuver. Kyle wasn’t surprised, given how rough his Phantom was handling as he tried to maintain an evasive strategy.

“Stay steady,” Feng replied. “I’m with you.”

Feng’s fighter rolled off the planned trajectory, its shields absorbing hits meant for Six. Kyle banked away from the PD mount he’d tried to disable. His Phantom’s shields flashed red on the tactical display, alerting him to their near dissolution due to the primary generator overloading.

“Keep going!” Inga snapped. “We’re almost clear.”

The next explosion caught Kyle by surprise. It was a brief, brilliant flare nowhere near where a missile should have struck one of the Leaguer ships. Kyle’s scanners showed three of the four vessels critically damaged with two of them destroyed. His scanners also showed five fighters instead of six.

“Lead is down!” Six cried. “The PD guns—they ripped him apart! What do we—”

“Shut the hell up and fly, Six.” Inga’s order felt like a slap through the comms. Kyle breathed fast, not quite believing Feng was dead, but the scanners didn’t lie. Only glittering debris remained where his Phantom had been seconds before. “Get clear of the MRD!”

The five remaining fighters made it to open space. Expanding clouds of wreckage and periodic bursts of sparks marred what had been a tranquil view when they’d first approached.

More ships approached. Kyle had a hard time focusing on his displays, so he was unable to warn anyone of the gunships dispatched from their patrol routes. And there was no further communication from Inga or anyone else—mission protocol dictated comms silence and scatter after the bombing run.

Kyle angled away from the rest of the flight and dove for Nandao’s night side. He maxed out the fighter’s thrust then cut off the engines so he would resemble nothing but a hurtling chunk of debris. It wasn’t until the fighter bucked as it entered Nandao’s atmosphere, flames licking at the shield perimeter, that Kyle allowed himself to relax—and grieve.

Who do you think you are? Playing at being a freedom fighter while Feng was a native to the planet. Feng had suffered real oppression and struck back at those whose rule he and the vast majority of Nandaoites had voted to eliminate. But when it came down to the wire, he’d sacrificed himself not for a cause but for a person. It made Kyle wonder if he could—or should—do the same.

* * *

Port Gusev Transshipment Depot

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

Jackson hopped off the loader, Natalie and Gregory dismounting after him.

“That freighter will arrive in fifteen minutes,” Gregory said. “Make sure everything’s prepped.”

“You got it, boss.” Jackson circled the landing site, checking the power umbilicals he would need to attach once the ship arrived. He’d volunteered for that duty because it would give him more time to work on his own, far from interference by other depot employees, a strategy that had made playing his dual role simpler so far.

“One, this is Home. Incoming transmission intercept.” Brant couldn’t sound happier if he’d just announced his favorite drama program had a new season in the entertainment nets.

Jackson tapped the flashing icon on his wrist unit.

Voices filtered through his comms, the first one being Clarence’s. “She’s moving weaponry, I’m certain. Do you need the invoices?”

“Yes, I do. Get them quietly. I don’t want anything pointing back to my department.” The reply came from a stern Eldred, who added a gruff edge to her voice. “The investigation will fail without them.”

“Very good. I understand.”

“Be careful. You’re taking a risky move.”

“Don’t worry about me. The sooner I can cut Luciana out of this planet and rid it of her corrupt empire, the better.”

Brant sighed. “I know it’s a bit dramatic, but it was the best we could come up with on short notice. Her signals show she’s listening in, though, so let’s hope she’s a convinced audience. Check your tablet.”

As long as the bug stays attached… Jackson pulled up Drone One’s surveillance from the depot’s front gate, where Clarence arrived on his souped-up skimmer.

The pieces were moving into place.

“You realize,” Brant added, “when Luciana does this, she’ll know who it was that betrayed her.”

“Not ideal.” Jackson had his back to the rest of the workers around the landing site. “But with Two and Four reassigned, we’ve got to switch focus. Taking the fight to her will keep her off balance until Uncle Rob can convince the locals to intervene.”

“We’ve got plenty of evidence to nail her to the wall.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” Jackson listened to Clarence and Eldred wind down his faux informant session.

In reality, it was close to what Clarence had told CBI Agent Lind, but by having him speak with Eldred, they could throw suspicion off such a possible link and give Luciana the push to make a terrible decision.

“What’s your ETA?” Jackson asked.

“Sparks says ten minutes. We’ll meet you at the southeast corner.”

Jackson eyed the perimeter fence. Doable. He just hated to bail out of a job like that. Funny how he could be concerned about doing good work for his employers in what was essentially a stage act. “Don’t be late. Something tells me Luciana’s not going to have a new side task for JJ Accurso.”

Another indicator flashed on Jackson’s wrist unit.

“That’s her, One,” Brant said.

“Better take it, then.” Jackson cleared his throat and acknowledged the incoming signal. “Hey there.”

“You did well.”

“Yeah? Sounds like that next payday’s gonna be even better.”

Luciana laughed. “Almost, but I’m glad you’re at the depot. I want you to see how I deal with those who refuse to recognize my authority.”

“Can’t wait, boss.”

“JJ!” Gregory waved from the other side of the landing zone. “Let’s clear out. Six minutes until the—”

The explosion was a thunderclap that sent the workers around the tarmac to their knees. Gregory held Natalie so she wouldn’t collapse. Jackson was glad he’d been kneeling.

A plume of black smoke towered over the rows of containers, flames reaching into the sky. A second explosion erupted right next to it, then another, and finally a fourth, though they weren’t as big as the first.

None of them was Clarence’s skimmer. Jackson grinned. A whoop cut across his comms. Dwyer, he realized.

“Did you see that, One? Worked like a charm! I told you it wasn’t nothing to keep the bug and the explosive talking to each other after I separated them.”

“You were right, and I’m glad.” Jackson caught the distant whine of Novabird’s engines on approach. “But about those other charges…”

“Babies, those ones.”

“Was Luciana really planning to use that big of an explosive on Clarence? I thought you said it would only cause his skimmer to wreck so it looked like an accident.”

“Well…” Dwyer sounded uncharacteristically bashful.

“He added compounds to the original,” Brant interjected, “and placed Luciana’s charge in a crate full of plasma rile energy packs she was going to ship to Nandao.”

“I only goosed it a bit!” Dwyer said.

Jackson stared as the looming column of black smoke began to drift on the wind. “I’d say you did.”

Gregory shouted orders to the workmen. Natalie called for assistance on her commlink. Sirens wailed far off—no doubt emergency services on their way.

“JJ!” Natalie jogged over to him, still making her call. “Give Gregory a hand with the loaders. We can tap into the fire suppression systems in the tarmac, and the loaders can reroute—”

“Sorry, Natalie. I really am.” Jackson smirked. “But I gotta turn in my resignation.”

“What? Now? Why?”

Jackson pointed at the burning mess. “Because if I hang around a bit longer, Luciana’s gonna come looking for me so she can have a private and painful conversation.”

Natalie stared at him. “I knew those were her crates, but I thought she’d finally gotten sloppy, and her smuggling came back to bite her.”

“In a way.” Jackson couldn’t help himself, not when these people had been so decent to him. He let his false accent slip. “Like I said, I am sorry about this, but don’t worry—we’ll take care of your problems for good.”

Jackson sprinted for the perimeter fence. Novabird swept in from the southeast, wings pivoting as she seemed to stop in midair ten meters above the hardpacked dirt. Jackson hopped up the fence, clambered over the top, and landed on the other side as the racer’s ramp touched down.

His comms pinged him again. Luciana.

Her voice was stripped of all charm, harsh like she’d gone days in the desert without water. “You bastard.”

“Ah, you couldn’t have afforded my new rates anyway,” Jackson drawled.

He climbed aboard Novabird as the racer shot off into the sky. The ramp closed, shutting out the harsh wind around the deport.

“Where to next, Cap’n?” Dwyer asked from the cockpit.

“Back to one of our staging areas,” Jackson answered. “Gina’s always the one getting to have the fun, or so she claims. Now it’s my turn.”

19

Otradny Continent

Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

23 March 2466

The Yellowjacket slipped through the atmosphere as easily as Gina remembered slipping out of bed when she was a kid—energetic and without a care for her surroundings. Sure, young Gina hadn’t had friction flames jostling her, but Gina liked imagining it was a hot summer’s morning, and her mind was just exaggerating the process.

Sev brought the courier in low to the seemingly endless hills. Rainforest filled their viewports. “Green,” he muttered. “And wet.”

“Don’t get all verbose on me,” Gina said. “I might swoon.”

The comms board lit up with an incoming signal notification. “There are our insurgents, right on time. It’s heartwarming that they care enough about their people to check on them when they arrive.”

Sev grimaced, his concentration on his piloting.

“One affirmative response sent.” Gina punched in the code found on the dead bodies of the crew. “So, if we did it right…”

“Shields?” Sev asked.

“No, not unless they shoot at us.”

Sev grunted.

“Yes, I know it would be too late, but I’m not psychic, you know. Besides, if we raise shields, they’ll know something’s wrong.” Gina sighed. “And it is wrong, but obviously we don’t want them to know.”

“Duh.” Sev smirked.

Gina punched his arm. “You did that on purpose.”

Another indicator lit, that one an actual message. The glowing text read, Continue to provided coordinates.

The nav console beeped in sync as it received the promised directions. Sev flicked a red targeting reticule onto the screen. “Fifty-four klicks.”

“Well, you know the plan.” Gina unstrapped her seat belt and retrieved her survival pack from the other side of the bridge. It was made of the same stealth materials as her black-and-purple infiltration suit. She double-checked the rations, water purifier, and sleeping net stuffed inside. No comms besides the short-range link between her device and Sev’s. No retrieval beacon.

Not that kind of mission. There’s no cavalry if we fail. Despite the grimness of the realization, Gina smiled. She preferred it that way, especially after her stint using the code name Eidolon on Galt. Why bother with rules and regulations? Sinclair must not mind discarding those when convenient, or else he wouldn’t have wanted her and Sev to play those parts.

They weren’t going to the insurgent base to blend in. They were headed there for sabotage—to destroy.

“Six minutes,” Sev called.

She glanced back at the screen. He’d overlaid a landing zone four klicks from where the 88ers had directed them. Nothing was available on scanners except a minor power fluctuation that could be from a base. Gina made sure she had both pulse pistols charged and where she could reach them. She’d remembered three knives that time. One could never be overprepared. But the key to their operation would be the standard pistol loaded with stun rounds.

Sev joined her. His suit was of the same adaptive material, with a pack twice as big as hers. Gina didn’t begrudge him the difference. It contained a submachine gun and a dozen of Sparks’s signature shaped charges for the mission, plus a handful of the explosive drones he was so fond of. Come to think of it, Sev treated them with equal reverence, setting them on a nearby bench seat like he was rearranging the Eucharist at mass.

Gina blinked. Funny she would think of that right then—taking Brant up on his offer to go to a Catholic service following one of their first missions together, back before the brass formed CAU 171. The calm that had pervaded the ceremony stuck with her. She felt she could rest in it, like climbing back into bed for warmth upon discovering that maybe she shouldn’t have been so eager to vault into the morning after all.

Get a grip. It’s a church. It has props and talking and all the things you despise. Mom never would have allowed you to go. Dad… She’d never talked to Dad about a higher power. As for Mom, well, they’d barely gotten over the grief before she’d had to ship out again.

Sev was back at his seat. “Landing.”

Now? Gina looked around. The bridge clock confirmed six minutes had passed. I have to quit doing that.

Sev settled the Yellowjacket into a clearing so tight she could hear the faint scratching of tree limbs against the outer hull. The constant thrum of the ion engines died down.

Gina patted his shoulder. “Sparks couldn’t have done a finer job.”

Sev rolled his eyes, but his cheeks reddened. “Thanks.”

“Lock them out of the systems, and power her down.” Gina clipped her pack to her suit and adjusted her goggles. “With any luck, we’ll be back aboard and out of here with a smoldering pile of rubble behind us.”

“Kyle?” Sev drew down his mask, making him even more enigmatic than usual.

Gina’s heart tugged. That was what had been missing, from the recollection of a bright morning to the peace of Brant’s church—Kyle. Her brother had been absent from her life for too long. She didn’t care whether he’d been brainwashed or was truly a revolutionary. Gina would be damned if she left him behind and returned to Dad empty-handed. And if Kyle didn’t want to come back, well, she’d made sure Sev had a magazine full of stun rounds too.

She punched the exit hatch. The dizzying scents of a tropical environment rushed in. The jungle’s cacophony was almost overwhelming. Night had fallen. They’d timed their approach so they could give themselves an extra advantage. “You’ve got the coordinates?”

Sev tapped the display mounted to his forearm.

“Then lead on, Macduff.” Gina stepped aside, gesturing with a flourish.

Sev strode down the ramp. “Hail, King!” His voice boomed into the forest. “For so thou art. Behold where stands the usurper’s cursèd head. The time is free.”

Gina giggled and wondered if they should start over from Act I.

* * *

Benjamin frowned over the tactical display in the sprawling common area that acted as lounge and command center for the insurgents. Ammo? Check. Stolen beer? Check. Coalition-made display screens linked to League-salvaged sensor arrays? Also check. “Where’d it land?”

“Four point one klicks north by northwest.” Vance indicated a patchy section of jungle hidden from the base’s line of sight by clustered hills and towering trees. “The transponder went offline. Main power died too.”

“Shit and damn.” Benjamin glanced over his shoulder to where Inga, Kyle, and a few other 88ers gathered in sullen silence.

They should be celebrating a successful op, but they were moping about Feng. It was too bad the man died—went out a hero, from the way the other kid, Jarvis, went on about him. But they’d achieved their twofold aim by crippling most of the ships docked in the MRD and pissing off the League.

Benjamin brushed aside the communications intercepts Cherice had supplied him. With any luck, the Leaguer ships huffing and puffing along the Coalition border would get the green light to do something stupid and CDF would respond in kind.

“Sir?” Vance waited by the console. “How do we want to handle this?”

“Not with them.” Benjamin jerked a thumb at the pilots. “They might be a band of brothers and sisters, but I need their butts in cockpit seats, not tromping around a jungle. Get Harper up here with six men.”

“Yes, sir.” Vance swept up his commlink and excused himself to a quieter corner of the lounge.

“Ben?” Inga was suddenly at his elbow. No wonder she made an excellent pilot if she could be so stealthy on the ground. “What’s wrong?”

“The Yellowjacket’s returned, but she’s not answering comms. She landed outside the concealed hangar.” Benjamin didn’t bother showing the position on the tactical board. “Harper’s handling it.”

“Harper?” Inga scowled. “He has more rocks in his head than our cliffside base. Let me take a handful of people out.”

“Not a chance. I need my remaining pilots ready for whatever comes next.”

“Then let me take Kyle up, and we’ll do a sweep.”

Benjamin rolled his eyes. “With what? Three of the Phantoms are still in their hidey-holes scattered across Nandao. There’s no way I’m sending the other two into the sky by themselves, not without nearby backup, and besides, the Leaguers have more civil air patrols watching since we trashed the MRD.”

“You didn’t trash anything.” Kyle was suddenly on his feet. “I don’t care what you say. You’ve been running this place like someone elected you president. Feng led us through that inferno. He’s the reason we have victory.”

“Kid, do us all a favor and shut the hell up.”

Inga glared at Benjamin but apparently had no further arguments.

Kyle stared at her. “Are you serious? You’re going to let him tell us what to do just because Feng’s not here to lead? Screw this.”

Benjamin let the kid get two steps before he pulled his pistol. “Stay put.”

The lounge lapsed into silence. The others stared, open-mouthed. The mixture of astonishment and anger Benjamin read on their faces meant they were confused. Fine. Benjamin could use confusion. Vance remained in his corner, his hand propped on his belt like he’d just put away his commlink. He had a small pistol concealed in his waistband, Benjamin knew.

Kyle turned slowly—no mistaking his outrage. “No way. Feng would want us to do the right thing.”

“Do you want another heartfelt eulogy? I’m fresh out of those, Kyle. Feng’s dead. Get over it. Maybe he made the heroic sacrifice, or maybe he made a stupid mistake. Maybe I put too much pressure on him, sending rookies up on a dangerous mission. None of that matters now. What matters is preserving the resources we have left and readying to strike when the League makes its next move.”

