Primer Vector Gammaretroviral Humano De Transducción Génica
Author: Cervantes García Daniel; Rojas M. Augusto; Camerini David
Date: 2015-07-21 00:00:00+00:00
Description: El presente trabajo, realizado en la UANL, explora la posibilidad de emplear un gammaretrovirus humano (XMRV) como vector de transducción génica, desde su diseño hasta los ensayos in vitro para probar su eficiencia. Los resultados obtenidos dejan abierta la posibilidad de usar este vector como modelo de estudio de la biología molecular del virus XMRV, o bien, como modelo de transducción en ensayos de terapia génica.
Publisher: KS OmniScriptum Publishing

Collision Vector

Deception Fleet Book Six

Daniel Gibbs

Steve Rzasa

Contents

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Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

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Collision Vector by Daniel Gibbs

Copyright © 2022 by Daniel Gibbs

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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.

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Prologue

Planet 112-B

Terran Coalition System 112

9 April 2466

Master Chief Petty Officer Gordan MacDonald led Alpha Team, from Space Special Warfare Unit Nineteen, through the swirling pink mists of the world he could only think of as a slimeball. Even though his powered combat armor protected fully against environmental hazards, MacDonald swore he could hear his boots squelching the several centimeters they sank into the muck surrounding their target.

The rest of his team were hazy ghosts to either side of him, spread out across fifty meters of terrain. The prefabricated modules loomed ahead. No movement on scanners, so far.

“Three, what’ve we got?” MacDonald asked into the secured comms.

“Zero bodies around the base, One.” Petty Officer First Class Esmail Rostami had linked his drone’s feed to the squad’s visor displays. A view of the cross-shaped facility appeared overlaid on MacDonald’s field of vision as Rostami continued, “Scorching on the plateau is indicative of a launch thruster. Looks pretty new. I’d say it’s a couple of days old.”

“Two, take Five up there and see what’s what,” MacDonald ordered.

“Copy that.” Senior Chief Dennis Harrell broke off from their formation with Chief Petty Officer Ibrahim Ahmad alongside. They trudged together up the shallow slope to the flat ground nearby.

Rostami’s map told MacDonald of a single entrance from the landing site into the building. Two other hatches were located on opposite sides of the complex. MacDonald frowned. Eleven modules all together, with power at the far end, according to the scanner readouts.

Would’ve been great to know all that from orbit, but this shithole planet’s toxic elements make long-range sensor devices as useful to me as wearing a parka while standing on the surface of a sun. MacDonald hated going in blind, but given Intelligence was certain that was where Ardalion Noor been had last, they had little choice. Their mission was to apprehend the former CEO of Nosamo Aerothermic Technologies so he could stand trial for not only trying to sell an atmospheric regenerator that doubled as a weapon of mass destruction but also secretly funding Fabian extremists bent on collapsing the galactic economy.

Both efforts failed, but Intelligence’s discovery that some of his quieter accounts were still active meant Alpha Team was hopping across the Coalition, kicking up the likely hornet’s nests where he could be hiding.

“One, this is Two,” Harrell reported. “Ground is glassed. No other ships up there, but a hangar structure is on the far side. Do we have scans on it?”

“Negative. Three, how about it?”

Rostami made a sound like he was disgusted by his last meal. “I’m getting a lot of interference down here, guys, so I don’t have precise answers.”

“Your nerd powers failed? Say it ain’t so,” Harrell quipped.

“Shove off, Senior Chief.”

“Can it, you two,” MacDonald snapped. “Life signs?”

Rostami went silent for a few seconds. MacDonald stopped his approach and signaled for the rest of the men to do the same. There. He really had heard his boots squelch.

“Eight warm bodies,” Rostami reported. “They’re gathering by the hatches.”

“Perfect.” MacDonald shook his head. “Pipe me into their comms.”

“Hold on… you’re linked.”

MacDonald switched over to the new connection Rostami had provided. “This is the Coalition Defense Force. We have information that you are harboring a known fugitive who has threatened the national security of the Terran Coalition. Surrender him and yourselves. If you do not exit the structure, unarmed, within one minute, we will breach and subdue.”

“One minute?” Chief Petty Officer Amacio Mata snorted. “That doesn’t give me much time to set charges.”

MacDonald saw Mata and Rucuk, the Saurian exchange member of their team, were in a blind spot when it came to the modules’ windows. “Make the best of it, Four. You and Six take up position for when they come out. Two and Five, round the buildings and watch the other hatch.”

“On it, One.”

“Master Chief!” Rostami called. “I’ve got decompression alerts and a power surge coming from those hatches.”

“Cover!” MacDonald dropped into a puddle, putting himself just below one of the many undulating lumps in the swampy surface. Rostami splashed nearby. Mata and Rucuk sprinted toward the edge of the nearest module. MacDonald couldn’t see Harrell and Ahmad, but his heads-up display told him they had found shelter behind the small, partially buried hangar Harrell had pointed out.

The hatch ahead of them blew off. The explosion scattered fragments across the hundred meters between MacDonald and the module. Four men burst out, wearing environmental suits and body armor meant more for police work than full-fledged combat. Their plasma rifles, though, were powerful enough to blast deep, sizzling gouges in the muck where the bolts impacted.

They ran pell-mell, shouting obscenities through the open comms link, but neither the sound nor the frantic action stopped MacDonald from putting two bursts of three rounds each into the first man who’d made it out of the hatch. He stumbled and fell.

Rostami shot the second man as plasma blasts turned the putrid water around him into steam. The drone’s scanners from on high gave MacDonald the somewhat disorienting sight of Rostami’s point of view combined with the drone’s aerial vantage point as he sighted down on the second man, both inset in the corner of MacDonald’s display.

The other two men rushing at them veered off at a ninety-degree angle to the base, doing their best to sprint parallel to the modules. They were so intent on shooting ahead that they showed no signs of stopping until an explosion ripped through the nearest module’s wall.

Flames set wilting grasses ablaze. Screams punctuated the comms until Mata shot the man whose suit was fully engulfed. His thrashing ceased soon after.

The fourth aimed for Mata as Rucuk materialized through the billowing smoke. Rucuk’s claws ripped across the man’s suit, exposing blood and flesh along with the layer of clothing beneath. Gagging sounds followed as the planet’s toxic air flooded past the protective barriers, growing worse until Rucuk shot the man point-blank.

More shots echoed from the other side of the modules. MacDonald was already on his feet, Rostami hustling behind him. “Four! You and Six get your asses to Two’s position!”

“Corridor’s clear through the center of the module,” Rostami reported. “No life signs inside except for the two on Two’s side.”

Good to know. MacDonald barged through the module, stepping over debris and checking corners as he went while still trying to move quickly. Rostami was at his right shoulder the whole way, making sure their six was clear.

When they emerged on the opposite side, Harrell and Ahmad stood waist-deep in slop behind a berm that looked like it had been deposited by whoever had sheared off the landing site. The last two assailants split their fire between that pair and Rucuk with Mata, both of whom emerged from the far end of the modules.

MacDonald shot the closer of the two men, which distracted his partner long enough for Harrell to hit him with a three-round burst.

“No life signs except us, One.” Rostami’s voice pitched higher. “Not reading any power surges from the base either.”

“You’re with me,” MacDonald ordered. “Two, take Six with you and Five up to that hangar. Send in a drone first, one of Three’s spares.”

“Will do, Master Chief.”

“Four, let’s go. I might need you to knock on a few doors.”

Mata joined MacDonald and Rostami as they reentered the base. They swept through the narrow corridors and rounded common rooms, checking personal quarters and every closet and container they came across. The place was abandoned.

“Nothing but trash and extra bedding, One.” Mata looked thoroughly disgusted. “The reactor’s not even set to blow. She’s running within normal parameters.”

“So no Noor.”

“That’s a big fat negative.”

“But they left this place operational, with men guarding it.” Rostami shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“No shit. Bag every comp you can, Two. The colonel will want to crack them wide open. Four, pull together our data for an inventory. The spooks will have to send down people if they want to comb the place for DNA and bacteriological markers.”

“One, this is Two.” Harrell’s voice crackled over the comms. “I see empty crates up in this box, tools for vehicle maintenance. That’s about it.”

“Scan results?”

“First look says the crates held weaponry—plasma based, most of them, and traces of explosives.”

Mata cocked his head to the side. “Whatever you do, get me chemical signatures from those recordings, Two.”

“Yeah, thanks, Four. I needed that advice, otherwise, I would have let Six just eat the crates.”

“Get down from there and start checking the bodies for IDs. We need to find out who these jokers were.” MacDonald scowled at his surroundings. “Then we’ll let the spooks do the math on why Noor was funding armed thugs on a slimeball in the middle of nowhere.”

* * *

Cargo Hold G-9

Freedom Station

10 April 2466

Coalition Bureau of Intelligence Agent Josie Lind kept one hand on her holstered pulse pistol as the technician touched the access panel for the shipping container. “Open it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The woman punched in the correct codes. The seal popped and hissed as atmospheric pressures equalized. A stale odor drifted out—the funk of uncirculated air after days spent locked up.

The fouler smell right after made Lind draw her gun. Funny, really, since whoever was in there was obviously dead, but that didn’t mean someone else—or something else—wasn’t alive in there with the owner of that stench.

The container’s internal glow strips flickered on automatically, prompted by the opening code. Gray and orange boxes were locked into place from floor to ceiling, with a narrow passageway between. Their labels identified them as assorted teas and coffees shipped from Churchill to Freedom Station a week ago, but Lind knew for certain the vessel they’d arrived on was not the same vessel that had picked them up.

“Scanners tagged biological life,” the technician said. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called you. It’s not my problem if the manifest fails to match the original ship with the one that brought it in. That’s for the dockmaster’s office.”

“Don’t worry. She’ll find out.” Lind tried not to suck in deep breaths. Stocking feet protruded from where there should be boxes. “Ian?”

“We’ve stopped the freighter.” CBI Agent Ian Wallace waited outside the container, on his commlink with the dockmaster. “Customs has a pair of barges boarding it now. The owner claims he was paid extra to pick this container up from an Oort Cloud comet fragment on his way from New Washington.”

“Sounds like what I’d say if I were smuggling untaxed goods.” Lind turned and crouched so she could see to whom the feet belonged. Her eyebrows lifted. “I’ll be damned.”

“What’s up?”

“Human male, mid-fifties, Arabic descent.” No shoes, belt, or fancier garb. The body wore only a sleeveless gray undershirt and dark-blue trousers, but the latter were of an expensive cut. Lind had only ever seen the type in the high-end clothiers like Wong’s or Il Piu Fine. Definitely not affordable on a smuggler’s pay or even a CBI agent’s salary.

“I’ve got the ID module on my scanner. Give me a second.”

“Sure, but we’ll only need it to confirm.” A burn mark sat dead center on the man’s forehead, the blood having long caked around the dark hole. “It’s Ardalion Noor.”

“That’s—wait, what?” Wallace worked his way down the passage. The pale-yellow lights made him seem sickly under their glow and turned his blond hair sunny. “Oh. Damn. You’re right.”

“Thanks, Ian. I’m pretty sure I can ID the most wanted CEO of a corrupt megacorp who’s topped our lists for a year and a half,” Lind said dryly.

If the kid blushed, the lights made it hard to tell. “What I meant was his accounts were still active as of seventy-two hours ago.”

Lind grimaced as she borrowed Wallace’s scanner and swept it over the body. “He’s been dead at least twice that long, well before the freighter picked up this container from wherever.”

“Weapon?”

“Nothing nearby that your sniffer box can pick up. Let’s secure the scene and get our people down here for analysis. We’ll pick over the body then.”

They backed out of the container. Wallace stretched bright-yellow tape from corner to corner of the entrance in the shape of an X. A cluster of dockworkers had gathered at the far end of the hold.

Lind shook her head. “Talk to the office,” she ordered, “and don’t touch anything. Miss, you’re with me.”

She brought the technician who’d opened the container with her and met the people at the door, most of whom were trying to get past a couple of station security officers.

“Hey, c’mon. Some of us are going on shift,” one young man groaned.

“Yeah, I’m signed up for a double,” an older woman added.

“Not happening. Potential crime scene.” The taller officer glanced at Lind. “Right, ma’am?”

“Nothing potential about it. We’re looking at a homicide.” It was her current theory, based on the lack of a plasma weapon, given that appeared to have made the kill shot. “Everyone clear out. Officer, this is a federal investigation, so I’ll need you to detain anyone who tries to get in.”

The officers pushed and prodded the crowd away, to much grumbling and many threats to take complaints higher up the chain.

Good luck with that. Lind got out her commlink and readied a coded transmission for the people to whom her discovery mattered most.

“Agent Lind.” Cam Tahatan stepped out of the crowd. He wore casual business attire—a jacket, semiformal shirt, and trousers. Dressed not unlike a CBI Agent. When the officer held up a hand, Tahatan grinned and flashed a set of credentials that were far too similar to Lind’s for her liking. “I’m needed here.”

“Those had better be semiofficial,” Lind muttered as he walked with her back to the container.

“Sure they are. Temporarily granted by your superiors. That make you feel better?”

“Since you’re probably lying, and that’s part of your job, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Good. Makes everything easier.”

“Don’t tell me you picked up RUMINT in the thirty seconds since we made preliminary ID.”

“I’m not so lucky. Uncle Rob put me onto the freighter’s scent. It seems the captain retrieved this container at the same system where we found an abandoned insurgent or criminal base.”

“How abandoned?”

“Partially. The people guarding it decided a shootout with a special space warfare team was a good way to send off their souls.”

Lind winced. “Yikes.”

“Positive ID, Josie.” Wallace was about to continue but froze when he saw Tahatan with her. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Lind gestured. “Go ahead, Ian. He’s read in.”

“Okay.” Wallace made a face like he didn’t appreciate the fact but proceeded. “The body is Ardalion Noor’s.”

“Which means someone else is spending his money.” Tahatan turned grim.

“We know. Seventy-two hours ago.”

“Try less than a day ago.” Tahatan peered into the container. “Which means his partners are still out there and, much to our chagrin, heavily armed.”

1

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Canaan

12 April 2466

The afternoon sun beat down on Jackson Adams as he whipped the skimmer around a long, rolling hill, the tracking beacon beeping on the center console.

“Calf Seventeen is 3.8 klicks ahead, north by northwest,” Abril Castillo said over his earpiece commlink.

“I’ve got it.” The visor he wore to shield his eyes against not only the sun but whatever bugs he ran into at speeds in excess of eighty kph had a rudimentary heads-up display. Someone—Abby, Jack suspected—had uploaded a new set of graphics so, instead of marking the calf with a simple diamond, Jack was racing toward a glowing white cartoonish cow. Its huge eyes dripped animate tears. “We have a lot of downed limbs out here among the aspens. Any washouts?”

“Not on your end. The storm’s flash floods were worse farther north along the range. It looks like the calf got caught in the only one down by you.”

“That’s a relief.” Jackson knew the calf had been pinged as missing less than four hours ago, so exposure wasn’t a problem. It was more the question of whether it would suffocate in the mud before he could pull it free.

Normally, for a retrieval like that, he would commandeer a skiff, but the storm had been far stronger than forecast, so all the ranch’s heavier equipment was out dealing with the scattered herds and delivering techs to the downed sensor posts. It didn’t help matters that they had fewer ranch hands than usual, too, with many of them having been lured away by new jobs in Lawrence City and even Port Nomad. Canaan’s booming economy had emboldened many men and women to seek better fortunes in jobs that weren’t quite as grueling and, frankly, paid better.

Jackson smirked. At least the president’s administration had that going for him because the hearings into illegal arms sales blamed on his people weren’t going well.

He shook off thoughts of politics and intrigue. Not then. He’d been home for a week and needed every second to shed not only the last persona he’d donned for Covert Action Unit 171’s mission but also to refocus on family—which was why his brain immediately reminded him that their work would be a lot easier if Harry would pull his head out of his ass and drop the legal challenge.

“Hey, skimmer jockey.” Another vehicle swept in from his right, holding position about a hundred meters away on the rolling steppes. The skimmer was tan and bore the Castillo ranch’s logo. The drab body was a far cry from Jackson’s flashy yellow ride. Enrique Castillo, Abby’s younger brother, gave a curt wave. “Are you out here for the sights?”

“What, you didn’t find the calf yet?” Jackson shook his head in an exaggerated fashion so Enrique could see from that distance. “I didn’t think I was going to have to draw you a map when you Castillos started working our end of the ranch.”

“Me? Need a map?” Enrique’s skimmer whined as he accelerated past Jackson, but Enrique’s voice remained sharp and clear across the comms. “At least I can find the Adams portion. I don’t think you can even spell ‘Castillo,’ but don’t tell my sister that.”

Jackson chuckled and pushed his ride faster. Together their skimmers crested a broad hill and dropped into a series of gulches, which were usually dry save for a periodic trickle coming from the mountains. Those streams depended on snowmelt and seasonal rains, and given how dry the year had been, Jackson wasn’t surprised most of the ground was cracked.

But a half klick ahead, they came across huge swathes pummeled by rain and turned to choking muck. Broken trees were mired as far as he could see.

“Man,” Enrique said. “We’ll have to nudge the herds so they stay free of here until this dries out.”

“Abby’s already retasking the tags so they do exactly that.” Jackson glanced at the northeastern horizon.

Black clouds marked the storm’s departure, still visible all those hours later, and in sharp contrast to the blue skies in its wake. The tracker on his console alerted him to the calf’s proximity. Jackson slowed and lifted his visor, straining to see it.

“You hear it?” Enrique asked.

Jackson nodded. His helmet dulled some of the skimmer’s engine noise and allowed him to pick up other ambient sounds, including the pathetic bleating and bawling of their target.

Target. Jackson grinned. He had a mental image of Chief Ehud Dwyer swooping down in Novabird, the team’s modified racer used on their many missions, to pluck the distressed young animal free. “He’s lookin’ mighty tasty, Cap’n.” That would be Dwyer’s comment on the matter. I definitely haven’t been on leave long enough to stop thinking about work.

He and Enrique parked their skimmers on either end of a long, narrow gulch, the sides of which appeared recently collapsed.

Jackson dismounted and pulled a long set of straps free from the winch mounted aft. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

“That’s why I left my dress whites at home.” Enrique doffed his helmet and rolled up his sleeves.

“Don’t they make you get your hands dirty on Ericksson?” Jackson wished they had a spare drone to hover in and hoist out the calf, but the few available were out with the skiffs, taking care of other injured cattle or moving heavy debris.

“Usually no, but since we had to come crawling back to Canaan to get the damned wiring fixed, and the contractors seem to be taking their sweet time pulling out their mistakes, I’m about to ask my CO if he wants me to crawl around in the access tunnels.” Enrique slipped on a patch of mud and only righted himself by grasping desiccated roots protruding from the banks.

Jackson didn’t bother to brace but instead waded right in. The calf was in clear to its shoulders, so at least it had its head above the mud.

“Easy,” Jackson said in a soothing tone. It amused him when he realized he employed the same voice to talk down violent cartel members or anxious intelligence operatives in the field. “We’ll get you out.”

The calf bleated and thrashed about, or at least tried to thrash. Jackson waited until Enrique got his arms on the calf’s midsection then tossed the straps over the top.

“Send them under.”

Enrique grimaced as he shoved the straps deep into the mud, below the calf’s belly. Jackson reached, too, groping for the other end. He found Enrique’s hand, followed by the strap, and pulled back toward himself until he had the buckle secure.

“Okay, I get to run the winch.” Enrique dragged himself back out, using the roots for leverage.

“I’m pretty sure I have seniority, Second Lieutenant.” Jackson focused more on keeping the calf from becoming frantic than he did on debating the kid.

“Too late.” Enrique already stood at Jackson’s skimmer, grinning. “Ready when you are.”

“Punch it.”

The winch hummed to life. The straps went taut immediately. After a few seconds, in which Jackson thought the calf would be mired forever, it plowed forward half a meter at a time. Jackson held on, lending his weight to push in case his charge got stuck again.

They were both on dry ground soon enough.

Enrique cut the winch’s motor. “Hold him, and I’ll get the straps off.”

“Wait a second.”

The freed calf was in no mood to lounge about and kicked at whatever was nearest. Jackson refused to let go of its midsection, wrestling with it as Enrique grappled with the buckle.

The buckle popped free. Enrique scrambled away, falling onto his backside in a patch of briars. The calf bolted but not before knocking Jackson down.

Jackson found his entire left side suddenly embedded in mud. He felt like the only way to get him out would be if the Coalition Far Survey Corps conducted a full-fledged archaeological excavation.

Enrique burst out laughing then winced as he pulled himself free of the briars. Jackson joined in the laughter, finding it oddly comforting to be half slathered in grime with the sun beating down on him. At least there, the things he had to do were simple and morally straight—no question of ethics. And he didn’t have to lie hardly at all.

* * *

Jackson’s mom was working on the finances when he and Enrique returned to the Adams house for dinner that night.

Abby was there, too, brushing out her damp hair. “Hey, boys.” She wrinkled her nose. “Wow. Gloria, I’m surprised you let them walk in here like that.”

“We’re not twelve.” Jackson leaned over and kissed Abby, making sure he left a smear of mud on her cheek. “Also, we took off our boots.”

“Jay!” Abby punched his shoulder.

Mom frowned at the three of them. “You two should know better—especially you, Jack.”

“We’ll get cleaned off, Gloria.” Enrique smirked at Abby. “If only to stop my sister from whining.”

“And if you want to eat this evening.”

Jackson sniffed the air. “I don’t smell anything. What’s on the menu?”

“Longganisa and torta omelets from Kabayan. They’re being delivered.”

“Filipino food from Port Nomad?” Jackson leaned against his mom’s desk, careful to orient his clean side toward the glowing displays. “Sounds like a special occasion.”

His mom glanced at Abby. The two seemed as guilty as Jack remembered he and Harry being when they’d conspired to steal candy from their dad’s stash, back when they could reliably team up without being rivals. Ah, the joys of childhood.

“Mom?”

“Harry’s bringing dinner. His treat.”

Jackson’s stance stiffened, and his emotions threatened to race out of control. He loosened the former and clamped down hard on the latter, doing his best to maintain the air of relaxation he’d had after the day’s work. It was difficult to fake not being upset, especially around Mom and Abby.

Enrique, to his credit, took stock of the rising tension in the room and muttered, “I’m going to shower.”

Jackson sighed as soon as he was out of the room. “I know we agreed you’d speak to Harry about the legal challenge but—”

“But nothing, Jackson.” Mom raised a finger. “You and Harrison have to start acting like brothers, or we’ll never get this settled.”

“It’s not as if we haven’t been on speaking terms.”

“Issuing threats and demands and counterproposals is not a relationship. After we talked, I told Novak what I wanted to do.”

“The lawyer? How’d he take it?”

“He was wary, but he called Harry’s attorney, and the two agreed neither would use it as leverage when it came to the ongoing challenge.” Mom sagged in her chair. “I still can’t believe I had to ask lawyers if it was okay for my sons to eat together under my own roof.”

Jackson’s heart ached at how badly Mom wanted their reconciliation, but she had to realize it wouldn’t be that simple. Every gram of his training failed whenever he and Harry started talking. The best part of him going off to the far ends of the Coalition on operations while Harry worked in a Port Nomad fabrication shop was their chances to pummel each other were few and far between.

“He called while you guys were out with the calf,” Abby explained. “It’s a good start, Jay. I don’t think we have a chance of amicably resolving the dispute and letting the merger proceed between our ranches unless Harry agrees, and getting us all around the same table—without lawyers—is the way to do it.”

“You’re sure?” Jackson asked.

“I may have used up a lot of hot water while I prayed about it in the shower.” Abby grinned.

“Sounds about right.” Jackson frowned. “Okay, let’s give it a shot, but don’t be surprised if one of us loses his cool. I just hate Harry showing up with no one on his side.”

“He won’t.” Mom smiled. “He’s bringing a lady.”

“A lady.” Jackson fought to keep his expression deadpan. “They have those in Port Nomad?”

“A furniture store shopkeeper. She hand-carves her products.” Mom’s finger rose again, like a CIWS battery locking onto an incoming missile. “And you will not start anything, or so help me—”

“Roger that.” Jackson slipped behind Abby. He would much rather face Harry’s fists than Mom’s fury. “I’m going to duck to the other bathroom and see if any hot water is left in the house.”

* * *

Jackson went to the upper porch, his body refreshed but his mind more exhausted than ever. He didn’t think it fair that he could handle the turmoil of interstellar intelligence operations, including the betrayal of people with whom he’d pretended to be friends, but family seemed to be a danger more than ever. He considered himself lucky it had never interfered with his missions.

Or has it? Why was I so upset when the skimmer mechanic Euke inadvertently turned on Aphendrika’s criminal element and died? Why did I stick my neck out to protect the Ivanovs on New Rostov? He’d always assumed his emotional liabilities surfaced in the field because he was having qualms about his line of work. But maybe there was more to it. Maybe he was trying to take care of people he’d formed temporary relationships with because he’d messed up the long-term ones with his family. At least he and Mom had repaired their connection. Dad had passed away before that was possible.

Jackson’s commlink buzzed. The incoming transmission was encrypted through the connections used by Jackson and his team members when they were communicating outside a mission. The ID gave him Brant’s name.

“Yeah.”

“How’s ranch life?”

“Too soon to tell,” Jackson joked. “I was caked in mud for the better part of the afternoon, but it was good work, hard work, nothing morally ambiguous.”

A background tumult of voices almost swamped Brant’s chuckle. “Sounds exactly like the kind of work I would not enjoy. Don’t tell me—it always involves four-legged fauna.”

“Well, there are tech issues aplenty, from glitchy bookkeeping databases to malfunctioning skiff hover nodules, so you could always try your hand at that. How’s the conference?”

“A lot cleaner. No physical messes. Informative, but it’s hard to share best practices with my fellow officers when I’ve technically gotten things done by breaking the law.”

“CDF Intelligence deniability covers a multitude of sins.”

“It sounds like you’ve been listening to me stand behind a pulpit,” Brant said.

“So, what’s on your mind, then? Because you never call me when we’re on leave unless it’s to tell me the when and where of us going back in.”

“Don’t take it personally. I just like to spend time with family.” Brant coughed.

Jackson suspected it had nothing to do with a tickle in Brant’s throat.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

The hollow feeling in the pit of Jackson’s stomach had nothing to do with Brant’s comment. “Nothing to apologize for. My family’s dysfunction doesn’t stop other people from getting along with theirs. I get it. What’s going on?”

“Miranda messaged me. Miranda Eldred. They found Ardalion Noor’s body in a shipping container on Freedom Station.”

“Damn.” Jackson ran a hand through his hair.

Ardalion Noor, ex-CEO of Nosamo Aerothermic, the company CAU 171 had infiltrated a year and a half ago to find the murderer of a CDF Intelligence officer and rescue his trapped brother—he’d been linked to the funding of Fabian revolutionaries and, through them, the near collapse of the galactic economy via sabotage of the Galt Currency Exchange.

“There goes the Spencer administration’s hopes for a showy trial that would bring down the guy responsible for so many recent headaches.”

“That’s the general consensus. RUMINT has it they backtraced the freighter that picked up the container to a star system in the middle of nowhere, on a cargo run between Churchill and Freedom Station.”

“Any idea what was in that star system?”

“A base. It was cobbled together from locally purchased habitat modules, stuck in the middle of a swamp far away from other settlements.”

Jackson scowled, fully aware Brant couldn’t see his face. “And no one reported this?”

“The planet’s only got a population measuring in the tens of thousands, and most of them are freewheeling botanists and merchants. No one’s keen on telling law enforcement about strange happenings, assuming any police are around.”

“I take it the base has been locked down.”

“MacDonald’s team took down eight people who made what was probably a suicide run. The base was empty, but they found a shuttle down for repairs in a nearby hangar. Miranda’s going to get a peek at the onboard hard drive and see if it’s got any residual data. Probably it’s wiped, but that won’t stop her from scouring whatever bytes are left.”

“Okay. I guess we’re on call for that one.”

“Not yet. Nothing official. She’s keeping me in the loop.” Brant snorted. “But you can bet Sinclair wanted us to hear about it so we’ll be ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“Message everyone else, then, okay?”

“Already on it.” More voices in the distance. “Hey, I’ve got to go. I’m presenting at the next session.”

“What’s the scintillating topic?”

“How to keep communications secure in the field.”

Jackson laughed. “From the guy most experienced with breaking the enemy’s. Have fun.”

“You too.”

The signal cut. The commlink’s display glowed with the local time. Jackson shook his head. “Too much to ask for the colonel to recall us for a mission before dinner in the next forty-five minutes, I suppose,” he muttered. It would be hard enough to deal with Harry without wondering what trouble brewed on the other side of the Coalition.

2

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Canaan

12 April 2466

The smell from the plates full of longganisa and torta omelets was as grand as anything Jackson could remember in the past few years, counting the extravagant Giardino Delle Stelle at Bellwether Station. At least everyone at the table was sufficiently hungry because there were plenty of awkward silences to fill.

Mom and Marguerite Castillo had planned the seating. Ramon Castillo had wisely, in Jackson’s opinion, acquiesced to their orders. Mom sat at the head of the table with Harry on her right and Jackson on her left. Abby had taken the seat to Jackson’s right with Enrique beside her and Ramon beside him at the opposite end from Mom. Marguerite continued the pattern to Ramon’s right, where she could—and had—surreptitiously touched his hand before he could raise it to reinforce whatever point he was making.

The only new variable was Samantha LaPlante, Harry’s date for the evening. Tall and dark-skinned with brown eyes and black hair piled high, Samantha smiled at all the right times and seemed only a bit nervous, glancing down at her plate when the silence reigned.

Jackson considered it his role to help fill those silences while they danced around the real topic at hand. “So, Samantha, I understand you’re in the furniture business.”

“That’s right.” She grinned. “I suppose it’s more of a hobby than a business, really, but it’s one I’ve turned into a living.”

“She’s not bragging enough.” Harry, for his part, acted much more relaxed whenever he was interacting with her.

Jackson watched how he occasionally bumped shoulders with her or the way she touched his arm. It was easy to see their fondness for each other. When’s the last time I saw Harry show this much admiration for a woman—or anyone else, for that matter?

“You should check out her store. Hand-carved stuff. I’ve got a couple of chairs in my apartment.”

“I get all the raw wood from lumber companies working out of Dean Forest. It’s a long haul for the materials, but it’s worth every credit,” Samantha explained.

“That’s supposed to be better than what we have up in our mountains, isn’t it?” Mom passed a plate of longganisa to Jackson. Her gaze caught his. She was happy. Jackson hoped that would last when the dam eventually broke.

“So say the product reviews.” Ramon poured additional wine into Marguerite’s glass before adding to his. “I did a bit of research on your business, Samantha. You’re making quite the name for yourself in Port Nomad and beyond.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Castillo, and I’ll be sure to let my customers know.” Samantha raised her glass before taking a sip.

Chuckles rippled around the table, none louder than Ramon’s. He wagged a finger in her direction. “Harrison, I can see why you’re quite taken with her.”

Harry shrugged, but he wore an easy grin. “One of my better decisions.”

Samantha leaned into him. “And mine.”

“Yeah, true, but…” Harry straightened in his seat. “I know that’s not why we’re really here.”

The other shoe drops. Jackson kept his body as loose as possible, but his mind refused to let him forget that the last few times he’d seen Harry, his brother had punched him, and Jackson had demanded Harry drop his challenge with little reward offered.

“That isn’t why.” Mom speared them both with an iron look while somehow maintaining a smile. “We’re a family. I wanted to do more than be one on a tablet screen.”

“Harry’s right, though,” Jackson said. “We’ve got unresolved issues.”

“On both sides,” Harry agreed.

“Sounds like a promising start,” Enrique said through a mouthful of omelet.

Abby’s fork flashed.

“Ow!” Enrique muttered.

Ramon shot him a stern look. “I think it’s best to be clear about the matter. If the merger of the Adams and Castillo ranches is to continue, certain obstacles have to be overcome.”

Jackson appreciated his using the Adams name first but inwardly winced at the word “obstacle.” Harry, even though he had raised the issue, frowned when he heard it. “I’m not here to back down from what I think is right, Ramon. Look—Dad didn’t want this. Neither did Mom until Jack changed her mind.”

“Hang on.” Jackson leaned forward. “Mom’s capable of making her own decisions, last I checked. Just because I’m in favor of the merger doesn’t mean I forced her to sign anything.”

“Mom can also speak for herself.” She tapped her fork against her plate. “Harry, the merger is already happening out on the steppes. Our ranch hands are working on Castillo land and vice versa. We would have had another week’s worth of recovery efforts after that storm if not for their help. Now it’s all cleaned up except for one more day.”

“And Jay’s been working out the hiccups in our new sensor perimeter on the other side of the pass,” Abby said. “My guys and I would have taken three times as long without his help digging to the root of the problem.”

“That all sounds neighborly,” Harry grumbled. “But that doesn’t mean we need a legal change in ownership.”

“No, they’re benefits.” Jackson plunked his finger on the table. “The merger takes care of the finances. You’ve seen the books, Harry. Mom and Dad did their best, as did you, but our lands were too big and faced too many roadblocks to keep it profitable.”

“So that’s all it is.” Harry crossed his arms. “Money.”

“Of course it’s about money. Sentiment gets you only so far when it comes to preserving the legacy our parents built.” Jackson gestured at Mom, fully aware Abby was trying to whisper something to him but unwilling to back down in the face of Harry’s reemerging intransigence. “She knows it. So does everybody else. We have the land. The Castillos have the money. Allied, we turn both properties into one that honors all the work both families have put in.”

“And who gets to be in charge?”

“Not me.” Enrique’s tone was dull.

“Will you shut up?” Abby hissed. “You’re not helping.”

“Yeah? Neither are either of them.” Enrique scowled down the table. “Bickering over being the boss. That’s already been decided, Harry, and if you hadn’t been so stubborn about the whole thing, you could have lent your voice to the decision.”

“Outvoted is still outvoted, Ricky.” Harry sneered. “Since when did you get so concerned about anything other than keeping your Navy whites pressed?”

Enrique stood so fast his plate knocked over his wine glass. Cabernet sauvignon splashed across the center of the table. “Since I grew up, pendejo.”

Harry was right on his feet.

“¡Todo el mundo sentado y en silencio!” Ramon snapped.

“You heard him, boys!” Mom’s face reddened.

What had I thought about her fury before?

“Shut up and sit down!” she said.

Enrique and Harry sank slowly into their chairs, neither one breaking eye contact. Marguerite used her napkin to blot up most of the wine spill, with Samantha contributing hers to the effort.

Jackson sighed. That didn’t take very long. At least I wasn’t the one to lose my cool first.

Abby restarted the conversation, which Jackson considered the perfect move, since both Mom and Ramon were starting to steam while Enrique and Harry were glowering across the table at each other. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Samantha, but if I had a credit for every time our brothers did something stupid, I’d be the richest girl this side of the galaxy from Galt.”

Jackson choked on his wine.

Enrique squinted at her, looking unsure whether he should be grateful for the distraction or still furious. Harry’s face was a stone mask, but the corner of his mouth jerked up.

“No need to apologize.” Samantha looked at Harry. “We talked things over before coming to dinner, and Harry’s kept me filled in on what’s been going on. Besides, our family dinners have twice as many people, and the arguments usually get to the really heated stuff before we even decide who’s sitting where. That’s probably why we’re scattered across three star systems and only get together a few times each year.”

“Still, there’s no excuse.” Marguerite’s voice shook, but Jackson could tell she was resolute in whatever she was about to say. “No excuse for this kind of behavior. Enrique, Harrison has given more of his life to running this ranch than you could imagine. And, Harrison, our boy gives every minute he’s back on Canaan when he’s not off serving his country. The two of you will stay civil, or so help me, I’ll make you take your meals out on the porch and lock the doors behind you!”

Enrique snorted. He covered his mouth with a napkin.

“Don’t laugh at your mother.” Ramon’s posture deflated. “She means it.”

“It’s not that.” Harrison gazed down at his plate, his eyes suddenly closed. His cheeks turned red. “It’s just—”

“The east paddocks.” Jackson realized why Marguerite’s tirade sounded so familiar. Humor bubbled up inside.

“What are you boys sputtering about?” Marguerite looked ready to stand up, too, which Jackson would have found ironic.

“Harry and I got into a fight by our east paddock.” Enrique laughed, removing his napkin. “I socked him. He tackled me. We were covered in manure and hay when you pulled us both out by our hair—”

“We had to have been a half meter taller than her already at that age.” Harry joined in the laughter.

“And she swore we’d never eat another meal inside for the rest of our lives, even if the League showed up and mandated outdoor meals were forbidden!” Enrique wiped tears from his eyes. He had trouble speaking.

The laughter spread around the table, and Jackson could feel the tension forced back, if not banished entirely.

“Dad had to go get you,” Jackson said to Harry. “He was so pissed.”

“Probably because he was afraid of Marguerite,” Harry agreed.

The laughter trickled away. Harry ran a finger around the edge of his plate. He wouldn’t look up as he continued, “I want Dad to be proud of how we’re doing things. That’s all. It really doesn’t matter to me who’s in charge as long as the Adamses have a say.”

“Honey.” Mom grabbed his hand. “Your Dad and I have never been anything but proud of you.” She looked at Jackson and took his hand in hers too. “Both of you.”

Harry sighed deeply. Samantha put her arm around his shoulders.

“I think,” Ramon said softly, “this calls for a refill of wine—Enrique excluded.”

Abby snorted and had to cover her mouth. Jackson whipped out his napkin and dabbed at her face, exaggerating his efforts to keep her clean.

“Quit it!” she murmured.

“I think we have time to talk this over more,” Jackson said. “Calmly.”

“Yeah.” Harry grinned. “Yeah, that sounds good to me.”

“Very good.” Ramon smiled. “Perhaps in the meantime, Samantha, you can tell us about your most popular products. I was surprised to read how much people have gravitated back toward handcrafted furniture.”

“It’s been gratifying, for sure. Demand’s up so much since the end of the war that I added two woodworkers a month ago.” She smiled with what was a calculated sweetness, Jackson was sure. “But I gotta say, everyone’s moms keep asking us for outdoor dining sets.”

Marguerite was the first one to laugh at that joke, and Jackson couldn’t help but think that finally, maybe, they could get things on track, assuming he and Harry—and maybe Enrique, too—could keep their damned egos in check. For the moment, he was content to share a wink with Abby.

* * *

Meng Po

Petra (Canaan VII)

Canaan System

Vasiliy Kiel couldn’t believe where he stood. The bridge of Meng Po was nothing glamorous—utilitarian bulkhead and deck plates, bulky consoles scattered throughout—but he was thinking more about where the disguised freighter was and, therefore, where he was in relation to it.

The main viewscreen showed a sun, the golden orb centered among a field of stars, and silhouetted in front of it, a planet. Kiel caught a crescent of blue, green, and white at the edge, where the night side presented itself. Canaan.

How long have I dreamed about setting foot on those distant shores? Not for any sentimental reason, of course, but where else could I cause the most havoc and instill the most fear? It galled him to think of the Terrans enjoying their capitalistic excesses while they knelt and bowed in their ridiculous houses of worship, as if any one of their phony gods had gifted them with prosperity.

The League of Sol had tried to destroy the Terrans with overwhelming might, only to be turned back by an insidious cabal of their allies—the fickle Saurians and the greedy collection of neutral systems. The League’s fleets were in tatters, and the less the galaxy knew about that situation, the better.

That was why Kiel and his people were the prime instrument of retaliation. Perhaps “retaliation” was a poor word choice. Destiny? Kiel scowled and shook his head. I’m starting to sound like a Terran.

“Problem, sir?”

Kiel glanced at Ferenc, who stood beside him. His omnipresent assistant seemed unfazed by the sight of the Coalition’s heart laid bare before them, but given one of his eyes was a dim red cybernetic implant, it was difficult to get accurate reads on his state of mind based solely on his facial expressions. The dull monotone in which he spoke didn’t help.

“Ruminating, Ferenc. Nothing of major concern. What’s our status?”

“No sign patrols took extra notice of our entry into the system. Everything from Canaan proper out to the fifth planet is locked up tight with traffic control satellites and corvettes, but given how many merchant craft jump in and out from this approximate orbit, we should blend in.”

“Delighted to hear it. ETA to Canaan itself?”

“Three days, using the leisurely course and slow speeds you require.”

Kiel nodded. “Three days. How fitting.”

“Captain Zhou is ready to get underway but requests a word before he does, sir.” Ferenc’s lips twisted. “He seems perturbed.”

Well. Kiel sneered. How typical of Zhou. He turned and saw the captain conferring with his sensor officer, seemingly avoiding Kiel’s watchful eye. “I shall put his mind at ease.” No simple task, given the man’s complete lack of fear for Kiel. He shook his head. I’m not used to that, but given he shows loyalty to his ship and crew, I can do little to remedy the problem at this time.

“Vasiliy.” Captain Zhou Yongrui nodded as Kiel approached. “I’ve instructed Ancel to run a set of long-range passive scans—”

“Not necessary. We don’t need to skulk around this gas giant when our target is ripe before us.” Kiel gestured to the screen. Petra’s hazy green curve crept into view. “Set our course for Canaan using my prescribed approach and speed.”

“We will when I make sure we’re not being followed.” Zhou frowned. “Or did you miss the part in all my mission reports about how stealth boats seem attracted to our whereabouts?”

Kiel smiled, but it was not an expression meant to convey happiness. He gestured to a quieter corner of the bridge. “A moment?”

As soon as Zhou joined him in that corner, Kiel stepped close and raised a finger. “Do not presume to lecture me in front of your minions,” Kiel hissed. “We’ve come too far to hide in the shadows any longer than we have to.”

“If that’s the case, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

The rejoinder couldn’t have stunned Kiel more had Ferenc himself delivered it. “I’m sorry. I must have heard incorrectly because it sounded as if you wanted me to have Ferenc shoot you and eject your worthless carcass from the nearest air lock.”

Surprisingly, Zhou grinned. “Sure. You can keep your threats going, Vasiliy, but I’m going to run this ship and command this crew as I always have—with their safety in mind. Now, you’ve got a bunch of thugs down below who are heavily armed and whom you’ve been educating in the finer points of assassination and sabotage since we set up shop on that mudball. And we’ve done our part scavenging, trading, and pirating material in the meantime. But if we’re really going to do this, you’d better go in knowing I’m your partner and not your lackey.”

Kiel found himself at a loss for words, so he defaulted to his proven method—making threats. “How dare you.”

“How dare you.” Zhou closed the distance between them farther, his voice dropping in volume but growing sharper with each word. “I’m not a fool. This op is off the books. You’ve had no communications with Sol for months, except for that Vance guy locked up aft. Meanwhile, your tech boy, Yahanotov, has blocked every incoming transmission bounced to us from External Security Services. I knew this mission was a crazy one, and I was right. I wonder what the director would like to know about it.”

An infrequent spike of fear jolted Kiel. ESS Director Dimitry Borisov had made it abundantly clear, prior to Kiel’s sanctioned mission on Trenchant, that failure would mean dismissal and execution. Given the infernal Terrans had interfered once again there, Kiel had opted not to return to Sol and had instead created this fictitious assignment to strike at Canaan.

Ferenc had surmised from the beginning, but his loyalty was unquestionable. Yahanotov was spineless, so he would never say anything. Which left Zhou.

Kiel glared at his rival. “I will not let months of preparation go to waste because you feel you’ve been cut out of the chain of command,” he snapped. “You will take us to Canaan without your scans, and stop flinching at every imagined Terran stealth vessel you assume lurks behind us. Our mission demands the utmost secrecy. Can I count on you to carry out my orders?”

Zhou folded his arms. “Only if we check in with ESS first.”

“Fine.” Kiel pulled a small device from his pocket. It looked like a commlink but without any tiny screen or controls. He popped the hinged top and pressed the single red button beneath.

“Captain!” The young man at Tactical, a Lieutenant Balland, spun in his chair. “Engineering reports the reactor output has spiked. Safety interlocks are off-line. They estimate one minute until critical breach!”

Zhou’s eyes widened. He stared at Kiel.

“Have we corrected our relationship, Captain?” Kiel waggled the device.

“Yes. Yes, we have. I’ll get us going right away.” Zhou’s face paled. “Only…”

“No need for worry.” The flashing red lights and emergency klaxons were a minor distraction from Kiel’s moment of triumph, but he let them continue for ten seconds longer just to watch the sweat bead along Zhou’s hairline. Then he tapped the button and replaced the lid.

The clamor died down.

Balland hunched over his console. “Reactor levels down to normal, Skipper. Interlocks restored.”

“Tell Engineering to give the works a thorough going over but only once we’re underway.” Zhou sighed. “Helm, you have the vectors we need to follow. Set course, and proceed at one-quarter speed.”

“Aye, Skipper, proceeding at one-quarter speed.”

Kiel had already returned his attention to the view screen. A yellow box bracketed Canaan’s silhouette. “It won’t be long now, Captain Adams,” he murmured.

3

Wingren City

Pentecost Island

Canaan

13 April 2466

Gina Wilkes let the wind rock the hammock as she paged through the final chapters of And Then There Were None. She had a firm grasp of who the killer was by that point and was waiting for the protagonists to enact some righteous vengeance, but she knew Agatha Christie might not have that in mind.

“Georgine! Boil’s ready.”

Gina sighed. The only thing that irritated her more than a bad guy getting away was being interrupted toward the end of a good story, but she was no longer a teenager. Nor was Dad the erratic, mercurial presence Mom had been.

She slipped a long, yellowed fern leaf between the pages and closed the book. Jack hadn’t said anything about her failing to get him a souvenir from their last mission. Gina hated to admit that, between her preoccupation with finding Kyle and the limited time she’d spent on New Rostov before rushing across the League border to rescue him, she’d forgotten all about her tradition. But she hoped to give him the fern the next time she saw him, since it was the only bit of Nandao’s jungle—home to the insurgent base she’d failed to bring her brother home from—that had returned with her to Canaan.

The rain slackened into a steady drizzle. Gina left the book on the hammock. It would be much drier there, since she wore her still-damp bathing suit and a floral-decorated wrap. She sprinted up the lawn, avoiding puddles left by the preceding downpour, and made it onto the house’s wraparound porch as the rain thundered against the roof once again.

Gina opened the sliding screen door to the tantalizing aroma of a fish boil. She wondered if Captain Owen Wilkes, Coalition Far Survey Corps, had ever poured a steel pot full of shrimp, crab, and fish—not to mention potatoes and corn cob chunks—onto a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth before. It was equally unlikely she’d previously seen Dad trade his uniform for a short-sleeved pale-blue button shirt paired with black swim trunks.

“I knew food would drag you away from literature.” Dad brushed crumbs out of his beard. “The bread’s ready, too, by the way. Grab it from the oven?”

Gina seized a pair of mitts and pulled out the cast-iron pan. She set it on a wire rack at the far end of the table and lifted the lid. “Security breach.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Somebody’s infiltrated your baking.” She turned the pan, displaying the chunk missing from the loaf’s crusted top.

Dad chuckled. “How else was I going to know if it was perfect?”

“Hence the crumbs?” Gina shook her head in mock resignation. “You would have made a terrible spy.”

“But the best baker. This is a recipe your great-great-grandmother used.”

“I’m sure she did, but did you really have to use tech that was already ancient when she was born?”

“Less fussing, more buttering.”

Gina cut thick slices and slathered them with butter. An extra bowl with the melted version already sat on the table. She reflected on how medical studies had spent centuries claiming butter was either God’s manna or the killer of mankind. Given how many times she’d come close to death, Gina figured one evening of indulgence was warranted.

Her commlink rattled across the counter. She had to lunge for it, backward, to keep it from crashing onto the floor.

“Got a boyfriend these days?” Dad grinned.

Jack’s coded ID flashed across the tiny screen. “Sorry, Dad, this one’s taken. Give me a couple of seconds.”

“Fine, but if I eat all the shrimp, it’s your fault.”

Gina rolled her eyes as she stepped back onto the porch, grateful the thundering rain shielded Dad from her conversation. “It’s about time. Do you have any idea how many jokes the man can rattle off in an hour?”

“I missed you too.”

“Flatterer. When do we ship?”

“We don’t. Brant’s spreading the news—good or bad, depending upon your perspective. Ardalion Noor’s dead.”

Gina grimaced. The man had been scum—cultured, wealthy scum, but scum nonetheless. “I’m surprised it’s not on the news.”

“It will be soon. CBI can only hush things for so long, but Chaperone’s assisting.”

Ah. Gina wondered whether Cam Tahatan was still stuck on Freedom Station. “Am I correct in guessing he didn’t take a wrong turn out an open air lock?”

“The evidence so far points to homicide. Whoever killed him didn’t make much effort to hide the fact. Uncle Rob has his bloodhounds on the trail.”

“That’s good to hear. Any idea when we might get to join in?”

“Not yet. But I’ll let you know. Brant thinks they might call in Twenty-Two, since they’re on rotation.”

Gina wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Covert Action Unit 22 had proven effective, of course, during the Galt mission, but they were only a team of three, and First Lieutenant Duncan Garza wasn’t nearly the leader Jackson was. Few people understood human nature as he did.

Maybe if I get bored, I can impress upon Colonel Sinclair exactly how helpful I can be.

“In any case, enjoy your time away.”

“Yeah? Like you did with dinner the other night?” Gina leaned out into the rain, letting it wash across her face.

“It ended better than I expected. Nobody hit anyone. I thought for sure Mrs. Castillo would strangle us all if we refused to cooperate.”

“That would have been a great show.” Gina sighed. “Keep me in the loop, okay?”

“I will. Are you and your dad holding up?”

“Is this a Kyle reference, Jack? Subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be. Seriously, Gina, if you need more time—”

“I don’t. I’ll be fine. I always am.” She blew a kiss into the commlink. “Have Brant send me the juicy gossip when he gets a chance.”

Gina cut the connection and headed back inside. She smiled at Dad but couldn’t help noticing there were—and probably always would be—two empty chairs at their table of four.

That wouldn’t stop her from making sure she caught up on every second she’d missed with her father. For you, Mom. And we’ll save a spot for Kyle.

* * *

CSV Oxford

Planet 112-B

Terran Coalition System 112

Colonel Robert Sinclair could see why the men killed by Alpha Team had chosen the star system for their base of operations. Nothing much recommended it to anyone but the hardiest of souls.

He paced around the operations center’s tactical display or, more specifically, the sprawling hologram generator at its center. The image of a pink and purple planet minimized until he was looking at the rest of its neighbors. A red line arced across the fringes.

“The freighter, designated Arky’s Ablest, stopped at this cometary fragment while headed from Churchill to Freedom Station.” Captain Alon Tamir manipulated the imagery with his bare hands, the glow turning his complexion blue. “Her captain insists he hung around only long enough to retrieve the container. He told Agent Lind he received fifty thousand credits upfront and expected another fifty upon delivery to Freedom Station.”

“Expected but not received?” Sinclair peered at the fragment Tamir had highlighted.

“Actually, sir, he received sixty.” Tamir swept his fingers across the console in front of him. A message box floated in the midst of the holographic chart. “A bonus, according to this.”

“I see. ‘For prompt and discreet delivery.’ How generous.” Sinclair frowned. “Is this message all we have to go on?”

“That and the payments.” Tamir looked as disgruntled as Sinclair felt. “Although that’s not saying much. The first payment arrived in Arky’s holding account through a credit service, and the second was left on a chit in a storage locker under the captain’s name.”

“Quite a bit of planning and capital outlay, then.” Sinclair glanced behind them. “How goes it cracking the origin of either?”

“The message and the money? Because we’re talking three problems to solve.” Chief Warrant Officer Miranda Eldred rolled the muscles at the base of her neck and turned away from her multiple screens. Her eyes were dreadfully bleary. “The message’s sender code is garbage. I can untangle it, but I’m not hopeful it’ll lead us anywhere, because whoever sent it didn’t bother with the deepest-level encryption. Then there’s the chit—easy to buy, easy to load with credits. I’m eighty percent certain it accessed a separate account from the one used for the initial payment, though, because the routing numbers look like they’ve been altered.”

