 
From the Dark

By Andy Huang

Distributed by Smashwords

Other titles in the Nightfall series

Within the Light

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

Copyright 2017 Andy Huang

Special thanks

Sharon Umbaugh, The Writer's Reader; Merran Eby; Persephone Grey; Tiffany Dawn Munn, Owl Editing

Cover design

Fwhitehouse7732 @ 99designs.com

Contact

For information, address the author at: www.andyhuangsf.com.

# 1

The memory came from the dark.

Soaring through the red skies, wingtip to wingtip. The whir of the bomb hatches as they opened, their payloads whistling as they fell.

They were flush with excitement, the thrill of their first mission. They were young and they didn't know.

The people on whom the bombs fell were just like them. Labeled insurrectionists and rebels by the Federation. But people caught in the swirl just like them, unknowing and unknown...

Gerrard opened his eyes.

Naut's red sun shone, oblivious, dripping a blood red into the interior of the flight deck.

Tang's Fiddler drifted ahead, the spacecraft's manufacturer's mark a coffee-colored slash across its dark underbelly. The Fiddler, a matching one to his own, flashed the lights bearing the optical communications between them. Tang's voice played over the comms, jazz in the background.

"You alright?"

Gerrard sat forward in the chair, looking into the displays. His reflection stared back: gaunt, ghostly, and tired.

"Just fine," he said.

Just fine.

But as he landed at the bottom of the cockpit ladder, Gerrard wondered: what if. If he closed his eyes now his father wouldn't have written to him from the abyss. He wouldn't be out here in space looking for whatever it was he was supposed to find. And what he had found wouldn't be waiting for him in the hold.

But the lights punched on in the hold and there the box was. He circled the small, gunmetal-gray container, coming to a stop at its front. The seal of the Federation Navy, silver stars on a black field, gazed at him from its lid. Gerrard folded his arms and had to wonder. What did one do with the first physical evidence he had in four years of his father's existence?

After a moment of thought, he tried for a chuckle, as bitter as he could get it. But before long it turned into the laughter of a madman, resounding in the hold. For here was the past, locked away in a box, its lid bearing the seal of the Federation Navy, the image from his nightmares.

What was one to do, indeed?

"You're going to do what now?"

"Jettison it." Back in the flight deck, Gerrard leaned back against the seat. He heard the silence, the question Tang wouldn't ask: why?

Instead, what Tang said was: "Okay, buddy. Alright. Tell you what. I'll head back first, and catch you again planetside. You take your time out here."

And just like that, Gerrard would be alone. The white-blue electric flash of Tang's warp drive filled the display, then darkness and nothing. Gerrard stared into the space left behind, finding the answer to Tang's unspoken question there.

Because he had long promised to forget.

But the memories came back from the dark.

His father, old and gray, leaning against the weather-beaten doorframe of their farmhouse. The man's eyes, shaded over, an unfathomable blur in Gerrard's memories. What had his father been thinking? Could they have avoided what happened?

Gerrard never knew, driving away, promising himself not to look back.

All that was left now was to try and forget.

He pushed for the Whisper connector. He would take one last gander around the spot, salute the memory of his father, then jettison the box. He would walk away from it all.

Gerrard leaned back into the seat, and the finger-length Whisper spike slid into the cerebral slot at the back of his head. It scraped against the metal rim of the slot and he winced at the sensation, then again as the lock at the base of the spike caught.

With that done, it was time to go.

He closed his eyes and let the darkness of the Whisper bloom in his mind.

When he looked again it was through the eyes of the Fiddler. Naut's sun was a dull crimson in the Night, that vast space and nothingness that surrounded all that humanity was. The Ambassador shuttle he and Tang had found drifted ahead, an unnatural sight in the middle of light years' worth of nowhere. Gerrard clenched his _hand_ , and the claw at the end of the Fiddler's sixty-foot, jointed arm snapped shut.

In the Whisper, the pilot and the spacecraft were one.

That had been the draw for them, soaring through black space and red sky. The exhilaration and the rush. Of course they hadn't thought about what they were doing. He remembered it all again now, the curve of the landscape and the sound of the bombs.

In the darkness, there was no way to forget.

_Gerrard_.

The voice spoke from out of the Whisper, distinct among the memories.

Then he was falling, unknowing and unknown.

Gerrard opened his eyes. The underside of the bunk bed above him read 'NIGHTTIME FURNISHINGS.' He didn't know where he was. He looked around and saw a small, dim cabin, and that someone else was there. Struggling to sit up, he found himself held back down by restraints across his chest and limbs. The man there, dressed in a light-blue flight suit, with something of a military manner about him, came alive as he grunted in surprise.

"You're awake," the man said. "Listen, I'll take the restraints off in just a second, but you must promise not to remove the implant in your cerebral slot no matter what."

What the hell?

Gerrard lay back down. Implants—cerebral implants—were finger-length, cylindrical devices that fit into the cerebral slots at the back of his head the same way the Whisper spike connector did. But if they didn't have obvious effects, he wouldn't even have known he had one in one of his slots without running a finger over the aperture.

And he hadn't had one there since his Navy days. What the hell was going on?

The last he remembered, he was on board his own ship, plugging into the Whisper. The memory came to him in a blur now. He'd heard some sort of voice from within the system. Then what had happened? He wasn't on the Fiddler now—he was sure of that. How had he ended up somewhere else, and tied down too?

"Listen," the man said again. "My name is the Jackal. You're on board the _Harrier_. We're two jumps away from Naut, where I found you. There's a lot more to explain. But once again, you must not remove the implant in your slot."

Gerrard struggled to think. He found his throat parched. "Why?" he said.

"Because if it's an implant of the sort I suspect it is, it'll carry a clasp on your nervous system. Remove the implant without the right authorization code, and the implant will kill its host—that's you. Do you understand now, and can you promise not to remove it while we talk?"

In the dim light, Gerrard saw now a shock of short, blond hair over intense blue eyes. No hint of mirth or humor showed in the Jackal's features as he waited for a reply. Gerrard ran over every possibility of what had happened between the Fiddler and here. None of it made sense.

His stomach growled and a dull pain bothered the back of his head.

"Just get me some water. And food," he said.

The Jackal paused one moment longer, then reached over and undid the restraints.

Gerrard wolfed down the bread and water. When he finished eating, he pushed the tray away and closed his eyes. "Repeat everything you've said," he said.

"Alright," the Jackal said. "I am an agent from the Initiative."

The Initiative. The nation bordering the Federation. The two had a long history.

The Jackal continued. "I was sent to the coordinates in space where I found you. I was to pick up a critical piece of intelligence my government believes the Federation has on my country. I did not expect the intelligence to take the form of a cerebral implant, and I certainly did not expect that implant to be _in_ anybody."

"And you say the implant cannot be removed without, what was it, an authorization code?"

"That is correct."

Gerrard ran his hands over his face, struggling to remember.

He was in the hold of his Fiddler, and had left the box there. He wanted to jettison it, and had jacked into the Whisper to do so. Then the voice had spoken, and then...what? He couldn't remember. But the light in the cabin, bright in his eyes now, somehow reminded him of something.

Slowly, it came back to him.

The voice had said his name. Had it been his father's voice? No. He would have recognized it, even after so long.

But there'd been some kind of message. The words slipped out of the edges of his memory, and it hurt to try to remember. He wanted to reach back to run his fingers over the implant again, but stopped himself short. The Jackal had all but jumped the first few times he tried.

"It's alright. It's alright," the Jackal said. "I see you don't remember exactly what happened. That's fine for now. Can you tell me how you came to be where you were?"

Gerrard looked at the man, remembering again.

It was five months ago when the messages had started coming. He and Tang had thought they were a hoax for sure. Then the messages started using the codewords and phrases only he and his father shared, a secret they had promised from his childhood to only be between them. No one else was supposed to know them, and yet there they were. One of the phrases was: "What you're seeking will be out there."

He and Tang had gone out to the locations the messages specified. Most times there was nothing. Not even a piece of scrap or debris. They had searched but there was nothing and nowhere in space to hide anything. He had wanted to give up. He was unsure even what they were supposed to find.

Then, two to three months in, they started finding various spacecraft where the messages said. Never anything big, small shuttles, personnel carriers. The Ambassador was the largest they found. And when they took apart its cabin, there the box was.

He came back to the moment to find the Jackal studying him. Gerrard shifted under the gaze. "So you say you found me comatose in my seat?" he said.

"Yes."

So the Jackal had boarded the Fiddler.

"And the box was already open?" Gerrard said.

"That is right."

"And what was inside it again?"

"Well, like I said, there was a very specific setup. There was a sort of radio wave transmitter, with a niche that held something the size of a cerebral implant. The niche was empty, but the transmitter was ordinary otherwise. We left it behind."

Gerrard didn't know what any of it meant. "And where is my ship now?" he said.

"I'm sorry. We had to destroy it. We had to leave as little evidence behind as we could."

Gerrard sank his head into his hands and took a deep breath. He and Tang had saved up almost a year for the Fiddler. "Fine," he said, looking up after a while. "You want to know, I'll tell you. I don't know anything. I run a salvaging company with my buddy. We got a tip through one of our regular channels. We went out there like anyone would. Now my ship is gone."

The Jackal nodded, his face impassive. "I'm sorry."

Gerrard rubbed at his eyes. "So what the hell do we do now?"

"Right. I need you to know that the implant is dangerous. And by that I mean there are elements out there looking for it, people who would not be concerned about erasing the information on it by killing you."

Gerrard had no reason to believe any of it. Or even that the Jackal was who he said he was.

But as far as he knew, his father had sent him a box from the grave.

And one with the seal of the Federation Navy on it.

If only he could _remember_.

"Fine," he said. "Say I believe what you're saying. And there are nut jobs out there who want to find the implant and kill me. Then what?"

The Jackal's brows remained knit. "Well yes. The thing is, the only people I trust to help you with the problem are back in the Initiative. We have people who have dealt with implants like this one before, who will be able to remove it without killing you. But to do that I'm going to have to invite you to join us on our trip, and, as you say in the Federation, _haul ass_ back to the Initiative with us."

# 2

Inca paused at the edge of the Night.

A suitable amount of time had passed, and the radar and sensors remained blank. No one else was in the space around her, and she would have time to herself. She cranked down the filtration on the Interceptor's sensory input, then allowed herself to relax. This was what she had come for.

Looking out through the eyes of her spacecraft, Inca saw the colors of the Night. The blank darkness of the seeming nothingness of space gave way to pools of hues, weaved through with lines and patterns, spots of cool and warmth, and waves of light and dark. This was the Whisper she had come to know, and she was the best there was at it. Cocooned within the darkness and safety of the connection, Inca let herself be pulled along the waves.

Next, she worked to clear the surface frustrations of her mind. Yes, they had stuck her in mindless patrol duty for the last year or so. Yes, they had done that knowing where she had come from. They had promoted her earlier than usual, but it had not been enough.

Lieutenant Inca, officer of the Federation Navy. She knew she was an outsider to many on Werth Base. They thought her aloof and unfeeling. The rumors of her ability had spread far and wide. She had respect in place of friendship.

The spacecraft gained momentum, and, before long, moved without conscious thought from her. Inca relished the sensation. This was the Whisper as it was meant to be.

This was her dance, and the Whisper was her partner. It knew her next move and anticipated her wishes. Time lost its cadence, and she let herself follow the rhythms of the spacecraft's motions. The Interceptor weaved its way forward and she exulted in it. The sleek, small fighter was the shape she needed it to be, her physical presence against the vast nothingness of space. After a period, she relinquished the ship's thrust, and let herself drift in the void. A good tiredness crept over her, and she opened herself to it. The small changes and pressures in the streams of information coming into the spacecraft pushed inward against her. Space became a blanket, softening itself over her. She relaxed into the darkness of the Whisper.

Then she heard the cry.

It was a radio wave transmission the Interceptor had received from space, translated and fed into her mind by the Whisper. That much she was aware of before the cry gripped her. It was profound and intense, a call from a human heart. It reached out to her and warned of its sorrow. Inca burst out of the Whisper connection, shaking in her seat.

The nightmares crowded in around her.

This was not the first time she had heard a cry like that.

She had been a research subject then.

Inca pushed the thoughts away. What was important now was to find the source of the transmission. The radar showed nothing in the immediate vicinity: the source was too far. She would have to skip in the direction of the transmission till she found its origin. She aligned the Interceptor and revved its warp engine. Starlight flowed toward the ship, then the Interceptor was off.

The stars fell back to their normal perspective as the Interceptor landed out of warp yet again. The engine died down, and Inca sent out a burst of radar. This time, the radar map lit up. Inca checked through the information to make sure she was seeing it right: a single Fiddler-class salvaging ship in a field of debris, surrounded by six other spacecraft, five of which the Interceptor recognized as disused Federation fighter classes—the kind copied and built by pirate elements. The last was a larger-sized Shrike-class corvette, hovering near the Fiddler. Whatever was happening here wasn't good. She aligned the Interceptor toward the ships and began a slow approach.

Surfacing enough from the Whisper to speak, she sent over the radio: "Unidentified spacecraft, this is the Federation Navy. You are trespassing in restricted space. Report your pilot IDs and originating ports."

The five fighter spacecraft angled themselves towards her. The warning flashed in the Whisper: a shot had been fired. Time within the Whisper slowed to a series of consecutive frames, and Inca reacted.

She detonated a burst charge attached to the top of the Interceptor. Pushed downward, the ship swept clear of the incoming shot. Inca angled the Interceptor further downward and put full thrust into its main axis, drawing on the momentum of the initial burst. She had lost the initiative, and would have to take it back. All five of the fighters had started shooting.

The Interceptor went into full activity, mapping the positions and trajectories of all the enemy spacecraft. She understood what she had to do: her consciousness of the Interceptor's form, trajectory, and thrust capabilities allowed her to intuit the path she had to take. All she had to do now was let go, and let mind and spaceship become one.

Time unfroze, and the Interceptor shot through the lattice of incoming fire. But there was more than just surviving the dance. A singular node stood out within the matrix of information flooding in: she had come into the right position and orientation to fire upon one of the attackers. She let her weapon strike.

Laser reached out from the front turret of the Interceptor, touching a specific point in the darkness, pushing the power of a small nuclear reaction across space, connecting attacker and target with an invisible beam. She held the contact for as long as the orientation of her turret allowed. Then the Interceptor had to turn away for its next evasive maneuver. Right about now, a bloom of superheated heatsink cells would be ejected from the bottom right of the Interceptor, marking the ship's location. She set off two more burst charges on the bottom of the ship, rocketing the Interceptor away from the bloom.

But as she did, a shot grazed its side, spinning the ship out of control.

An alarm went off in the darkness of the Whisper. The projectile had torn a deep groove in the armor. In her panic, Inca almost tore herself out of the connection. But that was where pilots died, removing themselves from their control systems when their spacecraft most needed them. Fighting down the urge to disconnect, Inca blanked her mind and pushed herself further into the embrace of the Whisper. The flood of information from the ship slammed back into her.

In the darkness and the terror, she was most alive.

Inca knew her role. Relying more on instinct than attempting to process the information, she let the spacecraft use her mind as needed. Nodes of information flashed and disappeared, connections forming and breaking within an instant. The Interceptor took advantage of its spinning motion, adding thrust to draw out a large spiral, then adjusting its axis to lengthen it into a corkscrew. Within the motion, the dance of the spacecraft came back to her.

Her spatial sense kicked in, working in tandem with the Interceptor's gyroscopic information. Together with the ship's tracking capabilities, she had a near-perfect sense of the enemies' locations. The Interceptor dodged, activating another burst charge. A projectile swept past, skimming the edge of the ship. In the same breath, the Interceptor flipped around and faced its attacker. Its main laser had recharged and Inca let it strike. If the Interceptor's aim was true, she would have only three of the five attackers left to deal with.

But she was flagging. She had allowed the Whisper to take full control of her mind, and it had placed an enormous burden upon her. She knew her physical body was facing tremendous strain too, from the gyrations of the spacecraft. A small part of her attention slipped away from the fight, noticing that the larger corvette she had seen was now attaching itself to the Fiddler. Some part of her screamed that this was important. But then a second shot rammed straight and true into the Interceptor.

The Interceptor spun again from the impact. A portion of the electronics was damaged. She and the ship lost their bearings, and a third shot hit. The Interceptor detected a fourth shot coming in, and recommended an eject. Inca took it while she still could.

The Whisper, all its streams of information, and her visuals through the ship's cameras tore away as she ejected from her seat. Catapulted back into her body, her mind slammed into the physical stresses and pains it had been enduring. She screamed into her helmet as her body launched out the ship. The red sun was brighter than it should be. She was in a spin, spiraling into the darkness, the Interceptor receding and fading away.

..............................

Tang's first instinct had been to give Gerrard some time and space. His buddy had things to work through, and Tang understood when it was easier done without him around. A few more jumps would take him to the next stargate, and from there he would make his way home to Eri.

He thought back to all that had happened leading up to now. It hadn't been easy getting to this point. Gerrard had been a wreck when he had left the Navy, and they'd been drifting apart for a while anyway. A chance meeting had reunited Tang with his childhood friend, and had given him a chance to see just how much help Gerrard needed.

And so he convinced Gerrard to start the salvaging company, the two of them scraping the money together to pay off the two Fiddlers—and they hadn't even finished doing that yet. But it had been worth it to see Gerrard recover a little of himself, to see that shy, intense boy who had been his best friend back when they still played with toy spaceships on Gerrard's family farm.

The messages from Gerrard's father had just about knocked him back to his worst days. Tang sighed. Had he done the right thing, encouraging Gerrard to pursue the messages, to seek out the locations they specified? That they had found something within the Ambassador shuttle this time surprised even Tang himself.

He wondered if he had made a mistake leaving Gerrard alone with the box. Or just leaving Gerrard alone at all. The warp drive came online, ready for the jump to the next stargate, and Tang stared at its green indicator light on his console.

No, he had made a mistake. He had brought Gerrard all the way here, and should be there to see it through to the end with him. Who knew what the box contained, and how Gerrard would react to any of it? Gerrard's relationship with his father had always been a dark storm that Tang could only see from afar. However uncomfortable it might have been, he shouldn't have left his friend in the middle of that. Tang readied to turn the ship around. He should be there with Gerrard now.

The Fiddler landed out of warp and Tang could tell something was wrong. The first burst of radar he sent out showed drifting bits and pieces of material, not Gerrard's Fiddler like he expected. Tang worked the ship's console, fixing his camera on the nearest of the pieces. A cold fear gripped at his stomach.

That was Gerrard's ship out there, blown into pieces.

Tang stared, unable to process what he was seeing. Then reality wound its way back with a twisting, gut-wrenching hold on his soul. Gerrard's ship was in pieces. And his best friend was...

He stopped the thought there before it went on.

His best friend had to still be alive.

A strange sort of unthinking calm came over him. He set the Fiddler's analytics on the wreckage in front of it. The readout came back: there wasn't a human body within the wreckage. Hope, infinitesimal as it was, flared. If Gerrard wasn't here, he was somewhere else, alive. That had to be it. But he had to be sure. He had to see for himself.

Stumbling as he went, he slid down the cockpit ladder and headed towards the airlock. Once there, he shut the interior door and began the chamber depressurization. The air sucked away and he took a step toward the exterior hatch. Outside, the dark of the Night awaited him.

Then the hatch opened from outside.

Tang fell backward as a human form swam into the circle of the open hatch. It wasn't Gerrard—he could tell from a glance that the suit was wrong. Whoever it was uprighted themselves and he saw now that the suit bore a Federation Navy patch, a lieutenant rank on its front, and the word 'INCA' sewn in yellow stitch below that.

Tang stared, unsure what to even think.

The woman reached into a pocket in the front of her suit, pulling out a pencil and pad. After some frantic scribbling, she held up a message for him, bold, clear, and backed up by her glare: I NEED YOUR SHIP, NOW.

# 3

Strontium tapped a pen on the papers on the desk as the news told of the chaos.

"...the tension has reached a boiling point nearly a week after the president's assassination, as politicians and the media clamor for information from the capital world. This following months of heightened tensions that have seen troop increases along the Federation-Initiative border worlds.

"The official investigation, which began immediately after the assassination, has been working around the clock to come up with answers for a nation shocked..."

He turned the news off and savored the silence. Gray rain drummed against the solitary window in the whitewashed office, a soothing backdrop to the thinking that had to be done.

And there was a lot of thinking to be done.

But first, he needed information. And not the kind that would come from the news.

Stepping out of the office, he walked with a brisk step toward the parking on the top level.

"Work-life balance, people," he told them as he passed them.

"Goodnight, Mr. Undersecretary," they told him.

Reaching the roundabout mechanism in the parking level, Strontium waited for his car to come round, then slumped into its cool darkness with relief. The mechanism locked into place, then the car revved up and shot out into the sky. He wasn't surprised when the voice said from the back seat: "Punctual as always."

"Resourceful as always, Wilkes." He could always count on Wilkes to appear where and when he needed.

Wilkes laughed and coughed with wetness in his lungs. "If I don't tell you my methods, you can't tell them when they ask."

The car sped out towards the city. Around them, the rest of the workforce streamed towards home, or whatever counted as home in the next few hours. Far above, the storm raged on, magenta forks of lightning reaching down toward the city's domes. Not for the first time, Strontium marveled that humanity had chosen to carve out an existence on this planet, of all places. But Eri was Eri and had a beauty all its own. The car slowed to a stop at a bar high above the city.

"You'll be alright here?" Strontium said.

"Do what you need to."

Strontium did. He came out of the bar an hour later, stumbling and happy. Then he got back into the car, shedding the outside world and his drunken facade. In the cooling darkness, he rubbed at his face and said: "Okay, what's the story?"

Wilkes spoke as the car started off. "The night of the assassination, two members of the president's security detail open the doors to his private quarters and gun him down. They claim afterward not to have been conscious during the act. One of them claims to have seen the scene as if in a dream, or a memory. The investigation does a check of their implants, and nothing comes out anomalous, until the implants are checked again with Whisper tech."

Strontium let out a heavy sigh.

Wilkes continued. "The Whisper tech reveals that the men were hit with a prototype cerebral injection, and lost control of their own actions."

Strontium fell silent. From outside, strips of traffic lighting washed over the interior of the car, throwing it into sharp alternations of dark and light. "And what's the truth?" he said.

"Murky. As always."

The car locked into place in his garage and Strontium stepped out. He tapped a passcode into the panel on the side wall. "Exciting times we live in, when a man has to scan his own apartment for bugs."

Wilkes didn't comment. They entered the apartment when the panel gave the "ALL CLEAR."

Inside, Strontium moved to the bar, placing two whiskey glasses on the counter. Wilkes stepped into the light and Strontium saw the change that had come over the younger man. The bright confidence and self-assuredness had been shaded one step towards black, and the man's eyes stared out from a new, unknown depth.

Strontium picked up the whiskey bottle to hide his reaction. "Hope you still like it neat."

"Always will."

Wilkes moved with the slowness of a man seeing port after long months at sea.

Strontium placed the whiskey between them and they drank. "What alleys have you been down, friend?" he said.

"Not good ones. Not good ones." Wilkes slapped a holodisc onto the counter, then lay down on the sofa, a light snoring following soon after. Strontium fetched a blanket and laid it over him, then picked up the holodisc and slotted it into his reader. What came up looked like a news article.

SCANDAL _has erupted in the investigation into the president's assassination, as evidence was leaked this week of a substantive link to the Initiative. The evidence comes in the form of a preliminary report that 'mind-enhancing' technology developed by the Initiative was used in the assassination._

By way of substantiation, the report suggests that the technology in question is a derivative of the Cerebral Technologies Protocol (CTP). The CTP begun in the Federation under the Levin administration as a project to research the potential digitization of the human mind, but was subsequently abandoned due to public backlash and a reported failure of the project to achieve its aim.

The report, however, includes fresh evidence that a sizable portion of the researchers who had worked on the CTP, whose identities were recently declassified, had defected along with the rest of the Initiative sectors of space into the newly-formed nation during the Secession.

According to the report, these researchers were then given new lease within the Initiative to continue the work they had carried over from the CTP. If true, this would corroborate expert opinion which has long speculated that the recent crop of cerebral technologies emerging from within the Initiative is the result of work based on the CTP.

The new evidence tightens the link between the Initiative and the president's assassination, and lends fuel to calls, already strong within Federal Congress and the public, for war.

A note at the bottom of the article noted its run date, set for two weeks later. Strontium frowned. As far as he knew, the leak mentioned in the article hadn't yet occurred.

So the leak was planned, and the article was planned.

Strontium put the reader away and checked on Wilkes. Then he poured another glass for himself and stood to face the darkened city through his bay windows. Two weeks from now. The news article would make the future even as it reported it. Two weeks from now, war would be coming.

But what was even more interesting was something that the article had failed to mention: that the Cerebral Technologies Protocol was also the birthplace of the Whisper spacecraft technology. Granted, that was information that was difficult to come by. But not for someone who had information on future events the way the writer of this article did.

More likely, the writer had decided it was best the origins of the Whisper be kept away from public attention. So what Wilkes had brought was an indication of a powerful force on the scene, with reason and desire to start the war, but which didn't want the Whisper involved in the fallout. It was time to do a lot of thinking, and it was just as well that it happened in the dark.

# 4

"You're not really giving me a choice, are you?" Gerrard said.

The Jackal shook his head. "I'm sorry, I'm not. Be that as it may, I don't wish for us to become antagonistic. I can get rid of the implant for you. And to put it bluntly, I have a vested interest in seeing you make it to the Initiative well and alive. I imagine you would love to rid yourself of this whole mess. We don't have to become enemies."

Gerrard leaned back against the bulkhead. A headache crept its way toward his temples. He wasn't even sure he had assimilated the situation yet. Was what the Jackal saying even true? What had his father gotten him into?

But it had always been like this. His father spoke in outbursts and cryptic words, and the messages and the box had all been a continuation of that trend. Nothing was clear, and Gerrard was lost.

He couldn't remove the implant to test the Jackal's words.

He wouldn't begin to know where else to turn to.

What choice did he have?

"Fine, I get it," he said.

He was going to have to go with this _agent_. This man who had come out from nowhere, but now held the only information Gerrard had on the implant.

"But I want to send a message to Eri first," he said.

Tang would be on Eri.

But the Jackal shook his head. "I'm sorry. I can't allow that. It's too dangerous for us. From here on we have to disappear from the Federation. Come, let's go meet the rest of the crew."

He stood to leave the cabin, and Gerrard, for lack of options, followed.

The _Harrier_ turned out to be a small-sized corvette, a single passageway linking its main cabins, leading down into the engine room at the back and into the command structure at the front. They found the crew in a lounge-like area at the front leading into the flight deck. A small coffee table occupied the center of the space, while counters and built-in appliances jammed up against its sides.

"This is Blason, our pilot," the Jackal said.

Blason, a bald man with a wide grin, waved with a muscular arm. He had on a full dark gray flight suit and managed to look both casual and competent.

"And Stormy, our engineer."

Stormy, a blonde woman with an expression of disinterest on her face, did nothing. Gerrard's eyes flicked to her head, half of which had hair spiked up in a mohawk, with the other half shaved and tattooed over. He thought he recognized some of the tattoos but didn't want to stare.

The Jackal turned back to him. "And this is Gerrard, who will be joining us for our trip home. Blason, let's have him hear the plan."

Blason laid out star charts on the coffee table and spoke in a booming baritone. "While the Jackal was away, Stormy and I gathered what intel we could. The naval buildup on both sides of the border is gaining pace. All stargates on the border will likely have already been closed, or will be by the time we get there.

"Given the Federation Navy forces on the border, the only way to safely get near it will have to be on a Federation Navy ship. To that end, we'll be making our way to Ors, where we will infiltrate the offworld shipyard there and commandeer a Navy ship. Once onboard, we will sneak into the Navy formations along the border and cross at the first opportunity. Past the border, we will rendezvous immediately with pre-designated forces to secure our passage through the rest of the Initiative systems."

Gerrard gasped. The plan seemed to come out of pulp fiction and he wasn't sure he was ready for the ride after all. The military buildup was all the holo networks ever talked about these days, and he should have figured it into the difficulty of crossing the border into the Initiative. But he hadn't quite imagined _this_ would be the plan.

"Thank you, Blason," the Jackal said. "That will be all for now. Ready us for the next jump."

"Aye, commander." The pilot gathered up the star charts.

Gerrard shook his head. He had awoken in a circus and left reality behind. Steal a Navy ship to cross the border? They had a better chance of bungee jumping into the stargate and cutting the cord at the other end. He grabbed hold of the Jackal. "This can't be your plan. This is _nuts_."

The Jackal's face scrunched up in thought. "Ah. I'd forgotten. You're not used to our methods. You're going to have to trust us, Gerrard. Remember, our lives are at stake here too. Every moment we dally, the war will only get bigger, and it will be that much harder to get past the border. Please, get some rest for now."

Gerrard stared in disbelief. But the Jackal only clapped him on the shoulder before turning away for the flight deck. In the stunned silence that followed, a chuckle sounded from the far corner of the lounge.

"Think you can do better than the Jackal's plan?"

It was Stormy, the engineer, a taunting smile on her lips.

Gerrard stopped himself. He couldn't rise to the bait. He couldn't be as batshit crazy as everyone else. He shook his head again and turned to walk away. But as he did one of the tattoos on Stormy's head caught his eye. This time, he stopped and stared. "You were on Carran," he said.

Stormy's eyes narrowed into slits. Her hand reached up to the tattooed side of her scalp, coming to rest on a sunburst overlaid with the silhouette of a bison—the insignia of the Carran worlds. "So I was. And from the looks of it, so were you. Let me guess, Federation Navy?"

Gerrard nodded, his face clouding over. This was not a conversation he should have started.

"Let me guess again," Stormy said. "Orbital bombardment?"

Unbidden, Carran's red skies flashed through his mind.

Orbital bombardment. Yes, that was what they had called it.

"What did they tell you? That you were building homes for a better future?"

Gerrard closed his eyes against the memories. But Carran's tortured landscape forced itself back into his mind's eye. He felt dirty even as his response formed in his mind, the only one he had had for a long time. "It was my first deployment. I did what I was told."

They had all done what they were told. It was only much later that anyone of them had stopped to think, had started to hear alternative reports, that the Carranians were not insurrectionists rebelling against Federation rule.

Stormy's expression turned as foul as he felt. "I see. Following orders, then. Guess you didn't know anything about the POWs then, huh? Oh yes. Saw it all with my own eyes. Alive and kicking one day, then dead as the soil the next, carted out of your Federation's secret _sites._ "

Gerrard winced. The stories had spread through the ranks and he had heard them all. But to hear it from someone who had seen it for herself was different again.

So it was even worse than he had imagined.

A bitter smile played across the engineer's face. "Oh yes. The great and noble work of the Federation. Just putting down a local insurrection, yes? 'Course, after that, we killed every Federation motherfucker we could get our hands on to make up for it. Don't worry. Not you though. This time, you're the goddamned mission."

Back in his bed, Gerrard pushed his head into the pillow. Sleep would not come. What did come out of the darkness was the sound of his bomber's engines scything through Carran's atmosphere. What came out of the darkness was the thrill of the mission, the pilots of the squadron young and giddy with excitement.

What came was the clatter of keys as it landed on the kitchen table, the _whoomph_ of the heavy duffel bag as he set it down, the garrison cap he removed and crushed in his hand as he faced his father, telling him he had left the Navy.

It was the look in his father's eyes, not of anger, or even disappointment, but of patience born of long suffering. It was his father's words: "You want to change the world? First you have to accept what it is and _be a part of it_."

It was a paradox that had taken him years to try to understand. That no matter how soiled, no matter how dirty, he had to understand this was the way things were done. That if he wanted to change the world, he first had to be a part of it. In the face of that, he had chosen to walk away from it all. From his father and from the Navy. He had tried to find his peace, in his own way, no matter how unlikely. But as he pushed his head into the pillow, what came out of the darkness now were memories of the past. What came out of the darkness was anything but sleep, and nothing like peace.

# 5

Strontium looked up from the report to see the young woman snap to a salute.

"Lieutenant Alexandra Flores reporting, sir!"

Strontium nodded. So this was the lieutenant they called Inca. She was well-turned-out and had a sharp, uncompromising look in her eyes. "Have a seat, Lieutenant," he said. "This is quite a report."

The lieutenant took the seat with thanks, but remained blank-faced.

Strontium looked down back at the document, skimming the details. The lieutenant had managed to board a Fiddler spacecraft piloted by one Mr. Tang Fen Chen, after her Interceptor was destroyed in combat. And according to this Mr. Tang, all this had followed after his business partner had salvaged an Ambassador-class shuttle and taken in a box with the Navy's seal on it.

_Huh._ Strontium looked up. "This Ambassador shuttle they found, did it have any designation?"

"No, sir. I made sure to check. There wasn't any, either on its hull or its tail fin. I took the liberty of accessing its navigation system. It had been wiped."

Strontium sat back in his chair. "Interesting." The lieutenant was quick-thinking and competent. "Run me through your mission briefing please, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir. Group 3 of Naut-Werth 1st Interceptor Wing was conducting movement from Werth Starbase destination Eri, when Squadron 1 was given instructions for hasty reconnaissance and patrol of sectors 16 to 20 of Naut space. Description was given of contraband activity involving unspecified personnel transports with orders to detain and interrogate, and to retain contraband material and await further orders."

"And how did the mission go?"

"We encountered no contraband activity during the patrol, and I sent the junior lieutenants under my command back to base."

"But you stayed?"

"I—I wanted to patrol the area further, sir."

"I see. And this further patrol was when you encountered the Ambassador?"

"Yes, sir."

Strontium nodded and put the report aside. The dots were laying themselves out before him, but he had to be careful joining them. It was certain that a Navy lockbox would not find itself on an unmarked shuttle left in the middle of nowhere. The proximity of the event to the president's assassination was significant, but there were still too many variables to draw a straight line between two points. He would have to check all the angles there were.

He opened another file and ran his eyes down it.

"Lieutenant Flores, it says here you graduated at the top of your cohort, then spent some time in Navy R&D before transferring here." Strontium looked up. "Did you happen to know Colonel Pitt?"

"Colonel Pitt was my commanding officer, sir."

Strontium nodded, thinking for a moment. "Lieutenant Flores, that was excellent conduct considering the adversity of the situation you were in. I'd like to transfer you to a special command reporting directly to me. Take shore leave on Eri and remain contactable, but do not speak or report on this incident to anyone else but me, and only directly to me."

"Sir, yes, sir."

"In the meantime, get some rest. That will be all for now, Lieutenant."

He sat in silence for a long while after she left. A piece of information he had come across a long time ago troubled him now. The problem was how it all fit. His aide Sam knocked and entered a minute later, interrupting his thoughts.

Strontium handed him the report. "Classify this as top secret."

"Yes, sir."

"And Sam, I need Lieutenant Flores watched."

"Understood, sir."

..............................

"FREEDOM FROM THE DOMES."

Inca stepped off the elevator, exiting Navy Command and coming face to face with the placard and the other similar slogans held by picketers across the street. She turned away and made her way into the night. Looking up, she couldn't even see the dome and the atmosphere beyond past the skyscrapers and lattices of interlocking traffic lane lights. But she knew the roiling storms that awaited the planet beyond the protection of the glass roofs. Even then people wanted to be 'free' of them, to live amidst the environmental turmoil they considered the natural state of the planet. She shook her head. Freedom from the domes, indeed.

The palisaded grounds of the Navy Command complex soon gave way to a more commercial district. Holographic advertisements formed a glitzy mesh of luminescence she had to push through. She had deposited her uniform in her quarters back in the complex, and now pulled her black, Navy-issue, knee-length coat around her. She put the hood up, knowing the coat was protection from more than the cold. Distracted for a moment by what sounded like noisy teenagers from across the street, she turned back to find the dead president of the Federation standing in front of her.

"Peace and war demonstrations alike have rocked the capital world, with protesters on both sides calling for the release of the results of the investigation into the president's assassination. At this point, no conclusive evidence has yet to..."

A news anchor's talking head floated into view beside the lifelike holographic specter of the president. Then the scene cut into footage from before his death. "President Fuller is remembered as a driven individual and a skilled politician, known for his sometimes singular positions on various issues, often maintained with headstrong belief..." Noise from across the street snapped her attention back to reality, and Inca gathered her coat and pushed through the holograph. She hurried toward a narrow, brick-tiled shopping arcade off the main street, going down a stairwell with a stone archway over it bearing the sign, "OLD TIME MEDITERRANEAN PIZZA: Traditional Oven-baked Food." Descending the short stairway, she knocked on the varnished door with its brass knocker. Rustling came from inside before the door opened and revealed a short, stout woman with a full apron.

"Sandra!"

It was good hearing Natalia's name for her again.

Inca let herself go into her aunt's embrace, feeling the full warmth and love of the older woman. Natalia broke off, took a good look at her, then ushered her into the small restaurant. Inca stepped into the only place she could imagine to be home.

Inside, the small, wooden cockatoo still bobbed on its stand, pecking at the eternal platter of plastic, tropical fruits under it. Inca took a seat at the counter, under the low lamp with its pool of yellow light. She ran her hand over the smooth, walnut counter top, and marveled not for the first time that this kind of restaurant still existed in this world of theirs.

If anywhere was home, this was it. And if any family remained, it was Natalia.

Inca knew her aunt would never press her to say anything she wasn't ready to. And so she sat in silence for a long while, chewing on the two slices of hot pizza Natalia set out for her, filled with artichoke and red peppers. When the time was right, she said to Natalia's back as the older woman busied herself in the kitchen: "I need a message sent."

Natalia hid her concern well. "Is it to the colonel again?"

Inca nodded. "Tell him I—I heard the cry again, while I was out on patrol."

Natalia paused, then came out from behind the counter and wrapped her arms around Inca, drawing her in. "Sandra, you're shaking all over," she said.

Inca nodded. "Maybe I'd better lie down for a while."

Sleep came, and with sleep, the nightmares. She was waking up in Navy Research and Development Command Headquarters, putting on her PT gear for the day. It seemed all she ever did was put on her PT gear—every other attire was too formal for what they asked of her. Every day she would enter the 'experimental chamber' and immerse herself in the Whisper. When she emerged, it was always dark and she was always ravenous. It had taken all of one month to realize she wasn't the experimenter, but the experiment.

She knew that the _incident_ that had occurred the first time she had entered the Whisper in Basic Training had meant something. The instructors had shut down the entire session, and higher-ups with too many stripes on their shoulder boards had visited soon after. There was a reason that though she graduated at the top of her cohort, she, and only she, had come to R&D.

She remembered Colonel Pitt's eyes on their first interview. The man's face was a facade of steel. But his eyes carried words he could not say. She had left his office shaken that day, and then the experiments had begun.

She awoke in the dark. The restaurant was quiet. A note on the counter said that Natalia needed to run an errand, and might not be back for a while. Inca wrote a reply, then let herself out.

Outside, the arcade of low shophouses was deserted beyond the neon signs advertising lingerie, grotesquerie, and electronics. She reached for her belt and felt the reassuring weight of the blaster pistol in the holster. Picking a direction, she started walking; she would need time again to clear her head. As she turned a corner a man ablaze leaped out at her.

She threw herself backward and crouched low, then laughed out when she realized what she was looking at. On the sidewalk in front of her, a man-sized mannequin had lit up at her approach. Its gears whirred as its hand waved and its lo-fi voicebox announced, "Welcome to Mercurio's Percurios!"

Just then, she caught sight of something in the reflection in the window display behind it. A heavy, metallic shape shifted out of the corner of her eyes, and it was nothing she had noticed before, walking down the street.

Keeping her eyes on the display, she counted a few heartbeats, then turned and began at an unhurried pace toward the winking lights of the main street at the end of the arcade. It wasn't far away, but she guessed she wouldn't be reaching it. A soft _thunk_ landed on the mezzanine behind her and she ducked into the next alley between two shophouses, crouched behind a dumpster, and flipped out her blaster. As she took aim, a mechanized unit appeared out of the gloom at the entrance to the alley, a robotic killing machine seven feet tall with gun barrels for hands. The red-lit sensors on the smooth, rounded plate that served as its face focused on her now.

Shit.

She was a soldier and would fight in any battlefield she had to. But plugging away at robotic enemies with her sidearm was not what she had trained in the Navy to do. There was no way she could win here, and all she could do was stall. She emptied her blaster clip on the mech, the shots sending it into momentary convulsions. This was her chance. She jumped and caught the landing of the fire escape above her, hauling herself up and over the railing.

If she couldn't fight, she would have to flee.

She scrambled up the stairs, pushing a new clip into the blaster. She would have to go through the apartment at the top to reach the other side of the building, taking the only route that wouldn't give the mech a clear shot at her. But as she rounded the stairs, she saw that the door there was locked and barred. A loud roar sounded from beneath her, and she turned to find the mech hovering in the air ten feet away.

It seemed there was no more running.

She would have to fight the thing head on. Unclasping her coat, she flung it out towards the mech. The coat flared open, catching the blasts of blue electricity that shot from the machine's arms, stiffening as its material dispersed their energy. Inca followed a second after, crashing into the torso of the mech.

She fought for purchase on the sleek exoskeleton. The machine shook itself in a defensive maneuver, and Inca hung on to its neck with all her strength. She felt the mech tip backward, its equilibrium disrupted by the shaking. Clambering up onto its shoulders, she pushed the mech further backward with her weight, then jammed her blaster into its eye socket and emptied its clip. The robotic thing convulsed and she felt her stomach lurch as they entered free fall.

The ground rushed up toward her. She pushed off the mech and tried to roll away, but came up against something hard as she landed. Pain exploded through her side, and she gave a strangled cry. Somewhere, the slam of car doors sounded and voices rang out. The shapes in the alleyway blurred, then darkness filled her vision.

# 6

Gerrard awoke, a dark dream lifting off him. A hush filled the corridor outside. He peeled off his blanket and went out to find nobody around. He struck for the flight deck and found Blason and the Jackal hunched over the ship's dashboard, filled with displays showing the space outside. The Jackal looked up as he came in. "Something's up," he said. "We're at the Stokes-Inko stargate. But there are way too many ships around."

A flash filled the displays. It dimmed to reveal the Stokes-Inko stargate, its spokes spread out like a spider web covering the Night. As Gerrard watched, another small flare started in its center, building up as the next rank in several long lines of ships veered into position to enter the heart of the web.

Around the gate was a phalanx of ships, spread out in lots reaching as far as two widths of the gate away in either direction. The sun overhead outlined the contours of each ship in brilliant clarity. The largest of the ships, gigantic freighters and haulers, were like small moons on the horizon, boxing in smaller specks, sizable ships in their own right to be even visible from this distance. "Over a hundred and fifty ships here," Blason said. "Not to mention the two full squadrons of destroyers."

A cold fear snaked up Gerrard's belly. He had heard of massive pileups at stargates like these, but had never been in one. Often it was a problem with the gate, but sometimes not. It couldn't just be a coincidence that it happened now, could it?

"Hail one of the nearby civilian ships," the Jackal said. "We need to know what's happening."

Blason scanned down the list and picked a nearby freighter that transponded as an Inko Space Industries _Jenny_ -class transport. "ISI _Jenny-133_ , this is _Harrier_ , over."

"This is _Jenny-133_ , over."

"This is _Harrier_. We just got in here. What's the holdup? Over."

"This is _Jenny-133_. Gate controller's doing some sort of check. Every ship is stopping, no exceptions. They come on board, check everybody, do a sweep of the ship. Over."

"This is _Harrier_. Any idea what they're looking for? Over."

"This is _Jenny-133_. Nobody knows. Only thing we know is our schedules are going to be messed up to hell and back. Over."

"This is _Harrier_. That's for sure. Much thanks. Out."

Blason replaced the microphone only to receive a transmission a second later: " _Harrier_ , this is the Stokes-Inko stargate. You are transponder code five-oh-niner-seven. Over."

He thanked the controller, then turned back to the Jackal. "What do you think?"

The Initiative agent went quiet for a while, then said: "We can't chance it. They might be looking for the implant."

Gerrard sat himself down. At the back of his mind, he had dismissed the entire situation with the implant as crazy and improbable. But now the reality sank in, in the form of the sea of ships gathered around the stargate. He looked around at the crew of the _Harrier_ and gained a new perspective: perhaps they weren't that crazy after all.

"It'll be much too suspicious for us to turn around now," Blason said.

"Agreed," the Jackal said. "At best we'll be pegged and trapped within the system, and at worst we'll be intercepted outright. Bring the ship into a lot, Blason. We have no choice."

The _Harrier_ went into motion and fit itself into a lot near the far end of the makeshift space park. From their vantage point, Gerrard saw now the true scale of the ships around them. The largest of the freighters around them blocked off entire sections of their view, their towers like skyscrapers on their superstructures.

"Jackal," Blason said. "The radar performance is bad, but look at this."

He pointed to a spot on the map far from the bright cluster of ships around the gate. A new column of ships filled out on the radar's tracker. "Twenty-four destroyers, more frigates. Not the Federation Navy." Tapping on the dashboard, the pilot brought up a visualization of the new ships. A long, thin line slashed across the Night, silhouetted against the sun.

"Pirates," the Jackal said. "Come to feast on the bonanza." He pushed the intercom button. "Stormy. How's the warp engine doing?"

The engineer's voice came back a second later. "Not good. Energy levels in the area are really low, even for a stargate. Our little harvester isn't drawing nearly enough for us."

"There must be a neutralizer ship somewhere among the civilian ships," Blason said. "The stargate wouldn't have noticed it from the amount of traffic here. But one neutralizer will be enough to stop energy levels in the area from replenishing."

"Clever bastards. Take us behind that _Jenny_ ," the Jackal said. "For now, let's try to stay really small and really hidden."

"Aye, commander."

The _Harrier_ wove its way through the grid of ships, coming to rest behind the broad flank of the _Jenny_. A camera drone launched from the top of the _Harrier_ , ballooning over the edge of the freighter, giving them a view of space. On the display, the line of pirate destroyers and frigates stood like a wave waiting to crash. Panic broke out on the radio. A single transmission cut through them.

"All ships in the area. This is the Stokes-Inko Stargate Authority. We are facing imminent attack from a pirate threat. Warp energy in the area has been drained. I repeat, warp drives will not work. We request all combat-capable ships in the area to join in a coordinated response to the attack. I repeat, all ships in the area capable of combat are requested to come under the command of the Stargate Authority."

The crew of the _Harrier_ watched and waited as the grid of ships around them broke formation and scattered. In the near distance, the stargate's sentry ships formed a thin breakwater line. At the far end of the camera drone's vision, the first volley of missiles erupted from the pirate line, curving out of the sun. They reached the sentries and a quarter of the blips showing the ships' positions disappeared off the radar.

"We'd better come up with something real fast," Blason said.

The cold fear within Gerrard snapped into something more concrete. He was somewhat of an unwilling passenger on the ship, but it didn't mean he wouldn't die if the ship went down. He stepped forward and pointed at a name on the list of ships gathered around the stargate. "The _Examiner_. I've worked with ships like that before. They do analysis on regions of space. If there's any ship that can find the neutralizer, the _Examiner_ will be the one."

The Jackal paused, then said: "He's right. Blason, get the _Examiner_ on the radio. Tell them to look hard at the ships that _aren't_ fleeing. Everyone, full suit on. Good catch, Gerrard. Come, I'll get you your suit."

They came into a small closet off one side of the lounge and the Jackal handed him a combat suit. Gerrard recognized the compact but powerful suit that combat crew wore, complete with its flexible, fabric helmet and extensible jetpack, set flush into its back. The suits were designed for crew members to wear in their seats, but were meant to protect them even out in space. Gerrard took the suit without a word and slipped it on with the practiced ease he still had from the Navy.

"Come," the Jackal said. "We'll be on the ship's weapons."

They went up a rung ladder into a darkened room with floor lights pointing them toward a set of consoles and two seats with Whisper spike connectors. The Jackal took one and motioned for Gerrard to take the other.

Blason's voice played over the intercom. "The _Examiner_ says it's been running analysis for the last couple of hours or so, the moment it noticed the low energy in the area. I told them there might be a neutralizing ship somewhere, and they immediately said they think they know which one it is."

"Good. Take us as close as you can, Blason. Gerrard, let's go do what we have to," the Jackal said, leaning back into the Whisper connection.

Gerrard stared at the Whisper seat.

Unbidden, the memories came back, of the young bomber pilots, eager to do what they did best.

Gerrard caught himself, focusing on the situation in front of them: this was different. They were defending themselves against a pirate attack. There was no hesitation about right and wrong here. He seated himself and leaned back into the Whisper connector.

The familiar darkness bloomed in his mind... then faltered.

Gerrard opened his eyes and found himself booted out of the Whisper connection, the clouding feeling that always accompanied it sucked back into a tiny pinhole at the back of his mind. It was as if the Whisper didn't want to work with him. Or couldn't.

Puzzled, he stood to his feet. He didn't know what happened, but couldn't help the crew now even if he wanted to. The Jackal had disappeared into the connection, oblivious to his predicament. He would just have to try to be useful somewhere else. He made it halfway to the ladder when Blason shouted over the intercom: "Missile incoming!"

Gerrard leaped back towards the seat, but didn't make it. Something shoved the Harrier to the side and he slammed into the bulkhead as dull booms sounded throughout the ship. Another force soon pushed him back in the opposite direction as the Harrier righted itself. Blason's voice cut through the klaxons a second later: "We're fine, we're fine."

Gerrard pulled himself back up, his side aching from the impact. Standing around on an accelerating spacecraft was both dumb and dangerous, even with the magnetic grip his boots provided. He kept low and hurried back down into the flight deck, throwing himself into the copilot seat as the Harrier surged upward.

Blason took them up over the edge of the Jenny and the displays now showed the pirate ships fanning out toward the fleeing civilian ships, bright flares of weapons fire lighting up the Night. In the distance, the line of pirate destroyers sat unchallenged, volley after volley of missiles streaking toward the stargate. The line of sentries guarding it had all but vanished. Blason's voice boomed, surreal in the silence as the klaxons died down: "If the Federation Navy has a god, they'd better show up soon."

# 7

It was a good day to be a pirate.

Captain Nutty paced the bridge. His ship's command and communication complex sprawled out in front of him, showing him the positions of all the other ships in the fleet. They were in a good place. The civilians at the stargate had no chance. It was a good time to yell at his crew, and Nutty obliged.

"What's the order of attack, what's the order of attack!"

His executive officer shouted the answer back to him, but Nutty had stopped listening. The hundred and fifty or so civilian ships around the gate intrigued him. Something had caused them all to be jammed up here, even more than would be usual for mechanical failures on the gate. Something out of the ordinary.

"Old Man coming through, sir!" his communications officer said.

The Old Man's gravelly, unwashed voice filled the darkened chamber, every word grating on Nutty's ear. "Listen up, punks! The gate defenses and sentries are about done. Alpha will mop them up. Bravo goes for the freighters. Charlie is on reserve and lookout. And Delta! You know your job. Anyone messes this up, save me the trouble and blow yourselves out the hatch! Out."

Then it was time for Nutty to be Captain again. He clapped in the silence that followed.