“This is the next move.” Kyle gestured toward the tactical display. “They’ve taken your ship and set a—”

“A trap? No shit. That’s precisely why I’m not sending pilots when I have gunmen and saboteurs to do the job.” Benjamin shook his head. “The League. You’re definitely better suited to a Phantom’s gunsights. There wasn’t enough time to pull off a hijacking in League space, and the Yellowjacket was stuck at New Rostov on the Coalition side before we tracked her here. No stops along the way. This is CDF, probably Intelligence. I already know they’ve been sniffing around our supply line.”

Kyle’s eyes widened. “Then we have to get out there! I’m not here to sit around and hide, not so the League can win in the end and crush everything these people have worked for. Come on, Inga. I’ll go with—”

Benjamin shot him in the chest.

The pistol’s report prompted shouts from everyone gathered. Inga and her handful of compatriots took a step forward, but Vance was at Benjamin’s side, a compact plasma pistol raised to shoulder height.

“Stay back,” he warned.

No blood on Kyle. He groaned, limbs spasmodic, under the stun round’s influence. His eyes rolled into his head, and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

“I meant what I said.” Benjamin lowered his pistol, gaze locked on the insurgents. “I’m not wasting any of our resources. Harper’s on his way up here. If any of you who don’t fly want to join him, be my guest, but if any of you fighter jockeys wind up patrolling the jungle for a CDF hit squad to eliminate, you better hope they get the job done.”

Benjamin went back to the console, making a show of presenting his back to the room. Vance, of course, didn’t put his weapon away until everyone had dispersed, either out of the lounge or to the floor to help drag Kyle onto a couch.

“Harper’s heading toward the north exit with his people, as instructed,” Vance murmured. “I’ll have comms routed through here.”

“Good.” Benjamin considered the tactical board. No motion detectors were set up around the base—the teeming fauna made them impractical. Sensor posts had a hell of a time sorting out people from critters too. A search was the only way to get it done.

Vance eyed the insurgents. “Should I clear the room?”

“No. I want them here, especially if Harper’s team runs into trouble.” Benjamin frowned. “If CDF really did take the Yellowjacket, it’s better these people know how bad things can get. They’re going to wish it was Leaguers.”

“But… sir, with CDF in control of the ship, that means our intelligence was… faulty.”

“Thanks, Vance. I hadn’t figured that out.” Benjamin braced himself on the console. Cherice had assured him the spy team was chasing its own tail. How did they manage to hijack the Yellowjacket? That meant they’d figured out why the ship was at New Rostov and potentially what it had been transmitting, which in turn underscored that the entire supply chain was in peril.

And Cousin had only made the first of the money transfers meant for the false accounts set up in the president’s name.

Easy, Dravyn. Focus on this problem. The rest is above your pay grade. The words made sense, but Benjamin had to force them through his brain. That wasn’t his job. Cousin wanted him to broker the arms sales and get the money to Cherice, who would route it to the proper holdings. The supply line wasn’t his concern. Gracious Light Mercantile—whoever that was—had the contract, and if they screwed up, it would be their heads, not his.

Vance cleared his throat. The guy had a knack for keeping Benjamin from becoming too morose. Focus on this problem. Benjamin would have to repeat the phrase ad nauseam if he was going to come out on the other side of their mess. Thank God for contingency plans. Whatever else happened there, he would get out with his skin intact.

* * *

Gina crouched among a jumble of rock slabs, each one taller than her. It looked like they’d sloughed off the cliff looming ahead in the darkness. She checked her wrist unit. Two sensor posts within one hundred meters of her position in opposite directions. The embedded scanners in the wrist unit were passive, so she wasn’t worried about giving away her position to either of them. Of bigger concern was finding the damned entrance.

Sev ducked under a low-hanging tree branch and hunkered beside her. His body faded from view as the active camouflage adjusted to his new surroundings, turning him pale gray streaked with orange to match the slabs. He twisted his forearm so she could see the display screen.

Wow. Thermal leakage around a handful of access points and from dozens of vents. Whoever built the place was no slouch, though, based on how far apart they were spaced. The base had to take up a good portion of the cliff and the hill behind it and must have been shielded to prevent thermal scans—though nothing was foolproof, as the leaks proved.

Gina cycled through her goggles’ settings until she settled on IR. That confirmed Sev’s discovery. A trio of access doors, hidden by trees or behind rockfall piles, faced them from their side of the cliff. Heat plumed from the rightmost.

She felt Sev tense beside her. No wonder. Seven armed men slunk down the sloped cliff face, hugging the pathway hidden from ground view by protruding boulders and from the air by the massive tree canopy. Their bodies blazed color in her thermal view. Zero active systems, according to her scanners, except for basic night vision.

Let’s give them something tantalizing to chase. Gina nudged Sev. She typed, One flitter, on her wrist.

He nodded.

Fifteen seconds later, Sev set a thumb-sized drone robot onto the nearest rock slab. It buzzed through the jagged maze then shot back into the forest at a meter off the ground. Gina lost sight of it until the flitter popped three more meters into the air. Her wrist unit vibrated as the embedded scanner confirmed the nearest sensor post had come alive.

“Got one!” A clipped Leaguer accent cut through the jungle sounds. “Check the sensor readouts. Jorge.”

“On it, Harper.”

“Kio, spot him.”

“You got it.”

Boots crashed through the underbrush. Gina heard branches whip against cloth.

“Shit!”

“Keep it down, Kio.”

“Screw you, Jorge. That stick about took out my eye. And there are thorns everywhere.”

More boots followed the first pairs. Lights—which Gina assumed were mounted below the muzzles of their weapons—slashed through the darkness. Soon their crashing sounds melted back into nature’s cacophony.

Sev gestured toward the cliff. Gina nodded.

They slunk through the rock slabs until they reached the path then headed to the right toward one of the ventilation shafts. Gina hazarded another glance at her wrist. No cameras there. No additional scanners. Pretty low-tech, which made sense, seeing as the insurgents wanted to remain hidden out there if the League ever tracked them back to that region. Hence the reliance on sensor posts.

Sev cocked his head sideways as he checked the bolts fastening the grating to its frame. I can cut it, he typed.

Maybe get their attention elsewhere, first, Gina replied on her screen.

No sneaky flitter that time. Sev glanced back the way they’d come and tapped a green dot on his forearm screen. One of Dwyer’s aerial explosives leapt skyward and hurtled toward a hatch Gina and Sev had identified on their initial heat scans. Sev watched through the screen as its tiny camera recorded its headlong flight.

Gina plucked a plasma torch from her belt and waited.

Sev punched a red square. The explosion was modest, maybe the size of a grenade’s output, but in the deep night of the forest, it was a tiny sun. Flames licked the cliff and ignited ropy tree roots. Shouts echoed far behind them. The breeze carried a tantalizing smell to Gina’s position—pineapple? Probably not, but close enough for government work, as the ancient saying went.

Her torch blazed as she severed the hatch’s bolts on her side and on the top. Sev took care of his as well as the bottom. The hatch tipped outward. Sev caught it.

Gina scurried inside, the smells of machinery taking over the jungle scents. Gina reached back and pulled the hatch toward her as Sev applied a couple of hasty welds to secure it, albeit temporarily, from the outside.

“Good luck,” he grunted then scrambled back down into the rocks, vanishing among the shadows.

Gina looked up into a long, tall vent shaft then ahead into the wider one she faced. Too bad she had no idea of the base’s layout. Ah, well. Where would be the fun in that? She dumped a swarm of tiny flitters from her pouch and whispered, “Let’s go see who’s home.”

20

The White House

Lawrence City

Canaan

23 March 2466

Justin Spencer all but tuned out the tumult of the protestors outside the perimeter fencing surrounding the White House. His mind had dulled even Press Secretary Escarra’s words. There was no helping his reaction. Those were a lot of zeroes.

“Two hundred million credits?” Spencer croaked.

“In six separate accounts, all of them in neutral space.” Escarra’s expression was pinched like he found the information scrolling across his tablet foul smelling. “Sir, if you need to tell me anything—”

“I think you know me better than that, Tomas,” Spencer snapped. “I didn’t give this country decades of service and risk death in the cold void of space so I could get myself into a position to profit off illegal arms sales. Can I presume that’s what you want me to confirm or deny?”

“Sorry, sir. I had to ask.” Escarra swiped across the tablet. “It’s exploding across the news networks, of course, and there’s nothing we can do to stop that. Several stories reference a leak by ‘unnamed sources within the administration,’ though no one I’ve interrogated has confessed.”

“Unnamed my ass.” Spencer glared toward the administrative complexes down the block from the White House—and at the CIS headquarters he knew stood far beyond them, on the fringe of Lawrence City. “Come with me.”

The chants for his resignation and accusations of corruption filled the air, the taunts more tangible since his initial shock had abated. Searing anger replaced that sensation, but Justin used the walk from the White House grounds into the Oval Office to tamp his heat to a cooler, more calculating temperature.

Fuentes was there, a tray of coffees set on an end table. He gazed at Spencer as Justin arrived at the office. “Justin? This is terrible. I’m sorry they’ve targeted you this way.”

Spencer halted at the corner of his desk. “I’m surprised you’re not here to confirm the Peace Union’s accusations of the malfeasance they’ve been trying to pin on me for years, Ed.”

“I think I know you better than that.” Fuentes offered him a coffee. “You might encourage the government to be tightfisted when it comes to expanding social services—a sorely needed safety net, I might add—but you’re not greedy, nor are you conniving. If you wanted to get rich, you’d resign from the presidency and build a consulting firm from the ground up or something traditionally capitalist.”

Spencer chuckled, not really feeling the humor but glad to hear the man who’d been his political rival not long ago was a decent ally. “Thanks, I think.”

“I bring word from the colonel.” Fuentes glanced at Escarra.

“I’ll take that as my cue to depart.” Escarra snatched a coffee from the tray and drained half of it in one long gulp. “Comms silence until I hear from you, then?”

“Absolutely.” Spencer tapped commands into his desktop console. “Tell the press I’ll issue a statement within a few hours.”

“They’ll rip me to shreds if I don’t have a specific time.”

“Make it two and a half.”

Escarra saluted with the coffee cup and left.

As soon as the door shut, Spencer punched his intercom. “Secure link to CIS Director Frank Pelletier.”

Fuentes’s eyes widened. “I suspect poor Mr. Pelletier might want to sit down for this.”

“He might. I won’t.”

The link buzzed then chimed as the call’s connection was confirmed. The image of a white-haired man filled Spencer’s screen. “I was going to ask you if this was a bad time, Justin, but I—”

“Level with me, Frank.” Spencer braced himself with both hands on the desk. “Is this you?”

“What do you mean, me? The money? We’re trying to figure that out.”

“Don’t BS me. You’re not good at it.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say to the director of CIS.” Pelletier scowled. “Trust me when I say I have my best people on this. George Parry’s theory is you have political rivals using the Phantom scandal to take advantage of public outrage and stoke—”

“They’re claiming I’m the one who sold the fighters,” Spencer snapped, “and fattened secret accounts with the proceeds! You need to get up off your rear end and find out who’s been snatching these planes, how they’re selling them to Leaguer insurgents, and how they’ve put my name on every single credit!”

“Mr. President, getting irate solves nothing. We have to be rational—take solid steps based on actionable intelligence.” Pelletier raised an eyebrow. “Besides, RUMINT has it you’re leaning so heavily on CDF Intelligence these days, I’m not entirely sure why you bothered calling me. Can’t your pet spies get you all the answers you need?”

“Don’t give me that. The teams serve specialized purposes.” Spencer pointed at the screen. “You serve the Constitution of the Terran Coalition and the Coalition’s people, just like I do. If I find out your people were in any way involved—”

“Careful, Mr. President.” Pelletier reached for his console. “Don’t make threats you won’t carry out, not with the Peace Union out for your blood.”

The screen blanked.

Spencer sat in his chair and spun it around so he could look out into the gardens.

“He does have a point.”

Spencer had nearly forgotten Fuentes’s presence, as irate as the call had made him. So much for having a cooler head about this mess.

Fuentes continued, “You have leaned heavily on the Covert Action Units.”

“Yes, but CDF Intelligence doesn’t operate in a vacuum. They’ve made use of tips from CIS.” Spencer sighed. “And for CIS to insinuate I’m cutting them deliberately out of the loop is rich. They’re so damned secretive and insular it’s like pulling teeth to get them to brief other agencies on what they know.”

“I understand. It sounds like we need a plan to deal with the fallout when CAU 171 unravels the truth.”

Spencer glanced back. “We?”

“Don’t be standoffish. We.” Fuentes leaned back on the couch and sipped his coffee. “I’d be happy to stand with you when you make your statement to the press. I have plenty of representatives in the Peace Union who haven’t entirely written me off since I joined the dark side.”

“I appreciate that.” Spencer faced his desk again. “But unless we get solid answers from our people in the field, I’m afraid we’ll both be whispering into the roar of the mob.”

* * *

Downtown Port Gusev

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

Jackson kept to the corner of Riven and Yarborough Streets, shielded from view of the target by chattering passersby and mobile kiosks manned by shouting advertisements. Food, flowers, gadgets, arts—everything homemade. Apparently, Rostovians had reacted to their newfound freedom under the Coalition by embracing entrepreneurship. It was encouraging, especially after seeing the excesses Luciana and the rich wallowed in.

Speaking of Luciana…

The trio of black airtrucks rumbled out of an underground parking facility farther down the street. Jackson had shielded his face from the afternoon dust with sunshades and a covering for his nose and mouth. Normally, he would wait until the target was clear of civilians before throwing the switch, but the point of today’s attack was a demonstration. Everyone knew the vehicles belonged to Luciana, even without the tiny golden Gracious Light logo of her front company on the engine compartments. They were used to her excesses.

Jackson smiled. Best everyone knew those days were coming to an end. He pressed the detonator hidden inside his sleeve. The result wasn’t as impressive as a typical explosion, but then again, there was more than one way to destroy a rolling target.

A jet of plasma shot out of the center of the first airtruck, a stream as big around as Jackson’s arm. It acted like a beacon, drawing the attention of everyone doing business on Riven Street. A second stream burst from the rear of the airtruck as the cargo compartment melted, the vehicle’s sides sloughing off like magma. Drivers bolted from their rides. Clearly, Luciana’s pay wasn’t enough to ensure her men and women went down with the ship, so to speak.

The rear jet tore into the front of the next vehicle, eventually igniting its power source. The third vehicle enacted the same scenario in reverse so the first and last ones in line immolated themselves while destroying their helpless center companion.

“Wow.” Jackson shook his head. “My compliments to Echo Three.”

“Damned right!” Dwyer’s drawl filtered through the comm. “Directed pulse plasma discharge. I suppose I didn’t really need them to act in tandem like that—could’ve done it quicker with one per vehicle, but it sure makes for an eye-catcher! Just what you ordered, One.”

Smaller explosions cut through the shouts and rumbling.

Jackson smirked. Too bad all those plasma cells and power packs reacted poorly to fiery conditions. “Another delivery shot, pun intended.”

“Confirmed, Echo One.” Brant sounded sterner than Dwyer, but he was always tense in the middle of an operation, especially given he and Dwyer had their own pickup in the works. Novabird’s engines whined in the background. “Touching down back at the depot. Did you tell our guest to pack light?”

Jackson glanced at his wrist comm. He flicked through still images snapped by Drone Five showing Clarence boarding Novabird, carrying a single valise. “I told him not to sweat the big stuff, Echo Home, but I’m glad to see Luciana hasn’t tried attacking him again.”

Brant chuckled. “I think your public exhibitions made your point.”

Another signal indicator linked up. “Speak of the devil.”

“Hang on.” Brant’s tone dropped to a murmur.

Another voice interrupted with “I should bloody well hope so!” before lapsing into grumbles.

Novabird’s engines thundered as Brant continued. “We’re en route to the resort until this blows over. Are you sure you’re not ready for a lift?”

“Not until Luciana and I finish conducting our mutual business. I’ll signal then—but if you don’t hear from me by oh seven hundred tomorrow morning, conclude I’m in trouble and in need of rescue.”

“Bad news, One—I’m in no shape to conduct a raid. We’ve already proven that.” Brant’s reply was dry but with a hint of humor laced throughout. “Home out.”

Jackson cut the signal. He walked down Yarborough, ignoring the panicked confusion the convoy destruction had unleashed. Soon fire-suppression drones and patrol officers would be on scene. No need for him to be nearby. Instead, he cleared his throat and practiced a few words in JJ’s accent before answering the next incoming call. “Well, hello there, darlin’.”

“We let him go.” Luciana was all snarl without a trace of her polish. “My people have been instructed not to touch any of Clarence’s associates—not that we could find any. Is that enough to guarantee you’ll stop this campaign of terror?”

