 
The Forbidden Army

Part One of the League of Planets Adventure

By Henrik Rohdin

Smashwords Edition © 2014
Chapter One: Piskka

Hrageth City, Planet Piskka, Lodon System

A single snowflake danced in the air above the mammoth Hrageth Crater. Beyond the frigid basin, the setting sun outlined black peaks against a cloudy sky. Another snowflake fell, and soon a third, a fourth, and a fifth. Anuut Oraank had never been to Piskka before, but he knew enough about the frigid hellhole to know that this was a precursor to a violent blizzard.

The krokator tightened his four-fingered hands into fists as the rickety elevator worked its way up along the side of the crater wall. In his time as a guerilla, he had come to know one truth – the Imperials loved to attack during inclement weather. As the snow started to fall heavily, his heart beat rapidly and he narrowed his eyes. Something was definitely wrong.

The elevator continued to move away from the main settlement towards a separate structure two hundred feet above, awkwardly glued to the side of the cliff near the crater's top. Oraank glanced over his shoulder at his five bodyguards, each a tall, mottled gray-skin of Wurkkan like himself. Their clothing gave them away as krokator long separated from the norms of Imperial society and their torsos were covered in battle scars.

The elevator pulled into the bottom of the overhanging structure and screeched to a halt. The doors slid open and a purple-skin standing immediately in front of the elevator opened his arms in welcome.

"Anuut Oraank, friend," the waiting krokator said. This krokator was a few inches shorter than Oraank and less muscled, but still an imposing presence. Oraank laid note to the long scar stretching from the bottom of his hairline down to his jaw on the left side of his face.

"Comrade," Oraank replied and embraced the purple-skin. "It has been a long time, Grakko. It is good to see you once again as a friend."

Marsa Grakko ran a hand through his short crop of spiky hair. "I hope the accomodations here were sufficient?"

"This city belongs in the Origin World, but I have not been for want of food or beastwine," Oraank answered curtly. He indicated his associates. "These are my bodyguards. We are armed but come in peace."

"As do we." Grakko led the party of Wurkkanosh krokator into a large chamber overlooking the crater through a gallery of dark, tinted windows. A dozen krokator of every size and color lounged about the room, and a lone human – short, thin, and weak like his whole species – sat cross-legged on a chair in front of the door.

"This is Mr. Fallon, one of our financiers," Grakko said, indicating the human. "He hails from the Alliance, as I am sure you can see."

The human rose and approached Oraank, standing several heads shorter than the towering krokator. "I represent the banking interests of the Forbidden Army. I understand you may be seeking our services as well."

Oraank glanced at Grakko before nodding slowly. "I am a freedom fighter of Wurkkan, Fallon. We have fought valiantly against the Imperial garrison imposed after we failed to meet our grain quota, but our numbers are dwindling and we cannot last much longer without help."

Grakko smiled, his lower lip peeling down to the bottom of his two tusks. "I am glad you came to me, brother Oraank. We may not have the same cause, but we share a common enemy – and my enemy's enemy is my friend."

Fallon cleared his throat. "Mr. Oraank, I am here to propose a partnership between your group and our own. We have the support of powerful business interests in the Alliance, interests that supply us with heavy weapons and provide a reliable source of income. Their backing allows us to move black money through Piskka to reputable accounts on foreign worlds."

Oraank flared his nostrils in contempt and studied the human. "And what do you want in return for these services?"

"We'll sell you more weapons than you yourself would need, the understanding being that you sell the excess as a source of income. In return, you'll give us a percentage. Our typical rate is fifty percent, but we're willing to accept thirty since we know times are tough for you financially."

"Who exactly is 'us,' if you do not mind me asking?" Oraank growled and felt his muscles tense up. Who was this human who dared demand he give him a cut of the profits?

Grakko quickly coughed to interject. "Oraank, what are you doing? Fallon has powerful friends. It will not look good for me if the friend I introduced him to spit on his feet at the first meeting."

"You have sold out, brother Grakko. You have abandoned the principles of your own cause to become a gun peddler for some human."

"Mr. Fallon's partners are keeping us afloat. We have not sold out, brother Oraank, we have just become more sophisticated in how we wage our war. You have seen with your own eyes that our methods have results. Remind me, how long has your struggle on Wurkkan lasted?"

Oraank fumed, running his eyes along Grakko's facial scar, secretly wishing he could extend further so that it crossed the purple-skin's throat. Instead he grinned disarmingly, revealing his full tusks and rotting teeth, and replied, "I may have spoken too brashly. Please, tell me more."

#

In Piskka's orbit, a flotilla of Imperial warships hovered in geosynchronous position above the Hrageth Crater thousands of miles below, the world's features indistinguishable from the spacecraft through the snowy white clouds covering the planet's northern hemisphere.

On the deck of the lead warship, Admiral Runka Tarkas placed the cup of beastwine to his lips and took a long, deep sip. The dark, thick liquor warmed his throat.

"Admiral Tarkas, the blizzard is intensifying on the surface. The pilots want to know if they should abort the mission," an aide said from his console a few feet away.

Tarkas set the cup aside and ran his tongues against his tusks, staring out the window at the planet below. There was a flash from one of the clouds, indicating lightning.

"We proceed," he finally answered. "Oraank is meeting a _Hudda Kugrall_ officer and one of their backers. We may never get another shot at him in the open."

"And the financial records at the various bank offices?"

"We move on those as well. The days of the local government hiding the money of heretics are over."

The aide nodded and flipped two switches on the flagship's control board. "Teams One and Two, this is Control. You are a go, reconfirm, you are a go. Team Three, wait for my word."

Tarkas leaned back in his seat and swirled the beastwine in his cup. All that was left now was to wait.

#

In the settlement's main cantina, a party was roaring. The beastwine flowed like a river from behind the bar and a diverse array of species from around the galaxy mirthfully partook in the revelry. Like every public place in Hrageth, however, there were always tall, stern krokator watching, their hands inches away from the _okka_ pistols and Obedience Sticks dangling from their belts.

One of these guards' eye fell on a slowly opening door at the cantina's near. The noise was deafening, so he had a hard time hearing if his communicator was buzzing to tip him off to anyone coming down the back stairwell from the spaceport.

The door flew open and six krokator wearing gleaming combat armor burst into the cantina, holding _okka_ rifles up to the eyeholes in their helmets. The cantina guards reached for their own guns in surprise, but before they could draw them the newcomers launched five-inch needles coated in the lethal venom of the _okka_ plant across the room.

A needle buried itself in the shoulder of the nearest guard and he felt the poison pound through his veins, his back nearly breaking from the spasms. The other guards were struck by the deadly barbs, their shrieks ended by the ruthless efficiency of the _okka_ venom, their suffering over in mere seconds.

The revelry abruptly ended as the patrons screamed and cowered in fear while the Imperial soldiers moved through the crowd. "Everyone get on the floor! Get down!"

A patron suddenly rose, grabbing a beastwine cup in his hand as a bludgeon, drunkenly hoping he could beat aside one of the soldiers and escape. The soldier sidestepped the wide swing of the pewter cup and almost as quickly tore his Obedience Stick from his belt, striking the unruly krokator across the back with the long, electrified baton. The patron collapsed to the floor, unconscious from the shock.

Two guards burst in through the far door, fingers clenched down on the triggers to their _okka_ rifles. Needles tore through the packed bar, striking innocent bystanders in the crowd as the cries for help intensified. Two soldiers had their armor pierced and fell to the wounds, but their comrades avenged them with a return volley of barbs that slew their attackers as well as another half-dozen bar patrons.

"We said _stay down_!" the leader of the Imperial contingent roared and the survivors all curled up on the floor. The commander pressed his finger to a button on the side of his helmet and said, "Control, this is Team One, we've secured the lower cantina. Casualties are heavy and we lost Gurkk and Ulikkor. Seven enemy kills confirmed."

"Confirmed, Team One. Secure the elevator bay at all costs!" There was a pause before Control's next message buzzed over the communicator. "Team Three, move on target!"

#

The blizzard was intensifying and the sentries atop the crater lip pulled their thick fur blankets tighter, squinting to keep the snow and ice out of their eyes. They huddled behind the massive anti-aircraft cannons placed fifty yards apart along the cliff's edge or in the concrete foxholes interspersed between them, clutching their _okka_ rifles.

One of the sentries glanced out over the crater, trying to see through the snow. He grabbed his communicator off his belt and held it to his mouth. "Tarl Grakko, this is the battery. I saw something down in the crater."

There was no reply, only a buzz of static. The krokator stared at the handheld device in concern. The blizzard was not yet strong enough to significantly disrupt communications.

Lights suddenly appeared in the blackness of the crater and the sentries scrambled to action, attempting to bring around the cannons to face downwards. "Sound the alarm! We're under attack!"

Out of the blizzard, _okka_ needles buzzed through the air, some clacking off of the metal of the heavy guns and others finding their targets exposed in the foxholes. The sentries turned around to see twenty dark forms advancing quickly up the slope towards the crater's lip.

There was a sudden roar and the sentries looked back towards the crater, from which six fixed-wing atmospheric craft were barreling up towards the batteries. From their undersides the contrails of rockets emerged and whistled up towards the crater wall.

"Take cover!" the lead sentry roared and threw himself to the floor of his battery's cabin. The torpedoes missed his downturned cannon by inches and whooshed away into the darkness, exploding in the distance to illuminate the attackers on the ground. Two foxholes exploded and one battery was knocked on its side as a missile tore apart the ground beneath it.

The anti-aircraft cannons roared to life, spewing white-hot HV rounds into the air, evaporating the snow as it fell. The sentries turned the batteries skyward in pursuit of the fighters, but the leader turned his battery towards the advancing enemy on the ground.

_Okka_ needles whizzed from the Imperial side as liquefied metal hissed towards the Imperial soldiers. Their combat armor was built to withstand _okka_ needles, not HV rounds. Their cries echoed through the night, relieving the pinned-down sentries and allowing them to flee towards the safety of the battery cabins.

As they fled, however, the aircraft came hurtling back down, this time following the crooked edge of the cliff. Their guns hummed and their rockets screeched through the night, tearing through snow, rock, metal and krokator flesh as they pummeled the defenseless sentries and took out another two batteries.

The lead sentry ducked as a round seared through the metal of the cabin and dug into the floor only inches from where he stood, raising his hand to his face as he winced at the heat. He turned away from the hot metal, pulled back on the cannon's throttle and tilted it skyward. His focus on hitting the fighters prevented him from seeing the Imperial soldier launching himself from a nearby boulder into the cabin, knocking him from his perch at the throttle to the floor. The cannon swung around, out of control, launching HV every which way.

The sentry tried to push his enemy away and reach the _okka_ pistol slung on a hook on the cabin's wall. The Imperial wrapped his hand around his throat, pressing the sentry to the floor while trying to grab the throttle and turn the cannon off. The sentry kicked out his enemy's legs and rolled on top, reaching his fingers under the Imperial's helmet.

The helmet came off, causing the sentry to lose his balance and topple backwards, dangling out of the spinning cabin. He saw HV rounds pierce a fighter high above purely by accident, sending the aircraft spiraling towards a building set into the crater's side. The ensuing blast destroyed both. The sentry looked up to see the vengeful face of a krokator with jet-black skin, his dark eyes narrowing. His white hair was tied in fourteen braids whipping in the wind from three separate knots, identifying him as an officer.

Before he could react, the krokator raised his forearm, revealing the blade fixed to his gauntlet, and violently brought it down onto the sentry's throat, nearly beheading him. The Imperial kicked the body into the crater and pulled back the throttle, bringing the cannon to a standstill.

His communicator buzzed and he pressed two of his four fingers to his earpiece. "This is Sharm Akgu Zurra, Team Three Leader."

"This is Control! What in Ugrand's name happened down there?"

"They were ready for us and sounded the alarm. All sentries dead, but my team has suffered eight casualties, and one fighter is down."

"We will send reinforcements. Team One is in place in the cantina and main elevator bay and Team Two is moving on the banking sector from the spaceport."

Zurra looked at the survivors of his unit gathering, beleaguered, along the cliff's edge. "I will go after Oraank. He will be trying to escape."

"Sharm Zurra, it is too dangerous."

"We have no other choice," Zurra replied and jumped down from the cabin, studying the descent along the steep cliff to the wide structure below. He pressed his earpiece to turn it off and took off running along the crater's lip.

#

The lights flashed alternating shades of red, green and purple and Oraank snarled in anger, "We are under attack! This is a trap!"

The roar of the fighters' engines rocked the glass windows and Grakko tentatively raised both of his hands. "This is no trap, friend, the Imperials are here. You must have led them to us."

Oraank and his five bodyguards pulled their _okka_ guns from their belts and aimed them squarely at Grakko and Fallon. "You have truly sold out, Grakko! You have betrayed us!"

"You were too foolish to even consider that you may have been followed!" Grakko snapped in reprisal and his dozen comrades leapt to their feet, aiming their guns at the Wurkkanosh. "Stand down, comrade Oraank, and we will talk about this."

"Enough talk!"

Before any shots could be fired, a rocket exploded immediately outside the window, shattering the glass and throwing everyone to the ground. A glass shard struck Oraank in the cheek and he reflexively grabbed at it, feeling his dark blood flow between his fingers.

In the confusion, he saw Grakko scrambling on all fours behind a pillar. Oraank rose and darted after him, but was apprehended by one of Grakko's krokator, who grabbed at his ankle.

"Release me!" Oraank bellowed and fired an _okka_ needle into the krokator's head, killing him instantly. He reached the pillar and saw a dim passage snaking away into the rock, cold air at its mouth. There was a secret escape tunnel.

As he stepped behind the pillar, he heard the whine of fighter engines and looked out to see an Imperial assault aircraft hovering outside the shattered windows. He dove into the escape passage just as the fighter fired its _okka_ cannons, sending a spray of deadly needles zipping through the lounge, the force of the green barbs tearing straight through many of the bewildered krokator staggering to their feet.

The fighter pulled away and Oraank looked back into the lounge. Two of his bodyguards had stayed pinned to the floor and got on their feet warily, their faces pale with shock upon seeing the carnage. Oraank motioned for them and they quickly hurried over.

"Grakko has escaped," Oraank said and indicated the illuminated passageway. "He must have a secret way out of here and off of this planet. Let us follow him there!"

#

Zurra sprinted along the roof of the lounge, watching the fighter pull up. He acknowledged it with a wave as it roared away over the crater to circle around and seek out more anti-aircraft nests. His communicator buzzed furiously as Control ordered larger transport craft to begin moving more soldiers in to secure Hrageth City. His focus was singular – he had to find and apprehend Oraank, the mission's main target.

Zurra jumped down twenty feet to an adjoining structure, rolling to soften his landing. About a hundred yards away, he could make out shapes emerging from a tunnel dug into the rock atop a long, narrow cliff. That must be Oraank seeking to escape!

Out of nowhere, a hatch opened and a human appeared, grabbing at Zurra's legs and sending him careening to the cold, icy roof. Zurra grunted, flipped over and fired two needles from his _okka_ gun into the human's face, the barbs eliciting the usual scream of agony followed by the abrupt silence of death.

He scrambled back to his feet and reached the edge of the building, watching the three shapes descend a series of cutbacks down the cliff wall almost three hundred yards away across a gaping chasm. The roar of fighter engines echoed across the crater as the winds began howling even stronger. He winced as a sharp flake of ice cut his cheek. The blizzard was getting stronger.

Zurra took a deep breath, slung his _okka_ rifle over his shoulder and began scaling down the side of the structure.

#

Oraank motioned for his bodyguards to stop as they reached a dead end. Hard snow and shards of ice pelted them as they stood exposed against the rocky wall above the dark crater.

"Grakko is gone," one of his men wheezed, shielding his eyes.

"There must be another way," Oraank barked and looked down. "See, there are structures down there. That must be where the cable car at the main settlement goes."

They watched the cable car sputter to life on the other side of the chasm and begin grinding towards the wheelhouse. Oraank studied the buildings far below. "Those buildings are no more than fifty feet beneath us, we can try to descend."

The two bodyguards stared at each other in concern, but the boom of a fighter patrolling above the crater underscored their peril and they begrudgingly followed their leader down.

#

Zurra heard the grind of the cable car and hurried his climb, reaching a catwalk at the bottom of the structure as the car neared. He stared over the edge to see the cables moving through the thick snowfall and glanced up at the wheelhouse on the other side of the chasm, nestled between two larger structures on a precipice. As he watched the far-off buildings, he noticed movement on the crater wall. It was Oraank and his men, climbing down the side!

_They must be truly desperate,_ Zurra thought and watched the cable car emerge from below. He waited until it was fully beneath him before saying a quick prayer, vaulting himself over the railing and landing atop the small transport with a thud. The roof of the car was coated in a thick sheet of ice and he lost his footing, barely catching the edge of the roof and leaving him dangling in full view of the three surprised krokator inside.

_So much for surprise_.

The heretics all went for their _okka_ guns. Zurra scrambled out of the way as one of the krokator kicked out one of the glass panes to get a better shot at him. As the heretic leaned out, Zurra swung one of his legs up, kicking him square in the jaw, causing him to lose his footing and plunge out of the cable car and to his death. Zurra pulled himself inside and found two _okka_ guns trained right in his face.

"Dumb move, Imperial," one of the heretics growled with glee as his finger tightened on the trigger.

A gust of wind rocked the car. Zurra seized his opportunity and grabbed the barrel of the _okka_ rifle, swinging it towards the second heretic. Instinctively, the first enemy squeezed down on the trigger, accidentally peppering his friend with needles.

Zurra wrenched away the rifle and tossed it out of the open window, reaching around for his own. The heretic smacked him across the forehead, slamming Zurra's head against a window, nearly cracking it. Disoriented, he tried to pick himself back up but found a pair of hands around his throat, squeezing down.

"This ends here," the heretic spat and pressed his thumbs into Zurra's windpipe. A blast of snow and ice poured in through the window, pelting them with frozen debris. Both slid across the floor and rolled into the far corner with a hard thud.

Freed from the vice of the heretic's hands, Zurra grabbed the _okka_ rifle from around his shoulder and swung it around, smacking the heretic in the head with the butt. In the split second it took for the heretic to sprawl dazed across the floor, Zurra fired three successive darts, all three striking between the shoulder blades.

Zurra rubbed his throat as his earpiece buzzed. "Sharm Zurra, can you hear us?"

"I can hear you," he replied with a gasp. "I am on a cable car nearing a wheelhouse at the bottom of a ravine. I think Oraank is cornered down here."

"The fool! Find him and apprehend him."

Zurra nodded. "Confirmed."

The cable car reached the wheelhouse and he jumped through the open window onto a thin iron walkway. Hundreds of feet below, he could vaguely make out the snowy crater floor. He made his way through a door back out into the blizzard and saw an isolated platform atop which was perched a lonely silver sphere. Before he could get a good look, a gust of wind knocked Zurra to the ground. When he glanced back up, the sphere had rolled off of the platform and into the darkness below.

The wind howled and Zurra stayed close to the wall, trying to see through the furious snow. Something moved up ahead and Zurra jumped aside as two _okka_ needles buried themselves into the wall where he had been standing just moments before.

A mottled-skinned krokator came roaring out of the storm with his _okka_ rifle raised high. Zurra grabbed the rifle before the krokator could fire again and twisted it away, losing control of his own rifle in the process. The large Wurkkanosh krokator struck him and sent Zurra toppling from the building down to the rocky outcrop below.

The Wurkkanosh hopped down after him. "We have an Imperial, sir!"

Zurra heard voices from up above and he slowly regained his footing, watching the Wurkkanosh approach. "Come at me then, heretic!"

The krokator growled and pounced. Zurra blocked a right hook and spun the heretic into the cliff wall, grabbing ahold of his face and slamming his head into the rocks. The heretic grunted and sagged towards the ground. Zurra rammed his head into the cliff one last time and shoved him away, watching him roll like a rag doll down over the edge.

Zurra heard a commotion above him and glanced up, spotting figures moving along the catwalk atop the nearest structure. His gaze continued to a door opening out onto the outcrop from the building and he burst straight for it, _okka_ needles piercing the snow behind him as he plowed through the door into the electrical shed powering the cable car.

"He went downstairs!"

Zurra gasped for air, watching his breath steam up one of the control panels. There was a noise from up above and one of the Wurkkanosh started descending a ladder at the far end of the shed. Zurra slung his Obedience Stick off his belt, flicked it on and twirled it in his hand, stepping back behind a humming generator in anticipation.

The large, gray krokator dropped down to the floor, _okka_ gun ready. "Come out, Imperial, so I can kill you!"