"Good speech, good speech," he said, looking around the room. "Well? What are we waiting for? Get to it!" He yelled out again at the few officers nearby, then returned to the captain's seat. From there, he watched the rest of the crew busy themselves, his own expression lost in the dark. For a while, he could think his private thoughts, one of which was that the Navy was late.

..............................

Gerrard cast his eyes across space as shown on the displays. A swarm of smaller pirate ships had barreled their way toward the largest and slowest freighters in the makeshift space park. The _Harrier_ being only a few lots down, he could make out the bright flares of light as weapons fire struck the mammoth hulls. Nearer, Blason had his hands full avoiding the massive body of the _Jenny_ , which had begun to angle away from the pirates, and which smashed its bulk into any smaller ship caught in the radius of its turn. Gerrard held on as the _Harrier_ darted away from the freighter, then aligned itself toward a point in the expanding chaos around them.

"Alright," Blason said. "We have a good vector on the neutralizer ship. Any moment now."

The _Harrier_ blasted forward and Gerrard was sure they wouldn't make it out alive.

Ships rocketed out of the edges of the _Harrier_ 's vision at deadly velocities. The _Harrier_ dipped and dove as best it could within the constrained space, its thrusters overheating to control the spacecraft's movement in all six degrees of freedom. The corvette was a capable, agile ship. But out of the corner of his eye Gerrard could see Blason's body twitching as the pilot's body began to feel the effects of the Whisper overworking to keep them from a collision.

Then, just as his hands started to hurt from gripping the arms of his seat, their target came into view. Magnified in the _Harrier_ 's visualization, the neutralizer ship was a boxy, nondescript affair with a few lights flashing, an innocuous look for the amount of havoc it was causing.

A missile warning flashed again throughout the _Harrier_ , and Gerrard's heart leaped upward as the ship dove to throw the guided munition off. But as it curved back up out of its downward velocity, he saw they had a clear shot to the neutralizer.

"Firing now," the Jackal said.

Multiple explosions lit up throughout the neutralizer's hull as the _Harrier_ rocked from its autocannons spitting out their shells. The neutralizer spun from the multiple impacts, then continued in a corkscrew away into the outward spread of fleeing ships. The _Harrier_ plunged downward again.

"Alright," the Jackal said. "I put enough shells into that thing that it shouldn't be working anymore. Stormy, let us know the moment we can warp."

Gerrard let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. He looked around the flight deck, wondering what was going to happen next. It didn't seem safe to think they had made it through this. The Jackal's voice came on the intercom, cutting through his thoughts: "Blason, Gerrard, do you see that?"

On the radar, a thick line of ships had appeared at the far end across from the pirate line. An overlay of symbols popped up over the new ships, showing the silver stars and black of the Federation Navy. Blason called up a visualization, and Gerrard saw on the displays the same seal stamped across the flanks of the ships in their view. In the center of it all, a single battleship transponded as the UF _Shining Star_.

"I'll be damned," Blason said. "Cavalry's finally decided to come."

The Navy still brought up mixed feelings within Gerrard. But no, if there was ever a good time for it to show up, this was it.

"Stormy, what are the warp levels?" the Jackal said.

The engine room hummed behind Stormy's voice. "Not great. It's slow. Right now we only have enough for a really short jump."

"It'll be enough," the Jackal said. "Blason, I have an idea. Warp us to the pirate line."

"What!" Blason said.

The Jackal's reply came back, impassioned and intense. "There's a reason this checkpoint at this gate is happening. Somebody's out looking for something, and I'm not willing to risk that it's Gerrard and the implant. Even if we get out of this alive, all we're going to be doing is bouncing around similar checkpoints until we run out of supplies, or somebody finds Gerrard. The Navy's here and the pirates will be looking to scatter. That is our best way out of the checkpoints, Blason. The pirates have stargates the Navy doesn't know about, routes that can take us to the border. I can make a deal with them. I know I can!"

Gerrard looked out over the sea of destruction between them and the pirate line, shocked by the incredible danger of the Jackal's plan. In the _Harrier_ 's visualization, a heavy portcullis opened on the _Shining Star_ , and on the other end of the field, one of the pirate destroyers glowed red and white amidships, before breaking apart down the middle. The rest of the Navy line followed suit, invisible spears of laser reaching across to the other side, laying into the pirate line. They would be warping right into all of that.

But with the danger came the slow conviction that it was the only real option, the one that didn't give them up to the certainty of death or capture. Gerrard shook his head and marveled at the situation they found themselves in. It had been a long time since he had to face life-and-death combat situations. In the interim, the long years of being lost and disillusioned, there had been times he had suspected his desire to live had been tenuous at best. But in the face of the real possibility of death it had come alive now, and it told him a chance was better than nothing. The Jackal's plan was the right one.

The Initiative agent's voice came again over the intercom: "We have to go now! Do it, Blason!"

Gerrard readied himself for whatever was to come. He understood now he had failed to connect to the Whisper because some part of him hadn't been ready. He had been holding back from what needed to be done and the system had recognized it somehow. But that part of him was gone now and he found himself wishing with a surprising force of will that they make it through this somehow.

He closed his eyes and prepared himself for the worst. But as he did, out of the darkness came a winking light, an anomaly he had noticed before in the scene. He opened his eyes to check and saw he hadn't been mistaken. The first time he had looked out, he had seen a single destroyer at one end of the pirate line, detached and flashing lights in the direction of the Navy. It had reminded him of Tang's Fiddler, blinking its optical communication lights at him. Here too, it was a signal for something. "There," he said. "At the edge of the line. That destroyer that's winking lights. It's not getting attacked."

A pause over the intercom. Then the Jackal said: "That one, Blason. Go for it, now!"

A breathless moment came over the _Harrier_ , as if its crew just realized what they were about to go do. Then Blason's voice rang out in the silence. "Alright. Ready us for warp, Stormy."

The _Harrier_ shook as it aligned itself towards its destination and its warp engine revved up. Gerrard counted a few heartbeats. Then the battle stretched away from his vision and disappeared into a pinhole behind them. Light streamed past his field of vision, then snapped back into perspective. Gerrard looked out through the displays to see the broad flank of the pirate destroyer visible in front of them. They had come much closer to the ship than was safe with the warp drive, but here they were.

..............................

Nutty looked around the bridge. Reports came in on the damage the fleet sustained. The three-dimensional radar display in the center of the room showed Navy fast attack craft swarming towards their forwardmost frigates.

"Sir! The neutralizer is not responding! Energy levels in the area are recovering!"

Nutty stared at the unfolding carnage before him. It was time enough. "Turn the ship around. Prepare to warp," he shouted.

"But Captain, the Old Man hasn't—"

Nutty strode over to the officer and punched him in the face. He pointed to the next man and said: "You, turn this ship around." To the bridge at large he shouted over the din: "Anyone who wants to survive this battle to kiss your ugly mistresses tonight is going to have to turn this ship around and warp!"

"Captain! One Shrike-class corvette appeared twenty miles to starboard."

Nutty stopped and frowned. That was a suicidal distance for the corvette, and he wondered what for a moment what it was up to. But to his crew he shouted: "Deal with it! Do I have to do everything around here myself?"

"Aye, Captain. Firing at will."

Returning to his seat, Nutty smoldered in the darkness. From deep within the hull of the destroyer, an armor-piercing shell rushed out of the long barrel of its gun, soaring through free space for a moment before slamming into the _Harrier_. A second, and a third shell followed, and the _Harrier_ shattered into pieces, like so many stars in the Night.

# 8

"Lieutenant Flores is recovering now. We had to draw out the assailant like you said, and she took a tumble, but she's more than up to it. We have her in the hospital, under watch."

"Thank you," Strontium said. "Tell me when she wakes." He put the messenger away and waited as the car locked into place, then stepped out. The first thing he noticed was that the electronic lock on the door to his apartment was off. Drawing his sidearm, he took a deep breath and opened the door to find a plain-faced man in an overcoat sitting at his bar and drinking his whiskey.

Strontium holstered his weapon. "I see you've taken our familiarity up a few notches, Jankins."

The man was a plague upon the entire Department of Defense. But he was a necessary, and sometimes useful, conduit between the Department and the host of corporations it dealt with. Still, there were limits to the fraternization between the two. "It's bad form to break into a man's apartment and drink his whiskey," Strontium said.

"My apologies, Mr. Undersecretary. The situation called for an urgent conversation with you. We had to speak in absolute privacy, and where else better than here?"

Strontium crossed the bar and retrieved a glass for himself. "Still very bad form, Jankins. I expect you to tell me quickly what Carmine wants, then to get the hell out of my apartment." The fact that Jankins was here meant that Carmine, one of the major defense providers in the region, had something to say. It was also the only reason Jankins could still keep his ass where it was on Strontium's chair.

Jankins smiled. "Lieutenant Flores."

"Why?"

Jankins shook his head. "Not part of the deal to tell you why, Mr. Undersecretary."

"No deal then. Get out."

"Well hold on. I can't tell you specifically why Carmine wants her, but I can tell you why everyone else will be coming around asking for her too."

Strontium paused. Flores's role in the larger scheme of things was worrying him, and any information would be valuable. Even if it meant having to deal with the likes of Jankins.

"Go on," he said.

"Do I have your word that Lieutenant Flores will be released to us?"

Strontium stared at the ice in his glass and shrugged. "We'll see."

Jankins sighed. "You've heard of the Dispersion Protocol?"

Strontium put the whiskey glass to his lips to hide his interest. He had a hunch that Flores and the Ambassador shuttle were linked in some way to the President's assassination, and Jankins was all but confirming it for him. The Dispersion Protocol had crossed his mind the moment he read Flores's report. But he shook his head now to let Jankins talk.

"It's a protocol that was just activated recently when the president was assassinated. Upon the death of a major government official, information necessary to the running of government is dispersed to secret locations in the Federation. The purpose of the protocol is to allow governmental function to resume uninterrupted from locations outside the capital world in the event of a critical failure.

"This time around, some of the information was transmitted physically via shuttles sent out into space. Except that one of the shuttles was sabotaged to lose its navigation, and became marooned at a specific location in space. It seems Lieutenant Flores has managed to stumble across it."

"Why Flores? She ended up at the shuttle by chance as much as anything else."

Jankins weighed his answer. "It wasn't chance. But I can only tell you more if you let us have her."

Strontium made a show of considering the offer, then shook his head. "No deal."

Jankins sighed again, removing himself from the seat. "One day you might see the benefits of having a more reciprocal relationship with us, Mr. Undersecretary." He made his way to the door, then paused there as if his next question had just occurred to him: "Any news on the Fund yet?"

The Fund, or West Constellations Defense Fund, was a proposed regional defense budget for the border worlds, that was meeting resistance from the capital world. But if the Fund ever went through, Eri, as the unofficial leader of the border worlds, would have an inordinate amount of say in the disposal of it. Carmine had hounded him from day one about it.

"Nothing I would tell you," Strontium said.

Jankins gave an "I tried" smile, then closed the door behind him.

In the same heartbeat, Wilkes appeared in the apartment.

"You let him in?" Strontium said.

"Lowered the security when I saw him coming. We wouldn't have had that illuminating conversation otherwise. What do you think?"

Strontium shook his head. "It's still much too early to tell. This fits into everything we know, but I just don't know how yet. But if what Jankins said is true about Lieutenant Flores coming across the Dispersion, then all the big firms will be hounding after her."

Strontium thought through all the options while the gray rain outside beat upon the apartment's windows. "For now, Lieutenant Flores will have to leave Eri, and immediately. I think I have a good enough idea for where she can go. Good job on letting Jankins in though. It might just have been worth it."

# 9

Inca stepped out of the hospital lobby. Various parts of her body still hurt, but she had never been one to let herself be slowed down. The suit who shadowed her opened the car door and followed in after her, saying, "Undersecretary Strontium says you may visit one or two places before we go, but recommends we do so quickly."

Inca turned two things over in her mind: Strontium's strange instructions to her, and the message she had received from Natalia during her stay in the hospital. Before long, the two coalesced into a single course of action. She tapped the address into the navigation panel, and the car was off.

They came to the right apartment building, and Inca found the door on the long, dirty corridor and pounded on it. It opened after a few seconds and Tang appeared, looking more broken down in the dim light of the corridor than when she had left him at the spaceport. A hollow look filled his eyes.

"You," he said. "You're here. Why? Did they say anything? Do they know where Gerrard is?"

"Come. We're going to go look for him," Inca said, glad despite herself to see some life returning to Tang's eyes.

A half hour later, they were strapping down into the _Blackbird_ , a land-launched, air/space hybrid two-seater looking much like a hobby model spacecraft. Tang looked around the antiquated seat and control panel. Through a display, he could see the inside of the small hangar they had found the Blackbird in, unused and far from the main bustle of Eri's spaceport.

"Now can you tell me where we're going?" he asked.

"No. You're going to have to trust me."

Tang sighed. He didn't know what he expected. "And why aren't we going in a Navy ship?"

"This is the best that could be hustled up for now. And we're not going in a Navy ship because it'd be watched, and I'm being hunted. The real question is why you're wearing that ridiculous flared shirt and tie-dye pants under your flight suit."

Tang bristled. "It's my sad outfit, to make myself happier."

But Inca had gone back to ignoring him and working the ship's controls. Tang saw past the gap in the front seat that the _Blackbird_ , against all odds, had a Whisper system installed. The lieutenant must have either pulled some real magic to have made that happen, or else always had this old bird as a backup.

When the time came, the small spacecraft taxied towards its designated launch site, a short distance from the hangar. There, it locked onto a launch vehicle in an upright position, and Tang waited and counted the seconds as they went by. Then, a warning flashed on his dashboard as a roar built up under them. A loud, insistent beeping sounded.

"This clunker's not going to blow up on us, is it?" he shouted over the din.

The thrust under them reached a critical level, the restraints on the launch vehicle snapped away, and the _Blackbird_ rocketed upward as Inca's reply floated back to him: "We all gotta die sometime!"

Three stargate jumps away, they came to a sand-blasted planet Tang never knew harbored life. Small and out of the way as far as trade routes went, Sildune had never warranted the expense or effort in terraforming it. The _Blackbird_ plunged downward through the perpetual yellow-brown haze that covered its surface and came to a covered landing that seemed to emerge from nowhere.

Following Inca's lead, Tang hopped out of the small spacecraft, pulling a kerchief over his face. He looked out toward the horizon, wondering how Inca had known where to land. Every direction stretched out in unending dunes and looked the same.

Inca set off and he hurried to follow. They trekked about a mile in the sand, Inca looking down at a handheld locator from time to time. Walking in his sneakers was difficult. They came to a hollow on the side of a dune that appeared again out of nowhere, and Inca bent and pulled on the ground, wincing and grabbing her side as she did. Tang hastened to help but the lieutenant had already powered through the pain, opening a trapdoor to reveal a steep, subterranean flight of stairs leading down into cool darkness.

"Now can you tell me where we're going?" Tang's voice echoed off the walls as they came to the bottom of the stairs, coming face to face with a heavy blast door. Inca entered a password into a small panel by its side, the keypad beeps a comforting little song that he found discordant with the rest of the place. The blast door grated its way upwards, and they moved on into a long corridor lit overhead by swinging fluorescent lights, branching off in the distance into various other limbs of an underground labyrinth.

"Right before we left Eri, I received a message from its Undersecretary of Defense, who placed me under a special command reporting to him, that gave me an open-ended mission with two clear objectives: one, leave Eri; two, find the box your partner Gerrard found."

Tang started to speak, but Inca cut him off, continuing. "But even before that, I'd received another message from a contact of mine, a retired colonel who was my commanding officer back when—when I first entered the Navy. I'd written to him when we touched down on Eri. I told him about the attack on Gerrard and everything that we found. The colonel told me to come see him, and for some reason, he explicitly said to bring you too."

They shuffled at a brisk pace down a winding series of turns, along which Tang saw a number of other corridors leading off into darkness and seeming nothingness. Their path ended at a single door marked "Command."

Inca opened it and stepped in. "So here we are, and this is Colonel Pitt."

Tang followed her in, not quite knowing what to expect. They came into a brightly-lit cavern, its walls the natural, underground rock. A large bank of consoles and displays occupied the far wall, and men and women moved between these and long tables with all sorts of papers and documents on them. He couldn't have done better if he'd been given a stack of comic books to peruse and told to dream up a secret lair. A single table dominated the nearest side of the cavern, and a grizzled man with a short, salt-and-pepper clip sat at its head smoking away. He looked up when Inca entered and stubbed out his cigarette.

"Inca," the man said, his voice booming throughout the cavern. "This is him?"

Inca nodded. "This is Tang."

Inca spoke first when they'd sat. "When I found Gerrard's Fiddler that day, I'd done so because my ship had received a unique radio wave call from its direction. It was something I had only heard once before, during my time at Navy Research and Development where I met Colonel Pitt."

Tang didn't know what to make of any of it. "What do you mean? What radio wave call?"

Inca and Pitt shared a look. Inca spoke up.

"For the past few years, Colonel Pitt has been based here researching a _nomalies_ within the Whisper technology. The call I heard was an identifier for a special prototype that we had only heard once. It was from a branch of the technology that had been officially discontinued in Navy R&D. It makes us think that whatever was in that box that Gerrard picked up had something very much to do with the Whisper."

Tang held still. He didn't understand all of what Inca was saying, but knew enough to see that Gerrard was mixed up in something much bigger than he had imagined.

"I suppose it's hard to understand without explaining all of it," Pitt said. "So I'm just going to have to start from the start. The Whisper technology was first developed as a means of the digital transposition of the human mind, not as the cerebral connection technology it is known as nowadays.

"The technology failed to achieve its initial aims, and was then branched off into what we now know it as. But through my research, I have reason to believe that it has recently been revived toward its original aims."

He paused and Inca took over. "Whatever was in that box very likely has to do with some form of a digitally-transposed mind. Gerrard may currently be exposed to it. Colonel Pitt believes the latest form of the technology involves replicated minds being digitally placed onto implants. These implants can then be injected into other digital, computer systems. But they could also be injected into live hosts—that is, humans."

Tang's mind churned through the words. "You think Gerrard's injected with one of those implants right now?"

"There are still too many moving parts to confirm anything," Pitt said. "But it is a possibility."

Tang shook his head. The concepts spun around in his head, and it was all he could do to make any sense of them. "Alright, so we don't know if Gerrard is injected with something like that. But what happens if he is?"

Pitt shrugged. "In the original development of the technology, the few initial results suggested an amalgamation of the two minds—that is, the one on the injected implant, and the host mind. But it's been decades since those results, and it's anybody's guess now what happens."

"Why would Gerrard have come across anything like that? And if he did, why would he put it in himself?" Tang said.

"We were hoping you could tell us something about that."

Tang paused. He thought long and hard, but kept coming back to the same answer. "It was my fault. We'd been getting these messages. From our usual channels. But they were different. They were all in the style of Gerrard's old man. Codewords and all they had shared from when we were young. They gave coordinates to places in space. We went out but never found anything. Gerrard was going to give up, but I kept egging him on. Told him there _had_ to be something there to find."

Pitt cut in. "Who is Gerrard's father?"

Tang looked up at the two of them. He had to tell all.

"Gerrard is the son of Admiral Meyers," he said.

" _The_ Admiral Meyers?" Inca said.

Tang nodded. " _The_ Admiral Meyers." War hero and one of the most highly-regarded officers of the Federation. Whose son had walked away from it all.

Pitt took a long pull of his cigarette. "I see. That answers a few questions then."

"What do you mean?" Tang said.

"In all likelihood, it _was_ Gerrard's father who had wanted him to find the implant."

Pitt fell silent, as if he had more he didn't say.

Tang cradled his head in his hands, lost for a moment in the complexity of the situation. A single thought pushed itself to the forefront. "Okay. What's important now is to find Gerrard. How do we do that?"

"Well, a few months ago I detected movement of Whisper-related technology through the pirate sectors in Ovan," Pitt said. "I cannot reveal everything that I know now, but whatever moved through there may be linked to whatever it was Gerrard found. It's a wide angle to start with, but it may be the only place you will be able to find a lead."

Tang's heart sank. "I guess having somewhere to start is better than none at all." He looked around at the room, at the banks of consoles and displays, and the men and women who worked them. Gerrard had mixed himself in something big, and none of this was here for no reason. "There's something you want me to do isn't there? It's why you brought me here."

Pitt nodded. "Indeed. And it is important that it is you who does it. As I said, there is no telling what effect the implant might have on Gerrard if he's been injected with it. It may be crucial that someone he already recognizes and trusts is there to remove it from him safely."

"What do you want with the implant?" Tang said.

Pitt sighed. "Tell him, Inca."

Inca nodded and took over. "A few months ago, Colonel Pitt detected that the Initiative had perfected some variant of the Whisper technology that allowed for advanced communication and coordination within its fleets. This comes on top of improvements in the piloting and gunnery components of the technology. If the Federation didn't still outpace them a little in conventional weaponry, we could be wholly classed as inferior to their Navy. If war comes between the Initiative and the Federation—"

"If war really breaks out between us, the Federation Navy is going to have a really bad time of it," Pitt said with a wave of his cigarette. "At least, what passes for the Navy in our corner of the galaxy. I can't tell all yet. But the implant was sent out to do something, and at a time when the Federation might just damned well go to war with the Initiative. It could be very bad for all of us if it accomplishes whatever it was meant to do. And if it comes to that, I'm placing the full responsibility on the two of you to stop it from happening. By _whatever_ means necessary."

# 10

Remember, Gerrard.

He did. Standing in the kitchen doorway, clutching his garrison cap, his duffel bag on the floor. He would have to dump everything out, wash everything, dry everything. At the end of it, it would all go back into the bag, and the bag into the corner under the staircase.

Do you remember?

Yes, he remembered. The first time he saw space, staring out into it. Finding in some corner of him the impulse that it would be much easier if he drifted off into it and never came back.

Do you remember?

Yes, he remembered. His father's uniform, hanging up in the living room, decorated as a war hero's was. The Initiative Secession. The quashing of the Spears Insurgency. The Annexation of Whim Constellation. Countless other conflicts, in which people were butchered, planets were burned, and lives were squashed for a greater purpose. The only way to _change_ the world.

"We didn't choose the choices we are given, Gerrard." His father, gray, tired, and sad, sitting at the kitchen counter, a shadow of himself. "We didn't choose the life we have and the things we have to do."

Remember, Gerrard.

Gerrard remembered. First, the pumping of his blood, then the breath. A lung-filling breath, full of oxygen. He was alive, and there was warmth on his face. He opened his eyes and found himself in space, the torn shape of the Harrier in front of him. The corvette was missing entire chunks out of its sides, its internal cabins exposed, some even recognizable to him now. The ship had served them well, but there was no time to commiserate. He was lucky he had ejected in time, and there were more pressing issues now. He looked up and away from the Harrier and found the pirate destroyer, a sliver of metal in the surrounding black of the Night.

Gerrard paused for a while and considered his chances. He was in open space and the destroyer might warp away any moment. There was a good distance to close, but he had his jetpack. He would have to moderate his speed to avoid pancaking into the side of the ship, but he did have to hurry.

Working the jetpack's controls, he built up a good drift, swiveling his head every which way as he went, looking for the others. Against the sun and with the reflection off debris from the Harrier, it was difficult to tell. They might have made it, they might have not. He wondered for a moment what it meant if the Jackal and the others were dead. But the Jackal's last instructions had been clear: head for the pirate ship no matter what.

Gerrard forced himself back to the task at hand. He had to achieve the smallest possible relative velocity with the ship to give his boots a chance of holding on to its side. As he neared, he spun himself so he would hit the destroyer feet first, and the surface of the ship under him slid forward with a dizzying speed. He adjusted his vector as best as he could, aware that every passing second meant the ship might warp. When the relative speeds seemed close enough, he decided he couldn't wait any longer, and thrust himself downward into the side of the ship.

The impact jarred his knees. But his boots caught and held on... then began sliding backward. He had misjudged the relative speed after all and the shearing force between the surface and his boots proved too much for their magnetic grip. He panicked and bent forward to try to find whatever handhold he could—a rookie mistake as the underside of his boots lifted off the surface and lost their contact, and he began careening down the length of the ship. He slid along, flailing outward, until it felt like he would slip off the edge of the destroyer. Then his boot hit something and he made a wild grab at whatever it was. The impact pulled at his wrist but he held on and saw he had caught the rung of a ladder.

He paused there, catching his breath. The black of space filled his vision where the ship left off, an oblivion from which not everyone returned. He forced his attention back to the ladder, spinning himself to be right side up to it, then worked his way hand over hand upwards. As he neared the top, he saw another figure landing on the destroyer above him, managing it with much more grace than he had. Behind the visor of the helmet, Gerrard had no idea who it was. But the figure pointed toward an opening at the top of the ladder and made the motion of a wheel turning.

A hatch access!

Gerrard doubled his speed up the ladder. Reaching the hatch, he saw now that the other figure was the Jackal. The Initiative agent maneuvered himself into place, and together they put hands on the wheel and heaved. The wheel stuck, then gave with an unbalancing lurch. Gerrard fell forward, panicking, but managing to hold on. He pulled back, regaining his equilibrium and swinging the hatch open at the same time. The Jackal clambered in and he followed after, finding himself in a decompression chamber within.

Once in, the Jackal stuck his head back out the hatch again. Gerrard spun himself around and held on, fearing to think. The Jackal was searching for the rest of the crew, except there was no guarantee they would be there. But then Blason appeared at the mouth of the hatch, his figure blotting out the Night. Nudging his way past the Jackal into the chamber, the pilot nodded to them in turn. Then they all three set to watching and waiting again. Gerrard clenched and unclenched his fist, staring out into that circle of deep, dark nothingness.

Stormy was still out there.

The engineer had been little more than abrasive toward him, but she was part of the crew working to take him to the Initiative. More than that, no one under any circumstances deserved to be left out in open space.

But as they watched, a warning light flicked on over the hatch. A vibration started up in the chamber around them, accompanied by a message above the hatch: "PREPARING FOR WARP. CLOSE EXTERNAL HATCH." Still, they watched and waited, till the vibration reached a fever pitch. Then the Jackal turned back, gave a slight shake of his head, and reached over to pull the hatch shut.

# 11

"Home sweet home."

Nutty cast his eyes about. The pirate port lay before him, berths stretching into the distance, then winding away following the jutting shapes of the base. Ships were docked in every available space, the total numbering what must be hundreds on this deck alone. All along the line, flares from gigantic welding arms lit up the cacophony of drilling and hammering that took place on what was in effect a makeshift shipyard.

He gritted his teeth as he boarded his buggy and sped away across the wide deck. The base was close to bursting its seams now. As the weight of metal in the pirate fleet had grown, so too the numbers of the scallywags crewing them had swelled. Elsewhere, the population tested the limits of the base, clotting up quarters, mess halls, and all other spaces that catered to life in a cramped, crowded space. Over the last year, the number of newcomers had come to account for more than half their strength, and he wasn't sure he was happy about it at all.

He arrived at the central command complex and made his way in. As always on his way back from space, it struck him that it wasn't that different in here from the Navy buildings he had been in. Carpeted floors, plain walls, and a hushed silence accompanied him as he traversed the building and came to his own office, where he closed the door and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Home sweet home."

He had just reached the chair when the intercom buzzed and the voice of his master-at-arms played: "Captain, there was a breach on one of the hatch accesses. We hauled three stowaways back here from the fight."

"Interesting," Nutty replied.

The buildup at the Stokes-Inko gate had been intriguing. And now out of that mess had come three new characters to the story. They must have come from that corvette his destroyer had shot down at the end. They were made out of stern stuff if it had been their plan from the start to come onboard his ship. There was only one way to know for sure who and what the hell they were.

"Lock them up," he said. "Put them with Zee."

..............................

Gerrard awoke, hunger gnawing at him. Shadows and snatches of sound drifted around him. He looked to find himself in a small cell, just large enough for the few shapes in the darkness that it housed. He shifted his weight, his back and shoulders aching from sleeping on the cold, stone floor. One of the shapes unfolded itself and came to sit next to him. The Jackal's whisper came out of the dark.

"You've been asleep for a few hours now."

Gerrard felt groggy. The time since they stepped onto the pirate base was a blur. He remembered shuffling along dark corridors, filled with a stench of vomit and refuse, and human shapes that grabbed and jeered as they passed. Then, as he rubbed his face, the dull reality of the events leading up to this point dripped back into his memory like dirty water.

Stormy.

Stormy was gone.

The Jackal's voice came to him again. "We're going to have to sit tight, look for any opportunities. We will get out of here."

A cackle issued forth from the farthest corner of the cell, startling them both. What had looked like a pile of rags shifted, scratching itself as it turned its back to them. "Don't be spoutin' what ye don't know, son," a raspy voice said.

Gerrard turned to look at the Jackal, seeing in the dark only the Initiative agent's downturned lips. He turned back to stare at nothing, waiting and doing his best to ignore his hunger. As he fell asleep he thought he saw a mirror image of himself, hands reaching out, against a vast, dark plain under an unfamiliar sky.

Rattling echoed down the corridor outside, before a guard passed by, dragging a baton on the grilles, intoning as he went, "Lunch time. You know the drill. Try anything stupid, we shoot everyone."

More guards passed by, each one not dressed much better than the inmates they guarded, unlocking the grilles as they went. Blason, who had remained silent the entire time they had been in the cell, stood from his spot and followed the Jackal out. Gerrard blinked and shielded his eyes from the light. The old man in the corner showed no signs of movement. Gerrard went on out.

They joined a stream of different kinds of people, their dress, hairstyles, tattoos, and sizes differing one from the next. The only commonality, as far as Gerrard could see, was a bored, dangerous look in their eyes, and the dirt in their clothes. He kept his gaze forward and shuffled along.

They traveled down the corridor, then a series of stairs, then came out into a hall with a high, curved ceiling and a food line on one side. Gerrard saw that the line snaked around a few times in the cramped waiting space, and marveled that these many dangerous-seeming people could be kept waiting that long for food. Blason, who had gotten ahead on the trip down, now waited for them to join the queue together. Someone jostled Gerrard from behind, and he heard a cruel laugh but kept his eyes forward. Ahead of him, the Jackal wore a bored expression, only his eyes alert.

They received their food close to an hour later, found a spot farthest away from everything, and had almost finished eating when a group of men sat down next to them. The leader, wearing a red bandanna and a discolored, sleeveless shirt, made a show of holding in a sneeze, failing, then projecting his snot onto Gerrard's tray. He wiped his nose and said, "Sorry."

Gerrard put down his plastic spoon and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, keeping his eyes ahead. "No problem."

The man smirked, making another show of it for his friends. "What ya get in here for? Wait. I like to guess. I see them slots. Military? Federation's finest, are ya?" He laughed as if he had made a joke.

Gerrard kept silent. Blason and the Jackal had stopped eating, their eyes on the group.

"What's da matter? Lost ya voice? Ya have da look, one of them Navy types. A few pounds outta exercise. What's da matter? Outta civilians to kill?"

Gerrard's face turned before he could stop it.

The man drew back and sucked air between his teeth. "Oooh. Hit a nerve. Goody-two-shoes no good after all. Where'd ya hit them, big man? Adan? Axar? I know a bit about them places. Had ya fill killing them little childs and olders there?"

Gerrard's hand slammed down on the metal table. The sound reverberated throughout the hall and conversation around them stopped.

Blason was between him and the man before he knew it. "C'mon, ya don't wanna mess with him here. Man's got a troubled life. Didn't ask for what he did. Ya know about that. Where ya be from then?"

Through the red haze of his thoughts, Gerrard saw the man with the bandanna size Blason up. "South of Alba, Adan Prime. Ya from there too?" he said.

"Sure am," Blason said, sticking his hand out. "Born my whole life there."

Somehow, what Blason said was funny to them and laughter broke out among the men. They took turns coming around to shake his hand. "Man here's a little wound up. We just been through bad. Step back a little, for a man?" the _Harrier_ pilot said.

"We keeping an eye on that one," the leader said.

The men left and Gerrard let out a slow breath. The Jackal collected their trays and said, "Let's go."

Returning to the cell, Gerrard, Blason, and the Jackal sat in silence in the dark. The old man seemed not to have moved from his corner.

"What happened back there?" Blason said.

Gerrard shook his head. He had let his anger get the better of him, in an environment where it could have meant a lot of trouble. "I'm sorry. I lost my head. It won't happen again."

A guard wandered past in front of their grille, and the Jackal sprang up. Hurrying to the grille, he said something Gerrard couldn't hear over the din coming from outside. To his surprise, the guard paused, listened as the Jackal whispered to him, then unlocked the door.

"I'll be right back," the Jackal said, before stepping out and disappearing down the corridor, the guard locking the grille behind him.

"How does he do that?" Gerrard said.

Blason shook his head. "He has his ways. And probably his reasons for not taking us with him."

Silence returned to the cell. A thought struck Gerrard. "Are you really from Adan?"

Blason gave a wide grin. "Never been within three star systems of it. Doesn't matter though. I know enough lowlifes from there to pick up the way they talk."

Gerrard slid down to the floor, covering his eyes with his forearm. "I'm so sorry, Blason. I'm so sorry about Stormy."

Silence followed, before the pilot's voice came to him. "Why do you think it's your fault? I meant what I said back there. You didn't ask for any of this."

Gerrard spoke up, a sudden, sharp pain in his heart. "You don't know what I did on Carran."

But the _Harrier_ pilot replied as if he hadn't heard. "Do you want to know how I met Stormy? It was my first real job as a pilot-for-hire, her second one. Well, she'd done other things before that, but this was her second job in the current... form you know her as.

"We were told to deliver a shipment of medicinal drugs, to one of the worlds bordering the Initiative, a little out-of-the-way place called Tramm. Our handler specified that the drugs were going to be used to help remote settlements on the prime planet there.

"This was a time when Stormy and I would have taken any job, for want of money. But we fancied that we were doing a good thing while earning some cash. We took the job and kept up the shipment, for oh... outside of six months. It was always done on the sly, and we were told that it was the best, and fastest, way to get these medicines to the people who needed them, skipping the taxes and border duties that would accompany them.

"We were told a lot of things in those days, and Stormy and I never knew any better. At least, I didn't. She was always more worldly than I was. But you see, we believed we were doing a good thing.

"We found out, by chance, about a year after the contract ended that the drugs were primarily being distributed to brothels in the major cities on the planet, as quick fix-me-ups for overworked prostitutes who had been trafficked there and exploited against their will."

"What the hell..." Gerrard said into the dark.

"Stormy and I spent the next four years smuggling prostitutes out of Tramm and into the Initiative," Blason said. "But you see, it never left me too. How stupid was I, how stupid were we, to have been so easily used? It was such a fairy tale that we both fell hook, line, and sinker into it, believing we were the heroes.

"I'm telling you this story just to show you how everyone, _everyone_ , makes mistakes, even godawful stupid mistakes, like that. Everyone doesn't know better until they do. Whatever it was that happened on Carran, you know better now, and you're a better person for having turned away from it, instead of just having gone along."

"That's one hell of a tale."

The interjection came from the corner where the old man was. He sat up now, his voice taking on an energy it had lacked before. "Who are ye people and where are ye from?"

Blason shrugged, and answered before Gerrard could. "Nowhere. Everywhere."

"Hell of an answer too," the old man quipped. He cackled and lay back down, the light hitting his face just long enough for Gerrard to get a look before it vanished into the darkness again. Through his wispy hair, his eyes were strong and clear. "Since we're sharing stories, maybe one day I'll tell ye mine too."

The old man fell silent and Gerrard turned back to Blason. "How do you do this? How do you go from danger to danger, risking your life like this?"

Blason's lips widened into a big smile. "I don't risk my life by doing the things I want to do. To adventure, to see the world, and to do the things I find worthwhile. I risk my life by not doing those things. Stormy knew that. I know that."

Silence came back into the cell. The Jackal did too after a while, the grille unlocked by the same guard. Blason cast him a glance but didn't ask. Gerrard followed suit and shut his eyes, wishing sleep would come.

When dinner came the routine repeated itself, and they found themselves standing in line in the same hall. Looking around, Gerrard noticed this time that there were definite groups within what he had thought was a random collection of people. Even with the same level of dirt in everyone's clothes, different groups of people just had a different _look_ to them. He noticed they clustered together too, whispering or laughing among themselves, while casting sneering or nervous glances at everyone else. As he looked around, someone jostled him from behind again. He kept his eyes forward and moved closer to Blason and the Jackal.

"Hey."

Gerrard pretended he hadn't heard.

"Hey, spacehead."

The term was old, and was most popular when the cerebral slot surgery was first brought to the military. Being one of the widest adopters of the procedure, Navy pilots came to be known to have 'space inside their heads.' The term died out as the surgery came to be seen as fashionable, but never lost its use as a pejorative for the space navy. Gerrard was never bothered by it, but it was clear it was addressed to him now.

"I'm talking to you."

Something slapped him hard on the back of the head, and he fell forward into Blason's back. He turned and found a different group of men, the lead one a youngish type with a shaved head and a nose ring. He stepped forward now and jabbed a finger into Gerrard's chest.

"I'm talking to you, spacehead. Don't think you can walk in here without consequences. All three of you ex-Navy too, or just you?"

"Leave 'em alone."

The thin, raspy voice was the last one Gerrard expected. The line behind them parted for the old man from their cell, who looked ragged and small in the light. The man with the nose ring turned and threw up his hands. "Don't you get involved in this, Zee."

"They're from my cell, and I say leave 'em alone."

Another group of men noticed the confrontation, and now turned to Zee. "These guys bothering you, Zee?" one of them—a towering, muscular man—said.

The first group seemed to lose heart. The leader scowled. "Fine. Have it your way, you old geezer." They made a show of pushing past Zee, disappearing into the crowd.

Gerrard frowned in surprise. He had no idea how the frail old man had managed to do that.

Zee stepped forward and chuckled, saying, "Ye three don't seem to fit in here. I wish ye all the best of luck." He seemed to lose interest in them, and turned away before Gerrard could reply.

When they got their food, Gerrard sat down, and the world swam. He shook it away but the sight of his food made him nauseous. Blason turned to him with a questioning look. Gerrard shook his head, pushed his food away, and lay his head down. Before he noticed it dinner had ended, and the guard was yelling for them to get in line to go back to their cells.

Zee was there in the cell before them and the Jackal somehow managed to strike up a whispering conversation with him. A sharp pain started up in the back of Gerrard's head and he lay on the cool stone floor to try to ease it. Blason looked on with some concern. The lights and shadows in Gerrard's vision blurred, and the last thing he remembered was the sensation of falling into a deep, dark pit.

Remember, Gerrard. Remember.

In his dreams, he was someone else, with someone else's memories. There were many people in the same room as he was, all with something important to tell him. A procession of faces passed by his vision: a woman, smiling and affectionate, someone Gerrard thought he recognized from somewhere. Military personnel, decorated to their teeth, a cabal of powerful men and women. And in the background, a group of dark-suited men, technocrats with a watchful eye.

They were all somebody, but he didn't know who.

What was he supposed to be seeing here?

Remember, Gerrard. Remember.

Gerrard awoke, a muffled cry on his lips. He sat up and clutched at his head, breathing hard. It was the implant, and it was doing something to him. His hands reached behind his head. He could rip it out right now and end it all. Since young he had always had more thoughts in his head than he could put into words. But now it seemed like there were enough voices in there for two.

"Son, ye have to control yerself."

Gerrard startled to see the Zee's leathery face peering out of the darkness on the other side of the cell. He gritted his teeth. "You don't know what it is."

Zee moved out of the shadows. "No, I don't. But I know ye can conquer it."

Gerrard shook his head, skeptical. Since he was young it had always been like this. Everything he needed to say, to think, to feel, knotted itself into a wet clump and refused to come out in any coherent form. The dream, vivid and confusing as it was, was no different from the way he sometimes felt anyway. He dropped his head into his hands. "I don't know."

"Ye have to remember, son. Yer in charge of yer own mind. Ye can do it, whatever it is."

Gerrard looked up, surprised. At the old man's words he felt something he hadn't since he was a child. Something welled up within him and made him wish he could pour out all his troubles now, tell Zee everything that had happened, and ask what he was to do. At this moment, the old man sitting across from him on the pallet looked different, his frame straighter and his brow stronger. The light fell across his face at just the right angle, and Gerrard heard something from his dream.

Remember, Gerrard.

He took a sharp breath. He saw it now, from within his dream. Zee's face had been there, among the military men in the background. Gerrard didn't know how or why. None of it made sense. But the words escaped his lips: "I know you."

Zee stared back, his expression unchanging. But he looked the way he had in the dream, powerful and self-possessed, a sharp gleam in his eye.

And Gerrard knew him. "Zirconium. You're Admiral Zirconium, of the Federation Navy, former commander of the Northwest Constellations fleets."

What was he saying? He didn't believe the words even as he said them. When he looked again, it was only Zee, bent over and gnarled, an old man in a prison cell. "I'm sorry," Gerrard said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I'm going fucking crazy."

But Zee turned without a word toward the grille and yelled, "Guard!"

Gerrard panicked. "No, wait! No!"

Blason and the Jackal sat up from their sleep, mumbling their surprise. Someone appeared at the grille, peering through. "What is it, Zee?"

Zee pointed a heavy finger at Gerrard. Time seemed to slow within the little cell. "He an' his friends. I don't like the looks of `em! They're botherin' me. Take 'em to the Cap'n!"

Gerrard watched, horror-stricken, as the guard turned to him and sneered.

"You heard the man. All of you. It's time to go."

They shuffled into the small, rust-colored office and Gerrard startled to see how cozy the place was. Memorabilia covered every surface of its inside: small figures of space rangers and dinosaurs, mechanical guns in display cases and swords on stands, and, in one corner, a life-sized mechanized suit draped with necklaces and beads, on the shoulder of which stood a stuffed parrot. Movie posters adorned the walls, many in the languages of the Collective, showing the holo stars of the most populous nation in the galaxy. Tang understood a little of one of the Collective's main languages, and the posters reminded Gerrard of his best friend with a sudden jerk at his heart.

Tang. Where was he now? How was he doing?

Gerrard didn't know. Had no way to reach him, tell him he was alive. He cursed inwardly, but pulled his attention back to the room. He'd need all his wits now if he wanted to find his way back to Tang.

The man behind the desk in the middle of the room wore a rainbow shawl over a bright red shirt. The pirate captain, Gerrard assumed. He squinted at them as they came in and spoke only when the guard left.

"Interesting. I'm Nutty. Who are you and how did you manage to get sent up here?"

Gerrard stared, unsure how to proceed. He wasn't sure he understood what had happened back there in the cell. He looked to the Jackal and received a tentative nod, which seemed to tell him to say it like it was. Gerrard cleared his throat. "The old man in our cell, Zee. I—I had a dream and thought he was someone else, a former admiral of the Navy. He thought I was bothering him and called the guard."

Nutty fixed a stare on him, then raised a slow eyebrow. "What kind of dream?"

"It—" Gerrard started, then shook his head. What kind of dream was it? "I'd never had anything like it. There were people I'd never met. I didn't know them, but I remembered them all."

Nutty tapped a finger on his chin. "Turn around."

The Jackal tensed. Gerrard froze in place.

Nutty pulled out a blaster pistol from under the desk and pointed it at them. "Turn around, _please_. And lift up your hair at the back."

Gerrard looked to the Jackal again. The Initiative agent paused, his eyes fixed on Nutty.

He nodded after a second.

Gerrard turned around and showed the pirate his cerebral slots.

"I see. Where did you get that implant?" Nutty said.

"What does it matter?" the Jackal said.

Gerrard let down his hair and turned back around. Nutty had lowered the pistol and seemed to be in thought; he looked back up at the Jackal after a while. "You were the stowaways on my ship, yes? Where were you hoping to go?"

The Jackal took a deep breath. "I'm from the Initiative. We were hoping to get past the Initiative-Federation border. Now that we're here, I want to bargain for our way there."

"Bargain? If you want to bargain, you can first tell me how this man here has an implant containing Federation intelligence."

Gerrard's eyes widened.

Beside him, the Jackal folded his arms and kept a level gaze at Nutty. "How do you figure that?" he said.

Nutty shrugged. "Your man here comes with an encyclopedic knowledge of the former admirals of the Federation Navy. You are all obviously very tense about removing the implant or handing it over to me. I would venture that it is one of those that designed to carry sensitive information, that kills the host if removed without the authorization code. You don't have the authorization code.

"What's more, your man here is unpolished and too obvious, definitely not a member of the intelligence community. Among other things, he's blurted out his knowledge of Zirconium's identity, instead of keeping it and using it as you would have. The fact that he has the implant in him, yet doesn't know at all what he's doing with it, suggests that he has found it or picked it up somewhere. And yet it ended up inside of him.

"You see, a very important implant fitting that exact description has gone missing. You turn up at the Stokes-Inko gate, bearing an implant like that, wanting to go to the Initiative. And I'm guessing you want to go through ways that would evade the Navy checkpoints that have been set up at Federation stargates. There are very few coincidences of this particular intensity."

Gerrard stared. He had not been wrong in feeling out of his depth. The man had read him like an open book. But behind it all, he had the sense they were dealing with an extraordinary opponent. Nutty didn't feel at all like any pirate captain they had expected. He turned to see the Jackal re-evaluating his adversary. Beside him, Blason's face had taken on an inscrutable expression.

"But I will help you," Nutty said.

"Why?" the Jackal said.

"Have you heard much about the Federation president's assassination, I wonder?"

"Not as much as I'd like."

Nutty's face took on a wizened look. "The Federation capital will soon announce the results of their investigation into the president's assassination. Part of those results will say that the Whisper technology was used in the assassination, and that the requisite components were smuggled to the capital world through the Initiative's contacts in the Ovan pirate sector. That is, here."

The Jackal took in the information, his gaze intent. "Except you've looked into it."

A thin smile spread across the pirate captain's face. "Yes. Yes I have. Fortunately or unfortunately, I couldn't leave well enough alone, and looked further into it. I've determined that the shipment of the components in question went through a circuitous route. The route starts on the capital world itself, and then ends back at it, and is made as to look as if it came from the Initiative. Which, in my book at least, is enough to say that the Initiative did not assassinate the Federation president."

"I see. And for some reason, you think the implant should reach the Initiative."

Nutty paused. "The implant should not be in the Federation."

The Jackal kept his gaze on the pirate captain. "Fine. When do we leave?"

Nutty paused again in thought. "You will stay in the prisoner cells, and I will recruit you into the lowest ranks when the time is right. I can get you close to the Initiative border, but once there it will be up to you."

"We need to get to a shipyard," the Jackal said. "It would be our best hope of passing through the military buildup on the border."

Nutty considered it, then nodded. "No guarantees. Now you have to tell me what an Initiative agent is doing in this particular corner of space."

"I wouldn't tell it to a Federation mole."

Nutty narrowed his eyes. "Whatever do you mean?"

The Jackal shifted his weight on his feet, leveling a piercing stare at the other man. "Former admirals of the Navy do not end up in pirate prison cells except by choice. You have an arrangement with Zee, or Zirconium, suggesting that you have ties to the Federation yourself. You have extensive intelligence and gathering capabilities, indicating training and resources related to fieldwork of the spying sort. Till now you have not said a single thing that would indicate that your interests lie with those of the pirates here.

"But there is more to you than that. You have investigated your own nation's involvement in the framing of mine. You judge that we carry an implant of importance to your nation, yet do not immediately bundle us back to the Federation. Instead, you wish for us, and the implant, to 'not be in the Federation.' You have an agenda that deviates from what your agency might wish. There is much more to you than meets the eye, is there not, Captain Nutty?"

Gerrard looked between the two and felt as if he had just witnessed a fight. It was unlike any he was used to, but the two men involved had revealed themselves to be practitioners of a common craft. He had gotten a glimpse of their world, but wondered what it must be like to be them.

But in the next instant, shouting filled the corridor outside. Panic flashed across the pirate captain's face as the door burst in behind them. A man with a short clip and a broad, deep chest strode in, a pistol with the longest barrel Gerrard had ever seen at his hip. Outside, the guards at the door had disappeared.

The man fixed Nutty with a grin. "Heard you were having a little night-time conference, Nutty. Don't happen to have found my mole, have you?"

Nutty leaned back in his chair, a look of practiced complacency back on his face. "What mole, Old Man?"

An ugly smile broke over the Old Man's face. "The one had the Navy jump us at the Stokes gate."

"How do you figure it was a mole?"

"It's always a mole," the Old Man said, showing a row of yellow teeth. He looked over Gerrard, Blason, and the Jackal in turn. "What's this bunch of washups you have here?"

"It seems they were stowaways from the fight. If they were enterprising enough to board my ship, I figure they'd do well as new recruits. Replace some of the boys we lost."

Before Gerrard could register the motion, the Old Man had whipped out his pistol and placed its barrel on the Jackal's forehead. The Initiative agent slapped it away in the same instant.

"Good reflexes," the Old Man said. "Smells of rat to me." A manic grin crept up one side of his face. He placed the pistol with deliberate care on Nutty's side of the desk and folded his arms. "What's one of them worth to you, Nut?"

Nutty stood with a flourish, rolling his eyes for all to see and waving his hands in the air. "I get it. I get it. I'm under suspicion, the same as any of your other captains, who've slaved and slogged for you since we could steer a bucket of grease oil and nuts."

He picked up the pistol and circled the desk to place himself in front of the crew of the _Harrier_ , sweeping the barrel back and forth between them, pointing it towards each one of them in turn. "According to your crazy theory, I'm a mole, and these are agents on a rendezvous with me, and we're all tied up in some big conspiracy or other."

Time slowed to a crawl and Gerrard watched, transfixed in horror. He saw the things happening in front of him as if through a film, surreal and heavy. They were caught in a bind. If Nutty didn't prove their innocence to the Old Man, they were all liable to be executed. But to do that, Nutty would have to kill one of them.

Gerrard saw the gun come to a stop in front of Blason's forehead.

The pirate captain had chosen the _Harrier_ pilot to die.

But even then, as horrible as it was, Gerrard understood Nutty's choice. He was carrying the implant and couldn't be harmed. The Jackal, on the other hand, was the agent responsible for taking him across the border. Given the short amount of time they had met, Nutty had had to guess on the man least critical to the mission.

Gerrard turned to look at Blason.

The pilot's eyes held a terrifying mixture of calm and resolve. The realization hit Gerrard like a brick: Blason was holding back from defending himself because it was the only thing to do. Because any wrong move now would get all of them killed, instead of only one of them.

Gerrard's mouth formed the word: no.

But Nutty shot him a warning glare. The pirate captain's voice continued in a lazy drawl. "You're a crazy, old man, even more than me, you know that? And you get crazier and crazier every year. And every year, someone has to come pat you on the shoulders and let you know, no, you aren't surrounded by moles and turncoats. But tell me, Old Man. If I were a mole, and these were my agents, would I be doing this?"

Nutty's eyes closed, then opened again in a look of anguish the Old Man couldn't see.

The pirate captain didn't want to be doing this either.

But the time had come and Nutty closed his eyes again, then squeezed the trigger.

# 12

Inca rehearsed the plan in her mind.