“Terror?” Jackson chuckled. He didn’t have to fake the humor. “Shit, this ain’t terror. This is me taking righteous vengeance against a criminal enterprise.”

“I must say, you have considerable resources for a mechanic with a shoddy record.”

“You’re presuming the record’s as honest as old Ancient Abe.” Jackson dropped the jovial tone but kept his role’s accent. “Now, you listen up. I’m done playing nice—and yes, that’s what this has been. A courtesy for you. Your business ain’t good for the people here, and I’m inclined to burn the whole works until you ain’t got two pretty trees left standing around your mansion, understand?”

“What the hell do you want?”

“What I want is information, hon—names, codes, coordinates. I know all about what you’ve been runnin’, and I ain’t talking about piddly firearms. I’m talking starfighters.”

The line went silent for so long Jackson had to check for a dropped connection, but the signal remained constant.

“C’mon, now, Luciana,” Jackson said. “This won’t end but one way—with the people you’re framing slapping you down hard. You think the president and his lackeys are gonna sit there while somebody sells used Phantoms to Leaguer rebels? They’re gonna roll over and take a nap while his bank fills up with the proceeds from those illegal arms deals? Shoot. You’re lucky they ain’t set one of their squads on you.”

“Squads.” Luciana’s laugh was bleak. “What a joke.”

“Not kidding around. You’ve got ears to the signals, don’t you? Word’s gotten out about fixing the crisis at Aphendrika or uncovering the Nosamo scandal or preventing the Galt exchange crash. It’s all connected, boss, and those same folks will have you in their sights one of these days.”

“I feel you’ve got an offer coming.”

“Better believe it. The people I work for can get you off New Rostov and into protective custody. Clear up those pesky legal troubles.”

“And all I have to do is…?”

“Rat out everyone above you. Like I said—they want the data. You’ve got it. So, you can either enjoy your riches for the next, oh, couple of days and watch as me and mine burn everything down, or you can squirrel away what you can and give yourself up. Make a deal.”

“Now I know you’re on something. The idea of the Coalition dealing with an enterprising businesswoman like myself—”

“Believe it. Don’t wait too long.” Jackson allowed a grin, even though she couldn’t see him. “Because I’m startin’ to have fun. Take care.”

He cut the signal and continued his walk down Yarborough, wondering if that aspect of the operation would be enough to convince her to turn over what she knew. As pressure campaigns went, it had been successful so far—five shipments blown to bits.

If she doesn’t take the offer, Jackson reminded himself, there’s always abduction.

* * *

Undesignated Location, Northern Continent

New Rostov III

Brant scratched at the frost forming on the porthole. “You know, Sparks, you didn’t have to turn all the heating systems off. I can’t decrypt where Luciana’s communications from Arbiter and to Cousin are going if the hardware freezes.”

“Sorry, LT. Cap’n wants us tucked away where the smuggler gal can’t find us, and this is as desolate a place as the next.” Dwyer kicked back in his chair, boots up on the console. Lights pulsed underfoot. All nav and launch systems were in sleep mode, with Novabird ready to reactivate at a moment’s notice. “Besides, I turned down the temperature just a mite.”

“I daresay more than a mite.” Clarence had his jacket wrapped snug and zipped clear to his chin.

“Y’all can’t stop being grateful for the things you have in life.” Dwyer slapped the inside of the cockpit canopy. “Like this here bird.”

Brant’s console alerted him that one of his myriad algorithms had finished its assigned task. “I’m pretty sure you have Novabird, and the rest of us are along for the ride.”

“Well, if you’re going to be that way about it, LT—”

Brant held up a hand for silence as he gazed at the results filling his screen. He grinned. “Hot damn.”

“Good news?”

“You might say that. I’m setting up a secure link to Base.” He glanced at Clarence. “No offense, Mr. Carter, but I’ll need to you wait back in the cargo hold for a moment.”

“Surely you’re ribbing. It must be five degrees colder in there!”

“Six and a half, according to environmental controls.” Brant tossed him a stocking cap. “But the cockpit is soundproofed, and we’re preserving operational secrecy.”

Clarence snatched the cap and went. The closing hatch shut off his grumbling like a cut power supply.

“Link’s up,” Dwyer announced.

“Base One, this is Echo Home,” Brant said.

“Home, this is Base. We read.” Miranda sounded like she’d won a marksmanship contest. “Am I seeing the results I think I am?”

“You’re not hallucinating.”

“That’s great because sickbay is the most depressing compartment.”

Brant chuckled. “The encryption Luciana’s been using to conduct her business? Subroutine Apex cracked it.”

Miranda whooped. Someone cleared their throat in the background. It didn’t matter to Brant whether it was Tamir or Sinclair—they could worry about decorum in a few minutes.

“How’s it look for deciphering what she’s sent?” she asked.

“Apex is spitting out the messages now.” Man, was it ever. They streamed down Brant’s screen at such speed he had to cut the playback by half and rewind to the first of them. Code words abounded, but the important parts were the routing numbers, which had been scrambled before. With those, Brant could pinpoint where messages were sent to and from. He’d already marked Luciana’s personal account based on the match between those numbers.

They unfolded into a map. Not an actual one but the figurative chart created by overlapping sequences. It was enough for Brant. He didn’t need images or coordinates—even though he knew Jackson had asked for exactly that. These were better.

Brant could see where the data led him—from New Rostov back to Port Akai, into Freedom Station, and onto the ships surrounding it, all the way into Coalition space. Junk depots. Surplus trade houses. CDF maintenance graveyards.

There were no records, but Brant knew what he was reading. It was the route. Those were the places. He could tell where the Phantoms had been transferred after disappearing from their bases. But he needed more. He needed real names.

Facilitator was dead. Arbiter was on the League side of the border. That left Cousin, the one with whom Luciana had been communicating and who seemed to be at the nexus of the signals. Brant touched the screen. There. A disused comms relay at Churchill, on the fringes of the system, left from prewar days.

“Echo One? Home here.” Brant tapped into the schematics for the relay. If I can access its records or maybe pass it to Eldred because she has better resources aboard Oxford… “I think I’ve found the top of the supply chain.”

21

Otradny Continent

Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

24 March 2466

Cherice had good news for Benjamin, which he appreciated because he had nothing but bad news for her.

“Five Cobra-class destroyers are on their way to New Rostov.” Cherice’s image jumped a bit, thanks to the encrypted comms link. “No word on their specific purpose, but chatter is they plan to make a retaliatory strike. It does not sound like the operation has been sanctioned by the Social and Public Safety Committee, but that could be simple garbled communications.”

“Garbled comms?” Benjamin snorted. “That’s what I’d say if it were me running the show.”

“What of your own incursion?”

Benjamin grimaced. “I have people posted around the Yellowjacket. They searched her but found nothing. Unfortunately, it looks like the original consoles got switched out whenever the hijacking took place, so I can’t move her back into the concealed hangar. No idea whether the crew’s dead or not.”

“They had better be, given their orders.”

“Well, it’s not like they were all our people, Cherice, so excuse me if I worry about whether they chose to save their own skin versus dying for the good of the cause.” He spat the last word. Cause. What a load of crap. We have orders and missions and objectives, but since when has anyone truly believed in a cause?

His gaze flicked to the security images. Kyle was locked in one of the storage rooms converted to brig use, guarded by an insurgent. The kid hadn’t said much since Benjamin had unceremoniously stunned him. That’s a true believer. Look what a pain in the ass he turned out to be.

“So, your people found nothing of whoever flew her in and set off those charges in the jungle?”

Benjamin shook his head. “Little was left of the explosive devices, and I don’t have the analytical equipment to figure out what they were.”

Cherice sighed. “None of this will please Cousin.”

“I suspect Cousin has more important things to consider, like whether or not we’re ever going to get another shipment of birds.” Benjamin crossed his arms. “You haven’t said a word about it since the last request went through.”

“We’ve had supply issues on this end.”

“What kind of supply issues?”

Cherice glanced sideways off her screen. Wherever she was, the sun coming through a window gilded her face.

Benjamin rubbed his eyes. The sun was up at the base, too, but given his sleepless night, it might as well have been zero dark thirty. “Cherice.”

She looked back at him. “Our supply intermediary reports she’s been targeted.”

“Targeted? How?”

“Five shipments have been destroyed within the past two days.”

“Shit.” Benjamin bounced a fist off his console. “Let me guess—not the work of rivals.”

“To hear her tell it, she had none.”

“Then you know who it is. The good son.” Benjamin glared at Cherice. “What is Cousin going to do about it?”

“Cousin is reassessing the situation.”

“And what the hell does that mean?”

“It means, Benjamin, you should stand by and prepare for the worst. If you have to clean up your end, excise all data and any evidence that you were there. And do not waste my time with inane questions.”

The screen blanked.

Benjamin readied to put his fist through it, but given the lack of supplies, it was probably a poor idea. “Well, that went about how we thought it would go.”

Vance nodded. He stood off to Benjamin’s right, behind the monitor. His face seemed paler than usual. “When she said excise…”

“Don’t worry about it. She didn’t mean the insurgents. They’re of much better use alive than dead.” Benjamin didn’t point out that Cherice probably meant Vance when it came to evidence. As for data… “Let’s be proactive on one point, though. Prep everything we have—invoices, manifests, sensor readouts, mission reports—for compression and transfer. I want to send it all into a portable drive when and if we have to bail.”

Vance nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”

“Any news from outside?”

“No, sir. Harper and his men haven’t seen a soul.” Vance cleared his throat. “Inga, though, cornered me about the other fighters and when we can strike again.”

Benjamin scowled. “She’s got misplaced priorities. I’m not bringing three of our five birds back to the nest when someone out there is screwing around with us. But leave her to me. Go check on Kyle, and make sure he’s ready to play nice. The base is locked down, anyway, so no one is getting in or out unless I say so.”

“Yes, sir.” Vance hurried off on his errands.

Benjamin leaned back in his chair. He reached inside his desk and retrieved a tablet from a compartment underneath his pile of printed sheets and scribbled notes. Then he checked the security image of the hangar—lots of open space, rows of crates along one side, two Phantoms nestled on the other, and a battered civilian shuttle tucked into the far end.

If or when it came time, he knew how he would make sure he stayed free, no matter how little help he got from Cherice and CIS. No way I’m dying for this mess.

* * *

Gina hung upside down inside an HVAC shaft over the base’s machine room, where all its environmental regulators were housed. The constant rumble was kind enough to disguise her movements, and as for her presence, well, she’d been inside for eight hours with not so much as a blip on the security systems.

One by one, her flitters reported back. It wasn’t until the final straggler disintegrated that she had a complete view of the complex. Three levels. Big hangar on Level One. Environmental Control on Level Three, in a far corner. The main power compartment was right next door. The map the flitters had pieced together showed every hallway, compartment, and vent embedded in the cliff.

Gina grunted softly. It was an excellent use of natural camouflage. She couldn’t help but be impressed by how the insurgents and their silent allies had constructed it with minimal impact on the surrounding vegetation. The false canopy shielding the hangar doors was particularly ingenious.

It also helped her realize the poor Leaguers had a serious bankroll behind their homegrown efforts, and she found it hard to believe anyone within the League of Sol was wealthy enough to support the insurgents and thus risk the Ministry for State Security’s wrath.

Gina lowered herself from the ceiling and detached the netting holding her there. She peered through the grating into the power room. No one around. Removing the grating was simple because it wasn’t welded shut for security purposes. Why would it be? Gina hadn’t read much of Brant’s briefing on Nandao’s jungle fauna, but nothing struck her as intelligent enough to stage a secret-insurgent-base break-in.

She slipped down into the room, landing atop one of the massive generators. Didn’t want to forget to replace the grating. Gina could see the rest of the sprawling power room from her perch—one exit-slash-entry.

She had no drones left to give her eyes in the rest of the complex. That was a necessary risk, so as not to tip off the occupants, especially since CIS might have personnel or tech in place able to watch for such a strategy. She would have to rely on herself.

Gina smirked. Herself and whatever she could coax out of any console she came across, even after she shut off the lights.

First things first, she plucked a pulse emitter from her suit pouch and tossed it into the air. It broke apart as a high-pitched whine cut through the generators’ rumble. The air around it rippled. Sparks spurted from the machinery, the console set at the center of the towering units, and the glossy black security panels in the corners of the ceiling.

Lights flashed then went out, replaced by amber emergency beacons. Good. The room was deaf and blind, leaving the insurgents no idea who was in there or what had happened. Hopefully, that worked for the rest of the complex too.

She cranked the manual release for the hatch and ducked into the corridor. No shouts or alarms yet. Nothing except the emergency beacons’ amber pulses. But as she turned on the thermal imaging for her goggles, she got faint outlines through the walls—indistinct yet vaguely humanoid. Footsteps clattered on the polished stone floors, amplified and directionally pinpointed by her suit.

Well. She knew where the command center was. Her flitters had helpfully IDed the room with the most electronics. It also had the most furniture, which meant it probably doubled as a lounge. Gina shook her head. There was something to be said for military protocol, perhaps.

She slunk along the halls, keeping to the shadows, of which there were many. Few cameras, Gina noted, though the flitters’ scans indicated the rooms themselves had visual surveillance the corridors lacked. Wonder how CIS convinced the freedom-fighting revolutionaries they needed to be watched all the time, just like they would be in their day-to-day lives under the League. Of course, maybe CIS didn’t tell them.

There. An access panel on the far wall. Gina slashed across the catch, securing it shut with her plasma torch. A latter reached up into darkness. It was an emergency-access tunnel for the second and first floors, presumably when the central lift—which according to the flitter scans was a hefty cargo-bearing type—was out. Four spiral stairs, each one a modular unit, were already in use, according to her thermal imaging and acoustic enhancement.

I can hardly infiltrate this rat’s nest if I saunter up the same steps everyone is hurrying down to check on the lost power.

She clambered up until she reached the second floor’s access hatch—voices, not nearby, though. Her acoustic enhancer estimated the range at fifteen meters. Gina accessed the flitter map. Hmm. Only a third of the way down the corridor. And the control center lay beyond that. So did the hangar.

Let’s skip that for the time being. If I’m going to sabotage the hangar, it won’t be achieved by a frontal assault.

Gina kept climbing instead until the first-floor hatch appeared. Curious. The stairwell continued up. She frowned. The flitter map was hazy there. None must have made it that far. Unsurprising, given they’d lost track of a few vents. Such was the hazard when one relied on a swarm of stealthy robots designed to obliterate themselves so as to avoid capture or signal interceptions.

She continued upward. A thick hatch obstructed her way twenty meters higher. She had no way to open it, not from there. Hang on. Gina switched on night vision. There. A control board. Hmm. Still had power.

A scent tickled her nose—sweet, like pineapple. Gina recognized it as the same aroma she’d detected when the explosive drones had shredded local vegetation. “It must be an external hatch,” she murmured.

What are the odds it’s linked to the complex’s security? Given what she’d seen of the other hatches, and the rough details the flitters had provided, they were decent. Clearly, the vents weren’t an issue, or guards would have swarmed her by then.

Gina swiped across her wrist device and marked the external hatch’s location on the hazy sector of her map. It could be useful later because the hangar actually reached from the second through the first level, up to the shorn-off but disguised top of the hill.

She made her way back down the ladder, pausing at the access panel for the first floor. More voices. Gina turned up the acoustic enhancer, which added the annoying side effect of a buzz that rattled through her head and guaranteed a headache. At least she could make out distinct speech.

“Seems possible the two events are related.”

Obsequious, with a hint of fear but… odd. Something about the voice seemed fake, like one of Jack’s roles.

“You think? I’d promote you, but we’re on a tight budget.” Arrogant, but firm. In control. “This is getting out of hand. I’m starting to think Inga’s right. Can they at least get the damned ship inside?”

“Not without ripping apart the nav console, from what I understand.”

“That’s a pain in the ass. All right, fine. I’ll grab Inga. Go roust Kyle.”

Gina’s heart seized. Blood rushed to her head, making her dizzy. She was simultaneously elated and embarrassed. Get a grip! This isn’t the time to weep like the disconsolate sibling you are. Those fighters have to go. This infrastructure has to be eliminated. And yet… There was the old saying about two birds and one stone. Gina supposed she could combine objectives. Who would tell me off on comms, anyway?

The footsteps marched off. Gina leaned against the access panel gently until it opened a few centimeters.

The thermal silhouette of a thin young man walked with the hurry of a harassed underling, muttering to himself as he consulted the glowing square of his tablet’s screen.

