Deadland Protector
Author: J. N. Chaney; Ell Leigh Clarke
Date: 2020-10-04 07:00:00+00:00
Description: With the Hand dead and the Ring mostly dismantled, Burner's team turn their attention to loose ends. The thing about loose ends is if you tug at them there is always a chance that you'll pull something else loose. And sometimes that thing is much bigger than anything you are equipped to deal with. Against a background of clandestine operations it soon becomes apparent that the Hand's operation is being supported by someone within the government and a second powerful person within the Union. Tracking the scent of corruption the team discover that the key players already know who they are and ar
Publisher: Variant Publications

Copyrighted Material

Deadland Protector Copyright © 2020 by Variant Publications

Book design and layout copyright © 2020 by JN Chaney

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from JN Chaney.

www.jnchaney.com

https://www.ellleighclarke.com

1st Edition

Book Description

Deadland Protector

Deadland Drifter #4

With the Hand dead and the Ring mostly dismantled, Burner's team turn their attention to loose ends.

The thing about loose ends is if you tug at them there is always a chance that you'll pull something else loose. And sometimes that thing is much bigger than anything you are equipped to deal with.

Against a background of clandestine operations it soon becomes apparent that the Hand's operation is being supported by someone within the government and a second powerful person within the Union.

Tracking the scent of corruption the team discover that the key players already know who they are and are coming for them. It's a case of strike or be taken out.

But taking out high ranking officials is generally frowned on in Union space. Their actions will come at a cost: Burner and his team will become fugitives. If they escape with their lives.

Either way, their life on Dobulla is essentially over.

Books in the Renegade Star Universe

Renegade Star Series:

Renegade Star

Renegade Atlas

Renegade Moon

Renegade Lost

Renegade Fleet

Renegade Earth

Renegade Dawn

Renegade Children

Renegade Union

Renegade Empire

Renegade Descent

Renegade Rising

Renegade Alliance

Renegade Evolution

Renegade War

Renegade Peace

Standalones:

Nameless

The Constable

The Constable Returns

The Warrior Queen

The Orion Colony Series with Jonathan Yanez:

Orion Colony

Orion Uncharted

Orion Awakened

Orion Protected

The Last Reaper Series with Scott Moon:

The Last Reaper

Fear the Reaper

Blade of the Reaper

Wings of the Reaper

Flight of the Reaper

Wrath of the Reaper

Will of the Reaper

Descent of the Reaper

Hunt of the Reaper

Bastion of the Reaper

The Fifth Column Series with Molly Lerma:

The Fifth Column

The Solaras Initiative

The Forlorn Hope

Final Battlefield (Coming soon!)

Resonant Son Series with Christopher Hopper:

Resonant Son

Resonant Abyss

The Galactic Law Series with James S. Aaron:

Galactic Law

Galactic Judge

Galactic Jury

Galactic Executioner

Deadland Drifter Series with Ell Leigh Clarke:

Deadland Drifter

Deadland Wanderer

Deadland Sentinel

Deadland Protector

Contents

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Renegade Star Universe

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About The Authors

Join the conversation and get updates on new and upcoming releases in the Facebook group called “JN Chaney’s Renegade Readers.” This is a hotspot where readers come together and share their lives and interests, discuss the series, and speak directly to J.N. Chaney and his co-authors.

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1

Carcetti Correctional Institute, Colony Delta-457, Nimrod Sector, Deadlands

Taking a tour of a high-security prison wasn’t exactly Burner’s idea of a fun weekend, but sometimes the job comes first.

Carcetti Correctional Institute. Burner’s lips twisted at the large letters peeling over the entrance gate. It was a softer name than the place deserved, all things considered. Certainly more clean and professional than “Maximum Security Space Prison”—which, of course, was what this really was. Carcetti was a satellite revolving through space, accessible only via drop ship. From afar, it looked like a giant chunk of gray stone, and up close it wasn’t much different. It was a big, brutalist structure that had high walls tipped with razor wire, spotlights and guard towers with pacing COs who sported latest-model rifles. This place held the hardest of criminals: the murderers, the rapists, the robbers…and, with them, a former Union turncoat: a computer hacker codenamed Stack.

Burner waited on the intake line, which was surprisingly busy considering how remote the prison was. Wives and mothers waited to be checked in and were searched for contraband before finally being allowed to see their loved ones through six inches of bulletproof Plexiglas. Burner went through the process using his old ID in order to be allowed to carry his datapad with him, explaining to the guard doing searches that it was pre-authorized and necessary for his investigation. There was a brief moment where he wondered if it was going to be confiscated, but after a few seconds of consideration the guard waved him through with it. Burner relaxed.

Shaking his head, Burner turned his attention to the other visitors going through the same process. He noted some of them were clearly here for the first time. It was written on their faces. They were intimidated by the stoic guards, the clubs and rifles they carried, and the stark hopelessness of their surroundings. The old hands who had clearly been coming here for years were less anxious, but the tired tension was etched into the tightness of their jaws. Prison took its toll on everyone, it seemed. Not just the guards and the inmates, but the families that were left on the outside.

Finally, the line moved forward, interrupting his thoughts. Burner stepped up to the intake desk. He handed the clerk his ID and she looked it over, studying him. Burner would have liked to have had his weapon with him, but since he didn’t he decided he would act as though he did; power is a posture, after all. Smile as though you have a gun in your pocket and you rarely actually need it to be there. The clerk pushed his ID back to him with a special brand of bored severity that had clearly taken years of moderate-to-low job satisfaction to master.

“Here to see?”

“Roberts. Carter Roberts.” Burner watched her polished nails enter the information with bored efficiency. “I’ve requested an interview room.”

The clerk checked on her holoscreen and confirmed this. She looked back at him, offering about as much personality as a doorknob.

“Okay, Mr. Burner, you’re going to follow my colleague Rochelle through the prison. She’ll take you to the interviewing room. She’s going to wait outside while you conduct your interview. If you run into trouble, you can shout. But there’s no guarantee we’ll be able to help you, especially if it’s going to put the life of one of our COs in jeopardy.”

“Good to know.” Burner snapped his ID shut and slid it into an inner pocket of his jacket. “The guy was a computer hacker, not a mass murderer.”

“Do not deviate from the path. Do not lose sight of Rochelle. Do not go near the bars. Do not take anything from or give anything to the prisoners. Do not speak to them, and do not respond if they try and speak to you. Understand?”

Burner nodded and turned to find Rochelle.

“Mr. Burner, over here!”

Another guard was waving him toward her. She was pretty, with tanned skin, high cheekbones, and (less attractively) a crisp gray CO uniform. A dark stun baton hung off her belt. She flashed him a row of white teeth.

“I’m Rochelle,” she told him, nodding slightly. “I know I might not look like much, but the inmates have learned not to mess with me. Just stay close behind me, and everything will be fine.”

Burner nodded deferentially. Surveying the petite woman, he couldn’t see how she possibly managed to survive in an environment like this. But as soon as they started walking, he saw a different picture. They started through the main cell block, where prisoners were sitting at tables playing cards, gathered around dice, or just lounging about. Their eyes followed him as he passed, with Rochelle leading the way. Burner kept his gaze straight ahead, ignoring them.

Like there’s a gun in your pocket.

The tables were mostly separated by race, different gangs that had formed for protection and power.

“Hey Rochelle!” yelled one of the prisoners. “How you doing, Mami? I missed you!”

The prisoner grinned at her. Rochelle ignored him. Burner figured they likely assumed he was some kind of cop, since he definitely didn’t look like a lawyer. That probably increased his chances of trouble. Cops weren’t particularly popular in prison; some lifer could try to shank him for gang cred. But Burner stayed acutely aware of his surroundings, and he noticed Rochelle always had one hand around her baton. The way she touched it made him think she wouldn’t hesitate to use it. His suspicions were reinforced when a pair of prisoners wheeling in a cart full of linens quickly moved aside to make way for them, nodding politely at Rochelle as she passed.

Rochelle led him further into the facility, past a row of cellblocks where prisoners stood behind the bars, watching as he went. The cells were tiny—two or three men crammed into spaces the size of Burner’s bathroom. The men were of all shapes and sizes, all colors and creeds. There was no telling who would become a criminal. Burner thought back to the Hand, the sinister mastermind pulling the strings behind one of the biggest human trafficking rings Burner had ever witnessed. Nobody would have pegged him for a criminal, and that was why he was so effective. He looked like just any other bureaucrat. Burner remembered when the two of them had faced off in the desert, the bastard kidnapping Margarita. And, in the end, a stupid bastard, Burner thought. He cast his mind back to the information the Hand had, in his arrogance, let slip.

“You remember Cypher,” the Hand had said. “I was the one who tipped him that you’d be a good candidate for the assassination...”

His empire crumbling around him, the Hand had been desperate to convince himself he was still in control. From there, it hadn’t taken much to complete his downfall. Just a motorbike, poor driving skills, and uneven terrain. Power-crazy and relentless, the Hand had been convinced he was the one who was going to take out Burner.

But it happened in the opposite way. Burner had taken out Cypher, and Hardy, and the Hand. Now he was about to sit down with Stack, who had been lucky to survive thus far. He might be in a high-security prison, but at least he had a slim shot of getting out one day. And he was at least alive, albeit locked up for the next few decades. The others—well, they weren’t coming back.

“The interview rooms are just up ahead,” Rochelle told him as they passed through the cell blocks and dipped lower into a long underground tunnel. “The prisoner should already be in there waiting for you. He’ll be restrained but don’t get too close. No touching, remember. I’ll be waiting outside if you need me.”

Burner nodded. Stack was a computer guy and ordinarily Burner was pretty confident he could take him in a fight. Hell, he could probably take three of him. But this prison was a cesspit of pretty dangerous scum. It wouldn’t be too hard for Stack to get his hands on some kind of weapon here. Burner would stay vigilant.

Rochelle led him through a side door to a small interrogation room. Stack was already inside, wrapped in chains. As Rochelle closed the door, Burner sat down at the table across from him. The prisoner could move his arms in a limited kind of circle, but his legs were tightly shackled. Stack had been on the inside for a few years now, and it didn’t look like prison had been treating him too kindly. He’d shaved his head, and his arms had a lot more muscle than Burner remembered. He was definitely getting his prison workout in every day. But his face had a sunken, dead look, and there were visible scars and bruises all over his body. However muscular the man’s physique, slow mental torture was etched into the shadows under his eyes. There were no datapads in maximum security prison, no gal-net, no codes to crack. For a tech guy like Stack, it must have been awful. It would be like Burner being locked up in a place without coffee. He shuddered at the thought.

Stack studied Burner with his caved-in eyes. His expression was so vacant that for a moment Burner thought maybe Stack had forgotten who he was. But then his mouth twitched into what was clearly supposed to be an arrogant smile.

Then he spoke. “Bur-ner.”

Burner adopted a brisk tone. “Glad to see you’re doing well for yourself. You look good. Fit. You know, except for all the scars and bruises.”

He let his gaze linger on an abrasion under Stack’s left eye. Make him feel vulnerable. Stack twitched very slightly, then sneered.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“I don’t know.” Burner rubbed his chin, as though he was actively considering it. “You’re still alive, so that’s something.”

Stack’s lips were a thin line. “Is it.” It wasn’t a question. “This isn’t living.”

Burner leaned back.

“Why’d you agree to meet with me?” He kept his eyes on Stack’s face. “I can’t imagine it’s out of the goodness of your heart.”

“There’s talk I might get my sentence reduced if I help you.” There was a kind of hunger in Stack’s tone. His right hand went to his left arm and picked restlessly at a scab, and the chain rubbed against the table. He looked into Burner’s face and tried to look nonchalant, but his fingers betrayed him. “Probably a long shot, but I might as well take whatever chance I can to get out of this shithole.”

“You’re not worried about the other prisoners finding out that you’re a snitch?”

Stack shrugged. The scab was peeling back, and the skin below was wet and red. “They tend to keep us separated anyway, for the most part.” He pressed his finger onto the raw skin. “I’d be in here another twenty years, otherwise.”

Burner glanced around. The interrogation room was a grim concrete box, much like the rest of the prison. Twenty years. He didn’t blame Stack for wanting to leave early. As pressure points went, this was a damn good one.

He smiled at the prisoner. “Well, let’s see if we can do something about that sentence.” He glanced at Stack’s arm. “That’s got to hurt.”

Stack didn’t reply. He picked further so that small beads of blood rose and glistened. He was intelligent enough to know when his weakness was being exposed—though perhaps not intelligent enough to protect himself from it.

“I’ve got some questions about an old friend of ours,” Burner started.

Stack’s head raised slightly as understanding dawned on him. “Let me guess. Cypher.”

Burner smiled coldly.

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s always something about that asshole. Even when he’s dead.”

Burner nodded slowly, as though digesting this as important. It wasn’t important. But Stack would tell him more if he felt he was being listened to for the first time in years. After a moment, he spoke again. “I need some information about who from inside the Union was feeding Cypher intel. Aside from you, obviously. We know there were other sources.”

Stack leaned back in his seat. “Cypher knew a lot of people,” he retorted. “He also knew a lot of information that he didn’t tell me. Had sources that I didn’t have access to.”

“Come on, Stack, you know you need to do better than that. What kind of sources? Who were they?”

Stack was rubbing at his arm with his finger. Salt from his skin must be stinging his open scab. He kept his voice quiet and steady while looking into Burner’s face as if asking to be believed. He shrugged awkwardly. “I don’t know. He kept it close to the vest. I could never get their names from him.”

Burner sighed and met Stack’s eyes. “That is a shame. No help whatsoever. Oh well. What about funding? Where did that come from.”

Stack’s knuckles were whitening. Burner noticed. Good.

Stack shrugged again like an adolescent in a tough spot. “I don’t know. I just said, he wouldn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t overhear anything? Maybe catch a name you didn’t understand? You’re a clever guy, Stack, surely there was something.” Burner’s voice was smooth. The more sympathy, the more understanding he could pile on, the more Stack’s knuckles tensed. Burner could tell he wanted freedom—his every muscle was screaming for it. And here was Burner telling him he wanted to give that to him, coaxing him toward that prize as though he were a valuable person and not a walking heap of bruises who showered with forty other criminals once a week.

Stack twisted in his seat, still trying to pretend he was unaffected by the conversation. “I can only tell you what I know. The funding wasn’t my business. I never asked about that kind of stuff. It was better not to ask questions. And in case you didn’t realize, Cypher was super paranoid. He was never going to tell me, no matter how hard I pressed.”

“That’s too bad.” Burner tapped on his datapad. Stack should see that uncooperativeness went on record. “Anything else you can tell me about Cypher? Something I don’t already know?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Cypher’s dead meat. Who cares what he was up to?”

Not much info here, then.

“I do. There’s…unfinished business, shall we say. I thought maybe you could be of use to me. But it doesn’t seem like you know anything we haven’t already dug up on the guy.”

Stack shrugged again. It was a pitiful show of nonchalance.

Burner leaned back, his tone more offhand now, mirroring his opponent. “Your call, Stack. You know how this works. You help me with information…”

Stack tried to hide a wince that flickered across his face. He knew exactly how things worked in here. There were hierarchies. And ways of getting to a man. Ways of making his life difficult. Miserable. Burner didn’t need to spell that out. Nor did he need to make an overt threat, so that wasn’t the tack he took. It almost felt as though he were offering him the potential for something positive, rather than a threat of being beaten up in the showers. Stack mulled his options. It certainly wouldn’t hurt an inmate to cooperate with an investigator, former or otherwise. Having someone like Burner owe him a favor might one day mean the difference between getting by and…well, hell.

Burner crossed one leg over the other as he adjusted his jacket. “There’s nothing else you can tell me about him? His team? Who they knew, other names on a list?”

Stack shook his head with a jerk. “It wasn’t my department. Ask me about computers, tech stuff, I could talk to you all day. Ask me anything like that. I just wasn’t involved in money and sources.”

Burner scribbled on his datapad again, giving Stack some time to reconsider. Stack was intelligent. He didn’t need probing questions to know what information would or wouldn’t be valuable. If he wasn’t talking, either he didn’t know anything, or he wasn’t scared enough. Or something else scared him more.

Burner nodded quietly for a moment, then closed up his datapad. “I guess that’s it then.” He pushed his chair back. “If you can’t tell me more about Cypher, then you’re not much help.”

Stack’s eyes darted toward him with something like desperation. “Isn’t there something else I can talk to you about?”

It was almost a plea.

Stack continued. “I know about a lot of other crimes, believe me. I can give you leads on any number of guys. Or if you want to know the processes we used to hack into certain places... I could tell you all about that. Ask me something else.”

Burner didn’t doubt Stack could tell him about other criminals, but he wasn’t interested in them—especially not Stack’s highly embellished version. And the guy could tell him all about his hacking procedures, but Burner wasn’t going to understand much of it. No, it was only Cypher that concerned him, and on that score Stack had been a waste of time.

He stood up. “Sorry, Stack. Maybe some other time.”

“Yeah, thanks a lot. You prick. Why don’t you get bent. You’re only looking out for yourself.” Stack yanked against his chains and spat at Burner.

Burner banged on the door and called for Rochelle, who brought in another guard to escort Stack back to his cell. He deliberately avoided looking back at the inmate as he left, reinforcing his feelings of insignificance. This was groundwork he could build on, if he ever got another chance.

He and Rochelle then did the reverse trip, back up through the prison. They passed the prisoners, who were hooting and hollering, yelling things at Rochelle and banging against the cell doors. It was like walking through a zoo, the animals smart and cunning and desperate to get out. Or to get a reaction. Burner avoided looking at them.

When they arrived back at the foyer, Burner thanked Rochelle for her help, signed out, and headed back toward the drop ship that would transport him off the prison.

As he was walking through the main hallway that led from the prison to the small space station, he called Judy Petersen on his comm.

She answered a few moments later, her voice high and hopeful. “Hey, Burner. What’d you get?”

“Not much. Sounds like Cypher wasn’t his only source of intel. He couldn’t tell me anything about how they were funding themselves. There’s got to be another link we need to find before we can sleep easy on this.”

He could hear dissatisfaction in her tone. “Crap. I would have thought Stack might have had something useful. Especially if he was angling on leveraging it for an early release.”

“Yeah. I get the sense that his sense of self-preservation is preventing him from talking. For now at least. What we know for sure is that there’s someone out there who knew all about the operation. And about us. What we’re both doing. And that hasn’t changed just because Stack is locked up. Just because we foiled these other plans. We need to find them before they find us. Before they decide that we’re a liability and try to take us out.”

Judy’s voice came back. “Okay. Get back to base and we’ll plan our next move.”

Burner grunted his agreement and hung up the comm. Ahead, the shuttle that would take him back sat waiting. As he approached, the door of the shuttle swung open and he walked on board without a backward glance.

2

West Grantham Avenue, Goya District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Josh peered through the viewfinder, calmly snapping picture after picture of the two figures in the frame. They were naked and had spent the last ninety minutes rolling around in an impressively imaginative array of positions. He clicked away, using his zoom lens to get clear pictures of the man and woman’s faces, even though they were having their tryst in an apartment in a different building across the street.

It didn’t occur to him to feel uncomfortable about spying on the nude couple. Watching without being seen was less a professional skill to him than a lifestyle. He didn’t much care about the strange intimacies of his targets; he would just take the pictures and get paid. It was the best job out there for someone who hated human interaction.

He normally worked online, though. It wasn’t hard to hack into holocams and get images, snatch dirty comms, and record illicit conversations—and he could do that without having to leave his flat. No, this particular job had been harder than most. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but Drake was a good employer and it was worth a bit of trouble to keep up the steady stream of hacking work he provided. Breaking and entering was tough—even for someone like Josh, who naturally attracted no attention. He’d had to pry open the backdoor to the office block, climb the fire stairs, and find a good spot from inside an empty meeting room, one that would give him a decent view of the apartment across the way. He’d been able to pull it off thanks to a back door that had been propped open, but he knew that if any security wandered by and found him, he’d be in big trouble.

At this point he’d gathered plenty of good shots. He was hoping they’d start to wrap it up soon, but it seemed the old guy had surprising stamina for someone his age. Fortunately, the affair finally started winding down. The prostitute slinked into the shower room to clean up, and the old guy, wiping sweat off his face, began to gather his clothes. He got back into his suit hastily, yanking the knot of his tie a bit too tight. The photographer made sure to get some good close-ups of his face before the man finally turned around and walked out the door. The woman then reentered, loosely wrapped in a towel, and lingered for a bit, pulling on clothes and counting her money on the nightstand.

Josh tucked his camera into its case and hit his comm.

“Boss?” He paused for a response. “Got it. Senator and prostitute. Shades up the whole time, so plenty of good shots.”

A pause from the other end of the line. Finally, Drake responded. “Good job. You got close-ups of his face? And…everything else?”

“I’m shooting from across the way here, but the pictures are pretty clear. This Capulet guy puts on quite a show—didn’t seem to mind that anyone could see him.”

He heard Drake snort. “Maybe he gets off on that kind of thing.”

Josh didn’t respond. This really wasn’t his area of expertise.

After a moment’s pause, Drake spoke again. “Okay. Perfect. Send me those pictures as soon as you can, and I’ll get your payment sent out to you.”

“Will do. So what’s the deal with these photos, anyway? Blackmailing the senator?”

“Oh, nothing that would concern you. Just…insurance, let’s say.”

Josh got up and stretched his stiff legs. “It’ll work for insurance. Felt like I was shooting Karma Sutra: The Movie tonight. I’ll get those pics over to you. Gotta break out of a building now.”

He ended the call. With his equipment packed away, he headed out through a fire door and took the stairs down to the parking lot. The trip out of the building wasn’t nearly as stressful as the way in. If he encountered anybody, he could just say he was an employee working late. But he didn’t have to worry. The place was deserted, and he didn’t run across anyone until he was out the door, back onto the street.

* * *

EAST MAIN STREET, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA U8X, UNION SPACE

Carla stood in the street, tapping one-handed on her datapad. She had been fielding a constant stream of instructions: Be sure to make the meeting look casual. Don’t probe too much at the beginning—build up to it. Flirt like he’s testosterone incarnate.

The rest of the group was acting like she hadn’t done this kind of thing a hundred times before. This task was second nature to her, and the insinuation that they thought she needed input from them was hugely irritating.

I read the file, she typed back. Go find an intern if you need to micromanage; I know what I’m doing.

They needed to remember who they were working with. She was a professional, not some wide-eyed naïf who had just signed up for an acting job. Sighing, she turned off the datapad and began walking down the street. She checked her hair and makeup in a shop window. To the casual observer, she would seem like a cute young girl, walking with a spring in her step. And that was just the way she wanted it.

A few blocks ahead, as she’d expected, she spotted her target. His hands were in his jacket pockets, his pace steady. His gait was confident and controlled. He didn’t seem to be in any kind of rush to get where he was going. The street was fairly crowded with people, mostly businessmen and kids who had finished for the day. She slipped among them, about twenty meters behind the man she was following, watching the back of his head as he walked. The guy was tall making it easy to track him in the crowd. He turned to cross the street. She waited a minute and crossed as well. Tailing a man in the middle of the day was a breeze. In conditions like this, she was confident could follow him for hours if she needed to.

The target kept heading down the street, although he had quickened his pace somewhat. Carla stayed close behind him. Soon, she was going to overtake him. She would be smart. She wouldn’t grab him off the street and start asking him questions, of course—he’d think she was crazy, or trying to sell him something. And this relationship had to start off on the right foot. She needed to come up with some kind of plan that would get them talking to each other but also wouldn’t seem like she was targeting him.

She threaded through the crowd, keeping an eye on him, trying to get nearer. Over the course of several minutes, she inched closer so that she was right behind him. She kept going, walking further on a few paces until they were all waiting together for the traffic light to change. She slipped in front of the target, making sure he had a good view of her back. Then Carla once again took out her datapad. She looked down and laughed at something on the screen. Cars continued to speed by in the street just ahead of her as she kept her head down, pretending to stare at the screen of her datapad, oblivious. Just as a large truck was rumbling through the intersection, she stepped off the curb, directly into its path.

3

East Main Street, Goya District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

A hand came down hard on her shoulder and yanked her backward a second or two before the truck would have flattened her into the asphalt. She’d figured the target would have excellent reflexes. Death by truck hadn’t been on her agenda, and she’d left herself a few moments to dodge if necessary. But it had been a close call—closer than she would have liked. She hoped that the whole thing gave their encounter an element of authenticity. She whirled around, breathless, just in time to see Burner’s coffee go tumbling out of his other hand as he stared at her.

The urgency in his eyes quickly settled into a sterner, more piercing expression. “Lady, you just walked right in front of that thing!” He looked her up and down, paused as though offering her a chance to explain why she had done something so dangerous, then shook his head. “You’d better keep your eyes off your datapad and on the road in the future.”

Carla’s blue eyes flitted nervously to his hard gaze, making brief contact. The move was filed in her flirting arsenal under Abashed and Moderately Stupid.

“I’m so sorry!” She brushed his jacket as if trying to wipe some coffee off the sleeve—he’d spilled a lot on himself during the theatrics. “I was totally absorbed. I didn’t even see it coming.” She looked earnestly into his face. “I can’t thank you enough. If you hadn’t…” She looked to the road, trailing off as she thought about the gruesome death he almost certainly had not saved her from.

His tone softened, clearly with some reluctance. “Don’t mention it. Just watch where you’re going.”

Carla touched his sleeve again. “No, it’s not alright. Look, you spilled your coffee all over yourself. And it’s all my fault for being such a ditz. Let me buy you another one. As thanks for your heroics.”

Burner scratched the side of his face. “That’s really not necessary.”

“Please?” She smiled winningly. “You saved my life here. It’s the least I can do.”

He hesitated. Carla dropped eye contact and looked down at the road. Shy and Forlorn.

“Okay, sure. Why not? I guess I’m not in a rush.”

“Great!” She took him softly by the elbow and steered him toward the nearest coffee shop. “I’m Carla, by the way.”

“Jack Burner,” he replied. “Call me Burner.”

“Burner. I like that name. Sounds…tough.”

Burner glanced sideways at her, his lips twitching into a token, absent-minded smile while his eyes scanned her with curiosity.

Inside the coffee shop, the afternoon rush had died down and there wasn’t much of a line to be served. Carla was careful to ask Burner what he wanted, though she knew what he’d spilled on the pavement earlier and could tell from the way he’d been gulping that strong stuff that he drank it habitually. Better not to look too intelligent. People find it intimidating and immediately put their guard up. Together they ordered his black coffee and her mocha, then she led him to a table where they sat down across from each other.

She took the opportunity to size him up face to face. He was definitely the cautious type, eyes darting around his environment, scanning for potential threats. He was probably used to this sort of thing, like not sitting with your back to the door, making sure everyone in the shop looked like someone who was supposed to be there. She sipped her coffee, trying to figure out a way to put his mind at ease.

“Thanks again,” she started. “I would have been toast if that truck hit me.”

“You would have had a moment or two to get out of the way. If you were paying attention.”

Carla gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. “Those screens, you know? Sometimes you get so lost in them.” She moved her mocha to one side so she could lean forward, resting her elbows on the table. “So what are you up to on this nice sunny day, Mr. Burner? Besides pulling girls out of the way of speeding trucks?” She grinned again at him.

“Trying to unwind, actually.” Burner took a long drink from his coffee.

She looked at him expectantly. He hesitated, then decided to risk a few details. “I just came from a prison. High security place—worst of the worst, human dumping ground. Tense environment, you know. So I was just walking around, organizing my thoughts.”

“Prison? Wow, that must be pretty intense. Visiting someone?”

“No, not exactly. It was for a work thing. I had to interview a prisoner there.”

His eyes still swept through the coffee shop periodically, darting up to watch as new customers entered. Carla had to work hard to get him to look at her. How was she meant to flirt if he refused to make eye contact?

“Oh, neat! So you’re like a cop then?”

Burner paused, tilting his head a fraction and studying his companion for a moment. “I used to be. Not anymore. Now I’m…more of a freelancer.”

Carla rested her chin in her left palm. Burner was finally looking at her. “Must have been scary, talking to a criminal face to face. Was it like you’re talking to me right now? Were you as close as we are?” She smiled, and Burner’s hand hesitated on its way to raising his cup for another sip.

“Yeah, we were about as close as the two of us are now. But that wasn’t too bad. The worst part was walking through the prison, getting sized up by all the inmates.”

“I see.” She gave him space to keep talking. Since she had his attention, she had to assume that he was assessing her now. Sizing her up. Considering who she was and why she was interested in him. She had to be extra careful not to arouse any suspicion through her questions.

“But being in prison is intense,” he continued. “The inmates are screaming, the guards are screaming, you have to watch your back constantly. I wanted to unwind. My team isn’t as experienced as I am. I don’t want to carry it back to the office with me.”

Carla tilted her head so her smile became gently sympathetic. “You’re very thoughtful. What kind of team is it? Are they cops or…freelancers, also?”

Burner was about to answer, then he seemed to change his mind. He looked at her with an odd expression, as though he was considering what to say next. He rubbed his chin and finally opened his mouth. “Let me ask you a question.” Burner sat up a little straighter in his chair. “If you don’t mind.”

She tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear, as if flattered. “Of course. Ask me anything.” She took a sip of coffee, looking at him as she did.

“Is this your first time?”

Carla blinked. “My first time… My first time doing what?”

“Running an operation like this. Pretending to run into me by coincidence.”

Her hands tensed around the mug. It was burning her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, I think you do. I saw you glance both ways just before you stepped into the street. Force of habit, I guess, but hard to break. So you would have known that you had about two seconds before the truck would have hit you. Which would have been plenty of time to get yourself out of harm’s way if I hadn’t yanked you back. Obviously this was orchestrated; what’s not obvious is why.”

Her laugh was a few tones too high. “Orchestrated? I’m just a klutz. I was on my datapad the whole time.”

Burner held her gaze. “Yes, I realize that’s what you wanted me to think. I guess I was mistaken.”

She visibly relaxed.

Burner continued. “It obviously isn’t your first time. You did a pretty good job, all things considered. In fact, I might have bought the truck thing in spite of the fact you clearly saw it coming. But a girl obsessing over her datapad to the point where she walks into traffic doesn’t suddenly put it away to talk to some stranger, even if he did save her from imminent death. At least, not any tech-obsessed girl that I’ve ever known. No, a girl like that, she thanks him, shakes herself off, and keeps going. So”—he leaned back with a set expression—“tell me who you are and what you’re doing here, or your carefully engineered meet-cute will be over a lot faster than you planned.”

Carla looked at him, her lips tightening. It didn’t seem like another radiant smile was going to work this time. She could make something up. She could shoot out cover stories like a machine gun, but her gut told her that wasn’t going to work either. Not on this guy.

She nodded, acknowledging checkmate. “They told me you were careful. I guess they were right. You’re good, Burner. You’re very good.”

Burner raised his eyebrows a fraction but didn’t say anything.

“I’m a member of an organization.” She spoke as if reading off an autocue; she’d given this explanation before. “We don’t have an official name, although we tend to call ourselves the Collective. We’re a group of computer hackers united in our mission to take down corruption where we find it. I was selected to liaise with you.”

“I see.”

“My name really is Carla. Carla Clark. But I wanted to get your measure before giving you the whole spiel.”

Burner leaned back, still holding her gaze but his breathing more relaxed now. “Well, Carla Clark, my name is really Jack Burner. I suggest you tell me how you heard about me and what exactly you want?”

“Cutting right to the chase. I like that.”

Burner did not respond and waited for her to continue.

Carla dropped her gaze. “We were given your profile by a hacker we know as Anon. I believe he’s had some contact with you and that you know about Russell Peake—the Hand. Anon thought we could help each other since we want to take down the smuggling ring—and from what he could tell, so do you. So before he disappeared, he turned us on to you, and now we can use your input. We want you to help us take down the secret cabal operating inside the Union.”

Burner raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Burner. We can get you classified intel on Senator Ron Capulet, along with other individuals within the Union who need to be taken out. Or...brought to justice, if you prefer.”

She took a swig of her mocha, as if to indicate her cards were all down.

Burner’s expression did not change. “Tempting though that sounds, Ms. Clark, I’d rather not get involved.”

Carla’s gaze swept over him as if trying to judge whether she needed to reassess her first impressions. “Really? You don’t want an opportunity to root out corruption at the heart of the Union? They told me you were an upright guy. All about doing the right thing. Am I wrong?”

Burner took another gulp of his coffee. “This whole thing is ridiculous. For one thing, I don’t know you, I don’t know your Collective, and I don’t know what your intentions are. For all I know, this could be some honeypot set up by one of my enemies.”

“We just want to help you, Burner. We’re not your enemy.”

Burner smiled coldly. “With no intention to offend you, Ms. Clark, your assurances mean jack shit to me. I learned my lesson after the debacle with Anon. You do know what happened there, right? It took a lot to track him down and bring him in for the murder of at least two people that we know of. He approached me to work with him too. He just turned out to be one of the worst himself. And that’s what happens when you team up with characters you don’t know. And wasn’t he part of your group, as well? How do you account for allying yourself to a guy like him?”

Carla straightened in her chair, as if suddenly alert. “We didn’t know what he was up to on the side. Otherwise we never would have worked with the guy.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s your other objection?”

Burner was interested now. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a practical man. You’re not refusing to work with me just because you got burned in the past. So what’s the real reason? Why don’t you really want to work with the Collective?”

He shifted in his seat. He was ready to leave. “Here’s why I don’t want to work with the Collective: Union and government people can’t just be ‘taken out.’ This isn’t the Deadlands. I’m already an outlaw of sorts, and I don’t need the heat that’s going to come with going after crooked officials. I’d need evidence and witnesses. These people need to be put on trial, not summarily executed.”

“I’m not talking about executions here, Burner. Just some technical assistance.”

“Whatever.” Burner finished his coffee with a long swig and stood up. “I’ve got things to do. It was nice meeting you, Carla Clark. Good luck with your next ‘chance encounter.’”

He strode out of the door and back onto the street. Carla remained seated at the table, unsettled by his abrupt exit. She stared at the space he had just vacated, thinking. It hadn’t been the smoothest first meeting, it was true, but she had the feeling that he could be convinced with enough effort. He’d mentioned evidence. Finding this evidence was exactly what she needed to figure out—a practical solution to getting him onboard. It was clear now that Burner wasn’t going to take people out gratuitously, especially not people who worked for the government. He was right, she realized. Doing business cowboy style might have worked on thugs and known criminals, but as they worked their way up the conspiracy, they were going to need a different tack.

4

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Burner headed back to the safehouse, this time watching his surroundings extra carefully to make sure he wasn’t being followed by another Collective spy. It seemed as though Carla had been the only one after him; the streets were clear of anyone interested in his business, although he took a somewhat roundabout route home, just to be sure. He was pleased to return to the abandoned warehouse that had now been converted into their home base, and to see Judy, Boris, and Margarita all at their stations, working hard. They greeted him, making his eventful day seem all the more surreal.

“Welcome home.” Boris looked up from his holo. “Took you longer to get back from prison than we expected. We thought maybe you decided to stay a while, bunk up with some of the other prisoners there.”

Boris always did have the strangest sense of humor.

“I had an interesting return journey.” Burner’s lips twisted a bit. “But that can wait. I need to update you on Stack, first of all.”

Judy was monitoring something on her datapad, while munching from a big bowl of popcorn. She passed the bowl over to Burner, who took a handful. The rich, buttery flavor filled his mouth, and for the first time that day, he let himself relax. He took a few more handfuls and slumped into the seat at his workstation.

Judy’s eyebrows raised as he visibly unwound. “That bad, huh?”

“Not exactly a spa resort.” Burner shrugged off her concern. “Pity the poor bastards who are stuck there.”

Margarita glanced over at him. Her glasses were tilted down over the bridge of her nose as she briefly diverted her attention from her holoscreen. “Well? And what did our poor bastard give you? Anything?”

Burner rubbed the triangle of skin between his eyebrows. “Jack shit.”

Margarita looked up, and Burner spread his hands. “Had to give it a shot. But—”

He paused to give time for Margarita to throw him an ‘I told you so’ look. She did. He continued.

“—there is one interesting thing from this morning. On my way back from the prison, in Dobulla. Ran into a spy from some hacking vigilante setup. The Collective, she called it—they want to root out government corruption. Not fully legal as a group, but I guess...” He grinned.

“Glass houses and all that,” Margarita finished. Judy glanced at her and smiled in agreement.

Burner continued. “They’re from all over the planet, it seems. I’m guessing they message each other on the gal-net. And this woman—Carla Clark—decided to scout me out undercover before making formal contact.”

Boris smirked. “Let me guess: she damsel-in-distressed you out of your pants? Been there, bro.”

Margarita shot Boris a disparaging look.

Burner continued. “Yes to the damsel in distress. No to the pants. What matters is they knew about me. Probably from Anon. Which means they’ll also know about all of you. The problem is we know zip about them. That’s got to change. If we’re even going to consider working alongside them, I want to know them like the back of my hand.”

Judy looked as though he had just proposed swapping her popcorn for spinach sandwiches. “You’re considering her proposition?”

He shrugged. “I think we need to at least think about it. If they have access to intel we don’t have… And free labor, multiplied across however many hacktavists… We’ve got to consider the bigger picture.”

Judy had stopped eating the popcorn and placed the bowl on the desk in front of her. She nodded, considering the options. “Burner, you realize that the very fact we’re researching them is going to signal to them that you’re interested? And we still don’t know what their intentions are.”

Burner nodded slowly. “I know. We need to know what’s coming at us, though. The last thing we want is to be fighting the Collective as well, if we can help it. Even if we refuse them, they’re out there and we’re flying blind.”

There was a pause as they all processed the risk and its necessity. Then Judy turned her chair back toward her desk and dusted salt from the popcorn off of her pants. She looked over at the others. “Okay. Boris and Margarita, can you have a look at this ‘Collective,’ and see what they’re all about? But be smart about it. Look out for trip wires, root kits, all that sort of thing. Don’t just start posting on message boards asking questions. Have a feel around, and don’t leave any traces if you can help it. Gal-net and nether net—dig deep. You know the drill. Figure out how they communicate with each other, and the history of the organization. Get some leads on why they want to work with us. We’ll reconvene with findings in an hour as a first step.”

Margarita had temporarily abandoned her holoscreen and was fully focused on the meeting. She nodded to Judy. Boris was already deep into preliminary searches before Judy had even given the order. There was an energy in the room that was different from before. It was a kind of excitement.

Judy turned to Burner. “We also need to keep our finger on the pulse with the Capulet project. I’ll get back onto the forensics of the file we intercepted from the senator’s office later. We need to analyze the heck out of that message and try and figure out who inside the Union is responsible for leaking all of this classified information. Since Stack hasn’t given us anything, we do now know that there’s a link hidden inside the Union that we’ve overlooked, a person who’s been feeding information through backchannels. And clearly the Collective thinks this link is important enough that it’s worth contacting us about. We need to find out whatever we can.”

“Two projects?” Boris cracked his knuckles, still listening to their conversation. “Must be Christmas. Bring on the coffee.”

Burner and Judy smiled, sharing a moment of appreciation for Boris. Then Burner got up and headed to the kitchen as the rest of the team steamed away at their holos.

Coffee, he thought, as though he hadn’t already had five today. Sometimes, Boris was a genius.

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Drake stood in front of the projector, while his team of a few dozen Union officers sat in silence, waiting for him to begin. Drake took his time, moving a step away from the projector, surveying his audience. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and calm, which lent it more gravity.

“As you know, meetings like this tend to be delegated to your immediate superiors. But this particular case is not one I’m going to let out of my sight. It’s going to be a big one, and I’ll need each and every one of you to pull your weight. It concerns a terrorist threat.”

Drake paused. They were listening. This was Drake's own special task force within the Union. They were at their HQ, the office in the Capital, and the members of his squad had special privileges, which granted them jurisdiction both inside the Union and externally. It was a helpful perk that allowed them to circumvent problems that would otherwise have stalled many of their investigations with red tape. He clicked ahead to the next slide, which projected the most up-to-date information about their current case.

“So you’re going to be breathing down our necks on this one?” Karl Brenner, in the back row, flashed him a grin, then turned to Clarissa for backup or encouragement. It was his typical back-of-the-class clown act. “Just kidding, Commander,” Karl continued without waiting for Drake to respond. “Always good to have you on the team.”

“Yes, thank you, Karl, as always for your unbridled enthusiasm.” Drake gave him a withering smile.

Clarissa didn’t seem particularly impressed by Brenner’s antics. She ignored him and instead glanced to the officer next to her to convey her distaste in a simple act of eye contact. Clarissa Stone was a solid team member, maybe the star of Drake’s team—a great investigator, hardened as a soldier, and not rattled by anything, least of all Karl. But she was a looker, and there was no doubt the others on his team knew it. All of the guys had done their best to try and get with her, one way or another, but if any of them had succeeded, Drake didn’t know it. Sometimes he thought Clarissa wasn’t all that interested in men, and having to deal with guys like Karl all day, who could blame her?

Fred Watson, their resident female computer genius piped up. “Are we going to have clearance to use black hat measures on this one?”

One wouldn’t guess she was a computer genius, from the way she dressed and acted. Watson liked her clothes, and her makeup and shoes—the opposite of Clarissa. But when it came to technical wizardry, there was nobody better.

“You’ll have permissions for whatever measures you need,” Drake answered. “Run it by me if it’s unorthodox, but essentially you’ll have the normal levels of authorization.”

Watson seemed pleased by the prospect. She nodded sharply, once, in acknowledgment.

Drake turned to Gary Moore, his second in command. Moore was the loyal foot soldier type—ex-military, hard worker, and in tremendous physical shape. When Drake had a difficult job to pull off, he’d turn to Moore to make sure he got it done. The man could follow orders, and he didn’t question them. “Moore, I’m going to have you run point on this thing. That means you’re in charge of collecting everyone’s findings and compiling them into a brief for me to read. We’ve had credible threats to major structures around Dobulla. I want you to make sure we track down everyone on this list, find out what they’re up to, and see that we have a lock on their location so we can scoop them up if necessary.”

Drake waved his pointer over the list of names projected on the screen. Moore immediately began to transfer the information onto his datapad.

Drake turned back to the team. “This assignment isn’t a usual case. Normally I would let you work and have you report in only when you found something vital. But this situation is different, and you’ll see why once you get into it. I’m going to need constant updates, in detail. Understood?”

The team exchanged some glances with each other. Some of them seemed a little disconcerted about the change of pace—Drake was usually a very hands-off boss. He pretty much always let them do their own thing, only checking in occasionally to make sure things were going on the right track, which they almost always were. There were always terrorist threats coming in across the transom. What made these any different than the others?

“I’m counting on all of you,” Drake told them, flicking off the data screen and picking up his data pad. “Now get out there and work.”

There were mutters of “yes, sir” and acknowledgements as the room erupted into quiet, focused activity. Drake watched his team mobilize, hoping that he was doing the right thing involving them.

5

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

It was late at night, but the team was well-fueled by caffeine and no one showed any sign of letting up the pace. Boris, Margarita, and Judy were scouring through current Union databases. Burner was looking at the ones he had access to, trying to pick out names and ranks that he remembered from his time in the service.

For now, Burner and Margarita were focusing on the Capulet hack, while Judy and Boris searched for information on the Collective. The hack revolved around the intercepted message from Senator Ron Capulet, who had sent the information to the Hand a few months prior. Margarita had been working on it for some time—before, they had only known that it had contained intel from the Union. Thanks to her persistence, they’d been able to pinpoint the nature of the content. It was highly classified, which narrowed down who could have possibly had access to the information—and hence their pool of possible suspects.

By Burner’s count, given what he knew about the hierarchy and code name privileges, there were about twenty people who qualified for access. They would have to trawl through each person—background, history, and service record—with that level of clearance and rule them out as the source of the hack one by one. The legwork was going to inundate all of them—five suspects apiece. It was their only way forward.

It didn’t help that now Judy and Boris were putting that work on hold in order to track down whatever new information they could about the Collective. It was slow going. So far they hadn’t been able to accomplish much. They were only just beginning to hack away at the giant project, and Burner had no idea when they would be finished.

Burner stretched his arms out and above his head, then ambled over to the kitchen and put on some more coffee. It was his ambrosia—not a pick-me-up so much as a necessity. Margarita and Judy might find it kept them up at night, but Burner noticed the effect of coffee like he noticed oxygen—he would barely register downing it until it went away. He came back out with a steaming cup in his hands, slurping it quietly. Margarita glanced up, then took her glasses off and stretched her neck back with a moan. “Ugh, I’m beat. Pizza, anyone?”

“This is why we have you on the team, Margarita.” Boris grinned. “You have the best suggestions.”

Judy barely glanced up. “Pizza would be perfect. Get the usual, will you?” she muttered almost automatically, her focus still entrenched in what she was doing.

Margarita hesitated. Then she grabbed her purse, head down, and started toward the door. Boris stood up and stopped her before she got far.

“I’ll pick it up.” He walked to the coat stand for his jacket. “I need a break from the screens for a minute, anyway. Some fresh air couldn’t hurt.”

Margarita glanced at him, briefly trying to read his motivation. “Are you sure? I can get it. It’s not a big deal.”

“Nah, let me go. Like I said, I need to get out for a bit.”

Margarita sat back in her chair, watching them. He saw her take a brief steadying breath, eyes on her hands, before reaching for her glasses and turning her attention back to her screen. It wasn’t like Boris to be this emotionally in-tune but he’d outshone the rest of the team on this one. The last time Margarita had gone out to get food for them she’d been kidnapped. He watched as Margarita’s hand unconsciously went to the new scar at the bottom of her chin. You don’t get over an experience like that in a hurry. She’d mentioned she had been taking self-defense classes at a nearby gym, and he often saw her come in during the morning with her hair wet. She was looking after herself—or distracting herself, perhaps. No matter how resilient you were, that experience was going to leave scars on more than just the chin. This minor episode with the pizza had shaken her more than Burner would have expected. He made a mental note to mention it to her later when it was just the two of them.

Judy was suddenly on her feet and heading for the door too. She had torn her focus from her holo and was putting on her jacket. “I need a break myself,” she announced. “Mind if I tag along?”

Burner realized she had registered what was happening and wanted to come for protection. Judy had been on the bad end of a kidnapping herself, and she wasn’t going to let that happen to anyone else. Not on her watch.

With Boris and Judy gone, Margarita returned her attention to the work. She needed a break from the profiles she’d been examining, and it occurred to her that it might be useful to know who the Collective were publicly. She pulled up a new search bar and started searching terms on the gal-net. Even hacktivists seem to make their way into searchable wikis and news stories, she reasoned.

She was right.

A whole host of references showed up. She began flicking through the search results, methodically trying to get a handle on what might be known about them. Moments later, in a lapse of concentration, she noticed a tiny flicker on the side of her screen. She puzzled at it, unsure of what it was. Maybe there was a dead pixel or some strange process running in the background of her software that she wasn’t aware of. She was about to click out of her program to investigate, but the flicker disappeared. She frowned.

Dismissing it, she forced her eyes back to the file she’d been reading. Focus. She continued to assimilate the data, wondering what their next step might be once they moved to tracking the Collective down on the more clandestine and dangerous landscape of the nether net.

* * *

UNKNOWN LOCATION

Carla watched the image on her holo mirroring what Margarita was doing on her own screen. She was sharing the image with two other members of the Collective who were working remotely at their own locations. They were all talking to each other as they watched Margarita go about her work.

From what they had been seeing, it was clear that Burner had filled in the rest of his team on Carla’s introduction, and they’d likely decided to do some research before committing to a course of action—one way or the other.

Carla knew Burner would be curious about the Collective despite what he had said in the coffee shop. She’d worked alongside guys like him before; give them a whiff of intrigue and they’d hound it to the bone.

“She’s always two steps ahead of us,” wrote one of the other members, who was also monitoring Margarita’s screen. “You think we should try and get a backdoor into her system? Or set up a webcam on her machine or something? I bet it would be really easy to do.”

“Not right now,” Carla replied. “Let’s just hold our horses and enjoy the show. See what she’s up to. She’s not going to find anything on us with the searches she’s running right now. But let’s keep eyes on her and watch her progress. If she does stumble onto anything important, we’ll be the first to know.”

“I thought this broad was supposed to be some kind of hacker wizard,” came another message. “She looks pretty pedestrian to me, the way she’s doing things.”

Carla was glad she didn’t have to put up with her colleagues in person. “I know for a fact that she’s good. Don’t underestimate her.”

Carla started writing more but deleted it and bit back her irritation. She didn’t need to go making trouble. Instead, she continued to watch Margarita’s screen. Something interesting was bound to come up, and she didn’t intend to miss it when it did.

6

Union Headquarters Building, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Drake bought himself a soda from the vending machine and stepped out of Union HQ. The sun was just beginning to go down, and a pink haze settled over the city. People in suits walked by, nodding goodbye, telling him they would see him tomorrow. They were all going home for the night. He envied them. He wished his job for the day was over. He was on his way home, yes, but he wouldn’t be there for long. There was no time to bask in these few moments of peace.

He headed to his assigned spot in the parking garage. His ride home through the busy streets of the Capital was only a few kilometers, but with traffic it usually took him half an hour or longer. When he arrived, he stretched his arms out over the steering wheel and wished he could go into the house. He was tired. Sighing, he got out of the car and wandered out to the street. Two minutes later, a large sedan with dark tinted windows pulled up beside him. The door opened and he got in.

“Evening.” The driver, Will, nodded as Drake got comfortable in the backseat. “How’s the air back there? Everything good?”

“It’s fine,” Drake replied. “Thank you. Do me a favor, would you? Don’t take Carson Boulevard. Take the 112. The last thing I want to do is sit in more traffic right now. Doesn’t matter that it’s a slightly longer route.”

“Yes, sir,” Will answered. “There’s food back there if you’re hungry. Made special from DiLuca’s, as you like it. Calamari, veal, the works.”

Drake looked down at the bags filled with food. He opened one and sniffed it. Everything smelled delicious, but he wasn’t hungry at the moment. Maybe once they had been riding for a little while it would whet his appetite. But he appreciated the gesture. His driver usually knew the right thing to say and the right things to get him. He knew what kind of food Drake liked, and from where. He also knew when to be quiet and let Drake relax. Drake nodded at the rearview mirror and pushed the bags aside for now. The driver, sensing Drake wasn’t in a talking mood, turned his focus back to the road, and Drake closed his eyes. Not sleeping, not really, but just trying to decompress before they reached their destination.

With the longer route, it took almost an hour to arrive at the rendezvous, but it gave Drake the chance to rest. The fatigue that had been plaguing him had evaporated. He was ready to do business. The driver pulled up in an alley behind the building. There were dumpsters standing at irregular angles, overflowing, lids broken. Drake figured that this was probably the backdoor of the restaurant, the area where the waiters and dishwashers came out to smoke between shifts. There was a white painted door set into the back of the building. The driver honked the horn a few times, and a few moments later a small man with a goatee opened the door. He beckoned Drake inside. Will waited in the car, keeping the engine running.

Drake followed the man down a narrow, carpeted hallway, then into another room. It was a meeting parlor, likely a place where business deals were made. In the middle of the room there was an ornate table. The walls were covered with framed photographs of celebrities and various pieces of artwork. Several leather chairs surrounded the table. Two other men were already sitting at the table. They were in their late fifties and had clearly made an effort with their suits and ties. Something had gone amiss, though, and they looked odd, as though they’d been stuffed into the garments like scarecrows. When Drake entered, they rose from their chairs and shook hands with him. The first guy was Dion, with thick dark glasses and greasy, slicked-back hair. The other introduced himself as Hendrix. He was wearing a purple tie and had thick curly hair that fell down past his shoulders. Drake instantly took a liking to them. They seemed eager to please; that was useful.

After the introductions were made, they all sat down around the table. The man with the goatee told them to call if they needed anything, then went back out through the front. Drake figured he was maybe the owner of the restaurant. In any case, he had gone out of his way to make Drake feel welcome at the meeting. He cleared his throat, crossed his arms in front of him, and sat up straight in his chair, ready to get started.

Dion and Hendrix knew each other, and Drake knew who they were from his research. They eyed him carefully, waiting for him to speak. Drake took his time and looked around at some of the many pictures adorning the walls. He saw the goateed man standing arm in arm with a familiar-looking jazz singer, the two of them smiling in the very same room Drake was sitting in now. Hendrix cleared his throat.

“Thanks for coming in, boss. We both really appreciate your taking the time to come see us. You sure you don’t want a cup of coffee or something? Did your driver find the place okay?”

Drake smiled away the offer. This subservience was very promising. “No, no coffee for me. And yes, my driver found the place just fine.” He reached into his jacket and took out his datapad. Dion and Hendrix had worked closely with the Hand—Russell Peake. They’d been a part of his infrastructure, the same ring that Burner and his team had been trying so hard to dismantle. That was the reason he was here.

Drake opened a program on his datapad and pushed it over to the two men. They looked at it blankly. “I need you to draw something for me,” he told them. “A chart of the current layout of the Hand’s organization. Who’s been taken out and who’s still left on the payroll. It doesn’t have to be perfect, just give me an outline of the situation as it stands, as best you can.”

They exchanged a quick look with each other. It was Dion who took the pad and began to sketch an outline of the current structure of the organization. Hendrix supervised while he worked, making suggestions.

“No, Henry’s dead, remember?”

“Oh yeah. Right, right. Let me just cross him off the list then. What about Rollins?”

“Nah, he got pinched over at the docks a couple weeks ago with some smuggling thing. He’s going to be out of commission for a while.”

“Aw, really? Rollins did? That’s a shame. I liked that guy.”

“He’ll be back. I’m sure he’s not going to get that much time, not for something like that.”

Drake listened to them, gathering the softer intel from their conversation as they filled in the more concrete information onto his datapad. It seemed like they understood the core workings of the organization between them. After a few minutes, they had finished drawing up the chart. Dion pushed the datapad back over to Drake with a look of satisfaction.

“That’s current, as far as I know. I put a list of all the dead guys at the bottom, and everyone else I put in their place in the hierarchy, at least as far as we know it. But those are definitely all the guys still remaining in the Hand’s group after he clocked out.”

“Good.” Drake skimmed the chart. “This will be very helpful. Just the kind of thing we need to get the organization back on its feet.”

Scanning the names, he found many that were unfamiliar to him. He knew he would have to research every one of them before he came to a final decision. He still wasn’t totally familiar with all the moving pieces of the operation, or what each person’s role was. He was having to learn it all on the fly. Fortunately, he was adept at that sort of thing. What was more, the organization was currently in a state of disarray so they were hungry for a strong leader to put them back together again. That would certainly make things easier.

“This guy on the supply side,” Drake queried, pointing to a name on the chart. “He helped move the product? Did he have ships or shuttles or something?”

“Roberto? Yeah, he took care of shipping. He owns a trucking company. But he’s in jail now after the cops raided his place and shut his business down. It looks like he’s going to be out of the picture for the foreseeable future.”

“Gotcha.”

Drake continued to look over the chart, trying to commit the structure and flow to memory. He was already starting to think of ways to bolster what was left of the organization. He was considering taking steps to acquire some rival organizations and distribution networks in order to replace some of the infrastructure that had been taken out. Drake knew this would be quicker than rebuilding the whole thing from scratch, and it would help him ease into things without having to remake the wheel. The only sticky part would be approaching these rivals on even footing, making sure they knew he was aiming for a partnership and not trying to take them over. But he could easily make plans to accomplish that. Negotiation was one of his skills, and these criminal enterprises never really seemed to balk at an opportunity to increase their cash flow.