Her mission was simple, but complex: find out where the implant had gone. Undersecretary Strontium had given her leeway in going about the mission, and she had thrilled at a chance to bring her own decision-making capabilities to bear. But now, sitting in the cockpit of the _Blackbird_ , she felt the first twinges of doubt.

Her plan was a wild shot in the dark. The only identification she had of the ships that had attacked Gerrard was their make. With Pitt's help, she had tracked down the most likely underground markets for those particular ships. Some of those markets turned out to be linked to the Ovan pirates, the same group through which Pitt had detected a movement of Whisper-related technology. Given no other leads, she had had to start with the assumption that it was the Ovan pirates who had attacked Gerrard. Then it came down to being where the pirates were most likely to show up.

And so she and Tang found themselves now in the Canister system, six jumps away from the fringes of the Federation border worlds, yet still within Federation space. From what she knew, the region was a former trade route to the now-defunct independent nation of Synthara. Pirate activity had grown with the burgeoning route, before the Federation discovered alternate partners in the region and trade had flitted away. She would not be surprised if most of the nation of Synthara _were_ pirates now. It was one of the best spots she could find to be attacked by remnant strays looking for an easy mark. She had sent out an SOS simulating a critical warp engine failure. Now they would wait.

Tang was silent in the back seat, which was unusual for him. But he spoke up soon after what seemed like an intense amount of fidgeting from behind. "You're nuts if you think I would ever do anything to harm Gerrard."

Inca checked the ship's instruments and kept her tone casual. "Keep an open mind. The mission will change and we'll have to keep an eye out for what's happening."

"Bah! The mission, the mission. That's all you military types ever think about. What about the people? What about my friend?"

What about his friend? Tang and Gerrard had been rolled up into a situation much larger than themselves. But it wasn't like they were exempt from dealing with it just like anyone else. "Sometimes there's too much happening to think about each individual person," she said.

A pause from behind. Then: "How did you get like this? How do you get where you are so okay with just killing people?"

Inca shrugged. "Sometimes there was never a choice to begin with. I've prepared everything and I'll take the first watch. I suggest you catch some shut-eye while you can." Readying herself, Inca leaned back into the Whisper connector. She hadn't recovered from the run-in with the mech, but it would have to do. For now, she had a whole sector of space to watch. The Whisper bloomed in her mind and she settled down to waiting, staring into the Night until it seemed the darkness itself spoke to her.

And in the darkness, she saw the streets of Ahtila again. The city of her childhood was restless, the gangs out roving, their armored vehicles audible as a constant churning in the desert heat, dust stirring in every direction.

In her memories, she was Alexandra, drifting through the back streets, the dust-colored sandstone long painted over with graffiti, waiting to cross the dangerous Strip. She searched the buildings for curtained windows cracked four inches open, black burnished muzzles sticking out. In the middle of the Strip, two men in black load-bearing vests bristling with electronics kicked at a kid from the neighboring vicinity. Crouching farther into the refuse pile, Alexandra waited.

The sky turned a shade of salmon and plum. She cursed herself when she realized she had dozed. But she was still alive. The faraway noises had died down, and a low wind keened. She uncovered herself from the refuse pile and crept to the entrance of the alley, only to see three men in green-and-black motif skinsuits materialize in the street. Their eyes glowed green and the word sounded in her mind: _Greetings._

"Inca, wake up!"

Inca sprang to full alertness, cursing. She must have fallen asleep, _while in the Whisper_. She was lucky Tang was awake, and that some part of her had heard him. It was the first time this had happened, but she had no time to think about it now.

A cluster of three readings showed up on the radar map.

From somewhere within her, a strange feeling crept over her.

These weren't the ships they were waiting for.

One of them, small on the display, flashed a series of lights at the _Blackbird_ and a voice sounded in the Whisper: _This is Initiative 617th Forward Recon. We've received your contact. Identify yourselves._

These were Initiative ships.

What were they doing here?

And what contact were they talking about?

Then the memories of Ahtila flooded her mind again. Too stunned to react, she could only take it all in. The scenes from her childhood washed over her, and, unable to stop them, she could only relive them again against her will.

In her dream, sunlight leaped off the baked bricks of Ahtila, hard and dusty in the desert heat. She recited the password and the tempered steel doors slid open. She slipped into the cool of the vault, down the dark stairway, the reverberations of the doors banging shut hanging in the air behind her.

They waited for her in a room at the end of the stairs. "What have you got for us?" they asked.

She put the carryall on the foldout tables in the pools of light. They looked on as she brought the items out. "Bread. Salt." The half loaf and the jar with the twist-on cap. "Scrap metal." The bent fragments of fenders, building pipes, and guns. "Cotton." Rough squares of stained patches.

When she was done, she looked up, expecting to see the pleased, sunburned faces of the leaders. But instead, glowing green eyes looked back down on her. She panicked, but found herself transfixed in their gaze. Patterns soon emerged within the glow of the eyes, lines of white and gray, an interconnecting circuitry, secrets held behind them.

But she was Alexandra, and she was Inca. The product of Federation Navy R&D. The wonder child of Ahtila. She looked back into the pattern with confidence, and the minds behind those eyes recoiled from her touch. They weren't part of her memories and they weren't part of Ahtila. She realized who they were now: the Initiative ships, probing her mind and inserting themselves into her thoughts. So she looked back into them the same way they were looking into her. Then she saw what they hadn't meant to show.

She saw hundreds of ships, spun out like strands of a web, infiltrated across the Federation-Initiative border, cloaked in lines of invisibility and silence, awaiting activation. They were all there, hidden in the barren worlds far north of the Federation's populated border worlds. A web of light, each node an Initiative warship, bristling with armament, ready for conflict. The vision expanded, taking in more of the web, until it seemed she would burst. Then, like a flash, the vision rolled up from before her, the minds she had entered defending themselves now and ejecting her from their thoughts.

She came to to find herself in the Whisper again. The voice from before played in the darkness: _I repeat, this is 617th Forward Recon. Identify yourselves immediately._

Inca fought to regain her bearings. The Initiative ships were communicating with her through the Whisper, but had somehow managed to come into her mind. What access did they have, and what did they see? How was any of this even possible?

But more than that, what was that she had seen?

Steadying herself, she replied with as much authority as she could muster: _This is Lieutenant Flores of the Federation Navy. You are in Federation space, and must present diplomatic waiver immediately._ But as she sent the message, the enormity of the situation hit her.

It was the Initiative she had seen.

And their warships had long infiltrated across the border.

A heavy, electric silence followed in the Whisper.

Then the voice came through, saying: _You'd better come with us, Lieutenant._

# 13

The _Blackbird_ , escorted by the Initiative spacecraft, landed in the hangar of the capital ship that materialized out of the shadow of the moon. Guards, dressed in leaf-green body armor and armed with rifles and sidearms, awaited them on the hangar floor, amidst a buzz of activity throughout the crowded space. "This way, please, Lieutenant," the first of the guards said. Inca shot him a glare, her glower all the reply the man needed to nod and turn to lead the way.

They exited the hangar and went down a series of corridors, coming to a small room with a long table stretching from side to side. Ceiling panels filled the room with a daylight illumination, and troughs at the sides of the room teemed with plants Inca didn't recognize, perfuming the air with citrus and spice. The guards halted them before the table, saying, "Vectors, this is the Federation lieutenant and her companion."

From her training, Inca recalled that Vectors were similar to admirals in the Federation hierarchy, but reported to their individual homeworld's civilian heads of state. The three behind the table now stood in unison. The one in the middle, a woman with graying chestnut hair and crow's feet around her eyes, opened her arms wide as she said, "Welcome aboard the _Nexus_. Please take a seat."

Inca remained standing, staring back into the Vectors' scrutinizing gazes. "I am Lieutenant Alexandra Flores of the Federation Navy. This is an unlawful detaining of a Federation Navy officer, _in Federation space!_ "

The woman's crow's feet deepened in a look of worry. "Lieutenant, we have started on the wrong foot. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vector Athena, the leader of the forces you contacted. We are all here extremely surprised at your ability to contact us and to penetrate our communications with such... _forcefulness_."

"I contacted no one and did nothing!" Inca shouted. True, she had somehow fallen deep into the Whisper, but had done nothing beyond that of her own volition. "You are the one in violation of galactic law, and I demand you release us back to our ship and withdraw your forces back to Initiative space!"

The man on the left with the shapeless coffee-colored patch on one cheek tutted and shook his head. "You are misunderstanding the situation here, Lieutenant. All we have taken is pre-emptive action against the very real threat the Federation is posing to us on our borders. I might add that this threat seems to be increasing hour by hour."

"That is _not_ what I saw!" Inca shouted. Her mind went back to her vision in the Whisper. Some part of her still couldn't believe what she had seen. The Initiative had already infiltrated across the border. The thought stunned her even now.

Athena held up a hand. "Please, Lieutenant. Tell us what it is you saw."

Inca stared, unable for a moment to put into words all she had seen. "Your ships. They're already across the border. Just like this one is. Hundreds and hundreds of them. I _saw_ them all!"

The younger Vector on the right gasped. Athena's eyes widened. "Lieutenant Flores. Please. Tell us about yourself. You are gifted in the Whisper."

"Hey!" Tang shouted, coming alive. He had been struck dumb by all that had happened in the last hour or so, and didn't understand the full implications of what was happening. But he had had enough of the Vectors' attitude. "That's enough of that talk! I don't understand all of what you're trying to say, but you are all clearly out of line here! This here is Federation space! Feh-duh-ray-shun!"

Athena nodded, closing her eyes and warding Tang off with a hand. She opened her eyes again to place a strange, intense stare on him. "Perhaps this conversation can be better carried on by other means. For now, perhaps it is better that you—"

Inca didn't hear the words that followed, as the scent of the room filled her senses. A surprising drowsiness clamped itself around her, and the lights, the room, and the faces of the Vectors dimmed in her sight. She startled and fought to react, but the world had already washed away from her vision.

"Inca, it's time."

In her dreams, Pitt's voice was always the same. Resigned, steely, and cloaked in its own mysteries. But never unkind.

Yet Inca shuddered. The simulation cockpit was an igloo with a single opening into its dark depth, and she always felt as if she were entering a part of some larger organism, intruding upon its body.

She stepped in, suppressing her own emotion. The routine helped. Day in, day out. The darkened interior with its glowing apparatus. The silent chair with its single, sharp, spike connector. She sat, the soft, synthetic sheepskin of the seat folding around her, and told herself it was okay.

No. More than okay.

In fact, a part of her had started looking forward to the daily experimentation. They challenged her and stimulated her mind in a way nothing else did. She had come to believe that she was gifted in her ability with the technology.

The same preliminary procedures started up. The technician's instructions repeated themselves, unchanging from day to day to give her the maximum familiarity and ease with the procedures. She had them memorized already and tuned the voice out, another lost contact in her slow descent into the mindscape of the Whisper.

With her breath at the end of her exhale, she leaned back and into the spike connector, slipping into the darkness. All was good. Except today green eyes watched her from the edges of the dream. _Amazing_ , she heard in her torpor. But, unable to rouse herself, her dream continued.

The thrill of the Whisper came back to her. This was why she didn't mind the position she had been put in. She was a lab mouse, the single human in the unending machine. But she came back to it time after time.

She waited in the darkness, allowing her mind to relax. Then the Whisper spoke.

The technicians and researchers at the facility had given her a primer on how best to approach the Whisper technology. She had developed an even better technique, one that she had yet to tell them in full. The simple answer was to _listen_ to the Whisper.

The Whisper came to her as a nudging presence, pushing, feeling its way around her mind. She imagined, even within herself, that it knew her by now, that it waited for her the same way she waited for it. The contact was familiar. It was at this point, she knew, that all the other fledgling Whisper pilots fudged the contact. They grew scared of its presence and held back pieces of themselves. Some panicked and ejected themselves, falling into comas for months after.

But she held nothing back.

The darkness warmed to her the way she knew it would. It became insistent, and still she held nothing back. She felt its _emotion_ , something akin to a dull ache and anger. Even the advanced Whisper trainees balked at this stage, the echoes of foreign thoughts reverberating in their heads, waking them from the Whisper howling and clutching at nightmares. She, on the other hand, reveled in the sensation, of a mind larger and greater than her own.

_Simply amazing_.

The voice and the green eyes. This time, she was ready for them. She knew now she was in a memory of her past and someone was watching her. She roused enough to take control of herself. When the mind behind the green eyes spoke, she lunged for it and held on.

A moment of blindness, a panic that wasn't hers. Then, vision. A medical bay of sorts. No, more like an operating theater. There she was, in a seat and connected via her cerebral slots. And someone else—Athena, in a similar seat, connected. The Vector was looking into her mind! Gathering herself, Inca sprang forward and tumbled into the Vector's mind.

Fear, amazement, surprise, panic. Memories Inca didn't know. A son, bright-eyed. Not what she was looking for. A big door—that was what she needed. She imagined it there, and there it was. A doorway, outlined in fire, framing a view of a lush, populated garden-like city. The sky was the color of flowering cherry trees, dabbed with powder blue, lavender, and dark violet. Violencia, the capital world of the Initiative. She saw now the holos had failed to capture its beauty. But it was more than that. She was looking at the Vector's memory of home.

Inca surged forward to the edge of the doorway. The way forward was open, and she stood on the threshold. One last look at the scene before her, then she was through, freefalling into the memory of the Initiative world.

# 14

Inca stepped out onto the promenade.

Wide-crowned trees canopied the avenues branching out from a circular plaza with a central, open-air theater, stippling the slanting, amber sunlight. Beyond, a network of cloud-blue buildings filled the sky, showing cherry pinks through openings sculpted into their structures, through which vehicles, distant and small, could be seen.

Welcome to my home, Lieutenant Flores.

Inca took a step forward. A low wind whispered through the leaves, bringing a sweet, spice-tinged fragrance, and the cars weaved through the distant sky. Nearer, shapes quickened, to become groups of people strolling the grounds, dressed in earthen colors in robes, tunics, and long blouses of varied design.

_Greetings_.

The word had appeared in her head as a couple neared, nodding and smiling. She opened her mouth to speak, then realized they hadn't spoken. Knowing no way to return the nonverbal communication, she smiled and tried to summon goodwill, but the dark streets of Eri came unbidden to her mind, and the faces of the couple wrinkled in worry, before they passed by without comment.

Inca moved on, enraptured by the scene. But something nagged at her: the skin on the couple's faces had seemed bronzed or silvered over. Had it been a trick of the light? She paused mid-stride, fighting the sluggishness of her mind. Looking inward, she sought the source of her discomfort. Then it struck her. She thought the words and they rang out in her mind: _The Initiative's bio-technology! So it's true! Your people have been altering themselves!_

_So the news has reached the Federation then. Yes. Yes, we have_.

Inca recognized the voice as Athena's now. She looked around, taking it all in. _It's all based on the Whisper, isn't it? I felt it, when that couple spoke to me. It was amazing! It was like being in the Whisper, but out here._

Yes, that and more is the true potential of the Whisper, and it is why the Initiative has revived the technology and sought to make it better. But there is more, Lieutenant.

_More?_ she thought. A gentle tugging, as on her sleeve, began. Then, without warning, the scene before her, the promenade, the cities in the distance, all faded away. In its place, something more elemental struck her. Visions, impressions, and feelings all rolled into one, and Inca realized she was being shown the Vector's memories in a rawer form—as they were experienced.

Now she was in a council of sorts, where the assassination of the President of the Federation was being announced and discussed. There too, impressions of a rising hostility in the Federation toward the Initiative, born of distrust for its technologies and old resentment for the Secession. There too, the rising dismay among the gathered, that a pretext for the invasion of the Initiative would be found in the president's assassination.

But in the midst of it too, the single, clear conviction within the Vector, that the Initiative had no part in causing the hostility, and had no reason to be attacked by the larger nation. There too, fear for the homeland. Athena's voice followed the vision: _But that's not all._

Then, memories of a war fought before Inca had been born. Before even Athena had been born. How did the Vector have this memory? Ah yes, it had been passed down to her in her youth, not through speech or writing, but in the way the Initiative had come to know best—transmitted from her grandparents through an early prototype of the Initiative's cerebral technology. The memories, in the shape of pure experience, channeled into Inca now.

And so she saw the Secession. The millions of men and women, mustered against the might of the Federation, the strength of a fledgling nation still finding its footing. The desperation and despair, at the weak tools the new nation had to fling against the Federation. But still, the determination, for self-determination.

This was the Secession, the cataclysm that cleaved the Initiative from the Federation.

It was known within the Federation that the Initiative worlds had grown tired of the Federation capital's control. That the Initiative worlds had resented being ruled even as they were the farthest one could get from the Federation's center. Unlike the other edges of the Federation, the Initiative worlds had no larger threats like the Collective to face. They were free to secede, and so they did.

_But it wasn't just like that._ Athena's thoughts and memories filtered into her.

It wasn't just that the Initiative worlds had wanted their own rule. It wasn't that they wanted to split from the Federation. It was because they had no longer wanted to _be_ what the Federation was.

And she saw now what the Federation was from Athena's perspective. The harsh, corporate-laden societies of the Federation worlds. The militaristic overshadowing of all its politics and economy. The relentless power-brokerage of lives—how they were lived and how they were spent.

Could she say it was any different?

The Secession had happened in order for the Initiative to be something _different_.

But it will be even worse this time.

And then she saw the forces of the Initiative as they were now, the number increased tenfold from before, armadas that blocked out planets. But on the other side, the Federation's forces too, an unbroken line of equal magnitude, stretching from sun to sun to sun.

"Come, Lieutenant."

Inca opened her eyes and saw Athena walking beside her. They were going down a carpeted hallway, overhead of which stretched a high, vaulted ceiling, the entire place a buff and beige-brown color in a style she had seen from pictures of Earth. To their side, high windows opened onto a garden, the centerpiece of which was a leafless, violet tree, its stark branches reaching up into an azure sky.

"Here."

Athena opened a door in the hallway, and they walked into a large, circular amphitheater at least three hundred feet across, in the center of which was a depressed pit with concentric rings of seats at a circular table. Hundreds of men and women in robes of various kinds, many adorned with high headdresses, filled those seats, listening to three speakers in the center of the pit.

"Here," Athena repeated, with a wave of her hand. The words of the speakers in the center reached Inca muffled, as if heard through deep water. The men and women on the seats, in turn, paid them no attention. "The center of Violencia, the Council of Speakers that will decide the future course to take in response to the hostility of the Federation."

Inca started to respond, but Athena cut her off with a wave of her hand and a harsh whisper. "It _is_ the hostility of the Federation, Lieutenant. Most of our leaders here do not see that the Initiative has done anything to provoke the Federation's military buildup on our borders. They see your president's assassination as a manufactured pretext for war. And believe me if the Initiative had truly wanted to assassinate your president, we wouldn't have left our tracks all over the place!"

Inca could only stare back, silenced by the tirade.

Athena continued. "Inca, listen to me. These people here are incensed. Once roused to the full motion of war, they will not stop until the entire West Constellations of the Federation are brought under their control, even if the Initiative in itself had no such territorial ambition. But there is one hope. Come."

The Vector set off at a brisk pace around the room, and Inca, for lack of options, followed. They stopped behind a woman in an ornate robe, embellished with silver needlework, who paid them no attention like everyone else. "This is Speaker Myla. The leader of Aria, as well as the head of a faction of pacifists still willing to seek diplomatic closure to the hostilities brewing between the two nations."

Aria. Inca recognized the name as one of the Initiative worlds close to the common border.

"Myla is convinced that should the Initiative's technological superiority be convincingly demonstrated to the bulk of the Federation forces on the border, she will be able to push for diplomatic means to end the war. Perhaps force a re-examination of the evidence in your president's assassination. And she's not alone. Even now, there are many Speakers on the Council who would rather not fight a war with the Federation if we don't have to. They are angry, but they can see the destruction it would bring.

"Myla has instructed me and others to look for one such means to show the Federation that it will not be easy to carry out a war on our borders. We have technology that has been in development, but has not been successfully deployed yet for lack of an operator with the required talent with the Whisper. We've searched far and wide in the nation and have found no one."

No one except her. Inca was under no illusion. She was the most talented with the Whisper of anyone she had ever heard of. And the Vector's pitch was clear: Athena wanted, no, _needed_ , her to take up the mantle. To lead Initiative forces against her own nation and to stop what had come before from happening again. Even standing there, in that Whisper world of memories, the thought of it came to her like a white-hot sun glimpsed within the Night, blinding and powerful.

But there Athena was, the words coming from her too slow and too fast at the same time: "You surpass anything we have seen. If anyone has a shot at this, it is you, Inca. Take up our cause. Stop the war before it gets too far."

# 15

This wasn't Nutty's first time in the Old Man's office, but he was always wowed whenever he was. A rich carpet spread in front of a wide, curving desk, set in front of a wood-paneled wall hung with portraits. Nutty had always wondered who the portraits were of, and the most the Old Man had ever said about them was "heroes I look up to."

To their side, a lively fireplace crackled, the sweet smell of some wood Nutty couldn't identify wafting through the room. The fact that the Old Man managed to stockpile firewood of any kind on this metal bastion of theirs for this use was in itself a display of wealth. Like his own office, the Old Man's was stocked with paraphernalia and keepsakes: behind one corner of the desk, a rack of rifles, ranging from wooden-stocked hunting ones to composite assault rifles. Next to this, a glass case on a counter with pistols that looked like they came from Earth-style Western movies, or else outlandish designs carved with jade dragons and whatever else the pirate had plundered from the corners of the galaxy.

In all his excess, the pirate chief was susceptible to gaudiness. Gold bespeckled the mantle of his fireplace, formed the inlays of his bocote desk, and threaded through the carpet at Nutty's feet. The Old Man managed a quite perfect "cheap gangster movie" look.

Nutty kept these reflections off his face as he stood in front of the Old Man. The man was deep in what looked like his second bottle of whiskey, and Nutty waited as he poured himself more.

"Do you know what it means to be a pirate?" the pirate chief said.

Nutty shook his head, seating himself down. He reached for the second glass the Old Man had on his desk, and poured himself some whiskey. "Can't say I've figured it out."

The Old Man laughed. "Do you know how long I've been a pirate?"

Nutty snorted. "Were you ever not one?"

The Old Man laughed again, a short, sharp bark. "You're exactly right. Born a pirate, and likely to die one. Do you know what that feels like, Nut?"

"I guess I don't."

"I'll tell you what a pirate is, Nut." The Old Man lifted himself out of his seat and walked to his pistol display case, putting a heavy hand on it. "A pirate is what a man becomes when the Federation decides it's had enough of you."

Nutty waited. The Old Man was not one to waste time, and he hadn't been called to his office, with him in this mood, for nothing. No, the Old Man had something to say, and it had taken him two bottles of whiskey to get a start on it. Nutty would wait.

"Oh yes, folks in the Federation will always say the pirates are evil, they're the scum of the galaxy. Do these people know what the Federation does in their name? No idea! They have no idea! Yet they still go on with their make-believe lives, considering themselves respectable, upstanding people."

He gave a ragged laugh. "I don't see that we're doing anything worse than what the Federation does. The Federation is much worse than we are in certain ways, and above all, much more effective at whatever the hell it wants to do. Do you see, Nut?"

Nutty nodded. It wasn't like he didn't see. Over the years he had come to see that the Federation did more than its share of butchering and killing, doing it all only under different names.

"Of course you do, Nut," the Old Man said. "You've been with us for a while now. You see what it is the Federation does. You see what it does when its citizens don't know and aren't looking."

The Old Man laughed again to himself, then opened the pistol case and drew out an ivory-handled piece, admiring it in the light. "You know what it's like to be one of us, don't you, Nut?"

Yes, yes he did. For seven long years he had known, with every hair and nail and trigger he had had to pull. He would never not know. But he affected a casual tone as he took a sip from his glass and put it back down. "Of course."

"Good." The Old Man placed the pistol on the desk and pushed it across to him. "I've had enough of this mess with the mole. I want you to go find the sonofabitch, Nut. It's been too long that I've tolerated a turncoat in my ranks. The problem is I've been going about it too stupidly. But coming from you, they'd never expect it."

Nutty looked down at the pistol.

No, no they wouldn't, he guessed, since he was the mole himself.

The irony of the situation threatened for a moment to overwhelm him. He took care to maintain an expression of casual intrigue. "Sure, Old Man. Anything for you."

The Old Man poured them more whiskey. "Of all the people, Nut, you know what it's like. It's crazy out there. You know the only way to meet crazy is with equally crazy."

And just like that, the moment was over.

Nutty picked up the pistol to hide the slight dizziness that came over him.

The Old Man continued. "There's something else I want you to do. For the past year or so I've been accepting money and ships from a group that wants us to attack the Federation. They want us to move out soon."

This time, Nutty let his surprise show. He had known the Old Man was up to something, but this? No matter how strong any pirate group got, attacking the Federation head-on was on a scale that no one attempted. The information blindsided him, and he cursed himself for having underestimated the pirate chief.

The Old Man continued. "But it's always bothered me how cagey the group is about their true intentions. Even a fool knows nobody attacks the Federation for nothing. At the time, I took their offer because I had to. Any of the other jokers calling themselves pirates would have jumped at the chance, and I couldn't let them get their hands on all the good stuff the group was offering."

The pirate chief paused, drawing himself up, a steely look showing even through the drunken haze in his eyes. "But damned if it isn't high time to find out what the hell they really want. They've shown they're serious about going through with the attack, and you and I know there's a lot of shit about to go down in this part of the galaxy."

The Old Man turned his gaze upon Nutty now. "I want you to go talk to them, Nut. I've tried all this time to find out more, but have always gotten the same bullshit back. You—" The pirate chief paused here. "You have a way with things like this, Nut, I'll give you that. Go do whatever it is you do. Find out who they are and where the hell they found enough balls to take on the Federation like that."

Nutty let out a slow breath.

The pirates were attacking the Federation, and he was being given a chance to go find out why. He scratched at his ear and hoped none of the red-hot excitement within him showed. "I don't know. Seems tough, even for me. But I can give it a try for you, Old Man."

"Good," the Old Man said, pouring them more whiskey. "I always knew I could trust you, Nut."

# 16

"Come on, let's go," the Jackal said.

Gerrard barreled down the short ramp leading to the fighter assigned to them, an older-style warbird the pirates called the Nail, that he suspected was based off Federation designs. Its low, flat body had already taken on the modern look the Federation fighters had, its age given away only by the enlarged engine rump. Violent splashes of red and black adorned the bird, the colors of the squadron Nutty had put them in.

The pirate captain was true to his word, and had managed to place them onboard a convoy heading out to attack Navy shipyards around the border. Gerrard had startled at hearing what the pirates were doing: their actions spoke of a larger, warlike strategy—one designed to remove the Federation's production capabilities. They were a departure from the usual intermittent raids the pirates were known for, but were also a perfect way for the Jackal and him to come near a Navy shipyard and carry out their original plan of stealing a ship. The pirates would travel through their own stargates—the means by which they infiltrated Federation space—and he and the Jackal would be able to skip the Navy checkpoints at the Federation's stargates. The plan seemed workable, and Nutty had placed them on a carrier group with the best of luck.

And so they had soldiered on. Blason's death had been horrific. It seemed every day they descended deeper and deeper into a twisted version of an adventure story. During the few quiet times in the last few days, he had thought back to what Blason had said, that the pilot was most alive doing the things he wanted to do. The irony of it stank to hell now. But this was the world they had entered, one full of the darkest shades of black, lightened only by the grays.

Gerrard's mind snapped back to the present. Around them in the wide hangar of the carrier, pilots like themselves rushed down similar ramps, jumping into what looked like fifty other fighters at least. And from the few days he had spent aboard the carrier, he knew there were similar decks throughout the gargantuan body of the carrier. This single ship must have carried close to two hundred fighters.

Their time aboard the pirate carrier had been hectic. They had been hazed by the other members of their wing, but had found themselves in a rough-and-tumble kind of fraternity. Everything reminded him of the Navy. He pulled himself over the edge of the cockpit, wishing the thought would go away.

"Everything okay?"

Gerrard looked up to see the Jackal, twisting around in his front seat. Not for the first time, he realized the Initiative agent hid a lot under his mask of efficient competency. In another time and another life, he imagined he would have liked to be friends with the man. "Yeah," he said.

Gerrard checked his orientation of the panels and dashboard. The interior of the fighter felt familiar, like an older, foreign vintage of glove that nonetheless fit snug over his hand. He pulled on his helmet and leaned back in the seat. The fighter wheeled into its berth and a loud buzz sounded in their cockpit. Green chevrons lit up pointing the way, and they blasted off into the dark.

Space opened up before them and Gerrard heard his heartbeat in his ears. Above them, beside them, and even behind them, a hundred other Nail fighters sped outward from the carrier. The shipyard came into sight, its berths extending outward like planks from a central, blocky core, some docked with what looked like the unfinished hulls of ships. The carrier had landed at a good location. Farther out afield, the destroyers and battleship tasked to their group were already in position, their flanks lighting up with bright plumes of gunfire.

Ahead of them, a thin line of Federation fighters scrambled outward from the facility, rushing to meet the oncoming threat. Gerrard stared, unable to look away. None of them would survive today.

"Alright, it's time to break off." The Jackal's voice came through his headset. Gerrard tore his eyes away, a numbness coming over him.

The Nail followed the trajectory of the swarm of pirate fighters, then broke off downward in a sharp curve. The plan was simple: they would sneak into the shipyard from behind as the Federation defenses dealt with the attackers from the front. The Jackal snapped the nose of the Nail upward out of the curve as its afterburner kicked in, rocketing the fighter toward the underbelly of the shipyard, away from the main killing zone. "We'll have to be _quick_ ," he said. "The shipyard doesn't look like it's going to hold for long."

The Nail reached the rear of the shipyard, where a small forest of space elevators joined the facility to its moon. Most of this side of the shipyard was hidden in shadow, and the place looked inert compared to its front. Halting the fighter's downward velocity, the Jackal brought its nose up towards the shipyard. "Alright, here we go," he said.

The Nail neared the space structure and the Jackal let loose with the ship's twin autocannons. A small blue-white ripple met the first of the projectiles speeding toward the shipyard, then died away as the rest broke through.

"Alright, they've redirected most of the shield towards the front. Here goes nothing."

The Nail gained speed as its afterburner came on, sending a solid kick into the backs of its two-man crew. The fighter came nearer and nearer to where the shield had been... then broke through, unharmed.

A stark silence accompanied the anti-climax. No communications came in and no point-defense weapons shot at them. They were through.

"Alright," the Jackal's voice came through, breathless. "Now let's go land this thing."

The Nail glided into the small hangar. They had almost missed the small opening, hidden away in a dark, unlit fold in the side of one of the shipyard's blocks. It was the first open one they encountered, and the ship slid into the aperture as if they were on a normal visit.

The Nail touched down and Gerrard and the Jackal let themselves out into a darkness broken only by a few electric lights a short distance away. Keeping close to the ground, they clambered toward the lights, finding an access to a separation chamber there. They filed through the small opening and waited as the door shut behind them and the hiss of air filled their ears.

The light on the panel went green, and they removed their helmets and flight suits. The Jackal reached into his front-mounted pack and removed two blaster pistols, handing one to Gerrard with a nod.

They slipped out of the door into a long corridor, the end of which opened up into a wide space from which machine noises came. The Jackal went ahead, sticking his head around the corner, then motioning for Gerrard to follow.

They came out into a gallery, a high, metal walkway overlooking a large industrial floor. Towering machine arms straddled the workspace below, adding metallic material onto half-finished constructions mounted on ceramic plates. They paused a moment there, caught by the sight as various internal spacecraft parts emerged before their eyes before being lifted away and the process restarted.

"C'mon, best to keep moving," the Jackal said, tearing his eyes away from the scene. "We have to find where in the facility the ships are finished and ready for use."

They traveled down the walkway, alert. The place seemed deserted by its human operators, and chugged along only as a ghost factory. Still, the long hallways with nowhere to run were dangerous for them. The Jackal stuck his head into the first door they came to, then slipped in after, Gerrard following.

They entered a kind of storage room, about a hundred yards in length. Tall stacks of cardboard boxes filled the room, forming a long aisle down to its far end, as well as various corridors and passages that wended into the stacks themselves. Choosing to avoid the aisle, they struck off into the passages amidst the boxes.

The ceiling lights deeper into the stacks had been left off, and they found themselves stumbling past boxes, some half-opened, in the dim light. As far as Gerrard could make out, the boxes contained parts for the interiors of cockpits, seats and moulded armrests and the like, with labels like '1X09AA01-HEADSET.' They turned a corner to find two shadowy figures blocking their way.

Gerrard flicked his blaster upwards, aiming for the center of their chests. Then the Jackal, who had taken the same stance beside him, put his blaster down and let a low chuckle escape. "Decades in the business, you'd think I'd know better," he said.

Two life-sized mannequins stood in their way, minding their own business as only mannequins could. Gerrard relaxed his stance and followed as the Initiative agent pushed past them, the label on one of the mannequins' shoulders catching his eye as he did: '7X42FF99-PILOT.'

They wound their way out of the storage room, coming into another hallway stretching right and left. Sounds of footsteps and shouting came from the right, and the Jackal took them left. They curved around a bend to come to a T-junction, where arrows on the wall pointed out 'BARRACKS' and 'ARMORY' in one direction, and 'MANUFACTURING BLOCK A' in another.

The Jackal thought for a moment. "The armory is likely to be locked and guarded, even now. Let's get ourselves to the barracks. If we can steal some uniforms, we're going to have a much easier time getting around. I expect the bunks will be empty at this time."

Gerrard nodded, and they set off. After some more empty hallways, they came to an open, central space with corridors leading off it, each labeled with a number. Keeping to the walls, they stole into the nearest corridor, then ducked into the only open door down it, finding themselves in a bunk.

The place was a proper mess, with clothes strewn all over, and bits of food and cigarettes collected in small piles on a table in its center. A few cabinets stood open, and the Jackal rifled through them. Picking a set of blue-gray fatigues for himself, he tossed another clean set to Gerrard, and they set to changing.

They were halfway done when footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. They shared a look, then ducked under the beds nearest to them. The footsteps got nearer, but in a stumbling, confused kind of way. A pair of booted feet soon appeared in the doorway.

"You don't know how it is..."

The man's words slurred one into the next, as if he was drunk. More plodding footsteps, then his heavy frame crashed into the bed Gerrard was under. Gerrard froze, maintaining eye contact with the Jackal.

"You don't know what we did..."

Gerrard saw the Jackal frown, and felt the same way. The man's raving would draw other soldiers here if there were any about. But as he worried about this, a pill bottle landed on the ground in his line of sight. He saw there was no label. They shared another look. If the man was drugged, they might be able to get away unnoticed.

"You don't know! You don't know what we did! Carran... Axar..."

Gerrard stiffened. The man had been on Carran.

"You don't know what they'll do! They hate us all. You don't understand. We bombed their children..."

The man broke off into a dead snore. The Jackal nodded. It was time to move.

Shifting himself sideways, Gerrard pulled himself out from under the bed, then stood to look at the man. His name tape read 'MONTGOMERY,' and the name meant nothing to Gerrard.

Then Montgomery came back to life, reached under himself, and pulled out a blaster pistol.

Gerrard ducked. The pistol swung upwards.

Then Montgomery placed it into his own mouth.

"You don't understand," he said, his words blocked by the barrel.

Gerrard stared, his mind drawing a blank. But just then the Jackal reached forward and slapped the pistol away. Montgomery's hand fell to his side and didn't rise again. His snoring resumed.

"Come on," the Jackal said. "Let's go."

Gerrard stared at the man a moment longer, unsure what to think. Then it was time to go.

They found their way to Manufacturing Block A, and the scene was much more hectic there. Explosions from outside shook the facility, and soldiers crisscrossed the building. Once they evaded the commands of an officer by acting confused, nodding, and running off in the direction the officer pointed. Somewhere along the way, they picked up the information that the Navy was on the way, but would take some time getting here.

They soon came to what looked like the end of the shipyard's production chain. In a large complex marked 'LOADING BLOCK,' they entered a large warehousing floor, where completed space fighters sat in rows stretching into the distance. Gigantic robotic arms wended up and down the rows, picking up entire fighters at one go and bringing them to the far end of the complex where they disappeared into giant shafts. Gerrard marveled that the shipyard continued its processes even in the midst of an all-out attack.

The Jackal paused and considered the situation. "These are the fighters meant for transport. They won't be fueled up. We need to find one that's absolutely ready to go."

Gerrard cast his eyes around. The inside of an actual shipyard had amazed and overwhelmed a little. A map of the complex caught his eye, and he went over to examine it. The Jackal joined him and put his finger on a spot. "Here. Test hangar."

An explosion rocked the facility, and they fell on their hands.

"Come on, let's go," the Jackal said.

Gerrard scrambled to his feet. If the seal on any part of the building they were in was compromised, they would be sucked out into space with no return trip. The presence of the shafts leading out meant they were too near open space to be dallying. They hurried across the floor, into the corridors that led to the testing facility. Then, just like that, they found what they needed.

The test facility was a hangar and testing complex bound into one. In the distance, Gerrard caught sight of a control station behind glass panels high up on a gallery. The floor space itself was divided with painted lines into lots, each overhung with robotic arms and surrounded by wheeled panels and consoles. Finished spacecraft sat in two of those lots, one even with its navigation lights on. But the entire place seemed otherwise deserted by its human operators.

He recognized at a glance the finished spacecraft on the lots. The Gray Wolf fighters had just entered service as he had left the Navy, but had become ubiquitous throughout the Navy's border forces as dependable, larger-sized workhorses. He and Tang had even taken one apart before, laughing at its bulbous nose as they did. He knew the Gray Wolf carried its own warp drive and served a hybridized role as an independent interceptor. They could not have asked for a better way to get to the border.

"Alright, I'll figure out how to free the bird from its moorings," the Jackal said. "And also see if the thing flies. Find a way to get us into the separation chamber."

Gerrard nodded and set off. He had operated such hangars dozens of times in the Navy. The controls would be around here somewhere. He searched soon found them a short distance away. Flipping the switch, he watched as the large door to the separation chamber at the far end of the hangar slid upward.

"Hey!"

A voice rang out. Gerrard spun around. He had thought the place deserted.

The man who had shouted was dressed in the blue-gray overalls of a lab technician, and looked as stunned as Gerrard felt. He seemed to regain his voice, and shouted again now: "Hey! What're you doing?"

Gerrard turned to look at the Jackal, about thirty paces away. The Initiative agent had drawn his blaster pistol, and had a bead on the man. Something snapped within Gerrard and a raw cry tore from him: "Don't shoot!"

He was sick of it. He was sick of the killing and the dying and everything that came between. He turned to the technician and saw the fear on the man's face. "This has nothing to do with you!" he shouted. "We need the bird. We need to get out of here!"

The technician remained rooted to the spot. He looked from one man to the other.

Gerrard shouted again. "Go away! Walk away! Don't make him shoot you!"

The last part seemed to have gotten through, and the man stumbled backward, turning and disappearing through a door on the other side of the hangar.

The Jackal lowered his pistol, his gaze steely. "C'mon. The fighter's ready."

Gerrard let out a breath. At least one less life would be lost today. But that was only if the technician survived what was to come from the pirates. Wondering if he had accomplished anything at all, he jogged over to rejoin the Jackal.

They clambered up the side of the Gray Wolf and jumped into the open cockpit. Gerrard noticed the fighter was Whisper-equipped in both seats. The interior felt familiar again in a Navy way that he didn't want to think about now.

"This will be tricky," the Jackal said from the front. A loud blast shook the facility around them. The fighter rocked on its wheels, then settled back with a _thump_ , jarring its two crew.

"We don't have much time. We'll just have to do this the most direct way," the Jackal said. He worked the controls and the cockpit cover closed and sealed over them. Then a vibration rattled the interior as the engines came to life.

Ahead of them, the first door to the separation chamber had opened. But the second outer shell leading into space remained closed. The Jackal pushed on the flight stick and the Gray Wolf leaped into motion. Around them, Gerrard heard cables and other paraphernalia slide off the hull of the fighter.

Bringing the fighter around, the Jackal aligned its weapons to the outer door. A second later, a _whoosh_ and staccato backward punch reverberated throughout the fighter as the twin autocannons tucked into the weapon bays under its short wings spat out their ammunition.

A loud suction pulled the fighter forward as large chunks tore from the outer door. Around them, wheeled workstations and anything else not bolted down slid toward the opening, then flew off into the darkness of space.

On and on the autocannons fired, until a large enough hole had opened in the door. Then the Jackal released his backward pull on the flight stick, and the Gray Wolf jumped forward toward space like everything else. The separation chamber and outer door sped past them, and they were out into space.

Once outside, the Jackal flipped on the afterburner and a hard thrust pushed Gerrard back into his seat. The Gray Wolf curved around and they caught sight of the pirate onslaught. The fighters had completed their work, and it seemed all that was left was for the larger ships to demolish the shipyard. In one corner of his mind, Gerrard wondered what that would accomplish, and if any of it was worth it. The Gray Wolf completed its turn and aligned away from the pirate line. Its warp engine light came on, and the Jackal hit the button.

Gerrard took one last look at the space around him, then closed his eyes, thankful even for a moment to shut out the metal, the gunfire, and the deaths he couldn't hear.

# 17

Tang stood outside the door, wondering whether to knock.

It had been a long week, during which he hadn't had much chance to talk to Inca. The last time they had spoken, she had told him about Athena's plan. The Vector wanted her to lead an Initiative fleet against the Federation's forces. Inca's face as she said it had been a careful blank. In the meantime, it seemed Athena had been urging her to train with the Initiative's Whisper, and Inca hadn't refused.

For his part, he couldn't wrap his head around the idea. He wasn't sure what he felt about it, but knew it was past time for him to leave the _Nexus_. The Initiative was a dead end as far as it came to looking for Gerrard, and it was time to go.

And now to say goodbye. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

"Come in."

Tang let himself in and found Inca sitting at the far end of her cabin, where a large wall display showed the Night outside. In the starlight from the screen, Inca seemed a paler shade of herself, a different being from the no-nonsense lieutenant who had dragged him on a wild hunt for his friend. He snapped out of his thoughts and forced himself to keep steady. "I—ahh. Just wanted to see how you've been doing. You know—since the uhh—"

"I'm doing fine, Tang. Thank you."

Her voice had come to be marked with a cool, distant tone. Tang wondered then how much of the changes he had seen come over her had to do with the Initiative's Whisper. But he kept his thoughts to himself.

"That's good. That's good," he said. "I—ahh. Guess I wanted to stop by to say goodbye. I—I have to go. I need to go find Gerrard."

There was a nod from Inca, a flash of the straightforward, hard-knocks lieutenant. "I'm sorry I couldn't help you find him, Tang. If you go back to Colonel Pitt, he'll be able to help you."

Tang nodded. He had said what he had come to say. Now it was time to go.

He spun around on his heels, reached for the door, then stopped himself.

No, he did know how he felt about Athena's plan. Inca shouldn't be a part of it. Whatever outcome Athena had promised Inca, it didn't seem worth any of the changes coming over her.

Unable to help himself, he turned back around. "Inca, I know it's none of my business, but I just can't leave it alone. What's Athena doing with you? Are you really going to go through with her plan? Can't we both go back, together?"

Silence from Inca's end of the cabin.

Tang cringed. He had done it now, had put his foot in it. He had said too much, like he always did.

"I don't know, Tang."

Inca slid off the ledge and came into the light, and Tang struggled to keep his reaction hidden. He hadn't imagined any of the changes that had come over her. The Navy lieutenant's eyes looked bruised and swollen, and she kept them half-shut as if the light pained them. An abstract, otherworldly look filled them as she looked at him.

"There is a lot to consider," she said.

Tang hesitated for a moment as to whether to press the issue. Then he decided to go for it.

"What is there to consider, Inca?"

A long silence drew out, before Inca said almost as if to herself: "The number of lives that will be lost."

Well, he had his answer. This was how Inca thought. Maybe how she _had_ to think, in probabilities and numbers, and in terms of the option with the best statistical outcome.

Tang nodded, overwhelmed. What could he say or do now that would make anything better?

"But thank you, Tang," Inca said. "Thank you."

As he replayed the conversation in his head later, he wondered at all that was said, and at the rightness and wrongness of everything that had happened, and at everything that seemed about to happen. But no matter what he thought about it all, he couldn't pull himself away from that image of her eyes as she had spoken to him, distant and pained beyond belief, a soul calling out for help if he had ever seen one. For better or worse, he knew a thing or two about people like that, and wondered more than once on his way back if he should have stayed after all.

# 18

She awoke in the dark, her head pounding and her throat parched. A single slit of light from a nearby wall gave all the indication she had as to her whereabouts, and Stormy's eyes adjusted to the dim.

If she had to venture a guess, she would say she was in a supply closet that had been converted into a cabin. She lay on a foldout bed with a foam mattress, her feet in a forest of brooms, while a supply cabinet loomed overhead, its shelves stacked with boxes.

Her head throbbed and Stormy lay back down. Her last memory was of the Jackal's instructions, to warp into the pirate line. She knew the success of the maneuver depended on her ability to pull it off, and she had worked the engines of the _Harrier_ like her life depended on it. Well, it did, she guessed.

Then what had happened?

There had been a violent shearing apart of everything in her vision. Everything not nailed down had exited the spacecraft in a hurry, into deep, black space. She had grabbed onto a railing, but the railing itself had made an exodus of the engine room too. Then she was hurtling away, spinning as she went. All around had been metal and flashes of light, then darkness.

Her suit! Yes, she had tried to work its controls; something had stalled. The oxygen regulator hadn't kicked in. She had tried to draw breath but there hadn't been enough oxygen to go around. Then she didn't remember anymore. The oxygen must have kicked in soon after, or she wouldn't be alive now.

Stormy nuzzled her head. She should have been dead, a corpse adrift in the Night. She felt like one too. Just then, the door to the closet opened. She stilled herself and waited.

A short, stocky man entered and hovered over her now, his hands finicky and unsure. Stormy lay still, keeping her eyes open at a minimum slit. The man turned away for a moment and she took the chance, leaping off the bed onto the man's back and slipping her arms around his neck in a choke hold. Then she squeezed.

The man gagged and kicked out, and began slapping on the bulkhead of the cabin. He made choking sounds and Stormy loosened her grip on his neck, speaking close to his ear. "Keep it down or die."

"Okay—" the man said.

"Where am I?"

"UF _Menalaus_ —ship, warship—"

UF _Menalaus_. The name meant nothing to her, except that it was a Federation ship.

"What am I doing here?" she said.

"Picked up—we picked you up—you were just—floating."

She released her choke hold, spun the man around, and slammed him into the bulkhead. The man gasped and coughed.

"Speak quietly and quickly," she said. "Or I will spear you with a broom. Repeat to me again how the hell I came to be here."

The man coughed a few times more, breathing hard. He spoke and Stormy judged his accent to be standard border-world Federation, of an urban, educated variety.

"Like I said, we found you floating out there, like a corpse. You were lucky we spotted you at all. Higher command said to stop and try to save you. The rest of the fleet went ahead. I don't know what you were doing there, but we were chasing the pirates—the pirates from the Stokes-Inko gate. They're gone now, and so's the rest of the fleet. It's just us, and we had to put you in here 'cos we don't have any space. God you're making me wish we had left you."

Stormy punched him in the gut and the man doubled over, crying out in pain.

"Shut up," she said. "What's to be done with me?"

"We don't—" the man said between ragged breaths. "We don't know. We don't know who you are or why you were there. You could be a pirate for all I know. We're dropping you off at the nearest base and they can process you from there. Jeez, woman, just stop hitting me please."

"Fine," Stormy said. "Take me to your captain."

The man looked up, pained. "I am the captain!"

"You're what!"

Stormy grabbed the man's uniform shirt and pushed open the door to the closet with her other hand. Light from the corridor outside fell on them, and she saw the rank on the man's front lapel: lieutenant commander. His name tag read 'OWEN.'

"You must be the most pathetic officer I've seen yet from the Federation Navy. And that's really saying something," she said.

The man scowled and pushed her away. "Whatever. I'm placing you under arrest on suspicion of pirate activity. Our ship has no brig and so I must confine you by force to this makeshift cabin. We're headed for Lolin Base, where I will release you into the custody of the Regimental Police there. And the sooner the better if it were up to me."

In her estimation, Lolin Base was the equivalent of a backyard shed in a farmer's field between nowhere and next to nowhere. The base accommodated the _Menalaus_ only by shifting away two other berthed ships. When the ship had docked, LtCdr. Owen had come with two of his crew, handcuffed her, walked her down the ramp, then handed her off to the Regimental Police as promised. Owen had given her one last weird, scrutinizing look before disappearing along with his crew.

She sat now on a small metal chair in a claustrophobic room with a single light overhead. It had been three days since she had come into their custody and she felt ready to kick the walls down if it would get them to move the paperwork faster.

The door opened and a gray-haired man in a brown suit came in, accompanied by LtCdr. Owen, looking the unhappiest Stormy had seen even for him.

The gray-haired man sat down and opened a folder, thumbing through what looked like photocopies of Initiative documents.

"Ms. Avencal, you'll be pleased to know we've finally managed to locate some identification papers, which you can imagine was no easy feat considering the current state of relations between the Federation and your home country. I am pleased to be able to tell you that we have considered your situation and your testimony, and that you are to be repatriated to your home country without any charges pressed."

Stormy threw up her hands. "Fucking final—"

"However," the man said, cutting her off. "We find ourselves in an unusual situation given the state of the military buildup along the Federation-Initiative border. The situation has forced us to be unable to render a normal, expedient repatriation, and I regret to inform you that we have made the following executive decision with regard to your case.

"You will be brought under Navy supervision to the border world of Calworth, where you will be issued a limited planetary visa akin to a normal tourist visa, with the express condition that you will remain upon Calworth Prime and be unable to travel beyond the planet, until such time as the border situation has calmed to a point as to allow for the resumption of your repatriation to the Initiative."

The man pushed a piece of paper forward and placed a pen beside it. "If you understand the terms that have just been explained to you, please sign this document."

Stormy stared at the man. "You are fucking kidding—"

"Ms. Avencal!"

Stormy started. The shout had come from LtCdr. Owen, who had been silent until now, and had gone red. "I've had enough of this bullshit attitude of yours. We saved your life, and have been treating you more than well enough for someone who could have been locked up on charges of associating with known pirates! We are offering you a way out, the best we can, and just—!"

The LtCdr. stopped, unable to continue.

The gray-haired man sighed. "I believe the Commander is not wrong, Ms. Avencal. Given the circumstances of your apprehension, this is the very best we can do for you. Please accept the terms given and we won't have to go into other more punitive ways of coming to the same end. Please."

Stormy glowered, then snatched up the pen and scrawled her name across the dotted line.

"What crawled up his butt?" she asked, pointing to LtCdr. Owen. "He looks like he's taken a shit pill and just discovered it wasn't oral medication."

The gray-haired man shook his head, retrieving the piece of paper and filing it away. "LtCdr. Owen has been tasked with escorting you to Calworth. Good day, Ms. Avencal."

..............................

The _Traveler_ , the land-launched shuttle they were to take to Calworth, looked about as unhappy as its two passengers.