“Lead on,” Gina whispered.

* * *

CSV Oxford

New Rostov IV

New Rostov System

Sinclair scowled over his decrypted updates. Not good. Not good at all. Intelligence from Tuscon and Lubbock confirmed six Cobra-class destroyers jockeying for position along the border in an almost straight-line approach from Nandao’s vicinity to the New Rostov system. Sinclair doubted they were massing for a friendly exchange of cultures. They were preparing for a retaliatory strike.

It was, after all, what he would recommend to the powers that be and was what CIS had helpfully passed along as their analysis through General MacIntosh. Sinclair wanted to spit. Poppycock. As if CIS were interested in giving Oxford a tactical advantage in their situation. He would bet his pension on their involvement, especially given Lieutenant Guinto’s latest findings that Eldred had confirmed.

Sinclair had no doubt a high official within CIS was pulling the strings, but the latest from MacIntosh hinted Director Pelletier wasn’t the one. Sinclair agreed. The actions, the level of deception, did not fit the man’s profile, and Sinclair had studied it more than most might find healthy.

Still, if the Leaguers were coming, he would have to be ready. New Rostov traffic had been steady but subdued, with a few freighters coming and going every day. The smuggling seemed to have dried up, and from what Guinto had relayed, CAU 171 was near to getting a response from this Luciana.

His hatch chime rang. “Come.”

Eldred entered, grinning. She closed the hatch. “Thought you’d better see this, sir. We have confirmation from Major Stone. He and his squadron are in position.”

“Outstanding.” Sinclair transferred the report to his desk. He smiled. “They’ve avoided detection?”

“Yes, sir. They’re hanging along the system’s Oort cloud until you give the high sign. Captain Tamir alerted them to the approaching Leaguer threat, but Major Stone was worried about remaining—”

“Negative. They are our best shot for eliminating the Phantoms if Echo Two and Four cannot achieve their objectives on the ground.”

“That’s what Tamir told them, Colonel. Major Stone didn’t like it, but he’s waiting.”

“Jolly good. Anything else? You seem… fidgety, and not in an excitable way, as you’re prone to exhibit.”

“Sorry, sir, but …” Eldred exhaled. “Once Brant broke through the encryptions necessary to track Luciana’s coded messages, I began parsing the local comms again and found several low-frequency signals sent alongside our reports back to command. They were directed toward CIS from someone aboard ship.”

Sinclair kept his face neutral. “And?”

“I hate to say it, Colonel, but I’m ninety percent sure they originated at consoles Captain Halevi had access to.” Eldred scowled. “I should have seen what he was up to sooner, hanging around to the point of annoying our staff, even when shift changes occurred. He saw the logins and could have—”

Sinclair watched her halt midtirade. Her eyes narrowed.

“A problem, Warrant?” he asked.

“This doesn’t surprise you, sir.”

“Have I been unable to fool you?” Sinclair tsked. “Pity. I’m a tad rusty when it comes to fieldwork, you see.”

“You… knew it was Halevi?”

“Indeed I did. He has been feeding CIS updates on our progress.” Sinclair smiled again. He couldn’t quite help feeling rather pleased with himself. “Turns out we’ve had nothing but bad luck since we arrived. Bloody useless effort, it seems.”

Eldred snorted. “I don’t believe this.”

“Believe it, Warrant. I am in command for a reason, and it has nothing to do with my seasoned good looks.” Sinclair leaned back in his chair. “So, relay to Lieutenant Guinto we no longer have to fret about the IR man. He’s playing his role well.”

“Yes, sir.” Eldred seemed more buoyed by that response than when she came in. “And Major Stone?”

Sinclair consulted his desk clock. “We’re on schedule for thirteen hundred hours local time. I shall wish him and his people godspeed myself—and no one over the border will quite know what hit them.”

* * *

Suyetovo (New Rostov IX)

New Rostov System

Major Stone jerked out of his reverie as the comms indicator buzzed. He’d been daydreaming about parasailing over New Washington’s Faraday Sea, could still smell the salt spray—taste it too.

The modulated signal banished all such fond memories. Finally. Let’s show them what we can do. Sucks that this will be classified for the next forty years, though. “Griffons, this is Lead. We got the green light from Base. Uncle Rob’s ready for us to take a hike.”

“Confirmed, Lead.” Freefall chuckled. “And if I can say so, Grindstone, hot shit.”

“Watch your mouth, Freefall.” Stone switched console panels and brought up the charge on the drive. “We jump in ninety seconds.”

It took less time than that to charge the miniaturized Lawrence drives installed in each Chimera fighter. Sinclair’s stomach churned. They’d done test runs, preflight checks, even a couple of surveillance missions. But jumping into Leaguer space, with potential hostiles—he wasn’t about to lose anyone to unpreparedness. “Sound off when you’re ready.”

One by one, the seven other pilots checked in, affirming their plane’s readiness. Stone breathed deep, in and out, three times. Lord, watch our backs. I won’t ask You to pick a side, but just keep safe as we push these birds through their toughest trials. “Lead to Griffons—all right, people. I’m up first, then each of you jump, three-second intervals, to the first point as designated in your nav systems. Say your prayers, and hold on to your butts.”

Stone activated the Lawrence drive. The wormhole that opened before him was not nearly as spectacular as a starship’s, but that was the point. They would look like neutrino bursts from the background of interstellar radiation. Nothingness, compared to what military vessels should emit.

Assuming, Stone thought as his fighter slung itself through the portal, we don’t get bounced out of existence.

He was confident in his people—and the technology. But Stone didn’t uncross his fingers until he emerged from the other side, twenty-four light-years away.

22

Otradny Continent

Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

24 March 2466

Sev let the spiders crawl over his arms. Not venomous, according to Lieutenant Guinto’s primer. Just as well. Their fangs couldn’t penetrate his suit’s fabric anyway.

Only one hatch allowed access onto the Yellowjacket. Sev framed it in his rifle’s sights. He had a clean shot at the entire narrow clearing, with five meters of the hull, thanks to his scope’s scanners.

Text skittered across his forearm screen. Sev brushed one of the red-and-green spiders off so it quit obstructing his view. Found Kyle. Heading for control room. Turned off the lights first. Could use distraction to clear halls.

Sev grunted. Gina, being her usual efficient self. Three men milled around outside the Yellowjacket. Three more searched the jungle—Sev had lost sight of them. That meant one, the leader, was still inside. Probably trying to figure out why he was unable to fly the ship back to the insurgent base.

A distraction. Sev wouldn’t be able to shoot the ship itself. It was hardened for space combat and against vacuum, so his projectiles wouldn’t penetrate the hull. However, he did have more of Warrant Dwyer’s favorite aerial explosives left.

One sat atop the Yellowjacket for just such an emergency.

He activated the drone, which hurtled off into the nearby tree canopy. Count to three, press red. The explosion ripped the foliage apart and set the remnants on fire. Two men ran to investigate, leaving one at the hatch.

He would be the one, then. Sev rested his finger on the trigger. Deep breath. Release. His shot struck the young man down like a felled tree.

No blood, not dead—a stun round was enough to incapacitate him for the next several hours. He would awaken ill and groggy, with a few other rare side effects if he was unlucky, but he would live. Captain Adams and Colonel Sinclair had been clear in that regard. Sev agreed, in that case. They were League insurgents fighting for freedom against their oppressors. If someone had done so when Sev’s parents had found themselves in the crosshairs, perhaps he would still have them. But then again, he never would have left the League for the Coalition. He would not have his team.

The scramble his shot caused was satisfying. One of his two compatriots dropped to a knee immediately, checking vitals, though Sev could tell through his scope the woman was doing so improperly. The other insurgent barked an alert into his commlink. Sev picked up sudden motion to the northeast—possibly the other three who’d gone deeper into the jungle to check for trouble.

Harper bolted down the ramp. Ah. Sev smiled. It was good of him to join his team and check on the well-being of his stunned friend. The tiny image of Harper in his scope kicked the young man in the side and berated the others gathered. It wasn’t easy to discern speech at that distance, but Sev strained his hearing and squinted to read the lips until he deciphered the command as “Spread out!”

As good a time as any. Sev’s crosshairs rested on Harper’s sternum. He squeezed the trigger.

The second shot was louder than the first, or so it seemed to Sev, and given how raucous the jungle was, that struck him as truly surprising. The stun round slapped Harper against the Yellowjacket’s hull. He slumped onto his ass, a befuddled expression frozen on his face as his limbs rattled.

“Up high!” The warning came from the woman doing the poor impression of a field medic. “On the ridge.”

As expected, they’d estimated his position since he hadn’t used a suppressor on his rifle. Sev was disappointed they hadn’t located him after the first shot, but he supposed the panic had been too great. Those people had little to no actual military training. And he was also fully aware it was dangerous to reveal his location, but distracting the group would require more effort than his usual killing from afar.

Besides, the woman was pointing two hundred meters to Sev’s left, which meant an easier ambush for him to conduct while they thought they were ambushing him. Still…

Sev fired a third round that stunned the pseudo-medic and left her twitching in the jungle mud while the last man standing hunkered inside the Yellowjacket’s landing ramp. The other three, approaching from the northeast, had shifted their route to aim for the spot from where the woman had thought Sev was shooting.

Best to eliminate them and board the Yellowjacket to be ready for Gina’s next signal. Sev gathered his rifle and slunk through the trees, heading along the backside of the ridge so he could find the best place in which to greet his hunters.

* * *

Benjamin wanted to throw his commlink at someone, but since Vance wasn’t around, he refrained. The base’s walls were much more solid. “An EMP.”

“That’s what I said,” Inga snapped over their connection. “Are you going deaf? Standing too near to the Phantoms’ exhaust when they take off? The reactors need restarting, but even if we make that happen, the connections are fried. I count five that have to be replaced.”

“The backups…” Even as he said it, Benjamin knew there was no such thing.

The insurgents hadn’t been big on infrastructure. If not for him, they wouldn’t have had doors on the damned place, let alone power generators and shielding to keep League authorities from detecting their presence.

“The comms battery is stable, but that’s up in the control room.”

“I know that.” Benjamin rubbed his forehead. “Look, leave the power room for Sanchez. I want you in the cockpit.”

“It’s about time—”

“Not to search the jungle and not for the Yellowjacket,” Benjamin said. “I’m sending you off-planet. The recall’s going out to the other three fighters too.”

“What? We’ll be useless up there! And the League’s still looking for us after the repair dock bombing.”

“I know that,” Benjamin snarled. “And I know someone else is prowling around inside and outside this base. What do you think they’re here for, to paint happy faces on our fighters and open bottles of champagne? We need to get the birds airborne before anyone straps shaped charges to their fuselages and turns your multimillion-credit investments into piles of slag. So, if you’d shut the hell up and carry out my instructions, you might just get through this in one piece!”

Inga’s silence was more unnerving than her defiance, but Benjamin wondered how much of it was her calculating the likelihood of Benjamin stunning her.

“Fine. I’ll get going. Give me a rally point.”

“Coordinates coming to your commlink.”

“Tell Kyle to—”

“I’ve already got Vance on his way, but I’m telling you, if he gives me more attitude, you stick Raisa into the cockpit instead. She’s just as good.”

“Fine.” The link went dead.

Damn, damn, damn. Benjamin stalked for the control room. I knew it. Cherice and all her bluster—CDF Intelligence has to be here. Leaguers are too blunt, too loud when it comes to these kinds of infiltrations. But the fact that we’ve got power down inside and explosions outside means we’re dealing with at least a two-person team.

If he could get temporary power back, he could retool the internal sensors, look for blank spots. That was where he would hide an operative. Of course, if they had personal stealth tech like he’d seen demonstrated by both CDF Intelligence and CIS, that task would be a hundred times more difficult.

Benjamin scratched his chin as he walked. The halls strobed in and out of darkness as the amber emergency lights continued their pulse. What if I set the harmonics detection to a lower bandwidth? That might give a more accurate picture of person-sized gaps.

Either way, he needed to swing by his office on the way to the control room and make sure all his relevant data was obliterated.

His commlink chirped. “Super,” Benjamin muttered then answered the call. “Go ahead.”

“Hey. It’s Markovsky.” The voice was ragged with exertion. Leaves rustled, indicating the caller was on the move through the jungle.

Benjamin frowned. Markovsky? The short guy with the buzz cut? “What are you doing? Where’s Harper?”

“Down, man. Harper, Oleg, Christie… they’ve been shot—stunned.”

That time, Benjamin did hit the wall, but with his fist not the commlink. Pain lanced through his hand. He shook out the numbness as he continued. “Then, what are you doing? Who’s guarding the ship?”

“O’Brien. Me and Jake and Carranza are flushing out the sniper.”

“No, you’re not.” Benjamin massaged his forehead. “You’re probably walking right into his line of fire. Fall back to the ship, and work on getting it airborne.”

“Are you kidding?” Markovsky hissed. “We’re not going back into the clearing. I don’t wanna spend the next four hours pissing myself in my sleep!”

“This isn’t a committee meeting,” Benjamin snapped. “Get your asses to—”

A distant shout trickled through the comms, followed by a faint but sharp crack. The report of a rifle, Benjamin realized.

“Shit!” Markovsky’s voice shook. “Jake’s down! Cover me, Carranza! Jake, man, are you—”

The comms went dead.

“Shit and dammit.” Benjamin jogged through the corridors. He switched comms frequencies. “Vance. Vance!”

Nothing. Open link. No reply.

Benjamin altered course and cut across a connector that led to the storage room converted into a brig. He found Vance sprawled outside the door, which was jammed open. Kyle was gone.

“Hey.” Benjamin knelt. He helped Vance sit upright. No visible wounds except for a small patch of dark, sticky blood at the back of his head. “What happened? Did Kyle jump you?”

“No. It was a shadow, a person.” Vance frowned as if he were trying to figure out what report to make. “A woman.”

Benjamin’s heart tripped. RUMINT had gotten back to him about CAU 171’s infiltrator a year or so ago. No names or specifics, but she’d reached legendary status in a short time. He tried not to wonder how many of the stories were true.

* * *

Gina prodded her prisoner along. Prisoner? Hostage? It was an odd sensation applying those terms to her brother.

“I won’t help you in the control room.” He had limited his defiance to his words so far. “They don’t let us touch much in there, anyway, unless it’s old reports.”

“It isn’t a request.” She poked him again with her pistol’s muzzle. Her suit’s mask garbled her voice, keeping it intelligible but unidentifiable. “Walk.”

Kyle glared over his shoulder but obeyed. His gaze crumpled her heart. He looked the same, despite the age lines and bags under his eyes that years had added. The corners of his mouth still quirked as if he were formulating a plan to jump her and take her weapon. He would get one hell of a surprise if he tried that.

The control room was empty. The emergency beacons bathed the compartment in an amber pall. Interesting. Gina noted the main consoles were operational. They must have an independent backup power source.

“This is it.” Kyle turned and crossed his arms. “You want a beer from the cooler, or are you going to shoot me?”

“Nobody’s going to shoot you, Kyle.” Gina sealed the hatch behind her. She brushed past him on her way to the primary console. Gina chose the data chip from her pouch that fit the terminal and plugged it into one of the access ports.

“Kyle?” His scowl deepened. “You’ve got my name? Did the Terran spies tell you all about me? Is that it? Must mean the Coalition’s picking up the League’s tricks.”

“Will you quit with the melodramatics?” Lights rippled across the console. Brant’s handiwork, of course. Whatever program he’d loaded onto the chip was gleefully accessing critical files stored by the insurgents—and, hopefully, CIS. “You’re worse than when Mom would take your side.”

“Mom…” His eyes widened.

Gina grinned. How long have I waited to shock him like that? Far too long. The console told her the security cameras and sensors—the internal ones, at least—were still dead, so she drew back her mask. “Hi, Kyle.”

“Gina?” His hands went to the top of his head. She thought he might pull out his hair, but instead, he reached for her, seemingly intent on a hug, then he backed off. He laughed, a short, sharp sound. His expression fluctuated like the console lights, veering wildly between elation and frustration. The brimming tears remained. “Holy shit. I don’t—what are you doing here?”

“Breaking into places and stealing things. It’s what I do.” She patted his cheek. “I thought you’d be more impressed.”

“It’s not a run-down shuttle, I’ll give you that.” He shook his head. “Seriously, though. You’re with the Coalition? A… spy.”

“Freelance contractor.” Gina checked the console’s progress—or rather, the chip’s—displayed on the screen. Files flickered by so fast she was pretty sure she would vomit if she focused on them, and that would be one more thing to clean up.