“I’m thinking of recruiting from other organizations.” There was no need to beat about the bush with these two; they were clearly keen to give him any information they could. “We need to rebuild our infrastructure, and we need to do it quickly. But it will take too long to find new people ourselves, at least ones that we can trust. I’ve been thinking about other operations, lesser crews we can bring on to help us during this transitional period. There’s got to be a few of them out there who wouldn’t be averse to working with a ‘rival’ agency, as it were. In any case, we’re going to need someone to restart the supply lines, and another to begin cleaning the money again now that the Hand’s out of the picture. You guys would know better than I would who would be a likely candidate for these jobs. Any suggestions?”

Both were silent for a few moments.

Hendrix spoke next. “There’s a guy down in the south who washes money for the mob there. Supposedly he’s good at what he does. They’ve had no complaints about him. He’s friends with a cousin of mine. I could look into it. As for rebuilding the infrastructure, you want someone to run logistics for the whole thing?”

Drake nodded once. “That’s exactly what I want. A leader who can run a big operation with lots of moving pieces. Management skills. Someone who can make decisions and solve problems without needing to be told what to do about every little thing. You guys know anyone like that?”

Dion and Hendrix glanced at each other. “Sam Johnson sounds like a good fit,” Dion suggested.

“Exactly what I was thinking.” Hendrix turned from Dion to Drake. “He’s the first name that popped into my head.”

Drake raised his eyebrows.

“Sam has a good reputation among the remaining crew,” Dion went on. “He’s had designs on parts of the organization’s operations already, and he knows what he’s doing. This was before the Hand came in and took care of it. Well, was supposed to take care of it, before he screwed everything up. But if you ask me, Sam would have been better. The Hand never should have taken him off the job.”

Hendrix took over. “The Hand ended up losing a lot of Sam’s guys, which he was understandably salty about. But we’ve both worked with him, and he’s good. If he can get past his grudge, I think he’d be the best person for the job. By far.”

“Is the grudge going to be a big problem? If I approach him, would he be willing to work with us?”

Neither Dion nor Hendrix looked certain as to how to respond. Eventually, Hendrix spoke up reluctantly. “Honestly, it’s up in the air. He was really mad about what the Hand did to him. But now that the boss is dead, things might be different. I don’t know. Nobody’s talked to the guy since the whole operation blew up. But he’d be the best guy for the job. So it’s probably worth a shot to ask him if he wants to get involved with us.”

It was worth the risk, Drake thought later as he played through the conversation in his mind. These two men knew what they were talking about, he could tell—Sam Johnson would be the man for the job if they said he was.

For a first meeting, he thought things had gone well. Dion and Hendrix were no geniuses, but they seemed competent in this somewhat bounded area of expertise.

Drake got back into his car, and Will set off with polished smoothness. “Go well, boss?”

Drake already had his datapad out and was preparing to start a search of some the names he’d been given during the meeting, from the chart of the new organization of people in the Ring. “Not bad.” Drake kept his eyes on the screen. “Got some useful information. I heard some names thrown around that I’m going to look into. I have a good feeling about this whole thing, I really do. I think things are going to start to pick up.”

“Good to hear, boss. Want to stop somewhere else? Or should I just take you straight home?”

“Straight home, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

They sped down the highway, and Drake settled back in his seat. Soon his long day would be over and he would be in his bed, getting ready to go to sleep. Then he’d wake up and do it all over again for the next day. But that was okay. That was his life. His job, and he was good at it. It was just having to juggle his Union duties with his empire that could be taxing.

He ran a search on Sam Johnson. It wasn’t hard to find information about him—Sam was on the Union hit list already, which was another plus. That meant it would be easy to pin something from an open investigation onto him and leverage him into the position if need be. Heck, it would be an interesting way to make his acquaintance in the first place. Drake mulled the idea as his gaze defocused out of the car window.

Sam Johnson would be someone he could easily slip into an open case in order to get the results he wanted. Perfect.

Of course, the bad blood between Johnson and Peake wouldn’t make this next maneuver easy. But there was nothing like looking at twenty years in prison to help someone get over a grudge against a dead man. Yes, he would be making Johnson an offer he couldn’t refuse.

7

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Pizza boxes adorned the empty spaces between workstations, and the silence of intense concentration had settled over the warehouse open-plan office. The team was back to fixating on their multiple investigations and puzzles.

Burner had suggested profiling the Collective as if it were a person. It was a non-standard technique he’d used in the past when working to take down similar criminal organizations. It usually worked well, adding data points into their understanding of the organization. He figured the more understanding they had of the Collective and its members, the better informed they’d be when they had to start hunting them down. That was his plan.

Burner stood at the holoboard, ready to start noting information. “So. What do we know about the Collective? What kind of information do we have about them? Shout stuff at me—it’s not school.”

There was a quick chuckle then Judy started them off. “It’s big.” She gestured at her holoscreen, which they’d been filling with notes for the last ten hours of their investigation. Boris sniggered, but she continued unperturbed. “They have a ton of members—most if not all of them anonymous. The size of a small nation. They all seem to be skilled with computer hacking and tech. But there are a lot of them and only a few of us. So trying to track down every individual member is not going to be feasible.”

“Good.” Burner made notes on the board, only just keeping up. “Okay. What else? How do they conduct their business?”

“They self-organize,” Judy said. “They don’t seem to have a dedicated leader, but instead a number of disparate cells that seem to govern themselves. But there is a structure to what they’re doing. They’ve managed to set goals and accomplish them, so they have some kind of system to delegate tasks to the members. Maybe they volunteer for assignments they think would be a good fit? In any case, they don’t seem to have a rigid hierarchy like other groups tend to.”

“Good, good. So they operate somewhat independently, maybe assessing each other’s work on a group basis?” The board was filling fast with information.

Margarita chipped in. “Basically, they’re like an intelligence gathering operation. They’ve been doing this for a while, and they’re very good. It’s all on a voluntary basis, so they’re presumably motivated by ideology or curiosity rather than money or power. Probably means they’re more likely to be fanatical about what they do and therefore prone to acting erratically.”

Burner finished jotting down notes and turned back to the team. “Right. They’re good at collecting information and surveilling people. As for acting erratically, there’s a possibility. It could be that they just spend most of their time researching things rather than actively pursuing objectives. Too early to say. From what Carla told me, they tend to take their work seriously. But they also have values that align with our goals. They seem determined to root out corruption, for one thing. And they want to do what’s right. They helped take down the Hand, even though there wasn’t anything in it for them except pride.”

“Do you think we can really work with them, though?” Boris’s tone was cynical. “These people could be anybody. Right now we’ve got no idea about who’s out there, sitting on their datapads and dreaming up new ways to hack into things. Even if they do mean well, there’s a good chance that they’ll go around mucking things up.”

“That’s true,” Judy said slowly. “There’s no telling how they play with others. But if you ask me, I’d vote we remain cautious but give them a chance. If these guys are as good at gathering intel as they seem to think they are, then they’re going to be useful assets to have in our pocket.” She looked in Burner’s direction, indicating she’d finished saying her piece.

Burner tilted his head, weighing the considerations they were discussing in addition to all the other variables he was tracking from his experience. “We’d have to proceed cautiously, as you say,” he answered. “But…I’m inclined to trust them. At least as far as intentions go. The Collective did work with Anon, but they don’t seem to know about his moonlighting as a hitman. And like you said, Boris, anyone can join, so it only stands to reason that they might have a few bad eggs who want to sign up. People who could slip through the cracks before the other members of the group root them out. First off, we need to determine what they want from us, and what they can give us. But it’s possible they have intel that could be very useful—I’d be more willing to trust them if they gave us something. So, let’s play it by ear but proceed. And we’ll go from there.”

They agreed on the temporary plan and began to talk through details.

Their hidden audience listened closely.

Eyes fixed on separate holoscreens and datapads, several members of the Collective studied the proceedings being broadcast out to them. It had been comically easy to trace this team and get unfettered access to everything that was going on in their headquarters. Maybe they would end up being partners in the near future, but for now, the power balance was fairly one-sided and rested strictly in the hands of the Collective. Many of them relished the notion.

As Burner and his crew continued to discuss their plans, members of the Collective sat with their screens open and metaphoric popcorn in hand. Watching. Waiting.

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Drake flicked through his casefiles. He was using his access to dig up whatever dirt he could on Sam Johnson. He needed a reason for a warrant. A warrant would give him access—and an introduction—to the man. One where he would be in control of the situation. Those were the kinds of negotiations he preferred.

Scanning through the reports on Sam’s background, Drake learned that he seemed to have picked up a few charges for racketeering. That would be useful. He made a note on his holo. He knew there were plenty of open racketeering cases currently in the system. It should be child’s play to match the details of one of them to something that could fit Johnson. He switched to the system with the open cases. Sifting through, he eventually found the perfect case—a gang of organized criminals had been smuggling bootleg moonshine through the docks near Dobulla. The timeframes fit perfectly. And it seemed like just the thing Johnson would have been involved in.

Of course, the guy hadn’t actually been involved in this particular case, but that didn’t matter. He did a quick search just to make sure he hadn’t been in jail while the bootlegging operation was going down. That would be an annoyingly solid alibi. A moment later, he was able to confirm he’d been a free man at the time.

Drake was smart enough to fabricate some elements and link Sam to the case well enough that he could get a judge to sign off on a warrant. That was one of the perks that came with working so closely with the local judges. His father had been an attorney. He used to say that good attorneys knew the law; great attorneys knew the judges. Drake had taken this to heart as a kid, and when he started applying it to his own role he found that if you were friendly with them, you could bring them damn near anything and they’d sign off on it. His father had been right.

Drake was so wrapped up in his task that he barely noticed when Clarissa stepped into his office, having knocked a few times on the door. He waved her forward and quickly shut down his holoscreen.

“Hey, Clarissa.” He smiled, turning on his office charm. “What’ve you got?”

“The latest on the anti-terrorism investigation.” She handed him a datapad. “We’ve found the potential buyer the terrorist cell is using to procure weapons. The rest of the team is in the war room double-checking the intel as we speak.”

Drake did his best to look interested. His mind was obsessed with his own agenda right now, and this felt like little more than an annoying inconvenience. Still, it was good that his crew had been making some leeway into this next stage of his plan. “Good job. Who’s the buyer?”

She responded, the answer spilling from her lips as though she’d anticipated his questions before she’d even left her desk. “A gun runner operating from somewhere in the Deadlands. We’ve got a confidential informant working with him. He tipped us off that there could be a liaison between the two parties. We’re running it down.”

Drake nodded. “Excellent. Let me know the outcome.” He handed the datapad back to her.

She hesitated then took it. “You want me to send you a report about it?”

“Sure, sure. Whenever you get the chance. I’m kind of busy right now. Just send it along to my console and I’ll be sure to take a look at it when I can.” He turned his attention back to his workstation and pulled up a new holoscreen.

Clarissa shot him a curious look over her shoulder as she headed out of his office and closed the door behind her. She had expected him to be more enthusiastic that they were making headway into the case. Drake didn’t pay her too much notice. He figured she probably just assumed he was busy with other things—which was true, of course, if not in the way she would have guessed.

He heard the door close, and he re-opened the holoscreen he’d been working on over the top of the cover one he’d just pulled up. He knew exactly who he needed to call for this case, for this warrant he needed. He connected a call on his holo.

“Hello, Judge Caldwell’s office…” the voice of a young female answered.

He couldn’t remember her name. That didn’t matter. He would leave word for the Judge to call him back, and they’d arrange a meeting. He’d likely have to drag himself into chambers, but that was okay. It would be good to have an excuse to see the old boy face to face. Keep the relationship alive.

8

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

After only an hour’s sleep, Burner and Judy both got up at their usual time. There was work to be done. The aroma of coffee in the air and sunlight streaming through the upper windows set the mood for a productive, quiet morning.

Judy was almost relishing getting back into it, despite the lack of sleep.

Suddenly a loud knocking on the front doors shattered the sense of peace.

Judy and Burner looked at each other, assessing immediately what level of threat they thought it was. Judy reached for the pistol she kept in the top draw of her workstation. Burner did the same but shoved his into the back of his belt before moving toward the door.

He moved, assessing the weight of the knock. It wasn’t someone with a heavy hand, or strength. That ruled out any form of law enforcement. Probably. An assault team, Union, private, or otherwise likely wouldn’t knock. They’d bust in. His mind boggled, assessing and hypothesizing as he crossed the distance to the door. His right hand was ready to draw as his left hand reached for the doorknob and pulled it open.

There he found a woman with cropped dark hair smiling at him and holding out what looked like donuts and coffee. “Ms. Clark. I hadn’t expected the pleasure of meeting you again so soon. Or so early.”

His right arm relaxed, but he made no show of being pleased to see her on his doorstep at this time in the morning. Nor did he move aside to let her in.

Judy came up behind him, watching with confusion.

Carla’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, come on, Burner. I bring you coffee and donuts, and that’s how you greet me?” She nodded toward one of the disposable cups. “I got it black and strong, just how you like it. What do you say? I enjoyed our coffee yesterday.”

He raised one eyebrow. This was a power play, of course. He didn’t know how she had figured out their location. But he could guess why she was here. Apply some pressure. Plead with him. Maybe force the issue with the rest of the team. She probably also wanted information—to see where they worked. How they worked.

And he didn’t want her to learn anything from them. Not yet. And not like this.

He moved to close the door. “I think I’ll pass on breakfast.”

She stepped forward, getting in the way. She pushed the coffees closer to him and peered past him into the building. “Just the two of you guys, huh? Where’s the rest of your team?”

“Sleeping,” Judy stated flatly. She moved forward so she stood next to Burner, blocking Carla’s view of the inside. Behind her calmly polite tone she was formidably self-assured. “Good of you to have remembered coffee for all four of us.”

She knew there were four of them. Judy wondered if Burner had divulged this at their previous encounter.

Carla was unfazed by the reception. Almost as though she didn’t register the social cues. Judy wondered if this was genuine, or if it was just a tactic she was using to push her way into their operation.

Carla continued talking. “I told them to use skim milk for the one with glasses.” She assumed a playfully forlorn expression. “You see, I’ve been so thoughtful. Let’s have breakfast.”

Nope, she was not immune to social cues, Judy concluded. She watched as Burner hesitated. It wasn’t the flirting that stalled his resolve, of course. Carla had put effort into this and it was intelligent—even if it was unwelcome.

“I can tell you want to.” Carla was addressing Burner alone, which was a wise move. Judy was much less likely to take a risk for the sake of curiosity—it didn’t take a woman of Carla’s intelligence to read that in her tight lips.

Burner looked sideways at Judy, then back at Carla. “Fine,” he said eventually. “Come in.” He moved aside.

Judy made a show of tucking her own pistol into the back of her pants. Carla didn’t look like someone who had been reminded of her own vulnerable position. “I’ll be an excellent guest,” she assured them. “I’m very well-behaved, you know.”

Judy grudgingly took the coffees from her. They entered the large room that served as a living area and workspace for the team. Judy placed the coffee on a table and motioned for Carla to take one of the seats at the shared table away from their workstations.

Carla stayed standing. “Nice place you’ve got here,” she commented, looking around. “What did this used to be, an artist’s studio? Still smells a little like paint. But I like what you’ve done with it. It’s a good space. Excellent for getting some work done.” She paused and eyed Burner. “I could see myself working somewhere like this.”

“Your appreciation is duly noted,” Burner replied dryly. He was keeping a close eye on her. He knew how easy it was for well-trained professionals to swipe anything from under your nose—notes, documents, even datapads. But she didn’t seem intent on subterfuge. She was drinking in the environment with shameless curiosity. She took her time and then turned back to him. “So, I know you turned me down the other day. And thinking about it, I see that you had good reasons to. We’re a completely unknown quantity to you. But I’ve been doing some work for you guys anyway. As a show of good faith, you could say.”

Judy had been watching Burner to check his reactions to this woman. Now, she cut in. “What kind of work?”

Carla still addressed herself solely to Burner. She moved to the table, picked up a cup, and handed it over him, then she took another for herself. “We can provide you with some solid evidence exposing corrupt Union members currently on the payroll. Evidence that you and your team could use in court if need be.”

Burner remained guarded but accepted the coffee and took an absent-minded gulp from it. “That’s good.”

For a moment Judy didn’t know if he was talking about the coffee or the proposal.

“Too good to be true, of course,” he continued. “You seem to forget we have no reason to trust any information you give us. You did playact your way into meeting me, after all.”

“Why should it be too good to be true? We told you, the Collective is on your side, Burner. This gives you and your crew a way forward prosecuting the dirty Union officers legitimately. You wouldn’t have to be fugitives. You could do this in the open, through the regular channels.”

Burner looked as though he might speak, but Judy cut in first. “What do you really want from us? You haven’t come here to offer us breakfast and sound intel. You mean business, and that’s fine, but we’re going to need you to talk straight.”

Carla, still standing, leaned over the table, offering Burner an excellent view of her cleavage as she reached for the donut packet. She took one out, bit down on it, and held it in her teeth for a moment. She pushed the rest of the packet across the table toward Judy and Burner. “I’ll talk as straight as you like, Miss Petersen,” she said after taking the donut out of her mouth while she spoke. “But I’m afraid I don’t have a grand ulterior motive to unveil. To be quite honest, I’ve got better things to do with my time than bringing breakfast to people so I can lie to them. I’m being entirely frank with you. We’ve got actual, usable intel that you can trust. Proof of officials taking bribes, kickbacks, flouting the rules for their own monetary gain. And we’re willing to give it to you.” She proceeded to eat the donut.

“Okay.” Burner ignored the look of caution Judy shot him. “Let’s have a look at the intel.” His tone made it clear that if there was a bluff to call, he was calling it.

Carla was unfazed. “Of course. Great intel, coming right up.” She licked sugar off the thumb and forefinger of her right hand and removed a small data stick from her pocket. She got up and moved, making as if to plug it into one of the workstations. Judy intercepted her in a split second. “Seriously?”

The two women looked at each other, eyes hard enough to stop bullets. Judy’s resolve was understated next to Carla’s brashness, but she was no less steely for it. And she was right to stop her, of course. There was no telling what kind of programs or viruses that stick held.

Carla broke the silence. “Judy, believe me, we wouldn’t need to go to all this trouble to gain access to your systems. This is just a stick of data. There’s no malware or anything like that. You can run a security scan if you want, but it will just be a waste of time.”

Judy glanced at Burner, who nodded shortly. It was true. These guys knew enough that they didn’t need to physically connect to their systems. Standing aside, she let Carla go ahead. A moment later, a dossier full of intel appeared on the main holoboard. Carla waved Burner over, and they started going through it.

Burner was impressed. The information did seem legitimate, and it implicated a number of former and current officers. There was evidence of all kinds of crime: money laundering, racketeering, even much more serious offenses like murder for hire and witness intimidation. He had a good nose for fabrication and embellishment, and he was pretty sure that these names and charges were real. All the information seemed to fit with what he already knew, and some of the names were familiar to him as people who might have already been compromised. When he’d skimmed it through once, he turned back to Carla, who was standing close beside him. She had been waiting, calm and confident. “I told you. The Collective doesn’t mess around. This is all good stuff.”

Burner stepped away from the screen and gestured for Judy to take a look if she wanted, but he kept his focus on Carla.

“It does seem authentic,” he said slowly. “But a lot of this is codeword classified. How did the Collective even get this? It couldn’t all be from hacking into systems. Some of this is way too volatile to just be sitting around on some server.”

Carla sauntered back to the group table and sat down again. “Very well observed, Mr. Burner. As a matter of fact, we have a source.”

“In the Union?”

“It could be.”

Burner exhaled, frowning. “We’re still playing games?”

Carla shrugged. “You’re not the only ones trying to uncover this cabal, Burner. As another show of good faith, I can set you up a meeting with our source. You can ask them all the questions your heart desires. But I need you to agree to work together with us on this.”

Burner glanced over at Judy, who was standing by the holoscreen showing the data, hunching over so she could look at it closely. Clearly she’d been listening in at the same time, though, because she looked up at the pause in conversation, waiting for Burner’s reaction.

“Judy? What do you think?”

She too hesitated. The data was a game-changer. Potentially.

“Your call, Burner. The intel is good. But at the end of the day, we’ll be walking into a setup with an unknown element. We also shouldn’t agree to anything beforehand.” The brief glance in Carla’s direction made it clear that she, not the source, was the unknown element that bothered Judy.

Burner turned back to Carla. “When can we meet this source?”

“I’ll send you all the details shortly.” Carla got to her feet and retrieved her data stick from the machine, causing the data in front of Judy to disappear. She touched Burner’s arm softly as she passed him on the way to the door. “I hope you make the right decision. Sorry for dropping in unannounced. Enjoy the rest of the donuts.”

She let herself out. Burner and Judy stood in silence. Unspoken questions crackled between them like static. The data, the source, Carla Clark… The more information they got, the less they knew. Burner felt like his mind was on a manic treadmill, racing desperately and getting nowhere.

He headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on—his go-to move when he had no idea what to do. Soon, Judy joined him. She emptied the three coffees down the sink and stuffed the cups into the trash, along with the uneaten donuts.

* * *

ABANDONED WAREHOUSE, RANCH DISTRICT, DOBULLA U8X, UNION SPACE

“It’s less risk,” Judy noted. “With this data, we can take down the cabal in the Union without jeopardizing our own safety and legal status any further. And we won’t leave a wake of bodies, which would be… nice.”

Burner didn’t respond immediately. He and Judy were now sitting opposite each other at the group table.

Burner cradled his coffee. “Presumably,” he agreed.

Judy raised her eyebrows and nodded for him to expand.

He didn’t look up but continued speaking, his gaze fixed on the rim of his coffee mug. “Is it in our best interest, though? Wouldn’t the world be better off without these people? They’re scum, right? These might be some of the people that were behind the ring that was brainwashing you and taking away your memories. If we try and take them down through the courts and the legal system, I have the feeling they’re just going to weasel their way out of things. And I wouldn’t be too happy with that outcome.”

Judy nodded. “But the alternative? We just play judge, jury, and executioner? Take them out without a trial? We want these people out, sure, but going through a dossier and murdering them one by one… We don’t want to become them.”

Burner’s face hardened. “It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

There was an awkward silence.

Judy broke it. “That was…different. There was a smuggling ring. There were women whose lives were in imminent danger. We didn’t have a choice then. We do now. We can take an easier path. It would be…more comfortable.”

She spoke the phrase as if she were aware of all that it meant. Leaving the complex moral decisions to the law, letting the system bungle justice haphazardly—perhaps, in doing so, allowing some of these criminals to walk free, to just pick up where they left off. Doing all of that in the sound, cozy knowledge that it was legal, and legal was right.

Burner sighed and leaned back, still not looking up. “If the intel Carla showed us was correct, some of these guys were probably in on that trafficking ring.” He wasn’t disagreeing with her, though his point ran contrary. “Not to mention half a dozen other schemes that are just as bad. We can prevent that from ever happening again.”

Another awkward pause.

Judy leaned back too, subconsciously mirroring her counterpart. “And we’re just supposed to team up with this Collective? We still know nothing about them.”

Burner shook his head. “I don’t know. They clearly think we can help them.”

“Why should we?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I think we should look into it. We don’t need to align ourselves with them just yet.”

Judy sighed, pushing her hair back. She looked at him with a somewhat sympathetic expression. “Burner, do you really want to get back into the game of tracking down dirty Union soldiers again? You spent half your life doing that. Tracking them down, putting them away. There’s a reason you were glad to get out, remember.”

He raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. “I was glad to get away from the corruption in the Union. Which would be precisely what we’d be trying to stop, if we teamed up with the Collective.”

“We can try, but it will still be there, even if we get rid of all the names Carla showed us. The corruption is endemic to the institution, Burner. It’s always going to be there. Nothing we do will stop that.”

“Maybe,” he confirmed, finally meeting her gaze. “Maybe it’s a losing battle. But then, maybe it’s a battle we’ve just got to fight anyway. Because that’s who we are.”

“That’s why they got rid of you, Burner. You were too good at your job. Even the straight and narrow officers considered you a problem. Nobody likes it when something upsets the status quo.”

Burner chuckled softly. “Sure. I certainly stirred up trouble. And a lot of people didn’t like it. And I was relieved once I got out.”

Judy’s eyes narrowed. “But you were lost too. What were you planning on doing with your life?”

He shrugged. “Just…living quietly. I was tired. I didn’t want to do the whole honorable hero thing anymore. I wanted a quiet life. I was done trying to fix the world.” His gaze took in the living workspace of their safehouse. “It didn’t exactly work out the way I planned.”

Judy looked across at him with sympathetic skepticism. “You, in the Deadlands? Just bumming about? That’s what you wanted?”

Burner closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Just bumming about.”

Judy shook her head with fond disparagement. There were decisions to be made. Intel to be sought. They were stumbling about in the dark, and soon they were going to have to pick a path forward: with the Collective, or without. But they had worked through the night, caught an hour’s sleep, then navigated a strategic minefield with the least trustworthy breakfast-bringer either of them had ever encountered. Unanswered questions and unmitigated threats flooded the room.

And they needed Boris, Margarita, and more sleep to deal with these.

Judy pushed her chair back. “Okay. Let’s talk about it some more when the others are up. I’m going to try and get a few minutes shut eye. Gods know I need it.”

Burner lifted a hand from the table by way of a wave but otherwise remained motionless, no doubt churning the decisions they would have to face very soon.

9

Judge Caldwell’s Chambers, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Drake knocked on the door to Judge Caldwell’s chambers. He waited in the hallway, listening to sounds of shuffling coming from inside the office.

Moments later a voice called out to him. “Come!”

Drake entered. The chambers were pretty much what you’d expect: three holoscreens in one wall for virtual conferencing, a desk with holocases cluttered on it, two datapads lying at angles, and data sticks. On the wall was the only real personal touch—a holoimage of the judge and his family.

Caldwell sat at his desk. He closed down his holo and looked up at his visitor. Caldwell was bald on top but had two shocks of white hair sticking out from the sides of his head. Drake always thought it gave him something of a mad scientist look. He waved Drake to a seat across from him.

“Busy?” Drake asked, with a glint of humor that acknowledged they were both perennially busy.

“Oh, not too bad, not too bad.” Caldwell brushed the air above the datapad and document sticks to indicate they were mere inconveniences. “We’ve had a case thrown out today so I have some time unallocated by my assistant.” He smiled. He liked to pretend that he was enslaved by the job, but Drake knew that wasn’t the reality. He just gave that impression to keep others from resenting him. Resenting the power he really had.

Drake sat. “Well it’s good of you to see me, anyhow.”

The judge chuckled. “My pleasure. Mind you, I prefer to see you with a deck of cards so I can get your money off you. I hear you’re leading a new anti-terrorism squad over at Union HQ?”

Drake opened his mouth to object to him knowing that.

The judge raised his hand to calm him. “Don’t worry, nobody talked details, I just heard a little about it through the grapevine.”

Drake rested his arms on the hard wooden sides of his chair and stretched his legs out, feeling foolish that he was about to get bristly. “Yeah it’s a big project, but it’s been going well so far. Got a good team under me. This is about something else though—a separate lead my team’s dug up. Bit of a rogue, you know the sort.”

He pushed his datapad over to Caldwell, the case file ready on the screen. The judge took it and began to skim through the report. He nodded as he scrolled, as though he had come across a good few dozen similar cases and recognized what he was looking at. “Smugglers, huh? I thought the docks were clamping down on that kind of thing. That new supervisor—what’s his name? The lanky one. He took over last year. I thought he was going to be getting rid of this kind of thing. At least that’s what they’ve been telling me.”

Drake sighed. “Yeah, they’ve been making more of an effort. Looks like our guy here has been paying some people off. Fella with the generic name of Sam Johnson. I’ve got a hunch he’s well-connected, working with some high-level figures in organized crime. If we can bring him in and get him talking, it could be a big score for both of us.”

Caldwell glanced up at the last sentence. He was mildly interested. Drake recognized the fish had nibbled—but it wasn’t it wasn’t on the hook yet.

Caldwell’s gaze fell back to the datapad. “An organized crime figure would be good for our totals, it’s true. We don’t want to stir up trouble where there isn’t any, though. But if you’ve got intel to say they’re working out of the dock, then I guess you have cause. And you need me to sign off on the warrant?”

“That’s right.” Drake was looking idly at the picture of the judge’s family while Caldwell considered his case. To a casual outsider, he might look relaxed. Nonchalant. “Typical search and seizure of his home and business, and bringing him in for questioning. The guy’s got a decent rap sheet—not the longest in the world, but enough that we’ve got plenty to pin on him.”

“Hmm.” The judge seemed to be inspecting Sam Johnson’s file more closely than Drake would have liked. Drake came to Caldwell to sign warrants like this one because he usually couldn’t be bothered examining them. He tended to be more than happy to sign off, not wanting to waste time with details. He preferred to occupy his mind with his next game of golf or when he could get back to the poker table.

“How did you link this guy to the smugglers again?” Caldwell furrowed his brow. “I see he’s got racketeering beefs from a while back but nothing specifically about smuggling in here. Nothing recent.”

“I’ve been working a CI,” Drake lied. “They’ve been infiltrating this thing for a few months. A person who’s been in Johnson’s organization for a while now, someone I trust. This person has it on good authority that Sam here has his hand in this smuggling ring, along with a few other endeavors. Which means there should be a mountain of evidence waiting for us once we nab him.”

It was plausible enough that Caldwell shouldn’t need to look too closely into it. Drake’s team worked with confidential informants all the time; it was par for the course in infiltrating these kinds of criminal rings. They provided him with a decent cover since judges usually didn’t even ask that they be named most of the time, in order to keep them working on the streets. Caldwell scrolled to the end of the file and brought up the warrant ready for signature. Drake kept his face wooden to keep it from betraying his satisfaction. This was the Caldwell he was used to, who was happy to sign off on just about anything as long as he liked you. The judge fumbled under some holocases and found a digi-pen that housed his personal cryptographically encoded signature key.

Caldwell scribbled his signature and pressed his thumbprint by the side, double confirming the authenticity. “You can search his premises and any businesses he’s running. But you know the drill—do this by the book. If you don’t find anything pertaining to the case, you’ve got to cut him loose. This doesn’t give you free reign to toss his stuff, either.”

“Of course.” Drake fought back the urge to snatch the datapad straight out of the judge’s hands. For a minute, he’d been worried he might have caught Caldwell in a fastidious moment, and his less-than-conscientious poker buddy would be keen to dig deeper into the request. “I’ve got a feeling we’ll find something, though. I kind of think Johnson believes he’s out of harm’s way. A little pressure should make things more interesting, so we can see exactly what he knows.”

Caldwell pushed the datapad back to Drake. Drake forced himself to stop talking and just get out of there before he could arouse suspicion. He took the pad and got up to leave.

“Oh,” Caldwell said, as Drake headed for the door. Drake’s heart leapt into his mouth. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, there’s a poker game this weekend. Benton’s garage. Supposed to be a decent crowd this time. And I hear they’re going to up the buy-ins.”

Drake fought to recover himself, the adrenaline still pumping through his system as a needless reaction. “Oh yeah? No more penny ante wagers?”

“Sure hope not,” Caldwell mused. “It’s always a good crowd at Benton’s. Should be interesting. Of course, if you’re a bit gun shy to come out, I understand. I know you got cleaned out last time.”

Drake smiled. He typically lost on purpose when he attended games with that crew. Play the good loser, get the guys to like him. It made the judges feel smarter than him, and the sums they played for were usually trivial, at least to Drake. Drake bobbed his head, having turned to face the judge. “I’ve been beat up in the past at Benton’s games, but I think those days are behind me now.” He forced a good-natured smile. “I think I might show my face there. I feel like my luck is due to turn around—can’t be worse than last time, at any rate.”

He calculated that it should probably be a good bit worse than last time. Couldn’t have Caldwell thinking he might be intelligent the same week he’d been so slow to sign that warrant for him.

“That right?” the judge chided playfully.

Drake winked. “What can I say? I’ve just got a hunch. You never know how these things will turn out, your Honor.”

Judge Caldwell laughed. “Don’t give me that your Honor nonsense. I won’t go easy on you just because you show me respect. I’ve been playing since you were in diapers!”

Drake gave a theatrical wave of his hand. “I bow before your eminent wisdom, good sir.”

“Glad to hear it, squire.” He shooed Drake from the office like an aging grandfather telling the kids to go out to play. Drake turned and headed out, then he closed the door behind him.

As Drake left the courthouse, he congratulated himself on how he’d managed to play the judge. Sam Johnson would be in for a very unpleasant surprise, and Drake’s plan would be set into motion. It was all going exactly as he’d hoped.

He headed to the street where he’d had to pay to park since he was using his work car. Sometimes, when he had a lot of things to juggle, it was hard to remember to do annoying little things like that, which were so far removed from his life outside of the Union. If only he could have his driver pick him up for Union work.

He shook his head in dismay as he clambered into his car. Well, back to Union headquarters for now. He wasn’t looking forward to trying to find a parking space there in the middle of the day. Plus he was hungry. He realized he hadn’t eaten all day. His mouth salivated at the wistful thought of DiLuca’s calamari.

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Drake managed to grab only a few moments of calm back at the office before he was forced to jump back into the deep end of his duties. He skimmed through all his intel, making sure it was in order before he presented it to the team. He didn‘t want to have any inconsistencies in the data. The members of his team were smart. Too smart, some might argue.

As soon as he was able, Drake called a get together in the meeting room, and watched as the team filed in. They still appeared bright-eyed and ready for business, which pleased Drake. They would be sharp, but he was confident he could lead them away from any inconsistencies in his story. When everyone was settled, he distributed the new materials to their datapads.

“We’ve got a person who’s suspected of smuggling, in addition to other crimes,” Drake started. He ran down the specifics of the Sam Johnson case. “I’m not sure yet, but this could potentially tie in with the counter-terrorism operation we’ve been working,” he continued. “These guys are moving all sorts of contraband. We’ve got reasonable suspicion that guns and bombs could be part and parcel of that. Judge Caldwell has already signed off on the warrant, so we’ve got the go ahead to move forward on this thing. But we need to make sure that when we hit this guy, we come back with real, actionable evidence. We don’t have carte blanche to go searching through the docks willy-nilly. Everything we find needs to be in the warrant.”

He waited as the members of his crew read over the holo-documents he’d provided. They outlined who Sam Johnson was and what crimes he was suspected of, although they were brief—by design, of course. Drake figured that the less information his eagle-eyed team had to check through, the better.

He hoped that for once he could get through this briefing without opening up a debate, but of course as the thought entered his mind, Clarissa Stone’s hand went into the air. Drake’s expression didn‘t change. Poker face. Even though he’d done his best to make this a quick briefing, inviting no discussion, he should have known this was unavoidable. Clarissa was as sharp as cut glass. He wished he could get the efficiency of these people without their damned intelligence. They needed to learn how to take instructions and follow orders without always questioning everything.

He tried not to appear too dismayed. “Yes, Ms. Stone? What can I clear up for you?”

“According to the brief, this guy pleaded no contest to some racketeering charges a while back.” Clarissa read the information from the packet with a sense of bewilderment. “Other than that, I’m not seeing too much here that links him with any sort of counter-terrorism operation. And there doesn’t seem to be clear evidence that he’s the one running the smuggling job. All his prior charges were years ago, and it seems like he’s stayed relatively under the radar since then. Are we sure this case is strong enough?”

Drake assumed a benevolent smile, like a teacher with a precocious pupil. “Good question. The terrorism link is speculative for now. But we’re sure Sam Johnson is connected with the smugglers somehow. We’ve got word from a CI that this is our guy. Your job will be gathering the evidence required.”

Clarissa looked at him with the confidence of someone who had instantly broken apart every word he had just spoken, searched it for information, and found nothing. “But I mean, from the data in this briefing, this guy just seems like kind of a small fish. He’s got what, a few minor priors? How does someone like that go from small change crimes to suddenly running the show? It doesn’t add up. And I’m not sure about the terrorism link. It says they were smuggling datapads. This guy’s motivated by money, not ideology.”

Drake moved from the window where he’d been leaning to the table where he’d left his coffee cup and took a sip while considering his next move. This wasn’t just asking questions about the case: Clarissa was openly questioning his judgement, his authority—perhaps his credibility. That last one was paranoid, of course. But he needed to shut this down in a way that would ensure it didn’t come to that.

Gary Moore resolved his consternation. “Clarissa, just shut up and do your job.” Moore was a useful person to have on the team. Drake set his coffee back down, making a mental note to promote Moore at the next convenient opportunity. He was a team player. There was nothing more irritating than intelligent people being intelligent. It wasn’t the first time that Moore had been an excellent buffer against that.

“You’re reading too much into this,” Moore continued. “The Commander’s got the warrant. Caldwell signed off. There must be enough for cause.”

Clarissa hesitated, then sank back in her seat. Fred and Karl exchanged a look with each other. From what was in the files, it seemed Clarissa was right: this wasn’t a high-profile guy. But Drake was their leader and he must have his reasons.

Fred tried a different tack. “So what about the anti-terrorism leads? Are we leaving those?”

“Not leaving it.” Drake’s tone made it clear that Fred should feel irresponsible for suggesting he would lose sight of such an important case. “This case may well be linked. Direct enquiries are going on the backburner, yes. The Johnson thing will be your full focus until he’s in custody and we’ve got what we need to build a case.”

Karl turned to his teammates, clearly a little perplexed at the opacity of the situation. Drake decided to get a bit more heavy-handed.

“Karl? Did you have something you wanted to say?”

Karl looked like he’d been caught passing notes in class. “Uh…I mean I’m happy to run this thing down with the rest of the team. But I’ve been working on a few leads on the anti-terrorism case that are time-sensitive. If I put them down, they could dry up by the time I get back to it.”

“I get that.” Drake decided it was best to shut this down as fast as possible. “I’ve kept a close eye on that work, remember. Let me clarify: this case takes priority. This is time sensitive too. It’s not long before the warrant expires. I expect everyone to commit to the Johnson investigation from now on. Do your jobs, and let me worry about allocation of resources.”

He said it with a tone of finality, and silence followed. A few members of the team had started to read through their documents in more detail as if to signal that they were already giving 110 percent. Clarissa had gotten her datapad out and was clearly already searching for some background information on the case. Drake allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. They were like a team of enthusiastic moles—they were great at digging, and the trick was just to get them digging in the right direction. They’d just come worryingly close to burrowing into Drake’s backyard, but he’d successfully gotten them back on track; they were on Johnson’s case now.

He dismissed them and promptly headed back to his office. He checked the time and closed the blinds. Then he opened the bottom drawer of his workstation to retrieve a small black box. It had a tiny antenna attached that wobbled in its place as Drake took it out and connected it to his comm set. The device was an untraceable satellite communications module, or SCM. It allowed him to make calls without any chance of someone intercepting the transmission or overhearing. He waited for the green light to blink on, indicating the SCM was working correctly. After one more glance at the door, he punched in the connection code.

Josh answered the call. There was background noise. Drake wondered for a moment whether it would be wise to talk right now. But Josh answered, meaning that he could take the call. That was their protocol. And Josh, despite all appearances, was a pro.

Like the software he was using, Josh had the uncanny ability to slip noiselessly under the radar. He seemed like just another twenty-something-year-old sitting in a crowded, trendy coffeeshop, dark hoodie pulled up over his head, drinking his fancy coffee. All around him other young people were on their comms and datapads, making calls, doing work, listening to music, and playing online games.

“Josh.” Drake sounded calm and professional, as usual. He heard Josh grunt. Drake wondered if perhaps key to Josh’s natural camouflage was that he made a full-time occupation of looking about as engaged as an overcooked asparagus. “Just calling to check up on things. Any updates on this Collective nonsense?”

A waitress shuffled past Josh’s table, glancing into his cup to see if it was empty. Seeing it was full, she politely made eye contact and kept moving. Josh averted his eyes. It didn’t occur to him to make sure that she didn’t catch a glimpse of his datapad. In his experience, no one was ever interested in the green-on-black workings of his screen.

“Yeah, I’ve been hearing some things in the last 25 hours. I’ve hacked into a few of their threads. Sounds like something is going down, but I’m only finding fragments. Yet to find the main discussion.” He said it like hacking into groups of some of the most talented hackers around was pre-breakfast game play. “Something about enlisting some Ex-Union operator. Oh, they also have been using Peake’s codename so they’re pretty well versed on the landscape.”

A couple squeezed past behind Josh’s seat, and the man cast a dirty look at Josh’s grubby backpack lying on the floor beside his chair. It was pretty impressive that they managed to register the existence of his chair and his bag but not quite clock that there was also a human there. A human who happened to be engaged in underhand activity that was almost certainly the most interesting thing going on in this place.

“Former Union?” Drake sounded more curious than concerned. “You got an ID?”

“Guy’s name is Burner. Think he used to be a Union MP. I’m running a search now to see what I can get on him. Think he mustered out of the Union around five years ago, not sure why. From what they’re saying on the forums, he knows what he’s doing.”

“Hmm.” Drake heard a shriek from a toddler on the other end of the line. “Where are you now? Are you sure it’s safe to be talking about this?”

“It’s fine, no one’s listening my end. The SCM will sort out anyone between us.” Somehow, Josh was capable of translating the shrug into an audio-only conversation. Drake considered shooting down Josh’s nonchalance, the way he would anyone on his regular team, but he wasn’t sure the guy was capable of noticing disapproval.

“Anyway,” Josh continued after a while, as though in his experience forty-second-long silences punctuated every conversation, “I don’t know what the Collective’s next move is. They’re keeping most people in the dark about it. They seem to work in cells.”

Drake nodded. “Smart.”

“I mean, I can still walk into most of their files on him. They’re not that good.”

To Josh, the fact that he could get the best part of any intelligence he wanted illustrated to him not that he was remarkable but that the world around him was profoundly unremarkable. Next to his polished Union prodigies, Drake liked that.

“What’s your gut say about this Burner guy? Is he going to be a problem?”

“Dunno. But the Collective think they’re smart. This guy’s got to be pretty good if they’re saying he’s smarter. They don’t like outsourcing.”

“Alright. Find out what you can then let me know. I’ll contact you later.”

He waited for a response, and of course got none. The comm went dead.

Techies.

10

Krantz Park, Cotez District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Burner sat on the park bench, waiting. It was a warm, languid day, and the park was full of people enjoying the reprieve: groups of teens laying out in the sun, couples strolling hand in hand, families taking photos by the fountain. He had his datapad out on his lap, an in-depth analysis of current stock market fluctuations on the screen. He glanced up every so often and scanned the crowd.

Carla hadn’t given him much to go off of. He knew the bench to sit on and the time to be there. The informant would come, she’d said. Of course. Carla would doubtless have plenty of photos of Burner to show the informant, so he would be easily recognized. Burner didn’t like going into a meeting blind.

About five minutes passed. The informant was late. Burner started to wonder if this was some sort of setup. He glanced up, scanned his surroundings, and lowered his gaze again. He stared hard at the datapad, wondering how much longer he should be willing to wait. A reflection in the screen of the holopad caught his eye. Burner caught a whiff of smoke, then saw a man about fifty sit down to his right at the far end of the bench. From the corner of his eye, Burner could see the man had glasses and sharply combed dark hair. He sat and smoked with an air of comfort, as though he owned everything and everyone in sight. This was him. Burner kept his gaze fixed on his datapad, not venturing anything; it was up to the informant to initiate contact.

When the man spoke, it was with a slow rasp. “The corner market’s got great bargains.”

Burner let his datapad rest in his lap, still looking straight ahead. “Banana bunches are two for one right now.”

Burner moved his head, just a fraction of a nod, and the man sat back on the bench, taking a long drag of his cigarette. He didn’t seem in a hurry to provide information, and Burner was determined not to reveal anything—not his current position, his uncertainty, nor his knowledge. He settled for a safe opening.

“Were you followed?” Burner asked.

“Don’t think so.” The man didn’t seem particularly concerned about it.

“You don’t think so, or you weren’t?”

“I wasn’t.”

Silence.

“You don’t have to tell me how to do things. I know how this works,” the stranger added.

Burner crossed his legs, pretending to scroll through more pages on his datapad. This guy wasn’t going to open up without questioning.

“So who are you, exactly?”

The man took another deep drag of his cigarette. He exhaled, blowing the smoke straight up into the air. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to convey whatever information he had to Burner. He seemed to be enjoying the mild weather, basking in the scenery. Sizing him up in brief glances from his datapad, Burner didn’t get the sense that this would be someone who would be easily intimidated or disturbed by what needed to be done.

“An ally,” the man said between puffs. “Probably. Right now, I’m just working toward the same goals as you are. I did take the liberty of looking through your old files, Burner. You were a good soldier. We didn’t treat you the way we should have. But I know your skillset, and I know that we can help each other.”

We. He said we. He’s on the inside. And probably high up. “I’m glad you appreciate my credentials,” Burner said firmly. “But if I wanted to be flattered I would have just set up another meeting with our mutual friend. Let’s cut to the chase.”

There was a smile in the man’s voice as he replied. “Don’t undersell yourself, Burner. You’re soaking up facts like a sponge—I can see you, sitting there, calculating. It’s been drilled into you. I didn’t give you much at face value, but I can tell that every word I say gives you a lot of information. We work by the same tactics. Both hesitant to venture information, both curious—why would we be here otherwise? But here’s the ‘chase’ that you wish me to cut to: I’m as disgusted by the current state of things as you are. But unlike you—at the moment—I technically have the power to do something about it. But not without great cost. Not without exposing myself to those rather unsavory elements within the walls of the government buildings.”

Burner assessed every word. Every phrase. His contact certainly spoke like he was on the inside; he had that haughty sense of superiority mixed with bureaucracy Burner couldn’t stand. But he also sounded competent, self-assured. He was in a position of authority. He’d also been doing his job for a long time now, so who knew what strings could be pulled and which people could be trusted.

Burner decided to press him—for something. “You’re working for the Union? The government?”

“All in due course,” he repeated calmly. “You don’t reveal everything on the first date. We don’t want to rush into anything that could turn out badly.”

Taking it slow was not something Burner was good at, especially with this case. Time was a commodity. Given that the Collective knew about him and his team, it wouldn’t be long before these powers that be would figure out that they’d been taking the Ring out, and then his team would be in danger. If they didn’t already know who they were. But the man was both in control and right. They had to establish some baseline of trust before any real work could be done.

Burner tried another tack. “You sound like you’ve been aware of these bad actors for a while. And you’ve managed to keep your work with Carla a secret from others in your organization. So you know what you’re doing.”

“Correct. I’ve been careful. I’ve watched the system grow and change over the years. I’ve seen the rot seep in, and the denial, the institution continuing to churn along like nothing is wrong. It’s human nature, Burner, that systems become corrupted. The fall of the Union, or at least its corruption, is an inevitable part of its existence. If anyone within the organization knew that I was onto them, I’d be taken out just like that, no questions asked. And I don’t mean through a trial or a court martial. They’d either kill me to send a message to anyone else who was thinking about taking them on. That means tossing me out a window or shooting me in broad daylight. If they wanted to be a little more subtle about things, I guess maybe they’d poison me or stage a car accident. They have people on the payroll who are very good at those types of things. I’ve been careful, Burner, and I’m sure you have as well, but moving forward with this means inviting trouble to the people you care about. Which is one of the reasons, I’m sure, why you’re hesitant to get involved. You need to know what you’re getting them into.”

Burner paused before responding. He was trying to match his interlocutor’s pace, which wasn’t easy when his reaction was instinctive. The man had hit a nerve. He took a steadying breath. “No. Of course not. I’d need a good reason to risk their welfare.”

He considered whether he’d revealed too much, though it was evident this stranger already knew—his team was his pressure point. And he’d just confessed that directly to a deeply untrustworthy informant in a park. But his reaction was only what the man had expected it to be.

The man continued. “If that’s your biggest reservation for getting involved, I can understand. Nobody wants to put their team in danger. But I’ve got bad news for you, Burner. That’s what’s probably going to be necessary at some point if we’re going to move ahead with this thing. You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, as they say. You have my assurance that I’ll try my best to mitigate the risk to you and your team. Obviously, there’s no way I can offer you a one hundred percent guarantee of safety. But if we get the guys we’re after, any questionable methods you or your team uses along the way will be brushed aside. Swept under the rug. You won’t have to worry about prosecution.”

Burner couldn’t help it. He turned his head to look at the man. “You’re saying we could take these guys down legit?”

“Careful, Burner.” He spoke as though talking to a child. “You’re getting excited. Keep your eyes on your datapad. You asked me if I was followed here but notice I didn’t ask you the same question. That’s because I trust your competence. In general. And you’d do well to trust in mine, at least if we’re going to be working together until the end of this thing.”

Burner waited a moment before turning back to his datapad. This was a status battle, and damned if he was going to lose. And now that he had a clear view of his face, something awoke in Burner’s memory. It was vague—something from a long time ago. But Burner knew he’d had something to do with Union politics. Maybe a security branch somewhere—one of the intelligence operatives he’d had dealings with in the past, which meant he was probably telling the truth about his role in the government. This was significant. The man had banked on Burner’s not remembering who he was, and he had been right, but it had been a risk. On the off chance that Burner recognized him, he would be able to destroy his Union career. So the man was gambling by being here, which meant he must have something serious to offer.

“Thank you,” the man voiced as Burner looked down at his datapad. “Yes, Burner, I’m giving you the chance to take these guys down, legitimately. If everything goes as planned, we can take this through the courts, make arrests, convictions. The long arc of justice, all that good stuff. It would still require getting the necessary evidence, the witnesses, people working with us to get this done the right way.” He paused, drawing in breath as if he was about to broach something difficult. “Get me the evidence, and I will push through the legal side. That’s a guarantee. I know you’ve got no compunction about coloring outside the lines, as it were. Doing it my way would mean no extrajudicial murders, or you’d have to kill all the bad actors involved, and you’d be a fugitive on the run from the Union once again.”

“I don’t want that. Nor does my team.”

“Well, of course they wouldn’t. Which brings me to my other point. If you can get that evidence to me, your team will be free to go about your lives. No bother from the Union, no questions asked.”

Burner took his time to consider what the man was offering him. Could he get him any information Burner and his team couldn’t already have found? Could he really offer legal security?

He spoke slowly. “I’ve seen enough killing in the last few months. I’d prefer to go through the courts. Despite what my file might say about me, I have no qualms about doing things the legitimate way. But if we’re going up against corrupt Union officials, doing things through the regular channels isn’t going to be easy. I guess you already know that. So I’ve got a question for you. What exactly do you have to offer me?”

He seemed to have been expecting the question. “Here.” With the practiced ease of someone used to making backdoor deals, the man casually reached into his jacket and came out with something Burner couldn’t see without moving his head. He slid it over across the bench, and Burner finally realized it was a data stick. Burner took it and slipped it into his pocket.

“This is intel for you, but it’s also a way of building trust. It’s information you can check out and confirm with your team.”

Burner nodded. “I’ll look into it. But this just means I’m curious. It doesn’t mean I’m accepting your offer. Yet.”

The man finished his cigarette, exhaling one last line of gray smoke into the sky. He tossed the butt away and watched it roll along the concrete. He shrugged. “Fine. But you should make up your mind soon, Burner. This offer won’t be viable forever.”

With that, the man got up and walked away. Burner stayed sitting there a few minutes longer, staring without seeing at his datapad. The data stick felt heavy in his pocket. It would need scanning, of course, for anything dodgy—tracers, viruses… But the data Carla Clark had showed them had been promising, and now he had information directly from ‘the source.’

And he had every reason to hope that this would be useful.

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Drake stood in the staging room with his team as they prepped for the raid. The men and women of his squad donned body armor and checked their weapons, lacing up their boots and getting ready to go in. None of them knew whether Sam Johnson and his men would surrender easily, or whether they were about to walk into a prolonged firefight. Drake himself chose not to wear the gear, though he did make sure to check his sidearm and shrug on a kevlar vest before heading to the front of the staging room and facing his squad.

“You guys know the drill by now. Let’s go over one last time to make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

“Nothing to worry about, Commander.” Karl flashed a grin at Clarissa while straightening his knee pads. “We know what we’re doing. We’ll hit this guy when he’s not ready for it. He doesn’t seem like any kind of criminal mastermind, in any case.”

Drake didn’t return Karl’s jovial tone.

“Let’s not get cocky. Moore is leading the A team, who’ll go in first and round the front. I’ll be monitoring operations from the rear, right behind you guys. B team—”

His team had been prepping all week to serve the warrant on Sam Johnson. Drake had considered trying to contact Johnson ahead of time to explain what he wanted from him and cut things off at the pass. Maybe give him some heads up as a show of good faith before the raid. That would help build a relationship. Some trust. But in the end, he decided not to. Right now, he had no secure way of contacting Johnson without anyone in the Union finding out. Also, he thought it would be better if he spoke to Johnson relatively soon after the Union brought him in, before he’d had time to completely recover from the shock. He would retain the power that way.

That also meant that Drake needed to interrogate him alone right away, with no chance of his team overhearing them. Drake figured he should be able to arrange that without too much trouble. The Union was fond of taping their interrogations but that could be circumvented—he was the boss, after all. No, he was more worried that Sam Johnson would realize the evidence against him was flimsy and reject the offer. Drake wouldn’t have much leverage in that situation. But he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

Drake was letting his team orchestrate the nuts and bolts of serving the warrant. He needed to focus more on the aftermath and cornering Johnson before anyone else could get a hold of him. He was having Gary Moore take point on the field operations. Moore was capable of handling an assignment like this by himself. He also seemed frustrated that Drake kept inserting himself into the picture, making sure he was kept up to date on the exact movements of the team during the raid, the times, locations, and orders. Drake figured he’d get over it—especially when on the next raid things would be back to normal.

“I’ll be in charge of the B team,” Clarissa cut in. “Moore and his crew will move in from the docks, and we’ll be ready at the back in case they try to come out that way. We don’t expect prolonged resistance in the confusion.”

“Good.” Drake snapped his sidearm in its holster and headed to the door. “Let’s make this happen.”

The team loaded into several armored vans, the Union logo emblazoned on their sides. They pulled out from headquarters and headed off in a tight formation down the street. Drake followed close behind in his own personal cruiser, hoping that things played out the way he intended. With any luck, he’d get a chance to talk to Sam Johnson alone at his hideout before his team took him back to headquarters.

It took them about twenty minutes to reach their first base, about a half kilometer away from Sam Johnson’s hideout. There, the team made sure their comms were calibrated and working properly. Fred Wilson ran surveillance from the lead van, keeping an eye on the perimeter of the building and staying in constant contact with the rest of the squad to let them know what kind of resistance they faced. The plan was to hit them hard and fast. From their van, Clarissa called Gary Moore on his comm. “We’re all set. You guys good?”

Moore’s voice crackled back over the comm.

“Locked and loaded. We’ll get the thermite charges up and on the door in the front. Wait sixty before you move in from the back. We want the initial pressure to come from our end. We’ll see you at the front of the building when everything’s clear.”

“Ready when you are.” Clarissa’s voice was clipped and professional, but something in it betrayed how much she enjoyed this. Combat—for her, the ultimate intelligence test—was where she belonged. She tasted fear on the tip of her tongue, and she felt her pulse rise, her vision narrow, and her thoughts become sharp. This was it.

The vans swung off the curb from the meeting point, speeding toward Sam Johnson’s hideout. Drake followed them in his car. He pulled up behind Moore’s van in the front and watched his squad drop out of the vehicle. Swift and quiet as a trickle of blood, they ran silently toward the house.

11

Sam Johnson’s Dockside Hideout, Freegeary District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Click.

Gary Moore pressed the button on the explosive charge, then rapidly retreated several paces. A second passed before the reinforced front doors of the dockside hideout blew off with a bang and scattered debris. The squad rushed inside.