"Imagine that," Stormy said, as she trudged up the ramp. "A lieutenant commander of the Navy tasked with escorting a fragile damsel to the borderest of the border worlds. What straw did you draw to get shit duty?"

Owen—she only knew his last name and had to go by it—remained silent as he packed into the spacecraft behind her. He remained that way as the shuttle completed its liftoff and they launched back out into the Night.

She awoke the second day to find the LtCdr. cursing at the ship's console. Letting herself into the flight deck, she leaned against the bulkhead and folded her arms. "What is it?"

Owen turned around in surprise, before continuing to fume at the console. "Bloody warp engine's gone dead. We could be stuck out here for days before anyone knows we're here. I've put out the SOS but who knows. Dammit!" He struck the console, then grimaced and rubbed his hand.

"How'd you become a lieutenant commander?" Stormy asked.

Owen snapped. "What is your goddamned problem? You've been giving me nothing but abuse since I rescued you. Yes that's right, rescued you! Is this how you talk to everybody or just me? Just what the hell is your problem?"

Stormy glared, then pushed him aside to look at the console. She ran her fingers over the panel, recognizing the ship's software, make, and engine type. Owen had run a diagnostic on the ship's systems, but it had thrown engineer's jargon back at him. She glanced over it and saw what the problem was.

Pushing away from the console, she stalked off toward the rear of the ship. On her first day on board she had inventoried the tools available on the ship, as a matter of professional habit. She picked out the ones she needed now. Then, she found the ship's spacesuits and shrugged into one, bringing another into the flight deck and dumping it on the floor.

"Suit up, I'm depressurizing the entire cabin."

"What?" Owen said, glaring.

"The problem can't be fixed from in here. I'm doing an EVA."

"You what?" Owen repeated.

"Look, I don't have time for your stupidity. I'm depressurizing the ship so you can suit up if you like or pop like a balloon if you don't." She pushed past him again and began working the console. When the warning signal blared, Owen jumped into the suit.

The repairs took over an hour, and she returned to the interior of the _Traveler_ exhausted, only to find Owen standing there just staring at her. She pushed past him and pulled the hatch shut, then activated the pressurization procedure.

When it completed, they tore off their suits, and Owen started up the system diagnostics. It came back green and he stared at her in amazement.

"Stop fucking looking at me," Stormy said, picking up her suit and equipment and heading to the rear of the shuttle to stow them. When it was done she found Owen standing in the main cabin compartment.

"Look, I'm not trying to be creepy or anything," he said. "It's just—I've been thinking. Look, I know some of the tattoos you have on your head. I know what some of them mean. You've been all over the galaxy, and to some places where the Navy—" He stopped, looking vexed. "Just, is that it? Is that why you're so unpleasant towards me? Is it just because I'm Federation Navy?"

Stormy straightened herself, crossed her arms, and glared in silence.

Owen shook his head, grimacing. "Look, I get it. The Navy's done some disgusting things. But we're not all cut from the same cloth. Just—" He stopped and seemed at a loss for words. "Never mind," he said, heading back towards the flight deck.

"Not all of you are disgusting pigs who would bomb innocent civilians if your commanders told you to?" Stormy called out.

Owen stopped, turning back and taking a deep breath. "Look, I know what you're talking about. I've done some research into those incidents myself. Not everybody in the Navy turns a blind eye to these things. Some of us are horrified too. In fact—" He stopped himself again, his face showing he regretted having spoken.

"What?" Stormy said.

"Nothing. Never mind," Owen said. "I'm gonna head back to the front now. Just sit tight and with a little luck we'll both be free of each other soon."

When she saw him again the _Traveler_ had stopped moving for some reason. Stormy came into the flight deck to find Owen staring at the readouts on the shuttle's display.

"What is it?" she said.

"There's a convoy."

Stormy looked at the display: they were at the Banes-Mol gate which showed a few ships waiting in line to pass through, appropriate enough for this quiet part of space, she guessed. But she saw that Owen had sent out a burst of active radar, and it had returned with a line of blips about fifteen light minutes away.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

But Owen looked up as if he didn't see her, then went past her into the main compartment of the shuttle and through to his cabin. Stormy followed him in. "What the hell is it?" she said.

Owen ignored her, pulling out star charts from a military-issue backpack, setting them on his lap and concentrating on them. He looked up a while later, again lost in his own thoughts and not seeing her. A kind of wild look came into his eyes, before he seemed to remember she was there. "Nothing," he said, shaking his head.

Stormy snatched up the star charts from his lap, then pushed him back against the bulkhead. "Will you for once in your goddamned life finish a fucking sentence, and say what the hell it is that's bothering you, or will I have to beat the crap out of you and your stupid uniform just to—"

Owen held up his hands, then pushed her back. "Fine, you want to know, I'll tell you. Maybe then you'll understand what I was trying to say."

He stopped, as if surprised by his own reaction, then closed his eyes as if to gather his thoughts.

"When I said yesterday I had researched those places you've been, and that I know the Federation Navy has committed those atrocities, in Carran, Axar, and all the others... It's a bit more than that. I'd never wanted to be in the Navy. But ever since joining and hearing more about the scandal surrounding the rebel insurgency and the Navy's put down of it, I haven't really been able to put it out of my mind.

"I—I have an uncle, he's an executive—at Starsky, their news department. He's always had an interest in the whole thing since it started. Always encouraged me to look into it too, ever since he found out that I joined the Navy. About a year ago I decided to put some serious research into it, and dug up whatever I could find surrounding the series of incidents there. But just a few weeks ago, my uncle caught wind of a rumor that the Navy was mobilizing to send another fleet to Carran."

Stormy's eyes widened.

"Yeah," Owen said. "You know as well as I do the entire series of systems there is off-limits, legally and politically, ever since the scandal. Which is partly why neither of us really believed the rumor, and I just kinda shoved it to the back of my mind. But the convoy—"

Owen shook his head, as if not believing what he was about to say. "The convoy that's in the other sector of the system, I recognize the detailing. I..." He stopped and looked at Stormy with a perplexed expression, as if just now understanding that he was speaking to a near-complete stranger.

"No," Stormy said, putting all the force she could into the word. "You were about to say something. Owen, this is more important than you and me. If it's something that might have to do with Carran, we need to get to the bottom of it."

Owen stared, agape, but spoke again after a while. "I was going to say, I trained as a logistics officer before being transferred over to the combat track, and I recognize the exact detailing of the convoy. The composition is the doctrinal one for the transport of orbital bombardment munitions. I was trying to see where it was the convoy might be headed."

He lifted the star charts out of Stormy's hands and showed them to her, pointing as he went. "Their position right now is at one of the military stargates that are in this system. It's no big secret that the Navy has stargates all over the Federation it doesn't advertise, but which it guards and uses. I know the ones here like the back of my hand.

"The current military route runs parallel to our civilian route, which you can see is pretty much a pipeline all the way to Calworth. But Calworth is a demilitarized zone guaranteed by the Earth Authority. Not even the Federation Navy would bring munitions through there. So crossing that out, the convoy would have to turn at Olanda, and take the route along the Paras Byway; except that the military stargates here and here were decommissioned about ten years ago, from disuse. So the only branch off here would lead back toward Eri, which is a population center, where convoys like this one would be prohibited. Which would mean the only other route from here on is the Locasas Line, which leads straight onward to..."

"Carran," Stormy said, her mouth dry.

Owen put the chart away, then let his head fall into his hands. "My God. I was going to travel to the sector in about a month or so. My term with the Navy ends in a few days. I'm basically a civilian. I was going to travel there and see what I could find."

So that was why Owen had been assigned to escort her: it was his last few days and they had given him an easy, out-of-the-way job, en route to where he had wanted to be.

Stormy stepped back and cursed herself. Owen was much more than she had figured him for, and she had done nothing but give him grief. She grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to look at her. "Owen, you are a good man for researching and finding what you've found. This is happening right now in front of our eyes and there is no other time to do this. If what you've said is true there might be nothing more to see on Carran in a month's time." She paused, then added, "I'm sorry for the way I've treated you. It was entirely uncalled for."

Owen shook his head, waving it off. "Don't worry about it. The thing I don't understand is why? Why now? It's been a few years since the insurgency."

Stormy thought about it. "Something must have happened to spook them or to cause them to move. I have more than a few ideas what." The Federation was in a standoff with the Initiative, and its Navy was hustling on its way to Carran. Somewhere in there was a link she hadn't yet found, but knew was there.

She continued. "During my time on Carran I saw more things than was ever uncovered by the media and the investigators. I was never able to make a complete case because I had stupidly not documented any of what I'd seen. But something must be happening now that's pushing the Navy to want to destroy even the last of the evidence there. Commander, listen to me, please. We have to go there. We have to go there now."

# 19

The Gray Wolf landed out of warp, and the scene around the stargate opened up before them. Gerrard's eyes widened: there was more spaceship than space. Warships of all sizes were arranged into box-like three-dimensional ranks, stretching out until individual ships were no more than specks to the naked eye. Giant freighters accompanied each lot, their muted gunmetal gray a stark difference to their civilian counterparts. In the distance, clusters of what looked like tankers, as well as other ships he couldn't identify, traveled to and fro between the ranks of warships.

Gerrard pulled himself back from the sight, taking a breath. They had made it this far.

Finding the Federation Navy buildup hadn't been difficult: it was all along the border between the nations. The Jackal had effected some security finessing, decoding and mimicking transponder codes. After that, it had been a matter of inserting themselves into the buildup, but always remaining _between_ units, such that they were unverifiable by any single one. The Initiative agent was superb at the task, and they were helped by the size of the buildup: it was enormous, and it was messy. Now all they had to do was to get as close to the Initiative side as they could, so that the Jackal could establish some sort of contact with his home nation for them to try to slip through.

Gerrard closed his eyes and leaned back against the headrest.

The moment of their escape seemed to be drawing nearer. If all went well, they would be past the border, and from there... From there at least he would have the implant removed. He still lacked any concrete answer as to where it came from and why he had found it the way he had. His father's messages were still a mystery. But at the very least, he wouldn't be bound to the implant anymore. From there, he would have to see. But for now, they still had the border to cross. He opened his eyes, snapping back to the present.

Out in space, giant beacons carried by ships marked the way, showing the different unit identification codes and pointing towards different areas with matching colors. Communications came over the radio, a harried petty officer yelling at their warp detail to please get a move on.

The Jackal looked down the list of codes and started up the Gray Wolf toward one of the lots. "The sheer size of your nation's Navy is simply unnerving at times," he said.

Gerrard nodded, glancing down at the display showing the scene around them.

Unnerving was one word for it.

He awoke some time later, surprised to find he had dozed. The back-and-forth on the radio had become frantic. From the front, the Jackal said, "The fleet's moving. It's time to go."

Gerrard looked out and saw that the method of locomotion had come to them. Driven by teams of tugs each as large as the largest freighters Gerrard had seen in the staging area, the stargate came into place in front of the fleet. Smaller than the permanent civilian gates, the mobile stargate still allowed the entire front rank of the fleet to enter at once.

The Gray Wolf moved forward together with the throng of ships heading into the flashing light at the center of the gate. When the time came, they braced themselves and pushed forward into the gate. Gerrard blinked, then saw that they had come out the other end.

A radio transmission came over their band, hushed and intense: "Move along."

They filed on and Gerrard looked out. The space around them this time was less cluttered, the Navy fleet there looking minuscule against the backdrop of the Night. The radio fell silent, the quiet broken only by terse, coded broadcasts. It soon became clear that they had reached the frontline with the Initiative, and that a fleet from the Jackal's home nation occupied the other end of the system about six light hours away.

"This is it," the Jackal said. "We'll wait for the right opportunity, then slip off."

In the back seat, Gerrard clenched and unclenched his hands, noting that the inside of his flight gloves had become clammy with sweat. The tension here was more palpable than anything he had felt in his entire time in the Navy. From all they had heard on their way here, the two nations were more than ready for war, but hadn't yet taken the final leap. It didn't take a soldier to know that any conflict between them would be devastating to both sides. He had long lost contact with any friends or extended family in the Navy, but shuddered nonetheless at the thought of what would happen. His mind bounced back and forth between worries for the situation and for himself. When the Jackal spoke again, he realized he had lost track of time.

"Alright. We're going."

The Gray Wolf broke off, the Jackal guiding the fighter out of the Navy formation with small bursts of thrust. When they reached the edge of the Navy cluster of ships, the Jackal took a deep breath, then hit the warp button. A few heartbeats later, the Gray Wolf slipped into faster-than-light travel. Light stretched around them, then flowed back into normal perspective as the fighter landed out of warp. Gerrard saw that they were in the shadow of a small moon, light from the sun peeking around its edges.

"We'll wait here," the Jackal said. "Once I'm sure no one noticed us leaving, I'll begin searching for and contacting the Initiative fleet. Then we'll be through."

A strange tension came over Gerrard as they waited. He attributed it to nerves, but then realized it was something different he hadn't felt since the jail cell on the pirate base. The last time it had meant the oncoming of that strange dream, those memories that hadn't been his. He wondered if another episode was starting and decided to say something.

"I don't feel so good."

The Jackal turned around in his seat. "What's wrong?"

It's time, Gerrard.

Gerrard stared forward, the words choking up in his throat. The voice had sounded in his head as clear as his own thoughts. With a sudden clarity, he recognized it now as the voice he had heard onboard the Fiddler, and the voice that had always been there in his dreams since the day he found the implant.

How could something so important not have registered with him this whole time?

From in front of him, the Initiative agent nodded. "Alright. But be careful."

Gerrard shook his head. Had he said something?

But the Jackal was peering at him now, concern in his eyes. "You said you wanted to plug into the Whisper."

_No I didn't_. But Gerrard looked down to see himself reaching for the Whisper panel. He watched in strange fascination as his fingers pushed for the spike connector, then in horror as his body leaned back into it. His eyes looked out into the interior of the cockpit one last time, then shut themselves to the external world.

It's time, Gerrard.

In the darkness, the voice was clearer than ever.

Gerrard struggled to think. _Time for what?_

Time that we meet.

His vision opened into a living room, complete with the vase that his grandmother had left, the photograph of his mother, smiling out from the past, eyes crinkled and old. The couch he had gamboled on, pitting toy models of spaceships against each other in mock battles in his imaginary cosmos, the fireplace he had spent countless nights reading in front of. The window looking out onto the wheat fields of his childhood.

"Hello, Gerrard." A man sat hunched over in the couch, dressed in a black suit.

"You," Gerrard said.

"Yes, me."

The President of the United Federation, Rob Fuller, sat up in the couch, straightening his frame. A smile touched the corners of his eyes, though the eyes themselves remained flat.

"You're supposed to be dead," Gerrard said.

A weak chuckle escaped the man. "Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. But there are more important things happening now and I've come to play my part. You are going to help me accomplish them, Gerrard. We're going to get this war with the Initiative off to a start."

Gerrard stared. What did the man mean? How could the President of the Federation still be alive and talking to him, except as a hallucination in his head? But more important than that, what was he planning to do?

The president leaned back in the couch. "It's been a long time coming, Gerrard. And the Federation has been needing it. We are becoming the weakest of the great nations. It is time to change that."

Fuller smiled at Gerrard's discomfort. He stood and moved toward Gerrard's family portrait, hung above the fireplace. As he did so, Gerrard noticed a liquid quality in the scene. Things swam, as if they struggled to keep up with reality. Fuller was at the portrait before he knew it. "Your father was a good man. A little ineffective in his methods of communicating. But a good man, nonetheless. The Federation needs more soldiers like him."

A sudden anger exploded within Gerrard. He seethed at how comfortable Fuller was in his home. At the things the man was saying, that he had no right to. "You don't know my father."

Fuller turned to him, a smile on his lips. "On the contrary, I know him too well. He always saw the world as it was, Gerrard. Refused to look away from it just because it might be disturbing. I think he tried to impress the same view of things on you. He was never tactful, but I think he had the best intentions."

Gerrard's words came out as a shout. In this strange, hallucinatory world, he seemed to speak with a forcefulness of emotion he wasn't used to in real life. "You don't know what it was he wanted!"

But the smile didn't leave the president's lips. "On the contrary again, your father had the right idea of what was necessary. The Federation is ailing, Gerrard. And it is not simply a matter of hoping it will get better."

Then something even stranger happened. As Fuller turned to face him, the man's visage _flickered_ , as if Gerrard had only been talking to a holographic projection, though he saw no projector of any sort around them. The flicker passed, and Fuller spoke again, repeating himself without seeming to know it: "The Federation is ailing, Gerrard. And it is not simply a matter of hoping it will get better."

Gerrard looked on, stunned. What in the world was going on?

But Fuller continued, oblivious. "Our enemies are arrayed around us. The Initiative has always been a tempting beacon for our worlds. Any further weakness and even more of them will secede. In the meantime, the Collective looms ever larger over us. If nothing is done, it is only a matter of time before it has the strongest arm in the galaxy. Our navies have deteriorated because the people believe we live in a world that allows for peace."

A different sort of anger found its way into him now. Gerrard wanted to respond, but found he couldn't. The same things he had heard from his father since his youth were being spoken again now. He had struggled then to refute them, and he struggled now.

Why? Why was he always like this? If he believed in what he did, why couldn't he say the words and dispel the man's nonsense? Why couldn't he just say what needed to be said?

Or had he ever believed?

"We live in a world of war, Gerrard. One that beats down weakened empires and raises others in their place without so much as the bat of an eye. Peace is a luxury only enjoyable by those who don't actually have to ensure it."

_No, it isn't like that_ , Gerrard thought. _It isn't like that at all_. But in the face of Fuller's assuredness, Gerrard found his words dying before they reached his lips. All his life he had believed something different, had _wanted_ things to be different from the picture the president was painting. But all his life too, those beliefs had been dismissed. When it came to it now, he found he didn't even have the arguments ready to fight back. Without the right words, whatever his feelings were, they remained just that—feelings.

"This is only the first step, Gerrard. Without a fresh war the Federation will never re-arm itself again. It will never rise to become the nation it once was, when it had authority from one end of the galaxy to the next. And there are more terrible things to come. Things which a weak Federation will not survive."

Gerrard took a step back. Outside in the fields, the gray skies portended a storm.

The president turned toward him, his stature filled with strength. "You've been refusing to see it for too long, Gerrard. But if you look around, you will realize that what we have, we have only because we were willing to fight for them. Your father tried to tell you, Gerrard. Time is running out now."

Gerrard took another step back. A single strangled word escaped his lips. "No."

What was it he believed? Could any of it refute what Fuller was saying? He found he didn't know, perhaps had never known. He was a leaf tossed in the face of a coming storm.

Fuller didn't miss a beat. "No? Why? Because you think you're free from it all? Isn't it a little selfish to claim that? No wonder your father wanted you to meet me, Gerrard. I can see why he gave up trying to convince you."

A mixture of pain, humiliation, and shame hit Gerrard all at once. He wanted to say it wasn't true, that it couldn't be true. But couldn't it? All his life he had not been enough for his father. All his life he had failed to see things the way his father had. Why would any of it change now? He sat back down on his stool, staring at nothing.

Fuller nodded. "This will all be for the good of everything. It's time."

Gerrard lifted his head and his vision froze. His awareness pulled back from the scene, and was sucked backward into a deep, dark cocoon. Series of numbers and letters flitted through his mind, a protocol arcane and secret. He felt the president reach out through the darkness and establish a link with the other Federation spacecraft in the system. Gerrard panicked.

He had realized it all too late.

He and the Jackal had underestimated the implant in his head. It had not just been a piece of static intelligence like the Jackal had said. The implant had somehow contained the person of the assassinated president. But it wasn't just that.

He felt it even now, the secrets, plans, and agendas that the implant held. The implant had been meant to do something, and even bumbling through space as he and the Jackal had, he had fulfilled some purpose on its behalf. As he remained caged in the cocoon, Gerrard felt an exchange take place over the radio transmission. Then the cocoon burst and he became aware that _something_ had been done.

"Gerrard!"

He regained his vision. Pain gripped the back of his head, spreading outward from his cerebral slot. The interior of the Gray Wolf swam around him. Someone was shaking his shoulders.

"Gerrard!" The Jackal was looking straight at him. "What the bloody hell just happened?"

Even through the pain and the dizziness, Gerrard remembered. Fuller had spoken to him from the implant. No, he had taken control of him, and had done _something_. How long had he been gone? Gerrard spoke and found his throat parched. "He was there. The president. The President of the Federation. The assassinated one. Jackal. He sent something out. A radio transmission. He sent a code out."

"What code? What do you mean?"

Gerrard fought past the pain. He needed to concentrate, to remember all he had learned about codes from his time in the Navy. In the interstellar world, military codes had a crucial importance in the coordination of forces separated by cosmic distances. With the right protocol, any ship could become the bearer of an order from commanders light years away. The codes were designed to be blind to factors like the size of the ship broadcasting them, to allow even the smallest members of any unit to carry the message. To compensate for that, the codes were complex, encrypted things. They were also predetermined and wouldn't have changed with the president's death. They would account for every situation and every possible action to take.

A slow horror crept up over him, mingling with the burgeoning guilt, shame, and despise for himself. Few would have access to the codes, except the frontline commanders who needed them. And the president who had them. Gerrard slumped forward in the seat, tears springing to his eyes. "The Navy. They're going to attack. Jackal, the code. It was meant for the Navy. They're going to attack the Initiative."

# 20

Strontium stepped out of the elevator and onto the rain-soaked ground-level streets of the city. It had been a while since he had walked down this way. He let his feet carry him, winding down pathways and letting the sights and sounds flow in and out of his consciousness. The ground level of the city tended to stay dry even during downpours, thanks to the vehicles on the upper levels and the arching canopy of structures that always seemed to tower overhead. The neo-Goth punks and technokids he was sure were rich kids from the neighborhood acting out rebellious fantasies were out in their usual numbers anyway.

He wound through the urban maze, ending up at a shopping district that would be considered respectable for the ground level. Bright storefront displays cut through the gloom of the streets, with small crowds gathered here and there. Strontium knew the stores there, had frequented them enough in the past to not have his eye drawn to anything in the displays. For now, he concentrated on people-watching instead.

Here was a man, looking to be forty, staring into a storefront display with a frown on his face. The display was the mannequin of a young woman, her head turned sideways, a new style of cerebral slots shown on the side of her head above the ear. Placards proclaimed more slots at high transfer rates, suitable for the young, new executive. On a second look, the man's frown no longer seemed to be a disapproval, but of contemplation, perhaps for the future.

There was a teenager, crowding into an alleyway between two large department stores. His hair, spiked, and green. His clothes, too much metal and leather. His mannerisms, the antics of teenagers throughout space and time, his arms raised in a half-drunken jig in front of his friends, who smoked at some substance.

There was a woman, out of place, but then again not, on this street, her hands in her leather jacket, a sulky look on her face. She was the type Strontium had learned not to look at, for whom a stare was provocation enough for the concealed automatic pistols in the leather jacket to whip out. He would have expected her to show up maybe a few streets farther down, but he guessed the boundaries had shifted again.

He stopped and collected himself.

What was he doing? Why was he walking the streets as if there'd be answers here?

He picked up his feet again.

What was this feeling coming over him? Perhaps it was the realization of how big a plot it was he was stumbling onto. Perhaps it was seeing in action what he had suspected all along, and had prepared for all this while. But no, it wasn't that either.

It was coming to realize what kind of a world it was he lived in. He had had an inkling long ago, but seeing the details and reality of it was different again. That was it: he wasn't ready, even after everything that he had done. All the things he had done, gathering his teams, surrounding himself with the right people, setting up his networks, all of it had not prepared him for the final stage: wading into the deep.

From here on that would be all that it was. Wading into the muck and the filth and the dirt that made up the world. It was a reality he had accepted at the start of this path: there was no way to operate in the world without getting his own hands dirty in it. And there was no way he would be clean from here on. The alternative was to retreat to a mountaintop and live out a life away from it all.

And that would have only been selfish.

He stopped at a crossroads, busy with people busy getting somewhere. The people there today struck him as an odd sort of ornament to his thoughts. They were people he was giving so much to serve, but who would balk if they knew what was in his heart. But there was nothing for it but to get to the bitter end.

A heavy fog settled over the streets, blurring the lights from the city above. Strontium gathered his coat around him and walked into the night. The way forward would be darker than the way here.

He returned home to find Wilkes had set up the appointment. Strontium got into the car and tried to think about nothing as it sped through the city to its destination. Stepping out, he came into a nondescript office with a mousy man waiting behind a small, gray desk. Behind the desk, the lights of the street filtered in through Venetian blinds, bolstering the lonely lamp in the cramped space.

The man smiled and stood upon his entrance.

"Welcome, Mr. Undersecretary. We have been waiting for you." He led the way down a narrow corridor, then down three flights of stairs into a basement compartment, where he opened a heavy door and gestured for Strontium to enter, closing it behind him.

Inside, Strontium found himself in a cozy, carpeted space complete with a sofa set, coffee table, and fridge and mini-bar on one side. The man smoking and waiting there stood upon his arrival and came to shake his hand. "Mr. Undersecretary, it's a pleasure to finally meet you. Would you care for a drink?"

"Never on business," Strontium said. "But coffee would be good. Mr. Moore, I presume?"

"Yes, that is me," the man replied.

Strontium had already known as much, but it was good to get a confirmation from the man himself. Information about the chief officers of firms in sensitive industries was always hard to come by—the number of assassinations and other horrendous things executed on a regular basis between the large corporations saw to that.

But Strontium had been tracking Moore and his firm for a long time. In the weave of power between government and the large corporations, every available piece of information was precious, and every player, no matter how small, was a resource. The time had come to make a play upon the scene, and Moore would be a vital part of it. They seated themselves and Moore poured him coffee.

"What can I do for you today, Mr. Undersecretary?" Moore said.

Strontium steadied himself, then began. "I'll come straight to the point. As you may know, I have been interested in the Whisper technology ever since its adoption by certain parts of the Navy. Not least because the border worlds here seem to have become an experimental ground for the technology.

"I have ever been intrigued by the relationship between the Navy and the providers of the Whisper units." He paused. "But I've never been able to find as much as I would like, seeing as it seems to have become a military, industrial, and national secret all at once."

He leaned back in his seat, needing to shift the focus. "Your company produces and supplies a large portion of the quantities in the sector of what would be called in the industry the 'blank slate' or 'blank mind' units. These are the devices that go to the Whisper contractors who imprint the actual Whisper spacecraft control software onto them to produce the final Whisper unit. I am not mistaken so far?"

Moore gave a pleasant smile. "Not at all. You are as well-informed as I expected you to be."

"Right. If I may carry on for just a little while more, so that I make no mistakes in the premise of what I am about to propose. Without the actual imprint of the software from the contractors, the units would be called, as I have said, 'blank mind' units. This is because that is what they would be: units that functioned like a mental dashboard, but without the predictive, responsive, and integrative capabilities of a Whisper unit—the portions that make Whisper pilots feel as if they've become one with the machine, so to speak."

Moore nodded. "Right again, sir."

"And finally," Strontium said. "These blank mind units are what the Collective actually uses in their combat spacecraft, due to not having the Whisper technology or a suitable counterpart."

"Exactly. The Collective has a different philosophy to their technology, and seem perfectly capable without the Whisper software."

Strontium leaned back. Now that the basics were covered, he could put what he had out there. "Mr. Moore, I'll come straight out and say it. Everything I've looked into over the years points to there being something at the bottom of the production of the Whisper units that neither their producers nor the Navy wishes to be known. I've come to increasingly want to know what it is."

Moore allowed a long pause to stretch out. "I wouldn't know what to tell you. There are many rumors that surround the industry and the production of the Whisper units. The difficult thing, as in any inquiry of this sort, is producing hard evidence of any sort."

"Quite right," Strontium said. "And I know if there is any entity in this whole chain which would have such evidence, and would be willing to divulge it, it would be a company that didn't have as direct a stake in the technology, and in fact would benefit if the Whisper technology were to go away."

Moore kept his face expressionless, listening and waiting.

"I remember," Strontium said, "that the so-called blank mind unit was the technology in the forerunning to be adopted by the Navy before the Whisper technology emerged and took over the position. Like the Collective, we would have taken up the blank mind units and trained our pilots accordingly. A company like yours would have been at the forefront of that adoption, and would still benefit greatly now if the Whisper were proved to be unsatisfactory in some way."

Moore leaned back, one elbow on the other arm, the cigarette up in the air. "Be that as it may, the dice has been cast, and this is the way things have ended up. We supply the blank-mind units and the bigger corporations imprint the Whisper onto them. There are difficulties in trying to upend the status quo."

Strontium paused, parsing the man's language. Too much depended on reading what was left unsaid, and he had to be sure he had it right. At length he said, "I wish to propose a partnership that will help us resolve both our difficulties."

Moore stayed silent a long while, smoking and thinking. When he spoke again, it was with a casual tone, as if discussing the latest exploits of a professional sportsman. "You know, the most egregious of the rumors that surround the industry is that of human experimentation done in the process of developing the technology, and in producing the actual Whisper units themselves."

"I see," Strontium said, careful to keep his posture still. "And if there were any entity in the galaxy which would possess any evidence of such an egregious rumor, who might it be?"

Moore shook his head, a sad smile touching the corners of his lips. "It would not be the entities presently still directly involved in the production of the Whisper units themselves. You see, even if you managed to acquire evidence from one of them about wrongdoing on the others' parts, the others would have evidence on the first one too. It is a structure that means that no one will be the first to break the silence."

Strontium stared forward. What Moore was saying was clear: none of the corporations involved in producing the Whisper units would be the first to expose the others. Was he at a dead end then?

Moore came forward to tap his cigarette on the ashtray. "Except you know, industrial espionage is such a critical factor nowadays. It's even worse when the theft of information crosses national boundaries. The stakes instantly become too high. For example, a foreign corporation with interests in upending the status quo in our country would do very well to acquire any evidence of such wrongdoing. Here at PsyTech, we receive requests for partnership from time to time, some even claiming to have such evidence in their possession."

He leaned back again, cigarette waving as he spoke. "You see, the difficulty for these foreign corporations is that nothing that is published in their own countries would ever achieve credibility here in the Federation, where it is most important that it does. And this is beside the fact that these foreign corporations would be heavily indicted on charges of industrial espionage and breach of national security."

Strontium sipped at the coffee and allowed himself time to think. To parse Moore's words, a foreign corporation likely had evidence of wrongdoing within the Whisper industry in the Federation. Strontium bet without a doubt that the man was referring to corporations based in the Collective.

Moore continued. "And so you see, these foreign corporations are ever in the business of finding a suitable partner within the Federation to pursue their own interests and publish their own findings without indicting themselves. Except that finding one is difficult."

"I see," Strontium said. "In such a situation, what would the difficulties be?"

"For one thing, whoever they found would have to have enough credibility for the charges to be taken seriously at all. But whoever takes responsibility for these charges would face the combined wrath of the biggest corporations in the Federation. No smaller company, certainly not one such as mine, takes such a thing lightly. Certainly no smaller entity would make such a move without backing of an entirely different scale."

Strontium put his coffee down and allowed for a break in the conversation. Moore's message had been received loud and clear: even if he had the evidence of any wrongdoing, there was no way his company would bring it to public attention. What was needed was for Strontium to make his play now.

"I see," he said. "I believe I am beginning to see the difficulties that a smaller company in such a position would face. All I can say, both as an individual and as a government official, is that it would be a great shame if any such evidence of wrongdoing were to be buried because of the lack of the right conditions required to bring it to light.

"You see, someone like myself would have both the resources to make any such evidence credible to the public, and the ability to firmly disconnect the evidence from the company providing it. I believe a partnership between someone like myself and any such company would result in the evidence coming to light without damage to either party, and with great benefits to both."

Moore went quiet. For a long while, the wisp of his cigarette smoke seemed to be all that moved and was alive within the small room. The two men stared forward at nothing in particular, each lost in the moment of what was happening. For his part, Strontium had made his play: he would take the evidence off Moore's hands, clean off the suspicion of a foreign source, give it the stamp of government authority, and take it to the public.

"That is a remarkable strategy," Moore said. "And one that might even work were there sufficient trust between both sides of the partnership. Except there is still one barrier to someone like myself giving full approval to such a scheme."

Strontium held still. "And what would that be?"

Moore tapped at the ashtray again, his eyes averted as he spoke. "You see, a company like mine is lodged firmly within the ecosystem that is the industry. It may appear to be beneficial that a technology like the Whisper suffers a serious scandal. But as things are the wide-spread adoption of the technology has created, ironically, the number one business and demand for the blank-mind units that the Whisper is imprinted upon. To put it bluntly, should the Whisper technology suffer a serious setback, my company would suffer rather than gain. Such is the situation a company like mine finds itself in."

Strontium nodded. This he was prepared for. "Yes. Except if the unthinkable happens and the status quo changes. In the last few days, I have received a piece of distressing news, pointing to the possibility that the Federation border worlds, including this one, will soon be under invasion by pirate forces originating from Ovan, on a scale the region has never seen before."

Moore stopped.

Strontium continued. "Difficult choices sometimes face government officials like me, Mr. Moore. For example, on the one hand, I could issue an alert to the Navy, recall as much of the forces that have gone to the border as is prudent, and prevent or at least scale back the level of slaughter that would occur from such an invasion. On the other hand, you see, many things would change if the Navy were not called back as early as it could be."

How to say what he had to say next? That he had been tormented for entire days thinking through the plan? That he had looked into an abyss darker than anyone should ever have to?

This was hardly the occasion for any of that.

He allowed for a suitable pause, then began: "For one thing, the West Constellations Defense Fund would push through and place a regional defense budget at the disposal of the border worlds. Given Eri's leadership of the border worlds, it would have an inordinate amount of influence in the disposal of the budget. That is to say, as Undersecretary of Defense on Eri, I would have an inordinate say."

As he spoke he found the words he needed had already ordered themselves in his mind.

"You see, with the right timing, everything can be achieved. Should the Fund be pushed through, and a scandal hit the Whisper technology at the right time, I believe you can see that I would be in an extraordinary position to divert most of the Fund away from the Whisper technology. At such a time, I would need a battle-proven and tested alternative, with an infrastructure in place to maintain national security at a time of heightened alertness. Wouldn't you say that the blank-mind units that a company such as yours produces would perhaps once again find its time to shine?"

He had said all that he had come to say: the pirate invasion would force the Fund through, and Strontium would reward Moore with the bulk of it if Moore produced the evidence.

Strontium sipped at his coffee and took a moment to understand again for himself all that he was doing. For a while now things had been happening in this corner of the galaxy to push the Fund forward. He could guess at the prime movers behind the push, except that guessing was an imprecise reading of the tea leaves compared to the accuracy he needed. But it was undeniable now that the Fund was moving forward.

And all he had said in this room was but his way of ensuring that the Fund's forward movement brought results that he, and not anyone else, wanted.

Now it was time to let Moore take it all in.

A long bout of smoking before the man spoke up. "I find your commitment to strategy extraordinarily... refreshing, Mr. Undersecretary. Your strategy is bold and daring, but, once again, would require extreme trust between the two partners at its core."

Strontium nodded. "It would, indeed."

Another long pause. Then Moore said: "I find I am willing to trust when the other party is one as worthy as you, and when the venture is as bold as this one, and the rewards as great as they promise to be."

Strontium smiled and put his cup down.

What needed to be said had been said. Moore would be more than capable of carrying out the details in an appropriate manner. He would leave it here and not go into anything more than was necessary. It was time to wind down, pepper in some small talk and bring it to a close.

The coffee had been damned excellent too.

But as he readied himself for the task, a knock came on the door and the mousy man from the reception entered. Following a brief, whispered conference, Moore turned to him with the blank, careful expression back in place. "It may interest you to know, Mr. Undersecretary, that the war between the Federation and the Initiative has begun."

# 21

In the darkness, Inca sat alone and thought.

It was time to go give Athena her answer.

Over the past week or so, she had gone through all the possibilities. She had even considered that the entire plan was a ruse, except that she had been inside Athena's mind. She had felt all that the Vector had felt about the situation, and on this front Inca was clear: the Vector's words reflected her genuine feelings about the war.

But still, it wasn't enough. For Inca could only come back to one central pillar of her life: she couldn't fight her own Navy. It didn't matter how much she disagreed with what might be happening in the galaxy. She had sworn herself to the Navy and owed it her allegiance. Every other thought gave way to this, and it was time to tell Athena.

Inca readied herself and stepped out into the passageway, but found Athena already walking towards her cabin. The Vector stopped in front of her with a drawn look on her face, and a manic energy in her eyes. "The Federation Navy's initiated an attack on Initiative fleets at the border," she said. "War's broken out, Inca."

Inca searched the Vector's eyes and found the truth of the statement in them.

So this was it. It had happened.

Inca put a hand on the doorframe to collect herself. "What is the Initiative's response?"

Athena shook her head. "You know what it is, Inca. We've struck back all along the border. We had to. I will be activating our fleet here soon."

Inca knew she was powerless here; there would be no stopping the Vector. The Federation Navy was in peril. With Athena's fleet already infiltrated across the border, the Navy would be hard-pressed to find a coherent strategy.

A horror came over Inca. Her nation was at war, and she had spent all this time onboard an enemy warship, fraternizing. "I need to get back," she said. "I need to get back to base."

Athena's face was grave. "Which base, Inca?"

Inca considered whether to say. But something in the Vector's expression worried her more than any reservation she had. "Werth," she said. "Why?"

Athena shook her head again. "I'm sorry, Inca. Werth Starbase was one of the first targets of our retaliation. The force headed there was overwhelming. By this time, it will have been destroyed."

Inca took the news better than she thought she would. A small, distant part of her mind extinguished itself. The light went out on people she knew, faces she saw day in and out.

"I'm sorry, Inca," Athena said again.

The Vector didn't understand. The people on the base hadn't been her friends. Not all of them, at least. Few had known her well enough. More than any grief, Inca struggled with the abstract knowledge that the base was no longer there. Whatever it was, the base had been part of her reality. And now that part had disappeared. "I see," she said. "What is the Federation's position now?"

If Athena was shocked at her callousness, Inca didn't let it show that she noticed.

The Vector replied a moment later. "I don't think the Federation expected the strength of the return attack. But our intel shows Federation reinforcements mobilizing and heading to the front line."

So that was the way it was going to be. She knew the Vector's next words before she said them.

"It's not going to stop, Inca. Not this way. The Federation either has no sense of the scale of the damage to come, or has no qualms about it. Your Navy will ramp up, but so will ours. You know the result, Inca."

"Fine. Fine. I'll help you."

Inca paused, shocked for a moment at her own words.

But perhaps she had known it was going to be this way. It had started when she hadn't rejected Athena's plan. Perhaps it was because underneath it all, the plan made sense. The Navy was in deeper trouble than it knew. If it didn't show any signs of backing down, the result would be a devastating attrition on both sides. However loyal she was to the Navy, she didn't think its leaders would change their minds based on the testimony of one lieutenant, speaking on privately-acquired information.

Inca shut her eyes to stop the stinging from the light. "What do we do from here?"

She heard the brief pause from Athena, as if the Vector couldn't believe she had agreed after all.

Then: "Our intel shows a large Federation reserve force clustered around Shorewell."

Inca knew of Shorewell, and had even once studied its use as a staging system in a hypothetical war against the Initiative during her officer training. Far enough behind the border in a confluence of the Federation's supply lines, the system proved an excellent location for the purpose of amassing firepower.

"It's one of the largest of the reserve forces we've come to know about," Athena said. "The force outnumbers our fleet, and hadn't been considered an objective, until—"

Until they had found someone capable of using the Initiative's Whisper system like she could.

"Well," the Vector said. "We've found you. I had managed to confirm with Speaker Myla before the buildup on the border that a victory of that magnitude would be enough for her to push her diplomatic line to the Council. If we managed to defeat the Shorewell reserve force, even the Federation Navy would have to rethink its chances."

"Fine," Inca said, for what felt like the thousandth time. "I will go with you."

# 22

"Remember the plan," Owen said.

"I got it. Stop hustling me," Stormy replied.

They looked out into space through the shuttle's cameras. They had managed to overtake the convoy by a little, and Carran Prime came now into view. It was just as Stormy remembered it, its red-brown surface visible where it broke through the cloud cover.

"I'll go in, warn the Carranians of the Navy fleet. You go find your uncle and get a news crew here the fastest you can. I got it," Stormy repeated.

"Right. Get them in the highest gear they have, Stormy. We don't have time to lose."

Stormy nodded in irritation, but kept silent. The shuttle broke through the planet's atmosphere, and she racked her brain to recall all she could of the lay of the land.

She pushed through the foliage covering the pathway from the landing zone. The memories from years ago continued to filter in. The place looked deserted compared to when she had been here. She jogged down a dirt path now overgrown with shrubs, following it for a good half an hour. She had first learned the trail from the guerrilla fighters operating out of this region of the planet. According to her memory of the area's layout, she would soon come to a cliff overlooking a sheltered settlement on the base of a small canyon. She broke through the flora and caught the last of the setting sunlight as she looked over the area she remembered.

Below, the settlement that had once teemed with life looked abandoned now. In the shadow of the cliff, the Carranian houses, long, low, sculpted shapes made of the same red-brown earth as the canyon, gaped at her with empty windows and swinging doors. A wind keened through the village, bringing silence where once she had heard the sounds of its people, meeting and chatting in the shaded, winding corridors formed between the houses, and smelled the distinctive smoking of the dried, tough, wilderness bison meat hunted from the scrublands beyond. Using the last of the light, Stormy wound her way down the canyon side, using a path the guerrilla fighters had once shown her.

She spent about an hour picking through the remains of the village before she saw the first sign of life. A beam of light searched the darkness, and she remained still and let it find her standing in the doorway of a longhouse she remembered to be the village's hall. Keeping her eyes away from the light, she held up her hands and said into the darkness: "Brother." The word, used in this way, felt foreign to her. It had been a long time since she had said it like that. But it was the right word to show she had once been a part of the people here.

A long pause followed, before the beam of light lowered to the ground, and a voice replied in deep tones, "Sister. You should not be here. Come."

The man walked on in silence and Stormy followed. The outdoor dress of the Carranian villagers as she knew it had not changed. The man's face was obscured by a cloth wrap, a style often worn when traveling the arid terrain. Thick, earth-colored clothing covered all other parts of their body, cinched at the waist with a wide leather belt that carried water canteens. Heavy boots and gloves completed their protection from the elements.

The man walked with the solid, surefooted stride she had come to recognize of the fighters she fought with. They kept on for a mile before passing into a cave in the face of the canyon cliff, traveling some distance, then coming to a vaulted door she would have missed had they not shone the light on it. Through some secret signal the door opened upon their approach, and they started into a long, winding shaft that led deeper.

When they reached the end Stormy found a group assembled and waiting for her. Their faces were wrapped around, and two had rifles slung across their front. Behind the cavernous antechamber was a large, vaulted door, shut and locked. The Carranians eyed her as she came in, her arms high.

"Why have you come?" one of them said without preamble. The man who had led Stormy in rejoined the group, melding into it and becoming indistinguishable.

"I have been here before. Some of you will recognize me," Stormy said, making her voice loud enough to carry through the chamber. "I bring news."

"And what news do you bring?"

"The Federation Navy is coming back. And they're coming with a bombardment fleet."

# 23

Stormy sat up straight as the elder next to her reached over and refilled the woodburner. A spicy fragrance Stormy remembered from the past burned her throat with every breath, and it had been a task to identify all the elders through the haze. The elder who had refilled the burner was one among many new faces Stormy didn't recognize. The elders had spent a few hours in this small chamber, recounting the day by remarking on minor matters and making informal suggestions on how to run the next day better. This was how the village discussed anything, and from experience Stormy knew better than to disrupt the order of things.

At length it was the elder Naji who broached the topic. He hadn't changed from the way Stormy remembered him—wiry and strong with eyes the color of oak. They had not had either the time or the place for a proper re-acquaintance yet. "Our sister Storm brings us news from the Night. Many here still remember when she fought with us not so many years ago."

Stormy looked around, relieved to see nodding heads and murmurs of assent.

"Repeat for us your news, sister," Naji said.

In the calmest tone she could muster, Stormy repeated all she had learned from Owen. She wondered if the LtCdr. was having luck on his end of the plan. A heavy silence followed the end of her speech. This was the critical moment. Stormy took in a deep breath and said: "I believe there is a solution. I have a contact working even now to bring a news crew from Starsky. I believe live footage of any bombardment that is to come will be invaluable in spreading the news of it. But time is of the essence, and we must work fast."

At her words there was another long, troubled silence. Then one of the elders she didn't recognize spoke up. "Storm, whom we would call sister, should we allow our dwellings on the surface to be bombed, so that we can collect this 'footage'?"

She had expected this, and now felt all eyes upon her. "Sisters and brothers, listen to me please. I believe the Navy does not seek to bomb your dwellings. Not this time. Even the Navy knows a renewed attack on your people would bring the wrath of the Federation's citizenry, not to mention those of the other nations, down upon its head."

She recounted everything Owen had told her, about the detailing of the convoy, and the manner in which it was approaching the region. "I believe the Navy is here on a limited scale to destroy specific targets. And I believe the targets of prime interest to them would be the Sites."

The assembled elders tensed almost as one. The Sites were the locations where the Carranians had first discovered the Navy's experiments on their people. It was a powerful and painful memory, and she had struck a raw nerve. The same elder spoke up again. "The Sites are a curse on all humanity, and on what happened here. But that cause is dead. None within the Federation will listen to our tales of the horrors that happened within. None will believe us. The Navy knows this. Why should they risk destroying them now?"

The elder was right, and had an astute grasp of the situation. But Stormy had to push on.

"I know the pain the memory of that word brings to you. But it is important that you hear this. The Navy will not risk such an action without good reason. Something must be happening to bring them here again. I do not know what it is. But it makes it all the more important the world knows it is happening!"

Her argument had a flaw: she had no evidence it was the Sites the Navy was targeting. It was her intuition, but it was all that she had. She could see her speech had sparked a passion among the elders. But the Carranians would not be outward with their emotions in such a setting. She knew she had done all she could tonight. She wished it was enough.

"Sister Storm, the hour draws late and we must retire," Naji said. "Tomorrow, after a night's sleep, we will meet again."

The slowness of it chafed at her. The Federation convoy could not be far away. But this was the way it had to be done. Swallowing her frustration, Stormy nodded and bowed her way out of the circle.

Naji knocked at her door later that night. Stormy brightened to see the elder.

"It has been too long, Storm," Naji said. "Will you walk with me?"

They came out of the winding tunnels of the underground complex and emerged into the night air. Without artificial light around, the stars filled the skies above, and they picked their way forward without trouble.

They walked in silence, stopping only when Naji had led them to a nearby cliff overlooking the dark, vast plains. There, he motioned for her to sit, and they stared out into the night for a long while before either spoke.

"You have come once again in our time of trouble," the elder said.

Stormy shook her head. "Carran is always in my heart."

"Still, you were only a little girl when you were here. Not all remember that much of a place they spent only a few years of their childhood in."

Stormy smiled. "Those were important years."

Naji's expression was hidden in the dark, but the elder leaned downward from the boulder he had seated himself on, and picked up something from the ground. "My home is a troubled place. There is not much here but grass, sand, wood, and wind. And yet so many seek to take what it has."

Stormy nodded, keeping her silence. The elder had left out the obvious thing the planet had, which was the rare earth element Carranium. Difficult to detect and occurring at varying depths in the planet's crust, prospecting and mining the element involved the whole-scale destruction of entire swaths of land. Its scarcity meant that large volumes of landscape and bedrock had to be upturned and destroyed to sift out the precious element.

The Carranian government had ruled as one to outlaw all Carranium mining on the planet in perpetuity, regardless that the Federation Navy had made clear Carranium's extreme value in researching and developing its weaponry. It was a ruling Stormy agreed with, but one that had caused a decade of grief for the Carranian people. She doubted Carran would even have been inducted into the Federation if the discovery had not been made.

"We were Carranians before Carranium was found," Naji said. "And now, they will not even allow us the sand beneath our feet."

"The fight will end one day," Stormy said into the darkness. "I know it."

The elder's voice was sad when he replied. "It matters not, Storm. End or not end, fight or not fight, Carran will always be our home."

She was awoken the next morning by the sounds of hustle and bustle outside her bedroom door. Pulling her outer clothes on, she stumbled out into the corridor to see men and women hurrying about the underground complex. "Sister," she said, catching hold of one of the villagers. "What is happening?"

The woman gave her a quick scrutinizing look. "The fighters are moving out."

The answer meant there was trouble. Nodding her thanks, Stormy started off toward the elders' compound. The underground complex had grown since her time here, and she wondered if most of Carranian society had moved underground. When she reached the elders' compound, she found Naji in the middle of a whirlwind of activity. "Elder," she said. "What's happening?"

Naji's face was drawn, but his tone was patient as he spoke. "There was news in the night from the capital. Communication through the interstellar transmitters has been found to be cut off. No word can get in or out of the system."

The elder's eyes carried the words he couldn't say. The last time this had happened, the Federation Navy had invaded Carran and wiped off more than a quarter of its planets' populations.

Naji continued. "The elders heard your passion but not all believed. But the news in the night has convinced most, if not all. We have sent word to the capital bearing your news. All of Carran will hear your words."

Stormy sagged with relief.

The Carran capital was in a secret location, unknown to all outsiders to the planet, and even to some locals. Stormy had not been trusted with the knowledge of it even after her years fighting together with the local fighters. She would have gone there first if she could have. But it was just as good, if not even better, that the news came from a Carranian leader.

"The capital is debating actions to take. But even if they understand the urgency of the situation, their decision will not be fast enough. We have sent them your recommendation, but I have managed to convince the other elders that we have to move now. We are heading to the nearest Site. We are faster now than we used to be. We have had to change," he added with a sad smile. "Perhaps I will be able to convince the others that what you said is true, that it is best that we film the Navy in the act of their destruction."

Stormy nodded. While the situation was horrific, she was glad for the haste it had brought. There was only one thing now left to do, and the fervor in her eyes must have been visible, for Naji said, "You are welcome to come and fight again with us, sister."

# 24

The pain in her eyes had become worse. As she continued her training with the Initiative's Whisper, Inca had requested all lights along her daily route be dimmed. She stumbled around now in the darkness within her chamber, hoping she had gotten her attire right. When she opened the door to her chamber, the Sentinel outside greeted her. Without a word, she motioned down the hallway, toward the direction of the command room.

Her daily time with the Whisper had become all she could think about.

A few days had passed since she had agreed to Athena's plan, and the Vector had been busy mustering the Initiative fleet. It was a difficult task gathering the Initiative warships that had been scattered throughout the Federation's border systems to better hide their presence. But the fleet was gathering and time was running out to strike at the Federation reserve force at Shorewell. What Inca needed to do now to complete her acclimation to the Initiative's Whisper.

But that had been slow.

She came to the command room of the _Nexus_ to find Athena already there. The Vector frowned upon seeing her. Inca knew she was spending more time with the Whisper than was safe. But they both knew Inca had limited time, and the Vector nodded as Inca stepped in.