“I can’t…” Kyle put his hand to his mouth. “But what about Mom and Dad? Have you seen them? I mean, I haven’t since—”

“Kyle.” She stood in front of him and held his shoulders. “Dad retired a while ago. He’s back on Canaan. Mom… is dead.”

His last barricade of bravado collapsed. The tears trickled down his cheeks. “That’s not true. It can’t be.”

Gina nodded, fighting back the urge to cry. “She was sick, and I didn’t know until it was too late. The four of us were so separated I had no way to tell you, and I couldn’t bring myself to let Dad know. He only just found out. But that’s why I’m here—part of the reason anyway.” She smirked, gesturing to their surroundings. “It’s mostly because of the fighters, but that’s a long, classified story. I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” Kyle blinked. “Why?”

“Why?” Gina rolled her eyes. “So we can grab dinner some time, then I can bring you back across the League border to continue your insurgency. No, idiot, to get you out!”

“Out.” Kyle backed away. He tensed like he was readying for a fight. “I’m not getting out. This is where I belong.”

“No, this is where you’re playing freedom fighter for a lost cause.”

“Hey, the people of Nandao—”

“Are going to be flattened once I’m finished,” Gina interjected. “I’m not here to give them a helping hand, Kyle. I’m shutting down the insurgency so the powers that be stop wetting their beds.”

“You can’t.” Kyle gestured toward the hatch. “They sacrificed everything to be here. They’re fighting against their own people to preserve the freedom the League said would be theirs! We lost a good leader just the other day. I can’t let you tear all that apart.”

The screen’s lights died. The chip had absorbed all it could. Gina yanked it free. She waved it under Kyle’s nose. “Don’t do this, Kyle. Come with me. Let’s get out of here.”

He snorted. “Just like the shuttle, right? That’s a petty thing to bring up when I’m talking about lives here.”

Gina flung her arms wide. “Fine, Kyle. You’re right. Lives are at stake. But guess what? I’m not interested! Not this time around. I did plenty of worrying over who I could save and who I couldn’t. It almost got me killed, and as far as I’m concerned, I never would have reconnected with Dad or found you. I have a mission to finish, so shut up and come with me. Playtime’s over.”

She winced at her tirade before it was even over, but there was no retracting what she’d said. Maybe it was extreme selfishness. Maybe she was tired of losing the people she loved or seeing them hurt. All she knew was she had to get herself out of there, and she would be damned if she was going to leave her brother behind. Not again.

Kyle, wouldn’t budge. “You’ll have to shoot me to get me to go with you.”

Gina sighed. She leveled her pistol. “All right, fine. It’s only stun, after all.”

Movement outside the hatch caused her pulse to quicken. She slipped her mask back into place and sidled next to the hatch. She’d barely positioned herself when it opened, and a man entered. He was bland-faced, of average height and build, fairly nondescript. A bit like Jack, she realized. But the way he moved—the man was trained, skilled.

“Kyle?” He glowered across the room. “What are you doing, sightseeing?”

He barely had the words out of his mouth when he registered the muzzle of Gina’s gun pointed at his right temple. Gina was impressed he didn’t panic or grow outraged.

Rather, he sighed and held up his hands. “Of course,” he muttered. “That figures.”

23

Port Gusev Transshipment Depot

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

24 March 2466

Luciana’s call came late in the day, without preamble. “Meet at work. Southwest quadrant. Aisle Twenty-Seven. twenty-one thirty hours.”

Jackson made sure he was standing in the shadows of the specified aisle at 2120 so he had plenty of time to secure the area—or rather, rely on Brant’s drones to make sure it was safe for him and anyone else working the night shift. The schedule indicated a lighter-than-usual crew, which Jackson supposed was Luciana’s hand at work. She’d shown no restraint bribing the dockmaster to get what she wanted and keep the Ivanovs from running the depot as a corruption-free business.

“Echo One, this is Echo Home,” Brant said. “Be advised, one of Luciana’s personal hovercrafts is approaching the gates.”

“She made it early too.” Jackson checked his tablet’s readout.

“I’m betting she’s happy to get out of the house, what with the Colonial Rangers using all that incriminating evidence they were gifted through CBI.” Brant chuckled. “Do you think Josie Lind is celebrating on Freedom Station?”

“If she is, I won’t be surprised if Chaperone makes her buy all the drinks.”

The tablet’s view of the front gates to the depot switched to show five Ranger shuttles grounded on and around Luciana’s property. The Rangers themselves had fifteen people on their knees, detained while more officers flung open the doors to the mansion. Jackson had to admit, he liked Brant’s suggestion of forwarding all the intel they’d gathered on the smuggling ring to Lind, who could take steps both on Freedom Station and New Rostov to shut down the operation. Having Cam Tahatan there to lend support and act as a secure go-between was icing on the cake.

“We’ve landed three klicks south,” Brant reported. “Set to come get you and your guest as soon as she’s ready.”

“Oh, she will be. How’d Clarence like his ride?”

“To Oxford? Better, I think, than hanging around on New Rostov, waiting for Luciana to try killing him again. We can get him back to the depot once we bring Luciana aboard.”

All the pieces were falling into place. He’d neglected one more so far.

“One, you’ve got a visitor, one hundred meters.”

Jackson had already seen Natalie approaching. She had her jacket wrapped tight against the cold wind knifing across the tarmac. The stacked containers shielded them from the worst of the weather.

“I didn’t think you’d come back to work, JJ.” Natalie made a face as she said his name.

“I’m sorry, again, for any trouble I’ve caused, but I wanted you to be here for this.” Jackson held out his tablet. “For you and Gregory.”

She squinted at the screen, seeming puzzled. “What is this? The Rangers have actually raided her house?”

“They have. Luciana’s operation is shutting down, permanently.” Jackson reached over and swiped across the screen to another view from Brant’s drones, which showed the dockmaster’s office.

Luciana’s vehicle rumbled past, followed by two gray hovercraft. They appeared to be business sedans but quickly pulled up to the office, disgorging plainclothes Rangers.

Natalie’s hand covered her mouth. “You’re kidding. This can’t be real.”

“Real enough.” For government work. Jackson left the last bit unsaid. “Everything needed to convict your boss of colluding with a smuggler—records of bribes, messages asking for and receiving favors, digital fingerprints on altered manifests.”

“They’re less like fingerprints and more like routing numbers,” Brant corrected via the comm. “But I suppose that’s a good comparison.”

“Think of it as a going-away present”—Jackson grinned at Natalie—“and continued apology for the hasty way in which I left your employ.”

He’d let the accent go but wasn’t concerned. Any attempt by Natalie to track him down based on what he’d provided for his employment record would prove fruitless, and well, he wanted her to know there were those watching out for people like her. Gina would say I’m going soft, but I hope she understands I have to care about those we’re protecting because the Coalition is more than faceless agencies. It’s the people. Of course, given her stint as a vigilante, Jackson supposed she’d embraced that notion more than he had.

“I can’t…” Natalie handed him the tablet. “This will make such a difference around here if the depot board appoints a new dockmaster.”

Jackson checked the screen. Luciana would be there any second. Lights cut through the darkness at the end of the aisle. “I don’t think they could do better than you or Gregory—may the best person win, of course.”

Natalie smiled, but her expression froze when she saw the hovercraft halt behind Jackson. “Why is she here?”

“I’m taking her off your hands.” Jackson turned toward the vehicle and squeezed the transmitter embedded inside his sleeve—the go signal for Novabird to make its last pickup on New Rostov. “And finalizing the deal.”

Luciana hurried toward him. Her face was haggard as if she’d lost a lot of sleep. No makeup or jewelry. She’d even foregone the smile. No security either. All she carried besides her clothing was a pair of shimmering silver duffel bags. Even the hovercraft backed away and left her in the dark.

“The Rangers,” she muttered. “Really? As if destroying half my livelihood wasn’t enough, you had them ransack my home.”

“You knew the consequences.” Jackson gestured to Natalie. “This is the last of them.”

Luciana glared at her and laughed. “I’m not groveling at her feet.”

“No, you’re not. What you are doing is flexing the last of your muscle on this planet and telling anyone who’s worked for you that they’re to steer clear of the depot and make sure no harm comes to Natalie and Gregory Ivanov or their crew or their family or the bots that tidy their street—you get the picture.” Jackson took a step nearer. Luciana didn’t flinch, but neither did he give her space. “Unless they want to wind up in flames like all those expensive containers and airtrucks of yours.”

Luciana sighed. “All right. I will. Why not? Maybe I can rebuild elsewhere once my time is up.”

“You won’t spend too long locked away.” Jackson grasped her arm. Novabird’s landing lights shone in the distance. “But you won’t be coming back here. Ever. I’ll make sure of it.”

The wind kicked up as Novabird settled at the end of the aisle. A glowing rectangle designating the extended boarding ramp. “And who the hell do you think you are?”

Jackson removed a hood from his jacket and flung it over Luciana’s head. Some precautions are never too old. “Not anybody for you to worry about.” He winked at Natalie and shoved Luciana up the ramp.

* * *

CSV Tuscon

Twenty-Four Light-Years from New Rostov System

24 March 2466

Nathan Mancini found it difficult to pace on a bridge as cramped as that of his stealth boat, but the challenge didn’t stop him from trying. He needed to pace because he had to focus, and no way was he drinking any more of that replacement swill someone in Supply had the nerve to designate as coffee.

He never took his eyes off the tactical board. The outlook could have been better. Three Ajax-class destroyers were arrayed in a loose triangle out in the depths of interstellar space, facing five Cobra-class destroyers deployed less than one hundred astronomical units away. A number like one hundred fifty billion kilometers sounded huge, Mancini supposed, especially to a person who’d never been off-planet, but measured against the sprawl of galactic civilizations, it was spitting distance. Hence the blue dots showing where Tuscon and the stealth boat Lubbock lurked below their more obvious CDF counterparts.

“TAO, status on those Cobras.” Mancini was well aware it was the fourth time he’d asked in an hour.

“Conn, TAO. Negative for aspect change,” Olesen answered. “They haven’t signaled our ships and refuse to respond to CSV Ulysses’s hails.”

Mancini nodded. Colonel Piper wasn’t going to back down. He’d seen enough of her tactics in action against pirates to know that. But whether she would risk shooting at Leaguer ships that penetrated the border was another question.

“We’re in a perfect position to lob missiles at them, Skipper,” Godat murmured. “If we and Lubbock strike in tandem, we’ll cripple two destroyers. Three on three is more than enough odds for our ships.”

“No need to remind me they’ve got the tech edge, but those aren’t our orders. Colonel Sinclair was clear—if they cross, we’ll let them have it. You saw their course.” Mancini tapped the smaller version of the tactical display on his chair’s console. “Those vectors take them straight for New Rostov. But Sinclair’s convinced we should hold them here and let the diplomats hash this mess out.”

“If the Leaguers stay put.”

“You’d better hope they do,” Mancini snapped. “Because we would probably win but not without losses, and the last thing the galaxy needs is two destroyer squadrons knifing each other, especially when it looks like our government’s been supplying League insurgents with weapons meant to help overthrow a planet’s leaders.”

“Understood.”

The worst part of it was Piper insisted on maintaining comms silence between her units and the stealth boats unless it was absolutely critical to maneuvers, so Mancini didn’t have the benefit of conferring with the other captains. It was too much reacting versus planning for his liking.

“Conn, Comms,” the petty officer on station announced. “Incoming from the 99th Reconnaissance and Intercept Squadron.”

“Comms, to my station.” Mancini swiveled the screen so he could see it with the privacy mode enabled. Even if Godat had been looking over his shoulder, he wouldn’t have been able to see what message Major Stone had sent. “Hmm.”

“What’s new, Skipper?”

“Major Stone. He’s waiting on his second jump. Seems as if his Chimeras aren’t all that far from us.” Mancini crossed to Olesen’s console. “TAO, I’ve sent you a set of coordinates. Friendlies. Repopulate the board.”

“Conn, TAO. Repopulating.”

Mancini grunted at the appearance of eight blue specks. Stone wasn’t wrong. The Leaguer and CDF destroyers were within forty AU from where the fighters had staged their first jump and had been waiting for the miniature Lawrence drives to reset. It was, in terms of interstellar geography, the best place to cross the border without radiation and other phenomena interfering with the drives.

“How stealthy are those Chimeras?” Godat asked.

“Better than we are, I’d imagine, since they have a much smaller silhouette, and their drives don’t put out nearly the energy ours do. Still, though, out here, even a neutrino burst would draw some notice. The Leaguers are paying close enough attention, given how far we are from a star system.” Mancini scratched his chin. “Comms, ready a message to Colonel Piper on Ulysses. Advise her of the situation and our intent to drop a couple of probes. She can ping them for sensor updates and make it look like the destroyers deployed them.”

“Conn, Comms. Aye, preparing and encoding.”

Mancini read the message over the petty officer’s shoulder. “Send it. XO, holler down to Chief Tabb, and prep two standard drones, unpowered deployment. TAO, plot them into our formation so the Leaguers think they came from Ulysses. We want them to assume they missed Ulysses deploying them a while ago.”

“Conn, TAO. Aye, Skipper.”

Godat waited with his hand ready on the intercom. “You’re thinking they’ll get paranoid and sweep for more probes, maybe assuming we’ve let more across the border.”

“We’d be fools not to think they’ve already done the same.” Mancini watched the pips slowly shift on the tactical board. “And I think they’re keyed up enough we might give them pause before they try anything else stupid.”

* * *

Major Stone watched in the cockpit as two new indicators appeared on his console. “Huh. Looks like somebody on our side’s been doing more snooping than they let on.”

“Lead, this is Four,” Blitz called. “The Leaguers are pelting the shit out of the area with active sensing. If we want to jump for it, now’s the time. They’re trying so hard to see what the probes are up to, they wouldn’t be able to spot us if we landed on their bridge and knocked on the hull.”

“You’re not wrong. All craft, prepare to engage Lawrence drives.” Stone spun up the generators and checked for the fiftieth time that the coordinates for their arrival in the Nandao system were correct. “This is enemy turf, boys and girls, except there’s no war on and no jolly green’s if you get shot down. We all signed up for the same risk. Do your jobs, and don’t get caught.”

The squadron’s confirmations rang back across the channel to him. It wasn’t his best, as far as motivational speeches went, but it would serve its purpose. Stone just prayed the operatives mucking about on Nandao were doing their jobs, or the attempted trip back would be a short one.

* * *

Otradny Continent

Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

Benjamin didn’t resist when the woman in the stealth suit restrained his wrists. He saw no point. He wasn’t the kind of field operative who was good at breaking out of confinement.

Talking, though… “Who is this, Kyle?” Benjamin asked.

Kyle frowned. He glanced at the woman then Benjamin then back again. “She’s—”

“Shut up.” The woman aimed her gun at Kyle. “Or you’re back to sleep for half the day.”

“Because you’re nervous—picking at your hands like you did when you got into the Phantom for the first time.” Benjamin gestured with his shoulder. “So, you two get a chance to talk?”

“No, I—”

“You know her. The only reason you’re nervous is that I’m here.” Benjamin chuckled. A spy, the kid was not. He and the woman had a connection, no matter how hard she tried to play tough, and he tried to stay back.

“Not bad.” The woman leaned against the wall. For all her antagonism toward Kyle, she seemed cooler than he’d anticipated. “Not bad at all. They picked the right one for this job. Is it fun, running these people like your own private army?”

Benjamin shrugged. “It’s not bad. The weather’s terrible, but the pay will be good.”

“Will be.”

“No one’s converting ones and zeroes into hard currency out here.” Benjamin let his body relax. If he was going to have a chance of getting out of his predicament, he would need to adapt to the situation. That woman was from the team. The “good son,” as he and Cherice had been referring to the CDF Intelligence operatives. He wasn’t about to underestimate her, based on what he’d read of their missions. “So, you’re here to pull the plug.”

“Sorry, I don’t share with the enemy.”

“Enemy? We’re on the same side.”

The woman chuckled. “Maybe, in a sprawling, astropolitical sense.”

“Can I help you find anything?”

“No thanks.” The woman pointed at the console. “I found everything I need. When are the fighters due back?”

“Well…” Benjamin exaggerated listening to a distant sound.

The rumble of the Phantoms launching from the base’s concealed hangar carried through the walls.

“There they go,” he continued.