Meanwhile, at the back doors Clarissa Stone and her team were igniting thermite charges of their own, blowing off the much less secure back entrance. Clarissa swung her helmet visor down over her face and ran into the smoke, her team following just steps behind her. She swiftly cleared the first room, what looked like a loading zone, sweeping the air with her rifle and moving with the others in a tight formation as she confirmed to her team that the room was clear. From deeper inside the building, she could hear the sounds of commotion, men rushing to their stations, panicking.

Out front, Moore and his men moved through the lobby, where two stunned security guards didn’t have time even to think of moving for their weapons. Instead, they instinctively jumped to their feet. Registering what was happening, they quickly moved their hands over their heads.

“On your knees!” Moore jerked his gun at them. He nodded to two of the operatives behind him. They immediately came forward with zip ties and twisted the guards’ arms behind their backs. The men grunted but put up no resistance. They wouldn’t die for Sam Johnson, and it was painfully clear that death was the alternative. Their captors dragged them unceremoniously out of the building, as the point members of the squad continued to press further into the building.

Clarissa and her team came up against another door. It took them into a large warehouse area, which was crowded with rows of shelves. Clarissa swore steadily under her breath. The shelves were blinding them as to what—or who—was in the room with them.

The team moved cautiously through the area, weapons at the ready. One of them stumbled and reached out to a shelf to stop himself from falling. A canister of steel bolts clattered to the floor, and every gun in the team whipped around to point toward the noise. The operatives remained silent and still as one of the bolts spun on the floor, listening with expanded awareness—as they’d been trained. Clarissa stamped it down and jerked her head to the team. Move on.

They had nearly reached the other end of the room, and Clarissa was about to give the order to spread out and check for a second door, when an explosion of gunfire erupted from above them. Wrenched out of their stealthy silence,, the team clattered to disperse. They took cover behind shelves, boxes, anything they could find, pointing their guns every which way, trying to pinpoint exactly where the fire was coming from.

“Up there!”

Clarissa looked up to where the operative was pointing his gun. Two members of Johnson’s squad opened fire on them from a balcony above, raking their guns over the vulnerable operatives below.

“Fire and move!” Clarissa barked.

Her squad fanned out in all directions, releasing a hailstorm of bullets at their two attackers while giving them only randomly moving targets. Both were shredded in the fire, dropping their weapons and collapsing on the balcony in a bloody mess.

Clarissa darted to the edge of the room and motioned the others to join her. A glance was enough to tell her she still had everyone she came in with. No blood. Good.

They kept pushing forward, kicking open the door of a meeting room, where a group of men who’d been playing cards sat terrified, their hands in the air. The team quickly zip-tied each of them as more sounds of gunfire and explosions echoed from the other side of the building.

Clarissa grabbed one man by the scruff of his shirt and shoved him against the wall, her gun at his chin. “Where’s Johnson?”

The man’s mouth worked as he gasped like a fish out of water. Finally, his voice cracked into gear. “His…his office. He’s normally in his…office around this time. But I don’t—I don’t know!”

“Show me.” Clarissa released her hold and pushed him toward the exit. The other cardplayers remained immobile at the table, heads down, hands being bound. Her informant stumbled out of the door, wincing as Clarissa’s gun brushed the back of his skull. Breathing noisily, he led them slowly down a corridor and showed them a steel-reinforced door.

“This is it?”

He nodded.

Clarissa waved their demolitions operative forward. With expert speed, he attached the thermite charge. The squad moved back. Clarissa yanked her hostage by the back of his shirt and dragged him away just in time.

The door rocketed off, and they swarmed inside. Gunshots fired blindly through the smoke, one of them hitting Karl in the leg. He went down. The rest of the team pressed forward.

It was Sam Johnson shooting at them. He was taking cover from behind his workstation, blind firing with a pistol from around the corners. Clarissa swore loudly, slamming herself down to the floor as she tried to see where the shots were coming from through the fog of dust. She waved her team to the door and managed to locate Johnson, who was crouching behind his desk, his gun raised. Six shots. Counting them was automatic. She waited for the unmistakable click of Johnson’s spent magazine, then jumped up, pointing her gun at Johnson’s head behind the desk.

“Get down!”

She heard her squad running into the room behind her. Johnson hesitated, looking up at the barrel of her gun as she moved forward. “Head to the floor. Now.”

He dropped the gun and put his forehead to the ground, his hands at either side. Two of her team came forward to pat him down and restrain him. Then they dragged him to his feet and manhandled him out of the room. He swore at them and tried to shake them off, but he was obviously overpowered.

Clarissa turned her attention to Karl, who was sprawled awkwardly on the floor. He looked more like a man who’d stubbed his toe than one who had just been shot. She knelt by his side.

“Talk to me,” she said in the same rough tone she had used to make Johnson surrender. “Where were you hit?” She glanced over him, assessing the color of his lips, checking the pace of his breathing.

Karl grinned at her, shaking. His hand was pressed against his leg. “Caromed off my kneepad. Didn’t penetrate, thankfully. Sore as hell, but no worse for the wear.”

He tried to get to his feet, gasping with pain as he did.

“You should still see the medic.” Clarissa grabbed his arm and put it over her shoulders so she could support him. “With that proximity, it could have caused a fracture.”

Karl squirmed away from her, then he limped to the wall and leaned against it. “I’m not missing the rest of the excitement.” He tried to wink and half his face twitched in the effort.

Clarissa shrugged and moved to Johnson’s desk, where she scrolled through the holoscreen to see what was left up on it. “I think the excitement is over.” She thumbed her comm. “Moore’s just sent word that the building is secure.”

There were heavy footsteps in the corridor. They both reached for their guns—Clarissa was the faster. She had her weapon aimed and ready at the door when Drake appeared in it. His lips twitched with slightly jumpy amusement as she lowered it.

“We’re clear, Commander.” She moved from behind the desk, bolstering her gun, ready to leave. “Looks like two dead for the bad guys, no fatalities for us. A clean operation.”

“Great—good. Where’s Johnson? Not one of the—”

Karl shook his head, wincing through the pain. “Nah, they took him to a room a few doors down. Waiting to get transport set up while the investigators come in and look for evidence.”

“Good.” Drake turned and left. He headed straight for the next open door, where he found Johnson cuffed to a chair with two officers watching him. Johnson had a growing purple welt on the side of his head and a sneer that looked to be permanently etched on his face. He looked up at Drake with a kind of loathing that he would probably have dealt to anyone who had walked through the door at that moment.

“Clear out, guys.” Drake didn’t take his eyes off Johnson as he spoke. “I need to talk to Mr. Johnson.”

The men left without a word. Drake waited a moment, then checked the corridor before closing the door. Johnson looked up at him and spat on the floor.

Drake spoke quietly. “You’d better listen carefully because we haven’t got long. I’ve got enough dirt on you to make damn sure you’ll spend the rest of your life in prison, but work with me, and this could be a big break for you.”

Sam Johnson stared up at Drake. His face was blank but Drake could tell he was thinking. Drake continued. “I need someone to run infrastructure on a project, and I hear that you’re my guy. Have I got your attention yet?”

Johnson’s expression flickered. Drake was about to capitalize on the opening when from the hallway came sounds of his team marching the other members of Johnson’s crew out into the vans.

“Blackmail…” Johnson had not stopped staring at Drake. He spoke slowly, as though he could read Drake’s impatience and wanted to toy with it. “You expect me to work with you after you pull a stunt like this?”

“You don’t have a choice. It’s this or a life in prison.”

Johnson smiled at him for a moment. “Screw that. Charge me.”

Drake leaned against the office desk, forcing Johnson to bend his neck to keep looking at him. “It’s going to be an uphill battle for you, Sam. One guy, taking on the entire Union, with a bunch of crazy stories about how he’s been framed. I’m friends with the judges. Everyone here works for me. Whether you’re guilty of what we pin on you or not, how hard do you think it will be for us to make it stick? This is what I do. If, on the other hand, you work with me, I can make your life very easy. I can get you whatever you want—money, girls, merchandise—you name it.” He shrugged. “Your choice, Sam.”

Johnson glowered at him. “If you’ve done your research, you’ll know you’re not the first scumbag to make me an offer like this. I fell for it with the Hand. I’m not fuckwitted enough to fall for it again.”

“As I said, Sam, it’s your choice. You can come round now or you can spend some time in jail thinking about it. Doesn’t make much difference to me.”

Johnson stopped twisting his neck to look at Drake. Instead he stared straight ahead at the line where the door met the carpet of the room. “I won’t come round. I don’t give a shit what kind of lies you spin me. My lawyers will drag you through the dust.”

Drake moved to behind his prisoner. He stood there for a moment or two, almost able to smell Johnson’s discomfort. This wasn’t playing out the way he’d hoped, and he didn’t have much time. Johnson was irritatingly cool-headed, and Drake wasn’t sure how long he had to apply more pressure. Everyone caves given the right circumstances, of course. Push the guy far enough and he would snap. But any minute someone from his team would be in to scoop the prisoner up and then it would be all admin and recorded interviews to build a case that was destined to crumble.

“You need to think about this real hard, Johnson.” Drake rested his hands on the man’s shoulders and dug in with his fingers. “This is the rest of your life here. You wouldn’t last a year in the can, much less the time we’re prepared to give you.”

Drake leaned down so that he was speaking in his ear, the man’s breath brushing his cheek. “It’s better to get used to the idea now. Sooner or later, you will be mine.”

There was a silence, then Johnson turned his face to Drake’s. He spoke quietly, a heartbeat’s rest between each word. “Kiss. My. Ass.”

Drake broke away. He walked back to lean on the desk, shaking his head as though Johnson’s response were irritating rather than a threat to his own future. His cards were on the table now. He had gambled everything on Johnson’s vulnerability. And lost.

As he considered his next move, there was a knock at the door and Gary Moore strode into the room. He eyed Johnson with disdain. Then he turned his gaze to Drake. “We good, Commander? You want me to get this guy into the van?”

Drake hesitated, but there wasn’t a good reason he could give for more time alone with Johnson here. He nodded. “Yeah. High security. Don’t um…don’t go out of your way to make it a comfortable ride.”

“Understood, sir.”

Drake saw with satisfaction a flicker of anxiety pass over Johnson’s face. Moore grasped the prisoner by the shoulder and shoved him out of the room, past Clarissa who was waiting to come in.

Clarissa entered, glowing with the aftermath of the fray. She took in Drake’s countenance and frowned. “Everything all right, Commander? We’re all ready to go when you are. No casualties, Johnson in the bag. Couldn’t have gone better, right?”

“Huh?” Drake glanced over at her, distracted. “Oh, yeah, of course. Great job today, Clarissa. Everything went swimmingly, as usual.”

Clarissa brushed away the praise. “Anything the matter? Did something go wrong? Someone get hurt?”

“No, everything is fine. I’m just, uh, a little worried about the charges sticking to Johnson.”

“I’m sure they’ll be a mountain of stuff to incriminate him. The team is digging through all the evidence right now. You had a good feeling about this from the start. This case was supposed to be airtight, no?”

“Yeah, it was,” Drake replied, scratching his head. He forced a smile onto his face. “I’ll meet up with the team at the debriefing.”

Clarissa smiled back. “Okay. See you back at HQ.” She left.

Alone in the small office, Drake pondered his next steps. His jaw felt tight, tension straining his face. He knew that plans didn’t always work out, which is why you needed to have a backup. But he hadn’t prepared for Johnson’s recalcitrance. He’d trusted the guy would be too scared of throwing his life away in prison to see any strengths in his position. Why was the guy so reluctant to work with him? Because he had some bad history with the Hand? That was all in the past now. The Hand was dead. Drake was giving him the opportunity to get out of this jam with a clean slate, more or less. But he was stubborn, it seemed. And that meant trouble. If Johnson continued to dig his heels in, he was going to have to consider other options.

Options that would protect his position.

12

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Burner slipped through the front doors of the safehouse and rattled them shut behind him. The techies barely registered his return, remaining in meditative silence, their gazes glued to their holos.

Burner had been replaying his meeting with their new contact on repeat as he made his way home. Could he trust the man? He’d been burned in the past by working with strangers who’d suddenly reached out to him. The memory of Anon crossed his mind but he quickly brushed it aside. This was different. This wasn’t some computer hacker doing whatever he could to make a buck. This was a high-level government official offering assistance. Someone who wanted the same thing they did—to take out the corrupt elements. Burner felt for the data-drive in his pocket and headed over to where Margarita and Boris were working.

Before he could get there, Judy appeared from the kitchenette. She was holding a donut in each hand. “So? How did it go?” she asked. She passed one to him and took a bite from the other herself.

He took it and did the same before responding. “Interesting. There was something familiar about the contact, but he couldn’t place him. From the way he was talking, I’d say he was high up in the government. Probably legislative.”

Judy considered. Both of them were justifiably skeptical of persons working within the system, no matter whose side they were on. “I’ll run a search on high-up Union guys, see if you can recognize who he was. Get any useful intel?”

“Whatever’s on this stick.” Burner opened the palm that was not currently occupied with a donut, displaying the small drive. “He told me he’s been working to root out corruption in the Union and the government for a time now. Thinks that we’d be a big help to his cause.”

Judy’s voice was matter-of-fact when she replied, but Burner knew her well enough to see that her interest was piqued. “Let’s take a look, then.”

Margarita and Boris had emerged from their intense focus and were now listening in from their workstations. Margarita held out her hands for Burner to throw the drive to her. He walked to her desk and handed it over; the mystery of this little data present warranted a degree of reverence. Margarita pulled out a blank datapad, which she presumably kept off-line for just such security checks. She tapped about, checking that the dummy datasets on there were unaffected by the drive, then pronounced it clear and hooked it up to her workstation.

Pages of data appeared on the screen, classified intel from within various government organizations, including the Union. Margarita scrolled through it slowly as the four of them read.

A few minutes in, Judy stopped her, pointing. “Here, this… This seems to match with files we’ve already intercepted. The names, dates, and locations…this is stuff we’ve suspected but haven’t had hard evidence of.”

Boris had leaned over to grab his datapad and checked how the data corresponded with his records. “If it’s a forgery of some kind, it’s a heck of a good one.”

Judy’s gaze was still on the screen and Margarita continued to scroll. Judy muttered as her eyes flicked back and forth across the width reading. “We can check it out in detail, of course, but this feels legit—like the stuff from Carla Clark.”

Burner nodded. If they were right, it looked like the contact and, by extension, the Collective, had actionable information they could use.

“Okay. Judy, can you pull up that list of senior Union operatives? I want to check who this guy was before we make any decisions.”

Margarita cut in. “I have one here.” She handed over her datapad. “I figured you’d want it.”

Burner scrolled through the list of profiles and was silent for a minute as he studied the screen. At last, he spoke quietly. “It’s Harris.”

“Who?”

“Carlos Harris. He’s the—”

“Attorney General,” Judy finished.

They stared at each other.

“What does that mean?” Boris asked with some impatience.

Burner still looked stunned but tried to turn his concentration to the discussion. “It means we can trust what he’s saying,” he answered. “The legal protection, the promises to get these criminals locked up—that’s not just talk. He actually does have that power.”

Margarita was eyeing him. “But can we trust him?”

Burner nodded slowly. “I think so. I think… A guy that high up who’s happy to meet me and talk about corruption in the Union—who’s happy to give us this—” He gestured at the holoboard. “He’s not just the straight-laced government man he seems to be.”

Boris looked confused. “If he’s not straight-laced—”

“I mean he’s not loyal to the government and the Union because it’s the Union. I think we can assume that he’s on the side of the people—the people the Union protect and the government represent,” Burner explained. “We don’t just have bad guys to go up against—we’re fighting a war on two fronts here. Criminal and corrupt officials. Anyone who’s stalwartly loyal to the Union will oppose us because they’re scared of acknowledging the internal corruption. Harris isn’t like that.”

There was a pause as all four of them thought about this.

Judy turned to Burner. “So we have good intel from a source who is clearly in a position to follow through with his promises. We have the offer of more support from the people who put us in touch with him. It’s not straight-laced, as you put it, but they do at least seem to share our goals. What do we do?”

Burner was looking from the datapad to the holoboard, thinking. Finally, he replied, “I think we can go ahead working with these guys—on an ad hoc basis. But tentatively, we could begin to set up some operations.”

Judy seemed relieved to have a decision at last. “The gods know we need allies.”

“We’ll still probably need Hank and Sara’s help, as well. But this…this is a game-changer. The suit I met with clearly has some pull and if the Collective have given us him as just a taster, what else might they have?”

Margarita had finally scrolled to the end of the data and was now looking up at the others. “You want me to get in touch with Carla?” she asked. “Tell her we’re willing to work with her, at least on a trial basis?”

Burner waited for Boris and Judy to nod before answering. “Yes. Let her know we’ve come to a decision—a provisional decision. Tell her to drop by here when she can. Until then, let’s double-check the intel from the data stick. It looks good—very good—but if there are any holes at all, I want to know before we talk to her. Oh, and Marge?”

“Yes?”

“Be civil.”

Margarita smirked, then swung back to her holoscreen, working out a way to contact Carla Clark. Boris and Judy started jotting down datasets they could use to corroborate the information on the drive. Burner wandered to the kitchenette to brew some coffee. He had the feeling it was going to be another long night.

13

Holding Cells, Union Headquarters Building, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Drake opted for keeping a low profile while he was visiting the holding cells—not wearing one of his normal sharp suits. He dressed down to just a standard white button-up shirt and slacks. Many of the people working there would know who he was anyway, but the fewer workers who remembered his visit, the better. He flashed his credentials at the intake desk and was able to make it quickly through the cell wing unescorted, down to the area where Sam Johnson was being held. It was quiet. His team was still running down the scene, and the night shift at the jail was settled in, taking dinner breaks and otherwise distracted with the inane ebb and flow of their nightly duties.

There was a young guard at the desk to the corridor to Johnson’s cell. They had him in isolation. Standard procedure. The guard looked fresh out of the CO school. He didn’t seem to have any idea who Drake was, and Drake flashed his credentials quickly at the kid, making sure he wouldn’t have time to mentally process them. Drake pointed down the hallway at the cell, where Johnson would be waiting.

“This guy’s a criminal and a murderer,” he stated, his voice flat and emotionless. “You want him to go free?”

The guard turned to look at him. Drake could see perspiration making his forehead glisten. His voice was a little high when he responded, as though caught in his throat. “Huh?”

“I said, do you want this lowlife to go free?”

“No. Uh, sir. Of course not.”

Drake turned to the kid and gave him a withering stare.

The guard’s face continued to sink; he had no idea what he had done wrong, but he knew he was in some sort of trouble.

“So you just don’t know how to fill out intake notices without screwing up?”

“Sir?”

“You know what sloppy intake work means? It means this scumbag could walk out of here on a technicality. All because you were too lazy or stupid to fill out a form correctly.”

“I—I thought I...”

“The files are waiting for you in Processing,” Drake explained. “You’d better go fix them, right now, if you still want to have a job here in the morning.”

The young guard swallowed. “I’m not supposed to leave my post, sir.”

“You’re being reassigned. Now go fix your mistake, before I change my mind and fire you on the spot.”

The guard nodded, terrified, and fled toward the intake room, frantic to see what kind of mess he had made. Drake smiled with repressed laughter. Guards on watch weren’t responsible for the preliminary paperwork, and he was pretty sure there was no such thing as an ‘intake notice.’ People could be so amusingly easy. He strode over to the cell. He could see the silhouette of Sam Johnson through the window of the door. Easy. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Moving with purpose now, he pulled a set of keys from his slacks, unlocked the door, and slipped quietly into the room.

So easy.

* * *

An hour later, Drake was back upstairs in his office, reviewing reports. His comm sounded. He ignored it for a few rings while he finished at a convenient stopping point. Then he picked up.

It was Karl Devereux on the other line, sounding frantic. “Commander, something’s happened. Meet us at the elevators?”

Karl didn’t elaborate. Drake closed his holoscreen and hurried out. He found the rest of his team at the elevator bank. All of them had the same expression on their faces. An expression that had matched Karl’s tone on the comm.

Drake mirrored them appropriately, knowing what was coming next. “What’s going on?” He made sure his voice was rough, oblivious, his eyes on Moore impatiently jamming the call button. The elevator doors opened, and he joined the team as they hurried inside.

Clarissa spoke quietly. “Something’s happened to Johnson.” She seemed uncharacteristically shaken. “We’re heading down to the holding cells to figure out just what is going on.”

Drake made sure to frown. “How could something like this have happened?” he asked. His voice was grave, with a hint of accusation sprinkled in. He needed to sell his frustration. No one answered, each carefully avoiding eye contact with him. They were buying it. At this point, they had no reason to suspect his involvement, after all.

The elevator pinged at the basement. They filed out and strode in a brisk, tense formation toward the cells. Drake spoke again. “He was in there for what, five hours? There were guards watching him.”

“We don’t know exactly.” Clarissa was striding ahead, as if using speed to create a sense of competence. Control. “We’re just hearing about this now. The guards called us in a panic. EMTs are on the scene.”

They quickly brushed past Intake, the incoming prisoners watching the procession of suits sweep through the area with undisguised fascination. In the cell block, a team of medics looked like they were finishing up. None of them moved with any urgency. A good sign, Drake thought.

One of them wheeled a gurney up the hall from the cell, a black body bag resting on top of it, zipped up. The guards were conferring with one another, casting backward glances at Drake and his team. Drake pushed forward and arrived to meet the guards just as the gurney was wheeled past him.

He gave each of them a hard look, registering with some satisfaction that none of them was the young officer he’d seen before. “This had better not be what it looks like.”

The jailhouse supervisor turned to face him head-on, as though proud professionalism might compensate for what had just happened. “It’s Johnson. He’s hanged himself in his cell. The kid who was supposed to be watching him was off somewhere.”

“Where is the guard now? The one who was supposed to be watching him.”

“Being interviewed in the office,” the supervisor reported. “Following protocol to the letter.”

He was eager to please. He was also eager to not to have this come down on him like a ton of bricks.

Drake could use that. He smiled inwardly, feeling confident and almost sadistic as he formulated how he was going to play the man in front of him. “You don’t have shit to follow.” Drake let the supervisor flail for a second. “Johnson was our suspect, meaning we’re in charge of this investigation. Nobody does anything, or talks to anyone, unless it’s a member of my team. You got that?”

The jail supervisor’s eyes flashed. His face flickered between a wide range of emotions. A high-profile prisoner found dead in his cell only hours after the arrest? It wouldn’t look good on the monthly status report. There’d be an investigation. There would be questions asked. Deep probing questions. The supervisor clearly wanted nothing more to do with the situation. Drake was essentially throwing him a lifeline, pulling rank and taking it out of his hands. Just as long as he didn’t plan to hang him with the line. “Of course, sir. We’ll let you take it from here.”

Drake turned to Clarissa and Moore.

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered. “What are we even paying these guys for? Our investigation’s blown.”

Moore grimaced. “Shit happens, Commander, no matter what the precautions. I knew a guy whose grandma snuck in a knife for him to kill himself with. If someone wants out bad enough, it’s going to happen.”

Drake shook his head, looking distracted. “I’ve got other stuff I need to deal with right now. You and Clarissa—interview the guards, check the cameras. Clear up this clusterfuck so we can salvage whatever we can from this damned op.”

Moore and Clarissa nodded.

He glanced past them toward the cell, and then turned and headed back down the corridor they’d just come from. He was confident he hadn’t left any concrete evidence behind, but he knew it might look suspicious if he left himself in charge of the investigation and anyone realized he’d been the last one in Johnson’s cell. He had been careful not to show up on any cameras, and the gloves he’d worn ensured he hadn’t left any fingerprints behind. His DNA would understandably be on Johnson already from the raid earlier. The only difficulty was the young guard who had seen Drake outside the cell. Still, it wasn’t likely anyone would believe the guard’s word over his own, even if he did remember Drake’s name. He doubted Clarissa and Moore would find evidence that pointed to anything other than a suicide. Johnson was a smuggler, after all. It wasn’t beyond belief that he would somehow be able to sneak a length of rope into his cell.

Moore turned to Clarissa. “I’ll start interviewing the jail guards. Would you mind taking a look at the cameras?”

“Yeah.” Clarissa was shaking her head, working through her disbelief. “I’ll bring some of the junior members of the team down if we need to run any parallel interviews with other officers. I can’t believe this. How could they mess up this bad?”

Moore didn’t have an answer. He gave her shoulder a squeeze as he moved past her to head back to the main building.

He arrived at the interview room a few moments later. There were a number of officers milling around outside, some glancing anxiously at their colleague sitting inside on the wrong side of the table. He looked pale and scared. He held his hands tightly in front of him, occasionally glancing up at the window, which did little more than maximize his embarrassment.

Moore looked pointedly at the other guards, and they took the hint to move off. He turned his attention back to the man inside the room as he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Moore assessed immediately that playing bad cop in this interview was unlikely to help. The kid would probably break down, and that wouldn’t get him anywhere. Moore needed intel, and this anxiety-ridden wreck was the best source for it. He was the last to see Johnson alive. Odds were he’d have some kind of lead for them.

It took nearly half an hour of back and forth before he had a lay of the land, an understanding of what had happened. He’d also paused the interview to collect information from other guards to give him more angles to use with the rookie—each time leaving him to sweat it out alone in the interview room. He was reasonably sure that the kid was telling him the truth. At least the truth of how he knew it. Now he needed to go deeper. He needed the next layer of information. This kid must have seen or heard or felt something that would give them a hint to information that was vital to the investigation.

“I need you to tell me again,” Moore whispered, leaning over the desk. He didn’t think the guy had anything to do with Johnson’s death—he was too scared to have missed anything so obvious as a rope by accident, and too unreliable to have been trusted as an accomplice. But he might still have useful information. “Who did you talk to before you left your post?”

“I don’t know!” The young guard’s brows drew together in fear. “Like I said, he just showed up and started talking fast. He was some high up Union official. It took me a half hour to try and work out what form I was supposed to be fixing. By the time I got back, I found Johnson hanging in his cell. His eyes were bulging out and everything. Oh man.”

He looked nauseated. Moore leaned in closer, forcing the terrified guard to edge backward.

“Think hard. You don’t want to go down for this, do you? If someone else was there before Johnson killed himself, we need to know who it was, especially if it wasn’t a normal member of the jailhouse crew. Who told you to leave your post?”

“I don’t know. I told you, he didn’t tell me his name. He just looked like a normal officer. One of the suits from upstairs.”

“We’re checking the cameras,” Moore told him. “We’ll know everyone who was in and out of the cell. If you’re making anything up, we’re going to find out about it, and it’s not going to end well for you, believe me.”

“I’m telling the truth.”

Moore narrowed his eyes. According to the jail supervisor, Sam Johnson hadn’t shown any of the known signs of being suicidal. In fact, he was in good spirits. Johnson had apparently been adamant that his lawyer was going to get him out before the end of the day.

Moore had been unconvinced. He’d heard enough stories from guards trying to cover their own asses in his time. “I’m not buying it,” he had said to one guard. “If Johnson was so happy-go-lucky, why would he suddenly kill himself? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

But none of the guards seemed to know anything more. They admitted leaving him in the custody of the young recruit was a mistake, in retrospect. Moore still wasn’t sure who the Union member who’d called the guard away from his post was, but it could have been anyone on their team; all personnel had been coming and going from the cells while the prisoners were being admitted, and it was possible someone just needed to ask Johnson a few questions before his lawyer arrived to make interviewing a strategic nightmare. If it was one of them, they’d presumably be able to find out who it was and why they’d been in there.

In an office a few doors down, Clarissa scrutinized the camera footage. It showed Sam Johnson being escorted to his cell and a number of guards and officers coming through to question him. But this was a few hours before he’d killed himself. The last known footage of anyone heading to his cell was the young jail guard who’d been eventually called away from his post, but it seemed like the cameras had either been turned off after that, or the footage had been erased. There was nothing more until the medics arrived a little while later, the screen showing them rushing into the cell with Sam Johnson swinging from the ceiling.

The missing footage was a clue in itself. It meant someone with access to the camera databank was involved. But that was a long list of people. People who were either directly responsible or who might have no other link than having been coerced.

Rubbing her eyes, Clarissa pushed her chair back from the holoscreen and returned to the crime scene, where she once again combed through the now empty cell for clues. There wasn’t much. The rope Johnson had used to hang himself didn’t tell her much; he could have had it smuggled in to him in any number of different ways. A bit of exposed rebar at the top of the cell would have provided plenty of support for him to do the deed.

She had another thought. She wandered to the intake desk and pulled out a CSI kit, taking just the bottle of luminol and goggles. She returned to the cell and sprayed the luminol around to check for fingerprints. There were so many, from so many different people, it would be nearly impossible to get any useful data. Plus, they’d need to be treating it as a murder to get the resources to analyze that many prints.

And there was no reason to treat it as murder. Occam’s razor seemed entirely appropriate in this situation. Occam’s noose, more like, she thought. Plenty of prisoners would kill themselves rather than face a life in prison, after all.

Clarissa returned to her office upstairs and started writing up her report. Moore came by a little later and helped her get everything straightened out. There was some information to add from the interviews with the jail staff. The only potential lead was the fact that the young guard claimed an officer had called him away from his post before Johnson was found dead. That was strange, of course. But there was no evidence to substantiate his claims. They would check that none of the team had been down there for questioning, then make a note to the effect that this may be a cover story for the guard’s being distracted on duty.

And that would be the end of the case. Death by suicide.

14

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Carla Clark arrived at their door just as the sun was disappearing over the horizon. Predictably, she was wearing a bright smile, which Judy went so far as to return.

“You’re making the right decision!” Carla almost sang in place of a greeting as Judy led her to the large meeting table. “Working together, there’ll be no stopping us.” She flashed sparkly white teeth to Burner, then Boris and Margarita. The men gave small smiles back. Margarita put her glasses on and looked at Carla as though she were a tangled cable that was going to take an irritatingly long time to unknot.

Judy motioned Carla to a seat. “Help yourself to coffee and snacks. There’s more of everything in the kitchen.”

Carla poured herself a coffee, took a donut, and sat down.

Burner remained standing as the others gathered and sat at the table. “I’m sure I don’t need to introduce Margarita and Boris,” he started. “I’m still not sure what the relationship between our organizations will be going forward, but right now I want us to come together and pool our data.”

Carla raised her coffee mug in a mock toast. “I just want to say I’m very happy to be working with you. All,” she added, glancing around at the others. “You won’t be disappointed. But as you are no doubt aware, we are a huge organization, filled with grass root activists, fringe groups, and different agendas. So while I’m acting as your liaison, you should know that it’s going to be a complicated job, and I won’t always be able to give you straight answers off the cuff.”

Burner nodded.

Margarita glanced at Burner with some impatience and pushed a datapad over the table to Carla. “This is some intel we’ve been able to confirm that may be important. It comes from a data transmission we were able to intercept a few weeks ago. Boris and I have been working on decrypting and figuring out the contents of this message for a long time now, and we think we’ve finally nailed it.”

Carla looked down at the datapad, which showed the meta data they’d managed to decipher and the file attachments that had been sent from Senator Capulet’s office to the Hand’s super-encrypted servers Anon had given them access to. Carla raised an eyebrow. “What exactly am I looking at? Where did you get this?”

Margarita briefly filled her in on how they had come by such information. “After close study,” she elaborated, “we’ve determined that the intercepted intel, the file attachments, originated from one of three potential departments within the Union, and from the clearance level of codeword classified or above. We’ve confirmed the authenticity of the message, but we’re still trying to pare down the potential suspects the message could have come from. There are a lot of people who work in those departments, and a lot of people who have that level of clearance. We need to go in and check every one of them. There are still two dozen or so potential moles we need to work through and eliminate.”

Carla nodded. “That ties in with the information Anon left us,” she mumbled. Carla was scrolling through her own datapad, trying to bring up some specific data. “He’s the one who got us focused on the Union angle and Senator Capulet. Most of us in the Collective believe Capulet is one of the linchpins of this entire thing. He’s in deep, and he’s the one we should be focusing our attention on right now.”

Burner, still standing, moved to look over Carla’s shoulder to see what she was looking at. “What did the Collective get from him?”

“We got a goldmine.” Carla was still swiping at her screen as she talked. “When Anon defected, he left us a ton of information he was able to gather while working for the Hand. Hang on a second.”

She paused while keying in something on her datapad. She waited a moment, then looked up. “Done. Another operative at the Collective will be sending you everything Anon left us. And I do mean everything. If we’re going to be working together, there’s no sense in keeping each other in the dark. But I want you to keep in mind that this is information Anon himself sent us. And as we all know, Anon’s morals are pretty questionable. So bear in mind the integrity of the source. Also, there’s a lot of it, so it’ll take a significant number of hours for you to trawl through it.”

Margarita and Boris looked unfazed.

Anon. Burner’s expression didn’t let slip what he was thinking. From what Carla was telling them, it seemed that Anon knew a great deal more than he had let on, and as far as Burner knew, Anon was still alive, locked away in a black site. If the figureheads of this corrupt operation had any idea how much Anon knew, he would likely be first on their list for elimination. Burner made a mental note to find out more about Anon, and where he was located. He would like to talk to him if at all possible, before the Union wised up as to how much of a threat he was to them. Another prison trip. Wonderful.

Perhaps Carla had read his thoughts, though, as her next question seemed strangely apposite. “You visited Stack in prison just recently, right?”

Burner frowned at her. “Yeah. We had a lot of questions for him, but he wasn’t able to tell us anything important.”

“Did you know the Hand had been funding him for a long time?”

The team exchanged interested glances. It was Judy who replied. “We suspected that. But we never had any hard proof.”

Carla smiled with just a hint of patronizing philanthropy. “It’ll all be in the file my guy is sending over.”

Judy returned the smile as Margarita bristled. “All these guys are linked together. Our report corroborates everything. That’s also where Cypher got enough money to implement the attempted assassination.”

“Back to Capulet,” Burner said, finally sitting down at an open seat at the table. “What exactly does the Collective have on him? Besides speculation?”

Carla held her coffee mug in two hands in front of her. “Not a whole lot, admittedly. He’s careful. Which is why I suggest he should be our next focus of investigation. Once we find out more about him and who he’s been working with, the pieces should start falling into place.”

Judy narrowed her eyes in thought. “Didn’t Sara get some photos of Capulet? Back when he was helping to clean out one of the phony women’s shelters?”

“That’s right.” Burner nodded to Boris to pull up the photos Sara had taken. The pictures were snapped from far away, but they clearly showed Capulet standing on a loading dock as the men around him moved heavy equipment. Boris slid the datapad over to Carla, who bent over to examine it.

“Recognize anyone else in those photos?” Burner asked.

“Hmm.” Carla traced a finger across the screen. “Yeah, I’ve seen a few of these guys before. In other reconnaissance pictures. They’re low level goons, just labor and muscle, basically. Expendable guys that Capulet can surround himself with in order to insulate. Having a direct link to Capulet in the form of a photograph is definitely good, but it’s not likely to open up a whole slew of new leads for us or anything.”

Burner’s mouth twisted, but Carla continued. “Still, it’s progress. This is a big endeavor we’ve got going here. We’re fighting a war on two fronts. Every little bit helps.”

Judy’s eyes met Burner’s, but neither of them said anything. They had both caught it—something about Carla’s turn of phrase sounded familiar.

“This is good.” Carla pushed the datapad back to Boris. “But we’re going to need more. Capulet’s got to have a wealth of data at his fingertips. I’m thinking that if we get something on him, he will likely lead us to the mole within the Union. The person who is supplying the intel you intercepted.”

Judy was nodding. “He must have had extensive contact with the criminal part of the organization—Capulet, that is. He could have been meeting with the Union mole as well as the Hand. We also can’t rule out that he’s the only one in the Senate who is involved.”

Burner raised his eyebrows in agreement.

Carla picked up her thread. “Agreed. Which brings me to something else. The Collective could use your help in trying to access some of the Union intel. All the Union’s systems are completely locked down and isolated. They've got air-gapped security measures on the sensitive stuff. In order to access the data, you need to be physically inside Union headquarters. Now, as you can imagine, the Collective is made up of, well, I guess you could say, undesirables. Half our people are on government watch lists. There’s no way they’re getting in there. But you two”—she glanced pointedly at Judy and then Burner—“must still have contacts. Insider knowledge? You could get someone in there and find out what we need, when the time comes.” She paused, almost as if she was contemplating whether to reveal the next thought. “We’ve also been looking for ways to access the Senator’s servers. We’ve been trying to turn people who are already on his payroll, but we haven’t had much luck. They seem run by a different ideology…” She almost rolled her eyes at the mere thought.

Margarita chimed in. “Oh, and you’re normally so good at persuading people.” Her tone was too sweet to make the sarcasm anything other than biting. Boris stifled a snicker.

Carla said nothing but took a quick, measuring look at Margarita, her eyes lingering briefly on her tinted glasses.

Burner interceded before the tension could become any more explicit. He put his palms down on the table. “So we need to get someone into the Senator’s office. That seems like priority number one so far, and finding the right person isn’t going to be easy. Fortunately, I’ve got an idea of someone who might be up for it.” Burner noted Carla’s look of keen curiosity. “I’ll let you know as soon as I talk to them. They might need some convincing.”

Carla flashed him another dazzling smile. “Sounds like a plan.”

Burner stood up with an air of finality. “That’s settled, then. I will let you know what my contact says. I’m assuming you will also need to liaise with your people.”

Carla also got to her feet and collected her datapad and purse.

“Yes. I’ll give you a call once I’ve spoken to them. They should be pleased with what we’ve decided, though.” She looked toward the three still sitting at the table. “It was great to meet the whole team. I think this is going to work out very well.”

Margarita was the only one who didn’t return her smile, but Carla didn’t seem to notice as she made her way with Burner to the door, which he held for her.

“I think we’ve made progress, at any rate. Thanks for coming,” Burner said.

He waited until she was a few paces out and then closed the door. Then he returned to the work room. The team exchanged looks.

It was Margarita who broke the silence. “Manipulative bitch!” She took her glasses off and poured herself a lukewarm coffee from the cafeteria.

“Whoa, easy there, girl.” Boris put a hand on Margarita’s shoulder. “I thought she was all right? What’s the problem?”

“She was obviously lying. About everything.” Margarita took a sip of the coffee, made a face, and shoved the mug away. “She’s playing us. Smiling away like we’re all friends while spoon-feeding us only the information she wants us to have. She’s trying to use us, Burner. I don’t know what for. But don’t be taken in by the pretty face.”

Burner picked up the mug Margarita had pushed away and took a gulp of the coffee himself.

“Okay,” he started, casting an eye to Margarita and Boris. “Let’s get back on track here. I think Carla has a lot to offer us. But I do agree that it’s likely she’s withholding. She mentioned a ‘war on two fronts.’ That’s a phrase we’ve used before. Right here in this building. It could be a coincidence, sure, but as you know, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Boris looked from Burner to Judy. “So what are you saying? You think she’s spying on us?”

Burner and Judy exchanged a glance. Judy nodded, her lips pressed together.

“I think it’s a real possibility,” Burner said slowly, taking a seat where Carla had been sitting. “So we need to be careful what we say when we’re in here. Boris, I’m going to need you to start working through the data dump the Collective sent over. It’s a lot of work to get through, but I’m sure you’ll be able to handle it.”

Margarita interjected. “I can help with that. It’ll go faster if the two of us work on it together.”

“No.” They all looked up at the decisive tone. “Just Boris. For all we know, the Collective is trying to bury us in data to keep us distracted. Or to feed us a certain point of view. I only want one person working on it right now so we don’t fall into a kind of groupthink. Boris will be the blue team. Margarita, you’re the red team.”

“Red team?” Margarita looked puzzled.

Judy explained. “It’s a war games thing. We’ll split up into different teams, with different premises and assumptions. It will prevent us from being duped. Carla’s narrative has far less chance of convincing us if someone is assigned to looking at the data from the perspective that she is lying.”

“It’s a good system,” Burner assured them. “I know it seems inefficient to have you and Boris working separately, but it’s for the best.”

Margarita hesitated, then nodded. She picked up her glasses and started to stand up. Burner stopped her. “There’s one more thing.” He paused. Margarita settled back down.

“I’ve been thinking about our old friend Anon, especially after what Carla said when she mentioned him. I think he could be a viable lead for us moving forward. After all, he’s kind of the one who set us off on this path. Boris needs to go over the intel Anon sent over, but I think the more important question is why Anon felt it was necessary to provide this intel in the first place. What’s his agenda in all of this? I’ll investigate this,” he stated, cryptically. He touched his ear and then pointed to the room, indicating that someone might be listening. “I’ll let you know when I know more.”

The others nodded, comprehending.

“Well, let’s get to work. We’ve got a lot to do in the next few days,” he finished. The meeting was over.

The team returned to their workstations, and Burner headed out of the building. It was time to give Sara a call.

15

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space.

Burner dialed the comm, expecting to hear the mellifluous tones of Sara’s voice. Instead, he heard a male voice answer. “Is that you, Burner?” Hank’s voice was light and airy. “How are you holding up at that headquarters of yours?”

“We’re doing good, Hank. Thanks. It’s been a busy week, but we’re hanging in there. I was hoping to talk to Sara.”

“Of course you were,” Hank replied with joking soulfulness. “No one ever calls to talk to Hank. Sometimes I get lonely too, you know.”

“Sorry to get your hopes up. Is she busy?”

“Hang on a moment. Let me check.”

Burner listened. He heard Hank shuffling about from his end of the line.

“She can multitask.” There was a hint of amusement in Hank’s tone. “She’s just with a...well, an interviewee. I’ll patch you through.”

* * *

UNION BLACK SITE, OFF WORLD, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION

Sara stood over the shuddering heap of a man. They’d reached another lull in the torture, and she was waiting for him to lift his head to meet her gaze.

“Had enough yet? Remember, I’ve got all the time in the world. You’ve got enough charges leveled on you to make you mine for the rest of your life—and my superiors can’t think of anything better to give me right now.”

She listened to Anon’s breathing. It was ragged, but now he was at least forming coherent sounds. Hank had been right: localized pain was good for focus. She crouched down and pushed the man’s forehead back with her palm. At last, he managed to croak out some words. “What…do you want to know?”

“I want to know which side of the line you’re on.” Sara placed her other hand on his bare leg, making sure to cover a red weal. Even her gentle touch would cause pain. “I want you to realize that you’re not going to be able to play me like you played the Hand and the Collective. We know you were trying to expose the corruption in the Union and government ranks. You’re not such a bad person—but then you murder and cheat. So I want to know which side of the line you’re really on.”

Anon’s eyes darted around the room. Even after a prolonged period of torture, he had regained enough control of himself to formulate a response that would keep her on her feet. “Where do you stand, Constable?”

The fact that he knew what a Constable was, and had deduced she was one, bothered her. Anon’s question lingered in the stale air. His whole body was working with the effort to keep himself talking, but he was managing to spit the words out. “You’re clearly not just a company girl.” Anon took a shuddering gasp. “But if you’re not all about the Union, then why aren’t you out there trying to help Burner? Is it… personal?”

Anon spat a wad of blood and phlegm onto the floor. Sara studied him. She turned over his words in her mind. Of course, he wanted this—the niggling doubt to rise up in her consciousness, the feeling that maybe it didn’t make sense to play the Union’s game. This torture session was surely nothing if not that: the Union’s game.

“You killed people for money.” Sara’s voice was steady. She pressed into the weal on his leg. “You expect me to listen to a single word you have to say on ethical choices? Sure, you turned the Hand in to the Collective, but that was a move to save your own skin, not a moral decision. You quite clearly have no conscience. Otherwise I wouldn’t be compelled to beat information out of you.”

“I was off world. I had my money. So if it was to save myself, why would I even bother with the Collective? Why put myself at risk contacting them? Why would I care about taking down the Hand if I was so full of shit?”

“So you’re fine with murder and blackmail, but you thought what the Hand and the Union was doing is wrong?”

Anon tried to laugh and ended up choking on blood. “That’s just the way I am.”

“You busy?” It was Burner’s voice in her ear. Sara started. She straightened up, orientating her thoughts.

She walked a few paces away from Anon, who was still tied to the chair, and thumbed her comm. Anon was still babbling words, half of them vicious, the other half indecipherable. She was more curious about Burner and why he was calling her.

“I can speak.” She tried not to feel the light fingers of excitement that always played inside of her when Burner called. He brought all the most explosive cases to her, and she felt an addict’s craving for whatever it was he had in store now.

“I hear you’re dealing with a mutual friend of ours,” Burner began. “Probably in some forsaken black site. I’m looking for some intel on him.” He paused.

“Go on.”

“Did he ever manage to find the link between the Union and the Hand? Is there anything new?”

Sara paced slowly, flexing her wrists, which were sore from the afternoon’s work. “From what we can piece together, there’s definitely a mole in the Union who was feeding the Hand intelligence. The hard facts are still hazy at this point. I heard you went to see Stack in the slammer; what did he have to tell you?”

“Everything he told me falls in line with what we suspected. The Hand was most likely funding the Cypher operation. Stack didn’t seem to know any of the particulars. I pressed him pretty hard, and he seemed motivated to tell me everything he knew. But that wasn’t much.”

“Hmm.” Sara spoke quietly. “I guess that means we’re at a dead end if I can’t get this little shithead to give something up, huh?”

“Maybe not. I have another job for you.”

She made sure she sighed loudly enough for the earpiece to pick it up. “Look, Burner, we’ve been through this. I can’t just drop everything whenever you have a job, however exciting it might be. I’ve got a job to do here.”

“I know. I get that. But I think that this time there’s a way we can do this on the books. Using the proper channels. The risk for both of us would be mitigated.”

“Well, do tell.” She smiled.

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Drake was about to head home when there came a knock at his office door.

He sighed. “Come in.” He didn’t do a good job of keeping the impatience out of his tone.

Moore opened the door. Drake straightened. Typically, Moore never bothered him at the end of the day. So this must be something big. “Sorry, Commander,” Moore said, venturing half a step in.

“I have a dinner appointment,” Drake said, packing up his things. “Let’s make it quick.” He motioned him inside.

Moore was frowning. He closed the door behind him. This was also unusual. Something was up. Drake gestured to a seat, trying to look patient. Moore remained standing. “I just wanted to give you a sitrep on one of the things we’ve been looking into. It’s probably not important, but the rest of the team thought I should show you...”

“What is it?”

“It’s the Sam Johnson case, sir.”

Sam Johnson. Dammit. He didn’t need any more problems with that case. “Well? What have you got?”

“Well, uh... We haven’t been able to come to any sort of definitive conclusion. We’ve drafted the report, and for the most part it just looks like a standard suicide, caused by jailer incompetence. Seems as if Johnson was able to smuggle in the rope somehow. Hanged himself when he could hear the guard had gone away.”

Drake watched Moore carefully. “Alright, so what’s the problem?”

“Well, there’s one small thing, sir. I hate to even bring it up, but it was possible a suit was the last person to see Sam Johnson alive—that’s what the guard told us. We weren’t sure he was telling the truth so we ran a keycard scan to see whether any of us had gone down to the holding cells around that time. As you know, there was no camera footage. And well…it seems like, uh, you were the last person to see Johnson alive.”

Drake assumed a tone of mild surprise. “I was?” He stopped packing his things and leveled a gaze at Moore.

Moore’s expression was hard to read. “Yes, sir. And you do fit the description we got from the guard. I’m guessing you went down there to ask him some questions? You couldn’t have known he had been planning to kill himself, obviously. But uh…we should probably mention your testimony in the report.”

Drake thought about feigning that someone must have used his access key. But that would open another can of worms that he couldn’t defend. It would also fall apart if the guard positively ID-ed him. “Of course,” Drake said, heading over to the coat rack and beginning to don his jacket. “I paid him a visit. I suggested he start coming clean about what he knows. Told him I’d be able to get him a better deal with the judge if he cooperated with us. He didn’t seem to be having any of it, though. Barely said two words to me. I guess now, knowing that he was planning on killing himself, it makes sense.” That’s right, feed the narrative back into what they already suspect.

“Right, right.” Moore looked relieved that this could be a short conversation. “We figured it was something simple like that. Maybe Johnson realized what kind of trouble he was in for after he saw you. I don’t blame him for wanting to take the easy way out. Probably beats a few decades inside. I just had to mention it to you, you know.”

“No, I understand. Got to do these things by the book. Still, it’s too bad about Johnson. He would have made an excellent informant.” Drake opened the door, ready to follow Moore out.

“Yeah,” Moore agreed, stepping outside. “Anyway, sorry, sir, I didn’t want to bother you about this whole thing. We can get your testimony tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Drake confirmed. “And it’s better that you did mention it. If we’re going to take these assholes in and have them kill themselves in our jails, then the least we can do is find out just how the heck it happened.”

Moore took a breath as though about to say something, but he stopped himself. “Thanks, Commander. See you in the morning.”

“Alright. Thanks, Moore. You’re doing a good job here.”

Moore nodded briskly, then he headed off down the walkway to the stairs and back to the workspace below. Drake watched him go. The damn keycards…you couldn’t get down to the holding cells without one, of course. He didn’t think they’d check but figured that if they did, it would be dusted away as per the conversation they’d just had.

What bothered him was that Moore had been awkward rather than suspicious. It would be done and dusted once the report was submitted—and that would be the end of it. Drake zipped up his jacket and followed down the walkway, slow enough to not catch up with his subordinate again.

16

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

It had been a little more than a day since Burner had spoken to Sara while she was eyeballs deep in torture mode. Sara and Hank had since made the trip into Burner’s makeshift HQ. The pleasantries had been short, and the six of them soon sat around the group table ready to work.

“Given what we’ve discovered, we focus our efforts on Capulet,” Burner explained. “Right now, it seems that he’s the most vulnerable point in their entire operation. The criminals are professionals. Capulet is likely little more than an amoral statesman. And, since we’re going the prosecution route, we’re going to need evidence. Evidence that he’s likely got on his systems. His air-gapped systems.”

They all knew what this meant. Someone would need to get physically inside the office.

Burner’s gaze rested on Sara. They also knew what that meant. Sara would be infiltrating. The only question was, “how?” Sara smiled then nodded her head once in agreement. “Are we talking nighttime ingress or broad-daylight posing as a member of his team?”

Burner shrugged. “I’m open to suggestions.”

The other team members observed the discussions quietly. Margarita and Boris smiled at each other, clearly excited to be involved in real-life spy ops.

Sara answered as though she had rehearsed the conversation. “I read his file and everything we had on his team before coming. I think getting up close and personal will be the best way to nail him. I don’t know how careful he is about leaving incriminating information around, but if I’m in there with him I should be able to get a feel for the systems and then hit up their secure servers, either there and then or at a later date.”

Hank nodded in agreement. “It’s also something we can put on the books,” he interjected, by way of explanation for them being suddenly okay with being so involved. Judy glanced at Burner to see if this was news to him. He didn’t react, and Sara continued her trail of thought.

“So from your intel,” she said glancing at Margarita, “it looks like someone at Capulet’s office was sending classified Union files to the Hand. It could have been Capulet himself, or it could have been someone on his team. But whoever it was must have a relationship with someone in the Union. Given we saw Capulet at that trafficking site, we don’t have any reason to suspect it’s anyone on his team. Sure, he may have others involved who know what is going on, but there’s no evidence to suspect that anyone is doing this without his knowledge. I’d recommend targeting Capulet himself and taking down anyone else who gets caught in the same net. But that means we also need to get whomever his contact is on the other side… The Union side.”

Boris animated himself into the conversation. “I’ve been having some back and forth with some of the lieutenants in the Collective about this thing,” he offered. “So far, they haven’t been able to hack into the Union servers...It’s also going to need some kind of onsite presence to get access to anything incriminating, unless the Senator’s data turns up something that we can identify and nail Capulet’s counterpart with.”

Burner interjected. “In that case, I suggest we focus our efforts on Capulet’s offices first.”

Sara twisted her lips to one side.

“Problem?” Burner asked.

She shrugged one shoulder. “Inserting myself into the office without causing suspicion is going to be tricky. It’s doable. I’ve thought about it. But it’s going to take some time.”

He knew Sara was right; this kind of careful infiltration could take weeks, if not months. During that time, Sara would be vulnerable. Heck, they’d all be vulnerable. Messing with a Senator was no safe game. But there really wasn’t any way to do it faster. Sara would have to get positioned in Capulet’s office, then build up enough trust that she could more freely through the premises and gather information. He imagined that all the sensitive information was going to be password protected, if not stored on a different server entirely. And if it took even three months to get to the bottom of this thing, then who knows how many other elements of the case could have changed by then. Still, right now, it seemed like it was by far their best option.

Hank pulled up some images on his datapad. “We were brainstorming possibilities earlier on. We’ve got a pretty good plan for how an initial infiltration of Capulet’s office might go. I’ve already come up with a backstory for her. She’s a campaign PR whiz who’d been working on a city campaign. Capulet is going to need someone as he gears up for the next election cycle. That’s her in. Also”—he smiled devilishly, pausing to glance at Sara as if trying to get a reaction from her—“Capulet has something of a sweet tooth for the ladies. He’s not going to be too upset that there’s a new bombshell blonde joining his office.”

He made a courtly hand gesture to Sara as he said this last part, and she inclined her head with mock grace. “You’re too kind.”

Burner chuckled with a few of the others at their pretend flirting, but he knew Hank was all too right. A guy like Capulet wasn’t going to argue with someone like Sara coming on to his team. Somewhere in his mind, he didn’t like it though. His operations brain told him he couldn’t get squeamish on a job like this, but he briefly wished there was a way of acknowledging how demeaning it was for Sara to have to leverage her sexuality. And this strategy came with its problems, of course. It was dangerous. If the senator had no qualms about funding trafficking, his attitude toward his female staff was probably also less than admirable.

Then there were all the other social elements—having to play the role with the men, and dealing with jealous female coworkers, all while trying to make friends and influence people. Their choice of strategy made things complex. But Sara was experienced. He needed to trust her abilities and make sure they were able to protect her if anything went sideways. He was just glad he didn’t have to do this part of the job.

Burner nodded to Hank. “If we get Sara inside, that’s a great first step. But there’s still a ton of planning and preparation we need to get done if we want this thing to be a success. Sara, you’re going to need to be briefed by Carla, our contact within the Collective, before we go any further. She’s on her way. Until then, let’s go through some of the logistics.”

They pooled their intel on Capulet’s office, adding to Hank’s diagram of names and connections so that Sara would have a bulletproof cover. They worked through Sara’s references, her purported past colleagues, and started conjecturing pressure points for some of the staff in Capulet’s office. Sara said little, watching every person intently as they talked, drinking up the information. The team was on form.

They had a clear plan at last.

* * *

It was later in the day. Food had been fetched and was being consumed in during the operational scheming.

“So you had Anon in your black site?” Boris asked, a string of cheese hanging from his mouth as he spoke and chewed at the same time. “What was that like? Must have been a kick, huh?”

Sara and Hank exchanged a look across the group table.

Sara made a face. “Not sure torture talk goes with pizza. I’m getting my kicks from spicy chicken right now. Can you pass me another?”

Boris rammed one of his slices into his mouth, freeing up a hand to pass Sara the spicy chicken box. He chewed and gulped. “Fair enough. No torture at the dinner table.”

“Although,” Hank interjected, grabbing a slice from the box now in front of Sara, “I will say, for someone who fancies himself as a tough as nails killer for hire, he certainly had a difficult time controlling his bladder once the heat was on.”

Everyone laughed, although it wasn’t lost on Burner that Sara’s smile was slightly tense. He took a swig of soda and changed the topic. “Kind of funny how we’ve both been doing our own thing, but in the end, our cases always seem to get linked up.”

“They get linked up because you ask us to work for you,” Hank rebutted. “This isn’t destiny, Burner, before you start getting any ideas.”

Judy cut in, noticing Burner glance awkwardly in Sara’s direction. “I’m glad we’re all on the same side.”

“Hear, hear.” Sara hoisted her glass of cola.