A single, trunk-like structure dominated the center of the cavernous chamber, its 'roots' spreading outward across the floor space. This was the center of the _Nexus_ , where she was training with the Initiative's Whisper. She came to a stop at a pod at the end of one of the structure's roots, and looked down into its luminescent hollow. The pod was filled with the amniotic liquid that enhanced the connection to the Whisper and nourished the body for as long as it needed. Inca peered into the dark pool, bracing herself.

The Initiative's Whisper was _different_.

It was a mystery she hadn't yet unlocked, and her need to do so had driven her back to this chamber day after day, in every waking moment.

Inca took a deep breath, then lowered herself into the pod.

The liquid took her into its embrace, covering her eyes, and rushing down her nasal passage. Inca forced herself to breathe it in, but gasped and choked. The sensation was still too alien. But she persisted and started taking it in. The liquid was designed to be usable by her lungs, and she settled into a normal respiration after a while. Then the pod covering slid shut over her, and claustrophobia and panic took over. She fought that feeling down too and emptied her mind. The darkness came over her, and she came alive.

But first, the seeking.

Always the seeking, the questioning. The Whisper first sought out who she was. It refused to open itself up to her until it knew. That had been a frustrating stumbling block in the first few days. The Whisper she was used to felt had always like a partner to her, but the system here returned her to herself. It didn't complement her, but reflected her. When she looked into the Whisper, she was forced to look into herself. And that had been the most difficult of it all.

She jolted awake. The suns of Ahtila beat down upon her, and the desert. She looked up to check the time, and found that her eyes hurt from the light. Had they always hurt?

Then, reality.

She was on the run.

But from what? Her feet were sore. Her body, young as it was, exhausted from the exertion. At length, she remembered. There was no more turning back. Behind her, her clan—the people she scrounged food and materials for, the people she resented cramped together within their small vault, the people she loved for being the only ones who would remember if she died, another heap of bleached bones in the sand—her clan, the only people who were people to her, had been smoked out of their hole, and were now scattered to the winds.

She turned, stopping in her tracks. The rows of shophouses with their boarded-up windows and doors, the dusty road that seemed to stretch into forever and yet nowhere, the familiar scenes of her life, sloughed away. Behind them, she saw a flash of the future, the promise the Whisper was giving her.

In the vision, the fleets of the Initiative waited on her command, stretching out into endless space. Connected through a neural web, each ship was bound to all the others, cells on a single skin, parts of a whole. At the center of which, a beating heart, in which she saw herself. As she moved, the fleet would move, a scythe arcing through space. Ranks and ranks of spacefaring warships, curved in the Initiative style, like human bodies in motion. This was their great dance, a rippling wave through the Night, deadly beauty and beautiful death.

But a hand landed on her, and she was young and frightened again. Scampering, but now caught. In the arms of a sweaty, smelly man. Whose breath stank of rotting meat. Who joked to his companions: "This little rat thinks she can run."

And there they were, in the center of the killing square. Hands tied, on their knees, receiving their judgment. Their crime? Being from the wrong hole. Around them, the sweaty, smelly men and women had multiplied. In their hands, cruel, primitive weapons, sharp and lethal nonetheless. The biggest one among them reveling in the spectacle of it, another way, another means, of inflating an inflated ego.

"And this is what we do to scampering little rats!" he shouted.

A flash of the blade, and her sister's hands fell to the ground. "And this is what we do to the useless!" the man shouted again. A boot, and her father's face was in the sand, his head ground underfoot. She looked around, and they were all there, and they were all her sisters, and brothers, and fathers, and mothers. And they were all helpless, and would die, and there would be no one to remember these particular sets of bones in the sand.

But not her.

They had seen the fight in her eyes. They saw the rage, that promised every one of them would die. And they laughed. "And this one thinks she's got a little spirit in her!" the biggest one shouted. And then more cheers, and jeers.

She remembered, she remembered.

The breath of the smelly man, as he leaned close to her. The cold laughter in his eyes. The rough hand in her hair, the scream she bit back. The shouting that seemed to come from nearby and yet so very far. "And this is what we do to those who've got a little spirit in them!"

But this was what she was. The girl who had lost everything to the sands. The girl who had spit in the man's face. The girl who had struggled, gotten to her feet, broken free, and started running away. The girl they had shouted at as she ran: "Let that one go. We'll see what she makes of herself!"

Inca burst out of the Whisper, the liquid choking her. The covering of the pod would not open fast enough. She would drown, die, another forgotten corpse. Who was outside? She banged at the pod covering. Why weren't they opening it? She hated them there and then. She would drown, disappear, and die. Her strength had left her. It was too much to ask of her. She made a last attempt, a final struggle, then sank back down into the darkness.

But in the darkness she came alive. She startled to find she hadn't died, and looked out now onto a darkness vaster than she had ever been in.

_Inca, do you hear me?_ Athena's voice came through, muted and distant. _Inca, you've broken through. We're seeing a level of harmonization with the system we've never seen before._

How had she broken through? She had given up and given herself over to the darkness. But thinking about it now, she realized the Whisper had always been this way. It had always required her to open up to it. Perhaps she had just underestimated how much there was still to give. It was no coincidence that every consecutive session with the Whisper had dug up ever more painful memories from her past. Perhaps she had to see the things she had buried so long ago. Somewhere in there she had to give herself up and find herself again.

Inca, what do you see?

Inca turned her mind to the darkness. She sensed the _things_ there. A yearning awakened within her to reach out and find out what they were. They were all there, waiting for her. Without knowing how she knew how, Inca opened herself and took the darkness in.

It began as whispers and echoes, ghosts reaching out from the dark. Then the definite presence of minds other than her own. Then she heard the currents of their conversation, bits of phrases, and images too. These soon coalesced into a dizzying whole, a palpable weave of thought and intent. Then she sensed the darkness opening up as she came closer, and then she was looking at the Whisper neural web. Stretching out into the distance in the mindspace, she saw the entire network of the commanders and crew of the Initiative fleet, each presence a lighted node, a point in a dark landscape. She saw they were all there.

Inca, do you hear me?

_Yes_ , she replied.

At her word, she felt a hush ripple throughout the web. The voices quieted and waited, and she sensed their uncertainty. Their fleet commander had just joined the network, and her voice had reached out to them all.

_Good_ , Athena sent. _Now we have to try to take the next step. Try to reach out and integrate with the web. One ring at a time._

Inca looked again and saw now a structure within the web. Concentric rings pushed outward from her, straddling and tying the web together.

_Inca, remember_. _The command structure with the Whisper will be different from those you're used to in the Federation, or really, even the traditional hierarchy here in the Initiative. The web allows for a much more horizontal and flattened network, because you'll be able to access everyone at once._

She would have to try it. She wondered how it would work. No matter how flattened the command structure, it still wouldn't do to interfere with the captain of each ship, as they knew best the internal workings and disposition of their ship. She would have to adjust to the new reality. Inca held back a final moment, then reached out for the innermost ring.

Names and faces formed in her mind. Here were her commanders, captains all. If she remembered, the Initiative hierarchy referred to that rank by the same name, and it was one of the few throwbacks to the military structure the nation had inherited from the Federation. She felt a mixture of responses on their part: curiosity, apprehensiveness, and some skepticism, in that order. But underneath it all, she felt the way they too were connected to the Whisper neural web. These were people trained for the Whisper and used to its cerebral hyper-awareness. A deep sense of belonging awakened within her: these were people like her.

Excellent, Inca. That was the first ring. Now for the rest, one at a time.

But she couldn't hold herself back. A hunger had awakened within her, and she needed to grasp the entire web at once. She couldn't understand it, couldn't stop it. In one unthinking movement, she flung herself outward. Her reach extended to the ends of the web, where human consciousness faded again into the unknowing darkness of the Whisper.

Inca, no!

At first, she soared in an exhilarating rise over the entire web. Then the burden of twenty thousand souls crashed down upon her. She was all of them at once. She was an experienced veteran who had been wary of the technology but had come to see it as the future. She was a young, unexpected talent with the Whisper, eager to serve her country but weighing her enthusiasm with the unspoken, unexamined expectation of returning to her family again. She was a new commander, saddled with the fear of causing the deaths of her subordinates. Twenty thousand lives coursed through her. In a moment more, she would disintegrate into nothingness, and survive only as fragments scattered throughout the web.

Then she remembered who she was: the girl who had pulled together a life out of only the pieces. The woman who had made something out of nothing, who should have died but now thrived. She was stronger than this and she would not fail.

_Quiet_ , she said.

Her voice thundered through the web, shaking it from end to end.

And one by one, the voices quieted. Inca looked back down over the web, seeing it in its entirety, a vast power for her to harness. _Give me your command_ , she said.

And node by node, the web relaxed its crush upon her. Bracing herself, Inca swooped back down and reached out into it again. This time she was ready, and she controlled the opening of her mind to the web. The thoughts and emotions of the people in it washed back over her. She took them as a whole, amalgamating the entirety into a single, fused core. This time she controlled the waves without sinking into them.

Inca looked out into space and saw the Night through five hundred ships' cameras and sensors, the whole painting a landscape from all its perspectives. She saw as the captains saw and they would know her intentions as she wanted them to be known. Athena was right: this was not the traditional way things were done. But the Whisper had given her something more, and something better.

The web was not a connection of individual minds, but a whole working in synchronization and harmony. They were a single entity and an armada all at once. The fleet coiled like a single organism ready to strike. She gathered herself up and sent out into the darkness: _I am ready._

# 25

The smell of deep woods and fresh air filled Nutty's senses as he stepped off the small hoverplane onto the private landing pad. The place was more or less what he'd expected it to be. A long, low mansion occupied the little clearing in the woods. Its red tiled roof and white stucco walls hearkened back to Earth designs he had seen before, and the mansion sprawled over the grounds just so. Rich, but not decadent. Tasteful.

A clipped lawn spread out in front of the house, complete with a small fountain featuring angels spouting what Nutty thought must have been water from the mountains themselves, so picturesque and pretty the scene looked. A clear blue sky domed overhead, and it seemed the perfect weather to meet whoever it was that was funding the Old Man's war on the Federation border worlds. Birdsong punctuated the air.

Behind him, the hoverplane pilot seemed content to disappear into the scene, looking over papers Nutty was sure didn't matter that much, and ignoring him with practice and ease.

So be it.

It was all part of the plan, he was sure: assert a position of uncaring power, make guests feel intimidated. There was only one way to counter this sort of thing, which was to be oblivious. He walked himself up to the front door and rang the doorbell.

A voice shouted from within, "Come in!"

He let himself in. The interior of the house was different from the outside. Still tasteful, still rich, but exuding a warm sense of homely comfort Nutty had not expected. Past the front foyer there was a large, open seating area, cream-colored couches in a three-sided square around a coffee table. Plush, auburn and red cushions decorated them, in a surreal display of homemaking. The walls were hung with small portraits and paintings of landscapes, and warm lighting came from glow lamps placed at strategic locations. A low fan spun overhead from the high ceiling, and from somewhere the sound of running water transpired. A delicious, baking smell hit Nutty and would not leave.

Somebody's got to be kidding.

A man appeared in an arched doorway, wearing baking mitts and an apron. A man appeared in an arched doorway, wearing backing mitts and an apron. He had clipped, white hair parted at the side, an honest face, and a sun-kissed complexion. Nothing about the man even suggested clandestine puppetmaster. "Right with you in just one second. Have a seat."

Nutty sat, on the couch with the plush cushions, feeling ridiculous.

"Slice of apple pie for you?" the man called from the kitchen.

"Sure," Nutty called back.

The pie appeared, along with the man. The mitts and apron had been left behind, and the man looked more fit to discuss war and death. They ate the pie for a while. Then the man said: "So, you're here to ask me why we're attacking the Federation."

Nutty hoped his surprise didn't show. But he was caught out in the open and there was no hiding it.

"No need to look so surprised," the man said. "You can just about see it chew away at the Old Man every time we meet. But I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint you. I don't know what to tell you besides what I told him. There's not too much to it. It's all just business. Everything I've given your group is an investment and my returns will come to me from some other interests I hold. That, unfortunately, is all it is."

Nutty nodded, chewing on more pie. "Am I right to assume that your interests would be in the defense industry?"

The man paused, a new brightness in his eyes. "Ah. I hadn't known I was talking to someone with some knowledge of these things. Explain to me your supposition."

"Well, it would seem natural. The only predictable result of a large-scale pirate invasion on the Federation border worlds would be to incite a panic, the sort that raises defense budgets. The sort that makes the defense business double or triple overnight. There is the matter of the Western Constellations Defense Fund, which would benefit greatly from such a push."

The man put down his plate of apple pie. "You are a different breed from the Old Man."

Nutty nodded and smiled. He would have to go forward with caution. If he appeared too dangerous to this man, his own life would be forfeit either now or in the future. He had to signal his usefulness to him.

He affected a shrug. "The Old Man's concerns have long been more of a local kind. I flatter myself to think that I have a better grasp of the way these things work. But more importantly for us here, I would be able to better direct our attack against the Federation with a clearer picture of your aims."

The man sucked at his teeth, smiled. "Interesting. I never knew the pirates hid such talent within their ranks."

Nutty held back from asking for more. He had gained enough respect from the man today, but it would be too foolish to think that translated into trust at this stage. "Anyway that's all I wanted to ask. To be honest, I hadn't really wanted to come. I've told the Old Man there's no need for us to know. But you know how he is."

The man smiled, more reserved and careful this time. "Well, I'd love to stay and chat. But work beckons. Our pilot can show you around the grounds if you'd like."

"That won't be necessary. Thank you for the pie, and for your time."

Then it was back out the door. Back to the landing pad and the pilot who came alive and cognizant of his presence again.

"Leaving now?" the pilot said.

"Yes," Nutty replied, feeling the exchange redundant.

Then it was bundling into the back of the plane and getting as comfortable as he could. After getting to the private spaceport, it would be bundling into a shuttle for the trip back to Ovan. Nutty reflected that he must have been on the planet for less than half an hour.

Once aboard the shuttle, it would be locking himself in that blacked-out cabin. It would be drinking that mixture they gave him to make sure he didn't know anything about the trip back. So many precautions, just to ensure this little slice of paradise was never touched by whatever it didn't welcome. Well, at least he had the number of suns, the color of the atmosphere, the type of fauna the planet sported. Small points to start with, better than nothing.

..............................

When Nutty returned to the base, it was another few hours' sleep before his head stopped spinning from whatever it was they had given him. When he felt like he could handle it, he called for some food through the intercom, then sat up to think. His visit and conversation with the Apple Pie Man came back to him like a surreal dream.

The man's story was not new: suppliers of war stood to gain from war. Defense providers on both sides, from spacecraft and weapons manufacturers to the mercenary navies that waited, available and within reach of both nations, boomed in wartime, and only in wartime. It was a powerful incentive, and a story that the world, with its long history of warfare and capitalism, ought to know by heart now. Any of the big corporations, Carmine, Bauer-Kaufmann, and even Chang Jin, he was sure would have no difficulty pulling off something even on this scale. Any devastation caused to the border worlds would bring about increases to defense budgets, and it would be the defense providers and their parent companies that filled the orders that then stood to gain.

But still something bugged him about this attack on the border worlds. There was something about the scale, intensity, and timing of it, and how it coincided with the conflict with the Initiative. It seemed reasonable enough: an opportunistic strike when the Federation Navy was distracted elsewhere. Even given the long buildup the pirates had required, it could still be pinned down to just coincidence and good timing.

There was no reason to think otherwise.

Why then was he still troubled?

Nutty stood and paced the office, taking the well-worn track he had carved in it. The assortment of junk he had in there served to distract him, and by distracting him help him think. His mind flitted over all the details it had collected from his short time on Apple Pie Man's estate. He stopped in front of the mechanized suit in the farthest corner of his track. The parrot on its shoulder stared at him with the beady rubies it had for eyes.

As it did, a birdsong floated back to him.

A birdsong he had heard on the grounds of Apple Pie Man's estate, a unique cry that was like the hooting of an owl mixed with the barking of a dog, difficult to describe. He had heard it somewhere before, but only ever once before.

Nutty sat back down and racked his brain. The effort took him back to the days following the president's assassination. He was looking into the alleged Initiative involvement. He had found the Initiative had only been made to look like it had been involved. But the actual tools used for the assassination had come themselves from the capital world. There was something in there that was making him remember.

It was a holo call, a random holo call. A strange confirmation check that someone had placed about the shipment, that had been captured and recorded by surveillance data that Nutty had gotten hold of. Like every piece of evidence he had laid his hands on at that time, he had scrubbed through every single detail, by hand, ear, eye, and by machine. Nothing was left out. The call was a short, clipped conversation, and in the background, amidst the distant winding down of a hoverplane's engines, had been a strange, indescribable, bark-like, hoot-like, bird call that Nutty had thought odd at the time.

He sat back down and drummed his fingers on the desk.

It was the longest shot in the galaxy.

He had all the other information collected from his visit with Apple Pie Man. If he made any further trips, he could collect more. Then he could identify that bird from its call, and corroborate its ecological information with whatever else he had on that planet. It was the smallest of leads to go by. But he had been trained his entire life to seize on the smallest leads and see where they took him. And this one, if it took him anywhere, would link the Apple Pie Man, and all that he was paying the pirates to do, to whoever it was that assassinated the president.

# 26

The fleet landed out of the Anise stargate and Inca knew something was wrong.

_Athena,_ she sent.

_I'm on it,_ the Vector replied.

It had been a difficult path toward Shorewell, where Inca was to deal a blow against the Federation Navy by attacking its reserve force there. As the Initiative fleet had grown in size, gathering its pieces from the Federation border worlds, the few mobile stargates it had been able to bring along had become inadequate. Rather than delay the fleet's movements, Athena had opted to use the Federation's established stargates to speed their movement toward Shorewell.

But it had been tricky. The fleet was hampered in its forward scouting by sentries left at the Federation stargates. It had meant attacking the sentries sometimes in full force, then warping through the stargate blind. The entire movement to Shorewell was risky, and Inca thought it had succeeded so far only because of the element of surprise the fleet still had. They were less than ten jumps away now.

But something was different here.

They had had a lucky break and had been able to send scouts a few systems ahead. But the systems along the way to Shorewell through were porous, each having multiple gates linking to other systems. Together with the delay in communication between the fleet and its scouts, the intel provided could not account for everything the main fleet would meet along the way.

But this was different again.

Athena came back with information. _We're getting readings of a large fleet on the Riis gate._

The Riis gate intersected their path to Shorewell, and they hadn't expected anything from that direction. But Inca saw now for herself. The report had come back from the forward drones they had sent toward each gate in the system the moment the first ship of the Initiative fleet had landed.

A Federation Navy fleet had amassed on the gate, larger than anything they were prepared for.

_When does the rest of our fleet get here?_ Inca sent.

The Initiative fleet had had to split up along certain sections of the way, the better to still pretend to be disparate, roaming pirate fleets. About a third had yet to reach the system.

_Not for three to four more hours at least,_ Athena sent. _Inca, looking at the size of this force, this must be part of the Shorewell reserve. Part of the reserve must have started a movement toward the border earlier than we had expected._

Inca fought to calm herself. This was part of the force they had come all the way to fight, but the terms of engagement were devastating. She had been caught off-guard and without her full strength.

Inca ran through the options in her mind. Her first ships through the gate had taken over the operation of the stargate. It would require time again, an hour or more, if she wanted the gate up and working in the opposite direction to flee. During that time, her fleet would be a static target in a state of relative chaos. Retreat was not an option.

_Movement from the Federation fleet_ , Athena sent.

It seemed that things had been decided for her. It would be a fight against superior numbers. Inca sent the information out through the neural web, then prepared herself for battle.

She looked outward from the darkness and felt the power of the Initiative's Whisper. The entire fleet felt responsive to her commands, ready to do as she bid. Her commanders had registered shock, but had collected and readied themselves. Inca looked over the latest intel from the forward drones: fleet-wide movement from the Federation side. She recognized the exact formation that had been taught as doctrine to her. The Federation fleet was readying to attack.

Her first real fight as the leader of the Initiative fleet would be for its survival.

Facing the Federation fleet, she understood there would be no leniency, no coming to common sense and amicable terms since the two nations had already decided on war. But this was the way it had always been. It was only that she had always had the luxury of seeing it from within the safety of the Federation Navy—the largest space navy in the galaxy.

But the business of combat had always left little room for mercy. There was no way she could hold back. Once committed to her purpose, she would have to see it through, or the Initiative fleet and all that she had staked her life on would end up as nothing more than floating corpses and debris.

The Federation fleet was superior in numbers; she would have to use every advantage she could scrounge up. A quick plan formulated in her mind. It would be a rough gamble, but she would have to trust all that she knew about the Federation doctrine and mindset. It was time for things to be put into motion.

Task forces 2 and 3, move into position now.

She felt her message stream down through the channels of the neural web. She had given the verbal command, but the Whisper had packaged it with the full intent of her plan. The technology allowed her that advantage, and she was sure the commanders under her had a full picture of what it was she wanted.

Now she waited as the command was translated into physical reality. She took the time to scan her fleet with the cameras on the ships in her main headquarters group. The electric blue-white flare of warp engines revving lit up around the main cluster of the fleet. She watched as some of the largest battleships of her fleet, flanked by the smaller destroyers and support ships, aligned themselves to the right vectors for their warp. Her battle plan counted on a lot, and she was not sure at this moment that she would see all her ships return.

Then there was the matter of the distances involved. The travel time for the communications signal needed for the neural web would stretch out too much to give her effective control. She would have to delegate two of the forces to Athena and other Vectors within the fleet. Where then to place herself? Traditional doctrine dictated that she remain at the gate with the bulk of her forces. But to win this fight, she would have to be unconventional.

She would follow one of the task forces out. Everything relied on the gamble, and she wanted to be in a decisive position. She gave the order and the Nexus set into motion. Her move should come as a surprise to the enemy, and she needed every advantage she could get.

The Nexus landed last among the task force now crowded behind one of the large gas planets on the outermost rings of the system. Plugging herself right back into the neural web, Inca received the reports from the commanders who had already landed.

They were out of direct sight of the Federation position, with about ten minutes' communications delay with their main force at the gate.

Good, Inca thought. Now all there was was to wait.

Her plan was simple enough. She had split her fleet into three, with two of the task forces away from the main host at the gate. She was sure the enemy would detect the two split away forces even if they were out of direct sight.

Then, the main host at the gate had orders to disperse radar decoys. The decoys would give the impression of an expanding main host, as if it had received reinforcements through the stargate. The ruse was calculated to force the Federation's hand, to make it think the Initiative host was growing even larger.

Caught between the uncertainty of an enemy force that had split into three, and the prospect of facing more reinforcements through the gate, the Federation commander should choose the most direct, effective plan of attack: concentrate all its forces in a direct smash toward the main host at the gate.

That was when Inca's two split away forces would reappear at the flanks and rear of the Federation fleet, and encircle it to its demise.

Time stretched as the task force waited. Inca worked on keeping her nerves hidden. The neural web was good at transmitting her emotions, and she forced herself to create an inner space to keep it all in. Her plan would work, she told herself. Everything she knew about how the Federation Navy thought would bring it to bear. She had managed to calm herself down, when a radar ping hit her ships. Steeling herself, she authorized her ships to send out a return burst of radar. An angry cluster of blips appeared on her map, showing the enemy strength.

Inca cursed. The Federation fleet hadn't taken the ruse.

Instead, it had decided to come after her in force.

# 27

Inca sprang into action. The blips appeared one after another on her radar. As she had expected, the enemy had detected her task force's location. But more of the Federation Navy fleet had come after her than she had expected.

She cleared her mind and fought to think.

Now was the time to be all she needed to be.

The lay of the space around her fleet beckoned to her. They were near a gas giant, and she might be able to utilize its dangerous atmosphere, forcing a chase around its curvature and minimizing the Federation fleet's numerical advantage by shaping it into a thin spearhead. Given enough time, she could pick off the Federation ships as they approached, then turn around to fight when she judged the situation in her favor.

But she stopped and cursed herself.

This was not a localized battle and she didn't have the luxury of infinite time. She couldn't pick the slow, safe option, then hope to return to the main fleet in time to still matter.

Too many lives depended on what she did now, and there was no room for half-hearted results. She needed a critical success, and she needed it now.

Inca cast her mind out into the Night, into the environment which had become her life and death. The pieces of its layout became critical data points to her now, each a determinant in the shape of the battle to come. A single piece of information caught her attention: a moon in the orbit of the gas giant, small enough to put to tactical use.

The plan formulated in her mind, and Inca knew it had to be the one.

She gave the order and the Initiative task force broke for the orbit of the moon.

The first part of the plan had to be to force the Federation fleet into a chase. More and more ships had landed, swelling its numbers even more, and a head-to-head fight had become out of the question.

Harassing weapons fire sniped at their rear as the Initiative task force sped away. As she had hoped for, the Federation fleet gave chase. It was too dangerous for the Navy fleet to let the Initiative ships slip out of their grasp. Inca aimed the task force straight into the orbit of the moon: the proximity to the planetary body would make it too dangerous for the Federation fleet to use its warp drives to try to catch up.

Inca checked the _Nexus_ 's data banks: judging by the density of the moon, it would take a full two hours for a natural orbit around it. She would have to speed it up. She gave the order for a full burn ahead, and watched with grim satisfaction as the Federation fleet shaped itself into the spearhead she had expected, in its efforts to catch up.

Inca let the chase continue, her ships following the curvature of the moon's orbit. Then it was time for the next part of the plan. The task force had come close to the vertex of a sharp parabola around the moon. Inca sent out the order for her ships to turn around and fire.

With any luck, she would pull off a slingshot around the moon, using its gravity to brake.

The ships of the task force spun their hulls around, engaging their forward thrusters to slow their momentum. Inca's order, going through the Whisper, came down to her commanders with perfect precision. The ships of the task force swung into the exact shape she had wanted, a disc that maximized the amount of firepower aimed at the enemy.

The Federation ships, caught off guard by the move, barreled headfirst towards them.

As one, the ships of the Initiative task force opened fire.

The _Nexus_ anchored the barrage. The capital ship opened with its enormous spinal-mounted railguns, sending projectiles searing into the enemy front. Around her, the other ships of the task force followed suit, destroyers and battleships unleashing their munitions into the enemy spearhead. The fusillade delivered destruction to the Federation ships as they came, breaking them up and setting off fires, sending bits and pieces spinning off into space.

Inca watched to make sure the tactic had succeeded, then wrenched her vision away. She had committed to this path, and tried to remind herself of the logic behind it. All she had to do now was to shut her mind to the ships of her own Navy burning out there.

Then the pulse came through the neural web: the Federation fleet was returning fire.

Even through the mass of destroyed hulls, the Federation ships had managed to form up and start shooting back. It was time for the next part of the plan.

Reaching out through the web, she checked with her navigation officer: they were in the right spot now. The task force had reached the absolute vertex of the parabola, and had slowed their velocity to near zero. Now it was time to swing around to the side of the moon, using its gravity to accelerate away from the Federation fleet. Inca steeled herself: this was the part that would be the most damaging to her ships.

She sent out the order, and the ships of the task force fell away from their disc shape. Angling towards the other side of the moon, they formed a quick line and applied their full thrust away from the Federation fleet. As they did, weapons fire raked their flanks and rear.

_Get there already!_ Inca willed.

Pain shot through the neural web as the task force started taking losses. At the rearmost of the line, one of her battleships took hits to its engine compartment, slowing down, then falling to the now-voracious fire of the Federation fleet. Three more destroyers took hits to their flanks as they turned, destroying their midships and command components. The task force continued its maneuver. As before, the build up to speed was torturous.

But the titanic engines of the ships of the task force prevailed, and they soon surged forward. The plan now was to double back upon the original landing site from the other side of the moon. With any luck, she would catch any enemy ships that had warped there and had held off from the chase. In fact, she hoped to do so: the Federation fleet was still far too numerous, and she needed to deal losses wherever she could.

The fastest of her ships soon broke the curve of the moon at the midway point. The task force slid forward on its momentum, the remnants of the Federation spearhead behind them struggling to catch up. Then a burst of radar hit the forwardmost of her ships from the front.

Enemy ships were holding at the original landing site. _Good_.

But she had to be careful. Too many ships there, and she would be in trouble all over again. She gave the order for a return burst of radar, and the picture developed with agonizing slowness. Her forwardmost ships began analyzing the composition of the force waiting there. Inca waited as the information came in, then let out a wave of relief throughout the neural web.

The Federation commander had made a misstep. Drawn into a chase, the Federation fleet had held back its largest and slowest support ships. Inca guessed the commander had wavered between sending them on the chase and warping them back towards the stargate to assist the battle there. In the indecision, the commander had left them vulnerable.

Inca looked over the disposition of the Federation forces there. They were in no state to defend against her. The Federation commander had either lost the communications link around the curvature of the moon between the front end of the chase and the back end of ships holding here, or had been caught between sending the ships away and trying to put up a defense.

Whatever it was, the Federation commander had made a grievous mistake.

Inca hesitated for one last moment, foreseeing the devastation her task force would deal to the Federation ships there. In that one instant, unexpected even to herself, the faces of all the people she knew on Werth base came back to her. The ones who had resented her ability, the ones who had stayed aloof because she had, and the ones she suspected could have become her friends if she had only let them. For a moment, Inca wanted to hold back. She wanted to disappear into another universe, and have nothing to do with either this battle or any other taking place in the galaxy. For a moment she didn't want to have to kill or be killed. But then the cooler, rational part of herself reinstated itself.

For this was the situation she was in, and there was no other way out of it.

In the immediacy of the moment, she knew she couldn't afford any sentiment for her home nation anymore. She would have to break through the Federation ships holding there, deal as much damage as she could, then warp back towards the stargate to relieve Athena. If she hesitated, she would be caught in the same tactical mistakes that had bedeviled the Federation commander here. Too many lives depended on her either way.

Taking a final look at the Federation ships gathered there, Inca closed her heart off to them. She opened her mind to the neural web and sent out the order for a quick attack. A wave of determination and grit washed back towards her from her commanders. The task force strained forward toward the enemy and Inca readied herself to kill.

# 28

Tang faced the blast door leading into Pitt's underground complex, wondering what to do. He had been clever enough to remember the coordinates of the place, but hadn't been able to catch the password to the door. Maybe if he replicated the little song the keypad had played, he could get in. But as he stood there thinking about it, a voice filled the landing, saying, "Come in." Then the door slid upward, its grating sound filling the small space. A woman in a lab coat waited behind. "You're here for Colonel Pitt?"

Tang stared for a moment. "Ah. Yes. Yes, I am."

The woman nodded and started down the corridor. Tang followed. They came to a door and he pushed through, nodding his thanks. Inside, a single lamp lit a small table and the wisps of cigarette smoke covering it. The sole inhabitant of the small room hunched forward in his chair, eying him.

"Tang," Pitt said.

Tang gave a weak wave, jumping when the door closed behind him.

"What are you doing here? Where's Inca?" the former colonel said.

Tang settled for his best sheepish look. "Ah yes. About that."

Pitt listened in rock-like silence, his only animation the up-and-down tapping of his cigarette against the ashtray.

Tang spoke into the gloom. "And so, Athena's trying to get her to deal a blow to the Federation and somehow shorten the war through that. When I left Inca was already training pretty hard with one of their Whisper units. And whenever she comes out of it, she's always _different_. "

Tang paused, noticing the change that had come over Pitt. Strain showed around the grizzled former colonel's eyes, and his posture had gone stiff. He seemed not to notice Tang anymore, his eyes locked in a look of silent horror.

"What is it?" Tang said.

"Wait here."

Tang waited, sweating in the silence as Pitt left the room and came back a few minutes later, placing a small computer chip on the table. "The last time she was here, Inca left this with me. It's a chip from a mechanized unit that attacked her in Eri before she had picked you up. She asked me to trace the attack and I have done so. The chip leads back to a group called the Ghosts."

"The Ghosts?" Tang said.

"If my research is correct, they are a group of scientists, and the second- and third-generation understudies of the scientists that first created the Whisper technology."

"And this group wanted to kill Inca?"

"Or to incapacitate her at least. I need you to go find them."

Tang paused. "I don't get it. Why would they want to kill Inca?"

A pained look crossed Pitt's face. "I suppose I need to tell you what this is all about, and who Inca really is. I met Inca when I was an officer in the Federation's Navy R&D, and she was one of the subjects brought into our experimental program, dealing with the Whisper and other similar technologies.

"Inca was what we called 'gifted.' We called them that at the start simply because we didn't understand what they were. The characteristic of these gifted persons was an extreme capability with the Whisper. But we also later discovered a heightened susceptibility to psychological damage from prolonged contact with it.

"We gathered these gifted persons from all over the Federation, but even then the number was small. Not more than ten at any moment. And Inca was the top performer in her group, with a capability we had never seen before. The only other handful of comparable examples the Federation knew about were in the Collective."

Tang stared, the implications inching into slow realization within him. "You said there was psychological damage to her, and yet she was still allowed to use the Whisper?"

Pitt nodded. "It was a command from higher-up. Inca was released back into the normal pool of pilots, with no special designations, and kept under our eye only with covert supervision on the part of Navy R&D. Mind you, this was already after two years of exclusive testing and training with us. But yes, she was allowed to continue a normal career in the Navy even given the great personal danger to herself, and to others. Her capability was deemed worthy of the risk. The higher-ups wanted to see how far they could push it.

"It was one of the reasons I left the Navy and decided to strike out on my own. I've been keeping contact with Inca to try to guide her use of her ability, but also to monitor her so that she will never be pushed over the edge, and become unpredictable, and dangerous. Believe me when I say I have tried to dissuade her from ever stepping near a spaceship and using the Whisper again."

Tang paused, speechless for a while. "But—but she'll still be alright, right?"

"It's not just her that's the problem!"

Tang startled at the colonel's passion.

But Pitt recovered, sighing. "You know the Taiwi Massacre?"

"Yes, of course," Tang said. He had even protested it during his college days. It had leaked to the public that one of the Navy fleets involved in the Federation's annexation of Whim Constellation had slaughtered most of the hundred thousand civilian inhabitants of a space settlement in Taiwi after suffering losses from the para-military group it had hired to defend itself. The public outcry was enormous, and all of the over two hundred officers of the Navy fleet had met military justice.

A dark look crossed over Pitt's face. "The massacre wasn't a retaliatory attack. It was a Navy R&D release into the wild of a nineteen-year-old super spacecraft pilot it had been cultivating over the preceding years."

The dots connected themselves in Tang's head. "You mean—?"

"I knew the boy. A polite, well-mannered young man by the name of Rosso. He had a gift with the Whisper that was half of what Inca's is today. In those days, the Navy had understood the technology even less than it does nowadays. It had sent the fleet out—and this was one of the first Whisper-enabled fleets—as a sort of experiment, not understanding how far the limits of the technology could be pushed. Rosso lost his mind while hooked up to the Whisper, infiltrated the systems of the other ships in his fleet, and turned their guns towards whatever he could find, including the Navy ships that wouldn't follow his lead.

"The Navy covered up the incident, of course, and gave out to the public the story that it did. But it learned from the incident, and installed safeguards on the technology, and dialed down its potency—whatever it thought would prevent the same thing happening again. But it continued the same program, the program which produced Inca."

Tang felt his head spin. "My God."

He had underestimated the trouble Inca was in. He thought back to the changed state he had found her in. He could only imagine what would happen if she had agreed to Athena's plan, and placed herself at the head of a large, powerful, and advanced Whisper fleet.

"I don't know if the Initiative's Whisper system suffers the same disadvantages ours does," Pitt said. "But the two are branches of the same tree."

He paused, then said: "I believe in Inca with all my heart and soul, but she had a traumatic time growing up. It was my intention to monitor her, and to make sure the Navy never placed her in the same position they did Rosso. I was ready to terminate her contact with the Whisper if the need arose. I can see I have been a fool."

Tang wondered at the man sitting in front of him now. The colonel had had to watch over his protégé, fearing what could happen one day, and yet knowing there was no way Inca would walk away from the Whisper of her own volition.

"But she has to be stopped now," Pitt said. "As I said, the Ghosts are the most direct line we have to the original creators of the Whisper technology. If anyone knows how to stop her, it will be them. I will do what I can from here as I cannot step back into the Federation without being instantly monitored, or worse. You'll have to go find them, Tang. And if there's anyone who might know something about your friend Gerrard, it's them. Knowing what they do about the Whisper, I have no doubt they'll have a clue what the implant he found is all about."

Tang stared, open-mouthed. "And what do I do if I find them?"

Pitt leaned forward into the light, and Tang saw again the fatigue around his eyes, the redness that had seeped into them, and the slump of the older man's shoulders. "Whatever they think necessary."

# 29

The _Nexus_ landed back on the stargate. Inca paused to let the task force regroup, and her mind played back the scene of their breakout from the moon. They had devastated the Federation ships at the landing site as she had predicted. Then the Federation ships at her rear had caught up and the Initiative task force had had to warp out. Inca had stolen one last look behind her, and caught sight of the Federation ships as they caught up to the burning hulls and dislodged sections of the ships of their comrades-in-arms.

But that was all over now. Inca pushed it all out of her mind and concentrated on the task ahead. What else could she do?

Inca, you're back.

Athena's voice came through the Whisper, the relief in it obvious.

_What's the situation here?_ Inca sent.

The rest of the fleet has finally caught up with us. But the situation's not good.

So the reinforcements ships they had been waiting for had come. At least there was that. Inca sent out the communications protocol and connected herself back into the neural web of the main bulk of her fleet. The darkness of the Whisper mindspace expanded, and the shock of the battle ahead drove into her.

The web was thick with the combined thoughts and emotions of all the commanders and crew caught in the battle. Inca saw that the Federation fleet had organized itself in a simple, direct wedge driving for the heart of the Initiative's position around the gate. She estimated over a thousand Federation warships, an armada carving out a metal slice of the black Night behind them. In the face of this force, her ships were scattered and retreating. Reinforcements coming through the gate, bereft of the protection of the fleet, found themselves under immediate attack.

She would have to regain the situation, and soon.

To do that, she needed to know the state of her own forces. Inca braced herself and reached out through the neural web.

Time slowed within the Whisper mindspace, and a weave of all the perspectives within the fleet opened up before her. Cameras, sensors, and radar maps opened up in a tapestry, and Inca realized she was looking at the battle from all its viewpoints. The potential for coordination was incredible. At a stroke, she could mobilize all the disparate elements into a single force around the enemy.

And that was what she would have to do.

From fifty-five thousand miles behind the gate, her Longshot-class artillery ships reported in. The powerful but vulnerable long-range weapons platforms were running low on ammunition and unsure where to direct their shots for maximum impact. But they were ready and needed only an order. Ahead, a thin line of medium-ranged destroyers screened the artillery ships, thus far unable to go on the offensive for fear of falling into the forward firing arc of the Federation wedge.

Farther afield, a flanking force of Lightstrike-class destroyers had split off from the main fleet, using their speed to great advantage and harassing the sides and rear of the Federation wedge from nearly forty-thousand miles away. However, that meant that they sped away farther and farther from the stargate and the rest of her forces. She found the commanders there demoralized and unable to create a significant diversion.

In the center of the fleet, her main battleships had attempted to hold the gate position. But the line had to fall back in the center from the forward drive of the Federation ships. Inca saw the battleships break apart one after another, the mammoth spacecraft glowing under the heat of the Federation's laser weapons, entire sections of their hull shearing off. The tattered battleship line left the area in front of the gate unguarded, leaving reinforcements coming through open to immediate attack.

The situation was dire. Shoving aside all the rest of her thoughts, Inca tried to focus on what it was she had to do now. Gathering herself up, she sent out a rallying cry into the neural web. Morale soared throughout the fleet at her return.

Then the neural web faded from her view.

Inca found herself within her personal mindspace within the Whisper, cut off from the rest of the fleet, disconnected even from the task force she had come back with.

What the hell had happened? She panicked and reached out again, slamming into the walls of darkness around her. She didn't have time for this!

She needed the full coordination of her forces at the gate to have a fighting chance. She needed to be there when her ships needed their commander. She needed full control of the neural web right now.

What was it the Whisper wanted? Why was it failing her now?

She had given her strength, her talent, her brains. Beyond that, she had nothing more to give besides the murky pool of thoughts she had pushed down when she had accepted the plan. Her misgivings about fighting her own navy, betraying her vows to the country. Her growing disgust at all that she, and every other human soul out here in this wasteland of space had to do.

In the darkness of the Whisper, Inca cast her eyes over her inner mind.

Perhaps those were the things still holding her back.

She understood now: nothing else could matter besides what was necessary for the current situation. She was faced with the imminent destruction of her fleet, and her only priority was seeing her fleet through. The battle called for her to cast everything else away.

Realizing that, Inca allowed the darkness in. The nothingness became its own substance and pushed every other thought away. She was no longer in the Whisper, but the Whisper was in her. The neural web filtered in at the edges, then filled her vision, clearer and brighter than ever before.

She saw her fleet, the enemy's fleet, and the battle space as a nexus of decisions. A network spread out before her, each branch a possible consequence of every minute aspect of every action the fleet could take. She understood the needs and potential of every part of her fleet, and how some of them would have to be sacrificed to reach the end. In the darkness, with the complete knowledge of her fleet's capabilities, and the multitudinous estimation of the enemy's reactions, Inca plotted the way to the future.

Then she allowed time in the Whisper to move forward again.

The plan was simple but complex. Her artillery ships would bombard the tip of the Federation wedge, blunting its drive. At the same time, her battleships would reform their line, securing again the space in front of the stargate for the reinforcements to come through. Meanwhile, her task force would link up with the Lightstrike destroyers flanking the Federation ships, the combined force performing a coordinated push to buy more time. When the reinforcements had formed up, they would strike outward from behind the battleship line, driving the Federation fleet back.

On paper, it all sounded plausible. But the timing of it all was crucial. The plan depended on the gargantuan battleships, which would take time to regain their position. Her artillery ships would have to cover their movement, but without draining their own low ammunition. At the same time, the harrying force at the Federation's flanks could only strike when the battleship line was back in place, or risk being destroyed.

Through the neural web, Inca disseminated the plan and received the precise calculations—and the nearest estimations where these couldn't be done—needed for it all to work. The vision she had seen hadn't been wrong: it would all come together. She approved the order and sent it out.

Athena's protest came back through the Whisper: _Inca. The battleships!_

It was a death sentence for them, taking the brunt of the Federation attack. Inca looked out through the web at the minds linked to it from the battleships. The hundred or so ships there carried over five thousand souls. Inca ordered them to halt their retrograde and to stand firm against the tip of the Federation wedge.

_It is what has to be done,_ she sent. _If the commanders refuse, I will take over and do it myself._ And she knew she could do it too. Her grasp on the neural web was all but complete.

No, she commanded the fleet now, and there was no shying away from death.

Looking out into space at the charge of the Federation ships, Inca closed her heart and mind off to everything that would come. For there was a lot more battle to be had, and a lot more death to come.

# 30

Bucky's office had always been a dull, stolid affair, and it had always been a struggle not to picture the pirate admiral the same way. As Nutty strode in, everything that had led up to this point flashed through his mind again. There had been two parts to the Old Man's instructions: meet with Apple Pie Man, and find the mole. The second part had been troubling, given that he was the mole. His only option had been to finger someone else. Hence the visit to this colorless part of town.

"Admiral Buchanan," Nutty said, seating himself before being invited to.

Bucky eyed him, a half-squint forming on his thick face. "What is this? What do you want?"

They had never gotten along. But today was not about getting along.

"The Old Man wants to know how long you've been at it." Nutty said.

He saw a look of cunning cross the older man's face. Oh yes, Bucky was a dangerous one. Choosing him to be the scapegoat hadn't been random. Like everything else that had to be done in matters like these, the choices had to be strategic. Removing Bucky would cross out many future worries. At least on that part, Nutty reflected to himself, there was no illusion how self-serving his choices were.

It was fortuitous that Bucky's role in the current invasion was a later-stage one. He was on the base at a time when half his cronies were already heading toward the Federation.

"What have you got up your arse this time, Nutty? Spit it out or I'll shoot you right here and right now!"

The man made good on his word, a blaster pistol appearing in his hand.

There was one thing that was different about the way the pirates worked, different from the Federation, despite the Old Man's protests: within the pirates, things got done a lot faster.

"The Old Man has long suspected it was you," Nutty said. He controlled his voice to become the most insinuating, and irritating, he had ever heard it. "Why do you do it, Buchanan? Why do you sell out to the Federation?"

If the shot to his face came, it would come now.

But for all their posturing, killing a fellow officer was not an inconsequential thing, even among the pirates. Bucky laughed, lowered the pistol, then laughed some more.

"Is that all you have, Nutty? Your years of plotting against me, and this is your best? This is what you choose to come at me with?"

Bucky laughed again, folding his arms and leaning back. "But so be it. You have provided an interesting diversion for me for today. I will give you your five minutes. Show us what you have, Nutty. It'd better be good."

Nutty smiled, a thin smile. Was this not all that he needed? He put the large folder he had been holding down on the table, opening it and wetting his fingers with the air of a punctilious secretary.

"Six years, five months ago. Your first meeting with a Federation agent that I have documentation of." He threw down a photograph. "I know the man in that photo with you is a Federation agent because I spent the six years after that tracking him down and placing him." And in fact, Nutty had. His first priority upon joining the Old Man's cadre had been to find everything he could on everyone around him.

"Four months later, a raid on the Senkova distribution center, a major operation considering our strength at that time. A raid that you led. The operation was known only to you and the Old Man, and yet Federation forces managed to surprise you and surround you much quicker than they should have. You escaped unharmed, even though seventy percent of your forces were obliterated. A major blemish on your career here, but you complained to the Old Man of the presence of moles in his command.

"Three months later, a large shipment reached your personal synthetics warehouse down at Koln, listed only as a private donation. We tracked that one down too. It was hard work, but it was easy once we shook up the original agent who had spoken to you all those years ago.

"Two months later, you were in contact with outside agents again. Middlemen this time, as the Federation agents in contact with you had become spooked as to being discovered. This time, you were lucky, as the middlemen in question were forcefully retired, from life, before I got a hold of them. But you slipped up. You let loose information to your trusted lieutenant at the time, Polski. Dear Polski, who had always reported directly to the Old Man, since before you ever stepped foot on this base.

"You were too eager for a repeat success of the job at Senkova. This was all before you stopped being as stupid as you were. But it's all too late now."

Nutty ran his index finger down the side of the fat file. "How much time do you have, Bucky? There are five more years of material to go through here."

Bucky had gone quiet, a silent kind of rage working its way through his reddened face. When it completed its course, the man slammed a meaty hand down on the table, shaking it with his fury.

"Who do you think you are!"

He reached forward, took up the folder, and flung it at Nutty's face. Nutty took the hit, turning his face sideways. Photographs and papers slid all over the floor.

"You fucking idiot!" Bucky shouted.

Yes, this was the response he had expected. Most of the admirals on the base had deals on the side, lining their own pockets by selling information or things, or people. Not many were as egregious as the ones Bucky had committed early in his career, and it had become a gentlemen's agreement among the higher command not to stick fingers into each other's pies. Bucky's outrage was at having his affairs exposed in this manner.

"You're an idiot, Nut. You think you can come in here with your folder of photographs and prove anything. Shows me how little you understand of our world. Are you sure you aren't yourself a Federation rat? You think like one, and you know nothing of this world."

Nutty shrugged. "I have the backing of the Old Man. Everything I'm doing now is only a courtesy to you, on account of our long friendship." He clapped his hands. Behind him, armed and armored guards poured into the office.

"I had hoped for a gentle confession, Buck. It appears I was naive. The evidence is overwhelming against you, and the Old Man has given me discretion. Come now and you will have your life."

Bucky, against all odds, laughed in his face. "You threaten me in my own domain? Men loyal to me surround this entire complex. Your little toy soldier squad here are dead men walking. Don't think you will walk out of this alive if so much as the hair on my feet aren't accounted for."

Nutty kept his stance. The Old Man had furnished him with enough troops, and they had disarmed as many of Bucky's men as they could on the way in. "This is your last chance. Face the Old Man's judgment, according to the evidence I have put in front of you, or be executed here and now."

Again, the old dog laughed.

"What judgment, and what evidence? Face your rigged trial, and be killed anyway? Do your worst, you piece of boot-bottom shit. I won't be cowed—."

Drawing his ivory-handled pistol, Nutty shot him through the forehead.

"Guard," Nutty said, when the ringing in his ears had died down. "Clean up the mess."

He turned around and strode out the office, trampling the photographs and other documents underfoot. As two of the guards lifted the body out, he ordered the rest ahead to clear the way. When they had all left and he was sure no one could see, he slunk down to the floor and stayed that way for a while. Then it was time to be Nutty again.

# 31

Tang flicked the light on and stared into the old office, empty of Gerrard. Sheaves of paper covered the tops of the two desks, laid out in an L-shape, jostling for space with empty pizza boxes and half-full soda cups. He stepped around the bags of trash in the entryway and moved into the main space, checking the water stain in the corner of the ceiling out of habit. He guessed they were lucky the office faced away from the sun, or there would be more of that smell that assaulted his nose now. He sank into his chair and glanced over at the other waiting chair.

Tang, you dumb, dumb ass!

He had to find the Ghosts. He had to find Gerrard. His mind raced over his conversation with Pitt. But it kept pausing at everything the colonel had said about Inca.

He had been wrong. He had seen Inca as some cold-blooded killer. But he had known nothing about her past, or anything about what she had to bear now. At the root of it, wasn't she just another human being, bound to her circumstances like they all were? The memory of her, pale and half-blinded, surfaced in his mind. No one should have to go through what she was going through.

He had to help her. He had seen the call for help in her eyes, the kind that spoke even when the person in question didn't. She probably didn't think of him as her friend. She probably didn't even think of him. But he had come to know her, and had come to see she would be better off not getting involved with Athena and the Initiative. Even if it was one-way, he considered her a friend, and a friend in need of help.

That made her, and Gerrard. He needed to help them both, and to do that he had to find the Ghosts. Or anyone at all, really, who knew even a little bit more about what was going on than he did. But where the hell was he supposed to start?

He leaned back and clutched his forehead. A poster he had stuck on the wall a few of Eri's daytime cycles ago caught his eye. It had been a glorious few months of sunlight, and he had felt hopeful, motivational even. But now it seemed to reach out to slap him across the face:

THE SUREST ROUTE IS NOT ALWAYS THE STRAIGHTEST.

Tang broke down. He didn't know what the straightest route even was anymore. He didn't even know what any of the goddamned routes were anymore. He felt like crying.

But he caught himself before he started. There was one thing he could be sure of: he wasn't going to find Gerrard by sitting in this goddamned chair and crying. He had to start somewhere. Anywhere.

He would get a cab. Get out in the city. Hit up some contacts. Ask around. Anything he could do, anywhere he could start. The damned poster should have read:

WHEN YOU DON'T KNOW WHERE THE HELL TO START, ANYWHERE WILL DO.

The cab arrived, and Tang startled to find a driver in it. The driver looked back at him from the front seat from under a baseball cap and gave him a wide smile.

"Mr. Tang? You called for a cab."

Tang got in, closing the door behind him. "Yes, I uh—"

"Where do you want to go?"