Sinclair blinked at the morass of numbers and letters filling two of her screens. “Good heavens. If you’ve sorted that much from the nonsense before you, I’m more thankful than ever you left the good graces of the Coalition Intelligence Service for our humble ranks.”

Eldred snorted. “I don’t think anyone considers their graces good these days, Colonel.”

A fair point. The capture of Benjamin Dravyn and his testimony before the Assembly had sent shockwaves throughout the intelligence community. CDF Intelligence and CBI were doing their level best to plug the gaps as CIS crumbled with resignations and arrests, though the core of leadership didn’t seem to be going anywhere. At least, President Justin Spencer had not called for Director Frank Pelletier to step down. Yet.

“I needn’t remind you this matter is of the utmost importance and, as such, takes precedence over anything else in our queue,” Sinclair said. “The sooner we can determine who procured this base and for what purpose, the sooner we can find Mr. Noor’s partners.”

“There’s no short list of those, sir.” Tamir slashed across his console, throwing more data into the holographic cloud—names, dates, news reports.

Sinclair was more interested in the faces. Alexis Barr, widow of the disgraced Major Ronald Drymand. Winston Cole, her associate. Farook Amjad, whose true name had long been redacted from CDF and CIS records but was formerly of Intelligence, just like everyone in the operations center.

Noor had funded their exploits on Galt, in the near-successful attempt to crash the credit market and throw the galactic economy into turmoil, all in the name of establishing the supposed utopia the socialist Fabians sought.

“Mr. Noor opened what accounts the Coalition had not seized to the Fabians for the Galt operation,” Sinclair noted. “The question remains—why? Most have posited it was pure revenge. But the method seems at odds with his lifelong desire to accumulate wealth by running one of the most lucrative megacorporations between our space and the Saurians’.”

“As you’ve said, Colonel,” Tamir agreed. “You suspect people are backing Noor.”

“Partners.” Sinclair reached for Tamir’s console and flicked Noor’s smiling visage into the cloud. “Though perhaps with greater power over him than we suspected.”

“Noor was a liability?” Eldred posed it as a question, her frown deepening. “They drained him of credits and shot him when he wasn’t of any use.”

Sinclair nodded. “A plausible theory, one which could be discarded along with the many others we’ve entertained since Galt.”

Eldred’s console beeped. “Excuse me, Colonel. I’ve been running the sender codes from the message and the banking transactions to look for a commonality or whether we’ve encountered them elsewhere. The comp’s found a potential match.”

“Let’s see it, Eldred.”

She expanded the view on her screen. It was all gibberish as far as Sinclair was concerned—he might be a spook, but he left the technical headaches to those better suited to the tasks than he.

“This.” Eldred touched the top one, highlighted in red. “This is the message’s sender code. Garbled, like I said, but the comp reconstructed parts. The ones below are examples of intercepts Brant and I took over the past year or so, most recently at Trenchant.”

Sinclair’s stomach tightened. He didn’t like the implication—not at all. “Do tell.”

“We haven’t found much, because of how it’s been altered. The comp could be grasping at straws, but it’s showing a thirty-seven percent probability this sender code is a modified and upgraded version of the one Captain Adams used to taunt the operative called Vasiliy.”

“ESS,” Tamir murmured. “Noor was consorting with Leaguer spies?”

“Given the profile we’ve built of this Vasiliy, and the fact that we nearly lost Lieutenant Guinto to him, I suspect Vasiliy instituted the consorting.” Sinclair scowled. “Bloody hell. I suppose his death was too much to hope for when he dropped from our scanners last June—if the analysis is correct. See to it your findings are corroborated, Eldred, but with the utmost attention to security.”

It was Eldred’s turn to make a face. “I’m almost insulted, sir. Don’t worry. Before you whisper up to the brass about this, I know just who to consult.”

* * *

Coalition Defense Force Conference on Cryptanalysis

Hotel Diamond Edge

Waterford Range

Canaan

First Lieutenant Brant Guinto exchanged nods and smiles with the seminar attendees as he headed for the room’s exit. How does Jack do it? Pretend he’s at ease with everyone in every situation. Brant tried not to wipe his palms on his trousers after each hand he shook. The people congratulating him for an informative session probably would have appreciated the lack of sweat.

He didn’t exhale until he was in the west foyer, where a huge window opened three stories to the ceiling. The Waterford Mountains spread in a seemingly endless panorama of snow-covered peaks, the midday sun making them gleam like white marble.

There he could find a bit of solitude on the benches hemmed in by stunted pines, their needles rustling under the heat from the overhead vents. Brant pressed himself into a corner as far as he could go and consulted his tablet. The device was no basic-brained pocket model but a unit of his own design, laden with so many defensive algorithms and security countermeasures that he could break into any system, should the need arise. Brant didn’t see such a need, but it was nice to have the electronic brainpower for situations like that.

He let the decryption subroutine do its trick on the attachment he downloaded from Miranda’s message. She’d disguised it as a financial database, but when opened, links hidden in the quarterly earnings for a chain of popular restaurants opened up reams of data around the Noor murder.

Plus, the message itself ended with “Miss you.” Brant smiled. He could have stormed back into the conference room and given three more presentations back-to-back-to-back without a lapse in confidence after that.

His smile faded as he saw the analysis she and Tamir had conducted. “Thirty-seven percent?” Brant murmured. “So-so. Let’s see if we can’t improve that.”

Brant pulled the signal comparisons and ripped them apart, letting his algorithms examine every byte of data underneath. They found enough similarities that Brant could see why Miranda’s initial finding was close. But if it really was Vasiliy hiring an unsuspecting merchant to haul a box containing Noor’s dead body, he had to be certain. Everyone else does, too, of course, but for me…

His hands started trembling halfway through typing the commands for the second subroutine. “Dammit,” Brant muttered. He focused on his breathing, went through the exercises the medics had given him during his recovery, but his spiking adrenaline at reading Vasiliy’s name on the screen—at knowing he could still be active and possibly in Coalition space again—rendered his efforts useless. His fingers shuddered uncontrollably.

Brant closed his eyes and tightened his left hand into a fist, covering it with his right. “Father God, grant me peace of mind and calm my troubled heart. Forgive my sins, and give me the strength and clarity of mind to find my purpose and walk the path you’ve laid out for me.”

It took a few minutes, but the shaking subsided until he felt only a buzzing in his digits, as if his fingers were trying to restart their tremors but were restrained. Brant’s breathing slowed. Not perfect, but it would have to do.

It was Vasiliy’s fault. The back wound caused by his plasma pistol ached worse than ever after days of standing at podiums or sitting in uncomfortable chairs on panels. Every ounce of pain Brant had experienced since that hellish day on Trenchant almost a year ago could be traced back to the terror Vasiliy had inflicted—not just by shooting Brant but by being such an insidious presence that he’d driven Jack to vengeful, obsessive decisions. Decisions that had put Brant into the place where he would be shot.

The second subroutine finished. Analysis results—fifty-nine percent certainty. The odds were increasing. That was the kind of news Brant should be pleased with in any circumstance. But he ran the signal pieces back through his gauntlet, looking for a more definitive answer. He swept snippets of intercepts he’d gathered in the field on Aphendrika and aboard Bellwether Station into the midst, giving the algorithms more points of reference. Then, on their own, they dug up more examples not just from Trenchant but from elsewhere in the Coalition, ones Brant had gathered on the sly, as he was apt to do when not on assignment. Probably not the thing to tell Colonel Sinclair, but he usually deleted the data anyway. Not those, though. Brant had to know.

The third subroutine reported a match with eighty-two percent certainty. Brant stared at the screen as the programs displayed the message to Arky’s Ablest alongside the direct signal Vasiliy had sent to Jack at the conclusion of the Aphendrika mission as well as the intercepts Brant and Duncan Garza’s tech, Chief Warrant Officer Ixora Sakuri, had gathered from Bellwether’s comms nets. Vasiliy sent the message. Brant was sure of it.

About whether he’d facilitated the payments, there was a discrepancy of about fifteen percent, but Brant was confident he could narrow that gap too. What was Vasiliy’s goal in riling up the Fabians using Noor’s money? Why didn’t Vasiliy’s team do the work themselves?

Of course, they were down an operative. Sev had seen to that. He’d shot Ciara Bui or Celia Bui or whatever her true name was before she could kill hundreds in Trenchant’s shipyard. Brant shook his head. Missing one person wasn’t enough. Not for ESS. And whoever ran Vasiliy’s tech was as skilled as Brant, based on what he’d gathered from their encryptions and signals jamming—well, maybe close but not as good. Something else was at play.

He compiled his findings and dumped them into a secure folder rigged with a tamper warning that would delete the contents should anyone other than Brant access the tablet. He’d done all his work off-line, establishing only the briefest secure uplink before sending his quick report back to Miranda—with “I miss you too” included, naturally.

Brant leaned against the window. He let the arctic chill seep into his head and shoulders. He would find time to tell Jack. Sinclair would, too, when he thought it was appropriate, but Brant couldn’t keep it from his friend and CO. Too much was at stake. Whatever Vasiliy had planned, based on his past exploits, it would be nothing but dangerous for the Coalition.

4

Meltdown Pub

Planet 107-C, “Crag”

Terran Coalition System 107

15 April 2466

Captain Duncan Garza belched loudly enough to vibrate the sides of his head. His drinking partner slapped him on the back so hard Garza feared the false cybernetic eye concealing his real right one would jostle free.

“Hell of a feat, Dan!” The man, Captain Vince Marble of the ore hauler Homely Home, was twice his size and sported half the hair. He chuckled as he downed half his mug of beer. “Where you been hiding out all this time? Only your second trip to Meltdown, and I bet even Louise can’t out-belch you.”

“Hey, man, when you show up at a new bar, you’ve got to honor the local customs, am I right?” Garza hiccupped.

“Easy there, Vector One.” Second Lieutenant J.S. Richards sounded typically stern with a tad of anxiety, though it was hard for Garza to take the kid’s admonition seriously. Josh could do with an undercover assignment of his own to loosen him up. Unfortunately, it was a Catch-22—he would never be easygoing enough to qualify for the very kind of mission he needed. “I’m having trouble with the audio feed.”

Duncan wanted to tell the kid to relax, but the only way he could communicate was to issue a “confirmed” or “negative” through the transmitter embedded in his shirt sleeve. Besides, Duncan wouldn’t have much luck wheedling local gossip out of the miners and merchants crammed into the bar if he broke every thirty seconds to answer a call from his tech.

“I’m looking for a job, man,” Duncan told his drinking buddy. “Got anything on the ore haulers coming and going?”

“Only if you want to lose more than your eye. The haulers are making fewer runs and sticking to convoys ever since the pirates started up a while back.”

“Pirates? This deep inside the Coalition?” Duncan sneered. “You’re kidding. Ain’t no way a bunch of thugs with an armed scow could chase off one of your ships, even if it wasn’t hiding in a fleet.”

“You don’t know what we’ve had to fool with. These pirates, they’ve got topflight tech. We’re talking stealth.” Marble quieted his tone and glanced around the bar.

“Expecting a visitor?”

“Maybe the raiders,” Marble admitted.

“In here? What, can they fit a ghostship through the front hatch?” Duncan chuckled. “What a bunch of babies.”

“No way. You still don’t get it. They were jumping every ship they could get their hands on.” Marble tapped the side of his mug, his expression becoming solemn. “This wasn’t the feds or the military. Unmarked ships. Nobody knows if it was one crew or more, and they always seemed to know the best cargoes to take. It started making the other captains jumpy, see, like they couldn’t trust each other or even use comms unless they had a foolproof link that couldn’t be cracked.”

Richards snorted. Duncan couldn’t blame him for the reaction. They both knew better than most that there was no such thing as foolproof when it came to secure communications—which was why Richards could access Homely Home’s signal records while Duncan was sharing drinks with her captain.

“Okay, relax, I get it. These attacks are a big problem.”

“Well, they were, up until last week.” Marble snapped his fingers. “Then, done. Just like that. I mean, it’s only been a few days, but people are starting to exhale when it comes to planning their next cargo run.”

“What about you? Looking for another ship to take ore off your hands?”

“Nah, not yet. We’ve got enough saved up. I figure on waiting another forty-eight hours, just to be sure.”

Duncan tapped the side of his head. “Smart. Super smart.”

Marble grinned. “That’s why I’m the captain.”

“One, this is Vector Home,” Richards said into the comms. “I’ve got the sensor logs. Disconnecting now.”

Duncan returned Marble’s grin but for different reasons. Local CBI pinpointed Marble as a smuggler with connections, someone who used legitimate hauling as his cover. He wasn’t likely to give up his sensor logs to official law enforcement requests.

“You want another beer?” Marble asked.

“Nah. I’ve got to get moving.” Duncan stood and slapped Marble on the shoulder. “So, you’ve got my code. Signal me if a job opens up.”

“Sure, sure. I’ll see what shakes out in a couple of days. Good to meet you.”

Duncan slipped through the crowd to the front door. He sucked cold air as soon as he was outside in the brisk evening weather, scanning the storefronts and bar windows along Freight Boulevard. “Wow. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to breathe normally again.”

“Sensors didn’t detect anything wrong with the HVAC in the building.” Richards sounded like he was frowning.

“It was a joke, Home, and I’m not going to trust the sensors if they couldn’t register the stench my nose did.” Duncan headed up the hillside toward the hangar bays lining the ridge. Brilliant lights shone from the edge of the landing zone. “Anything of use inside those logs?”

“Well, lots. If you want the target for smuggling. It’s probably drugs.”

“Pass it on to CBI and the local LEOS, but I meant related to our mystery ship. This is the third tavern I’ve hit in the past day, and all the chatter’s been about how happy they are the marauder’s gone.”

“So…” Richards whooped. “Got it! Homely Home did have a run-in with the ship a month ago. Looks like the intruder jumped them as they exited a Lawrence wormhole, but Homley skirted a gas giant’s rings and fell in with a flotilla of ice haulers on their way to Crag. Guess that was too many. The intruder spun up its drives and jumped out not long after.”

“What sort of specs can you pull?”

“General freighter, maybe. Modified stock scow, I think. There’s evidence of multiple refits. Homely didn’t come equipped with CDF Intelligence-grade scanners so…”

“The gist of it, Home.”

“This thing maneuvered way better than any privateer I’ve seen, and her sensor silhouette was giving Homely’s comps fits, like they couldn’t figure out where it was the last time.”

“Good. That’s a start. Switch me over to Two.”

“One second… go ahead.”

The comms band clicked softly. “Vector Two, this is Vector One,” Duncan started. “I’m coming up to the hangar now.”

“Roger, One.” Chief Warrant Officer Ixora Sakuri sounded cheerier than Duncan could ever remember. “I finished swapping in the new nav charts an hour ago. Where to?”

“Time we check back in with the local LEOs and see what they have to say about the fact that their piracy problem seems to have dried up right around the same time Arky’s Ablest picked up that ill-fated container.” Duncan smirked. “And I’m in a hurry.”

“For any reason other than to give me the satisfaction of pushing this bird’s engines?”

“None at all, Two.”

By the time he stepped into the hangar, the red lights indicated an imminent departure. The Florio Ionworks Mark Thirteen gleaming under the illumination seemed eager to fly, its wings pivoted for takeoff and its engines aglow. Duncan boarded through the side hatch and sealed it behind himself.

“Ready, sir?” Sakuri glanced over her shoulder, hands on the flight controls.

Duncan slipped into the seat behind her and strapped in. Richards tended the screens at the copilot’s console while muttering to himself about whatever his portable comp said.

“Josh.” Sakuri kicked his boot. “Focus on Nav and Comms.”

“Yeah, I got it. All cleared. Flight control’s happy.” He waved at her without looking up.

Sakuri sighed. She eased Novabird into the night sky, banking sharply north then northeast as the racer sped through the wispy, scattered clouds.

“I have to say.” Duncan reclined his seat. He kicked off his boots and crossed his feet on the bulkhead to Sakuri’s left. “We’d better have a talk with Colonel Sinclair’s procurement people. It doesn’t seem fair CAU 171 gets to travel in such style.”

“Don’t worry, sir. A successful mission with her, and we might get our pick, too, instead of relying on whatever bird Oxford has available.” Sakuri swatted at his feet. “Keep them off. Warrant Dwyer’s orders.”

“Warrant Dwyer isn’t here. What’s our ETA?”

“Forty-five minutes. We got word from Captain Tamir while you were slumming—Oxford’s due to jump tomorrow morning, oh seven hundred local time. They’ll pick us up when we’re ready. Sounds like the sorting through Planet 112’s leftover comms is bearing fruit.”

“That’s the kind of news I like to hear.” Duncan closed his eyes. Forty-four minutes was plenty of time for shut-eye—especially after the cacophony of the bar—and for him to mull over what exactly the pirates had been after.

* * *

CBI office

Port Wax, Crag

Having Novabird as their transport didn’t just mean swift travels. A civilian craft, even a souped-up racer, drew less attention than a military shuttle would. Duncan appreciated how other aircraft they encountered ignored their flight path instead of offering the respectful distance required by CDF shuttles. It also meant they could land at whatever berths were available on Port Wax’s ten public fields.

The CBI field office was unmarked and indistinguishable from its surroundings. It occupied the bottom floor of a four-story building that was also home to surveyors and real estate brokers, whose garish signs vied with one another for attention. The side street was packed with the four-floor structures, each one bearing the same streaks of grime as the next, with passers-by paying the most attention to pawn shops and mercantile establishments. The rumble of ion engines and hiss of landing thrusters provided a constant background racket Duncan appreciated.

He pushed open the door to the office. The interior was a collection of ratty but comfortable-looking furniture—desks, chairs, cabinets. One sagging fern perched dead center on the reception tablet toward the front of the room, dust making its purple leaves dimmer than Duncan suspected they actually were.

A lone man with thick jet-black hair sat behind the farthest console. Duncan pegged him as in his late forties, with deep frown lines and a thick mustache obscuring most of his lips.

“Agent Patel?”

The man’s hand drifted beneath the console. “Turn slowly. Hands in the air.”

Duncan did as commanded, taking care to project an air of calm. “I hope Uncle Rob reminded you I was coming.”

“Sure.” Some of the tension left Patel’s frame. “Vector One—or ‘Dan,’ as you’re using on Crag. The scanner says you have two knives and a pulse pistol.”

“None of which would be much good against whatever weapon you’ve stashed by your leg.”

Patel lifted a submachine gun and set it atop his console. It had a stubby suppressor affixed to the muzzle. “Agent TK Patel, at your service. Have a seat, Dan. Use the red chair.”

“A favorite for guests?” Duncan sat opposite the console. The knife hidden nearest his right palm was only a few centimeters from his wrist—one flick would drop it into his grasp. Better to be prepared.

“No, but it’s least likely to have accumulated slate-vole crap. You’ve got intel for me?”

“On the ghost pirates.”

Patel snorted. “That again. Look, Dan, these smugglers are as apt to shoot each other out of space and ransack whatever cargo they haven’t blown up as they are to panic about mysterious super-pirates. Whoever’s doing this is more efficient than the locals.”

“That’s because it’s likely a Leaguer ship.”

“Bullshit.” But Patel leaned forward. “What proof?”

Duncan handed over a tablet, confident Richards had rigged it to delete each file it contained after being read. “We pieced this together from smuggler records. The drive signatures, fragmented as they are, mimic the stealth freighter that has tangled with both CSV Oxford and Tuscon.”

Patel whistled. “They went nose to nose with a stealth boat? Their captain’s got a big old brass pair.”

Duncan chuckled. “Anything else you can tell us about its activity?”

“Not much. I wish I had more, but as you may have noticed from the lack of décor, we’re strapped for funding, which equates to fewer people. I’ve got two other agents. One’s in the southern polar region cracking down on a drug cartel with the help of local Colonial Rangers. The other’s hitched a ride back from System 112 with your Oxford. She tells me they think a Leaguer spy might have arranged for them to find the box that Noor bastard was in.”

“That’s the RUMINT.” Duncan wouldn’t confirm until he knew for sure how read-in CBI was in the region.

“Well, I hope it’s true.” Patel tapped his submachine gun absentmindedly. “See, the ghost raider has had the smugglers running scared, which makes it easier for me to crack down on their business—they tend to turn on each other when threatened. Since the attacks stopped a week or so ago, the smugglers have lain low, and my informants have gone quiet.”

“But have you heard where it might have gone?”

“Possibly Galt or Trinidad. A couple of guys swear they saw it jump toward the home planets—Churchill, maybe, or Canaan. Nobody’s certain.” Patel scowled. “If you got me these specs, though, let’s see about Orbital Control. They have about as much funding as we do, but Orbital does its best to monitor incoming and outgoing jumps. This thing might show up even if stealthed.”

“It’s worth a try,” Duncan agreed. “Can you make the call from here?”

Patel shrugged. “Sure. But it’d be more interesting to see what’s out there if you have something that will break atmo.”

“Agent Patel, are you trading information so you can go for a joyride?”

“Does it look like I’m juggling appointments right now?” Patel spread his arms wide, as if to encompass the empty office. “Besides, this is the most interesting case we’ve had since I got posted here, and I’ll be damned if I miss out on the intrigue and give my supervisor the satisfaction of an ‘I told you so’ when he banished me here. Let’s get moving.”

* * *

Sakuri guided Novabird along a long, parabolic course from Crag’s orbital path, heading away from the sun. “Are we certain this is where Orbital Control had its last registered complaint?”

“Not a complaint, really, but more like an informational suggestion.” Patel caressed the upholstered arms of his seat and gazed out the cockpit windows. “The last smuggler who saw the raider says it jumped within fifty thousand klicks of your trajectory.”

“That narrows it down,” Richards murmured.

“Well?” Duncan leaned over his shoulder. “Anything on scanners?”

“The neutrino patterns from jumps don’t last forever. But they can be reconstructed—not with a lot of certainty.” Richards chewed his lip. “Let me connect to PASCORE.”

He established a link through the encoded system that hooked Novabird into the Passive Scan Observation and Reporting network, a series of secret sensor platforms strung throughout the Terran Coalition. Recent upgrades gave it the ability to predict when and where vessels might emerge from the wormholes generated by Lawrence Drives, which made the network handy for watching the Coalition’s border with League space—but it could work just as well tracking ships inside Terran space.

“Guess I know where the money goes that doesn’t come to my office,” Patel muttered. “Since when does CDF let whatever you guys are flit around on racers bulked up with military-grade sensors?”

Sakuri gave him a withering look. “Sir, perhaps he’d be more comfortable in the aft compartment.”

Duncan smirked. “That’s the cargo hold.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Ha!” Richards slapped his console. “Got a trace, Captain. Not much. Definitely from six to nine days ago. The probability is high that it matches the drive signature from whatever attacked Homely Home and what Intelligence has encountered before.”

“Please tell me it lets you establish an exit vector.”

“Nothing specific, but it does put the direction within one hundred light-years of Canaan, give or take.”

Duncan nodded. One hundred light-years encompassed a vast volume of space, but when one considered the Terran Coalition stretched almost thirty times that distance from one border to the other, it was pocket credits. Besides, ships and sensors increased the nearer to Canaan one got.

“That’s practically a bull’s-eye,” Patel said.

“It sure is. Thank your pal at Orbital Control for us, Agent Patel.”

“I’ll do that, but it’d be helpful if I could take her to dinner—and spruce up my office a bit, now that I think of it.”

Duncan grinned. “Josh, have we touched much of our operational budget for this assignment?”

“I mean, on fuel and tech expenses, sure, but when it comes to…” Richards mouthed an “Oh” and reached for his console. “Let me see what we’ve got under, um, incidentals.”

“Always glad to reach out to our colleagues in CBI when it matters most,” Duncan told Patel. “Assuming you’ve got more of these reports we can use to put together a full profile of what the raider’s been taking from the smugglers.”

Patel nodded. “I’ll get you those, no problem, but let me save you the trouble of a lot of boring reading. Your League ghost was interested in guns—not ship-mounted, though. Battle rifles, plasma pulse pistols, heavy squad automatic weapons, sniper scopes. They were looking to equip a few dozen people with the nastiest.”

Duncan’s smile faded. So much for his hope that they had been stealing supplies or raiding goods for resale. “Josh, get me an encrypted tight-beam to Oxford so we can give Colonel Sinclair the bad news sooner rather than later. He won’t want to wait.”

5

Meng Po

Corinth Orbit

Canaan System

15 April 2466

Captain Zhou Yongrui swore he would never pray, not in a million years, not even after all the suns in the galaxy expended their fuel and either flickered out like spent embers or exploded into blazing supernovas.

But he could see why doing so appealed to the Terrans. Even then, as Meng Po passed the final and strictest sensor net forming a sphere of early warning around the Terran capital, Zhou wished for a deity who watched over the things he couldn’t control. He didn’t like the feeling of helplessness pervading him as the modified freighter cruised through the orbit, engines at low power, like most other cargo vessels plying the space lanes.

The young Lieutenant Balland hunched over the helm. He’d refused a replacement even though his shift was up. Admirable dedication. Zhou hoped that was the cause of his refusal and not fear of Kiel. Fear was a good motivator but poor for morale. Not that Zhou’s morale was any better after that stunt Kiel had pulled.

“Skipper?” Senior Chief Francois Ancel beckoned Zhou to his console. “No interrogatories from the first buoys. They’ve flagged our false transponder as legitimate.”

“Good to hear. We paid enough for the components to make it alterable.” And they’d waited long enough for that orc Yahanotov to finish reconfiguring it. The positive news didn’t stop Zhou from sweating. Far too many ships loomed within the last astronomical unit’s approach to Canaan from Corinth’s orbit, the next one out. Corinth was a dusky-brown planet with tiny white polar caps and streaks of yellow ochre where lithium was mined on a daily basis. Fascinating on an economic basis, and Zhou wondered why Kiel didn’t have them sabotage the billions of dollars in credits’ worth of machinery down there, but for the immediate term, it meant space was filled with dozens of ore haulers and personnel carriers flitting back and forth.

Meng Po’s pip shone bright white on the tactical display, with the name Cobalt Sky in its place and a Coalition commercial traffic transponder code for all to see. Zhou watched nearby freighters ping the transponder, and Meng Po’s system, shepherded by Ancel, returned the favor.

“Steady as she goes,” Zhou said. “Everybody’s going about their business, are they?”

“A few patrol ships on the fringes, sir,” Balland reported. “As expected.”

“Mark them as Tangos, Lieutenant, and repopulate the board.”

“Aye, Skipper, designating Tango One through Six, repopulating.”

The new markers switched colors, and the new designations appeared. Zhou frowned. Not ideal, six patrol craft. They were cutters affiliated with Terran Coalition Frontier Enforcement—Bulwark-class, eighty meters, heavily armed. Ancel’s scan results confirmed those details. Knowing the facts didn’t make Zhou feel better about what they were facing. Of course, the toughest was yet to come. CDF vessels at various shipyards and military stations orbited Canaan itself.

It’s fine. Play merchant. Follow the rules. Make sure the trading ports have you registered.

An alert sounded from Tactical at the same time as a similar one blatted from the sensor console. “Heading change on Tango Three, sir,” Balland said. “She’s changed course to match ours.”

“Active scans.” Ancel’s voice rose in pitch. “They’re querying our transponder.”

“Hell.” Fooling civilian ships was one thing. Testing the hardware of a TCFE cutter—especially one protecting the capital with what one assumed was superior tech—was another. “Helm, plot us a course out of here. Stand by to go full on the mains.”

“Wormhole drive will take twenty-six seconds to spin up, Skipper,” the helmsman said.

“I’m well aware,” Zhou snapped. He couldn’t rip his gaze from Tactical. Tango Three slipped onto a parallel course with Meng Po, holding distance five hundred kilometers off.

“Transponder is reporting out,” Ancel said.

Don’t let us get caught, Zhou pleaded. I have to protect my crew. I want them to make it home, somehow, sometime.

The alert sound died from the sensor console. Ancel leaned forward, hands splayed on the control. “Cleared, Skipper.”

“Confirmed,” Balland said. “Tango Three is continuing on.”

“No one claimed this would be easy.” Zhou clapped Ancel on the shoulder. “Good work keeping the Terrans happy.”

“Sir…” Ancel looked over his shoulder. “Captain, this plan—we don’t even know what we’re doing. The boss treats us like glorified delivery crew and blocks us from checking with ESS while he plots with his thugs belowdecks.”

“Zip it,” Zhou hissed. “You know what he’s capable of. Keep talking like that—”

Ancel flicked his fingers against the console. Zhou noticed a small orange light pulsing in one corner, among the many readouts related to Canaan system traffic. “I’m scrambling internal comms. The bridge is a dead zone, as far as he’s concerned. It shows up as faulty wiring or a burnt circuit.”

Zhou glanced over at the Comms station. The officer there nodded and went about her work like nothing was amiss.

“We all know what he did, Skipper,” Ancel whispered. “Whatever happens, we’re behind you.”

“Thanks, Francois, but the numbers aren’t. There are twenty-four of us and seventy-two of his people, most of whom are the scum he’s rounded up over the last year.” Zhou paced a meter back and forth. “Our goal now is to get them where they want to go, even if it’s Lawrence City itself. After that, we make plans.”

“I’ve got an option.” Ancel plucked a miniature tablet from his pocket. “Balland helped set it up. Safed from the rest of the shipboard network. Here—we can access Canaan’s comms satellites, getting us into the social media networks.”

That could work. Yahanotov, Zhou assumed, was keeping watch on all communications into or out of Meng Po. He’d heard Kiel admit as much. But Zhou was hesitant to attempt direct signals to ESS at such a close range to Canaan. Whatever comms interception techniques the Terrans were using those days, they were bound to be more advanced so near the capital. Of course, they’d just fooled TCFE scans on the Terran’s front doorstep, so there was hope.

Zhou snorted. Hope. The only hope he had was to get his people home, like he’d said. But as for himself, well, he was much more pragmatic. He didn’t care where he ended up as long as he was alive and in command of a ship. Zhou would take a garbage scow at that point. Who am I kidding? If I’m not hunting an enemy vessel or tiptoeing through hostile territory, what would I even do with myself? Every choice I’ve made in life has led me to this insane moment.

“All right, people.” Zhou made sure to match the watchful gaze of everyone on the bridge, one at a time. “Let’s get this done so we can leave the Terrans behind, once and for all. But when it comes to our boss, you let me handle the mess.”

“Not on your own, Skipper,” Balland argued.

Nods from the rest accompanied his statement. Zhou’s throat tightened.

“Do what you have to with your special project,” he murmured to Ancel. “But be careful. It could be the best chance we have.”

* * *

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Canaan

The storm pelted the skiff’s windows with rain. At least it wouldn’t keep its typical film of dust from the spring winds. Glad for the distraction of terrible weather, Jackson watched the sensor console kick back verifications for the location of each head of cattle. Anything to take his mind off Brant’s news.

The message had come in early that morning, before he awoke. Brant had left text only, a few lines explaining the situation, until the note deleted itself from Jackson’s commlink. Jackson still had trouble believing it was real, not a figment of his imagination.

Vasiliy was back. Back. Jackson scowled at his own idiocy. Why did I ever write off my adversary? Back-to-back missions for CAU 171 with grave implications for the fate of the Coalition had intervened since the showdown at Trenchant. Jackson knew CDF Intelligence had never quite given up the search, but since Vasiliy had managed to stay quiet, he couldn’t help feel disappointed that Intelligence had never put him and his team back on the case to track down the ESS spy.

There was a reason for that—him, his own unruly obsession. Jackson cursed himself—not for the first time and certainly not the last—for letting the pursuit of a Leaguer operative get so far out of hand. He’d almost lost his friend and his team in a rapid spiral of poor decisions.

That was over. Jackson had moved on. But Vasiliy, it seemed, had not, or at least his actions—if they were really his—indicated a willingness to escalate conflict with the Coalition.

Killing Noor signified that he was no longer useful. Jackson smeared his finger through the condensation on the skiff’s window. What was Noor’s value? Financial. Jackson had always thought it strange, Noor going solo behind the Fabian extremists. Having Vasiliy guide him on the path to vengeance made more sense. The question remained—what am I going to do about it?

Nothing, it seemed. At least, not right away. Brant seemed to think CAU 22 was on the case of pursuing Noor’s killers with CBI help. Cam Tahatan would be good backup for Agent Lind on Freedom Station. But given the magnitude of the threat Vasiliy posed, Jackson assumed it would only be a matter of time before CAU 171 was reactivated and their leave cut short.

And while he relished the idea of going after Vasiliy—albeit with a healthier attitude about himself and his team—a quiet voice in the back of his head whispered he should be grateful for the détente he was enjoying, however temporary.

Harry barged through the skiff’s cockpit door. Jackson had a hard time imagining Harrison Adams doing anything without barging.

“Whew! I should’ve worn goggles out there.”

“How’s the herd look?” Jackson rapped his knuckles on the console. “Census for this bunch is coming up at a hundred percent.”

“That’s good. They’re ornery, but they’ll survive. I corrected our course on the console outside to keep the hover nodules brushing them up onto the rise, away from the draws.” Harry doffed his Adams ranch cap and wiped a calloused palm across his face, clearing raindrops off like wipers on a helicar.

“I saw that. Good call.”

“Thanks. Vitals okay?”

Jackson swiped through the screen until forty-two circulatory and nervous system updates spilled down. “Everything looks green.”

Harry unfolded a drop seat and plopped into it. The cab had two other chairs, but both remained unused. Jackson preferred to stand when navigating the skiff, but it needed minimal guidance, its rudimentary control systems happy to float along the herd’s trail. Information tags kept the operator apprised of the location and health of every head.

“So.” Harry cracked a grin. “I heard you had a mess with a calf the other day.”

“Yeah.” Having a good-natured conversation with Harry felt strange, but Jackson wasn’t going to let the moment pass unappreciated. “Poor critter got mired after a flash flood. Enrique and I dragged him out. That’s why we looked squeaky-clean for dinner.”

“Mom would have thrown plates at your head if you’d tried to show up to the table unwashed.”

“You know it.”

The rainfall’s hiss filled the silence that followed. A cool breeze blew through the open cab door.

Jackson glanced at Harry. “Samantha seems nice.”

“She’s great. I think there’s something real there. You ought to come by the store.”

“I might have a friend up in a week. She’d enjoy that.”

“Good. That’s good.” Harry rolled and unrolled his cap. “Um, so, you and Abby are still serious, I take it.”

“More than serious.”

“Oh. Wow.” Harry seemed surprised. “Even with your line of work?”

“She’s flexible about it. The ranch keeps her busy. And she understands what I have to give up when I leave—as long as I come back.”

“Yeah. About that, Jack…”

“Harry.” Jackson held up a hand. “Let me get there first. I appreciate the time we’ve had since that dinner, but—and I’m being as brotherly as I can about this—that doesn’t change your challenge of the merger.” For a split second, Jackson thought he’d misread his brother and a major explosion of temper was coming.

But Harry sagged against the bulkhead. “I get that. I’m not saying I’ll back off.”

“That’s your right.”

“But that doesn’t mean we’ve got to keep at each other’s throats about it,” Harry rumbled. “It’s damned draining. Look, I don’t have time to keep up with orders at Flecha Norte and spend time with Samantha and maintain a feud.”

“I hear that.” Jackson chuckled. “Glad we’re finally seeing eye to eye on how busy our schedules are. Too busy for bullshit, as Dad used to say.”

Harry smirked. “He did. Then Mom would threaten to send him from the table if he didn’t clean up his mouth. Seriously, Jack, let’s keep this going. This. You know, us being us.”

Jackson crossed his arms. “I think I can make that happen, as long as you realize the Castillos and I aren’t your enemy. I’m not out to run things, Harry. CDF keeps me busy enough, and things there… that’s not important right now. All I want is for our ranch to continue alongside the Castillos’ so neither fails.”

“Sounds like we see it the same, except for the part about how close the ‘alongside’ has to be.”

“Then we’ll work out the details.” Jackson grinned. “While trying not to kill each other.”

“I like it.” Harry slapped his wet hands against his equally rain-soaked pants. “You doing okay, otherwise? I mean, I haven’t seen you in forever, but I’m not blind—something’s eating at you.”

Vasiliy was not a topic Jackson had been authorized to share. “The things I do with CDF Intelligence are trying in the best of circumstances. When it feels like the bad guys are winning…”

“Are they? Winning?”

“No. I don’t think so. That doesn’t mean I can let down my guard.”

Harry nodded slowly. “So, when you’re gone, you’re basically still fighting the war.”

“It’s out there, Harry. The shooting stopped for most Terran citizens, but the conflict didn’t end. Hostilities moved into the shadows. It’s spies and secrets instead of battlecruisers and destroyers.”

“Well, no matter how much of a pain in the ass you are, I know you’re always working toward what you think is right, even if I think it’s stupid.” Harry shrugged. “What can I say? Long talks with Samantha have helped smooth out my personality.”

Jackson snorted. “But not your gut.”

Harry rose from the seat and patted his midsection. “She’s partial to Italian and Filipino, so I cook a lot of pasta, and she calls out for torta omelets. I’ll go peek at the herd.” He put his cap on and stepped into the rain again.

Jackson turned back to the console, but for a moment, he couldn’t focus on the readouts. The right thing. It was good others were so confident he could make the right choices because, as long as Vasiliy was still out there, he would have to work twice as hard to keep himself on that path.

* * *

CSV Oxford

Planet 107-C, “Crag”

Terran Coalition System 107

Robert Sinclair frowned as the last reports hovered above the wardroom table. “Are we certain?”

Duncan Garza glanced at Tamir and Eldred. “As certain as we can be, Colonel. The evidence of the suspected pirate being the same vessel that dogged CAU 171 and your fleet elements on multiple occasions is strong, and Orbital Control here pointed us toward the jump coordinates that indicate it headed deeper into Coalition space.”

“Brant backed us up,” Eldred said. “You have his correlation of the signals sent to Arky’s Ablest and the connection with the account routing numbers.”

Sinclair shook his head. “I suspect you’re both missing the target of my question. Yes, I have seen the evidence, and it is substantial. What I want is your estimation of our certainty.”

Garza shifted in his seat. “Sir, based on what we’ve gathered in such a short time, I recommend we depart immediately for Canaan.”

“We can send a secure signal ahead,” Tamir suggested. “Give a warning.”

“I don’t want to risk interception.” Sinclair interlaced his fingers. “Heaven knows we had enough difficulty around communications security when last we tangled with this Vasiliy chap. Our greater speed is our advantage.”

“But, Colonel, if our data are correct, the Leaguer ship could already be near or in the Canaan system,” Garza argued.

It was a fair point, one Sinclair had already considered, but he was happy to hear his subordinates call his assertion into question. Following orders was vital. However, in the intelligence field, Sinclair had no patience for individuals who failed to think on their own and deliver alternative solutions quickly. “Very well. Prepare a burst transmission with minimal data and send it to General MacIntosh through our usual channels. We will advise him of the seriousness of the matter and our imminent return.”

“So, we’re heading home right away,” Tamir noted.

“Indeed we are. Our orders stand—to assist in the investigation of Ardalion Noor’s murder and pursue his killer-slash-partner—and I bloody well will not sit around the humdrum back end of Coalition space while we await bureaucratic interference. I haven’t since the covert action units were formed, and I am not about to now.”

“Understood.” Eldred grinned at her tablemates. “Am I right that we’re pulling Major Mancini in on this?”

“Of course. I shall instruct him to return to Canaan posthaste, though it would behoove Tuscon to remain as silent as if she were infiltrating enemy territory.” Sinclair peered at the hologram of the suspected Leaguer ship’s routes compared with known interference at Aphendrika and other star systems. “Then we will be better able to fight fire with fire, as the saying goes.”

6

Terran Coalition Government Complex

Lawrence City, Canaan

16 April 2466

President Justin Spencer had made speeches before the Congress of the Terran Coalition before, but he’d never found himself sitting at a table with the eleven men and women of the Select Joint Committee on National Security arrayed before him. Presidents rarely made themselves available in such a fashion. But given the circumstances surrounding Covert Action Unit 171’s last mission, he’d judged his presence necessary.

He could easily tell Secretary of State Celina Snow and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Andrew MacIntosh didn’t share his optimistic view. Snow was as prim and proper as an apprentice facing her trainer’s final evaluation. MacIntosh leaned forward toward the table’s audio receptors, bracing himself on his arms, fists clenched.

Spencer couldn’t blame him. It was their seventh appearance and anything but cordial. Their reports had been so dour Spencer had teased them with embracing perpetual gloom—until then.

“The tale grows only more fantastic with your continued testimony, Mr. President.” Carter King, the chair for the hearings, held a position Spencer had no doubt he’d bought or had used political capital to secure. Representing the planet of Canaan, including Lawrence City, he was a prominent senator from a long line of politicians who, if Spencer recalled history right, had held positions of power since the first refugees fleeing Sol had landed on Canaan in 2082.

King made a face at whatever he viewed on his tablet. “What has become of the money in your accounts?”

“It was confiscated and turned over to the Coalition Bureau of Investigation,” Snow interjected. “The goal is to route it into the Treasury Department and, from there, disburse the funds to any and all charitable organizations charted in Coalition space, with a special emphasis on those aiding refugees.”

“My question was for the president, Madam Secretary,” King said. “Unless you feel he’s unable to answer.”

“Celinda was just doing what she does best, Mr. Chair,” Spencer replied. “Summarizing a complex situation. I can assure you she described what’s happening with the money.”

“Two hundred seventeen million four hundred fifty thousand sixty-two credits.” King shook his head.

“And change,” Snow noted.

“Yes, thank you, Madam Secretary. I don’t think I’ve ever seen as scandalous an amount of money involving a public servant’s name in my family’s long history representing the citizens of Canaan in these halls.”

MacIntosh snorted. “Except for his granddaddy’s bribes,” he muttered.

Spencer kept his outward composure as bland as possible, like Press Secretary Tomas Escarra had encouraged him. The ones coming for you are watching for incompetence and weakness. The ones supporting you need to see strength and surety.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to pin the Coalition’s greatest corruption cases on a single sitting president, Senator King.” That came from Representative Rawhiyah Chahine, whose district included the largest city on Churchill. “Didn’t we have a spot of difficulty with Strathclyde Shipboard Integrators before CBI arrested its executives on charges of corruption and treason? That was rather a large black eye for us as a whole.”

Damn. Those two were not making it easy for Spencer to remain stoic, not with Chahine needling King about the money his family had invested in SSI in the waning years of the war with the League.

King glared at Chahine. “The point is I’m appalled at the lax security when it comes to the Coalition’s intelligence services, especially the prime agency sharing that name. The fact that Deputy Director for Operations George Parry was able to perpetrate arms deals on such a massive scale means he clearly lacked oversight.”

“I believe we’ve already chastised Director Pelletier soundly for his lapses.” Chahine glanced at Spencer and his associates. “And made it clear his continued directorship is in question.”

“Representative Chahine, that is part of the reason for my appearance before you today.” Spencer felt briefly ill but knew consequences were necessary. “At oh eight hundred this morning, I contacted Director Pelletier and requested his resignation, which he promptly offered. Deputy Director Yorgos Laskaris will fill in as acting director until I can recommend a new appointment.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President”—the way King said his title made Spencer doubt anything but malice—“one resignation doesn’t seem appropriate.”

“I’m sorry, Senator. Are you calling for me to sack the entire agency?” Spencer kept his tone level but didn’t appreciate King’s condescension.

“I’m saying I find it hard to believe Deputy Director Parry was acting alone and without orders. His testimony hints at involvement higher up the chain of command.”

“Senator, that’s bunk, and you know it,” MacIntosh snapped. “The sworn statements from the operative he employed and from the smuggler captured by our teams state plainly that Parry deliberately hid misappropriation of CIS resources from Pelletier.”

“And how do we know Parry is telling the truth?” King spread his arms.

He sure seemed to enjoy putting on a show. Half the committee watched him with the same rapture reserved for occupants in the front row at the opera. The rest looked either annoyed or bored.

“He’s a spy, after all, and the testimony you’ve brought, General, comes from another spy and a woman who’s an admitted criminal! Never mind the classified nature of much of the data your team gathered. Which branch of CDF Intelligence did the legwork on this, anyway?”

“That’s classified, Senator, above the level of this committee, which you damned well know.”

Spencer tapped MacIntosh’s arm and shook his head. MacIntosh glowered at him but didn’t offer further commentary.

“His lapse in decorum aside, General MacIntosh is being candid about the restrictions surrounding CDF Intelligence operations.” Chahine examined her reports. “Frankly, Senator, if we’re going to throw around the word appalled, I’ll use it to describe my reaction to you accusing a sitting president—one whose opposition allowed him to return to office and who is now constitutionally barred from serving beyond the end of this term—of masterminding weapons sales to benefit his own wallet.”

“Everybody knows you missed your chance at his Cabinet, Rawhiyah,” King muttered.

“That’s out of line, Mr. Chairman.” A senator from New Washington, Randall Keach, shook his finger. “We’re focusing our discussion and debate on the president and his crew, not each other. You owe the lady an apology.”

“Not necessary, Senator Keach, because as I’m sure we are all aware, if I measured Carter’s comments that upset me, I’d need an electron microscope to see them.” Chahine smiled at King. “I suggest moving on from this line of questioning before anyone else’s feelings get hurt, especially with the fragile egos among us.”

Keach chuckled, with a few others joining him.

Carter’s face reddened, but he cleared his throat. “We are glad, of course, to hear the money’s being used to help refugees so the government isn’t burdened by their presence. But I have another concern that you might be able to assuage.”

Spencer nodded. “I’ll do my best, Senator.”

“I bet you will.” King held up his tablet so everyone could see the CIS logo glowing on the displayed report. “The captured spy, this Dravyn, says a Leaguer fooled him into thinking he was just a local rebel and may have conducted a terrible breach of CIS—and CDF Intelligence—secure files. What do you know about it? Because frankly, it sounds like one of our agencies was spying on the other, and if that isn’t an example of blatant government overreach my constituents would be furious about, I don’t know what is.”

“I won’t speak about the ways in which our intelligence services operate, but I can say Captain Makis Halevi of Internal Review has been assigned to work with CIS and get to the bottom of how serious the breach is,” Spencer replied. “Yes, it does seem Deputy Director Parry had amassed these files. He has indicated he alone intended to use them as political blackmail.”

“Blackmail?”

“Yes, Senator. Against me.”

“There we have it. You again.” King scowled. “It seems this administration is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I would remind the chairman that if not for key members of this administration, including his former political adversary who is now his vice president, Canaan would be in ruins,” Snow said sternly. “Or perhaps merely annexed as the latest strip mine in the League’s vast collection.”

“Winning the war does not give President Spencer carte blanche to do whatever he wishes without oversight,” King snapped. “It certainly doesn’t let him collude with CIS, turn our intelligence agencies’ brave men and women against each other, and profit from a sovereign nation’s internal conflict.”

“I object to that characterization,” Chahine snapped. “This is an inquiry, not a net forum for throwing around unsubstantiated claims. The origins of the money in those falsified accounts have been proven, though clearing the administration of those charges does not lessen the severity of what has occurred. President Spencer, how serious is this classified information breach?”

That was the difficult part. The committee was in the dark about the specifics of the covert action units. Spencer was not about to let the rabble of backbiting opportunists ruin the work they’d accomplished since Day One, but by the same token, he disliked keeping the citizenry in the dark. “The breach may have exposed the identities of CDF Intelligence operatives. We are taking steps to ascertain how widespread the damage is.”

“That’s outrageous!” King slapped his tablet. “We will call for a secondary investigation—”

“Senator King, today’s session has already run two hours over its allotted time, and we have more business to attend to before the day’s end.” Chahine leaned forward in her chair so she could lock gazes with Senator Keach. “I make a motion to adjourn for the day and reconvene in forty-eight hours, at a time to be arranged with administration officials.”

“I’ll second the motion,” Keach said.

“We have a motion, and it’s been seconded.” King sounded like he would rather throw a tablet at Spencer.

Fine by Justin. The feeling’s mutual.

“Further discussion? I, for one, will point out that the president’s lack of—”

“Call the question!” a woman representing New Washington called out.

King’s jaw snapped shut. “Fine. All in favor?”

The motion appeared on a display board behind King. Spencer glanced back at the identical screen behind where he sat with Snow and MacIntosh. The number seven appeared under “Aye.” A four glowed under “Nay.”

“Ayes have it. Adjourned.” King hit the brass gavel against the plating affixed to his desk. The piece of metal rang with the impact.

Spencer couldn’t suppress his smile anymore. Fortunately, he didn’t have to hide it, because King stormed from his seat, a pair of representatives and one senator joining him in heated conversation.

“Well, that was another first-class shitstorm.” MacIntosh shoved out of his chair.

“We’re all grateful for your restraint, General,” Snow said. “I doubt the president would have been impressed with a repeat performance of your calling the chairman a ‘vacuum-brained rich kid’ with more colorful adjectives added.”

MacIntosh turned red, but his grin was sly. “You laughed. I heard it.”

“I think we all did.” Representative Chahine stood by their table. “I hope my colleague’s awful disrespect doesn’t dissuade you from sharing the truth with us, Mr. President.”

“Not at all.” Spencer smiled. “The truth is vital to the survival of the Terran Coalition. I only beg the committee’s indulgence when it comes to highly classified matters.”

“I think we can overlook those, but I will remind you, the more you’re willing to share, the better public perception will improve.” Chahine gestured with her tablet. “Your polls have steadily improved since the hearings began, showing that truth is offsetting the scandal.”

“Thanks for that, Representative.”

“So, perhaps at our next session, you could dive into greater detail about these teams of yours.”

Spencer knew his smile looked pasted in place, but he couldn’t help it. “The CDF Intelligence operatives I mentioned?”

“I more mean the ones of whom I’ve heard rumors since about a year after the treaty was signed.” Chahine cocked her head to one side. “We’ve faced a fair few crises since then, and those were solved through extraordinary efforts. I’ve seen the declassified reports, Mr. President. These don’t strike me as the standard forces CDF employs. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t want them to show up at the next White House Christmas party to take holos handing out presents to children. It may be time, however, for you and your staff to admit the teams exist.”

It was a fair concern. After all, the reports Chahine and other politicians had seen referred only to “direct action teams.” Sinclair and MacIntosh had gone to great pains to keep notations as vague as possible so as not to invite enemy investigation. “I’ll take that under advisement, Ms. Chahine.”

“Good. We’ll see you in a couple of days.”

MacIntosh snorted. “I don’t like that idea.”

“It’s preferable to fending off summonses from King every five seconds,” Spencer muttered. “How certain are we that Halevi can make inroads with CIS?”

“Quite, given how upset Parry’s subordinates are. Cooperation, from what I understand, has been stellar.” Snow frowned. “We should prepare ourselves for the worst, Mr. President—that Parry had ascertained some part of our CAUs’ operations and their personnel.”

“If he did, and this Vance character got ahold of names, no one has leaked it, but that doesn’t mean we should wait.” Spencer nodded. “Sinclair has already taken steps to shield the team members.”

“This supposed sighting of the Leaguer stealth freighter in our neighborhood can’t be coincidental,” MacIntosh pointed out.

“No, it can’t, which is why I’ve authorized Sinclair to use whatever means necessary and at his disposal to stop the threat to our people.” Spencer frowned. “I’ll be damned if they pay for our lapses or for the greed of those who didn’t have enough faith in us to get the job done. Tomas will set up a secure link for me when we get back to the White House. It’s time I had a heart-to-heart with our man Janus.”

* * *

Undisclosed Location

Southern Hemisphere

Canaan

Meng Po settled amidst the towering pines, her thrusters kicking up needles and cones as the landing gear touched down. The hatches remained closed as she waited, powered down, for the crew to monitor sensors and make sure the ship’s landing hadn’t been noted.