"As you wish!" Zurra scoffed and stepped out from behind the generator, hurling the Obedience Stick across the room into one of the control panels. The electrified baton shorted the panel, spraying sparks and blacking out the shed. Zurra charged forward and pushed the Wurkkanosh into the console. There was a scream, a fizzle, and then only silence and the smell of burnt flesh.

Zurra carefully looked up the ladder. Oraank was waiting up there. Not one to hesitate, Zurra snatched the corpse's _okka_ gun from the floor and scaled the ladder.

#

Oraank staggered out onto the rocky ledge beyond the shed and a strong gust of wind nearly blew him off of the edge and he dropped to one knee, barely keeping his balance.

Where was Grakko? There was nothing on this ledge. He was trapped here at the mercy of the howling winds roaring out of the crater. How could Grakko have escaped?

He clambered up to his feet, looking around the cliffside. There was no other path. Another gust of wind whistled along the crater wall, and he at last realized that Grakko had found some other escape route he had failed to notice. He was trapped.

"Oraank!" a voice called from behind. Oraank spun to see an Imperial soldier crouched in the doorway to the electrical shed ten feet away. "Stand where you are!"

The wind howled and Oraank tightened his grip on his gun. "What are you going to do? Arrest me? Go ahead and try!"

Zurra tensed and inched forward. "You either leave this ledge a prisoner or a corpse, Oraank. You know you are cornered."

"Only a fool would follow me down here alone, Imperial!"

"I will not give you another chance, heretic."

"Then come and get me!" Oraank said and raised his _okka_ gun, squeezing the trigger.

Zurra dodged an _okka_ needle and fired two in return. They sailed wide to the left of Oraank but caused him to stumble backwards over the edge of the outcrop, and he vanished into the blizzard.

Zurra pressed a finger to his ear. "This is Sharm Zurra! Oraank is gone. He fell over the edge into the crater."

"Why would he have climbed down there? He must have known he was cornered!

"I do not know," Zurra replied, wondering just that. "I do not know."
Chapter Two: Shoregrove

Two months later

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System, Human Alliance

"Colonel Moss, in your opinion, is there sufficient evidence to back up the Krokator Star Empire's claims against Hessian Engineering in light of the Piskka incident?"

Colonel Gary Moss, a thin man in his late forties with quickly graying hair, leaned towards the vox. "As far as Military Intelligence is concerned, Commissioner, there has been little information gleaned from the krokator that could be used in the ongoing probe of Hessian Engineering."

The hearing room, one of dozens of identical chambers in the bowels of Shoregrove Hall, was filled with reporters, politicians and intelligence experts. In front of the panel of twelve Commissioners, six from each of the Alliance's two main political parties, Moss and Major John Gresham sat at a tiny metal table. The chief counsel for Military Intelligence barely fit at the end.

A new Commissioner piped up. "Major Gresham, what is your opinion?"

Gresham cracked his knuckles under the table and shifted in his seat. "My opinion on what exactly, Mr. Commissioner?"

"On the Piskka raid and its implications for this special committee's investigation, Major. It is my understanding that you are Section Four's in-house expert on the Krokator Star Empire in addition to your duties as Junior Liaison Officer to the Commission."

"Well, I've worked as a translator and political analyst, if that's what you mean."

"I believe you authored this paper here, _The Correlation of Military Spending and the Political Stability of the Krokator Star Empire_ , a few years ago," the Commissioner replied, holding up a thick, bound document. "It is a very thorough work."

"Well, I'm flattered you read it, Mr. Commissioner."

"Please answer the question, Major," a female Commissioner reprimanded sternly.

"I apologize, Mrs. Commissioner. I was merely clarifying the Commissioner's identification of me as an expert," Gresham grunted. He turned his attention back to the Commissioner who had raised the question. "To answer your question, sir, I think the Piskka raid is irrelevant in terms of your investigation into Hessian Engineering, and I think you are missing the big picture."

Moss leaned over to Gresham and covered the microphone. "John, be careful. They're not interested in anything not related to illegal weapons sales. You're on thin ice."

The Commissioner cleared her throat to speak again. "Major Gresham, I'm not sure what you mean. Could you elaborate?"

"Certainly. Based on what little we know, there would not be sufficient evidence of Hessian breaking any Allied laws _per se_. The krokator have, predictably, given the Alliance no access to bank statements, transaction histories, or anything we could use. The existence of tax havens and money laundering hubs is deplorable, but whatever the krokator have on Hessian after Piskka, they're not sharing with us."

There was a murmur of disapproval. The female Commissioner considered this and then asked, "Major Gresham, what exactly _do_ the krokator have?"

"They hit the pocketbook of more than one guerilla faction, and they have accused Hessian as well as other interstellar corporations of money laundering. With the evidence we've seen in regards to Hessian's conduct on other worlds, it wouldn't surprise me in the least. Again, my view is that the Commission would be unable to add charges against Hessian, Madame."

Moss smirked and said, "Good job," under his breath to Gresham, who leaned back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. As the Junior Liaison Officer to the Commission – JLOC for short – he served directly under Moss, the Senior Liaison Officer. Both were longtime veterans of similar Commission hearings.

A new Commissioner chimed in. "Major Gresham, you said something about us missing the big picture. Before we excuse you, what did you mean?"

Gresham locked eyes with the Commissioner. "Piskka is not part of the Empire. As an unaligned world it has sovereignty, sovereignty which was violated in the raid two months ago. If you'll recall, fifty-five years ago the Krokator Star Empire violated unaligned worlds in a similar fashion, leading directly to the Fifth Human-Krokator War. The fact that you are more worried about slapping a military contractor on the wrist for illegal weapons sales and not addressing the most brazen belligerency by the krokator in half a century is more than stupid – it is a direct threat to the security of the Alliance. In my opinion, Mr. Commissioner."

There was a stunned silence before the female Commissioner slowly said, "Colonel Moss, Major Gresham, you're both excused. Thank you."

#

"One of these days, John, you're going to say something dumb in one of those hearings and some Commissioner will call our bosses and demand that they make an example of us."

Gresham and Moss emerged from the hallway leading to the hearing chamber into Shoregrove Hall's spectacular atrium overlooking the palm tree-lined Crest Avenue. The old domed building, sitting square in the heart of Santa Monica, housed the Commission of the Alliance's chamber. Ringing the building, visible in the early afternoon breeze, were the flags of all forty-seven member worlds of the Alliance, from economic powerhouses like Manhattan, New Prussia or Aurora to minor colonies such as Aegis Prime and Parsalus.

"That's assuming anyone at MID really cares what the Commission thinks," Gresham snorted as they walked out through a security checkpoint. "Besides, it's good for politicians to have their egos bruised every now and then."

They stepped out into the infernal July heat, each taking a deep breath that felt like inhaling fire. In the distance, against the hazy sky, the towers of downtown Los Angeles reached for the heavens. Crest Ave, miles long and originating amongst those same towers, stretched past them, heading for the nearby Pacific coast. The street was surprisingly empty for a weekday, until Gresham noticed that a section had been cordoned off.

A large crowd had formed around a podium built on the plaza separating Shoregrove Hall from Crest Ave, barely two hundred yards from where Gresham and Moss stood. Alongside the star-covered, navy blue Alliance flags fluttering in the breeze were garish teal and yellow banners with rounded edges – not a human design.

"Well that I explains why the street is empty," Gresham realized. "I completely forgot. The President of Vega is here on a state visit. He and President Paine are speaking soon."

"You'd think the committee could have picked a different day to call us down here for their witch trial," Moss grunted and tapped his portable screen, reading a report. "Security must be extra tight after all the recent terrorist attacks."

"I'm surprised they're even letting them speak in public, especially after the Gardelli Crown Prince was murdered a few days ago."

"John Gresham!" a voice called out over the plaza. "John, over here!"

Gresham turned to see a tall, firm-jawed man in his early forties approaching. The handsome figure waved again to acknowledge him and Gresham grinned.

"Greg! Good to see you!"

Commissioner Gregory Reed heartily grabbed Gresham's hand and shook it. "I thought that was you. How have you been?"

"Oh the same, you know," Gresham chuckled and indicated Moss. "Greg, you remember Colonel Gary Moss, SLOC Section Four."

"I recall hearing your presentations on a committee or two," Reed said and shook Moss's hand. "Nice to see you again, Colonel."

"Commissioner Reed."

"What brings the two of you down here? You here to see the President's speech?"

"The special panel investigating Hessian Engineering wanted us to come down and tell them things they already knew," Moss remarked sarcastically. "It's a shame you're not on the committee, Commissioner. It could use somebody with an understanding of the military and our general line of work."

"You'll have to excuse my colleagues, Colonel, they mean well." Reed glanced back at Gresham. "It's been way too long, John. It's good to see you again."

"That's my cue," Moss interjected and shook Reed's hand again. "Pleasure as always, Commissioner. I'll see you back at the office, John."

"Gary."

Gresham and Reed entered the crowd, pressing their way to get a better view from a pair of steps leading up to the glistening glass façade of Shoregrove. Two members of the Shoregrove Police were adjusting the microphones on the podium while an aide tested them to make sure they sounded right.

"How're the wife and kids?" Gresham asked as they found the best vantage point.

"Doing just fine, thanks for asking! You seeing anyone now or are you still holed up in that apartment of yours like a hermit?"

"You're an ass, Greg," Gresham snorted and crossed his arms, quickly changing the subject. "Speaking of the Hessian committee, what's the latest on the investigation? They any closer to filing charges against the company?"

"Any day now has turned into any week now," Reed replied. "The defense contractor oversight legislation is even more bogged down. You know how it is in this town. Commissioners from both parties get cold feet once their campaign contributors start calling them up to protest new laws or regulations. Business as usual."

"You've turned into a cynic, Greg. We don't spend nearly enough time together enough for me to rub off that much on you."

A yellow humanoid stepped up onto the podium and began testing the microphones. The alien tapped one of them, smiled and nodded at a nearby human in approval.

"So how's that MID officer doing?"

"Hmm?"

"The one who got attacked at Defense a few days ago. I heard about it on the news. They said he got stabbed in the chest and stomach trying to stop a burglar."

Gresham grimaced. "Oh, you mean Jeff Vance. Well, yes, he's alive. More than can be said for the employee at Defense who got his throat slit and intestines spilled all over his office. Looks like he was the target. Beats me as to why."

There was a storm of applause as another yellow-skinned humanoid stepped up to the podium and the crowd started waving small Vegan flags. A voice introduced the speaker as Usines Haimon, President of the Vegan Union.

"We should get lunch soon," Reed suggested. "Maybe shoot some hoops. What's your schedule like the rest of the week?"

"Mostly free, I think. I'll take a look and give your office a ring."

"Please do."

Haimon began his speech, "People of the Human Alliance, I extend the thanks of the entire Vegan Union for your gracious hospitality this day. I have never visited this world before and it is an honor to be the representative of my people to yours."

"How far is Vega from Alliance space?" Reed wondered.

"About twenty-five light years. It's actually the closest League of Planets state."

"I always thought it was further." Reed indicated the speaker. "Word is Haimon needs this visit to go well. He's deeply unpopular at home and there's an election coming up."

"Why is he speaking alone? Shouldn't President Paine be up there with him?"

"He'll show up in a moment. Probably a security measure –"

The explosion consumed the entire stage and tendrils of flame reached out into the crowd. Gresham shoved Reed to the ground as shards of white-hot wood and metal cut through the air and the surrounding bystanders, the fireball expanding rapidly and a dark cloud blotting out the sun.

Gresham shut his eyes as he felt the black fog entire his mouth and nose, and for the first time in many years, he wondered if he was going to die.
Chapter Three: The Loyal Sister

Krokandir, Planet Rukkur, Kroka System, Krokator Star Empire

Morning broke over the Krokandir – the Imperial City. Just above the horizon, Kroka's gentle rays of light broke through the low-hanging mist. As it rose, the old star burned golden in the cloudless heavens and as the sunrise splashed the blackrock and swardstone buildings, krokator poked their heads out of their windows to greet the dawn.

High Prod Trakk Nikkwill had been awake considerably longer than daybreak, as had his right-hand-man, Admiral Tarkas. The two blue-skinned krokator took a break from reviewing reports and data to enjoy the sunrise over the skyline of the capital city's financial sector. The tall, stone-and-glass towers shimmered as Kroka breathed gently against the city.

"This is unusually good weather for the month of Urk," Tarkas commented.

"I know. It has rained every Urkuran I have experienced since I was at the Academy. Hopefully this weather will continue," Nikkwill replied.

The two krokator were two of the most powerful military leaders in the galaxy – Nikkwill, as the _Akumaprod_ , answered only to the Emperor, and as the _Subanprod Oranokkumudda_ Tarkas oversaw every admiral in the Imperial Navy, the largest and best-staffed fleet in the galaxy.

"I remember my first Urkuran here," Tarkas said with a hint of a smile. "Coming here from the Academy, seeing the festivities and the late Emperor Dennokk... I will never forget it."

"To be honest, each Urkuran has begun to blur into the next. Only a few truly stand out from the others... Emperor Ruskir's first comes to mind."

There was a chugging noise from the street and a _likala_ – a three-wheeled surface vehicle – pulled to a stop in front of the fortress in the city's 9th District that Nikkwill was using as his staging base for city security during the Urkuran – the krokator holy week at the end of the month of Urk, culminating in Urkuran Eve. Two large soldiers hopped out of the back, upon which was stamped the emblem of the Empire – a long, thin pyramid flanked by three circles.

The 9th District's police chief knocked on the door and peered in. "High Prod?"

"Yes?" Nikkwill replied, and when his gaze fell on the young sharm, the soldier snapped to attention and placed a clenched fist against his chest in salute.

"As you were," Nikkwill replied informally. "What news?"

"There was a riot only twenty minutes ago in the 11th District. The majority of offenders were dispersed, with twenty-three arrests made."

"The 11th District is a fairly homogenous krokator part of the city," Tarkas commented, looking at a massive map of the city and its thirty districts, each governed by a separate council and afforded its own police force, which answered directly to military leadership.

"That is a problem. Usually, Urkuran riots occur in poorer neighborhoods populated by _bunchu_ ," Nikkwill said icily, tapping his chin in concern. _Bunchu_ was a vulgar term for inferiors. In modern vernacular, the word referred exclusively to other species, typically those ruled by the krokator.

Tarkas picked up a report and reviewed it. "Can we move another regiment in?"

"The 374th is stationed about fifty miles south of the city. We can move them into the industrial corridor on the border of the 11th and 12th Districts. That will give them control over roughly five square miles of poorer neighborhoods that might have Progressive instigators."

"We have still had plenty of trouble in the 23rd District, High Prod," the sharm said, continuing his report. "There have been pockets of insurrection in the southernmost blocks of the 27th, 29th and 30th Districts, but nothing as severe as this morning's chaos in the 11th."

Nikkwill surveyed a different map on his desk. "Call up a small force and move them into Oranokk Park. They can move quickly between the 29th and 30th Districts from there."

"I have nothing else to report, sir. There's a messenger with reports from off-world."

"Show him in. You are dismissed."

The sharm saluted again and walked out, passing by a tan-skinned krokator who saluted quickly and then entered. "Sir, I bring reports from off-world," the soldier said, handing two scrolls to Nikkwill, who in turn handed one of them to Tarkas.

"Let us pray for good news," he muttered and read the first one. "Fifteen heretics have been captured onboard their pirate craft in the Fundo System in the Outer Ring."

Tarkas read the second one and glanced up at the messenger. "How recent is this report?"

"I received it twenty minutes ago and was told to take Skyrail 14 here, sir."

Tarkas handed it to Nikkwill for review. "During a visit to Terra, the President of the Vegan Union, Usines Haimon, was killed in a bomb attack while making remarks. Twenty-seven others are confirmed dead at this time with over one hundred injured. President Howard Paine of the Human Alliance is presumed alive, but status is unconfirmed."

Nikkwill tossed the report onto his table. "How many does this make, Tarkas?"

"Well, there was the Dominion's Council Hand, the head of the Federation's military, five pree Senators were killed in a bombing, the massacre at the Crown Prince of Gardell's palace by that shock team of aliens, and then there was the attempted assassination of the Grand Minister of Ceis."

Nikkwill bared his tusks in frustration. "And now the Alliance! That makes four Chair Nations attacked, and two powerful second-tier nations. Who is next? Hippakkest? Mingiclor? Us?"

Tarkas paused. "I would not be too surprised, sir. We are more vulnerable than ever during the holy week, especially this year, with the Progressives in uproar. We can expect the largest Urkuran riot in decades tomorrow night."

"Then we shall have to hope we can prevent it, sir," Nikkwill grunted, glancing back towards the messenger. "Otherwise, we may lose more than our jobs."

#

Ardas Urula ran a hand over her _umrusk_ and placed two juicy blue fruits in her basket. Two hundred feet above, a skyrail whistled along on its way across neighborhood. A flock of massive winged creatures scattered out of its way.

Urula hummed the tune to an old krokator nursery rhyme as she smiled in the sunlight before she turned back to head indoors. She noticed a nest growing in a crack of the blackrock wall surrounding her property in the 19th District of the Imperial City, and made note of it.

Ardas Mulokk, her husband, opened the copper-plated door to their modest kitchen to let her back in. "Good morning, love," he said and kissed her. He'd filed his tusks that morning, she noticed, as was custom for civilian males. They were barely visible nubs beneath his bottom lip.

"Good morning, husband," she cooed softly and set her basket onto the wooden table in the heart of the kitchen. "I have some fruit from the garden. I thought it would make a good breakfast."

"They are perfectly ripe! Excellent!" He retrieved a large pitcher from a refrigerated shelf built into the wall, poured brackish gray porridge into a bowl and smiled. "I love Urkuran. A full four days without work, and I get paid, too."

Urula poured herself a bowl of porridge too. "Is my brother up yet, by any chance?"

Mulokk grimaced. "He is on the roof, meditating."

Urula paused, seeing her husband's expression. "Something wrong, love?"

"Your brother has become Nikkwill's prized pet, and you know it," Mulokk growled and slobbered down a spoonful of porridge, reaching for a knife with which to cut his fruit. "I love the Empire, and I would break the tusks off of anyone who would accuse me of being some Progressive instigator... but the High Prod's personal attack dog is living under our roof!"

"Only for a few more weeks, love. He returns to his regiment soon."

Mulokk shrugged. "Still. With every mission he is drawn further into the military's inner circle. His elevated position could endanger our family."

"Zurra is my brother, and your brother-in-law. He is the only family I have left besides you."

Mulokk held up a hand. "I know, love, I know. I apologize. I should not have spoken ill of your brother or his staying with us."

"That is not what bothers me, husband. My concern is that you believe that my brother's high regard with High Prod Nikkwill is a danger to this household. We should be grateful that he –"

They were interrupted by a thump from the stairs and the large, dark frame of a shirtless Zurra emerged from the doorway. "Good morning, sister. Good morning, Mulokk."

"Zurra," Mulokk muttered in return and sipped at his water.

The black-skin soldier sat down at the table and took the pitcher, looking at his sister and brother-in-law warily before pouring himself a bowl of the porridge. "I trust you both slept well?"

"Well enough. Zurra, if you would excuse me, I have an errand to run at the neighbors. I trust I shall see you for dinner tonight."

"That I cannot guarantee, Mulokk, for I do not know when I will be home. Frusrand guide your day."

Mulokk vanished up another flight of stairs. Zurra glared after him and looked back at Urula. "Sister, something bothers you."

"Zurra, please, Mulokk and I are fine."

Zurra drank his porridge, military style, without a spoon. "I worry about you. Your husband has tusks smaller than mine when I was in primary. He has not become a Progressive yet, has he?"

"Zurra! Into the garden, at once!" Urula commanded.

"You are truly my sister; you have our father's lungs."

"That was not a request!"

Zurra rose slowly and stepped out into the garden. By krokator tradition, females were subservient to males, but as mistress of the home, they could deny and cast out anyone without question, including their spouse. Many a husband had spent long nights on the steps of his own home, waiting to be allowed back inside.

Once Zurra was outside, Urula took a position in the doorway and glared at him. "You may not think much of Mulokk, and I know he thinks little of you, brother."

"Then he and I see eye to eye. May I enter your home, sister?"

"Not yet. You are living here by our charity. Mulokk has a well-paying job and we live in a fine home. You are needed here in the Krokandir for whatever assignments the Empire requires of you, and you could just as easily live in a local hostel as with us."

"Urula..."

"Your military position does not make you our superior. I do not ask you to like Mulokk, but he is my husband, and you _will_ respect him when you are under _my_ roof."

Zurra bowed his head. "I understand, sister."

"You may enter my home, brother."

Zurra stepped inside sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "You have our father's roar... and our mother's bite."

"They left us with many good qualities, brother. Sit and finish your porridge."

Embarrassed, Zurra sipped his porridge. "I apologize, sister."