“Hey!” Kyle moved for the door. “You promised me—”

The woman shot him. Poor Kyle. He flopped to the floor, but he was down so fast and out so cold, Benjamin knew she hadn’t hit him with a typical stun round.

“It’ll be a couple of minutes.” The woman aimed at Benjamin. “You’ll have to be out longer since you cost me the Phantoms.”

“Forget them. I’ve got something better.” Benjamin tapped his chest. “Me.”

“You?”

“Of course.” He tried to stamp out the bitterness burning in his chest, but since no one was answering his calls or promising support, it became clear that Cherice’s hints had been more than just hints. Benjamin was on his own. Fine. He could work with that. “I’m giving you me and everything I know about this operation.”

“Sure.”

Did the woman roll her eyes behind the mask?

“And will you record that in your memories?”

“If you think I’m going down for this botched mission while the higher-ups hand a scapegoat over to the Spencer administration, you’re as stupid as they are.” Benjamin leaned forward. “Come up with a good threat. Pretend you’ve blackmailed me, especially in front of Kyle and the others.”

“And what do you get?”

“I get out of here. And maybe the stockade will be drier. But you should take the deal because most of what’s on those files you retrieved is fake. My assistant concocted the records as misdirection.”

The woman stiffened. “Let’s start over. You are…?”

“Call me Ben, Ms.…”

“No, not my name.” She sounded bemused. “They used to call me Eidolon.”

24

99th Reconnaissance and Intercept Squadron

Approaching Nandao Major

Nandao System—League of Sol

24 March 2466

The wormhole dissipated, revealing the distant blue sphere of Nandao Major. Stone’s displays immediately filled with contacts, most of which were civilian freighters.

“Form up,” he ordered. “No signs our entry was detected.”

“Roger that, Lead.” Freefall sounded as relieved as Stone felt. “Got nothing for local defenses. A flotilla of vessels is clustered around that MRD at the second moon—damn. You see the damage readout?”

“It’s a mess, all right.” That’s what happens when you field six Phantoms against a lightly defended target in a fringe system. No wonder the Leaguers are pissed. “Stay sharp. Base says we should expect a sign from Eidolon that’ll direct us to the target. Set your vectors for a stealth approach. Rely on gravity assist as much as possible.”

That last part wouldn’t prove difficult, Stone surmised, since Nandao Major’s gravity well was already tugging them off course. The fighters arranged themselves in two diamonds of four Chimeras and staggered off the ecliptic plane as they made their approach. Their jump had landed them with Nandao’s sun aft, further disguising them from the orbital sensors.

Stone was so preoccupied watching his display for the signal from Intelligence’s operative that he almost missed the blue pips that appeared. Civilian vessels were white markers. Leaguer military, red, though he counted only a handful of gunships and a pair of frigates, all of which were hanging out at Ragye, the second moon.

“Lead, you see this?” Blitz asked. “IFF has five friendlies rising from two different continents—a flight of three and a deuce.”

“Confirmed, Four.” Stone frowned as the more detailed analysis filled his tactical screen. “Comp is fairly certain they’re the Phantoms, based on engine output alone. Mark all five as bogeys, and repopulate your boards.”

“On it, Grindstone.”

What puzzled him even more was that the five fighters assembled in orbit then set a course to the night side, avoiding most of the orbital traffic and heading out for the bigger moon, Manjin. Stone consulted what little intelligence he had on the Nandao system, cobbled together from independent merchants who’d sold their nav charts. Manjin was populated, as opposed to Ragye, with scattered civilian settlements and lithium mines.

Hitting those mines would be a hell of a blow to the local economy but seemed as likely to enrage the people as the League hierarchy. Yet, the Phantoms weren’t flying like they were prepping for a strike. They were ambling on a course that relied mostly on orbital mechanics and thrusters for course correction.

“Grindstone?” Blitz again. “It sure looks like the bogeys are hiding.”

“Yeah, it does. Why wouldn’t they stay wherever they were based planetside?” Stone mused. “Unless our people did their work a lot more thoroughly than we expected.”

“If their groundside cover is blown, maybe they’ve got a backup spider hole somewhere else, like on Manjin,” Freefall said.

“Could be. Doesn’t matter either way. We’ve got our orders.” Stone ran through a weapons check. “All fighters, continue on course and hold for my mark to engage. Remember, force them to eject if you can. We’ve got no beef with the insurgents. We’re only here to deny them their rides.”

* * *

Insurgent Base

Otradny Continent

Nandao Major

Gina couldn’t believe the audacity of her captive. For all he knew, she was there to assassinate him, their rather frank conversation notwithstanding. But he seemed completely at ease. Either he wasn’t bothered by the prospect of prison at least and death at most, or he was as superb an actor as Jack. Better, even.

“Fake, you said.” Gina held up the data chip.

She wasn’t concerned about either one of them attacking her. Certainly not Kyle, who moaned and dragged himself up the wall. Switching to her custom stun rounds that only affected a target for a couple of minutes instead of hours had been a good call because Kyle had put on considerable muscle mass since their childhood, and she was in no mood to drag anyone anywhere.

“Cute. I’d claim the same thing if I were in your boots.”

“I’ve got no incentive to lie. The truth will set me free.” Ben smiled. “We throw that term around a lot, truth. Funny. You spend so much of your life working in the shadows that the idea of telling the truth is terrifying, or should be, but I think I’m over that. A guy can only take so much of this before he snaps, and when the people who are supposed to get you out of a jam can’t be relied upon to do it, that doesn’t leave you many options.”

“The truth is you talk too much.” Gina checked her wrist unit.

It flashed a message from Sev. He was cleaning up the insurgents around the Yellowjacket. No fatalities because he was admirably sticking to his orders, but there would be a handful of sore freedom fighters when they woke up hours later covered in bug bites.

“And I’m bored. But the latter isn’t your problem. I don’t suppose you’ll call back the fighters so I can blow them up.”

Ben shook his head. “Nope. They’re the Leaguers’ problem now—and Spencer’s.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Gina tapped a command into the tactical display. It responded with a detailed view of Nandao and its moons. Brant, you are an angel. Many ships surrounded the planet and its twin satellites, but Gina only cared about the five that the console marked as friendly to the base—the Phantoms. “See? I found them. But since you won’t call them back so I can make a clean sweep, things will get messy.”

Ben’s expression went stony, the first she’d seen him register an emotion other than commanding or affable. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. Not yet.” She tapped the screen. “But I didn’t come alone, either, and I’m not talking about the team in the jungle making things difficult for your locals.”

Gina input a set of three commands into her wrist unit. They were diagnostic orders that had nothing to do with one another, usually, except Brant had set them up to send a coded burst transmission to the Yellowjacket. The console, as if panicked, set off warnings of a suspicious signal emanating from the courier ship sitting in the jungle.

The insurgent Phantoms suddenly scattered as if they were a swarm of flies being shooed away. The tactical board had trouble identifying what was happening other than indicating weapons fire from what it thought might be drones. Gina knew, of course, that Major Stone’s squadron had engaged their targets, based on the go signal she’d sent.

“Unbelievable.” Ben shook his head. “The high and mighty Coalition, willing to preserve its sovereignty through whatever means necessary, even if it means killing innocent freedom fighters who are on the same side—”

“Enough of your bullshit.” Gina sighed. “You and I both know they’re not innocent, not when civilians died at the processing center and on the MRD. And don’t give me your spiel about collateral damage. The starfighters are embarrassing the brass. The money flowing into the president’s accounts isn’t helping. I’m here to stop both, so the fighters have to go. If your rebels are too stupid to bail out before they get shot down, that’s not my problem.”

“But you’ll sit back and let them be killed.”

Gina rolled her eyes. She waved a hand at the comms board. “Send them a message so they know what to do! I’m not exactly holding you hostage. Well, a little bit. If they get a ping from this console, will they assume it’s you?”

“They will.” Ben seemed to consider her offer. “I can give you the verification code.”

“Super. Let’s do it.” Gina drew one of her pulse pistols. “Because this one is a good, old-fashion energy weapon that doesn’t stun, and I’m inclined to shoot you and be done with this mess. You can claim I made you do it under duress if that will help.”

“It will, thanks.”

Gina found the comms portion and the preset link for the fighters.

“You can’t give up on us.” Kyle’s voice rasped like he hadn’t had a drink of water in days. “Ben, this is everything they’ve fought for.”

“I know it, kid.” Ben turned backward and pressed his bound hand to the console. “But I’m done here. These people don’t mess around. If the League had raided this base and commissars had dragged everyone off to be interrogated, we would have had an easier time putting the plan back together. Not when CDF Intelligence shows up.”

Kyle stared at her.

“We get that reaction a lot, I assume, but it’s nice to hear someone say it aloud.” Gina tapped in a message to Sev on her wrist unit. Get aboard in three. I’m summoning her here.

“There. Done.” Ben leaned on the console. “Can we make this deal now?”

“Sure. As soon as I get my data.” Gina flicked her aim toward the door. “After you.”

* * *

99th Reconnaissance and Intercept Squadron

Between Nandao Major and Manjin

Dogfighting Phantoms wasn’t an experience Stone ever wanted to repeat. He felt sick every time he triggered his neutron cannons.

The fighter he was dogging went by Alpha Lead. The insurgents were disciplined enough not to use names over the open comms, which in theory, Stone shouldn’t have picked up, but the Chimeras could intercept about any signal. And she—judging by the voice—was a fair pilot, juking at the right times. But she wasn’t a combat flier. That much was evident.

It wasn’t long before Stone had her in his sights. He sent the bursts into the wings, battering the Phantom’s shields. A few more shots and the shields would collapse. Stone wasn’t about to launch a missile, not yet. “Take the hint,” Stone muttered. “Bail.”

“Watch your six, Freefall.” Blitz corkscrewed out of the path of another Phantom’s missile. Her Chimera’s point defense laser forced it to prematurely explode. “Coming up from eighty degrees.”

“Quite yapping, and shoot this jerk!” Freefall was under attack by a Phantom that had slipped by his wingman. Stone wasn’t worried about Blitz losing track of either of them.

“Alive, Freefall,” Stone reminded him.

“Yeah, I know, Grindstone, but she can still kick his ass a bit,” Freefall grumbled.

Blitz’s counterattack succeeded in not only driving the attacker away, but disabling its engines. The pilot’s canopy shattered, and the space-suited figure rocketed free, propelled by the ejection seat.

“Got a flier in space,” Blitz said.

“Copy that. Marked for the squadron.” Stone spun over as Alpha Lead attempted a fancy evasion maneuver that she must have practiced in a simulator because it was far too slow for actual combat. He caught her as she emerged, pounding the Phantom’s shields yet again.

A new signal cut across the chatter. “Alpha Flight, disengage and bail,” the recording said.

Stone didn’t recognize the voice.

The Phantoms didn’t stop shooting all at once, but one by one, the remaining four ejected. The 99th’s pilots took advantage and vaporized the abandoned starfighters with barrages of neutron fire and missile strikes. Alpha Lead lasted longest, insisting on heading straight for Manjin until all eight Chimeras bore down on her.

“Come on.” Stone knew her shields were fizzling. He tipped a wing and bracketed the Phantom with his targeting reticle.

“Pilot out!” Freefall called.

“I see her.” He relaxed as the tiny figure left the Phantom. That was it. Six craft accounted for—one destroyed in the MRD attack, according to Leaguer reports, and those five. It was up to Eidolon to confirm no more existed. Stone switched over to a missile lock and turned the last Phantom into a fireball.

“Heads up, Grindstone,” Blitz reported. “Three Leaguer gunships coming in from Ragye.”

“Charge your drives, and form up.” Stone started his sequence. Twenty seconds until they could make their first short jump. Then they could realign to head home. He checked the scopes. The gunships were a minute and a half from interception. “We’re done here.”

Not even close to a fair fight, Stone reflected, but it was never intended to be.

All the better that the Leaguers would never know what really happened.

* * *

Courier Yellowjacket

Otradny Continent

Nandao Major

Sev stepped over Harper’s limp form as he ascended the Yellowjacket’s ramp. Six people lay stunned outside the ship and deeper in the jungle. Do predators here have an affinity for human flesh? Sev hoped not. If they did, he would recommend to Gina the pair go back and put all six out of their misery—or perhaps move them to safety. The latter was probably the better choice, falling as it did within mission parameters. Sev liked to think Captain Adams would approve of his rationale just then.

The last of the party who’d come to investigate was hiding on the Yellowjacket’s bridge. She was a child. Nineteen, perhaps. Not technically a minor, but given the fear on her face and the tears streaming down her dirty cheeks, she was in no shape to fight an operative like Sev. How she’d lasted that long in the insurgency was a mystery to him. Perhaps she was new.

“Stay back. I don’t want to hurt you.” A tremor shook every word.

There was no way she could hit Sev with the automatic weapon she aimed at him. Not with his rifle pointed square at her forehead.

“Drop it,” Sev ordered. “And leave.”

“I-I can’t. I didn’t protect them.”

Sev nodded. “True.”

She hiccupped. “But y-you’ll kill me if I surrender.”

“No.” He gestured again. “Leave.” Then, considering the alternative scenario in which he would have to actually kill her, he lowered his rifle. “Promise.”

She stared. The shaking subsided. It took her a few seconds, but she finally set down the weapon.

Sev was glad she’d made the right choice. He hadn’t been in danger, anyway. If she’d decided to go out in a blaze of glory, he would have sent a round into her forehead before he could come to harm.

The girl ran past him. He followed slowly until he was sure she was clear of the ramp then checked his wrist unit. Fifteen seconds, according to Gina’s message.

Sev secured the plasma rifle and sat on the ramp as the Yellowjacket hummed to life. He gazed at the sealed hatch, waiting for whoever was on the other side.

* * *

Benjamin ran through scenarios in which he could break free, but each was more improbable than the last. These operatives had the Yellowjacket. The Phantoms were gone—defeated in combat after being abandoned by their pilots. He was glad none of them had died, even Inga, who he wouldn’t mind never hearing from again. Maybe, as the saying went, they would live to fight another day. Of course, there was still the shuttle.

He headed for his desk console as soon as they got into the office. Eidolon had the door guarded while Kyle stood around looking conflicted. Benjamin wished the kid would make up his mind what he was going to do about their mess.

“It’ll take a minute to download once I enter the access code.” Benjamin punched it in.

“Make it snappy. Our ride will be here soon.”

Sure enough, the rumble of engines set the base trembling. Benjamin ignored it and tapped in the confirmation command.

Access confirmed. Last access: 1635.26.

Benjamin blinked. His mouth went dry. That was eight minutes ago while he had still been down in the control room working his deal with Eidolon. Not a chance. Everyone was out dealing with the rest of the operatives or had taken the two Phantoms aloft from the base. Unless…

“Listen.”

Kyle? What did he want? Benjamin expected to find him ready to speak but instead saw he was confronting Eidolon.

“I have to stay here.”

“You’re implying you have a choice,” she replied.

“If I didn’t, you’d have bound me like you did Ben, or stunned me for real, but you didn’t.” Kyle shook his head. “I can’t go back. There’s more to be done.”

Eidolon cocked her head to the side, considering his statement, but the pulse pistol was still trained squarely on Benjamin’s head. That didn’t matter. He was busy downloading what data he had while the comp gave him a login report.

“This means a lot to you,” Eidolon said.

“It’s everything right now. You and… the two of you should understand that. Can you tell him? Please?”

Eidolon sighed. She sounded exhausted all of a sudden. “If I did agree, you have to contact us in one month. Exactly one month.”

“I’ll try. I will.” Kyle smiled. “Does this mean you agree?”

“It means I think you’re a naïve idiot of the highest grade, but I won’t drag you out of here.” She touched his arm. “Promise me you’ll be careful. The League isn’t exactly nice to its prisoners.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I figured as much.” Eidolon turned. “Are you done yet?”

“Got everything.” Benjamin held up a portable data drive bigger than the chip Eidolon had used, but he couldn’t keep the worry from his face. One thought nagged him. “Where’s Vance?”

“Who?”

“A local. My assistant. He followed every order to the letter. Always had my back.” Benjamin scowled. “I found him knocked out where you broke Kyle from his room.”

“He’s not my problem is what he is.”

“You’re not listening—which stun round did you use?”

“The short-term.” Eidolon seemed frustrated. “Let’s get going.”

He brushed past her, almost jogging toward the hangar bay. Benjamin ignored her shouts and Kyle’s questions. Wind rushed through the hangar entrance as the Yellowjacket landed, taking up the bulk of the space. Rain poured down with it, drenching Benjamin, but he ignored the sensation. He found the empty spot at the back of the bay. His shuttle was gone. Vance’s tablet lay broken where it had been parked.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he muttered.