Five minutes later, Vasiliy Kiel led six people down the primary ramp into the forest of his enemy’s capital world. He sniffed the air. Wet dirt. Surely someone else could appreciate the subtle scents of post-rain coniferous woods, with pine sap and soil intermingled, but he’d been among trees like that back on Earth. A forest was a forest, even with the different aromas present that he knew didn’t exist in humanity’s cradle.

Ferenc swept a scanner at waist level. Kiel wondered what Ferenc thought was going to pounce at them from the surrounding darkness—Colonial Rangers or a wild boar.

“Not much fauna, sir. The landing seems to have scattered them.”

“I’m certainly glad to know we won’t have any furry encounters.” Kiel sneered. “Do tell me more useful news.”

“Nearest habitation is one hundred klicks south by southwest,” Ferenc continued, as implacable as ever, either ignoring Kiel’s jibe or constitutionally unable to recognize it for the insult it was. “The mountains ten klicks east will provide adequate cover for shuttle launch and recovery.”

“Overhead?”

“Negative. We’re off satellite tracks and Colonial Ranger patrol routes.” Ferenc nodded, apparently satisfied with both his work and his responses to his superior.

Yahanotov shivered beside them. Rail-thin and rangy, he zipped an all-weather coat against the night’s chill. “Yeah, it looks great. I hope you’re not expecting any long-range technological miracles out in the middle of nowhere, boss.”

“Hardly. You’re to concentrate on support for our teams when we dispatch them. I trust our communications are secure? That would be of greater importance.”

“They are.” Yahanotov sounded miffed. “The local LEOs won’t be breaking through, if that’s what you mean. I doubt Colonial Rangers could crack them either. But if CDF Intelligence gets wind—”

“Your job and your life depend upon you making sure we can talk to each other without being overheard, Yahanotov.” Kiel turned away. “Choose the correct emphasis.”

Yahanotov slunk back up the landing ramp, passing Zhou.

“The ship’s secure,” Zhou said. “What’s our next step?”

“Nothing as far as you’re concerned. Keep Meng Po on standby. The first team leaves on its shuttle tomorrow. If all goes well, you’ll hear quite the ruckus on the news nets in a few days.”

“Drawing the authorities’ attention with something so splashy seems reckless.”

“I trust you’re honing your sarcasm,” Kiel muttered. “Do remember, Captain, our goal is destabilization. That is why I came to Terran space when this all started. I do not intend to leave until we have stabbed deep and twisted the knife. I don’t care about mass destruction. That was never the issue. Fear and anger are the tools we’ll use to bring the capitalist zealots to their knees.”

“You know a lot about that, don’t you?”

If Zhou was insulting him, Kiel didn’t care and chose not to point it out. “The Terrans have many weaknesses, hero worship chief among them. We’ve already raised the specter of fallibility among their precious wartime leaders. Imagine how they’ll lose all hope when we put the bloodied head of one on a pike.”

“Metaphorically speaking,” Ferenc noted.

Kiel glanced at him. “Don’t count out available options, Ferenc.”

Zhou’s stunned expression was what Kiel needed to further convince him he was on the right course.

7

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Canaan

18 April 2466

Jackson stripped the wiring free of the skimmer’s hover nodule. “Better?”

Abby sat astride the vehicle, frowning at the control console mounted center. “No, definitely not.”

“What’s it saying?”

“It’s not saying anything, Jay, but the indicators are redlined.”

“All of them?” Jackson blew out a breath.

Those wires were dead and corroded. Removing them should have eliminated the error notifications.

“Check the secondary relay,” Abby suggested. “That’s showing fluctuations.”

“I was headed there next.” Jackson peeled back the relay. Sure enough. “I’ll be damned. It snapped in half.”

“And that would be why the bike’s still upset with you.” Abby leaned over.

Jackson craned his neck and kissed her. “I think we’ve passed a new milestone.”

“What’s that?”

“Joint repairs without killing each other.”

Abby laughed. “But we haven’t tried looking for the missing parts yet, because when I last checked, we were out of relays.”

Jackson glanced around the machine shop. “That can’t be right.”

“I checked.”

“Okay, but you might have missed…” Jackson grinned slowly. “Warning. Proximity alert.”

“Proximity to your doom, mostly.”

Jackson’s commlink buzzed. He picked it up. He didn’t recognize the code, which meant Brant was using another of his deep-cover, heavily encrypted signals. “Jackson.”

“Good morning, Mr. Adams.” The voice was soft, British, and entirely too calm to be Brant’s. “At it bright and early, aren’t we?”

“Yes, sir.” Jackson held up a hand to Abby.

She nodded and clambered off the skimmer, reaching for the tools he’d been using.

Jackson stood and walked toward the open bay doors at the far end of the machine shop. “Good to hear from you.”

“I daresay you might change your mind. I trust Mr. Guinto has kept you apprised of the latest goings-on concerning our old friend.”

Vasiliy. Jackson’s grip on the commlink tightened. “Yes, he did. I hope he’s not lost.”

“We’re having rather a difficult time finding the poor chap. It seems his favored mode of transportation was headed for the old neighborhood and disappeared on us. We shall all pray it hasn’t suffered a malfunction.”

Shit. Jackson had worked with Sinclair and CDF Intelligence long enough to recognize the coded meaning behind generic phrases. Translation: Vasiliy’s stealth freighter, which had given the team such headaches in the past, was in the Canaan system and had slipped off scanners. “Too bad. Are you coming to visit?”

“Yes, I’ve just arrived. I wanted to make certain our friend was found. We’ve put together a close-knit group to facilitate his return.”

Close-knit group. So, CAU 22—which Jackson knew was already on the case—had come back to Canaan, too, and CSV Tuscon was on its way, if not already there. More than likely, Master Chief MacDonald’s Alpha Team was also in the system because they’d raided the planet where the base had been discovered.

“Is this an invitation?”

“Sadly, no. We shall let you and your friends know when they can stop by. There is concern of another kind, however. It seems the problematic loose lips may have babbled more than we anticipated.”

Vance, Benjamin Dravyn’s assistant on Nandao, ostensibly a local helping the rebels there but, in reality, a man who stole Dravyn’s access codes and files related to his CIS works. “I understand. We’ll stay home unless you need our moral support.”

“It may very well come to that. Make arrangements in preparation by whatever means you see fit. Better to act then ask forgiveness.”

“Agreed.” Jackson watched Abby pull the damaged circuitry free from the skimmer’s undercarriage. Funny how he felt more isolated there than on any of his undercover assignments, even though he was surrounded by family. His team was scattered across Canaan. Getting them back together wasn’t a problem. Doing so without drawing attention from the enemy, if he’d made his way there, was more difficult. Jackson fought down the rising sense of unease at the thought of Vasiliy lurking about the Coalition’s capital planet.

“In all likelihood, I doubt the loose lips intended to expose your identity to the public,” Sinclair offered. “They would have done so already—it’s been a month since the breach—or they would have made demands in exchange for their silence. Since neither has occurred, the breach is either not as serious as we assume—”

“Or they have another purpose in mind.”

“Indeed. We shall pursue the truth with all diligence. Mr. Guinto continues to help with repairs.” Sinclair’s tone took on more of its typical joviality. “In the meantime, do make those arrangements we spoke of. Surely a man like you, who has become used to operating in the shadows, has planned for such eventualities.”

“You’re right on that.” Of course, the added complication was CAU 22’s use of Novabird. It was 171’s designated ride, but 22 would need to keep using it if the shit hit the ion draft. Jackson smiled as he considered an alternative. “I’ll get back to you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Stay close to your commlink and your people. I’m expecting you’ll get a call sooner rather than later from our mutual employer.”

Jackson’s heart stopped. Mutual employer? That was a very specific code phrase—the president of the Terran Coalition. What the hell would he want to speak to me for? Aloud, Jackson simply said, “Sure. Understood.”

“Ta, and enjoy the rest of your day.”

Jackson stood staring out the maintenance shed’s bay door at the distant herds grazing across the ranch hills. The mountains beyond had started to lose their snow caps as the accumulation melted and fed the streams irrigating the valleys. The sunrise elsewhere had abandoned its pinks and oranges for a pasty-white sky hinting at blue later, if the clouds dissipated.

“Everything okay?” Abby made her approach loud purposely, Jackson figured, given the way she let her boots crunch and churn on the gravel spread throughout the shed. The intermitted concrete pads amplified the sound like a rising drumbeat. “Was that Harry or work?”

“Work.” Jackson tapped the commlink against his lips.

“Bad news, then.” Abby’s breath turned to wisps in the morning chill.

He looked at her. She regarded him with patient concern. Jackson smiled and wondered, not for the first time, how he’d gotten so damned lucky. Brant would say God’s hand had been at work, even over the decades since they’d first met as little kids when the Adamses had moved from New Washington to Canaan and established their landholding. Jackson wasn’t sure if he would go that far, but he wasn’t about to question it either.

“Yeah, it is, but nothing we can’t handle.”

“We being you and your people, or we being you and me?”

“The collective of both.” Jackson put an arm around her. “Speaking of which, I have to make another call. Could you—”

“Finish the repairs? They’re almost done.” She leaned into him. “You owe me.”

“I always seem to. Leave me a token bit of work to do, at least.” Jackson kissed her for so long he thought he would never get back to work. “Give me ten minutes.”

“You’ll get eight, just because I feel like being arbitrary.” She winked and walked back to the skimmer.

The wink never failed to remind him of Gina. Jackson shook his head. He would have to get word to them all but not in a mass message. If comms security was the idea, a cascade was better—him to Dwyer, Dwyer to Gina, Gina to Brant, Brant to Sev—so he’d best get the ball rolling.

Jackson switched to a new frequency and dialed a memorized code, one he’d received at the beginning of the team’s most recent leave. The commlink squawked.

“Hey there!” Chief Warrant Officer Ehud Dwyer shouted over a ruckus of voices and roaring engines. “That you, Cap’n?”

“Sparks,” Jackson replied. “I need a contingency.”

* * *

Reserve Base McCampbell

Homedock Coast

Canaan

Dwyer pressed one hand to an ear and leaned away from the crowd around him. No way could he get out of the teeming masses right away at the 95th Annual Planetary Airshow, not on that, the second to last of the five-day affair. Fortunately, everyone was focused on the flight of SF-108 Wraith fighters streaking by one hundred meters above the tarmac. The boom from their engines followed a few seconds later.

“We’ve got trouble brewing with our least favorite person,” Adams said.

“The LT told me all about him. Can’t seem to get rid of the shifty bastard, eh?”

“Isn’t that the truth? We may need to reassemble before leave’s over, without official notice but with sanction.”

Ah. Using word games. Dwyer frowned. “With sanction” meant Colonel Sinclair wanted them back but quiet-like, as far as official channels were concerned. “Don’t mind sayin’ it—this would be easier if you hadn’t signed our bird over to the rookies.”

“They’re not rookies, and she’s CDF property, Sparks. Quit moping. I’d have thought the airshow a perfect cure for your blues.”

“Are you kiddin’, sir?” Dwyer edged his way to the fringes of the crowd, where fortunately, fewer people congested the endless row of hangars. He’d never seen so many current and retired military aircraft, both atmospheric and space, mingled with civilian models. “If anything, looking at some of these civvy hotrods reinforces how good we have it.”

“Good collection, then?”

“Well, sure. Everybody’s here. Florio, naturally, and the other big boys like Tanaka-Troy and AeroHawk Limited, plus up-and-coming firms. Did you know Raszewski is branching into—”

“Really not interested in the who’s who. What I need to know is availability.”

“Availability?” Dwyer frowned for a moment until the captain’s coded talk broke through his giddy stupor of accumulated gravity-load and airframe tolerances. “Oh. You’re, uh, wantin’ a test ride.”

“An extended one, yes. Preferably without anyone knowing.”

“Hell, sir, that sounds more like a task for the genteel lady of our crew.”

“I’m trying to keep this low-key, remember? I don’t want to cause an incident that will piss off corporate bigwigs and destroy a half dozen hangars.”

Dwyer snorted. It was a gross exaggeration of Gina’s exploits but not by much. “I catch your drift all right. So, what’s my budget?”

“I was afraid you’d ask that. Have Brant set you up with one of our accounts. We’ll charge expenses.”

A low rumble shook the nearest hangar. The rumble resolved into the smoothest purr Dwyer had ever heard from a set of ion engines. The approaching craft was short but wide, the fuselage a flattened arrowhead so streamlined Dwyer was hard-pressed to locate seams between atmospheric shielding plates. Four wings pivoted and swept aft as it settled into a landing berth surrounded by informational displays. Yellow pinstripes streaked the fuselage. She was polished with such a mirror finish Dwyer swore he could see his reflection gaping from fifty meters away.

“Hey, um, Cap’n?” Dwyer grinned. “Don’t you worry. I’ve got just the thing.”

* * *

Downtown Lawrence City

Canaan

The presidential motorcade left the White House with four hovercraft taking a different route than the one used for the prior hearings. Spencer found it ridiculous but never begrudged his security services the steps they took to ensure his safety.

“How’s the investigation looking?” MacIntosh was on a secured comms line to Sinclair.

“Woeful, at the moment. We can confirm the target vessel entered the Canaan system and may have taken a circuitous route toward the inner planets, though its final destination is in question. CSV Tuscon will arrive tomorrow. Both One-Seven-One and Twenty-Two are on standby, though I have instructed One-Seven-One to keep their activation off the books if they’re needed.”

“You’ll have whatever assets you need, Colonel.” MacIntosh glowered at the console mounted in the back of the armored limo hovercraft as if it had personally offended him with the news. “Get on the horn to Major Stone if need be.”

“Already done, sir. He assures me they’ll be ready to start sweeping the system discreetly within the hour.”

“That’s good to hear.” Spencer leaned forward, hands on his knees. “The quieter we can conduct this search, the better. I agree with Andrew—notify us of whatever assets you require. We’ll give you the utmost latitude.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. President. Sinclair out.”

MacIntosh rubbed his face. “It’s too damned early to deal with this bullshit, Justin.”

“You won’t hear arguments from me.” Spencer looked out the window at the steel-glass-and-marble buildings lining the streets as they took the next in what felt like endless twists and turns on their way to the Terran Coalition Government Complex. “And there’s the next round of the hearings.”

“I still say we should tell them to screw off if they demand more information about the covert action units. They’re too valuable! And I know. I know you’re going to talk about the public’s right to transparency in our government, but how’re we supposed to keep them safe from an enemy that won’t play fair if we do play fair?”

Spencer sighed. “I’ve had the same debate running through my head for hours, even days. We have to maintain that balance to keep the Coalition safe from external threats, some of which bleed across our borders. We’ll maintain the partial truth—we do have special resources in place, the direct action teams, as the committee knows—and if they want further detail, we’ll take the hard line that keeping details secret is vital to national security. I suspect we have allies in that regard.”

“I should hope so, after all you’ve done for the Coalition.”

“That’s not a good reason, Andrew.”

The limo made another turn. Spencer could see the capitol ahead.

A message flashed across his personal commlink from his protective service officer, Rios. ETA two minutes.

“How so?”

“The president should never be lionized as a hero,” Spencer continued. “The Coalition is more than one person. It has to be. Otherwise, we’re no better than the League, which pretends to make every citizen essential but, in reality, hoards power at the upper levels. I don’t want that same lust to corrupt us. If it does, we’ve lost the war.”

MacIntosh snorted. “Better, I guess, but sometimes it can be a pain to—”

A tremendous bang cut off whatever he was going to say. The impact flung the hovercraft onto its side. Spencer braced himself against the ceiling but was unable to stop his right shoulder from slamming into the limo’s door as everything went sideways. The limo landed on its left side, skidded across the pavement, and slammed into a concrete barrier. Flames flickered crazily outside the tinted windows. Acrid smoke seeped in through a gap in the door where it had bent on the frame.

“Mr. President! Mr. President!” Rios appeared, his face sideways and upside down.

Where? Spencer’s vision swam. Pain compressed the sides of his head. The right side door—it was above him.

“Unstrap, and take my hand, sir. We’re getting you out.”

“Andrew?” Spencer’s voice sounded hoarse. His shoulder ached.

“Here.” MacIntosh was already free from his belt. He assisted Spencer, and the two of them righted each other inside the limo. “Rios! Give me a hand.”

The pair assisted Spencer as he clambered out of the limo. He grimaced as he tried to use his left arm—the pain became unbearable. He must have dislocated it—or worse.

The orderly convoy was gone. One of the black security helicars was a flaming wreck. Another had spun off the road. Protective service officers swarmed the area, some concealed behind planters and barriers, others surrounding the two remaining vehicles, including the president’s limo.

Spencer had just touched down on the road, grateful for a solid, steady surface, when the first shots rang out. An officer’s head snapped back. Blood misted the air.

“Down!” Rios reached for Spencer, rough hands grasping his suit’s fabric, but in the middle of dragging him toward the ground, the pressure suddenly went slack.

It seemed to Spencer the gunshot’s echo came a second later. Rios fell, eyes open, dead.

Spencer dove for the rear of the limo. Two more officers sprinted for him, just meters away, as more gunshots exploded. One man lugged a portable shield generator on his back. The limo was supposed to be shielded. What went wrong?

He barely had time to seek cover before a shadow blotted the sun as MacIntosh threw himself atop Spencer. The hot spike of pain came right before the next gunshot. Spencer shouted as it seared his ribcage. MacIntosh cried out, making an agonized sound Spencer had never heard him utter.

“Sir! Stay down!”

A strange electronic hum filled his ears. More shots came, but they sparked and fizzled far from Spencer’s head, like tiny fireworks. The shield must be in place.

MacIntosh lay limp atop him, his breathing reedy.

“The general’s been hit! Put pressure. Here. Keep your hands here. Medics en route.”

The voices interrogated Spencer and shouted at each other. At some point, he’d had enough. No more accusations, no more questions. He let his surroundings fade to black.

8

CSV Oxford

Orbiting Corinth

Canaan System

18 April 2466

Robert Sinclair had a mind both calculating and rational, adept at separating fact from fiction. Still, for the first thirty seconds as reports from Lawrence City flooded the operations center aboard Oxford, he couldn’t believe what he heard—President Spencer and General MacIntosh hospitalized, three presidential security officers dead, six more injured, along with three dozen civilian bystanders, the capital city in lockdown. But he couldn’t wallow in his own turmoil. Sinclair took control of his emotions, escorted them firmly but politely to the back of his mind, and locked them out.

He stepped forward to the massive tactical display in the middle of the ops center. “Ladies and gentlemen.” He pitched his voice loud enough to cut through the whispers that had grown in both number and volume since the first reports had trickled in. “We have no idea what we’re dealing with at this moment, a situation with which I am unsatisfied. Our primary objective is information gathering and analysis. Attend to your stations. Vacuum up and siphon off every byte of useful data gatherable from the usual sources. Captain Tamir?”

“Yes?” Tamir looked surprised that he had snapped the response. “Sorry, sir.”

“Reach out to our contact within CIS. See what word Captain Halevi with IR has.”

“On it, Colonel.”

“Warrant Eldred.” Sinclair crossed to her station.

She had innumerable windows open on her displays, the glow flooding her face with clashing colors.

“Give me something.”

“No chatter yet. Nothing has come up pointing to… to this.” Eldred took a shuddering breath. Her tears glistened, but her tone insisted she could carry out her duty without interruption. “I’m switching over to the signals acquisition in place through the PASCORE buoys. If the Leaguers say much, we’ll know it.”

“But you’re telling me they haven’t to this moment.”

“No, sir. CIS, CBI, our Intelligence… all coming up blank concerning mention of a plot to assassinate the president.” She set her jaw and dove back into her work, effectively ignoring him.

Sinclair knew it best to let Eldred sift signals and crack encryptions when she got like that. She would give him results in due time—more quickly, given the situation. Everyone else had done likewise, much to Sinclair’s satisfaction.

It was hard to fathom the Coalition without Justin Spencer. It seemed, from his earliest military service at the prior war’s outbreak to his presidency that led them through the darkest years and ultimately to victory, that he would always be there for his people. Sinclair realized he’d always imagined Spencer would serve out his term and go home to be with his family, a twenty-fifth-century Cincinnatus. Poppycock. Sinclair pushed his emotions back through that door and slammed home the lock.

“Colonel.”

Master Chief MacDonald and Lieutenant Garza hurried up to him from the main hatch. Sinclair had never seen MacDonald so red in the face with anger. Garza, by contrast, appeared ready to vomit. He steadied himself on a railing near the tactical display.

“The boys are ready,” MacDonald reported. “I think Rucuk’s madder than us humans, sir.”

“Admirable but unnecessary at this moment. We’re still gathering intelligence, and once we know what it is we don’t know, I will decide the appropriate course of action.”

“Sakuri has Novabird on standby,” Garza said. “I think a recon flight—”

“To where, Mr. Garza? Would you circle the whole of Canaan and somehow do a better job than our most sophisticated satellites and Oxford’s sensors?” Sinclair gestured at the tactical display. “The CO has it underway. As you can see, the rest of CDF forces in the vicinity are buttoning up the security sphere stretching to Corinth’s orbit.”

“Sir—”

“Ignore the kid.” MacDonald pushed in front of him. “We can be in Lawrence City fast.”

“You?” Garza scowled. “What on Canaan do they need a special warfare team for when CBI’s got to be turning downtown inside out?”

“We ought to be down there right now kicking in doors and throwing anyone who won’t talk up against the walls,” MacDonald growled. “Leave it to my team to find whatever bastard did this.”

“That’s not going to get us answers,” Garza countered. “No one’s going to cooperate no matter how much you beat them, especially if it’s senseless. And what do you think CBI’s doing?”

“Probably politely asking for IDs and offering cold bottles of water.”

“Sir.” Garza redirected his attention to Sinclair. “Send me and my people. Nobody knows me down there. That neighborhood near the government complex has enough of a criminal underclass that I can dig up a suspect description in hours.”

“Bullshit.” MacDonald shook his head.

“No, you’re confusing your plan—which is bullshit—with my plan, which is better than anything you can come up with.”

“The direct approach will work.”

“Sorry, did you say ‘stupid tactics’?” Garza held his hand to his ear in an exaggerated fashion.

MacDonald got up in Garza’s face. “Really, spook, you’re gonna go there?”

“Gentlemen.” Sinclair glanced between them. “This is not—”

“I am going to go there,” Garza sneered. “And I got there faster.”

“Screw you, cake-eater. I’d take one of my guys against a hundred Leaguers rather than trust your cowardly—”

“Enough!” Sinclair’s command was a cannon shot across the ops center.

Activity ceased in every corner. MacDonald seethed but locked his body into parade rest. Garza froze, apparently aware the immediate threat in the room was no longer the master chief.

“We will not do this.” Sinclair walked between the men, raising his voice so he could be heard throughout the op center. “We will not give in to fear. No matter what the target, that is what the enemy wants. They want us rattled. They want us upset. They want us at each other’s throats. I will not let them succeed. You will stand down and await further instruction. Prepare your people for the mission, but make no mistake—it will be my mission and my orders. Not whatever bloody fool excuse you have for plans. And if either of you points so much as a toe toward the hangar bay doors, I will personally see you clapped in irons and remanded to the brig for the duration of this crisis or until hell itself freezes solid. Do I make myself clear?”

MacDonald and Garza nodded in unison.

“Words, gentlemen.”

“Yes, sir,” they said together.

Sinclair stared them both down, letting the silence stretch. So much for keeping his emotions in check. Ah, well. A little show every now and then—buttressed by the truth of what he felt—went a long way. “Dismissed.” As soon as they were gone, Sinclair turned back to Tamir. “There. Shall we continue?”

* * *

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Canaan

Jackson vaulted off the skimmer before it had come to a complete stop. He felt his ankle twist but ignored the pain as he sprinted for the ranch house’s front door. After what Abby had just told him over the comms, he didn’t think it right to dwell on the minor inconvenience.

A hushed conversation greeted him upstairs.

He skidded to the edge of the living area, panting. Jackson wiped sweat from his face. “Is it—”

Mom, the only one there, shushed him. Abby was on the Castillo spread at the moment, working a line of recalcitrant sensor posts with Enrique. Harry was, presumably, on the job in Port Nomad.

The screen in front of them was full of overlapping news net feeds. The headlines varied from cautious to sensational. Jackson didn’t want to trust any of them. Assassination Attempt Leaves Spencer, MacIntosh Hospitalized. Chairman of Joint Chiefs in Emergency Surgery. President’s Condition Uncertain. Lawrence City Locked Down. CDF Moves to DEFCON 3.

“Mom.”

Tears stained her face. “I don’t understand. How could it happen? Why would they do this?”

A broad red line washed across the screen, shrinking the headlines and inset windows into the far corners. The female commentator whose face replaced them sat in the middle of two men, equally solemn, at a long desk emblazoned with the Coalition News Network logo. “Our latest update—we have confirmed that at approximately eight hundred forty-five hours Lawrence City time on Canaan, an unknown assailant or assailants attacked the presidential convoy as it made its way to the latest of several hearings held by the Joint Committee on National Security regarding the arms-for-money scandal surrounding the administration. Three security officers died at the scene. Two more, along with three civilians, succumbed to their severe injuries in the hours that followed. Dozens more are hospitalized, including President Justin Spencer and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Andrew MacIntosh.”

Jackson dropped onto the couch next to Mom. He stared at the screen, mouth parched. His heart raced. He hadn’t felt that powerlessness, that sheer panic, since he’d learned the League’s home fleet was on its way to obliterate Canaan once and for all.

“Administration officials have not commented on either man’s condition, however, and refuse to do so ‘until such time as their respective situations have stabilized,’ to use the words of one White House official speaking on condition of anonymity.”

The man to her left touched his earpiece. “I’m told Vice President Eduardo Fuentes will be addressing the Coalition live in a couple of minutes. We will switch to our correspondents at the press conference momentarily.”

Mom grabbed Jackson’s hand and squeezed. He returned the pressure.

God, I don’t ask for much, but keeping us together—our family and friends, our people and country—is the one and only thing I need right now. Jackson wondered if a late-in-the-game plea like that counted, considering he wasn’t sure where he fell on a scale that bottomed at unbelief and topped out at belief.

Vice President Fuentes took the podium. He hadn’t bothered with a suit jacket. His dress shirt was rumpled, his tie slightly askew. The man seemed worn, but when he gazed into the camera, Jackson could sense no hesitation in how he presented himself.

“Citizens of the Terran Coalition,” he began, “we have suffered a grievous tragedy, one that has shaken us to our very core, but I ask you to hold fast and not despair. We, your leaders, need you more than ever—”

* * *

Coalition Defense Force Conference on Cryptanalysis

Hotel Diamond Edge

Waterford Range

Brant sagged against a window. A cluster of Muslims bowed in prayer to his right. A trio of Jewish women murmured to God at his left. He felt frozen, unable to think, unable to pray, as Fuentes spoke through every active display in the lobby.

“There are answers we do not have, but CBI personnel and White House security officers are collaborating with Colonial Rangers and local police in their manhunt. They are searching for the perpetrators. They will not rest until they have solved every mystery surrounding this brazen assault on people who, by their deeds and actions, have sought nothing but peace and prosperity for the Coalition…”

Answers. Brant sucked in a breath. He could find them. That was all he could do—hand his fear over to God the Almighty and bury himself in data. Forget searching streets or scanning buildings. Brant trusted the information recorded everywhere. He just had to get his hands on it.

First things first, Brant established a secure link to Oxford and queried Miranda’s console. She shot back an immediate response, giving him access to everything they’d accumulated in their hunt for Kiel and what little was known about the assassination attempt.

Better. Brant tuned out the speech, the prayers, and the soft crying around him until he was left with digits and letters filling his screen. Better…

* * *

Wingren City

Pentecost Island

Dad was crying. Gina had never seen him weep like that. Even when they’d mourned Mom’s death late one night, hugging each other, his tears had been more reserved. Maybe he’d held back so he could lend her strength. Whatever the reason, that time around, the floodgates had opened.

Gina couldn’t imagine what impact the news of the president’s possible murder had on people in uniform, even a retired survey captain like her dad. Spencer was their commander in chief, their moral center. For her, he was some guy in a suit who made the rules, but even she had to acknowledge the welcome stability of his presence, like him or not.

She put her arm around Dad’s shoulders. He shuddered but calmed from his initial outburst. Then she turned up the volume on their desktop holo screen.

“Rest assured, nothing will stop us in our pursuit of those who would threaten not only the people who serve you but you, the citizens of the Terran Coalition.” Fuentes’s hands gripped the sides of the podium. “If you saw anything, heard anything, leading up to these attacks, submit a contact through the net to the White House Communications Office. To our allies, we are not faltering. To our enemies, do not look for weakness. You will not find it here.”

Gina grunted softly. He didn’t sound like the Peace Union guy who had run for president a few years back. He sounded like Spencer. He sounded pissed.

Fine by me. Gina shifted her weight so the compact pulse pistol strapped to her thigh and the knife sheathed at her ankle didn’t press against her as much. I could use a new target.

* * *

Reserve Base McCampbell

Homedock Coast

The Florio sales representative stared at the screen as Fuentes took questions from the shouting news correspondents.

“Hey.” Dwyer snapped his fingers in front of the woman’s face. “Do we have a deal?”

“The president… he…”

Dwyer scowled. He grabbed the woman’s hand, slapped a black, unmarked credit chit in her palm, and turned her around. “I’m taking that out of here the second after you approve the sale.”

She gaped. “Florio Ionworks is not selling you our first in-service Mark Nineteen racer!”

“’Course not.” Dwyer grinned. Imagining himself blasting off the airfield in the gleaming new aircraft was the only thing keeping him from freaking out about the assassination attempt. “I’m takin’ her out for an extended test flight, courtesy of a very, very generous security deposit.”

* * *

Dean Forest

Sevastopol Rast didn’t let the news interrupt his flurry of blows to the punching bag. Nothing should interrupt his rhythm.

“Keep the president, the chairman of the joint chiefs, our security officers, and the innocent victims of this tragedy in your prayers…”

One. Two. Three. Four. Sweat poured down Sev’s face. Soon…

“Remember the reserves we drew upon to see us through the dark days of war…”

One. Two. Three. Four. The plasma pistol sat on the counter, at the edge of his reach.

“And never doubt that the Terran Coalition, no matter the obstacles, will always surmount them.”

One. Two. Three—

Sev snapped up the pistol, spun, and fired two shots. Twin holes, one slightly atop the other, smoked in the head of a human male’s chalk outline. Sev grunted. A good vacation, so far.

* * *

Lawrence City

Kiel smiled as he watched the vehicles and people milling downtown. They’d certainly gotten the blocks cordoned in record time.

“Ready for extraction in three minutes.” Ferenc, his face obscured by a mask and a hat, whispered from the shadows behind Kiel. Ferenc carried a bag over his left shoulder.

“Was anyone discovered?”

“Wiess hasn’t responded. His transponder went black. Kirov and Prock signaled they’re ready for pickup at their respective points.”

“Weiss.” Kiel shook his head. “He was the slowest. But we knew someone would get tagged once the officers returned fire. And the drone debris?”

“Enough left for investigators to find, as you ordered.”

“Good. I wouldn’t want anyone to be disappointed.” Kiel followed Ferenc down the dark stairwell leading from the rooftop perch into the bowels of the skyscraper under construction. “When they run their scans, I want every molecule down there pointing to our dear comrades at External Security Forces—for the glory of the League, of course.”

9

CDF Medical Station Avicenna

Lawrence City

Canaan System

18 April 2466

“Justin.”

The voice prodded him. Blurred images flashed overhead—the smeared faces of medical technicians, the blazing lights of a hallway, tongues of flame.

“Justin.”

Who’s speaking? The voice was young, male. For a moment, he envisioned an enlisted man in CDF uniform, but it was no one he remembered meeting. The uniform was of a newer cut, not the one he would have worn during his service.

“Wake up.”

“Please.” The voice muddled and shifted. It was a woman’s.

He would know it anywhere. Spencer opened his eyes. Even that insignificant task felt like it consumed monumental amounts of energy. But it was worth it. Michelle gazed down at him, two of her. Spencer blinked hard, clearing his vision until his wife’s beaming faces coalesced into one.

“Thank God.” She’d been crying but wasn’t anymore. Michelle squeezed his hand.

He returned the gesture, albeit weakly. Not going to win any arm wrestling matches today.

“You gave me a scare.”

“That wasn’t on my agenda for the day.” Spencer’s throat felt like he’d eaten sand for a week. “Water?”

Michelle reached for a drinking cylinder beside him. Spencer noted the hospital room was the typical white and blue of Avicenna. The table at his bedside held an uneaten tray of prepackaged food in addition to the water, the latter of which Spencer gulped greedily. Twin silhouettes stood outside the frosted glass of the room’s door. Protective service officers. His men.

Spencer struggled to sit upright from his inclined position. “Rios.”

“Honey.” Michelle pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m sorry. He’s gone.”

Anguish flooded Spencer. “Were there others?”

“Tarver, Krause, Zielinski, and Achebe.”

“Dammit.” Five of his people, gone. Spencer knew their jobs were to protect his life, at the expense of their own if need be, but that had always been a hypothetical, a last resort, a what-if scenario that would never come true. “What happened?”

“The attack…” Michelle shuddered.

Spencer squeezed with his fingers as hard as he could, lending what encouragement he possessed.

“They bombed your procession. The shields didn’t work. I understand they’re still trying to figure out why. And snipers were set up in the buildings. One died in the crossfire. I don’t know if they’ve caught the others.”

Spencer nodded. He couldn’t organize his thoughts. The kids… “Where are the girls?”

“Here. In a secure room. We’re supposed to be in a location hidden from everyone else, but I told them I would be here when you woke up. I may have shouted.”

“I knew you would.” Spencer cupped a hand to her cheek.

“Maggie and Owen know. They’re safe.”

“Good. Good.” Spencer closed his eyes for a moment. He had to focus. He wasn’t just a man targeted for death. He was the president of the Terran Coalition, though in that moment, all he cared about was resting in the quiet room with the woman he loved by his side.

But an image shot to the top of his memories. Andrew MacIntosh lunging for him. “Andrew. Is he…?”

Michelle shook her head, her expression somber. “He’s still with us.”

Spencer’s chest clenched. The grief he’d prepared to display stuck there. “He saved my life.”

“The doctors say he deflected the bullet aimed for you. It would have hit your chest instead of your right side. But Andrew is still in critical condition. He’s facing at least two more rounds of surgery. It was touch and go for a while, from what I can piece together, but I have faith he’ll pull through.”

“He’s too damned stubborn for one bullet to take him out.” Spencer chuckled, struck suddenly by a ridiculous image of MacIntosh slapping aside a fusillade loosed at him by multiple gunmen. That was a mistake. His laughter, subdued as it was, sent a lancing pain down his side that threatened to make him vomit.

“Easy.” Michelle stood, easing him against his pillows. “You drank too much too fast.”

“You let me.”

She pinched the end of his nose, her gesture to let him know she appreciated his wry humor but, in that case, she was running the show. “Ed gave a speech. You’d have approved. Being around you has strengthened his spine.”

“He’s not a bad man. His ideas can be at odds with mine, but we share a love for the Coalition few can match.” Speaking the sentiment aloud made Spencer realize how thankful he was God had put Eduardo Fuentes into his life. Funny how that works, given our past opposition, but somehow, I doubt the Lord is even mildly surprised. His sense of humor is supreme.

“I understand, but don’t think less of me when I say I’d rather see you as president than him.”

“Thanks for encouraging this battered fool.” Spencer kissed her knuckles. “I suppose I have a lot to do.”

“You have to rest, Mr. President, and by that, I mean you keep your butt in bed.” Michelle sat on the edge. “Don’t think for a second I won’t put the security officers in the room with you every hour of the day if you so much as try to access a comm.”

“I don’t intend to leap back behind my desk, but I have to check in with a few people and assure them that the president is on the mend.”

Michelle frowned.

“Okay, that may have been an exaggeration.”

“I agree you’re needed, but your health should be your primary concern. You can’t serve the people of the Coalition if you incapacitate yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll tell Ed and the others you’re awake. He and Celinda Snow are at separate locations, undisclosed to the public—and me, for that matter.”

He nodded. His body begged him to go back to sleep. I will. I promise. But first I have to let people know I’m still here.

Michelle hugged him. Her tears came freely. “Justin,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Always.”

“I’m ready for this to be over.”

Spencer pulled her head close to his. “I think,” he murmured, “I’m looking forward to that day too.”

* * *

The White House

Lawrence City

Eduardo Fuentes stared out the windows into the garden behind the White House. He’d never paid it much attention during his brief tenure in office. Of course, it had always been available to him, but it had been during the war, and his time was valuable.

He turned and touched the desk surface. He never thought he would be back in that seat. It hadn’t been part of his political vision for himself. For the moment, though, agendas were the furthest thing from his mind.

Celinda Snow sat on one of the couches in the center of his office. She didn’t push or prod. She had her notes and waited for his direction. Press Secretary Tomas Escarra, in contrast, gave his tablet his full attention. He pressed his hand to his earpiece. Fuentes didn’t know how many newsfeeds Escarra was monitoring, but it had to be nearly all of them.

“We’re getting positive feedback from the speech,” Escarra said. “Your approval rating and the president’s are spiking higher than I’ve seen them since the end of the war.”

“That’s how we measure everything, isn’t it?” Fuentes knew he sounded gloomy, but the mood was difficult to banish. He defaulted to introspection when things looked dire. “Since the end of the war. It’s been nearly three years now. When, I wonder, do we get to start marking time from a less apocalyptic moment?”

Neither Escarra nor Snow offered advice or consolation.

That was all right. Fuentes didn’t expect it. What he expected were solutions. In that regard, I sound like Justin. “Where are we on apprehending the assailants?”

“CBI and CDF Intelligence have a body in their possession. One of the shooters, as I understand.” Snow frowned at her notes. “Indications are that three or four more shooters were involved. They had better luck investigating the shield breach.”

“The limo’s defenses? Proceed, please.”

Snow flicked imagery across her tablet’s screen. A hologram appeared in the office’s main display. Fuentes’s eyebrow rose. One was a typical messenger drone used by companies to send sensitive messages from one office or individual to another without risk of electronic interception. Four-sided, it sported tiny hover nodules at each corner with secure compartments for not just data chips but whatever handwritten message or valuables needed couriering. Next to the diagram was a collection of plastic and metal debris, each bit marked with a tiny yellow number on a black tag.

“As near as we can initially reconstruct, the drones—eight of them—were packed with compact electromagnetic pulse disruptors and a few pounds of explosives, directed charges, I’m told. The miniature EMP sorted the shield generators themselves right before detonation.”

“Is this the only one?”

“It appears so. CBI is still sweeping debris.” Snow glanced at Escarra. “But none of this is public knowledge at this point.”

Fuentes had worked with Celinda Snow long enough to recognize the abrupt reluctance in her expression for what it was. She had classified information to share.

“Thank you for the updates, Tomas. Could you give us a few minutes?” Fuentes asked.

“Of course. I’ll be coordinating the media response down the hall if you need anything.” Escarra smiled then left.

Fuentes propped his elbows on the desk—not unlike Justin’s habit, he realized. Which of us started it? Funny how people adopted the traits of those with whom they worked closely. “Is there more to the report, Celinda?”

“Yes. I authorized turning over of the debris analysis to Covert Action Unit 171, specifically Colonel Sinclair’s people aboard CSV Oxford. Their first glimpse indicates the mock drone utilized black market components and a wiring technique not uncommon among League operatives.”

“Bastards.” Fuentes’s response surprised both himself and Snow. “Is this related to what you and Justin were working on before? That Vasiliy business?”

“It is entirely possible. After conferring with CDF command staff, I would recommend you advise our fleet elements along the border to remain extra vigilant.”

Fuentes frowned. “Have League ships made hostile moves?”

“None that we can detect. If anything, the few task forces we can determine were maneuvering have ceased their activities.”

Fuentes’s tablet beeped. He accepted the data she’d transferred. She was right, of course. Even two ten-ship groups running battle simulations had outright paused. The twenty vessels were on station, waiting.

“What are you thinking, sir?” Snow seemed to watch him for a reaction.

“I’m not a tactician like the president.”

“No, but you have your own insights into what people think and why they take the actions they do. It is how you rose to prominence among the Peace Union factions.”

“I’m flattered you’ve studied me so.” Fuentes rubbed his chin. “If this attack were League sanctioned, why would their units react after the fact? These sightings—they appear disconnected, delayed. There’s no coordination. What I see is an abundance of caution.”

“I concur. What’s more disconcerting is the lack of chatter about an assassination attempt beforehand and the increasing whispers among the League’s command staff after.”

“That much difference?”

“Markedly so.”

“What’s your interpretation?”

Snow didn’t answer right away. “I am unwilling to draw hard and fast conclusions at this time, sir, but working with Colonel Sinclair over this span since the inception of the CAUs, I have taken pages from his playbook, so to speak. It’s possible this attempt was not League sanctioned.”

“But the timing of the Vasiliy incidents is highly suspect, along with our initial evidence.”

“As you say.”

Fuentes mulled over the converging elements until what Snow was being cagey about coalesced in his head. He didn’t like the picture he saw. “This Vasiliy could be rogue.”

Snow nodded.

Fuentes sagged in his chair. He turned sideways, back toward the garden, so he could take some semblance of solace from nature. All his life, he’d wanted nothing more than for the war to end so the Coalition could turn its attention to improving its citizens’ lives. He’d found Terran politicians to be more an obstacle than the League, but recent years had opened his eyes to how determined that nation was to destroy his. Given how dangerous the officials of the League of Sol had proved to be, he couldn’t imagine the threat an out-of-control spy of theirs would prove.

“Let CBI know they have my approval to do whatever’s necessary to find and stop these people,” Fuentes said. “And set up a meeting with your League counterpart.”

“What shall I tell him is the nature of our contact, sir?”

“Answers, Celinda.” Fuentes glared across the room. “Tell him we demand answers.”

* * *

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Work had ground to a halt across the Adams and Castillo properties—across most of Port Nomad, as far as Jackson could tell. The parts he’d ordered from Flecha Norte wouldn’t be fabricated for at least a couple of days.

“Everybody’s scrambling,” Harry told him over the comms. “I’ve never seen anything like it. You wouldn’t believe the stories going around—like that martial law was declared in the capital, or CBI’s activating secret units in every city, or that Leaguers are planning a new invasion.”

“None of those seem likely, if that helps put your mind at ease.” Jackson knew for a fact from several years’ worth of intel that the League was in no shape to mount a major military offensive. Hence their use of Vasiliy and ESS operatives to destabilize the Coalition instead. “But other than rumors, everything’s okay?”

“As far as I know. We’re shutting down until tomorrow afternoon. I asked the manager to put our—your ranches at the top of the priority list.”

“Thanks for that—and it is still our.”

“Mom’s holding up?”

“As best she can. Between Dad and possibly the president, it’s been a rough couple of changes to handle.”

“I know it. You think he’ll pull through?”

“The news says he’s stable and awake.” And Colonel Sinclair gave me an optimistic report of his recovery, but that’s classified. “Given his background and what we’ve seen of him, I’m surprised he’s not had his hospital bed wheeled into the Oval Office.”

Harry chuckled. “No shit. Well, let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks. It’s possible I may have to go.”

“Really? In the middle of all this?” Harry’s tone shifted.

Jackson wasn’t surprised. As good a rapport as they’d had recently, Jackson’s military service was still a sore spot, especially since it wasn’t traditional.

“Enrique could be called up if they can rush the repairs on Eriksson, but from what I hear, the skipper’s hesitant because of how it got fouled up last time. My assignments are different, Harry. When the men in charge call, I’m off.”

Harry made a frustrated noise. “Okay, but give me a heads-up. I don’t want you leaving Mom in the lurch.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

“Good deal. Gotta go.”

They signed off. Jackson checked his comms messages. He had a new one from Dwyer. Got the bird. Headed to the roost. Call when ready.

Jackson nodded to himself. They had transport, then, if they needed it. All Jackson was waiting for was confirmation from Brant about Vasiliy’s whereabouts—or at least, the ship that had brought him. He had a satisfying fantasy of Vasiliy strolling through the air lock to find Jackson with a pistol aimed at his forehead. And someone else stepping up from behind.

Jackson sent Gina a note. Cast in place. Be ready for the curtains to rise.

The reply was quick, short, and typically Gina. Hurry up. I’m getting bored.

10

Guinto Homestead

Rio de Bendicion—Esperanza Island

Canaan

19 April 2466

Brant had the windows to his room cracked open, allowing breezes in from the thundering rainstorm. He had been home for barely three hours when the skies had opened up with the torrential downpour, which meant most outdoor activities came to a halt. He spotted a pair of gardening drones drifting through the orchards in the distance, looking for diseased guava to remove from the trees. He was impressed his sister Graziella had kept them functional in his absence, given their finicky programming.

Speaking of programming… Brant rubbed at his eyes. It was far too late in the day to keep staring at screens, but Vasiliy wasn’t going to turn himself in. Brant squinted at the middle of three displays packed onto his desk. His home console sat ignored. The data had been bounced from Oxford into a compact black unit with silver stripes around its upper half, a computer brain he could rip free at a moment’s notice. It was also the most secure device in Brant’s formidable arsenal.

“Whatever they’re communicating with barely uses bandwidth.” Miranda sounded tired through the comms.

Brant wondered if she’d managed sleep since the assassination attempt.

“I’ve pushed through every comparison since we left Aphendrika, including your analyses. Nothing’s coming close.”

“They’re using something new. Not surprising, given they’re operating in our capital territory.” Brant frowned at the gibberish produced by his algorithms. Patterns. He saw them, but they didn’t make sense, not yet. The programs weren’t artificial intelligence, of course. They had to be told what to look for, which meant Brant had to know what to tell them. “But we have to consider the odds that they have the same person or persons behind their consoles as they did before. The only verified death we have is the Ciara Bui operative. It’s not likely she was the programmer, not if they kept sending her into the field.”

“Fingerprints,” Miranda murmured. “If we can narrow those—”

“We can task the algorithms to sift local communications across Canaan.”

“Over the past few days?”

Brant shook his head then chuckled. Clearly, she couldn’t see him. “No. I’d say back to the date CAU 22 confirmed as the ghostship’s departure from System 107. Crag was the last confirmed sighting. Everything scanned or detected here is unverified so far.”

“I’ll do one better—we have our scan records since our arrival, which have been sniffing for any trace of the ship and its communications. If they didn’t sneak into the system, they may have interacted with local patrols or customs like they were real merchants. There could be more fingerprints.”

“It depends upon who was programming what…” Brant grunted. “Altered transponder.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Worth a shot. We can bring those factors into play. I take it nobody’s had luck finding our ghostship.”

“No. The scans from our previous encounters show it as a stock freighter, but given the modifications evident in each instance, they could be configured a dozen different ways.”

“A dozen’s not as bad as a hundred,” Brant said cheerily.

Miranda snorted. “You know what I mean.”

“Just trying to make you laugh.”

“I’m not complaining.”

Brant knew it was impossible to tell if someone was blushing over audio, but he was willing to bet Miranda could see him doing so. Next leave, maybe—or that one, if things worked out for the best. “What else have you got on the leftovers from the scene?”

“Well, you saw the drone specs.”

“I did.”

“I’d tell you what I think, but I want to hear your thoughts first.”

“It’s too easy.” Brant opened the files containing the preliminary analysis. “Eight drones armed with EMPs and shaped charges, all of which activated, and this one had debris left? Debris that can handily identify it as ESS standard.”

“You would think they’d take greater pains to disguise their handiwork, unless one of the eight malfunctioned.”

“CBI found nothing wrong with the wiring. I couldn’t see why they would.”

“Until…” Miranda paused to draw out his comments, he could tell.

“The charge in this one.” Brant swiped a third display open. He sent the information back over the secure link. “The chemical signature matches the molecular debris from the others, but it was far less potent.”

“Right. One drone didn’t have nearly as powerful of an explosive packed into it, which could mean incompetence on the part of the operatives or a desire to leave one target unhurt.”

“Except CBI reconstruction already shows this was the drone farthest from the president. It makes no sense to tamp down that one.”

“Unless you want evidence recovered.”

“Exactly! That’s what I meant.”

Brant’s console chirped. The rain outside hammered even harder. He reached up and shut the window’s lower half to prevent it from spraying into the room. “I’ve got something.”

“I see it.” Soft tapping filtered through the comms. Miranda must have been working her console. “An intermittent signal is transmitting between Lawrence City and a pair of weather-watcher satellites, relayed through the meteorological station on South Kinsman Island.”

Brant opened a map on the left screen as he squeezed the data into neat columns on the center display. “That looks like your typical relay until you examine the modulation.”

“I agree. It’s off by a quarter of a cycle.”

Brant frowned. Whatever the faint signal was, it didn’t seem hefty enough to carry the data compiled by those satellites, but it would have more than enough strength to send and receive simple messages, especially text. He dug deep into his files for the perfect code segments for the job. “I’m piecing together a new algorithm to monitor the signal. Can you get me a backdoor entrance into the weather networks? I recall you being good at that.”

“Considering how many times we sent messages to your boss disguised as weather updates, I’m not surprised. I’m on it.”

Brant nodded again, that time forgetting to explain his momentary silence. His mind had already switched onto the mysterious-ship track. The transponder could be a key. Miranda had granted him access to the TCFE records, so he set up yet another program to parse the listings for any encounter that seemed out of the ordinary or provided a snapshot of a suspicious transponder. He knew from dealings with pirate vessels—and from messing with Novabird’s systems—that given how many smugglers and privateers were operating in and around Coalition space, TCFE was overworked and couldn’t investigate every anomalous reading when they queried new ships.

But Brant didn’t have to check all of them, just the ones that appeared near Canaan and Corinth over the time he and Miranda had agreed upon.

He smiled as the screens filled again with two separate processes. Jack might prefer cozying up to the bad guys or cajoling secrets out of criminals, but Brant wouldn’t trade the surety of information everyone so keenly collected for anything in the galaxy.

* * *

Undisclosed Location

Southern Hemisphere

Canaan

Yahanotov slapped his console. “I think that’s it.”

Kiel lifted the tea tumbler and wiped his hand down the side. “Take more care, Yahanotov. I don’t pay you to be sloppy.”

“Sorry.”

“I gather from your excitement your misdirection was successful.”

“Yes, sir.” Yahanotov indicated the tablet next to him. Seven yellow diamonds flashed, each one tracking in Canaan orbit. “The satellites we dropped on final approach before landing are operating nicely. They’ve attached to the weather sats and are transmitting cleanly.”

“And you’re certain the Coalition won’t find them all.”

“We only want them to notice these two.” Yahanotov tapped the indicators on the right side of the screen. “I’ve sent enough of our false communications through to make them interesting. It should keep the Coalition from tracing the real channels.”

“Delightful. Continue monitoring, especially the law enforcement signals, which may be of interest.”

“There are plenty of those. CBI has local LEOs scrambling around Lawrence City. You and Ferenc slipped the rest of the guys out none too soon. All nonessential travel in and out of town is being monitored. They’ve enacted a no-fly zone within a five-klick radius extending from the center of downtown.”

Kiel nodded. “And the news?”

“Amped up.” Yahanotov showed him a sampling of not just the nets and their constant speculation as to the perpetrators’ identities but social media listings. “I’ve got programs running twenty fake profiles. They’re posting at random intervals—some throughout the day, others only on the equivalent of lunch breaks and times before and after when a real person might be working. Anything specific you want me to add?”

“Only as much rumor and speculation of conspiracy as you can stir into the mix. The more outlandish the better.” Kiel sipped his tea but made a face at the lukewarm temperature. He’d not been able to get it right since they’d left the mudball they’d made home for most of the operation. Ah, well. They had more important considerations at hand than creature comforts. He left Yahanotov muttering over his fake news and programming misdirection. He had work to be done belowdecks.

Muttered conversation among Zhou’s crew closed down faster than emergency bulkheads after hull breaches as Kiel passed them. He didn’t mind their glares. It hadn’t taken another demonstration of the destructive capability he’d wired into Meng Po to subdue their will. And he certainly didn’t need their camaraderie. They might be citizens of the League of Sol, but compared to him, their importance was minimal. Each of them was no better than a single circuit in a crucial console. Individually, they could be replaced. Once the mission succeeded, Kiel might have to direct his operatives to make such a change.