"And you are forgiven, brother." Urula paused and studied his face. "You know I love you deeply, brother, and wish we did not spend what little time we have together fighting like this. I worry for you. I dread that you will one day return in a Box."

"I know. You have nothing to concern yourself about, sister."

"Do I not? You vanish for weeks at a time. I never know what your assignments are, but each time you have new bruises, new scars... fresh wounds. Father was a noble soldier admired by his peers, Zurra, but he never took the kind of high-risk assignments you do."

"It is an honor to serve and defend the Empire. If they demand my life to do so, I will gladly give it," Zurra sharply replied. He hesitated immediately, seeing his sister's alarmed expression. "I am sorry, again, Urula. You are a good sister to care for your brother's safety. It is not unappreciated."

Before Urula could reply, there was a bumping noise from the stairwell and a juvenile krokator barely three feet high came bouncing down the steps to land on his rear, smiling broadly. "Morning, mother!" he chirped before bounding across the tile floor and leaping onto Zurra's back. "Morning, uncle!" he said and grabbed a fistful of the sharm's braids and pulled hard.

"Good morning, Niloskk," Zurra laughed heartily, catching his nephew and wrapping him in a headlock, rubbing the krokling's head playfully. "You certainly are excited this morning!"

"Mother says I can go with her to the Urkuran fair today!"

"Did she now?" Zurra leaned in close. "Let me give you a word of advice, nephew. Make sure you are in a well-patrolled and secure neighborhood and _never_ separate yourself from your mother in large crowds."

"Zurra, silence, you will scare the boy!"

"I do not want to scare him, merely warn him. We live in a city of over eighty million. It is easy to get lost."

" _We_ live here? You live wherever the Empire sends you, brother."

"And thank the gods for that, Urula. I think deep down you miss Kenka horribly," Zurra beamed and put Niloskk down on the floor. "I have to leave, sister, I will be home tonight. High Prod Nikkwill has business to discuss."

"Well you cannot be late to such an occasion. Hurry along, Zurra."

Zurra found his ceremonial dress armor in a closet by the door, perfectly polished. It took him all but two minutes to instinctively slide every last cuff and pad on before he stood in his bronze-plated attire, helmet in hand.

"Look at you. You are a spitting image of father," Urula said and took the helmet from her elder brother's hands. "Here, let me put it on for you."

She carefully slid it over his fourteen officer braids and surveyed the mighty figure before her. "Walk with the gods beside you, brother."

"Frusrand guide your day," Zurra replied and gave her a brief embrace. "Enjoy the fair, Niloskk!" He strode out into the street smartly, his cape flowing in the light breeze, feeling the sun gleam off of his armor.

He could already feel it – this was going to be an Urkuran to remember.
Chapter Four: Reassignment

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

Sunlight blasted Gresham in the face, rudely awakening him. He rolled onto his side and noticed the naked woman lying face down next to him in bed. He poked her buttock to see if she would wake and creased his eyebrows, trying desperately to remember which bar he had met her in.

"Good morning, John. It is seven o' clock AM," Tiff, his apartment's AI, announced. "You have been assigned a meeting with General Richard Godford this afternoon."

Giving the woman one last look-over, Gresham rose off the bed, stretching out his stiff back. "In that case, Tiff, I'll need my uniform pressed."

"Your uniform will be ready in ten minutes, John," the AI replied in her typically apathetic female voice.

Still trying to recall the events of the night before, Gresham found a pre-made bowl of cereal in the fridge and tore the wrapping off. He stuck it under a small nozzle on the wall and milk poured out for exactly three seconds. He then grabbed a cup and placed it under a different nozzle, grabbing a spoon for his cereal as the cup filled with coffee. He took the bowl and coffee to his table and sat down.

"Give me Channel Seven," he said through a mouthful of cereal. The wallscreen flickered to life, displaying the face of a pretty young blonde woman.

" _Good morning, Southern California! The temperature right now is sixty-seven degrees Fahrenheit on a beautiful July morning."_

Gresham sipped his coffee, wishing his headache away. He didn't drink often, but last night had called for it. The memories were starting to come back now, in fits and starts. The podium exploding only a few dozen yards away from him and Reed. The smoke filling his lungs, eyes and mouth. The ringing in his ears, the small cut on his forehead, the first responders asking him and Reed if they were alright. The exact movement of time was jumbled too – he couldn't remember how long it had taken for him to get from the hospital to the bar in Malibu, or how he had managed to travel between the two.

" _Events surrounding yesterday's attack on Shoregrove Hall continue to remain unclear. President Usines Haimon of the Vegan Union is confirmed amongst the dead. Government officials have stated that President Howard Paine, however, is safe and uninjured."_

"Tiff, I need my uniform finished before I leave and I'll need a shower."

"Certainly, John."

Gresham heard the shower turn on in the other room, and he started to undress. "Put Channel Seven on in the bathroom too."

"Of course, John."

Gresham climbed into the shower, and a small screen embedded in the wall flashed to life, the broadcast continuing where he'd left off.

" _Commissioner Jack French announced that he has formed an exploratory committee for pursuing the nomination of the Allied Socialist Party for next year's Presidential election. French is regarded as the preferred candidate of the ASP's moderate wing, and would likely face a crowded field of candidates from the party's left wing in the primary. More on French and the implications on the race from our chief political analyst in a few minutes..."_

Gresham yawned and stuck his hand under a three-headed spout on the wall. "Shampoo, please." A spurt of green foam erupted from one of the spouts and he lathered his hair. "Soap," he commanded and another nozzle complied dutifully with a dose of blue foam.

"... _Longtime SIS senior officer Carl Brighton was found dead in his home this morning. Los Angeles police have not released specific details concerning Brighton's death, but they have commented to Channel Seven that it is a suspected homicide."_

_Brighton... I knew that asshole..._ Gresham thought grimly. On occasion, he had clashed with the SIS officer – as JLOC, he often had to handle complicated disagreements over jurisdiction between Military Intelligence and the Special Intelligence Service. The two primary domestic intelligence branches of the Alliance had a heated and fierce rivalry that involved a lot of paperwork and negotiating over the voxcom for Gresham whenever something went wrong.

Gresham placed his hand against the wall, shutting his eyes as he felt his knees weaken. The billowing plume of smoke, dust and debris that had replaced the podium loomed dark in his mind. It had looked so similar to the explosions he had seen during the war and the cries of the wounded after the bombing echoed like the screams of the dying on the battlefields of Puckshot.

He heard a noise from outside the bathroom and he got out of the shower. "Dryer," he commanded and Tiff blasted him with hot air from the ceiling, walls and floor, blowing the water off of him within seconds.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he stepped back into his bedroom to see the mystery woman from the night before hastily putting her clothes back on. He leaned against the door, smirked and then bent over to pick her bright green top up off the floor.

"You looking for this?" he asked, holding it up. She turned around, and he got a good look at her for the first time. She was probably in her mid-twenties, with an exaggerated tan, over-colorful contact lenses and blue, green and pink streaks in her unnaturally blonde hair.

"Yes, that's mine," she answered in a squeaky voice. Gresham tossed it too her and she pulled it on, shooting him a brief glare. "You just gonna stand there and watch me dress?"

"Well, no, I was going to get dressed too. My name's John."

"I remember," she snapped and continued struggling to pull up her short, tight skirt. "Do you remember who I am, John?"

"Alisha... right?"

"That's not my name," the girl huffed and pulled her shoes on. "See ya around, John."

The girl stormed out into the living room and briefly wrestled with the door before Gresham commanded Tiff to unlock it. There was a brief silence before Gresham shrugged and withdrew the pressed uniform Tiff had prepared for him from a special compartment in the closet.

_And that's why I don't drink_ , Gresham thought as he pulled on his pants. Something about yesterday's events – the explosion, the stench of death and burnt flesh, his spinning head – had convinced him that he needed the stiffest drink he'd had in years. It was a throwback to his days when he was newly home from the war, when he nearly flunked out of university from his heavy drinking.

As he pulled his shirt on, he continued thinking about the dark cloud after the explosion and vivid memories of the Dhruiz War reemerged from the deepest recesses of his mind. Explosions tore through the ground, men screamed and howled in pain as the guns of the dhzirs tore through their limbs and bodies. Blood and internal organs splattered everywhere, drenching the survivors and adding to the stink of the battlefield, already clogged with the low mist of smoke and floating dirt. Dhzirs swarmed over the hills in their infinite swarms, their screeching voices drowning out the chatter of gunfire. Every long-haired, toothy monster that was killed was replaced by two equally rancid comrades.

The scattered memories gave way as he blinked, shook his head and took a deep breath. The flashback had been unusually realistic. Gresham recalled Reed, then just a lieutenant and his commanding officer, ordering a retreat through the bloody mud. A young private named Julian Castor, a good friend of Gresham's, had his arm blown off clean off just above the elbow by a laser pulse. Gresham picked him up, cradling his friend's limp body in his arms and taking off as the earth shook and trembled beneath them. An explosion tore open the hillside beside them, the blast knocking them both to the ground and they plunged headfirst in a red-stained river far below.

The dark cloud of the explosion roared back and Gresham remembered shoving Reed to the ground, saving both of their lives. Just like he had saved the wounded Castor's life. He had at least done some good in that terrible conflict.

As he resigned himself to finish dressing, Gresham breathed in again and decided that he would try and remember his adventures last night instead, in particular the one involving the pretty young woman he'd brought home.

#

Pioneer City, Planet Mars, Sol System

The board room was empty once again, as it was after every meeting Colin Hess had arranged over the past eight months. But in the last two weeks, as the crescendo of bad news intensified, the room had been filled as many as four times a day as emergency meetings were haphazardly called, sometimes in the middle of the night. There was a feeling amongst the upper echelons of Hessian Engineering's senior management that the hammer was about to come crashing down.

And so Colin Hess treasured every moment of stillness he received in the direct aftermath of another gloom-and-doom session with some of the top minds in the business, where he had the chance to reflect and calm himself.

"Colin," someone said from behind him and Hess turned around abruptly from the window, which gazed out upon the skyline of Mars' largest city, twinkling in the night, skycabs zipping between the towering buildings above the HUVR-clogged streets and superhighways.

"Bernie," Hess said with a smile. His right-hand man, Bernard Rumsen, had stayed behind. "Thank you for staying late. I think we should talk."

"Certainly," Rumsen replied, surveying his boss warily. Hess was in his mid-fifties but had aged rapidly after the gun trafficking scandal had broken out. Under the rims of his glasses were noticeable bags, his skin had become paler and his once-gray hair was now coarse and white. Still, at a full six-foot-five, Colin Hess was an imposing physical presence regardless of his recent signs of aging.

Hess motioned for Rumsen to follow him back to his office, which was attached to the board room via a short private hallway only Hess could access with his thumbprint. They entered the spacious office, which was ornately furnished and included several pieces of artwork on the wall between the door to the board room and the door to the lobby immediately outside. Two portraits took up the space directly behind Hess's desk – one of Albrecht Hess, the founder of the company and Colin's grandfather, and the other of Johannes Hess, whose passing twenty-two years earlier had ceded control of the company to his son.

Hess sat down and flatly said, "Bourbon." A large, ice-filled glass emerged from the corner of the desk and Hess picked it up. Rumsen abstained from alcohol and was offered water instead.

"I'm getting so tired of all this," Hess sighed and sipped his drink. It was old, sharp bourbon. He smacked his lips. "I should take a vacation for a few weeks. Get away from the company, get away from the board meetings."

"Are you sure now is the best time, Colin?" Rumsen said slowly. "There was a bomb attack in Los Angeles yesterday. With the Commission's attention turned away from the investigation, we might never get a chance like this to protect your legacy. To do that, we need to act fast and smart."

"My legacy," Hess scowled. "My legacy will be that I oversaw the fall of the family empire, that'll be my legacy, Bernie. That I let the company's name be tarnished over chump change and that I've now inspired legislation in the Commission to make our line of business more or less illegal. You, me, and all of our colleagues will be dragged out onto galactic television and grilled like pigs in subcommittee hearings. Even the President is publicly calling for our heads."

Rumsen clenched his jaw. "Colin, I refuse to watch you do this to yourself. We have allies in the right places. We are one of the biggest companies in the Alliance. We employ over two million people. We have more leverage than you think."

Hess nodded reluctantly. "I've listened to the advice of my board of directors, now I want the advice of my best friend. What do you think I should do?"

"We've been in damage control for months. Now we go on offense," Rumsen said firmly, jabbing his finger into the desk for emphasis. "We fire a bunch of people in sales and accounting, completely reshuffle those parts of both middle and senior management. Show we're serious about rooting out the bad apples. A few men trying to make quick cash aren't going to take down this company. _That's_ our story."

Hess straightened his back. "That's a good start."

"We then sell off some of our subsidiaries to free up some cash and see what can be done about making sure our share value stabilizes. Most importantly, we tone down our media campaign for a few weeks while the government focuses on the terrorist attack against Shoregrove and then we come out swinging when the big League of Planets security summit in Los Angeles comes around."

"At least someone on the board is thinking," Hess smirked and rose, walking over the window. "I'll see what Elijah thinks next time I see him."

"Perry? Colin, look, if you wanted my advice, I'm happy to give it, but I was hoping you'd actually follow it this time instead of then running it past that snake you insist on consulting."

"Perry is one of the smarter men on this planet," Hess replied. "Without him, we wouldn't have a Commissioner as... _open-minded_ to the interests of Hessian Engineering as Jack French. Who, I'll remind you, might be elected President in fourteen months."

"That's _if_ he ever officially declares his candidacy and _if_ he actually wins the ASP primaries, then he still has to take on Howard Paine, who while vulnerable is not exactly a weak incumbent. In particular now that somebody has tried to kill him."

Hess shot Rumsen a dirty look before returning his gaze back out over the city. "French is our best friend in the Commission right now, and we need friends there. Perry has French's trust and ear. It pays to donate to Commission campaigns, it turns out."

Rumsen sighed. "I just don't like Perry, that's all. He's untrustworthy, and I'm wary of your reliance on him."

"I'm glad you're looking out for me, Bernie," Hess replied. "I want you to begin initiating the recommendations you gave me. We might get subpoenaed within the next week or two, since the government seems to be wrapping up their case against me and will probably prosecute before or after that security summit they keep talking about staging. It'd be good to find out when exactly that is, by the way, I hate all this 'tentative date' bullshit."

"Of course, Colin. I'll get right to work."

Hess looked up at the portraits of his two familial predecessors and pondered their stern, oily gazes. "You know, Bernie, this is a hard job. Both my father and grandfather were buried alone. It makes you think, doesn't it?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, Colin. Is everything alright?"

The strange expression on Hess's face melted away. "Yes, Bernie everything is fine. That'll be all."

Rumsen compliantly left the room and Hess sat down in his chair, looking one last time up at the portrait of his father before commanding, "News, please," and leaning back in the chair.

" _Breaking news in Los Angeles as ANS continues to monitor the situation... President Paine is confirmed safe following yesterday's attack against Shoregrove Hall... President Usines Haimon of the Vegan Union has been confirmed to be among the forty-six dead after the latest release of the death toll..."_

Hess's eyes narrowed and he punched a number into the voxcom mounted on his desk. After a brief dial tone a voice replied, "This is Eli Perry."

"Perry, this is Hess," he barked. "I'm coming over, and when I get there, you better have a good reason as to why Howard Paine is still alive."

#

Department of Defense, Los Angeles, Planet Terra

"Why do you suppose Godford wanted to see _both_ of us?" Gresham asked Moss as the elevator crawled up towards the top floor of the monolithic Department of Defense building.

"Maybe we're in trouble," Moss ventured, clicking his tongue. "Maybe he wants to hear some of that witty humor you're so well known for."

The elevator stopped at the top floor and both men disembarked, pausing in front of a mirror to make sure their uniforms looked perfect and that their hair was tucked properly under their service caps.

"He's going to fire us both, isn't he?"

"I doubt it. General Godford and Howard Paine are old friends. You're safe as long as the President is in office." Moss went quiet as they continued down the hectic hallway, a dark expression crossing his face. "Thankfully, the President _is_ still in office, and not in a casket. We dodged a big bullet."

"No kidding."

They reached a door marked GEN. RICHARD GODFORD near the end of the hall and both took a deep breath before knocking. A gruff voice barked for them to enter and they both complied.

Behind his heavy, aged oak desk, Richard Godford cut a large and imposing figure even in his late fifties. As Commander of Allied Forces, the highest position attainable within the military, he was officially second only to the Secretary of Defense on all security matters, but Godford's long personal relationship with President Paine from their time on Aurora had given him a level of independence unheard of for a CAF since the Fifth Human-Krokator War. Unofficially, Godford was the second-most powerful man in the Alliance after the President.

Moss and Gresham snapped to attention and saluted. "General Godford, sir!"

Godford pointed at the wall-length couch. "As you were, gentlemen. Have a seat." They complied and he ran a hand along his beard, cut so short and close it was more of a gray shadow on his cheeks than significant facial hair. "Colonel Moss, your report."

"General, sir, Section Four has compiled chatter from the six-hour period preceding the bombing and the two-hour period following it. There's been a spike in Network activity on military frequencies following the attack, but there was nothing abnormal prior to the bomb going off."

"And on the unofficial streams?" Godford asked, appearing bored. He had obviously had a long day.

"Krokator military personnel have been voicing concerns about their own security at the culmination of the Urkuran holy week. The Emperor will give an address, which would be the presumed time someone would attempt to strike."

Godford gave Gresham an once-over with his pale blue eyes, leaned back in his chair and tapped the desk with his index finger. After a lengthy pause with his idle tapping the only sound, he finally said, "Some analysts at Military Intelligence are going to lose their jobs. Not either of you, of course, but I'm going to send the six section heads my recommendations. The head of the Shoregrove Police has already tendered his resignation and I told Simon Cray that I expect him to make an example of some people at SIS as well." He looked at Gresham. "As for you, Major, I have something else in mind for you."

Gresham raised an eyebrow. "Reassignment, General?"

"Unofficially," Godford replied cautiously, a small smile flickering across his lips. "Colonel Moss, will you please wait outside?"

"Certainly, sir." Moss shot Gresham a confused look and nodded once. "Major Gresham, I'll see you outside when you're done."

Once Moss was out of the room, Godford requested two glasses of water from his office's AI. Once the two ice-filled cups were produced, he handed one to Gresham and then said, "When was the last time you saw the President?"

"The President? Oh, a few months after his inauguration or so. Just over two years ago." Gresham sipped at his water. "Why do you ask, sir?"

"If I recall correctly, you and the President go back a ways. You served with his son in the Dhruiz War."

"Lieutenant Paine, yes," Gresham answered. "The late Lieutenant Reggie Paine. The President's only child."

"And you know that Howard and I go back a ways ourselves. I served on Aurora for many years while he was a rising Tory and later Prime Minister, before I was sent over to Special Projects." Godford sipped his water. "I bring it up, Major Gresham, because the President asked for you specifically."

"Asked for me in what way, General?"

"To do a job. A very particular job." Godford picked a file up off his desk and handed it to Gresham. "Like I said earlier – reassignment."

Gresham opened the file to see the gruesome image of a man lying on his back on the floor of an office in a pool of blood. What looked like a wide, red grin extended across his throat and his white shirt was dark around his stomach. There was an additional picture, this one of a large, well-built man in his early thirties in a hospital pod with bandages wrapped around his chest and abdomen, and with a nasty gash on his face.

"Jeff Vance," Gresham said, feeling an uncomfortable lump rise in his throat. An image of one of his fellow Marines from the war passed in front of his eyes, the poor bastard's intestines spilled over the ground much in the same way as the dead bureaucrat pictured in the first photo. "What does the President want with this?"

"You know what Vance was investigating, don't you?"

"I just thought he was in the hallway when the attacker broke out of this man's office," Gresham said, indicating the picture of the dead body. "This... Alan Evans."

"Vance was on his way to see Evans. He was looking into what we believe was a weapons theft from the Munitions Depository at Ventura." Godford finished his water and had his AI refill it. "Requisition order came in, transport showed up at the front door, guns and ammo were loaded and the transport took off after all the paperwork got squared away. The guns were supposed to go to Camp San Clemente in the continental interior, but they never got there."

Gresham glanced at a half-complete invoice containing serial and model numbers. "Looks like they got away with some heavy weapons. Exploding rounds, machine guns, thermite grenades..."

"Needless to say, this kind of hardware being unaccounted for is unacceptable. General Beveridge over at Section One assigned this to Vance. After about a week, something... piqued Vance's interest. He went to go see Evans, who was handling the invoice you see there, and walked in one him being disemboweled, right here at Defense. Only managed to wrest half the invoice away from the assassin before taking one too many wounds to the torso."

"How did the assassin escape?"