“What’s wrong now?” Eidolon demanded. “Don’t tell me you forgot something back in your bunk.”

“No. I made a mistake. Vance is gone, with a copy of the same data you’ve got.”

“And that’s a problem because—”

“Because he may have figured out my codes,” Benjamin snapped. “And unless you want him digging up dirty secrets from both CIS and CDF Intelligence, you’d better get the hell on the horn to your bosses as soon as we jump.”

25

CSV Tuscon

Twenty-Four Light-Years from New Rostov System

25 March 2466

The alert summoned Mancini to the bridge less than two hours after he’d tried in vain to get sleep. Godat had the conn in his absence, and as Mancini hurried down the tight corridor, he zipped the front of his uniform.

“TAO, what’ve we got?” Godat asked.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change on Master One through Five.” Olesen indicated the League destroyers. “Reading increased engine output. They’re charging their wormhole drives too.”

“Dammit,” Mancini snapped.

“CO on deck,” Godat announced, stiffening to attention.

“What’s the task force response?” Mancini blinked through his headache.

“Ulysses, Moshe Dayan, and Idaho are moving to intercept on a direct line with the League’s projected course.”

“Conn, Comms. Colonel Piper transmitting on all frequencies.”

“Let’s hear it,” Mancini ordered. “And set up a secure tightbeam to Lubbock. I need to speak with Major Ghali ASAP.”

“Aye, sir.”

The comms speakers crackled. “League vessels, this is Colonel Victoria Piper of CDF Task Force Redhawk,” the voice announced. “Your current vector puts you in danger of crossing into Coalition space and violating our accords. Shut down your engines, and remain on your side of the border. I am authorized to use whatever force necessary to prevent you from entering Coalition territory.”

The comms petty officer turned in his chair. “Link to Lubbock established, Major.”

“Pipe him through.” Mancini cleared his throat. “Morning, Usman.”

“My friend, the day finds us knee-deep in it, does it not?”

“Precisely. What’s our play?”

“I have firing solutions set for Master Three, on the opposite side of their force from you. If you would be so kind as to line up shots for Master One…”

“Can do.” Mancini glanced at Godat. “Any word from Piper?”

“Only to hold our positions and not shoot unless the Leaguers shoot first.” Godat grimaced. “Which sucks, Skipper, but makes sense if we’re going to come out on the right side of this mess.”

“I won’t argue.” The gnawing in Mancini’s gut had nothing to do with lack of food and sleep. “TAO, firing point procedures, Tubes One and Two, Master One.”

“Conn, TAO. Aye, firing point procedures, Tubes One and Two, Master One.”

“Good hunting,” Ghali said.

“You too.” Mancini gestured for the petty officer to cut the link. Piper repeated her demands over the still-open broadcast.

“Skipper?” The comms officer looked befuddled. “There’s a coded message for you from Oxford. They’re bouncing it to Lubbock and Ulysses.”

“Let me have it here.” Mancini perused the text as Tuscon’s computers decrypted the message. “Well. All right.”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change on Master One, Four, and Five,” Olesen reported. “They’re slowing.”

“Thank God.” Godat glanced at Mancini. “What’s the word?”

“The word, XO, is that the rogue Phantoms are destroyed. Kills confirmed.” Mancini pointed at the tactical board. “I think what we’re seeing now is the Leaguers realizing something’s up.”

“Hopefully, their bosses aren’t salivating for a fight.”

Even as Godat made his wish, Mancini could tell he would get it. Three of the destroyers had slowed and altered course. Master Two and Three followed suit a couple of minutes later. Before long, all five Cobras showed the CDF task force their exhaust ports as they turned toward home. Still, Mancini didn’t exhale until, one by one, the enemy ships generated wormholes and jumped away from the border.

“Hot dang,” Godat muttered.

Mancini slapped him on the shoulder. “Comms, get me Colonel Piper. Send her my compliments, and ask if we can be of any further assistance. Otherwise, I get the feeling we’ll be watching for a while to make sure our Leaguer pals stay on their side of the fence.”

* * *

CSV Oxford

New Rostov IV

New Rostov System

Jackson waited in the hangar bay as Gina and Sev disembarked with their prisoner. Benjamin Dravyn—his name, according to the preliminary report—was hooded and manacled for his trip off the Yellowjacket’s cofferdam link to Oxford’s starboard side.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see the day when Gina would show up with a live body after what was supposed to be a one-way raid,” Brant said.

“She’s full of surprises.” Jackson watched as Marine sentries took Dravyn into custody.

“That guy’s CIS?”

Jackson nodded. “According to him. Did you read the notes?”

“Still working through it.” Brant shook his head. “There’s a lot there. If half of what he says happened is true—”

“The colonel and his people are working through it now. I hear Eldred found matches to the routing numbers you two uncovered.”

“That’ll make it easier to prove the president and his administration weren’t involved.”

Jackson shrugged. “Sure, but the court of public opinion is where Spencer will really be tried. The goal’s shifted. The truth has to back him up.”

“I hate to say it, but that’s not our job. It never was. We’re supposed to stop whatever the League’s doing to destabilize the Coalition—and help innocent people along the way.”

Jackson grinned. “I don’t remember that last part in our original briefing with Sinclair.”

“Maybe not.” Brant smiled too. “But you seem to have added it to our bylaws, so I might as well embrace it, at least informally.”

Gina and Sev, free of their human delivery, joined them under Novabird’s wing. “Look at this, Sev.” Gina leaned against the fuselage. “Our very own welcome committee.”

“How sweet.” Sev dropped his bag and shook Brant’s hand.

“That them?” Dwyer jogged down the ramp. He grabbed Sev for a handshake, too, and thumped his fist on his back. “Sounds like you two got the job done. Leaguers packed up their strike force and went home. Everyone here was sure they’d try to blast New Rostov as payback for Nandao.”

“Thank Major Stone for that miracle,” Gina said. “His fighters shot down the Phantoms. One mess cleaned up. I understand you brought back a bigger souvenir than usual, Jack.”

“Luciana?” Jackson chuckled. “She’s less than happy about having been forced into a deal that leaves her penniless and probably incarcerated. But it’s better than watching her hard work continue to explode.”

“I suppose the good colonel wants us all upstairs for a nice chat.” Gina yawned. “Do you think he’d mind if I nod off?”

“Only if you’re planning to wear your mask.” Jackson glanced at Brant. “How about you take the guys up to the wardroom. We’ll be along soon.”

“You got it.” Brant started off, with Dwyer and Sev in tow. “Found out a fun tidbit about Captain Halevi.”

Sev glowered. “Jerk?”

“Still that, but he’s been pulling double duty, it seems…”

Jackson waited until their voices faded. Then he leaned against Novabird so he was face-to-face with Gina. “I need to ask you about the part of the mission that wasn’t on the official agenda.”

“He decided to stay.”

“And you let him.”

Gina nodded. She looked weary but not upset. “I had a grand plan to piece my family back together, Jack. Kyle had his own ideas about what needed to be done.”

“So, he’s found a cause.”

“Yes, he has. Moron.”

“Come on.” Jackson smirked. “You admire him, a bit. I can tell.”

“How? From the inflection in my tone? The way I glow with pride when I talk about him?” Gina snorted. “Thanks for reminding me you can read my personality like any other mark you encounter.”

“That’s not fair. I can tell because you’re my friend.”

“Well, I can be okay with that.”

“And also because of my training.”

Gina socked him in the arm. “Jackass.”

“Seriously, though, the kid sounds like he’s made up his mind about his future. The immediate future, at least.”

“He has. I guess I can’t blame him for that. But now I have more bad news to take back to Dad. I was hoping to come home with a bright side this time.”

“I get that. We’ve both got the same challenges.”

“Yeah.” Gina turned her back to the racer. She ran her hand along the underside of the wing. “What are you going to do?”

“When we get home?” Jackson frowned. “Probably wade through legal jargon and hope Harry’s in a mood to negotiate at last. But I’d much rather stick my arms into a skiff’s drive circuitry and pull wires all day long.”

“That’s not what I mean. Have you thought at all about what you’ll do when this”—she rapped the wing—“is all over?”

“When do you think it will be all over? I don’t see the League giving up their goal of destabilizing our country, and even if they do, we still have other enemies to deal with. The war left people angry. They’re giving in to that anger and lashing out at anyone they think is responsible for forty years of bloodshed.” Jackson rubbed at his forehead. “And then there’s the criminal element, who are happy they still have a place to pull off their schemes.”

“So, no end date.”

Jackson shrugged. He didn’t have an answer.

“But…” Gina smiled. “If there was one…”

“Abby.” Jackson surprised himself with the name. “I can picture the two of us running the combined ranches with our families.”

“Is that all? Business partners?”

His face heated. “You know that’s not all there is. And I’ve told her so.”

“Out loud?”

“Yes! Damn, Gina. I’ve been through cartel interrogations less stressful.”

She giggled then slipped an arm around his waist. “I want you to be happy. She sounds like she’s making you that way.”

“She is, but even if she wasn’t in my life, I would be happy. There’s more to love than the romantic kind and the familial kind, you know.” Jackson encircled her shoulders. “I’m always going to be here for you, no matter what you need.”

“Same.” Gina patted his cheek. “Let’s go catch up with our dear colonel. The sooner we write up our boring reports, the sooner we get to go home.”

* * *

Sinclair swiped past all the faces and data spilling across his holographic display. “This is what we have? I do say, it’s quite the impressive package.”

“Say the word, and I’ll add the encryption version of a bow, Colonel.” Eldred leaned back in her seat. She was as relaxed as Sinclair had ever seen her. “Vicky’s bouncing off Freedom Station’s bulkheads. I think she’s made fourteen arrests so far.”

“There will be plenty more,” Tamir said. “The Colonial Rangers down on New Rostov have their hands full dismantling Luciana’s smuggling ring. Their commander has sent his profuse thanks.”

“As indeed he should.” Sinclair swept Luciana’s dazzling smile into view. “And how is Ms. Encarnacion taking to her questioning?”

“Grudging but helpful. We’ve got enough to link the smuggling chain to the missing and destroyed fighters. Her information has blanks, but I’m confident Dravyn will fill those in.”

“Speaking of the devil…” Sinclair pressed his desk’s intercom button. “Bring him in.”

The Marines escorted the hooded figure into Sinclair’s office. Sinclair checked his clock—ten minutes until the debriefing. It wouldn’t take long, as far as an initial talk, but he couldn’t help his relentless curiosity.

“Got awfully quiet in here.” Dravyn’s drawl placed him from New Washington. “Do I get to guess who my mystery hosts are?”

Sinclair stood as soon as the Marines shut the hatch behind them. He removed the hood.

Dravyn blinked in the sudden light. He grimaced when he saw who surrounded him. “Colonel Robert Sinclair, in the flesh,” Dravyn muttered. “You guys pulled out all the stops.”

“We do extend our best hospitality for the most interesting of guests.” Sinclair gestured to a spare chair. “Please sit.”

“Sorry, sir. Not so comfy with binders.” Dravyn smirked. “I assume you’ve got questions about my report.”

“Many, yes, but only one for which I cannot delay the answer.” Sinclair gazed at him. “Who did this?”

“This? That stealthy lady of yours.”

“Answer the colonel,” Tamir demanded. “You know what he means.”

Dravyn shrugged. “Yeah, I do. No offense, sir, but I’m used to being the one who holds all the cards and knows what everyone else is playing, not the one who has to reveal his hand.”

“Quite all right. But I must insist.”

“Sure. I understand. My turn for a question, though—what guarantees do I have?”

“Guarantees? I should say none. Your initial report states you were carrying out an operation sanctioned by your superiors, and given the level of complexity with which said operation proceeded, I am not inclined to believe you ran things solo. If you had, it would have been quite the feat.”

“Thanks. That’s high praise coming from you.” Dravyn peered at Tamir and Eldred. “Can I assume one of you is recording?”

Eldred nodded. She seemed too mesmerized to speak and ruin the possibility of whatever Dravyn was going to admit.

“All right, then. I managed the op on Nandao with the help of a local named Vance. He was my aide-de-camp. No chance of questioning him, though. Whoever he’s really working for has access to the codes and files I did, so even if you’ve got a beef with my bosses, you’d better make sure they’ve changed the locks.”

“We will, provided you—”

“Right.” Dravyn sighed. “I reported to Arbiter, who’s a woman named Cherice. I can give you a description; no idea if that’s her real name or a CIS cover. She, in turn, communicated with Facilitator, the captain of the Yellowjacket. Cousin was in charge of everything. Orders originated from his office.”

“In CIS.” Sinclair couldn’t help his heart hammering.

“Yeah. That would be Deputy Director of Operations George Parry.” Dravyn seemed to deflate. “You’ll want to arrest him first.”

* * *

Port Gusev Transshipment Depot

New Rostov III

New Rostov System

The night was particularly clear. Stars crowded the sky. Natalie smiled as one of them moved—a freighter coming into orbit. She checked her tablet.

“They’re on time.” Gregory lifted his goggles and kissed her on the cheek. “Clarence is watching the gate.”

“I know. Whistling a tune.” Natalie shook her head.

“Where’s he been all day? I heard he was off-site with JJ, who quit.”

“He had his reasons.” Natalie was glad that Carl had come back—and that Luciana was gone. Not only that, but the board was scheduled to vote next week on a new dockmaster. “Do you think our applications have made it?”

“I would hope they see the wisdom in picking one of us. The other could continue in my role.” Gregory raised an eyebrow, his expression suddenly somber. “And when I’m promoted, it will mean a steep learning curve for you, I’m afraid.”

Natalie elbowed him. “Then we’d better hope and pray I get the job because it will be much easier to keep an experienced manager like you in his current position.”

Gregory chuckled. “I’ll round up the crew. You have the landing beacon set?”

“Of course. And double-checked.”

“I never doubted.”

Natalie watched Gregory jog toward the rest of the crew. She felt as if they’d been given a second chance. First came New Rostov’s freedom, then their liberation from Luciana’s crime syndicate. They had the opportunity to work hard for their planet and their people.

Whoever JJ had been, whatever he’d been sent there to do, the end result had been a gift, one Natalie wasn’t willing to waste.

26

Interstellar Intelligence Complex

Outside Lawrence City

Canaan

26 March 2466

George Parry let the news networks prattle on in the background as he hurried from point to point in his office. His scattered personal effects needed removing. The sun pouring in through the windows taunted him with promises of a blue sky and balmy weather, the kind of day that should be spent walking Lawrence City’s streets or strolling its parks. He didn’t have time for that.

“Sources close to the president’s office tell us the Spencer administration has an upcoming announcement with regards to the growing scandal around payments deposited into an account supposedly bearing President Spencer’s name, payments linked to the Phantom starfighters bought by insurgents on the League world Nandao,” the woman said. “This is Elizabeth Leight, Coalition News Network, with the latest update.”

She faced her audience, expression as solemn as a preacher at a funeral. “The Spencer administration has maintained the president’s innocence and alluded to an investigation into not only the source of the money, but the pipeline by which decommissioned Phantoms were shipped to the rebels. We have learned the investigation is coming to a close as CBI agents cooperate with military intelligence…”

A statue of a CDF soldier on a glass shelf was mounted to the wall. Parry admired its faithfulness to its subject matter. Not a bad gift from his son. He snapped the head off and removed a tiny data chip, which went into the desktop incinerator.

“Receiving word now of a schedule change for the president’s daily briefing. His press secretary, Tomas Escarra, has a statement prepared in the media conference room. We’re taking you there live.”

Parry eyed the framed photo of himself shaking hands with the president. It had taken every ounce of his self-control to not smash it. Keeping it on his wall helped provide cover, as long as he kept his opinions to himself. He pulled the image free of its frame and plucked a sheet of codes from the back. One spark, a wisp of smoke, and the sheet, too, was vaporized.

Why not make a clean sweep of it? Parry crumpled the photograph in his fist so he would no longer have to stare at Spencer’s idiotic grin then added it to the incinerator.

His intercom chirped.

“Yes?”

“Sir, the director is here.” The assistant at the front desk sounded as though she was in tears, judging by how badly her voice quavered. “He has agents—”

“Let him pass.” Parry ran a hand through his hair and smoothed his shirt. The data chip and code sheet were the last items he could find that might incriminate him. He hoped their loss would drag out the inquiry, give him time.