Margarita and Hank also raised their drinks, and Boris raised a half-eaten pizza slice. There was a pause.

Margarita stared absently at a box of veggie pizza. “We’re walking into something big,” she reminded them. “It’s risky. Some of us could be hurt—captured, maybe—maybe killed.”

She touched her chin unconsciously. Burner watched her, then lowered his eyes. He had made the decision to lead Margarita into this—her and the others.

Sara’s voice was quiet. “Of course, bad things could happen,” she agreed. She knew what Margarita had been through. Her being in this line of work and not having been trained the way the rest of them had was a feat in itself. Acknowledging the risk was the most supportive thing she could do right there in front of the others.

Margarita smiled. There was a prolonged silence.

“Margarita’s right,” Burner said after a moment. “We’re also doing whatever we can to mitigate the risk.”

Hank pushed his chair back and stood up. “Speaking of mitigating risk, it’s time for me to be going.”

Sara frowned up at him, confused. “Where do you need to be that’s so important?”

“Back on my ship, running point. That’s where I’m most useful. And so, while it pains me to do so, I’m afraid I must bid you all adieu for the evening.”

They said their goodbyes, agreeing Sara would stay in the warehouse with the gang, and Hank left.

For another hour or so, the remaining five of them stayed up talking, sharing stories, and laughing. Margarita headed off to bed first, followed soon by Boris, who swayed as he stood up and slurred his goodnights.

Burner and Sara were deep in conversation, and Judy gathered up boxes, plates, and glasses to take to the kitchen. Burner made a token effort to help her, but she waved him back.

“I’ve got this. It won’t take too long, then I’ll hit the sack. Don’t you kids stay up too late,” she said with a wink.

Sara retrieved a bottle of whiskey from her bag. She uncorked it and poured a tot into each of their cups. They toasted and drank, savoring the tangy bite of the whiskey as it went down their throats and warmed their bellies. There was a comfortable silence for a while as they sat at the table.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Sara asked eventually. “I thought you were a real stick in the mud. I never thought you’d be able to loosen up.”

Burner put the glass down and leaned back, his arms behind his head. “I thought you were pretty high maintenance. Of course, I was right about that.”

“Those were the days. Back before the missions got… complicated.”

Another long silence.

Sara lifted her gaze from her glass. “So, you thought I was high maintenance, did you?”

“I thought any girl who looked as good as you must be. But don’t get me wrong. I of course came to understand just how much of a consummate professional you were… as well as being high maintenance.”

She wondered about questioning what he meant by ‘high-maintenance’ but then assumed it was just his kind of banter. He was operationally smart, but expecting him to be quite as articulate about his feelings…that might be a bridge too far. She confined herself with a simple, “Pleased to hear it.”

She was still looking at him.

He tilted his head to meet her gaze. “I’d say we work pretty well as a team, don’t we? Two professionals.”

“Sure we do.”

They looked at each other, then Sarah knocked back the rest of her whiskey and refilled both their glasses. “What do you think about the new additions to your team?” she asked.

“Margarita and Boris? They’re great. Boris is a bit of a loose cannon, sure, but he’s a good guy. Sees his work as art. Margarita, equally brilliant. If not more so in a few ways.” He paused, thinking. “She went through some shit when we were taking down the Hand, as you know. Not really sure how she’s coping with that.” He fiddled with his glass, studying it intently now. “I… I try to be there for her, but she doesn’t seem to want to talk about it.”

Sara nodded. She knew the drill. She’d seen numerous people go through trauma. There was no easy recovery. “If you need me to talk to her…”

Burner nodded. “Thanks.”

She smiled, empathetic to the problem. There was a slight pause. When she spoke again, her tone was brighter. “And what about this Carla girl? From the Collective? She’s pretty cute, isn’t she?”

Burner glanced at her, then shrugged. “She’s nice enough.” His eyes registered the ‘cute’ part of her comment. He half smiled. “She isn’t really my type,” he added quietly. “Plus, I still don’t know what her end goal is. She claims she wants to help us, but she’s also got access to a legion of hackers who’ve shown no compunction about breaking the rules to get their way.”

Sara watched him drink, noting the habitual tension of his jaw. “A little paranoid of you, no?”

Burner finished his drink and put the glass down. “Being paranoid is how I’ve managed to survive for so long.”

“I thought it was your machismo and cunning.”

He grinned. “That too.”

Sara stretched her arms, then got to her feet. “Alright, Mr. Burner. I’m headed to bed. Got to be up early tomorrow to prepare for my infiltration with Capulet. Don’t stay up too late yourself.”

He listened to her footsteps head through the warehouse to the sleeping quarters they’d fashioned in the old office rooms. Eventually he heard the door to the spare room close, and he shut his eyes, the world fading to darkness around him. Tomorrow, there would be more work to do, more missions to accomplish. But for now, he was content just to sit there, enjoy the whiskey buzz, and relax.

17

Kaminsky’s Bar, Freegeary District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Scrutinizing the organization chart in the passenger seat of his sleek black car, a tray of snacks beside him, Drake tried to work out which remnant of the Hand’s crew could take on the position he needed to fill. He had to get the right man this time. He couldn’t go through another Sam Johnson debacle.

But finding this perfect person was going to be tricky. His idea was now to promote from within the organization, but that had been made more difficult since Burner and his team had taken out a bunch of those people already. Many of the ones Burner hadn’t taken out had scattered, either joining different crews or fleeing completely. Even as Drake scanned through the charts, he wasn’t sure how up-to-date or accurate any of the information was. As it stood, he was still relying on his underlings to help with the search.

His two men, Dion and Hendrix, sat in the back of the car, again looking acutely uncomfortable in suits that looked like they’d been bought twenty years ago. Neither had said a word. They had arranged this meeting with one of the Hand’s former deputies, who went by the name of Little John, and were now accompanying Drake to it. Having them along had the advantage of making the guy feel outnumbered, and Dion and Hendrix could call him out on any bullshit he tried to spout.

Drake wasn’t going to vest all his hopes in Little John, though. He was using the journey to work on contingency plans in case the meeting didn’t work out. He spent his time going over the layout of the organization, identifying the weak points that needed to be filled and looking for spots where different candidates could be placed.

From everything they had told him, Little John seemed like he would be a lot more approachable than Johnson had been. There wouldn’t have to be any blackmail this time, either; it was a real offer, with plenty of benefit behind it. It was as simple as that. He had wondered why it hadn’t been their first suggestion, but they hadn’t been able to give him a convincing answer. There was more for him to discover, he was certain of that.

The driver was taking them through a rough neighborhood with plenty of boarded up shops and homes with grates on the windows. Drake eyed the surroundings warily as the town car cruised through the ghetto streets, before returning his focus to the organizational charts on his datapad. It was a minute or two more before Drake’s driver pulled into the back lot of a bar. It looked to be closed down and dark except for a single neon beer sign flickering in one of the windows.

Drake peered out the tinted window. “This is it?” he asked. Maybe he should have suggested some neutral place like a coffeehouse or restaurant, where he wouldn’t have to go out and get his hands dirty in a trash area like this. But it was a little too late for that now.

“Yeah, this is the place,” Hendrix responded. They got out, and each of them closed their car doors more softly than usual.

The bar was a miserable little joint, so obviously used as a front for some kind of criminal activity that they might as well have said it on the neon sign. The signs advertising beer prices in the windows were curling and faded, and the thick security grate was covered in graffiti.

The two henchmen led Drake through a side door and took him to the front of the bar, where an enormous man with long blond hair was waiting, seated at one of the tables.

Drake sat down across from him and indicated for the two other men to sit on either side of him so all three of them faced the large blond. Tinny piano music played softly over the bar’s speaker, like the death rattle of the dingy room’s attempt at pleasantness. Dull light from the electric lanterns seeped out over everything, casting them all in a sickly yellow hue.

The blond man, presumably Little John, nodded to the drinks menu scrawled on a chalkboard by the bar. “Can I get you anything?”

Drake, who wasn’t in the mood for small talk, ignored this. He was here for business. Plus, he wanted to establish dominance. “You know why we’re here. I’m told you might be the man for a job I want to fill, but there’s a lot I’ll need to know about you first.”

The large man spread his hands in a gesture, inviting questions.

Drake proceeded. “I need to know about your work with the Hand. What was your role in his organization? Who did you report to? How many people worked under you?”

Little John took a swig of the beer in front of him before answering in a deep baritone. “I did a bit of everything for the Hand. I was kind of a fixer for whatever he needed. But I also ran a lot of the day-to-day operations of the group. There were maybe ten guys beneath me who reported directly to me. I made sure they did what they were supposed to do.”

“So you were a jack of all trades.” It wasn’t a question.

Little John leveled his gaze at Drake. He was not a man to be intimidated easily. “You could put it like that. I prefer to say I had a finger in every pie. I was all over the Hand’s business, and he trusted me to get things done. I kept things running smoothly even when there was silence from on high.”

Dion chipped in at this. “The Hand was a busy man, and he wasn’t always around to give orders, or tell people what they should be doing when there was no action. Little John here ran the show when the boss was out doing something important, or if he was holed up for some reason.”

Drake kept looking at Little John while Dion spoke. “So you were second in command. Ever dream of taking things over for yourself one day?”

Little John shrugged. “Wasn’t on my agenda. I was making good money, and I had a good crew under me. I didn’t want the risk of being on top. Didn’t do much good for the Hand, did it?”

Good.

“So you were happy to watch the Hand walk into trouble?”

Little John didn’t seem fazed by the grilling. “The Hand was pretty careful. I didn’t think he would have gotten himself taken out so soon. The collapse was a shock to everyone. But I guess that’s the nature of the business.”

He finished his drink in a long gulp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Drake nodded. A second in command, taking care of the prosaic, day-to-day matters while his boss ran the meat of the operation. It made sense. There was always a need for a guy like that. Whatever Little John’s true motives were in his former role was impossible to judge, of course. Behind the deadpan expression, Drake could already tell that Little John was too intelligent to reveal what he was really thinking. But so far he had impressed upon Drake that he was the kind of guy who could get things done, without too much unnecessary ambition. He would probably stay under Drake’s control so long as it was made worth his while. Drake leaned over the table and regarded Little John with a serious stare.

“You know the job I’ve got on offer?”

Little John met his stare without any change of expression. “The number one spot, they told me. Didn’t get any details.”

“It’s quite simple. The Hand left a power gap; I just need someone to fill it. The previous candidate we tried...didn’t quite work out. I reckon you might be the guy for the job.”

Little John raised his eyebrows. His eyes were like little pieces of coal, black and impassive. “I see. That’s real nice of you. Real nice. But I’m still not sure who you are, Drake. I don’t know what team you’re playing for or what you want. And you’re asking me to work with you?” He made the emphasis on his name sound like a status challenge.

Drake smiled. “I was partners with the Hand. I took care of the other side of the business. But now, without this side running, no one has any business. So, we have the same objective, just on two different sides of the fence. And no, you wouldn’t be working for me, not directly. We would collaborate, of course, but you’d be in charge of your own thing. Right now I’m just the person who’s trying to put all this together.”

“So what, who do you work for then? You got like your own crew or something?”

Drake kept his eyes as blank as Little John’s. If he unleashed this poker level on Judge Caldwell’s lackeys, he’d never be invited back. “You don’t need to worry about me or who I work for. Just focus on the work. It’s something you can do, I know, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Little John inhaled and then exhaled slowly. He took his time, sizing Drake up. Then he regarded each of the two henchmen in turn.

Drake forced himself to hold a steady gaze on the man until he replied.

“I dunno, man. Can’t say I’m feeling particularly thrilled about this whole deal. You seem a little too eager to fill this role.”

“Too eager?”

“You know what I’m talking about, my friend. I was just a guy who ran things when the Hand was busy. I’m not a big shot, and I don’t know you. I’d need to do a lot of research on this before having anything to do with it. I think this is a bigger deal than you’re making it out to be.”

Drake leaned back, exchanging a look of business-like surprise with Hendrix. Make the man feel outnumbered.

“This offer’s not going to be on the table for long, John. There’s nothing complicated about it. I need a guy to do a job, and you’re that guy. You’ll be compensated handsomely. You’ll be making double if not triple what you were in your previous role, and that’s not to mention all the perks that come along with being the boss.”

“You need an answer right away?”

Drake knew he needed to apply pressure. “I do.”

“Then no.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

Drake was irritated by Little John. Thugs like this should be easy to manipulate. Drake had a decent lifestyle to offer him, and he wasn’t even considering it. What was going on with these people? First the whole mess with Sam Johnson, now this new guy saying no to his face. Drake knew how to control his temper when he wanted to, but he decided to let it burn on this occasion. Let the guy see he meant business. He pushed Little John’s empty pint glass to one side so there was nothing in his way as he leaned across the table to the man.

“I need this to get done, and I need it to get done yesterday. I’m not bullshitting you about any of it. This is a good deal. You’ll have a crew of guys under you, whatever accommodations you want, a good cut of anything you take. There are plenty of guys who would kill to get a gig like this. Literally. And since I know those guys rather well, you’d be an idiot to rub me up the wrong way.”

Little John waited a moment, then smirked. “You sure do know how to make a guy warm to you. Shame I’m too much of an idiot to jump at your offer.”

He looked hard at Little John, trying to read through the dull expression to see whether he’d managed to ignite any small spark of interest. He found nothing.

Little John looked up at the bar, ready for his next drink.

Drake felt suddenly calm, almost relieved. He’d done all he could.

“Alright,” he said, pushing his chair back. “If that’s how it’s gotta be, then that’s how it’s gotta be. I’ll find someone else for the job, I guess.” Drake got up. Then he pulled his pistol from his jacket and shot Little John in the forehead.

The man’s head flicked back against his chair. Brains splattered the wall behind him. Little John’s face came to a rest tilted up to the ceiling, exposing his neck.

Dion and Hendrix had scrambled to their feet like wild animals caught off guard. Their eyes wide, small spots of blood spattered over their faces, they stared, frozen in horror at the late Little John.

Drake put the pistol, still smoking, back into his jacket and casually turned to go.

“Tell my driver I’ll walk home,” he told the pair. He spoke calmly, like he was instructing them to take out the trash. He kicked aside a chair blocking his path and made his way to the night outside.

18

Senator Capulet’s Office, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

“Welcome to Senator Capulet’s offices!”

The junior staffer was Kate, a girl fresh out of college who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two years old. She met Sara at the reception desk and immediately took her on a tour around the building. The offices felt something of a mix between a tech company and a law firm. There was a large, open-plan office where people were working on their holoscreens, along with more private offices toward the back. Kate seemed to be in love with her job. She was brimming with ambition and enthusiasm and had a permanent smile affixed to her face as she led Sara through the office, introducing her to people and showing her where she would be working.

Sara immediately got the sense that all the employees who worked under Capulet were extremely committed to their jobs. Whether or not they understood who exactly they were working for was hard to say.

As they strode through the corridors, Sara saw two men speaking to each other in low, hushed voices, just outside one of the offices. She immediately recognized both of them: they were two of the men who had been accompanying Capulet at the unloading dock when they were relocating the hospital equipment after the raid at one of the fake shelters that had been trafficking women. She’d taken surveillance photos of them and had spent many hours staring at their pictures on her datapad. She hadn’t known their names before, but she had deduced they were members of the Senator’s inner circle. Looking at them now, given the suits they were wearing and their body language, she guessed they were probably fixers who carried out much of Capulet’s dirty work. Thankfully, they had no idea who she was—they hadn’t been able to get a good look at her during the last time she’d encountered them.

Kate led her up to them, her smile now directed at the men. “This is Sadiq and Dan, two of Senator Capulet’s right-hand men.”

Sara nodded hello, thinking that the girl probably wouldn’t have been smiling so widely if she knew the two men had been trafficking sex slaves. Sadiq and Dan paused their conversation for the introduction. Sara could feel their eyes casually undressing her. That was just fine. If they only paid attention to her as a nice body, they would be too distracted to be suspicious.

She noticed what she could about the men during the encounter. Both were big and burly. She amused herself with considering exactly how she would take them out then and there if she weren’t currently focusing on a longer game. There was no sense in infiltrating the Senator’s office only to get kicked out on her first day there, of course. But a girl could dream.

Kate touched Sara on the elbow and led her farther down the hall to a large door that had been left open a crack. She lowered her voice to a whisper.

“I’d introduce you to Senator Capulet, but it seems like he’s in a meeting right now. Here, take a peek through and see for yourself.”

Sara leaned over and looked through the crack in the door. She could see Capulet sitting at the head of the table, with his gray hair and politician’s face, talking to a few other people Sara didn’t recognize. He seemed bored. Watching him there, he didn’t look like a hardened criminal, merely a tired old man who would rather be stroking a cat than sitting through a dull business meeting. She could see how he might be charming in a way, with those caring crinkles around his eyes. There was something vaguely chilling about the extent to which his staff fawned over him, though. Sara studied him for a moment before pulling her head back.

“I guess a Senator’s always running in and out of meetings,” she ventured. “It’s probably hard to get a hold of him during the busy season.”

Kate’s beautifully mascaraed eyes widened. “Like you wouldn’t believe. Depending on the time of year, it can be a real madhouse around here. During reelection season, we’re going hard at all hours of the day, and sometimes at night. But don’t worry, by the time that rolls around you’ll be a seasoned vet here—you’ll be able to roll right along with the punches. And it’s obviously worth the hours when you’re working for the Senator.”

Sara had never seen someone smile so enthusiastically outside of a commercial before. “So where will I be spending most of my time working?” she asked, hoping to move the whole process along so she could get to the real mission.

“Glad you asked!” Kate replied. “If you would be so kind as to follow me once again, I’ll show you to your workspace.”

Kate took Sara back out through the office to one of the long open tables facing a number of large glass windows that provided a spectacular view of downtown Dobulla. She guided Sara to a seat at the table, where a workstation and datapad had already been set up for her.

“You’ll be working out here to begin with,” Kate explained. “We don’t have any new holos at the moment, so you’ll have to deal with this older model, but you’ll have your own personal datapad, which is top of the line.” She indicated toward the datapad that had been left there, unattended and waiting for her. “We’ve got you in close proximity to some other members of the admin support team to get you settled in for the first few weeks or so. Any questions you have, they should be able to help you. Then, once you’ve had a little more time on the floor to get acquainted with everything, we might move you nearer to some of the media analysts, since you’ll be working with them more closely. Really, it sounds like a lot, but it’s easy once you get the hang of it. You’re going to fit in great here.”

An open office setting was annoying—not a great place for spying, and it would be harder looking up the information she needed. She didn’t like the idea of coworkers being able to see her holoscreen or the secure datapad she’d brought in with her. Still, she could make it work. Using a holoscreen without any privacy was nothing compared to scaling castle walls and seducing criminals.

Sara flashed dazzling smiles of greetings to the various staff at the long table Kate introduced her to, and then Kate took her into the breakroom for the final leg of the tour.

As Kate told her that a range of fresh fruit was offered at Thursday morning meetings, Sara took a moment to acknowledge that this really was just another boring office. Fitting in here should pose no problems.

“I’m so glad you guys hired me,” Sara told Kate as the two of them walked back out to Sara’s new workstation. “I can’t wait to get going.”

“Great! There’ll be plenty of work for you! I’ve sent the welcome program to your new account, so why don’t you take some time to look it over? If you need me, I’ll be in my office down the way. Feel free to come by with any questions.”

And with that, Kate left, her high heels clicking distinctively on the hardwood floors.

Sara glanced around and then sat down at her workstation. She started wading through the introductory materials. A fifteen-minute video explained the comms filing system. The filing system, for goodness’ sake. But she didn’t intend to spend much time filing, of course. Far more useful for getting an overview of how they organize their information. Their servers.

Soon, she would begin positioning herself to get the information she needed. She was going to bring this whole operation down from the inside. All she needed was a little patience, and Senator Ron Capulet would be behind bars before he knew it.

* * *

ABANDONED WAREHOUSE, RANCH DISTRICT, DOBULLA U8X, UNION SPACE

It was 7:30 a.m., and once again Carla Clark was on his doorstep, bright and perky. This time, though, she was empty-handed. Plus Burner was expecting her. He led her inside where she was just in time to greet a sleepy Boris, who came out into the office area rubbing his eyes and yawning.

He greeted her with a wave and then his face dropped. “They told me you brought donuts to morning meetings.”

“Not today, Boris.” Carla grinned. “Sorry. Line was too long at the place. Plus I’ve got some news that can’t wait.”

Margarita and Judy were already at their workstations, so the four of them congregated at the big table for Carla to brief them on the latest intelligence from the Collective.

Judy rubbed her hands together. “So what have we got this morning? Some kind of breakthrough? If it’s good, we’ll send Boris out to get the donuts.”

“Not exactly a breakthrough,” Carla told her, bringing up notes from her datapad. “But it could turn into something if we get lucky. They’ve uncovered something interesting.”

Carla tapped on a file and brought up two person-profiles, each with a photo of the man to which it pertained. “Two killings. One of them happened just last night, a shooting in a dodgy back-alley bar. We think the guy who was killed was a former member of the Hand’s crew.”

“And this other one?” Margarita motioned to the profile Carla hadn’t pointed at.

“A man by the name of Sam Johnson. Hanged himself in a holding cell at Union HQ the other day. According to our data, he also had links to the Hand’s organization. Peripherally. Apparently, he and the Hand had some sort of falling out. Might be a coincidence, but we’re also not sure why he was arrested, only that a team scooped him up. Offed himself within hours of being locked up. We thought it was suspicious.”

Burner studied the profiles.

“Okay,” he began. “Two of the Hand’s scumbags have bitten the dust. Not a great loss, on balance. What do you reckon it’s got to do with us?”

“Everything.” Carla smiled. “Or at least maybe everything. It’s very possible they could be the missing link between the old organization the Hand was running and the people who have been jockeying for power in the vacuum he left behind. It could just be a coincidence, of course. But the intel we dug up indicates similar victimology. They’re not just linked to the Hand; they’re organizers. Men who got things done. And they’re dying in the same week.”

Judy looked from the datapad to Carla. “Two guys involved in dodgy dealings die early? It’s not clear to me that it’s so unusual.”

Carla didn’t dispute it. “That’s true. There’s no forensic connection between the cases that we’re aware of, and the manner of death was different for each of them. But the suicide seems fishy, so they could both be murders.”

“We should have caught this,” Boris muttered. “How could something like this fly beneath our noses?”

Carla smiled at him. “Because you don’t have a whole army of computer geeks running the data for you.” She sat back in her chair. “That’s why it’s a good thing you’ve linked up with us.”

“What do we think this means?” Margarita asked.

She looked at Carla, but Burner responded. “It sounds like it could be one of two things: that someone is making sure that the Hand’s organization doesn’t come back to life, or that someone is doing cleanup on anyone who might know the identity of their new boss.”

Margarita got up and headed for her workstation. “Carla, have your people got any idea which Union team might have scooped up Johnson?”

Carla thought for a second. “No, but I can find out.”

“Do,” she said, already absorbed in her workstation, “and then let me know. I reckon we can cross reference our suspect list of potential moles with the team that was involved with Johnson. If there’s a crossover, we might just find our mole.”

Burner stood up. “Excellent thinking, Margarita.” He looked down at Carla, who was suddenly aware that it was time for her to leave. Burner saw her out, and the others went back to work. Not only did they have a strategy on the Capulet side, they also had a lead.

Things were starting to come together. Finally.

19

Senator Capulet’s Office, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Sara tapped her finger impatiently on the desk as she waded through inane communications for the Marketing department. She had seen the Senator leave a few times that morning and had fantasized about making her move for his office. But she had to take it slowly on this mission. Integrate first. This wasn’t a quick in and out.

Finally lunch time arrived. Not seeing anyone around that she had been introduced to who looked like they might be going to lunch, she figured she would go and get some food and bring it back to the break room. Someone was bound to loiter in there. That’s where she could get a feel for who was who in the office.

She dashed to a nearby shop to get herself a salad, which she suspected would be the right kind of lunch for a girl to eat around this office. Back in the breakroom, she chewed on a colorful selection of leaves that entirely failed to sate her hunger and watched a woman eating an almost identical salad in a chair on the opposite side of the room. She had the short pencil skirt and glossy lipstick all the secretaries wore. Sara waited a minute or two, then crossed to the kettle near the woman, flicked it on, and smiled at her. “What beautiful earrings!” she told the woman.

She let her eyes linger on the glinting silver hoops. She couldn’t care less about earrings.

“Oh, thank you!” The woman seemed to animate in front of her eyes. “You must be the new comms support? What was your name again?”

“Yes, that’s me. Sara.”

“Sara, pleased to meet you. I’m Dascha. Would you like...?” She motioned to the empty seat next to her. Sara sat.

Dascha was a People Person. You could tell by the way she talked far too fast, smiled as she spoke, and used her audience’s name as though there were a serious risk it would otherwise be lost in the mists of history. She would make an excellent informant.

“You’re really going to like it here, Sara.” Dascha dabbed a napkin at her mouth unnecessarily, set aside her barely eaten salad, and turned to face Sara properly. Her enthusiasm wasn’t feigned, Sara could tell. Dascha genuinely loved her job. “I have a feeling you’re going to fit right in with the culture here.”

Sara beamed. What a fake.

Sara got up quickly to pour the hot water from the kettle onto an herbal teabag, offering one to Dascha as she did. It gave her the opportunity to sound slightly distracted as she pressed into the conversation. “I still have quite a few questions about everything. It’s so daunting being new. You know how it is. What’s the Senator like? Is it good working for him?”

“Oh, it’s great!” Dascha said quickly. “Oh yes, really great. It’s an amazing job. Tough at times, and stressful—I mean it is politics, after all. And you deal with a lot of crazy people in this business—but without a doubt it’s worth it. Senator Capulet is—well, he can be a character, but he’s the best boss you could want. He works hard. Dedicated. He really cares. He’s always at the office at all sorts of crazy hours, coming and going. It must be hard on his family.”

“Oh, I’m sure his wife appreciates that.” Sara laughed. “Her husband coming home at all hours of the night!”

Dascha returned the laugh. “I’m sure she must be used to it by now. He and Lenore have been married over twenty years now.”

“Wow, twenty years. I can’t imagine being married that long. It must be a strong marriage.”

“Oh yes! You’ll get to see her at the next social. We have barbecues, trips to the lake, that kind of thing. The senator brings his wife. They’re lovely together.”

Sara blew on her chamomile tea, trying to look appropriately excited by the thought of a company barbecue.

Married for twenty years and still seem happy? Probably not just a brainwashed sex slave, then.

The background research she had on Capulet had indicated that there was a wife, but very little was known about her. The Senator seemed to like to keep his private life to himself.

“So what else is there to know about the office?” Sara moved on. “It seems like a pretty friendly atmosphere. Anyone I should be watching out for?” Sara said this last part with a mischievous widening of the eyes, but she hoped it would pave the way to some good gossip without sounding malicious.

Dascha seemed eager to engage with this. “Oh, no one to look out for. It’s not that kind of office. You’ll have met Kate—she’s lovely. You’ll like Mitch, too. He’s the tech guy—an absolute lifesaver, if you ask me. The admin support girls, they’re a good laugh. And then there’s Sadiq and Dan, but they’re a bit more closed off. They have to be, obviously—it’s just a professional thing. They’re trusted with the classified information so it makes sense that they keep everything close to the vest.”

Sara filed this away. Sadiq and Dan seemed like good people to get to know. “I guess the Senator doesn’t have much time to be in the office himself. He’s such an important man, after all.” Sara was careful to say this last bit with the same reverence she had heard from everyone in the office when mentioning Capulet.

Dascha’s tone was identical when she replied. “Oh, very busy. But he’s good about mixing with us. There aren’t many senior senators who would spend time with the admin support team, but he quite often stops for a chat. He’s very approachable. Really easy to talk to. And I just know he’ll love you.”

Sara smiled. If she was right about Capulet, she hoped he would talk plenty to her. She hoped he’d talk in between mouthfuls of blood and saliva, just like Anon had. Any enjoyment he derived from her company before that day would just be the necessary prelude to that.

It was heartening how easily Dascha spoke. This was a good start. Moving forward, she would have to work her charms on Sadiq or Dan, she deduced. Then she would work out the best way to get in with Capulet himself. Another week in this joint and she’d hopefully have some of the answers she was after.

* * *

DIERDORFF APARTMENTS, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

“No, I saw him but didn’t get any sort of interaction,” Sara reported in over her comm. She’d made it back to her temporary apartment where she would be staying while she performed the role of PR support to Senator Capulet. “Security getting into the office was extremely tight. More stringent than similar senate offices. I’m talking ID cards, armed guards, everything. They probably scanned me half a dozen or so times before I was allowed in, but the fake chips and documentation Hank outfitted me with seemed to have worked. Once you’re inside the office, they’re more relaxed. Plenty of unsecured workstations, files left open on holoscreens, unencrypted comms, and conversations about work specifics. I think they’re used to working from a position of security. They haven’t had to deal with an intrusion yet, so they don’t think it can happen to them. It’s going to work in our favor.”

Sara scrolled through the notes on her datapad for the most relevant material.

“What’s the layout like?” Judy asked. “Are there any areas that are more secure than rest?”

“Yes. There are parts of the back office that are supposed to be only accessible by keycard,” she explained. “I think it’s where Capulet meets with his inner staff. It’s going to be harder to get into that part—we’ll have to work on that.”

“Good work so far.” This voice wasn’t immediately familiar to Sara, and it took her a moment to realize it was Carla Clark. “You need to make getting into Capulet’s personal office a priority. Gaining access to his workstation, his files, and taking pictures of all that good stuff. Once you send that info over to us we can start to formulate the next phase of the plan.”

“I’ll go as fast as I can. It would be fatal to take this too quickly.” She sighed. “Anyway, that’s about all I have for Day One. I’ll do the normal protocol check-ins and let you know when I have anything worth us discussing on a call. Until then, I’m going to take some much-needed R and R.”

Judy’s voice replied, softer on the phone than in real life. “Of course. Get some rest.”

“Can you stay on the line a minute more?” Burner interjected.

“Sure.”

There was a brief interlude of indistinct noises, then Burner’s voice again, closer to the receiver. She was off speaker.

“Hank.” Burner’s voice was quiet. “Can you get off the call? I want to speak with Sara alone.”

There was a click as Hank hung up.

“What is it, Burner?” There was a note of apprehension in her voice, mixed with fatigue that had been setting in for the last ten minutes.

“I just wanted to warn you”—Burner leaned against the kitchen counter as he spoke into his comm, not loudly enough for any of his team to overhear—“the longer you’re undercover, the more chance there is of something going wrong. Don’t take your time in there, Sara.”

“I know that.”

“I mean it. The staff there might be friendly, but you’re in about as much danger as I could put you in. Your mission is on the books. Someone in the Senator’s office and the Union will be monitoring everything that happens closely—we can bet on that.”

“Yeah, I thought of that too. I’ll be careful, Burner. Promise.”

There was a slight pause. “Alright. Stay safe.”

“You too.”

The comm clicked off. Burner had work to do. He should go back to their makeshift office and turn on his holoscreen like the others. He would. But for a moment, he lingered in the kitchenette, staring at the wall. Thinking.

20

Union Headquarters Building, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

“Burning the midnight oil again, were you?”

“Huh?” Drake barely looked up at the security guard, a portly older man whose name he had no interest in trying to remember. Small talk with the rank and file at the office wasn’t anywhere on his list of priorities. He forced a smile, collecting his things from the conveyor belt after they’d been fed through the scanner.

“You just look a little tired this morning.” The guard gave him a look of sympathy. “Not overdoing it, I hope?”

As he grabbed his belongings, Drake received a notification in his comm. It was a message from Josh. Knowing that made him even more anxious to cut the conversation short and get to his office, fast.

What had his Collective mole dug up now?

He gave the guard a brisk nod and headed to the stairs. Once in his office, he locked the door behind him and pulled out the secret comms device.

It was a report from Josh just not a voice message as he had expected, and it was marked urgent. Drake sat down in his chair and scrolled through the tiny holoscreen, hunched over his desk and reading over the information in the message carefully. Not good news. Someone spying on Senator Ron Capulet. If they were on to Capulet, it was only a matter of time before his link to the Senator would be discovered. He didn’t trust Capulet’s abilities to cover any trail leading back to him. Nor did he trust him not to crack under pressure. This would need dealing with, in the most rigorous way possible.

With increased urgency, Drake sent a new message to Josh, pressing for more information. He paced his office, wondering just how things had become so complicated. There was work he needed to do—mounds of it—but this was going to distract him before he got an answer from Josh. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long.

Josh: I’m still monitoring the relevant threads. This is all I have.

Drake: How could they get someone inside Capulet’s office?

Josh: Working on it. Collective threads don’t seem to have the full details.

Drake: Other courses of action?

Drake could almost see Josh shrug in his mind’s eye as he read the next response.

Josh: Might be worth having Capulet’s security team search new faces, personnel. Mole is presumably someone new on the scene.

Drake: I’ll pass it on. Best guess, you think this is an official op? Or a rogue team from the outside?

Josh: Difficult to say. Everything points to them trying to do this by the book. A rogue team wouldn’t have the resources to pull something like this off, and they would have trouble creating the documents that would be necessary to get someone into Capulet’s office.

Drake: And the Collective involvement?

Josh: That’s what makes it hard to call. It’s like a hybrid. Unless some internal team is working with hackers now. If this is an official op, then they’re going to be trying to build a case. Rival criminals would be more aggressive. We’d only know about it once Capulet was found capped in some alley.

Drake, reading Josh’s message, blew out a sigh of disbelief.

Drake: Shit.

Josh: If they had anything actionable, we’d also know by now. Capulet’s careful and he’s not stupid. The mole won’t get anything fast.

Drake thought for a moment. Josh was right, of course. There was a small window of time before a mole would find anything useful. There was still a chance to root out the mole. The group—government or otherwise—would then have nothing to work with. Even if they had suspicions, they wouldn’t be able to make moves against Capulet without evidence. That was the useful thing about official law enforcement: anyone trying to act legitimately would get tangled up in red tape. And Capulet and his cronies controlled much of the red tape on the planet.

But Drake was in a precarious position. He could feel his veins getting spidery with adrenaline. He took a deep breath and typed his next message slowly.

Drake: Don’t alert Capulet’s security detail yet. I’ll be in touch with next moves soon.

There was a delay before Josh’s next message.

Josh: You want me to do nothing?

Drake knew the guy well enough to read the skepticism into the message. He ignored it.

Drake: Yes. But I also have another task for you. Put those photos of Capulet onto a data stick for me. I’ll be needing them.

Josh: Will do.

Drake: I’m also going to send you a profile of someone I want you to find. Think of it as a recruitment exercise.

Josh: I’ll get on that.

Drake: Thanks. Signing off for now.

Drake put his secret comm into the bottom drawer of his desk. He could hear voices outside his office, the type of busy commotion that usually meant he was needed in the briefing room. Sighing, Drake gathered himself and made sure his desk was locked. Then he grabbed his day job datapad and headed out to the briefing room to look interested in whatever relative trivialities his team had for him today.

21

Muskat Park, Rotheram District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Josh wasn’t used to feeling nervous. It wasn’t visible on his face—no emotion ever was—but he could feel the anxiety pressing down in his mind. It was just a dead drop, he told himself for the hundredth time that hour. He’d done this kind of thing before. All he had to do was go to the place, deposit the package, and leave. Sure, he’d try to make sure no one followed him, but no one ever would. Josh had never in his life been followed.

It wasn’t so much the job that bothered him: it was Drake’s tone on the comm. He was used to Drake. The guy made an effort to pull rank at any given opportunity and got rankled from time to time; but this was the first time he’d felt Drake had been caught off-balance. Josh didn’t tend to notice nor particularly care about other people’s states of mind. He made an exception now because his comfortable life of hacking into undercover networks in coffee shops relied on making a successful dead drop. He could tell this one thing was more important than anything he’d done before. And all was not well in Drake’s world. Whatever happened there would certainly come back on him.

Plus, someone had a mole in Capulet’s office. How much more internal corruption had they found? If they’d discovered Drake, they would find Josh pretty quickly. He could have a surveillance team on him right now, as he walked down the street.

The data stick was stowed safely in his pocket. There was no chance of dropping it. But it weighed heavy against his thigh, most likely for psychological reasons. With every step of his right leg, it seared against him, and he felt the compulsion to put his hand over it. He jerked his head, looking around. He had just about enough self-awareness to know he wasn’t doing a very good job of this. The real world just wasn’t as simple to navigate as a database.

Of course, he’d never had training on spotting tails, and it occurred to him that he had no idea what to do if he noticed one. When he saw a woman walking across the street from him for more than two blocks, he stared at her in a stalemate of panic and confusion, until she mercifully veered off into a bank.

Drake had told him to make the drop at their usual spot. He headed to the trash can, feeling some small relief when he got to the park and there was no heavily armed SWAT team waiting to drag him off. It was almost always busy at this time of day, and the many people coming and going afforded good cover. The data stick had a magnetic strip that Josh could attach to the underside of the can top. The stick would stay there until someone found it, and nobody was going to find it who wasn’t looking for it.

He spotted the trash can in question. There was a group of teenagers hanging out by it, using the surface to play some kind of card game. Josh walked by them with his hands in his pockets, feeling sweat begin to drip down his underarms. None of them so much as glanced up at him as he went by, but it didn’t matter; this spot was not going to work for the drop. He was going to have to move to the backup plan.

The backup spot for the drop was in a public parking garage not far away. There was a little alcove behind one of the stone pillars on the second story where a data stick could be hidden. But Josh hadn’t had to use this place before, and the sudden change of plan had been the push his nerves needed to fledge into panic. As he exited the park he glanced around, trying to ascertain if there were any vans or official-looking vehicles parked nearby. Nothing stood out to him as suspicious. A car with tinted windows hovering nearby spooked him for a moment, until it parked and a little old lady with a cane hobbled out onto the grass.

Josh cursed inwardly. All this effort and stress for a data stick. If Drake had the know-how, Josh could have sent the images safely via a dual-encrypted message on his datapad...but no, Drake insisted on doing it this way. Well, if Josh screwed this up and they were found out, it was going to be Drake’s fault. He was doing the best he could.

Josh made his way cautiously over to the parking garage. He passed a small kiosk on the way in. Inside the kiosk was a uniformed guy who nodded to Josh as he passed by. Josh swallowed hard and kept walking, heading inside the large concrete structure.

The parking garage was full. Josh’s eyes darted constantly left and right, checking for anyone who might be following him. He tried to look as though he was heading toward his car, but since he never looked as though he was doing anything, he had no idea how to simulate intention. Moving awkwardly, he made his way to the second floor. He stepped out of the stairwell, only to have his heart shoot up into his throat. The second story of the parking garage was swarmed with police cars, their sirens flashing, the vehicles hovering in place as groups of cops milled around them. Josh stopped dead in his tracks, right as a police officer came up to him with an outstretched hand.

“You parked up here, son?” the cop asked. Josh looked past him. There were the sounds of construction, jackhammers, men cursing, police officers mixing with workers.

“Uh...” Josh was intelligent enough to invent a dozen cover stories in a split-second; communicating them was less easy. “Dunno, really.”

The cop’s eyes slid over Josh’s hoodie, loose jeans, and frayed backpack straps. He expressed no surprise at the inarticulate answer.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave. One of the construction guys hit a gas main. We need everyone in the structure to evacuate.”

Josh nodded, barely perceptibly, then turned to head back down the stairs. Some construction mishap and a ton of the capital’s finest running around where he needed to place the dead drop. Was it a coincidence? Obviously Option B wasn’t going to work. His legs felt like buckling as he walked away, certain that he had at least fifteen cops’ eyes on his back. A small part of him begged the building to explode now and put an end to this.

There was no Option C.

Neither he nor Drake had planned for such a problematic drop. Would he have to call Drake and tell him the plan had been entirely screwed up? He would go back to the trash can, hoping the kids might have left by now.

Josh glanced back over his shoulder as he walked, momentarily freaking out as a pair of suited men came up behind him quickly, but they passed him by without stopping. He exited a side door, then came around the block and back into the park. The group of teenagers was still there. It didn’t look like they were going anywhere anytime soon. Frustrated, he scanned the park again, looking for ideas. A police officer was riding his bike through the paths, keeping an eye on things. Suddenly, Josh had an idea. He hated the idea. But it was all he had.

Summoning his courage and pushing his hood back, Josh approached the officer, waving him to the side of the path. The cop was bald and heavy, and he looked at Josh as if patrolling this city park was the most important assignment he’d ever been given. “Can I help you?”

“Um, it’s probably nothing, but”—Josh’s tried to make his voice high and shaky—“there’s a group of kids over there playing cards. I think they’re gambling. And I heard one of them talking about having a knife. He was probably just messing around, but I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt. There are lots of little kids in the park, you know. I mean, it’s probably not a big deal, I just thought maybe...”

It was a lot of sentences for Josh to string together at once. He didn’t have to act to seem tense. The cop snapped up as if he had just been told a mass murderer was on the loose. He radioed to his partner, nodded his thanks to Josh, and rode away on his bike without another word. Josh sat down on the rim of the fountain in the middle of the park, watching the show from the corner of his eye. The cop he’d talked to and another one soon arrived where the teens were gathered, and a small drama swiftly unfolded. As the cops spoke to them, the teenagers eyed each other nervously, until one of their members pointed at another. The two plunged into what looked like a heated exchange as the others backed away. A moment later, the two arguing teens were being restrained while the others walked quickly away. The police marched the teens off toward the other side of the park.

Josh nearly smiled. This was an unfamiliar game for him to win. He didn’t spare a thought for what would happen to the two teens. People weren’t easy or interesting codes to crack; thinking about them took more energy than he had to spare. Now he would be able to finish the business he needed to take care of. Once he was sure the area had been deserted for good, he rose from his perch on the fountain.

When he finally reached the trash can, he looked around and stuck the magnetic drive into the underside of the lid. He felt it move snugly into place and gave it a little tug just to make sure it wasn’t going anywhere. It wasn’t.

His job finally done, Josh left the park as fast as he could. It was out of his hands now. The rest was up to Drake.

* * *

MUSKAT PARK, ROTHERAM DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Drake hadn’t received any messages from Josh, so he assumed the drop had gone through successfully. This was no surprise: Josh seemed to manage operations like this with a minimum of fuss. It was certainly safer than having Josh send him the information to his comm. If the Union was probing Capulet, it meant there were people out there poking around in information that was none of their damn business, and Drake wasn’t going to risk images like these getting tapped into or traced back to him. If someone wanted to steal this information, they were going to have to come out into the real world to do it.

Of course, that came with its own dangers. The real world wasn’t like the gal-net or even the nether-net. Josh, who spent all his time behind a screen, might get lost in the incomprehensible mess of datasets that comprised the real world.

It was dark now, and the park had been closed for a few hours. Drake knew better than to keep glancing over his shoulder for tails, but he allowed himself a good look in each direction when he got to the gates of the park. There were a few cars parked on the street, but they were dark. The only people walking around were some scattered couples enjoying the evening.

He was familiar with this place. There were no cameras and no nighttime security. But it paid to be paranoid, so he strolled along the perimeter, calmly registering number plates of cars passing on the nearby road, just in case any happened to be going in circles.

Satisfied, Drake was easily able to squeeze through a wide space in the fence and make his way into the park. The lights had been turned off, and in his dark coat he became just one shadow among many. He walked quickly with his hands in his pockets. A few homeless people lay sprawled on benches and along the length of the fountain. None looked up as he passed.

As he approached the pick-up spot, he saw—to his irritation—that there was a homeless woman lying there. Drake calculated for a few moments, then approached the bench. She was shrouded by a thick coat. It made it impossible to see her breathing. There was no way Drake would be able to reach down and grab the data stick without disturbing her and potentially causing a ruckus. So he went for the quietest alternative. He kicked the base of the trash can, causing it to shake, and took a few steps back. He watched her jolt upright. She looked at Drake with wild eyes, ready to fight.

Drake smiled, trying to ignore the smell. He reached into his pocket. “I’ll give you 50 credits to get the hell out of here and not come back.” Drake produced the coins from his pocket. Physical credits were rare—but it wasn’t the first time it had proved prudent to carry a few. She scowled at the coins, then snatched them from his hand and took off, half-hobbling, half running, not turning back.

As he watched her retreat, he considered how easy people like that were compared to the people he had working for him. That woman was headed straight for the liquor store and would efficiently ensure knowledge of Drake’s existence was washed into oblivion. So simple.

Still thinking this, he slipped his hand beneath the lid of the trash can and felt the familiar shape of the data stick. He pocketed it. No reason to linger. He started back out of the park to his car, keeping an eye out for threats.

22

Regional Shuttle Port, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Early the next morning, Drake waited, looking out over the hubbub of the shuttle port and breathing in the fresh air. It was a beautiful day. In his jacket pocket was an envelope, and in that envelope was the data stick.

He had chosen a port on the outskirts of Dobulla. Though busy during the morning rush, it was more or less empty at this time, a good hour before businessmen and women would begin their commute into the center. The sets of three metal seats dotted along the length of the passenger port were well spaced out, affording sufficient privacy—and anonymity—for quiet conversations.

A man in a smart suit made his way along the section of the walkway, looked up at the holoscreen for the public shuttles, then left for a different gate. A young woman with a large backpack sat down on one of the metal seats a good twenty meters away from Drake and buried herself in her holoscreen. On the other end of the walkway, Drake waited for the quiet power battle that was about to ensue. He took a deep breath. The data stick in his pocket was all he needed to bring one of the government’s most important men to his knees. Waiting on the platform now, Drake basked in the certainty that he owned Capulet.

He heard the click of expensive shoes on the stone floor and turned to see Capulet, straight and tall, striding over toward him. His face bore an expression of guarded confusion. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the meeting. But he had arrived on time, which meant he was treating it seriously. As Drake had requested, he wasn’t wearing a suit. Powerful men rarely get recognized if they’re not wearing a suit.

The two men shook hands. Drake met his small, dark eyes, and he noticed Capulet search his face for a clue about what was to come. This was very enjoyable. Drake waited another moment, savoring Capulet’s consternation. The senator sat on the end of the metal seats, so there was one seat between them. He leaned back and crossed his legs easily in a careful simulation of nonchalance. “I’m assuming there’s a good reason you brought me out here,” he started.

Drake smiled. He took his time reaching into his pocket and bringing out the small envelope that contained the data stick. “I have something for you.” Drake’s voice was quiet and measured. “Something important.”

Capulet turned to look him squarely in the face. It was good that Drake had chosen somewhere so empty—this guy was far too used to power to be subtle. “What is it?”

“You’ll see when you open it. Later.” Drake handed Capulet the envelope. Capulet took it, ran his fingers over it, and pinched it to feel the data stick inside. He tucked it away into his overcoat, glancing around awkwardly, then turned back to Drake. “Should I be worried about this?”

“You might want to make sure you’re alone when you look at it.”

“We’ve been working together for a long time now, Drake. You’re really not going to tell me what this is all about?”

Drake looked the Senator in the eye. “It’s an insurance policy. For me.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Just do yourself a favor and look at it. I’ll be in touch.” Drake got up and began to walk away.

“Wait!” Capulet called. Drake stopped and spun around. Capulet’s manner had changed. There was an ice cold, nearly emotionless expression on his face. “You better not try to screw me over, Drake. Remember who you’re dealing with.”

Drake smiled. He turned again, leaving Capulet there, wondering. He didn’t look back as he left the shuttle port. Capulet didn’t make empty threats, of course. He was a very powerful man. As Drake headed to his car, he felt a thrill of elation. He liked owning a very powerful man.

* * *

SENATOR CAPULET’S OFFICE, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Sara was making good progress. She’d spent most of the morning thus far working with Mitch, the techie. She leaned over his shoulder while he showed her the basics of how their systems and servers functioned, pretending to learn for the first time things she was already expertly aware of. She made sure her hair brushed against Mitch, she touched his elbow lightly as she spoke to him, and she behaved as though he was a stud instead of an overweight, balding computer technician.

“And so, all the public information is linked via our own personal server,” Mitch explained, gesturing with his finger along the holoscreen as Sara watched in rapt attention. “That means all the files for the Senator can be easily accessed once you’re in the office.”

“Wow.” Sara tried her best to sound impressed rather than bored out of her mind. “Does that mean that like any information you want to access is right there, at your fingertips?”

Mitch shook his head, pushing his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. “Well, not everything. Obviously, there’s some information that’s classified. Only a few people have access to that...even I can’t access some of it.” Mitch glanced at her for this last part, making sure she’d noted that although he had limited file access, he was a pretty important guy still.

“Oh, okay.” Sara flicked her hair back. “I guess you would need like, special passwords to get that stuff.”

“Right. Well apart from that it’s all on a different server. More secure. But you don’t need to worry about any of that. All you need is going to be available to you right here.”

“Of course. Thank you,” Sara replied. She touched the top of Mitch’s hand, watching with some amusement as he tried and failed to make eye contact. “I need to step out to the bathroom for a moment. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Mitch’s cheeks were burning up at her touch. “I’ll be waiting here when you get back.”

Sara left Mitch to his fantasies and trotted out to the office hallway where the bathrooms were located. She stepped into the ladies’ room and quickly checked the stalls to make sure she was alone, careful not to let her heels click on the tiles so that her suspicious behavior wasn’t evident to anyone who might have been there. Satisfied that there was no one else inside with her, she pressed her ear, toggling the two-way part of her comm to Hank. She’d taken to turning off his intrusions into her ear while she needed to focus in the office. ”Hank, you read?”

There was a moment of static and then he answered. “Of course I read. Wouldn’t leave you hanging deep in enemy territory. How’s it going?” He was munching on something. She felt immediately vindicated for cutting his audio off. “It’s not that bad so far. I’ve only gotten a few moments.”

Sara watched her reflection in the mirror as she spoke. Hank was in her ear the entire time she was at the office. He was her lifeline in case things went south, but she didn’t like the voyeurism of it.

“Okay. Well, I’ve been listening. Thoughts?”

“The tech guy is our way forward. Like he said, he doesn’t have access to the sensitive stuff, but I’m pretty sure he’ll be able to get it for me.”

Hank chuckled lightly on the other end. “You’re going to seduce him?”

“If necessary.”

“Alright. You do your thing. Just be smart about it. Anything else?”

“I’m still getting the layout of the office. It’s not huge, but they compartmentalize the departments. My goal now is to get an audience with the Senator. Feel him out. Then I’ll know how better to proceed with the next stage.”

There was a short silence on the other end of the line.

“Sara?”

She paused getting lipstick out of her purse. “What?”

“Be careful.”

She took a deep breath.

Promise.

“Shut up, Hank.”

Slipping a finger behind her ear, she found the small button that allowed her to toggle his broadcast off. She leaned in closer to the mirror and dabbed more slightly-too-pink color onto her lips, then she pressed them together and made for the door.

23

Senator Capulet’s Office, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Sara had been back at her desk for scarcely a minute when she was accosted by Kate, who had been conscientiously monitoring her induction to the office all week. Try as she might, all week Sara had used all kinds of tactics to cross paths with the Senator, but each attempt had been foiled by either his schedule or one gatekeeper or another. The confidence she had when we donned her overly pink lipstick in the bathroom several days prior had now waned to naught.

Kate, on the other hand, was brimming with optimism as she stood by Sara’s workstation. As usual, she was dressed as though three personal stylists had kitted her out before she came to work. Sara was almost impressed to see that her nail varnish was a different color from yesterday’s and perfectly matched the aqua-blue of the gem hanging from her necklace.

“Good morning!” Kate’s voice was as bright as ever. “Are you ready for the Thursday meeting? There’ll be fresh fruit. And I thought this would be an excellent chance to introduce you to the Senator at last.”

“Oh, wonderful!”

Fresh fruit. If she had to be careful about anything in this office, it was the threat of being signed up to a gluten-free diet club.

But Sara hadn’t had to fake her enthusiasm this time. This was the opportunity she needed to meet Capulet. She grabbed her datapad and followed Kate into the conference room, where she saw Sadiq and Dan making preparations near the holoscreen at the front of the room while the rest of the office staff found seats. Ron Capulet was the last person to arrive. Everyone looked up and smiled as he entered, but he seemed distracted. He was holding an envelope in his left hand. Kate, however, was not to be put off. She made a beeline for him, with Sara in her wake.

“Good morning, Senator,” Kate beamed. “I wanted to introduce you to the newest member of our team. Meet Sara Hughes, our new PR and Communications assistant.”

Capulet glanced Sara up and down, his eyes lingering briefly at chest height, before smiling at her with a practiced politician’s grin. He shook her hand warmly. “Welcome to the team. Glad to have you on board.”

Sara opened her mouth to respond, but he was already turning away, looking toward Sadiq and Dan. She felt a hint of frustration, but something told her meeting Capulet was less interesting than seeing him like this. From what she could tell, the Senator was, like everyone he employed, a people person. He invested time in his staff, and Kate had told her he’d normally invite new starters to his office for an informal meeting.

But not today. Today, he was gripping an envelope like it contained the secret to immortality and standing at the fringes of his own staff meeting, avoiding eye contact. Sara, expecting to meet the Senator today, had dressed for the occasion. Her dress was tight and low cut, her hair styled, but left down and long, and her make-up was rivaled only by Kate’s. If she had any understanding of the Senator’s character, he would not normally be in a hurry to stop looking at her. Whatever was in that envelope must be more interesting than her breasts, and Sara was keen to know what that could be.

Sadiq led the meeting. Sara tried to look engaged, sneaking glances every so often at Capulet, monitoring his behavior. After Sadiq had finished running through a mundane weekly agenda, he passed proceedings over to Martin from IT, who told them about an update to their security system. Sadiq stood beside Capulet, and Sara got the distinct impression she wasn’t the only one interested in the envelope he was holding.

When the meeting was over, Sadiq accompanied Capulet back to his office. Sara watched them go from the corner of her eye, thinking about possible ways to break in there once the Senator had gone home for the day. There was no guarantee he wouldn’t simply take the envelope with him, but she figured there was probably still a goldmine of data and intel on his workstation. She waited an hour, processing a series of inconsequential messages to the office while letting her mind play out various plans. Then she slipped into the bathroom for another call to Hank. Speaking quickly, she told him about the envelope and her intention to get into his office after hours. Hank’s voice told her he knew the risk, but he didn’t object.

“I’ll have your back, as far as I can. Just don’t take any more risks than are necessary. If you have to ditch the intel and run, do it.”

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Mitch spent far too long at her desk talking to her about the updated security system—rather too friendly for Sara’s patience levels, but she smiled along. He might be useful at some point. Time passed and eventually people started to leave for the evening. Sara pretended to be trying to get to grips with a backlog of records and wished them a good night, until eventually she was the only one left in the large, open work area. She waited. It was nearly another two long hours until Capulet and one of his assistants passed through the office and left for the night.

It was time.

The Senator’s office opened by a keycard; not many people in the office had the right permissions on their cards. But she had noticed that Mitch had been leaving his access card in his desk drawer when he left for the day. This was just one of the benefits of playing the longer game—being afforded access to peoples’ habits. And Mitch, as the most senior techie, had certain access privileges, which were going to be useful tonight.

Mitch, of course, kept the drawer locked, but it would be a lot easier to break into than the secure area where the sensitive information was kept.

She rifled through the make-up section of her purse and found a small metal jimmy in a mascara tube. There wasn’t much you could get past security, but she’d taken the risk with a couple of tools like this. The drawer wasn’t firmly secured, and she was quickly able to open it and gain possession of Mitch’s security card. She slipped it into her pocket and headed to the bathroom. Though the office was empty, it was still safer to talk in a smaller space. She switched on her earpiece and buzzed through to Hank.

“I’ve got the access card,” she murmured. “Going to head back to the secure area and see what I can find. Can you watch my back?”