"Some kind of viral card, sort of like the kind we give all intelligence operatives. You know what I mean, I'm sure you still have yours from basic training."

"It's lying around somewhere."

"Anyways, he overrode two locked doors and got out before the entire building could get shut down. The hallway where he attacked Vance was empty and he had a five minute head-start on security. That's where things get fishy. It was five in the morning, before the main shift of Defense employees came in for work. Vance obviously knew who he was looking for here and what time to come. Maybe I'm just paranoid after all the years I spent at Special Projects, but it smells like a setup. I think Vance may have been a target too."

Gresham considered this information before asking what he had been wondering since the moment Godford handed him the file. "Sir, if I may ask... What does this have to do with me?"

"When a crime occurs on government property like this, Special Intelligence takes over. It's spelled out very explicitly by law. Only problem is, I wouldn't trust Simon Cray and his army of ass-kissers over at SIS to shine my shoes, let alone investigate the murder of a Defense bureaucrat and the attempted murder of an MID field agent. Turns out I'm not the only one. This case was on the backburner since the attack a couple of days ago, but after the bombing yesterday it has come front and center."

"How are the two related?"

"They might not be. But we can't know for sure. That's where you come in." Godford stood up and looked down at Gresham. "We don't know who we can trust anymore, Major. We've got people stealing weapons from Marine depositories, killing government employees in broad daylight, and smuggling bombs into state visits. All three smack of an inside job, or at least somebody with access to people on the inside. That's why we need someone on the inside to snoop around and do some digging for us."

It took a moment for the words to register. Gresham's eyes widened and he blurted out, "You mean me?"

"You're the only person I'm talking to, John."

"But sir, I'm not... I'm not a field agent! I'm an analyst! I write reports and sit in front of Commission committee hearings and crunch data."

"I know exactly what you do. I read your dissertation on internal krokator politics and military spending. Fascinating material."

"Well, technically it wasn't a dissertation, it was an intelligence report..."

Godford waved his comment off. "You know what I mean, Major Gresham. You're a smart man, good at reading between the lines and seeing patterns. It's what makes you a good analyst. And the President trusts you, and right now trust is at a premium around here."

"So... what exactly am I looking into?"

"Why did the guns from the Ventura Depository go missing? Who placed the secret requisition order for them? How much did Vance know before he was targeted? And, most importantly, if you find out who's stealing our guns, I want you to find out if they or anyone they know have a connection to the perpetrators of the bombing yesterday. You were asked for by name by the President – don't let him down." Godford handed Gresham a piece of paper. "This has my signature on it. It details, in writing, your assignment. Keep it hidden and only bring it out if you need to override someone giving you difficulties. Be very careful who you tell about your assignment."

"Of course, sir. I'll need to tell Moss so he understands why I'm not doing my JLOC duties."

"Understandable. If Colonel Moss gives you any trouble, you let me know." Godford coughed and sipped his water. "Just so you're aware, Gresham, you weren't my first choice for this job. If I'd had my way I would have assigned an experienced field agent from the clandestine service to handle this, not a career analyst. But when the President and I discussed who was trustworthy enough, he said your name had to be at the top of the list."

Gresham nodded once. "I understand, sir. I won't let you down."

"Don't let the President down either. You're dismissed, Major. Report back to me and me alone when you have something."

Godford's parting words seemed weighted, as if he was trying to subtly show disdain for Gresham. Choosing to worry about it later, Gresham saluted, thanked him and walked out, where he ran into Moss.

"What was all that about?" Moss wondered. "Have you been sent to a listening post on some shit rock in the Border Worlds?"

"Worse," Gresham grunted and handed Moss the files. "He made me a field agent."

# Chapter Five: Krokandir

Planet Rukkur, Kroka System, Krokator Star Empire

The military express skyrail whistled over the Krokandir at a much greater speed than the civilian mass-transit system allowed for. Down below, the buildings of the massive Imperial City blurred by. As the magnetically-suspended train began slowing down on its approach towards the next station, Zurra thought about the eighty million inhabitants of the city below, from this height barely distinguishable on the narrow streets between the blackrock buildings.

"We have now arrived in the 1st District," the skyrail's pilot announced. "We are docking with the southeastern tower of Empire Plaza Station."

The skyrail hissed to a halt and the steel doors slid up to reveal a thin walkway leading to the tall blackrock spire the train had docked with. Zurra disembarked the train and crossed the catwalk as quickly as possible. All the passengers boarded a hyperlift which dropped at a gut-wrenching speed the whole eight hundred feet from the top of the skyrail dock to the station's lobby below, and Zurra breathed out uncomfortably as the rickety hyperlift jolted to a stop.

Empire Plaza Station was an ancient skyrail hub in need of repairs, its lobby's tiles cracked and the blackrock walls aged and weathered. A faded screen showed departure and arrival times and another viewscreen had a dull krokator news agent delivering reports. There was a flurry of passengers darting between different elevators and ticket desks, trying to reach their skyrails in time.

Once out on the street, a _likala_ sped by, nearly running Zurra over, and yet only a few yards away two merchants sold fruit from the back of a cart pulled by a pogo, a reminder of the mix of modern and ancient in the Krokandir. The mighty tusked beast bellowed and one of the krokator merchants kicked it sharply with his heel to silence it.

Zurra moved through the crowded street out to the sprawling Empire Plaza, where a massive fair was underway. Stages featured music played both on electrical machines and on traditional wind and string instruments. There were plays depicting legends, historical events and religious teachings. A stable of pogos were being sold by a rough-looking krokator missing a tusk and most of his nose. Soldiers pushed their way through the circus, warning all suspected of misconduct of the consequences.

Although it took him nearly twenty minutes, Zurra made his way through the crowd and the five different security checkpoints he needed to pass through to enter the Manganese Palace. There were guards posted next to the raised dais at the end of the square where the Emperor would give his address the next evening, guards posted at the ornate Bronze Gate – the massive blackrock arch depicting High Priests, High Prods and Emperors from throughout history, its name derived from a large bronze disc at its top – and before he knew it he was passing through the entrance into the Manganese Palace itself, once having gone through the largest and most heavily-guarded checkpoint of them all.

Zurra had never visited the Manganese Palace before, but like every krokator he knew its history. The name came from the manganese mine the palace had been built on top of over a thousand years ago, and rumor had it that the old mining shafts served as an escape route for the Emperor in or out of the palace in case of trouble; there was a famous story about how the late Emperor Dennokk, the father of the sitting monarch, had been ushered into the caves during a mass riot on an Urkuran that had been just as tense as this one.

A wide staircase led up to the beautiful and expansive Reflecting Garden at the base of the Manganese Palace's central tower. Plants from every world in the Empire were kept here, tended to by a staff of dedicated and carefully selected gardeners.

Admiral Tarkas sat on a bench under a bright pink tree, staring at the stunning flowers blooming on the branches. He spotted Zurra out of the corner of his eye and waved him over.

"Come, Sharm Zurra, look at this. Look at each flower. The detail on each is intricate. We as intelligent sentients could never create beauty like this."

Zurra paused, regarding the white-speckled flowers. "Yes, Admiral, I agree."

Tarkas rose. "High Prod Nikkwill and the Emperor are waiting for us. We should not let them wait."

"The Emperor? I never could have thought..."

"Bow on one knee when you are halfway from the door to his throne. When he greets you, you may rise. Look him in the eyes when he addresses you, like you would any superior. Answer every question honestly, even if you have to hesitate to think your response over."

Zurra nodded but felt a knot in his stomach. He had been unprepared for a meeting with the Emperor, having only ever seen him speak from a crowd or on a screen. Unlike his charismatic father, Urkus Ruskir was a reclusive old krokator that rarely left the palace and seldom met with visiting dignitaries or leaders. This meeting was an unheard-of honor for a junior officer like a sharm.

Tarkas led the way into a raised courtyard. Eight _aruntuk_ in full battle armor stood at attention, their bald and tattooed heads gleaming in the sunlight. Zurra reflected on his secret mission to Piskka with the military's most elite soldiers. _Aruntuk_ were trained to devote their life to serving the Empire, a pact they approached with fanatical dedication. They were the special forces of the military, but also guarded the Emperor himself.

Tarkas knocked twice on a pair of massive wooden doors decorated with ornate manganese patterns. A pair of white-clothed female krokator servants opened the door. "Welcome to the Imperial residence," they said in unison, surely the result of much practice.

"We are here to see High Prod Nikkwill," Tarkas said.

"He is with the Emperor," one of the servants replied. "Follow me."

There were twenty more _aruntuk_ inside the residence's massive atrium, each staring into space, an _okka_ pistol and Obedience Stick tucked into his belt. Beyond this chamber was a lengthy hallway guarded by twelve additional _aruntuk_ stationed in between the blackrock pillars. The ceiling was painted with an epic scene of the Truuknan, the trinity of fraternal gods worshipped by the krokator, doing battle with _hrains_ , the demons from before time was time.

Doors made of pure manganese at the end of the hallway were opened by dutiful servants, revealing a spacious room with a cupola roof dotted with hundreds of tiles, each an individually painted piece of artwork. The walls were adorned with the flags of the different worlds within the Empire, but behind the blackrock throne at the end of the large room, was the largest flag – three white circles around a golden pyramid on a dark green background, the symbol of the Krokator Empire.

High Prod Nikkwill was bowing on one knee in the heart of the room in his full platinum armor, glowing in the daylight from the many large windows. All thirty-two of his officer braids fell down beyond his shoulders, each as thin as a shoestring.

Tarkas and Zurra reached his position and Tarkas fell almost instinctively, roaring out "Admiral Runka Tarkas!"

Zurra followed suit and then announced himself. "Sharm Akgu Zurra!"

"Rise," the Emperor wheezed, barely able to project his voice so that the three soldiers could hear him. "Come closer, and sit at the feet of my throne."

Urkus Ruskir looked much older in person than in effigy. The ancient crown, no more than six bound rings of steel, rested on his dark-green head. What little hair he had left hung like the leaves of a dying willow against the sides of his skull, and his cheekbones were clearly visible through his sagging skin, which had forced his sad eyes deeper into their sockets.

Nikkwill and Tarkas sat cross-legged at the Emperor's feet, watching their revered leader the entire time. Zurra cautiously did likewise, noticing multiple _aruntuk_ watching them from the shadows in silence. The security was unlike anything he had ever seen before.

The Emperor's pale eyes fell on Zurra. "Akgu Zurra, I knew your father. Prod Akgu Juska was a fine soldier and a devoted father. The Empire lost a tremendous asset when he died."

"I am honored the Emperor held my father in such high esteem," Zurra replied slowly, locking eyes with the Empire's leader before bowing his head in gratitude. "I hope I can emulate him and earn the same accolades myself."

"If that is Frusrand's will," the Emperor said and turned back to Nikkwill and Tarkas. "I have brought you here because I fear for the Empire's security."

"We expect severe rioting in many outer districts this year, and the Progressives are planning on staging a rally about two miles from Empire Plaza during the ceremony, but there is no immediate threat to the nation's safety," Nikkwill replied curtly.

"I have spoken with the priests. I have studied the stars. At my age, I have little else to do in my spare time. I know my fate. This is the last Urkuran I will see." Emperor Ruskir lowered his gaze. "My son is being prepared to succeed me, and the priests know that they may have to coronate him at any given moment."

The three soldiers were unsure what to say, stunned by the Emperor's candor. Finally, after an uncomfortable silence, Nikkwill nodded and said, "The Emperor has nothing to fear."

Emperor Ruskir ignored his comment, idly gazing down upon them before coughing and changing the subject. "Sharm Zurra, you fight like an _aruntuk_ with many years of training. I have heard nothing but glowing reviews of your mission to Piskka."

"The Emperor flatters me," Zurra said. "I am unworthy of the Emperor's praise, but accept it graciously."

"Your removal of the threat of Anuut Oraank did not go unnoticed here in the Krokandir, Sharm Zurra. You have a very bright future in the military."

"I am glad the Emperor is pleased with my work, but I only perform my duties," Zurra answered politely.

Emperor Ruskir shifted his gray and red garb and nodded. "You are well-spoken and humble, like your father. And you are loyal. I can trust him, Nikkwill. You are all dismissed."

Nikkwill and Tarkas bowed their heads once in silence and rose, walking away. Zurra followed them. Once they reached the center of the room, all three turned around and bowed on one knee once more for five seconds before rising and leaving.

Once back out in the Reflecting Garden, Nikkwill motioned for the junior officer to take a seat. "Sharm Zurra, you know that I knew your father personally and considered him a friend. Prod Juska would be very proud of your progress."

"He was one of my instructors while at the Academy," Tarkas added. "You embody everything he taught my class. That is why we trust you with dangerous missions."

"Thank you," Zurra answered dutifully, bowing his head.

"Half the _aruntuk_ we sent with you to Piskka were killed. You survived. That speaks volumes," Nikkwill glowed. "The incursion there revealed troubling information, however. _Hudda Kugrall_ has financial backers outside of the Empire who were laundering money through Piskka, and some of that money was going towards certain hardline Progressives _._ "

Zurra stiffened at the name. "What evidence do we have to suggest that?"

" _Hudda Kugrall_ has contacts within the Progressive movement. Tolakko is not a heretic, but some of his followers are. We have evidence to suggest that an extremist Progressive named Kamaan Dakkal may have been dealing with _Hudda Kugrall_ -aligned elements, as indicated by records seized on Piskka."

"Your mission is to go to the Progressive stronghold in Ankina, find out who Dakkal is in contact with, and report what you find to us. You will go alone." Tarkas handed Zurra a scroll. "This is for your eyes only, Sharm Zurra. I know you have a personal history with _Hudda Kugrall,_ but do not let this cloud your judgment. We _need_ to know which parties beyond our borders would have an interest in trying to manipulate the Progressives."

Zurra nodded once without looking at the scroll. "I accept."

"Good. Then as soon as the Urkuran has ended, you will travel to Ankina. You are dismissed. Frusrand guide your path."

The two senior officers departed and left Zurra sitting on the bench, varying his glance between his assignment and the trees surrounding him.

#

The sun had already descended past the peaks of the tall eastern mountains by the time the two krokator, wearing hoods and keeping their heads low, found the tenement marked on their map. The crumbling old building, likely close to a century old, loomed before them in the shadows.

"Are you sure this is the place?"

"Grakko said this was it. Come on, Drelokk, we should hurry."

The krokator identified as Drelokk looked in both directions down the deserted street of the southern slum of the Krokandir they had ventured into before tearing down the banner denoting the building as condemned and scheduled for demolition and passing through the doorway it had previously hidden.

Drelokk and his companion moved quickly through the tenement's courtyard and into a shadow hallway, pulling out glowsticks and studying the walls.

"Here, Mokkan, look!" Drelokk hissed and pointed at clean, fresh plaster. "This looks fairly new."

Mokkan nodded and brandished the small pick he had tucked into his sash. "This must be it. Now we will see what Grakko sent us after that was so important."

Using their tools, they made quick work of the thick but weak plaster, revealing a small chamber at the bottom of a shallow slope. In the light of their glowsticks, an object down in the room glinted silver.

"What in Ugrand's name..." Mokkan breathed. As he did, two shadows moved in front of the sphere and a beam of pinkish light erupted from the hole, consuming Mokkan where he stood.

Drelokk tripped over his feet and tumbled backwards as the pile of melted bones and flesh splattered to the floor of the tenement, dropping his glowstick. The stick rolled to the mouth of the hole, revealing a reptilian leg emerging from the passage just moments before the pink light lit up the hallway once again.
Chapter Six: Dragonfly

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

As he combed through the file, the alarm on the panel of Gresham's HUVR began ringing to indicate that he was nearing his exit. Gresham tossed the documents onto the passenger seat, took manual control of his vehicle and steered off of the A2 superhighway onto the exit for Compton Beach. After winding through the neighborhood for a few minutes looking for his destination, he pulled his HUVR to a halt in front of a shuttered pawn shop and breathed out. Could he possibly have been asked to go to a dodgier neighborhood?

Prescient of his surroundings, Gresham stepped out of the HUVR, double-checked to make sure it was firmly locked, and listened to the sounds of the night – the crashing waves of the nearby Los Angeles Bay mingling with the loud, boisterous voices of the Compton Beach nightlife. During the day, this seaside mecca was for the tourists and the sunbathers – by night, it turned into a crime-infested nest of sketchy watering holes, drug dens and a variety of extraterrestrials seeking to make a quick credit off of those stupid enough to venture down south of the financial district after sundown.

"Johnny!" he heard a familiar voice cry from across the street. Gresham looked to the source of the voice and saw a short, overweight, middle-aged Mingiclorian approaching. The industrious little alien ran a hand through the whiskers of hair sprouting from his tomato-red skull between his oversized ears, thinning his bulbous yellow eyes as he squinted at his human friend.

"Fust, I'm glad you made it," Gresham said with a sigh of relief. "I didn't want to come down here by myself and get stood up."

"I never stand up a friend," Fust replied without a hint of accent. While a law-abiding citizen and born and raised on Terra, few aliens in Los Angeles had a finger on the pulse of the underground scene like Fust. Through his HUVR repair shop marched an endless parade of criminals, gangbangers, drug dealers, corrupt politicians, crooked cops, and every other colorful character a city of Los Angeles' size and prominence could offer up. Gresham had made a point of befriending the Mingiclorian a few years prior after a friend had recommended him as a good source of information on research projects, and had discreetly kept in touch ever since. If there was anyone in Los Angeles who could help him with his new job, it was Fust.

They shook hands and Fust pointed at a long building about a block away. "My new favorite watering hold on the beach. Called the Dragonfly. Ever been?"

"I honestly never come down here. Don't drink too much anymore, either. Bad things happen when I break my rules."

"Any good stories?"

"None that I'd remember. You'd have to ask whoever it was I woke up next to this morning."

"Alright, Johnny, now that's what I'm fucking talking about!" They neared the door to the Dragonfly and they flashed the bouncer their IDs before proceeding inside. "You're gonna like this place, Johnny, I guarantee it!"

Unlike many of the bars and clubs in Compton Beach, the Dragonfly was a sparsely populated, low-key establishment with the far side opening out onto a balcony overlooking the bay. The central bar was hunched under a massive cast-iron likeness of the establishment's namesake and the crowd, while rougher than Gresham may have preferred, seemed indifferent to the new arrivals.

"Go get us a table outside and I'll grab some drinks, my treat," Fust suggested. "What are you having?"

"Just a beer. I'm still recovering from last night."

Gresham found a table out on the veranda and sat down, watching the glint of the sunset against the crashing waves of the bay. Neon lights, gyrating displays and loud music peppered the beach in both directions.

Fust arrived with a tall mug of lime-and-lemon flavored beer and a fruit-filled liquor of his own and sat down. "Okay, here you are, Johnny. What's on your mind tonight?"

Gresham smiled and pulled the files out of his briefcase and laid them on the table. "Nothing too complicated, I just need to pick your brain for thoughts on this."

Fust's eyes twinkled when he saw the MILITARY INTELLIGENCE stamp on the front of one of the cream-colored folders. "Christmas came early this year! Fuck..."

"Don't get too excited. Anything worth selling in here was already redacted by SIS. Besides, if there actually _was_ anything of worth in here, I wouldn't be showing it to you."

"Johnny, I'd never!"

Gresham raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You wouldn't?"

"Oh fine, I would," Fust said with a wide grin after a momentary attempt to keep a straight face. "So what have you got here?"

"A MID investigator got stabbed looking into a brilliant arms theft. He was going to see a Defense employee who, from what I can discern, was processing the invoice. That employee was murdered, and the MID man – Jeff Vance – is in the hospital now fighting for his life."

Fust nodded, clicking his tongue methodically as his big yellow eyes swept across the pictures, the reports, and the other pieces of information contained. He picked up the half of the paper invoice Vance had managed to come away with, tapping one of the serial numbers.

"So we have sequential serial numbers for a bunch of guns, ammunition boxes..." He glanced at the description of the theft, with black boxes redacting names, dates and various other parts of the story. "Whoever did this has balls the size of fucking horses, Johnny. You don't just walk up to a Marine Depository and take off with military-grade shit like this."

"It has to have been an inside job then, right?"

"Somebody knew what they were doing," Fust remarked. "They must have done something similar before."

"How did we not catch it last time, then?"

"Could be any reason. Maybe they went bold this time and actually stole something worth stealing. I mean, look here – this serial code is for a crate of handguns. Say in the past you just swiped a gun or two from the crate. Unless you have a stickler at the base combing over every number on every gun, nobody's the wiser." Fust scratched at the lonely, curly hair growing from his chin. "In fact, since most weapons have the serial code imprinted digitally on the little black strip, you'd just have to fiddle with the strip to fool the scanner when it shows up at its intended destination."

"Is that difficult?"