For a fleeting second, he thought about the compact pulse pistol in his desk drawer. No one could stop him from pressing the muzzle to his temple and pulling the trigger. Parry fantasized the timing—right as Pelletier barged in. That would wipe any smirk off the old fool’s face.

But Sheila would have been heartbroken, and even though she’d been gone for years, Parry had no desire to denigrate her memory. He hoped to be reunited with her in heaven someday. That was not the way to do it.

Parry would face the consequences for his actions and, in the process, use his final moments to speak out against their weak, ineffectual band of partisan politicians.

CIS Director Frank Pelletier burst into the room, seeming sprightly for his age. The two men and women with him were CBI agents. Parry could see the worried and, in some cases, tear-stained faces of his staff in the distance, beyond the outer office.

“George Wesley Parry,” the shorter of the two women announced. “You are under arrest for the crimes of trafficking in restricted technology, conspiracy to commit financial fraud, and treason.”

“I understand.” Parry turned around and placed his hands behind his back. “There’s a personal sidearm in the center desk drawer.”

One of the male agents retrieved it while the woman bound his wrists. When she turned him around, Pelletier was in front of him, face red. “I promised our cooperation,” he snapped. “Offered our best to help solve the crimes that had been committed. I offered them to you. But the whole time, you were—”

“I was doing what was necessary for the Coalition to survive, Frank,” Parry said. “To thrive, rather than rot. I won’t say anything else until I can speak to an attorney.”

“Find your own.”

Press Secretary Escarra was on the screen, standing behind a podium before a sea of correspondents and hovering drone cameras. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for joining us this afternoon.”

“Gideon called me.” Pelletier pointed to the screen. “Did me the courtesy of telling me in person what was going to happen to you before I had to hear about it second- or third-hand. There’s a reason I’m here now. I didn’t want you to miss the news.”

“I have with me CBI Director Gideon Yoram. His joint investigation with CDF Intelligence has yielded fruit.” Escarra yielded his podium to the white-haired man who could have passed for Parry’s kindly older uncle and looked half as threatening.

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary.” Yoram read from a tablet he’d set before him. “CBI agents and military intelligence personnel have determined that CIS Deputy Director of Operations George Wesley Parry, along with select personnel from his department and criminal elements in the Freedom Station region, organized and executed the theft of six SF-106 Phantom starfighters from CDF bases. These fighters were down checked for maintenance and refit. Parry’s operatives sold the fighters to rebel pro-democracy factions on Nandao, a world in the League of Sol, in direct violation of our peace treaty with the League.”

Parry allowed the agents to lead him away. His bravado melted as he heard the whispers and weeping from CIS staff gathered in the outer offices. Yoram’s voice continued to haunt him as Pelletier followed with the press conference playing live on his tablet.

“The funds raised from those sales, as well as from other illicit weapons, were deposited into accounts falsely set up in President Justin Spencer’s name,” Yoram said. “This was done in an apparent effort to not only discredit the president and his administration, but also lead the Coalition closer to a resumption of hostilities with the League or vice versa.”

“Director Yoram!” a reporter shouted. “How do we know this isn’t the administration covering its tracks? What proof is there?”

“Besides the technical details gathered by intelligence personnel and CBI agents, we have sworn statements from a CIS operative abandoned on Nandao who as agreed to testify against Deputy Director Parry and his accomplices.” Yoram smiled. “We also have the cooperation of the smuggler who, until recently, had led a criminal scourge that encompassed several former League worlds now part of the Coalition, including New Rostov.”

Parry and his entourage stepped out into the gorgeous spring morning. He sucked in a deep breath, relishing the scents of flowering trees on the CIS campus. I’m sorry, Sheila. He ducked his head as the agents forced him into an armored car and sealed the door, its darkened windows blotting out the tantalizing weather. I failed you. I failed everyone. At least he didn’t have to hear further details of that failure as the closed door cut off the news emanating from Pelletier’s tablet.

* * *

The White House

Lawrence City

Canaan

Justin Spencer read the reports flowing in from various networks. Not the whole articles, just the headlines. Commentary seemed to be largely in his favor, though the social media summary Escarra provided was dire. A few loudmouths dominated the shouting matches taking place there.

“The polls have your approval rating at fifty-eight percent,” Escarra said.

Fuentes winced. “That poor?”

“At least he’s not underwater,” MacIntosh muttered.

“Yes, but when one considers a full seventy-one percent said they thought the president was doing a good job only three months ago, that’s a precipitous drop,” Escarra explained.

“I’ll take what I can get, Tomas, and remember that for the most part, I’ll be damned if I hang on every pollster and pundit’s armchair analysis of this administration,” Spencer said firmly. “That’s not how I want to be remembered when my time is up.”

“Unfortunately, Mr. President, public opinion is a difficult battle to fight, and with the election coming up in less than eight months—”

“That’s for his successor to deal with,” Fuentes interrupted. “Justin has more than served his country. He deserves rest.”

“And I am chief among those who would like to see him have it.” Escarra sighed. “I think Director Yoram’s announcements and the arrests being made will have an impact for the better, enough to buoy your party through November—barring further catastrophe.”

Justin groaned. “I’m not superstitious, but let’s not jinx it.”

“I agree.” Escarra nodded. “I’ll keep you up to speed on further developments in the media. Can we still schedule the interview with GNN this week?”

“I don’t see why not. Their coverage has been less hyperbolic, as of late. Seems they’re becoming convinced I’m not out to ruin the Coalition.” Spencer chuckled. “Just in time for me to finish my last term.”

Escarra laughed, too, as he left the office. The door clicked shut behind him.

“Well.” Fuentes rubbed his chin. “He’s certainly optimistic.”

“Tomas is that. Hard to believe, given how much he deals with the press on a daily basis.”

“These hearings… I’m glad you’ve agreed to take part in them.” Fuentes held up a hand before Spencer could say a word, which Spencer found amusing. It was a hallmark of how close a working relationship—and respectful friendship, even—they’d developed. “Yes, I know it was a Peace Union suggestion, which is why I’m even more impressed you acquiesced.”

“I hate the idea of dragging our administration through the muck that the hearings will dig up because, like it or not, Parry was one of us. Frank is my CIS director—has been for years. Parry had his full confidence. For all the grumbling about the deep state from pundits at both extremes of the political spectrum, the credit stops at my desk.” Spencer smirked. “But I have to admit, the Peace Union’s penchant for stirring up trouble has finally synchronized with my desire for government transparency. I can see how both wind up serving the people.”

“You? In agreement with Peace Union talking points?” Fuentes held his hand to his chest. “I never thought I’d see another miracle after we defeated the League at Canaan.”

Spencer chuckled. “One tiny point, Ed. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I would never. You’ve made me too much of a realist.”

“Still, though, this whole mess underscores why it’s vital to keep a sharp eye on the League—not just because of how they’ve made efforts to destabilize us, but because they can take advantage of our internal discontents.”

“Yes, I see that now. Even the Fabians, who had understandable motives but unwise plans for how to achieve their goals, opened the door for the kind of infiltration that should give us all pause.” Fuentes exhaled. “I’ve hammered that home with my party, but sadly, I don’t think that’s made me very popular.”

“No, I imagine not.”

“But this…” Fuentes held up his tablet. The final reports from Colonel Sinclair and Captain Adams, with an addendum from CBI Agent Lind, glowed on its surface. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but is it not possible the League had a spy inside the CIS operation that was meant to both discredit you and destabilize the League itself?”

“It seems that way. Intelligence is working on who this Vance could be, but whatever records he showed Benjamin Dravyn have turned out to be fiction.” Spencer shook his head. “I suspect even Sinclair would be impressed by the trickery employed.”

“All the more reason to keep the covert action units in operation.” Fuentes frowned. “It might not hurt to expand them.”

Spencer blinked. “Don’t look now, but I think we’ve had two miracles.”

“I’m hardly in favor of gutting our community assistance funding in favor of doing so,” Fuentes warned. “But it does seem the quiet, subtler activities yield better results than direct military action or diplomatic protests these days.”

“For now. Like you, I’d prefer we didn’t need them at all, but as long as our enemies—foreign and domestic—keep trying to dismantle all we fought for during the last war, we have to keep them in place so we don’t faceplant into the next conflict.”

“I quite agree.”

Spencer considered the CAU 171 report. The League had ultimately backed down from a fight, even a small one, but that didn’t change what had happened last year with ESS and its rogue stealth vessels. Truth be told, the war had never fully ended. It was still being waged with partially sanctioned teams and silent vessels creeping about the hinterlands of the galaxy. It was his job—and Ed’s—to make sure the peace stayed in place while also protecting the Coalition’s people from harm.

And pray that whoever the voters pick to sit in this seat after I’m done shares the same vision, or we may end up right back where we started.

* * *

Wingren City

Pentecost Island

Canaan

Dwyer dipped his sunglasses and whistled. “Mighty fine view, Gina.”

“Thanks.” She passed him a glass of whiskey. “It grew on me last time I was here. Right, Jack?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Jackson sipped from his glass. “Wow. This is great. Appreciate it, Ikumo.”

The bartender grinned. “I know she wanted to pay her way, but the family who was here for that reunion left the bottle after their celebration. They were so happy she cleared up the misunderstanding with Rosey and her crew.”

Sev, wearing a set of sunglasses as reflective blue as the sea, licked his lips after tasting the whiskey. “Me too.”

Brant held up a hand at the glass Ikumo offered. “No thank you. Water’s fine.”

“Aw, c’mon, LT.” Dwyer leaned back in his chair. “How often do we get to celebrate like this?”

“Never. I get that.” Brant smiled. “I’m preoccupied.”

“Heading back home tomorrow?” Jackson asked.

“Yes. I have a cousin’s birthday.”

“Another one?” Gina asked. “You never seem to run out.”

“Well, it’s not that bad, but after a while, it gets hard to figure out what to buy for whom.”

“And yet you have no problem remembering how to construct algorithms out of thin air.” Gina sighed. She patted Brant’s hand. “This, Jack, is why your friend needs a lady.”

Dwyer choked on his whiskey.

“Has one,” Sev noted.

Everyone looked at him. He seemed befuddled by the attention.

“What’re you talking about?” Dwyer blurted.

“Look, uh, guys.” Brant squirmed in his seat. “She isn’t—”

“Miranda,” Sev explained. He shrugged. “Clearly.”

Jackson burst out laughing.

“Wow.” Brant rolled his eyes. “And here I thought I was being a subtle operative.”

“I kind of hoped you’d picked up a few tricks of the trade.” Jackson wiped his eyes. “Enjoy your time off. Really. We all earned it.”

“We usually do.” Gina looked behind her. “There he is.”

Her father, Owen Wilkes, recently retired from the Coalition Far Survey Corps, walked toward them down the seaside promenade. He waved and smiled, but his gestures were hesitant. Jackson could read it from far away.

Jackson saw it in Gina’s face too. “You told him about Kyle?”

“I did. He doesn’t quite understand, but he will.” Gina pushed out her chair. “Give me a few minutes, boys.”

Dwyer grimaced as she walked off. “Hell of a thing, Cap’n. I’m not sure I could go up to my parents and tell ’em I had to leave a sibling in enemy territory.”

“It’s what the kid wanted, Sparks. Someday, he might change his mind, and if he does, well, you can bet Gina will be there to bring him home.”

“She will,” Sev agreed.

Gina rejoined them as suddenly as she had left. She lifted her glass. “Almost forgot. To coming home, again.”

The quintet clinked their glasses together.

“Always do.” Jackson thought of Abby and Mom and even Harry. In a couple of days, he would be back in their world. “Always do.”

Epilogue

Undisclosed Location

Terran Coalition System 112

31 March 2466

Vasiliy Kiel set the tablet down on his office table. “I’m a bit puzzled as to why you think I should be celebrating when you’ve brought me useless information.”

Marcel Baudet plucked at the skin on his hands. It was his first visit to Kiel’s base, which seemed to be making him quite nervous, though Kiel admitted he, too, would have been anxious if a pair of armed men stood at each shoulder.

The red-haired young man looked from side to side. “It’s not useless.”

“CIS has altered them. You no longer have access.”

“Yes, but I—”

“Don’t use that phrase with me,” Kiel snapped. “Or I can easily have you breathing toxic atmosphere for the short remainder of your life, Vance.”

Marcel scowled. “What did you expect would happen with the codes, sir? Ben was never going to fully trust me with his data no matter how helpful I was. To him, I was still a Leaguer.”

“No need to remind me the Terran zealots desire our destruction,” Kiel said. “That is why we’re doing all we can to ensure their downfall.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kiel made a dismissive gesture. “But please, I would love to hear how these deactivated codes will do us any good as we prepare our strike at the heart of the Coalition.”

“I was able to pull information off the CIS servers before the codes cut out. Personnel files.”

Now that was more to Kiel’s liking. “Names of CIS field operatives or their League agents, I should hope.”

“Better than that, sir.” Marcel smiled. “They have been keeping tabs not only on us, but their CDF counterparts. CDF Intelligence.”

Kiel pressed his hands against the desk. “You’re certain?”

“Very, sir. The language was all coded, but I could decipher bits and pieces before they shut me out.”

“And you have it?”

“Here.” Marcel dug into his pocket.

A guard shoved a plasma rifle’s muzzle under his chin.

Kiel tsked. “Sudden moves alarm these fellows, Marcel. Give us a bit of warning next time.”

“Yes, sir.” Marcel slowly unhooked his pocket flap. His gaze darted to the office windows, through which the occupants had a clear view of pink mist and violet moss.

Kiel enjoyed the panoramic sight. It added a splash of color to the drab walls of the prefabricated modules that made up his base but also served as a herald of potential punishment. Toxic fumes were the norm for the slime-covered planet.

“Here.” He gave Kiel not an electronic device but a printed sheet.

Names, dates, and coordinates filled both sides, crammed onto the plastic so tightly Kiel was glad he’d passed his last optical scan. “This was all you managed to get?”

“Before the CIS server locked me out and attempted to backtrace the link, yes. I had to destroy the console linked to it but not before I copied everything off that made sense once the filters scrubbed through the code.”

Marcel was not exaggerating. CIS had been watching their CDF counterparts closely. Aphendrika, Bellwether Station, Trenchant, Galt, and various locales in between. “Covert Action Unit 171,” Kiel read aloud. “Covert Action Unit 22. Covert Action Unit 6. Covert Action Unit 49.”

Marcel nodded. He leaned forward. “Whatever CDF Intelligence is doing, sir, they have these units and who knows how many more running across the Coalition and beyond. The bits I picked up indicate there could be hundreds!”

“More than likely not.” Kiel wrinkled his nose. The only thing more distasteful than the idea of the Terrans fielding a few thousand operatives to infect the League of Sol’s citizens with corrupt ideas about capitalism and personal freedoms was Marcel’s willingness to believe CIS had accurate intelligence. “In my experience, the fellow agencies of one’s own nation are the most difficult to infiltrate, especially where rivalry rears its head. These numbers may be arbitrary. It’s an old trick.”

“Oh.” Marcel seemed to deflate. Doubtless, the fool expected a reward for his semi-victory. “But the other names…”

Kiel flipped over the paper and slowly grinned. “Ah. This is a pleasant surprise. Colonel Robert Sinclair. The man is a wraith and a terror. ESS has wondered about his existence for years. So, CIS is convinced he’s running these teams, is that correct?”

“From what I can determine, yes.”

“Good. Very good. We need a starting point. Our funding is not finite, given the rate at which I’ve been spending it, and I look forward to launching soon.” He gestured again toward the window.

Marcel squinted, giving a proper look that time instead of a cursory glance, then gasped. The modified freighter Meng Po sat on a nearby plateau, linked to the north extension of modules by a flexible cofferdam configured for planetary operations. Three more freighters of a similar model hunkered with her. Men and women suited against the planet’s foul climate worked on their surfaces, the sparks from plasma torches like will-o’-the-wisps in the miasma.

“I have three hundred people recruited to the League, counting my own operatives secreted across the border,” Kiel explained. “If this intelligence you’ve given me is correct, Covert Action Unit 171 is currently in its off-duty rotation, as is custom after major operations. When we make our strike, and that time is coming soon, you can be certain we’ll pay a visit to the names on this list.” Kiel held up the plastic and smiled. “Starting, of course, with the team’s commander, one Captain Jackson Adams.”

THE END

Deception Fleet: Book 6 – Collision Vector: When Justin Spencer is nearly assassinated, Captain Jackson and his rag tag team must avoid death and overcome all obstacles to finally put an end to the League threat - before the Terran Coalition descends into chaos.

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