The bulk of Kiel’s fifty-two-man team—well, fifty-one, now—had set up shop in the modified freighter’s cargo hold among the gear and supplies. The hold doors were firmly under their control, the connections to the bridge having been severed. The hold also gave them direct access to the adjacent hangar in which they’d stashed several shuttles. Kiel could see the crafts’ noses down the distant corridor, each one a different make and model. They’d been purchased from various dealers across the surrounding systems selling out of the base on Planet 112b, their conditions ranging from new to in dire need of repair. Each one now operated quite sufficiently as a fast landing craft.

Kiel found Ferenc among eight of the worst—or perhaps best—men Kiel had selected over the past year. Their combined outstanding warrants were enough to earn half of them death sentences, punishments Kiel had been only too happy to waive once he’d freed them and bound them to his service—no need to press for loyalty. Exorbitant payments and promises of revenge against the Coalition had been sufficient. Everyone looked up at Kiel’s approach.

He returned their cold stares with an imperious gaze of his own. “Ferenc. I trust this team is ready?”

Ferenc nodded. “Poor use of words, sir, but they’ll get the job done. I have the coordinates verified for the first strike.”

“Good. This one must be the fastest and cleanest. We’ll launch the remainder as soon as this team is on the ground and contact is verified.”

“Understood.” For someone about to help coordinate terrorist strikes on the Terrans’ homeworld, Ferenc sounded as if he were selecting a clean pair of trousers for the day. “Prock has his orders.”

The burly man with the blond crew cut snorted. “Yeah, Prock has ’em.”

“Prock had best ruminate on those orders rather than continuing an inane game of referring to himself in the third person,” Kiel snapped. “You will check in as soon as the target is eliminated. I don’t care how many days it takes you.”

“Days?” Prock glanced at his men, some of whom chuckled, then back to Kiel and Ferenc. “This is one person, right? Or did you leave out of our briefing that he’s got an entire company backing him?”

“Don’t be a dolt. Your drop point is among some of the most pristine wilderness on the planet. The nearest civilization—if you can call a trading post and dirt landing pad such a thing—is a hundred klicks away. If you don’t think your target knows the surrounding terrain light-years better than you do, perhaps I’ll reassign team leadership.”

Prock scowled. His bemusement disappeared, replaced by anger that was plainly visible to anyone with two eyes and a functional brain. “We’ve got this. You don’t need to shuffle team members around.”

“Then I trust you don’t have any further complaints to go with your smart-ass commentary, do you?”

“No.”

Kiel raised an eyebrow.

“No, sir,” Prock grumbled.

“Much better. Keep in mind your continued pay is contingent upon good behavior and swift completion of my orders.” Kiel gestured for Ferenc to follow him. “Excuse us.”

“If we ever get loose to spend our pay,” another man muttered.

Kiel pretended he hadn’t heard the whining. “Money, money, money. It truly consumes them, whether they’re criminal scum or law-abiding citizens.”

“They are Terran, sir,” Ferenc noted.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be disappointed. They’ve been brainwashed for centuries.” Kiel shook his head. “You’re certain of the coordinates?”

Ferenc shrugged. “As certain as I can be. The files Vance retrieved were patchy, so I don’t have an identity beyond code phrases, but after Yahanotov broke us into the conservancy’s plats, it was simpler to narrow down the parcels owned by anonymous holdings.”

“Which means?”

“The target lives in one of four cabins,” Ferenc replied. “So we will hit each of them in rapid succession.”

“Very good. Be aware, Ferenc, these are Terrans who choose to live off the land and lead less constrained lives than their already-libertine countrymen. You should expect resistance.”

“Understood.” Ferenc cocked his head like an attentive hound. “If I can ask, sir—why this one first? He’s not the commander.”

“No, he’s not. He’s worse.” Kiel sneered. “He’s a traitor to the League of Sol.”

* * *

Dean Forest

Canaan

Sev shut the cabin door behind him but didn’t bother with the lock. In fact, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d used it. From whom would I have to protect my meager belongings? His nearest neighbor was a day’s walk away, and he’d hidden anything that held sentimental value. Thieves were welcome to the necessities. He could always replace them. What else would I spend my CDF contract pay on?

He adjusted the rifle’s strap across his shoulder and set off into the woods. Fewer than thirty meters from the front step, the trees blocked all but fleeting glimpses of his home. The sounds of the woods grew deeper. Sev sniffed the air. Pine sap and damp earth mingled with the faint aroma of smoke from his chimney. That, too, grew fainter the deeper in he walked.

“This is what it’s like to roam city streets.” He and Father trudged through the moldy undergrowth. “Except instead of noise overwhelming you, silence is your enemy. You must open your senses to the weather, the animals, even the plants. Everything is watching you. Everything is waiting for you to make a mistake.”

Not everything. Sev knew he couldn’t correct Father, but the man—broken and embittered as he was by decades of League corruption—had never experienced working with a team like Sev had. For years after he’d arrived in the Coalition, fresh off his harrowing early life in the neutral systems, Sev, too, had doubted mankind.

His teammates had helped ease that suspicion. Some of it. His paranoia would never fully heal. For, as good as the team seemed to him, he’d watched them perform criminal acts and betray people who might be innocents.

Sev frowned. Fool. Listen to your maudlin moaning. Father would slap it out of you. Yet another reason it was good, objectively speaking, that Father had not made it free of the League. Sev doubted either of them would have been able to heal, even with Mother’s best efforts.

Hours passed. The sun faded from the sky. Sev spotted the rock outcropping two hundred meters ahead, toward the edge of a steady rise in the land. He could make his shelter for the night there. He cataloged the limited dry brush and sticks nearby, plenty for his fire starter.

Once Sev reached the outcropping, nature rewarded him with a sunset that stopped him halfway through removing his backpack. The golden sky turned the seemingly endless forest into a jagged black silhouette.

His prey was out there. The distant howls fed on each other, the responses growing in duration and frequency—streifenwolf. The biggest among them reached three and a half meters long, a meter and half tall at the shoulder, striped, considered among the most cunning, dangerous predators on Canaan. And the population in Dean Forest was doing quite well, so well the conservancy issued annual permits to cull a decent percentage of their packs.

Sev gazed into the darkness. He was safe up there, especially once he had his fire going. Down among the deepest expanses of the forest, he would be on his own, vulnerable. Just the way he liked it.

11

Paris

Europe

Earth—League of Sol

20 April 2466

Dimitry Borisov, director of External Security Services, was used to being followed. He would be extremely disappointed if the Social and Public Safety Committee had not tasked some poor new staff member with shadowing his movements. Besides, it was amusing to see how close ESS would let the person get before misdirecting them onto a side road or through a crowded public area so Borisov could have a few uninterrupted hours.

So it was an unpleasant surprise when, shortly after two of his plainclothes people led a hapless new young man deeper into a transit station, an unmarked car pulled up to the curb alongside Borisov. Two young women in drab business attire got out of the passenger-side front and rear.

“If this is a security drill, I trust you won’t be embarrassed when my people detain you for sheer incompetence,” Borisov said.

“I think you misunderstand.” The lilting French accent drifted from the open door. It was a deep feminine voice. “Quit being a bore and get off the streets, Dimitry.”

Borisov wasn’t one to let fear rule him, but he craved control. The situation teetered on the edge. The only way for him to maintain his grasp at the moment was to follow instructions. He checked his wrist device. Yes, his communications were being blocked. A part of him allowed grudging admiration for the evident preparation. It’s how I would have done it.

He slipped inside the car. Long, leather-clad bench seats faced each other with considerable legroom between. Another of the slim, business-suited women waited on the far end of his seat. Borisov had settled in the middle of the bench when the two others got back in and closed their doors.

They must be guards—four of them—for the fifth occupant. Minister Yvette Etienne of the Social and Public Safety Committee sat opposite Borisov, wearing a red jacket, blouse, and skirt. Her hair was a stunning white, more a shock to the senses because, from his knowledge of her profile, she was only in her late thirties. She was, more importantly, one of the newest committee members, having secured her appointment in the chaotic reshuffling of power at the League’s upper echelons following the war.

Borisov could hardly forget that reshuffling. It was when he’d pieced together Operation Infect with the goal of quietly destabilizing the Terrans. Vasiliy Kiel had made short work of his glorious plans.

Etienne smiled. The expression was about as welcome to Borisov as an assassin’s bullet. “Dimitry. How kind of you to join me.”

Borisov nodded and returned the gesture. “I assumed, Madam Minister, it was a mandatory conference.”

“Hardly. We exercise a modicum of free will, don’t we? Even service to the state doesn’t preclude deciding our own destinies.” Etienne crossed her legs. “I, for example, would never dream of taking you away from your vital work, for which we on the committee are eternally grateful.”

“And yet…” Borisov let the statement hang half-finished. He gestured at the scenery outside, which was moving as the car got underway.

“This is simply a chat between colleagues.” Etienne flicked her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “Or perhaps, between a man reporting to his superior.”

Borisov knew she’d chosen the final word deliberately. The very idea of that young lady as his superior stepped on his pride. But he hadn’t risen to the pinnacle of ESS’s ranks by letting every provocation register on his face or in his mannerisms. “I’d be happy to discuss whatever is troubling you, Madam Minister, but this is hardly a private setting.”

“Them? Don’t be bothered.” Etienne slid up her left sleeve. The device wrapped around it was a long, wide screen featuring four glowing green bars. “They have earpieces modified with targeted audio suppression. It blocks select voices for certain times but allows them to listen to incoming transmissions, each other, or possible threats.”

“Ingenious.” And developed by ESS decades ago. Borisov wasn’t about to point out the fact. Again, he wondered how much she knew and how much was an act. “Very well, then. What shall we discuss?”

“Let me start by asking you a question. It will be frank, and I require your blunt, honest answer.”

Borisov tried not to smirk. “I’ll do my best.”

“Do you think we’re stupid?”

He blinked. Of all the possible interrogatories he could have anticipated, that wasn’t one of them. “I beg your pardon?”

Etienne chuckled. “You’re a bit of a fossil, Dimitry, but I didn’t think you’re ancient enough to suffer hearing loss—unless you’re using one of the same devices. No, that’s not possible with us blocking your transmissions.” She waved her hand again, as if she could reset her statement. “Let me rephrase. Did you think the committee would continue sitting on its hands while your inept operatives blundered about the galaxy?”

“Madam, I assure you—”

“Unless your next words are ‘that we have our rogue man back under control,’ I suggest you stick to a better and more informative answer.”

Borisov fought for composure. Kiel’s disappearance was not known outside ESS. That was the assumption—no, the unassailable fact—with which he’d operated for at least eight months. He certainly didn’t think the dolts inhabiting the committee had found out, let alone a rising firebrand like Yvette Etienne. “I see. This is why you demanded frankness.”

“It is.” She gestured for him to speak. “Your turn.”

“You’re correct. We do have a rogue man. He was quite effective but has, as sometimes happens among our most dedicated servants, allowed his passion for the homeland to get the better of him.”

“That, Dimitry, has to be the most eloquent bullshit I’ve ever heard you utter.” Etienne reached for a glass cylinder full of red liquid. “Cabernet sauvignon?”

“I think not, Madam. It’s barely eleven hundred hours.”

“And I’m part of the most powerful political body controlling the largest human empire in history, so I can do whatever I please.” She took a long sip. “Listen. We know your man is loose because no one at our level authorized the assassination of the Terran president. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“I’m not saying we don’t fantasize about a thousand ways that self-righteous prig Spencer could die and sigh longingly when the moment passes,” Etienne added. “But I should point out that we have grown rather fond of peace. Do you know why?”

Dimitry took in the expensive cut of her clothing, the shine of the silver necklace and interlaced bracelets, the label on the wine cylinder, all of which indicated expensive tastes—or rather, trumpeted those tastes to everyone within eyeshot. “I think I can guess.”

“Don’t sound so snooty. We still prescribe to the classic socialist underpinnings that keep our great society together.” She raised a finger. “But we’re also smart enough to realize there’s more wealth to distribute to everyone when we’re not blowing billions of credits on warships only to have the Terrans blast them out of space after every attack we launch. In fact, we kind of enjoy not having a war. It’s good for our people, and it’s good for the budget.”

“If you say so, Madam.”

“Cheer up. That doesn’t mean ESS is going out of business”—Etienne smirked—“as you well know, given I’ve championed the expansion of your funding for the past two fiscal years.”

“Which I greatly appreciate.”

“You could appreciate it more by telling me what the hell is going on.”

Borisov weighed the pros and cons of being truthful. Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t lie all the time, only most of it. But given the upheaval on the committee—with the retirement of old war hawks and new, progress-minded youngsters like Etienne gaining power—Borisov was not so dense as to hoard all the information at his disposal.

Besides, he needed Kiel dead. It was a promise he must keep, a promise he had made not only to himself but Kiel. Kiel’s failures had become unacceptable, and rather than return to face the consequences with some semblance of honor, he had chosen self-imposed exile. Normally, that would solve Borisov’s issues, exile and death. But Kiel had insisted on carrying out his operations with bottomless funding.

Borisov leaned forward. “His name is Vasiliy Kiel. He, I’m certain, planned and executed the assassination attempt. I can’t speak for his goals but can tell you he forced Ardalion Noor of Nosamo Aerothermic into funding his operations. He has been officially disavowed by ESS, however, we have been unable to contact or locate him.”

“What sort of resources does he have?”

“Our last knowledge confirmed two dozen personnel, all ESS or contractors, utilizing the stealth-modified freighter provided for his first assignment.”

“But he could have amassed more. We’ve heard rumors—”

“Partially confirmed,” Borisov interjected. “At least one of our people who was shadowing him went silent—killed, I suppose. We do know Kiel has been modifying ships of his own, which may include the Rouen scouts, part of the Trenchant affair.”

Etienne rolled her eyes. “Why my peers green-lit that stupidity is beyond me. I told them there were subtler ways to gauge enemy readiness.”

“From that point forward—”

“You lost control.” Etienne swirled the wine in her cylinder. “Those Fabian socialist wannabes are running around Galt, trying to tank their economy and, worst of all, the insurgency we’ve still been unable to quash on Nandao.”

“I think I gave you the proposal to shut down that uprising.”

“Which I summarily shot down, since it would involve tens of thousands of casualties,” Etienne snapped. “You may be spying on everyone, Dimitry, but you don’t seem to have been listening. The days of killing countless of our citizens en masse to achieve stability are fading. No one’s going to keep the socialist agenda running when the response to every objection, every complaint of corruption, is summary execution.”

“With all due respect—”

“Doubtful,” Etienne murmured.

“You’re wrong. Peace can only be maintained through strength. Strength is best weaponized through fear. Keeping the Terrans off-balance and our own people subservient is the only way the League of Sol will survive to the next century.”

“Dammit, Dimitry, we don’t want another war. We’re not ready for one even if we did. I don’t need to remind you how close we came over the whole Nandao screwup to a shooting match on our border. The Terrans might not have their fleet back to full strength, either, but they’re more clever, more cunning with their deployments, and no matter how fancy your toy freighters are, they’re not stopping the Terrans from fielding stealth boats that will turn our destroyers to atoms. So, do me a favor, and lock away your warmongering for two seconds while I explain something.”

Dimitry masked his fury at being patronized with the only thing that could hold it back—a cold, expressionless face. “Go on.”

Etienne glared at him. “Find your man. Kill him. I don’t care who you have to speak with to get it done. Because while ESS is a vital part of the League’s statecraft, your tenure is not. Don’t turn me into the swing vote that brings you down. The Ministry of State Security doesn’t take its orders from you, and neither do I or several of my like-minded colleagues.”

Borisov snorted. “You used that word earlier, colleague.”

“Don’t pretend to be offended.” Etienne rapped on the glass separating the back compartment from the seats up front. “I was lying. Surely you can commiserate.”

The doors opened. Borisov’s seatmates disembarked. Borisov straightened his jacket, his mind spinning. He was incensed by Etienne’s temerity but also wary that she actually possessed the resources to overthrow him. Nothing was certain anymore.

She stopped him with a hand on his chest. He felt a data chip slip into his pocket. “The Terran secretary of defense made brief contact with Defense Minister Sarkovy. Get yourself into the conversation. Provide whatever intel you can on this Kiel.”

“You want me to betray him.”

“Aren’t you already planning his death?” She smiled. “Because I hear that’s what you threatened him with before Trenchant. Cheer up. If this works out, we’ll both have reason to celebrate, and I’ll look forward to our new partnership.”

The car departed, leaving Borisov on the curb. Leaves rustled around his shoes. If this were ten, even five years ago, I would not hesitate to have her killed, he mused. But from what she’s said, she has eyes and ears I don’t know about. This can’t stand. For the moment, he had to take the medicine he despised.

Borisov fingered the data chip. The best first step was to contact the damnable Terrans and offer to help them clean up the mess Vasiliy Kiel seemed intent on making, because if anyone was going to bring down the Terrans, it would be Borisov, and on his own terms.

* * *

Western Steppes

Adams Ranch

Canaan

Jackson was in his bedroom repacking his gear when Brant contacted him again. “What’s the good word?”

“We’re making progress.” Static buzzed through the voice link. “So far, we can connect comms activity around the time of the attack to a new set of frequencies we think Kiel is using.”

“That’ll make the colonel happy.” Jackson checked the charge on his pulse pistol. “What about the tools used?”

“Definite League connections.”

“You don’t sound happy about it.”

“We were talking about how easy it seemed.”

“Right. Too much to chalk up to good fortune, I take it?”

“I like to think God has His hand in directing our affairs, but even then, I feel like I have to work harder for results. Have you had any further thoughts on what he’s up to?”

“Trying to kill the president is pretty straightforward, I’ll admit, but even this seems kind of amateur compared to his previous schemes.” Jackson checked his other messages. “Are you good to go when the call comes?”

“Yeah, everything local is ready to pluck and run. Everything else is shared. What about Sparks?”

“He’s at the roost with his new toy. I’d say, after a few more days, he’ll have completely forgotten that someone else is flying Novabird. I forwarded you the specs.”

“Oh, I saw it.” Brant sighed. “He couldn’t have picked a cargo shuttle with engines boosted for rapid orbital transfers. I filed the ownership certificates with Florio and paid them, but somebody had better warn Uncle Rob before he sees the bill. ‘Discretionary expenses’ won’t mollify him.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s got other things on his mind. When we get the green light, I’ll have Sparks pick you up first—you’re closest.”

“Then Sev?”

“Depends on whether he’s still off hunting or not. I haven’t gotten a response yet.”

“I could ping the tracer.”

Jackson frowned, glad Brant couldn’t see his expression. “Let’s wait on that. He’s good about getting back in touch when the stakes are high.”

“Sounds good. And Gina?”

“Raring to go, I think, but I’m hoping she’ll come visit me before we’re off.” Jackson reached for a small navy-blue box on his dresser. “I need to ask her about, um, the thing. In person.”

“Does Abby know?”

“I’m pretty good at keeping secrets, Brant.”

Brant chuckled. “As the guy who encrypts most of those secrets, yeah, I remember. But this is the woman you love we’re talking about. She’s going to sense your anxiety, no matter how hard you try to hide it. Trust the guy who’s seen two older sisters figure out they were getting a ring weeks before the fiancé popped the question.”

“That sounds about right.” Jackson opened the box and gazed at the gold ring topped with a shimmering Viceroy sun-gem. The stone was deep purple around the edges with rainbows coruscating off silver specks scattered like embedded constellations. “This is a hell of a decision. I don’t want to make it without you and Gina weighing in.”

“So you’ll back out when we tell you no?”

“Very unlikely.”

“Good thing I’ve already given you that green light. I think Gina will be happy for you, though. You two get along better than we do, most times. And you sure spend a lot of time together.”

“It’s been a long friendship, one I’m not willing to torpedo.”

“Before I sign off, you did tell your mom and ask for her dad’s blessing, didn’t you?”

“On my schedule.” He didn’t mention to Brant that he’d put off both once the word of Vasiliy’s possible rediscovery had surfaced. But he would have to work past that excuse. “I’ll check back in with you soon.”

“Godspeed, Captain.”

Jackson snorted. He would need every bit of Godspeed for talking to Mom and Ramon Castillo. Funny how his nerves were dialed off the scale for that when the thought of diving back into espionage wasn’t nearly as daunting.

His commlink chirped a double pattern he didn’t recognize. Courier notification. Jackson raised an eyebrow. When’s the last time I got a parcel? Maybe Gina had finally decided on a belated memento from the New Rostov-Nandao mission.

Jackson found the white-and-yellow drone at the front door hovering on six nodules.

The glassy optical sensor swiveled around the circular midsection. “Jackson Adams.” The voice was flat and mechanical.

“That’s me.”

“Acknowledge receipt.”

He thumbed the family’s delivery account number into his commlink. The drone tilted. A round compartment popped open. “Please retrieve.”

It was a black tube, sealed on both ends, typical for sending physical notes, though those were far more expensive than a text message.

Jackson took the tube and tapped it on the outside of the drone. “Thanks, pal.”

The drone whisked off to whatever its next delivery was.

Jackson cracked the seal on one end and dumped out the slip of paper.

CIS Analysis Center. 122977 New Jerusalem Boulevard. Tomorrow at 1300. Tell no one. – M. Halevi

Captain Makis Halevi, of CDF Intelligence’s Internal Review. Jackson blinked. Why does the IR officer want a face-to-face? Whatever the reason, only one thing could prompt his desire to contact Jackson completely off comms networks. Halevi had news he didn’t want to risk anyone—even Colonel Sinclair—finding out about through traditional means. Not yet.

Jackson glanced back up at the house. He would have to leave early tomorrow morning to make it to the capital by thirteen hundred hours. “Guess it’s a good thing I started packing sooner than later.”

12

CSV Oxford

Orbiting Corinth

Canaan System

20 April 2466

Sinclair bumped his hip against the tactical display. He scowled. Bloody fool. That’ll teach you to skip sleep. He couldn’t help it. Gnawing anxiety over the current situation, complete with the heightened alert CDF forces had been operating under since the assassination attempt, had made significant rest problematic. He knew he should visit sickbay and have the ship’s surgeon prescribe medication to ease the strain, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit he needed that crutch.

Perhaps the good Lord intends this as a sign. Sinclair grimaced as he rubbed what he was sure would become a devil of a bruise. Though I do wish he’d choose less painful lessons.

“Colonel, I’ve got a priority encoded transmission incoming from CSV Tuscon,” Tamir said.

“Very good. Let’s have it on the screen.”

Tamir routed the signal onto the main display, replacing most of the view of Corinth with Major Nathan Mancini’s grim face. “Colonel. How goes the hunt?”

“Woeful, Major. Give me better news on that front, will you?”

“Not sure if this fits, but we’ve been getting odd pings off PASCORE.”

Sinclair’s muscles tensed, which did nothing to ameliorate his aching hip. “A border incursion?”

“No, sir. The ship movements are inside Coalition space.” Mancini glanced off-screen. “TAO, run the last couple of months on a loop and transmit to Oxford.”

A star chart filled the remainder of the ops center display a few seconds later. Sinclair recognized the region of space that formed a triangle between Canaan, Churchill, and Freedom Station. Blue dots stretched in a jagged double line from one side of the map to the other. Red streaks intertwined in webbed designs. They reminded Sinclair of clumped pasta—thick in the middle and frayed at the ends.

“PASCORE tracks all shipping within several hundred light-years,” Mancini explained, “and does a heck of a job predicting where and when a Lawrence drive’s exit wormhole will generate. These are the tracks for dozens of ship movements made since the first of the year.”

Sinclair frowned as the red lines became fewer and farther between. A yellow light pulsed near the center of them.

Eldred sucked in a breath. “Colonel, that’s—”

“System 112. I see it.”

The red lines faded until the time stamp told him the replay was from a few weeks back—around the time Ardalion Noor was murdered. Streaks reappeared in an abrupt flurry before vanishing again.

“You suspect this is the work of the ghostship?” Sinclair asked.

“That’s the thing, sir,” Mancini said. “Sensor Room tells me we’re looking at the tracks for four ships, not one, plus dozens of smaller craft.”

“How small?”

“Scouts. TAO gives me a fifty-fifty chance at them being Rouens, but we can’t swear to it.” Mancini took a long swig of coffee, but that didn’t seem to improve his mood. “This stinks too much of Trenchant, Colonel.”

“I concur.”

The border fiasco, which had nearly wrecked the PASCORE network during a crucial refit, had marked a major incursion by ships of possible Leaguer origin, though their nation had vehemently denied involvement. It was maddeningly unprovable, given how many pirates, privateers, and security companies had bought cast-off Rouens from the League over the decades.

“They seem to have done a fine job disguising their origins and destinations, Major, but I can’t help but notice the proximity to a key planet.”

“That’s what we figured.”

“Has this not made its way up the chain of command yet? I’m surprised it didn’t register with us.” Sinclair looked at Tamir and raised an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t on the last PASCORE update,” Tamir replied.

“The recording got flagged for analysis by Astrocom, and by the time they got it through their brains that it might be vital to what we’re dealing with, my people had tapped into the network themselves.” Mancini sounded irritated by the turn of events.

Sinclair couldn’t blame him.

“We might have missed it, too, if CSV Lubbock hadn’t spotted a Golgotha patrol freighter skimming the PASCORE line on the other side of Churchill’s security sphere.”

“Ah. I see. More remnants of Trenchant,” Sinclair mused.

Mancini nodded. “Lubbock sent us her scans so we could be on the lookout. The Golgothas are stock freighters, but they make decent—if cheap—patrol ships once you up-armor and rearm them. This one, in particular, has twenty percent similarity to the ones we tangled with a year ago.”

“Did it wind up following one of our red lines?”

“It did. Slipped off PASCORE within one hundred light-years of the Canaan system.”

Sinclair paced the row of consoles nearest him. He kept the map, which finished its second loop, in the corner of his vision. It was bad enough scouring the home star system for a missing ship with a penchant for piratical behavior. Having three more plus surplus Leaguer scouts and modified fighting vessels lurking about was too coincidental for his taste. “Those four tracks mentioned earlier, Major—how do they compare to the data we forwarded you?”

“Closer kin than the Rouen scans.” Mancini made a face. “TAO and Sensor Room are willing to bet our month’s supply of coffee that your ghost is part of a quartet, though three of the four tracks display a lot more particle seepage through whatever stealth coating they’ve got.”

“Stealth coating.”

“Yeah. No doubt about it, sir. PASCORE’s not as nearsighted when it comes to stealth craft. Most CDF and foreign militaries would see those ships—and us—as background radiation, or maybe a shuttle with badly tuned engines. Not PASCORE. It knows it’s dealing with a ship, even if it can’t classify the make and model. Pinning its course down is less of a WAG, though.”

Sinclair smirked. He was delighted to hear the Coalition’s most extensive—and expensive—sensor net was better at making a wild-ass guess than Oxford or Tuscon. “Is anything else pertinent?”

“Only that we’re itching to find our ghost friend,” Mancini said. “A fair few of us are eager for a rematch, Colonel, given how much trouble that Leaguer has caused since this special operation began.”

“I daresay we all are, Major, though we will have to proceed with caution if we can confirm our single specter has become a flock of apparitions.” Sinclair nodded. “Well done, Major. Convey my thanks to your crew and also to Major Ghali aboard Lubbock.”

Mancini grinned. “Yes, sir. We’ll keep you up-to-date. Tuscon out.” His face blinked out.

The map remained, though it had paused after its last loop.

“I trust you have this data filed away for further analysis, Butter Bars?” Sinclair asked Tamir.

“Filed and being picked apart,” Tamir confirmed. “Hopefully, we’ll get more out of it than those weather sat signals.”

“Oh? I had surmised a sunny forecast for our efforts.”

Eldred scowled. “If chasing them in an endless circle means sunny, then yes, sir, but whoever’s on the other end is having way too much fun screwing around with us. The modulation keeps shifting. Brant and I have tried coming at it from different angles, like bypassing—”

Sinclair held up a hand. “Details aside, you’ve hit a wall.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then find a way over, around, or under it.”

Eldred nodded and returned to her console.

Sinclair reached for a console and cleared the transmitted map from the main display. “Tamir, see to it I have a full analysis package encoded and ready to send planetside. SecDef will want to review what we’ve discovered thus far.”

“On it, Colonel.”

“And send word to Captain Garza to meet me in the wardroom,” Sinclair continued. “I may have use of his skill set rather shortly.”

* * *

CSV Tuscon

Outer Edge of Canaan System

Major Nathan Mancini was glad no one had seriously proposed the bet he’d just mentioned to Colonel Sinclair. No fleet in the galaxy could take his coffee from him, not after the supply fiasco they’d suffered through on their last assignment.

Mancini sipped from the steaming mug as he watched new tracks appear on the tactical board. Trying to watch every ship in the Canaan system was an exercise in futility. Hundreds of civilian vessels, from tiny personal shuttles to lumbering interstellar freighters, traveled in and out of the system every day. Tuscon’s position on the fringes of the outer orbits meant she had what would be called a bird’s-eye view if they were on a planetary surface. RUMINT from the survey corps indicated spaceborne lifeforms in the farthest reaches beyond the Coalition’s frontier. Mancini supposed their view would be analogous.

He shook his head free from its mental wandering. Sinclair had looked beat, despite his typical prim posture. The pressure from brass must be unrelenting. Mancini, for one, still couldn’t believe the president had been shot.

“Conn, TAO, contact bearing two-seven mark four-nine. Forty thousand klicks.” Lieutenant Olesen squinted at his console. “Drive signature reads as Golgotha-class.”

“TAO, designate… what are we up to now, seventy-five?” Mancini frowned as he reviewed the pinpoints of light crowding the tactical display.

“Sierra Seventy-Six, Skipper.”

“Say that five times fast.” Captain Patrick Godat, God bless him, had done his best to keep morale up since the assassination attempt.

“I’ll pass, XO.” Mancini appreciated a bit of levity but wanted everyone on their toes. He knew how easy it was to let the vigilance, with which their silent patrols began, fade into boredom, which in turn made people careless. “TAO, designate Sierra Seventy-Six and repopulate the board.”

“Aye, sir.”

Light rippled across the tactical display. The new marker appeared with “Sierra 76” in tiny letters atop it. “How does this compare with our PASCORE intel?”

“Computer’s giving us two-to-one certainty it’s of the same batch that slipped through the inner systems out toward Churchill,” Olesen said. “Maintaining speed and course appropriate for Canaan approach.”

“Nothing weird about it, then.”

“Other than the match, no, sir.”

Mancini scratched his chin. Tuscon was not running silently, which meant she could still be detected but only by the highest-grade sensors the military of most nations employed. Even a Golgotha modified for piratical purposes wouldn’t be able to detect them—or if it did, it would think a corvette or smaller craft were coming for it.

“Thinking of a way to follow them without scaring them off?” Godat asked.

“That’s affirmative. Suggestions?”

“This being the capital, they shouldn’t react funnily to a warship tailing them from a distance for a while.” Godat indicated the display. “TCFE noses around ships all the time. There’s an Ajax-class destroyer—CSV Vigilant, according to the board—running astern of a Merchantman convoy right now. So I’d say the precedent’s established. But if they’re up to something, they could rabbit if we get too close.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. Pilot, continue on our current vector and maintain speed.” Mancini tapped coordinates into his chair’s console. “Make our designation the following.”

“Conn, Pilot. Aye, adjusting course.”

Godat peered over his shoulder. “Ice mines. There’s a lot of traffic around the fifth moon.”

Mancini nodded. “We sail leisurely in and have a look around while maintaining long-range scan contact with Sierra Seventy-Six. I want to know what she’s up to, but I’m not willing to chase her down if it means potentially tipping off whoever else is in the Canaan system.”

“You think more of those vessels have shown up here?”

“Whatever they’re intended for is bad news for us, so I’m willing to bet they are.” Mancini gestured at his console. “Lubbock points out that they may be headed this direction.”

“We’re looking for a rendezvous,” Godat murmured.

“That would be ideal.” Mancini swirled the dregs in his mug. “But I’m willing to settle for any clue that points us toward the League’s plans.”

* * *

Six hours later, Tuscon slipped among the lunar orbits for the gas giant Antioch. The gravitational pull made it tricky to maintain a quiet course without periodically engaging the drives, but Mancini noted the ice haulers and drilling rigs—not to mention scattered patrol boats—did likewise. Besides, with twenty-eight moons, most of which featured settlements of varying sizes, it wasn’t a problem to keep up the illusion that Tuscon was just another ship there on business.

It also kept them within a hundred thousand kilometers of Sierra Seventy-Six, which was more than adequate to return real-time scan results without lag.

“TAO, what’s our new friend up to?” Mancini asked.

“Conn, TAO. Negative change in target’s speed or bearing,” Olesen replied. “She’s heading on the same arc toward the inner planets.”

“No meetups or transfers?”

“Negative, sir. She’s cruising on her own.”

“Hmm.” Mancini tapped the intercom panel. “Sensor Room, what’s the word?”

“Conn, Sensor. Sierra Seventy-Six is putting out normal levels of drive emissions and particle bleed.” The senior chief in charge of the sensor room sounded as displeased as a man who’d been told he would have to climb out on the hull and polish the missile tube hatches. “If they’re carrying illegal weapons or other contraband, I can’t tell from here. We’ll have to sniff a lot closer.”

“Acknowledged, Sensor.” Mancini cut the link. “No sign of other ships she’s headed toward?”

“No, sir.” Olesen shook his head. “The farther in we get, the trickier it’s going to be to differentiate cargo vessels at long range. So many are crowded together…”

“Understood, TAO. Pilot, take us around Antioch and shape a course for Corinth. Keep us within a hundred thousand klicks of Sierra Seventy-Six.”

“Conn, Pilot. Aye.”

“Comms, set up a secure tightbeam to Oxford. Confer with Sensor and TAO—send a complete package of everything we’ve observed from Sierra Seventy-Six, including comparisons to the PASCORE data.”

Mancini was already keying in his command codes as the affirmatives came in response to his orders.

Godat stepped nearer. “You’re being hands-off with this one, Skipper.”

“Your point, XO?”

“If we run silently, we can get closer for scans, and if they try anything funny—” Godat pantomimed shooting a pistol. “EMP.”

“The thought occurred to me, but I’m not willing to risk them contacting their compatriots.” Mancini frowned. “For all we know, other Leaguer assets are out there watching Seventy-Six to make sure she gets where she’s going. And if one of their assets vanishes off the scopes, that could make them hide right when we want them to poke their noses out.”

“Conn, TAO. New contact,” Olesen announced. “Bearing two-five-five mark six-eight. Course is perpendicular to ours, also inbound to Canaan.”

“A Golgotha?”

“Affirmative, Skipper.”

Mancini grinned. “Comms, belay that transmission. Let’s vacuum up what we can about this new target. TAO, how’s the match?”

Olesen returned his grin. “Even better than Seventy-Six.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Designate Sierra Seventy-Seven, and repopulate the board.” Mancini eased into his chair. “Let’s see if she’s going to play casual like her friend out there.”

* * *

CSV Oxford

Orbiting Corinth

Sinclair had his fingers folded and his eyes closed in concentration when Lieutenant Garza arrived in the wardroom with his team.

Garza, Sakuri, and Richards stood braced at attention until Sinclair said, “Be seated.”

He didn’t open his eyes until the rustle of fabric and the persistent squeak of the third chair on his right subsided. So many variables to juggle. But one, at least, had settled into place. Sinclair gazed at Garza. “How soon can you be ready to depart?”

Garza exchanged a look with Sakuri that reminded Sinclair of a guilty son preparing to admit he’d taken the family helicar out for a late-night joyride. “Novabird is packed and ready for departure, sir.”

“So soon?”

“Within a half hour after our last, um, discussion, Colonel.”

Ah, yes, the row with Master Chief MacDonald. “Very good. I shall clear with SecDef by fourteen hundred this afternoon.”

Richards coughed into his hand.

“A problem, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, no, sir, it’s just… you don’t need to, sir.”

“Josh…” Sakuri hissed.

Sinclair raised a hand to forestall her apparently incoming complaint. “And why is that?”

“I’ve got clearance past the security sphere for a critical nav sat repair, sir. In case anyone was eavesdropping on our signals. Sir.” Richards sat so upright in his chair Sinclair was certain he was helping the furniture maintain its posture.

Sinclair smiled. “Far be it for me to interrupt the best-laid plans. Departure at nine hundred thirty hours. Set up secure comms with Warrant Eldred. She will read you in on the tracking they’ve accomplished so far. No orders have been logged for this.”

“Understood, sir.” Garza glanced at his team yet again. “What about the master chief and Alpha Team?”

“In good time.” Sinclair leaned forward. “I prefer to keep our knives sheathed until we know with which hand to deploy them.”

13

Downtown Lawrence City

Canaan

21 April 2466

Jackson knew security had been tightened, especially in the vicinity of the central government buildings downtown, but he still found the excess ridiculous.

Patrol drones hovered at every entry and access point to the tramline. Uniformed police along with plainclothes men and women—CBI, he assessed by their watchful stances—were not as ubiquitous but present in enough numbers that someone who hadn’t watched the news would know something awful had happened. Still, no one accosted Jackson for his ID, though he wondered where his image was being taken and who was reviewing it.

Then he snorted. Him being worried about surveillance was the funniest notion he’d encountered since he’d started leave. How many hundreds or thousands of people has my team scanned and recorded? Oxford’s techs purged the files at the end of every mission, but the possibility of misuse lingered.

Jackson found 122977 New Jerusalem Boulevard among a long stretch of somber glass-steel-and-stone office buildings. They looked as if they’d been plopped down by a child, preconstructed and with zero variation. Most lacked signage, except for legal and financial offices scattered about. His destination bore no designation besides the address.

The lobby was empty except for three doors—one ahead, one each to the right and left. Dark windows flanked the side doors. Jackson suspected them of being two-way. Whether or not armed security stood behind them, well, he decided he didn’t want to test it.

“Present ID at the green panel.” The voice, monotone and obviously synthetic, prodded him from his examination of his surroundings.

A console sat on a pedestal a meter from the door ahead, on the right side of the slanted walls. Jackson plucked his CDF ID card from his pocket and swept it over the console. The green surface glowed like a streetlamp. Five metal clinks sounded from the door’s edges, and it slid open.

“Proceed.”

He did as instructed, sealing the ID back in its pocket. The room ahead was actually a corridor forming a T to the doorway. Jackson assumed it was built that way so no one coming in the door could get a clear view of the inner workings of—whatever this was.

“Captain Adams.” Captain Makis Halevi appeared to his left. He wore a civilian dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black pants with shoes that shone as brilliantly as a cadet’s boots.

Jackson scanned him for insignia but found only a black tag with three white stripes across the top clipped to his shirt pocket. “Captain Halevi. Good to see you again.”

Halevi’s eyes narrowed until they were blue slits, but he smirked in response to the greeting. “I should note your welcome on my tablet. It’s rare IR officers get such warmth from their fellow Intelligence personnel.”

Adams grinned as Halevi led him into a warren of corridors. “It shouldn’t be too surprising, given how you played double agent for us with CIS during the Nandao-New Rostov affair.”

“Do me a favor and refrain from commenting on that to our CIS colleagues,” Halevi murmured. “They maintain a professional demeanor, but I suspect they have not altogether forgiven me, no matter how vile their superior’s betrayal.”

The corridor opened into a broad room filled with consoles. Twenty people, all in civilian garb similar to Halevi’s, whispered and muttered over the gobs of data they read. Jackson’s eyes widened as his gaze settled on four floor-to-ceiling computer cores, each one coffin-sized, gray, and streaked with black panels glittering with green lights.

“The security breach attempted by the man known as Vance has been problematic to trace,” Halevi said. “Not in the least because he used Benjamin Dravyn’s access codes.”

Jackson frowned. “Wouldn’t that make it easier?”

“As you may be aware, Captain, CIS encryptions change once an operative is in the field.” Halevi scowled. “At least, that is protocol. It appears Deputy Director Parry waived that requirement in Dravyn’s case, in part because his communications were routed through unofficial channels. Dravyn claims he enacted his own encryption procedure while in the field, but this Vance was able to crack it.”

“Which means Vance was likely ESS.”

“More than likely.”

“Then what is this place?” Jackson asked. “Why did you ask me here?”

“This place is a temporary analysis center CIS set up for investigating the breach and nothing else. They use such facilities time and again when they need weeks of uninterrupted cryptanalysis, which would be better served at a distance from headquarters.” Halevi indicated the main screen mounted between the front pair of computer cores. “Results are collated and presented here.”

“And they need this much brainpower to figure out that Vance leaked CIS files?”

“No. They need it to determine what was leaked and what value it possesses.” Halevi raised a finger before Jackson could interrogate him further. “To the second part of your question…” He turned to the screen and touched the menu at the side. “The techs pieced together this string yesterday morning. Forgive the choppiness—the files themselves were corrupted in the process, which is part of why it has been difficult to backtrack to what it was Vance accessed.”

The first few paragraphs were gibberish to Jackson, though he could pick out fragments with the words “actionable intelligence” and “targeted assets.” He snorted. That narrowed down the possibilities to nearly every report written for CDF Intelligence since the service was founded. But as the text flowed, chunk by chunk, unease spread through him like he was contracting a cold in fast-forward.

“Pause,” Halevi snapped.

Jackson stared at the screen. The number 171 glowed in several instances throughout the next section of whatever report they were reading.

“You see why I didn’t want to summon you over comms,” Halevi murmured.

Jackson’s next reaction was to shift his gaze to the technicians laboring at their consoles. “Do I need to be worried about classification around them?”

“This screen is privacy shifted—only we can see the contents unless another analyst looks over our shoulders. And these individuals have been vetted not only for their impeccable conduct but for their foreknowledge that the team mentioned in this intercept does in fact exist. That is the limit of their knowledge.”

The firmness with which Halevi answered eased a bit of Jackson’s tension—but only a bit. IR—or Ire, as the rest of CDF Intelligence called Internal Review—wasn’t known for taking a soft approach to interrogation or investigation, so he knew Halevi would have been stern toward the CIS officers concerning operational secrets, to put it mildly. It was more likely he’d threatened them with imprisonment right alongside their former deputy director of operations.

Jackson continued scanning the decrypted documents, which he realized were sorted by date. “These begin a few weeks after our first organizational meeting, right about when Aphendrika was winding up.”

Halevi nodded. “Your superiors did nice work keeping their operations quiet, but Parry was a RUMINT connoisseur—he obsessed over the most trivial nuggets of information the way others worship God or cheer their favorite sports team.”

“Too bad for us he used a personal beef as an excuse to topple a presidency.”

Halevi swiped up, blurring the text, which Jackson saw had become more garbled by missing sections and scrambled words. “This is also of concern. About a year ago, code names appear.”

He was right. Jackson picked out “Echo One” and “Sparks” among them. “They’re organized. It makes me think Parry or one of his underlings was determining identities.”

“Not an underling. These files were secured in his server.”

Jackson raised an eyebrow. “Secured might not be the word you’re looking for.”

“Mr. Halevi?” A bespectacled woman peered over her screen. “We have a new segment.”

Halevi sighed. “Civilians,” he murmured. Then in a louder voice, he ordered, “Send it here.”

“Right away.”

The screen blanked. Green dots pulsed along the right side as it awaited the data transfer. “Using multiple analysts and these cores has been the only way to parse the breached information in a timely fashion,” Halevi explained. “Still, at most, we get a page, maybe two, every four or five days.”

“Sounds excruciating. My friend would be racking his brains to find a faster alternative.”

“He is quite busy with a more pressing project, from what our mutual acquaintance says.”

It didn’t surprise Jackson that Sinclair had read in Halevi on the Vasiliy situation. “Have you seen anything about the other teams?”

Halevi shook his head. “No mention of the three.”

Jackson exhaled. The covert action units employed one of the oldest tricks in intelligence—false numbering. As far as he knew, there were only four, bearing the numbers 6, 22, 49, and 171. They weren’t even activated in that order. And it was possible Sinclair had organized a couple more to fill out the higher numbers approaching 171.

Words trickled down the screen but froze after a couple dozen. Halevi sighed again. That time, he turned, hands on hips, and faced the analysts.

“Core Three staggered,” the woman said. “We’re rebooting one of the drives.”

“Understood.” Halevi must have caught Jackson’s smirk. “We should have printed the results on paper. I can’t stand these higher-level computers.”

Jackson shrugged. “Don’t look at me. Anything beyond a skimmer’s hover nodules or a skiff’s nav systems I leave to the experts.”

“Well…” Halevi slid a chair over for Jackson. He took one opposite for himself. “You might as well wait for the results. I hope you have your people standing by.”

“As close as we can get for vacation.” Jackson sat, trying not to think about Brant and Gina in their homes with their families or Dwyer and Sev, for all intents and purposes, in hiding, awaiting his call. They would be ready to spring when he called. The question remained, whether he would be.

* * *

Paris

Europe

Earth—League of Sol

Borisov ran his hand down the row of wine bottles that took up the length of the six-meter counter at the back of his penthouse apartment. He was impressed that the state-run vineyards could provide such a variety. Government monopolies had no need for improvement of products via competition. But wineries seemed to be the exception. He counted himself lucky in the eyes of the universe that the League of Sol controlled every winery on Earth. He never bothered with the off-world stuff.

Borisov selected a bottle of Merlot from central Italy and poured a taste. He didn’t want a full glass, merely a sample to savor the flavor, a reward for a solid day’s work. And perhaps a bit of fortifying for what he had to do next.

The holographic display at the center of his sprawling living room glowed yellow. Borisov sat before it and hit Play. Scrolling text kept up with the audio. It had taken his people the better part of twenty-four hours to decrypt the exchange provided by Minister Etienne, but it had been worth every second of waiting.

“Secretary Snow. You have my condolences on the loss of your officers amidst these senseless attacks.” That was Defense Minister Zivon Sarkovy.

Borisov sneered at the obsequious toady. He would last no more than a day inside ESS.

“Is it true President Spencer is on the mend?”

“I am not contacting you in order to hear false sentimentality.”

The running transcript identified the female speaker as Terran Coalition Secretary of Defense Celinda Snow. Borisov chuckled at the way the secretary wielded her words like weapons, even in that brief sentence. Ten to one Sarkovy starts stammering or yelling.

“There is no need to be insulting. I took your call, didn’t I?”

Ah, yes, Sarkovy chose bluster.

“I have a simple question, to which I would appreciate a simple answer. Are you aware one of your spies has gone rogue and is operating in Terran space?”

Borisov slopped his wine. Red stains blotted his white shirt.

“I am aware of rumors, nothing more, Secretary. This could just as easily be the word of a terrorist from neutral space chafing at Terran imperialism or a disaffected citizen of your own planets, such as the Fabians.”

“The Fabians are about disrupting our nation and replacing it with a sham socialist society mimicking yours.” Snow snorted. “Though, for the life of me, I cannot see why. No, recent actions have embraced violence against us that we will not tolerate.”

“I assure you this is in no way sanctioned by the committee.”

Snow did not sound appeased. “The same way in which your military show of force near New Rostov was unsanctioned?”

“That was a direct response to your government’s provocations,” Sarkovy snapped.

Borisov imagined the man sweating as Snow kept after him.

Sarkovy continued. “The sale and shipment of illegal arms to terrorists on Nandao—”

“Which were also linked to your operative, who as far as we have ascertained, provided the funding to purchase those weapons. We have already caught and are punishing those elements responsible within our own government.”

Borisov frowned as he dabbed at his shirt with a wet cloth. He succeeded only in leaving pink stains. What is Snow playing at by admitting lapses in the Coalition hierarchy?

“What is your point?” Sarkovy managed to answer with a modicum of politeness, though his wariness was evident even to Borisov.

“I want confirmation of identity and codes used by ESS so we can pinpoint his location.”

Borisov barked a laugh.

“You must be under great stress, Secretary, if you think I would betray one of my countrymen.”

“Minister, if this operative has indeed gone rogue and is responsible for funding the insurgents who caused the deaths of League citizens, I would submit he is the one who has committed the first act of betrayal.”

She’s good—firm and relentless. Borisov retook his seat on the couch. Perhaps her demands are not so laughable after all.

“In return for what?” Sarkovy asked.

“If given the information we need, we will solve both our problems.”

“And we would be free to punish the offender?”

Borisov sipped the remainder of his wine as Snow’s silence dragged on a few more seconds. “It’s a high likelihood you will not have to.”

“I see,” Sarkovy murmured. “This will have to be brought before the committee and its intelligence advisors. Do not expect a quick answer, but know, Secretary, that while the League of Sol will not start another outright conflict, we are fully prepared to end further depredations by your corrupt capitalist oligarchy.”

“Such a kind reminder.” Snow’s tone was icy. “And I would respond by reminding you and your committee of how the last attempt to destroy the Coalition ended—with the free peoples of the Sagittarius Arm reducing your most powerful fleets to atoms. Perhaps in another decade, you’ll be able to slap together more than rusty destroyers to challenge our alliance. In the meantime, get me the information I need to end this man’s chaos.”

Snow cut the signal from her end. Borisov caught a decidedly undiplomatic sputter from Sarkovy before the transmission ended. He ignored it, though, because his mind was already churning with possibilities. Snow intimated the Coalition was willing to eliminate Kiel, and she wasn’t wrong about his involvement in the deaths of League citizens. No wonder Etienne had been adamant he view the recording. Frankly, he was irritated his people hadn’t intercepted the call as soon as it took place.

No matter. He was not about to make contact with any politician at the top of the Coalition, not without inviting major political repercussions for himself. But if I can contact someone lower down the chain of command, who still has considerable influence… Borisov smiled. He knew just the man to speak with.

He picked up his personal tablet, which was encrypted with the best protections ESS could provide—and additional security Borisov had paid for himself, added to his device by less-than-savory individuals who were currently dead.

“We know so little about the action teams Kiel encountered,” Borisov murmured as he opened classified files. “But at least we know one man’s name that crops up in the center of their operations. Perhaps it’s time ‘Uncle Rob’ receives an anonymous tip.”

* * *

Downtown Lawrence City

Canaan

Halevi’s console beeped, breaking Jackson from his reverie. He’d made the most of Halevi’s impermeable silence by running through the list of maintenance checks that needed completion upon his return to the ranch.

“Reboot complete,” the tech announced. “You should have the segment, sir.”

“Thank you.” Halevi stood and folded his arms as the garbled text spilled down.

Jackson picked out a few 171s again. That segment, though, contained more names. There. A reference to half a word that might be “Trenchant” unless it was “penchant.” And the names—he thought his heart would stop. Wilkes. Rast. Dwyer. Guinto. Adams.

“God save us all,” Halevi whispered.

14

Dean Forest

Canaan

21 April 2466

Sev found his streifenwolf. It was a loner but no ragged straggler. The gray male had white streaks down its nose, up its forehead, and along its sides and flanks, as if God Himself had painted the wolf’s skeleton on the outside. Sev found it gnawing on the carcass of a valley ox, which appeared to have been brought down by the pack a day’s journey ahead. The wolf’s eye gleamed gold where the daylight hit them. Precious few shafts of sunshine broke through the thick pine canopy so deep in the woods.

Sev was motionless atop the rise, his rifle trained on the streifenwolf’s muzzle, which was stained red.

“He is watching you.” Father knelt beside his young son, helping him adjust the rifle. “He is always watching.”

A bit out of context, the memory, but Sev took it to heart. Father had been referring to nature, but in Dean Forest, there was no such thing as a lone streifenwolf.

A pack lay ahead, true. Sev had seen the tracks, watched where his target had separated from the rest. Why? They had sensed him—or rather, smelled him. The pack knew Sev was hunting. So a trio of wolves was guaranteed to have circled back and would be closing in on Sev from behind.

He smiled. It would take them the better part of the day. They might even wait until dark to attack. Sev wasn’t concerned. One way or another, he would take the wolf he was legally allowed to harvest.