"You'd need the equipment to do it, I guess, but a determined gun dealer would probably have that kind of toy."

Gresham looked over the pages. "Any little birds come land on your windowsill with an indication of who's got that kind of merchandise?"

"Not lately, no, though I could easily name the usual suspects down in the Zone who would."

"Any of them look like this?" Gresham pulled a photograph out of the back of the file and handed it to Fust. The Mingiclorian slurped his drink and tilted his head side to side, trying to distinguish the fuzzy silhouette in the hallway.

"Security camera?"

"Well, yes, at least what SIS let us see after we demanded information. They may as well not have given us anything. All we can make out is that whoever he is, he's short. Probably no more than five feet tall." Gresham indicated the figure's head. "Based on the head shape and these two shadows here sprouting from the top, SIS said he's probably a Balgoshan."

"Well, there are plenty of Balgoshan refugees in the Zone, and some of them are definitely hard-edged criminals, but I've never pegged any of those horned bastards to be so bold as to break into the fucking Department of Defense and kill a government employee." Fust tapped the picture against the table, deep in thought. "Although..."

"You have someone in mind?"

"Maybe. There's this really violent jackass in the north Zone, almost at the edge, who apparently is one of the better smugglers in the area. Plenty of contacts with the Port of Los Angeles, immigration workers, really low-hanging fruit that don't need much money to keep quiet and happy. His name's Lugrash."

"Lugrash," Gresham repeated, leaning back in his chair. "I wonder if SIS is looking at him."

"Probably not. He keeps a pretty low profile most of the time, flies just low enough under the radar to avoid the SIS's attention. I've only heard of him because I've got a friend or two that's recommended him to – umm, this shit's all off the record, right?"

"Last I checked, Military Intelligence has no domestic authority regarding smuggling crimes."

"Right, right," Fust muttered nervously. "So anyways, as I was saying, the reason I'd suspect Lugrash is because he's got some friends in Santa Monica already. He'd need those friends to know about a weapon's requisition like this to knock off, or to hijack, or to reroute, or whatever. Not to mention, he'd need friends to break into Defense."

"Jesus," Gresham sighed and rubbed his eyes. "So someone really _has_ to be working from the inside."

"Looks to me like you've got a rat in your house, Johnny," Fust said with a shrug. "And there's only one thing you can do when you've got a rat."

"Yeah. Call the exterminator."

#

Not twenty minutes later, Gresham turned his HUVR on autopilot and sat back in his seat, staring at other HUVRs zip by on A6, one of the largest automated freeways in Los Angeles. What a day it had been. Waking up next to the beach beauty, his flashbacks, his still-lingering headache – whether it was from the blast or his hangover, he was unsure – and then his unexpected assignment to the field, a line of work he knew absolutely nothing about.

_Other people don't have lives as interesting as mine, do they?_ Gresham wondered as he drank from a bottle of water. A soothing male voiced announced that he was nearing the Northridge exit and he set the water aside to reassume control and decelerate from the freeway speeds well in excess of a hundred miles per hour.

Gresham grabbed his HUVR's steering module, pulled into the tunnel exit and off the A6. He emerged onto a surprisingly quiet street in the middle of Los Angeles's Northridge neighborhood. A gargantuan SynthMart stretched along the side of the road, the HUVR lot in front the size of two football fields. Overlooking the road was a massive holoboard announcing: "Northridge enforces a No Extraterrestrials policy within neighborhood limits."

Off in the distance, the glowing blue lights of the Northridge Medical Center came into view between a pair of sandy, treeless hills. The three concourses of the enormous hospital, arranged in a triangle shape, loomed over Gresham's HUVR as he drove into the underground parking bay.

Gresham rode a lift up from the garage into the lobby, a low-ceilinged room with a dozen different check-in desks. At the Visitor Services desk, a raven-haired woman was yawning and tapping away on a screen with her fingers, probably playing some game.

"I'd like to see a patient here," Gresham said as he approached.

"Name, please?"

"Major John Gresham," he replied, showing his ID.

"Name of patient," she asked in a bored tone.

"Lieutenant Jeffrey Vance."

She tapped the screen twice and a yellow badge slid out of a device on the desk. "Hold on to that, it'll give you access to Mr. Vance's crit-room."

"Thanks."

A hyperlift ride away was the Critical Wing, a vast maze of small rooms housing patients in severe conditions. Human doctors and automated medical drones darted around the floor between rooms, inspecting patients and keeping track of their vitals.

A medical drone hovered over to Gresham. "Please state purpose of visit," a gratingly mechanical voice requested.

Gresham held his yellow visitor badge up to the drone's scanner. "I'm here to visit Jeffrey Vance."

"Please follow me," the drone said before leading Gresham through the forest of small pods, each containing a human patient in near-comatose stasis. Arranged around these pods were small, comfortable red couches were friends and families could observe the hospitalized.

The drone flew away after announcing, "Jeffrey Vance, Patient Alpha 16 T."

Vance was a twenty-something, brown-haired man built like a football player with a massive, square jaw. He floated in stasis inside his pod, eyes covered by dark goggles, unresponsive to contact as he struggled to recover from his stab wounds, identifiable by stitches on his bare abdomen and chest.

A doctor passed. "He's stable. Are you a friend of Mr. Vance's?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. We work together."

The doctor nodded knowingly. "If you need anything, just let me know. The blue button on the side of his pod will call me."

"Thanks."

Gresham sat down and stared at his floating friend, narrowing his eyes. He had reviewed the report Vance had been working on to try to figure out where he had left off, but to no avail. The trail seemed cold. Whatever Vance had known that had led him to be attacked, it wasn't anywhere on file to be found.

"He's doing better, at least," a voice said from one couch over, and Gresham turned to see a young, pretty brunette with large blue eyes watching Vance. She was twirling a pen in her fingers, watching Gresham intently.

"Yeah, so I hear," Gresham replied carefully and moved ever so slightly on his couch. "Are you a friend of Jeff's?"

"We're acquaintances. I wanted to come see him, since I hadn't been over yet since... well, since he wound up in here."

Gresham was unsure where to take the conversation from there. "So you and Vance... just acquaintances."

She laughed. "Yes, I said that already. Just acquaintances." The woman studied Gresham for a moment before leaning forward and sticking out her hand. "Lara Taylor."

Gresham took it, and she gave him a surprisingly firm grip. "John Gresham."

"John Gresham. Alright," she said and let go of his hand ever so slowly, locking eyes with him. "So are you just acquaintances with Vance too?"

Gresham shook his head. "No, I'd consider Jeff more of a – well, we work together. Or worked. I'm not sure if he's coming back to the office anytime soon."

"You don't really look like the typical Military Intelligence officer."

"Who said I was an officer?"

"Nobody. You just don't look like one."

Gresham tried to figure out what Lara Taylor was getting at. Finally he blurted, "What do you do?"

"What do I do?"

"Yeah. What kind of work are you in?"

"Oh... I work with information distribution."

Gresham was thrown off by the vague answer. "Information distribution? Well, that sounds... invigorating."

"It is. You'd be surprised. I enjoy my work very much."

"And what kind of information is it that you distribute?"

"A diverse selection, usually determined by the customer. Financial records, political gossip, personal histories... in a town like Los Angeles, different people need different things."

Gresham had no idea what the woman was talking about. He blinked, smiled and nodded politely to make it appear he was on the same page. "Sounds like an industry that requires a special talent."

"Well, you at least need to make sure the information is good," Lara Taylor murmured. "Good thing about the President, huh?"

The sudden change in topic threw Gresham off guard. "Yes, it seems the bomb went off too early. Morbid luck, don't you think?"

"Not for the Vegan President. He wasn't lucky."

"Well, no, I suppose he wasn't."

She checked her voxcom's clock and lifted an eyebrow. "Oh no, is it that late already... If you'll excuse me, I have to run. Prior engagement. Nice meeting you, Mr. Gresham."

"Ms. Taylor," he replied and shook her hand again. He was a little miffed by being referred to as 'mister;' he'd gone by Major for several years.

After she had left, he turned his attention back to Vance. "What do you know, Jeff? What did you stumble across that we haven't figured out yet?"

Not a second later, his voxcom buzzed furiously in his jacket pocket and he withdrew it. On the screen was a simple message from Moss:

Come to the office IMMEDIATELY. The shit just hit the fan
Chapter Seven: Urkuran Eve

Krokandir, Rukkur, Kroka System

Zurra ducked under a curtain of small, glistening shells collected from the seas of Daruundo as he entered the smoky _gukka_ bar in the 2nd District. Only a few blocks away, preparations were underway for the massive Progressive rally to be staged in the evening following the Emperor's Urkuran address.

The smoke of _gukka_ pipes clouded the air in the small bar, and Zurra had to squeeze through the throng of inebriated krokator to reach a staircase that led up to a veranda on the roof. Large, multicolored parasols shaded the seating area, and a bar in the far corner served beastwine to the patrons.

"Sharm Zurra, it has been too long!" a voice boomed from across the veranda and a large, bluish krokator beckoned. Like all civilian males, he had his grayish tuft of hair tied back in the traditional _tokkom_ knot, and he wore a modest tunic and _kekkalo_ around his waist. He had a blue-and-gold striped band tied around his wrist and a larger, similarly colored sash tied between his tunic and _kekkalo_ , identifying him as a member of the Progressive Movement.

"Hurukk, it is good to see you," Zurra said and clasped the older krokator's forearm in a warm, informal handshake. "How have you been?"

"Old, tired and drunk, Sharm Zurra. Like always," Elatokk Hurukk replied. The Progressive informant motioned for Zurra to take a seat at his table. "So, you sought me out. Must be important, you rarely drop by on social calls."

"I only visit you on official military business."

Hurukk chuckled and shook his head. "Look at you, Zurra, so serious. The High Prod's favorite pet. You know, there's a reputation forming about you in some Progressive circles."

"And what is that?"

"That you are old Nikkwill's private assassin and heretic-killer. It would not be a stretch to suggest that Tarkas handpicked you to lead that sensational raid on Piskka a few weeks back, would it?"

"You know I am not at liberty to speak of such matters."

"Fair enough. What did you want to know?"

"I need information on radical Progressives."

"You always do. Look, Sharm Zurra, I've talked to several officials about tonight's rally – nothing will go wrong. Tolakko has given the Emperor his personal guarantee that any insurrection will be condemned and punished from within the Movement itself."

"I do not care about the rally. We care about foreign intervention."

"The Alliance and the Dominion do not give funds to the Progressive Movement, we do not need their help. I doubt they would care, anyways..."

"I mean the _Hudda Kugrall_."

Hurukk froze at the name. "Sharm Zurra, I have known you many years. You would not accuse me of fraternizing with their lot. You know I am a patriot."

"I was not accusing you of anything, friend. I just need information on a name my superiors gave me – Kamaan Dakkal. Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation," Hurukk replied, seeming relieved. "Are you sure this is not an inquiry your friends in the _sukuda_ ought to make?"

"For all you know, I am _sukuda_."

"I suppose so, Sharm Zurra, I suppose so. Well, this krokator you seek, Dakkal, he is a criminal in Ankina. I do not know if you have been to that lovely corner of the planet, but I spent a lot of time up there during Amran and Ekal. It gets abysmally cold in Ankina that time of year, so the early residents of the city built a system of catacombs under the city that are kept warm with the heat of the planet. These catacombs predate the Empire, and have always figured into the city's unique culture."

"I fail to see the relevance."

"These catacombs link various businesses in the neighborhoods and have often been used to discreetly transport goods, specifically contraband, from place to place as there are fewer patrols down there than on the surface, especially now in the warmer months. A few years ago, this character named Kamaan Dakkal storms in and shoves out the local muscle, takes over in southern Ankina and soon owns a variety of taverns, gambling dens and brothels. What's important though is that he seized power with the help of some questionable friends."

"How questionable?"

"Does Marsa Grakko sound questionable enough?"

Zurra stiffened at the name, his heart beating faster. The infamous Scarred Tarl of the Forbidden Army, one of the most wanted krokator in the Empire. He was a terrorist, a murderer and a heretic against the Emperor and all his subjects.

"Dakkal could be arrested just for speaking to Grakko."

"There is no evidence, of course. Dakkal is smart enough to publicly avoid _Hudda Kugrall_ as much as possible, but..." Hurukk sipped on his beastwine and smacked his lips with both tongues. "Do you really think he subdued a fourth of the Ankina underground by himself? Street gangs typically avoid picking fights with the largest heretic faction in the Empire."

Zurra considered this information. "Would Dakkal know about _Hudda Kugrall_ 's foreign benefactors?"

"Probably. If memory serves me correct, Dakkal owns a variety of legitimate businesses in Ankina as a front. If the _Hudda Kugrall_ has connections outside of the Empire, he may be keeping his illicit money on Border Worlds where cash transactions are less scrutinized. Would this happen to have anything to do with Piskka, by chance?"

Zurra carefully answered, "I appreciate the information, Hurukk. I will make sure you receive your usual fee."

Sensing he wouldn't receive anything more, Hurukk nodded in understanding and said, "My pleasure, as always. A word of caution, however – if Dakkal's reputation serves him right, he is both very hard to find and very dangerous."

Zurra gave Hurukk a rare smile and shook his arm. "Blessings on this Urkuran."

"And blessings to you, Sharm Zurra."

#

Night had fallen on the Krokandir. The faint glow of the setting sun behind the mountains was all but gone, and a few stars peppered the clear sky. It was the nicest weather on Urkuran Eve in recent memory.

Zurra showed a pair of _aruntuk_ his credentials at the door to the private box where Admiral Tarkas would be watching the Emperor's address, and they let him through.

Several prods, tarls and two of Tarkas's most trusted admirals had already taken their seats. The officers saw Zurra enter, and while some were shocked that a mere sharm had been invited to their luxury suite, once they saw Tarkas beckon him to his side they began whispering to one another.

"Is that Akgu Zurra?"

"Yes, I believe so. He looks much like his father."

"Akgu Juska was a personal friend of mine, you know."

"You would not have deserved Akgu Juska as a friend."

Tarkas handed Zurra a cup of beastwine. "I have always found that having the right friends does wonders for your career. I trust you have never viewed the Urkuran Eve ceremonies from this grand a place before?"

"No, I usually watch it at home," Zurra replied. "I cannot recall any time I have been in Empire Plaza during the Urkuran."

"There is a first time for everything," Tarkas coughed, gagging on a healthy mouthful of beastwine. "I was in that position once too. This place becomes crowded – there will be half a million citizens here in the Plaza tonight and hundreds of thousands more on the nearby streets."

Zurra viewed the massive square and the throng of people crammed amongst the braziers burning all around Empire Plaza. So many in one place; it was a sight to see.

A communicator vibrated on Tarkas's belt and he checked the brief message displayed on its screen. "The Progressive rally is starting to pick up steam down in Agukkan Square," he commented and tucked it away. "Tolakko is speaking after the Emperor's address, but there are almost a hundred thousand there already, and thousands more packed onto the rooftops of the surrounding buildings."

"A smaller version of our evening here," Zurra said. "Admiral, regarding the mission to Ankina..."

"Tomorrow, Sharm Zurra."

"I may have found a lead."

"Good. When you leave for Ankina tomorrow, you can follow up on it."

Zurra realized that Tarkas wasn't going to discuss the matter any further, so he sipped on his beastwine, enjoying the unusually rich taste. This must have been a very expensive vintage.

From the Manganese Palace, its shadows cast across the square in the firelight, a gong sounded followed by four blows of a horn. "The Emperor's address approaches," loudspeakers throughout Empire Plaza announced to the crowd.

All the officers in the luxury box rose to their feet and clamped their hands behind their backs, watching the dais attentively. Every soldier in the Plaza and on every rooftop did the same. Twenty masked priests in hooded blue robes approached the front of the dais and lit twenty fires along its front, adding to the illumination. At the central podium, a lonely figure dressed in flowing white robes and a glowing golden mask appeared from the darkness. It was Ermokk Lukktan, the High Priest of the Empire.

He raised his hands so that they touched each other above his head and the crowd went silent, anxiously expecting his sermon. "Tonight concludes the holy month of Urk," the High Priest began in his slow but booming voice, microphones projecting his deep baritone across the Plaza. "For centuries upon centuries, we have observed this sacred evening as a time of reflection. For sacrifice, there is Ugrandkad. For repentance, there is Kurkandkad. For fulfillment of spirit, there is Ukkumkad. But tonight, we reflect. We reflect on who we are as individuals. We consider what we are doing in our home, to put food on the table for our families. We wonder what we are doing to help the progress of the Empire. And we ponder the decisions we must make to improve ourselves as krokator."

Lukktan paused and took a deep breath. "Holy Brothers, watch over us tonight. We ask you keep us in your wisdom, guide our paths, and take us in your love. Without you we are lost, but with you we have been found! Let the Urkuran... _commence_!"

The twenty flames were suddenly tipped over into oil-filled aqueducts that ran down into the Plaza from the dais, and a majority of those assembled dipped torches they had brought from home into the rivers of fire running through the mass.

"Giving fire to restless citizens, is this the best idea?" Zurra pondered with concern.

"You cannot forgo a tradition of nearly five thousand years," Tarkas responded with a growl. "The Emperor will speak soon."

Lukktan was now fully in sight thanks to the sea of firelight in the square. He bellowed into the night, "Citizens of the Empire, I give you the Revered, Noble and All-Mighty Emperor of the Krokator, Urkus Ruskir!"

Ruskir appeared from behind a curtain in front of the Bronze Gate in a colorful red and blue robe, marching up to the podium. Lukktan stepped to the side, allowing High Prod Nikkwill to slide into place between the High Priest and the Emperor. On the Emperor's left was his sister, the Lady Erenna, and the Imperial Viceroy, Ekkor Aratrokk.

The entire crowd sank to one knee and the soldiers immediately burst into their patriotic chant, the Oath of Obedience:

I, Soldier of the Empire, do swear to uphold the honor of my Empire.

I will protect her from all enemies.

I will give my life to serve her.

I will destroy those who seek harm to me, my family, or my Empire.

I will not differentiate between foreign enemies, and those of the home.

I will not fear any threat, nor regret any action in defense of the Empire.

I will serve only the High Prod and the Emperor and do their bidding until death

I will respect and follow the tenets of the Truuknan

I will take my own life before I submit to heresy and treachery

I will never forget my place beneath superiors or my position above inferiors

I, Soldier of the Empire, do swear these things.

Long Live the Empire! Long Live Urkus Ruskir!

"Rise, citizens," the Emperor wheezed into the microphones. The masses rose to their feet, attentively watching their revered leader.

He began, "Tonight, as High Priest Lukktan said in his sermon, we observe the Urkuran. This is a week of reflection, the culmination of a month of prayer, fasting and moral rectitude. We live in a society built on strict beliefs and traditions – they are the foundation of not only the Empire, but of our entire way of life. It would not be right for males to not wear their hair in a _tokkom_ knot, for females not to wear an _umrusk_ on their head and shoulders, for priests to appear in public without their ceremonial shrouds, and for soldiers to not braid their hair by rank.

"Upon this bedrock of tradition rises an Empire unmatched by any other nation in the galaxy. In no other nation is the protection of every citizen a guarantee by the authorities. We have built a powerful state, one whose strength is fueled by the citizens' belief in her unwavering fortitude against all enemies. Priests, soldiers and Emperors come and go, but the Krokator Star Empire stays eternal!"

The crowd cheered three times in unison, three short barks of approval. The massive holographic screens throughout the plaza showed the Emperor revealing a rare smile before continuing.

"There are those who doubt that strength now. Do not be alarmed, citizens, we at Court know that these are difficult times. But our way of life is not threatened, and never shall be. Whether we live in comfort, squalor or opulence, this is not a permanent downturn, merely a smudge on the glorious history of the Empire!"

"He admits that there are troubles," Tarkas observed in surprise. "Last year was much glossier."

"There weren't as many citizens starving throughout the Empire last year," Zurra remarked with a scowl. "Or as many riots or signs of growing heresy."

Emperor Ruskir raised his arms to the crowd. "This Progressive Movement we see before us has two arms. It has the arm led by my personal friend Karalukk Tolakko. This arm is designed to help the people of the Empire by reaching agreements with our Court to help alleviate the issues that concern you, the common citizen.

"The other arm seeks to overturn the entire order and way of life of the Empire. I tell you this as your loving Emperor; the legal Movement is the only Movement the Empire recognizes. The one that seeks to destroy all we hold dear – the one that seeks to create a _democracy_ – is the one you must fear, for they are heretics, and we all know the fate of heretics."

The crowd murmured in muted approval. In no state address had the Emperor ever legitimized Tolakko's Progressive Movement; only the Viceroy had touched on the matter previously, and even he had made sure to only give a subtle approval.