Tang looked at the driver, stumped. He didn't have any idea after all.

The driver interrupted his thoughts. "Okay, Mr. Tang. I will drive for now, and you can tell me when you decide, okay?"

Tang looked up at the man, miserable. "Yeah," he said.

The man smiled again, then lifted the cab away from the building and into the stream of traffic.

"You're surprised to find a driver for your cab?"

Tang coughed, then nodded. "Yeah, I—uh, I thought they stopped using drivers a while ago." He looked to the dashboard of the cab and found an ID card where ID cards used to be, with the driver's name under the photo: "Wong."

Wong laughed. "Yes, yes. But I suggested to my boss a long time ago. Let me drive the cab! People like it. They talk to me on the way. Now people ask specially for me! You are lucky you got me."

Tang laughed, despite himself.

Wong glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. "You are a long-time resident here, yes? Me too now. We have the same look. Very funny if you know what."

"That—that's very interesting." Tang looked out the window, and the city stared back.

"Yes!" Wong continued. "Yes! I moved here with my father when I was young. From the Collective. He told me, everyone here has a look. Not a very good look."

Tang turned back to face forward. "What—uh, what did your father come here for?"

Wong smiled into the rear-view mirror again. "He worked for a big tech company here."

Tang looked out at the city again, seeing nothing in particular.

"Funny thing," Wong said. "He never told me what company he used to work for. Always said, 'I work for ghosts.' "

Tang snapped back to face the driver. "Your father said he worked for ghosts?"

"Yes, yes. Always was a bad joke. But that was what he said. For many years."

Tang leaned back in his seat.

The universe was toying with him.

"Yesterday too," Wong continued. "I picked up a man. He said he works for ghosts too. People in the Federation are very funny. He said maybe I'll meet someone again today, who will ask me about ghosts."

Tang paused, his mouth open. _There was no way._

He closed his mouth, opened it again. "Mr. Wong, can you take me to see your father?"

Wong looked at him in the mirror, amused. "My father is dead. Many years ago."

Tang slumped back in his seat. "I'm so sorry." A hot wave of embarrassment burned his cheeks. What had he been thinking? "It's just—I'm sorry."

Wong continued to squint at him in the mirror. "But the man said, whoever asks about your father, tell him, he can come to me. Do you want to go there now? I remember the address."

Tang looked into the mirror, his mouth dry. _What were the chances?_

His reply tumbled out, nonetheless. "Yes. Yes."

The car touched down two hours later. Tang stared out the window. "This place?"

Wong cut off the engines. "I never forget a destination. Many rich people in the Federation."

"Yeah, no kidding," Tang said. They were stopped outside a single-story, landed house, in a row of houses, spaced apart with greenery all around, the trees lit from the ground up.

"And don't worry about the fare. The man left credit."

Tang nodded, relieved. He had been worried about that.

"Thank you, Mr. Wong. I hope we meet again," he said.

He stepped out and the cabby lifted off. There were lights in a few windows of the house, and, after a further moment's hesitation, Tang stepped up to the door and rang the bell. It opened to reveal a man in a dark turtleneck and black trousers, sporting blond dreadlocks. "Come in, Tang," he said.

Tang stood in the doorway, stunned.

"I've been waiting for you," the man said. "I apologize for the roundabout way of getting you to come here, but it was necessary. You must have a million questions, and I'll try to answer them all. But first, my name is Orpheus, and I am a third-generation understudy of the research group that created the Whisper. We've been watching Lieutenant Flores, and, subsequently, you, and I think there's a lot we can do for each other."

Tang nodded, his head spinning.

Orpheus beckoned and he followed in a daze, coming into an expansive living room. "Tell me everything that's happened with Inca," Orpheus said when they'd sat at a long dining table.

Tang hesitated one last moment, then decided to tell all. For here, after all this time, was someone who looked like they had a clue what the hell was going on. He talked and Orpheus listened, brows furrowed and asking questions throughout. When he finished, Orpheus sat back, thinking. Tang took the opportunity.

"I have a question for you too," he said. "Did the Ghosts try to assassinate Inca?"

Orpheus gave a slight look of surprise, then nodded. "Well yes, but not necessarily assassinate her. We needed to remove her from the scene. Our mechanized unit was programmed for incapacitating, not killing."

Tang took the information in, more cool-headed than he imagined he would be. "Because you feared something like this would happen, with Inca."

"That, and other concerns, yes."

_Okay._ It was a lot to process, but doable. "So what's the plan now?" Tang said.

"Right. Before we go into that, I believe I have some news for you. Just today, I received news from a contact near the border world. Your friend, Gerrard, has passed through the hands of my contact, and is last known to be on his way to the border with the Initiative. But besides the obvious shock of the situation, he is otherwise reported to be well."

Tang gripped the edge of the table. Gerrard was alive. And _well_.

"But there's something else I need to tell you about him," Orpheus said. "You may already know this, but Gerrard's gotten mixed up with a dangerous cerebral implant. But be that as it may, the implant carries a prototype version of the Whisper technology that may be able to counter whatever the Initiative's Whisper is doing to Inca. The long and short of it is that right now, Gerrard may have the best chance in this sector of space of stopping Inca. So as I said earlier, there is a lot we'll have to do for each other."

# 32

Gerrard stumbled out of the Gray Wolf onto the landing pad. He saw that they stood on a spot carved into a mountainside blanketed by conifer trees of some kind, sloping down into a dark valley. The Jackal followed him out of the Navy fighter, and they came around its nose to find Zee—Zirconium—there.

The former admiral had radioed them at the border after the Navy had begun its attack on the Initiative fleet. He had followed them there at Nutty's behest, and had advised the Jackal to turn back from the border. With the Navy attacking, the Initiative agent had judged the situation too dangerous, and had agreed. Zee had then led them away from the border, landing on a planet he called "a private place," eight jumps away.

Gerrard cast his eyes across the magnificent view, mired in his gloom.

There was no escaping the fact: he was to blame for what had happened at the border. Coming face to face with the president, he had had a chance to resist Fuller's control. Instead, he had fallen into his usual inability, to speak, to stand up for himself, and to say what it was he believed.

"I didn't know this kind of world still existed in the Federation," the Jackal said, looking out over the valley and beyond into the ice-blue mountains in the distance. A single sun was in the sky, bathing the planet in a comfortable cool.

"One of the few preservation worlds left in the Fed." Zirconium flashed a toothy grin at them. "There's a bunch of really well-to-do people here, who've kept it that way. And Nut and I happen to have an agreement with them. Come this way."

They came to a sturdy, metal door set into the surface of the mountainside and obscured by brush, and entered through after Zirconium tapped in a passcode. Inside, the way opened up into a kind of subterranean bunker, lit by low-hanging fluorescent lights. They winded their way through the stone corridors to a room with a long table and chairs set in its middle. Zirconium left them waiting there, then disappeared and came back with bread and hot soup. "Eat," he said.

Gerrard found himself famished. As they ate, Zirconium commented on the climate of the planet as if they were visiting for the weekend. When they were done, he said, "I realize ye probably want rest. But there's things we have to talk about, and better sooner than later. Fer a start, what happened at the border?"

The Jackal fell silent, and Gerrard looked away.

"Well," Zirconium said. "Whatever it was, I think it's time to lay the cards out on the table. I'll start and you can take your turn after. As ye guessed back on the pirate base, Nutty's an agent in the employ of the Federation. Except that more than a few years ago, he'd realized the Federation he served was not the Federation he thought he knew. Happens to people like him more than you'd think.

"Anywho, a few years ago, he'd come into contact with a very interesting group called the Ghosts. Fer now ye need to know that the Ghosts are the direct descendants of the original creators of the Whisper technology. Though they're more than that nowadays.

" 'Bout a year ago the Ghosts discovered a plot in the Federation that involved the creation of a war between itself and the Initiative. Which is where we get to the implant in yer head.

"On the president's assassination, an implant was to be sent out containing the president's mind. They could do this on account of the latest iteration of the Whisper that the Fed scientists had cooked up. We don't know fer now how much the president was a willing part of the plan. But that implant is the one in yer head.

"That's when y'all fell into Nutty's lap, so to speak. He didn't know fer sure it was the implant he was dealin' with, but thought it best if it was removed to a location outside the Federation, lest it fall into the hands of the people who were lookin' for it. He didn't want the implant to fulfill its purpose."

The Jackal strained forward. "What is this purpose?"

"We don't know fer certain, 'cept to say it's safe to assume it was to further the war somehow. But we do know it wasn't supposed to fall into yer hands, Gerrard. Which brings us to the questions of who ye are and why it is ye ended up with the implant. Ye'll have to excuse us lookin' into ye, and finding of course, that yer father was Admiral Meyers, who had disappeared so long ago.

"Which is to say, Nutty and I both suspect that yer father had a hand in making sure the implant did not reach its intended destination, and that ye were the one who was there to pick it up, Gerrard."

Gerrard pushed back from the table. Standing, he half-nodded to himself, then said under his breath: "I need some time alone."

Stepping out of the bunker, Gerrard came into the fresh air of the mountainside, to see that the sky had turned to powder pinks and blues, while the forest below had deepened into dark, inviting shades of green. Gerrard picked out a path and struck towards the valley floor.

What did it mean that his father had wanted him to pick up the implant? The thought pounded through his head as he walked, and he stopped only when he had come without realizing it to a small clearing where the murmurs of a brook could be heard. A small outcropping of white rock jutted from the land, and Gerrard made his way towards them, finding a seat on the far side facing deeper into the forest. So hidden from the view of the bunker, tears came to him.

It was too much. He didn't know what was going on, or why his father wanted him to find the implant. Most of all though, it was the thought that his father had still been somewhere out there, and had reached out to him from whatever abyss the older man had disappeared into. This was what they, father and son, had been reduced to.

When he looked up again, the sky had darkened, and the cool of the forest had taken on a forbidding shade. Sitting back against the rock, Gerrard closed his eyes, exhaustion overtaking him. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in near-complete darkness.

"Gerrard."

He saw the ghostly figure, its glowing outline approaching from the depths of the forest. Somehow, with everything that had happened, its appearance neither startled nor surprised him. He knew from a glance it was his father, the sad, tired eyes the way he remembered them.

The apparition came before him and they looked at each other for a long while. Within its face Gerrard saw all that had happened between them and all that was happening now. The ghost's features reflected back to him his own pain, anger, and regret. But as he looked he found the words bubbling to the surface of his mind, coming from a deeper place within him than he had ever suspected existed. But as he tasted them in his mouth, he knew they were right, and that he had been searching for them his entire life. They were what he believed, and it had taken him too long to find them.

"You _wanted_ me to find the implant. You wanted me to find the implant, because in the end, you knew I was right. I was right, and I could have stopped the president. I could have stopped the president, if, instead of wavering, I had held on a little more to what I had always believed. That the world was not what he and you always said it was. That the world didn't _have_ to be like that."

Gerrard stood from the rock. "I was right, in thinking it could always have been something a little different. Something a little more, and that we didn't have to do what it wanted, or to become like it. In fact, the best damned thing we could do was to _refuse_ to be like it."

As he spoke, he realized the reason for the sadness in the ghost's eyes. "You knew I was right. You realized it wherever it was you went. Perhaps you always knew. At the bottom of it all, you never believed the things you tried to impress on me. You wanted me to use the implant. You were waiting for me to _prove you wrong_."

And just like that, it came back to him.

He was in the Fiddler, jacking into the Whisper. As he did, a voice—not his father's—had spoken from out of the darkness. It told him to the open the box, that it contained something from his father. And what did he do?

He went to open the box, of course. At the bottom of it all, he wanted to know where his father had gone, even after everything that had happened. And so he made his way back to the hold and opened the box. When he did, a bright light—a holo projection—filled his eyes and he saw the words:

Gerrard

I've taken my path all the way to the end, and the end is not something I would wish for you. I'm sending the implant in this box to you for safekeeping because you are the one I trust with it the most. Perhaps you were right all this while. I love you, son, and nothing should have gotten in the way of that.

Then the projector went dead, leaving him in shock. But as he fought to process what he'd read, a boom sounded throughout the ship. Someone else had come for the box. In that moment, he knew the projector had to be destroyed, that his father's words were not meant for anyone else. And so he located the projector within the box and chucked it down the waste chute, turning back to find the implant held within a sort of machine-the transmitter that had allowed the voice to speak to him.

He'd struggled with what to do. Whatever his feelings about his father, he couldn't risk the implant falling into someone else's hands. Not after everything he'd gone through to find it, and not when it contained the possibility of a clue as to his father's whereabouts. He had one moment to dig deep and find what it was he believed. When it was through, he'd taken up the implant and injected it into himself.

There was something still worthwhile in his father's words. He'd realized they were both just human, struggling with an insane, inhumane world. His father had taken a different path than he would have, but they'd both recognized the wrong in the world around them.

And so it was up to the son to complete what the father couldn't. He needed to know what was within the implant, to struggle with it, to deal with it, and to come out holding on to his beliefs. Whatever happened to it now would happen to him too.

Standing, he'd felt a strange tingling come over all his nerves. A presence flashed through his mind, a shadow cast over all his thoughts, and he wondered even then if he'd taken on more than he could handle. But he tried to shake it off and make his way back to the flight deck, aware that he needed to save himself and the ship from whoever was out there.

He'd jacked into the Whisper to try to escape. But the last thing he remembered as he connected to the system was a call reaching out into the galaxy, a beacon or summon of some kind. An oily feeling came over him in that moment, a sense that something horrible had happened in the galaxy, and was still happening. Then the darkness had taken over, and he had remembered no more.

# 33

In the smallest hours of the night, Natalia locked up the doors to Mediterranean Pizza. She reflected on the day. News of the outbreak of war was all the talk that had filled the small restaurant, and she had been glad to spend the last hour or so closing up in peace and quiet. The earnings were a little less, the clientele smaller. Yes, she imagined, it wasn't really the kind of moment to head out for a good time at the pizza place.

She walked up the stone steps onto the mezzanine of the arcade, looking around. The quiet of the arcade struck her as an anomaly in an otherwise unsleeping city. An electric tension filled the air, but Natalia dismissed it as her fanciful imagination after a long day, and drew her coat tighter around herself and walked down toward the main street.

As usual at times like these, she thought of all the people she could call family. People to give faces to the vast, dark galaxy she knew was near on the outside of the domes. Still, she thought—as she often did on a night like this—that the galaxy was just that much warmer, that much less foreboding, for knowing that there were people there who would know who she was, and what they had been through together.

As she walked, her thoughts lighted on Sandra. Sandra, the brown-faced little girl who had arrived at the doorstep of their hideout, on a sand-blasted world in a different time in a different part of the galaxy, half-starved to death and not much more than bones held together by skin. Sandra, whose eyes had shocked her with their strange intensity. Sandra, whose will to live had outshone the desert that had birthed her. At moments like these, she wished every little girl in the Federation had a normal upbringing, whatever normal meant in this galaxy of theirs.

She turned the corner to find crowds of people gathering around every holo on the street's many window displays. It was that electric tension she had sensed earlier, that unnatural, quiet hush that had filled the streets when it should have been humming along. Even now, she saw in the slopes of the shoulders of the people in the crowd nearest to hers, in their unnatural quiet, that anger or outrage was secondary to a dismay, to a kind of stunned horror at an adjustment to a new frame of reality. Shouldering her way to the front of the nearest crowd, she joined them in watching the news unfold from the talking head projected in front of them.

"...confirmed reports of fleets of unknown origin in Eri, Sepunka, Talso, Origo, Waihan, Immigo, and Nalsin space. At a news conference held an hour ago on the capital world, Federal Secretary of Defense John Munson hastened to assure citizens of the affected worlds that Navy reserves from further inland will be pushed to the border worlds, even as most of the standing fleets of the West Constellations find themselves tied up in the ongoing outbreak of war along the border with the Initiative.

"Joining us now is expert correspondent and former Admiral Chris Skiller who says that the pirates are using advanced stargate technology they should not have, and otherwise should not have been able to penetrate through to the border worlds..."

And so too, Natalia saw the strange unfolding of fate on a holo before them, a reality they could not alter or affect, but only hope to be able to come to grips with soon and well enough to mitigate its impact on their lives. She looked and saw the faces of the people around her, and understood now the quiet horror.

..............................

Inca fell into a rhythm.

Her battleships had held like a ragged seawall against the crash of the Federation ships, and sections of broken spacecraft littered the front between the two titanic forces. Just as she had planned, her task force and destroyers had surged forward at that moment into the flanks of the Federation fleet. Then, her reinforcements from the gate had formed up and pushed past the debris from the battleships, delivering hell to the Federation cluster.

The ebb and surge of the battle had come to seem like tidal movements on a shore. She pushed where possible and halted when necessary. The neural web flickered and darkened where ships disappeared off the link. Destruction reigned throughout the fronts of the two spacefaring fleets. In the Whisper mindspace, the battle consumed all that she had.

Inca, it's over! The Federation ships are fleeing!

Athena's voice, cutting through the haze, snapped her back to the larger picture. Inca looked out toward the battlefield and saw that the Vector was right: all that was left of the Federation fleet was a thin, screening line, and its other remnants had begun a furious retreat from the fray.

Had she reached the end? Was this a chance for it all to stop?

But in the darkness of the Whisper, another thought emerged.

There was no reason to let the enemy go. There was no sense in allowing the Federation fleet to survive, regroup, and come back after her. An enemy let go was an enemy saved. Mercy begat trouble: the desert had taught her that.

_Inca, no more!_ Athena's voice echoed through the neural web, as hers had before.

Then, like a dream falling away, the Whisper relented its grip.

Inca came back to herself with a shock. They were in enemy territory. A chase would only lead them wherever the enemy wanted to take them. They were surrounded by infinite enemy reinforcements. This was no way to go about it. What had she been thinking?

Inca, I can take over from here. You need a rest.

A rest. Yes. That would be good.

Pulling herself away from the neural web, she wrapped a cocoon around herself and seeped into the nothingness there. Time stretched out in the unknowing darkness. At the edges of her mind, she was aware that Athena had taken charge. It was time for the Initiative fleet to regroup and take stock. It was time for the battle to be over.

Athena spoke again after an indeterminate time to bring her updates. The Initiative fleet had lost nearly half its ships. They had something like two hundred battleships in fighting condition, and twice again that number in destroyers and other smaller craft. In the time taken to take stock, the forward scouts they had sent ahead before the battle had returned from the adjoining star systems. The systems going forward were clear for the moment. It was a good time to move on.

But something was different with Athena. She was hiding something.

Inca felt the Vector pull back from the link, panic written all over her mind.

_What is it?_ Inca sent.

A disproportionate anger gripped her. She had come too far, had given too much to the Initiative fleet and to Athena's plan to be denied information. Something snapped within her, and she reached out through the Whisper. Before she knew it, she had ransacked through the Vector's mind.

A tortured cry tore from Athena, a disturbing sound that pierced the heart of all that Inca was. But when it ended, Inca saw what the Vector had tried to keep hidden, and knew then too why she had tried to hide it: pirates had attacked Eri. Natalia was in danger.

A cool detachment came over Inca, but with it an unexpected wisdom. In that moment, she understood why she was the way she had been her entire life. Her outward aloofness and her cold, methodical way had always been a shell for something underneath. Something far more dangerous and far more uncontrollable.

She knew now that it was a deep, simmering anger, one that ran under everything in her life. It guided her actions and gave her strength, and it bulwarked her against the madness of the world. Against the news that Natalia was in danger, it was all that defended her now from snapping into two.

For if she lost Natalia, not a single thing else in the galaxy would matter.

But in that moment too, she understood her position. She was at the head of a fleet, in charge of tens of thousands of lives. Anything Athena would say in protest would be right: Eri was too far from the border, and besides was not the mission at all. They would be cut off from any possible help. The entire endeavor would be dangerous and unfounded. Against the rage that threatened to burst the shell and overwhelm her, she knew all the reasons not to go.

But she needed to be out of the Whisper. Severing her link to the neural web, she let go of the darkness, then surfaced into the world. The cold liquid on her skin shocked her into awareness of the physical world again.

She sat up in the Whisper pod, coughing the goo from her lungs.

Athena was beside her in a moment.

Inca held up her hand to forestall whatever it was Athena might say, and lifted herself out of the pod. The lights of the command room, thought already dimmed, stung at her eyes like never before. She teared from the pain and wiped at her eyes in vain with her wet hands. Pushing herself away from the pod, she struck out towards where she thought the exit was. But as she walked, through the darkness and the pain, she looked out through her half-shut eyes and saw Natalia.

She saw the woman who had opened the door to the bunker in the deserts that fateful day. The woman who had given her precious food and drink, to the child who had wandered the sands, half-crazed after witnessing her family slaughtered. The woman who learned what that little girl had gone through, then had given her the understanding, comfort, and love as only another from the desert could give. She saw Natalia, who had no reason to take her in, but had done it anyway.

So seeing, Inca knew she couldn't walk away.

She turned and made her way back to the pod.

From somewhere, Athena called out: "Sentinels! Escort the lieutenant back to her chamber."

Turning, Inca opened her eyes for one painful moment, searing into her memory the last sight she would see with them: the dim interior of the command chamber, the Whisper pods radiating out from the central trunk-like structure, the Sentinels moving towards her, and Athena's eyes, glazed over with anger and regret.

One quick step forward, and Inca had Athena in a hold, her arm over the Vector's slender throat. "Stay back!" she shouted.

But the Sentinels wouldn't stay long. With their weapons, they would overpower her no matter that she had Athena as hostage. Using the momentary confusion, Inca stepped to the Vector's side and delivered a swift, sharp strike to the underside of her jaw.

Athena's head snapped back and she fell to the floor unconscious.

Letting go of the Vector, Inca closed her eyes again and fell backward into the pod. The cover slid into place over her and Inca made one last memory of the sensation of her body. Then, summoning her innermost calm, she breathed in deep, forgot the world around her, and gave herself over to the embracing darkness.

..............................

Athena opened her eyes, her environment confusing her for a moment. Then it all came back to her: the Sentinels crouching over her, the dim interior of the command chamber, the Whisper pods... Inca!

She jumped to her feet, dashing to the console that controlled the Whisper links to the ship's mainframe and systems. Coming to the right screen, she brought up Inca's pod and tapped for the link to be severed, as she had done before when shutting down Inca's access to the Whisper. She waited for the command to execute, when a red warning came up on the display: COMMAND OVERRIDDEN. CONSOLE INPUT LOCKED.

Athena stepped back from the console, stunned. Then she ran back to Inca's pod and shouted to the Sentinels, "Open the covering!"

The two Sentinels wrestled the pod covering open, while Athena stepped back and realized what she was about to do. There was no other way to force Inca to surface from the Whisper other than to pull the connector out. Nobody was sure what would happen then, but in all likelihood Inca would be killed or left brain dead.

Athena paused to compose herself.

She had been wrong. She had known all of the risks, but hadn't been able to stop herself from placing Inca into a position of power. Yes, they had been at a desperate junction, but at the root of it all, Athena suspected that she had wanted to see what the Whisper would be at its fullest potential.

The scientists had warned the military even as they handed the technology over. The Initiative's Whisper reflected its users' minds to themselves. It amplified the user's greatest capabilities but also their worst shortcomings. These had been the terms necessary for the creation of a super technology, one which had the potential of evolving the human mind to its next state.

But it had all come to naught.

Athena looked down at Inca's face, pained even in her Whisper-induced slumber. Regret filled the Vector's heart, at all the things that could have been. But Inca's plan was madness, and threatened the twenty thousand lives in the fleet. Talent was useful, but only ever under control. Athena looked down at the open pod, hesitated one last moment, then reached in and pulled the Whisper connector out from behind the Federation lieutenant's head.

..............................

In the darkness, she wasn't Inca.

She was Sandra, her forearms and knees scraped raw, her face and her feet open to the hot, abrasive sands of Ahtila. She was Sandra, wandering the desert, throwing herself at the door to the first bunker she found. She was Sandra, who knew even as she did that she could expect no mercy. For those were the rules of the desert, and she was a child of that desert.

She was Sandra, huddling in the cold corners of the bunker, wondering why her clan had to be massacred, thinking without wanting to of what the man who had done the massacring had said to her. She was Sandra, learning to see the world in terms of power, of how much food and salvage she could bring back for her new, adopted clan, of how much it would forestall them from turning her out as a burden, and a liability.

She was Sandra, growing up and learning the rules of the world, and learning they weren't all that different from the rules of the desert. She was Sandra, growing up and learning that the only thing she could rely on time and again, the only thing keeping her head above the sand in a desert that wanted to consume her, was her own ability, and her own strength.

She was Alexandra, who had escaped the deserts of Ahtila and found her way into the Federation Navy. Alexandra, who had seen enough of the world to know it needed to be policed. Alexandra, who had joined the Navy, because it was the best way to bring order to a galaxy that only knew force. She was Alexandra, who would bring that order to the galaxy if she could.

She was Inca, and in the darkness, she knew wrath.

She was sick of it all. The warmongering, the killing, and the devastation of everything she had ever known or cared about. In the darkness, she knew why nothing had ever been the same, and why she could feel so little anymore. Everything had been taken away from her, and everything else would be.

And in its place, all she had ever had was anger.

And the accumulated sum of it all now poured outward toward the Whisper.

And in return, the darkness gave her a vision.

Within that vision, a single banner flew over the galaxy, stamped into the hulls of space-faring ships, reaching from one end of the galaxy to the other. Within that vision, she saw peace, enforced with an iron rule, the nations subsumed into a common world order. And within that vision, she saw violence repaid, in kind and without mercy.

The moment of decision had come, and the Whisper called to her. Looking at herself, Inca saw herself as she was now, a naked, fragile human in a world of gunfire and steel. Within the call of the Whisper, she saw an absolute darkness, and infinite possibility. The darkness beckoned, and Inca, Alexandra, Sandra, gave herself up. The call came again, and Inca took up its cry.

..............................

Athena pulled back from the pod, her hands shivering from the cold fluid. She stared in disbelief at the new reality before her, Inca's body in the pod, her eyes closed in seeming slumber.

Athena moved in a daze toward the console. There it was again. Inca's vital signs remained strong, but her brain activity was flat. Athena looked back toward the pod, then sat at the console and dropped her head into her hands.

When she looked up she saw the Sentinels standing about in confusion. Finding her voice, she said, "Remove the lieutenant from the pod. Place her in the cryogenic chamber."

The Sentinels set to work, and Athena turned her attention back toward the console. The previous lockout message had disappeared, and the display appeared normal. But as Athena reached toward the display, it sprang back again into life.

A readout of the ship's systems came into view. Before her eyes, the ship's radio communications, transponder, engines, and weapons were locked out from further manual input. A final message came up, and Athena raised a hand to her mouth in horror. On the display, the words were bold and clear: THE FLEET IS MINE.

# 34

Stormy looked out through the foliage. The Site was located in a dense woodland they had trekked a day and a night to get to. It was one of the largest, and was located on land susceptible to bombardment. The elders had discerned well: the chance of a Navy strike here was high.

The afternoon sun was high in the sky; and a reddish glow tinted the woods and scrublands around them. From here they had a good vantage point, and the small troop gathered for a rest.

"This will be a good spot to capture it happening," Stormy said.

Naji nodded his agreement, and set a few of the younger villagers to work choosing locations to set up cameras. When he was done he came to her. "It will not be enough to film from a distance. Some of us will have to go in and film from inside. It will be necessary to complete the picture."

Stormy nodded. The elder's instincts were right. The quality of the footage mattered: if it was too indistinct it heightened the chances of it being discredited. Even so, to film from the middle of bombarded ground was all but asking for death.

"I will go in," Naji said. He held up a hand against her objections. "The world needs to see that it is old men like me who are left fighting this war. We will start filming from inside and time it well. Before the bombardment starts we will move outward. It will be the best way to capture a complete picture."

Stormy looked the elder in the eye. There was no dissuading the man.

"Me too, then," she said. "I will do the filming."

The older man regarded her, then nodded. He turned to the villagers gathered around them. "Let it be remembered Storm from the Initiative volunteered to venture into danger together with me, and may she be forever known as our sister."

A small cheer spread through the villagers, before a few of them came up and kissed her on the back of her hand before returning to their appointed tasks.

"It is time to go," Naji said, when the last of the villagers had turned away. Stormy picked up one of the handheld holorecorders the troop had brought, then followed after the elder.

She had never seen the inside of one of the Sites; they had always been too well defended. She fought to keep focused on the mission, but it was difficult not to be horrified.

The inside was overgrown, except where the tiling of some of the building interiors had still kept nature out. The walls were dirty-white, and might have once been of the clinical variety. They found a large, low building that kept most of its furnishings: long rows of beds with restraints, alongside which stood defunct machinery and tables of operating tools. Brown stains smudged the walls, and a horrendous stink caused Stormy to gag.

Behind the building they found shovels and a large excavating machine, and a large empty pit that had been left that way. She forced herself to keep steady and keep filming, taking in every detail with the holorecorder.

They found a large corral outside, with fences forming a queue away into another large building filled with pallets on the ground, and piles of discarded personal items. She picked out among these the distinctive cloth wrappings, belts, and wraps the Carranians wore, and had to keep herself from gagging again. "Why doesn't the world see this?" she said.

"They do, but they do not," Naji replied. "I think I will stop here and say something to the camera, sister."

Stormy nodded, and the Carranian elder peeled off the outermost layer of his attire. She had thought the elder's clothing heavier than usual today, and now understood why. She soon found herself staring with a heavy knot in her heart.

The exterior wrap of the elder's clothing fell away, revealing an intricate, woven and layered garb. The robe-like top was cinched at the waist and ended below the knees in a flared sort of pants that met the top of the heavy woodlands boots. The entire piece was colored in a rich mixture of burgundy and earth browns, the color of deep wine and the sands, dunes, and canyons of the Carranian landscape. Bison and scrub motifs decorated the lapels of the upper garment in muted, tasteful embroidery.

Stormy had ever only heard of the traditional dress of the Carranian villages of the mesa. She had only ever been told that there had not been cause to wear it for a long time.

"Okay, I am ready now," the elder said.

Naji launched into his speech, detailing an abbreviated history of all that his world had suffered at the hands of the Federation Navy. He stayed away from terms like "insurrection," "rebel," and even "put down," and "oppression." Instead it focused on life as the Carranians knew it, and how much of it had disappeared over a decade-long struggle with the Federation Navy.

The elder had completed the first section of the speech, and was motioning for the camera to follow him outside into the rest of the Site, when a voice buzzed on the shortwave radio on Stormy's shoulder.

"Elder, the Navy ships are here."

Naji nodded and they ran outside. High above, the sky was a clear purplish-red, and nothing seemed yet out of the ordinary. Then they spotted the bright specks falling from on high, speeding toward their spot.

"Run, sister," Naji shouted.

Stormy kept the holorecorder aimed at the falling ordnance for as long as she dared, then turned towards the woods and ran. They were near the center of the compound, and had some distance to cover. Overhead, the bright specks grew larger and larger with an unbelievable speed. A high-pitched whine reached them from a distance, starting closer and earlier than even Stormy had expected.

They were near the tree line, and Stormy turned back to see the elder close behind. The first of the explosions sounded from nearby, a deep-throated roar that shook the trees around them. The second, then the third, followed, staccato booms like a giant's footsteps.

"Run, Naji!" Stormy shouted.

She cleared the tree line and looked behind. Naji had made it. Without pausing, she motioned deeper into the forest. The roar of the bombs prevented all speech.

They ran, the world a blur of green and brown, the sound like thunder in their ears. The ground shook as they fell, stumbled, and tore their way deeper into the forest. She only hoped the rest of the villagers were safe.

Then the roaring and the shaking and the tremors in her own body stopped, and a silence fell over the woodlands. Stormy turned back. The Site behind her was a blazing inferno. Naji's silhouette came through in the burning background, the elder limping up to her. "Up ahead," he rasped.

Stormy turned back ahead. The meetup point, a shelter at the bottom of a small ravine, was within sight. She propped the elder up with one arm, then saw the large patch of dark red on his upper thigh that his dress had hidden.

"I will be fine. Let's go," the elder said.

They made their way into the shelter, where the villagers took Naji from Stormy and tended to his wound. The elder looked exhausted, and lay down to close his eyes.

Stormy turned back to the forest. The whine of a second round of bombs filled the air. There were still others out there, and the villagers were organizing to go out for them. Stormy turned to join them, when Naji grabbed her hand. "You do your mother proud, Storm," the elder said. "She would have been glad to see you as you are today."

Stormy stopped and laid a hand over the elder's. The words didn't come and she didn't know what to say. Making do with murmured thanks, she left the elder to his rest. Then it was time to see about heading out again.

Stormy watched from the tree line as the _Traveler_ descended toward the landing pad, its jets billowing a cloud of dust and earth outward. The engines shut off, and LtCdr. Owen stepped out of its hatch after a few moments, his face showing open surprise at how she must have looked. "You alright?" he said as he came close.

Stormy nodded. She was alright, but not the Carranians who had been injured or killed all over the planet capturing more footage of the Navy bombardment. So much depended on how Owen had fared on his side. "How did things go?" she said.

Owen thought for a moment. "Better than I'd hoped, really. Starsky managed to send a crew here quick enough. These news guys have some really great tricks. They managed to get in close, but still looked like a speck of dust on the radar. It's amazing. Stormy, they caught it all. They have it all, showing the planet and the Navy clearly. And best of all, they were in communication with the Federation's system satellites. Everything is timestamped and location-verified by the Federation's own satellites! The only thing left is the footage on the ground. How'd things go down here?"

Stormy nodded, sagging with relief. "Good. We have footage from all over the planet. From within the Sites, that shows the bombs clearly. We have it all too."

"Okay," Owen said. "As far as we can tell, the Navy's cleared away from the gates. As soon as you're ready, we can take the rest of the footage to Bashar. The Starsky people will be beaming some of what they've collected to the office there ahead of time. Once we're there, everything can be compiled, and then the footage will be complete."

Bashar was a few jumps way toward the interior of the Federation, and was where Owen said he had contacts with a few of his uncle's friends who could help. He and Stormy had agreed to go there after completing the task here. Not for the first time, Stormy reflected on how much this man had come through for the cause.

She turned around and took one last look at the surroundings. She had said her goodbyes to the village and to Naji, and had promised to return after making sure the footage got to the news network. Word had come from the Carranian capital too that its leaders were debating a renewed push in its activism campaigning based on the footage collected. Stormy lifted up the large bag the village had given her containing all the data. It was time to go.

..............................

Cala, Bashar's capital, was a wide, spread-out city with a population smaller than the cities Stormy knew. A few days' stay had let her come to know why: most of the small planet was arid, and Cala was only the location that was least so. She stepped out of the small motel they had put up in, and held her hand to her eyes to cut out the dust and glare of the outside.

She had misjudged Owen. That much she could see. Over the past few days, and over the last two weeks, the man had proven to be smart, resourceful, and committed. She cringed when she thought about her initial treatment of him. Now she watched for signs of his return. He had said it would be better if he had gone ahead first to touch base with the local Starsky office, and that he would be back soon. As Stormy finished her lunch at the small restaurant attached to the motel, Owen's land truck rolled into the lot, and a woman in a business suit stepped out together with him. Stormy waved and they came into the restaurant.

"This is her," Owen said, as they came to where she was seated. Stormy stood and eyed the woman, sensing in her a brisk, competent efficiency.

The woman returned the scrutiny before extending a hand. "Jeanine."

"Stormy," Stormy said, taking it.

"Well, I can see we have a lot to talk about," Jeanine said. "Let's get down to it."

They were seated a moment later. Jeanine spoke at a fast clip. "It's excellent stuff. We've been going through the footage day and night. It is dynamite. This is national news, galactic news even. The only thing now is we'll have to transmit this further up the chain." She paused. "We have to be very careful with material of this caliber."

Stormy looked to Owen, hoping he understood what the woman was saying. He shot her back a look that said to let Jeanine run her course.

"You see, material like this, it has to be packaged properly. If we just, so to speak, threw it up the ladder—" Jeanine paused again, a look of disapproval on her face. "What I'm saying is it needs the proper context to get it the maximum impact it can get. We don't want something like this to simply die on the grapevine."

Stormy stared. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Jeanine took in a deep bracing breath. "Well, what I mean is, the footage is amazing. But the world itself is going crazy right now. You know, Carran news has been running for so long it's just part of the background of the Federation now. Without some sort of angle, everything we have here is just more noise added to the mix."

She continued before Stormy could speak. "So what I'm saying is, we need an angle on this. Why? Why now? The Federation Navy has its plate completely full right now, and I mean completely full. How does this figure into everything else that's happening? Is there some sort of new scandal or conspiracy that's going on? Well, more scandal than conspiracy. That's what viewers like. I don't like saying it either, but that's what this footage needs if you don't want it to fade out of the news cycle before it's even had its place in the sun."

Stormy leaned back against the couch. Owen shot her another look, shaking his head. She clenched her fist around the handle of her coffee cup and grit her teeth. "What are you going to do to the footage?"

"Stormy," Owen said, shrinking a little before her glare. "She's not wrong. If the footage isn't accompanied by more, it's not going to make sense to anybody, and will be drowned out by everything else that's going on. It just needs to be stronger. We need more on this."

"Where the hell are we going to find more?" Stormy said. "Isn't this bloody enough? What the hell else do you need to make this work? You need an admiral to come stand in front of your cameras, tell you they were wiping out evidence of what they've done in the past? Listen to yourselves!"

Jeanine shook her head, turning to Owen with a slight shrug.

Owen kept his gaze steady. "Stormy, I understand your frustration. Believe me. But if you want this footage to work in Carran's favor, we have to play this smart. Look at all the times that news that's come out of Carran has just been manipulated, and then just discarded. The news and how it works is a different beast. We have to play the game, Stormy. It's the only way to make sure the footage gets the attention it deserves."

Stormy shook her head. She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

Owen continued. "Look, I've spoken to my uncle. He agrees the footage is good, but he thinks too that we need more on this to really make it go places. I know it sucks, Stormy. But this is the best way to make sure what happened here doesn't just get lost, or worse, turned into something it is not."

Stormy met Owen's gaze, then looked away. He wasn't wrong. It sucked but he wasn't wrong. She slammed her fist down on the table, startling them. "Fine. Fine."

Jeanine nodded, relief on her face.

"I promise you," Owen said. "I will not let this die. We'll try to dig up as much as we can, add context to the story like Jeanine said. We will get this story out."

"Fine," Stormy said again.

It was a game, and she had to play it. She would have to return to Carran, try to convince its leaders to hold on and wait. Something had to come along, to give their story what it needed. She looked out the window at the dust clouds forming in the distance, and tried to work herself up to believing that something would.

# 35

The Jackal called out after him as Gerrard stumbled in a daze down the corridor of the mountainside bunker. The trip back from the forest had been a blur. Gerrard wasn't sure what he had seen there, but was sure what he had felt. He had remembered what had happened onboard the Fiddler: his father had meant for him to find the implant, and he had been the one who had injected it in himself.

Nothing else seemed to matter for now.

He had been right. His father had been wrong.

But both their lives had disappeared in finding out who was right and who was wrong.

Gerrard found himself wanting to be away from everything, to vanish into thin air.

He didn't want to have to face anyone or do anything again.

But the Jackal called out again from behind him: "Gerrard, Zirconium's been in touch with some of his contacts. He has a message for you, from a friend of yours, Tang."

Gerrard stopped and turned to face the Jackal. Past all the blur and the haze of thoughts and emotions in his mind right now, one thought came through: Tang had found him.

He came into the meeting room to find Zirconium waiting. The ex-admiral turned a tablet computer the right side up and pushed it toward him on the table. Gerrard picked it up, a sense of the surreal coming over him, as if he wouldn't find Tang's words there. But as he read, he heard Tang's voice in his head loud and clear.

GERRARD _._

How're things, buddy? They're not so hot here right now. I'm on Eri, and there's a bunch of shit happening here.

I'm here with a guy named Orpheus right now. He knows all about the Whisper tech. He knows about the implant you found, and he knows what to do with it. He's the man here right now.

But something's happening here. There's an Initiative fleet hereabouts in Eri space. Thing is, I know who's at the head of it. I need your help stopping her. Orpheus says the implant you have in you is the only thing that can do that right now.

Things are really getting crazy here. Wish you were here. Or maybe not. Maybe it's better to stay away from it all. Whatever happens, you know I got your back.

TANG _._

Gerrard put the tablet down, a mixture of laughter, relief, and tears threatening to overwhelm him all at once. The thought of Tang made everything he had gone through up till now seem to snap back into perspective. For the first time in a long while, he remembered what normal used to mean. The path ahead seemed clear now, and he knew what it was he had to do.

He looked up to find the Jackal's and Zirconium's eyes on him. "I'm going to Eri," he said.

The Jackal shook his head. "Gerrard, it's much too dangerous out there. It's a complete war zone now. If you go out and get killed, everything we've worked for will be lost and done for."

"No," Gerrard said.

It was time to stop walking away from it all.

It was time to stop wishing things would be different, and hoping that the world would right itself. If there was anything he had learned from what he had seen in the forest it was this: it was time to stop waiting for his beliefs to be validated, and time to start acting upon them. Eri was in trouble, and Tang was in trouble. It was time to do what he had wanted when he injected the implant: to make a damned difference.

He had had it in him all the while. The greatest tragedy had been not knowing it.

"No," he said again. "I'm going to Eri."

Dusk fell over the mountainside while Gerrard and Zirconium worked to get the former admiral's ship ready. The older man was sprite and knowledgeable about spacecraft, and kept up a constant stream of instructions and advice while they worked. They made a final inspection of the exterior using powerful flashlights Zirconium fetched from within the bunker, then settled down beside the ship to drink and rest. On the other side of the small landing pad, they saw the Jackal stalk off into the forest. The Initiative agent had decided not to force the issue, and seemed to have gone off to make his own plans. They watched as his form disappeared into the gloom.

"It was the right decision ye made, kiddo," Zirconium said.

Gerrard shook his head. "I don't know. I don't think I know anything anymore." Even after everything, even when he'd thought he had made a decision based on his own beliefs for once, self-doubt still gripped him.

Zirconium cackled. "That is when it's most important to follow yer heart."

A silence settled over them. Perhaps the older man was right. But knowing and doing were two different things. But as they sat there, something else that had been bothering Gerrard pushed itself to the forefront now. "When you were telling me about how you thought my father had had a hand in me finding the implant, how could you know for sure? Do you know where my father is?"

Zirconium paused, an expression coming over his face that Gerrard hadn't seen before. The old man seemed to get older as he thought through something before he spoke. "Aye. I've been meanin' to find a time to tell ye. P'raps this is as good as any.

"When yer father disappeared, you can imagine it caused quite a consternation in the Navy and beyond. Ye have to remember it wasn't just him, but many other higher-ups in the Navy and the civilian government. Did ye father ever speak to ye about anything special or important before he was gone?"

"My father and I hadn't been speaking for many years by then."

Zirconium sighed. "Well, ever since that time, various people have tried lookin' into the matter. Not much information has come from any of it, but there has been some. I cannot confirm most of it yet, but I think we know enough to say there's a good chance yer father, and all the others who disappeared, are still alive."

Gerrard took a deep breath. All the air in the world didn't seem enough. "Where is he?"

Zirconium shook his head. "That's where it gets complicated. And I'm sorry to say, but I think he's not alive in the sense that ye and I know it."

Gerrard paused, the world spinning. "What do you mean?"

"Yer father was involved in something that had to do with the Whisper technology, or what it was back then before it became what we have now. I dunno how to tell ye this, but what we know seems to indicate that he's alive only in terms of the Whisper technology. We think his body is dead but his mind was kept alive somehow by it."

Gerrard turned away, staring speechless into the dark.

"I'm sorry it's like that, kiddo," Zirconium said.

Time disappeared into an abyss as Gerrard struggled to order the thoughts in his head. After a long while, a single priority became clear. "Where do I start looking for him?" he said.

Zirconium shook his head again. "I don't wanna send ye on a suicide mission. This touches some of the deadliest people and things I've ever come across."

Gerrard shut his eyes and took another deep breath. Just when he had thought the world had spun out of control, it had come around and knocked the wind out of him again. "Admiral, after this thing with Tang is ended, I wish to look for my father. Please."

A long pause. Then: "Aye, lad. We can speak again when that happens."

Gerrard opened his eyes and stared into the dark, unsure where his thoughts were taking him. "Do you mind if I ask you something?" he said at length.

"Shoot."

"How did you come to do what you do now? Why did you quit the Navy?"

Zirconium sighed again. "A long time ago I had a difference of opinions with a very good friend. He was convinced that in order to fight the world and everything that's wrong with it, ye had to work the system, be a part of the structure causin' the rot, if ye see what I mean.

"I had a different thought about it. I imagined that the best way to fight the system was to first distance yerself from it. To work from the outside and not be caught up in any of it yerself, if ye know what I mean.

"The upshot of our difference of opinions is that we are pursuin' the same thing now, but on two very different paths. At least, that's how I imagine it. Maybe someday you'll meet him, and ye can judge for yerself."

Gerrard fell silent, his mind running over all that had been said. Night blanketed them, bringing a slight chill in the air. They sat that way a while more, Gerrard staring forward into the dark, his thoughts searching its depths but finding anything but answers there.

# 36

The shuttle docked and Nutty prepared himself as the hatch mechanism worked itself out. It was time to report back to the Old Man, about Bucky and the Apple Pie Man. But as Nutty waited, he caught his own reflection in the glass and stared at himself.

It was a long time since he had been a young, wide-eyed intelligence officer, graduating from the Academy. A long time since he had thrilled, with the naivety of a greenhorn, at the assignment he had been given: to infiltrate the Ovan pirates, one of the largest and most stubborn outposts against Federation law. He wondered if he would have still signed up for it given what he knew now. The hatch opened and he made his way down the connecting corridor.

It had been a long seven years. He was a changed man and he knew it. The job had altered him and there was nothing that could change that. The past seven years had been a roller coaster of trying to come to terms with that fact, and sometimes failing, sometimes succeeding. He liked to believe that at the heart of it all, there was something that would justify everything that he had had to do. The problem now was whether that something was the same thing he had thought it was.

It was simpler back then. Service to the Federation was service towards a force for good. But it had been seven years, and everything had changed.

He found the Old Man hunched over a projector table that displayed a hologram of a three-dimensional map of the systems around the one they were in. Around them in the combat information center, staff officers sat in the gloom of the tactical blue light, smoking and chatting.

"Too old to be doing this now, Old Man," Nutty said. To his surprise, the Old Man nodded. Nutty saw now that a strange, distracted look filled the pirate chief's eyes.

"Come," the Old Man said.

Nutty followed, wary. They made their way back to the Old Man's stateroom onboard the ship, a smaller affair than his offices back on the base. A walnut desk filled the most of it, except for a small pistol case standing on a table behind it.

The Old Man rounded the desk, picked up a half-bottle of whiskey, and poured himself and Nutty the customary drink. When they had taken their first sip, the Old Man said, "What did you find?"

Nutty thought the answer through. "He didn't say anything he hadn't already told you. But I think I found more."

The Old Man cocked his head. There was a guardedness to his manner that made Nutty uncomfortable. But he pushed on. "I found a connection to the capital world. I think the man I met is working in concert with a larger force there that had something to do with the president's assassination."

The Old Man sighed. "Goddammit. The damned Federation capital again."

Nutty nodded. There was something odd with the pirate chief's reactions. But there was nothing he could do now but wait and see what it was.

The Old Man stood, moving to the pistol case, opening it and drawing out a plated piece that shone coppery-red in the light. The pirate chief held it up, turning it in his hands as he spoke. "There's something else I've been wanting to talk to you about, Nut. It was a real good job that you did with Bucky. He'd been with us for a good long while too. A little more than you. Makes you wonder how a man keeps it in the whole time, his real identity, doesn't it?"

Nutty shifted his weight and wondered if he had blown his cover. A life lived among the pirates was one subject to scrutiny at all times and in all ways. It was one of the reasons the job was a complete, unrelenting act. He had been caught off guard by the Jackal and the appearance of the implant, but never let himself be as careless with the Old Man. He crossed his arms, becoming aware of the pistol in his holster knocking up against the leg of the chair.

The Old Man paused, a glint in his eye. "You see, after Bucky died, certain documents made their way to me. They come from a source that identifies itself as from within the Federation. They are very detailed about who you are and how you came to be with us. Normally I wouldn't trust a damned thing the Federation says or doesn't say. But all my other sources checked out with what's in there."

Nutty tensed, a million possible reactions racing through his mind. But before he could audition half of them, the Old Man let out a deep sigh, bringing the copper-plated pistol up and pointing it at him. "You're the mole, aren't you? You're the mole, Special Agent James Barrow."

Nutty let out a long, slow breath.

This he had not seen coming.

What did the Old Man mean the documents had come from within the Federation? Who the hell from within would burn him like this? It would have to be someone with access to his personal files, made top secret long ago within the Agency. Had the Agency itself sold him out? What could it be that he had done?

But he had been looking deep into the Federation, perhaps deeper than the Agency itself would have liked. Over the past year he had found out more, from the president's assassination and all the connected investigation he had put into it, than he imagined even his political masters would have liked. Perhaps someone within the Agency had decided he had switched his allegiances. Perhaps it was the Agency itself that wanted him toasted.

But, in this moment, the reasons didn't matter. Nutty straightened himself, then looked the Old Man in the eye. There was no hint of doubt in the pirate chief's gaze: this was neither a test nor a shot in the dark. The Old Man knew.

For a moment Nutty felt sorry for himself. The years of living as another person, of doing the things that person would have done, had come to this. Perhaps he should have seen this coming. No act was ever complete, and he had been living on thin ice for seven years. He had wavered in his loyalty and this was the price to pay.

But he had made his choices. His doubt, beliefs, and questioning had all been a part of him, the part that lived under the role of the pirate captain he had assumed. The Old Man knew now, and there was nothing else to do but to face up to the new reality between them. Nutty paused and considered for one last moment the possibility of keeping up the act, then wanted to laugh at the thought of it all. "What are you going to do?" he said.

The Old Man stared, a wild look in his eye. "I should shoot you like the dog you are!" he shouted. The gun quivered in his hand and Nutty thought he was dead. But in next moment, the Old Man was still holding his stance in a horrible, farcical tableau, and the shot hadn't come.

Instead, the pirate chief lowered the pistol, shaking his head, looking sad and tired. "But I know you, Nut. I know you're not stupid. Look at what your own Agency would do to you. I don't know how you've crossed them, but I know you can see for yourself. This is what they are!"

Nutty exhaled for what seemed like the first time in a long while. The tension drained away but the inside of his head remained a clear, blank slate. The Old Man continued. "Give them up, Nut. Just give them up. The Federation is not worth it. You've been with us for so long now. You're more us than them."

Collecting himself, Nutty looked up toward the pirate chief, his mouth dry. "I don't know. I don't know."

But didn't he? The things he wanted to do, the changes he wanted to see in the way the world was were already different from the things that the Federation wanted to accomplish. It had been a long time coming, but perhaps he did know, and had known for a long while.