The roar of a shuttle’s engines broke the forest’s silence. Birds scattered overhead. The streifenwolf’s head snapped up, with an almost perturbed expression.

So did Sev’s. He got a glimpse of the shuttle as it banked across the sky, visible through a series of successive breaks in the pine branches, as if he were watching an old stop-motion book. Civilian, a used passenger model, but moving too fast. Sev listened, watched, and counted. Yes. At least twenty percent swifter. And the pitch of those engines was too high. Modified, then.

It was also flying closer to the treetops than the recommended altitude Sev had seen countless times on instrumentation panels, including on Chief Dwyer’s when they’d first come to bring Sev aboard Covert Action Unit 171. The only reason to fly so low was to avoid attention. He’d seen Chief Dwyer perform the exact maneuver when he was preparing for a combat landing.

Sev scowled. His cabin was the only structure nearby, about four hours away, fewer than twenty klicks. Whoever it was could easily circle back once they found out Sev was absent from his home. I will not be waiting in the same place.

He heard paws scratch against pine needles and the rough terrain beneath. Sev glanced back. The streifenwolf loped into the forest, apparently dissuaded from finishing its meal.

Sev shrugged. He backed off the ledge and began the trek to the cabin. Somewhere between here and there, he would meet whoever was headed—his commlink vibrated. Sev froze. He’d left the device in sleep mode, only to be awakened for an emergency requiring immediate action. A message, in that case, from a coded entry he knew belonged to Captain Adams.

“Serious.” Sev’s voice sounded odd, since he’d not used it in a few days. He acknowledged the code and read the text. ID compromised. Catch next flight to roost.

“Nu ty dayosh.” Sev surprised himself by muttering the phrase. When did I last speak Russian? Was it before I left Earth? It didn’t matter. The situation was far worse than he’d imagined. Captain Adams had ordered him to await retrieval by Chief Dwyer because enemies were coming for him.

Hide? Nonsense. His enemies knew his name. Sev strode back the way he’d come with renewed purpose. Forget the streifenwolf. He knew his job—to leave no one alive who could reveal his identity. No matter how many there were.

“Always watching.”

“Yes, Father,” he whispered.

* * *

The Roost

Undisclosed Location

Canaan

Dwyer jolted awake to the alert from the racer’s comms. He mopped his face with a hand and was bemused to find drool. He better not have left any on the plush leather pilot’s seat. He’d linked his personal commlink to the shipboard unit, allowing alerts to be amplified, so he figured he deserved the rude wake-up.

Whatever irritation he had toward himself or his caller evaporated when he saw the message. ID compromised. Commence salvage protocol.

“What the shit?” Dwyer slapped the preprogrammed start-up sequence, punched the locks for the hatches, and about fell out of his chair trying to strap in. “C’mon, c’mon…”

Thirty seconds later, Flarehawk leapt off the promontory overlooking the second largest desert expanse on Canaan. The racer’s fuselage rattled as she accelerated at close to redline, angling toward the sea. Dwyer flattened out her course and held her speed in the upper band.

He flipped a map onto the nav panel. Five markers appeared—his, plus the four showing the current location of his teammates. Except the captain wasn’t home.

Dwyer scowled at the “E1” marker. “Hell of a time to go sightseeing, Cap’n.”

But he knew his priorities—the LT then Gin then Sev. The captain had insisted on being last on the list unless Gina or Sev had themselves handled and Dwyer happened to be closer to him. Dwyer, though, had readied himself strictly to the protocol. As such, he was less than an hour from Esperanza Island and the Guinto homestead.

“Speakin’ of which…” Dwyer opened a channel to the LT but then muttered, “Shit!” and cut it off. Salvage protocol, only the captain would send the message. It was comms silence from then on, with the exception allowed for subtler signals instead of standard voice or video communications.

Fortunately for all concerned, the LT was a whiz and somewhat paranoid about those kinds of things, so Dwyer had an alternative he’d almost forgotten in the rush of adrenaline. Without taking his eyes off the horizon, praying he would see those lush tropical mountains soon, Dwyer flicked through his comms menu for U-Sig-2-Eat. A garish menu of culinary options from across Canaan’s food spectrum appeared. Dwyer chose the third item down and sent it, false payment included—false because U-Sig-2-Eat was a delivery service that hadn’t brought a single scrap of food to a damn person ever.

“You’d better not be nappin’, LT,” he said aloud.

* * *

Guinto Homestead

Rio de Bendicion—Esperanza Island

Brant was parsing the latest signal intercepts from CSV Oxford when Jack’s message reached him. Fear froze him in place for what felt like forever. His hands began to shake. Not now. Heavenly Father, grant me the strength to continue what I need to do.

The tremors subsided somewhat but remained strong enough that Brant’s fingers fumbled with the portable drive’s connections. By the time he freed them all, his arms were shaking too. Whether it was adrenaline or the remnants of his neurological damage suffered in the field was irrelevant. He had tasks to complete if everyone was going to come out alive.

Brant threw the drive, his tablet, and a tiny zippered pouch containing data chips into a backpack. He scanned the room as he stood from his chair, checking for anything else he may have forgotten. No. Brant wasn’t the type to keep hard copies. He relied on drives and data chips for off-network storage.

His commlink buzzed again. Brant froze. It was an order summary from the U-Sig-2-Eat service, complete with side dishes. The total credits were inconsistent with the menu prices, but the string of numbers was enough for Brant to know what Dwyer was up to. Extraction coordinates.

Brant hurried through the house. Graziella was in the kitchen, preparing lunch for Dalisay and Chesah. Mother and Father were gone visiting relatives on the other side of Esperanza, which Brant had found annoying, given the amount of work that needed to be done around the homestead, but now he thanked God for his providence. “Graziella.”

She looked up from the sandwiches she was preparing. “What is it?”

“My work.” Brant stepped nearer so the younger girls wouldn’t hear. They were too interested in the social media streaming by them on a holo display, but he didn’t want to take the chance. He lowered his voice. “I said there might come a time when I’m in danger, which could mean everyone else is threatened too.”

Graziella dropped the sandwiches. She reached for her commlink and a credit chit nearby then clapped her hands. “Chesah, Dalisay. New plan, girls—we’re going out to eat.”

“We are? But you said we needed to have healthier food!” Chesah sounded more relieved than argumentative.

“Forget that. I feel like going for a drive.” Graziella grinned. “We’ll take tatay’s Rumbler.”

That brought both girls out of their chairs, squealing with delight. They hugged Graziella, kissed Brant on his cheek one after the other, then raced for the front doors.

“Thanks.” Brant touched her shoulder.

“Be careful.” She hugged him. “Did you take a pistol?”

Brant patted his bag. “Tatay has one concealed in the Rumbler’s center console.”

“I remember. We’re going to Merienda Cove.”

Good. That was thirty klicks up the coast. Brant urged her toward the door. “I have friends coming. Don’t worry about me.”

“Like that will work.” Graziella sighed and shook her head.

“You wanted me to make up with my friends, remember?”

She glared at him but still had a smile as she left the homestead’s front entry.

Brant didn’t move from the nearest window until he saw the three-wheeled bright-orange Rumbler car whip through the palm fronds lining the main drive and turn onto the highway thirty meters beyond them. Then he headed for the backyard.

He was thankful he’d had the foresight to designate the expansive gardens surrounding the homestead’s buildings. He had spent countless hours chasing his sisters—and vice versa—through the orchards and among the fishponds. There was no better place for a kid to get lost. Brant counted on the same being applicable to a grown Intelligence officer.

The distant hiss of shuttle and aircraft engines filtered past the ocean sounds coming from far beyond the property line. One of those had to be Dwyer in whatever vehicle he’d secured. Brant allowed a tight smile as he thought of poor Dwyer’s sorrow at having to leave his beloved Novabird in the hands of a pilot who, however qualified, was not him. The engine’s pitch changed. It grew louder.

Brant found a shaded glade under palm trees with thick trunks crushed together. He had just enough room to squeeze in, settle with his backpack pressing against his ribs, and watch from a hidden perch that gave him a clear view of the homestead’s largest pond. The wind kicked up miniature waves as a shadow blotted the sun.

“What in heaven’s name?” Brant squinted at the light glinting off the silvery craft.

Craft seemed like an awful understatement for the flashy, multi-winged racer that dropped for the pond’s surface so fast Brant had a heart-dropping moment in which he thought it would crash. Some retrieval that would be. Instead, it halted with less than a meter’s clearance, the thrusters spraying water so high it might as well have been raining.

“All aboard!” The voice boomed from on high, though Brant wouldn’t have mistaken Dwyer’s twang, modulated as it was through apparently powerful external speakers, for the Heavenly Father. A hatch swung down from the right side.

Brant sloshed through the water, wondering how he would heave himself onto the ramp. He gave himself a jogging start—as much as he could when soaked up to his thighs—but slammed onto his knees when the plane dipped even lower and the ramp splashed below him.

“Good hustle, LT!” Dwyer shouted from the cockpit.

Engines roared around Brant. The rushing sound cut off as the ramp sealed shut and the racer swooped skyward, acceleration pressing Brant to the deck.

“Thanks, Sparks.” Brant dragged himself to the cockpit, minding the low ceiling clearance, and sagged into the copilot’s seat. “What’s our situation? Is it as bad as Jack indicated?”

“Don’t know.” Dwyer’s expression was all business. He accelerated the racer through the low-lying clouds. “All I’ve got is the salvage protocol.”

“We’re headed to the roost, then?” Brant logged in to the nav and comms systems. He rifled through the backpack for the data chip container and flipped through his options. This one. The relevant algorithm would intercept CDF Intelligence transmissions and let him continue monitoring the frequencies he suspected Vasiliy of using.

“Just came from there. I’ve got Gina next on the pickup list then Sev.”

Brant sighed. “And Jack last.”

“You know the cap’n. He’s in Lawrence City, too, so we’ll have to jog a bit farther.”

“Well, don’t spare the fuel on my account.”

“Don’t worry, LT.” Dwyer patted the console with an affection Brant had seen Graziella reserve for their younger sisters. “I’ve already blown the budget on Flarehawk.”

The acceleration crushed Brant deeper into the cushions as they raced for the horizon.

* * *

Wingren City

Pentecost Island

Gina wrinkled her nose as the commlink buzzed in her pocket. The damned thing was as insistent as the robot clerk at the store had been about helping her find the right ingredients for the stew she wanted to make. In all fairness, she’d never attempted the recipe, so her aimless wandering around the agro-tower’s market building must have attracted the robot’s sensors, which were attuned to customer service interception.

They’re lucky I didn’t shoot the obnoxious thing and dump the shattered remains at the payment counter. But it had gotten her to the right lockers, for the correct vegetables, so she was grateful for that much.

The commlink buzzed again.

“Come on,” Gina muttered. She set one of her bags down on a streetside planter. “I ought to send you an image, Jack—me, two klicks from the house, carrying my groceries. You’d laugh your ass off.”

Between Dad’s retirement and Gina’s leave, her family visit had morphed into an endless stream of cozy days filled with eating, drinking, reading, and swimming.

She dug the commlink from her pocket and read the message. It didn’t make sense. The Leaguers figured out our identities? Her heart skipped. Terrible for the boys in uniform, of course, but Gina Wilkes didn’t have a home location listed in CDF Intelligence records. She never stayed in the same place twice. Gina dropped her second bag. It didn’t split but bounced, tipped over, and disgorged the hard-to-find produce across the pavement. She had no permanent address, but Captain Owen Wilkes, retired Coalition Far Survey Corps, did.

Gina punched Dad’s comm code as she rang. “Answer, Dad. Answer.”

“Hey, Georgine.” He chuckled. “You sound a little out of breath. Was it really that hard to find—”

“Dad, listen. You have to get out of the house. Meet me at Sarafina’s.”

“The café? What’s going on?”

“I can’t talk. Get the rifle from your bedroom and your pistol. Don’t take anything else. Go now. Meet me in—”

Interference squealed across the comms circuit. The signal cut off. Her commlink told her that the local network was experiencing a temporary outage. All circuits, including law enforcement and emergency services, were experiencing malfunctions.

“Shit.” Gina knew Sparks was on his way, but she didn’t have an ETA and couldn’t call for backup.

They were coming for her. And they would find Dad. All Gina could picture was Kyle boarding a starfighter to help Leaguer insurgents battle their oppressors—and Mom’s lonely grave in a forgotten plot on Galt. She ran.

* * *

Undisclosed Location

Southern Hemisphere

Kiel squinted into the sky as the second shuttle lifted in a swirl of dirt and leaves. “Any word from the first flight?”

Ferenc checked his tablet. “Confirmed arrival at the target, sir. ETA for second shuttle at Wingren is three minutes.”

“Good. Very good. All on schedule, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And our men in place at the capital?”

“They’ve been following the primary target’s movements since his arrival. Team leader is requesting to move on to the coordinates.”

“Send him a negative and a reminder for patience. His job is not to eliminate the target.” Kiel smiled. “That pleasure will be mine.”

15

CSV Oxford

Canaan

21 April 2466

Eldred’s gasp spun Sinclair around. Such an outburst of surprise was atypical for her. He might hear a soft grunt, but that would be it before she got back to work.

“Sir?” Tamir sounded worried. “You need to see this.”

Sinclair hated vagueness but acquiesced to its presence in his line of work. One couldn’t always shout information across the ops center, especially that of a top-secret nature. He joined Tamir at Eldred’s console. “News on our wayward Leaguer agent?”

Eldred shook her head. She touched the screen.

“Good heavens.” Sinclair’s eyes widened. Captain Halevi’s brief message about the CIS data breach contained a few lines that cut off, but Sinclair saw enough to know CAU 171 was in dire circumstances. “Contact Lieutenant Garza. Redirect him to Janus’s location.”

“Yes, sir, though from this, he was called to Lawrence City by—”

“It does not matter whether he’s downtown at the capital or on the other side of the Coalition,” Sinclair interjected. “I want them there now.”

“Understood.” Tamir hurried back to his console.

“Colonel.” Eldred’s scowl deepened. “Those signals we were tracing through the weather sats? I’m getting strange readings from them. It’s as if this latest update—”

Warnings flickered across the bottom of the satellite network diagram.

Sinclair wrinkled his nose, aware he looked like he was reacting to an unpleasant smell. “Clarify.”

“That’s—the network’s transmitting into the planetary comms grid.” Eldred’s hands froze over her console. “The grid’s collapsing.”

“Planetary comms?”

“Civilian, law enforcement, emergency response, military… everything.”

The diagram she offered was complex, but Sinclair saw enough red to know it was terrible. “Do what you can.”

Eldred lunged for her console. Whatever she was doing required full concentration and zero verbalization. After less than a minute, she slapped the input panel. “Shit.”

Sinclair cleared his throat.

Eldred’s cheeks reddened. “Sir. I introduced one of the algorithms Brant had been using to redirect enemy signals, should we intercept them. It was able to end the failure cascade by rooting out the infiltrating program.”

“What does that mean for us and everyone else?”

“That about twenty percent of the planetary communications grid is off-line, though internal repair mechanisms are slowly rebuilding it. Looks like it should be fully operational within twenty-four hours or less.”

“No doubt everyone will be shouting at each other on whatever network they can find long before then.” Sinclair rubbed his forehead.

Tamir gestured at his console, where new alert lines appeared at an astonishing rate. “It’s already begun, sir.”

“Where is this outage localized?”

“A couple of spots, Colonel, besides Lawrence City.” Eldred accessed a map. “Esperanza Island. Wingren City. Even… Dean Forest? Nothing out there is worth cutting off.”

Sinclair’s heart rate ticked upward. On the contrary, his suspicions about the act—coupled with what Halevi had uncovered—did not bode well for CAU 171. “What about 22? Did we receive acknowledgment of my change in orders?”

Tamir nodded. “They’ve already changed course, sir.”

“Outstanding. Let’s take the small victories as they come.” He walked toward the tactical display, where Tuscon’s marker was dogging a pair of Golgotha freighters that seemed to be taking their jolly time heading toward Corinth and Canaan. “Send a secure message to Major Mancini, if we can—continue shadowing, and advise us of any odd changes to his quarry’s flight path.”

“On it, Colonel.”

“Any word from Janus regarding his readiness?”

“None, sir, but he did indicate he had put a salvage protocol in place.”

Sinclair nodded as he considered that. He’d intended for CAU 171 to remain on informal standby, should the need arise to deploy them in the hunt for Vasiliy, but given the lack of connections they’d been able to establish with the rogue ESS operative, it had looked like much ado about nothing. The turn of events, however, meant Adams and his people were better positioned to avoid whatever fallout might result from the identity breach.

What he really wanted was that damned ghostship’s coordinates, so he could send MacDonald’s team to board it and round up anyone who could talk, to tell him what in blazes Vasiliy was trying to do. He wasn’t behaving like an assassin. The attempt on President Spencer’s life was jarring, indeed, but in cold honesty, Sinclair expected a man of Vasiliy’s murky yet fearsome reputation to have carried off such a hit flawlessly.

He isn’t after our king in this game of chess. Not yet. Perhaps he wants to clear the board of the knights and the bishops before moving in for the kill. The thought brought Sinclair back to Tuscon’s pursuit.

But before Sinclair could further consult the tactical display, Tamir looked up at him again. “Colonel, I’ve got an incoming transmission marked personally for you.”

“Oh? On what channel?” Odd. Oxford’s communications officers on the bridge were supposed to receive personal messages and route them to the crew’s individual accounts. Sinclair, though, had his forwarded to an account on Canaan, which he rarely checked.

“Fleet News.” Tamir shrugged. “Hang on.”

Sinclair peered over his shoulder. Bloody hell. Leaguer codes? And yet, they were older ones, easily broken. “The devil is this? A prank?”

“It’s carrying nothing malicious,” Tamir replied. “Standard real-time comms.”

“Put it through to my office.” Sinclair turned and headed for the door. “And I’ll see what damned fool aboard this ship thinks now is the time for practical joking.”

* * *

He’d hoped humor in poor taste was what he would find when he accepted the signal. The bland face smiling on the other end of the transmission was, instead, the last person he’d ever thought he would speak to.

“Hello, Colonel. It’s a pleasure to see you actually exist. Do you know who I am?”

“If this is a legitimate communication, and my intelligence is correct, you should be Dimitry Borisov, director of External Security Services for the League of Sol.” Sinclair’s left hand drummed a pattern on his desk. The right swiftly entered a coded signal that went directly to Tamir’s and Eldred’s consoles, urging them to trace the origins of the call. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s rather what I can do for you, Colonel Sinclair. You have a problem with one of my men.”

“That is a day-to-day hazard of my occupation, yes.”

“I’m speaking more of a single and recently troublesome individual.”

“And who might that be?” Sinclair’s desktop console flashed a message back to him from Tamir—difficulty tracing the signal, but more data was incoming from the source.

“Vasiliy Kiel. He’s gone to Canaan to kill the president, if the news networks are to be trusted.”

Sinclair momentarily forgot about his clandestine link to the operations center because of the outrage that welled up in him. He stomped the reaction down. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper like he had in the confrontation between Garza and MacDonald, not with a big fish dangling on the other end of the line. “You’ll forgive me if my initial reaction is to regard both your identity and the offer of assistance with the greatest suspicion.”

“I would be disappointed if you didn’t. The reputation of the ghostlike Robert Sinclair would suffer otherwise.” Borisov’s expression sagged. “But I will do you the rare courtesy of being honest, which I recognize as a precious gift in intelligence circles. Vasiliy Kiel is not one of us, not anymore. Whatever his aims, they do not represent those of our society. I suspect he has traded his nation’s goals for a personal vendetta. Again, being truthful, we would not be as concerned had he not misappropriated League resources and personnel, caused the deaths of League citizens—no matter how obstinate they may be—and manipulated events to bring our nations closer to open warfare.”

“Which we don’t want, and you can’t afford.” Sinclair squinted. “Give me his coordinates.”

“I don’t have them, and I can’t communicate with him,” Borisov said. “But I can speak to a man who may still be loyal to us.”

“May? That does not inspire much confidence, Director.”

“It’s a gamble, Colonel, as many things are in our mutual fields of interest.” Borisov smiled and nodded. “I’ve given you the relevant data in this stream, and I will attempt to contact this person. The rest is up to you. Do the galaxy a favor—turn your covert hounds on this traitor, and rid both our nations of the man who could tip us back toward war.”

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten that’s precisely what ESS has attempted since the treaty’s signing,” Sinclair snapped. “You seem to think we’re daft enough to sit back and grow complacent.”

“Perish the thought. My superiors have made it abundantly clear they can’t engage in open conflict. Not yet.” Borisov leaned forward into the optical pickup. “But rest assured, I’ll do everything I can to weaken your so-called Coalition so that when we are stronger, you’ll be no match for the League of Sol.”

The transmission cut. Sinclair’s console lit up immediately. Tamir was calling.

“Go ahead.”

“Sir, that signal dropped a data snippet providing the last known communications protocols used by Vasiliy and his people. It’s a variation we haven’t seen before, possibly developed after Trenchant, but Eldred’s running a comparison across the planetary networks to see if it’s been picked up elsewhere. What I can tell you is it doesn’t match the signals we’ve been following in the weather sat web.”

“Good man. Keep on it.”

“Was that legitimate intelligence that came across? I wasn’t able to verify the source, though I could scramble our end. Whoever was talking with you would have gotten notification that you were somewhere on our eastern frontier.”

“It was legitimate as far as I can tell, Butter Bars,” Sinclair murmured. “One can only pray it proves useful as well.”

* * *

Undisclosed Location

Southern Hemisphere

Canaan

Captain Zhou had had his fill of sitting planetside while Kiel and his thugs planned their raids. The fact that Kiel had reminded him yet again that he could immolate Meng Po and her crew with the push of a button was not helping morale. Yahanotov was no help. Zhou approached his cabin only to find a pair of armed men flanking the hatch.

“No disturbances,” one grunted.

“Glad to see the boss paid extra for speech-enabled models,” Zhou muttered as he stormed off.

The calculus was simple. He had twenty-five people aboard, including himself, while Kiel had left behind eight mercenaries. Yahanotov didn’t count. Zhou didn’t think the tech asset left his cabin for any reason.

Zhou’s commlink buzzed. “Go ahead.”

“Comms traffic, Skipper, on the restricted frequency.”

Zhou stopped halfway down the corridor. Restricted. From ESS? How did they bypass Yahanotov’s blocks? “On my way.”

The whispered conversations on the bridge ceased as he arrived. Zhou noticed Janssen, one of his engineering staff, standing by the entrance. He wore his sidearm—a plasma pistol holstered to one side.

“Secure the hatch,” Zhou ordered.

Janssen nodded. He punched a code into the control panel. Metallic clunks sounded around three sides. “Done, sir.”

“No interruptions.” Not that Kiel’s thugs had made an effort to blend with the crew. Zhou suspected they were there for three reasons—to prevent Zhou and his people from leaving, to protect Yahanotov, and to guard the informant called Vance.

Balland and Ancel conferred by the comms station. Not a lot of call for either of them while Meng Po was grounded.

“It’s lodged in our nav updates,” Balland explained. “I found it when I ran the latest batch.”

Zhou scowled. Meng Po had to run surreptitious updates of local navigational conditions, lest they run into a wayward asteroid or a cargo convoy whenever they made their escape. But what his people showed him on the comms readout was anything but the typical sprawling list of coordinates and travel conditions.

“Vasiliy Kiel is disavowed by External Security Services. Return to the League of Sol with the people’s property as soon as possible.”

“That bastard.” Zhou glared at the screen as the message faded.

“Self-erasing,” Ancel murmured. “There will be no record of this.”

“You can be damn sure I’ll find one,” Zhou snapped. “Janssen? Call up Li, Thorvald, and Post. We need to have a talk with this Vance guy. Ancel…”

“We’re pretty sure Engineering has found a way around the reactor problem,” Ancel replied. “A transmitter was hidden underneath the regulation controls.”

“Did you leave it?”

“We did, but I told them to stand by to pull the connections when we’re ready.”

“Good. I’d hate to get blown to hell before I find out what’s really going on.”

* * *

Zhou and Janssen met up with the other crewmen he’d summoned around the bend from the auxiliary cabins where Vance was being held. Two more guards there.

“You men.”

The mercenaries eyed Zhou and his quartet with suspicion. “You’re not authorized for entry.”

Zhou gestured to Janssen. The engineer and his three compatriots raised plasma pistols. “You’re misinformed. Unlock it, and stand aside. Li, disarm them.”

They were hulking bruisers bearing scars of poor life choices, but they gave each other calculating looks—calculating, Zhou figured, their pay versus Kiel’s wrath. Neither of them was ESS, though Zhou suspected one or two of the eight left aboard would be. Li motioned for them to hand over their weapons, and they did so quietly.

Zhou was appalled to find Vance bound to a wall, his left arm shackled. The cabin stank of body odor.

The young redhead blinked at the sudden light. “You—the captain? Where’s Vasiliy?”

“Don’t worry about that.” Zhou knelt before him. “Your information. What did you give him?”

Vance looked away. “I-I can’t…”

“Marcel Baudet.” Zhou emphasized his real name. “You’re a servant of League society, aren’t you? Spying for the good of the people?”

Vance nodded, his gaze unfocused, his lips chapped.

When did he last have nourishment? “Then tell me. How could you turn against them?”

“It wasn’t… I didn’t know what he had planned, what he wanted. It’s a vendetta. That’s the only reason we’re here.”

“To destabilize.”

“No. To kill off his rivals, the people named in the files.”

“He won’t leak them? Get them disavowed?”

“He doesn’t care.” Vance’s laugh sounded bleak. “You don’t understand how this has driven him. He wants to obliterate the Terran team. That’s why he sent me to Nandao, to get whatever I could from CIS, once he found out their scheme. I made sure the rebels got the anonymous funding from Noor’s accounts. He’s ready to destroy every—”

The commotion behind Zhou made him miss the rest of Vance’s confession. Zhou glimpsed Li grappling with one of the men. Post was laid out on the deck. The muzzle of a plasma pistol pointed into the cabin.

Searing light filled Zhou’s vision. The ear-piercing shrieks from the weapon—and a couple more, he realized—set his hearing ringing. Zhou threw himself aside. His shoulder slammed against the bulkhead.

“Skipper!” Janssen knelt beside him. His sleeve was scorched and ripped. Blood trickled onto his knuckles. “Are you injured?”

“Mildly.” Zhou shook off the pain in his head and tried to roll his shoulder. Both actions were mistakes. Seeing Vance sprawled across the bunk, his eyes vacant and a hideous plasma burn blistering his chest, hit him worse than the bulkhead.

“They’re dead,” Janssen continued. “Kiel’s men. But we’ve got to get out of here. They shot Post…” His voice caught.

Zhou clapped his shoulder. Things were moving fast, which meant he had to move faster. “Help me up. Let’s get to Engineering.”

Janssen hauled Zhou upright then checked Vance for vitals—a futile task. Meanwhile, Zhou thumbed his commlink as they left the cabin with Li and Thorvald in their wake. He hated leaving Post on the deck, but if Meng Po atomized herself at Kiel’s command, worrying about a proper burial in space for one of his crew would be the least of Zhou’s worries. “Ancel! Lock down the bridge. Kill all weapons links. You can fix them when we get back to space.”

“Aye, Skipper. Engineering reports they’ve pulled the transmitter’s connectors—it won’t work. But the mercenaries are trying to force their way through the engine room hatch.”

Zhou accepted a plasma pistol from Janssen. “Not for much longer. We’ll clear them out, then I want Balland to get us off this planet.”

Ideally, they would be able to get out of the Canaan system in one piece. But contemplating a return to the League left Zhou more bothered by the prospect than he was by that of facing Kiel’s thugs. After all, Zhou doubted his superiors had forgotten they’d wanted their disgraced starship captain executed.

16

122977 New Jerusalem Boulevard

Downtown Lawrence City

Canaan

21 April 2466

Jackson felt as if he were being shoved around by the revelation of the file breach. Halevi insisted on running two more checks on the decrypted segment, but they came back the same. It didn’t matter. Jackson’s people were in danger, and a would-be assassin was running around the city. And with Vasiliy in the shadows…

“This way.” Halevi ushered him through the corridors at the back of the building. “Unmarked helicars are parked in the alley. You’ll be able to get out faster.”

“With or without being stopped by CBI and the Colonial Rangers at every checkpoint? The city’s still partially locked down.”

“You were able to arrive via tram, weren’t you? I will signal the—” Halevi grimaced as he held his commlink in front of his face. “No connection.”

Jackson checked his. Sparks had sent a message that he was in the air with Brant but no follow-up as to whether he’d retrieved Gina yet. Jackson’s commlink wouldn’t connect either.

“What’s causing it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing. But the fact remains you could be targeted, so the farther you get from here and the closer to your safehouse, the better.”

“I need to know what chatter is out there surrounding my people.”

Halevi shook his head. “I didn’t see any before my devices went off network. One would expect significant uproar if an operative’s identity were revealed to the public at large. Colonel Sinclair and his people can confirm that for us. As for the city’s lockdown, the helicars carry transponders that ID them as belonging to CDF Intelligence. CBI and the Rangers can interrogate the transponder, and civilian units will see it as civilian.”

“I’d better remind Brant to requisition those models for our next mission.” If there is a next mission. The bleak thought jarred Jackson. Even if his people survived the breach, they could very well be stricken from Intelligence’s roster if their identities were compromised beyond whatever party broke through the CIS reports. Jackson saw the remote possibility of having to leave under a new identity. What would become of the ranch then? Or my family? Abby?

He tried every trick he could think of, courtesy of Brant’s training, to make his commlink cooperate. No use. Every channel came back disabled. He was cut off.

A young, dark-skinned man in casual civilian clothes waited at the back door. His partner, a Stalwart-Series Mark Four security bot, trained a single red optical port on the approaching duo. Jackson was more concerned about the dual pulse rifles mounted on its shoulders.

Halevi nodded at the young man. “Clear, Sutton?”

“Yes, sir.” Sutton touched a console mounted by the doorframe.

The screen blinked on. Jackson glimpsed a grainy view of the alley behind the building, empty except for a recycler unit and the three hovercars.

“Scopes brought nothing up. I couldn’t raise you on comms, though. Is there a problem?”

“Always, Sutton. This man needs Car Two. You’re his escort. I’ll have you relieved.”

Sutton nodded at Jackson. “Petty Officer First Class Dean Sutton at your service.”

Jackson returned the nod. “Jack.”

Sutton reached for a cabinet beyond the console, unlocked it, and withdrew a submachine gun. He slipped in a magazine and grabbed two spares for his jacket. “Ready when you are.”

“Secure the alley,” Halevi ordered.

Sutton opened the door. The security bot trundled out on its treads, its torso swiveling in circles. The mounted weapons also rotated on independent mounts.

“Looking good.” Sutton went next, his machine gun at the ready.

“I will contact Colonel Sinclair as soon as communications are restored. We may have a booster among our kit of tricks.” Halevi smirked. “Or perhaps one of our special satellites has escaped this blackout unscathed.”

“Once you hear from him, ping me,” Jackson said. “If he hasn’t already activated the other covert action units, we could use their assist.”

“Will do.”

Jackson held out his hand to shake. “I wish we could have found better news, Captain, but I know I can speak for myself and my people when I thank you for bringing this to light.”

“Shalom, and Hashem yevarech otha, Captain.” Halevi put his hand on Jackson’s shoulder. “We discovered the truth, however unpleasant. It is better to know than wonder, don’t you agree?”

“I’m going to have to.” Jackson let his hand fall to his pistol concealed by his waist. Standing exposed like that, given the assassination attempt, felt like he was tempting fate. Brant would have something to say about God’s hand, but Jackson didn’t have the brainpower to philosophically debate with himself.

He headed for the middle of the two helicars, following Sutton’s lead. The bot stayed in the alley, scanning the environs. Sutton had the results on his wrist unit. “No warm bodies, no drone power signatures.”

“That’s good.” Jackson got in.

“Where to, sir?” Sutton locked the helicar doors and started the engines. The vehicle floated a meter off the ground.

“Port Nomad first. I’ll give you our final destination when we arrive.”

“Copy that.”

Sutton steered them out of the alleyway and up into the lanes used by intermittent streams of helicars. Those lanes paralleled the streets below, which were devoid of most traffic but showed more and more signs of hovercraft and wheeled vehicles as they left the city’s center.

They barely made it ten klicks before the car’s nav console beeped. Sutton scowled. “We’ve got a bogey, sir.”

Jackson had no tactical console to consult. Apparently, the helicar came equipped with a rudimentary proximity detector. Jackson craned his neck. “I see it—gray helicar two blocks back.”

“Yeah, it’s been on our six in one way or another since not long after we left.” Sutton glanced at Jackson. “I think you’re being followed.”

“We’d better warn Captain Halevi, then.”

“Don’t worry about it. This car’s linked to the analysis center. He knows.” Sutton snorted. “He will probably have the place cleaned out before we can land. Hang tight, sir. I’ll lose them.”

Jackson puzzled over how he’d been followed but then conceded it wouldn’t have been that difficult. The more chilling realization was that he’d been tracked since he arrived by tram in Lawrence City—or possibly before that.

Being out of communication with his team and, worse, his family didn’t help.

Sutton slewed the aircar right and banked toward the ground by a hundred meters, cutting into one of the last streams of traffic heading out of town. That earned him emergency alerts from his nav console, which Sutton slapped off. The gray helicar tucked into a close-pursuit vector, which Jackson found impressive despite it being operated by the wrong team. Another, more insistent alarm sounded in the car’s confines accompanied by a flash and a puff of smoke from their pursuer.

“Shit!” Sutton rolled the helicar and climbed in a corkscrew maneuver that left Jackson grateful he’d eaten little so far that day—and that he’d remembered his safety straps. “Short-range missiles!”

“Cloud cover.” Jackson pointed ahead.

“On it, sir.” Sutton plunged the helicar into a thick bank of cumulonimbus then leveled out so sharply Jackson found himself wondering where the horizon had gone. The thud of nearby explosions shook the car far worse than typical turbulence would. “We’re goin’ to ground.”

True to his word, the young noncom pointed the helicar’s nose back the way they’d come and powered to a lower altitude. He pulled up within a few dozen meters of the grassy terrain. Jackson refused to look at the altimeter. He found himself longing for Dwyer’s antics, which were tame by comparison.

The missile warning blared again, twice, and Sutton punched a button on his steering yokes. Glittering chaff exploded from behind. Two more explosions rattled them, throwing debris past the car as it slewed off course.

“Brace!” Sutton shouted.

Jackson held on to his straps as another much closer blast threw the car like a discarded autumn leaf. The pressure brought Jackson near to blacking out until a tremendous impact ended the haywire spin.

His vision faded in and out. Sounds were muted. He saw Sutton, eyes wide and unseeing, crumpled against the yokes. Collision foam had deployed inside and around the helicar, but it hadn’t kept Sutton from being wrenched across the dashboard. Sutton’s side of the car had smashed into the dirt. Jackson hung overhead by his straps. He reached for Sutton’s neck, fumbling for a pulse, but found nothing.

Dammit. It was one thing to risk his own life for the Coalition, but the idea of the young man, who barely knew him, dying in a senseless attack hurt worse. Of course, Sutton had taken the same vow, as had Jackson—as they all had. It didn’t make his loss easier.

“Godspeed,” Jackson murmured. He couldn’t think of a better sendoff.

Voices outside the helicar were barely audible over the hiss from the subsiding foam and the crackle of sizzling electronics. His pistol. Jackson winced as he found the grip. His forearm ached, but nothing seemed broken. Whether he could get it free in time to shoot, though—

“Passenger side is top. Got a live one. Driver’s dead.” The voice was curt and professional. “Cordon the area.”

Boots shuffled. Three pairs? Jackson breathed deeply. He stuck his leg against the dash, bracing for leverage, and reached for the safety strap release. His other hand drew the pulse pistol but kept it tucked beside his leg, shielded from the window’s view.

A shadow fell across the window. Jackson’s muscles tensed, but he forced himself to relax and play limp. The door was slightly ajar, locks broken. He thought back to the pursuit, the explosions, and tried to recall punctures in the helicar’s body. No sign of any admitted sunlight into the darkened interior.

Here’s hoping it’s actually armored.

A face appeared, staring right at him. The door squealed as it opened. Jackson triggered the strap release, slumped toward the dash, and fired his pistol. The brilliant flash illuminated the helicar’s interior and made the face disappear. Shouts responded from all sides, followed by the whine of plasma weapons returning fire.

Purple and red splotches glowed around Jackson, but none penetrated the car—not yet anyway. The heat, though, was building, and he suspected if he touched the spots where the plasma blasts had made contact, his hand would come away with severe burns.

A new sound overwhelmed the plasma weapons—a set of ion engines roaring as a shuttle soared overhead. The long shadow rolling across the grass outside sent the men scattering, which afforded Jackson a lull in their onslaught. Wind whipped up dust devils and battered the helicar with debris. It took Jackson a moment to realize he recognized the engines’ pitch quite well.

The thunder of an automatic point-defense weapon squealed through the cacophony. Screams responded from the men and their weapons as they shot back. Jackson pushed himself out the passenger door, his pulse pistol leveled.

Three men were dead, their bodies crumpled and bleeding. Three more hunkered by their gray helicar, from which smoke rose plumes. Apparently, they were willing to risk a growing fire and imminent explosion if it meant they didn’t have to face the shuttle’s cannons.

The shuttle…

Jackson squinted at the shape of the wings, which the silhouette had hinted at. Her fuselage was a dull gray with black pinstriping, but otherwise, there was no mistaking Novabird for anything else.

Those observations took up a few seconds. Jackson peppered the gray helicar with pulse blasts, doing his best to hit his assailants but knowing full well he could manage only a lucky shot with a pistol at that range. Novabird ceased firing and dropped to the ground so fast Jackson winced preemptively at the thought of her bottoming out her belly. Instead, the landing gear crunched the dirt.

A distant, high-pitched keening whistled across the space between helicars. One of the attackers reached for his belt, bringing a sudden end to the racket.

Directed jamming. Jackson wondered if Second Lieutenant J.S. Richards aboard Novabird was responsible because it was clear CAU 22 had been activated in response to either his attack or—given the swiftness of their response—the assassination attempt. They had to have been on their way somewhere else and redirected. Jackson didn’t give a damn about the reason. His brothers- and sisters-in-arms were there to defend him.

The figure in mottled brown and green camouflage who emerged from Novabird’s landing ramp wielded a battle rifle. He seemed to flicker in and out of Jackson’s field of vision, showing up farther away then covering a nearer distance in an instant—then triplicated himself.

His rounds hammered the attackers, who returned fire but sporadically, as they were divided by both Jackson’s and his ally’s attentions. One man dropped, immediately still.

Novabird’s engines whined, and she hopped back into the sky, angling toward the attackers with her nose pointing at the dirt. About twenty meters out, she pivoted, the thrusters creating a cyclone that whipped across Jackson’s face.

The last two men scrambled from the smoldering helicar. Jackson caught one in the chest and turned to aim at the other. The camouflaged ally shot the last man.

“Captain.” First Lieutenant Duncan Garza pulled off his hood, face slicked with sweat—or rather, all three of his faces. Garza must have recognized Jackson’s confusion because he adjusted a control on his belt. The trio of images merged into one. “Sir, are you hurt?”

“Sore but otherwise mobile.” Jackson gazed into the helicar, adrenaline still raging through him at Sutton’s vacant expression. “They killed my escort.”

Garza frowned. He slung his battle rifle over his back and helped Jackson dismount the helicar. “Watch your step.”

“Thanks.” Jackson’s leg throbbed but didn’t seem to be broken or sprained. Probably he would gain a hell of a bruise the next day. “They caught up with us not long after I left Captain Halevi and his squad of data miners.”

“He’s been in contact. We’re to rendezvous with your team immediately.”

Jackson shook his head. “Negative. I need you to take me home.”

“Home?” Garza seemed puzzled until realization slowly displaced confusion. Jackson always thought it was like watching the sun rise when people did so. “They know?”

“It’s probable.” Jackson limped toward Novabird waiting on the other side of the helicars. “But it means we can’t stand around planning. Fly me to the ranch, top speed.”

“Yes, sir.” Garza escorted him up the open ramp into the cargo hold.

Such familiarity almost pushed Jackson over the edge to despair, but he throttled back his emotions. He was home, in a sense, but strangers were in charge of his house. Getting to his family was of greater importance.

“Captain Adams.” Warrant Sakuri nodded over her shoulder. She flipped a row of switches above her head. “We’re ready when you are, One.”

“Let’s move.” Jackson and Garza spoke simultaneously.

After sharing muted but mutual grins, Jackson gestured to Garza. It was his team to command.

“Halevi’s people are on the way for cleanup,” Garza told Sakuri as he sat behind her.

Jackson strapped into the seat opposite Garza.

“Captain Adams has our new coordinates.”

Sakuri frowned as Jackson leaned forward.

“I thought we were merging teams,” she said.

“My people are already following their contingency,” Jackson explained. “Our destination’s more vital.”

He punched in the coordinates for the Adams ranch on the Western Steppes. Sakuri’s eyes widened as she read the indicator. “Yes, sir. No delays.”

Novabird surged into the sky. The acceleration and Jackson’s mounting fatigue pressed him into the cushions. He shook from the adrenaline wearing off as his body reminded him he was safe for the moment, and the immediate threats had been dealt with.

That didn’t stop his mind from going into overdrive thinking about Abby and Mom. What about Harry and Samantha? Do the leaked files go into enough detail about my family to make them targets? Harry would likely be in the classified records as next of kin. Jackson hoped Halevi would notify him if that were the case.

He fumbled with his commlink. Nothing but static. “I don’t suppose you folks have a way to get our comms up and running?”

“Working on it, sir.” Richards chewed his lip. “Warrant Eldred preserved a few channels. Fleet command is getting backup satellites into position. Time’s the problem. It’s not a quick fix.”

Jackson steeled himself for whatever lay ahead. “Nothing ever is.”

17

Wingren City

Pentecost Island

Canaan

21 April 2466

The Wilkeses’ house was at the end of Sennebec Street, curving along the coastline of the narrow end of Pentecost Island. Wingren City’s looping, irregular coastline guaranteed seaside views for hundreds of people, even there, ten blocks away from the main port and shuttle pads.

Gina hadn’t lived there. It was Dad’s place from when he and Mom split. Shared custody hadn’t been on Mom’s priority list. But having been there twice on leave, she’d memorized every home and every property, every tree and every hedgerow. She was counting on that familiarity to help her against whoever the League had sent to kill her.

Gina slowed to a jog as the roof’s slant appeared over the red shingles of the neighboring home. The advantage of living in a community versus using drones or overhead scans to read the terrain was that no matter how fancy the hologram used by the assault team, it wouldn’t tell them things like when a neighbor would be out walking his dog or what the shadows between hedgerows looked like at certain times of day.

It was dusk, local time. Mr. Drake came out his front door, as usual, to trim the rose bushes lining a stone walk. He waved and smiled. “Good evening.”

“Evening.” Gina slipped into an easy saunter, casual enough to belay the anxiety racing through her but still quick enough to get her home in short order.

“Did you hear the comms are down?” Mr. Drake shook his head. “And the Galnet too. Alice is furious about missing her travelogue program. They were supposed to be live from a Saurian planet, I think.”

“That’s awful.” And knowing how strident Mrs. Drake’s complaining would be, Gina meant it, if only for her husband’s sake.

“Well, if yours comes back, can you—”

Gunfire broke the afternoon hush. Gina’s heart leapt. Dad’s rifle.

Mr. Drake snapped his gaze toward the Wilkeses’ house. “Did that come from—”

Another familiar sound responded to the first gunshot—the grating shriek of plasma weapons.

“Get inside!” Gina headed for the shrubs lining the sidewalk. “Call the police if you can get back on comms.”

He was inside, shouting for Alice, before Gina could offer any further instruction. She wasn’t worried about him. He was a former Marine. Scratch that. What has CDF taught me? Despite the rivalry between the Terran Coalition Marine Corps and CDF, she knew no one was a former Marine, only active or inactive. Certainly never “ex.”

Gina pushed through a gap in the shrubbery she usually watched sandpipers skitter in and out of. It was a much tighter fit, but it brought her into the yard by the edge of the front porch. Or rather, front side of the porch since it encircled the entire house.

A window exploded outward followed by another. Someone shouted, and for a moment, Gina thought it was Dad until she heard his rifle keep firing. Not dead. Thank God.

Cold anger froze out the rest of her worries for him. Right then, she had a problem—she didn’t know how many attackers there were. She could have used one of Dwyer’s drones, explosive or not. Even better, having Sev atop one of the downtown hotels, armed with a sniper rifle, would have given her an excellent vantage point.

What’s that saying about wishes and horses? Gina shook her head. Jack would know.

She pulled herself over the porch railing. Squinting through a gouge burned across its top, Gina could see deeper into the house. The lights were off. Smart, Dad. No doubt he could find his way around with his eyes closed and in the dark.

Footsteps creaked on the deck. Gina reached along her thigh for the pulse pistol holstered there but reconsidered. She knelt and opted for the knife sheathed at her ankle. It would be quieter that way. She squeezed the handle. An electrical circuit prompted the blade’s molecules to realign, extending it from her wrist beyond the tips of her fingers. All right, so, technically it’s a dagger now, not a knife. Gina doubted anyone would quibble.

A shadow drifted along the side of the house. Gina pulled herself through the broken window, minding the sharp edges. She crawled along the wall, head low, eyes fixed on the next window. It was open. Of course it was. Dad liked having every other one cracked to admit the evening breezes off the ocean.

The man’s body passed by. Gina slid out behind him, kicking off her shoes as she went. He was her height, clad in a dark-smoky-gray jumpsuit, with a hood, boots, and gloves to match.

“Negative.” The man’s sudden announcement surprised her. He’d stopped two meters away, left hand pressed to his ear. His right hefted a plasma rifle. “No sign out here. He’s got to still be in the house.”

Gina knew she couldn’t be too rash. The moment required patience, so she padded gently up behind him, slung an arm around his neck to cut off his air, and plunged the knife into the fabric on the other side of his neck.

She held him firm, pressing his body against the wall as he squirmed and thrashed, but his struggle ended quickly. He lost too much blood in a few seconds, most of it soaking Gina’s arm.

The earpiece buzzed with conversation. Gina slid the hood back. It was a kid—okay, early twenties, no teen, but still—head shaved clean, tattoos covering his neck from cheekbones to collar. Gina tried not to think about how his surprised expression reminded her of Kyle’s when she’d held her brother at gunpoint on Nandao.

Instead, she plucked out the earpiece. “You won’t need this, will you?” She went to insert it in her ear, but it suddenly squealed and went dead. Gina winced at the minor electric shock and dropped the device. Tamperproof. Well, well. Definitely not amateurs.

She tried the rifle, too, but found it was pattern locked against accidental use by another person—well, another unauthorized person. The rifle’s side panel showed a dozen or more profiles in the access menu. Gina frowned. It must be attuned to the biology of his team. Fine. She removed the power pack and flung it clear into the Drakes’ yard along with the spares from his belt.

The weapons fire had lapsed into silence. More footsteps surrounded the property—some scratching along the tile floors inside, more bending boards on the porch wrapping the opposite end of the house. Maybe Dad was reloading. Maybe the attackers were looking for another way in. He must have put up some fight because they weren’t storming the house.

Gina hopped the railing and slunk toward the seaside yard.

“Here! Back here!”

The shout came from the north edge of the house, toward the kitchen. Gina hurried, the pulse pistol at the ready.

Two more men stood on the back porch, right next to her hammock. A civilian shuttle waited on the beach, its pasty hull turned deep blue with orange streaks from the setting sun.

Dad’s rifle report rang out, followed immediately by plasma blasts. The sounds rattled throughout the house and into the yard, disturbing the evening’s peace.

Gina closed the gap between herself and the first man, pistol raised, finger on the trigger. She would wait until she was sure she wouldn’t miss. He turned. Gina burned away the black mask covering his face with the first shot.

The second man was faster with his weapon. He dropped and ducked, scattering plasma bolts across the yard and onto the beach. Purple light slashed through the air. The hammock ignited, burning from one end until it flapped like the defeated flag on a conquered fortress.

“Look out!” Gina shouted the warning at her attacker and fired a trio of shots toward the house. She could always apologize to Dad later if she shot out a few windows. But she needed the distraction.

The man was short and stocky, built like a human cargo container. He only stopped firing for a moment, but it was enough for Gina to roll down the embankment to the bushes separating the sand dunes from the seagrass yard. The rocks hidden among them had been smoothed by eons of tidal shifts, but they had rough edges in a few places. Plasma bolts ripped the shrubs apart, setting tiny fires. Gina was relieved none found her but simultaneously amazed her body felt like it found every single rock as she dropped, landing a meter below on the hard-packed sand.

“She’s out here! She’s here!” The human cargo container had a gravelly, surprisingly high-pitched voice.

His cry for help, though, was exactly what Gina wanted to hear. She was the target, after all. If Dad didn’t see anyone’s faces, they might let him live rather than killing a witness. Gina sneered. What am I thinking? She would make sure he lived.

More people came running from the house. They’d given up attempts at stealth, obviously, but even so, she was surprised at how quiet their footsteps were.

An aircraft engine roared along the beach. Gina hoped it was the Rangers—she would even take local patrol—but she didn’t have time to focus on the source because the human cargo container was scrambling through the brush, making his own path to the sand without following hers. Smart, in a way, because she might be waiting at the bottom.

She wasn’t. Gina pulled herself back into the brush as he skidded below. She lost her footing, though, on one of the many smooth stones, one with its own slick of algae. The rock itself came loose and rattled across the others.

The human cargo container spun and fired. He aimed the way he came, a full three meters to Gina’s right. She shot back with her pulse pistol, but without a clear line of sight, she missed him just as much as he missed her. Their competing blasts turned the brush to steaming, smoldering twists of blackened vegetation.

A flash of light exploded in her field of vision. Her right ear set to ringing, as if a speaker mounted on her shoulder blared the galaxy’s worst jamming interference directly into her auditory senses.

Gina heaved one of the heavier rocks like she was competing in shotput—not that she knew anything about those kinds of athletic tournaments. But it was a big enough stone she didn’t have to be precise. It smashed into the burly man’s shoulder with a thud and a crack that told Gina he wouldn’t be taking part in a similar competition.

The human cargo container screamed. He collapsed, pitching into the sand, but had the apparent foresight to land on the arm supporting his gun, ensuring he held onto his weapon.

“Pretty clever,” Gina gasped. She broke free of the tangled vegetation, wiped blood from her face, and shot him in the head. That was three.

Blood? Gina checked her hand then touched the side of her forehead. A painful, burning graze marked where one of the plasma blasts must have come near. No wonder everything she heard out of that ear was a deafened mess, and the splotches obscuring her right wouldn’t go away.

“Rance. Rance!”

The new voice called from the house, but Gina couldn’t be sure from what exact direction because of the ringing in her ear, the rumble of the nearby surf, and whoever was joyriding in a damnable racer during the usually soft evening hours she was used to in Dad’s neighborhood.

“Incoming!”

The weapons fire slackened again because the racer skimmed the palms so low it shredded the uppermost fronds with its gleaming silver fuselage. Gina stared as the surf reflected in mesmerizing patterns on the underside.

“Y’all stay put!” The voice boomed across the cove.

Despite her pain and apprehension, Gina couldn’t help but laugh.

A couple of men came running, their plasma rifles punching sickly black-and-brown holes in the racer’s wings. Gina slunk along the shrubbery toward them as another man slipped down that blasted trail she’d broken through the barrier. She spun and fired, but he grabbed her arm and forced the pulse pistol’s muzzle skyward then wrenched it free from her grip.

Gina countered with a blow to his neck and a strike to his groin. The man yelped. He didn’t fall over, though, and brought his rifle’s stock up in a sweep meant to break her jaw and probably give her one hell of a concussion. But Gina pivoted away from the weapon, folding into the man’s arms as if she were embracing him for a dance. Closing the distance made it easier to lash out with her knife.