"Tonight, Tolakko will speak not far from here about the slowing economy, the rising costs of food and heating, and the specter of garrison increases. Difficult problems require difficult solutions, and to solve them we will work _with_ the Progressives, not against them."

Zurra was drinking in the spectacle of the masses on the Plaza, watching the illuminated figure on his dais. He had been awed by it when he'd seen it on a screen, but to view this event in person was something else.

The communicators of every high-ranking officer in the room flashed to life. Tarkas checked it instantly and roared. "There are riots in seven southern districts! There's been a bomb at Tolakko's rally!"

The screens flashed violet three times and a harsh siren sounded. "Citizens," the voice of an official screeched across the Plaza. "Your safety is currently compromised. Please exit Empire Plaza immediately in an orderly fashion."

Zurra rose with Tarkas. "Admiral, what do you need me to do?"

"I don't know... yet. The Emperor has never had his address interrupted by a riot before. We usually quell the riots and he goes on speaking."

"Is the Emperor safe?"

"He will return to the Manganese Palace, the _aruntuk_ will be out in full force..."

A new bomb went off between the dais and the Bronze Gate. Zurra saw ten _aruntuk_ immediately swarm to the Emperor and, amid the chaos, escort him down a staircase into the now-writhing crowd of panicked krokator.

"Zurra, take seven soldiers and make your way to the 1st District beacon. It will attract garrisons in the area who don't know where the riot is."

"The beacon is on the other side of the skyrail station from here, we need to press through a full riot..."

"Sharm Akgu Zurra, you were given an order!" Tarkas bellowed before vanishing down the stairs with his fellow officers.

Zurra emerged from the officer's building onto the street, looking around at the chaos. Civilians were stampeding around each other and pushing over soldiers and regular citizens alike, bumping into parked _likalas_ and smashing windows with their fists. A massive brawl was starting only a hundred yards away, involving several garrison troops and a pack of brawny, rough types.

"You four! Come with me!" he called out to four confused-looking soldiers with Obedience Sticks, one who beat a rioter away with the electrical end as he glanced up at Zurra.

"Sharm! The riot is spreading out into Empire Plaza! This is a mess!"

Zurra's voxcom vibrated and he picked it up. "Sharm Akgu Zurra, 1st District," he replied, ducking to avoid an airborne rioter who had gotten a severe shock from an Obedience Stick.

"The 24th District's beacon is lit, we need immediate backup from the orbital contingent!" a voice screamed from the other end.

"No, the 1st District is the priority!" Zurra growled into the voxcom but it was already silent.

"Sir, I know how garrison commanders think," one of the soldiers said as they skirted around a group of looters breaking into an upscale jewelry store. "They won't make a move until you fire up the beacon, its protocol. They fear retribution for doing something without direct orders."

"Well we better get moving then!"

Zurra grabbed an _okka_ gun from one of the soldiers so that he would be protected from the most dangerous of rioters and they pressed through the crowd. Most of the krokator were panicked spectators from the Emperor's address who wanted no part of any riot, but were being sucked into the melee.

"How did this even start?"

"The bombing attack at Tolakko's rally started it. The Progressives must think that the _sukuda_ planted it to sabotage the event."

Zurra looked back at the two soldiers. "Nonsense! The Empire does not conduct terrorism. Tolakko's rally is legal."

"Then it must have been _Hudda Kugrall_ trying to cause trouble," the soldier said with an ominous tone. The sound of explosions rumbled in the distance.

Zurra could see the skyrail station only a few hundred yards away, and he shoved two protestors harshly out of the way. "Run up ahead and clear a path to the beacon, I'm right behind you," he said to two of the soldiers.

They ran forward and were immediately felled by a flurry of _okka_ needles, which took out several rioters as well. Zurra threw himself to the ground to avoid the next spurt.

Five large purple krokator crouched behind the burnt shell of a _likala_ , _okka_ rifles at the ready. They wore thrown-together battle armor and had their red-dyed hair spiked straight up and their faces painted with diagonal yellow lines, the traditional battle garb of the Forbidden Army.

Zurra crawled behind a _likala_ and turned on his voxcom. "Be advised, there is a _Hudda Kugrall_ presence in the city. At least two soldiers down at Empire Plaza Station and several civilians killed. This is Sharm Akgu Zurra, I need immediate backup."

Tarkas's voice was the one to reply, strangely enough. "Sharm Zurra, more soldiers will be there shortly. The _Hudda Kugrall_ must be circling the radius of the beacon to try to prevent us from lighting it and bringing in more soldiers."

"Sir, I request permission to head for the 2nd District's beacon and light it instead. The garrison leaders can move from there."

"I have a team moving there already. If you can find a way through the heretics, do it. If not, stand your ground until reinforcements arrive."

Zurra rose and fired six needles from his gun. All of them missed the heretics, who shot back with a storm of poisonous barbs which punctured the front of the _likala_ like a porcupine.

There was no way through. It would be a suicide mission. Unless...

Zurra's eye fell upon a dead soldier slumped against the wall, his pogo pawing at the ground with a soft mew, scratching at a blood stain on its fur. The pogo was a mighty beast and Zurra knew he could use it to his advantage.

"Pogo, I will not hurt you... here, just wait," he said, approaching the apprehensive beast. The pogo stepped backward twice, unsure about the new krokator.

"You are domesticated and you are trained by the military. I am going to ride you," Zurra said softly. He paused for a minute as a rioter swung a haphazard punch in his direction. He caught the krokator's fist in one hand and drove his other fist under the rioter's jaw, hearing a convincing crunch. The unconscious delinquent collapsed to the ground, dark blood pouring from his mouth.

Pogos were not dumb animals, and this one could tell Zurra was no enemy. It bowed its front legs slightly to allow Zurra to climb onto the saddle on its back.

"Go!" Zurra roared and tugged at reins. The pogo galloped down an alley, slamming the ancient bricks with its paws. Zurra jerked the reins as they passed a staircase and the pogo threw itself up the steps, climbing with excitement.

As they reached a low rooftop, an explosion rocked in the distance and Zurra got his first view of the Krokandir at night. Lights littered the valley, but so did cold firelight. The sounds of riots dozens of miles away echoed through the air, the entire city pulsing with anger and violence.

"This way!" Zurra ordered the pogo and it scampered up a makeshift ramp from the roof to another. Vagrants in the Imperial City tended to make their homes on the roofs of other buildings, not at street level, and gardens and markets were kept on rooftops as well. Zurra was surprised to find such a large rooftop community so close to the Manganese Palace, but it served his purpose well. They clambered across plank bridges and through small clusters of tents until they had completely circumvented the towering skyrail station and Zurra could see the beacon in the heart of a large marketplace.

And as Zurra had anticipated, the beacon was surrounded by at least twenty _Hudda Kugrall_ commandos.

Zurra checked the saddle's pouch for spare _okka_ clips, finding two and also something even better; a satellite director. He smiled cruelly and armed the director carefully before lobbing it into the square, immediately steering the pogo away from the edge of the rooftop to safety.

The director bounced to a halt about thirty yards from the beacon, whirring and making its characteristic sound. The commandos nearest to it considered running for a moment, but they knew they had no chance of escape.

A fleet of satellites were in a permanent point orbit above the Imperial City, and most large urban areas in the Empire had their own small contingent of "Death Birds," as they were nicknamed. It took only a second for the nearest satellite to pick up on the director's signal and target the square.

There were several hot flashes of light in the air, like shooting stars, before the ground around the beacon erupted. Zurra threw himself to the roof as debris floated skyward. The orbit-to-surface missiles tore through the pavement and the commandos. As quickly as it had begun, the Death Bird's job was over. The director whirred to a stop, its purpose fulfilled.

Zurra jumped off of the pogo and slid down a drainage pipe from the roof to the square below. A heretic tried to rise up off the ground but three needles to the chest put him down. Zurra checked to make sure another twitching heretic was dead. He wasn't, but he wouldn't last much longer.

The beacon was still intact, the Death Bird well aware that it was an illegal target. Zurra pulled the large lever on its side and the beacon flashed to life, giving off two loud bursts of alarm before lighting up the night sky.

His voxcom buzzed. "Good work, Sharm Zurra," Admiral Tarkas said. "Where was the Death Bird strike? I got word that we used one in the 1st District."

"I had to take out the heretics somehow," Zurra panted with a grin.

"Return to Empire Plaza, the riot will be under control soon. We have sporadic firefights with heretics and I think most people will realize that _Hudda Kugrall_ is behind this whole mess."

"Yes sir," Zurra replied, breathing deeply and looking for his pogo.

At that moment, something hard struck him in the back and he fell to the ground. A scaly leg stepped next to his face, an armored boot covering the foot.

"Do I kill this one?" the creature before him asked in flawless Krokam.

Zurra felt another metallic boot nudge his side hard and he wheezed. What had he been struck with? He was more or less paralyzed and drifting into unconsciousness.

"No. We got him. He'll be unconscious in a moment."

Through his fogged vision, Zurra could see three _aruntuk_ turning the corner into the square and hurrying to an old tavern overlooking the beacon. "Good, Sharm Ukkado, the heretics are cleared out. We can move the Emperor to safety now."

"No..." Zurra wheezed, but he could barely even hear himself. Several more _aruntuk_ entered the square, Emperor Urkus Ruskir huddled in the middle.

The _aruntuk_ realized something was wrong at the last second, but by then it was mostly too late. _Okka_ needles whistled through the air, the little darts like an angry swarm of hornets. In the other direction, hot flashes of pink light lit up the square, turning night into the brightest day.

The lights extinguished and all that was left of the _aruntuk_ contingent were piles of smoldering bones. Five large, reptilian creatures descended upon the survivors, their alien guns in hand. One _aruntuk_ rose, _okka_ gun at the ready, but a dancing arc of electricity lopped his head off as if it had been a sword. A hot pink beam of light melted away the other _aruntuk_ trying to protect the Emperor, who was sitting calmly next to a barrel amid the slaughter.

As the alien lizards descended upon the Emperor, Zurra could do nothing to keep his eyes open and stay conscious.

Chapter Eight: Repercussions

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

The situation room at Military Intelligence was packed almost wall to wall when Gresham got there. A sweaty, red-faced Moss stared blankly at the large screen at one end of the room, where a nervous-looking reporter stood bravely in front of a raging fire.

"... _this is Stephanie Palmer, Allied News Service, reporting from the Krokandir on Rukkur. For those of you just watching, right now we are seeing the largest Urkuran riot in decades come to a conclusion here in the capital of the Krokator Star Empire. Government sources have confirmed that the riots were begun by a bomb attack at a rally meant to be staged immediately following the Emperor's address at Empire Plaza..."_

Gresham felt his cheek muscles tighten and he took a deep breath. His eyes met Moss's and his boss discreetly pointed at the far hallway.

"... _a government spokesperson referred to the bombing at the rally as 'an act of terrorism' and a source close to the High Prod Nikkwill confirmed to ANS that authorities are already following up leads and interrogating rioters who were arrested near Empire Plaza and the Manganese Palace..."_

They both made their way through the crowd and arrived at the hallway simultaneously. Moss jerked his head towards his office a few doors away.

"What's up, Gary?"

"Thanks for getting here so quickly," Moss replied glumly and handed Gresham a file. "The reporters haven't caught wind of tonight's biggest story, or if they have they aren't running it yet. Probably a gag order from the krokator."

"What are you talking about?"

Moss opened the door to his office, and once they were inside he shut it abruptly and said in a low voice, "Emperor Ruskir was assassinated during the riot."

"What!" Gresham blinked and leaned against a chair. "How?"

"Officially, the _Hudda Kugrall_ was responsible for instigating the riot and using the commotion to launch an attack against the Emperor and his security detail," Moss replied, glancing over a file. "Unofficially, though... the krokator have no idea who did it. They have the same suspicion I do though. Take a look in that file I handed you."

Gresham took a seat and opened the file in his hand to see the burnt bones of a Gardelli spread across a staircase almost leaping out of the file at him. "Is this what I think it is?"

Moss nodded ominously. "It's exactly what you think it is. Those are images taken from the Gardelli Crown Prince's palace. Foreign Intelligence's top man inside their security police sneaked that out to us. Almost blew his cover. A guy I know down at FI was kind enough to pass it along. Read the third page."

"Let's see here... Cause of death from deconstructed tissue... molecular fusion broke down atomic bonds... unfamiliar weapons... hmm, what's – oh, here we go. 'Bodies of two assassins recovered, unspecified reptilian race, further consultation required. Origin suspected to be Raptor.'" Gresham paused and looked up. "What does this have to do with the Emperor?"

"His security detail of elite _aruntuk_ was found with their skin melted straight off their bones. The Emperor was cut in half, with his cuts seared closed from the heat of whatever weapon caused it. That's exactly what happened to the Crown Prince of Gardell. Don't you see? The same perpetrators carried out both attacks! This garbage about the _Hudda Kugrall_ is just the usual Imperial smokescreen!"

"Look, Gary, this is a lot to process," Gresham said, holding the file up. "I mean come on... Raptors? Sleazy spacers brag about fighting Raptors to get dumb girls who hang out at spaceports to sleep with them. Giant cannibal lizards are a tall tale."

"Maybe you don't see it, John, but there's something going on here. Two attacks against high-profile League of Planets members within days of each other, with the same mysterious weapons used? Not to mention the bombing here yesterday. That can't be a coincidence. Either somebody has really opportune timing... or they're connected."

The knock on the door nearly caused Gresham to jump out of his chair. A grumpy-looking SIS man poked his head into the office and adjusted his tie as if to impress the room's two occupants. "Colonel Moss, I was wondering if I could borrow Major Gresham from you."

"What's this pertaining to?"

"He has a visitor," the SIS agent said testily, as if annoyed that Moss would dare challenge him. "It'll just be a moment."

"It's okay, Gary, I'll be right back," Gresham reassured. "Don't have too much fun without me."

The SIS man led him down the hallway and up a flight of stairs to a conference room on a mostly-empty floor at the Military Intelligence annex. Outside the door, two other SIS agents were posted.

"Major Gresham, if you would," the lead agent suggested and indicated the door. Gresham complied and walked into the room.

A balding man in his late sixties of unremarkable height and weight was waiting at the far end of the room, looking out over the lights of Santa Monica and the speeding HUVRs zipping along Crest Ave. When he heard the door close, he turned to see Gresham, and smiled with a noticeable look of affection in his kind, knowing green eyes.

"Good evening, John. Thank you for coming."

"Of course, Mr. President."

President Howard Paine approached Gresham and paused, unsure of whether he should embrace him or merely shake his hand. Eventually, he settled on a firm handshake and a hand on the shoulder. "You have no idea how good it is to see you again, John. It has been far too long."

"I think it was a few months after your inauguration last time. So... two and a half years? Time flies, doesn't it?"

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to..."

Gresham laughed and waved it off. "I don't mind, Mr. President. You've got a pretty busy day job last I checked."

"And I can't go anywhere without an entourage," Paine chuckled, indicating the door. "How have you been?"

"Pretty good."

"That cut on your forehead..."

"I was at Shoregrove yesterday," Gresham replied. "So were a lot of people. You and I were both lucky."

"I suppose we were," Paine muttered and turned to look back out the window. "Though we're the laughingstock of the galactic community. A visiting head of state assassinated on Alliance soil, John. It's absolutely unacceptable. As if I didn't have enough problems with next year's campaign coming up."

"Are you alright, sir?"

"Oh, please, John, call me Howard! Like you used to! I do prefer it."

"It's still a bit awkward for me, being on first name terms with the President," Gresham explained. "Even though you've been in office nearly three years."

"Whatever makes you comfortable, I suppose."

"So what brings you down here, Mr. President? I'm sorry about the commotion downstairs."

"I heard about the krokator Emperor... Urkus Ruskir and I never met, but I've dealt with some of his underlings in the past," Paine grimaced. "What's the name of his heir apparent?"

"He'll be succeeded by his eldest son, Urkus Orkann," Gresham replied. "He should be presented within the next few days."

"Orkann! That's it. Well, to answer your question... I came here to see you." Paine took a seat and gave a slight smile. "I don't know what you're thinking, John. Me throwing you into the fire like this. Richard certainly didn't approve when I first suggested you."

"General Godford is pretty by the book."

"When he wants to be," Paine said almost instinctively before coughing and continuing, "Anyhow, I wanted to talk to you about this assignment in person. As I'm sure you know, it's not the President's job to hand out things like this. It never has been, and hopefully this is the last time I put my foot down and demand my man. But I trust you, John. Always have, ever since..."

"We don't need to talk about it, sir," Gresham quickly cut him off. "I understand why you asked me to look into the gun theft, Mr. President. You're worried that with everything going on now – with bombings, Defense employees getting disemboweled, so on – you want someone who isn't playing both sides."

Paine had a sunken expression, nodding. "Something like that. It's a sad feeling, John, not knowing who in your own government you can trust. But it is what it is. SIS is responsible for my security and they let the Vegan President be blown to hell. They should be looking into this arms theft matter and yet I haven't heard a peep in days from that troll Simon Cray when I asked him for a full report. He gave me some nonsense about procedural workflow or whatever he called it. That's why I need you."

"I get that, sir, but I'm not a field agent. Like I told General Godford." Gresham straightened his back and cracked his knuckles. "An order is an order, especially when it comes down from the President. I'm going to do the best I can looking into the matter, but I agree with Godford. You probably picked the wrong man for the job, sir."

"I have enough faith in you, John, to know you'll do admirably." The President stood back up. "I believe in your abilities."

"That makes one of us, Mr. President," Gresham grunted and glanced out the window. "I should probably get back down there and help Colonel Moss. It's gonna be a long night."

"Of course. I just... I wanted to see you. It was good seeing you again, John. I hope it won't be nearly as long next time."

Gresham smiled and shook Paine's hand. "I hope so too, Mr. Pre... I mean, I hope so too, Howard."

#

Pioneer City, Planet Mars, Sol System

Colin Hess's private elevator stopped at ground level and he disembarked, pulling his heavy winter coat around his shoulders. The dead of the night in the sprawling metropolis was defined by massive holoboards, crumbling advertisements, and pounding, pulsating 'modern' music. The Martian capital was a cesspool, a squalid dump of desperate laborers and the disaffected youth of the once-mighty world.

Mars' economy had once been a dominant force in the Alliance; the mining and metals industries had driven the world to a spot of key importance. Powerful men had run the planet and the Alliance in those days, but the waning existence of minerals on the world and the exhaustion of iron sources had strained the economy, and it had become cheaper to mine on unaligned worlds beyond Allied laws and regulations than to pay the entrenched and powerful Martian labor unions.

Hess got into the back of his LUXR and glanced at the scene around him as it zipped down the barren city streets. A group of young drug addicts sat playing synth-guitars on the steps of an old library, a bonfire lit in front of them to stave off the harsh, unforgiving Martian winter.

He thought back to his youth, when Pioneer City was a thriving, clean metropolis, and not the underbelly of the Alliance. Back then, when his grandfather Albrecht ran Hessian, the city would glow at night in the calm warmth of the public heating system, the light of the advertisements, the sense of life that permeated the air.

_What went wrong?_ Hess wondered. He had done his best to keep Hessian's interests on Mars, saving thousands of jobs and keeping a shaky economy afloat. And now, even though the whole Alliance had entered a severe downturn, it was targeting the company most responsible for keeping humanity's 'Second Planet' alive.

The HUVR stopped at a towering apartment spire just a few minutes south of downtown. Hess hopped out, moved briskly through the stinging cold and passed under a pair of trees that drooped over the doorway just inside the lobby. The lift doors slid open in welcome and he pressed his thumbprint against a reader.

"Colin Hess to see Elijah Perry," he said clearly into a shiny voxcom.

There was a moment of pause before the AI responded. "Granted. One moment please."

The lift rose through the exterior shaft overlooking the twinkling towers of Pioneer City, and an aircab zipped past the window. Hess ran a hand through his brittle hair and adjusted his glasses, watching his reflection in the window.

Jesus, I've gotten old.

"Elijah Perry," the AI announced and the lift slid to a halt. Hess coughed and stepped off of the lift into a massive living room overlooking Catalan Lake, the large body of water directly south of the city's center. During summer, Catalan was covered in boaters and her beaches were clogged. But now, in winter, chunks of ice peppered the black water's surface, the lake looking like a murky inkblot against the lights of the surrounding affluent suburbs.

A tall, fit, dark-haired man in his early forties entered the living room and acknowledged Hess. "Colin, good to see you as always. I didn't think you'd be dropping in so soon..."

"I don't have a lot of time, Perry. What happened in Los Angeles yesterday?"

Perry paused. "Drink?"

"What?"

"Would you like a drink?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine."

Perry nodded and poured himself a glass of scotch. "I'm not sure what went wrong. Maybe our friends timed the blast a few minutes too early. Or the speech wasn't running on schedule."