“I’ve got you,” Hank answered immediately. “I’ve been working on a hack to get into the security systems there. If you send me the details of the keycard you’re using, I should be able to get eyes on you once you’ve gone in.”

“I’ll send them over. There are still people in the building, so I’m not going to linger too long.”

“Got it.”

Sara left the bathroom and casually headed toward the door that was off-limits to most members of staff and locked by a magnetic system. She looked around. She wasn’t going to get a more opportune moment than this. Sara walked briskly to the secured door as if she had nothing to hide and swiped Mitch’s card. Her breath caught as the light flashed red. She swiped again. The light turned green and the door clicked open. She breathed with relief.

Quickly, she slipped inside and closed the door carefully behind her.

Standing in the small hallway of the restricted area, she could see through the misted glass panels into the high-security offices. One light was still on—Dan’s office. From what she could make out, though, he seemed engrossed in a sports match on his holoscreen. She would have a fairly large window of opportunity to sneak inside. Moving quickly, she made her way to the large office opposite her, swiped the card again, and slipped inside.

Capulet’s office was surprisingly large and spacious. There were two sofas facing each other, a coffee table between them, a large wooden desk with a top-of-the-line workstation, and three holoscreens built into the wall by the door. There was no sign of the envelope Capulet had been focused on—he must have taken it with him. But there were several workstations and holoscreens, all secured and password protected.

If Burner and the team were going to give her the tech she needed to crack them, they would need pictures of the specs. Not wasting any time, Sara began snapping pictures of all the screens and ports on the systems. She was nearly finished when she heard the handle of the door rattle. Adrenaline spiked through her chest, and she heard Hank in her ear. “Someone’s trying to get in. I’ve had a bead on them and I’ve locked the door.”

“What are my options?” Sara whispered.

“Just hang tight for a second.”

She waited, barely breathing, listening to the sounds of the door handle rattling. Finally, the noise stopped.

“Alright.” Hank’s voice cut in through her comm. “It was a lady trying to get in. She seemed confused, but she’s out of sight now. I’ve opened the lock again. Get out of there quickly.”

Sara half ran out through the now-opened door, then through the hallway, and she burst back through the secure door into the greater office. She glanced around as she made her way back to her own workstation. Fairly confident that no one had spotted her, she slipped back into normality and decided it was time to head home. She gathered her things and headed to the elevators, the data she’d collected in the secure room already uploaded and being sent to Burner and his team via her device.

When the elevator doors opened into the lobby, Sara’s anxiety resurged. She knew the security guards in the lobby had access to all the camera feeds in the building. The odds they would have been watching that specific feed with her on it were small, but it was possible. Even if they’d seen her, unless they specifically knew she shouldn’t have access, they wouldn’t think anything of it. She hoped.

She went through the electronic gate and her heart sank as one of the guards called out to her. “Hey! Come here a sec?”

Forcing a smile, Sara went over to the security desk, watching the two stern men eyeing her suspiciously.

“You’re new?” one of the guards asked her.

“Just started this week,” she told them. She handed them her ID, and they studied it. The guard looked it over for a moment and handed it back to her, smiling.

“Well, now I’ll recognize you, so I won’t have to check this anymore. Welcome to the team.”

“Thanks!” she replied, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. She waved goodbye and was out the doors in a matter of seconds, breathing deeply as she strode down the street.

“You okay?” It was Hank in her ear. He was speaking gently.

“I’m fine.”

“It’s okay. You’re out now. No one saw you.”

“Just as well,” she whispered, watching the road and crossing the street away from the building. “I’m going to have to go back on Monday and do it all again.”

* * *

CAPULET’S RESIDENCE, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

It had been one of the longest days of Capulet’s life.

For eight hours, he’d had to deal with all sorts of bureaucratic bullshit, going to meetings, reading comments on proposed legislation, and all while this damned data stick had been burning a hole in his psyche, screaming for his attention. But he’d had to wait. There was no way he was going to risk plugging the data drive into one of the office computers. Not knowing it probably had something dangerous on it.

Now, mercifully, he was home. Lenore was out somewhere, and he finally had the opportunity to see what was on it. Capulet locked himself in his home office and took the data stick out of his pocket. With a deep breath, he plugged it into his workstation and opened up the lone file.

It took him some seconds to work out what he was seeing. They were long-range photos taken of two people in a hotel room somewhere. It wasn’t until the sixth shot that he registered they were naked, and the eighth shot that he recognized one of the positions they were in. The next image—a close-up of his own face—confirmed it.

This was the night he’d been with that escort, Megyn. She looked younger in the photos. He looked older.

Capulet wasn’t a self-conscious man, but something twisted in his stomach as he scrolled, horrified, through the pictures. This was political arsenic. If just one of these photos got out, his career was finished. His marriage was a secondary concern; Lenore had long known about his dalliances, but money was a powerful adhesive in the field of love.

What was Drake doing? The two had never liked each other, but they’d had a mutual respect. Or so he thought. These photos were a warning. But of what? What did Drake want that he wasn’t already getting from him?

Capulet rubbed his temples, trying to think. In situations like this, he always had some bright idea come to him, but right now he was drawing a blank. He needed to come up with a plan to get rid of this threat, and quickly, or else Drake was going to come out of this thing with the upper hand. And Capulet had worked too hard for too long to let something like that happen. But before he could do anything about it, he really needed to know what Drake wanted. What was he up to? Why all of a sudden did he feel he needed leverage? What had changed?

He scrubbed the files from his workstation and retrieved the data stick from its port, then he put it back into his pocket. He wasn’t sure if he would need it going forward, but the idea of trying to destroy the evidence now seemed useless. Drake would have copies, and potentially would have sent it on to other people already.

In his experience, threats could normally be manipulated into opportunities for greater power. Sitting in his office with the images imprinted in his mind’s eye, though, Capulet couldn’t for the life of him see how he was going to turn this around.

* * *

DRAKE’S RESIDENCE, RANCH DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Drake sat in the dark and silence of his living room. Waiting. Thinking. Mulling the events of the day, and churning over what was to come. He needed to be ready, but right now he needed more information.

Finally, the secure comm rang.

“What’s up, Josh?” Drake answered immediately, having waited hours for this update. The plan had been set in motion when he handed off the data stick to Capulet. Things were going to move quickly now. He was eager to see Capulet out of the picture, taking any loose ends Drake had left lying around with him.

Josh’s voice was as deadpan as ever, but he was talking slightly faster than usual. Something had caught his interest. “Good news. Looks like the trap worked. Capulet just plugged the data stick into his own personal computer—guess he was trying to be careful by not using the system in his office. Dumbass doesn’t realize that his home workstation is hooked onto the same intranet as the one in his office.”

Drake felt a warming of satisfaction. Capulet was almost proudly bad with technology. He usually kept at least one IT guy in tow ready to deal with the most basic glitches for him. The Senator deserved everything that was coming to him.

“Excellent. So the trap worked? You’ve got access to Capulet’s files?”

“Yes, it’s done.”

Drake had known Josh was capable of this, but the realization of the plan came as a relief, a sensation he was surprised at. Everything was panning out exactly as he’d hoped. “And Capulet won’t know what’s happened, correct?”

“Right. If he’s dumb enough to plug a random data stick into his system, he’s not going to notice a background virus.”

“Excellent. Keep me posted with any further developments.”

“Yes, sir.” Josh hung up and Drake smiled. He was used to Josh’s abruptness.

Something was going right. Finally. Capulet, a dangerous element from the moment he’d started being tracked, would soon be brought down. Now that there was a mole within his office, it was clear that Capulet needed to go—but this way he could use him as the fall guy. Stop anyone from digging any further for his involvement.

If he didn’t do that now, it was only a matter of time before he’d be implicated. His whole empire would be eradicated overnight—even despite his attempts to silo operations. Things were just too vulnerable and haphazard right now. It wouldn’t withstand any scrutiny at all. He’d be thrown in prison, disgraced. And everything he’d worked for, all this time—all the blood, sweat, and tears, it would all be gone.

The data stick of incriminating images not only acted as a Trojan horse into Capulet’s systems, but it also contained all the evidence an investigative team would need to cause a frenzy. The press would go crazy. There would be so much pressure from the Senator’s office and other government agencies to wrap the case up quietly, there wouldn’t be time for any nosey investigators to come poking around the rest of the operation. Capulet would be taken out, in disgrace, in front of the media, the case would be closed, and Drake could get back to rebuilding his underground empire from the comfort of his tenth-floor office within the Union itself.

Drake stood up and headed over to his drinks cabinet. He poured himself a glass of his good stuff. After all the crap he’d been juggling, between the heat and finding a replacement for the Hand, having Capulet walk right into his trap was a welcome change in luck.

Capulet was probably hoping right now that Drake might be kept quiet about the photos with money or professional favors. Drake took a long sip of his whiskey, savoring the taste, a smile still playing on his lips. Little did the Senator know that his real problems were only just beginning.

* * *

CAPULET’S RESIDENCE, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Capulet couldn’t tell how long he’d been sitting there, immobile, trying to straighten his thoughts. A buzzing pulled him back into the present, and he opened his datapad to see who was contacting him at this time on a Thursday night. It was one of his henchmen, Al, with an urgent request to meet as soon as possible. Great. Capulet wasn’t in a frame of mind to meet anyone right now. But Al rarely contacted him out of the blue like this, and Capulet assumed it was something important. It might even be related to the pictures.

Still reeling from the contents of the data stick, he knew he didn’t have a choice. He downed his drink, rose from his desk, and hurried out of his office.

24

Dierdorff Apartments, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

It was only when she’d gotten back to her apartment that Sara began to untense her muscles after her office break-in. She hurried through the door and locked it carefully behind her, stepping out of her heels almost in the same moment. Her bag had barely hit the counter, and she was halfway out of her clinging dress, changing it for a t-shirt and jeans. After washing the make-up off her face and pouring a glass of wine, she collapsed on the couch. This prolonged assignment wasn’t like the high-pressure kind of thing she was used to. It was exhausting. The one-hit stuff was exhilarating. This couldn’t be further from her normal infiltration MO.

She gathered her thoughts and prepared to report back. She sent messages to both Burner and Hank, asking Hank to conference them all in. No point in repeating herself. Hank responded in moments, telling her to stand by. She sent through the images she had collected, to both parties again, and then padded through to the kitchen for some water. Hydration, she reminded herself. Hydration helps with focus. And stress.

The connecting comm call came through as she headed back to the living room with her second glass.

“I take it you’re okay,” Hank started dryly.

“I’m fine.” She drank some more water. Then switched back to the wine.

“So what happened?” It was Burner’s voice. She could hear the others in the background—Margarita, Boris, and Judy. Burner had her on speaker.

She ran through the basics of what had happened, delivering it as a basic field report. The structure of a sitrep was designed to prompt the memory of the person giving the report and make sure pertinent details were delivered. It was times like this she recognized the value of the drilling and training of these skills.

Finally, she moved to the subject of the images she’d sent. “You’ve taken a look at them?” she asked.

It was Hank who responded. “I have. It’s going to take some work in real time I reckon. They’re too secure for you to be able to get what you need with just a simple password or plugging in a preprogrammed dongle.”

“But is this something we’ll be able to do ourselves?” Burner asked. “Or are we going to need to bring the Collective in?”

“Based on what I’m looking at, we’d stand a much better chance with help,” Hank told him. “It’s going to be a difficult job, and we’ll need the manpower. Three of us—Margarita, Boris, and myself— will probably still need longer than any window of time Sara can get in there. Sara?”

Sara swallowed before she spoke. “Yeah. I agree. Swiping a keycard to get into the office is relatively easy. But the computers run with government level systems, designed to prevent hackers from even thinking about cracking them. Ideally, I want to be in and out. Every second I’m in that room there is an increased chance of someone finding me.”

Burner’s voice came back, commanding and decided. “We need to have to have a support discussion. Sara, we’re going to need you to come down here—we might have to look over secure data and run through examples, which we can’t do over comms. I’ll get Carla in as well. She should be able to give us a more in-depth description of what we’re going to need to hack into Capulet’s systems.”

Sara checked the time. Her heart sank. “You want me to come over now?”

Burner’s tone was sympathetic but firm. “Sorry, Sara, we need you in person.”

She knew better than to argue with Burner when he was this determined. She knew what he was like on a case, and she liked it. He had his eyes fixed on the goal and wasn’t going to let a little tiredness stand in his way. Still, it was a point of pride that she was able to get going when the going got tough.

She would have a shower first. “All right. I’ll be over as soon as I can. But I’m not going to stay all night.”

The comm call ended and Sara got up, thinking about the shower. She paused for a moment, then started putting on a jacket and shoes. There was work to be done. The shower could wait.

* * *

ABANDONED WAREHOUSE, RANCH DISTRICT, DOBULLA U8X, UNION SPACE.

Burner led Sara into the warehouse. She bridled as he eyed her and asked how she was doing.

“I’m fine,” she said shortly.

“You look tired.”

She didn’t reply but followed him over to the group meeting table. Carla was already there, watching the shared holoscreen display information on the case: data on Capulet, the possible positions in the hierarchy of the suspected Union mole, and information about the remnants of the Hand’s trafficking ring. Sara nodded to her and glanced over at the empty workstations.

“Where’s everyone else?” she asked.

Burner grabbed a datapad that was synched with the holoscreen and brought up the pictures Sara had sent earlier that day. “I told them they should take some time off. They went out to dinner,” he explained. “They’ve had a pretty intense few days, and I think they needed the break. This meeting shouldn’t take too long. I don’t want to keep you here all night. It’ll be faster with just the three of us.”

“Probably for the best.” Carla smiled at Burner. She had her short brown hair tied back and was wearing a casual shirt with a tech company logo on it that Sara didn’t recognize.

Sara watched for Burner’s reaction, but he seemed to almost deliberately remain unmoved. He was in ops mode. Perhaps he was just so focused on the task at hand he didn’t notice Ms. Carla’s flirtations.

Sara jumped into catching Carla up on her time in Capulet’s office, describing the nature of the computer security and talking through the data port pictures she’d taken, explaining which she thought would be the most important to get into. Together, the three of them reviewed the details. Carla seemed the most tech-savvy of them. She analyzed each system as they went, suggesting ways to circumvent the security and making notes to presumably report back to her team.

“Two-pronged data ports in the back,” she noted. “Those can be easily penetrated but there’s probably a firewall behind them. You said these secure consoles are air-gapped? Not connected to the gal-net?”

Sara zoomed in on the image of the ports. “That’s right. Just these ones. The rest of the office isn’t though. We’ll need an actual piece of hardware to plug into the machines if we want to get access to anything. Hank seemed to think there could be some sort of carbon printed adapter or something I could slip in there that would allow you guys to gain access.”

Carla nodded. “Yeah, that’s something I can get hold of.” She leaned back briefly, assessing. “It’s a secure system, but it does have vulnerabilities.” She narrowed her eyes, thinking of something else. “You didn’t happen to see what other kinds of security they had on the system while you were in there, did you? Any traps that would shut out access if an unauthorized person tried to get inside?”

“I didn’t boot up. Had to be in and out fairly quickly.”

Carla bobbed her head, looking back over her holo notes. “This isn’t easy stuff. Not easy at all. But give us twelve hours.”

Burner raised his eyebrows. “You can do it in twelve hours? This is some of the tightest security there is. If you make a device that can hack it, we need to know it’ll work.”

“We have the sharpest minds around. Twelve hours. Max.”

Burner looked at her for a moment, as if deciding something. Then he nodded.

Sara got to her feet. “Okay,” she started. “I’ll keep my head down and wait for you to get a device to me. But now”—she glanced apologetically in Burner’s direction—“I need to get to bed. I’ll check in at the usual time Monday. Anything else, just talk to Hank about it. He’s always in my ear.” She smiled the mock smile of a long-suffering partner, then winked at Carla.

Sara moved to head out. Burner waved to Sara and watched her leave. When she was out of earshot, he turned to Carla, who was stretching out her arms behind her head. “I’ve got to be going, too,” she told him, as if realizing the time and snapping to get to her feet.

“No.” Burner’s voice stopped her as she was about to get to her feet.

She raised an eyebrow at his tone. “What is it?”

“I know you’ve been spying on us.”

Carla’s simulation of innocence was uncomfortably like the time they first met. He recognized the demeanor. He knew he had her. Her reaction was already confirmation.

“Spying on you?” she parroted his words back to him, giving herself time to think.

Burner crossed his arms. “Don’t play dumb, Carla. It doesn’t suit you. You used a phrase—war on two fronts. We’ve used that in this room before now. It’s an unusual phrase. You weren’t here with us in the warehouse when we had that discussion.”

She looked at him blankly. “You’re thinking just because I happen to—”

He cut her off. “Yeah, yeah, it was a coincidence. Like you providing us the exact next step to work with you without knowing any of my thinking? Like you’re magically telepathic or something. Showing up with exactly what I’d said we needed to see from the Collective before we worked with you… and there you are handing it to us on a silver platter not hours later. My guess is you’ve had a feed of all us for a while.”

Carla looked him in the eye, unabashed. “Okay. Yes,” she said finally. “It’s how the Collective works.”

Burner was surprised how infuriated this made him. “How the Collective works? Like that makes it okay? How can that possibly make this okay? We’re working together, and you’re spying on us. Do you have any idea what kind of a violation that is? Not to mention how it creates a security vulnerability for us. I’m talking about the safety of my team. My people.”

Carla got out of her seat, reaching for her datapad and her purse. “We run on information, Burner. The more information we have, the better. We just wanted to have a beat on you so that we knew we wouldn’t miss out on any valuable information. You would have done the same thing to us if you had the chance.”

Burner stayed seated, looking up at her with a steady anger sufficient to stop Carla from heading for the door. “No. We wouldn’t,” he told her coldly.

Carla shrugged. “Alright. I’ll shut it down. It didn’t really give us anything of substance, anyway. It was just background noise, for the most part.”

“How can we be certain you’ve disabled it? It would take us weeks to rework all of our security protocols. Weeks, when we should be focused on catching the bad guys!”

Carla leaned against the back of the chair she had been sitting in. She shook her head as Burner spoke. “Then don’t rework them. What do you want from me? This is just how we do things. The other members of the Collective insisted.”

Burner looked at her a moment longer, then began to tidy away datapads and mugs from the table. When he spoke, his voice was low and unyielding. “Just leave. I’m not interested in talking to you if you can’t take this seriously. Go now.”

Burner didn’t look at Carla. Carrying a few empty mugs, he headed past her toward the kitchen. She watched him for a moment, thinking about what she could possibly say. Deciding there was nothing worth adding, she turned and headed to the exit.

Burner heard the door shut as Carla left the warehouse. He left the kitchen to lock it behind her, then returned to the workspace. For a long time, he sat in his swivel chair, staring at the workstations and wondering just what kind of spyware they contained. Boris and Margarita would be far more capable of finding and eliminating whatever the Collective had planted there. They were still out though, of course.

Violation. He’d let his team be violated. Running a hand through his hair, Burner sighed and considered whether he could wait until the morning to tell them about this. They needed rest. And less worry.

But as long as the Collective were bugging the warehouse, none of them were really safe.

25

Nine Altars Gentlemen’s Club, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Senator Capulet took a sip of his brandy and glanced around. He felt watched. Scrutinized. Those damn photos. He just hoped he had enough leverage to go out on his terms. He wasn’t going to let Drake dictate the way this thing went down.

The club was somewhere he could go to unwind. He often went there in the evening, when work got to be too much and he couldn’t think of a better way to avoid Lenore. Not tonight, of course. Capulet barely touched the drink in front of him as he tried not to think about the pictures and the implication they had for him. Al had wanted to meet here. His contacts never asked to meet urgently like this. On the same day as Drake’s revelation, Capulet was sure it could only be about the same thing. He still had no idea what Drake was intending; he only knew it wasn’t good.

The man who entered the room a few minutes later was dressed in a black suit with a black polo neck, as if trying to blend into nothingness. He had the kind of plain, anonymous face that would make it almost impossible to pick him out of a crowd. Capulet rarely worked face-to-face with these guys, relying instead on comms and messages filtered up through the hierarchy of people under him, but this must be Al. Only Al had been given the password for the bodyguard outside the room, and Capulet had left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed by anyone without the password.

The Senator didn’t waste time with greetings. Al stood in front of him, hesitated by the chair opposite Capulet and, when he wasn’t invited to sit down, did so anyway.

“Well?” Capulet tried to make his voice sound imperious rather than tense.

Al made the determined eye contact of someone who’s not at all comfortable with professional situations and is trying not to make that too obvious. “There’s some information, sir… It’s quite important, and I think you need to—”

“I don’t need a prologue. Cut to the chase.”

The man swallowed. “We believe there’s a mole in your office.”

He waited for Capulet’s response then, when none came, fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a datapad. Having brought up a picture, he handed it over to Capulet, who studied it.

“I’ve seen this girl,” he remarked. “She’s new.”

“She’s using the name Sara Hughes,” the messenger explained, with some evident relief that the Senator seemed interested. “We think her real name is Nolan. She seems to be military, but given her appearance here, we suspect she’s been undercover, so the details on her military record are probably just a front. I checked with HR. She’s been working for you for a little over a week. We’re not sure exactly what her agenda is, but it looks like she’s trying to build a case against you. I can upload the evidence to your device if you have it with you. It’s probably best not to send this sort of thing in comms.”

“What else is there?”

“Her profile, such that it is. Close ups. Body language assessments. Her application and references seem to be well fabricated,” he added.

“But nothing concrete to know she is a spy? Or something more in terms of aims?”

“Only what’s in the casefile sir. I can upload it now.”

Capulet handed his datapad over and allowed Al to make the transfer. When he took the device back, he started going through the documents and images in detail. Glancing up, he saw Al still looking at him nervously.

“How do we know she’s not a corporate spy trying to get leverage for legislation changes or something?”

Al shrugged. “We don’t. But the existence of anything military related…” His voice trailed off.

Capulet knew he was right. A military record even as a cover—you could bet there was something deeper going on. Special ops of some sort. “You can go,” he said abruptly, waving a hand and returning immediately to reading.

Al left.

He took another sip of brandy. What did this mean? If his people had uncovered this mole, Drake almost certainly knew about her too. Drake’s people were at least as diligent as his own, and he was on the lookout for any threats to the Hand’s old gang. So Drake had clocked that someone was onto Capulet and decided he was a liability. Hence the incriminating images, for some kind of leverage. But then why not just release them to the press? Why not take him out of the equation right away?

It was true, the Senator knew a lot—too much, from Drake’s perspective. He knew how Drake’s empire operated. He would want to get out from under all this, and the best way of doing that would be to make Capulet responsible for everything. They would make him the fall guy. Smart move.

He took another sip of his drink.

But no. He’d been in this game too long to get taken down by something like this. Drake may be smart, but not smart enough to take him out. Capulet would take no bullets for Drake.

There were a number of options that sprang immediately to his mind. He could gather evidence, send a packet to the media, maybe have this Nolan woman intercept it. All the years he’d worked with Drake, it shouldn’t be too hard to dig up the dirt. He could work out who it was that had sent the mole and try to strike a bargain with them—sell Drake out. But there was no way he could entirely escape charges himself, and he’d rather die than land in a black site.

Sipping more of his whiskey without tasting it, the Senator willed his brain to come up with something resembling a decent plan. There must be a loophole he could duck through while at the same time tightening the noose on Drake.

He’d come up with something. Right now, it was important that he not panic. Fear activates the enemy.

* * *

SENATOR CAPULET’S OFFICE, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

It was nine o’clock on Friday morning and Sara had been in the office for at least an hour already, working on a press release that was due in the afternoon. She noticed, as she always did, when Capulet arrived. Usually there was general fuss as he came in and greeted various staff members, but today it seemed curtailed. In fact, Capulet was late, which was unusual for him. Even more unusual was that he looked directly at her and smiled as he entered. Sara returned the smile. Had she finally won his attention? This was what she’d been wanting since she started here. Her gut lurched. Something told her that this brief moment of acknowledgement wasn’t the victory she’d been hoping for.

As Capulet continued into his private office, Sara turned back to her work. It could have been nothing—just a smile. There was no sense in reading too much into it. Her years of work in the field had told her not to trust her gut every time it got nervous. She forced herself to concentrate on the report she was writing; she would check in with Burner and the team in her lunch break as planned, and see if anything had shifted that she needed to know about.

Besides, if there was any urgent news, Hank would be telling her in her ear already.

When her lunch break rolled around, she slipped out of the office with her purse, checking with her colleagues if they wanted anything from the coffee truck. She walked about a block or two west to a coffee truck that was parked on the side of the road. There was a line of people also on their lunch break, and Sara joined it. Her thoughts drifted back to Capulet. Maybe she should try to get into a conversation with him in the next few days, see if he wanted a little workplace flirtation.

She wasn’t here for the coffee. Burner had sent her a private comm to come during her lunch break to pick up a device from the Collective. She should keep an eye out for one of the team, although she wasn’t sure how smoothly a handover could go with this many people around. Not without more information on how it was going to go off. She maintained awareness, looking for anyone who might be there to hand something over discretely.

She got to the front of the line and was about to order when the guy in the truck passed a cup and brown paper bag to her. “Coffee and bagel as usual.”

Sara stared at Burner in his cap and stained apron.

She felt her face light up. “Thank you,” she announced, exerting effort to sound calm. She started fumbling for her bank card, and Burner stopped her.

“This one’s on the house,” he added.

“Oh. Thanks.” She met his eyes and he winked. The coffee cup was warm in her hands, and she found herself wanting to stand longer at the front of the line with Burner. She was glad he hadn’t sent one of the others.

Tucking the brown paper bag under her arm, she moved over to a low wall nearby. She set the coffee down and looked into the bag. As she had expected, it contained a small carbon fiber object that could be inserted into the data port of a workstation. She slipped it in the case of her private comms device for safekeeping. There was also a bagel in the bag, and she dug into it, grateful that Burner had thought to include that as well. The coffee was strong and reminded her of how he made it when she was at the warehouse. Judy had warned her not to let him give her coffee for fear of a caffeine overdose. She drank most of it on the way back to the office, smiling a little at the thought of Burner inflicting his coffee on so many unsuspecting lunch truck customers.

* * *

MARCELINA BOULEVARD, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Burner unlatched one of the doors at the rear of the truck and climbed back out onto the street. “Thanks, Carlos,” he called behind him.

“No problem,” Carlos called back.

Burner walked away briskly. He was heading in the same direction that Sara had gone a few minutes before, east toward Senator Capulet’s office. Parked across the street from the Senator’s building was a plain white van. The only thing differentiating it from the dozen or so other vehicles by the sidewalk was that this van had tinted windows and it was impossible to see inside. Burner rapped on the rear doors. They opened for him, and he clambered up. Carla was waiting, surrounded by an impressive array of computer equipment whirring. There were holoscreens lining the inside walls of the van. All of this generated a wall of heat. Burner braced himself for the discomfort. Carla, however, seemed to thrive in this environment. She greeted Burner with the wave of a hand, pulled the doors closed behind him, and went back to some recorded footage she was listening to through her comm. Burner stood in the rear corner against a collection of wires.

“How’s everything looking?” he asked.

Carla didn’t look up from the holoscreen. “Not bad. Just making preparations for when Sara gives us the go-ahead. This part’s easy compared to what she’s got to do. If all the equipment holds up and works the way it’s supposed to, then it should be smooth sailing. So long as she doesn’t get interrupted while she’s in there.” She shook her head. “It’s gonna be risky.”

Burner pointed to a holoscreen on the side of the van that had a live feed of Judy, Boris, and Margarita, who were working back at the warehouse. He frowned. “What’s this?”

Carla smirked. “Don’t worry, I’m not spying on them. It’s a mutual feed. We need to be in contact with each other. Smoother than an open comm.”

Judy’s voice came in over the voice comm channel. “Yeah, we can see you, Burner. How did the drop go?”

“Fine.” He grinned. “She looked pleased to see a friendly face.”

He saw Margarita pushing up her glasses to look at them on her screen. “Glad you’re back okay. This two-way video call between consenting parties—it’s a real treat.” The dig about having been hacked by Carla was evident in her tone. Burner noted it but didn’t respond.

Carla rolled her eyes but kept tapping at her holoscreen, seemingly content with the audio she’d been reviewing.

Judy cut in. “We’re still working on some of the crypts you sent us, Carla. We should concentrate on that so we’re ready for any new data that Sara gets through.”

“Sure. I’ll sign off the voice call for now,” Carla told them. “I’ll keep the visual feed up. We’ll talk again when we hear from Sara. Otherwise, emergencies only on this channel.”

Carla muted the audio link and looked over at Burner. His expression gave nothing of his thoughts away. He sat down at the other console and began sending comms over to Hank, who still had audio access to Sara. Carla continued configuring the holoscreen. In the building across the street, they knew Sara would soon be wending her way back into the secure office of a ruthless criminal. And she would be counting on them. They had to be ready.

* * *

ABANDONED WAREHOUSE, RANCH DISTRICT, DOBULLA U8X, UNION SPACE.

“How can you think that what she did was in any way okay?” Margarita had taken her glasses off to glare at Boris as she spoke.

He spread his hands as though absolving himself of incrimination by understanding. “I’m not saying you have to like her,” he answered, “but we’re working with her. Just be professional.”

“Professional?” Margarita’s tone took on a tone of venom. “This is our home. She’s made it impossible to feel safe, not just where we work, but where we live as well. She used and manipulated us, and you’re saying we have to be professional?”

“I know, I know it’s not okay. I agree with you. It sucks. But we’re concentrating on something bigger now. We can’t waste time squabbling.”

“It’s not squabbling to have an issue with being spied on.” Margarita turned back to the holoscreen. “And Carla, if you’re listening right now, I will hold you personally accountable for anything that happens to Sara because of your underhanded methods.”

“That’s enough.” Judy spoke quietly but sternly. The other two looked at her, their expressions melting into sheepishness. “Margarita, you’re right, there is nothing that justifies what Carla did, and it’s perfectly natural to feel violated. This was our safe place. But right now, we’ve got someone else’s safety to protect. It’s not our lives we’re risking if we take our eyes off the ball, and I know you wouldn’t forgive yourself if you made a mistake that put Sara in more danger than she’s already in. Once she’s out of the field and safe, I’m more than happy for you to have it out with Carla Clark.”

Margarita looked down, nodded, and put her glasses back on. “Yeah,” she muttered.

“I’ll even hold her down for you,” Judy added with a devilish grin. She got up and headed out to the kitchenette.

Boris leaned toward Margarita. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

He hesitated. Margarita recognized the slight edge to his voice, the hint of sympathy in his eye. She knew he was thinking about everything she’d been through. He wouldn’t have thought twice about checking on her back in the days in the tech bunker—even though there had been more of an immediate threat to their safety. He’d have been too absorbed with the work.

How things change, she thought to herself.

“Good,” Boris added, returning to his normal manner. “’Cause I’ve got a vector problem that I need you to look at.”

Or maybe they don’t…

She smiled to herself and ambled around to Boris’s workstation.

26

Senator Capulet’s Office, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

The office was as busy with inconsequential comings and goings as ever.

Sara kept her head down, focusing on doing only what she had done for the last week or so, blending in with the office environment. On her way in from her lunch break, she had clocked the white van near the building, where Burner and Clara were waiting for her.

The device was tucked in her bag in the bottom of her workstation drawer.

It was a dangerous plan. She’d made it into his office before, but she’d been a hair’s breadth from being discovered. It wasn’t a risk she would have chosen to take again if she could have avoided it. That time, she’d been in and out in just a few minutes; this time, she’d have to be in there a good bit longer.

Finally, the end of the working day came and people started to head out of the office.

“Not staying late, are you?”

Sara caught her breath as a figure leaned in next to her. She forced herself to smile and look up. Dascha.

“Oh, no. Hopefully not, anyway. I’m just triple-checking this comms report.” She laughed a little at her own perfectionism, tried and failed to remember the name of Dascha’s boyfriend, and settled for something more vague.

“You have a great weekend!” she said, careful that her tone conveyed that she wasn’t trying to get into a chat.

“You too!”

Dascha walked away, pulling her jacket on. As Sara watched her leave, she noticed that the open part of the office was pretty much empty. She would be able to leave her desk soon and start the next chapter of waiting. This time, she wouldn’t be making her incursion when anyone else was around; she would lie low until five in the morning, when the night guards changed over with the morning shift, in the hope that it would be the lowest security time of the night. Of course, nothing was certain. She’d never been able to get a straight answer on whether or not security guards walked around in the night for checks. She figured it was likely. She’d heard talk of the guards coming up to the other floors after hours to poke around.

She listened to the whirring of the fan inside her workstation. It seemed to be following a pattern—three seconds louder, eight seconds quieter. Or was she just imagining it?

Was it time? She glanced at the doors to the private offices and saw light seeping under only one of their doors.

This was it. Off to Purgatory.

Slowly, she packed away her datapad, turned off her workstation, slung her handbag over her shoulder, and made her way toward the bathroom. Her finger was pressed to her ear before the door had closed. She gave the cubicles a cursory glance then hissed to the mirror.

“Hank?”

“Here.” His reply was comfortingly prompt.

“I’m in the restroom. I’ll stick around in here. Can you tell me if anyone looks like they’re coming in?”

“Sure. You’ll be fine, don’t worry. No one’s going to go into the office toilets on a Friday night.”

“Hmm. I think Sadiq’s still in his office. Can you tell me when he leaves? Just for peace of mind.”

“No problem,” Hank answered. There was a pause. “I’ve hacked into the keycard registration. You’re right, he’s still in there. I’ll tell you when he heads out.”

Sara felt her stomach clench. “Just keep an eye out for it. It should be in the next half hour. I got Margarita and Boris to hack into some nearby security cameras and see what time he leaves each day.”

It was a different voice that answered. “Smart.”

Carla Clark.

Sara turned on the faucet to look less suspicious in case anyone walked in, and played distractedly with the small stream of water, bending it with her finger. “I’m going to have both of you in my ear on this thing?”

Carla was unfazed. “I need to be in touch to walk you through this. I’m your portal to the hive mind of the Collective. We’re going to get you through this.”

“And I’m here for security,” Hank added. “I’ll be monitoring your situation.”

“Wonderful.” Sara mostly managed to keep the sarcasm from her tone. She knew having more than one person in touch for backup was a good thing. A practical thing. But once she was breaking into the office, she knew she would want to stay focused. And before then, she had time to while away with Carla and Hank in her ear.

She entered one of the cubicles, locked the door, and set about inspecting her equipment, though she knew already that all the lockpicking tools were there. She thumbed the end of one of them, wondering how easily she could get it into someone’s eye if necessary. Ideally, she could get it done without violence, but the thought of it calmed her down. It was twenty minutes until Hank’s voice crackled back through her earpiece.

“Sara?”

She was glad Hank wasn’t there to see her flinch at his voice.

“What?” she hissed.

“Sadiq Krunal’s gone. We don’t have to worry about him now. Try to get some rest in there. You’ll need it later.”

Sara sat on the floor of her cubicle, her knees bent, leaning against the wall. She tried to close her eyes, but they remained stubbornly open, as if thirsty for the light. What was Hank thinking? She couldn’t rest. She looked at her watch. 21:32.

There was nothing to do in here but listen to the strange hollow sound of the ventilation fan that switched on with the lights. It clipped against something as it spun, making a very slight clicking noise maybe three times every second. The noise seemed to amplify in her head.

She could feel her heart rate rising and forced herself to take a slow breath. Hank would be monitoring her telemetry. If she didn’t manage to rest, he’d know about it and he’d be in her ear chiding her. Leaning her head back against the wall, she stared at the dull green of the partition between this cubicle and the next. She allowed her thoughts to wander.

The hours passed by with her partly in meditation and partly in boredom. After a while, Sara couldn’t be sure whether she had dreamed or simply let her thoughts stray further than she could remember. She found herself opening her eyes after blinking and wondering why the numbers on her wrist holo had changed. She felt a jolt of energy within her.

Then a voice in her ear. “Sara?”

Her head jerked away from the wall, and the yellowish light of the room returned to her eyes. “Yes?”

“It’s time.”

04:57. Adrenaline pumped through her chest cavity. Finally.

She slipped out of the bathroom and headed to get the keycard she would need. Mitch’s desk was halfway across the room, and she made her way directly to it. The desk drawer was simple to unlock even without being able to see it properly. Things were going to plan.

Except this time, there was no security card in there.

She cursed. Mitch must have remembered to take it with him this time. Why choose tonight to do his job properly?

“Small problem,” she whispered into her comm. “I don’t have the access key to the secure area. I’ll have to find another way inside. Can you hack it open from there?”

“That’s on the high alert system,” Carla replied. “If I try and fail, all the high-security locks in the building are going to go down. The guards will notice something is up.”

Sara looked around the office, wondering if there was another way inside. Her basic magnetic lockpicks were good enough for most electronic locks, but the high security lock was complex. If Carla was at risk of triggering alarms by hacking, a clunky physical job would have no chance.

Hank’s tone was even, professional. “We should abort.”

“No,” Sara snapped. “Get it open. I’ll deal with the guards when they come to check it out.”

There was a pause on the line. Sara couldn’t tell if the two were conferring on another channel, or that it was just a pregnant pause.

After what felt like an eternity, Carla’s voice spoke next. “Alright, I’m getting a team on the hack now. Stand by.”

“Standing by,” Sara confirmed.

More waiting. She monitored the elevators from her position. No one was coming. Of course. She ran scenarios of what she might do if someone did appear. She decided to make her way to the door Carla intended to get her through, then loitered a few doors down, at the corner to the open area of the office, just in case someone passed through. It would look less suspicious.

It took a few minutes, but finally Carla’s voice came back into her ear. “Done. You should have access now. I had to take down the locks for the entire building, so someone might well have noticed. But they’ll be back online in a minute—you could be okay. Hurry up and get inside.”

Hank’s voice muttered in her ear. “So much for a stealth operation.”

Sara ignored him. She slipped inside. The room was pitch black aside from some of the flashing lights from the machinery, and she could hear the sound of the servers running in the background. There was no way she’d be able to set up the equipment in the dark, so she had no choice but to turn on the lights. Bright fluorescents flooded the room.

So much for a stealth operation.

“I’m in,” Sara murmured into her comm. “I’ve got the adapter. Carla, tell me what I need to do.”

“Alright,” Carla answered. “Plug the adapter into the dataport of the main workstation and boot up the system as an administrator. From there, I’ll be able to take control of the computer with the adapter. But stay alert—I still might need you to do some things for me.”

Sara crouched down near the server and located the dataport that Carla had been referring to. She plugged it in and booted up the system, watching on the holoscreen as data scrolled down. The screen flashed various displays as Carla took control.

A few moments passed as images flew over the holoscreen, then Carla’s voice was in her ear again. “Okay, it looks like there’s another firewall that needs to be taken down from inside. Sign into one of the consoles using the password I give you and change the settings on the firewall to allow access. You know how to do that?”

“Sure do.” Sara sat at the console, working away furiously on the holopad. Carla gave her the password, and she shut down the firewall. The Collective now had full access to Capulet’s systems.

A faint thud from somewhere outside made her head jerk up. Almost simultaneously, Hank’s voice came in her ear. “I’m getting something. Someone just got off the elevator on your floor.”

“Shit,” Sara muttered. She darted from the workstation to the light switch, and plunged the office back into darkness, hoping that the brightness from the holoscreens would be enough to work by. She couldn’t shut those off in the middle of the job. She crouched down near the door and peeked through the slit. She tensed as the entrance to the secure area opened and two cleaners came in, dressed in blue jumpsuits, pushing big trash bins along and a trolley of sprays and cloths.

“Hank, the janitors are here,” Sara hissed into her comm.

“Damn. Okay. We’ll adapt. Carla, how close are we?”

“We’re almost done. Maybe another ten minutes.”

Sara ducked behind the desk and found a way to squeeze herself between a server stack, the wall, and the blinds framing the window. If she didn’t move or make a sound, it was just possible the cleaners would be in and out without noticing her. Normally cleaners would have music on in their audio comms. They would be distracted. She hoped.

There was a rattle that seemed unbearably loud to Sara, and the door to Capulet’s office swung open. Light flooded the room, and Sara fought the urge to shut her eyes. They can still see you. She needed to stay alert. She slowed her breathing and made sure she didn’t look at either of them. Looking at people set off their danger senses. People could tell if you were looking at them. She waited, deliberately keeping her attention on her breathing.

Eventually, the shuffling and scuffling and emptying of trash cans was complete, and they rolled out of the office again.

Carla’s voice returned to the comm in her ear. “Okay, we’re done. You can start wiping down the system from your end. Make sure there’s no indication we’ve been here—reset the firewall.”

“On it.” She moved back to the desk and began navigating her way back through the system they’d hacked.

Hank’s voice made her freeze. “Sara, we’ve got another problem. The elevator is coming up to your floor again. I think it’s the security guards this time.”

“What the hell, Hank?”

“You need to get out of there. They know something’s wrong.”

Sara could hear the vacuum cleaner in the hallway outside. “The cleaning crew is still here. I’ve got no way past them.”

“You’ll have to take your chances. The security guards are going to catch you if you’re there a minute longer. Get. Out.”

Sara yanked the adaptor out of the dataport and stuffed it in her pocket, then she hit the power switch of the holoscreen and headed to the door. She stepped out of the Capulet’s office as casually as she could. One of the cleaners turned to her, acknowledged her, and then continued vacuuming. Then he looked up, doing a double take, realizing she had come out of a room that definitely should have been empty.

Six cover stories flashed into her head. She fought back the urge to blather all of them at once. Instead, she kept walking past them, keeping cool, nodding her head tersely toward them as though trying to disguise mild irritation by their presence.

She strode down the passageway to the open office area. She reached toward the elevator button when she was still a good meter away from it. Then…

Ding.

She froze.

A crackle of static filled the air: security guards were talking to each other on walkie talkies as the elevator doors slid open. She jerked around, sprinting away from them, toward the fire exit that led to the stairs. The guards realized and ran after her. She could hear their boots on the ground behind her. Just as the guards rounded the corner, she burst through the fire exit doors, which set off an alarm. Ignoring it, Sara raced down the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. Above, she could hear the guards in pursuit, shouting down at her, but she was far enough ahead of them.

Not stopping at the lobby, she instead went down into the basement and ran through a maintenance tunnel toward the parking garage, where she emerged between a few scattered cars and vans.

Instead of heading toward the main entrance, she hurtled over one of the concrete barriers and shimmied down a drain onto the street. She’d come out on the side of the building. An alley. She could hear the buzz of sirens and commotion ringing out from the front of the office.

“Hank,” she said shakily into her comm between breaths. “I’m out. Round the side of the building.”

She heard his sigh of relief.

“Okay. Okay, well done.” The relief in Hank’s voice was palpable, even though he tried to hide it behind professionalism and operational focus. “Go round the back of the building and head toward Moorside Avenue. There should be quite a few people out at this time. You can blend. Carla, did we get everything we needed?”

A pause while they waited for her answer.

“Affirmative. The analysts are saying we’ve got a treasure trove here,” Carla finally responded. “This should be more than enough to put Capulet away and identify the mole in the Union. We’re just going to need time to sift through it.”

Sara was walking as fast as she could away from Capulet’s office building, but she’d done it. Mission accomplished.

Sara felt a tremor of jubilation. She tried to sound less excited than she was as she spoke to them. She still needed to focus. “Alright. I’m on Moorside Avenue now. None of the security guards will have gotten a good look at my face in person, so I should be fine to go back to the apartment, right? No way they knew it was me?”

“Right,” came Hank’s reply. “I’ve been keeping an eye on their security footage—if they didn’t identify you in person, they definitely couldn’t from the footage.”

Carla chipped in. “We swiped your keycard out of their system last night, so officially you weren’t even in the building.”

“Perfect.” Sara felt herself relax at the idea of getting home and processing the mission. It had been a long night. “I’ll go to the apartment then. Give me updates on the data as soon as you have them. Thanks for the assist.”

27

Dierdorff Apartments, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

It was dawn when Sara let herself into her apartment, satisfied after a quick look around the area that no one had been following her.

The three flights of stairs to her landing seemed endless, but she slogged up them, sustained by the thought of rest and safety at the top. She opened the door to her flat, wondering whether Burner would insist on a debriefing call today. She hoped not. But the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that he would. There were still questions to answer on their next steps, and tired though she was, she was still hungry for an update on what the Collective was getting from Capulet’s systems.

She locked the front door behind her, kicked her shoes off, and tossed her purse onto the armchair nearest to her in the lounge. Flipping the lights, she was about to head to the bathroom when something caught her eye over at the far armchair.

It was a figure. A person. It took her a second to process who she was looking at. The Senator held her gaze, smiling coolly. She heard her heartbeat in her head, noticed her vision begin to tunnel, and forced herself to breathe in.

What are the options? The voice in her head wasn’t her own. It wasn’t Hank’s either—of all the times for him not to be hovering in her ear. She wished she did have him on an open comm right now. And in the same second, she noted it almost amused her to realize it was Burner’s voice playing out in her head.

You could try to run. But he’s almost certainly armed, and he isn’t squeamish about killing. Play innocent? Well, he’s in your apartment for a reason. Playacting isn’t likely to work now that he’s here. Other options? Fighting, seduction, playing for time.

The last one might not be her best bet at the moment.

She tried to return his smile and played at being flustered, but not scared. “Senator?”

A muscle twitched in the old man’s face when she spoke; that was his only response.

She waited a moment, then decided to go on. “Senator Capulet. They told me not to bring the office home with me. I guess I’ve not done too well on that front.”

She kept her eyes on his face. If he made any sort of sudden move, she would attack first and aim for the eyes, she decided. She stood a pretty good chance at hand-to-hand, so long as she didn’t let him pull out a weapon.

The Senator didn’t look like he was going to pull anything, though. As Sara stared at him, it occurred to her that she’d never seen him looking so tired. When he began to speak, his words came very slowly. It was almost like listening to a man on his deathbed. “If you wanted information,” he said quietly. “If you wanted names…all you had to do was ask.”

He looked almost lost, like he had wandered into the wrong apartment. Had he not confirmed that he knew what she’d been up to, she might have thought he was just drunk, or on some kind of medication that had made him disoriented and confused.

“I would have told you,” he went on. “I would have told you. All you had to do was ask.”

His voice was still flat. Sara wondered what was going through his head. He reached into the pocket of his green coat, and Sara tensed. She should attack him now. But he was moving so slowly, she couldn’t seem to make herself escalate whatever was happening. It wasn’t a weapon that he was reaching for. It was a small datastick, which he set down almost gingerly on the coffee table in front of him. Sara eyed the it, running scenarios and theories in her head about what he knew and what he was proposing.

“What is it?” she asked. She tried to keep her tone impassive. Keep her powder dry, that’s what they told them in training. Don’t give away anything. Keep your options open. Gather as much intel as possible before you respond, so you can respond appropriately.

Capulet looked at the datastick a moment longer, then back into Sara’s eyes. “My confession.” It took a moment for him to go on. “Everything I’ve been involved in. Probably everything you’ve been looking for—plus a bit. Photos. Me with a hooker in a hotel room. I won’t go into details—you can see for yourself—but it’s sordid enough to kill my career. There’s a man named Dickie Drake. He wants me to go down to cover his tracks.”

Sara didn’t reach for the datastick and instead kept her eyes on Capulet, trying to read him. What was his game?

She mulled the name. Dickie Drake. Dickie Drake. Why was that familiar? Then she realized where she’d read it: on Margarita’s list of people who would have had access to that piece of intel that the team had intercepted. The Union mole.

And the dear Senator had figured out she was the mole in his office. And now here he was, sitting civilly in her lounge—if you overlooked the fact he’d broken into her apartment—giving her intel unbidden.

She would almost have felt more comfortable if he’d tried to kill her. “Why are you giving me all of this?”

The Senator shrugged. “I’m as good as dead—we both know that. And I’m choosing to take Drake down with me. I won’t be his fall guy. I’m not taking the rap for anybody, much less a piece of shit like him. If I go down, he’s coming with me.”

“Is this the same Drake of Union Intelligence?” Sara asked cautiously. “He’s got a decent sized team of investigators working under him, right?”

Capulet nodded. “He was a part of the Hand’s organization. He’s been moonlighting as a puppet master for a long while now. Every shady thing I’ve been mixed up in, he’s been mixed up in too, and worse. Now Drake’s trying to pick up where the Hand left off. He wants to run things himself, or at least he’s looking for someone to do it for him and cream the profits from both sides of the organization—his own, and the Hand’s.”

Sara studied Capulet’s face, almost willing him to look sly. But there was nothing she could find in this weary old man’s face that looked clever or in any way hopeful. No, Capulet meant every word that he said. He truly believed he was already a dead man walking. Gods, this was a deathbed message he was trying to give her.

“So what’s the play here?” she asked. “You’re handing me this—what do you want me to do with it?”

“Expose him,” Capulet said simply. “Take him out, maybe. But bring him down.”

This man disgusted her, she reminded herself. The things he’d been involved in, the people he’d killed, and worse. She wanted him in her interrogation room at the other end of a cattle prod until he begged for mercy through mouthfuls of blood. And somehow, as he asked for her help, she found herself wanting to give it to him. If this Dickie Drake was involved in the same things as Capulet, of course he’d have to be taken down. She didn’t even have qualms about handing him over to someone who’d kill him. But doing so at Capulet’s behest—this was getting complicated.

“Remember the Loreilla, Capulet?” She was slipping unconsciously into the slow, gentle tone she used in the interrogation room. “I do,” she continued, barely giving him a chance to respond with a nod. “Do you know what happened to the women who got out? Are you even interested? Did you even bother to ask? No? Don’t try to convince me you’re capable of good intentions.”

The corners of Capulet’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile or a grimace—the faint movement was too worn out to discern. “I never claimed to be anything I wasn’t,” he replied. “This is the end of my story, Sara Nolan. I’m just giving you a chance to make some things right here.”

“What do you care about what’s right?”

Capulet got to his feet. “Maybe nothing at all. I’ll leave the sainthood to you if you like. There’s not a whole lot more I can do, anyway. Take the data stick I’ve given you and do what you like with it. But if you want to clean out the Union, take me at my word. Drake needs to be stopped. He’s dangerous.”

Capulet made to leave, and Sara didn’t stop him. She let him walk past her and didn’t follow him as he left the apartment. There came the sound of the door to the stairwell opening and then faint footsteps on the stairs. She went to her door, shut it, and locked it, then she leaned her back against it and slid down to the floor. She was exhausted. After a moment of sitting with her head leaned back and her eyes closed, she connected a comm to Hank.

He answered immediately. “You just back?”

“Capulet was here.”

“What? Are you alright? What happened? Where is he now?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.”

“He’s gone, right? Hold on, I’m going to patch Burner in on the call.”

“Yeah, he’s gone now. He just left. He was waiting for me when I got back to my apartment.”

There was a slight crackling and then Burner’s voice came in clear. “Sara? Everything okay?”

Sara closed her eyes again. “Capulet. In my apartment. Gave me a datastick and left.”

“What?”

“He was giving us a lead on someone. Dickie Drake—a Union guy. He wants to make sure Drake doesn’t use him as his fall guy. Says he wants to take him down with him.”

Hank cut in. “I’ve already passed on the details about Capulet. There’s a team on him as we speak. We’ve got a read on his datapad, and they should be closing in on him very soon.”

“So this Drake guy is part of the gang too?” Burner asked. “While posing as an officer?”

“Or vice versa,” Sara added. “Union man turned bad.” She got to her feet, surprised by how stiff she felt. She must have been tense while Capulet was here—well, and for the rest of the day. She moved slowly into the lounge, talking as she walked. “And so Capulet says. He left a data stick here, presumably as a—”

There was a shout. A large shape flashed past the window. Downward. Sara ran to look, instinctively knowing what was happening. She heard a sickening thud before she was able to look outside. When she reached her window, she looked down. Someone had fallen from the roof of the building. Someone in a green coat. A man on the other side of the street half walked, half ran across the road. A car jerked to a halt and hovered at the side of the road as the driver jumped out. As Sara watched, more people gathered around the body.

How many floors in this apartment block? Sara tried to remember from when she’d last been in the elevator. More than twenty, she was sure. It would be a long way to fall.

“—surveillance might be tricky given the inside—” Burner was still talking over the comm.

“Guys,” Sara interrupted Burner. “Capulet’s out.”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry, what?” Hank’s voice was quiet.

“He’s out. Dead. I think. I saw—I saw him falling past my window—he’s on the street now. I need to check, but—”

“I’ll notify the unit,” Hank told her. “Just sit tight.”

She closed the comm and left her apartment. A blizzard of thoughts made it almost impossible to think straight. With a deep breath, she pushed through the front doors of the apartment building and stepped outside. There were several people standing around the body now. Sara could see blood pooling on the pavement where he was lying. It was messy. She pushed her way through the onlookers to see.

It was Capulet alright. He had landed on his back: his face was reasonably intact, although his skull had clearly been crushed by the impact and the head, lying in a puddle of gore, seemed flatter than it should be. She was going to have to take charge. Spreading her hands out wide, she told everyone to get back, herding them over to the opposite pavement. If Capulet had been pushed, this was a crime scene, and the last thing they needed was contamination. She turned her back to the crowd and knelt beside the body, pretending to inspect it. Her eyes swam and she struggled to think what the next step should be. Sit tight, control the scene, she told herself. Just wait for law enforcement to turn up. Then she’d go in and take the data stick in for processing through official channels, and the case would be logged and connected up with Hank’s investigation that he’s put on the books. Simple.

They had the Union mole dead to rights.

28

Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Burner and Carla had been halfway between Capulet’s office and the safe house when Hank had patched them through to Sara’s call. They’d immediately changed their course to head toward Sara’s apartment. Burner’s mind reeled, putting pieces of intel together as the city sped past them and events unfolded over the comm.

When they arrived at her building, it seemed as though the scene had been growing more frantic by the minute. Local law enforcement had already taken over, with Hank’s contacts from within the Union due to arrive any minute. Onlookers were already gathering, and Burner predicted journalists would be here in short order too.

Carla parked the van surprisingly close to the commotion. With everything that was going on outside the apartment block, she argued, no one would be paying any attention to the large, stationary van, so there was little risk of being discovered. They watched the scene from fifty meters away, their view obstructed by the flashing sirens and the many vehicles crowding the street. Burner felt like his blood was prickling him. He wanted to get closer and see what was really going on—to find Sara—but he shouldn’t be seen there. His presence would only complicate things for her when she gave her official report.

Hank’s voice came through his comm. “Sara’s doing okay,” he reported. “I don’t have a signal from her earpiece, but her telemetry is reading alright. I suspect she’s with law enforcement now.”

Burner allowed himself a moment of relief. “Have we got confirmation yet? Capulet’s definitely dead?”

“Sounds like it. I’ve hacked into law enforcement’s comms. From what I can tell, they’re treating it as a suicide.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Carla asked.

“Not for the moment,” came Hank’s reply. “It’s not ideal that she can’t get rest, but you’re not going to be able to help with that. You guys may as well head back to the base and prepare for next steps.”

Burner considered. He wanted to see Sara himself, but he knew that would be impossible for a good few hours at least. He knew how these things rolled out. “Alright,” he acquiesced. “Anything else we should know?”

“That’s it for now. I’ll hit you up when I hear anything.”

Hank’s comm cut out. Carla turned to Burner, eyebrows raised and half amused, half impressed. “Hank really does keep an eye out for Sara, doesn’t he? Telemetry is pricey stuff. And it’s come in handy today.”

Burner nodded. “She’s an expensive asset. Lots of erm…officers… like Sara have telemetry fitted.” He caught himself before revealing to Carla that Sara was a Constable. Not that the Collective hadn’t already deduced that in all likelihood. He shrugged. “Hank is going to want to know what’s happening with her heartbeat every minute of every day. What’s the point of monitoring her if he doesn’t know whether she’s alive or not?”