He was quick, that one, quicker and more alert than the others. He grunted and dropped to his knees so the blade skimmed his hood. A second after he let go of her wrist—the one still holding her pulse pistol aloft—his fist connected with her midsection.

Gina staggered into the rocks as the air expelled from her lungs in a great woosh. The pulse pistol fell into the sand, but she held onto her knife, barely. A great crunch resounded from the beach. Gina blinked away tears of pain. Even her assailant made the error of glancing away, his body tensing in surprise.

The racer had landed atop the shuttle, covering the latter’s long, broad wedge shape with its wide-winged silhouette. Thrusters atop the racer’s fuselage fired, pressing the ship down—and making the shuttle’s portholes bend and shatter. Soon, the forward bulkheads, which were shorter and presumably thinner by the shuttle’s nose, snapped. Sparks sputtered from the gaping seams where wires ripped.

Dad’s rifle sounded again. That time, though, the flurry of plasma blasts that responded came to an abrupt end as Dad cried out in pain. Adrenaline rushed through Gina. She saw him in her imagination, sprawled on the bedroom floor, chest burned by enemy fire, the Leaguers picking over his body. That wasn’t going to be him, not when she had failed to bring Kyle back from Nandao, not when she’d been unable to stop Mom’s death.

Her attacker brought his rifle up toward her chin, so close she could feel the searing heat from the charged particles. He went to pull the trigger but groaned. Gina had shoved the knife as deep as she could into his chest.

A gunshot of a different caliber sounded from behind her. One of the two men who were trying to shoot the racer fell, his blood staining the sand. Gina glanced back. Mr. Drake stood at the far end of the property, aiming from the shoulder with an older-model service rifle.

The other shooter shifted and fired toward her, but the racer’s engines were still whipping up the sand. Gina strode into the whirlwind, the grains stinging her face and feet. She ignored the plasma bolts flashing around her and concentrated on her target. Four pulls of the trigger put four pulses through the shooter’s chest.

“Road’s clear!” Dwyer shouted.

Gina couldn’t fathom how much that ridiculous ride of his cost, but it didn’t matter. He had crushed the only other way of escape. Mr. Drake had taken one of their number. Gina had stopped five. She didn’t care how many more stood between her and Dad.

Dwyer’s disembodied voice shouted urgent commands—or is that my angel, Brant? Gina ignored whatever they were saying. She went up the lawn. A quiet part of her mind told her it was no different from walking back after a comforting lounge in the hammock. Except her hammock was in burnt tatters, and three more people were coming down from the house.

“There she is!” one of them yelled.

Here I am. Gina advanced, firing until her pulse pistol’s energy cell died. She drew her pocket pistol and shot multiple rounds, not even checking to see if it was loaded with stun rounds or the more lethal variety.

She killed two of the men before they could raise their weapons. The third backed away, clutching a blistering wound on his thigh.

“Where is he?” Gina caught up with him and kicked, planting her heel on the wound.

The man screamed. His voice was younger, like Kyle’s. Gina leaned harder until the screams became sobs. “Th-The back! The back. He went th-through the house. We couldn’t follow—it didn’t match the public plans.”

“Where?” Gina pressed the pistol to his forehead.

“He wasn’t the target. Y-You were.”

“I know.” Gina twisted the pistol so the muzzle dug deeper while increasing pressure with her heel. “Which room?”

“Th-The one next to the bedroom.”

The den. Gina’s smile was grim. Dad had a heavy granite counter running the length of the far wall, behind which was a fully stocked bar. Not that he used it much for entertaining guests. “Good. Next one’s easier—where’s Vasiliy heading?”

“I-I don’t know. He didn’t tell us all the targets—only the ones we were headed for.”

“I see.” Gina lifted her foot from the wound. The young man gasped as the pain eased. “So, he just told you I was Gina Wilkes and you had to kill me?”

“Th-That’s right.”

Gina pulled the trigger.

She left his body there and sprinted into the house. No one came for her. No one shot. There was nothing but silence. “Dad? Dad!”

He didn’t answer.

Gina fought tears as she took a corner too fast, her shoulder hitting a bookshelf, toppling a stack of paperbacks. A single body lay in the middle of the farthest corridor—one of the assailants, dead of a gunshot wound to the chest.

“Dad!” She burst into the den.

It was a wreck. Everything seemed to have been hit by plasma blasts, but the bulk of the counter was intact.

“Here.” Dad’s voice was reedy. His hand appeared atop the countertop as he dragged himself up.

“Thank God.” Gina hugged him. Her hands came away sticky with blood. “You’re shot.”

“Twice.” Dad tried a smirk but winced instead. “Ribs and shoulder. I’ve stopped the bleeding, but the cells are going to need a bit of mending.”

“We’ll get you some care. Come on.” Gina helped him limp toward the door.

“Sorry about the mess.”

“No. Don’t say that. This is my fault. They came for me.”

“I know they did, Georgine. They asked for you by name.” Dad glanced at her. “I know enough about your work to be aware of what that meant. Turns out they didn’t like my response.”

Gina shook her head, smiling. “Let’s get you out of here. I’m not done cleaning up.”

“There’s more of them?”

“I wish there weren’t, but I won’t let that stop me.” Jack. Are you out there still?

She wasn’t about to lose him. Not that way.

18

Dean Forest

Canaan

21 April 2466

Prock hated the woods. They made him itch. Wearing the stupid hood and the damn mask didn’t help. He was sure he would suffocate. Funny. If they’d put him in a starship, a shuttle, or a sealed orbital habitat like the ones in which he’d spent his entire life, he would have had no problem hunting the target. But this… Prock scratched at his ribs. This is unnatural.

The forest had lapsed into twilight not long ago. That didn’t seem to matter to the idiot the team had been waiting for at the cabin. Sevastopol Rast, whoever the hell that was. Prock didn’t care. The deal was still in place—twenty thousand for the first payment, sixty thousand for the second, and a hundred for the third and final. He grinned. Couldn’t wait to spend that. It wasn’t like he’d been able to stash credits from his time trafficking Orbita along the border.

If only Rast would quit wandering around in the forest.

The eight-man team had left two guys at the cabin. Prock had led the rest into the tree line, following the trail Rast had left. Picking the right trail hadn’t been easy. Two false starts had finally spurred Prock to split his six into three pairs, each one spread a hundred meters from the next. They carried proximity transmitters on their jumpsuits, linked together in a low frequency individual to the squad.

Nothing had helped. The trails had gone cold, and with darkness falling, the work had become harder. Prock despised how the woods—which were pretty, he had to admit, even with their damnable pollen—became ghostly green trunks against deep-black shadows in his goggles’ night vision setting. The upside was the infrared sensors picked up faint footprints outlined against the pine needles and soil.

“One, this is Five.” That would be Harris, who Prock considered the most loyal out of the former drug dealers, murderers, and hitmen in their squad—loyal, as in least likely to shoot Prock in the back and try to steal his credits. “Might have something here. Forty meters from our position.”

“Got it, Five. Everyone else, you get that?” The six of them were operating on a squad frequency. “Stay put.”

“I’m not going anywhere in this black hole,” muttered Yuri, Prock’s partner for the operation.

Prock picked his way through the underbrush, mindful not to snap off dry branches. The last thing he needed was to tip off this Rast guy.

Harris crouched by a massive stump. He gestured with his plasma weapon. “Check it out.”

Prock stared at the ballistic rifle leaning against the tree bark. He recognized it as a model popular with hunters across Terran space, though the owner had made modifications to the stock, scope, and barrel. Flawless work. Prock couldn’t make out the sloppy seams the guys he ran with used when they upgraded their guns. The guy knew his stuff.

“Still loaded.” Harris tapped the rifle’s magazine.

“Yeah.” Prock sneered. “Our guy thinks he’s having fun with us. We found a bunch of weapons in the cabin, though. Looks like he only took this rifle and a pistol with him, unless we missed one or two in the inventory.”

Harris patted the automatic plasma rifle dangling by its strap.

“Okay, see if it’s got a brain to it, and pull whatever location data you can find,” Prock ordered. “I want to—”

A soft, insistent hiss cut through the quiet. Red light sparkled on the pine boughs high above, back the way Prock had come. The pained cry that came afterward stopped as suddenly as it had sounded.

“Two?” Prock hurried back to where he’d left Yuri. “Two, come in.”

More shadowy figures crashed through the brush on their way to Yuri’s location. A form lay still, crumpled around a pile of rocks.

“One, this is Four.” Max sounded ill. “Yuri’s dead.”

“What? Are you sure?” Prock stumbled around the last few trees before reaching Max and Shen clustered around the body. He immediately understood why Max had reacted the way he had.

Yuri’s body had been burned from his left leg clear up through his torso. Prock gently rolled him over. The beam had shot out through his shoulder blade. It was as neat a hole as if he’d been operated on.

“Laser trap.” Max’s voice continued to shake. “I saw them during the war. The Leaguers liked to use a bunch once they’d cleared out an area. Troops were used to scanning for explosives, but these don’t carry charges, just enough of a power pack for a single, intense burst.”

“Bastard.” Prock squeezed his rifle’s stock harder so his hand would quit shaking. Nothing he could do about the sweat on his forehead. “All units stay in place and deploy your scanners. Active ping for any power sources, no matter how small.”

“Hey, One, if we go pinging—”

“I know he’ll hear it!” Prock hissed. “It’s better than having a laser carve you from your balls to your brain, Harris! Do it now.”

A series of soft beeps rippled outward from Prock’s position, including from the device he held. The dim screen didn’t give him good news. The sweating intensified. A dull-red circle appeared three meters to his northeast then another four meters south by southwest.

“Prock,” Max murmured. He held up his readout. Red dots overlapped what Prock’s showed and added more.

Prock was more concerned about the feedback from the interlinked scanners operated by the rest of his people. Dots kept appearing until he counted sixteen within a three-hundred-meter radius of their location.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Harris said over the comms. “We’ve walked across a few of those. I know I stepped on one.”

“Of course it makes sense,” Prock snapped. “They’re not automated. They’re remotely activated.”

He hunkered lower, switching back to his goggles’ night vision setting and slowly peering into the forest around at him. At least being soaked with sweat held the itching at bay. “He’s watching us.”

* * *

Six men—more than he would have liked—and a couple of others at his home.

Sev stared at them from between the branches of the stunted pines scattered among their taller brothers. Starlight gleamed off his rifle’s barrel. Foolhardy, probably. But he knew he would fare better against the hired killers on his own terrain if they thought him helpless.

The laser traps had proven useful. Perhaps Chief Dwyer wouldn’t think him so paranoid once Sev told the story of how he’d used them. Of course, the killers had scanned their area, which helped Sev to pick them out. But it also had an added benefit. A streifenwolf howled in the distance. Two more replied.

The killers looked around, their silhouettes moving more abruptly. They were scared, out of their element. At least Sev had reduced their number by one. He pressed the small control clipped to his belt.

“Look out!”

Sev nodded as red sparkles sprinkled throughout the treetops, like a Christmas display in the middle of nature. Quite beautiful, too, if one didn’t stop to think about each sparkle as the product of a tiny but intense laser projector buried in the forest floor.

He hit none of the other five marks. That was fine. It served more to remind them he was near, observing, waiting.

The killers spread out again, that time as individuals, apparently not wanting to risk themselves as clustered targets. Sev nodded. He’d known they were killers the instant they disembarked their shuttle by his house. Even when viewed from a half klick away through a rifle’s scope, their swagger was evident. Experienced in killing? Yes. Disciplined? No. Though Sev detected traces of rudimentary training. Someone had spent time recently to make sure they could operate under a semblance of command. Vasiliy.

Sev hoped the man Captain Adams wanted to stop was among those people, but it seemed unlikely. He only hoped Chief Dwyer and Lieutenant Guinto had retrieved Gina in time before they came to get him.

Not that he was concerned for his own survival. Sev cocked his head to one side, listening as the streifenwolf howls increased in number and frequency. It would be nice, though, to have a prisoner alive to answer questions.

* * *

Prock puzzled over the howls. What kind of animals live in this forest, anyway? He’d read about the species infesting Canaan. Anything bigger than a vent mouse was a problem for him. Who knows what diseases they carry? He scratched at the side of his face as his team continued their retreat.

The howling spread around them. Prock thought he glimpsed a furred shape run between outcroppings, but at that point, anything and everything registered as a threat. He was lucky he hadn’t shot one of his guys—lucky they hadn’t shot him either.

Harris yelled. Prock spun and dropped to a knee. A massive dog had clamped its jaws around Harris’s leg and dragged him deeper into the woods. Prock sighted on the beast, but a second one raced up from behind a stand of trees and bit Harris’s neck. Any cries died in a broken gurgle.

“Look out!” Yuri opened fire with his plasma rifle, the automatic weapon spraying brilliant-purple flashes.

“Shit!” Prock ripped his goggles free. The sudden explosion of plasma blasts had nearly blinded him, thanks to the night vision setting. Without them, he blinked away the afterimages and aimed again for Harris’s monstrous attackers. They were gone.

But the wolves were back, darting among the four remaining men. Prock shot into the darkness, letting his bursts illuminate their surroundings. Four automatic weapons firing in tandem made it much easier to see—though he wished it couldn’t. He counted at least eight wolves encircling them, running a path that brought them nearer with every circuit completed.

How can I not hit them? Prock snarled as his blasts splintered tree trunks and reduced tall pines to smoldering, steaming wrecks. Finally, he caught a wolf dead-on, the particle burst lighting up its gleaming fangs a second before dropping the creature less than a meter from his boots.

Growls caught his attention from behind. Yuri screamed as three wolves buried him in a flash of teeth and fur. Crunching noises drowned out his begging.

Prock turned his weapon on them, but something huge and heavy knocked him off his feet. Hot breath swept over him. The last two of his men—what are their names?—cursed and shouted as the pack surrounding them grew in size. Prock stared at the huge white wolf looming over him, its fur turned a flickering orange by the fires the guys’ weapons had started. Thick gray stripes marked its flanks, head, and snout. But it wasn’t watching him. It was locked onto another target.

A gunshot rang out. Then another. No more cries from his people. No more screaming. Only the unmistakable sounds of the pack feasting—except those, too, faded. That was when Prock realized the only things he could hear besides the snapping of flames were footsteps coming nearer.

The moment he saw the tall blond man’s pale face staring at him from ten meters off, Prock was overjoyed. He felt stupid with tears in his eyes, but at least the guy wasn’t letting him get eaten.

The wolf atop him rumbled then loped away, easing the pressure on Prock’s chest.

He rolled, pushing onto his hands and knees. “Thanks, man,” he gasped. “Those things, they—” His right hand burned with agonizing pain a second after the third gunshot. Prock screamed.

“Vasiliy,” the man asked.

* * *

Sev couldn’t recall running his streifenwolf interference emitter while talking and shooting. He was sure both sets of sounds would mess with the effect, but for the moment, the pack ignored him.

The man before him sobbed over the wound Sev had just inflicted. The terror he’d experienced from the pack likely didn’t help him stay calm. He wasn’t sad, though—more furious. “He can go to hell as far as I care!”

Sev shook his head. “I leave?” He pointed at the wolves. “They come.”

Comprehension dawned slowly on the man’s dirt- and tear-stained face, but it didn’t seem to affect his mood. “So what? You’re going to kill me anyway, because I know who you are. You’re the traitor Vasiliy told us about.”

Sev laughed. He hadn’t laughed so hard and for such a long time since he was a child. Some of the wolves—the younger, more nervous of the pack—bolted from their meals, but most stayed and stared again.

“Traitor.” Sev savored the word. Is that how the Leaguers view me? A man who’d turned his back on his nation and joined its enemy. The same nation that had killed his parents and ruined the lives of countless others. The same nation that wanted to destroy the Terran Coalition because it had the audacity to not demand all humanity exist under its dominion. “Traitor.” Sev whispered it that time. He leaned in closer to the man and muttered, “That’s me.”

He walked away, the interference emitter keeping the wolves from him. Sev wondered if they realized how close he’d come to killing one of their number earlier. Of course, they may very well recall he’d culled their pack several times over the past few years. In either case, the device seemed to be doing its job.

“Wait. Wait!” The man staggered upright. “Don’t leave me. Look, I don’t have the specifics, okay? The boss compartmentalized. But he said something about a ranch. Like his teams were going to a farm or a ranch somewhere. He and Ferenc were talking about it.”

Ferenc. Don’t I know the name? Or is it Fernand? The hectic days aboard Bellwether Station filled his memories.

“Hey!” The man still carried his plasma rifle. Its stock glowed with a quarter of its original charge. “Don’t leave me here. What are you, sick? I’ll be your prisoner. I can tell you whatever you want to know! I won’t mention your name. Okay, look—you’ll need me to get past the guys waiting at your house, right?” He glanced around at the wolves. “You can’t just abandon me to these monsters!”

Sev stopped. The man had a point. They hadn’t come to Canaan for the purpose of torturing or abusing Sev. They were hired killers—one task and one task only. He holstered his pistol then swept the retrieved rifle off his shoulder. It took him just three seconds to lift, aim, breathe, and pull the trigger. It took his victim two seconds to realize what would happen.

The single shot scattered the rest of the pack, who eyed him cautiously from deeper in the forest.

Sev nodded at them. “Good hunt.”

* * *

Two more men waited for Sev at his cabin. One was inside. The other was perched at the shuttle’s hatch. Both were smart enough to avoid the windows, but Sev could see from their silhouettes roughly where they were inside either location. It also helped that he knew the thickness of his cabin’s walls.

Sev fired one round into the light over the front porch, followed by a second that plinked off the stone foundation. Two more shots went into the shuttle’s left wing. The man inside the cabin reacted by hurrying for the light switch. Sev had only one such panel, located next to the front door. He counted four seconds as the man crossed the room from where Sev had seen his shadow on the kitchen wall.

The light went out. Sev fired two rounds in rapid succession, punching through the wall to the right of the doorframe. No more movement inside.

The shuttle’s occupant wasn’t foolish, apparently. He didn’t emerge, but the shuttle’s engines began to hum. We can’t have that. Sev bolted from cover, running straight for the vehicle.

He caught the man’s panicked look from inside the cockpit as Sev skidded on the grass. The shuttle lifted a couple of meters off the ground. Sev put three rounds through the cockpit windows.

It was a risk, he knew. The vehicle could have been armored. But given its civilian appearance, he assumed it to be a stock model. Fortunately, his gamble paid off. The rounds punctured the windscreen, and the pilot vanished from view. The shuttle slewed right, fortunately, and nosed a long furrow through the dirt. The engines died out soon after, a programmed precaution common to civilian craft when their pilot was incapacitated.

Panting, Sev took the porch steps two at a time and kicked his front door open. He aimed the rifle for the space below the light switch. The dark form lay unmoving. Sev knelt and checked for vitals. None. Eight men. None had survived.

Sev sagged on the porch and propped the rifle beside him. Pain crept up his side from an ugly burn, no doubt inflicted by the plasma bursts the killers in the forest had fired in their panicked defense against the streifenwolves. He gingerly removed his jacket and shirt, the evening chill biting against his skin.

His backpack contained a full medkit, which Sev used to disinfect and patch the wound. He moved his arm and torso, dissatisfied by their stiffness and the growing ache. The injury would impede his ability to fight, but that wouldn’t stop him.

Sev uncorked the water tube affixed to his pack and took a long swig then checked his commlink. No word from Lieutenant Guinto. Comms were still down.

“Never pass up the opportunity to close your eyes.” Father leaned back against a tree and followed his own advice as Sev hunched over the rifle. “As long as you are certain the dangers have passed for the moment. Your body will tell you if they return.”

Sound advice. Thank you, Father. But I don’t have the time.

Static jumped from the commlink. “Four, respond. Repeat, this is Echo Home to Echo Four, respond.”

“Here.” Sev smiled at the familiar voice. “Alive.”

“Thank the Lord!” Lieutenant Guinto sounded more exhausted than Sev felt. “We’re a ways off from your place, but—”

“Ranch.”

“I—shit, yes, I know. Sorry.”

Sev didn’t know if the apology was meant for him or Almighty God.

“We’re a half hour out from you.”

“No.” Sev gathered his gear and headed for the abandoned shuttle. “Eidolon first—”

“I’m already aboard,” Gina interrupted. “You two better quit playing Wardroom Briefing and get your asses moving! I’m liable to shoot you instead of kiss you at this point. Four, stay put and don’t play around with enemy aircraft. Haven’t I taught you anything?”

Sev smiled.

19

CSV Oxford

In Orbit of Canaan

21 April 2466

The most difficult part of intelligence work was the waiting. Knowing so didn’t help Sinclair cope with the tedium any better than he had during the war years. “Tedium” was perhaps the wrong word. Events were moving quickly as his staff labored to fix and maintain critical communications while groundside and in-orbit workers, both civilian and military, scrambled to restart those parts of the grid that had collapsed. A part of Sinclair was worried about the effect on Canaan’s everyday life, but his dominant focus was on his teams that had not only gone into the field but were caught off guard by the revelation that their identities had been leaked to League operatives. The news on that score, at least, had improved.

“We’ve reestablished contact with Echo Home,” Tamir informed him. “Echo Three has retrieved him and Echo Two. They were on their way to Echo Four when he apparently initiated a change in protocol.”

Sinclair scowled. Semi-improved, then. “He’s not authorized to do so.”

“Begging the colonel’s pardon, but I don’t think Deadeye is the type to cling to protocol when the situation’s FUBARed.” Eldred did not sound at all apologetic. In fact, Sinclair detected distinct glee in her tone.

“I’ll chalk up such a freewheeling attitude to your CIS background, Warrant.” Sinclair found himself smirking, though. “Very well, then. And Janus is secure?”

“Yes, sir. Vector Home confirms.”

“Where is everyone now?”

Tamir tapped commands into his console. Canaan’s globe expanded in the tactical display. Two white stars appeared, one lined in gold with 171 on it and the other rimmed in silver. It was marked 22.

Sinclair frowned. “No one appears to be headed to the rendezvous point.”

“Negative, sir,” Eldred said. “Echo Home confirms that Echo Four received intelligence as to the enemy’s next target—Janus’s home.”

“Bloody hell,” Sinclair murmured. “Alert whatever authorities are available—CBI, Rangers, our groundside forces. Whoever you can manage to raise on the comms.”

“A significant portion of the grid is still down, but I’ll see what I can manage.” Sinclair had just turned his attention back to the tactical display when Eldred announced, “Got it!”

“No pronoun games, please.” Sinclair didn’t have the patience for anything approaching incomplete data.

“The Leaguer frequencies, sir,” Eldred explained. “The ones they’re using to communicate with each other. Those weather sats were a diversion, like Brant and I suggested. But the algorithm we let loose has pinpointed a low-level encrypted signal coming from one of the islands in the Independence Archipelago.”

The globe spun and refocused on the volcanic island chain, which took up a good chunk of Canaan’s southern seas in the eastern hemisphere. A red marker blinked steadily.

“Get me Master Chief MacDonald, Butter Bars,” Sinclair ordered.

Tamir punched the intercom then nodded.

“Operations Center to Alpha Team,” Sinclair said. “Master Chief, I have a target for you.”

“Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year to us, sir.” MacDonald sounded pleased, but his tone carried the exasperation Sinclair had come to expect from the man when he was fed up with dumb decisions made by the cake-eaters who never got their hands dirty. “I can have the boys loaded in the stealth shuttle in ten.”

“Eldred is sending you the coordinates now. We suspect it’s either a temporary base of operations or the mystery ship we’ve been chasing.” Sinclair nodded at Eldred. “Vasiliy is the top priority. I want people who can talk, Master Chief, especially if Vasiliy is not there.”

“Don’t sweat it, Colonel. We’ve got his face memorized, and I’ll make sure everyone remembers the difference between live rounds and the lethal stuff. Any more sage advice?”

“Of course. Do it right.” Sinclair allowed a tight smile. “I would hate to have to send Lieutenant Garza’s team to bail you out of whatever difficulty you might find yourself in.”

Tamir chuckled.

“Damn, that was harsh, sir.” More guffaws sounded through the open intercom, which told Sinclair the rest of Alpha team had been listening in. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

“One would think you both would have learned that lesson by now. Good luck and good hunting.” Sinclair cut the link. “Time for them to make contact?”

Tamir consulted the tactical display. “Three hours, give or take.”

“That will suffice.” Sinclair rounded the globe, watching as Tamir programmed in the stealth shuttle’s departure and course toward its target. “The possibility remains, of course, that our adversaries will see us coming. How subtle were you and Lieutenant Guinto in isolating that signal, Eldred?”

“As subtle as usual, which means we should have left no digital tracks, but this isn’t the usual criminal element we’ve been dealing with,” Eldred explained. “These are Leaguers, the same ones who gave us a run for our money several times. Call it slim but possible, sir.”

“Fair enough.” Sinclair glanced at the communications station. “Give me an encrypted link to Tuscon. We can position ourselves over the intercept site, but if we tip the Leaguers off, I want the major’s ship in place to stop them if they try anything fancy.”

* * *

CSV Tuscon

Following Sierra 76 and 77

Corinth’s Orbital Path

The stream of messages from Oxford hadn’t ceased bearing surprises. They were coded, of course, even beyond the standard encryption, but clear enough for Mancini to understand there was trouble with CAU 171. It was bad enough 22 and MacDonald’s Alpha Team were deployed. Those alone weren’t enough to warrant Tuscon’s involvement. The latest update included an order, though, that was much more to Mancini’s liking.

“Does the colonel have anything more interesting for us to do besides shadow these incredible, exciting freighters?” Godat asked.

Mancini considered the tactical board. Sierra Seventy-Six and Seventy-Seven hadn’t shown any odd activity beyond their lackadaisical courses that brought them through the Corinth-Canaan security sphere. But TCFE was herding civilian vessels to the various space stations and orbital habitats designated as trading posts, away from military installations like the fleet yards. Prudent, if a little overbearing.

“That’s affirmative,” Mancini said. “We’re to set ourselves up opposite Oxford’s orbit around Canaan to watch for the ghostship. Apparently, it’s on the surface and could be making a run for it if MacDonald’s team mistimes their arrival or if the spooks tip off the enemy through their comms tracking.”

“I see. We should stand by on the EMP, I’d guess.”

Mancini nodded. “Sinclair’s pretty clear that one way or another, he wants human intelligence, and nobody can get that from vacuum-frozen corpses.”

“Your wisdom astounds, Skipper.”

Mancini smirked. “Pilot, bring us about onto a new course that will take us into Canaan orbit maintaining our stealth approach. TAO, keep a close eye on Sierra Seventy-Six and Seventy-Seven. I want to know if they so much as open an air lock.”

“Aye, sir.” Olesen punched new commands into his console.

Tuscon’s deck plates shuddered under Mancini’s boots as the stealth boat came about onto a new course. They had been underway for less than a minute when an alert sounded.

“Conn, Sensor Room. I’ve got active pings from three sources, repeat active target acquisition,” the senior chief called through the intercom.

“Where?” Mancini squeezed behind Olesen’s chair. “Repopulate the board.”

“Aye, sir, repopulating.”

Three red blips appeared, marking the approach of unknown vessels at high speed. Consoles around the bridge went haywire with new data as the interlopers blasted space with every active scanning platform they possessed.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect changes in Sierra Seventy-Six and Seventy-Seven,” Olesen reported. “Full acceleration by both onto new vectors that take them into the civilian convoys congregation under TCFE’s orders.”

Mancini glared at the five red markers on his screen. It wasn’t just the surprise of whatever the maneuver was. It was the gall of the captains out there raising havoc in the capital system. “TAO, redesignate Seventy-Six and Seventy-Seven as Master One and Two,” he ordered. “Mark up the ships hollering as Master Three, Four, and Five. Sensor, give me everything you have on them.”

“Conn, aye, but the Golgothas are adding their scanners to the mix. There’s so much active interference out there it’s slopping up our own readings. I can’t imagine what it’s doing to the civvy ships.”

“Canaan traffic control is on the horn.” Godat picked up a headset from the comms stations. “To say they sound pissed is an understatement.”

“On speakers, XO.”

Godat flicked a switch.

A female voice echoed from the bridge audio output. “Unidentified vessels, you have been flagged in violation of Section Nineteen, Coalition Navigation Protocols for High Density Inhabited Systems. Turn off your active scanners, and proceed on passive sensors only. Failure to comply will result in punitive action by TCFE and CDF ships. Repeat, unidentified vessels—”

A new alarm sounded, one that Mancini recognized in a heartbeat and he’d hoped to never again hear anywhere near Canaan—shots fired.

“Conn, TAO, missiles in space,” Olesen announced. “Four launches each from Master Three through Five.”

“Dammit.” Mancini dropped into his chair. “Pilot, alter course to intercept Master Three through Five. TAO, plot solutions, Tubes One through Four, scatter warheads. I want them detonating as close as you can to those missiles. Charge the EMP.”

“Aye, Skipper, altering course to intercept Master Three through Five,” the pilot responded.

“Conn, TAO. Plotting solutions, Tubes One through Four, scatter warheads. Charging EMP…” Olesen checked his board. “Firing Solutions set.”

“TAO, shoot, Tubes One through Four.”

“Conn, TAO, shooting Tubes One through Four.”

Mancini felt the thump from the departing missiles clear up his spine. If they were quick enough, the scatter warheads would spray fast-moving particulates into the enemy missiles’ paths, ripping them apart before they could target—

“TAO, what are they aiming for?” Godat asked.

“Conn, TAO. The missiles—” Olesen grunted in surprise. “They were dumb-fired, sir. No tracking or guidance.”

Mancini scowled. What the hell was the point of that? As terror weapons, maybe they would sow chaos among the civilian ships, but so far, TCFE cutters were shepherding the civvies onto vectors that should take them out of the impact zones. And Tuscon’s missiles raced across the void, positioning themselves nicely to blow the others out of space.

“Sensor Room,” he called. “What can you tell me about those ships?”

“Damned if I know, Skipper.” The senior chief exhaled. “They’re showing a lot of interference in the scans, so much so it’s making their drive signatures difficult to pinpoint. Best estimates are two-hundred-meter cargo vessels—stock, though, other than their hull modifications.”

“Scows?”

“Looks like it, sir.”

A terrible thought seized Mancini. “TAO, run a comparison to our ghostship. Compensate for the variation in scans.”

“Running it.” Olesen’s gaze flicked from his console to the tactical board and back again. “Comp says there’s a sixty-five percent probability.”

“Sensor Room, do you confirm?”

“Conn, we do. The lieutenant’s specs line up with what we’re seeing.” The senior chief grunted. “If these are similar types, though, they’re more roughshod—not near as fancy or as stealthy as our ghost pal.”

“Still explains how they got the jump on us.”

Tuscon’s missiles exploded a thousand klicks ahead of the twelve onrushing missiles fired by Master Three, Four, and Five. One by one, the enemy weapons flashed out of existence.

“Good shooting,” Godat murmured.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Master One and Two,” Olesen reported. “They’ve altered course to intersect ours and… launching objects. Sensor Room, confirm.”

“TAO, Sensor. Confirmed,” the senior chief replied, though he sounded as perplexed as Olesen. “Comp is telling me we’ve got six Rouen scouts powering up.”

“Master Three, Four, and Five are headed for us, too, Skipper,” Olesen said.

“I don’t know about you,” Godat interjected. “But I’m not happy these guys seem eager to meet us up close and personal.”

“I’ll second that, XO.” Mancini gripped his chair’s armrests. “TAO, designate those vessels as Master Six through Eleven, and pass the word to Oxford—the party’s invite list just keeps on growing, and I don’t want to be the only one from our side at the dance.”

* * *

Meng Po

Independence Archipelago

Canaan

Zhou craned his neck. He got a good glimpse of the remaining mercenaries, hunkered as they were at the far end of the corridor, in the dull reflection off a section of polished power conduit. Two of them were dead, shot by Zhou’s crew. Janssen perched across the junction, Thorvald pressed against the bulkhead beside him.

“You’ve still got a chance!” Zhou yelled. He had to, what with the ruckus from the plasma torch cutting its way into Engineering’s main hatch. “I can get you more money.”

“There are more things important than money,” someone snapped in a gruff voice. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, coward?”

Janssen sucked in a breath. He raised his pistol again, but Thorvald held him back. Zhou appreciated his crew’s loyalty. Janssen needn’t have bothered, though—Zhou could handle acidic taunts from one of Kiel’s lackeys after months of enduring the ESS operative’s snide remarks about Zhou’s former naval career. The insult did, however, confirm that the remaining men weren’t hired hands, like the others, but were ESS.

“Fair enough,” Zhou replied. “Give up before we get the antivehicle weapons down here to melt you all over the deck plates.”

The person laughed. “Sure. The same antivehicle weapons the boss took with him without telling you when he left? Go ahead and chase after him.”

“Dammit.” Zhou hadn’t made anyone go check the locker, because he didn’t want to risk Kiel’s people getting their hands on the weapons. They could be bluffing. Somehow, he doubted it. “Don’t be idiots. Whatever Kiel promised you, you’re not going to get it.”

“No? He’s striking a blow against our enemies, at the very heart of Canaan, in the homes where they sleep and in the neighborhoods where they live. It doesn’t matter what happens to us. And once we get this ship off this rock, we’ll cause even more chaos. Whatever it takes to show the Terrans their gods won’t help them when the League goes for the throat.”

It was one thing to harbor a love for one’s country, for one’s society. It was entirely another to be such a fanatic that one was willing to throw away one’s life. As far as Zhou was concerned, the only goal for him and his crew should be getting the hell out of there.

Ancel hurried from behind them. He dropped to his knees and passed plastic objects to Zhou and Li. “Toss a couple to Janssen.”

Zhou chucked the objects across the hall, realizing only then they were emergency breathing masks—no independent oxygen supply, but they could filter nearly every poisonous gas from the air for a limited span until either the problem was fixed or a more reliable atmosphere reached. “What’s the word?”

“Engineering’s been rerouting one of the coolant lines. They’re ready to go when you are.”

Zhou glared at the reflection. The sparks from the plasma torch sputtered brighter than before. Those guys were almost through. If he didn’t have to risk any of his people’s lives to stop them, all the better.

“Go.”

Ancel muttered into his commlink then slipped on the mask. Zhou and the rest did likewise. A pale powder-blue mist sprayed from open vents along the top and bottom of the corridor’s bulkheads. The ESS men immediately retched, but the plasma cutter continued. Boots shuffled, and metal groaned. The hatch slammed onto the deck.

“Stop them!” Zhou lunged for the deck plates. He fired from a prone position as plasma blasts ripped swirling eddies through the gas-filled air. Janssen and the others shot back, their weapons turning the corridor a faded purple.

Streaks of plasma cut down three of the last intruders—his own countrymen, Zhou knew. The fourth one, who he figured he’d been arguing with, made it inside the engine compartment, an explosive charge in his hand.

Zhou shot him in the back.

“Clear the passage!” Ancel’s command was muted.

The gas immediately shut off, and accumulated coolant seeped away through the floor vents. Even before the last dregs gathered around his knees, Zhou rushed for the last operative and turned his hand over. His heart steadied. The charge remained unarmed.

“Failed us…” The man’s eyelids fluttered. His head went slack.

“Yes, they did.” Zhou removed the explosive and handed it to one of the Engineering crew. “How are we looking?”

The crewman’s eyes watered, but she seemed resolute in her determination to report. “We’re good to go whenever you are, Skipper, but we might want to take it easy on our exit if space is swarming with Terrans. The nets say we tried to kill their president.”

“There’s no ‘we’ about it. I want thrusters aligned for takeoff and the mains ready the moment we’re clear of the tree canopy.” Zhou considered the operatives’ bodies. “Put them in an air lock with Vance and the others.”

“Is it true we’re leaving the boss behind?” Li asked.

“Don’t call him that,” Janssen snapped. “Not in front of the skipper.”

“Easy, people.” Zhou held up his hands. “One thing at a time. Meng Po has to clear Canaan orbit, then I’ll get us to safety.”

Whether or not the crew realized he hadn’t said “home” was something he would have to wait to address. Better to make sure they all stayed alive first.

As the thrusters’ whine increased, and Meng Po rumbled off the forest floor, Zhou did allow himself a sneer at the memory of his so-called boss. The Terrans will turn you into a show trial if they catch you, Vasiliy, and I for one can’t wait to tune in.

20

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

21 April 2466

Vasiliy Kiel held on to the grip bar anchored to the shuttle’s cabin ceiling. He knew the ride down would be rough. They dropped onto the ranch property along the machine shop, which could provide suitable cover and let them take out any vehicles stored there, marooning the hands employed by the family.

“Plan on them being armed, and if they’re not, we’ll all be pleasantly surprised,” he told the men assembled in his shuttle.

That got him chuckles, though he hadn’t intended it as a humorous statement. Terrans made no secret of their lax firearm laws. Kiel wouldn’t be surprised if every single man, woman, and child within a hundred-klick radius of the ranch had a weapon. The rural nature of the region practically guaranteed it.

No wonder we were unable to beat them, even after decades of trying, if they train their young to shoot while our government is busy finding new ways to restrict our citizens’ individuality. He made a face.

“Problem, sir?” Ferenc looked odd in his reactive camouflage, matching hood, and goggled mask pulled back to his forehead. The automatic plasma rifle dangling from a strap over his shoulder further completed the soldier look—which was exactly the problem. Kiel was used to his stalwart companion resembling an office clerk, albeit with a red cybernetic eye.

“Only that I have spent too much time on this foul planet already,” Kiel grumbled. “Their way of thinking is more insidious than I imagined, even after only monitoring their communications for the duration.”

“Individuality.”

“Selfishness,” Kiel snapped. “Let’s call it by its true identity. They give a damn only for themselves and can be divided, as we’ve seen in their political brawls. Easily distracted, these Terrans, by their pursuit of pleasure and their fake fealty to their gods. Thus our ability to infiltrate their world and remove the troublesome action unit from the board.”

“Sir…” Ferenc seemed to calculate the best way to relay his message. “Captain Zhou and his crew could be problematic when we return.”

“They could, indeed, which is why I left instructions with our other captains to effect our retrieval if Zhou proves to be unreliable.” Kiel shook his head. “Keeping him around this long was a risk, but I’ve assured the destruction of the only thing left in life that matters to him—that ship.”

“I understand, but even if we make a successful rendezvous, he could be a leak we need to stop.”

Kiel was pleased Ferenc had considered all those contingencies. It was not, in fact, the first time he’d brought them to Kiel’s attention but rather the third over the past month. Too bad his competence would likely come to naught.

I am under no illusions that we will leave Canaan alive. If we do, it will be an even greater achievement, but as long as we can rid the galaxy of this action team and Adams himself, I’ll be satisfied.

Kiel wondered if Borisov and the rest of ESS had even fathomed the true nature of his plans. What does the League matter to me? Society. Unity. It was rubbish. Hiding among the refuse planets of the Coalition had reinforced that view. The intelligence seeping back to Kiel across the border showed him the corruption at home continued unabated.

And he’d failed his last chance to prove his worth to Borisov, with deadly consequences awaiting his return. Very well. If he was damned upon his homecoming or damned to remain an exile, he chose exile—the only way he could maintain power over his situation.

The shuttle pilot glanced back from the cockpit seats. “Four minutes to LZ.”

Kiel checked his wrist-mounted tablet. The three shuttles were gold arrows closing in on a broad swathe of territory lining distant mountains. The whole area was a collection of two dozen massive land tracts. He couldn’t believe the waste. How many citizens could be crammed into a single parcel? What sort of resources could be produced and divvied up among society’s equals? He couldn’t wait to burn it down.

The shuttles banked in tandem, thrusters kicking at the grass. Their floodlamps slashed across the darkened steppes, illuminating the long, low machine shop.

A sudden thump heralded their landing. The hatches sprang open, allowing warm air inside. Kiel wrinkled his nose. Dung—that was the pungent aroma. Animal excrement, slowly baked by the shuttle thrusters.

“Let’s move!” Ferenc ordered.

The men scrambled from the shuttle, fanning out around the machine shop. Kiel strode past them, watchful for threats, but so far their only obstacle was the light drizzle glittering in the shuttles’ landing lights.

“Hey!” A young man jogged up to them.

Kiel assessed him as a ranch hand, judging by his dirt-spattered clothing and dingy face half-hidden under a cap. “You there.” Kiel nodded. “Are you employed by this family?”

“I…” The youth seemed to have noted the dozens of armed men arrayed in their spectral camouflage. “Yeah. Been working for the Adamses since I was fourteen. Who are you? Does the old lady know you’re here?”

“I hope not.” Kiel shot him in the head.

His body splashed into the mud.

Kiel stepped over him. “Secure a perimeter. Tap into the comps on those skiffs. We should have access to the property’s motion sensor and inventory scanners.”

“Three more targets at the northeast,” Ferenc murmured.

“I see them.” The shuttles fed their scan data into Kiel’s wrist unit as well as Ferenc’s. “Kill them.”

Ferenc whistled. He motioned for three men to break off from the main squad with him. They trotted as a quartet around the far side of the building.

Kiel followed a couple of others inside the shed, where they ripped into a skiff’s command console. Plasma rifles shrieked a few seconds later.

“Three targets neutralized.” Ferenc’s voice in Kiel’s comms could have been confirmation of a takeout order, complete with final price and delivery time.

Some part of Kiel should have been appalled at how easy it was to eliminate four civilians who were, by all accounts, innocent. He stomped on the emerging doubt by reminding himself that the Terrans indoctrinated their entire population to serve at least a few years in the military, making every adult culpable in war—and thus, viable targets.

Not that he would have shied from killing them anyway, but it was nice to have the justification to satisfy those rare pangs of conscience. Ideally, they wouldn’t bother him further.

“Sir, we’ve got access.” One of the men gave him a thumbs-up from inside the skiff’s cab. “Routing through the squad interlink.”

Delightful. Kiel smiled at the view of the Adams tract glowing on his wrist unit, which included the locations of the outbuildings, vehicles, and the main house.

“Word from the other teams came in.” Ferenc jogged back to him. If he was bothered by overseeing the assassination of the other Adams workers, his bland attitude didn’t reveal such discomfort.

“A little late. I’m displeased Yahanotov couldn’t keep the comms between our groups going during the outage he engineered.” Kiel made a face. “And?”

“It’s only the contact and engage signals,” Ferenc explained. “They’ve shot down Captain Adams’s helicar and opened fire on hostiles at the Wilkes residence. Prock’s team has taken control of the traitor’s cabin.”

“What of the team sent to the tropics?”

“No one was at home. Parents, siblings… all gone. Lieutenant Guinto apparently did not leave physical evidence behind of his work. I instructed the team to rendezvous here rather than inquire of neighbors, though a private racer craft was seen fleeing the area at high speeds.”

Kiel scowled. Delayed news was better than no news, he supposed, but he wasn’t inclined to assume three of the five targets were dead. Adams had proven to be a slippery fellow, if their intelligence and the fragmented CIS files could be trusted. “Good. If Adams is still alive, he’ll be headed here, as will Guinto if he has, indeed, escaped us.”

Ferenc glanced at his commlink yet again. His face remained a mask of unconcern, though Kiel detected tightening of the skin around his eyes and mouth. “The Wilkes team has been eliminated.”

“What, all of them?”

“Yes, sir. Indications are an unidentified vessel arrived. Our shuttle sent in automated scans.”

And that’s the civilian member? The woman. Kiel wondered if she had killed Circe, his operative also known as Celia Bui. The realization that he cared proved mildly astonishing. “Keep me updated. Make contact with Shuttle Two, and have them land here, in our secure zone. Speaking of which…” Kiel turned back toward the nearest shuttle, where two men were dragging a cart laden with tarp-covered equipment. “Get those launchers set up on either end of the building, just inside the shed doors. And load the antivehicle weapons Captain Zhou so kindly provided. I don’t want to keep the rest of Captain Adams’s people waiting for long.”

* * *

Castillo Homestead

20 Kilometers West

Comms finally came back up. Abby was surprised to see not only a flood of messages from Jay but an alert from the machine shop. The latter should be activated only if someone broke into the building, which happened occasionally when criminals wanted expensive components they could sell on the black market. That was why two to four ranch hands were always assigned to work there.

Enrique buzzed her commlink. “Hey, did you see the shop alarm? I’m out on my skimmer, coming from the north sensor posts. Want me to check it out?”

“Yes, but be careful. Call the police if the workers there need law enforcement backup. The last batch who tried to steal stuff in the summer were dosed on something as bad as Orbita and dealt out a bunch of bruises and broken bones.”

“You got it. I’ll do my best to chase them off from a distance and be back for dinner.”

Abby smiled at the thought of Enrique zooming around a bunch of crooks, his skimmer whipping up a storm of dirt and grass—though as thick as the clouds were on the local radar, it was probably still raining over there.

She moved on to Jay’s messages. Hmm. No recordings, just contact time. She sent him a signal. The reception was terrible—scratchy and distorted—but Abby was used to Jackson’s comm occasionally sounding that bad.

“Abby? Are you okay?” His voice caught. “Thank God.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Abby admitted. “How was—”

“Abby, listen. People are coming to the ranch to kill me. My identity’s been compromised. Get everyone out of the house and off the range. Go to shelter.”

She felt sick. Jackson had warned her of the extreme possibility, but now that it was there, her body seemed to have seized up. “Y-Your mom’s at home. Harry’s there. He brought Samantha. They’re discussing the merger. I-I think they might be coming to an agreement.”

“Of all times…” He sounded furious and exhausted. “Get them out of there. Quick. I’m less than ten minutes out from the machine shop.”

A fearful thought struck Abby. “Enrique. He’s gone there. We thought thieves were trying to break in.”

“Call him back. That’s…” More distortion warped the signal, turning whatever Jackson said next into gibberish. “Stand down. We’ll handle it.”

“Who’s out there?”

“The enemy. Can’t say… like three shuttles. They’re not thieves, Abby.”

“Okay. I’ll tell Mama and Papa. We’ll get your mother and Harry.” Abby grabbed her jacket, gloves, and helmet from the hooks lining the entry hall. The wood-paneled vestibule with its broad floor of stone tiles seemed like a gloomy cave compared to the warm, welcoming space it had been a few minutes earlier. She stopped, grabbed her pulse rifle among the weapons hanging from the mag-locked gun rack, and was out the front door of the Castillo house, marching for the line of skimmers and helicars parked along the cobblestone wall. “Do you—”

A grating alarm filtered through the open link. Voices shouted behind Jay. “Can’t talk now. Abby, I love you. Don’t let—”

The signal cut. Abby clenched the commlink as if she could squeeze it back to life.

“Abril?” Papa came around the corner of the house, wiping his hands on a rag. “What’s the matter?”

“Jackson is in danger. People have come for him—enemies.” Abby slid onto the skimmer and fired up its engines. “Comms are still glitchy. I have to warn Gloria and Harry.”

“Dios mio.” Papa grabbed up his commlink. “I’ll do what I can to round up our people. The Adamses may need us.”

“This is a military thing, Papa, not thieves our ranch hands have to chase off.”

“Nonsense. Their lands and ours are tied together. They always have been. I won’t let killers or spies or whoever the devil has come for Jackson pick apart their carcasses.” He stormed off toward the closest storage building, barking English and Spanish orders across his device. Judging by the fluent swearing that accompanied his demands, the comms really were problematic again.

Abby’s heart thudded as she tried again and again to raise her brother, using the radio in her helmet linked to the local network. Nothing. Zero response from the Adams house either.

Her skimmer roared out of the main yard, swooping into the valleys separating the Castillo spread from the Adams ranch. Abby pushed the power plant into the red zone. She kept attempting a link—to Enrique, to Jay, to Gloria and Harry—praying with each try. Please help me reach them. Don’t forsake us. And keep them safe from harm, if that is your will. She dearly hoped it was so.

The commlink sputtered in her helmet. “Sis? What’s the problem?” Enrique sounded peeved. “There’s a bunch of lights in the distance—”

“Turn back!” Abby snapped. “Don’t argue. People have come to kill Jay. His enemies. They’ll kill you, too, if you get too close.”

In the half second of silence, Abby’s paranoia trumpeted Enrique’s death, but then she heard his skimmer’s engine change pitch as he altered his course. “I’m staying low behind the ridge along the double gulley. Who are they? Looked like shuttles were landing.”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say. But the comms are still bad, so meet me at the Adams house.”

“Damn. Gloria and Harry…”

“And Samantha. We have to get them out, hide them.”

“Right. I’ll be there. What about the rest of the ranch hands?”

“Send a message to them that we have a predator attack on our border. Get them all away from the shed.” Abby’s mind churned with possibilities. “If these people are after Jay, they may have breached the family comms.”

“Why not ours?”

“The merger isn’t finalized, so we might not be linked to him.” I hope. Otherwise, they’ve been listening to all our plans.

“I’ll try to—hey! They’re shooting at someone.”

“The workers?” Abby wished her skimmer could go twice as fast, but it was already coming perilously close to trees and rock outcroppings, as the power plant grew ever warmer.

“No.” Enrique sounded upset. “I think they’re trying to shoot someone down.”

* * *

Jackson held on to the sides of his seat. The straps dug into his chest. Riding out a wild maneuver with Dwyer at the controls was one thing. Sakuri was an excellent pilot, but Jackson had gotten used to a certain style of flying. He supposed he couldn’t complain too much as she threw Novabird into a starboard slide in order to avoid the incoming missiles.

It was a strange sensation watching Richards work the targeting system for Novabird’s CIWS gun as the tactical display flashed warnings for the three separate missile locks that pulsed skyward from around the machine shop. Whoever was down there had done more than park a few shuttles in preparation for a ground raid.

The quiet war I’ve been waging out there has come home. Jackson felt sick. Any deaths that occurred were on him. No. Not on him, Vasiliy.

Novabird shook with such violence Jackson slammed his head against the bulkhead.

“Impact on the upper port wing!” Sakuri snapped. “Damage to the starboard engine.”

“Get us down,” Garza ordered. “Behind cover if you can.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant, but we’ll be lucky if I can keep us upright.” Sakuri gritted her teeth as she grappled with the manual controls. “Ten seconds.”

“Okay. Collision cushions ready.” Richards punched a row of buttons. The sides of the seats split open. Jackson spotted the sealed containers nestled inside.

Novabird’s engine whined. A deafening rattle grew worse and worse. The forward cockpit windows glowed green—a night vision overlay Sakuri must have activated. The new view didn’t hearten Jackson, because all he could see were familiar rolling hills.

“Hang on!” Sakuri slapped the emergency thruster banks. Novabird’s nose shoved skyward.

The collision cushions exploded around them, filling the cockpit with what looked like gigantic marshmallows. A tremendous thundering impact slammed Jackson off his seat and the cushions. A long, scraping slide ended with the racer’s nose buried so deep in a hillside that half the cockpit window was covered with dirt. The engines died off, followed by the interior consoles and lights, dousing the crew in silence until the only sound Jackson could hear was the rain pattering on the fuselage.

21

Meng Po

Above Independence Archipelago

21 April 2466

The deck bucked under Zhou’s boots. He reached for his chair’s console. Normally the helmsman could make any ride out of a planet’s atmosphere smooth, like a preprogrammed orbit, but Zhou’s insistence on them burning skyward at top speed meant they were sacrificing comfort for swiftness. It also meant giving up a degree of stealth, too, but there again, Zhou was focused on getting clear of Canaan’s gravity well so they could engage their wormhole drive.

“Tactical, what’s it looking like up ahead?” Zhou asked.

“A lot of targets, Skipper,” Balland replied. “Two Golgotha-class patrol ships, six Rouen-class scouts, and our three sisters.”

Ah, yes. Vasiliy’s bizarre plan. It had seemed like lunacy when he’d first described it to Zhou—using all those ships to sow discord among the Terrans while they made their withdrawal from the Canaan system—but now it made more sense, even if the end goal was less lucid. The eleven ships Balland marked on the tactical board tossed missiles at anything they could hit, be they military targets or the civilian transports scurrying from the battle zone.