"You know we won't get another crack at Paine now."

"Not necessarily. We just need to bide our time."

"We don't _have_ time, Perry."

The younger of the two men shrugged. "Not really my problem, Colin. If you weren't so rushed on production..."

"Of course I'm rushed on production. Anyone can drop in on the old factory in the Verge and see that we have a refining facility and cooling vat set up."

"What does Schroeder say?"

"He's behind schedule like always. I'll handle Klaus, he's my responsibility."

"This is really all your responsibility if you think about it," Perry commented with a sarcastic smile and sipped on his scotch. "I hope you realize that _you_ came to _me_ for help, right? This is me doing you a favor."

"This shouldn't be so goddamn difficult. The Raptors are the problem. I should never have listened to you."

"Regardless of their involvement, we aren't doing everything we can. You heard that Emperor Ruskir was assassinated during the Urkuran, no?"

Hess nodded. "Of course."

"Exactly. You have Grakko and his contacts in the Empire pulling off a flawless operation, and we here in the Alliance can't even pull off a gift-wrapped bombing. President Haimon was a worthless target without Paine."

Hess sat down and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Perry, I just don't know what we can do now..."

"We wait, and then we do what we've intended all along. Besides, Schroeder will probably want to move to the auxiliary site soon anyways. We have more than enough time."

"Goddamn that Prussian bastard. And goddamn those krokator! I've been doing them a favor for years, selling them guns, helping pay for their cause, and now that the shit's hit the fan they act like this mess is my fault."

"You just leave the krokator to me, Colin, and don't worry so much."

"Don't worry? This is my company, goddamnit! This is my legacy! My family!"

"True."

Hess glanced at Perry. "True. That's all you can say? True?"

"What else do you want me to say? I'll need to talk to Jurkken, figure out where to go from here. We may have failed today but there are greater victories to be made. Nothing ever goes according to plan."

The industrialist shook his head. "I don't know, Eli. I thought we'd have more time without Paine in the picture. We'd have been able to do more damage."

"It's alright, Colin. All hope is not lost." Perry poured another glass of scotch. "Relax, step back, and let me handle everything. Proceed as planned. I'm better at the dirty work than you are, Colin."

"Fine."

"Now, I need to handle said dirty work, and I have a shuttle back to Terra in two hours. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Very well. I'll be in touch."

"I know you will, Colin. Goodbye."
Chapter Nine: Ankina

Planet Rukkur, Kroka System

Zurra stared out of the civilian shuttle's window, thinking about the past few hours. He had been woken up in a hospital bed by Admiral Tarkas, who had told him that his injuries were minimal and that he had been cleared for combat.

"You were knocked out," Tarkas explained as Zurra got out of bed. "The doctors say you are fine and just recommended you stretch before doing anything strenuous."

"Understood," Zurra grunted, his head still spinning. The next fifteen minutes were a bit of a blur but he remembered the important parts.

"The Emperor is dead," Tarkas had continued as they made their way to the shuttle from the makeshift hospital in the heart of the Krokandir. "He was murdered by the _Hudda Kugrall_ in cold blood, and now we retaliate. You know your mission and it is time to fulfill it."

Zurra leaned back in the seat of the shuttle. His back was still smarting with pain from the blow he had received – was it from a stungun? The weapon was rare in the Empire due to the prevalence of the Obedience Stick, but ranged stunning weapons were not unheard of. And who had shot him? He had faint memories of some silhouette towering over the Emperor, but he was unsure if he could identify the assassin if necessary.

_No matter_ , he thought. _I can manage just fine in Ankina even if I am a little sore. The Emperor must be avenged_.

Assassinated Emperors were no new phenomenon in the Empire's long, bloody history. Every new dynasty rose largely by the wanton slaughter of a power-hungry cousin's incumbent relatives. The great Admiral Oranokk had become Emperor in a military coup. Some suspected that Tolakko's Progressive Movement would eventually topple the Urkus dynasty, and once that occurred, Tolakko's speeches about moderate reforms would evaporate as he consolidated his power through violent purges. If that were the case, an officer as close to the leadership as Zurra was sure to be targeted. The Empire was a dangerous place to make important friends. Had he really made those friends, though, or had they sought him out on his father's reputation?

His memory wandered back to the day of his graduation from the Imperial Academy, when his father had approached him on the commencement field and given him his grandfather's ceremonial armlet.

"Akgu Murskk wore this armlet, which he earned in service to the Empire," his father had said proudly as he slid the armlet onto his son's arm. "He was a hero of the Fifth Human-Krokator War, and I recall him returning from campaigns when I was a krokling. Your grandfather was killed in battle like a true warrior and hero of the Empire. Now you can be a hero of the Empire, and wear this in his honor."

Zurra knew why he had received the armlet, which he wore religiously, only removing it to wash his arm. His elder brother, Turka, had died before he was able to finish his own training at the Academy, and the armlet was as much for him as for Zurra.

It was no secret in his household as a child that Turka was the favorite of the two sons. He was the eldest, and Zurra was three human years his junior.

"I do not prefer either of you," Juska would lie over dinner meals. "You are both my sons, and you will both be fine krokator one day, and serve the Emperor nobly."

The Emperor had been an almost deific figure in the Akgu household on Kenka, a small farming world just outside of the Inner Ring. Zurra had been taught by his father to memorize the Oath of Obedience before most other kroklings knew their daily prayers. He had been taught that the Emperor was never wrong, and that superiors were always to be obeyed diligently. There was absolutely no question about where the loyalty of an Akgu lay – loyalty to the Empire came before loyalty to one's family.

At no other time was this exercised more vividly than Juska's betrayal of his uncle, the Elder Turka, to the _sukuda_. Zurra had only been eight at the time, and had been walking back from primary along the dirt road that ran from the isolated school to their home on the edge of the nearest town, Fal Kurkken, when he saw his grand-uncle taken away.

A _likala_ had been parked in front of Elder Turka's home, which was just a mile down the road from Zurra's. He stopped to say hello to his uncle, but as he approached the home, two large krokator emerged and regarded Zurra. "You, child, what are you doing here?"

Elder Turka poked his head out the door and saw Zurra standing there. "Zurra! Zurra my boy, come here."

One of the two strangers made a move but the other one stopped him. "He knows the child. Wait."

Elder Turka knelt in his doorway and took Zurra in his arms. "Here, my boy, give me a hug. You have a good day in school?"

"Is this your son?" the sympathetic stranger asked.

"No, my nephew's," Elder Turka replied. The old krokator's white, patchy _tokkom_ was disheveled. "Zurra, now, you listen to me. You go to school and you learn, alright? You understand me?"

"Akgu Turka, we must leave," the strangers said in unison. One of them reached into the _likala_ and Zurra saw his hand wrap around the handle of an Obedience Stick lying on the seat.

"I have dignity," Elder Turka said, looking at the two strangers with a hard glare. "Please, my nephew's son is here. I already told you I would come quietly."

He turned back to Zurra. "Look, Zurra, I need to go now. Go to school and learn, you hear? Grow up and take the pogo by the tusks. Goodbye, my boy."

He kissed the krokling tenderly on the head and climbed into the _likala_. The strangers jumped in and it rumbled away down the road. Zurra could see Elder Turka lean out of the window once to watch him as they drove away.

Zurra had never understood what happened that day. His father, upon hearing the confused krokling's retelling of the story, skillfully managed to avoid the question. Turka and Zurra would team up against their father at times to get the truth out of him, especially Turka, who had loved his doting old namesake. Their father's stubborn and stern reply was always the same:

"Akgu Turka the Elder had his time."

"Father, Elder Turka never hurt anyone, where did he go? Why did those krokator take him?"

"Son, it was his time."

"What did he do?"

"He had his time."

One night, just after Turka had graduated from secondary and was spending his last few months at home before leaving for the Academy, Zurra's elder brother woke him from his sleep and sat down on his bed.

Turka had always been taller and thinner than his younger brother, but other than that they were both spitting images of their father; they shared his hard gaze, his military jaw, and his proud posture. Zurra watched his brother's dark face in the light of Kenka's twin moons that night.

"Remember what you told me about Elder Turka getting taken away all those years ago, when we were kroklings?"

"Vividly."

"Those men were _sukuda_ – the Empire's spies. They took away Elder Turka for being a heretic. He had given money to some men in Fal Kurkken who were going to blow up a military ship."

"Akgu Turka the Elder was not a heretic," Zurra stammered, in disbelief.

"Father told me he used to talk about how Emperor Dennokk was a disaster for the Empire by shambling away our galactic standing to satisfy his thirst for conquest."

"No, this is not true."

Turka smiled cruelly. "You know what, brother? I think father turned him in."

"What? Why would he?"

"He swore to defend the Empire against all enemies, even domestic."

"His own uncle?"

Turka nodded. "Yes, even his uncle. That is our father, Zurra. He would probably do the same to us if we were heretics."

Zurra had never forgotten that exchange with Turka. It was one of the last intimate conversations he ever had with his brother. Turka went off to the Academy just over a month later, and right before the end of his first year he was killed in a heretic raid against the Academy itself.

"We are now on our final approach to Ankina," the transport pilot announced over the intercom. "Please reattach your safety webs, as there are high winds and chance of a bumpy landing."

The transport was a glorified cattlecar. Passengers sat stacked so tight they had to squeeze their legs together in a room that reeked of the worst of the krokator species. Zurra maneuvered his hand under a fat krokator matron to claw after his safety web. She shot him a dark look and turned away with a huff as he bashfully pulled the web diagonally across his torso.

Zurra peered out of the nearest window and saw cloud-topped mountains rising as the transport dropped altitude. Ankina was located in the heart of Rukkur's Third Continent, astride a river that ran all the way to the larger ports on the continent's southwestern coast.

"And if you look out to the right, you can see Mount Ank, the highest point on the continent and the fifth-tallest mountain on Rukkur," the pilot said cheerfully as the transport circled. Zurra saw only the dark, shadowy base of the massive peak and saw traces of urban sprawl on its lowermost slopes.

The transport whined and started to lower down to a spaceport built into the side of a mountain overlooking the city. It jolted to a stop and Zurra lurched forward awkwardly from the force of the landing.

"Thank you for travelling with us and enjoy your stay in Ankina! Frusrand guide your path!"

Zurra disembarked through the rear of the transport along with a herd of equally uncomfortable civilians, finally stopping to take in the view from the spaceport's landing pad. The spaceport was at an elevation a thousand feet above Ankina itself, and even so the sight of the dark Mount Ank was intimidating as it towered high above all surrounding peaks.

_And now to find Dakkal_ , he thought grimly as he headed for the nearest skyrail down to the city.

#

Krokandir, Planet Rukkur, Kroka System

There was an eerie silence over the city uncharacteristic of the day after Urkuran Eve. Armed patrols had scourged the streets in every district, soldiers hunched inside slow-moving armored _likala_ with their _okka_ rifles clutched tightly to their bodies. A priest stirred in an abandoned street, staring out of his home and adjusting his mask and shrouds. Two civilians darted through an empty market as quickly as possible, fearing that heretics were around the corner waiting to gun them down.

Nikkwill watched all these scenes on a massive wallscreen in his private lounge, sighing and turning his attention back to a pile of reports and missives. He haphazardly signed two orders and handed them to a gora standing at attention.

"Here, take these and distribute them. Make sure enough copies are made for every garrison commander in the 5th, 8th and 21st Districts to receive."

"Yes, High Prod Nikkwill."

He approached his window, staring out over Empire Plaza, which still hadn't been cleaned up from the mess made the night before. The sun was slowly setting and the northern mountains cast a long shadow over the city.

"Tarkas, do you think _Hudda Kugrall_ has contacts outside the Empire who are helping them subvert us?" he asked his confidant, sitting only a few feet away on a simple stool.

"The evidence would suggest it. The fatal wounds to the Emperor and his personal guards were from weapons foreign to me. I am sure that the same can be said for _Hudda Kugrall_. The Forbidden Army is a large and detestable enemy, but they alone cannot topple the Empire."

"But with assistance, they have killed the Emperor. Urkus Ruskir lies dead because we – no, I – failed to protect him."

"We all failed."

Nikkwill sighed and bowed his head. "Tarkas, you are my closest friend and one of my most capable officers. You understand that I cannot accept the death of the Emperor I promised the gods to protect by any means necessary."

"We could never have predicted this. I executed our riot control plan exactly as we had discussed. Sharm Zurra secured a path for the Emperor we all believed was safe."

"Zurra – where is he now?"

"The transport landed in Ankina a half hour ago. He told me an informant in the Progressive Movement gave him a lead that he is following up on. The _sukuda_ liaison in Ankina is meeting with Zurra to make arrangements as they move forward."

Nikkwill paused. "Zurra was the last soldier to see the Emperor alive. We have sponsored his rise in favor for years, but now I am plagued with doubts and concerns. How can we know that he is not working alongside _Hudda Kugrall_? Could he have turned, and we have been too blind to see it?"

"Sir, I respectfully request permission to criticize you."

Officers were forbidden to question the opinions of their superiors without granted permission. Nikkwill, however, welcomed his confidant's input.

"You always have it, Tarkas."

"Sharm Akgu Zurra is one of the most loyal soldiers in the Imperial military and his record speaks for itself. He has bled and drawn blood on several occasions for this Empire. He has been assigned to regular infantry units and elite _aruntuk_ squads and been the most exemplary warrior on every mission." Tarkas caught his breath, noticing that he sounded frustrated. "A disloyal soldier or heretic would not have followed Oraank down into that crater on Piskka. Last night, he ordered a Death Bird strike that he believed would help quell the riot. Right now, he's in Ankina trying to find enemies of the state. His lineage is important to consider as well. Akgu Juska was on track to be High Prod and he helped shape my career as an officer when he was my instructor at the Academy. I can only imagine how he shaped sons who grew up in his home."

Nikkwill waved off the comments. "Very well, Tarkas, you have made your point. I just hope your right, after what happened to..."

There was a knock on the door and a karp opened it. "High Prod, the Emperor-in-waiting Urkus Orkann is here to see you."

"See His Majesty in," Nikkwill replied and took a knee, as did Tarkas. With a full security detail in tow the Emperor Urkus Orkann entered, and he was as different from his father as night was from day. There was none of his father's frailty or weakness. He was a young, strong creature, built like a pogo.

"Rise and sit," he said with a commanding voice, indicating the comfortable seats in the corner of the office.

"Your Majesty, what brings you to us in person?"

"My coronation is in three hours," Orkann replied. "I wished to speak to you about matters of security in the wake of last night's events."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"In light of my father's death and the state of emergency I have declared, my presentation cannot be the same pompous circumstance it was for my father or grandfather. This is unfortunate, but necessary."

"I was going to advise the same course of action to you, Your Majesty."

"Good, then I expect a briefing in person on preliminary security plans tomorrow morning an hour after sunrise. I will see to it you have the arrangements in time."

Nikkwill was surprised by the sharpness of Orkann but respected it. His father had always missed the same direct attitude, which was reflected in the haphazard way he had run the Empire.

"Second, I feel it goes without saying that my father's death has revealed serious flaws in the way we handle security. I am aware that you planned the Urkuran as best you could, High Prod, and do not blame you for what happened. I will not add to your guilt, as I am sure what you already feel suffices."

Nikkwill did not respond. Orkann watched him intensively, trying to study his military commander's face for telling emotions.

"Changes will be made pertaining to the protection of my family," he continued after a brief pause. "In addition, there will be a thorough investigation into who perpetrated last night's attacks. Desecrating the Urkuran and murdering the Emperor cannot go unpunished. This was an insult to my family and to the whole Empire."

"We are already looking into the matter, Your Majesty," Tarkas responded. "Our best man is on the job and the _sukuda_ are sure to make their usual... inquiries."

"Excellent." Orkann paused and then added, "You are both very competent officers and I am glad to have you on my side. I will need the strength of such advisors."

"How do you wish for us to deal with Progressives?" Tarkas ventured. "Clearly, their rally was the catalyst for last night's riots. My instinct tells me that the assassins were opportunistic in the chaos."

"Heretics are our concern, not reformers. Make whatever arrests you deem necessary, but know that we cannot afford a crackdown now." Orkann rose. "On that note, I need to meet with Tolakko to discuss the matter further. Frusrand guide your paths today."

Both krokator dropped to their knees. "Frusrand bless you, Your Majesty."

#

Ankina, Planet Rukkur, Kroka System

Ankina was an ancient city, steeped in myth, legend and tradition. Walking its narrow streets gave the feeling of a krokator city several centuries in the past. It was a testament to the old Empire, the one that had conquered Rukkur in bloody wars before conquering space.

When the precursor to the modern state had been busy conquering the world under the legendary Emperor Agukkan, the last kingdom to avoid his armies had been Ankina, nestled in its mountainous stronghold for almost twenty years. Even after Agukkan vanquished the rebellious state in his final battle, citizens of Ankina had always had a fierce, independent mindset, and their city's culture had been shaped by their ancient tradition of resisting the Imperial City, usually in silence.

The Progressive Movement had thus found a suitable home in the largest city on the cold, frigid Third Continent far across the northern sea from Rukkur's other four landmasses. The city had never seen a strong Imperial presence and had fostered the Progressives with a sympathetic local regent until their presence was too strong to remove without force.

After making sure to stop to quickly pray and receive a blessing at a local temple, Zurra made his way into Old Ankina, in the heart of the city. The neighborhood's ancient blackrock structures rose before him, packed tight together so that the streets barely fit three krokator abreast. Compared to the Krokandir, Ankina was a backwater dump, surprising for such a large city on the capital world. Unlike the Imperial City's ancient buildings, very little care had been given to the crumbling communes and public houses. Many buildings had been boarded up with wood and clay, and protective bars covered windows of stores and homes, a rarity even in the Krokandir's most violent neighborhoods.

_So_ this _is what Progressive rule looks like,_ Zurra thought with a smirk. And indeed, it was every bit the liberal stronghold Tarkas had described – almost every civilian wore the yellow and blue sashes of the Movement around their waist, sometimes even in their _tokkom_ or around their arms. Zurra had been given a Progressive sash of his own to avoid attention, and he blended right in.

He found the inn he was looking for and knocked on the wooden door – covered in chiseled patterns for good luck – and a stern-looking matron opened it.

"Blessings of the Truuknan, madam," he said politely. "May I enter your inn?"

"Of course," she replied equally politely. Her voice carried warmth hidden by her stony facial expression.

A hefty, out-of-shape male peered out from behind a desk tucked around a corner inside the bare, empty lobby. "Hello, sharm! We have your room for you, all prepared..."

Zurra bowed his head gratefully. "I do not expect to be around often, I have business to attend to in the city. I thank you in advance for your hospitality."

"It is our honor, sharm. We serve four meals a day, all cooked by my wife and served in our dining room." The innkeeper handed Zurra a metallic disc. "The key to your room, sharm. Third floor, second door on your left. Enjoy your stay in Ankina!"

"I expect to," Zurra replied with appropriate cordiality. He ascended the stairs at the rear of the inn to the third floor and opened the door to his room. It was a small chamber with a simple bed, table and chair, as well as a screen along one wall displaying local news. It was bare of decorations spare an altar for daily prayers.

"Sharm Zurra, I was wondering if you were ever going to come," a voice said from behind him.

Zurra turned to see a dark green krokator with a blue and yellow Progressive band in his _tokkom_ leaning casually in the doorframe.

"You are very lucky that I am not an assassin, you would already have been dead," the stranger said. "May I come in?"

"Please, do," Zurra replied, setting a hand against the knife he had tucked into his waistband.

"Fear not, we serve the same Emperor," the krokator said before whispering under his breath, " _Dokai moi yohakka_ "

It was Archaic Krokam, which few could still speak, now mostly only used by agents of the secretive _sukuda_ to identify themselves to fellow servants of the Emperor. Zurra had been told that the short phrase – without knowing what it actually meant – was the password that his contact in Ankina would use, and he relaxed slightly.

"Do many _sukuda_ agents wear the colors of the Movement?"

The contact chuckled and had a seat on the bed. "There is a concept we have called 'deep cover'. Naturally, I cannot divulge my identity to you..."

"I am aware of your procedures. How did you find me so quickly?"

"Admiral Tarkas told me this was where you would be staying. I expected you earlier, Sharm Zurra. Your flight arrived an hour ago."

"I stopped to pray at the temple."

The agent nodded respectfully. "Understandable."

"So what news do you have for me?"

"Security is being tightened here after the Emperor's death, but no riots yet. The whole city is waiting apprehensively for a crackdown on the Movement."

"Is there one coming?"

"It is unlikely. We know the attack did not originate from here – the Progressives did not want to see the Emperor killed, not now when they are on the cusp of full legitimacy."

"It would seem counterproductive, yes."