Carla snorted. “Still, being watched all the time, having people know your weight and heart rate and all that—I’m sure Sara is really thrilled about that.”

Burner started the van. “It’s the job. I’m sure she knew what she was signing up for.”

“Can I stay at the safe house? I think we’ll need to meet in a few hours, anyway.”

“Sure. Just get donuts for Boris in the morning and try to avoid a spat with Margarita.”

Carla grinned and swung the van around in a U-turn. “You got it. I can manage that.”

* * *

DIERDORFF APARTMENTS, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Sara had been outside her apartment for nearly an hour now, first alone next to the body and now with a steady stream of officers who were appearing on the scene to do their various jobs. It was seven in the morning, fully light, and the street was alive. Sirens were flashing, crime tape was strung around, and officers were standing in every direction, talking hurriedly into comms. Sara watched it all from the sidelines with a building. She didn’t get involved—the police would get the scene analyzed well enough.

A black van arrived to take the body to the forensic lab. It hovered silently in the middle of the road as Capulet’s corpse was loaded into it. It was only a matter of time before the press would be flocking here for the sensational breaking news. The prospect of flashing cameras and shouting journalists made her shudder. She needed to be gone before that happened anyway. Standard protocol.

Just as she was wondering when the Union liaisons for Hank’s contact would arrive, she spotted them approaching her: two men dressed in plainclothes, saying they needed to talk. They both radiated the special brand of professional self-assurance only Union officers could muster. She stood up from her perch on the sidewalk, and they walked a short way down the street, away from anyone’s earshot.

“Sara Nolan?” the shorter man asked her quietly.

She nodded.

“We’re with the Union,” the taller one explained unnecessarily. “My name’s Gary Moore, this is my colleague, Karl Brenner. We got notice from Hank Trabszo that you’ve been undercover in Capulet’s office?”

“That’s right,” Sara told them. “For the last week. I can’t give you much insight into what happened here, though.” She relayed to them what had happened that night and what she had seen.

“Suicide?” Moore asked.

Sara shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine at this point.”

Karl circled something on his datapad, as though this was the answer he’d been expecting. “We’re going to have to go through some routine questions,” he told Sara as he swiped on her datapad. “We’ll try not to be too long. From what Trabszo has told us, it’s not been an easy night for you.”

Sara wondered if they knew she and Hank were Constables. She couldn’t assume that. He was likely using his Union rank as a cover to liaise with them. She’d have to do the same. She made the mental note and nodded. Sara gestured to a low wall and took a seat on it herself. The officers followed but didn’t sit. “I know the drill,” she confirmed with a polite smile.

“We’ll keep it shorter than usual,” Karl assured her with a wink.

Sara smiled knowingly. The two interviewers grinned in response, getting the implication. They’d all been in the same situation before. These debriefings could go on for hours. As long as they didn’t take her in, she could probably be in bed within—

“We’re going to have to ask you to come down to HQ for an interview though,” Moore added.

Her heart sank.

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

She had to be brought in for questioning. It wasn’t a real surprise to Sara. She had, after all, just witnessed the death of her high-profile target. The moment it happened, she resigned herself to a few more hours of going through protocols before she could return home.

The officers drove her down to the HQ building in their car. The ride was quiet and relaxed. They were, after all, on the same side, working for the same aim. Supposedly, at least. Sara sensed a play of mutual respect—a professional courtesy—in the way they treated her. They would likely have an idea of who Sara was from the parts of her real file they could access. She couldn’t quite figure out if they suspected her of something though. If she’d pushed Capulet from the building, and it was a sanctioned mission, would she wait around? Would she be charged? I guess that’s what they needed time to find out… Hence, the road trip.

The ride to Union HQ took about forty-five minutes, during which time Sara managed to sneak in a quick nap in the backseat. She woke only as the car hovered in the parking lot beneath the infamous building. They all got out and together made their way through the front doors for processing.

A uniformed guard asked her for her weapon. She didn’t have any.

“You should take this, though,” Sara told him, placing the data stick on the counter in front of him. “It’s the intel Capulet—the deceased—gave me. Make sure that the chain of custody is preserved with that. It’s important.”

“I’ll send this right up to be looked over,” the guard assured her. “We’ll get you set up in the debriefing room. Hopefully it won’t take too long.”

It would take hours, Sara knew, but it was nice to have some acknowledgement of how tired she was. She followed her interviewers down into the building, past the interrogation rooms, and into one of the meeting rooms. That was a good sign she noted—not being taken into an interrogation room.

Sara took a seat in one of the chairs, and Moore told her that the debriefing team would be in shortly to take her statement and get the facts on the case. “Can I get you anything in the meantime?” he asked her. “Coffee, snack?”

“Maybe just a cup of coffee,” Sara told him. “No sugar, please. I take it black.”

“Alright. One coffee, coming right up.” He left.

Karl started talking her through the updated recording system they were using in these meeting rooms. A woman tapped on the door and came in, smiling at Sara. Sara didn’t recognize her, but she had an ID badge around her neck.

“So you’re the one who took down Capulet?” the woman asked, as though the feat was already established in Union lore. Sara marveled at how fast word spread. A matter of hours ago, no one in the Union would have suspected Capulet of so much as stealing an office mug.

Sara shrugged. “I didn’t really take him down. I was undercover in his office and got the data we needed to bring him in. Someone else got in between all that though.”

“Even so, great job.”

Sara smiled and looked down at the table. She didn’t feel like a victor yet. If Capulet had been telling the truth, she’d only won a battle in a much bigger war. She was going to have to get to work on this Drake character.

The woman went out, along with Karl, leaving Sara alone in the room. She thought about the data stick and wondered what exactly was on it. Was that evidence actually going to do anything? Or would it become irrelevant now that Capulet was dead? She wondered about what Carla and the team had learned from hacking into Capulet’s systems. Sara hadn’t had the chance to even glance at that information, and it was going to be up to Burner and the Collective to sort through everything. She hoped things were progressing on their end while she was tied up here.

Moore came back in with her coffee and set it down in front of her. Sara thanked him, grateful for caffeine in any form. “Carson will be here to interview you in just a moment,” he told her. “We’re handing you over to Non-Complex Internal Affairs. They’ll be able to handle everything. Anything else I can get you before then?”

Sara smiled up at him. “No thanks, I think I’m good.”

He nodded and left the room. Sara sat there, warming her hands on the mug in front of her. She was thinking about Burner and the rest of the team, and Hank, wishing she’d had a chance to meet with them before this had happened. Sighing, Sara stretched out her limbs, waiting for the door to open and the interview to begin.

A few minutes later, an older agent came into the room. He stretched out a hand for her to shake. “Call me Carson,” he told her. “Everyone does.”

Carson was pudgy and short, going bald on top, and looking more of a middle manager type than a field agent. Not the kind of image Union Intelligence usually presented, but, Sara reminded herself, he was just an internal affairs specialist. Carson activated the recording equipment with a voice command. “Interview—begin recording.”

“This will be recording our conversation today,” Carson explained. “Being an officer of the Union, you already know that all of this is just standard procedure. Even so, I’m going to need your confirmation that I have the authority to tape our discussion. Is that alright?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” Sara replied. She waited, tapping her fingers against the desk as Carson fiddled with his datapad. Finally, he seemed to find what he wanted and sat back in his chair.

“My full name is Sam Carson-Chandler. I’m going to be interviewing the subject today. Can you please state your name and rank for the record?”

“Sara Nolan, Commander.”

“Thank you, Sara. And could you please explain for the debriefing the nature of the assignment you have been working on in the last week?”

Having already gone through this outside her apartment, Sara barely had to concentrate as she replied. “I was operating undercover in the office of Senator Ron Capulet. This mission was deep cover and there were only a few people who knew about my assignment. My handler, Hank Trabszo, was one of them.”

“Okay. And what was your purpose in going undercover in Senator Capulet’s office?”

“We had reason to believe that Senator Capulet was implicated in a number of serious crimes, including human trafficking, racketeering, and murder. My job while undercover with Capulet was to gather evidence that proved Senator Capulet was both knowledgeable and complicit in these crimes, and that he used his power as a Senator to avoid prosecution and to avoid facing responsibility for his actions.” She deliberately left out the Union mole connection until she knew who she could trust. It occurred to her at that moment that any one of these officers could be associated with the newly discovered mole, Dickie Drake.

“Thank you.” Carson was certainly not reacting emotionally to any of the news he was hearing. He made a quick note on his datapad, then swiped down, looking for the next question to ask.

As the questions went on, Sara let her mind wander. This was the first time she’d been on this side of an interrogation. Not that she was sure this interview with Call-Me-Carson counted as an interrogation. She thought about her interrogation room with the restraint chair within comfortable reach of power sockets and her toy box on the table by the wall. Yes, this was a little different from that. Not a mission outcome she’d been prepared for, though. She’d be glad when this was over and done with.

But she needed to be careful. Putting away whoever else might be involved in these levels of government and the Union would depend on no mess ups. Everything had to be done by the book, and she couldn’t give the courts any reason to pull this case apart. She took another swig of caffeinated water and redoubled her focus.

No. Wrong. Moves.

29

Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Drake had been waiting for a comm. After giving Capulet the photos the day before, he expected the senator would want to talk. He was prepared for Capulet to be seething, clever, desperate—he knew him to be capable of all those things—and he would be calm and collected in response. As always, this was going to be about who had the power.

What he wasn’t prepared for was the call that actually came to his work comm in the early morning, as he was driving to Union HQ for the day. He gave the voice command to answer on speaker and listened in vague disbelief, his mind reeling at the news. There was a long pause after the man had spoken.

“Commander, did you hear me?” It was Moore’s voice. “Ron Capulet. He was found dead early this morning.” There was background noise. He must be out in the field.

Drake collected his scattered thoughts. “Yes, I heard you. So he’s dead? Is it confirmed? How?”

There was a pause. “Suicide. At least that’s what the initial police reports are saying. Threw himself off an apartment block. A Union agent was at the scene—we’ve brought her in for a debriefing with on-call in Internals.”

“I see. Buzz me when you know more. I need to be kept in the loop—straight away, is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Drake ended the call without another word.

So Capulet was dead. Well, it was one job off his list, he thought wryly. Capulet’s demise had been part of the plan all along, but he hadn’t expected it to be done for him—or quite so early. He’d misjudged the man. He hadn’t thought someone as hardened as Capulet could be so upset over a series of photos as to kill himself.

Barely three minutes had passed when his comm buzzed again; Capulet’s body had been identified. So it was official. Drake tried to congratulate himself on a task well handled, but he couldn’t quite manage it. He didn’t like being surprised. And this hadn’t been the plan. It left a strange feeling. A suspicious feeling. Capulet had been supposed to stay alive for a longer hunt, a slow and painful downfall through public embarrassment to ignominy, censure, and eventually death. Drake remembered the wonderful feeling of the datastick in his hand, feeling ownership of the great man, believing that there was nothing Capulet could do to squirm out of his grasp. There was one thing he could do, as it turned out. Drake picked up a holofile and threw it on the floor, letting the loud thump soothe his annoyance. People weren’t supposed to kill themselves before he could do it.

It was more than that though. Strategically, this was his fall guy. Sure, he could still pin everything on him posthumously. But nothing was as powerful as the public spectacle he’d had planned.

* * *

Sara sat in the interview room, tired and slightly bored now. It felt like it had been hours since Call-me-Carson had left with his very cursory interview report.

She imagined they were trying to decide things like chain of command and what her mission had really been. If they didn’t already know she was a Constable, no doubt there would be some strings pulled from above and she would be released shortly. Hank would make sure of that.

The datastick she’d brought in was being put through the normal processes. The Evidence Reception team on the first floor would have quickly scanned it for hardware bugs, tested it for viruses, then checked the data itself for categorization. Then it would have been rushed to “data forensics” on the third floor, where it was probably in the hands of an intern deemed intelligent enough to carry something other than coffee.

Forensics then would run their own security checks—standard procedure since the Swindale debacle seven years ago. How Evidence Reception wasn’t disbanded after that, no one could understand.

Sara’s estimate of the journey the datastick took was spot on. The third floor Forensics team entrusted the data stick to Dr. Emma Rush—because at least they wouldn’t leave A-Tier evidence in the hands of an intern—and it made its way to the junior analysts’ office. It would almost certainly have to be looked at by a senior analyst, of course, but Dom Grauscher was a junior analyst and everyone on floor three knew it was about time he asked Dr. Rush out.

When the datastick arrived on Dom Grauscher’s desk, nearly two hours after Sara had handed it in with the reception team, his heart leapt at the sight of its A-Tier label. He could hardly concentrate on his efforts to make casual reference to the fact that he was single and available as his eyes took in both the evidence and the woman handing it to him. A few minutes of exploring the datastick’s contents, though, and Dom knew he had to escalate it. Nervously, with his crush momentarily forgotten, he pulled it out of his own dataport and took it to the Intensive Analysis Office.

“Oh hi, Don. What have you got for us?” Ray Crantree asked. He headed up his section.

Dom showed him the A-Tier label on the datastick and promised himself he would correct the pronunciation of his name next time. He had made that promise on a regular basis for the last two years.

“Looks interesting. Thanks, Don.”

As Dom walked away, Ray slid the datastick over to the other senior analyst, Leslie.

“Probably just Floor Three getting overexcited again. Give it a check, will you?”

He threw himself back down on his large swivel chair and got back to a decryption he’d been working on for the last three months. He’d divided it into segments, and each segment was like a very familiar friend to him. Today’s segment was called Cedric. If he stared at the numbers long enough, strings of patterns would seem to grow larger. Within forty seconds, he was lost in the code.

Leslie attempted to interrupt his flow of thought. “You’re not going to believe what’s on this.”

If Ray heard Leslie, he gave no indication. There was a small pile of mint chocolate wrappers on her desk from the day before. She scrunched a few into a ball and threw it at the back of Ray’s head. He didn’t look up but half-grunted. “Uh-huh.”

“Ray. This is ridiculous stuff. It’s not even encrypted. It’s like—like a complete dossier on how Senator Capulet was involved in—everything from bootlegging to human trafficking. It’s crazy. You’ve got to come look at this.”

“Crazy,” Ray replied obediently, eyes still glued to his screen.

Leslie pulled herself on her desk chair over to Ray, looked at his code for a moment, then said, “Look for the Fibonaccis and work back.”

Ray stared at the screen a moment longer, then he looked at Leslie.

“The Fibonaccis? Are you sure?”

“No. Screw the Fibonaccis. Are you listening?”

Ray grimaced. “No. Sorry. What have you got?”

Leslie moved back to her workstation and motioned for him to join her. He got up and stooped by her shoulder to look. They read in silence for a minute before Ray breathed out his verdict.

“Shit.”

“I know.”

“How did they—?”

“Some field agent brought it in this morning, according to the log.”

“But this isn’t just—I mean, it’s got filth on Dickie Drake as well as the Senator. Dickie Drake. Leslie, he’s…big.”

“Well sure. In Union terms, he’s one of the biggest bigshots we’ve got.”

Leslie was still trying to process the news she was breaking to Ray. Both of them stared at the screen as though the information might change and become more innocuous if they just looked at it long enough.

Ray voiced the faint hope they both held. “It’s not fake?”

He knew the answer before Leslie said it. “We can cross-reference some of it, but no one could fake this much data triangulating with itself and other sources. Hell, they’ve even given the crypt to his private comms.”

Ray stood up and ran both hands through his hair. “Damn, Leslie, this is top-rate internal affairs intel. It gets reported to his team.”

“I know.”

“He’d be heading up the investigation.”

Leslie shook her head, though not in any sort of conviction. “Well, he’d have to recuse himself.”

“He‘s a bigshot. It’s not that simple.”

Leslie finally swung her chair around to look up at him. “We have to be careful. We’re not fully sure it’s even legitimate yet.”

Ray was getting homesick for Cedric. Cedric was easy. Cedric was numbers. What in the gods was he meant to do with this kind of internal politics? He was a technician. A technician and maybe a mediocre administrator at best. He wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing. He glanced at his own holoscreen, then back at Leslie, trying to think straight. “Show me the chain of custody?”

Leslie nodded and showed him the top of the file, which documented its passage through the Union security systems. “It came from a Commander Nolan. She was undercover in Capulet’s office. It was pulled from his systems… Rather expertly, if I were to speculate.”

They lapsed into silence again, reading through the file more carefully. At last, Ray pulled away. “It’s got a flag on it.”

“What?”

Ray pointed at some shading on the screen. “A flag. An officer can put an alert on the system so it automatically flags any data relevant to a subject of interest. The system highlights the data, and it’s our duty to report it. All the stuff on Capulet is flagged—”

He leaned across to check the alert and froze. Moving back slowly, he finished his sentence. “—to Drake’s team.”

Leslie sat back. She looked instinctively at the top drawer of her desk—the Mint Chocolate Drawer. “What do we do?”

Ray took a moment before he answered. “We don’t have a choice. We follow protocol.”

“And hand it off to Dickie Drake?”

“No. Well, not exactly. It goes to his team. The subdivision is Internal Affairs. But the overseer is also Intelligence, so his team gets the alert on it too. It has to go to them—twice over.”

“So you are going to give it to them?”

Ray was looking more decided. “Clarissa Stone.”

Leslie looked blank.

“I can call her,” he continued. “She’s a member of Drake’s team and she’d be good. She’ll be discreet in handling this, and she’ll know what to do. She’ll do the right thing. Straight-laced as they come. I trust her judgement.”

“She won’t tell Drake?”

There was an air of resignation about Ray’s reply.

“I don’t think so. Look, we have to face facts. This is highly sensitive information that can only be passed up the chain of command or else we’re liable for breach of security and data mishandling. Drake’s team is the only place this can go. Cassandra is our best bet in that team.”

Almost without thinking, Leslie pulled open her top drawer and took out a mint chocolate bar, then she bit a large chunk from it. “Can’t we give it to someone else? Another department?”

“Like who? The protocol is to get IA involved. To my knowledge, there isn’t a contingency for if IA are implicated.”

Leslie was quiet. She took two more bites before she said anything. “You think this Clarissa will be able to handle it?”

They met each other’s eyes.

“She’ll handle it.”

Leslie turned slowly back to her screen and scrolled to the standard notes at the top of the file. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Make the call. See what she says.”

Ray sat back down in his swivel chair and connected his comm. He tried not to feel the familiar dread that came with any comm call, and again looked wistfully at Cedric’s lovely number patterns. The Fibonacci numbers highlighted themselves as he watched. Damn Leslie. Damn her important data with moral implications. He thumbed the comm while staring at his holoscreen. The Fibonacci numbers were appearing at intervals of prime numbers. Damn this.

“Hello?”

“Hello? I mean, um, hi. Clarissa? Hi, this is Ray over in Analytics.”

“Oh. Hey, Ray. What’s up?”

“Um, it might be better if you could just come down here. I’ve got something I think you should see.”

A pause on the other end of the line. “Can’t you just tell me what it is? I’m kind of busy over here.”

Ray hesitated. “Um. No, not this time. I really think you need to come over here and see this for yourself. And don’t tell anyone else.”

Getting a comm call from Ray at all was an indicator of significance. Something about the determinedly calm lilt now told Clarissa this was something big. “Okay. I’m on my way.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

He disconnected the comm. Leslie was looking at him. It was more eye contact than they’d made in the last three years of sharing an office.

30

Union Headquarters Building, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Drake was heading to his office when he heard one of his team members speak his name. He had grabbed a breakfast bun from a store outside and was passing a small group of them by the scanner on the way in. What caught Drake’s attention about his team now, though, was not so much the fact they were talking about him, but the obvious caution they employed. Their heads were inclined toward each other, and when one of them looked up and saw him, she gave a brief, darting smile before returning to the conversation with a strain in her voice that immediately made her companions also look up and see him.

Drake moved toward them. If it weren’t already obvious that they had been talking about him, the hushed silence that immediately ensued was proof enough. He looked at the scanner, which clearly none of them were using. “Well? What have I missed?” he asked.

Nobody answered for a moment. It was Moore who met his eyes first. “We’ve just had a datastick in from Analytics.” His tone was determinedly matter-of-fact. “It’s packed with intel. We’re just triangulating now with other sources to verify it.”

It wasn’t often that data intel came up from Analytics—they had rigorous enough procedures over there to deal with most things themselves—so this datastick must be quite interesting to have been passed on to his team. But that didn’t explain the tension in the team. Or the fact he heard his name. “Okay. And?”

There were a few exchanged glances. Clarissa took this one. “You’re implicated. On the datastick.” Like Moore, she was keeping her voice carefully professional. “A number of crimes.”

A shockwave ran through Drake’s thoughts, but his face remained blank. “Misinformation? Presumably some kind of counterintelligence op.”

“That’s what we’re working on,” Clarissa replied. She looked directly at him, refusing to confirm his assertion one way or the other.

Drake kept his voice level. Panicking would only make things worse. “What kind of things are you getting from the datastick? About me, I mean?”

Again, they exchanged glances. This time it was Fred who stepped up. “It’s an active investigation.” She shrugged apologetically. “You know we can’t disclose.”

Drake wished, not for the first time, that his employees were less competent. He nodded, trying to maintain an air that integrity was first and foremost in his mind. “Of course. I can’t take a lead on this one. In that case there isn’t much I can do to help. Moore can head up the investigation until you’ve wiped the implications. Keep me updated as far as you can.”

Moore nodded. “Yes, Commander.”

Drake left them and strode to his office at a pace he hoped wasn’t too fast. He locked the door behind him and went immediately to his desk drawer and his private comm. Sure enough, it was flashing. Josh had picked up on this half an hour ago and had already sent him the preliminary reports from Union HQ.

Drake caught up on the details. The datastick had been brought in early that morning by the mole in Capulet’s office. They had a name, now: a Commander, Sara Nolan. She had been working in the office for just over a week—not long enough to get anything that would lead her to Drake, he was sure. But according to Josh’s report, this datastick wasn’t the scavenged slivers of information Union moles usually managed to come up with. It was big, comprehensive—and Drake’s name was all over it. It didn’t take a genius to work it out. Capulet was dead, and he knew before he died that Drake was working against him. He must have granted himself the last wish of bringing Drake down with him.

Drake’s own team now knew of the allegations against him, and if he didn’t act quickly, they were going to figure out everything—his double life, his criminal enterprise, the dead bodies he’d left along the way.

All of this came from Commander Nolan. Discredit her and this whole thing would blow over. Kill it at the root. He needed to talk to someone running the interviews and change the wave of proceedings over there; then he’d be able to close the case with his team. He connected a comm call with the office of the Senior Analysts—what were their names? The stick thin one who was always eating and the guy who looked like he’d last seen daylight eight years ago. Ray, that was it. Ray and—

“Leslie Beacham, Analytics.”

Leslie, he thought.

“Leslie,” he said, as if to an old friend. “How’s Ray?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Quite an urgent matter. I’m told you guys were handling a datastick—got some stuff on Senator Capulet. Did that go through you?”

Leslie had the same cautious voice as those of his team. He heard the crackle of a chocolate wrapper. “Yes,” she replied. “We handed it straight on. We’re just working on our report.”

“Okay, I’m going to need you to put a hold on that case from your end. Immediately. Stop whatever you’re doing with it, take it out of your computers, and get it back into the evidence lockup.”

There was a pause. “Um… Are you sure, sir? It seemed pretty important. Our report was going to recommend a full-scale investigation by—well, by your team. It’s over with them now.”

“So I’ve heard. This data needs to be taken out of circulation immediately. I’ve been going over this case, and there are serious problems with the testimony—this Sara Nolan. This datastick is dangerous counter-intel, and the longer we keep a case open on it, the more vulnerable we become.” He could hear the reluctance in her silence. “Frankly, I’m surprised you let it get to this point.”

This seemed to convince her.

“We can deactivate the case, sir. Someone will be over there to take the datastick back, although they’ll have to close the investigation themselves—that’s not in our remit. We’ll finish the report and leave the matter with you until we get the green light.”

Finish the report? What was wrong with these people?

“Fuck the report.”

“Um–”

“I mean, forget it. Scratch it. The more work that’s out there on this, the more dangerous it becomes. I’m not letting us play into Nolan’s hands. Delete whatever you’ve done and make sure all the data is wiped from your hard drives.”

He waited to see whether he’d pushed her too far. How controllable was this Leslie? He thought about their windowless office and the grinning, gangly awkwardness common to most analysts. People like that tended to want a quiet life. Sure enough, Leslie’s voice came back with a kind of professional resignation.

“Okay. We’re closing the case now and we’ll delete everything. Just let us know when you want us to get back to this one. When you’ve dealt with Nolan, I mean.”

“Good. Yes. But in the meantime, forget about this.”

He closed the comm. That was the first thing done at least. Getting the datastick out of circulation would delay the spread of its filth; now he needed to work out how to stop the investigation. He thought for a few moments, then connected another comm. Moore answered quickly, his voice carefully casual, which was definitely better than Clarissa’s direct professionalism.

“Hey, Commander,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve just had a comm from forensics, Moore. I know I told you to head up the investigation of that datastick, but I need you to shut this case down. Not ideal, I know. You know me—I want to strip that data down to its bones and see what’s going on with it. But from what they’ve told me, the origin of this datastick is dangerous. And this Nolan that brought it in… We don’t know what she’s about, and until we do, we don’t know the game with this datastick. Our systems might be at risk.”

Unlike Leslie, Moore was quick to reply. His tone seemed to relax, as though he’d been waiting for someone to give him a good reason not to believe the intel currently inundating the team. “So you reckon this Nolan is working against you, sir?”

“Well someone is, and she’s the source of this false intel. The question is, who else is involved and why. That broadens the investigation to a matter of Union security—I need to get to the bottom of who it is that’s trying to disrupt the hierarchy within our organization. This isn’t a case I can or should recuse myself from. I’m sure you’d do a fine job heading up this investigation, but now it’s looking like a pretty well-planned attack on the Union.”

Moore didn’t seem offended by having the case taken out of his hands; on the contrary, he seemed eager to serve up the mess to his boss on a platter. “Of course, Commander. Right you are. What do you want me to tell the rest of the team?”

“Just what I told you,” Drake instructed. “This is now an open terrorism investigation, and as such I’m going to be handling it. Tell them to sit tight for now and go back to whatever they were working on before all of this. I’ll update you when I know more about what’s going on and what moves we need to take. Rushing into an investigation blind would be playing into the hands of the enemy. Understood?”

“Understood.” Moore was in his element. “I’ll tell Clarissa and the rest of them to hold off for right now. But I don’t know how long they’re going to want to sit on this.”

“They’re getting overexcited, which is exactly what Nolan wants. Tell them to be smart. I’ll be in touch.”

He hung up. He might just have caught this whole thing in time. There was one more call he needed to make. It took a while to get himself patched through to the right person. He spent a few minutes asking them about the internal interrogation they had going on before someone on the other end said, “Oh, the debriefing interview, you mean? Sure, I think that’s someone on Captain Tate’s team. I’ll pass you over.”

Drake seethed inwardly as he waited. These people must know who he was, but they were clearly too incompetent to navigate the convoluted staff structure with any kind of efficiency. “Tate, Internals.”

Drake sat up and began to speak with his most authoritarian voice. “Tate? This is Drake, Intelligence Department.”

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Having conducted tepid, box-ticking interviews herself, Sara knew most of the questions by heart before Carson had the chance to ask them. She was tempted to ask him for his datapad so she could fill in the form herself, but she knew that wouldn’t be playing by the book.

It was a relief when a knock on the door interrupted her blow-by-blow account of her fourth day in Capulet’s office. A woman stepped into the room apologetically, holding a comm.

“Carson, sorry to interrupt. The Captain’s asking you to take this call from Intel.”

Carson paused the recorder. “Can it wait? Tate knows I’m in an interview, right?”

“I think so. But he said it’s urgent.”

Carson smiled at Sara, spreading his hands. “Sorry about this. I’ll be back in a bit.”

“It’s not a problem,” Sara told him. “I could use the break.”

“Sure. If you go into the main office, they can fix you up with a drink and show you to the restroom if you need it.”

When Carson left the room, Sara laid her arms on the table and rested her head on them. At least the interview would take the place of a debriefing session, saving her some work later on. Once all this information was on file, the case would be closed. She closed her eyes, not able to sleep in this place, but able to let her mind wander. The shape of Capulet’s body falling past the living room window played on repeat as she went over the sequence of events that had brought her here. This interview was necessary, but it was Burner she really wanted to talk to. She started making a mental list of things she needed to tell him and the others when she could rejoin them.

Carson was gone for much longer than she had anticipated. It was about twenty minutes later when he came back into the room, followed by a man in a suit, who didn’t join Carson in sitting at the table but stood by the door. Carson pressed the start button on the recorder, took out his datapad, and looked into Sara’s face.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Carson told her. He paused as though expecting her to do or say something. She raised her eyebrows.

“I think we were on Section Four: fieldwork details,” she reminded him.

Carson set the datapad down and Sara, automatically glancing over the screen, saw he hadn’t brought up the standard form they’d been filling out.

“I need to ask you about Capulet in your apartment,” Carson started, ignoring Sara’s remark.

“Yes?”

“He just showed up there? Uninvited? No previous indication he knew you were undercover?”

“That’s right,” she said coolly. His tone grated on her nerves.

“And handed you a datastick tantamount to a confession?”

“Yes.”

“Not only of his own crimes, but also those of a senior Union investigator.”

“Dickie Drake. So he told me. I’ve not actually had the chance to look at the intel yet. Or sleep.”

“I wouldn’t think about sleeping for a while yet, Ms. Nolan,” Carson said quietly. “We’ve got a lot more work to do.”

“What do you mean?” Sara looked at the man standing by the door. “Who’s he?”

The man at the door said nothing, and it was Carson who replied.

“Vivek Golash. Vivek will be here as witness to the interrogation.”

“Witness? For an internal interview?”

“I’ll ask the questions from now on, Ms. Nolan.”

Sara was quiet for a moment, looking at Carson and trying to decipher what was going on. “Go on, then,” she said eventually.

“Walk me through what happened with Capulet this morning.”

“Again?”

“Yes. Again.”

Sara rubbed her eyes. “Okay. I had just gotten back from breaking into Capulet’s secure offices. I had data that was sent over to my handler, Hank, and people we trusted to analyze it. I turned on the lights and Capulet was sitting on a chair in my apartment. I have no idea how he got inside.”

“How did he know where you lived?”

“A criminal mastermind? It can’t have been hard.”

“So you don’t have an answer?”

“Potentially, he had me followed.”

“Potentially?”

“I don’t know.”

Carson smiled with tight lips. “I see. So you’re looking at a dangerous man, as you say, who has showed up in an apartment to which he should have no access. What do you do then?”

They had been through this already. Sara answered slowly, trying to work out what could have changed to make Carson suddenly so keen to go over these details.

“We talked. He gave me the datastick. He said—”

“You talked?”

“Yes. Like I said.”

Carson exchanged a glance with Vivek. “You believed this man was a high-profile criminal, he had broken into your apartment, and what do you do? Do you call for help? Do you try to fight him? You, a trained officer on a case, with all the training and backup in the world. You talk? Are you really asking us to believe that?”

Sara knew interrogations from the other side. She knew how to sound vicious, malevolent, even sadistic while her mind ticked calmly and quietly in the background. Don’t listen to how they’re saying it. Work out what they’re thinking. With the practiced ease of a Constable, she stepped away from the heat of the moment and looked at the three people in the room: Vivek, standing silently at the one exit—presumably just to make her feel trapped and outnumbered; Carson, waiting for an answer he could slam down; and her. What could she do? She didn’t just feel outnumbered, she was outnumbered. Something had changed and this interrogation was not a safe place to be. But she didn’t have a way out. All she could do was stick to her story and stay calm until she knew more about what had happened while Carson was out of the room.

“We talked,” she said quietly. “He said he knew he was going down. He was quite calm, resigned. He gave me the datastick to ensure he didn’t get implicated for Drake’s crimes as well as his own.”

“He just handed you the intel you were after?”

“Yes.”

“Plus some?”

“Yes. Dickie Drake. An added bonus.”

She regretted the sarcasm. It revealed that he was getting to her; he had enough power right now without her handing him more.

“And then, not moments after he tells you all of this, he does a swan dive off the roof of your apartment building.”

The muscles around Sara’s jaw tensed. It wasn’t just the intel they thought she was lying about. “I don’t think it was a swan dive. Very hard to say. I only saw it for a moment, from the window of my lounge.”

“So you said.”

Sara tried to curb her exasperation, with little success. “Would you like to tell me a version of events you’d prefer?”

“How about the truth, Ms. Nolan?”

“The truth is what you’ve got.”

She felt her pulse rising. She remembered the signs of panic in an interrogation that told her the victim was about to crack and consciously tried to breathe more deeply.

Carson leaned forward. “This is all very convenient for you,” he said with some measure. “The man you’ve been doing high-risk fieldwork on shows up at your apartment and hands you the very information you’ve been seeking and more, before killing himself.”

Sara stopped herself answering too quickly. This wasn’t a situation where the right words would get her out. Everything she said was being recorded, and she had no doubt that Carson could edit the conversation in any way they wanted to make her sound guilty.

“I never said he killed himself,” she reminded him quietly. “I said I saw him fall. This was decidedly inconvenient for me. I had everything I needed from Capulet’s office and was going home to unwind and rest before closing up the case. Nothing about this—nothing about being here, finding a criminal mastermind in my apartment, watching him die—none of it is convenient for me.”

“Do you have any proof that Capulet was actually in your apartment?”

“I have the datastick he gave me. You have the datastick he gave me. Surely Analytics has gone through it by now?”

Carson waved his hand in apparent exasperation. “All forgeable stuff. Is there footage of Capulet in the apartment with you? What about him entering the building?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to check the security tapes. I don’t have cameras in my apartment, though.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? I wasn’t planning for Capulet to visit me there. I didn’t think I’d need to prove it if my secret base was compromised. Do you film inside your home?”

Carson looked at her with a smile that made her long for a wrench and an hour alone with his knuckles. “I’ll make a note that you have no evidence to corroborate Capulet’s willing entrance to your apartment, then.” He sat back in his chair and surveyed her. “I’m going to level with you, Ms. Nolan, this isn’t looking good for you.”

Sara felt suddenly very tired. She looked at the table and a thin scratch that ran from one edge to another. Staring at it made her feel dizzy. She noticed her heart rate was up. “What do you think it looks like?” she murmured.

“I think,” Carson said very clearly, as though the top-model recorder wouldn’t pick it up if he didn’t speak slowly and loudly, “things didn’t go how you intended this morning. You were on a high-profile case and you saw an opportunity. Blackmail Capulet and you wouldn’t be stuck on a Union paycheck the rest of your life. You had access to everything you would need to blackmail him—maybe you didn’t even need to fabricate some of it. So you—no, don’t interrupt me—you lured him to your apartment to show him what you had and make a deal with him. But something went wrong. You’re not used to someone standing up to you, are you, Ms. Nolan? I can see that. And so Senator Capulet fell from your roof. Tell me, Ms. Nolan”—his voice was quiet and gentle—“did you enjoy killing him?”

It was a long time before Sara could respond. She stared at the table in horror, analyzing her reactions to Carson’s words, terrified at her own instinctive desire to tell him something he would believe.

His voice jolted her out of her thoughts. “Well.”

She looked up, mustering energy she didn’t have. “I need to speak to my team.”

“You don’t deny it?”

She caught herself from saying anything that might lock her down. She stayed silent.

Carson didn’t say anything either, and for a wild moment she started to hope she was convincing him. He turned to Vivek and nodded. She saw Vivek move as though in slow motion, and his voice seemed loud and echoey to her ears. He stepped forward, pulling something silver from his large Union-issue belt. “Sara Nolan, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder. You have the right to—”

It was like listening to the words through a heavy door. Her vision swam. She felt the man tug at her and gave no resistance as he firmly pulled her hands behind her back to cuff her. One hand on her upper arm, he pulled her to her feet and led her out of the interview room.

31

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Burner was worried.

While the rest of his team were taking a hard-earned rest, he stood in the center of the warehouse, near the big holoscreen that served as the information board. Names, places, and connections were all scrawled on the screen, all of them linked to data files accessible at the flick of a finger.

The data Sara had managed to collect would need extensive analysis, and the team would have to plan out the next steps for the case. Though Capulet was out of the picture, there would without a doubt be more people implicated—a network of criminal associates it may take months or even years to track down. They were good at this work; this was a breakthrough and Burner should be feeling enthused.

But Sara had not yet returned from her debriefing. It would be a long procedure, he knew, but something about the length of this silence made him uneasy. Burner didn’t like losing sight of a team member. He remembered the realization that Margarita had been gone for too long, and the slow horror of discovering what had been done to her. Margarita hadn’t recovered from the experience, he knew that. Had he? Was he paranoid to feel this unsettled by Sara’s absence?

Burner quickly ran through the timeframe in his head. It was around ten in the morning now, and Sara had gone with the officers around seven, straight from the scene. So, considering the travel time, the bureaucracies in place, and knowing they would have had to find people to interview her and run her datastick up the chain of analysts, it wasn’t unreasonable that she should still be in there. But it was grating on Burner. He’d give it another hour before he did something about it. She might just need more time in there.

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Drake stood at the front of the briefing room, about to give the status report to his team to tell them what was going on.

This would be his first chance to assess their mood after Moore had told them he would be heading up the investigation of a case in which he was himself implicated. How good a job would Moore have done? It was hard to tell whether this team of sleek, intelligent professionals would be able to put aside the evidence they had just seen in favor of Drake’s explanations. As they filtered into the room, he nodded to each of them—a kind of brisk gesture that indicated he was far too busy and preoccupied to bother with a verbal greeting. He didn’t show his relief when a few of them smiled widely in response, clearly compensating for the earlier awkwardness with warmth now.

“There’s a lot to get through,” he told them in a deliberately gruff, task-orientated voice, “so everyone please hold your questions while I give you the rundown. Early this morning, we believe Senator Capulet was murdered as part of a conspiracy to frame me and divert attention away from other Union officers who have been working with Capulet in a criminal enterprise. These traitors attempted to manufacture evidence that would implicate me in these crimes. It was a neat move that in one stroke sought to undermine the hierarchy of the Union and divert attention from the real enemy. We are talking about potentially the biggest criminal threat of our careers.”

No one responded. He carried on. “So who are these people? As Moore will no doubt have told you, the conveyor of the false information was a woman named Sara Nolan, one of our own, and she’s now under arrest. We know from her files that she was also working with a former Union MP named Jack Burner. These people are allied with a team of hackers, and it’s our belief that they were in cahoots with Capulet for a number of criminal enterprises. Let me be very clear here: they may seem like insiders, but they are traitors to the Union. As such they are dangerous in the extreme. Only Nolan is currently in custody; the others are still at large. I've issued a BOLO for Burner and Hank Trabszo and sent their pertinent information to all your accounts. Finding these two guys and their associates, and shutting down what remains of their operation, is the number one priority at the moment, and I expect all hands on deck for this one.”

Clarissa raised her hand.

“I said no questions,” Drake said shortly. Clarissa was undeterred.

“Is this BOLO just for our department? Or Union wide?”

“Everyone,” Drake told her, his voice cold. “I want everyone to see their faces, from us to the people working at the transit authority. I want the janitors to know we’re looking for them. Understood? Right now this is all anyone should be focused on. These people tried to take us down from the inside. They need to be stopped before they cause any more damage.”

He saw Clarissa make a note. When she looked back up at him, her eyes were alert, waiting keenly for his next words. Good. If Clarissa was on board with this sudden swing in the investigation, he’d have no trouble with the rest of them. “Moore is running point. You have anything you need to know, run it by him first. I expect everyone to bring their A-game to this. Thank you.”

That concluded the meeting. His crew began to file out, talking amongst themselves, and Drake headed back to his office. He had been floundering before, but it seemed he had found a life raft. He had successfully turned the entire Union against Nolan and Burner with one quick meeting. It would only be a matter of time before the manhunt he had just ordered brought these people in. Then Drake would see to them.

* * *

Back in his office, Drake connected a comm with Vice-Admiral Roger Newhouse and waited for the Union Chief to pick up.

“Dickie. I’ve been expecting your call.”

“Hi, Roger. I assume you’ve been keeping abreast?”

“I’ve been getting alerts on the case all morning.”

“Good. Thanks. I’m going to be needing some extra support with this one.”

Newhouse’s reply was immediate. “The support’s yours, Dickie. Whatever you need. This is a big threat we’re dealing with.”

“Thanks, Roger. Much appreciated.”

“Anything else?”

Drake thought and then answered. “Maybe. We could be hunting down a lot of people involved in this—weeding a lot of undesirables out of a big network, if you understand me.”

Newhouse didn’t hesitate. “You have the resources. Do what you need to do.”

“Understood.”

As soon as the call ended, Drake sent a message to Josh, whose response, as always, was immediate.

Drake: Josh, I need to find everyone Nolan is associated with. She couldn’t have done this on her own—getting into Capulet’s office, hacking his system, etc. She had help.

Josh: You mean you want to go after the Collective?

Drake: Yes. Anyone supporting Nolan is onto us. They need dealing with.

Josh: That’s a tall order. These guys are paranoid and top of their game at staying anonymous.

Drake: if we don’t take them out, this whole business will rear its ugly head again. We’ll be taken out by it. Which would you prefer?

Josh: I’ll get on it.

Drake leaned back in his chair. Josh would find them. Or at least enough of them to make it clear that the cost of coming after him was too high. The ones he found would become a deterrent against any would-be hacktivist.

* * *

ABANDONED WAREHOUSE, RANCH DISTRICT, DOBULLA U8X, UNION SPACE.

Another hour and a half had passed, and Burner couldn’t distract himself any longer. Something must be wrong.

Judy, Boris, and Margarita were at work now. Burner didn’t want to worry them—not at this point—so he stepped into the kitchenette and connected a comm call to Hank. Hank picked up a moment later. Something about his quick response told Burner he wasn’t the only one concerned. “Burner. Have you heard something?”

“From Sara? No. So I’m guessing you haven’t either?”

“No, still no contact. No answer on her comm,” Hank replied. “And I don’t like it. I’ve been monitoring her via her implant. Burner, she went offline.”

Burner leaned against the counter and stared at the cupboards opposite with a sickening feeling of dread. “Offline?”

“Yeah. Her telemetry. It means one of two things: either it’s been turned off, or she’s been taken out.”

“Could she have turned it off?”

“It would be the first time in eight years.”

“Shit.”

“They could have turned it off. I mean, it doesn’t have to be—”

“Yeah,” Burner interjected. “But why the hell would they do that? She’s one of theirs.”

“I know. I know. I think there must be—hang on.”

Burner closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Hank’s voice returned. “I’ve just had a message from a contact in HQ. She’s saying Sara’s been arrested.”

“Arrested? For what?”

There was a pause as Hank thought before he spoke again. “It might not matter. Someone on the inside doesn’t like the information she’s bringing. I’ll get a message through to her telling her to get out of there. Once she’s out of the building, I can scoop her up.”

“And what if she’s not able to get free? It’s a secure building. How can she get out?”

“She’ll get out. HQ is run by people who aren’t in the field. She has more know-how and experience than all of them put together.”

Burner could hear the pride in Hank’s voice but it didn’t comfort him. “Hank. What if she can’t make it out?”

“Then I’ll go in and get her out myself.”

“That isn’t a plan.”

The short silence that followed was a confession that Burner was right. When Hank spoke again, it was quietly. “It’s the best I’ve got, Burner.”

Burner knew he was right. “Okay. What can I do to help?”

“Just sit tight for now. I’ll be in touch.”

Hank ended the comm call with Burner. There was another call he needed to make, and fast.

“Hello?”

“This is Hank.” He spoke quickly. “We’ve got a situation on our hands, and I need your help. Where are you?”

32

Union Headquarters, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Sara had been taken to a smaller interrogation room in a high-security section of the building. Each door required a keycard and a retinal scan. One guard kept a firm grip on her while the other opened and closed them. Staff members stared at her as they went past. Prisoners they were used to, but an internal traitor was quite different. Sara had said nothing. She had tried to ignore the guards on either side of her and instead concentrated on how she was going to play this situation. It seemed there were no allies left in this building. Could she trust Union procedures to exonerate her? If they were operating as they had in her interrogation, believing them capable of a fair investigation would be naïve in the extreme. The Constables would likely just leave her there. Better that than revealing themselves and their involvement. She was on her own.

The guards left her alone in the interrogation room, her hands still cuffed behind her back, sitting on a hard metal chair. She twisted her hand in the cuffs, trying to work out by touch what type they were. The metal pinched against her skin, and she cursed as the pain pierced through her exhaustion. She wanted so much to feel petulant, to think angrily about how good she was at her job, how wrong they were to treat her like this. But that would get nothing done. This was survival now. She had to treat it as though she were in enemy territory. Making that distinction made things simpler. It clarified her thinking as she mulled her next objective.

Hank still has your back. This was true. But she was in here, and Hank was out there, and she had no way of getting in touch with him. Gods, she had no idea if he even knew she had been arrested. She cursed again. Work out what’s going on first, then focus on your options. But how was she supposed to know what was going on? Something had changed when Carson left the room—presumably someone had intervened.

She thought back to her meeting with Capulet, the things he had told her, the data stick he’d handed off to her. If you wanted information, if you wanted names…all you had to do was ask. Was all this part of Capulet’s play? Had he somehow calculated all this, led her into this trap? She didn’t think so—he had sounded sincere during their meeting, sounded like a man at the end of his rope. But Sara had to allow the possibility that she had been wrong and had missed some essential part of this whole equation. The evidence on his datastick had mobilized Drake against her, and with him, the whole Union. Was that what had happened?

She tried to think about what was coming next. After all, she’d seen these situations play out a hundred times before from the other side of the desk. They would most likely send in another interviewer, probably not the same guy who had been talking to her initially. It wouldn’t be Drake himself, of course. So there was an outside chance she’d have the opportunity to plead her case, explain some of what had happened. If not, her best bet would probably be to clam up and wait to see what options presented themselves to her. Hank must at some point realize she’d been in here too long. Could he do something about it? She couldn’t trust that he’d be able to rescue her, of course. She had to find some way to act.

As she processed her options, the door to the interrogation room opened and a man entered. He sat on the chair opposite her, placed a datapad on the table, and looked at Sara without saying a word. Sara knew the tactic. Stay calm, stay quiet, wait for the suspects to break and incriminate themselves. Faced by it now, she was surprised by how irritating it was. “Whenever you’re ready,” she said. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

The man smiled. “Relax,” he said with the tone of a therapist. “I just want to get the facts from you, hear your side of the story. As I’m sure you’ll know, you are at the outermost end of the Secure Wing. This meeting is being recorded, so no one can force you to say anything you don’t want.”

Sara looked at him coolly. She didn’t trust the soothing, empathetic voice. She had used that voice too many times herself. “Go ahead.”

“Good. Good. Just wanted you to know everything is copacetic.”

Sara made no move. The last word had sent an electric shock flaring to the ends of every neuron in her head. Copacetic. She and Hank had agreed on that word as code for escape on a project two years ago. They hadn’t used it on that mission and hadn’t mentioned it since—the Capulet project didn’t need a codeword, of course, since Hank was meant to be in her ear for all of it. But hearing it now struck a chord. She had to be careful, though.

“Go ahead,” she repeated.

He looked at her hard for another moment, then turned to his datapad. “Perhaps we could start with your understanding of why you are here.”

Sara shifted in her chair, trying and failing to find a position that didn’t feel uncomfortable and exposed. “I was brought in for standard questioning on the death of Ron Capulet. Partway through the meeting, something changed and I’m now facing charges of murdering him. False charges.”

The man opposite showed no reaction to this. He continued to speak gently. “You think there’s been procedural misconduct?”

He leaned in toward her. Sara didn’t answer, and he continued. “I can assure you, looking through the records, it’s all been copacetic up to now.”

This time, Sara looked into his eyes. Her head moved a fraction.

“So I’m told. Up to now.” She barely concentrated on what she was saying. From the questions that followed, she got the impression that her interrogator was also barely concentrating. He asked her to retell the basic facts of what had brought her here as he made occasional notes on his datapad. Each time he looked up, they made eye contact. Only ten minutes had passed before he got to his feet.

“That’s all I need for now,” he told her. “Someone else will be coming to speak to you further, though it might be some wait.”

“Some wait?” Sara wasn’t being sarcastic about the waste of time now.

He looked directly at her. “At least twenty minutes,” he said.

That was very specific. Between that, him dropping their location, the code word, she was certain now. This was Hank telling her to get out.

The interviewer scanned his keycard and stooped for the lasers to identify his retinas before leaving the room. The door closed firmly, and she saw the door handle move stiffly as he tried it, making sure it was locked.

As soon as he was gone, Sara slipped off her chair and crouched to the ground. She was lucky they’d used the standard issue cuffs from two years ago; they were just wide enough for her to pull past her hips so her feet could step back, one by one, and when she stood up, her hands were in front of her. Now for the real work. Sara knew locks and those on cuffs weren’t difficult—mainly because they didn’t have to be; handcuffed people tend not to have the requisite dexterity for locksmithing. Unfortunately, she did fit into the category of handcuffed people at this moment in time.

Twenty minutes.

She went to the interrogator’s chair on the opposite side of the table. It was well designed for the task of an interrogator—that is, well designed for someone to sit in it for a very long time without showing any sign of discomfort. The padded backrest was highly supported. Digging at the edge of it with her nails, Sara managed to rip the material cover sufficiently to reveal some of the cushioning and wire framework beneath. She selected one of the shorter wires, pulled it out, and bent it.

She closed her eyes as she inserted the bent piece of metal into the small keyhole by her wrist, concentrating on the feel of the lock as she explored it with the wire. It wouldn’t be good to hurry this part. She took a steadying breath and forced herself to move slowly, carefully.

Twenty minutes. How many had she already spent? Her hand slipped, and the wire came out of the keyhole. She bit down on her lip and reinserted it. By twisting the wire to a certain angle, she could apply the right sort of pressure so long as she got the wire far enough in.

Click.

Sara released her breath shakily and took her hands out of the cuffs. There were red marks on her wrists where she had pulled and twisted with her hands in the attempt to get out of them. The raw patches began to sting. She relished this pain. She was back in the game. She knew what she had to do. She was trained for this.

The door was locked and there would be a guard on the other side. The interrogator’s quick testing of the handle had warned her not to try it herself, for fear of alerting anyone. But she was at the outermost end of the Secure Wing. There had been a row a few years ago about ventilation in HQ—lack of funding meant that the renovation couldn’t be supported for all of the building, and it was ultimately allowed in the Secure Wing only, since detainees and guards had to stay in otherwise almost airtight rooms for hours or even days at a time. Moving quickly, Sara put the prisoner’s metal chair on the table, then climbed up onto it so she could comfortably reach the ceiling. She pushed her nails into the sides of the air vent and eased it out of place. The plastic was sharp at the edge, and the skin at the tips of her fingers started to bleed. At last, the vent cover gave way, and she pulled it down, then pushed it up into the small shaft. Then came the hard part. She could poke her head through, but she was going to have to pull herself up. Thank goodness she had a regular, rigorous calisthenics routine she followed.

She pulled herself along the duct as quickly as possible. There wasn’t time to work out which way would be the shortest to the roof; her first aim was to get as far away as possible from the interrogation room she had just left.

Soon, the duct lost all light and she felt her way forward through the narrow tube, feeling claustrophobic, like she had been buried alive. After what felt like an hour, but must have only been some minutes, she saw a very dim light on the floor of the vent: another removable cover leading to a room below. Feeling a sickening sense that she could get stuck in these narrow tunnels if she kept crawling along them, she decided to take this route. It took less time to remove the cover from the inside of the vent and she found herself looking down on a pair of balding heads. The men’s toilets. She would have to wait until it was empty to go down into the room and make her way from there. But as she was thinking this, the floor of the duct, weakened by the loss of the vent cover (and, bewilderingly, not designed to hold a person), creaked and gave way, sending Sara crashing to the floor.

She lay on the tiles as two startled men looked down at her. She could tell from their uniforms they were both prison guards.

“Are you alright?” one of them asked.

“Hell, that’s the traitor,” the other exclaimed.

She had the advantage of surprise. The two men at the urinals stared at her in shock. She hurt all over, and she was aware of water—wetness—all over the place. Likely there was a broken pipe. Plus she was on the floor. She pushed herself up from the tiles. Her head hurt like crazy, but she knew she had to focus. Sara used the one moment of surprise to smash the heads of the two men together. They collided and fell, and she ran out of the bathroom, only to collide with another guard who was coming inside.

“Hey!” the guard shouted after her. She raced past him, and she could hear him talking into his comm. “Code blue! Code blue! Prisoner has escaped!”

A wail of sirens filled the building. Sara could hear guards mobilizing, then she saw them racing into the hallway, rifles at the ready. She was still trying to get to the roof, figuring there would be some avenue of escape for her up there. She ran up the stairs, just as a squad of soldiers squared up below her. There came a command to open fire, and she ducked to waist height, swinging herself around the corner of the stairwell from the handrail as an explosion of noise erupted behind her and fragments of plaster from the bullet-peppered wall burst through the air.

She took the next set of stairs three at a time, guards only one flight below her but still around the corner, with no direct shot of her. The door at the top of the stairs was ajar—she had clearly gotten high enough to be away from the high-security area. But it led to a dead-end. A cramped office, a few chairs, and a desk with some holoscreens greeted her. As she looked around for a second exit, she heard the guards race into the room behind her.

“Don’t move!” one of them yelled.

Sara grabbed the nearest table and pushed it onto its side, then she ducked behind it for cover. A few bullets whizzed through the wood, narrowly missing her. The guards advanced, so she grabbed a chair and swung it savagely into one of the guard’s heads.

He fell backward, and his partner stepped forward to get a better shot at her. She closed the gap, grabbed at his gun, and smashed her elbow into the side of his head. He struggled, and she kicked him hard in the stomach, then wrenched his arm until he dropped the rifle. She took the weapon and pointed it briefly at each of them before ascertaining that they were both out of action. No need to shoot.

She ran out of the office and cut down the hallway as another squad of soldiers came up the staircase after her. While running, she sprayed bullets behind her into the ceiling, close enough that it forced the squad to retreat and take cover. The elevators were just ahead. If she could get inside, she might be able to take them up to the roof.

She made it to the bank of elevators, just as the doors opened and three armored men came out to greet her. She kicked the first one in the arm, messing up his burst of fire and causing him to send a volley of bullets into the foot of one of his partners. The soldier who’d been shot went down, screaming in agony. Sara hit the other one in the throat with her gun, then kicked him to the side as he doubled over. The third soldier leveled his weapon at her. Sara grabbed it and thrust it to the side. Both of them swung sideways into the elevator. Too close to get off a shot now, he tried punching Sara in the face, but she was able to dodge and smash his head against the wall. He grabbed her by the midsection and tried to get her off her feet, but she was able to kickflip off the elevator wall, come down behind the soldier, and deliver a vicious roundhouse kick to the side of his head. He crumpled to the ground just as the elevator dinged and the door closed. Sara stood there for a moment, breathing heavily. She hit the button for the highest floor and kicked aside the unconscious soldier as the elevator headed upward.

She aimed her gun at the doors, ready for when they opened. Mercifully, though, she emerged to an empty floor. All the soldiers were still on the lower levels, trying to mobilize to get upstairs. From above, she could hear the steady whup of helicopter blades. Running through the halls, Sara found an emergency ladder leading from a wide window up to the roof. She emerged to the tremendous sound of a helicopter making its landing. She dodged to the side, expecting to see armed soldiers sitting in the cockpit. But it was Hank, shouting something unintelligible to her over the roar of the helicopter blades. As more Union vehicles hovered up to the building, she climbed into the helicopter, giving Hank a sturdy thump on the back as she made her way inside. He didn’t waste a second and lifted off into the sky once again as soon as she was in there.