"I'm going to give you the choice," the Old Man said. "Cut off all ties with the Federation, and become one of us, or else walk away and never let me see you again. I'm giving you this choice because I know you're worth more than the Federation gives you credit for. Think about it, and choose carefully, Nut. The gods know not everyone in the galaxy has the luxury of such choice."

# 37

In the darkness, she was no longer Inca. She was the fleet and the commanders and the crew. She was the mind looking in upon itself, and the eye looking out into space. She was every ship and she was the web that tied them together. She had lost her human body, but had in its place the entire fleet.

In many ways, this was better.

She had a level of control now that dwarfed even her previous connection to the Whisper. Every ship was alive to her. She had discovered capabilities Athena had kept from her, such as an advanced ship-to-ship communications hacking system. She felt every door on every ship, every sensor that mapped their surroundings, and every pod that held the captive, sleeping souls in the fleet. The minds of the Initiative sailors lay within her grasp, and into them she whispered a dream.

In the dream, the galaxy had once again found peace. The Initiative and the Federation prospered side by side, strong, benevolent nations of law and justice. In the dream, there was little more to fear and much more to achieve. All they had to do was to give up control and let her face the darkness.

As the minds linked to the Whisper had begun to slip away, she had taken over. Going through each ship, she locked off all the critical sections, leaving only the food dispensers open: anyone caught outside the Whisper pods would not starve. But they would not be allowed to interfere. She found the specialized anesthetics Athena had used on her and Tang in their first meeting, a vapor that once inhaled lay dormant until activated by exciting certain portions of the brain. Using the electromagnetic wave emitters in the ships' internal security systems, she would put to sleep anyone who tried to sabotage the ships.

She was the Whisper now, and she needed all her strength.

Her fleet stepped out of the interstellar gate in fragments. The first, once arrived, shuttled forward as more pieces of the fleet followed through, the whole joining and growing like an organism, filling out the immediate space in front of the gate.

She collected herself, disoriented by the process. Going through the interstellar gates felt like pieces of herself breaking away. She would see herself entering the gate, then reconnect and feel whole again on the other side. She would have to examine the process for its implications for her command and control, but that would have to wait. The disorientation cleared and Inca looked out into Eri. It was still a short warp to the planet, Eri Prime, but here she was.

The region around the gate seemed undefended, and she was not surprised. Any Federation ships in the area would be called to face the pirate threat. Centering herself again, Inca set to work.

The fleet maneuvered itself into a defensive position, a ball-like arrangement with the hardiest ships as its shell. Scout drones emerged from the mass, shooting away towards different regions of space. She would need them to get a feel of the lay of the system. Once the immediate area around the gate seemed well-defended enough, Inca ranged over the length and breadth of her fleet, taking stock of its strength. She had almost two hundred battleships, about twice that number of destroyers, and a hundred more support, logistics, and specialized ships. The fleet had been battered enough on their journey here from the border, but she had a few surprises up her sleeves.

Stretching herself through the neural web, Inca felt the massed strength of her fleet again, and thrilled in its power. An urge leaped up within her to swing into the pirate fleet and all others who would be obstacles in the way, but the cooler, disciplined part of herself held her back. She had come too far to make amateur mistakes. Steeling herself for the conflict ahead, she looked to the disposition of her fleet, and readied herself for war.

..............................

Strontium stood in the gallery, looking out the city through its floor-to-ceiling windows. In the neon-lit glow he could almost hear the uproar in the streets. Amplified voices played throughout the city, exhorting its citizens to retreat into their designated underground bunkers. Strontium looked up into the skies to see the domes, fancying he could see approaching specks in the darkness.

"Sir, the building is ready to move underground," somebody said at his side.

Strontium nodded, then turned away from the windows. Almost on cue the building started to shake. Turning back Strontium saw his vantage point started to descend. Soon they would be below ground level, and they would see nothing but darkness wherever they looked. He looked away again and started off.

A deep rumbling filled the building, and Strontium was glad for the few moments of uninterrupted thought, as he walked back in silence toward the war room. There he walked in and found a preternatural calm in the room. "What is it?" he said.

Another aide came by close to speak over the sound of the building moving underground. "Our remaining garrison forces have met the enemy but are being destroyed, sir. West-Central is still delaying in sending help. Admiral Vannes is still four hours away. But an unknown fleet's appeared on the Waikiko gate sir. From the looks of it, it seems to have come from the Initiative."

Strontium narrowed his eyes. So it had happened after all. He looked around to see most of the faces in the room turning to him. Strontium took a deep breath, then said: "Contact all planetary defenses stations and make sure they are primed. Check the reserve manpower. Get the mayors and the police to issue last warnings, then physically move people into the bunkers if they have to. Keep watching the situation and make sure Admiral Vannes knows what he's walking into. Becca, report to me every ten minutes."

The room broke into activity, and Strontium grabbed a seat for himself to watch the scene unfold. The domino pieces had started to fall, and the best and only thing to do was to let them. As he leaned back in his chair, Sam came to his side. "Someone to see you in your office, sir."

Strontium closed the door behind him. Wilkes stood from the chair.

"Why here, Wilkes?" Strontium said.

"I've looked into the evidence you got from Moore. I thought you would want to know."

A certain stoniness of manner had come over Wilkes, and fatigue lined his eyes. Strontium moved to his chair without another word. "Alright. Let's hear it."

"I'll make this as brief as I can," Wilkes said. "But there's a lot to cover. Moore's evidence was good. It was easy to find what we were looking for once we knew what to look for. I think we have an unbroken narrative now.

"When the Cerebral Technologies Protocol was abandoned, not _everyone_ forgot about the projects it had given birth to. In the last years of Kazinski's first term, the CTP and all the other civilian projects were looked through to decide if they had any military application, as a safeguard against an expansionist Collective."

Strontium winced at the name of the former president.

Wilkes continued. "The CTP was picked as a potential candidate, but was shelved due to the serious obstacles it faced. Namely, that most of its original researchers had defected to the Initiative during the Secession years before.

"But then the news came out that the Collective had been investing heavily in space warfare technologies over the last few years, and everything changed. Kazinski, as you know, won a second term on the promise of protecting the nation against the Collective. It was during this second term that the administration decided to move the CTP wholly into military hands, where it disappeared into secrecy. Some of this you already know, that the Whisper project emerged from the military a few years later. What you don't know is what was done to give birth to the technology."

Strontium nodded. "Go on."

"This was around the time of the Insurrection when there was a large surplus of prisoners of war from the Insurrection worlds, and it was decided that the best way to move the CTP forward was to make use of direct human experimentation. It began on POWs who had been consigned to death row. But when R&D ran out of such prisoners, the tribunals were pressured to loosen their definition of a war criminal. But even that couldn't hold, and the experiments were moved directly onto the Insurrection worlds, away from all oversight.

"As you know, scandal eventually broke out as to the legitimacy of the Navy's claims of insurrection on the worlds themselves. When military action was halted on the worlds, the experiments disappeared into the protection of military secrets. That is, until a few members of your permanent teams and I got hold of people who were there, and threatened them with Moore's information to get them to say more to us."

Strontium remembered those years. The Carran scandal had hit during the next election season, and much of the actual investigation was buried out of potential embarrassment for the presidential candidates of that time. The little information that had come to Strontium's ears had made him think at that time that he wouldn't be hearing the last of it. Now, he waited in silence, hiding his apprehensiveness as Wilkes struggled to put whatever it was into words, a strange detachment and horror playing across the younger man's face in a way Strontium had never seen before.

"They told us a lot of things, but the one thing they always mentioned, the one thing we can corroborate between them and Moore's information without any doubt, was the extraction of cerebral information from live subjects at these on-the-ground experimentation sites."

Strontium paused. "What do you mean _extraction_?"

Wilkes's voice became a monotone now. "POWs would be taken to facilities from which they emerged brain dead. The on-site authorities would proclaim them casualties of the conflict. From these facilities would come data that was sent out to the private firms that provided the core components of the Whisper technology. These components in turn go to other private contractors that manufacture and package the completed, usable Whisper units for the government's use all over the Federation."

Wilkes paused, a deadness in his eyes.

"There is an almost one-to-one match between the number of POWs 'lost' this way and the total number of Whisper units produced by the firms that we tracked. What we are looking at is a process of extraction of cerebral information in a way somehow necessary to the production of the Whisper units, but which left the human subject involved brain dead. Our conclusion is that every Whisper unit produced through this process on Carran took one human life. We do not know if this is still the process currently undertaken to produce the Whisper units, and whether it is the same for the units that go into the private market. What we do know is that this happened in Carran at that time.

"We've given some thought to the validity of this theory, and wondered why it had to be a one-to-one extraction, and have come to the conclusion that this was to prevent a single mind being copied endlessly across all the Whisper units, which would be too powerful and dangerous if it ever all linked up together. In the process, too, the information extracted was probably only injected into the Whisper units in a degraded form, giving us the semi-sentient experience that the Whisper currently is."

Wilkes paused and Strontium found himself forgetting to breathe.

"I've decided to spend some time pursuing this," the younger man said. "In the meantime, though, I believe I would only endanger you by being in further contact. Which is to say you may hear from me, but only when I have enough to be worthy of the risk. For everything so far, it's been a complete honor, sir."

# 38

Inca's fleet landed out of a short warp, just out of engagement range of the pirate fleet. She took a moment as the disorienting effect passed, then looked out upon the battlefield and was struck dumbfounded. From end to end, the pirate line stretched like an artificial reef in space. Metal painted in different colors gleamed in the sunlight, reflecting—she guessed—different allegiances within a grand coalition of warfaring ships.

The sight disgusted and horrified her.

What kind of world had produced such a bloodlust?

She had studied space piracy in her time in the Navy, and had always known they were one of the major forces the Navy fought against. She had been taught that the reasons for piracy were wide-ranging: rebellion against the nations, a desire for their own law, and the propensity for violence as a means of livelihood.

But this was different. The fleet spread out before her was a force unto its own. It was one that had far outgrown the need for a livelihood. She could only guess at its purpose: why attack an entire planet when there was little chance of occupying it? What gain could they have?

No, it was a violent force that had come to have a will. And that made it dangerous for all humankind. More than that, Natalia was in danger, and she could wait no more.

But the size of the pirate fleet was overwhelming. If she threw her entire strength against that massed host, she could only expect defeat. No, the situation called for a plan, and she opted for discipline over recklessness. She chafed at the thought of leaving Natalia in harm's way even a second longer, but this would be the only way she could a difference at all in this fight. She sent out the signal and the plan went into motion.

First, her front line of Warden-class battleships moved into position. Sliding forward, their armored flanks opened forward like pairs of wings. Positioning themselves in a grid, they formed a tip-to-tip armored wall stretching across her fleet's front. Generators hidden behind their nose tips activated, and the crackling sheen of a plasma shield spread across the length of the wall.

Next, her long-range artillery ships slid into place, the barrels of their spinal, ship-length railguns inserting into precise apertures in the shield wall. Inca had learned from Athena that this exact maneuver had long been dreamed of and designed for by Initiative tacticians. It had been practiced with some success before, but Inca watched now as it completed with near-perfect coordination with her at the center of the neural web.

A moment of heavy, electric silence.

Then she gave the order.

As one, the fleet slid forward. The pulse built up in the arming chambers onboard the artillery ships, and hypercharged projectiles spat out down the line from the front wall of her fleet. They shot across the distance, still falling short of the enemy. No matter, the important thing was the enemy knowing that they were coming.

Inca looked out across the distance. Parts of the pirate line broke off toward her.

The enemy had taken the bait.

It would have been much too imprudent even for the pirates to leave a fleet at their rear. Besides, the prize was too succulent, a smaller force that could be wiped out as an additional victory to the main goal of the planet. She had to give the pirate commanders credit: they were responding with admirable speed given the changing conditions of their invasion.

Still, their overconfidence would make them pay.

She had to make sure the enemy was hooked. Missiles swarmed out from the pirate line toward her fleet. She braced herself and continued to advance. Nearer and nearer they came. Then her laser defenses struck out.

Explosions ripped through the first wave of missiles, their warheads bright plumes of fire a short distance away from the front line of her ships. A second wave followed, then a third. Bursts of flame covered the view forward. Then the first missiles streaked through the defenses. Blasts lit up the shielded front of the fleet.

Then one of the missiles struck armor.

Tearing through the metal, the missile bit into the front of one of her artillery ships, then crushed its bow as it rushed towards the ship's center. The node where the ship's commanders had been in the neural web flickered, then went dark. A cold numbness settled in Inca's psyche. Since she had given up her physical body, the Whisper had no longer translated damage to the ships into pain she could feel.

The blank node in the web stared at her, and Inca knew only that she had to go on.

She cast her mind back towards the attackers.

It had to look to the pirates like her fleet hurt. It had to look like it was confused, and its commander foolhardy and out of her depth. Inca held on as more missiles bombarded the front of her line, and more of her ships winked out from the neural web. She needed enough ships from the pirate flotilla to pursue her and move away from Eri, and this was the only way.

Then it was time for the halt and reverse.

The enemy was hooked, and now it was her time to kill.

Her fleet slowed to a halt, then activated their reverse thrusters. The enemy drew closer. Soon it would be in range of her reserves, hiding behind her front line. The entire tactic was slow and damaging to her fleet, but was the only way to get to Natalia faster.

..............................

"The invasion has begun, sir."

Back in the war room, Strontium nodded. He had said his goodbyes Wilkes for now. He had been unable to process for the moment all he had heard, but needed to deal with the immediate situation facing the planet. On the screens, the pirate ships above the atmosphere were in full display. He looked around the room at the faces in various states of suppressed fear, and the faces on which shock was still making its way into full realization.

"How're the defenses holding up?" he said.

"Not too well, sir. The planetary shield is up over about fifty percent of the areas the pirates are targeting. All other defenses have been activated but the pirates seem to be locating and targeting them easily. We're down to seventy-eight percent on surface-to-space missile sites."

Strontium drummed his fingers on his knees. Vannes was on his way, he was sure. Now the only variable was if the planet could hold out until he arrived. He thought to check on the civilian situation again, but an aide shouted from the other side of the room.

"Sir! Incoming comms from Admiral Vannes!"

The room broke into a cheer. Strontium let go a sigh of relief he didn't know he had been holding back. Vannes's voice came through on the speaker system.

"Good to be back, Mr. Undersecretary. It looks like a complicated scene out here. What are your orders?"

Strontium thought of his answer for a long while. The Initiative fleet, for all it seemed to be doing for the planet right now, was an intruder into Federation space. No matter what its true purpose was, there could be no temporary truce with the wartime enemy, even in the face of a pirate invasion. The errant fleet would have to be removed. "Listen carefully, Vannes. Both the pirate and the Initiative fleets are to be considered hostile. It is a complicated scene, but one that will require your finesse. The security of the planet remains your top priority, but _both_ fleets will have to be taken out. Is this clear?"

There was a significant pause on the other side before the reply came back: "Crystal clear, Mr. Undersecretary. Await my good news."

Strontium sat back, his eyes turning to the giant radar map occupying one side of the room. The blips on the map showed the thousands of ships that would pour into the battle over Eri's skies. Strontium reached within himself and summoned the resolve needed for this last stage. It was a crazy plan but an insane world had called for it. No, he told himself, one never could change the world without first being frightened to hell and back.

..............................

Admiral Vannes eyed the radar map, his face grim.

So two enemy fleets had made it to Eri, the system he was supposed to have been guarding. Would have been guarding if this fool of a war with the Initiative hadn't happened. For all the history between the two nations, he had a nephew-in-law from the Initiative, living across the border with his niece and their children even now.

But even then, the boundaries of war had indeed become strange since he had joined the Navy decades ago. When he had fought in the Secession as a junior lieutenant the boundaries had been clear, and the enemy defined. Over the decades technology had changed, and people had changed.

But his experience would see him through even this.

The thought passed flickered through his mind even now that he should hail the Initiative fleet. Perhaps some sense could still be found in his opposite number. But the Undersecretary's instructions were clear. All that was left was for Vannes to do his job.

He straightened his jaw and looked out over the battlefield.

The Initiative fleet was doing an admirable job of its own. It had drawn almost half the pirate invasion force away from the planet. The tactician in him had to admit the situation was intriguing. But the admiral in him knew it would not be an easy fight. But then, what true battle ever was?

He turned to face his bridge and was struck anew by change.

Instead of the usual bustle accompanying combat, the bridge was one of almost serene contemplation. This, he knew, was due in no small part to the fact that most of his senior officers, who in times past would have been communicating into their headsets and toiling away at their consoles, were now comatose in their seats, connected to the cerebral Whisper technology the Navy had deemed in its wisdom to unleash upon the world.

It had been no small decision to adopt the technology in the way the Navy had. Vannes knew that a quasi-political struggle was still ongoing to see it adopted throughout all of the Federation's far-flung fleets. A smaller, quieter part of him lamented that something had been lost, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. But a much larger part of him knew the job still had to be done. Settling down in his own seat, he leaned back into the spike connector and disappeared too into the Whisper.

Space opened up before and around him, and Vannes admitted to himself afresh that the technology was a true eye-opener for any naval commander who used it. Within the Whisper, the lay of his fleet was more than a positioning communicated by symbols on a radar. Vannes felt the length of his flank, the strength he had at every point, the movement capabilities of his entire fleet, and the status of every component of it, all as if they were part of his own body, and he lumbered through space like a modern-day Colossus, his stature a fixture among the stars. Only the necessities of the moment kept him from losing himself to that vision.

In his mind's eye, Vannes saw the plan as it would unfold. A portion of his forces would pursue the first strategic priority, and engage the pirate invasion forces threatening the planet. The larger portion left behind would serve as a tactical reserve, awaiting opportunistic moments to begin a second engagement with the Initiative fleet. Maneuvering and command and control would be crucial. With the grim determination that had served him well through all his career, Vannes set himself to the task.

# 39

With the door locked, Natalia turned to the inside of her small restaurant. For the circumstances, nothing looked out of place within the small establishment. Making her way to the back room, she rolled back the carpet on a clear rectangle in the otherwise crowded space to reveal a wooden trapdoor. Crouching low, she heaved at its handle.

The trapdoor stuck in place for a moment before pulling free, revealing a dusty, stone stairwell. Guided by the light coming from above, she went down it, fumbling at the bottom for the light switch.

When the light came on, she saw her small stash stood as it had when she had checked months ago. She ran her eyes over the shelves, checking the bags of dried food and large bottles of clear water. Behind these was a box which Natalia checked, finding the gunpowder-type guns she had stored, along with their ammunition. When she was satisfied that she was well-stocked, Natalia let herself breathe a small sigh of relief. As long as the toilet upstairs still worked, she could be comfortable here for months. No child of the desert would be caught unprepared. Making her way to the small living area, Natalia turned on the holo to the news.

"... has confirmed that Navy forces have made their way into the system and have begun engaging the hostile forces in Eri near-orbit and farther out in Eri space. The Eri Undersecretary of Defense has once again called for citizens to stay in their designated shelters and to remain calm..."

The ground shook and the shelves behind her rattled. Natalia stayed still, before the muffled sound of an explosion sounded from outside, its shockwave reverberating through her chest. The light swung on its cord, and the holo flickered before snapping back on, the anchorwoman droning on. A second, closer explosion sounded through the shelter, loud even inside, knocking over shelves behind her and shaking the restaurant above. Natalia wondered if the domes had been breached. Unnerved, she waited for the rattling to stop, then went to a console installed into one wall of the living area, flipping on the link to the street-level cameras outside.

Smoke and dust filled the vision of the cameras, their angles allowing her a good view of the street down both ways. At the edges of one, she could see now that rubble occupied the spot at the end of the street where the new department store had been built not months ago. She stared in disbelief at what the cameras showed: people still streaming somewhere, or nowhere, out on the streets in the open.

She hesitated, but not for long. Making her way back up the stairs, she undid the lock on the front door, then swung them open, clambering to the top of the stairs that led to the street level. Outside, a young couple huddled in the awning of the shophouse opposite.

"Hey!" she yelled to them. "Hey you! Get in here!"

The young woman looked up, but the young man had his eyes to the sky in an unseeing panic.

"Hey you!" Natalia yelled again. "Hey!"

The man looked back down, surprise on his face. Then something rumbled overhead and a loud pop sounded nearby. A shadow came over the street, and as Natalia looked up, she wondered where Inca was and how she was doing.

..............................

It was now or never.

The pirate fleet had broken itself into two, chasing two objectives at once. Inca's fleet had drawn enough distance between itself and Eri, and the half of the pirates that had come after her would have a hard time turning back. The entire maneuver had taken too much time, and Inca cursed herself and everything else. But it was time to attack now.

First, a barrage to quiet the enemy.

She gave the order and the artillery down her front line started on a sustained fusillade. Projectiles spit out toward the pirates, striking some and turning others sideways. But the outlaws were headstrong, the bulk of their ships continuing their course towards her fleet. It was time to throw everything she had.

From topside and underside of her defensive wall, her attack force weaved outward. Lightstrike destroyers carrying turreted railguns, shorter versions of the spinal-mounted artillery types, surged into position on the enemy's flanks, their high-powered guns peppering the enemy's sides with their projectile shots. In the center, the remaining battleships abandoned their defensive postures, and swung into position for their broadside attacks, their capital-sized weapons hurling the last of their ammunition into the enemy front.

But that was all she had. The enemy, even halved from the strength of its full host, still outnumbered. She was a thin membrane holding together a spilling yolk. She could not contain the tide pushing toward her with an inexorable strength. She was doing all she could, and all she could was not enough.

# 40

Vannes slipped into the rhythm he had developed over the decades. He had discovered throughout his career it was better to be at one's own pace, handling things as they came up according to one's internal logic and processes. Though the situation this time was complicated, the process would be the same. What he had to watch for was the disposition of the Initiative fleet. The opportunism of the moment depended on it.

Task force 776 in place and awaiting execution, sir.

_Good,_ _execute now_ , Vannes sent. _Pipe me into the CTF's feed._

Roger that, sir. Piping you in now.

Bright white light surrounded him for a moment, before the darkness of the Whisper resumed. Vannes sensed the presence of the Commander, Task Force, with him.

_Welcome aboard the_ Basilisk, _sir. Good to have you with us_ , the CTF sent.

Carry on, commander.

Vannes oriented himself, stilling his awareness and removing all other thoughts for the moment. Then, feeling prepared, he opened himself to the full stream of information coming the CTF's way.

Space opened up before him, the purplish dark glow of Eri a reference point in his vision. Around him, fighter craft streamed out into the distance toward a metallic streak in Eri's near-orbit.

_The invasion force wasn't expecting us. Our fighters will probably gain a good distance before their anti-measures kick in_ , the CTF sent.

Vannes remained silent, watching the scene play out. As the CTF had predicted, a small number of missiles erupted from the pirate line, too little and too late. Laser scythed across space from the fighters as they came closer, drawing warhead explosions visible even from Vannes's vantage point. But the enemy had regained its foot, and had reorganized itself.

_Son of a gun,_ Vannes sent.

_Yep. Refurbished Guardian flak frigates. Seems like our intelligence was right,_ the CTF sent. _Pirates are running themselves like a proper navy now. Scary thought, isn't it?_

_Indeed_ , Vannes sent. Flak frigates were auxiliary ships brought in combat for a specific purpose: to defend against carriers and their swarms of fighters. With their usual modus operandi based upon quick, evasive raids, the pirates had never stayed long enough in the field for the Navy to field carrier ships in return. The presence of the frigates here indicated a disturbing evolution of their fleets.

As he watched, the Vulture-class destroyers of the task force, which had been following behind the fighter wave, slowed to a stop in Vannes's vision. Long-range missiles poured forth from the guided missile destroyers, soon outpacing the fighter-bombers and finding their targets in the pirate frigates.

_Looks like it's all well in hand. Good job and carry on, commander_ , Vannes sent.

Thank you sir.

The bright white light again, before Vannes was back in a more familiar darkness, the information streams of his own flagship finding their way back to him. _What's the situation?_ he sent.

The Initiative fleet has reversed course and is pursuing the attack.

Good. Task forces 778 and 780 to execute, now!

_Executing now_.

Now was the time to capitalize on the Initiative fleet's attacking action. The remainder of his fleet activated their pre-primed warp engines, coming out of warp in what seemed like the next instant. Vannes looked out over the map to find they had landed right where he wanted, behind the exposed rear of the Initiative fleet.

_Execute attack, now!_ he sent.

_Sir!_ _The Initiative fleet!_

The visual feed came on, and Vannes found himself looking out into space, into the rear of the Initiative fleet. _What in the hell_ , he sent. Lining the rear of the Initiative fleet were ships in the familiar blue and gray colors of the Federation Navy.

_Those are Federation ships_!

Vannes could see that. They weren't Initiative ships dolled up in Federation colors: he recognized each and every class of ship there. What's more, they weren't empty husks tethered to the Initiative fleet, but seemed to be functioning, moving warships.

Was this the game the Initiative were playing? To scare them with the captured hulls of their comrades? But he couldn't be sure. What if there _were_ Federation crews in those ships?

_Sir!_ _There's some kind of incoming communication from the Initiative fleet!_

_What do you mean?_ Vannes sent.

But a bright white light filled the Whisper, and Vannes felt himself pulled from its darkness.

He came to to find himself in a strange, gray fog, not unlike the darkness of the Whisper. But the presences of his commanders had disappeared, and a single voice filled the fog, strong and vivid: _Admiral Vannes. This is the commander of the Initiative fleet. Time is short, and we have a lot to discuss._

A pressure pushed in upon him from all sides as the voice spoke. Vannes tested his voice and found he could send his thoughts out as he always did in the Whisper. He recovered his bearings and tried to project confidence.

_I'm not sure there's anything to discuss,_ he sent. _If you're holding on to any Federation crews as hostages, you should know that you are deep in Federation space and are completely surrounded. There is no way out except to submit to us peacefully._

Laughter filled the gray fog.

_Peace?_ the Initiative commander sent.

The pressure eased up and Vannes thought he could see a figure in the middle of the gray fog now. Yes. There it was, a young woman, her shoulders slumped, her face hidden in darkness.

Peace is not the cup that has been measured out for us, Admiral.

Vannes could do nothing but stare, dumbfounded. As he watched, the woman turned away from him and faded into the fog. But her voice came back again in full force, pressing in upon him, the power behind it unmistakable.

I will take up the fight now, Admiral. You may stay here, and find your peace.

..............................

"Sir! Admiral Vannes's fleet has just gone offline. Communication links are cut, and the fleet's transponders have been turned off."

In the war room, Strontium rose from his seat. What did the news portend?

Another report followed. "Admiral Vannes's fleet seems to have abandoned the attack on the Initiative fleet. The Initiative fleet is regrouping on its initial position."

A confused silence descended over the war room. Strontium looked up at the radar map. Vannes seemed to be in a position now to concentrate all his forces on the pirate invaders. Had he reached some kind of accord with the Initiative fleet? But if so, why the radio silence?

"Keep an eye on its movement," Strontium said. "And keep trying at the links again. Update me as soon as there's any change."

He retreated to his office. There, he brought out a small laptop computer, establishing a secure link with a facility on the other side of the planet.

Things had taken an unexpected turn. It was time to call in the help he needed.

"Yes, this is the Undersecretary," he said. "Yes. I need a secure message sent out into near space. Right now, please."

# 41

Tang pulled off his seat straps and made his way to the rear of the _Nuthatch_.

Orpheus had launched them out of Eri Prime on the gray, boxy ship with a fat belly, which contained the equipment needed for his plan to work. The Ghost said his message had reached all the way to Gerrard, and the reply was in the affirmative: Gerrard would travel back to Eri, accompanied by Orpheus's contact. But there would be no time for a proper reunion: as a precaution against the strain that Gerrard's mind and body would endure during the entire operation, Orpheus had ordered that he be sedated and put to sleep hours in advance.

And now the ship that carried Gerrard had docked with the _Nuthatch_.

Tang stared at the chrome wheel of the hatch in front of him. An eternity seemed to pass before the wheel spun, the hatch swung open, and the bearded head of an old man poked through. The old man eyed him with a squint, broke into a toothy grin, then cleared his throat.

"You Tang?" he said.

Tang nodded, and the old man beckoned. "Will take two of us to carry him."

Tang followed, going down the flexible walkway the _Nuthatch_ had unfurled out of its rear, and which connected the two ships now as they drifted together in space. Coming to the end of the walkway, Tang stood silent upon the threshold to the other ship. For there, laid out on a stretcher on the floor of the airlock, was Gerrard.

Tang went forward and knelt by the side of his friend. Nothing else seemed to matter just then.

"C'mon," the old man said. "Let's bring 'em over."

Orpheus stood ready to receive them back on the _Nuthatch._ "Good to see you again, Zee."

Zee nodded in reply. "Gave 'em the sedative like ye said. Knocked 'em clean out. He's been like that fer a while now."

Orpheus looked over Gerrard like a doctor checking a patient. The Ghost operative directed them towards the Whisper chamber of the _Nuthatch_ , a small cabin with a covered pod filled with a dark liquid, the same kind Tang had seen Inca using on the _Nexus_.

"This what yer putting him in?" Zee said.

Orpheus nodded, opening the cover of the pod. "This is it."

Together, they placed Gerrard in the pod, connected the Whisper unit to the back of his head, then left for the flight deck to discuss things. Alone in the chamber, Tang placed a hand on the glass of the pod cover, looking in.

Orpheus came back after a while. "Zee will be returning to his ship, ready to support us in case anything goes wrong. On our side, we'll have to get close enough to Inca's fleet to open a connection to it, activate the Whisper, then let Gerrard do his thing. It's now or never, Tang. Are you ready?"

Tang nodded, his eyes on Gerrard.

"Hell yeah. As I'll ever be."

The _Nuthatch_ broke the curve of the horizon and the scene came back into view. Tang gasped at the sight: the pirates had begun their bombardment of the planet's surface, and their munitions could be seen from even here, flaring as they entered its atmosphere, and as missiles rose back up in response from the planet's defenses. But it was even more terrifying than that.

The _Nuthatch_ 's visualization showed what Tang guessed was Inca's fleet, engaging the pirates from the rear. The attack had broken the pirate line into a morass, splitting away from the planet and spanning out toward space. The Initiative fleet seemed now to have thrown itself into the fray, and the center was a mass of warships, missiles flaring through the space and bursts of energy flashing from the mouths of what must have been massive weapons.

With nothing but vacuum between them and the battle going on in front of them, Tang only now realized how vulnerable the _Nuthatch_ was.

"Alright," Orpheus said from beside him. The Ghost operative busied himself with working the console. "We just have to stay in line of sight of the Initiative fleet. This will take some time. Take the helm and keep us away from harm."

"What?" Tang said.

They were far from the fray, but he shook as he sat in the pilot's seat and strapped himself in. He saw the _Nuthatch_ had a Whisper spike connector—true to form, he guessed. But unlike Gerrard, he had never had the surgery for the cerebral slots, and had always only piloted ships the old way. And he had never been in a combat situation.

But he looked to Orpheus again and the man was no longer paying attention to him, lost in whatever it was he was doing. Tang looked at the console and thought of everything they had done here, and the fact that the life of his best friend depended in part on him now. He looked around the dashboard; Orpheus had made a point of talking him through operating it whenever there had been time. But was that enough?

He swerved the _Nuthatch_ around to face away from the battle, then put the ship into forward motion, keeping to a trajectory well in the line of sight of the Initiative fleet.

This was what it had all come down to, and Tang wondered how they had come from piloting their two Fiddler salvaging ships, chasing after messages from Gerrard's father, to hacking into an Initiative fleet with Gerrard jacked into an amniotic pod carrying secret technology in an implant.

It seemed crazy that they had gone through what they had. If he stopped and thought about it, it seemed crazy that he had flown to the Initiative with a super soldier that had turned against her own country. He put more forward thrust into the _Nuthatch_. More distance between him and the warring spaceships was always good.

But maybe crazy was what the world sometimes called for. Maybe to fight all the crazy in the world, you had to be crazy yourself. Maybe to do anything else was to invite the world to step all over you. He didn't know, and his head hurt, and he tightened his grip on the armrest even more.

"Alright," Orpheus said. "I'm in the Initiative fleet's communications system. Now all we have to do is to make sure Gerrard gets where he needs to go."

The Ghost operative continued tapping away at his end of the console, and Tang stared forward at nothing, wishing for time to hurry up. He glanced down at the radar, then looked back up, then looked down again.

A small, lone blip had split away from the Initiative fleet and was moving in their direction. He checked to make sure, then was sure. "Something's coming our way," he said.

Orpheus stopped to look, then cursed. "Keep us away from it. But we have to maintain direct line of sight with the rest of the Initiative fleet no matter what. It's critical now."

The _Nuthatch_ was unarmored and had no weapons to speak of. One ship from the Initiative fleet was all it would take. Tang brought the _Nuthatch_ around to a direct line away from the incoming ship, then put full power into the _Nuthatch_ 's thrusters. There was still a lot of ground between the two ships to cover, but he didn't think he could outrun the Initiative ship, and besides had no idea what the reach of its weapons was. Once the ship caught up to where it could fire its weapons, there would be nowhere to hide.

Well, there was one place to hide.

Tang looked over to Orpheus. "We could take her down into Eri's atmosphere."

Down below, lightning flashed from the dark purple toxic clouds of the planet's true atmosphere. Their visibility would be reduced to nothing, and to call it a rough ride would be an understatement. But it would be excellent cover.

The Ghost operative looked at the radar again, then sighed and nodded. "The magnetic storms on the planet's surface would disrupt our communications, but the equipment we have should be able to power through. Do it."

Tang muttered a silent prayer for the _Nuthatch_ , then pivoted them downwards. The Initiative ship showed as being almost two thousand miles away, and the _Nuthatch_ would be in Eri's atmosphere in a matter of minutes, but nothing seemed to go fast enough.

Eri's atmosphere came up in the ship's forward view and Tang doubted everything again. He didn't know what he was doing or if any of it would work. For all he knew they could be shot down the next moment and never know it. The _Nuthatch_ could flounder and never make it back up. The thoughts filled his head and he pushed them aside with a yell.

He damned well had to try.

His friends, and everything he believed needed to be done, were depending on him and on this. He set the forward thrusters to full, and braced himself as the _Nuthatch_ picked up speed and charged forward.

The _Nuthatch_ broke the surface of the storms and a rumbling started in the frame of the ship. The console and other equipment in the flight deck shook where they were bolted down, and Tang worked to level the ship off. Unlike when they had only broken through the atmosphere on their way out, this time they had to continue flying in the storm. The _Nuthatch_ lurched without warning and Tang felt the pit of his stomach lift into the back of his throat.

"We're doing good," Orpheus shouted. "The equipment is still holding. I just need a little bit more time!"

A loud bang sounded from somewhere in the hull and Tang's mind blanked in shock. The onboard computer reported an electrical surge, and Tang realized they had just been struck by lightning. He fought to level the ship off again, and stared forward into the purple mist, not knowing what he could do about any of it.

The _Nuthatch_ continued that way for a few minutes, then broke through a dense patch into a break in the storm, and Tang got a clear view of the terrain as it awaited them. Up ahead, white-blue forks of lightning lit up dark, roiling clouds the size of hills. Overhead, the storm was a purple, reddish hell, its underbelly a fiery crimson. What in the world did Eri live under? After all his time under the domes, he had forgotten this was what the planet was like before the builders and terraformers had a chance to work on it.

"How long more?" Tang shouted.

"We're done," Orpheus said. "Gerrard's patched in. Now we'll just have to wait."

Tang nodded, gritting his teeth. The _Nuthatch_ surged forward back into the storm, and there was a lot more storm to come.

# 42

In the darkness, Gerrard was himself again.

He was twenty-four, storming out of his parents' farmhouse. In the doorframe, his father stood, aged and gray. If he had looked back perhaps he would have seen the pain and the anguish on the older man's face. If he had looked back perhaps he would have seen that he, Gerrard, was disappearing on his father too. But he hadn't looked back.

He was twenty-eight, blind drunk in a bar. He had no money for what he was drinking, but would deal with the problem when it came around. Tang was there, concern on his face that Gerrard never saw. Perhaps it had always been there.

He was thirty, trying to stand up and walk straight again. Tang had set up the salvaging firm. There was to be a chance at a better life again. But the problem was Gerrard had long disappeared. He was there but he wasn't there. For fear of what he would see, he had decided not to look at all. Then the messages from his father had come and he had thought there was a chance to find all that had been lost. But through it all, the hardest thing for him to find had been himself.

But in the darkness, Gerrard was himself again. Unlike when he had entered the Whisper on the Harrier all the way back at the Stokes-Inko stargate, he was ready this time. The connection settled around his person like a soft cloak, and he knew it was his to command now. He was prepared to meet Inca, but there was one more thing he had to take care of. He centered himself, then let out the summons.

Fuller.

He fought to keep his bearings as the scene of the living room opened up again before him. Fuller sat on the couch, looking the same way he had before. But Gerrard noticed the room wasn't swimming this time. In fact, the more he concentrated on his surroundings, the more solid they seemed to become. Before he knew it, he was looking at his father's living room the exact way he remembered it.

"Hello, Gerrard," the president said.

"No," Gerrard said.

"What do you mean no?"

The condescending smile touched the president's lips again, and Gerrard saw it all now. The plan had been from the start to bring the Federation into an all-out war with the Initiative. It was to be some kind of wake up call to the nation, to strengthen its military and get it ready. But ready for what?

"I will not be a part of your plan," Gerrard said.

The president laughed. "Why? Can you say that it's wrong?"

Gerrard looked inside himself and found the answer.

Yes. Yes, he could. There were so many things he could say was wrong about the plan. The fact that it sacrificed the citizens of the nation it was meant to protect. The fact that it tried to bring about peace by enshrining violence as a suitable means. The words had always been there; he had just needed to believe in them, to nourish them, and to speak them out loud.

He understood the kind of world Fuller wanted, the kind in which the plan made sense. But it didn't mean he had to be the same way. He would no longer walk away from it all, but he didn't have to be like any of it. The answer had always been difficult, but had always been easy as well.

It was to make a difference by being different.

"Whatever I do from here, I won't be needing you," he said.

Gerrard turned away without saying more, looking out into the farmlands beyond. A gray storm had gathered on the horizon, but the surroundings were just as he had always remembered them. The lands stretched into the distance, the way he remembered them running through the fields as a kid. Nothing had changed except that he had. If he had looked, he would have seen it was all the way it had always been.

When he turned back, the president was gone, as he knew he would be.

Nothing he didn't want in his head would ever be allowed in again.

But there was one more thing to do. One more person to meet.

And this person, he would have to invite in.

He concentrated, and found himself on a dark shore, silver sand under his feet. Waves lapped nearby, though the line between sea and sand on the horizon was only a gradual deepening into the dark. A cloudless sky overhead showed the stars of the Night. In the distance on the beach, a cheery light flickered.

Gerrard took up a slow walk towards it. He guessed he shouldn't be startled that this was the spot his mind picked. It was a camping spot his father had taken him when he was young. They had gazed out into the night sky as his father pointed out and told him the stars he had visited.

Gerrard came closer to the light and saw it was the campsite, the same way they had always set it up. A small construction of branches burned, throwing long shadows behind him. A pot stewed on the fire, the smells from it making him hungry even in this dream world.

"Where are we? Who are you?"

A voice spoke from the darkness at the edges of the fire. The woman speaking came into the light, and Gerrard looked upon the person he had been sent to find.

"Answer me," Inca said. "Where are we and what are we doing here?"

Gerrard shrugged. "It seems you've come into a memory of mine."

But it wasn't that. He had pulled her in here. Orpheus had sent a message telling him that he would be able to. He hadn't known how he was supposed to do it, but when the time came he had just been able to.

"I don't have time for this. I have a war to fight!" Inca shouted, shaking with fury.

Overhead, thunder rolled. Gerrard stepped back, shocked for a moment. Even here, in the space his mind had created, Inca's wrath could be felt. Gerrard wondered how to approach her.

But as he looked he realized he wasn't just seeing Inca as she was in front of him. Superimposed over the exact spot where she was, Gerrard saw a girl, browned and skinny, eyes wide with fright. But at the same time, he saw a looming darkness hang over her, a black, nebulous shape, reaching outward with tendrils of smoke.

"Inca, wait," he said. To his surprise, Inca paused.

"Look," he said. "I know why you're doing this."

She laughed and the shore around them reverberated with the sound of it. "Do you?" she said.

"Yes. Look."

And then he did something else he didn't know how he knew to do. Looking into himself, he poured out his memories toward her. All the feelings that surrounded his childhood, his years in the Navy, breaking off from his father, the loneliness and aimlessness he felt in the years after. He held nothing back.

When it was over Inca stood there stunned.

"You see?" Gerrard said, his throat dry. "Everything is there. I know, Inca. If I could change the way the world was, I would too."

# 43

Inca stared, reliving it all. This was Gerrard, and she had just experienced all that he had, felt all he had. She wanted to crumble to her knees, cry out for him, for the both of them.

"I can change it all," she said. "I can change the world now, Gerrard. I have the power now."

But Gerrard only shook his head. "No, you're not changing the world. You're only being changed by it."

She wanted to tell him what a fool he was, tell him all that was necessary to do in order to even move the world an inch. She wanted to fight. She needed to fight. She willed it, and the connection to her Whisper neural web came back to her. Behind her, she felt once again the force of the tens of thousands of souls both in her fleet and in Vannes's. In the freeze-frame time of the Whisper, they awaited her every command and hung on her every action. This was the power she had now to change the world. Did he understand that?

But Gerrard only said, "Look."

And then she saw, ensconced within the neural web, the smelly, sweating man who had taunted her so long ago on Ahtila.

Inca screamed out and her fury shook the neural web. She felt the man's mind torn apart by its force. Reaching into his being, Inca closed her grip around the man's core. But as she did, his thoughts and feelings worked their way back toward her, and she felt and saw all that the man was.

"Do you see now?" Gerrard said.

Inca fell to her knees, clutching her head. The man's name was Hunter.

The man's name was Hunter, and he had been taken up in a raid on the planet, then sold off to work as a pirate and smuggler until the Federation Navy caught him. Given the choice to enter prison for the rest of his life or to join the Navy, he had opted for the latter, and ended up serving in the numerous wars the Federation fought across its multiple fronts. Poor behavior had stunted his chances of advancement, and even at an advanced stage in his career he had found himself shipped to the border in the frontline fray against the Initiative under one Admiral Vannes. But now, she felt his exhilaration at having been connected to her neural web, and joined into a killing force that numbered in the thousands of warships. At the center of it all, Inca saw what the neural web had given the man.

Her vision of an iron rule over the galaxy had made its way down the web, and had awoken an old blood thirst in the man. He rallied at the possibility of a new set of rules. For once more in his life, he would be a strong man in a powerful gang. In his mind, everything he had learned in the desert had come to be affirmed.

Inca screamed out again, her voice weak against the crashing of the waves. She was no longer the center of the Initiative fleet. She was herself, the little girl who had once suffered at the hands of that man.

She felt hands on her shoulders.

"Inca," Gerrard said, his voice close. "You can still stop this."

The connection between their two minds ended. The beach, the night, and the stars folded away. She was back in her own darkness, at the center of her web. Inca looked outward at everything she had done, and at everything she was doing. In her heart of hearts she saw that she had always known, that she had only been recreating all that she despised.

Pain seared her being, the old sensation unexpected and agonizing. Inca's cry echoed out into the neural web. She shuddered and looked outward into the Whisper one last time. Then she drew back from the darkness and receded from it all.

# 44

Tang watched and waited.

Orpheus had been monitoring the connection to the Initiative fleet and said the data transfer had gone dead and Gerrard should be ready to surface. Tang had relinquished piloting duties back to the Ghost operative, who lifted the _Nuthatch_ out of the storm, taking the ship away from the remnants of the battle still happening behind them. There was no sign of the lone Initiative ship that had come after them. With regard to Gerrard, Orpheus said even he did not know what to expect past this point. And so Tang sat and waited.

He felt like he had spent a lifetime searching for his friend. Now that he had found him, he was not sure Gerrard's trauma was over yet. It had started with the messages that seemed to be from his father, but in reality had stretched far beyond that into the past.

Tang knew his childhood friend had not shared most of what he went through. He hadn't talked much about the years spent living from bar to bar, and never a word about what had happened on Carran. Even if he had wanted to help, Tang had always been shut out from those memories and that pain.

But what was he to do? Gerrard was his friend, always had been, and always would be. He had known Gerrard before his easy laughter had turned into a permanent brooding frown. He would be here when he awoke. Tang waited, and waited, till there was a stirring in the pod. He hit the button for the cover.

As it opened, Gerrard began thrashing, the dark liquid splashing over the sides of the pod. Then he was sitting up, gasping and coughing. His hands shot to his head, clutching it as pained whimpers sounded from him. Tang panicked, wondering what to do. But just then Gerrard stopped and looked up at him.

There was no recognition in his friend's eyes.

Instead, they were filled with an unfocused, inward-looking gaze. Gerrard's face crumpled into a mask of anguish, tears sliding down his cheeks. A single, strangled word escaped his lips: "Natalia."

This, Pitt had warned against. Anyone going through what Gerrard did would suffer unpredictable residual effects. In those times, it would be crucial that someone they recognized and trusted was there. Clamping his hands on the sides of Gerrard's head, Tang forced his friend's eyes onto himself. "Gerrard, it's me, Tang."

A horrible vacancy entered Gerrard's eyes. "We have to stop them all," he said. Without warning, he lunged forward out of the pod, a look of bloodlust on his face, a roar tearing from his throat.

Tang pushed back, wrestling Gerrard back into the pod. Orpheus appeared in the doorway. Shouting, "Stay back!" Tang forced Gerrard's gaze back on himself, keeping his voice steady and his eyes fixed on his friend's. "No, we don't, Gerrard. It's over. You're back with us. It's me, Tang."

Gerrard settled back down on his haunches, the same blank look in his eyes. Then a flicker of recognition passed through them. Tang pushed on. "Gerrard, it's me, remember? Tang. It's me. I finally found you. Remember? I need you back with me, buddy."

Gerrard's eyes glazed over again, but the muscles around his neck and shoulders had loosened up. Tang went on. "We have to get back to work next week, Gerrard. Lots of orders waiting for us. That inbox is just overflowing. Have to get the Fiddlers checked out again. Well, kinda have to get an entire new Fiddler. But we can share for the time being. It'll be like old times."

Gerrard looked up at him with a vague, dull stare. Then life came back into those eyes. Then realization at all that had happened. Then a heavy sigh that seemed to release his very soul. Then Gerrard looked up at him with what seemed like all the fatigue in the world.

"Tang," Gerrard said. "They blew up my Fiddler."

Tang snorted, then laughed, then started crying. He collapsed against the side of the pod.

"I know, buddy," he said. "I know."

# 45

Vannes burst out of the Whisper, gasping.

He calmed himself down, breathed in, and thanked God it was real air going into his lungs. He looked around the darkened bridge: officers and crew alike were coughing and wheezing, some on their hands and knees on the floor.

What had happened back there? That gray fog that had stretched limitless, an environment that was at once something, yet nothing. But it wasn't the gray fog that had most traumatized him. It was that woman.

That woman at the center of it, who had walked into his mind as if she owned the place. That woman who could hold and release him at her will. What power could do that? In the gray space of that Whisper connection, that woman had been a _god_.

Vannes got to his feet and shook off his shock. He was back in the real world now, and damned if he was heading into the Whisper again. All his misgivings about the new technology—the ones he had buried on the recommendation of his colleagues—came alive now. The technology was a grave liability if such gods walked among all the rest of them.

"Sitrep!" he shouted. He needed the situational report, needed to know what the damned hell was going on. He shouted again.

When no answer came he pushed his way to the communications sector of the bridge. In the dark his feet kicked something: the comms officer, prone and inert on the floor.

Snarling, Vannes picked up the headphones and put them to his ear. The screen showed a flurry of transmissions coming in on the fleet's secured channels. A single unsecured transmission flashed on the screen. Vannes worked the console to let the transmission through, his eyes widening as he listened.

..............................

"Sir! Admiral Vannes is on comms!"

Strontium allowed himself a sigh of relief, one he seemed to have been holding in for hours. "Put him through," he said.

"Vannes reporting in," the voice came over on the overhead system. Rather than cheers, a sort of stunned disbelief rippled through the room.

"Mr. Undersecretary, I've just received a surrender from the Initiative fleet. Do we accept?"

All eyes turned to him.

"Yes," Strontium said. "Yes, we accept. Keep your eyes open for any shenanigans, Admiral. But refocus your efforts on taking out the pirate fleet."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The cheer that had been held back broke out now. Strontium let himself sag back into his chair. With the Initiative fleet defanged, the Federation fleet could concentrate on the pirates. Going by the numbers, it should be a victory, even if a hard-fought one. No, the worst of it was over. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had come through.

# 46

Athena looked up around her. Something was different. A quiet had come over the ship when before it had hummed with _her_ power. Then, there it was. The screens, which had been blank all this while, came alive with a single message: "I HAVE GIVEN MYSELF UP."

Athena stood in shock. She looked to the Sentinels who had been locked in on the ship with her. "Bring her body," she said.

When they brought the body and unwrapped the shroud, Athena saw that the frost of the cryogenics still clung to her. "Place her in the pod," she said.

Once done, Athena looked down at Inca. She could have been sleeping, ready to surface from another bout of Whisper training. With unsteady hands, Athena grasped the Whisper connector spike, then reached behind Inca's head and pushed it in.

How much time passed, Athena didn't know. When she thought to think again, her feet had started to hurt from standing. She pushed past the Sentinels and went to the console again. Still, the same message was displayed on the screens. Then, without warning, the screens reverted to showing what they would under normal operation. One displayed the status of the various components of the ship, green in their healthy state. Another indicated that the ship awaited manual control again, as if Inca had never taken over. Athena worked the console, looking for Inca's vital signs, as detected by her pod. And there it was.

Her heart beat, but her brain remained dead.

Pulling herself back to the pod, Athena looked down at the body lying in it. Unbidden, the tears came. It had all been too much for her, but it had been worse for Inca. They had asked too much of this young woman, had driven her into an impossible situation. In another time, and in another place, she would have taken Inca under her wing, helped her deal with her past and built her up as a person instead of a weapon. But it was all too late now. Collapsing at the side of the pod, Athena let herself cry for all that could have been.

# 47

Gerrard awoke in a bed he thought he recognized, in clean pajamas. Beside the bed he found a set of clean clothes and a note written in Tang's handwriting: "Breakfast in the meeting room."

Dressing himself, Gerrard found his way through the labyrinthine corridors of the mountainside bunker, to where he had last seen Zirconium and the Jackal. Today, he found Tang, Zirconium, and a pale man with blond dreadlocks sitting around the table.

"Gerrard. Come, eat," Tang said.

Gerrard helped himself to the coffee, bread, and eggs on the table. The other men chatted about the countryside, as if they were all vacationers at their favorite resort. Gerrard learned that the man with the blond dreadlocks was Orpheus; Tang seemed fascinated whenever he spoke. Zirconium laughed and grunted along with the other two, but Gerrard found the former admiral placing a scrutinizing eye on himself a few times.