“Contact Captain Grieg on Sol One,” Zhou ordered. “Tell him we’re to withdraw immediately.”

“Aye, sir.” The communications officer relayed the message but frowned when the response came back immediately. “Sir, he’s refusing until he has confirmation from Kiel.”

“That figures,” Zhou muttered. “Tell him—”

“He’s also demanding you turn around and retrieve Kiel from the planet’s surface, Skipper.” The comms officer wore a look of disgust. “I’ve lost the signal.”

“External interference?”

“No, sir. Internal disruption.”

Zhou shook his head. He tapped the intercom switch on his console. “Bridge to Janssen. I want to hear you’ve cut your way into Yanahotov’s cabin. He’s becoming a bigger pain in the ass than I realized.”

“Working on it, sir.” Janssen’s voice was faint behind the insistent snarl of plasma torches. “It’s been reinforced. Probably that armor plating we assumed was meant for the shuttles—the extra stuff Kiel had us requisition.”

Zhou snorted. “Pirate” would be a better term. “Do what you can. What about cutting off his power and links into our comms system?”

“I sliced through every conduit on the ship’s plans, but there must be backups we haven’t found yet if he’s still causing problems.”

“Do what you can, Janssen. I’ll notify you when we’re in space. Bridge out.”

Stars twinkled on the main monitor as the atmosphere thinned, which eased a bit of Zhou’s tension, especially as the bumps in Meng Po’s headlong flight smoothed. At least, they did until the tremendous bang brought Zhou to his knees. I really should be seated for this ride, but I can’t stay still when we’ve got so many problems all at once. Bad habit.

Zhou straightened. “What was that?”

“Impact on the starboard hull, Captain,” Ancel called.

“Impact? What the hell with, Francois? That was far too big to be a weather satellite, and the last I checked, no asteroids were lurking inside Canaan’s atmosphere.”

“I’m getting distorted sensor readings.” Ancel gestured at his console, as if treating it rudely would give him the desired results. It was a tactic destined to fail. “Switching to external hull cams.”

The monitor blinked, revealing a dark, angular shape latched to Meng Po like a parasite. A brilliant spray of purple-and-white sparks sputtered in the narrow gap between the craft and the ship’s hull.

“That’s—”

“Stealth shuttle,” Zhou snapped. “Terran CDF design. Give me shipwide.”

“You’re on, Skipper,” the comms officer replied.

“All hands, we are being boarded,” Zhou said. “Do not resist. Repeat, do not resist the boarders. If you encounter them, surrender.”

The silence on the bridge was so thick Zhou thought it would suffocate him.

“Sir?” Ancel choked on the word.

“Sorry, Francois.” Zhou pointed at the screen. “But the Terrans don’t drop a stealth shuttle on a vessel like ours—a vessel that’s barely supposed to register on their scanners—unless they have assets already in place for a specific purpose. These aren’t stock soldiers coming aboard. It’s one of their infernal commando teams, if my assumption’s correct.”

Another bang issued through the hull, that one louder. Structural integrity alarms sounded.

“Hull breach,” Balland reported.

“They’re fast,” Zhou murmured. “And if we’re lucky, we might be able to offer them a bonus to whatever victory they’re about to achieve.”

* * *

Master Chief MacDonald dropped into the corridor, ballistic rifle raised. Rucuk loomed beside him, hefting a Saurian battle rifle.

“That’s a last resort, Six,” MacDonald reminded him. “Base One wants prisoners who can talk, and they can’t do that if they’re deconstructed molecules.”

Rucuk snarled. “Then perhaps I’ll commandeer a shuttle for the heart of this battle, where I can earn greater glory.”

“Hey, you never let me get away with that back talk, Master Chief,” Harrell said.

He was beside Mata, guarding one end of their breaching point, while Ahmad and Rostami watched the other.

“If I get any more lip from either of you, we’ll make this a four-man team, and I’ll have you transferred to the cake-eater academy, where you can learn how to polish deck plates,” MacDonald snapped. “Move.”

Their team approached the engineering compartment—at least, where the compartment was marked on the specs for that type of stock freighter.

“One, I’m getting life signs, but no one’s rushing out to meet us,” Rostami reported. “Since when do Leaguers not repel boarders?”

“Maybe someone told them Rucuk hasn’t eaten in a few days,” Mata joked.

“Not true,” Rucuk growled.

“Zip it,” MacDonald said. The lack of response from the ship’s crew unnerved him, just like it apparently unnerved his men, but they were reacting with humor, where MacDonald cranked up the worry. No reaction meant a trap, in his book. “What else, Three?”

“Plasma scarring,” Rostami replied. “Up ahead. Three-way intersection.”

“Send one of your pets for a closer look.”

Rostami tossed a palm-sized drone ahead, where it hovered for a second before zipping around the nearest bend. Scan results rippled across his wrist screen. “Confirmed, One. Weapons fire. Particle signature matches a mix of civilian-produced and Leaguer guns.”

MacDonald frowned. Not repelling boarders was one thing. Fighting among themselves? “Stay frosty, people. Two, you and Four take the other side when we hit the intersection.”

“Copy that, One.” Harrell and Mata led the way through the passageways with the rest of the team paired off in their wake.

“No funny readings from the reactor, One.” Rostami said it on a private channel to MacDonald. “Could be they’re focused on getting clear of Canaan.”

“Before they blow the reactor and kill everyone?”

“Well, if they do it in the atmosphere, they could poison half the planet.” Rostami sounded thoughtful. “They might be Leaguers, but we know at least some of them aren’t genocidal maniacs. Otherwise, they would have just driven this bucket at high acceleration right into Lawrence City and wiped it off the map.”

MacDonald couldn’t argue the line of logic, no matter how much he wanted to burn holes through every Leaguer he encountered. Not that the philosophizing would help him in the middle of their operation. “Hold that thought, Two, until we start slapping answers out of the crew.”

“One?” That was Harrell, ahead around the bend. “We’ve secured the engine room.”

“Secure?” MacDonald scowled at his readout, relayed through Rostami’s device from his drone’s scans to the squad. Dots clustered around the two pips that indicated Harrell and Mata. “How?”

“Um, it’s emptied, Master Chief. The engineer’s asking to speak to you.”

What the actual hell? MacDonald shoved ahead, with Rucuk stomping right along at his six. They emerged into the corridor where the life signs had congregated, and MacDonald noticed two things right away—the plasma scorches and bloodstains smearing the bulkheads and the six men and women wearing dirty jumpsuits who knelt in the corridor, hands behind their heads.

“Hi.” That from a woman with gray streaks in her black hair. “We surrender. The reactor’s not been tampered with. Once you’ve searched us, could we get back to our duties?”

MacDonald stared.

“She handed me her commlink, One.” Harrell sounded as befuddled as he felt. “Says the ship’s skipper wants a word.”

“A word?”

“With you.”

MacDonald snatched the commlink and thumbed the activator. He kept waiting for someone to produce a hidden weapon or for Rostami’s scanners to warn of an explosive, but everything was clean, and the situation lacked threat—other than Alpha team boarding a rogue ship in the act of escaping a Terran planet. “Go ahead.”

“This is Captain Zhou Yongrui of the Meng Po,” someone answered in a firm voice. “I could use assistance blowing open a hatch, if you’re not too busy.”

* * *

CSV Tuscon

Mancini held on to the arms of his command chair as the stealth boat shuddered under the impact against its shields. “TAO, reload Tubes One through Six.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“EMP control reports ready to fire,” Godat added.

“TAO, firing point procedures, Master Three, EMP beam.”

The bridge lights flickered, but otherwise, the weapon’s use had no visible effect, except on the tactical board, where Master Three’s course abruptly faltered.

“Conn, TAO. Master Three is disabled,” Olesen reported. “Engines out. Main power off-line.”

Mancini blew out a breath. The bridge was awash with competing reports as Tuscon fought its way through what Mancini could only categorize as a melee. Master Three’s disruption meant they were down to nine of the original eleven targets—Tuscon’s missiles had made short work of the first Golgotha. But the Rouens were damnably nimble. The difficulty of clearing the civilians out of the way complicated matters. But two TCFE corvettes had joined the fight, as had the Ajax-class destroyer CSV Vigilant.

“Conn, Sensor. I have signals coming off those Rouens—they’re definitely taking orders from someone else.”

“I wondered about their maneuvers,” Mancini muttered. “They’re putting too much strain on their spaceframes and artificial gravity for human crews to deal with. Remote?”

“Looking likely.”

“Can we jam them?”

“Not on our own, but if we pass the word to the other ships in the vicinity, we might be able to pump out enough interference. Problem is we’d foul up our scanners in the process and throw a wrench into the missile-guidance links.”

“Dammit. Do what you can. Coordinate with Oxford—see if they’re not already workshopping the problem.”

“On it, Skipper.”

A red indicator flashed on the tactical board. “Conn, TAO. Missile impacts on Master Ten,” Olesen called out. “Gutted amidships. Looks like the reactor is—”

The explosion sparked a distant flare on the main screen, among the pinpricks of stars and ship engines.

“Scratch Master Ten,” Olesen said.

Nine remaining. Tuscon bucked again as a pair of missiles passed the CIWS barrage and exploded near enough her shields to strain the generators.

“Conn, Comms. Incoming signal encrypted for your console,” the communications noncom announced.

“Send it here.” Mancini glanced down at his board—and grinned.

“Pen pals in the middle of battle?” Godat asked.

“Negative. Major Stone.” Mancini leaned toward the communications station. “Comms, send a secure note back—only the following. ‘You may fire when ready.’ And give Major Stone my compliments.”

“Snapback from that last explosion is straining Generator Two,” Godat said. “Chief Tabb says he’s redirecting damage control crews to crosslink the backups.”

“Good. Hopefully, the path’s about to get a bit clearer.”

Before Godat could inquire as to why, Olesen said, “Conn, TAO. New contacts coming off sunward—eight, repeat, eight starfighters. IFF confirms they’re ours.”

“TAO, paint them blue and repopulate the board so we can get more friendlies up there,” Mancini ordered. “And don’t forget to point them at the Rouen scouts.”

* * *

Major Cornelius Stone of the 99th Reconnaissance and Intercept Squadron couldn’t be happier to have targets for his missiles instead of his sensors. Spending the past few days nosing around the edge of the Canaan system, looking for spectral ships, was important work, but nothing got his blood pumping better than shooting at the real thing. Besides, after Leaguers supposedly tried to kill the president, he was itching to dish out payback.

“Griffons, this is Griffon Leader,” he said into the squadron comm. “Pair off with your wingmen, and target those Rouen scout ships. Archangel informs me they’re unmanned, so don’t be gentle, but watch your scatter—civilians are still moving out of the area.”

“And taking their damned time,” said Freefall, his XO and Griffon Two for that flight. “On your six, Grindstone.”

The Chimeras swooped past the CDF fleet yards and peeled from their diamond formation, launching LIDAR-aimed missiles to distract the Rouens and saving their Hunter missiles to take them down. Stone himself skirted the point-defense barrage from the one Tuscon marked as Master Eleven, ignoring the proximity warnings on his console. “Backshot, Two.”

His fighter and Freefall’s flipped onto their backs, cutting their thrust so they continued flying past Master Eleven but with their noses pointing the way they’d come. At that short distance, his Chimera’s shields buffeted by the counterfire, the missile lock rang out loud in the cockpit. “Griffon Lead, Fox Four.”

“Griffon Two, Fox Four,” Freefall repeated, adding his own Hunter missile to the mix.

Master Eleven shot down Freefall’s missile, but Stone’s ripped off the forward quarter of the scout ship. Griffon Five and Six punched LIDAR missiles into the fresh wound until a tremendous explosion blasted the rest of the battered hull in half, sending the engine compartments hurtling from the area of battle.

“Nice shooting, boys and girls,” Stone said. “Now, let’s go show the spooks and the desk jockeys how we do this right.”

* * *

MacDonald’s people formed a cordon around the cabin. “This is your only warning,” he said through the compartment’s intercom. “Unlock the hatch, or we’re burning it open.”

No reply. Rostami’s scanners, though, confirmed a life sign inside. Yahanotov, the captain said the guy’s name was. MacDonald was willing to give the reluctant occupant leeway, since he was, according to Zhou, an ESS operative with close ties to Kiel as well as possible intelligence about the League’s involvement in several incidents of interest to CDF.

Don’t really care what the guy knows, as long as he’s willing to come out without a fight.

“Okay, Six, we knocked and asked nicely,” he told Rucuk. “Cut through.”

Rucuk sneered, his fangs gleaming in the emergency lighting. He leveled the plasma weapon and fired at the edge of the door.

He might as well have been shooting MacDonald’s ballistic rifle at wet paper, though at a low enough setting for the glowing beam to penetrate slowly. MacDonald had no desire to shoot a hole through the hatch, occupant and clear through the outer hull. Soon enough, the plasma rifle had reduced half the hatch to a molten mess while gouging a huge, curved chunk out of the adjacent bulkhead. Plenty of room for Harrell and Mata to be first through.

The man inside was thin and rangy with a scraggly beard and a pale face. MacDonald was more interested in the dozen screens crammed onto every surface, including the far end of the only bunk in the cabin. He was tempted to bash open the narrow door to the bathroom to see if a thirteenth had been mounted over the toilet.

“Hands up,” Harrell demanded. “Resist and we’ll shoot.”

He didn’t mention the stun rounds the entire squad, sans Rucuk, had loaded. But the guy seated there reached so high MacDonald thought he might bruise his knuckles on the ceiling.

“Don’t! Please, don’t.” Yahanotov turned slowly in his chair. His gaze darted from person to person, finally settling, wide-eyed, on the armored Saurian soldier. “I can tell you where they are, where our base is, whatever you want.”

“We appreciate your cooperation.” MacDonald peered over him at the schematics on the screens—one of which approximated the sensor readouts of a battle in progress. It didn’t take an expert tactician to determine which battle. “For starters, we want your role in this mess outside the hull, unless you want to take a walk along the same hull without your spacesuit.”

“No! No. I’ll show you.” Yahanotov reached for his console, slowly. A schematic of a small, sleek ship appeared to one side. “I’m running these—well, not running but coordinating the basic AI they’re programmed with.”

“The scouts? They’re drones?”

“Yes. But if you want to shut them off, I need to send the reconfiguration commands now, before they line up.”

Line up. MacDonald scowled. The Rouen-class scout ships raced onto new trajectories aimed at the heart of the CDF fleet yards orbiting Canaan.

22

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

21 April 2466

The headlong flight from Dad’s house to Jack’s ranch gave Gina time to rest, which she hadn’t realized she’d needed until she’d tipped her head back against the seat. Next thing she knew, it was dark both inside and out with the cockpit instrumentation providing the bulk of the illumination. Blue strips glowed along the floor and bulkheads.

“Almost there,” Dwyer said. “Got word we ought to land at the cap’n’s house first. You folks ready?”

Gina sat upright. Big mistake. Her head throbbed despite the medication she’d taken. And her wounds stung. “My suit?”

“Here.” Sev passed it from his seat near the aft portion of the racer.

“Thanks.” She hooked her fingers under the edge of her shirt and lifted, mindful of the way her muscles protested every motion. No more counting the bruises until it was over. “Keep your eyes on the road, boys.”

“We’re busy enough without being distracted, thanks.” Brant’s reply was terse.

Gina couldn’t blame him. The scanners showed multiple shuttles had landed at the ranch’s machine shops and vehicles converged on the house and that more craft were scattered across the landscape. How he was keeping track of which ones were the good guys and which were the bad guys boggled her injury-addled brain. Plus, I don’t care as long as I shoot at the right ones.

“Mind if I take a peek, LT?” Dwyer’s tone dripped with fake sincerity.

Brant slapped his shoulder, which sent Dwyer into a cascade of chuckles.

“Boys.” Gina shimmied out of her trousers and into the sleek purple and black suit.

Sev, she noted, had his back turned until she cleared her throat. He looked up from the crossbelt he was loading with miniature explosives.

“How did you get out of this without getting shot or punched?”

Sev shrugged.

“Wolves ate ’em,” Dwyer answered.

“What?” Gina glanced between the two. “Are you serious? Did you even shoot anyone?”

“Some.” Sev frowned. “Few.”

“And I picked up the LT before the Leaguer goons could come after his family,” Dwyer added.

“They’re all safe now, thankfully,” Brant said. “But they won’t stay that way if we don’t stop Vasiliy and his people here.”

“I don’t believe it,” Gina grumbled. “Am I the only one who got her hands dirty in all this?”

“You shouldn’t be so hard on them, Georgine.” Dad was strapped into a seat behind Dwyer, his wounds bandaged. A dermal repair unit attached to his side pulsed with orange lights as it urged his cells to accelerate their natural healing process, but he still seemed pale and drawn.

“Don’t ‘Georgine’ me.” Gina slipped her knife into the belt and holstered both the standard and miniature pulse pistols. “I wanted to leave you at the clinic under Colonial Ranger protective custody.”

“And I told you I wanted to help.” His reply was instantly stern. “I might be newly retired, but I’m still useful.”

“You’d better listen to the man, ‘Georgine,’ since he outranks us if he’s reactivated,” Dwyer said.

Gina shook her head. “Quit having so much fun with this, and give me good news.”

“Judging by comms activity—which is still sporadic—Jack’s mother and brother are in the house. This skimmer—” Brant touched his tablet, which was jury-rigged to the civilian navigation console of the racer. A green marker tripled in size. “It’s coming from the west and keeps sending out a comms code similar to Abby’s.”

“The woman.” Gina nodded.

“Georgine.” Sev grunted. “Really?”

Gina smacked his arm. “Focus.”

“We’re gonna drop you two in,” Dwyer said. “Get the cap’n’s mom, his brother, and whoever else is in there the hell out.”

“Yes, thanks, I remember how to do an extraction, Sparks.” Gina slipped the grav harness around her shoulders then helped Sev don his.

“New?” Sev tested his range of motion with the harness in place.

“I figured I was always getting Jack souvenirs, so maybe it was time I got you something special.” Gina smiled. “Fresh off the black market from Liberty. Well, months-old fresh, I guess.”

Sev’s cheeks reddened. “Thank you.”

He pressed her in a massive hug that Gina found heartwarming even as it ground against her injuries.

“Ow. Easy.” She patted his cheek.

“Sorry.” Sev retrieved his rifle, latched it onto the frame, then lifted a submachine gun. “Ready?”

“Let’s go.” She punched the aft hatch control. Rain splattered across her face as soon as it popped open.

“Godspeed, Georgine!” Dad called.

Gina blew him a kiss. “Give us the green, Sparks!”

“Jump as soon as you see the house lights!” Dwyer shouted. “You’ll be good to land in the backyard. Mind the fence!”

The racer tipped so fast Gina knew she could have been dumped out of the hatch if she hadn’t been holding on. The glow from amber lamps cut through the gloom.

Sev held up his fist. Gina thumped it with hers, then they both stepped out of the hatch. Rain pelted Gina as she fell, the grav harness slowing her descent once she was five meters from the ground. She alighted into a stretch of muddy puddles and ran for the back door. She and Sev stopped on either side of it, Sev with his submachine gun raised. He touched the handle and nodded.

They don’t lock their doors. No one does out here. Gina nodded back.

Sev pushed the door open. Gina swept through, hunched over, her pistol raised. She could feel Sev guarding her, knew their forms mimicked each other’s movements perfectly.

“Gloria? It’s Gina!” The lights were on. She could see the trail of muck she was leaving across the thick handwoven rugs. “We forgot to wipe our feet.”

Sev glanced at her.

“She’ll be pissed is all.” Gina sighed. “It was worth a mention.”

A shape swung around the corner. Gina ducked and lashed out with a kick. The man cried out, grasping his leg. He slammed against the wall. Sev shoved his submachine gun toward him.

“Harry!” Gina shouldered Sev out of the way.

“Yes, dammit, you got the brace.” Harrison Adams grimaced as he adjusted the brace he still wore for the leg injuries he’d sustained a while ago. He carried a ballistic rifle.

Gina guessed she should be thankful he’d tried to bash her brains in rather than shooting her in the face.

“Harry, are you hurt?” Gloria Adams and another woman—younger, dark-skinned—rounded the corner. They were armed too. “Oh. Lord, I thought I was hallucinating your voice, Gina. What on Canaan are you doing here?”

“I have to get you out.”

Sev had squeezed through the knot of people, checking nearby rooms.

“Is anyone else in the house?” Gina asked.

“No, just us.” Gloria frowned. “Is this why Abby called? Her signal broke up, but she said—”

“Killers are here. They’ve come for Jack and anyone associated with him. We need to leave the house now.” Gina grabbed Gloria’s arm.

“Hold on.” Harry broke her grip. What an ass. “Is this why we heard thieves were at the machine shop? I thought Jack said his work could never be traced back to us.”

“It’s never a guaranteed thing, and if you want to discuss the details of military intelligence as it pertains to a cover identity, that’s super, but let’s do it once we get out of here.” That time, Gina grabbed his arm.

“That figures.” Harry glared at her. “I knew this would happen. Jack’s screwups finally coming home.”

“Harrison Adams, stow your temper, and let’s do what Gina says.” Gloria planted herself in her son’s path while Gina wished desperately she’d brought stun rounds so she could knock them both out and help Sev drag them to safety. “All Jackson has ever done is serve his country.”

“By attracting the galaxy’s worst to our home!” Harry snapped.

“Will you two shut up!”

Gina blinked. She hadn’t admonished them out loud. That honor had fallen to the woman—Samantha, Gina remembered, the girlfriend, Harry’s guest.

Samantha seemed equal parts embarrassed and angry. “Harry, I love how you fight for your family’s legacy, but shut your trap so we can get to safety. Mrs. Adams, ma’am, you do a great job taking care of your sons, but I’m not going to let you two die because you’re both too stubborn to give up in an argument. So, move!”

“Hear, hear,” Sev called from the far end of the corridor.

The silence that followed was as awkward as Gina would have expected, but it at least let her make out the drone of a skimmer’s engine right before it shut off. The front door flung open, and a sopping-wet Abril Castillo burst into the hallway, her rifle aimed at the cluster.

“Hi, Abby.” Gina waggled her fingers.

“Oh! Oh.” Abby’s charge faltered, in part because she recognized the three surprised faces pointed at her—and in other part because Sev held his submachine gun’s muzzle bare centimeters from her right temple.

“Sev, this is Abby Castillo, the woman Jack loves,” Gina explained. “She’s very nice and runs the next-door ranch with her parents.”

“Evening,” Sev rumbled by way of greetings.

“Um, hello.”

“Sev is harmless, Abby, unless nobody here leaves the house when I ask one more time, very politely.” Gina slapped her hand against the wall. “Outside, now!”

Everyone hurried for the back door, except for Abby, who caught up with Gina while still under Sev’s watchful eye. “Papa spread the word to as many of our people as he could. They’re headed for the machine shop. We think—we think Jack might be down.”

Gina ground her teeth. If the enemy shot Novabird from the sky, that meant they had far heavier ordnance than she’d encountered at Dad’s house. “Okay. Don’t worry, we’ll find him. Is anyone else with you? Did you bring more vehicles?”

Abby shook her head. “Only my skimmer. I thought the family could take Harry’s or Gloria’s hovercraft.”

“Well, never mind that. We have wings. Come on.”

They joined the other trio with Sev lighting a glittering red flare. The racer—Flarehawk, Gina remembered with a grimace—banked overhead, floodlights illuminating their gathered band. A second pair of floodlights flickered off to the southeast.

“Echo Two, this is Home,” Brant blurted, too loudly, in Gina’s ear. She punched down the earpiece’s volume. “A ranch skiff is headed your way at high speed. We’re going to run interference. It’s moving too fast for—”

The shriek of a rapid-pulse antivehicle weapon cut across his warning. Gina yelled for everyone to take cover but had no idea if they could hear her. All she could do was shove Abby to the mud and hope Sev could do likewise.

The RAPAW’s bone-chilling chatter made Flarehawk’s engines sound faint and distant. Purple energy pulses ripped through the house, tearing off stone and igniting wood. Steam rose wherever the bursts touched the cold, damp surfaces.

“Cover! Cover!”

Gina crawled with Abby toward the gardens farther back from the house. Decorative stone hemmed in the triangular plots, each arrangement featuring boulders up to three meters across. And given the stone dislodged from the house by the RAPAW was coming off in scorched chunks rather than fragmenting further, it was as good a place as any to seek shelter.

“Who are these assholes?” Harry hunkered atop Samantha. He levered his rifle between twin boulders and fired back at the skiff.

Gina heard the rounds crash into the composite frame. “The ones here for Jack!” Gina shot back, too, but at that range, her pistol wouldn’t do much to draw their fire.

“Stay down.”

That from Brant, who sounded as if he were right beside her. Nothing could calm her better than his words of reassurance, though knowing Dad was up there with her two friends kept her a bit more on edge.

“Sparks is going to try something.”

Whatever “something” was, it involved Flarehawk turning nearly perpendicular to the ground and rushing for the skiff. The driver didn’t seem as familiar with the controls as a ranch hand should be, because he—or she, Gina supposed—reduced hover too much and scraped the nodes along the ground as it drove underneath the looming racer.

The bonus was that Dwyer’s maneuver forced the skiff into a collision course with the house, from which it couldn’t recover. The skiff’s front left rebounded off a support beam, bringing a good swathe of the wall down onto the cab and deck. Dark shapes scattered.

Flarehawk’s searchlight hit the skiff, too, and those dark shapes became silhouettes.

“Sev!” Gina snapped.

* * *

Sev thrust the submachine gun at Harry and dropped to his knee with his rifle in position. He put his sights on the silhouettes rising from the crash then shifted a few degrees left toward the cab. Cracks marred the clear canopy, one set of which was possibly from Harrison Adams’s desperate shots.

“Never forget, those who would betray and destroy you are always watching,” Father said. He grasped his son’s shoulder so hard Sev wondered if he would break the skin and the bone beneath. “What will you do with them?”

“I will hunt them,” young Sev whispered.

Father slapped his face then hit him twice more. Blood trickled from his nose.

“Not if you whimper like that,” he snarled. “What will you do?”

Sev glared at Father, the man’s face smeared from childhood tears. He’d wasted too many words on Father. Never again.

“Hunt,” Sev growled.

The first round blew out a palm-sized chunk of the skiff canopy and punched through the head of the man standing there.

The RAPAW raked Flarehawk’s underside, causing the racer to dance out of the way and provoking a stream of curses from Gina. Her father was aboard. His words were gentle toward her. Georgina.

Sev would not allow the predators to take that happiness from them. He sighted on the next silhouette, relaxed, and pulled the trigger. Chambered a third round, Sight, breathe, shoot.

It didn’t matter that the attackers shot back—not once he killed not just the man operating the RAPAW but also the next one to take up its controls. It didn’t matter that Gina shouted for him to stay down when he could get a cleaner shot from a more exposed position a few meters closer to the skiff. What mattered was Sev’s proximity to the enemy so he could toss Chief Dwyer’s explosives from his belt into the air.

Their indicators flashed from green to red as each one shot from its storage pouch in turn. Miniaturized thrusters propelled them in mesmerizing corkscrews until the five slammed into the skiff, one after the other. The shaped charges punched plasma jets through the skiff’s composite body, the hardened casings around the hover nodes, and whatever bodies happened to be in the way.

Overhead, Flarehawk dropped toward the ground. It attempted a landing, which partially succeeded, but a row of thrusters on the right side gave out at the last second. That section of fuselage scraped across rocks. But the power remained on, and the engines still glowed even after the rough touchdown.

Sev was wondering how to get their group to safety across the intervening distance when the RAPAW started up again. Who’s left? He’d miscounted the attackers aboard the skiff. Five should be dead, but there must have been more than the three additional silhouettes he’d spotted.

The RAPAW pulses streaked around his position, forcing Sev back until a nearby blast splintered the top of the stone behind which he hid. A blinding light and blistering pain turned his vision to a supernova’s explosion. He collapsed behind the rocks, reaching for his eyes yet knowing the last thing he should do just then was touch them.

“Hey. Hey!” Gina’s voice was right there. One of her hands held his chin. “Don’t move. Don’t. Move. Got to take care of the pain. Stabilize the burns.”

Something pierced his neck. A cool sensation tingled outward, rippling across his face until the burning subsided to a sickening ache.

“There. Easy. Gonna make it all better. Lie down in the snow. Look for injured. Deer aren’t there. Smart hunters.” Her words made less and less sense until they blurred into a soft murmur.

Mother wiped the blood from his nose with a cloth. “He’s not always right. You know this. Your hands, Sevastopol. They can kill, and they can make. Don’t let one or the other dominate. There is a right time for each.”

“Yes, Mother,” Sev gasped.

* * *

Gina fought back tears. Sev’s face was a blistered mess. The painkillers and the stabilizing patch she’d slapped in place would preserve his sight until they could get him proper medical help, as long as he kept it in place. But with the renewed fire from the skiff pinning them down, no matter the assistance provided by someone from inside Flarehawk’s hatch, she had no clue when that would be. So much for rescuing Jack’s people and him too. Gina had to figure out a way to keep everyone from getting killed.

23

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

21 April 2466

Jackson shoved aside the broken seat. He’d remained strapped into his, but the one next to him collapsed under not only Novabird’s impact but the activation of the collision cushions. “Anyone hurt?”

“Arm.” Richards’s voice pitched higher. He cradled his right elbow close to his chest as he scrounged for a tablet and a wrist unit from among the battered instrumentation. Sparks erupted in his face.

“Get clear of the consoles.” Garza took a step forward, pressing the cushions away as they slowly deflated. “How is the power plant?”

“Stable but off-line.” Sakuri wiped blood from her forehead. It seemed a shallow cut, from what Jackson observed. She strapped a pulse pistol’s holster to her leg. “The armament locker’s open, sir.”

“Good. Captain?” Garza caught Jackson looking his way and gestured.

The two of them pulled pulse rifles from the compartment, the door of which hung ajar at the entrance to Novabird’s cargo space. Damp night air gushed in through the crumpled rear hatch.

“There’s a good meter-wide gap,” Jackson noted as he inserted a new power pack into the rifle. “Can we open it further?”

“We’re better off using Novabird as cover until we can arrange for retrieval,” Garza argued.

“Door controls are down,” Sakuri reported. “I can try to boost our comms signal.”

Jackson shook his head. “We’re nothing but target practice if we stay in here. I know the land. It’s well suited for concealment and ambush. Come on.”

“Well suited until they launch their shuttles,” Garza said. “How are we supposed to fend those off?”

Jackson glared at him. “Vasiliy Kiel hid in Terran space for almost a year, plotting to disrupt not just the Coalition government but day-to-day communications, all so he could kill me. Do you honestly think he’s going to leave that to an aerial strike by a civilian shuttle he commandeered?”

“You think he wants to eliminate you face-to-face.” Garza scowled.

“It’s a theory I’m willing to reinforce by drawing his attention to it.” Jackson shouldered the rifle and gestured that they should follow him. I know this is his team, but given the home turf advantage and how seriously the situation has gone off course, me taking charge is the best chance we have at survival. Not hubris, just facts.

He peered through the meter-wide gap into the driving rain. Searchlights slashed the air, not just from the ground level either. A distinctive hum filtered through the storm.

“Skiffs,” Jackson muttered.

“What kind?” Sakuri joined him. She popped open an aid kit and helped Richards secure his injured arm.

“The ones we use for tending the herds,” Jackson explained. “Looks like Vasiliy’s people have commandeered them to do their own herding.”

Before he could ascertain numbers and direction so as to better plot their escape route, light flashed off to the left. The skiffs hovering toward them shifted and returned fire, actinic blasts gouging steaming holes in the hilltops.

“Shit,” Garza snapped. “They’ve mounted RAPAWs on the skiffs.”

Jackson frowned. Facing antivehicle weapons with the handful of automatic rifles stowed in Novabird wasn’t an even match, but he recognized a window of opportunity when he saw one. Those heavier weapons were meant to blow up armored carriers and were overkill against people. “Everybody out,” he ordered. “Now.”

“Take them, Captain.” Garza gestured back toward the cockpit. “I’ll get the point-defense guns back up.”

“No way. Sir.” Richards made a face. “Even with the auxiliary power, you need another hand to get the links connected.”

“Go with Captain Adams,” Garza ordered. “Or I’ll…”

“I’m not abandoning you.” Sakuri held up her hand, stopping him from moving closer to the hatch. “Not after Bellwether.”

Garza frowned. He glanced between his people.

“If you can get it working, take out the RAPAWs,” Jackson said. “I don’t care what you have to do to the skiffs. And punch holes in their shuttles while you’re at it.”

“Sir, I—”

Jackson interrupted Garza by clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got good people, Lieutenant. Use that to the best of your ability.”

“Godspeed, Captain.” Garza shook his hand.

Jackson scurried into the rain and around the opposite side of Novabird from the battle, keeping below the top of the fuselage. He sent a family code on repeat through his commlink, directing it at the Castillo frequency because he assumed the Adamses’ lines were compromised. Anyone taking over the skiffs would have access to that local network.

His commlink finally sputtered a response. “Jack, is that you?”

Jackson grinned. “Enrique. Nice shooting, by the way.”

“We thought so, too, but I didn’t expect the military hardware as a response.” He spoke loudly over the bark of ballistic rifles and the RAPAW’s chattering. “I’ve got a dozen and a half of us over here, Castillo and Adams people, plus ten of ours working their way around the machine shop.”

“Dammit, Enrique, be careful.” Jackson hopped across a narrow but deep defile. “I don’t want to see anyone killed.”

“Too late for that. At least six of yours are dead back at the shop.”

Jackson closed his eyes for a second. He’d surmised as much when they’d overflown the shop, based on how Vasiliy’s people were unresisted and from Richards’s scans of what could be bodies. The confirmation, though, sickened him. He’d never wanted to see it, but it couldn’t be undone.

“Work your way to us,” Enrique said. “We can hold out pretty well here, at least until Rangers or CDF arrive.”

“Has anyone gotten word out?”

“Maybe. The signal’s sent, but we couldn’t get confirmation.” Enrique chuckled. “I think Abby would suggest we pray on it, and Mama would smack me if I didn’t.”

“For whatever good it will do.” Though even as Jackson crept into the draw that would lead him to Enrique’s group, he knew it was what Brant would do, and that was good enough for him.

* * *

The reports filtering to Kiel were uninspiring to say the least. He fought a growing sense of outrage as the numbers tallied up. The team at Wingren City—gone. The team in Dean Forest—unresponsive. The team that intercepted Adams’s helicar—eliminated. Only the return of Shuttle Three from Esperanza Island provided solace, though they had still failed in their mission. Kiel added those men to the forces moving off from the machine shop aboard the hijacked skiffs. But even then, complications arose.

“We’re meeting resistance at the house.” Ferenc showed him the scans fed from that skiff’s onboard systems. “Looks like multiple combatants in a civilian racer have engaged our people. The homeowners themselves seem to have better weaponry than we expected.”

“What about that mess?” Kiel gestured toward the nearby flashes of light.

“Ranch employees,” Ferenc explained. “Though whether or not they have assisted the civilian vessel’s crew after it crashed is unknown. We estimate twenty or more people defending their position.”

“And the authorities?”

“They’ve received alerts, but we’ve managed to keep the response scrambled.” Ferenc swiped across a new readout on his tablet. “Thanks to Yahanotov’s preparations, our people have used the local ranch network to broadcast a warning that their comms have become unreliable and are sending out false warnings. We think we’ve stopped outgoing voice comms, too, though it’s difficult to tell, given the havoc Yahanotov unleashed on the grid at large.”

“That’s something,” Kiel grumbled. “I didn’t come all this way to kill a man only for them to bypass our simple technological glitches.”

“Sir…” Ferenc sounded overly cautious again, probably worried about Kiel’s backlash if he insinuated errors made in the planning stages.

A wise reaction.

“Had the civilian shuttles been armed—”

“We’ve been over this,” Kiel snapped. “Drawing that much aerial attention to ourselves could have brought CDF’s atmospheric defense units down on our heads, and besides, for all his value, Ardalion Noor did not have unlimited funds left at his disposal. Getting the freighters refitted took up the bulk of the money.”

“Yes, sir.”

Besides, how am I to look Adams in the eye and kill him where he stands if we rely upon strafing runs? There was no guarantee those, no matter how destructive, would actually eliminate their targets. Not that these buffoons had proved more accurate. Kiel made a face. No matter. They were out there, his victims, and he would not stop until they were destroyed.

Fortunately, they could proceed with their next phase, since both the aerial units—one of which Kiel was certain had to have dogged them on prior missions—had been knocked out of the sky.

A younger man ran up, huffing for breath. “The last skiff is ready. Weapons emplacements secured.”

“Perfect. Leave behind a dozen men to hold the shop and shoot down any aircraft that come near, be they supposed ‘civilians’ or Rangers armed to the teeth. We will take the rest to the ranch house and destroy anyone we find in our path.” Kiel strode toward the shop. “Coming, Ferenc?”

No response. Kiel stopped. He looked back at his assistant. Ferenc gazed across at the firefight in the distance. There were flickers farther away, too, which Kiel assumed came from the battle near the ranch house.

“Ferenc,” Kiel repeated.

“Yes, sir.” Ferenc brushed rain from his face and tucked the tablet into his jacket. “I’m coming.”

It pained Kiel to suspect his stalwart companion was having doubts about their mission, but it was not unanticipated. He couldn’t expect anyone else to fathom what the operation meant to him. As far as Kiel was concerned, it was the only way he could ensure he would have peace.

And if both myself and Jackson Adams die to gain that peace, I believe I can be reconciled to that.

* * *

CSV Tuscon

Between Canaan and Corinth

Mancini coughed and wiped stinging sweat from his eyes. The ventilators cleared as much of the smoke from the bridge air as they could, leaving behind a faint haze.

“Generator Two is slagged.” Godat gagged then cleared his throat. “Damage control is swapping in the backup regulators to get it restarted.”

“Doesn’t help the current gap in the shields,” Mancini snapped. “TAO, extend Generator One to make up the difference.”

“Conn, TAO, extending Shield Generator One.” Olesen blinked away tears caused by the fumes. “Master Six is starting to spin to starboard. Thrusters and main propulsion down on that side. Shields destabilizing. She’s launching, Skipper—three missiles in space.”

Mancini glowered at the tactical board as three new red marks appeared. Keeping them straight gave him a headache, especially considering how many zinged about during the battle. Tuscon shuddered as the CIWS guns, their targeting systems locked into automatic mode, tracked the new incoming threats and bracketed them with hypervelocity projectiles.

Master Six acted like the lead for the Rouens, but the signals linking it to the rest of the scouts proved tangled. Sensor Room had no luck disrupting them, the attempts made more confounding by the constant interference barrage broadcasted by the ships.

“Conn, TAO, aspect change on Master Seven, Eight, and Nine.” Olesen’s voice sounded as raspy as if he’d taken up the ancient habit of tobacco smoking. “They’re reorienting on separate vectors—Skipper, the comp’s prediction doesn’t make sense.”

“TAO, give us the sketch.” Mancini punched up the close view on his console.

The tactical systems took the data relayed from Tuscon’s sensors and did their best to predict where those four ships would wind up based on their current rates of acceleration.

Hold on. Mancini squinted. The probable course lines looked like a spiderweb, but he swore he could see a confluence among the many options. “You’re talking about this point, TAO?” Mancini highlighted where the four courses met in a tight arc that looped them beyond the main focus of the battle.

“Yes, sir.”

Tuscon rattled under a nearby explosion.

“Generator One extended, Skipper, but the shields are stretched thin.”

“They’re off,” Godat noted.

He was right. The four Rouens shot away on their high-acceleration run as the last Golgotha and the two stealth-type freighters intensified their attacks, throwing themselves recklessly at Vigilant and the half dozen CDF and TCFE vessels that had joined the fray. Three dozen missiles launched from the enemy targets, spreading even more disarray. The Rouens’ new trajectory was set to intersect with the fleet yards’ orbital path.

“Pilot, roll us onto a pursuit course and engage at full acceleration,” Mancini ordered. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master Six, Hunter missiles, Tubes One through Four.”

“Tube Three is off-line, Skipper,” Godat said. “Being cleared right now.”

“Dammit, sooner warning next time, CO.”

“I would if I were psychic.”

Mancini rubbed his forehead.

“Conn, TAO, firing point procedures, Master Six, Hunter missiles, Tubes One, Two, and Four.” Olesen punched commands into his console as Tuscon veered off into a pursuit course that brought it into the Rouens’ wake.

“Comms, send to Griffon Squadron,” Mancini ordered. “Let him know our intentions, and get him into those scouts because, as fast as they’re moving, this is no attack run—they’re planning a suicide plunge.”

* * *

CSV Oxford

In Canaan Orbit

Sinclair stared at the tactical board. “Say again, Alpha One?”

“The scouts are locked into a ballistic trajectory, and we’re getting the guy who’s guiding them to shut it down,” MacDonald said through the staticky link. “If you want more than that, Colonel, give me a couple of minutes.”

“You’ve less time than that.” Sinclair glanced behind him. “Butter Bars?”

“One second, sir.” Tamir worked at the combined console, beside Eldred. “There?”

Eldred bit her lip. “It’s worth a shot, but with the interference clogging up space…”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“I know. Once it’s reprogrammed—there. Send it,” Eldred said.

Tamir tapped the panel.

Sinclair swore he held his breath. “I’ll need the two of you to enlighten me.”

“We’re hoping those corrupted weather sats will prove useful, in case they can’t turn the Rouens off course even with the signal killed,” Eldred explained. “But I’m praying through every litany I know that it’ll count.”

Sinclair watched as numerous satellites shoved themselves out of Canaan’s orbit, heading slowly but surely for the trajectory the Rouen scouts remained on. Something had to give. He would take whatever came first, at that point.

* * *

Meng Po

Leaving Canaan Orbit

Yahanotov muttered to himself in Russian, or at least that was what Zhou supposed it was. “Can you get it done?” Zhou asked.

“I am, I am, hold on. A few more… there.” Yahanotov looked up at his screens, moving his neck as if he weren’t sure it would ever bend straight again.

Nothing.

“Shit.” The soldier called MacDonald pressed his rifle’s muzzle to the back of Yanahotov’s head. “If you’ve screwed everyone—”

“Hold on.” Zhou grabbed his shoulder—which was, of course, a bad idea, because the Saurian slammed him face-first against the bulkhead for touching his CO.

“There!” Yahanotov clapped his hands. “You see? Look how well they responded! I never dreamed that after all these months, they’d do so nicely.”

One by one, the scouts quit accelerating. They kept barreling along, the results of their previous thrust, until each started peeling away from their routes.

Zhou found it peculiar that while his nose bled because Terran soldiers held him at bay, he was heartened his lifelong enemies hadn’t suffered thousands of casualties and irreparable damage. He’d surrendered to a Terran squad, after all. Grounds for treason, as far as the League was concerned. He started chuckling.

“What the hell’s so funny? Rucuk, back off.” MacDonald wrenched him around so Zhou could see his battered visage reflected in the battle armor’s visor.

“Only that I’m racking up a lot of death sentences for one guy with one life.” Zhou shook his head. “Are you sure your people can stop those scouts now?”

Yanahotov cleared his throat.

“Yeah, pretty sure.” MacDonald jerked a thumb toward the screens.

Tiny arrowheads representing Coalition ships swept toward the scouts. Too small for shuttles, it seemed—maybe they were reconnaissance drones. The arrowheads launched Hunter ship-to-ship missiles.

Zhou’s eyes widened. Whatever they were, they had to be either stealth fighters or cutters. They made quick work of the scouts. The last one still hurtled along, with another ship behind it, when it ran smack into what Yahanotov’s displays announced was a weather satellite.

The Terran soldiers around Zhou relaxed, not overtly, but in a subtle way he could sense.

“Okay, then.” MacDonald turned toward him. “Where were we?”

Zhou straightened. “As I said before, I am Captain Zhou Yongrui, commanding Meng Po, formerly of the League navy, currently in the employ of External Security Services, though I have been coerced by Operative Vasiliy Kiel into this mission, which is unsanctioned by ESS. I surrender myself, my crew, and this vessel to the Coalition Defense Forces.”

MacDonald grunted. “Anything else I need to know before I accept?”

“Yes. I respectfully request asylum in the Terran Coalition.” Zhou grimaced. “Because as corrupt as your society may be, I have a better chance of not dying here.”

“That all depends,” MacDonald replied, “on whether you survive trial.”

24

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

21 April 2466

Jackson hunkered beneath the latest fusillade as the RAPAW ripped apart the embankment protecting him, Enrique, and their assorted defenders.

“There!” Enrique nodded toward the adjacent rise.

A skiff hurtled across the intervening space, its hover nodules buzzing with the extreme stress of acceleration it wasn’t meant to endure. Enrique’s group redirected their shots as best they could but succeeded only in drawing its attention. Jackson’s stomach twisted as the skiff’s antivehicle weapon tore into three men he recognized as workers on the Castillo ranch.

“Headed for the house,” Jackson snapped as the skiff disappeared toward the smoke rising in the distance. “We have to stop them.”

“Yeah, I know,” Enrique growled. “But we’ve got worse problems.”

Two of the shuttles rose from the machine shop. Jackson didn’t know how many people were aboard or whether they were armed. It didn’t matter, really, because the tide was turning against them. He used the automatic rifle he’d taken from Novabird’s armory, sending round after round toward the nearest shuttle. Even if they were up-armored, he should be able to score a hit on some system, any system, that might—

The shuttle’s port wing exploded in a puff of smoke and blast of shrapnel, sending it into a flat spin. Jackson blinked, unsure of how small arms fire had managed such a crippling hit until he recognized a new sound pulsing across the steppes. Novabird’s point-defense cannon.

The guns punched into the shuttles with a hideous banshee screech, a sound Jackson had never heard before. Probably they were damaged from the crash, but it didn’t prevent them from shredding both craft into flame and scrap on their way to twin fiery impacts.

That got the skiff’s attention. It spun away, bringing its RAPAW to bear. Even Novabird’s armor, meant to resist collisions with space debris in addition to ship-based weapons, couldn’t handle the barrage, not after suffering as much injury as she had. But in making a panicked counterattack, the skiff’s hijackers had swung it at too steep an angle, exposing the underside toward the Adams and Castillo defenders.

“Hover nodules!” Jackson shouted down the line, his voice raw from having to yell over the rain and gunfire. “Shoot them out!”

More shouts echoed among the ranch hands. Rifle rounds struck the skiff’s underbelly, throwing off sparks where they hit the nodules. The concentrated barrage was too much for the more fragile systems to handle, and by the time the hijackers realized what was happening, it was too late. The skiff tipped hard left as one bank of hover nodules failed. It plummeted like a dropped dinner plate as the rest followed. Slapping the ground, the sides buckled as it crunched into a broad draw coursing with muddy rainwater.

Enrique punched another man beside him on the shoulder. “Storm them!”

The ranch hands hooted and hollered like they were charging over the trenches in one of those ancient historical vids, spreading out and sprinting from cover to cover on their way to the downed skiff.

“Hold on.” Jackson jerked a thumb at Enrique’s skimmer. “I’ve got to take that back to the house.”

“Screw that.” Enrique hopped on and fired up the engine. “Hang on, Captain, unless you plan on jogging after me.”

Jackson leapt astride the skimmer and barely had time to loop an arm around Enrique before the skimmer bolted across the plains. A spike viper spooked from the tall grass. He sneered at the comparison in his mind. He was only concerned about one viper, and if Vasiliy harmed his family, there would be hell to pay.

* * *

Gina didn’t want to abandon Sev, but she had to get him under better cover. She dragged him to the back door of the house once the weapons fire from Flarehawk drew enough of the attackers’ attention away. Not that the house was the most structurally sound anymore, with beams and walls creaking from the skiff’s impact. But they were still thick enough to deflect a good portion of the plasma blasts.

“You read? Echo Two …” Brant’s voice skipped in her ear, which made it far more annoying than it had ever been.

“A little busy here,” Gina snapped. She lobbed one of the last explosives from Sev’s belt around the corner and ducked as the explosion threw mud everywhere. “Are you guys holding up?”

“Besides trying to keep your father from getting himself shot—”

“Again,” Gina muttered.

“We’ve fortified our position.”

Gina glimpsed shots from the RAPAW striking the downed racer. He was right, but she doubted the civilian craft could continue taking punishment forever. Of course, she had no clue how long the Adams house could do the same.

A wall collapsed at the far end of the building, nearest the crashed skiff. “So much for wondering.”

“Say again, Echo Two?”

“Never mind. The Adamses and Abby are still caught in the open with minimal cover. If I distract the attackers, I’ll try to split the family up between you and the house. At least then they won’t be outside.”

“Roger that.” Brant muttered back and forth off comms. “Thirty seconds?”

“Deal.” Gina switched to the Castillo family link. “Abby?”

“I’m here.” Abby’s voice trembled, but she sounded more like she was angry than scared.

Gina couldn’t blame her. “We’re going to launch a couple of counterattacks.” Gina realized how silly that sounded because, even though she was pretty sure CAU 171 and the assembled civilians outnumbered the Leaguers, the attackers had the firepower advantage. “I want you four to split up—you and Harry run to me while Samantha and Gloria make for the racer.”

“Hold on.” Abby relayed the plan in a distant murmur. Gina couldn’t tell to whom she was talking until the masculine shouts responded. “Harry’s not happy with—”

“Please tell Harry I’ll march out there and put a pulse blast up his nose if he doesn’t shut the hell up and do what I say!” Gina snapped. “Please also remind him I’ve got the sniper.”

Whatever else Abby told to the family didn’t get nearly the argument in response.

Hopefully, Harry hasn’t decided to call my bluff, though Gina had to ask herself if it was indeed a bluff. She shrugged.

“Gina,” Sev croaked.

The patch obscured his eyes, but he still looked her way—listening to her voice, no doubt. Sev tapped his ears and pointed.

Gina strained for whatever sound he heard over the din of battle. It resolved as a distant hum that intensified with each passing second. Skiff. She switched frequencies again. “Echo Two to Echo Home.”

“—ahead, Two.”

“Do you have instrumentation? I think we’ve got more incoming—another skiff.”

“One second.” Brant made a disgusted sound. “Yeah, I see it on the civilian LIDAR. Looks like another of the ranch vehicles with a skimmer tailing it.”

“You think it’s with us or hijacked, Home?”

“I’m praying for a miracle but crossing my fingers at the same time. Also, thirty seconds are up.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” Gina found another explosive—okay, so that was the last one. She’d miscounted in the stress of the fighting. Lifting Sev’s rifle, she armed the explosive and tossed it out the door.

It corkscrewed off toward the downed skiff, exploding under the shattered remnants of the control cab canopy. Gina leaned around the threshold and fired a few rounds. She didn’t take time to line up perfect shots like Sev would. Besides, she knew it would take her far more effort than it took him.

Rifle shots rang out simultaneously from Flarehawk. A pair of even bigger explosions dazzled Gina’s vision. Whatever Dwyer had deployed turned the front of the skiff as bright as if the sun were shining directly on it.

The triple distractions were enough to force the attackers to suspend their fire, which in turn gave Abby and the rest the opening they needed to rush out from hiding. Gina saw Abby and Gloria slip under Flarehawk’s wing as Harry and Samantha dove through the door of the Adams house.

“Where the hell is Jack?” Harry snapped. His face was contorted by anger and exhaustion. Gina had no doubt part of the reason for his rage was Samantha’s proximity to the danger, though the woodworker seemed far less frightened than Gina would have expected.

“If I knew, I’d tell you.” She handed Sev’s rifle back to him. “How many rounds do you have left?”

“Enough.”

Gina glanced at Samantha. “And how good are you with your weapon?”

“I won’t need your help to aim, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Samantha knelt beside Sev. “Can I do anything for him besides monitor the patch?”

“No.” Gina jerked her pulse pistol toward the roof. “I think we’ll have a good shot at getting a jump on the approaching skiff from the upper floors.”

“Another skiff?” Harry shook his head. “And no word from our people—though Abby tells me they might be helping hold the line out at the machine shop.”