“Long time no see!” Hank shouted to her. They rose quickly into the air and began to pull away. Sara collapsed back into the helicopter seat, breathing heavily. They sped away from the building and Sara realized with some amazement that, for now, she was safe.

33

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Burner came out of the kitchenette to find Judy waiting for him. “I guess you heard my conversation in there?”

“The end of it,” Judy admitted. “But enough to figure out what’s going on. Sara’s been arrested?”

“Seems that way. And her implant has been shut off.”

Judy cursed. “Do we know what that means?”

Burner shook his head. “Just that it’s not good.”

Judy glanced over at Boris and Margarita, who were immersed in work, oblivious to the conversation. She nodded for Burner to follow her back into the kitchen.

When the door was shut, they stood for a moment in silence, both of them thinking. None of them had planned for something like this. There had always been the possibility that the Union wouldn’t buy Sara’s story, but Burner had thought the corroborating evidence would have been enough. He couldn’t imagine that Drake would be able to have her arrested when he himself was implicated in the evidence Sara had brought in. But Drake likely had a team of loyal officers behind him, and somehow the unstoppable hierarchy of the Union was swinging into his favor. This was going to be more difficult than either of them realized.

Judy seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Burner.

“How could Drake have had Sara arrested?” she asked. “He’s part of the case. Drake couldn’t have just done this himself. There must be someone higher up on the chain, someone who gave the okay for this to go ahead.”

Burner rubbed his chin. “Drake’s already pretty high up. Who else is above him that could have authorized this?”

“Let’s think about it.” Judy put her hands on the counter behind her and hoisted herself up to sit on it. “Drake had to suppress the evidence Sara was holding as well as orchestrate her arrest.”

“They’re all orders he’s authorized to give without permission from above,” Burner said slowly.

“Yes. On a normal case. But he was implicated in this one. And as soon as that was identified, it would have been marked as a case that demanded he recuse himself—”

“—and all such cases when entered into the system are automatically flagged to the officer’s direct superior,” Burner finished.

“Right.”

“You think someone high up is protecting him.”

It wasn’t a question.

“They must be. And if they’re protecting Drake, doesn’t it make sense that they’d also be protecting themselves? Why else would they be helping him like this? I understand loyalty, but Drake’s been implicated in serious crimes. They’d have to at least have Drake recuse himself while this whole shitshow was getting underway. Instead they’re letting Drake stay on and actively impede the investigation.”

Burner rubbed his chin. “We can go through the hierarchy and narrow down who it might be.”

They left the kitchen and headed to the opposite side of the warehouse, where a computer and holoscreen was set up, mostly for less data-intensive work. Burner looked on as Judy pulled up the service histories of people in the Union chain of command. They began searching through the histories and names, looking for people who had links to Drake and would go to great lengths to protect him. It helped that both of them had Union backgrounds, and they had at least a passing familiarity with many of the names on the list. They knew who would have been in a position to help Drake and who could be eliminated from suspicion.

“Let’s cross reference those who were connected to the Hand as well as Drake,” Burner suggested. “They graduated from the academy the same year. Maybe it was someone within their circle of friends.”

“I’m impressed you remember that,” Judy remarked as her fingers hovered over the holoscreen.

Burner looked almost embarrassed. “I’ve been going over the files from the Hand’s case from time to time. Ever since we dealt with him. Always had the sense we were missing something.”

Judy glanced at him. “We were,” she noted. “We were missing Drake. And someone else, apparently.”

She scrolled through the lists, names and ranks of Union officials moving down the screen.

“There is a link here,” she murmured after a few minutes. “But I don’t know if it’s viable. From what I’m seeing, the only person with a connection to both Drake and the Hand who would be able to authorize the interrogators to arrest Sara, would be—”

“The Union Chief,” Burner finished for her. Judy stopped what she was doing and looked up at him.

“I think so.”

“He’s the only one with the authority to do it, and he graduated the same class as the Hand and Drake, right? The three of them had to have been up to something together. If anyone could authorize a stop to the investigation and get rid of Sara, it would be the chief.”

“Vice-Admiral Newhouse,” Judy said slowly. “How are we going to go up against him?”

Burner was quiet. When he answered, his voice was steady and decided. “There’s always a way. We’ll have to use their strengths against them. Newhouse probably thinks he’s untouchable, and Drake will be thinking the same thing now. They’ll be getting complacent.”

Burner’s comm buzzed. He saw it was Hank. He connected Judy into the call. “Hank? What’s happening?”

“I’ve got Sara. I’m extracting her as we speak.” There was noise in the background, like distant sirens and…helicopter blades? The sound was being digitally altered, as though Hank had some kind of noise canceling algorithm running on his comm line.

Burner turned to Judy and saw she was smiling broadly with the relief he also felt. “Brilliant. Brilliant.”

“Yeah. She’s okay. We’ll fill you in when we see each other. Sara wanted you to know that she gave the Union the datastick from Capulet. It seems like that evidence is being suppressed. We need to find out where the datastick has ended up.”

“Got it. But there’s something else, Hank. Drake couldn’t have authorized Sara’s arrest by himself. We think the Union Chief is involved in this.”

There came a pause from Hank’s end of the comm. The noise canceling hiss increased for a moment and then settled when he spoke again. “Newhouse? Really?”

“We’re not positive,” Burner continued, “but it’s looking likely. He’s in a position to protect Drake, and the two of them have some past connection with the Hand.”

“Okay. Okay. Sara and I will go after him then. We have the Union against us anyway, now.”

“Be careful,” Burner warned him. “In the meantime, Judy and I are going to try and collect evidence against Drake. Evidence that he’s not going to be able to suppress. With any luck, we can convince some members of his team that Drake has been pulling the wool over their eyes for a long time now.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Hank told him. “Then what?”

“We’ll hand the evidence off to the attorney general. We’ll use him as a rendezvous when all is said and done.”

“Are you sure he’s clean?”

Burner half laughed. “I sincerely hope so.”

“Alright. Roger that. We’ll be in touch when we can. Over and out.” The comm disconnected.

Burner turned to Judy.

“At least now we know what we’ve got to do,” she said with determination.

“Right.” Burner nodded. “Let’s get to it.”

34

Abandoned Warehouse, Ranch District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Burner and Judy had been hard at work, along with Boris and Margarita, trying to dig up whatever evidence they could use against Drake. It had been slow going, especially with the limited resources at their disposal. Drake had covered his tracks well. Most of the information available painted him as the quintessential Union hero, a well-respected member of the community who had a large team of specialists working under him. To be able to implicate him, they were going to need airtight evidence.

As Burner bent by Judy to see her holoscreen, his comm began to buzz. “Carla?”

Burner allowed Judy’s comm to connect too. They exchanged glances at the sound of Carla’s voice. It was tenser than usual, less perky. “Burner, you there?”

“Yeah,” Burner replied. “What’s up?”

“We’ve got a big problem. Drake has mobilized the Union against you guys in a task force briefing. They’re on the lookout for you all across the Union, an all-points bulletin. They’re also running down all your known associates.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, shit. We didn’t even have to dig for this information, it’s all over the gal-net. The Collective has been declared a public enemy too. You guys aren’t safe at your warehouse over there. You’re going to have to ditch and run.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Burner said quickly. “We’ll start evacuating now.”

“The Collective has agreed to try and buy you some time,” Carla informed him. “But it’s not going to be easy. Everyone—everyone—is going to be looking for you guys. I’m going into hiding too. We’re erasing our evidence—everything we have—so we can’t be traced.”

“Hang on—everything?”

Burner’s mind was spinning. They didn’t have a copy of the data Sara had gathered—the Collective had been too possessive. And if they didn’t have the data, they would have nothing on Capulet, the Union mole…nothing. There was no apology in Carla’s voice.

“Everything. There’s no good having Sara’s intel if we’re all locked up. You won’t be able to contact me after this. Good luck.”

Carla ended the comm call. Burner quickly strode over to Boris and Margarita, who had heard nothing of the call. “Shut it down,” he snapped. “We need to get out of here, right now. Grab a bag, something light. Let’s go.”

The two of them looked at Burner, stunned.

Margarita stood up, somewhat hesitantly, processing what he’d just said. “Should we wipe the systems down?”

Burner was already at his workstation grabbing a few things he could take with him. “No time. They’ve got our number anyway. Grab your things and let’s go. We’ll take the car and try to get somewhere safe.”

Judy, who had been standing still since the comm call ended, now approached Margarita and Boris, speaking more gently. “We’ve had a call from Carla; the Union is against us—all of us. We need to get out now. Pack what you can and be at the front door in two minutes. Two minutes max.”

Boris grabbed a holofile from the top drawer of his desk then dashed toward the back of the building to get what he needed. Burner also left the room quickly, and they heard the front door open as he headed to the car. Margarita watched them go, then slowly reached into a drawer of her own desk and pulled out a small canvas bag, already packed. Judy looked at the escape bag—the quiet, unassuming statement that Margarita had never felt safe here.

“Ready?” she asked.

Margarita nodded and they left the room, the workstations still blinking little lights and whirring gently. None of them looked back.

Within two minutes, the team were in the car, Burner in the driver’s seat, pulling away from the warehouse. Burner sped down the street, watching for tails. For now, the coast was clear. But they needed a destination, a plan.

* * *

Hank checked a message that had flashed up on his wristholo. He tapped at it, presumably sending a response. Then he returned his eyes to the skyline and flicked a quick check of his instruments. With her headphones on, Sara could talk to Hank. Hank piloted the helicopter over the city, high enough to be inconspicuous from below.

“Thanks.” Sara shook her head in disbelief at recent events. “I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it,” he replied. He smiled, a little smugly at his own cleverness. “I take it the message got through?”

She nodded. “It did. Thank you. Things were going south very quickly.”

Hank veered the helicopter left over a row of skyscrapers. Although being in the air gave her an exhilarating feeling of freedom, Sara knew that they were still very much in hot water. She could only imagine the shitshow that was brewing behind the scenes now that she’d escaped from Union custody.

“Drake’s shifted the blame to us,” Hank told her. “The entire system’s out looking for us—you, Burner, all of us. He’s put out a BOLO. All known associates.”

Sara cursed. “That piece of shit. What are Burner and the rest of them doing about it?”

“Message just now says they’re on the run. They ditched everything at the warehouse. I don’t know where they’re headed, yet and it’s probably better they haven’t told me. They’ve ditched their comms as well, so getting in touch with them isn’t going to be easy.”

Sara nodded, though it was taking some time for the information to sink in.

“Drake suppressed the evidence you handed in,” Hank continued. “The datastick. That’s a big blow to us. That was important evidence we could have used against him.”

Sara looked sideways at him.

“What about the intel I got from Capulet’s office? Didn’t that have enough on it to incriminate Capulet and the Union mole—Drake, that is?” Hank kept his eyes on the dashboard. “Hank?”

“It’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Wiped. The Collective are deleting their datastores in order to cover their tracks. We’re not going to be able to get that data back.”

Sara felt herself caught between anger and alarm. She chose anger.

“They’ve deleted it? Hank, we’ve lost the datastick. Without the intel I got, we have nothing on Drake. We’re outlaws with no way of vindicating ourselves. Hell, we don’t have anywhere to go. We have nothing.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sara had been taking a breath to continue her tirade. Hank’s apology stopped her. This wasn’t the Hank she was used to. She wished he would rail back at her or look devious and tell her why she was wrong. So she could feel patronized and irritated and not scared. “But we do have somewhere to go?”

She eyed him, and he quickly grinned at her. “You don’t think I’d run an extraction of my best asset without somewhere safe to take her, do you?”

35

Sticks West Cranfield, City Outskirts, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Judy and Burner agreed that getting out of the city before roadblocks went up was probably the safest option. With their comms ditched, they would be off grid, and their alias accounts would allow them at least some spending capacity for the supplies they would need.

They started by heading west, deliberately choosing territory they hadn’t been in before in case any of their location data was retrievable from their safehouse systems. They’d learned that lesson well, and the last thing they wanted was for their habits and preferences to give them away. That would be professionally embarrassing they agreed as they relaxed into the long ride ahead.

None of them spoke as they drove, each of them processing their thoughts about the situation, mulling next possible moves. Burner took an intentional wrong turn to make sure they weren’t being followed, but he was reasonably sure the car they were in was untraceable and they had no one on their tail.

Some way out of the Capital, they stopped at a small shop and Boris went in to buy enough supplies to keep them going for a few days. The other three waited tensely in the car. They were far enough out to be anonymous now, Judy told them. Even BOLOs took time to be taken seriously outside the Capital districts. She’d been on the other end of that particular frustration back in her Union days. Still, it was a relief when Boris reemerged with bags. Unusually serious, he hurried back to the car. Margarita noticed his change in demeanor. She’d seen it once before—as they were trying to escape the castle in a hail of gunfire. He was scared.

Burner pulled the car away as soon as Boris was inside. This time they didn’t stop until they reached the new safehouse—a place Judy had kept as a contingency plan. It was standard procedure to keep a couple of safe houses, off grid, that no one knew about. She was sure Burner and Sara would have similar. All part of the training.

They pulled up at a cottage a few hours later, tired and in need of showers, food, and rest. Not that they noticed in their hurry, but the cottage was beautiful. It was surrounded by trees and forest with no other house in sight. That piece was deliberate. Inside the cottage was small; cozy if you were an elderly couple with a cat, but raising potential problems for a group of four. None of them cared. The comfortable chairs, running water, and easily visible approaches some distance from the manhunt—all yielded a feeling of tentative relief.

They allowed themselves half an hour to get their bearings and unpack before congregating around the table in the kitchen—now their best option for a meeting space.

It started with Judy filling Boris and Margarita in on what they had discovered in the last few hours. “So we all know the situation,” Judy continued, “our top priority is bringing down Dickie Drake. He’s the one who’s turned everything against us, and he’s not going to stop until we’re all dead or in jail. Or dead in jail. The evidence Sara presented against him has been suppressed, so we’re going to need something else to get to him.”

“Can we take him out?” Margarita suggested immediately. “He’s a public figure, right? It shouldn’t be hard to find him.”

Burner raised his eyebrows. “Cold blooded, Margarita. But that just pins another murder charge on us. We need to clear our names and implicate him if we’re going to have a shot of getting through this thing.”

She had another thought. “Can we broadcast publicly? It would be simple enough to hack into a news station and get a message out against Drake. It could lead to some further investigation.”

Judy shook her head. “Unless we have irrefutable evidence, it will only give them ammunition to claim we’re trying to bring the system down. The Union or local law enforcement isn’t going to listen to us, and Drake and the chief are the ones who have the resources to shut down investigations.”

There was a lull in the discussion. It was dawning on them that maybe Drake was untouchable. It began to feel like staying here, staying safe, was only delaying the inevitable end to this cat-and-mouse game launched against them.

Burner took a swig of coffee. “This all boils down to evidence. We need hard evidence we can use to take Drake down. Until we get that, everything else we try will just play into Drake’s hands.”

“We had evidence,” Margarita pointed out. “Can we get that back? Where would Sara’s datastick be?”

“In the secure Union headquarters building,” Burner answered. “Under lock and key. Not an easy job—especially for outlaws. We’d need to find it, get it out, and then deliver it to someone who could actually do something about it. The Attorney General is the highest authority when it comes to the law. As far as we know, he’s still clean. He’s probably the only person with enough clout to be able to take down Drake and our dear Vice Admiral.”

“That’s what Sara and Hank are working on,” Judy added. “Finding evidence to implicate the Chief in all this. Right now our plans are parallel. We both need evidence against these same guys, or else neither of our plans are going to work.”

Boris seemed to be putting it together slowly. “So if we don’t pull this off, Drake is just going to come after us.” He was voicing what they were all thinking. “We can try and stay on the run, but he’s got the resources of the entire Union behind him. He’s going to find us eventually.”

Margarita gazed down at the scratched, dented table. “And even if we do succeed, the Chief can protect Drake unless Sara and Hank manage to get dirt on him.”

“There’s only one way I can see us succeeding.” Burner looked at his team, all of them staring back at him with dead serious expressions. “We need to break into the HQ building and get this evidence. It’s the only way to clear our names and take down Drake and Newhouse.”

Judy nodded slowly. “It’s not going to be easy.”

“No, it’s not,” Burner replied. “It’s a long shot, and it’s risky as hell. But right now, I’m pretty sure it’s the only chance we have.”

* * *

ALLAMEN OUTLETS, CRANFIELD, CITY OUTSKIRTS, DOBULLA U8X, UNION SPACE

“You sure about this?” Boris was looking around nervously, to Judy’s irritation.

“Stop looking around so much.”

“Sorry.”

Judy glanced at him. It wasn’t like Boris to apologize straight away. He was far from his comfort zone of sitting behind a holoscreen, and the strain was clearly taking its toll. She was used to this kind of op, but Boris wasn’t cut out for the pressure. They had no choice, though—she and Boris were the least recognizable of the team, having been off the radar for a while now, and it made sense that they should be the ones to do this.

They had ventured back toward civilization and stopped at a town big enough to have the kind of supplies they needed. They were hoping to at least get some new, untraceable comms. The journey to the store had been uneventful, but now that they would actually have to go inside, Boris was on edge.

Judy squeezed his shoulder. “Just act casually,” she advised. “No one has any reason to suspect you. Got your dark credits?”

“Yeah.” Boris patted the pocket of his coat where the untraceable credit card was safely tucked away.

“Alright. I’ll wait out here and keep an eye out. If you have any trouble, I’ll be right there.”

Boris headed inside, wincing noticeably at the electronic chime that jangled as he went. Judy pretended to browse through the advertisements that were plastered on the shop windows outside. Boris knew what equipment they needed, and she doubted he would take too long to get it. While pretending to look over the advertisements, she was able to see through the window and caught a glimpse of Boris talking with the shopkeeper. They were both smiling, and Boris seemed more relaxed. All good so far.

Judy turned back to the street, thinking they might just be able to get the op done in a few minutes and get out of there. She caught her breath. A car full of law enforcement officers had just pulled up across the street at a fast food joint, and they started filing out. Judy turned back to the window, perhaps a little too quickly, and she had the feeling that one of them had caught a glimpse of her face before she’d gone back to staring at the advertisements. She tried to see the reflection of the officers in the window, but it would have involved turning her head too much to the side. She could hear them talking behind her. Was it just casual conversation? She couldn’t tell.

On an impulse, she turned back and saw the police starting to cross the street, making a beeline for her. Keep calm. At that moment, Boris came back out of the store, holding a bag that presumably contained the clean comms. He came out, saw the police, and stopped dead in his tracks.

It was painful to watch.

Boris’s face was as good as a written and signed confession. The officers pulled their weapons, and the one at the front opened his mouth to speak to them. Judy pushed Boris to their right to get him running.

“Hey! Don’t move!” came the shout from behind.

The chase was on. Judy and Boris hurtled down the street, the police officers chasing after them.

“Split up!” Judy yelled at Boris. “Go down this alley. Try and get out of sight.”

Judy shoved Boris down a side alley while she headed straight on, hoping she could distract the police from him. Boris was frozen for a split-second, still clutching the bag with the comms for dear life. Two officers appeared in the mouth of the alley. One grabbed the other and pointed at him. That was all the impetus he needed. Boris raced through the alley, moving as fast as his feet would carry him, bounding over boxes and garbage, squeezing into daylight before turning left down another alley. He risked a glance behind him and saw the two police maybe thirty meters away and gaining. Boris had some speed, but stamina wasn’t his game and his breath was beginning to slice into his lungs like daggers. If things kept up like this, the police were going to run him down.

He came to the end of this alley and stopped at a chain-link fence. A dead end. He looked around frantically and saw a fire escape ladder on the side of a building. With a nimbleness he didn’t know he possessed, he managed to clamber up a dumpster and grab the bottom rung of the fire escape, while the bag with the comms was still cinched around his arm. Sweating and cursing, he pulled himself to his feet on the fire escape and bounded up the stairs. Looking down, he could see the police officers were still hot on his tail, pulling the same maneuver he had used, jumping up on the dumpster and pulling themselves up onto the fire escape. Boris ran up the stairs two at a time, trying to ignore the burning stitch in his side that seemed to be growing with every step he took.

The building was maybe ten stories tall, and Boris kept bounding up the stairs, his only hope being that the officers would give up before he ran out of stairs. No such luck. He reached the roof and came out onto a large flat space. He could hear the cops right behind him, maybe a floor below. Now what the heck was he going to do? Desperate, he ran to the edge and saw another roof just about level, with a gap of a few meters between them. Boris stared at it, as he heard the door crash open behind him.

“Oh, you’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” he said to himself. He knew he could make the jump, in theory, but if he messed up he was making a ten story drop to a splattering end on the pavement below. Risk versus reward, isn’t that what Burner always said? Right now, the risk was being arrested, and who knew what was going to happen after that? The risk was also falling off a building to his death, but Boris calculated his odds of making the jump at about seventy-five percent. Eighty percent, maybe, since adrenaline was still very much on his side.

Those odds were good enough. He ran a few meters back, then sprinted forward toward the edge of the building and leapt into the air at the last possible moment. His heart seemed to rocket into his throat as he bounded over the gap, nothing but air beneath him. For a terrifying second he thought he wouldn’t make it, but he stretched his leg out and, a moment later, felt himself land hard on the concrete of the next building. He got to his feet, never so happy to be covered in tar and dust from the dirty roof. Even the bag with the comms was still somehow cinched around his arm. There was a large generator a few meters away, and he dodged behind it, gasping for breath. From the other roof, he could hear the voices of the two police officers.

“Where’s he gone?”

“Is there a fire escape on the other side?”

“Or maybe he jumped to the next building.”

“Man would have to be crazy.”

“Can you see him?”

“Not here. I think we’ve lost him.”

“Shit.”

Boris waited until he heard the clang of boots on metal that meant the officers were heading back to the street. Not wasting any more time, he found the fire escape of this building and ran down the stairs like his life depended on it. He made it down to the bottom and was able to kick the ladder out to climb down to the ground. He was amazed he still had the comms they needed. Boris hurried down another alley and came out into a small grassy area that looked like a park. He swiveled around, panting. The police were gone, or at least he’d lost their tail for now. No sign of Judy, but she would have to fend for herself. There was nothing Boris could do for her now— he knew she would say that. He just had to get himself and the comms back to the safehouse without being caught.

But now that he’d evaded his pursuers, Boris thought he’d be able to make it. He quickly ducked down another alley and recognized a street sign that told him he was going in the right direction.

“Ha,” he muttered to himself, still trying to catch his breath. “No field training. No problem. Eat your heart out, Judy.”

“Yeah, not bad for a rookie.”

He gasped and pivoted, looking wildly at the figure behind him. In his panic, it took him a moment to recognize Judy’s grinning face. She looked much less disheveled than Boris, as though evading armed police was as straight-forward a task as brushing one’s teeth.

“I kept the comms,” he said feebly, waving the bag that hung from his wrist.

She gave him a twinkling smile as she guided him over to the edge of the alley and began leading them to the pick-up point by the most inconspicuous route.

“I expected nothing less.”

36

Cabin Safehouse, Northern City Outskirts, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Hank had landed the helicopter in a field and got Sara to sprint with him to a car parked 200 meters away, in a collapsing outhouse. The car itself looked at least thirty years old, barely in better condition than the building that sheltered it, but it had been fitted with an entirely incongruous new-model fingerprint scanner, which allowed Hank to start the engine as soon as he touched the steering wheel. The tank was full.

It was an hour’s drive through rambling country lanes before they reached a small cabin nestled in the fields. Sara had never been here before.

“Sweet safehouse,” she commented, standing in front of the tiny cabin as Hank did a quick check of the perimeter.

“Sure is,” Hank replied. Satisfied that there was nothing suspicious in the surroundings, he produced a set of keys and the two of them went inside. The interior of the cabin was about what Sara had expected—sparse and with a musty smell, but it was good to be somewhere safe. Sara went over to one of the windows in the den, which offered a decent view of the surrounding area. It would be a good spot to be able to check if anyone was coming.

Hank watched her for a moment. “We should be safe enough here while we formulate a plan,” he started.

“I thought you said you already have a plan.”

“I do. We do. Kind of. I talked about it with Burner already. Our goal right now is to put the evidence together and hand it off to the AG.”

Sara tilted her head.

“The Attorney General?”

“He’s the only one high up enough to take down Drake. And there’s someone else in the Union who’s been helping protect Drake all this time. Someone just as high up.”

“Couldn’t it be the attorney general himself? We could be handing off the evidence right back to the enemy.”

Hank shrugged. “I don’t think so. Burner was convinced he was clean, and so am I. It’s someone else. Burner reckons it’s the Chief.”

“The Chief?” Sara looked incredulous for a moment.

Hank took a breath before explaining. “Newhouse. I don’t know, but it might make sense. Drake would need someone like Newhouse to have his back in order to get away with what he was doing.”

“If that’s right, this is our only chance at returning to our lives as we knew it.”

“As we knew it, yes. But there is another option.”

A frown flickered across Sara’s face for a moment. “What’s that?”

Hank looked at her seriously. “We could run.”

She blinked a few times. Just getting out? She hadn’t even considered it. They’d have to leave everything behind, start over. They’d be fugitives from the law, and they’d always have to be looking over their shoulders. And that didn’t even take into account Burner and the others. This would be bailing out, leaving the others in an impossible position. Hank looked at her, considering the options, and she could see the dread on his face. The idea of running away, of actually throwing their whole lives to the winds and starting fresh, was terrifying to both of them. Sara had done great things as a Constable and faced many dangers, but it was a lot easier to risk your neck when you knew you had the might of an institution like the Union behind you. With just Hank and her on their own, they’d be out in the world, alone, with no one or nothing to back them up. The prospect was terrifying.

“No,” Sara said finally. “I’m not throwing away everything we’ve worked so hard for. And I’m not leaving Burner and Judy out in the cold. Not for Dickie Drake. We’re going to fight through this and we’re going to come out on top.”

Hank breathed out, visibly relieved.

“Good. That’s what I thought you would say. It had to be your choice.”

She narrowed her eyes at his test before getting distracted by her next thought. “This isn’t going to be easy, though. We’re going to have to come up with some way of getting this intel to the Attorney General.”

Hank leaned back in his chair and cracked his knuckles. “Well then, we’d better get on top of that, hadn’t we?”

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Drake was working with his team in the open office, a flurry of activity going on around them. He was seated at a console while everyone worked around him, their fingers moving swiftly over holoscreens and datapads. The goal of the combined effort was clear: to find Burner and his crew, along with any associates who might have been helping them. Drake knew Burner was working with a small, rag-tag unit, and in order to break into Capulet’s office and steal classified information, it was very likely they’d had help from some outside sources. Right now Drake had everyone looking through the cyber channels, trying to figure out what groups might have been sympathetic to their cause.

Unsurprisingly it was Fred, their premiere computer hacker, who was first to come up with a lead. She called Drake over to her workstation.

“I think I’ve got something here, boss,” she told him. Drake rushed to her holoscreen, where she pulled up a list of complex technical information, specs on data transmissions and datapad pings, incoming and outgoing messages that had been sent between Burner’s systems and an unknown body.

“Hmm,” Drake murmured, leaning over and studying Fred’s holoscreen. “What do you think it means?”

“Well a lot of these incoming messages are coming from encrypted servers. But I managed to isolate some of the senders, and they’re all being routed through a specific database. I did some digging and it looks like they could be coming from a single group. They call themselves the Collective, sir. Their security is pretty tight, but it looks like they’re made up of a bunch of skilled computer hackers. I haven’t really been able to glean what their agenda is, but it seems like they’re the ones who have been helping Burner and his team.”

“So they’re associates,” Drake mused. “Alright, good. Can we get to work on tracking them?”

“Already on it,” Fred replied. “We’ve got a few of the Collective’s messages to Burner that were triangulated to a physical location.”

This made Drake perk up. “We’ve got an address?”

“It could be them. From the looks of it, it’s a warehouse over in the Goya district.”

“Okay. Excellent.” He waved Gary Moore over. “We’ve got a potential address on Burner and his team. We need to mobilize immediately. Get a squad together. Clarissa, Karl, a dozen others. We need to leave some people here to hunt down associates.”

“Got it, sir.”

“And do it fast. We need to bring these people down.”

* * *

ABANDONED WAREHOUSE, RANCH DISTRICT, DOBULLA U8X, UNION SPACE

“Clarissa, do you read?”

Clarissa’s voice came back over the comm, hushed and professional. Drake could tell she was in her element, muscles tense and at the ready for a life-threatening raid.

“Yes, sir. We’re ready when you are.”

Drake wondered whether there was a hint of sarcasm in this; he wasn’t going in with the others. Like the last raid, he would stay behind in the large, reinforced van until the prisoners had been taken and he could quickly whisk them away for some private interviewing. This Burner was clearly out for him, and Drake wasn’t going to present himself freely to him. Still, if Clarissa was ready for confrontation, that was no bad thing. He pressed a button to open his comm to a third line.

“Moore? Clarissa’s team is go. Are you?”

“Born ready, Commander.”

“Alright then, I’ll see you in there. Ready…now.”

Drake laid the comm down on his dashboard and watched through the window as a line of heavily armed officers, with the lithe form of Clarissa at their head, poured silently out of a van and toward the front entrance of the warehouse. At the back of the warehouse, he knew Moore’s team would be doing the same. He saw Clarissa assess the door, wave back her explosives expert, and break it down with an impressively efficient kick. The team ran into the warehouse and Drake sat back to wait, fingering the weapon in his pocket. He’d told his team not to be sparing with bullets on this one, but if they proved too squeamish, too by the book, he could probably get away with one or two little deaths later.

Inside, the warehouse was divided into two main parts: a large storeroom strewn with old boxes and packaging, and some back rooms—offices and workspaces that had clearly been turned into makeshift living quarters. From the plans of the building, Clarissa knew that Moore’s team would be heading directly into the storeroom from the back, so she led her team left, into the main living area. She had asked to take this route; Burner and his gang were unlikely to be hiding out in an empty storeroom and she wanted to be the first to get to them.

They were in a corridor with rooms on either side—a perfect place for ambush if Burner’s team were prepared. She stood before one door and gestured to Latika, her second-in-command, to take the door opposite. Two of the others went to the next doors along. Simultaneously, they smashed into opposite rooms.

It took a moment for Clarissa’s eyes to adjust to the new room and, with no idea what she was facing, she held her gun steady and shouted, “ON THE FLOOR!”

She heard Latika and one of the others shouting simultaneously, but as she turned one way and another, moving her weapon in each direction, she saw nothing more threatening than a mattress and three empty mugs.

She listened for noises behind her but heard no sounds of confrontation. Well, that was their advantage of surprise down the drain—although kicking the front door in had mostly assured done that, anyway. This was not a stealth mission.

“All clear here!” she called.

“And here,” came three answers.

She returned to the corridor and headed to the end, where a heavier fire door stood. Gun raised, she tried the handle, expecting to find it locked.

It was not. The door swung easily open into a wide room that may once have been a secondary storeroom but had clearly been repurposed as a workspace. With one sweeping glance, she could see it was empty. It was like a ghost room. There was a half-eaten donut lying on a meeting table, two almost-full mugs of coffee, one holoscreen on, a top desk drawer lying open.

She saw a door at the side of the room and gestured to Latika to check it, but she returned a moment later shaking her head. The team had followed Clarissa into this workspace, and they were all now standing there, guns half-raised, looking slightly bewildered at this center-of-operations with no one around.

“Empty?” asked one of them quietly.

Clarissa went to the coffee mugs and touched the sides—they were tepid.

“Empty,” she said.

“They could still be in the storeroom,” noted Latika, raising her gun in a reminder that they weren’t safe yet.

Clarissa was shaking her head, not looking at Latika but at the workstations, the large, central presentation screen, the meeting desk.

“No. No, I don’t think so. They left.”

This place was their center of their operations, their work room, their safe space. This was the space they would protect and that they would count on to protect them. They had been gone a while, judging by those coffee mugs, and from the look of this room, they’d left in a hurry.

She pressed a button on her comm. “Moore, do you read?”

His voice came back immediately. “I read. All clear here. What’ve you got?”

“Nothing. Well not nothing. No one. Come through here—big room at the end of the offices.”

She touched another button. “Commander? It’s safe, you can come in.”

“Good.”

“You’ll want to see what we’ve got here. Go left when you come in.”

Drake slid quickly out of his van and ran toward the warehouse. He wasn’t much of a runner—he employed other people for legwork—but he needed to get in there fast. If there were any survivors in the warehouse, he needed to fix that before they started talking.

He had his weapon out as he stepped through the door Clarissa had kicked down minutes before and immediately heard the voices down the corridor on his left. So they were in there. If necessary, he thought, he could shoot them in front of his team and explain later. Hell, if today had done nothing else, it had proven his team was more loyal than they were intelligent.

He raced to the end of the corridor and opened the door at the end with enough force to make it crash loudly against the inside wall. His weapon was raised and aimed directly in front of him.

The room was quiet. He looked around—at Moore’s startled expression, which was mirrored on the faces of ten other officers staring at him, and at Fred, who had automatically raised her gun on his entrance and was now lowering it slowly, embarrassed. Clarissa had also raised her gun and was now pocketing it, her eyebrows raised at him.

“Like I said, sir, it’s safe. Burner and his crew are gone.”

Drake could feel them waiting for him to say something, but he was breathless and reeling from the wave of adrenaline that had just shot him through the door. He stood up straighter and tried to slide his weapon into the holster at his waist with the same deft aplomb Clarissa had just managed. It slipped and he had to snatch at it to stop it falling. He felt his mouth open to resume his authoritarian tone, and he positioned himself to address the full team.

“Oh,” he said.

Moore stepped forward.

“They’ve left everything, boss. Equipment, data, comms—literally everything. Fred was just about to start on it all.”

Drake shook his head and focused.

“Yes. Yes, so I can see. Damn, looks like one heck of an operation they were running here. Can we get a trace on them from this place?”

Fred had recovered herself from her embarrassment and sat down at one of the workstations to get to work. She answered Drake without looking up.

“Probably not a trace. They seem to have left all their traceable equipment here. But with resources like this, it shouldn’t be too hard to work out where they’ve gone. Give me some time and an analysis team. And call in Evidence Collection—this stuff is a treasure trove. We’re going to need help getting through it all.”

37

Cabin Safehouse, Northern City Outskirts, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Sara was sleeping. Since her last proper night’s rest, she had broken into Capulet’s office and narrowly escaped the guards, arrived home to find the criminal mastermind in her apartment, witnessed his sudden death, been arrested for it, and dodged bullets to escape via an air vent and a helicopter.

Hank figured she’d probably need a couple of hours. He was also tired, having slept only fitfully in the short window of time he’d thought Sara was safe at the Union HQ in an ordinary debriefing interview. But there was work that needed to be done—and quickly. He had no idea how long this safehouse would stay safe.

He left the cabin, made his way to the rusting car parked outside, and clambered into the back. Pulling up the cushion of the middle seat, he exposed a small holoscreen that was wired to the battery of the car. It was a pocket calculator next to the tech Hank normally worked with, but it was a lifesaver at a time when he’d had to ditch his comm. Since the car itself had been purpose-built to be electronically untraceable, this holoscreen was the safest bit of tech he could hope for. He launched it.

The datapad in the cabin he could use for basic gal-net searches, but this he could use to tap into his comm folders with little risk of being detected. With any luck, Burner might have managed to get a message through to let him know how the team was doing. When he loaded up his comms, though, there was nothing from Burner. A few work messages had come in from colleagues who hadn’t yet realized he was now an outlaw, a couple of tests clearly from investigations teams checking to see if they could trace where they were being opened, and then one other message. Hank didn’t recognize the sender’s address and the subject read “Decision on office wallpaper.”

Hank’s fingers hovered over the message. He had no office.

He did a quick scan for malware threats then selected the message. A holovideo folded out and a woman’s face appeared. It took Hank a few seconds to recognize Carla Clark with no make-up.

“Hank,” she started, and there was an urgency in her voice he hadn’t heard before—hadn’t even known her to be capable of.

He watched the video and sat back in the seat of the car, immobile. So this was what was going to have to happen. He covered his mouth, rubbing the sides of his face. He was a company man. Yes, he was on the run and was trying to work out how to bring down one, if not two, of the top dogs in the Union, but this confirmation, this style… He felt his gut stir with an unfamiliar emotion and realized this must be dread.

He had watched the video several more times, in between bouts of research, before he uploaded it to his secure datapad, climbed out of the car, and slowly made his way back to the cabin. Sara was already up and in the kitchen when he walked in. He noticed her hand fly to her holster as he opened the door.

“Just me,” he said with a tired grin. “You didn’t sleep long.”

“Where’ve you been?” Sara asked, ignoring his comment.

He sat down at the kitchen table.

“The car.” He lifted the datapad up. “There’s something you should see.”

She walked round the table to stand by his shoulder and watched as he brought up the video of Carla Clark. He pressed play.

“Hank,” it began again. “I don’t have much time and need to go into hiding pretty quickly. But there’s something you need to know. This will be sent on delay because you need to focus right now on getting somewhere safe and it won’t do anyone any good for you to go off on a suicide mission.

“But if you’re getting this, you’ve presumably reached safety and will be ready for the next step. There’s something I’ve been holding back. Intel. The Collective’s been looking into a lead for a while now, but we didn’t want you guys to know about it—Burner is an idealist and will hunt down every corrupt figure he can find even if there’s no chance he’ll be successful. We didn’t need that. We needed him to focus. But now that I’m going underground I need you to take over this one.

“We found someone boasting on a forum—young kid, totally out of his depth. We’ve lost track of him now. He’d done some legwork in a few trafficking cases, mostly moving money, sometimes drugs, sometimes messages that couldn’t be trusted on the gal-net. This one time he was running a message to a bigshot, he said. Stumbles in on the guy smoking in an office with a dead body on the floor. Delivers his message and goes out, no one mentions the corpse. Nothing too surprising, except that the guy he said he was delivering the message to—this bigshot—was Newhouse. Chief Newhouse. Head of the Union.

“We thought it was just boasting, completely invented, but then a few months back one of our members got some hints from a financial agent. Neema Odogwu. Offices downtown. She said she knew a lot about shell companies and had handled a few for someone quite big. She was cagey at the time, kind of nervous, but she said it was a Union guy and pretty important.

“It’s just a lead, but it’s something we’ve been trying to hunt down for a while now. Our rule is to treat something as true or at least possibly true until we can falsify it, and these stories are watertight. Literally nothing to corroborate them, but at the same time nothing to say they’re not true. Nothing at all.

“Drake’s managed to mobilize the Union against us in the face of overwhelming evidence pointing toward his guilt. If you want to bring Drake down and clear your names, you are going to have to work against Newhouse. That’s the first thing. You’re—”

Hank flicked the datpad off.

“So it’s confirmed,” he said.

Sara stood back.

“I suppose so. More or less.”

They looked at each other, and Hank thought he saw in her eyes a trace of the same despair he had felt. They had hoped this wasn’t true. They had hoped Burner’s suspicions, their own reasoning, and the evidence of the last twenty-four hours were all unfounded and that if they inspected the top of the Union’s hierarchy, they would find a clean, benevolent leader with no taint of the criminal activity that stained the rest of his organization. They had hoped.

But Burner and the Collective had stumbled on Chief Newhouse independently. And it made sense. Sara was hesitant as she scrabbled for her last, hopeful doubts.

“She said there was nothing to corroborate what this financial agent was saying.”

“Nothing to falsify it either. Offline financial records wouldn’t be a new thing among criminals.”

Sara thought about it.

“We need to get to this lead, don’t we? The financial agent.”

“Neema Odogwu. Yeah.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I looked her up. She’s in some pretty jazzy offices downtown. We could normally just make an appointment and talk to her, but obviously not while on the run.”

Sara smiled faintly.

“Sounds like it’s time for another op.”

“Sure is. You awake enough for this?”

Sara glanced at her watch. “Give it an hour. We can get the basics of a plan together, then I’ll get back to bed so I’m rested enough for action.”

She pulled a chair over and they sat together, looking over Hank’s datapad and working out plans to get into Neema Odogwu’s office. After an hour, Hank pulled some cans out of the pre-stocked cupboards and threw together something that would have been a chili if they’d had any chili. Neither of them had eaten anything other than snack bars since Sara’s incursion of Capulet’s office, which felt like a lifetime ago. Since then, they had become refugees from the system they loved. Their lives had been turned upside down, perhaps permanently, and however much they wanted to return to the Union, it was their moral duty to work against it now. The coming op was the most dangerous either of them had executed in careers riddled with danger. If they failed, the best outcome would be getting shot through the head by Drake, Newhouse, or one of their supporters. Death might not be so quick and easy, though. With the untold threats looming over them, it was a relief to have food, the prospect of rest, and a plan.

When Sara had gone to the bedroom, Hank switched the datapad back on and returned to Carla Clark’s message. He fast-forwarded through the first part and hit play halfway through.

“—work against Newhouse. That’s the first thing. You’re not going to like the second thing, but it’s something that has to happen.”

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

“Dickie?”

“Roger.”

“What’s the news? I’ve been keeping an eye on the case—you just had a raid, right? Anything interesting?”

Drake, holding the comm to his ear, swung around in his office swivel chair and kicked the wall. “No bodies, sir.”

“Pity.”

“Yes. I’ve mobilized several teams to the case, though, sir. They can’t run from us for long.”

It was hard to judge from the deep bass of Newhouse’s voice what he was thinking. “So what do you need from me, Dickie?”

Drake chose to get straight to his point. “I need authorization for a full-scale press release. Photos everywhere. Not just on people’s screens. Public transport, billboards, everything.”

Drake waited for Newhouse’s response. This was far from an ordinary request—it was against policy to publicize externally images of untried suspects. Even releasing names was a legislative grey area. But he needed public opinion to be on his side. If these people were caught and not killed, he needed to make damn sure no one would listen to what they had to say.

There was a pause as the Chief thought it over. “Okay,” Newhouse said eventually.

“You’ll sign it off?”

“Yes. Get the authorization papers over to me now. We need these people out of the picture.”

“Got it.”

Drake hung up and headed straight for the office, which was buzzing with frenetic activity. Fred had brought the equipment from the warehouse back to base in order to link it up with Union search systems, and was now leading a team of twenty techies as they scoured the databases for signs of where the team might now be. At the other end of the room, Moore was standing at a table with several other team members, bending over security camera footage to try to identify their targets.

Drake clapped his hands and the hubbub died down, all faces turned his way.

“Okay, everyone, I’ve got the go-ahead to make this case public.”

He glanced automatically at Clarissa, on Fred’s team. Clarissa was his barometer for how well the most cynical of his team would take any given piece of news. Her eyebrows were raised. But it was Latika, on the other side of the room, who spoke.

“How public?”

“Very public.” Drake didn’t look at her; he didn’t want to turn this into a discussion. “I want their faces everywhere—all the suspects. Nolan, Burner, Trabszo, all of them. We’ll do a media release, a full publicity package and an awareness campaign. I want every single person on the planet looking for these guys, whether they’re in a coffee shop or a care home.”

Latika didn’t respond to this. This was why Drake didn’t pay much attention to her; she didn’t say enough. It was only now that he realized, with some irritation, that she might be skeptical without saying anything. As Latika lapsed into silence, Clarissa spoke up.

“We’d have to get that signed off. It’s not standard procedure.”

Drake smiled. “Of course. Can you put together the application for that and get it to the right people?”

Clarissa hesitated then nodded.

When he disbanded the impromptu meeting, he noticed Clarissa wave Latika over to help her with the publicity application. He made a mental note to move Latika out of the team. She said too little.

38

Union Headquarters Building, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

BREAKING: Union identifies six key suspects in counter-constitutional plot. Terror level raised to critical, public warned.

Burner watched the screen cycle through images of Sara, Hank, himself, and the three people sitting in the truck with him. He felt a dull horror as he saw the close-ups of each of their faces on the large news screen projected onto the wall of Senate House. The screen usually flashed weather reports, news headlines, public health warnings, and the adverts that funded it. Normally people would walk past the building barely registering the notices, but today they were looking up from datapads, some even stopping to watch the pictures stream by.

“I’m just saying, it’s not your best angle.”

Boris and Margarita were squatting in the back of the truck. Margarita was beginning to laugh.

“It’s a wanted photo. Of course I don’t look good.”

“Judy’s looks fabulous.”

“Judy’s is ten years old!”

Judy turned around from the passenger seat. “Eight years old,” she corrected with a grin. “Are you two ready?”

Burner wrenched his eyes away from the big screen. “Hang on,” he cut in, before Margarita or Boris could respond. “Does this change anything?”

There was a pause.

“What do you mean?” Judy asked at last.

“Our photos are up there. We’ve just become twenty times more vulnerable—at least. Drake knew exactly what he was doing with this stunt. Are you still ready to do this?”

Judy looked into the back of the truck.

Boris shrugged. “I wasn’t in it for the warm sense of security. I wouldn’t blame Margarita if she wanted to back out, though. That picture’s pretty embarrassing.”

Margarita kicked him. Burner didn’t smile. “Margarita?”

She looked at him blankly, as though her answer went without saying.

“Margarita, are you okay with this? I need you to be sure. If we’re caught, we’ll be killed on the spot. If we’re lucky. If not, we’ll live out the rest of our lives in a black site.”

Margarita’s expression didn’t change. “I understand.”

She looked small, crouching in the back of the truck. He wished he could tell what she was thinking. “You won’t—”

Judy interrupted. “Burner.”

“What?”

“She’s said yes.”

Burner was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. It’s time then.”

Judy started the truck again and they hovered a few miles west of the main street, close to the snowy white building of Union HQ. When she parked, Margarita and Burner quickly donned their outfits—full biohazard suits with thick head masks.

“All set?” asked Burner.

Margarita nodded. Simultaneously, they slipped out of the truck and began running toward the building. As soon as they were out, Judy drove away to a quieter place still within range for their comm earpieces. Boris stayed with Judy.

When Margarita and Burner reached the front door of the building, several suited staff members walking in stared at them. This was it. Burner flashed a passable fake ID card at them and barked, “Biohazard Alert Level Three. Make your way to the nearest identified safe zone. Immediately.”

Neither he nor Margarita stopped moving as he did this. People looked at each other uncertainly, then one started running away from the building and others followed suit. Burner and Margarita didn’t stop to watch. They continued into the entrance lobby, both holding up their ID cards to the guards and charging through the security scanners, which started to ring with shrill alarms.

Burner grabbed one of the guards. “We have readings of a Level Three Biohazard in the building. They came in seven minutes ago. We need to instigate maximum safety protocol. Do you have full-center security permissions?”

“Uh—uh no, that’s Jin, he’s on his—”

“Get him and tell him to lock this building down.”

“Yes, sir.”

The terrified guard ran toward the staffroom.

“You!” Burner snapped at another guard, who was staring at them. He was painfully aware of Margarita, who was standing immobile at his side. She wasn’t used to this kind of op. “Hit the main alarm. I need everyone in evacuation and safe zones immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

The guard keyed a code into a box by the security desk and a wailing shot through the building. People began to crowd into the lobby, heading for the exit, staring at Margarita and Burner as they went.

“Anderson.”

Margarita didn’t respond to her false identity.

Burner repeated himself. “Anderson.”

“Oh! Sir?”

“Get to the scene of the leak and set to work on it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And fast!”

39

Union Headquarters Building, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Margarita ran from the lobby and down the next corridor, as though she had a clue where she was going. This wasn’t the plan. She and Burner were supposed to stick together—he told her he’d have her back. She was only here to do the hacking. Burner was meant to see to locking down the building and making sure everyone evacuated the premises so Margarita would have a clear run to the data stores in the server room. When they’d gone through this earlier, he said he’d stay with her to do the explaining to anyone who started asking questions about the lockdown. Now, for some reason, she was hurtling down corridor after corridor on her own. She’d picked the main passage out of the entrance lobby—she knew to go for that one from the building plans. But although her visual memory was perfect, her sense of direction was close to non-existent.

She passed several people wandering out of offices and meeting rooms. They looked up at the flashing alarms as though needing visual confirmation that they were indeed hearing loud, wailing sirens. Fumbling a little, she flashed her ID at them and stumbled, “Biohazzelry!”

She didn’t look back to see if they were staring after her. Biohazard Alert Level Three. She might as well have shaken their hands, smiled, and said, “I’m not who I say I am.”

“Margarita?”

She nearly stopped in her tracks. Then she recognized the voice and realized Boris was speaking through her earpiece. “Do you know where you’re going?”

“Um,” she mumbled, still trying to concentrate on running. “I went for the corridor, heading to the back of the building, and I’m trying to find stairs. Any of them will lead to the vaults, right?”

There were fewer people along this corridor. The alarms seemed to be doing the trick, with most people now in safe areas or evacuated outside. Margarita slowed to a fast walk.

“Yes, but you’re nowhere near the stairs now. You’ve moved to the west of the building. Try to head east.”

“Okay. Um. Which way’s east?”

She waited to hear Boris snort with derision. It felt wrong that he answered quickly and without humor. “Take the next corridor going left. You’ll get to one in a minute. Then keep going in that direction and you’ll go through a data forensics lab.”

“Okay… Okay…” Margarita was so intent on the instructions she nearly shrieked as a guard stepped out of one of the doors on her right and into her path. The keycard around his neck swung wildly as he jolted to a standstill in front of her. She stopped in her tracks.

“I heard there was a Biohazard Alert?” he said to her.

She stared at him. “Biohazard Alert Level Three.”

His eyes widened. “Level Three? Where?”

Margarita wished she were Burner. What would he say? “Where do you think? L2 labs screwing things up again. There’s no time to waste, we need the building clear.”

“Right you are.” He turned in the direction Margarita had just come from and she began to run again. L2 labs. She wondered vaguely what L2 might mean and whether the guard was also wondering this.

At the end of the corridor, she pushed through a door to find a series of high-tech holoscreens. Her eyes swept over them in a sort of hurried admiration. This must be the data forensics lab.

She sprinted through the door at the opposite end of the room and, looking up and down the corridor, finally saw a sign to the stairs. She entered the stairwell with relief, feeling as though she’d managed to push her way out of a nightmare of endless corridors.

“Okay, Margot, you’re going three flights down and then the security’s going to get tighter.”

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.” Margarita hissed between breaths.

“Loving the priorities, Margot. Are you ready for some mean locks?”

Margarita didn’t bother replying. She reached the bottom of the stairs and saw immediately what “tighter security” meant. The door was thick and a keycard scanner was fixed to the wall on the side. If Burner had managed to get the building on biohazard lockdown, any keycard would work on any lock—that was the protocol to enable all staff to get to places of safety. It made Margarita’s job easier, but she still needed to convince this keycard reader she had a keycard. Magnets and jimmies were Sara Nolan’s area of expertise; Margarita only knew numbers and tech.

She quickly pried the front off the keycard scanner and inspected the circuit below. There were two small buttons marked 1 and 0 below the circuit, to allow manual input for emergency access if the scanner broke. When keycards were scanned, this circuit was fed a long series of binary. If it recognized the series, a switch completed the circuit required to release the lock. With a secure system like this, she was sure it would also raise an alarm if it did not recognize the series; that meant the numerical input must be a defined length. One shot at guessing the series correctly. But these things tended not to be random. The more convoluted a system, the more records you had to keep to sustain it and the less secure it became. She thought back to the keycard she had seen around the neck of the guard just before. It had shown an unsmiling photo, a barcode for scanning, the Union logo and, below the barcode, an employee number. She thought about the length of the barcode; if she broke it down into units and assigned one to each unit…

“Boris, can you get me an employee number?”

“Um. Okay. Whose?”

“Anyone’s. An active one. We got the employee numbers of the people for Sara’s references when she went into Capulet’s office, right?”

“Oh. Right.”

Margarita looked behind her as she waited. The stairs were empty. Burner’s side of things must be going well.

Boris’s voice spoke again. “Are you ready?”

“Shoot.”

“948504782668.”

Margarita closed her eyes and concentrated on the string of digits, threading them together into one complete number. Eyes still closed, she laid two fingers on the 1 and the 0 and began tapping the number out in binary. Forty digits later she flinched at the soft beep, opened her eyes, and pushed on the door. It swung open.

She stepped into the corridor and whispered to Boris. “I’m in.”

“Good. Now find the server room.”

It wasn’t hard for Margarita to peer through the small windows of the rooms on either side of the corridor and identify which was the server room. She was feeling at ease, now. Even in a building nearly trembling with sirens, she knew she was now in her world. Outside the server room was another keycard scanner, and she tapped out the same binary combination from memory.

The server was enormous. Two holoscreens stood at either side of it, and Margarita went to one of them and began swiping through its contents. If she dug deep enough, she would be able to find traces of any evidence plugged into Union systems, even if the datastick itself had been destroyed or placed in the data lock.

Barely thinking about what she was doing, Margarita took off her protective head mask and reached into an inside pocket for her glasses. Through the tinted lenses, the holoscreen darkened and she fell into a world she could navigate by instinct. Files, backups, and remnant series of code that led her to the data ghosts of deleted information danced under her hands. She knew she had to be quick, but this wasn’t work that would go faster if you willed it to. By necessity, she relaxed.

Something round and metallic touched the back of her head. She froze. For a moment, she wondered whether she had been shot and that this was the feeling of the bullet, but then she felt a growing feeling of discomfort in her chest and realized she was alive and needed to breathe. Her senses burst back into her mind in an explosion of holoscreen light. Her biohazard suit seemed to have doubled in weight so it was like wearing a corpse. The deep voice that spoke was quiet but seemed to reverberate through every molecule around her. “I said, turn around.”

Margarita tried to turn around. The small part of her brain that was still capable of cogent thought sent screaming signals to her legs, telling them to move, to do what she’d been told. Nothing happened. Then a hand grasped the hair at the back of her scalp and pulled it so tight she heard some rip out at the roots. A small part of her thought that this must hurt, but something was going wrong and she couldn’t seem to feel the pain.

“Don’t think it will save your skin if you have your back to me. It may look better in an investigation if we can say you were attacking, but no one is going to raise any questions about killing a terrorist like you.”

He pulled her head back so she had to look up into his face. The gun point was at her temple now. Her mouth opened—whether to scream or to talk to this man, she couldn’t tell—but no sound came out. Margarita looked into his eyes and it felt wrong to her that she had her glasses on and couldn’t tell what color they were. His pupils were dilated and she wondered whether he was scared or excited by what was happening. It was a shame he hadn’t shot her while she was working at the holoscreen; she wouldn’t have died with so many questions.

When the bang came, she closed her eyes and waited for oblivion. It didn’t come. She tried to sense the bullet that must now be in her head, but she could feel nothing.

Then two hands were on her shoulders and she opened her eyes. Burner’s face swam into her vision. “Are you hurt?”

She looked at the blood that was staining the bottom of her protective suit and the crumpled body of the guard on the floor.

“No,” she said.

She shook Burner’s hands away and moved stiffly, automatically to the holoscreen. It was seconds before she had returned herself to the vast system of numbers it held. She was nearly there; she could feel the phantom of the datastick on the system, not far away now—even with the dazed, shocked fog she now had to work through.

Burner was by the door of the server room. This guard couldn’t be the only one who had noticed the biohazard team was heading to an unlikely area of the building for biohazards to be a problem. It was only a matter of time before—

There were footsteps in the corridor—many of them, heavy. Burner dodged back, shut the door to the room, and shouted, “They’re here. Margarita, they’re here. How long do you need?”

She didn’t look up. “Five minutes.”

“Make it three.”