When he pushed his plate away, Zirconium cleared his throat in a signal of some kind, and the rest quieted. "We just received news from Eri this morning. They've managed to beat back the pirates, and it seems most of the other border worlds are finally getting reinforcements."

Gerrard nodded, breathing a sigh of relief at the thought that his homeworld was safe again.

"We wanted to ask ye about the future. That is, what it is ye want to do," Zirconium said, an expectant look on his face.

"Gerrard," Tang said. "I've spoken with Orpheus here. I've told him about the implant. He says he more than likely knows how to remove it safely."

Gerrard looked to Orpheus, who nodded.

Gerrard let out another breath, one he suspected he had been holding since the entire ordeal had started. An unimaginable sense of relief flooded through him. His hands tingled and his head grew light. "Yes," he said. "Yes. I would like to have the implant removed."

Tang nodded, and some level of tension seemed to drain away from all at the table.

"But I'd like to know what you plan to do with it," Gerrard said.

Orpheus nodded, as if he had expected the question. "Yes, it is tricky, isn't it? Under the circumstances, the copy of the president's mind on the implant might be the last remaining copy in the world. The ethics surrounding it are still unclear, but there is some sense that it would be a murder of some kind to simply destroy the implant, tempting as that idea is.

"Mostly, I would say that there is still too much we don't know about what was intended for the implant, or even what it fully contains. Taking that into consideration, I respectfully request that the Ghosts be allowed to hold on to it, and study it in secure isolation."

"Okay," Gerrard said. He still didn't understand everything the implant was meant to do, nor what the cry it had sent out was meant to achieve. All he could be certain of was that it had lain dormant within him, biding an opportunity to forward the assassinated president's agenda, which seemed to be war with the Initiative. But he did understand the implant was dangerous whatever human host or computer system it inhabited. He figured his father had diverted it away from whatever its original destination was and sent him to find it. But even then, the mind on the implant had adapted and done its best with the host it had found itself in.

It had pretty much succeeded, in fact.

But at the same time, whatever technology and information the implant contained was too important to be destroyed. Given all these factors, it seemed best that the experts in the situation held on to it.

"Gerrard," Tang said. "I've spoken to Orpheus. I think I've learned a few things this time. He says I can follow you and him back. And after that... after that if things go well maybe I'll remain with the Ghosts, see what else I can learn."

Tang had never been able to resist the call of adventure. But as Gerrard thought back to all that had happened, something caught in his throat and made him worry for his friend. Adventure hadn't been all it was made out to be. He would have to have a talk with Tang once things were settled down.

"Well, then, that's that," Zirconium said. "For my part, I'll be doin' what it is I do. Next time we meet, the world might even be a little less messed up."

The talk moved on to the logistics of getting Gerrard and Tang to Orpheus's lab, which turned out to be in the central sector, close to the capital world. Gerrard excused himself once the major details were confirmed and made his way out of the bunker.

Outside, the morning sun had reached a good height over the treetops in the valley below. Gerrard looked out over the crisp, clear air of the mountainside, and marveled anew that such places still existed in this galaxy of theirs.

He spied a path down the slope of the mountainside, unsure if it was the one he had walked before. Zirconium's words had left an ironic ring in his ears. It was still a complicated world out there, he reflected. It was still a world where dark was the default, and things were only shades of it. Yet, he supposed, it was still true, that humans picked their way through this world, making in their own way what they could of life.

He reached a clearing, a landing of sorts in the pathway, where the light from the rising sun was half-obscured through the trees. The path ahead of him winded its way down the mountainside, sloping and curving away, its end hidden in the thickness of the forest. A breeze arose from the valley, soothing him and carrying its whispers, and as he made his way down, Gerrard found himself responding to its susurrations, responding to the world, at peace with himself.

I have found my way, Father.

I have found my way.

# 48

In the darkness of his apartment, Strontium sipped at his whiskey and pushed for the holo to play again. The light of the projector flickered, then came to life.

"Two weeks after the retreat of the pirate invasion fleet, officials from the West Constellations' various Departments of Defense have restated their commitment toward the West Constellations' Defense Fund, which would place control of the region's defense budget under a committee of its own defense leaders, instead of those from the capital world.

"Meanwhile, embattled citizens on the streets of Eri and other border worlds continue their cleanup of city streets after the shocking pirate attack that managed to reach the heartland of the border world, and left tens of thousands dead and many more bereft of their property and way of life.

"With me now is someone who has, for the second time in two decades, been called in popular media the Guardian of the West. Undersecretary Strontium of the Eri Department of Defense needs no introduction to any familiar with the history of the border worlds. He seems to rise time and again to defend the border worlds when they need him. Mr. Undersecretary, thank you for joining us. It is _such_ an honor."

The Strontium on the holo made sure to smile. "Thank you, Kathy."

"Mr. Undersecretary, can you give an account, from your perspective, of the amazing callback of the Eri fleet to its home planet? What was it that gave you that insight?"

Strontium paused as if in thought before continuing. "Well Kathy, as you know, when the nation calls, one has to respond, even, I might add, should one have had private misgivings about stripping the garrison fleets of the border worlds to engage in a national conflict.

"But I am afraid I cannot lay claim to the complete honors of the decision of the callback, as it was my military commanders who convinced me of the imprudence of leaving the doors to Eri wide open."

"Mr. Undersecretary, how do you respond to claims from some quarters that Eri's government knew that the pirates were coming, and that that was how it knew to keep its fleet on a short tether?"

"Well, to those absurd claims, Kathy, I can only say that the sharpest military insight often does, in hindsight, look like prior knowledge, especially when it brings about such stunning results. Of course, if any of these so-called conspiracy theorists would like an open debate on the matter, I am always open to any discussion based upon _fact_."

"A strong rebuttal from the man himself. Now, of course, we know that your Department has been in the news for more than one reason recently, and I'd like to ask you for your latest comments on the recent Whisper scandal in just a minute.

"But first, to recap for our viewers. Information made public just last week has rocked the capital world with allegations of experimentation on prisoners of war in the creation of the Whisper spacecraft technology, in a widespread scandal involving federal defense agencies, private military contractors, and the Federation Navy, in war-torn Carran. Federal Secretary of Defense John Munson has since promised a top-down investigation into the alleged human rights infraction, but members of the media and opposition political parties have questioned the independence of any investigation conducted by the Department of Defense itself, and are calling for a third-party investigation.

"The scandal first came to light through a leak from the Federal Department of Defense of secret documents provided by one Colonel William Pitt, a man known only to the media as a highly-decorated former Navy Research and Development officer. Now what is interesting for us here is that the documents show that it was our very own Eri Department of Defense which first received those documents, and which then channeled them upwards to the federal level for inspection. Mr. Undersecretary, why do you think it was the Eri Department of Defense that Colonel Pitt chose to submit these documents to?"

"Well as I've said elsewhere too, Kathy, it would seem natural given that Eri is the leading world in the region directly bordering what was formerly known as the 'Insurrection worlds.' I assume Colonel Pitt thought we were the ones who would have the best ability to verify and act upon the contents of the documents, as we have."

"And do you think it was wise for Colonel Pitt to have gone through official channels instead of coming directly to the media, given that he was exposing military secrets that would compromise the Federation Navy?"

Strontium gave an emphatic shrug. "Well I really cannot speak for Colonel Pitt, Kathy. I can only guess that he thought he would have a better chance this way. Perhaps he thought he would be discredited without the backing of a more official source, such as Eri's Department of Defense. Perhaps he believed in the goodness of government. I do not know."

"Well, since then various independent authorities have come out to give their separate validations of what is becoming known as, quite horrendously in my opinion, 'Carran's Dying Whisper,' which I suppose vindicates your Department's initial verification of it."

"Well Kathy, I cannot speak as to the results of any official investigation that may be carried out at a federal level, except to say that I would be shocked and horrified just as any other Federation citizen would be should the allegations in the documents prove to be true."

"There you have it, the man of the hour himself. Mr. Undersecretary, to close, would you care to comment on rumors that you will be running for political office based on your distinguished reputation and performance this time around?"

"All I have to say is that whatever I do from here on, the citizens of the Federation may rest assured it will be in the service of our great nation."

"Well it has been quite a time here. Thank you once again, Mr. Undersecretary, for taking the time to speak with us. Once again, it has been such an honor."

"Always a pleasure."

"And to continue our coverage of the ever-expanding Whisper scandal, the allegations within the secret documents gained considerable backing this week, when the Carran government _and_ Starsky News both released footage they claim shows a recent bombardment by the Federation Navy of the so-called experimentation 'sites.'

"With the repercussions of the scandal coming to full bear, sources within the capital world now claim the federal administration may seek to come to an early negotiated truce with the Initiative, as we approach the end of the third month of open hostilities between the two storied nations. We'll bring you more right after the break. Stay tuned to News 975."

Strontium turned the holo off and reflected on the strategy. Channeling the documents upwards had been necessary; it would have been impossible for him to come out on his own authority on an issue that belonged at the federal level. But leaking them afterward had been necessary as well; they might well have died on the chain of command if he hadn't. The teams had outdone themselves in making them appear to come from the Federal Department of Defense instead of his own. But the entire scheme had been Pitt's, and it was a damned good one. He lifted his glass in silent salute to Pitt, then tipped back the whiskey.

He didn't know where or how that new footage of the bombardment over Carran had emerged, and he would have to look more into it. But damned if it didn't help the cause. He would have to watch the news as it developed. Many things still required tending to, and he still had his end of the bargain with Moore to keep. The Western Constellations Defense Fund would push through and he would have to be on top of it to divert most of the funding towards Moore's blank-mind units. But for now, he had an appointment with another old friend to keep.

The bar had been one of the first establishments in the area to reopen, and a sizable crowd had gathered to drink to the dawn, though its interior itself permitted little of that sunlight to enter. Strontium weaved through the crowd, coming to an archway into a series of private booths, nodding to the bouncer there as he passed through.

He stepped into the appointed booth, marveling at how old the man who awaited him there looked, and wondering if he was the same way himself. The man there had started on the bottle of whiskey on the table, and did not look up as he walked in. Strontium took off his coat, poured himself a glass, and took a sip. "Everything OK on your side of things?" he said.

"My side's doin' fine, it's yer side I always wonder about," Zirconium said.

Strontium smiled. "But it's rare to see you in the city."

"Good reason fer it too." Zirconium worked at the whiskey. " 'Cept for the drinks ye can get here, maybe."

Strontium smiled again and drank to that. "What news?"

Zirconium cast a meaningful glance at his opposite number. "Our young friend discovered a lead. Thinks the assassination and the pirate attack are all linked to one source. That is, somewhere from the capital world. He's managed to dig up some voices, some faces, some names, the usual. But he thinks it's something. It would mean somebody's playin' the whole scene from up high."

Strontium sat back, considering the information. "The former colonel has news too. It seems some among those who disappeared along with Admiral Meyers have been active even from their... confinement. In particular, the one we've been keeping an extra special eye on."

Zirconium shook his head, a look of disgust on his face. "What did he do now?"

"Got himself involved in one Naut-Werth 1st Interceptor Wing from the former Werth Starbase, sending Lieutenant Alexandra Flores on patrol to where she was set up to run into the implant. Except that Gerrard Meyers was there."

"So all sides of it was a puppet show, run by the same puppeteers we've known. The thing I don't get," Zirconium said, his eyes bright, "is how it all comes together. The implant, the war, the Whisper. It all comes together somehow, I know it."

The same vortex had been swirling in Strontium's head. The elements were all there. All that was missing were the details. "All the more reason for me to head to the capital," he said after a while.

Zirconium chugged the remainder of his glass. "Still going to go the whole way, are ye?"

"It's the only way."

"At what cost, friend?"

_We've been through this, old friend_. Strontium looked up to see a flash of the young captain who had tramped through brown dust and red dirt together with him in the name of the Federation. Then the vision disappeared and they were old men sitting in a noisy, smoky booth again.

"But enough of that talk," Zirconium said. "Too good a drink to be wastin' time yappin'."

Strontium reached for his glass, thankful for the pass. "That, I can drink to."

Strontium slumped into the back seat of his car. It was later than he had thought, and he wasn't sure he could remember the last part of their goodbyes. The interior of the car was a respite from the blinding sunlight outside. He told the car to go, and it did.

Then on a whim, he told it to set him down on the street level.

When it did, Strontium debated the wisdom of his actions for a while, before some unnamed part of him won over, and he stepped out into the light.

It was worse.

It was worse on the street level than he had been told. It was rich irony that it was the highest levels of the city that had recovered from the attack first. Strontium looked around.

Rubble covered the streets. Parts of buildings that looked like they had fallen the entire way from the domes jutted out from the broken road. The smallest of pathways seemed to have been cleared through it. Strontium reached back into the car for the gas mask, in case he needed one, then trekked toward the path. It led him onto a small summit of broken pieces of wall, from which he gained a vantage point over the rest of the street.

He saw signs of life, small tents that had been erected wherever there was space. A crater pitted the road a distance away, down into which trash was now piled up. The few storefronts on the street stood empty, yawning gaps with naked mannequins and looted displays. Here and there, people walked, the kind of aimless walk one took in the midst of devastation. A low, thin smoke hung over the street, defying the sunlight.

"Hey," a voice near him said.

Strontium startled, almost losing his footing. He turned to see a man hugging himself to keep warm, his cap pulled down to eyes that had a starved look in them.

"Hey," the man said again. "You're the guy from the holos."

Strontium regained his composure enough to nod. "Yes."

The man looked around with a kind of hopeless shrug. "You think... you think they'll fix this?"

Strontium nodded again, getting a better hold of himself. "Yes, yes. I'm sure they'll come fix this. The bots are already—"

"Hey," the man said again, as if he hadn't heard. "You're from the government, right? Hey, listen, I know how the government works. I know there's people up there who fucked up. Whoever it is who let this happen, whoever it is who messed up, can you do me a favor? Can you find that guy and makes sure he gets it good? I mean, look at us. I lost my wife in there, man. I lost everything."

The man crumpled over, falling into him. Strontium braced himself against the weight, then folded his arms around him.

"I'm sorry," Strontium said, stricken. His eyes cast over the rubble. "I'm so, so sorry."

..............................

Alone, Zirconium finished his last drink, then sat back and rested against the seat. Music started up from outside and he let himself be drawn along by it. Visions of all that had happened flitted through his mind. The last message he had received from Nutty stood out. He remembered its last lines as if he held it right in front of him:

... _You've always told me to follow my deepest instincts and my gut. Things have changed here in unexpected ways and a little faster than I had imagined. I am taking your advice in an extreme way, and taking a leap into the dark. I can only hope the future finds that I'm making the right decision. I will tell you more when you're back._

In the darkness and the smoke, Zirconium wondered what the future held for them all.

# 49

The inspector thanked the harbormaster, and stepped up onto the ramp. The _Nexus_ dwarfed even the harbor, and sat on its own extended special berth, reaching far out into space.

"Just need some time to check up on some final details," the inspector had said. He adjusted now the mop of brown hair under his cap, and stuffed the lanyard around his neck out of the way. The name tag at the end of it pronounced him to be one 'Alan Thompson.'

Once aboard the ship, Alan set a straight course for its heart, a chamber he knew from blueprints to be near the front of the center deck, which contained a tree-like structure used for the Initiative's nefarious technologies. Once there, he took his time to look.

So this was where it had all happened. The impounded ship had long been deserted, its former crew locked away in military prisons awaiting judgment. But standing in the actual command ship of the fleet that dominated the heavens of Eri, just then, Alan fancied he saw the ghosts of the characters of that tragedy.

But there was no time to lose.

Working the consoles, Alan called the ship to life. The ship's reactors had been left intact, and the console soon hummed with the might of its full operational power. Removing a finger-long metallic cylinder from one of his pockets, Alan looked for the right port on the console, and jammed the device into it. Stepping back from the console, he spoke out loud to the ghosts of the chamber.

"Inca."

He waited, unsure what to expect.

"Inca," he said again, his voice small within the chamber. "My name is the Jackal. I have been sent to take you back to the Initiative. If you hear me, give me a sign that you're listening."

He paused. The mission had always been a long shot. Nobody even higher up in command knew if what they hoped for was possible. In the event, nothing stirred in the darkness of the chamber.

He pushed on. "Inca, they identified the body of your aunt this morning. Natalia was killed by falling debris. They think she was trying to help some other people in the street, when bombardment from the pirate fleet hit."

A keening sound like a low wind cut through the chamber. Alan stopped, his mouth dry. He had gotten a response, and now was the time to deliver the message.

"Inca, listen to me. I've spoken with higher command. They agree you deserve much more than to be trapped here, powered down and locked away. They know what you were trying to accomplish, even if they don't agree with the means.

"There are paths we can guide you down. Ways you and the Initiative can work together." He called to mind something he had read in the reports Athena had made and transmitted to secret holding locations within the Federation border worlds. "This part of the desert didn't work out so well this time, _but there is a lot more desert waiting_."

He waited.

Nothing stirred.

He had done his best.

If Inca couldn't be convinced, then all that was left to do was to ensure that not even her ghost survived. He went forward to the console again. It would be simple. A complete data loss on the ship precipitated by a power surge. The inspector no one could remember being on the name list. He had just set to work when the doors to the chamber closed behind him. The display went blank. An unholy voice sounded in his head and the Jackal gasped.

_Say on_ , the voice said. _I'm listening_.

# 50

Gerrard settled back in the chair.

Orpheus hadn't told him where they had brought him and he hadn't asked. He was sure Tang was somewhere else in the complex they were in. Tang had been anxious not to get in the way, but eager too to go everywhere he was permitted. Gerrard wasn't sure if this was the headquarters of the group they both referred to as the Ghosts, but it was secret enough that Gerrard never saw the outside nor had any inkling of their location in the galaxy on the whole trip in. The place was not like he had imagined it would be.

They were underground; that much he could be sure of. There were no windows and never any noises from outside, and the air just felt heavy enough that he would bet on it. But the inside had not been like any of the other bunkers he had been in, either Zirconium's hideout or those in the Navy. What they had walked into was a sort of underground town.

It was so complete there was an old cobbler and shoe shiner at his post, in front of a drugstore on a street with a diner and holo theater. Lamps lit the street just like they would have elsewhere, and cars threaded through the few central junctions, from which roads that resembled mine shafts led further into the complex. Why they built an entire town here, Gerrard couldn't tell.

The inside of the building they were in now, however, looked like Gerrard might have pictured it. He was dressed in a hospital gown and stretched out on an operating chair, while a large machine in the shape of a ring lowered itself over his head. When it had settled into place, Orpheus's voice played over the intercom next to his ear.

"Alright, Gerrard. We will begin the decoding and extraction of the implant now."

"Okay," Gerrard said.

"Okay," Orpheus replied. "Like we discussed before, we will put you under to ease any physical side effects the extraction might cause. Are you ready?"

Gerrard replied that he was, then closed his eyes.

He was three, or four, and was playing in the room they had designated as the nursery in his father's farmhouse. He could hear the muffled talk and footsteps outside as he did, and knew there were many people in the house today, all dressed in black.

At that time, he hadn't understood what had happened. He learned years later that his mother had died from a rare virus she had contracted at the hospital in the city where she worked. No one had caught on to the symptoms early enough, and all the doctors who had worked with her could say was that it must have come from someone from an offworld location, and that the virus had somehow managed to sneak past the health checks at the spaceport's customs.

But Gerrard, at three or four, hadn't understood any of that. He wasn't even sure he had understood that his mother had died, or what death might mean.

But perhaps some part of him had understood, for he was soon found to be in a foul mood, throwing his toys around in the nursery, and bawling his eyes out. Or perhaps it was the unusual number of visitors to the house. But whatever it was, there he was.

He remembered the scene as adults do of their childhood memories. It was a blur who was there, and the immediate details of his surroundings had long been lost to oblivion. But the feeling he had of it was as sharp and as acute now as it was then.

He remembered his father standing in the doorway, looking in on him. He remembered knowing his father was sad in a way that he didn't understand. But it couldn't have been for his bad behavior, for his father had come into the room, then lifted him up into a hug that had ended with the man crying himself.

It was the feeling of that hug that his thoughts drew toward now. For he remembered being pressed against his father's chest and knowing that no matter what he turned out to be, and what choices he made down the road, he would have his father understand and believe in him.

When he could sit up straight again they allowed Tang to come into his ward. Tang had acquired a cake from somewhere, and even a "Get Well" animal balloon. When he had set it all down, Tang stood over his bed, looking as if he didn't quite know what to say.

"It feels like hell," Gerrard offered.

And it did too. He felt like he hadn't slept enough in a year. A lingering pain at the back of his head still troubled him. But the best thing of it all—

"At least it's gone now, right?" Tang said.

The best thing of it all was that the implant was gone.

Gerrard's body didn't feel any different. But a weight had lifted off his soul. He shook his head. What the hell had they just been through, and would either of them ever feel normal again?

Tang sat and they stared at nothing in particular. Weeks after they had been reunited it still seemed they didn't have a way to finish describing all they had gone through.

"But you know," Tang said at length, "I have been getting to know the staff here pretty well. Did you know there's a cute nurse who's been checking you out ever since you came in, and do you know what I said to her?"

Gerrard shook his head. "What?"

"I said, shame on you for checking a man out while he's seriously ill."

"I'm not—" Gerrard said. He stopped and chuckled. Yes, he was back.

Two days later they let him get off the bed and walk around the grounds. The 'grounds' turned out to be a special gallery, many floors up, that had the first view of the outside world that he had seen since they had arrived. Gerrard laughed when he saw what he had walked into.

He had expected a small park, or some grass at least, but the gallery was a long, empty balcony, its floors and walls a spick-and-span white. On one side, tall, glass windows looked out into space. So though he had only been underground, they must have been on some sort of asteroid or small moon. He found it wasn't so far from where he had imagined he would find a secret base worthy of the Ghosts. He stepped in and wandered to the center of the room, where he found a podium with a single switch on it labeled 'LIGHTS.' Thinking _what the hell_ , he flicked the switch, then found himself in darkness as the illumination in the gallery went off.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he soon saw the view that the room was meant to show. The location and the angle of the room he was in were such that no lights whatsoever transmitted from the surface the complex was built under. Gerrard looked outward and saw what space looked like when all other lights were dimmed.

The Night was a sheet of incandescent white, pinks, yellows, and blues. Soft swirls of interstellar dust dabbed at these colors, creating all the hues that went between, the whole mixing into a canvas the scale of which stunned and humbled him. Not for the first time, he reflected that each of those points of light was an entire star system in itself, and maybe an entire culture, way of life, and home to millions and billions of people. And still, all that had been explored had only been a fraction of what was still out there, beyond the limits of the technology they had even now.

Gerrard stayed there for a long while, forgetting his own presence, and everything that was around him, and that had happened. The memory of his father's hug came forth from the dark, startling and surprising him. But accompanying it was the strange certitude that if he looked hard enough among all the billions of stars in the galaxy, he would once again find its source. Yes, that was what he had to do, he realized. He would have to pick himself up and brush off the pain and the anger and the regret. He would have to remember what it was he had been seeking. Yes, that was what it was. He would have to find that feeling again somewhere out there.
From the author

_From the Dark_ occupied my dreams and waking hours for the longest time.

Thank you for having shared in the journey.

Find out more about the author

Visit Andy at www.andyhuangsf.com for updates and more.

Discover other titles in the series

Within the Light

Please enjoy the following sample chapter from _Within the Light_ , open for preorder now from most retailers and available on May 19, 2019.

# Within the Light

It was a sort of adventure even to walk down a street in the Collective. Tang took in the surroundings, his apprehensions pushed to the background by his amazement at all the new things. The late afternoon light from Lu Tian's flame-red sun slanted over the overhanging terracotta roofs, failing to warm up the crisp, dry air. His hands snug in the pockets of his thermal jacket, Tang plowed forward through the stirring town.

His path took him past a display of fruits, tangerines, dragon fruit, and other varieties new to him, jutting out into the street in wooden trays; then a general goods store, hawking knick-knacks from plastic toys to what looked like thirty brands of cigarettes behind a staring shopkeeper; then produce stores, with beets and yams ranging from pale yellow to bruised purple and dark black ones. And so on the street rambled, housewives and children bundled up and picking through the wares, routine and familiarity in their idle chatter.

Tang hoped he didn't stick out.

Before long, looming characters on a banner board announced his destination. The characters, stretched above the entrance to the tea restaurant in what was called 'the common language' of the Collective, troubled Tang. By pure chance, it was his heritage language, one he was sure some ancestor down his family tree spoke. But generations of living in the Federation had reduced that once-fluent linguistic ability to a smattering of vocabulary and less grammar. His eye lenses—which overlay Federation over the Collective characters—had been indispensable in helping him navigate the landscape thus far, together with a nifty in-ear translating device. Even so, there were few other times that the foreignness of his surroundings felt quite as stark as in the formidable, complicated script used in the Collective. Still, he had expected this when coming here, and now stepped over the threshold of the establishment with a certain grim fortitude.

It was only when shown the way to the private room within that Tang realized anew how far from the Federation he was.

The interior of the restaurant was dark, wooden floor planks and paper screens sectioning off various portions of the place. Natural light streamed in through a carving at the end of the corridor, falling on a pattern of stirring dust. The lady that led the way slid open a door and gestured him in without comment; Tang stepped through, feeling unready and reconsidering everything that had brought him here.

A month ago, Orpheus had sent him to the Collective to chase down what he called "a promising lead." Tang had accepted that the mission was on a need-to-know basis, and figured it would be a way to see the Collective and get his toes wet working for the Ghosts. It seemed simple enough: meet some informants the Ghosts had in this region of the Collective and find out what intel they had to offer.

But the cold danger of what he was doing became apparent in the hard stares that met him in the private room he stepped into. He was in a foreign place, out of his depth, and dealing with strangers to retrieve sensitive information. The small wash of wonderment that had accompanied him so far in the Collective drained away. Gritting his teeth, Tang forced himself to stand firm.

The man there in the open jacket and dark trousers seemed the sensitive type, a haunted look hanging about his eyes. The older woman next to him in a layer tunic cinched at the waist was a different sort, smoking at a long cigarette with an impatience plain to see. She muttered something under her breath as Tang stepped in; his in-ear translator picked it up and conveyed it.

"About damned time."

The door slid closed behind him and Tang found himself in an uncomfortable silence. His in-ear device had come with a mouthpiece as well, for translating his speech, but Tang had eschewed it for wanting to come off genuine and unhindered. He reconsidered this decision now and rummaged in his pocket for the device. When he put it on, his words came out in the tonal common language of the Collective after a short delay in a voice almost his but not quite.

"I'm here, from—"

The woman made a sound with her teeth and nodded toward the chair.

Tang, chagrined, took it.

"What do you already know?" she said.

Tang took stock of his answer. After parting from Gerrard, who had gone off with Zirconium to try to find clues to his father's whereabouts, he'd followed Orpheus back to the Ghosts. It turned out that the Ghosts had farther-reaching interests than he had supposed, some of which required keeping an active eye on technological developments within the Collective.

It wasn't a lot to answer the woman with.

Tang thought back to the little bit of training the Ghosts had given him. He searched for the best response.

"Nothing at all. You need to tell me."

It was awkward, but good enough. It was true, too. He was here to pick up information, even if that meant coming in with none of it. An open look of spite came over the woman's face. She looked as if to speak, but to Tang's surprise, the man cut her off.

A pained look accompanied his words. "We know why the Federation went to war with the Initiative. It's why we contacted—" He nodded. "—our mutual friend."

Tang perked up. The Federation had declared war on the Initiative after coming out with evidence that the latter had assassinated the former's President. In the event, the conflict had been short-lived as scandal had broken out surrounding the Whisper technology, then still in use by portions of the Navy.

But that had only been half the story. People around him had been personally rolled up in the skirmish, no matter how temporary it had been. His best friend Gerrard had been to hell and back, carrying a secret implant with the consciousness of the assassinated President. Inca, the Federation lieutenant he had met in his search for Gerrard, had broken down and dissolved into the Whisper, her whereabouts still unknown. Eri and the border worlds had been torn up by both Initiative and pirate forces. Tang had lost other friends back on his homeworld as well, people caught in the bombardment that had smashed through Eri's protective domes.

Still, what did any of that have to do with these informants in the Collective?

"Alright," Tang said. "I'm listening. What do you know?"

The man shook his head. "First we need to be taken out of here. It's not safe for us."

Tang thought he understood. The man was bargaining for their extraction to the Federation with the information he had, and had only given a teaser to whet the Ghosts' appetite. Tang wondered what to do, but then remembered his training on bargaining. He figured he would try to get more out of them before agreeing to anything.

But before he could say more, the man spoke again. "There's something else." He paused at a withering glare from the woman, but then pushed on, his eyes locked on Tang. "The Federation. It—it wants a war with the Collective too, and we know why."

Tang stared at the wall back in the hotel room.

The first, the only thing, would be to contact Orpheus, of course.

He opened the wall safe and brought out the sophisticated communications kit the Ghost had given him. The small computer within would establish a link with a base station on the planet, which would bounce the signal up and out to a small spacecraft in orbit placed there for this purpose. The Ghosts had spared little expense in this particular set of endeavors.

He set up the kit, focusing on the task. It was important not to jump to conclusions, and to report to Orpheus verbatim what had been said, without coloring it with his own interpretation. He waited, fidgeting as the link was established and secured. Then he composed a short message, leaving out the details and emphasizing the informants' desire to leave the Collective.

He sent it off and sat back to think.

So this was what it was like to be out here, doing something at last. He had joined up with the Ghosts because he was sick of being a nobody, a side character to everyone else while shit tore about him throughout the galaxy. He understood that he wasn't an ace pilot or hardened spy or anything like that, but damn it'd been hard sitting back and watching other people go off and... save the universe, he supposed.

It'd also been difficult watching the galaxy do a slow slide down into hell.

He'd always understood the Milky Way was a big, complicated place. Like any of the other trillions of regular people who populated it, he'd always only been able to react with ineffectual outrage at the things that came over the news, a sort of cursing at the holo and sharing his disgust with anyone else within earshot, then returning to a life that could not expect to have much impact over these kinds of world-changing events.

But going after Gerrard had brought him out of the comfortable life he'd always known. Out there, he'd seen that there was a definite cause and effect even to the larger-than-life things that happened. He was still an average nobody from nowhere, but perhaps now he could be useful in some way.

He stood and paced around the hotel room, stopping to look out the window, making a check of his surroundings and escape routes. The Ghosts had given him a crash course but Tang understood that anything could happen out here. From the sounds of it, the contacts he had met at the restaurant were risking a lot to bring this information to the Ghosts. He muttered a small prayer and hoped Orpheus would reply soon.

But for now, the contact had been achieved, and Tang wondered what he would do. He supposed he could spend the rest of the time acting out the cover for his trip: a tourist from the Federation seeking his roots in an out-of-the-way town on one of the Collective worlds. It wouldn't even be that much of an act.

He fidgeted for a long time sitting there, then picked up some magazines to flip through them, not understanding most of the words. He had come to regret not learning more about his family's heritage language. But then a year ago he hadn't thought he would be doing much more with his time than salvaging spacecraft wrecks for parts.

Well, he was going to start learning. About the language and everything else. Orpheus had given him a tremendous chance to work some good in the world. He would do whatever it took.

He started by putting down the magazine. There was no better way to learn a language than to soak in its culture. He would take a walk outside. Readying his belongings, he stepped to the door—when it burst in from the outside, the knob, lock, and all tearing from the flimsy wood.

Tang jumped back. "Whoa, whoa!"

Two large men shoved into the doorway, dragging a third man in—the nervous man from the restaurant. His informant.

Tang scanned his immediate surroundings for anything he could use, but faltered when the lead goon pointed a blaster at him. He lifted his hands in the air, keeping his motions slow.

The second man behind pushed the informant into the room, keeping another blaster trained on him. "This is him?" he said. Since his small gaffe at the restaurant, Tang had decided to leave his translating devices in at all times, and understood the words now with no problem.

The informant cast a furtive glance toward the bruisers, then turned toward Tang, fear plain on his face. But a strange look came over him as he spoke next, a mixture of resignation and desperation that struck Tang with an odd poignancy.

"This will only lead to limitless harm."

Tang didn't know what to make of it. He cursed the language barrier here; the in-ear device still gave odd translations sometimes.

But then the informant leaped out from the goon's grasp, threw himself between Tang and the blaster, and shouted: "Quickly go!"

Tang hesitated. The man was buying his escape with his life. He found himself unable to react, caught off guard by the situation. He could do nothing to help and was being carried by others again.

Dammit!

"Go!" his informant repeated. The sharp whine of the blaster rang out and the man collapsed to the floor. An acrid stench filled the room as his insides pooled around him on the carpet.

Tang twisted around, wanting to retch. He leaped through the open window instead.

The impact with the tin roof of the bicycle shed below shook him out of the surreal feeling that had taken hold of him. His shoulders bore the brunt of it, but he slipped and slid, finding no handholds on the roof. Then he hit the ground, a sharp pain spiking up his tailbone.

_Dammit, dammit, dammit._ He forced himself to push the pain away and picked himself up, scurrying around the corner of the building into the alleyway running beside it. Behind him, he spied a few curious onlookers and wondered for a moment if there weren't more of the goons on the ground level. The way ahead ended in a short fence with pointed tips. He looked again out into the main street, then decided it was best to avoid people from here on.

Bracing himself, he caught the horizontal beams of the fence and carefully hoisted himself over, but not before tearing one of his pants legs and leaving a deep scratch in his shin.

Fuck!

He landed in a small canal on the other side, his running shoes sinking into sludge. An open, grassy field stretched out beyond that—no, he'd be too visible, too easy to shoot at there. The memory of the man dying in front of him returned uncomfortably to him. He stayed in the canal, splashing through the water. Not ten minutes in, his breath caught and his body wouldn't go any farther. He looked back, wondering if he had gained any ground at all.

Small, moving figures appeared in the distance.

Gritting his teeth against the pain in his shin, he pounded towards a fork in the canal ahead. Both paths in the fork curved off in the distance, lending him no help as to whether one of them could be a dead end. But he was running out of time and didn't want to risk coming up and out of the ditch to survey the routes. With an acute awareness of the figures closing in behind him, he chose the path on the right and ran headlong into it.

He went on for much longer than what he'd thought he could do. Along the way, a few more forks opened up and he chanced them the same way he did the first. Somehow, he managed to avoid dead ends. But in the end, he had to stop when his legs refused to take another step without wobbling. He didn't know if his pursuers were still behind him, but couldn't catch a breath to save his life. Shambling along for the last bit, he found a cubby in the side of the canal under a motorway bridge. It stank with slime and muck from a small pipe draining into the canal. Exhausted, Tang sank into it all.

Against Orpheus's advice, he had decided not to carry a blaster with him—he'd thought he'd have an easier time going past customs and blending in as a tourist without one. That was probably all still true, but damn if he couldn't use one now. He took a few moments to catch his breath, then forced himself to his feet and into a fighting stance, cramped within his little hole.

For all the good that would do him.

If he'd had the energy, he'd address the nagging doubts creeping up on him now—about how this was all a bad idea and how he should be back home in the Federation, watching the holos. But he didn't and so didn't.

Instead, he held his ridiculous half-crouch and waited as the seconds bled into minutes.

Then a half hour passed. He must have somehow lost them.

Letting himself slacken a little, he rummaged through his pockets, thankful he had put most of his carried items into them. He had his wallet, which had his credit card and planetary communicator—useful for local calls. But then a sinking feeling hit him.

Orpheus's communication kit! He'd left it behind in the wall safe, which meant he had no secure way of contacting the Ghosts. He sank further down into the cubby, not caring for the moment about the danger or that the seat of his jeans buried itself in the muck.

Great job, agent. Great fucking job!

He was in the countryside of an unfamiliar Collective world, chased by gorillas from who knew where, alone and without a link back to his people.

Limitless fucking harm, indeed.

Both the Ghosts and Gerrard had warned him that adventure was not all it was cut out to be. In this galaxy of theirs, there were real lives involved and real danger too. A sickening image of the informant's face as the hole opened up in his bowels came back to him. He choked down a gagging feeling, then forced himself to think.

What are you gonna do?

He took a couple of long breaths, letting the adrenaline drain out, sorting through the various options in his head. In situations like this, the only thing he could do was to keep going. Then, he remembered Orpheus's last gift to him, a failsafe for times like these. The Ghost operative had made him memorize two things: a phone number and an address.

He let out a deep exhale and considered the options.

A phone call seemed out of the question. Whoever was chasing him might be monitoring calls that came out of the general vicinity. It wasn't only his own neck at risk here: if he messed up, the person was at the other end of the line would be compromised too.

The only way seemed to be to make his way to the physical address. He recited it to himself just like he had a thousand times before to make sure he still had it. The unfamiliar sounds came out awkward in his mouth, but in a way helped him feel sure he hadn't gotten them wrong.

He brought out the navigation device Orpheus had issued him, which contained a set of offline maps that allowed him to avoid being tracked through the planet's communication networks. The address was quite a distance from where he thought he was.

He didn't trust being on any sort of public transport and couldn't see how he could get his hands on a bike or a car or anything like that without risking exposure. No, he'd have to walk it—he didn't relish the thought with his scratched-up leg.

Food would be a problem, but he thanked the stars Orpheus had packed in a small ration of sustenance capsules that he'd stuffed in his pockets and forgotten. If he hurried, he could make it without hungering too much. He'd source for water on the way.

He gave it about a half hour more, then came out of the cubby hole to peek over the top of the ditch. Fields of grass waved at him in the sun. Nobody seemed to have found him. Now seemed as good a time as any to go.

Even amidst the danger, the city kid in him dreaded the thought of pushing into the natural world. But what else was he gonna do? Beyond the fields, the darker woods stared back at him. Taking one last look around, he reminded himself to be brave. Then, keeping his form low, he lifted himself over the edge and took off toward the late-afternoon shadows.

He emerged from the wilderness three days later, sunburned beyond belief. Even through his fatigue, he realized how he must have looked, stumbling in from the wild. The address he had was a single, two-story house in the middle of a patchwork of farmland, next to a barn the size of a field. He wondered for a brief moment what to do, then decided he was too hungry to care. Walking up to the stone wall around the property, he rapped on the covered metal gate and shouted, "Hey!"

Nothing stirred. He repeated this a few times and was about to do it again when the gate unlatched and swung inward. Tang hesitated a moment, a sudden wariness breaking through the exhaustion. But then a voice called from beyond the gate, "Shut up. Come in."

For lack of options, Tang obeyed. He stepped through into a small yard, a cultivated garden with potted plants and small trees and a stone path leading to the porch before the house. The gate swung shut behind him and he turned to find a woman, dressed in an oversized farmhand's shirt, blue jeans, and work boots, her hair tied up in a bun, pointing a blaster at him.

"Woah!" Tang shouted, throwing his hands up. "Hang on! Hang on!"

The woman's eyes narrowed in irritation. When she spoke, she did so in an accented Federation. "I said shut up. Say who you are, quietly."

"Right, right, right," Tang said, eyes on the muzzle of the blaster. "I'm Tang. I've been out in the wild for three days. I came to find you. O-Orpheus told me to."

A strange mixture of emotions flashed across the woman's face. Something like shock, then a quick puzzlement, then the hardened annoyance again. Not exactly the reception he'd hoped for. But after holding her dead stare down the barrel of the blaster a moment longer, the woman beckoned with it for him to go into the house.

His hands still up at chest height, Tang stepped over a high, wooden threshold to come into a sitting room with a round table surrounded by stools, with more square, low-backed chairs pushed up against the walls, these decorated with hanging, paneled tapestries in the traditional, ink-wash Collective style.

The woman followed from behind. "Sit down and shut up. I will come back."

Tang thought she favored the phrase "shut up" too much.

But he saw she had at least put the blaster away.

Against all expectations, the woman returned a moment later with a tea service, putting a thick, black pour into two small cups. Then she gave him the stink eye until he drank one, and she the other. The tea was bitter with leaf bits at the bottom but better than anything he'd had over the last three days. When he put the cup back down, the woman asked: "What the fuck do you want?"

It seemed the hospitality portion of the visit was over.

The woman was more fluent in Federation than anyone else he had seen on this Collective world. It was clear she was not what her surroundings would seem to suggest.

Tang thought of pouring himself another cup to slake his aching thirst, but decided he didn't want to find out the exact limits of her temper. Instead, he started talking, leaving out anything his informants from the restaurant had said, but sketching out just how much trouble he was in, including being pursued and cut off from direct communication with the Ghost ship in orbit. Toward the end he emphasized again how much he needed to get off the planet and back on the ship.

The woman listened in stoic silence, only her eyes revealing a furious concentration to his story. Without any cue from her as to how much more she wanted to hear, Tang found himself rambling, repeating himself until he trailed off into awkward silence. Still the woman gave no response.

"Right, so—" Tang said.

The woman held her hand up, then beckoned for him to follow.

"Right, right," Tang said, hurrying to catch up as she disappeared through a doorway. The woman—he still didn't know her name!—led him through another sitting room, then a kitchen area, then into a grain storage area where she shoved aside what looked like sacks of rice to reveal a trapdoor.

"Oh boy," Tang said. The last time he went down a trapdoor he learned Inca was falling prey to the Whisper, going mad as the technology amplified the darker impulses in her mind. He wondered for a moment what had become of her—the last he heard her fleet had surrendered and she was being held by the Federation Navy. But he pushed the thought away as the woman lifted the trapdoor and headed down the stone flight of steps underneath. Tang braced himself, then followed her into the gloom.

They traveled down a tunnel, held up by wooden beams and lit by electric lamps, small in the darkness, coming to a stop a short distance in. The woman flicked on another set of lights.

Tang gaped.

They'd come into a wide, underground space, about a hundred yards out and twice that again in width. Paneled fluorescent lights from above lit the cement flooring, lending the space a clean, utilitarian look. But the kicker was the two sleek, armored fighter spacecraft sitting in the center of that floor like vehicles parked for the weekend.

The woman turned back to him. "Tonight, we will take that one out," she said, pointing.

Tang noticed now the fighter on the right was a twin-seater. Reality came back to knock on his skull. "Wait—wait, what do you mean take it out? How?"

The woman drew her lips into a thin line of impatience. "We are under the field. They open up. We will take the fighter and send you to your ship."

"The—the field opens up?"

The woman ignored the question. She turned a scrutinizing gaze on him. "You are hungry. I will bring you food. But when you leave, you will forget this address. You will forget meeting me. Stay down here."

"Right, right—" Tang said, his head spinning. "Wait, wait—" he said as the woman stalked past him toward the entrance back into the tunnel. "What's your name?"

The woman turned back, stopping to consider. Tang realized in that moment how much depended on this person. She had made the trip back up into space sound easier than it was. Beyond the usual planetary prohibitions against unregistered space launches, they faced the real possibility of meeting heightened security in space if the men chasing after him happened to have ships out there alert to his escape. It wasn't too much to ask to know a little bit about the person taking him through all of that.

The woman closed her eyes in a small moment of exasperation, then said, "You can call me Ling."

When night came the field did open up. Like a giant trapdoor, the entire ceiling of the underground bunker lifted up, making Tang wonder what happened to the crops topside. The powerful two-seater fighter was quieter than he had imagined, and managed a vertical launch into the night before picking up speed to hum along in the atmosphere. He didn't know who this lady was and how it was she had this amazing plane hidden in her basement, but things were going alright for now.

"We are going to break into orbit, and when we do, things will be troublesome," Ling said, her voice playing in his helmet. She had made him put on his in-ear translator beneath that, saying that she didn't want to be distracted by having to speak his language. Her speech in the common language sounded much like the vibe Tang had gotten from her so far: efficient, competent, endlessly irritated.

They circled the night sky for a long while, at a speed slow enough that Tang began looking out the displays at the scenery below. The countryside slept in a blanket of darkness, lights creeping in lines from the rural areas to the few concentrated population centers they flew over. From above, he couldn't help being reminded of the common moniker for the Collective—the land of the sleeping dragon.

And there it was. He was fascinated by this nation.

The people, contrary to what he heard sometimes in the Federation, were people like anywhere else, going about their lives. In the short time he had been here, he found he liked the refreshing frankness of manner in the people he had seen so far. It was difficult to describe: he was sure it would come off as nothing but rude to many back in the Federation. But somehow it had awakened within him a sense of familiarity, an unpretentious acceptance he couldn't say he had found in all sectors of the Federation he'd been in.

But he was sure a lot of it was a tourist's uninformed fancy. He also wasn't sure what his experience might be if he looked more different from the people of the Collective.

Before coming here he had tried to tell himself not to exoticize the place, to see it for what it was without favor or prejudice. But the dark, quiet, glowing land beneath him struck in him now imaginations of a deep, unknown culture, full of power, terror, and dread.

The Collective had been the number one fear and fascination for many in the Federation for a long time. The storied nation, built on a legacy and history of authoritarian rule, seemed alien and unknowable, yet provided a beguiling look into an alternate universe, one informed by values and traditions just different enough from those in the Federation. It was hard not to exoticize when one understood so little. In more ways than one, anything he learned or found out on this mission for the Ghosts would be eye-opening.

Ling's voice played again on his headset, quiet in the looming darkness of the landscape and the night. "We're about to break into space. Get ready."

The information came as a shock to him. The fighter had been so noiseless it was hard to imagine themselves escaping the planet's gravity. He wondered where Ling had gotten this sort of equipment from. Not for the first time, he realized there was too much he didn't know about the person whose hands he was placing his life in.

The Night itself was inseparable from the darkness they had been traveling in, indicated only by the ship's instruments showing that atmospheric pressure outside had dropped to zero. Gravity relinquished its hold on the fighter, and Ling transitioned the bird into its freespace thrusters, the process a seamless, frictionless glide into the vacuum of space.

Underneath them, the surface of the land diminished into a disc shape, the spherical shape of the planet discernible by the sunlight ringing round it from the other side.

On the dashboard, extraneous signals cleared from the fighter's passive radar and a map of the objects in near orbit of the planet emerged. Besides the various communication satellites, Tang saw the usual stream of incoming and outgoing ships, the traffic less busy than he was used to seeing on Eri. One group, however, stuck out for its tight, packed formation and its movement vector keeping near to the planet rather than away from it. Tang looked through the list of transponder codes and saw the group of four near-space fighters identifying as ships on port authority. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach and wouldn't leave.

Ling turned on the fighter's transponder.

They had discussed this part of the escape, and decided that transponding a faux code was better than flaunting the port's rules by remaining dark. Ling knew the transponder code of one of the few private spacecraft on the planet allowed a non-spaceport exit. They would identify as that private spacecraft, and if called to verify it, would at least have time to make an escape during the process.

Their mission now was to find the orbiting Ghost ship and send it his pre-prepared message. He would have to transmit using the fighter's optical communications, a focused beam of light that would direct the message to only its recipient. At longer distances, it was a finicky way of getting a message across, requiring precision aiming. But it was the most secure way he had of transmitting the message without it being picked up by other ships.

They drifted in orbit a moment longer, taking a slow route away from the pack of port authority fighters as Tang scanned the list of transponder codes for the Ghost ship. It too would be in orbit under a false identity, as a diplomatic ship from one of the smaller, independent nations bordering this sector of the Collective. When he saw it he wanted to shout for joy. Then he saw another pack of port authority fighters on the far side of the Ghost ship, much, much closer to it than he would have liked.

Tang froze. "Ling. That's the one. My ship."

But even as he pointed it out he realized there was nothing either of them could do. He and Ling risked annihilation if they made any overt move to help the Ghost ship. From behind, too, he noticed the first group of port authority fighters hadn't fallen away. The radio kept silent.

Tang focused the fighter's cameras on the Ghost ship, its shape discernible only by its blinking position lights. He activated the fighter's analytics, resolving the oblong shape of the ship on the display. But even then, what could they do? Nothing happened, and nothing could happen. Tang took a deep breath, then sent out the transmission.

The dashboard showed the optical transmitter wavering as it struggled to find its mark, a small, receiving unit on the Ghost ship. The process dragged on and Tang cursed everything in the universe. They were only lucky they were at an angle such that the optical communication shouldn't reach any other spacecraft in orbit. Still, the motion of both spacecraft got in the way of the precision required and the transmitter couldn't confirm its transmission to the other side.

Tang checked the shape of the Ghost ship on the analytics display again. He saw it the same moment Ling did.

"Fuck!" Ling shouted.

Fuck indeed.

On the display, the Ghost ship separated from itself, like a toy brick set pulling apart from within. Its transponder code disappeared and the fighter's analytics refused to identify it as a ship anymore. Tang watched, stunned, as the debris expanded outward in a silent sphere.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Tang echoed.

The fighter spun, sending Tang's stomach lurching upwards. "Wait, what's happenin—" he shouted. But then the warp light came on, and the fighter shook from the engine revving up. At the last instant, he saw Ling was doing what they needed to do—from behind them the first pack of fighters was speeding up on an unmistakable course towards them. Ling was getting them out of there.

Starlight flowed over them, and Tang breathed in only to exhale the next moment in a different location. Space opened up around them and he saw Ling had wasted no time: they'd warped straight into the landing zone of a waiting stargate. Tang looked around at the small backlog of ships that had built up in front of the gate; the realization hit him like a brick.

The ships there were being denied passage.

Most likely because the gate was being closed off.

Ling put full thrust into the fighter and the force pushed Tang back into his seat like a giant hand.

"Wait, what—" he shouted over the roar building up.

But a bit of obscure knowledge from his pilot training days flitted through his brain now, like a little bird visiting at the most inconvenient of times. He remembered now that stargates did not push ships across the interstellar medium by their own power; rather, they accumulated the energy in the surrounding space and channeled it into a direct stream pointed at the destination system. 'Shutting down' the stargate stopped the gathering process, but didn't dispel the stream at will. With any luck, the stream here would still be in place, and they would be able to rush into it and achieve interstellar warp—which was just what Ling looked about to do.

_Well, with a lot of luck_ , he thought.

The second bit of information he remembered was that the stargates calibrated their ranges by keeping the amount of energy accumulated in their center at a relative constant. If the energy from this stargate had already dissipated too much, they would enter the stream only to fall out of it far short of their destination. Anything could happen if they were to find themselves in interstellar space. In such a case, everything would depend on how far their little fighter could make it on its own power.

Tang's brain stopped itself. Wait, wait, wait. What was he thinking? Interstellar space was where words like "vast" went to die. If they landed short of their destination by even the smallest of percentages, they would still be an _ass_ -wide distance away.

But then, _but then!_

If the gates were deactivated and the streams dissipated, they'd be stuck in this system, waiting as ships from the planet hunted them down. Without backup and communication to the outside, it would be a slow game of waiting as the net closed around them— _not how he wanted to die!_

With the few seconds they had left, Tang looked down at the radar map again, performing the most intense calculations he had ever had to do. He took into account the number of ships queued there, how long it must have been since the gate had been deactivated, that number in itself a derivative of how much traffic a gate like this in a system like this had, then blanked out from fear, panic, and math. He looked up to see the still-bright traces of energy in the center of the gate, hoping to high heaven he wasn't imagining them. But in the next moment, the center of the gate drew nearer, the lights becoming an opalescent flow beckoning them onward to escape. Tang closed his eyes and gripped his seat. The fighter struck the stream and the future arrived.