“I think so. Come on. If Jack’s stuck somewhere, we need to tackle this one.”

“You mean clean up his mess.”

Gina sighed. “If you want to slap your brother around, I’ll give you a pair of gloves myself, but listen. Right now, I need you to kill Leaguers and stop arguing with me. Can you do that?”

Harry nodded, his expression grim. “After what they’ve done to my home, I’ll burn them all down.”

“Peachy.” Gina kissed Sev atop his head. He didn’t feel feverish, which she considered a blessing, given his wound. Blessing? I’ve been hanging around Brant too long. “Be a lamb and stay alive, Sev.”

Sev snorted.

“I’ll watch over him.” Samantha leaned nearer the door. The RAPAW’s manic chatter had resumed, aimed toward Flarehawk that time.

“You’d better.” Gina poked Harry with her pistol. “Upstairs, asshole.”

* * *

Vasiliy scowled as his skiff approached the Adams house. Too many of their vehicles had been downed by infernal interference, either from civilians or what he suspected were elements of CAU 171—and possibly more CDF Intelligence operatives. Still, it galled him to see the first skiff sent to the house had wrecked against one side and was trading fire with a crashed racing shuttle.

“Bring us around the far side of the house,” he ordered the ESS man at the skiff’s controls. “We’ll strafe the racer from there.”

“Yes, sir.”

They skirted close to the house, Kiel scanning the windows with a pair of night vision goggles. Nothing to see so far.

“Sir.” Out on the skiff’s wraparound catwalk, Ferenc assisted another mercenary in preparing their own antivehicle weapon. “I believe we’re being followed.”

Kiel squinted aft. Yes, a vehicle was racing up on them. A skimmer. Two men rode astride it.

“Reorient that gun,” Kiel demanded. “Open fire when—”

A ballistic rifle’s report cracked through the night. One of the skiff’s reflector panels shattered. Kiel dropped to the catwalk, scrambling for his plasma rifle as Ferenc and the other man did the same. Another mercenary didn’t react fast enough, though, and was shot through the chest. He fell from the skiff onto the muddy terrain below.

“Taking fire from the house.” Ferenc’s voice raised an octave, but he didn’t shout.

Of course he didn’t. Kiel was pleased that despite the chaos he’d unleashed onto Canaan, one thing remained constant. “Tear that building apart.” Kiel crawled to a section of the skiff no longer facing the house.

The driver turned the skiff a hundred eighty degrees, shielding Kiel, Ferenc, and the RAPAW operator from harm until they could finish preparing the antivehicle weapon. More of Kiel’s men stationed on the opposite side shot back, shattering windows and setting small fires inside the house wherever the plasma bursts ignited fabric and wood.

Meanwhile, the skiff rounded the far end of the home, continuing its rotation until the RAPAW’s firing arc encompassed the row of windows where the attacks originated.

Kiel’s operative thumbed the firing stud, setting off a brain-rattling howl as the RAPAW punched round after round through the walls. Streaks of light shredded what Kiel saw—at least, in the moments before its obliteration—was a dining room. He took particular delight in watching the pulses tear huge chunks out of a long rustic table that had no doubt been the center of many a family meal, a source of warm, comforting memories.

It was almost as satisfying as the rest of the damage and pain he’d inflicted thus far.

“Sir, this way.” Ferenc guided Kiel away from the RAPAW, apparently not wanting his commander out in the open during that phase of the assault—a precaution with which Kiel found himself in sudden agreement. It wouldn’t do to get himself shot by a stray round before achieving his final goal.

However, as they did, Kiel spotted the skimmer zipping past, heading far off in a loop that would put it behind the crashed racing shuttle. He raised his plasma rifle and fired several blasts, none of which hit, but at least they scorched near misses in the sodden ground.

“I can warn our people of the new threat,” Ferenc announced. “The forces back at the machine shop are encountering continued resistance from the local workers.”

“What of the Colonial Rangers?” Kiel squinted at the battlefield around the backside of the house. Their skiff lurked on one end as the RAPAW strafed more of the windows above, though moving farther impeded the line of fire.

“Undetermined.”

“See if you can get one of our shuttles in the air.”

Ferenc murmured a message. The response crackled back through his commlink, and to Kiel’s astonishment, Kiel muttered, “Shit.”

It was as if Sol itself had gone nova. “What did you say?”

“Two of our shuttles have been shot down. The skiff at the shop, too, has been disabled.” Ferenc stared at Kiel. “Sir, we may have to consider—”

Whatever Ferenc was going to ask him to do, Kiel never discovered. A dark shape struck Ferenc, driving him to his knees. Kiel found himself staring at a face he’d considered a wraith only a few years ago but had come to know very well over the course of his preparations for his assault.

Captain Jackson Adams aimed an automatic pulse rifle at his face.

“I knew I’d see you someday,” Kiel murmured. “Good evening, Captain.”

“Drop your weapon and surrender, you bastard,” Adams snapped. “This is where you get off.”

25

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

21 April 2466

Jackson struggled to keep his composure as Kiel smirked above the forward sights of his pulse rifle. The man did not look like an insane terrorist who had plagued the Terran Coalition since CAU 171 was christened almost three years ago. Instead, he reminded Jackson of several CDF data clerks he’d helped apprehend for various black-market sales and classified information thefts—bland, insignificant. The ruined shape of the Adams house, illuminated by flickering flames behind them, seemed to reveal the man’s true nature.

“Yes, arrest me. That will be grand.” Kiel chuckled. “I suppose you want the secrets stored in the gray matter between my ears, correct? What a valuable win I’d be for CDF Intelligence.”

The other man stirred at Jackson’s feet. Fernand, as he’d been identified on Bellwether Station. His real name wasn’t important to Jackson right then. The important fact was that he had both operatives within his grasp.

Of course, it would be a lot easier to kill them both. And why shouldn’t I? They could leak Jackson’s identity to foreign governments or the press, making Covert Action Unit 171 useless and compromising the safety of people who’d worked even unknowingly with the CDF Intelligence operatives. But Kiel had a point. The information they had about ESS alone—

Fernand muttered beneath him. Jackson shifted his aim, but the skiff lurched underfoot, slamming him against the skiff’s bulkhead. Fernand kicked Jackson’s legs, the pain lancing clear up to his knees, and toppled him backward onto the rain-slicked deck.

Kiel shouted commands above them, but Jackson couldn’t hear over the renewed RAPAW fire and the drone of the rain. Fernand lunged atop Jackson, wresting his rifle from his grip.

Jackson was not about to be left unarmed. He punched Fernand, sending his opponent headlong into the railing. The automatic rifle, though, went farther, spinning away into the dark night.

“Get clear!”

Kiel’s order broke through the racket, loud enough for Jackson to heed the warning, even though he was sure it was meant for Fernand. Plasma blasts ripped through the air above Jackson’s head as he threw himself against Fernand.

But a blow to his abdomen caught him off guard. Fernand hit him twice more, though Jackson partially blocked one of the punches with his arm. Fighting in the dark wasn’t easy. The driving rain and the gloom, periodically broken by the skiff’s external lights, turned the scene around him into a flickering mess.

He forced himself to think where the punches were coming from, where they would land, and what parts of Fernand’s body were left unprotected with each one. The good news was that grappling with the man kept Jackson protected from Kiel’s plasma rifle.

But even as Jackson threw another punch at Kiel’s face, the skiff pivoted again. He shifted his stance as best he could but still found himself off-balance, which Fernand used to his advantage by snaking an arm around Jackson’s neck.

“Hold still.” The man’s voice was an insistent mutter by his ear. The pressure increased, narrowing Jackson’s vision. “No need for you to get shot or endanger me with the same fate.”

Jackson struggled against him, but he couldn’t get a grip with his boots. They slipped off the edge of the skiff, beneath its railing. He gasped, lungs burning, and tried to wrench Fernand’s arm away.

“Sir?” Fernand sounded as if he were at the end of a distant tunnel.

“Kill him.”

* * *

Sev cocked his head as a second RAPAW started shooting. He couldn’t pinpoint the location, but it was close. That much he could hear. His vision wasn’t entirely gone. He tugged at the edge of the healing patch. A warning glowed in soft white, Do Not Remove.

Of course. If he took it off too soon, he ran the risk of damaging his eyes even further. How much longer? It could be hours or even days if he remembered his first aid training correctly.

“Echo Four, this is Echo Home.” Lieutenant Guinto sounded worried. “Echo One has engaged hand-to-hand with the enemy. He needs an assist. We’re pinned down by both weapons here—I have us as deep inside the racer as we can hunker. Can you interdict?”

Gina had gone with Harrison Adams elsewhere in the house. She had, however, left Sev his rifle. Sev fumbled with it.

“Wait.” Samantha caught his arm. “What are you doing? You can’t see to shoot.”

“Wrong.” Sev tugged the bandages off.

As dim as it was, the sudden influx of pale light sent pain lancing through his head. Everything was a hazy smear of color, drab shades muddled and dripping like someone had poured water across an oil painting before the artist had finished the last stroke.

“To your left, about three hundred meters,” Samantha said.

Sev squinted as best he could into the scope, searching for his target as the skiff’s ominous shadow drifted across his line of sight. The searing flashes from its mounted RAPAW assaulted him as the rifle shook in his hands.

“Easy.” Samantha helped him steady the weapon. “You can do this.”

Tears dripped down his face. The pain rolled over Sev in waves, but through the murk and the glare, he found it—a flicker. It was gone. He shifted his aim again. There. A tiny red light.

“Your hands, my son,” Mother said. “They can be used for good or ill. They can create and destroy—and if you think through the challenges you face, you can save life even when you think you’re only meant to take it.”

He smiled, tasting salty tears and tangy blood. I understand, Mother. Sev pulled the trigger.

* * *

Kiel instinctively ducked at the rifle’s report. “Dammit, we have a sniper down there. Ferenc, throttle him and be done with it.”

No reply. Kiel lifted his gaze from the battle below. Adams supported himself against the bulkhead, struggling for breath. Ferenc lay on the skiff catwalk. His eye was open wide yet unseeing. The red cybernetic replacement flickered and died. Other than the black-and-red hole in the center of his forehead, oozing blood, he seemed uninjured. It was the first time Kiel could recall seeing Ferenc look surprised.

Shouts and gunfire came from the control cab. The RAPAW fell silent. Someone screamed, the sound dying until a muffled thump ended it.

Kiel ignored the commotion because his emotions were a furious swirl of sorrow and hate. He couldn’t figure out why Ferenc’s death bothered him so. He could easily replace his assistant. Can’t I? Or have I cut myself off so drastically from everyone and everything else in pursuit of my obsessive goals that I am truly on my own? He snarled and lifted his plasma rifle at Jackson again. It would be worth the pain.

The trigger clicked. Sparks fizzled from the muzzle. Charge depleted? Kiel fumbled in his jacket for a spare power cell.

The body that slammed into him was massive, so massive it took him a moment to realize two people had hit him instead of one. A burly, bearded man wrestled with the operative who’d been driving the skiff, and without a controller, the vehicle went into a steady spin that struck Kiel with the uncomfortable sensation of being caught in a small boat during an ocean storm.

Kiel clung to his rifle, but another shape landed before him, that one decidedly female, clad in svelte black and violet. She struck him in the neck. Kiel whipped the rifle at her shoulder and kicked her against the railing. A knife’s blade flashed centimeters from his face. Kiel saw it coming and craned his neck back so it passed harmlessly before his nose.

Then Adams was between them, shoulder cracking against Kiel’s sternum. Kiel let momentum give him enough room to back away and fire.

The plasma burst whipped across the top of Adams’s shoulder. He shouted, his other arm pinwheeling as he slipped across the unsteady deck toward the railing. Kiel lined up a second shot. Metal flashed out of the corner of his eye. The knife glanced off his arm, deflected by the rifle’s barrel. He fell, clutching the wound as blood poured between his finger.

The woman ripped off her goggles.

Kiel chuckled as Gina Wilkes gazed down at him. “I’m sorry, but weren’t you the secretary?”

“Dad says hi.” Gina drew a small pulse pistol.

But Kiel had already plucked the knife from the deck. He lunged for her.

* * *

Jackson jolted as Gina’s pistol fired a single shot. It seemed to pass right through Kiel as the operative drove the knife deep into her chest. She let out a startled cry.

Behind them, Harry roared with exertion as he broke his opponent’s neck. The other man dropped, lifeless, onto the catwalk.

Jackson had no weapon of his own, but that didn’t stop him from tackling Kiel. The knife slashed his sleeve, cutting a jagged line down his arm. The wound seemed nothing but an idle curiosity through his outrage. His blood, Gina’s blood, it was irrelevant. Kiel had to be stopped.

They bent the railing, Jackson holding back Kiel’s knife hand. “Drop it,” he muttered.

“Of course I will,” Kiel snarled.

Jackson smelled burnt clothing. Gina’s pulse pistol’s shot had punched a hole through Kiel’s jacket.

“And then what? Who will you chase next? What adversary will give your life purpose? Look at this chaos, this disaster. It’s your doing.”

“I only ever wanted to serve my country.” Jackson saw Harry rise, panting, toward the front of the skiff.

His brother looked back, his expression one of pained realization.

“These were the people I was keeping safe. But you couldn’t leave us alone, could you? You couldn’t just stay within your borders after we beat you.”

“Beat us?” Kiel grimaced as they strained against each other’s grasps, their faces centimeters apart, the knife blade hovering between their throats.

The point scraped Jackson’s whiskers, but he gritted his teeth, forcing it away again.

“Maybe those weaklings who called themselves my superiors surrendered, but I would never. There’s no universe in which I will stop hunting Terrans. I only ever wanted your downfall. And look how well you protected those you love! I can still kill them all, like her.”

Gina. Jackson saw her shudder out of the corner of his eye, and in that second, he knew he’d made a mistake. Kiel let go of the knife. Jackson’s reflexes took over, and he caught it, but Kiel was already out of his way, no longer a target.

A kick struck Jackson’s chest, cracking who knew how many ribs. And Kiel pounced for his heart with the knife. The plasma blast cut through Kiel, shoving him off course so he landed facedown on the catwalk. Steam rose from the gaping wound in his back.

Jackson stood there, chest heaving with every breath, which only made his pain increase.

Harry crouched by the man he’d killed, a plasma rifle in his hands. “You okay?”

“I’m—yeah.” Jackson nodded.

Gina coughed, drawing his attention back to her. “J-Jack…”

“Hey. Don’t move.” He knelt with her, fighting against the skiff’s spin. One hand held the back of her head while the other searched her suit for the wound. “Where did he stab—”

“A-Are you trying to cop a feel?” Gina coughed again. No blood in her mouth or on her cheek. She managed a limp grin. “Because I’d better tell Abby.”

Jackson’s eyes brimmed with tears. He found the wound—a deep cut, but it hadn’t pierced her heart or major arteries, judging by the limited blood flow. “That’s not fair, you know.”

She kissed his cheek. “Do me a favor, and stop the spinning before I vomit.”

“I know what you mean.” He wanted to tell Gina what it meant to him that she was still alive, but there were more pressing matters at the moment.

The skiff abruptly straightened.

“Hey, Jack!” Harry yelled. “I could use a man on the starboard gun.”

Jackson patted Gina’s shoulder and hurried around the opposite side of the vessel, where he had an unobstructed view of the abandoned RAPAW—and another skiff, one wrecked against the side of his family’s home. Fires sputtered here and there where the suppression systems hadn’t foamed them out. Nearly all the windows were gone. Walls had caved in.

“I’m sorry about all of this, Dad.” Jackson’s gut twisted as he armed the RAPAW and took aim at the people still shooting at his friends and family. “I’ll find a way to make it up to everyone. I promise.”

He strafed the crashed skiff until its antivehicle weapon went silent and the last cries of his attackers faded away.

26

CDF Medical Station Avicenna

Lawrence City

Canaan System

23 April 2466

Gina swam back toward the ocean’s surface off Pentecost Island. The sun rippled off the waves overhead, allowing beams to shoot down into the turquoise depths. Her arms felt like they would never wear out, which was how she knew it was a dream. The last time she’d swam so far and so fast, her muscles had burned. Now, barely a twinge.

She didn’t really want to wake up but supposed she had to, especially since, when she broke the surface and luxuriated in the cool water streaming off her face, the first person she saw was Jackson standing on the shore. He wore scruffy civilian clothes and sunglasses that disguised him as another tourist. His presence, though, could mean only one thing—a new mission.

“Gina.”

“Mmm.” Gina blinked.

Jackson’s voice was right over her shoulder. He was suddenly there, treading water with her, shirtless and in hideous floral-print swim trunks.

“I’m glad you’re getting better.”

“Go away.”

“Can’t. I’m checking up on you right now. In fact, I’m leaning so near you in your hospital bed, I’m surprised you can’t smell my breath.”

Gina closed her eyes. “This is dumb.”

“Gina?”

The voice had a different timbre. She squinted, her real-life eyelids dry from disuse. Jack really was at her bedside and really wore civilian clothes, though they were simple tan gear his ranch hands might utilize.

“How do I look?” Gina’s voice came out like a croak.

“Good for a woman who got stabbed.” Jack smirked. “Awful otherwise. A lot of bruising. Your hair’s a mess too.”

“Ugh.” Gina reached up and tousled the tangled, flattened curls but gave up as her arm muscles cramped. “Ow.”

“The docs say you’re not supposed to use that arm much, so take it easy.”

“Glad you let me know after I tried to fix the rat’s nest on my head.” She blinked a few more times until Jack was a single, bleary image of himself instead of a smeared duplicate. Eyes… Gina sat bolt upright—a worse mistake than moving her arm, it turned out. “Sev.”

Jack caught her shoulder and forced her, gently, back onto the pillow. “Across the room, your ten o’clock. Doing well, from what they tell me.”

“Am I stuck in bed or not?”

“Like I said, take it easy…”

Gina sighed and swung her legs over the edge. She grabbed the portable med-sensors affixed to a nearby wheeled stand so the damned alarms wouldn’t fuss when she walked over to Sev. That in and of itself was a chore, her body aching every shuffling step she took. Jack walked with her, keeping pace, until Gina slipped sideways.

“Here.” Jack looped an arm around her waist.

“Will you ever not help hold me up?” Gina looked into his face, which was more haggard than she’d ever seen it.

His smile was wan. The cuts on his lip and brow looked in danger of bleeding again. “Do you have to ask?”

Gina squeezed his hand. “It’s nice knowing. How do we stand?”

Jackson’s smile faded. “Eleven ranch hands died, as did two of the Colonial Rangers who responded at the end.”

“And ESS?”

“All dead. All accounted for, according to the captain of the spy ship Alpha Team captured. A few of those left fighting at the machine shop surrendered.”

Gina shook her head, feeling more exhausted by that revelation than any of her injuries. “What about our identities?”

“Kiel was fanatical, but these last few men of his were more pragmatic. He promised them money but led them into a death trap. They’re more than willing to give up whatever they know about ESS for imprisonment and eventual memory wipe, at least partial. They don’t care who we are and have no interest in sharing what they do know, which it turns out was very little.”

“I feel a little better about it, then.”

“You should. You gave your all defending my home. I won’t forget it.”

Gina’s heart squeezed. “Don’t get too soft, Jack. There’s another woman for you, who needs you more than I do.”

“I know.” Jack avoided her direct gaze. Instead, he gestured at the bed before them. “Morning, Sev.”

“Captain.” Sev spoke as firmly and clearly as ever. He sat upright with a tablet propped before him.

Gina frowned. His eyes were milky white and reddened, so she didn’t understand what he was doing with the device until he removed an earbud.

“Tutorials.”

Gina tiptoed to see the screen. Managing with Limited Sight. She felt queasy. “Surely they’ve got better news for you, Sev.”

“If the regen treatment they’re working on doesn’t pan out, he’s a prime candidate for cybernetic replacements,” Jack explained.

“Oh.” Gina bit her lip. Why are my emotions so riled? Everything seemed to be tugging her back and forth.

Sev set his tablet aside and clenched his fists. “Can’t see.”

Her composure broke. Gina sat on his bed and hugged him as gently as she could manage. “You saved Jack’s life,” she reminded him. “We couldn’t have stopped them without you.”

“But I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

The ragged whisper froze her. Sev’s thick hands grasped her tightly.

“I’ll be damned,” Jack murmured behind her.

“I am sorry,” Sev continued.

“No. Hey.” Gina pulled back.

Tears stained Sev’s cheeks.

“They tried to kill you too. I’m only sorry we couldn’t get to your cabin faster. But Brant and Dwyer caught up with me, and in the end, we all came together as a team. There’s never a score to be evened between us, Sev. You know that.”

Sev seemed to consider that as Gina broke their hold. He finally nodded. “Good.”

“Good is right.” Gina glanced back at Jack, who wore a peculiar smile. “What?”

“Nothing. It was a nice speech—the kind I should give.”

“I can’t let you have all the fun.” Gina wiped her tears away. “Besides, maybe I wanted to butter you up so I can ask a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“I assume Brant and Dwyer are still with Dad?”

“Keeping a close watch on him, at your home, along with about a dozen Marines.”

“Well, I hope someone told Dad to hide the beer.” Gina shook her head. “As soon as I’m fit and debriefed, he and I want to take a trip.”

“After Kyle?”

“Sightseeing. Daughter and dad vacation, you know.”

“Sure.” Jack frowned. “I’d have to clear it through Colonel Sinclair. And if he says no…”

She giggled. “It’s cute that you think I was asking permission, or that you can stop us.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sev said.

“Should I bother asking exactly where you want to go?”

“I hear New Rostov is lovely this time of year.”

“New Rostov is never lovely, so that’s a load of crap. Doesn’t have anything to do with being across the League border from Nandao, where your brother’s playing revolutionary, does it?”

Gina winked.

“Heaven help us all.”

“So?”

“It might be okay.” Jack’s cheeks reddened. “As long as you’re back for the wedding.”

Gina clapped her hands and shouted so loudly her med monitors buzzed. Jack smacked the device for her.

“Wow! You proposed?”

“Um…” Jack checked his wrist unit. “In about an hour.”

“Well, then, Captain…” Gina stood, accepted Jack’s help again, and gave him a hearty smack on his rear end. “Godspeed. Now help me back to bed like a gentleman before I throw up on you.”

* * *

CSV Oxford

Canaan Orbit

Sinclair waved away the Marine corporal standing guard. “Wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as he was alone with the captive, Sinclair gestured to the twin black mugs emblazoned with Oxford’s logo on one side and her motto on the other. “Tea?”

“Thank you.” Zhou Yongrui, late captain in the League of Sol Navy and recently employed by ESS Operative Vasiliy Kiel, took one of the mugs carefully, since his hands were still manacled and shackled to the metal table separating him from Sinclair. He went to sip the tea but stopped with the cup raised in front of him. Zhou chuckled. “In God we trust. All others we monitor?”

“A maxim touched with humor but suffused with truth. One can never be too careful in our line of work.”

“I get that sense, though I was never much for spooks—no offense.”

“None taken, Captain.”

Zhou made a face as he sipped the tea, one which Sinclair hoped had nothing to do with the brew. He was quite fond of its flavor.

“You should quit calling me that, Colonel. My ship’s confiscated and property of CDF Intelligence, as I’ve been told. And it was more of an honorific, since the League stripped me of my rank, money, and honor years ago.”

“So it would seem, from your service record.” Sinclair tapped the tablet to his right. “Though given what I can read between the lines the League Navy redacted, your honor remained intact. Refusal to carry out immoral and repugnant orders speaks well of you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate the kind comments, but I take it we’re not here to commence with pleasant chitchat, this being the third day of my imprisonment and interrogation.”

“Quite right.” Sinclair tapped to another menu then turned the device so Zhou could read it. “Your request has been approved, provisionally, pending a period of incarceration and further debrief to be determined by my superiors.”

“My request.” Zhou looked flabbergasted.

“For asylum in the Terran Coalition, yes.”

Zhou read and reread the tablet. He went so long without speaking Sinclair feared the man’s tea would go cold. “I don’t believe it. It was more a desperate plea than a well-thought-out idea.”

“Nonetheless, it is one we take seriously, especially coming from a high-value asset such as yourself.”

“Ah.” Cynicism seeped back into Zhou’s expression. “Special treatment.”

“To be honest, yes, Captain, but hear me out.” Sinclair raised a hand. “The Coalition does wish for people to be free, as much as they can within lawful reason, so when someone who yearns to escape the League’s totalitarian regime requests asylum, we do everything we can to accommodate—cautiously, you see.”

“I do. But what about my politics?”

“What of them?”

“They don’t mesh with yours, for the most part.”

“You’re free to believe them. It’s perhaps the firmest cornerstone of our republic. Of course, I’m afraid you’ll be quite disappointed with our economic system—until it grows on you.”

Zhou snorted. “Don’t hold your breath.”

“I won’t.”

“What of my crew? I haven’t seen or heard anything from them.”

“And you will not—not yet.” Sinclair turned the tablet back toward himself. “Most of them chose to return to the League, which we will accomplish by having our designated vessels rendezvous with League ships in neutral space. But eight men and women decided to mimic your request for asylum.”

“Can I ask about specific crew?”

“I don’t want to say much at this time, but I think you’ll be pleased to learn a Senior Chief Francois Ancel and Lieutenant Balland—who both spoke highly of you—chose asylum. As I said, a few months down the road, we may allow contact, once you all have settled into new lives.”

“New lives.” Zhou seemed to deflate a bit at that.

“Yes. It’s imperative we protect not only your lives but your roles as intelligence assets.” Sinclair felt for the man, but the fact was he had to answer for his actions taken against the Coalition, and part of his penance would be a life—a new life, with a new name and a new history—spent providing what information he knew about his former homeland.

“Okay.” Zhou straightened in his chair. “Thank you for letting me know, Colonel.”

“My pleasure. It’s clear how you worked to stifle Operative Kiel’s plans as best you could once you realized the error involved.”

“Like I said, this spook stuff…” Zhou waved a hand. “My only regret is I couldn’t prevent more bloodshed.”

“Yes, mine as well.”

“Though, I do have another regret.” Zhou’s faint smile carried a bit of the cunning that made Sinclair understand how he’d bested CAU 171’s fleet elements. “It’s too bad I didn’t have a chance to face off with that stealth boat one more time. I’d have liked a rematch.”

Sinclair raised his mug in salute. “I have it on good authority, Captain Zhou, that your opponent wished for the very same thing.”

* * *

CDF Medical Station Avicenna

Lawrence City

Canaan System

Jackson found Abby waiting for him in the flower gardens off to the right of Avicenna’s main entrance. She scowled as she flipped through page after page on her tablet.

“Bad news?” Jackson stood in front of her. His heart pounded. No way he was going to sit. He worried his legs were too weak to allow him to stand again.

“Oh, the cost estimates for all the damage we have to fix.” She turned off the tablet and placed it on her lap. “And Father’s plans for the memorial.”

“It’s kind of him to arrange everything, since Mom had to contact the families.”

“One less burden for her to carry.” Abby looked up at him. “We are a closer-knit family now—or I hope we soon will be.”

“Listen. I’d like to come with you to a service.”

“My church? That’d be wonderful.”

“I want to learn everything I can.” Jackson feigned warding off an attack with both hands. “Not sure I want to go full catechism like Brant recommends, though.”

Abby laughed. “We’ll take it slow with the pastor, I promise.”

“Good. And, uh, speaking of promise…” He fumbled in his pockets. No, that one was empty. Where…? Aha.

“Jay.” Abby’s eyes widened. “What is this?”

“What I should have done sooner but didn’t realize it until I thought everything truly important to me would be lost.” Jackson got onto one knee.

Abby’s hands flew to her mouth.

“Abril Castillo, my love, will you do me the honor of marrying me?” Jackson held up the small, clear box with the sparkling ring inside. “And I will always share with you the true me, the man few others get to fully know.”

Abby didn’t answer with words. She flung herself against him, knocking him onto the pavement, and kissed him furiously. “Yes,” she finally gasped as their mouths broke apart.

27

The White House—Oval Office

Lawrence City

Canaan System

27 April 2466

Justin Spencer grimaced as he lowered himself into his chair. His pain was manageable, though the doctors were still glowering at him from across the city, he was sure, since they would prefer he undergo more rehabilitation. Spencer wasn’t about to take another second working virtually from either the medical center or his bedroom in the White House. He needed to be in his office, the nexus of his administration, or he would go insane.

He smiled. Besides, Michelle made it clear she’d kick me down here myself to make sure the Coalition continued working smoothly—or is it because she said I turned out to be a terrible patient?

The Oval Office was unchanged since the assassination attempt, much to Spencer’s delight. It was hard to believe that barely more than a week ago he’d thought he would be meeting his maker far sooner than he’d anticipated. He was glad, though, Eduardo had not attempted a reorganization, elsewise there would be hell to pay. The tiny pedestal bearing the Coalition flag and Canaan’s banner sat on the left side of the desk instead of the right. Spencer slid it back to its proper place.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s certainly a blessing to see you all face-to-face again.” Spencer nodded. “Even if we can’t all be here in person.”

Eduardo Fuentes and Celinda Snow smiled back from their respective spots on a couch and chair. Andrew MacIntosh, though, had to make do with sharing his expression from the holographic projector positioned at the fourth point of their diamond formation.

“This is ridiculous,” MacIntosh grumbled. “There’s not one damned reason why I couldn’t be wheeled into the Oval Office instead of beaming my face across town like I’m quarantined. The security risk, these old ears hear, has been neutralized with prejudice.”

“It’s still safer, for the moment, to keep you under guard.” Spencer gestured behind himself to his favorite garden courtyard, where Marines in body armor and a flock of armed drones patrolled. “We’re maintaining heightened security in and around government buildings—and the officials who serve in them—until we can be sure this Leaguer threat was truly shut down with the elimination of Vasiliy Kiel.”

“Doesn’t sound like there was a scrap left to pose a threat, Mr. President, given the way CAU 171 and 22 handled things.” MacIntosh sat up straighter in his hospital bed, the pride evident on his craggy features. “Have to hand it to them for shutting things down faster than an emergency bulkhead slamming into place.”

“We are grateful for their work,” Snow said. “What is vital now, however, is the maintenance of the diplomatic status quo. Hence our meeting today. I have the latest updates from our envoy at Monrovia—the League citizens from Meng Po who opted to return home have been transferred from our transport.”

“And the Leaguers are keeping things aboveboard?”

“Yes, Mr. President. Major Ghali, commanding CSV Lubbock—one of our stealth boats—has been monitoring the transaction.”

“I’m glad we were able to get them home,” Fuentes said, “though disappointed they did not request asylum like their crewmates.”

“I don’t care where they live as long as they prove not to be security risks,” MacIntosh noted. “But the reports I’ve seen are satisfactory. The interrogations, the memory sifting—not that I’m a fan of that practice. They didn’t know anything about the team members’ identities.”

“No. Neither did the officers who chose asylum.” Snow nodded, her expression firm. “Captain Zhou made that much quite clear.”

“Zhou.” Spencer shook his head. “I still can’t believe he turned that ship over to us. Not that the technology was any great win, given the more advanced state of our stealth materials, but it is still a valuable peek behind the curtain shrouding League operations.”

“And speaking of operations…” Fuentes looked over his shoulder. “I must say, even though this threat appeared on our home soil because of a personal rivalry, I cannot imagine where things would be if we did not have the covert action units in place. That much I can admit, Colonel.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vice President.” Colonel Robert Sinclair stood in the farthest, dimmest corner of the office, his hands clasped behind his back.

“I wondered where you were hiding, Colonel.” MacIntosh chuckled. “In your assessment, does the continued use of these teams outweigh the risks? Like Mr. Fuentes said, that Vasiliy madman only came here and committed his chaotic deeds because of the connection between himself and Captain Adams, as far as the psychs can determine.”

“I believe that is an accurate assessment, General, however, I believe a review of Covert Action Unit 171’s operations since its inception highlight how much worse off we would be without them.” Sinclair ticked off points on his fingers. “The Aphendrika refugee crisis could have flooded our border systems with the Orbita narcotic and destabilized the security of our civilian populations with a criminal element injected among true victims. Ardalion Noor’s willingness to sell a new technology that doubled as a weapon of mass destruction would have made ESS far more dangerous. The attempted sabotage of the PASCORE network and Trenchant’s Astrocom managing facility would have doused the lights, so to speak, along the longest stretch of our shared border with the League. And even when the threats were more indirect—the Fabian attempt to tank the economy via Galt’s money markets or our own oldest intelligence agency’s corrupt manipulation of a rebellion on League worlds—the covert action teams proved the most adaptable element we could field in response to the problems.”

“Well put, Colonel,” Spencer agreed.

“I understand all that to be true,” Fuentes added, “though I will reiterate my concern that data gathered on our own people be destroyed as soon as is operationally allowed.”

“We’re with you on that, Ed,” Spencer said. “So, for the time being, the teams should be fielded at our discretion in the manner in which we’ve used them thus far. Sound good?”

Everyone, MacIntosh’s hologram included, nodded in response.

“Outstanding.” Spencer tapped the tablet sitting before him. “Speaking of the fallout from this mess, how are repairs progressing in orbit?”

“Swiftly,” Snow answered. “The fleet yards avoided the damage suffered by military and civilian units during the attacks. Minimal casualties to report, thanks in no small part to TCFE and CDF vessels that shielded merchants from the worst of the attacks.”

“What of our satellite systems?” Fuentes asked. “The communications and weather satellite arrays were critically disrupted. We can’t allow that to happen again. You should know Peace Union is already working on a draft bill that would increase funding for their maintenance and protection, with additional staffing dedicated to ensuring they don’t collapse.”

“I’ve heard that.” Spencer frowned. “And while it seems a good idea, the price tag’s not going to sit well with other stalwarts, especially since Peace Union is keen on siphoning off what they call nonessential parts of the CDF budget.”

“This is true. I’m doing my best to make sure that by seeing how this raid affected our most vital infrastructure, they understand we need to devote increased funding to better our citizens’ lives while still keeping a wary eye on our enemies.”

MacIntosh whistled low. “Don’t look now, Mr. President, but you may have a convert.”

Spencer chuckled then winced at the pain in his side. He couldn’t make out his reflection in the glossy desktop but imagined he looked as drawn and tired as he felt. “Folks, I for one am glad we can have these arguments about funding priorities rather than focusing all our energy on our nation’s survival. This incident has been a stark reminder for everyone in the Coalition that we must remain vigilant against League threats without compromising what it means to be free Terrans. I don’t relish a return to the war days.”

“Quite right, Mr. President.” Sinclair cleared his throat. “And it should please you to learn that the League shares the latter sentiment.”

“That is what we understand through diplomatic channels.” Snow cast Sinclair a stern look.

What the two had discussed beyond Snow’s reported contact with League of Sol Defense Minister Zivon Sarkovy, Spencer didn’t know, but he suspected the colonel had a few more winning cards up his sleeve he was waiting to play at the right moment in the intelligence game.

“Anything else of interest to help us move forward with covert action units, Colonel?” Spencer inquired.

Sinclair’s mouth twisted in a suppressed smile. “I can tell you, Mr. President, that it is likely ESS will be far more subdued and cautious in its depredations for the foreseeable future.”

* * *

Paris

Europe

Earth—League of Sol

Borisov stopped just inside the vestibule to his penthouse apartment. One more step, and the motion-activated lights would slowly brighten the interior, spreading into the living room and kitchen with varying intensity, ending with the false fireplace springing to life. First, though, he would have to kill whoever was inside his home.

His hand rested on the pocket plasma pistol secreted under his jacket when something tiny and sharp pricked his neck. Borisov hissed. He slapped and found nothing except a small sore spot. A wave of vertigo swept over him. Borisov braced himself against the nearest wall.

The fireplace turned on, casting its orange flickers across the lithe feminine shape lounging at the heart of the living room. “I hope you don’t mind,” Minister Yvette Etienne said. “I let myself in.”

“You’ll be dead before you can stand.” That was what Borisov intended to say, all his cold fury burning within, but his mouth stayed part open, and no sound emerged. His muscles refused to move except for those regulating his heart, lungs, and other involuntary systems.

“Don’t bother pouring me a drink. I’ve sampled one of your favorites.” Etienne rose from the couch. Glass scraped across a nearby table. She walked toward him, carrying a bottle in one hand her drinking vessel in the other.

Her motion brought the internal lights up in reverse of what Borisov had expected. Sweat poured down his face as he struggled for control over his body, but all he could do was maintain his balance, slumped into a corner of the vestibule.

“This isn’t what I prefer to do, Dimitry. There are better ways to impart advice.” Etienne sipped from her glass. “Such as a quiet limousine ride, for example.” She slowly closed the distance.

No. I will not die like this, not after surviving who-knows-how-many attempted poisonings or shootings. Not when I have killed innumerable enemies who thought in their arrogance that they could destroy me. The problem was he could only trigger the explosive embedded in his wrist unit by pressing his right thumb and forefinger against twin contacts. His fingers twitched. Maybe the paralysis was temporary.

“Hmm. I wondered if the formula would keep you for more than a couple of minutes.” Etienne tucked the bottle under her arm and disconnected the wrist unit’s strap, slipping it off his wrist. She flung it over her shoulder and gave an exaggerated wince when it struck a far window. “Oh, good, it isn’t impact sensitive.”

Borisov tried to glare at her but could tell by the lack of response from his facial muscles that she would get only a blank stare. He wanted to shout, You will pay for this childish stunt!

“Apparently, our limousine chat did not impress on you the seriousness of this matter, so here I am, dragging myself away from what promised to be a sensual evening.” Etienne was so close he could smell the wine on her breath mingled with her faint perfume. It reminded Borisov of the summer flowers freshly watered along the commissar’s private gazebos at the state-run vineyards. “The committee is done screwing around, Dimitry. We cannot let ESS bungle operations outside our borders. Do you know why?”

Obviously, Borisov knew and was unable to answer. He couldn’t even flinch when Etienne smashed the wine bottle full force against the opposite side of the vestibule. Green glass shattered, spraying along with red liquid across not only the immaculate tile floors but Borisov’s suit and Etienne’s dress. The fouling of her attire didn’t seem to faze Etienne, whose face was more twisted by anger than Borisov had ever seen.

“Because when we left you to sort things out, that fool rogue operative was eliminated, like we asked, but somehow you let a multimillion-dollar stealth-modified freighter fall into greedy Terran fingers,” Etienne snapped. “And the crew—our citizens!—turned their backs on their homeland and their society in favor of embracing individualistic desires.” Etienne scowled. “More came home than stayed, of course, but by now, they’re wishing they hadn’t. I don’t know the precise methods of interrogation ESS employs when prisoners fall back into our hands, but I can imagine they’re intensely unpleasant.”

She slapped him hard, her hand stinging his cheek. “This mess is yours, Dimitry, you sloppy piece of shit. Why the committee continues to put any faith—and what a word that is for this situation—in your outdated methods and brute-force tactics is beyond me. This is your final warning. Keep your attack dogs leashed, or so help me, it will be you in the next interrogation session, begging for your life.”

Borisov’s left arm, the one holding him upright, began to tremble.

“Do not get too excited. I have at least ten more minutes before you can form coherent speech, let alone go for your gun.” Etienne swirled the last of her wine in its glass. “And while you’re no doubt contemplating elaborate revenge fantasies, ask yourself this—who, other than your own agency, could have gotten me inside your apartment and provided me with the delightfully subtle injection robot to dose you into impotence?”

She drained the wine. “You either have people with mixed loyalties within ESS, Dimitry, or others who fear neither you nor your dinosaurs—and are just as good.”

Borisov wanted to discount her words as an amateurish attempt at stoking his fears but failed. She had managed to break through his personal security, which was the most formidable in the entire League of Sol. Or so he’d been told.

“That was a delightful vintage.” Etienne smiled. She let the glass fall so it shattered among the remnants of the bottle. “You should restock.”

One minute after she left, and the penthouse doors relocked, the lights faded out, and the false flames in the fireplace died.

Eight minutes later, Borisov staggered into the kitchen, bringing those lights back on with full intensity. He clenched his fists. Someone would pay for their treachery, for the desecration. Whoever they were, Borisov vowed he would use ESS to weed them out of the League and burn them alive. And if they were inside his agency, he would find other far quieter methods that were much more painful.

Epilogue

Adams Ranch

Western Steppes

Canaan

29 April 2466

Jackson wiped the sweat from his forehead and suddenly sneezed. Sawdust.

“Bud’te zdorovy.” Sev set his power drill aside and drew from his coverall pockets a handkerchief that must have been a meter long, made of the reddest plaid pattern Jackson had ever seen.

“Thanks, I’m good.” Jackson sniffed. He thumbed his drill up to the higher power setting.

Sev shrugged and resumed driving home new screws.

Jackson was actually surprised Sev had heard his sneeze from three meters away, atop the roof of the Adams ranch house, because of the cacophony of construction noises that he was certain could be heard from orbit. Workers from both ranches placed walls, rewired conduits, and lay flooring while still more unloaded replacement windows from the Castillo skiffs hunkered in the main vehicle paddock.

It was starting to look more like home, but there was no ignoring the ugly scorches and craters where energy weapons and high explosives had turned the ranch house into a battleground in the middle of that foul night. Jackson’s heart constricted as his mind replayed the memorial service held shortly thereafter, right down by the front door, for the Adams and Castillo workers killed in the fighting.

Ramon Castillo waved from the upper floor of the house, visible through the gap where he’d helped take down temporary shielding. The new roof should arrive within the hour. “Jackson! You have a call on the comms.”

“Be right down.” Jackson holstered the drill. He clapped Sev on the shoulder as he walked the long beam onto which the two of them and four other ranch hands were adding joists. “Keep the rest of these kids in line for me, will you?”

Sev saluted without looking up from his work, eyes hidden behind shimmering gold sunglasses.

“Hey!” Enrique smirked from where he operated a plasma cutter at the far end. “How am I supposed to heed a guy who doesn’t speak?”

Sev, again without breaking his concentration, let go of the drill with his left hand and gave Enrique the bird.

Enrique laughed but shook his head. “Mind your manners, viejo. I’m an officer.”

That time, Sev did look his way. He grinned, repeated the gesture, but added, “Sir.”

Jackson chuckled the whole way to and down the ladder onto the floor where Ramon waited. “I don’t suppose there’s a quiet place I can take this that isn’t on your ranch.”

Ramon smiled. “Keep walking. I will tell you when the signal is clear enough, yes?”

“Thanks.” Jackson looked around at the water and fire-damaged home. He sighed. “I don’t know how I’ll forgive myself for this.”

“You cannot dwell on the chain of events that led to this tragedy,” Ramon reminded him. “What if the person you were up against was not Vasiliy Kiel? It never would have escalated to that night. Do not absolve the League of its misdeeds when there are those within our own government who share the blame for leaking classified information. As far as I’m concerned, the blood of our people is equally on their hands.”

“I know, but I could have handled things differently from the beginning.” Jackson frowned. “I was too brash, too full of my own abilities. Colonel Sinclair was right to warn me because, by the time I made amends, it was too late to avoid the fallout.”

“There’s truth to that too.” Ramon grasped him by both arms. “But look at what good has come out of this, my son. Your family saw what you were willing to do to protect them. And they also saw what the Coalition owes you for the sacrifices you’ve made. Go, take your call from your friends.”

“Friends?” Jackson grinned. “Not a top-secret communique, I take it.”

“As your pending father-in-law, I will intrude as I see fit.” Ramon winked and gave him a playful shove in the right direction.

A portable comms console sat atop one of the four picnic tables deployed for family and workers when it was time for lunch. Jackson sat and pulled off his gloves. He tapped the panel to accept the incoming call.

Two faces appeared, Brant’s and Dwyer’s.

“Hi there, Cap’n.” Dwyer was walking across a tarmac, judging by his head bobbing along. Jackson glimpsed the collar of his flight suit. “The LT wanted to have a chat, and I’ve got about five minutes before I’m up in the skies.”

“Oh? How goes the training?”

“Pfft.” Dwyer winked. “These kids they’ve got flying for Intelligence, Cap’n… I tell you. They truly need a steady, old hand like yours to show them how to bend those regs drilled into them at Basic. Can’t tell you where I’m based right now, but I can guarantee you’ll see a high-speed shuttle breaking some decidedly un-shuttle-like maneuvers over your ranch later today.”

“Looking forward to it. It’ll give us an excuse to take a break.” Jackson glanced at Brant, who was speaking to another person just outside his field of view. “And how are the upgrades coming?”

“We’re getting the kinks worked out.” Brant nodded. “We need to run about four billion updates by the time the new encryption modules get loaded aboard Oxford’s mainframes, then I have to make sure they’ll play nice with all the algorithms we’ve assembled over the past three years.”

There was a lot of “we” in that statement. After a second, Miranda Eldred’s face pressed into the frame of the holographic emitter, grinning. “Hey, Captain. Enjoying the rebuild?”

“It’s refreshing to do hard work that doesn’t involve me lying to everyone all day.”

“I bet. Nice tan, sir.”

“Thanks.” Jackson smiled.

It wasn’t hard to notice how close she’d budged up next to Brant for the call—or that Brant hadn’t moved out of the way. His embarrassment at their close proximity seemed to be wearing off.

“Anything to this call besides socializing?”

“Not a thing,” Brant said. “I wanted to see how you were doing and figured, since everyone’s pretty busy, I should be the one to make a friendly chat happen. We missed you is all.”

“I miss you guys too.” The thought that two of his friends and comrades had interrupted their schedules to check on his well-being buoyed his spirits. If only there’d been another face on the other end of the hologram.

“Look, Cap’n, tell Sev I said ‘hey,’ will you?” Dwyer slid on a pair of sunglasses. “I’ve got to get this bird off the deck soon, or they’ll reset my access codes. Oh, and the Vector trio of Twenty-Two sends their best from the cockpit.”

So, Covert Action Unit 22 was in on the training too. “Give Vector One and his people my regards—and my repeated thanks. I owe them.”

Dwyer chuckled. “Oh, they remember. Over and out, Echo One.”

His face vanished.

Brant chuckled. “We’ve got to go too. Like I said, I wanted to check in—but I did have another question.”

“Go for it.”

“Are you sure you want me to officiate? I mean, whatever denomination Abby is might do marriages differently, and I could always drum up a priest.”

“Plenty of them among the chaplains,” Eldred chimed in.

Jackson shook his head. “Not a chance, Brant. If anyone’s going to marry me, especially given how little I remember about church, it’s you. I wouldn’t trust another soul in the galaxy more to stick to his faith and show me the way.”

“Oh. Okay.” Brant’s face reddened. “That means a lot, Jack.”

“It’s the truth.” And it was what he’d wanted for a long time. Given everything that had transpired, what he’d almost lost, nothing would change his mind.

“I’d better review the proper rites,” Brant murmured, his expression suddenly intent. “I know a guy who performed one last year…”

Eldred chuckled. “We’d better get back to our digital heavy lifting, Lieutenant. Captain, it’s good to see you doing well.”

“Thanks, Warrant.”

“I’ll let you know if there’s any news you’re not otherwise getting,” Brant promised.

“Don’t worry. I don’t mind missing out.”

They ended their call. Jackson leaned his elbows on the table, giving himself a moment to take in the scenery around him. It was shaping up to be a bright day, once the last of the clouds cleared off.

“Look at this guy.” Harry strode up with Abby alongside him. “Can you believe it? Turn our backs for five seconds, and he’s lounging.”

“It was more like half an hour, but I agree, what a slacker.” Abby leaned down and kissed him. “Hungry? I’m going to take Samantha and run back to our house. Mama has lunch nearly ready.”

“You bet I am.” Jackson drew her down so she sat on his lap. “Did I mention that I love you?”

“Probably, but it’s nice hearing it again.”

“Brant confirmed he’ll do the ceremony.”

“Great!” Abby patted his head. “That’s one out of the last twenty things on your list.”

“Ugh.” Jackson made a face of exaggerated frustration. “Can’t we trade lists?”

“Oh, you don’t want mine. It has fifty things.” She batted his chin with her riding gloves. “My skimmer awaits.”

“As does lunch. Thanks for getting it.”

“Anything to get out of construction work for the next forty-five minutes.” Abby winked and hopped off his lap, jogging away with sudden speed.

Harry shook his head. “Was she this much of a handful when we were kids?”

“More so.” Jackson shielded his eyes from the sun so he could take in the house. “It’s looking good.”

“Sure is. Windows will be ready after lunch.” Harry smiled. “You know, Jack, I gotta say—I was wrong.”

“Talk about miracles.” Jack tilted his head. “About what, specifically?”

“About you running off to seek glory instead of doing the Coalition’s dirty work.” Harry gestured at the ongoing repairs. “This is hard. But so is what you do. I guess I’m saying I should have appreciated how tricky it was—and is—for you to get both done.”

“And I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t give you enough credit for running this place with Mom in Dad’s stead.” Jackson stood and held out his hand. “He’d be proud of you, Harry. I know I am.”

Harry glanced at Jackson’s hand and snickered. “Are you kidding? We’re not signing a new contract. C’mere.”

He wrapped Jackson in a bear hug that jolted a laugh out of his lungs until Jackson thought he wouldn’t be able to breathe anymore.

“I’ll do my best to keep up with the ranch once I’m back on duty,” Jackson said. “But I won’t pretend it’ll be easy.”

“Don’t stress, okay? With the Castillos lending their hands, we’ll make it work, especially with our tech know-how to bring their stuff back online when it breaks.” Harry grinned. “Do me a favor, though—the next time someone decides they want to kill you, give me more advanced warning. They should know better than to mess with my brother.”

Jackson laughed. “You bet I will.”

“I’m going to check in with the window crew. Oh, yeah…” Harry dug a small sealed pouch from his pocket. “Came for you with the courier drone from Port Nomad.”

“Thanks.” Jackson turned it over in his hands, wondering at the shipping code. Freedom Station? “See you for lunch.”

He waited until Harry was gone before he opened it. It had no note, no written explanation. Jackson tipped the envelope. A coaster slid out emblazoned with the red letters “Nakatomi’s” atop a silver building shining on a black circle. It even smelled like the place, Jackson realized. His memories rewound to a clandestine meeting with CBI Agent Josie Lind. He turned the coaster over and burst out laughing.

Gina and her dad waved up at him, their frozen grins captured in a flash-printed image on the back side. Jackson couldn’t be sure, but the third face in the background, among a sea of other bargoers, might have belonged to CDF Intelligence operative Cam Tahatan.

“I knew she wouldn’t forget a souvenir,” Jackson said through chuckles.

He squeezed the envelope. Something else? A hard tap dislodged a torn page from what looked like an old encyclopedia entry about the League of Sol’s southern border worlds. Red ink circled the name Nandao Star System.

Jackson noticed Gina was sticking out her tongue in her photo. “Well, shit,” he murmured, still amused by the gift.

His commlink buzzed. That time, the sender gave no identification. Jackson had a feeling the code was false too. “Jackson here.”

“Good day, Mr. Adams.” The proper British accent could only belong to Colonel Sinclair. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

“We’re about to break for lunch. How can I help you?”

“I do believe a matter arising in the far corners of neutral space warrants our attention. Could be nothing, of course, but I was hoping the two of us could meet in three weeks for a brief discussion.”

“I don’t see why not, as long as it’s not May third—or the week after, if you catch my drift.”

“Ah yes, the nuptials. I have the invitation right here.”

“Otherwise, we can make it work.”

“Splendid. There’s no rush, you see, as I would rather have all my ducks in a row—all five of them, as it would happen. If of course, you think you’re up to the challenge.”

Jackson met Gina’s frozen, impish gaze on the back of the coaster then glanced up to the top of the house, where he knew Sev was still hard at work.

“We always are,” Jackson answered. “That will never change.”

THE END

Breach of Faith: Book 1 - Breach of Peace:

Amid the Terran Coalition / League of Sol war, the crew of the Shadow Wolf work the space lanes, making a living as cargo haulers. When Captain James Henry accepts a job to rescue a covert CDF operative, everything is on the line as he tries to protect his crew and complete the job.

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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