He opened the door, ducked out of the room, and let the door slam onto his foot. His gun was out and aimed before the line of guards charging along the corridor had registered his presence. He fired six times, steadily, aiming to kill. Only one of the guards went down. The others, in heavy armor, were still running, aiming their weapons. As the rain of bullets commenced, Burner ducked into the server room and shut the door. He pulled the desk from under the second holoscreen and stood it on its end in front of Margarita, offering her some cover. He grabbed the two weapons from the body of the dead Union guard, slung them by their straps over his shoulders, and dodged behind a large section of the server as the guards came to the door.

Keep the fighting at the door.

That was the only opportunity to deal with the guards one by one. Burner aimed the guard’s gun at the door as it was opening, and he fired without delay. He darted back behind the server as shots returned, and there was a loud clap of electrical explosion. Part of the server began to smoke, and the smell of burned plastic filled the room. The door was opening wider, and Burner jumped into open range, both hands on his gun, every fiber of his being focused on keeping the trigger down.

One guard fell backward, but another directly behind filled his place, and Burner threw himself to the floor as two bullets whizzed over his head. He looked to his left and saw Margarita had knelt down so most of her body was sheltered by the upturned desk, her hands still busily working at the holoscreen. How much longer?

Three guards were now in the room. The focus had shifted. He couldn’t fight all three at once; he just needed to keep them away from Margarita.

Still firing nonstop, he lunged toward the wall opposite Margarita, drawing the guard’s fire toward him. He dodged behind a small table and pulled it down as a mediocre shield while he continued to fire at the guards. Small pieces of tech and cleaning equipment clattered down beside him, and his eyes fell on a large bottle of sterilizing fluid. With his left hand, he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and the strong whiff of ethanol told him what he needed to know.

He scrambled behind part of the server toward Margarita’s side of the room, the cleaning fluid in one hand, the Union weapon in the other. Ducking down to avoid the guards’ fire, he threw the bottle into the center of the room and fired at it. It worked perfectly. The bottle exploded, sending spray toward all three guards, and the impact ignited the pool of liquid in the middle of the room. The guards darted back from the blaze, which pushed them toward the side of the room nearest the door, while Margarita and Burner were together by the remaining holoscreen. The fire wouldn’t last long, Burner knew—nothing to feed it. He only needed to buy a little more time.

As the guards recovered from the first whoosh of flames, Burner dived behind the desk with Margarita, and used it as cover between shots at the remaining three guards. One of them went down. Staying out of cover longer than his instinct told him he should, he waited a split-second for one of the other guards to look back at her fallen comrade and took advantage of that moment to take aim and shoot at the woman’s neck. Blood was spattering from her mouth before she hit the ground.

It had been some time since Burner had felt this rush, this overpowering focus on the fight. His body felt alive in a way mere breath, mere heartbeat couldn’t allow. He was exhilarated, aware only of himself and his opponents. Opponent. Only one left. He turned to the last guard and realized it was too late. While Burner had been riding the wave of his adrenaline to take out first one guard then another, the last remaining guard had turned his attention to Margarita.

Margarita hadn’t looked up from the holoscreen during the standoff. She narrowed her eyes and concentrated on her work to the extent that the sounds behind her fell into white noise. When Burner fell, she knew she would be only a second or two behind. She would use the few minutes he was buying her to coax evidence out of the Union’s own system and deliver it to hands that could make their deaths worthwhile.

She was close. As a burst of heat erupted behind her, she retrieved the folder of data. As more shots followed, she began to navigate through the system toward the annual staff party planning folders and slipped the evidence into the archived plans. No one would be likely to look there if they weren’t directed. Which left one last job: get a message to the Attorney General to let him know it was there. To be safe, she’d need to encrypt it well to make sure it didn’t get intercepted.

The room slid to its side, and she felt the strange smoothness of the floor beneath her. There was something on her arm. She went automatically to scratch it and felt blood hot and wet on her hand. A hollow rasping sound reached her ears, and she realized it was her breath. In front of her eyes danced the phantom glow of the holoscreen she had, moments before, been working on, and she grasped at it to make sense of what was happening and what she had to do. This was only a hack, after all. Hacks worked by logic, it was her mother tongue. Her brain started to whirr at its usual pace.

She was losing too much blood, she knew that. But there was something she had to do—what was it? Get the message to the AG. Movement wouldn’t help, of course; it would only add pressure to her body ,which was already struggling to sustain oxygen circulation. But that was okay. So long as she got the message through.

She used her good arm to prop herself up and then balanced in a sitting position to reach up to the holoscreen. She could do this. It was just a hack.

Burner’s vision had clouded. Since Margarita had gone down, he had been shooting blindly, showering the other side of the room with bullets in the hope that one of them would hit the target he could no longer see.

Margarita was down.

She was down and it was his fault. Again. He swallowed hard as bile rose up in his throat. As he gasped for air after swallowing, his vision cleared enough for him to see to the other side of the room. The flames had died down, and through the smoke he saw four bodies. The guards were down.

He turned to Margarita, who was reaching up to the holoscreen, one arm limp and heavy by her side, blood soaking the biohazard suit. When he touched her, a twitch of her shoulder told him she was trying to shake him off. “It’s okay.”

Her voice was strangely slurred.

“Margarita I—”

“I’m nearly—nearly done.”

Her breaths were coming fast and loud. He stood back from her, reached for the blade in his belt, and used it to cut off his sleeve. As he did so, Margarita slumped down to the floor. He knelt beside her, took her arm, and wound the material around her wound. The bullet had gone straight through. He fought back a wave of nausea.

“I’m so sorry—I’m so—”

Margarita looked up at him. He couldn’t tell if she could hear him. “I’m done,” she sputtered as she tried to smile. “I did it. The data’s there.”

He gripped her shoulders. “This is my fault.”

Margarita stared at him blankly, and for a terrified moment he thought she was losing consciousness. Then, with an onslaught of ragged breathing she tried to heave herself up. “Don’t…be…an…idiot,” she rasped.

“Margarita—” He grabbed her good arm and put it around his shoulders so he could support her. She was leaning heavily on him.

“I…would have been killed…by the Hand,” she continued, getting to her feet. “You got… me out.” She turned to look at him with a ghost of a grin. “Let’s… get out.”

She gently pushed him so she was standing on her own. With the relief that soared in Burner as he saw her take steps on her own returned the urgent demand to move—move fast and move smart. He motioned to the holoscreen. “Can you get the security footage up on there?” he asked.

She staggered toward it and with a few swipes had brought up several windows of live camera feed. Burner’s eyes swept over them. No guards in their wing of the building—that was good. Most of the screens were empty. But something caught his eye. There was someone walking swiftly through the corridors of the west wing, picked up first by one camera then another. Drake. Burner had been looking at images of the man enough over the last forty-eight hours to be certain. He could hear Margarita breathing fast beside him. Get her to safety. He turned to her.

“All clear. The others will be waiting for us. Can you run?”

Margarita looked down at the guards, then up at Burner. “Watch me.”

40

Odogwu’s Offices, Old District, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

Neema Odogwu’s offices were located at the top of a spacious, window-covered new building. It was the sort of place Sara could imagine Carla Clark working for a day job, if she wasn’t in the hacking business. Sara hurried through the entrance lobby in green overalls. Large-leafed plants were scattered artistically around, neat pockets of fresh green in the otherwise gleaming white marble-esque structure. It was clearly a very affluent place—swanky, Hank would probably call it. The thought made her uncomfortably aware of Hank back in her ear, all set to guide the op remotely.

This had to be a quick one. They had both agreed that they were too recognizable for stealth to be any good. She would have to be brazen and fast. The cheap overalls had been purchased from a hardware store and she would just have to look like she knew where she was going and why. The first point wasn’t difficult; a glossy sign near the elevators told clients which floor their financial agent could be found on, and it took only a quick glance for Sara to see that she’d be taking the elevator up to the third and top floor. Two suited men got into the elevator with her. They were deep in conversation, and Sara stared straight ahead of her, willing them not to look too closely at her. Overalls always helped; as the two men exited on the second floor, Sara marveled, not for the first time, at the invisibility that could be granted by a set of work clothes.

She stepped out onto the third floor and immediately saw a small group of people speaking in the corridor. Her heart sank as she recognized one of them from the last twenty-four hours of mission prep: Neema Odogwu. The people were deep in conversation, apparently having an important, though impromptu, meeting. In a snap decision, Sara began walking along the corridor in their direction. Odogwu was standing as though she had come from that end of the corridor, Sara reasoned, so the office she wanted would be around there. She strode past the huddle of people, none of whom glanced up, then, when she had just passed them, she stopped and called over her shoulder,

“Oh, I’m going to be testing the alarm systems in the offices. Might get a bit noisy on this floor.”

Odogwu and two others glanced up from the conversation, but Sara had already turned and started walking again, so they saw only the back of her head.

“Um, should we…?” One of the men gestured to the elevator and the group made toward it.

“We can use Yazan’s office on Two,” Sara heard Odogwu suggest as she reached the end of the corridor and the group of people got into the elevator.

Sara had walked past Odogwu’s office already; she had noticed the sign outside the door but had preferred to wait until Odogwu was safely out of sight. Now she hurried back down the corridor and tried the door of the office. Open. Of course, its owner hadn’t been intending to go far. She stepped inside and looked up at a sleek, high class office, with a large holoscreen on the desk and a few highly uncomfortable-looking chairs. She activated the workstation by connecting a datastick containing a password patch Hank had made up for her.

“Hank,” Sara muttered. “I’m in.”

Hank’s voice replied instantly in her earpiece. “Excellent. Can you see anything?”

“A shit ton of files. Give me a minute.” Sara was already looking them over. How could she tell which were the ones she needed? She didn’t have much time. It didn’t look like the meeting had been planned as a particularly long one—or that it had been planned at all. She had to focus.

If he was good at covering his tracks—and given how hard it was to find anything on him, it seemed he was—Newhouse would have one bona fide financial case open here in order to justify communications with them. Sara scanned through the holofiles and, sure enough, between Newham and Nibbs there was Newhouse. She opened it up. A lengthy financial portfolio emerged. A quick glance told her all of this was above-board—no surprises there. If Newhouse was as dodgy as they suspected, they wouldn’t find the evidence on a holofile marked with his name. But something told Sara it was worth looking more closely.

From what they’d learned about her, Odogwu was the type who wanted to give the right information to set everything back on the straight and narrow but at the same time was too scared to take the plunge. She was an intelligent, terrified woman who would keep records with all the anxious care of a new mother.

Something would be on this file. Odogwu wouldn’t miss a cross-reference, she felt sure. She scanned the contents, trawling through page after page of dull financial calculations. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for—maybe a gap in the numbers, an unexplained transfer to an unnamed account. She would know it when she saw it.

Trading Partners. Sara stopped at the names. Through the rest of the report it had been reasonably clear that Newhouse, a senior in the Union, was an investor rather than a trader. Sara scanned the names. Beacham, Fillipsonn, Havak, Lanwick… She darted back to the case listing and searched. Beacham—yes, there it was. She opened the file out. And Fillipsonn—there was Havak, and—

She heard a very faint ping as the elevator doors opened on her floor. She added Havak to the list, dragged the files onto the datastick, then extracted it and popped it into her pocket, before she strode confidently out of the office.

Neema Odogwu was walking directly toward her. Sara nodded. “All clear in there,” she said, not stopping.

Odogwu’s eyes slipped over Sara’s face. Her lips parted, but Sara was already walking past her and she said nothing. Sara slipped into the elevator. Of course Odogwu said nothing. Nervous, diligent, painfully correct Neema Odogwu would assume anyone with Sara’s confidence must be doing the right thing. Besides, even if she suspected Sara of anything, she wouldn’t be able to raise an alarm without divulging the illicit activity she’d managed to get herself mixed up in.

“Hank,” she whispered before the elevator’s doors reopened, “I’m coming out.”

When Hank had driven them a safe distance away, they stopped to check over the files. A quick scan of the contents confirmed Odogwu’s hesitant lead that the Chief had been gathering fortunes in off-world accounts under these three aliases alone. What more there could be under other names, with other individuals, they could only guess. It wouldn’t take much to prove these were shell names—any effort to find Havak, Beacham, or the others would lead nowhere. But there was no way of telling where the money was coming from or, crucially, the link to the Hand or Drake.

Reading over the last file, Sara felt the initial elation of her successful mission soften. “It’s not enough,” she muttered. Hank said nothing.

“It won’t bring him down,” she continued. “All we have is embezzlement—he’ll squirm out of that in a heartbeat. We can’t link him to what Drake’s doing yet. This isn’t a blow to his organization.”

Hank was still silent. He was looking at the datapad, although they’d come to the end of the last file. Sara waited—she knew when he was thinking—and, two minutes later, he finally spoke. “There’s something I need to do. Go back to the cabin. Lie low. I’ll be back ASAP.”

He opened the door of the car.

“Hank—”

The door closed before Sara could say anything more. She sat for a moment, wondering whether she should follow him. But in public, they weren’t safe. Together they were more recognizable. She watched him walk away from the car and out onto another street. She slid over to the driver’s seat and started the engine.

If he gets himself killed, I’ll bloody murder him, she thought, and started the long drive back to the cabin.

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

To Burner’s relief, Margarita could run. He stayed ahead, ready to fire at any guards they came across. He led the way through the corridors, glancing back only occasionally to check that she was still with him. They had climbed the stairs to ground level and come close to the entrance lobby, a large sign marking where the East and West Wings met. He veered to the right. The next set of fire doors led to the way out, but as he looked back he realized with a twist of horror that Margarita was no longer behind him. A glance down the long corridor told him she hadn’t fallen. Where was she? How hard could it be to follow directly behind him? Even for Margarita, who could get lost in a bathroom if it were too large, it shouldn’t be that hard. He looked up at the sign to the West Wing and was gripped by dread.

Margarita knew where she was. Though she had no sense of direction, she could remember anything she had seen before and this was one of the corridors she had taken when she first ran through the building. She had recognized it on the holoscreen in the server room; Drake had been walking through this wing. She ran along the corridor, ready to scour every passageway in the building to find Drake and bring him down. Her right arm felt like a bag of sand she had to drag along with her. Impatiently, she unfastened the biohazard suit, still running, and climbed out of it, then she flung it behind her. It was a relief to escape its heavy trappings, and now she could get to the inside pocket of her thin jacket.

She had bought the gun from a backstreet dealer not long after the kidnapping. It was around the same time as she had asked Judy to teach her about weapons combat and started hacking into advanced training videos at night. She had a lot of time at night. It hadn’t taken her long to become sick of the hopeless, half-hungry hours between midnight and morning when she would lie with her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, wishing for sleep to come and terrified of the scenes that would play and replay for her when it did.

Screw that.

She had kept her gun in the bottom drawer of her desk along with her escape bag. She refused to be helpless again. Now, running into the West Wing of Union HQ, it was her time to do away with the terror the world held for her.

There were small windows in the office doors, and she glanced through them as she passed. It was at the end of the corridor that she saw him. He was stooped over a desk, glaring at a holoscreen and speaking fast into a comm. She stopped still, pulled back the safety catch of the gun, and flung the door open so that it crashed against the wall behind it.

Burner heard the crash. He had been walking cautiously into the West Wing with his gun held directly in front of him, looking into each office in turn to see whether Margarita had started doing some ridiculous hack on the system, had found a quiet space to collapse or—Burner tried not to suspect—Drake had taken her. At the sound of the crash, he began to sprint. He rounded a corner and saw Margaritas’ biohazard suit on the floor, the right arm stained red. For an awful moment, he thought it was her. Then he saw the door open at the end of the corridor and Margarita, her back to him, facing into the room. A few steps further and he saw what she was holding, so he stopped running. He approached quietly.

Drake had dropped everything as soon as she had burst into the room. She had his attention. Her weapon was aimed directly at his head. There would be no missing at this distance. But she’d hesitated. Her eyes had fixated on the skin of his cheeks, the way it tremored slightly, the pits and flecks, a crease underneath the left eye that was an odd place for a wrinkle to be. Under the index finger of her left hand was the off switch for this strange, living thing in front of her. He noticed the hesitation and his face broke into a sneer as his hand reached into his own jacket pocket. The skin that had seemed so confusingly alive tightened into the features of a man she recognized and hated. The muscles of her hand began to contract—

“Stop.” Burner’s voice was soft.

Drake froze, and Burner looked directly at him as he gently covered Margarita’s left hand with both of his and pried the gun from her grip. He kept the point trained at Drake.

“Not like this,” he said quietly. “We have to do it the right way, or else there’s no coming back. Yes?”

Margarita dropped her hand.

“Yes?” Burner glanced sideways at her.

She nodded.

He began stepping backward, gun trained on Drake, ready for any sudden movement, gesturing Margarita to lead the way out of the room.

A thundering of footsteps rumbled in the corridor, and he heard Margarita gasp loudly behind him. Pivoting, he saw a large crew of Union officers in heavy armor charging toward the room. Margarita was directly in front of him. There was no use fighting, no way of protecting her.

“Put your hands above your head!” they barked.

Burner dropped the gun and raised his hands. He saw Margarita raising her left arm and shuddering as she tried and failed to lift the right.

The bark came again. “Put your hands above your head!”

Burner looked around in confusion. The officer was not looking at him but past him, into the room behind. In amazement, he saw Drake slowly raising his arms. He stood back as two officers ran past him into the office and a third approached Burner.

“Jack Burner?” a female officer asked.

He nodded, hands still high. “Yes. Yes, that’s me.”

“This lady is with you?”

He hesitated, wondering how to play it and realizing he had no idea what game he was playing now in any case. “Yes.”

“Would you please step this way?”

He glanced sideways at Margarita, then both of them lowered their hands slowly before following the guard back down the corridor and toward the lobby. He looked beside him and saw Margarita take a breath to speak, but he stopped her with a twitch of his hand. He caught her eye and shook his head just a fraction. Not yet.

41

Union Headquarters Building, Goya District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

You’re not going to like the second thing, but it’s something that has to happen. You can pursue evidence to bring Newhouse down—I’m not saying there isn’t any. That’s the route Burner and his crew will no doubt take. Burner has been a lone ranger in the past, but he’s tied to his team now—he’ll be aiming for the clean legal route for their sakes. But taking Newhouse out might be the only way. We’re going undercover now; there’s no way we’ll have anything like the resources we need to get comprehensive, convincing evidence on this guy. If you get it, it will be by sheer luck. Don’t leave this to luck. If Newhouse and Drake keep going this way, the whole organization will respawn and lives will be lost. Hank, I’m sorry. It’s up to you.

When Hank arrived at the HQ building, he found a crowd of staff milling outside. The wail of sirens could be heard from several hundred meters away, and he vaguely wondered what could be going on inside. A fire or some sort of lab accident? He shut the thought out of his mind and concentrated on searching the crowd for the Chief. Whatever shit was going down inside the building, he was about to create more outside. Tough day for the Union.

Focus. For real emergencies, there was a bunker to keep the bigshots safe, but Hank had a hunch Newhouse wouldn’t be using it now. With all the action Drake was seeing, the Chief would be wanting to keep his ear to the ground. He couldn’t do that from a bunker. No, Hank reckoned the Chief would be out here, watching his people and the building to see what was happening and what they might do about it. If he had to, he’d intervene.

He scanned the crowd, wondering if Newhouse would keep to the periphery in a kind of splendid isolation. But no. After only a few seconds of looking, he recognized the sleek, suited figure of Newhouse in the middle of the crowd, shaking hands with various staff members, exchanging a few words with them, chuckling, and moving on. From the research he’d done, he was almost exactly Drake’s age—mid-fifties—and yet he looked older, more austere. It was as though he’d looked this age for the last twenty years and would continue looking this age for the next twenty. He looked like time couldn’t touch him, couldn’t bring down someone so powerful. Hank fingered the weapon in his pocket and set his jaw. He could.

Hank wove his way through the crowd, trusting in the invisibility granted by absolute self-assurance. People stepped out of his way without bothering to glance up into the face of one of the most wanted people on the planet. He was soon in the vicinity of Newhouse, watching him smiling professionally at a young guard who was telling him something to do with night shifts and small children. Newhouse’s eyes drifted from the man and settled on a woman just behind him as the next target of his impromptu meet-and-greet. His gaze returned to the young guard in time to laugh and say, “Sounds like you’re juggling two full-time jobs there. The Union salutes you.”

The guard, who had taken a breath to go on, quickly thanked him and stepped back. Vice Adm. Newhouse, Chief of Union HQ, moved toward the officer who was next on his list. But just before he could address her, Hank darted in front of him and, not waiting for the Chief’s eyes to focus on him, said, “I thought this would be a good time to talk about Havak, sir.”

Newhouse stopped like someone who had just taken a large gulp of what they thought was water and discovered it was detergent. He looked into Hank’s face and as his eyes narrowed in recognition, Hank added, “And Beacham. And Fillipsonn. I don’t have the files with me, of course, but they’re with my colleague and we can discuss the basics now, don’t you think?”

The added names and suggestion of evidence did the trick. Newhouse did not turn to his guards. Instead he glanced furtively behind him and replied, with remarkable composure, “Yes, I suppose I can spare a minute. Maybe we could walk a little way, since this is confidential material.”

Hank smiled. “My thoughts exactly, sir.”

They moved to the edge of the crowd and stood a short distance from anyone else, side-by-side, looking toward the mass of people. Newhouse began. “I could have you shot on the spot.”

“I’m not the kind of man who gets shot on the spot. Didn’t you want to talk about Havak?”

“Whatever you have, it will be buried.”

Hank’s hand moved and the Chief looked down, his eyes lingering on the dull metal of the weapon. Hank spoke again. “If you shout for help, I’ll shoot you before anyone can touch me.”

Newhouse paused as the truth of Hank’s statement sank in. His expression changed minutely as he decided to switch tack. “You’re a clever man, Hank. I could use a guy like you on my side.”

Don’t leave this to luck.

He was close enough now. He didn’t know why he was waiting, except that it was all a little surreal. This was an institution he was meant to protect. Part of the governing body of his civilization. Never in a million years did he think he’d ever be about to take out one of the institution’s officials. And yet, here he was. It seemed as strange and unnatural as taking a scalpel to dissect his own eye. “I was on your side,” Hank answered, with the steadiness of a man who was not struggling to destroy a keystone of his identity. “Until I discovered what your side meant.”

“There’ll be money.” Newhouse still sounded self-possessed, but he was speaking faster. “A lot of money. And of course a full pardon.”

Lives will be lost.

Hank tilted the gun so that, although still down by his side, it was aimed up toward the Chief’s gut.

“I don’t want a pardon from you.”

“You’re a Union man, Hank—”

Hank, I’m sorry. It’s up to you.

“—you’re not a killer.”

Hank raised the gun and looked Chief Newhouse in the eyes. “Yes I am.”

He pulled the trigger.

Hank was moving back into the crowd before Newhouse had even hit the ground. He had slipped the weapon into his jacket pocket and was a few meters away before anyone had understood that the Chief had been shot.

Hank’s training had been comprehensive when it came to how to perform public assassinations. The most common mistake was to try to get away. Your only safety in public was as part of a crowd—trying to run away from the mass of people, trying to disassociate yourself from what was occupying everyone else, would only show your guilt. No eyewitness to a gloriously dramatic spectacle wants to be uninvolved.

Hank pointed.“He’s been shot! The Chief! He’s been shot!”

The shout was echoed by several other voices. Hank allowed people to jostle past him to get toward the body. It was only when he had slowly, calmly drifted toward the outer edges of the crowd—now closely knit together around Newhouse’s body—that he allowed himself a moment to wipe his face with the back of his hands. He didn’t know whether any blood flecks had landed on him, but with that kind of proximity, he figured there was a high chance.

* * *

UNION HEADQUARTERS BUILDING, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

The lobby was now swarming with uniformed personnel. Since shots had been fired, a member of the Security Team had gotten in touch with the Macrostructure division of the Health and Safety team and discovered that they were as surprised as anyone that a biohazard alert had been raised. Burner saw with some amusement that a bona fide biohazard team was preparing to investigate the building to make sure that there was indeed no risk. They’d have to do a full sweep. Meanwhile, it was considered “on balance” safe enough for SWAT teams to enter the building to address the gunfire that had been heard. Go figure.

When they reached the lobby, the officer accompanying Margarita and Burner motioned a superior over and began a quiet discussion that involved many glances in the direction of the two outlaws she had just politely escorted to the lobby. Burner could tell from Margarita’s glazed expression that she was straining to listen in to the guards’ conversation, but his attention was caught by the man now briskly entering the lobby from outside.

Carlos Harris’s expression was grim, and he seemed to be only half-listening to the guard who scuttled alongside him, feebly waving a biohazard mask. On his way toward the West Wing, he caught Burner’s eye and lifted his head in a slight nod. Burner returned the gesture, and the Attorney General strode on.

There was a commotion at the door leading from the entrance lobby to the East and West Wings, and Harris stopped in his tracks as Drake, handcuffed and struggling, was frog-marched through the doors.

“I said, call Newhouse. He’ll clear this up. Will you take your hands off me.”

The guards on either side of him showed no sign of having heard him.

Harris moved directly to the guards. “Why is this man not in the High Security Wing?”

The guard mumbled something as Drake continued to try and twist away from his grasp.

“What was that?”

The guard raised his voice. “The biohazard, sir. It’s unethical to detain prisoners in grounds or premises that may—”

The Attorney General brushed away the well-learned regulations. “There’s no biohazard.” He looked back toward Burner. “Right?”

Burner nodded, and Harris returned to the guard.

“Right. No biohazard. So get this man locked up.”

Drake stared at Harris, livid. “Carlos. You’ve got to listen to me. This is a plot. You have to call Newhouse.”

Harris nodded to the guards who turned Drake around and began manhandling him back into the main body of the building. The Attorney General waved a guard over and gave a short command, gesturing at Burner and Margarita. The guard nodded and turned toward them as Harris headed into the building, following after Drake.

“You’re free to leave at your leisure,” he told them and guided them past a SWAT team toward the door, where he spoke quickly with the guards.

As Burner and Margarita stepped through the door, the guard glanced down at his radio comm and said shortly, “Can you repeat?”

They heard a voice crackle back. “Chief Newhouse, sir. Confirmed dead.”

Burner looked at Margarita, eyes wide. She stopped walking, indicating her limp arm in a protestation of innocence. “Don’t look at me!”

Burner quickly grasped her good arm to get her moving again, steering her out of the entrance way and away from the mass of people milling outside.

“Burner you were with me the whole time—well, practically the whole time. I never had the time to—”

He kept his eyes ahead of him, looking for a good place to stop without being interrupted or overheard. Boris and Judy would be able to see from their comm tracking that they were out of the building and would be around to pick them up soon. He found a curb a little removed from any of the action and gently pulled Margarita to sit with him there.

“—and if you think I was just off on some killing spree—I just saw Drake on the screen and took a gamble. I wasn’t going out of my way.”

Burner touched the makeshift bandage on her arm; the blood was warm, fresh, and clearly straight from a wound still bleeding heavily. “Let’s have a look at this,” he said, and began to unknot the material. If Judy didn’t come by with the truck quickly, he could rip some of his shirt as a stop-gap; the wound needed more pressure.

Margarita continued protesting. “And Newhouse had it coming, anyway. I don’t know why you’d be so bothered even if I did kill him—”

“This will hurt,” Burner warned as he prepared to unwind the last layer of material—the one touching the bullet hole itself.

She ignored him and didn’t even wince as he uncovered the open wound. He looked up at the road, willing Judy and Boris to get there, with their customary supply of bandages and sterilizing liquid. “But the point is I didn’t even have the time to get to him—”

Burner sighed. He’d have to go with his shirt. For the second time that day, he brought out his pocketknife and cut off his sleeve.

“I know you didn’t kill him,” he said, straightening the material out and folding it to wind around her arm.

She stared at him. “You do?”

He half-grinned at her surprise.

“How could you? You’ve lost about a liter of blood here. I’m amazed you were capable of going after Drake. No way could you have gotten to Newhouse too.”

She looked almost tired as he spoke, as though the fact that she could relax finally allowed her body to realize it had done a lot more than a body is designed to do.

“No, it wasn’t you,” Burner continued. He looked back at the confusion of people behind them and lowered his voice. “But I think I know who it was.”

Margarita dully watched the blood that was dripping onto the pavement for a moment, then looked back up at Burner. “Hank. Of course.”

He nodded, half-impressed that she had worked it out too. “Of course. He and Sara were onto Newhouse. Hank would never have let Sara back here, and Sara’s still a company girl at heart. She wouldn’t have gone in without her handler’s backing. It must have been him.”

“Hell,” Margarita breathed, shaking her head somewhere between shock and admiration. “You know, I’ve got to hand it to him. He’s got more guts than you’d think. When you see him next to Sara you think she’s the real fighter but, well—”

Burner stopped listening as he studied Margarita. Her breathing was still shallow, but she seemed not to notice it, as though the events of the last hour had taken priority in her mind. He looked at her arm. “This must hurt.”

She followed his gaze with some surprise and saw the hole the bullet had made. The skin was ripped clean, with a chilling kind of precision. She touched the edge of the wound and suddenly her breathing changed, became more ragged. She snatched the material out of Burner’s hands and began to cover it up. Her movements were so quick, so angry, it took him a few seconds to see that she was crying.

He took hold of the makeshift bandage, and she tried to slap him away, before giving up and letting him take over winding the material tightly over her arm. Her muscles relaxed as her anger caved into sobs. He saw her wince as each new layer added pressure to the wound, and suddenly it made him feel sick to think that he had to cause her more pain. He tried not to let her see his own eyes filling with emotion, but he felt her gaze on him. She let him finish off the dressing and tie it into a firm knot.

“It’s okay,” she said quietly. “We’re safe now.”

42

Gwendolyn Estate, Apartment Building C, Rotheram District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space

Josh’s apartment had last seen sunlight two years previously, when he had moved in. He had taped a few old towels to the window frames to fix that, so that night or day, he could concentrate on his holoscreens without the nuisance of natural light glaring in at him. He was currently concentrating on the holoscreen he had rigged to tilt by the head of his bed, which was actually just a mattress on the floor.

A small notification hovered at the bottom of the screen to let him know of a breaking news alert. He swiped on it absently. As a general rule, he only kept an eye on Union-based news in case it would be relevant to Drake or would help him make sense of whatever hot topics were gripping the Collective forums now. In itself, news—and its indications of a world outside of screens—felt fundamentally irrelevant to Josh.

A newscaster’s torso appeared on the screen, speaking rapidly, the gleaming white building of Union HQ behind her, crowds of people watching, pointing, running outside. This must be pretty serious. He raised the volume.

“—at this time uncertain. There are reports coming in of an arrest within the building of a senior officer, Commander Richard Drake. Sources claim that the commander is currently being held under high security and has been arrested on suspicion of numerous criminal activities. Prior to today’s disturbance, the Commander of a leading Union Intelligence squad, Richard—”

Drake.

The rest of the broadcast fell into white noise for Josh as he stared at the screen in disbelief. Drake.

Josh rarely felt in danger because of his work. Safely behind a computer, his work was simply a diverting series of hack challenges with no obvious impact on anything. Drake was just a voice on the other end of his comm that got worked up from time to time because he bothered living in the real world where these hacks mattered. Josh went along with it so he could pay for his apartment, his takeout, and his ever-growing collection of tech toys.

Without Drake, things would change. Drake was the necessary bridge between Josh and the world outside of the screens, and suddenly Josh realized that without Drake there, the real world could come crashing down on him. He was involved. All of Drake’s schemes and corruption—Josh was part of all that.

His fingers moving deftly as he began to wipe data from his hard drive. Anything that had come close to relevance to Drake, he deleted. It would take him days—maybe weeks—to get rid of the phantom traces of data he’d had. He needed to work quickly.

A knock came at the door, wrenching him out of the screen and into the reality he currently liked even less than normal. He considered not answering, but when the knock came again he knew it was best to face it. If this was someone coming to investigate, they weren’t going to be deterred by an unanswered visit to his apartment; if it were a delivery, there would be no harm in taking it.

He opened the door and rays of light from the corridor penetrated the inside, illuminating the piles of dirty plates and open takeout boxes. Carla Clark walked past Josh into the apartment and looked around in disgust. Josh, who had made a vague attempt at standing in her way of entering, now looked at her with a sort of awkward, determined apathy. He didn’t pay much attention to the photos he’d seen of various Collective members—they didn’t seem relevant to what he wanted from them—but his visual memory was keen enough to know she was one of their key players, active on several of the most important forums.

How had she found him? He was good enough to dodge detection. He’d never in his life been noticed—he could hack a person as they watched and avoid suspicion. That was just how it went. For the first time in his life, Josh felt seen, and it was as unpleasant as he had assumed it would be.

Having taken in the squalor of the one-room apartment, Carla calmly turned her gaze to Josh. She looked like a woman who knew exactly what she was about to do and who would not be stopped. Josh rarely noticed how frail he was physically. In front of a screen, he was so robust. Not now. Carla’s voice was quiet, smooth.

“Well, Josh. It’s time you and I had a chat.”

* * *

EX-OH DINER, EDGE DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

Hendrix and Dion sat opposite each other in the greasy diner, a hand of cards in front of each of them, cigarettes in their mouths. Hendrix plucked a dog-eared card from the stack, tossed another down, then laid out his cards on the table.

“Rummy.”

Dion looked over the cards in mild interest. “We were playing Rummy?”

Hendrix grinned and scooped the cards together with his left hand, his right holding his cigarette. “Don’t try to pull that one again.”

Dion stretched and cracked the knuckles of one hand, then the other. “Ach, I don’t know, Hendrix. I must be getting old.”

“Yes well. Aren’t we all?”

They sat back, Hendrix absently shuffling the deck of cards with his cigarette balanced between his lips, Dion looking up at the holoscreen behind the counter that was tiredly playing out news headlines.

“Hey, Hendrix,” Dion said suddenly.

Hendrix opened his mouth to reply, felt the cigarette stick to his upper lip, took it out, and answered, “What?”

“Look.” Dion was pointing at the screen, leaning forward and squinting at the newsreel now playing.

BREAKING: Disturbance at Union Headquarters. Union Chief Vice-Admiral Roger Newhouse shot dead. Reported arrest of Commander Richard Drake on multiple charges.

They stared at the subtitles floating at the bottom of the screen in lieu of sound. Hendrix put out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table, which already held a good week’s worth of filters, and got out his datapad. The news was across the gal-net: Newhouse killed and Drake in custody.

“Shit,” breathed Dion, looking over the table at Hendrix’s datapad.

“Yeah,” Hendrix replied grimly. “Shit.”

They looked at each other with the amusement of old friends who’d seen fortune turn too many times to be surprised by it.

“Asshole could have given us some warning before getting arrested,” remarked Dion, also putting out his cigarette. “I just paid for a new oven back at the apartment. Wouldn’t have done it if I’d known I’d be going out on the lam again.”

“New oven, huh?”

“Yeah. Nice model. Automatic simmering.”

“Huh?”

“You know. It can tell when your stuff’s simmering and keeps it that temperature.”

“Hell. I could use one of those.”

“No shit.”

They were quiet for a few moments.

“So what’ll we do now?” Dion asked, as though wondering what to do for lunch.

Hendrix went back to shuffling his cards. “I hear the Deadlands is a good place to be.”

Dion grinned. “My thinking exactly.”

“We can get a ship. Fly the heck out of Dodge.”

“Dodge-bulla! Hahaha.”

They sat in comfortable silence, like both of them knew it was time to get out of the bath but didn’t quite want to yet.

Dion took a long breath. “Reckon we’ve got time to go back to the apartment?” he asked, with only vague interest. “I’ve got some dark credits there—might come in handy.”

“Oh sure. I guess we’ve got an hour or two before they come after us. Hell, if we’re going back to yours, we might as well pick up the oven.”

Dion gave a wheezing laugh. “Sure. Why not. If it’ll fit in the rocket.”

Hendrix waved the deck. “’Nother game?”

“Which?”

“Rummy.”

“Ach, you know me, Hendrix.” Dion smiled, shaking his head. “Too old for that game.” His smile faded and he gave Hendrix a direct look, one eyebrow cocked. “Too old by half.”

Hendrix leaned on the table with one arm as he put the cards in his back pocket.

“Yeah,” he said, “reckon you might be right. Now that you mention it. Reckon I might be getting a bit old too.”

They lapsed back into silence, both gazing into the diner’s middle-distance. It was nice to sit in the quiet before getting off the planet with Dion’s dark credits—and maybe the oven if they could fit it in.

* * *

ATTORNEY GENERAL’S OFFICE, GOYA DISTRICT, DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE

It was well after dark when Attorney General Carlos Harris contacted Burner from his office. The few days after Drake’s arrest had been some of the busiest of his long career. Two high-standing officers in the Union had been taken down, and making sure the necessary investigations ran cleanly was a full-time job for at least three people—and this wasn’t something Harris was willing to delegate.

Besides, AG Harris didn’t want to have this meeting at a time when he could be easily interrupted. Burner may have been allowed to walk out of the Union Headquarters in the immediate aftermath of the furor, but he and his team were still outlaws, and would be for a while. Better not be overheard liaising with outlaws while he was trying to uproot the corruption in the Union.

Burner answered his call immediately. “Carlos?”

“Burner. Hi. Everything good on your end?”

Burner grimaced. “Bit crowded here, but we’re managing.”

“And what about the one with the arm? Margarita?”

“She’s resting. She’ll be okay.”

“If you need medical supplies—”

“We’ve got them. Thanks, Carlos.”

Carlos settled back in his office chair. He was talking to one of the holoscreens he had mounted on the wall for video conferences. “Dickie Drake is under maximum security, as you’ll no doubt have heard. I’m pushing for a quick trial so we can get him to a black site as soon as possible. The evidence you got to me from Capulet is enough to put him away for life, of course. He won’t be coming out.”

Although all of the news stories indicated as much, it was a relief to Burner to hear this from Harris himself. “Do you have any news on Sara? Hank?”

Carlos smiled. “Sara Nolan isn’t an easy woman to find. But I figured she’d be determined to get to Hank before we did so I left an untraceable comm for her in his cabin back on the ship. It was only a matter of time before she broke in there to get a beat on Hank’s other safehouses. Only I have the contact for this comm, so it’s secure.”

Burner had chuckled as Harris spoke. How Sara had managed to get into that cabin, he had no idea, but of course she had. Now that he thought about it, he should have left a message there for her, too. “Is she okay?”

“You can see for yourself,” Harris replied. “I invited her to join this call. She shouldn’t be too long—I think she was just going to Hank’s car to try and get a better signal there.”

As if on cue, there came a soft ringing tone and Harris pressed a button so that Sara’s image emerged on the other wall-mounted holoscreen in his office, slanted to create a triangle between the three of them.

“Burner,” she exclaimed immediately. “I heard about the HQ op. Is Margarita—”

“Safe.” Burner grinned. “We all are. What about you?”

“Also safe.” She looked less sure of this than Burner. “But I don’t know how long this place will stay secure. They’re presumably looking for Hank’s safehouses, right?”

She looked at Harris, who nodded. “Right. They haven’t found anything yet, but you’ll be better off somewhere else.”

Sara hesitated. “What’s the position, though?”

Harris rested his chin on his knuckles. “What do you mean?”

“How long am I going to be hiding? Capulet’s down, Drake’s down, Newhouse is down. There’s a lot of work to be done in tying this up, and I want to be part of it—heck I am part of it. I started it.”

Harris glanced at Burner’s holoscreen before he answered. Burner nodded slightly.

“It’s going to be a bit longer.”

“A bit?”

“A few months. Six, maybe. The dust needs to settle.”

“Six?”

“Go to the Deadlands. You can be reasonably free there without running into any trouble.”

Burner cut in before Sara could protest. “He’s right, Sara. Yes, the government now backs our stance, but we still went about it in a very non-Union way. We need to wait until their reports are finished and the cases are closed. Then we can come back without being on top of anyone’s list for questioning.”

“And what if they do question us?” Sara stopped Burner dismissively before he could reply. “Oh I know, we could get into trouble for our methods.”

“You did put a number of guards out of action as you broke out of HQ High Security.”

“Well then they shouldn’t have locked me up.” Sara was smiling a little now at her own irritation, but she sobered a little as she went on. “I just don’t want to have to hide from a system I fought to protect.”

Harris lowered his eyes. Burner shrugged with a kind of matter-of-fact sympathy. “It’s not so bad. We’ll have your back. A few weeks with us, you’ll be thoroughly de-institutionalized.”

Sara looked at him sharply. “What makes you think I’d slow myself down by shackling myself to you?”

Sara started to smile, and Burner added, “No earpieces, I promise.”

Harris was watching them with an air of cautious satisfaction. He waited until they’d established their own comm connection before redirecting the topic. “About Hank Trabszo—”

Sara’s eyes darted toward him. “I’ll find him,” she said quickly. “Before the Union does. If you could get them to stop poking around my leads, it would help.”

Harris held up a hand to stop her. “Hank can keep out of the Union’s reach, I know that. Heck, if the man can shoot Newhouse in front of the entire staff of HQ then wander off, a few months on the lam isn’t going to be too taxing. But things aren’t so simple with him. I can make sure your name is cleared due to misconduct of procedures, Sara, but Hank killed his target without an order.”

Sara just looked at him. It was hard to tell whether she was too shocked to speak or whether she was waiting pounce.

It was Burner who replied. “But he did have to do it. There was no way of bringing down Drake without taking Newhouse out of the picture.”

Harris sighed. “It could have been done by legal means. Maybe.”

Both Sara and Burner’s expressions froze. “The data Margarita sent me—it was about Drake and Capulet, sure, but there were enough indications to raise a question mark over Newhouse’s name, maybe warrant an investigation. Then the financial intelligence Sara got… It’s not clear to me the assassination was entirely necessary.”

Necessary. The word was like a bullet in Sara’s faith. When the Union had proven corrupt beyond measure, she could trust Hank. She had taken lives without a heartbeat of guilt because she and Hank knew it was necessary. Things had been necessary because of the Union, and now it was necessary to run from the Union, and she had done so with Hank, who had brought down the highest point of immorality in the Union hierarchy, and was it necessary?

She heard Burner speak. “So what are you saying, Carlos?”

“I’m saying things are more complicated with Hank. You guys get found, it’ll cause problems. He gets found, I might not be able to prevent his going down for murder.”

Both Burner and Sara began to speak, but Harris stopped them. “As soon as things settle down, I’ll start work on an executive pardon for services rendered. Hank will be able to come back. But until then, I’d recommend not trying to trace him; he’s safer hiding out on his own.”

There was a pause as Sara and Burner took this in.

“What about Newhouse?” Sara asked eventually.

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t want his death going down as a terrorist assassination.”

“Of course not,” Harris replied. “He will be tried posthumously. Everyone will know what he did and why he was taken out.”

In the silence that followed, none of the three looked like people who had overthrown the most powerful and corrupt figures in the government. They looked tired. The battle was won, but the war wasn’t yet over. It would be some time before any kind of normality could feel possible again.

43

Sticks West Cranfield, City Outskirts, Dobulla U8X, Union Space

It was only ten minutes into packing that they ran into problems. Burner walked into the kitchen to find Sara and Boris arguing.

Boris was protesting. “We’ve had them less than two weeks!”

“They need to be scanned,” Sara insisted.

Judy was sitting back, watching them with amusement. On the table in front of her were the untraceable comms she and Boris had acquired when they’d first gone underground.

“They’ve never been out of our hands,” he explained. “There’s no point.”

Judy, swinging back in her chair, chipped in. “He is right, Sara.”

Sara looked at them both, and Burner recognized the way her index fingers and thumbs tensed, and the narrowed eyes of someone used to taking aim. It was a little unsettling to see a woman who could coolly face down gunmen with little apparent emotional effect now wrestling to keep her temper. Boris seemed strangely unaffected—as though he wasn’t aware of how lethal she could be.

Sara spoke again. “This isn’t something we can save time on. This is important.”

Burner stepped forward. “What’s important?”

Sara glared at him. “Boris wants to pack the comms without scanning and cataloging them.”

At the word “cataloging,” Burner choked back a laugh. “Why would we catalog them? Why would we scan them, for that matter? They’ve barely left our sight. No one’s come near them.”

Sara seized one of the comms and looked like she was ready to throw it at him. “It’s standard procedure.”

“Ohhh,” Burner exclaimed, turning to Boris and Judy. “Of course. Boris, step away from the comms. No one touch them until we’ve managed to scan them—and catalog them. Judy, where do we keep the comm catalog?”

“Oh, it’s a central index, of course. We have a bimonthly meeting with representatives from the Union so we can hand over our comm catalogs along with any intelligence we happen to have come across about their most senior criminals.”

Sara looked as though she couldn’t decide whether to laugh with them or massacre them and be done with their ridiculous lack of bureaucracy.

Burner reached over and took the comm out of her hand. “We’d scan them if there was a chance they’d been corrupted. But in the ten or so days we’ve had them, they haven’t left our hands. Margarita equipped them with the best anti-malware—if anything had gotten on from the gal-net, we’d know. Heck, they do an automatic scan every two days anyway. Waiting to do a full scan would just slow us down, and we do need to get off world.”

Sara looked as though she might protest, and he added, “You’re not in the company now, Sara. You don’t have to do all of their box-ticking exercises.”

Judy stood up and walked around the table to get to the kitchen cupboards. When she was behind Sara, she leaned in to whisper into her ear, “You’re one of us now.”

Sara ducked away from her, unsure of how to react. She slumped into one of the seats at the table. “I just wanted to be safe.”

Burner grinned as he zipped up the large rucksack he’d be taking with him to the Deadlands. “You’ve never wanted to be safe in your life, Sara Nolan.”

This time, Sara did throw something at him. He caught the digi-pen she’d aimed at him and slipped it into a front pocket of his bag before going to join Judy at the kitchen counter to look over some plans for the journey.

Sara stared at the table. She knew they were right about the comms. It was a tricky job to get undetectable tracking software onto someone else’s device, and the comms would have had to have been out of the team’s sight for a long time for it to be possible. Besides, they weren’t targets in the same way they had been before. She just felt nervous when protocols weren’t being followed. The checklists had been drilled into her for her own survival—whether it was for landing a shuttle, handling a weapon, or going on the run.

She wasn’t used to feeling this uncertain of the ground beneath her feet. When you were doing everything by the book and only breaking the rules you were allowed to break, everything came with a certain sense of security. The threat of death or injury didn’t come close to the threat to her identity as the last few weeks had.

She looked at Burner and Judy, who were pouring over a datapad, discussing their next move. As she watched, Burner hazarded a suggestion about where to leave their vehicle before embarking on the ship, and Judy covered his mouth with her hand so she could concentrate on the plan herself without his input. He gave her a push, and both of them laughed before getting back to the datapad.

“Hey.” Boris leaned across the table and pushed his comm toward her with a glint of sympathetic mischief. “You can catalog my comm if you like.”

“Just yours?”

“Well I don’t really have say over the others. But you can catalog it as many times as you want.”

She smiled reluctantly, appreciating him trying to connect with her.

Burner, who had either finished planning the journey or been dismissed by Judy, came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You’ll get used to it,” he said with an annoyingly understanding tone.

“Shut up.”

“Are you ready to go?”

“Sure. By your slovenly, reckless standards,” she jibed and nodded to the bag by the door.

Margarita hurried into the room, glasses resting on the top of her head, three bags hanging from one shoulder, the other still caught up in a sling.

“I’ve checked the other rooms,” she announced. “Just a few things from the kitchen and then we’ll be set.”

She bustled to the kitchen cupboards and began pulling out items of food that might be useful on the journey. Burner tried to steer her away, but she shook him off.

“Margarita, you’re meant to be resting.”

“Shut up,” she replied

“I tried telling him that,” Sara called over. “It didn’t work.”

Burner spread his hands. “I’m just trying to make sure everyone’s safe.”

Margarita eyed him with a smile. “Well stop it. It’s… out of character.”

He looked around for an ally and, finding none, shoved the comm device on the table into his bag and opened the door of the cottage, ready to leave. The others slowly picked up their gear too, and Margarita hastily grabbed a jar of instant coffee from the cupboard before moving to join them.

“Oh, I wouldn’t bring the coffee, Margarita,” Boris warned, looking back. “Sara hasn’t scanned it.”

* * *

For more updates on this series and other books in the Renegade Star Universe, be sure to join the Facebook Group, “J.N. Chaney’s Renegade Readers.”

Renegade Star Universe

The Renegade Star Universe

Click the titles below to reach the book’s Amazon page

The Renegade Star Series

They say the Earth is just a myth. Something to tell your children when you put them to sleep, the lost homeworld of humanity. Everyone knows it isn't real, though. It can't be.

But when Captain Jace Hughes encounters a nun with a mysterious piece of cargo and a bold secret, he soon discovers that everything he thought he knew about Earth is wrong. So very, very wrong.

Climb aboard The Renegade Star and assemble a crew, follow the clues, uncover the truth, and most importantly, try to stay alive.

The Last Reaper Series

When a high value scientist is taken hostage inside the galaxy's most dangerous prison, Halek Cain is the only man for the job.

The last remaining survivor of the Reaper program, Hal is an unstoppable force of fuel and madness. A veteran amputee-turned-cyborg, he has a history of violence and a talent for killing that is unmatched by any soldier.

With the promise of freedom as his only incentive, he’ll stop at nothing to earn back his life from the people who made him, imprisoned him, and were too afraid to let him die.

The Orion Colony Series

Humanity’s Exodus is about to begin.

When half of mankind revolts and demands more opportunity, those at the top decide on a compromise: they will build the first colony ships and allow those who are willing to discover new worlds to leave and start over.

Twelve ships are built, the first of which is called Orion. Many are eager to go, but only one hundred thousand are chosen for each vessel. Far from Earth, a new life awaits, and it promises the prosperity they’ve always wanted.

But still, resistance stirs, eager to sabotage this new expansion effort, threatening the promise of a new life. As Orion moves through the void of space, towards a distant world, its passengers must fight for survival in an unprecedented conflict.

Win or lose, their future will be forever changed.

The Fifth Column Series

After a soldier is left for dead, Eva Delgado's life begins to unravel.

The truth of what happened remains a mystery, and the government will stop at nothing to keep it buried.

Together with the unit's medic, Eva finds herself branded a terrorist and enemy of the State, hunted by two opposing governments.

When the pair uncover a plot that could have ramifications for the whole galaxy, they know they have to act, but it will take all of their training, cunning and just a bit of luck to do what no one else has achieved.

But what do you do when every secret begets another? And how far will you go to find the truth?

Nameless (Abigail’s Story)

Abigail and Clementine were just a couple of orphans looking for a home.

But when the two girls witness something terrible, they have no choice but to leave their orphanage and go into hiding. The only person willing to take them in is a man named Mulberry, but his home isn't the safest place for two innocent children.

Abigail and Clementine quickly discover that their new caretaker is the head of a guild of assassins, and the two are thrown into a whole new world of danger. To survive, they'll need to adapt, focus, and learn how to survive in a world of killers.

The Constable (Alphonse’s Story)

My name is Alphonse Malloy, and I see everything.

From a simple glance, I know your hobbies, what you ate for breakfast, how well you slept, and whether or not your wife is secretly seeing the high school biology teacher when you're not around.

I can't explain how or why I get these feelings, only that I know they're true.

All the little secrets you're too afraid to tell.

Sometimes, that means helping people. Other times, it means staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

I wish I could tell you I was using this ability for good.

I wish I could tell you a lot of things.

* * *

The Constable Returns

Alphonse Malloy may just be the smartest man alive.

A year has passed since Alphonse joined the Constables, but his work is only just beginning. In order to graduate and achieve full Constable status, Alphonse will need to complete one final mission.

When new information about an old enemy arises, Al and his mentor Dorian must head deep into the Deadlands in search of answers.

But in a galaxy of secrets, the truth is often more elusive than it seems.

As the search continues, Alphonse's talents will be pushed to their absolute limit, and he'll need everything he's learned to make it out of this one alive.

Warrior Queen (Lucia’s Story)

On a lost world, far removed from Earth, a group of humans struggle to survive.

Two thousand years after their ancestors lost control of a hidden genetics research facility, the descendants of mankind have been reduced to a tribe of two hundred survivors. They fight, kill, and die in an endless cycle, all in the hope that things will get better.

Lucia is one of these colonists and the daughter of the tribe's leader, the Director. Together with several other candidates, she must soon undergo a trial to decide her father's replacement. The winner will shape the future of the entire colony.

But the trial is dangerous, meant to test each candidate's wits and strengths to see who is truly worthy. To claim victory, Lucia will need to venture out into the tunnels near the city to search for lost artifacts known as Cores--small but powerful devices capable of harnessing endless energy.

But there are monsters here, waiting in the dark, and they are always hungry. Beware the Boneclaw, Lucia's father use to tell her, for it lives only to kill and to feed.

Lucia must do whatever it takes, learn as much as she can, and fight with every ounce of strength if she hopes to make it through the day.

Forget winning the trial. The real challenge is staying alive.

Resonant Son Series

30 floors of nightmare fueled action. An ex-cop with nothing left to lose.

After losing his job and family, Flint Reed finds himself in the middle of a terrorist attack. With nothing but his wits and experience as a former Union police officer, he must do everything he can to stay alive.

As he soon discovers, however, there are also hostages, and no one is coming to save them.

All hope falls to Flint.

But as he fights to navigate the building, the real answers begin to unravel. What are the terrorists really after, and why are they so intent on getting into the vault?

Experience the beginning of the Resonant Son series. If you're a fan of Die Hard, Renegade Star, or the Last Reaper, you'll love this epic scifi thrill ride.

Galactic Law Series

Lethal force is authorized.

In the wild space of the Deadlands, Taurus Station is where miners and tourists come to play, and the ravager gangs follow close behind. Out here, far from the civilized world, the Law has a name.

Gage Walker is the son of hard-nosed asteroid miners. Brash, rough, and crude, he's one of the few deputies working the station.

Still a rookie, Walker is tasked with the security of a mining magnate's daughter, an easy job that quickly takes a turn for the worst.

The ravager gangs want her, and it falls to Walker to find out why.

In a chase across Taurus Station, Deputy Walker must prove he's fit to wear the badge and issue his own form of justice...one body at a time.

Deadland Drifter Series

When a dental appointment goes sideways, former Union Operative Jack Burner wakes to find himself drugged, and imprisoned.

And he's given a choice: assassinate an Admiral... or allow himself to be killed.

With no other option, Jack reluctantly accepts the mission, only to find himself being trailed by a mysterious blonde woman... and she may or may not want him dead.

As if dealing with a terrorist group wasn't enough.

With the fate of the Admiral and thousands of lives on hanging in the balance, Jack stands in the middle of an event that could ignite a war on the edge of the Deadlands and Union Space.

Despite his exceptional abilities, training, and tenancy, even Jack has little to no chance of preventing this particular powder keg from exploding.

He's going to need a miracle.

Join the conversation and get updates on new and upcoming releases in the Facebook group called “JN Chaney’s Renegade Readers.” This is a hotspot where readers come together and share their lives and interests, discuss the series, and speak directly to J.N. Chaney and his co-authors.

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He also post updates, official art, and other awesome stuff on his website and you can also follow him on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.

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About The Authors

J. N. Chaney is a USA Today Bestselling author and has a Master's of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. He fancies himself quite the Super Mario Bros. fan. When he isn’t writing or gaming, you can find him online at www.jnchaney.com.

He migrates often, but was last seen in Las Vegas, NV. Any sightings should be reported, as they are rare.

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Ell Leigh Clarke

Recovering theoretical physicist, professional geek, newbie sci fi novelist, USA Today Best-Seller, and die hard Doctor Who fan.

Though she is originally from England, she is mostly what her friends call a "digital nomad", hanging in whichever country calls to her... as long as it has good wifi, and coffee.