"I suspect that your Imperial City Progressives are of a more docile nature, but here in Ankina, they are in control. The Imperial regent here is a figurehead – the city is run by Edrakk Molka, the second-in-command of the entire Movement."

"Molka... a familiar name."

"He was a candidate to become High Prod after Arranko retired. Molka respectfully resigned after being snubbed in favor of Nikkwill, whom he is said to detest."

Zurra sat on the chair and laid his hands on the table. "Do you think Molka or his lieutenants could be involved with _Hudda Kugrall?_ "

"Doubtful. Molka was a career officer and regime loyalist who built his career on brutally persecuting heretics. Besides, the upper hierarchy of the Movement is under too great of scrutiny to risk consorting with such unsavory characters."

"A friend of mine – one of the most reliable Progressive informants in the Imperial City, before you ask – suggested to me that a krokator named Kamaan Dakkal might be involved with heretics in the course of his business transactions."

The _sukuda_ agent raised an eyebrow. "Dakkal?"

"Yes. You know him?"

"You would be hard pressed to meet anyone in the city who does not. He has a sizeable territory in the southern part of the city that he calls his own. Dakkal offers 'protection' to businesses in the area, another way of saying that he takes bribes in return for not killing civilians. He has considerable influence beyond the city too."

"Why has he not been arrested?"

"Dakkal has connections in Molka's inner circle and amongst city authorities. Moving against him would get messy for those involved. The decision was made long ago that he is best left alone. Less trouble that way."

Zurra considered this information. "How do I get to Dakkal? If he has connections to a foreign group or to heretics, I want to know about it."

"Who is he accused of associating with?"

"My contact suggested he may have had Marsa Grakko's help in his rise to power here, but there was no definitive evidence."

"Ukkum strike me... Dakkal is a criminal, yes, but he used his friends in high places to pave his way to power. I cannot imagine him being backed by the Forbidden Army."

"I can only hope to find out, friend," Zurra replied. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"He is said to be difficult to find. He has made many enemies over the years and if he is involved with heretics, he has probably left the city by now after last night's events. I will ask some questions and get you information. In the meantime, try not to stray too far from this inn. Ankina is not known for being a safe city."

"Understood. Frusrand guide your path today."

"And yours, Sharm Zurra." The _sukuda_ agent rose, smiled and left, leaving Zurra to ponder the fact that his job had been reduced to chasing criminals.
Chapter Ten: The French Connection

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

Gresham woke up with a start. The sun was shining through his office window and he rubbed his eyes to adjust to the light. He realized that he had been woken up by the loud, intrusive beep of someone trying to enter his office.

"Come on in," he said, before realizing they couldn't. "Unlock," he quickly added, and his far wall window seamlessly went from egg-colored white to a clear view of Moss looking flustered through the window.

"Jesus, John, did you sleep here?"

"I was up doing research all night."

"On...?"

"Well, I wrote a report for you on the disaster in the Empire," Gresham said testily. "Then I read over Vance's files, and something's not right. There's something missing from his files completely. Here, I'll show you..."

Gresham staggered off of his small, uncomfortable couch and turned on his screen. He pressed a few buttons and brought up the Vance report on the display. "I have a hard time believing that a Section One operative, especially one as good as Vance, would really spend over a week hunting down that invoice from Ventura. I could follow the bureaucratic trail to get to the murdered processor – Alan Evans – in about half an hour."

Moss leaned over Gresham's shoulder. "What am I looking at?"

"This is an official Allied protocol guide for how to file and process weapons requests from depositories. And it gets really specific too. Evans was in charge of handling paperwork and information from _only_ greater Los Angeles. He didn't have anything to do with any other similar weapons depots in California or other regions. Evans was the _only_ person Vance would have to go talk to. And I doubt that Vance was worse at looking up Alliance guidelines than I am."

Gresham knew from the silence that Moss was contemplating this find. The colonel finally ventured, "How has Section One not seen this yet?"

"Once Vance and Evans were attacked, the matter got transferred to SIS. I need to see their files to figure out what else is known about the whole matter."

"Good luck with that."

"I know it won't be easy. Apparently all of Vance's files from the last half-year have been transferred to an SIS database and Cray put his personal stamp on it."

"Over a single murder?"

Gresham shrugged. "You'd think Spec Intel has more important things to put Level Two classification on. I think Cray just doesn't want us snooping in his jurisdiction."

"I can try to see what I can do, and worst comes to worst I'll get Godford involved. Still, we all know how tight-lipped that slimy bastard is with information SIS has and we don't."

"I'm going to go see Chuck in Section One – he'll probably know more personally about Vance's investigation, and might still have access to pieces that weren't in the official report I read."

Moss nodded in approval. "Good. I have to sort out more of this Imperial debacle, but let me know how it goes with Beveridge. He'll probably tell you whatever you need to know."

#

Moss was right. General Charles Beveridge, the head of Section One, allowed Gresham to drop in without an appointment to see him in his office two floors above Section Four in the crumbling old building Military Intelligence called home.

"I don't think I've ever had the pleasure, John, of actually working with you in person. Godford told me what was going on, and I'm more than happy to help."

"It's a pleasure, General. I just wanted to know a little bit more about Vance's investigation into the missing weapons from Ventura, if that's alright."

Beveridge stroked his thin beard and stared out his office's window, watching HUVRs zoom by down Crest Avenue. "It was very cut and dry. A large consignment of weaponry had been removed from the Ventura depository and Vance was asked to figure out where they went. Nothing too unusual at the outset."

Gresham nodded. "Why would Section One get involved, then? Couldn't you just trace the authorization back electronically?"

"The authorization was confidential, so we really just wanted to make sure everything was done according to procedure since the guns never showed up at the camp they were earmarked for. I never thought it would get this complicated, honestly. We do routine checkups like this all the time if we suspect something might be a little off."

"Okay, well, here's where things get confusing for me; I managed to trace the invoice back to Alan Evans' office in thirty minutes, but Vance hunted Evans down a whole week after the theft. This is as if he was assigned a project, flew to Pollux and back and then walked in on Evans getting stabbed. What's wrong with that picture?"

Beveridge considered the question before saying, "That is a bit odd, I agree. Although... he was working on something else when he volunteered for the assignment."

This caught Gresham by surprise. "What?"

"Vance didn't need a week to find Evans, you're completely right. Vance was working on an investigation before then and when the Ventura issue popped up, I originally assigned it to a junior agent. Jeff came in here literally forty-five minutes later and demanded that he be given the job."

"Why would he do that?"

Beveridge shrugged. "Beats the shit out of me. Vance seemed to think it would have something to do with his ongoing inquiry."

"He was working on something else?"

"Yes. He had a project going with SIS... something about weapons smugglers working out of the Zone. Not the kind of thing we usually get involved with."

"I'm really confused," Gresham muttered and placed his face in his hands.

"I was too. Not just that SIS was voluntarily working with us, but because Vance usually kept me in the loop on whatever he was working on. You knew the guy, he wasn't secretive."

Gresham leaned back in his seat. "What do you think he stumbled upon?"

"I had no idea what it was. Something got his attention and made him hunt down Evans. It's hard to say if Vance knew the attack was coming or not."

"What a bad stroke of luck."

"I know, especially after that attempt on the President's life yesterday. I have a nagging feeling that Vance found out something that was worth shutting him up over, but you'd think that he'd have told us if he knew about the bombing beforehand."

"That's why I don't think that's what it was, though Godford and the President disagree."

Beveridge nodded. "And I guess it's your job to find out what that was. Good luck. SIS is clamping down on the Vance investigation like a dragon guarding its gold. I've never seen anything quite like it, and I've been here for twenty years."

"Who was Vance working with at SIS?"

"No idea, he never told me," Beveridge said. "Although...Vance seemed to be awfully busy in the evening, and the man was chronically single for the entire time I've known him. I get the feeling he was seeing a woman."

"A woman?"

"He never mentioned it, but he constantly had to 'go meet someone for dinner.' Vance also called me from Marble Heights once. Not that that's significant, but Marble Heights is a ways away from his place down in Fullerton."

"Do you think this woman he was working with lived in Marble Heights?"

"Who knows? I haven't been working as a field agent in years. You're better suited as an investigator than I am, honestly." Beveridge sighed and glanced at the floor. "I'm still surprised Vance got in with SIS to begin with. Maybe that's why Simon Cray is spooked now. He's probably worried somebody will come after his own soon."

That comment caught Gresham's attention. "Wait, do you think..."

"What, Major?"

"Carl Brighton was found dead a few days ago. He was the head of Alien Affairs and from what I've heard he was one of Cray's most trusted deputies."

"What are you suggesting?"

"The Zone is overflowing with smugglers and gun-dealers. Brighton may have been targeted by the same ETs who came after Evans. If Vance was working with SIS, information may have made it to Brighton, and he was killed for it."

"It's a thought. I have a meeting I need to go to, but please keep me informed about what happens. Vance was – still is, actually – one of my best."

Gresham saluted smartly and then shook Beveridge's hand. "Thank you, sir. I'll let you know what I manage to dig up."

#

The Palm was one of Santa Monica's most prestigious restaurants, located about a block from the beach and overlooking the sparkling Pacific Ocean from its second-story perch. It was frequented as much by politicians as by businessmen, celebrities and self-important socialites. More so than anywhere else, it was the premier dining destination of the city.

A bright, ironically cheerful-looking sign announced "No Extraterrestrials Will Be Served" by the front door. Gresham regarded the sign as he waited for the hostess to approach him.

"Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?"

"I'm meeting my friend here... The table should be under the name Reed."

"Oh, of course. Commissioner Reed arrived a few minutes ago."

She led Gresham up a narrow staircase to the lofty Palm on the second floor. Gresham instantly recognized at least fifteen patrons in the packed restaurant. Waiters hurried around between tables, and the atmosphere was surprisingly hectic.

Reed had managed to secure a table out on the outdoor veranda. He lightly sipped his glass of water and waved when he saw Gresham approaching. "Good to see you, John. How are you?"

"I'm doing fine, thanks. Yourself?" Gresham took a seat, laying notice to a bandage on Reed's hairline. A gash or bruise from the explosion, no doubt.

"Recovering as best I can. Doctors said I was concussed when I bumped my head, though I don't know if we'd be here if you hadn't thrown us both to the ground. I think I might just owe you my life, John."

"Don't mention it, Greg. We both bailed each other out of some sticky situations back when we were in the shit. We'll call it even."

They shook hands and Reed leaned back. "The explosion made me think of the war. How I haven't heard sounds like that in close to twenty years. Seeing the injured... brought back some tough memories."

"Same here. What'd you do after they let you out of the hospital?"

"Went home and gave my wife a big, wet kiss. Then I hugged my kids." Reed swirled his water. "How'd you cope?"

"From what I remember, went to a dive down on the beach in Malibu and woke up with a skull-splitting headache and a pretty twenty-something in my apartment."

"I don't even want to think about how you made it up to Topanga from the beach while you were drunk."

"Yeah, I don't either."

"So anyways... how's the President?" Reed asked, with understandable concern in his eyes.

"Well, he's safe last I heard, that's what's important." Gresham said tacitly, electing not to mention his surprise visit from the President the night before. "I don't think anybody will be taking their eyes off of him for a few days at least."

Reed nodded. "I'm glad. This has made all attempts at legislative efforts very difficult, as I'm sure you can imagine. The political climate was tense enough already. I've never seen so many fingers pointing in so many directions in my entire career. The contractor oversight bill is as good as dead in the water for the time being."

"A lot of people have been fired already, and more to come."

"Speaking of which, how's your job security? I heard you just got reassigned from Section Four."

"No... I'm still JLOC. I just got given an assignment that involves a little more hands-on work. Where'd you hear that from?"

"I'm on the Military Oversight Committee, remember? Richard Godford usually keeps me in the loop."

Gresham considered that for a moment. If Godford had told Reed, who else might know he was doing a special job?

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Reed offered, seeking to break the silence.

"Well, I'm not really sure," Gresham said slowly, before he had an idea. "Hey, actually, what kind of political clout does your membership on Military Oversight carry as far as SIS is concerned?"

Reed waved a waitress over so he could place his order. "I'd like a Caesar salad please, and a beer." He looked towards Gresham.

"I already ate," Gresham replied. "I'll have a beer too."

The waitress nodded and left. Reed turned his attention back to Gresham. "That'd be the purview of the Intelligence Committee, which I've never sat on. Why do you ask?"

"It would help a lot with my investigation if I could get at some of the information Simon Cray is sitting on. Actually, it would make it so that I _have_ an investigation."

Reed leaned back in his chair and looked out over the ocean. "Simon Cray has been in charge of SIS for twenty-two years. He _is_ the Special Intelligence Service. The man is a reclusive old weasel who hates politicians and military personnel. His sole goal in life is to screw as many of us over as he possibly can."

"Yeah, I know, I've heard the stories. Never met the man, but heard the stories."

"If Cray is being tight-lipped, there's not much I can do. However... I do know who on the Commission is perfect for this."

"Who?"

"I'm embarrassed to even suggest to you that you seek his help, but Jack French and Simon Cray have been enemies ever since French got elected to the Commission seven years ago."

"Wait... you mean the Commissioner Jack French from Mars? The Allied Socialist who acts as personal crusader for Hessian Engineering and its affiliates and thinks he can beat Paine in next year's election?"

Reed nodded. "The one and the same."

"What's he got against Simon Cray? You'd think two insects like that would get along swimmingly."

"Well, there's a variety of theories as to what the animosity stems from. Some say that Cray has proof French fudged the vote on Mars, and others say that French has a deep-seated hatred of Cray because of his insistence on keeping SIS operations free from oversight. French is a strong advocate of more government transparency."

Gresham pouted and mumbled, "Jesus, this is turning into a huge mess. When do I get to go back to just being a boring old analyst again?"

"There's wishful thinking if I ever heard it. Tell you what; I'll set up an appointment for you with French. I'd be stunned if he didn't offer to help you." Reed paused with faux severity and then added with a grin, "That doesn't change the fact that he represents everything wrong with modern politics. Don't misread me."

Gresham chuckled. "Okay, okay, Greg, I won't. Just let me know what you arrange, the sooner I can meet with Jack French the better."

"This afternoon work for you?"

"Sure, why not."

"Then I'll call him and ask, and let you know."

#

Gresham reopened Vance's report on his screen once he got back to his office, staring blankly at the words without really reading them. _What had gone wrong?_

Lieutenant Jeffrey Vance, Military Intelligence Division
Section One

7/7/42

Los Angeles, California, USA, Terra

With regards to the theft of significant amounts of materiel belonging to the Allied Marine Corps, this report seeks to identify the perpetrators of the crime (perpetrated 7/4/42) at the Alliance Armed Forces Munitions Depository in the Los Angeles Suburban-Designate Sector of Ventura, California.

From preliminary investigations, the weapons were requisitioned under Marine Corps protocol. The authorization for the removal of weapons was given from an unidentified source, using a loophole in the system by which name identification is not directly given.

My earliest suspicion would suggest smugglers operating out of the Southern California Extraterrestrial Zone are responsible. Weapons dealers in the ETZ have long had contacts within the Alliance military with which they acquire their goods. I feel this is most likely no different.

In light of the sheer size of the theft, early evidence suggests there may be a fully fledged smuggling ring with strong backing by someone or some entity in the Alliance bureaucracy, suggesting that the illegal requisition of weapons from Ventura might be an inside job.

In the event that smugglers are not involved and the weapons were merely misplaced by accident, the invoice detailing the removal of the materiel from Ventura will lend itself insight into the process from which the guns were taken out. We still have not compiled a full inventory of what exactly is missing, due largely to the size of the depository and difficulty in the past few days in maneuvering the Marine Corps database, a wholly confusing and unusable system of information.

Gresham rubbed his eyes and read over the report twice again. It was so standardized, so plainly written, so matter-of-fact. He knew Vance was a damn good field agent, but the report was nonsense. It held nothing of real value. He as an analyst could have written better than Vance's summation of the events.

_Something's off here,_ he thought slowly, trying to pinpoint what exactly was missing. Why was Vance not including everything in the report? Gresham had the sense that Vance was hiding something that he had intentionally neglected to write down.

Or, perhaps, someone had doctored the report to leave key details out.

He was stirred from his thoughts when his voxcom started buzzing. He picked it up and answered with clear irritation, "Hello?"

"Major Gresham? This is Jack French... Is this a bad time?"

Gresham's eyebrows perked up. "No, Commissioner French, not at all. What can I do for you?"

"Normally I'd schedule an appointment through my secretary, but I'm on a tight schedule. However, Mr. Reed explained to me that you have something to discuss with me that would be worth my while. What are you doing this afternoon?"

"I'm not quite sure yet, honestly," Gresham replied. He turned off the holographic report. "I don't think I'm busy."

"Good. I have a speaking engagement in Fullerton in a few hours. My LUXR can be at Defense in twenty minutes and we can talk on the way. I'll pay for your train or cab fare back to Crest Ave if you want, it's no hassle."

Gresham considered the offer before pausing and bringing up Vance's personnel file. He was listed at an address in Fullerton.

"Sounds great, Commissioner French. See you in twenty."

Gresham hung up and looked closely at Vance's personnel file. What were the odds that he had something at his apartment that would shed light on the missing pieces of his report?

_It's worth a shot,_ Gresham thought and opened his desk drawer to retrieve his gun.

#

Twenty minutes later, as promised, a platinum-colored LUXR pulled up to the curb outside of MID's annex a block from the Defense Department. One of the doors hissed open and Gresham climbed inside and took a seat next to a large, beefy bodyguard, who quickly frisked him and showed surprise at his discovery that Gresham was armed.

"Don't worry, I don't plan to use it," Gresham stated disarmingly, handed the weapon to the guard and returned his attention to his host. "I haven't been in one of these in a few years."

"Glad I could make your ride enjoyable," Jack French replied with a chuckle. French was probably in his early forties, although he looked ten years younger. He was tanned, had a set of flawless white teeth and his dark blonde hair was cut almost too perfectly. Gresham sensed a keenly intelligent mind studying him behind the otherwise unassuming, boyish eyes.

The LUXR started up and zipped down Crest Ave towards the A4, another major superhighway through Los Angeles. Gresham watched familiar buildings zoom by as French poured them both drinks.

"I don't know the full details of your assignment, Major, but whatever it is you're up to, I'll trust you have it under control," French began. "Greg Reed and I don't see eye to eye on a lot of things. He's a good man though, has a lot of integrity."

"I know. I served under him on Puckshot."

"Well God bless you both," French said with genuine respect. "I served eighteen months aboard the ANV _Nairobi_ , but we never saw much combat. I can't even begin to imagine what it must have been like on the ground."

Gresham considered his recent spate of flashbacks and dreams, but merely shrugged. "Well, it's all in the past now. You were saying?"

"Oh, right. Reed mentioned to me that you're having some trouble dealing with SIS." French studied Gresham's expression carefully. "I want to help."

"I figured you wouldn't have invited me out here otherwise. What's in it for you?"

"What do you mean?"

Gresham paused. "Assuming you win the ASP nomination for next year's election, you will be going against Howard Paine, a man I respect and, honestly, who I regard as a friend. I am also close with Greg Reed, another one of your political rivals. Why would you help me, knowing exactly where my loyalties lie?"

The question seemed to catch French off guard. He frowned, poured himself another drink and took a large gulp. "Politics aside, my issues with Cray come first. If President Paine wants something Cray has, I want Cray to have to give it up."

"Notwithstanding that Paine leads the Galactic Democrats."

"Yes. I am not a petty politician, Major Gresham. I believe in pragmatism and bipartisanship."

"Especially when it gives you a chance to screw Simon Cray."

French broke a wide, knowing grin. "I'm glad we understand each other."

"Fair enough. You still haven't told me how you're going to help with Cray and SIS. You aren't on the pertinent committees."

"It was just an offer. I'll see what I can do at Shoregrove, and try to force Cray into getting off whatever gem he's sitting on. Commissioners from both parties would lend me a sympathetic ear in that endeavor."

"I doubt there'd be much to force him into revealing, Mr. French," Gresham said with a sigh. "The man just likes to remind everyone that he knows something more than them."

"Believe me, I know," French muttered softly, almost under his breath. He scratched at his neck as the LUXR pulled off the A4. "Where do you want us to drop you off? We're in Fullerton now."

"Just put me at the transit center, I'll catch a ride back."

The LUXR pulled up to the shiny, brand-new Fullerton Transit and Exchange Center and the door slid open for Gresham. The bodyguard, with a cold look, returned his gun as Gresham exited out onto the curb.

French leaned forward and extended his hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Major. If you need anything, please don't hesitate."

"Thank you, Mr. Commissioner," Gresham replied and shook French's hand firmly. "I appreciate the offer. I'll stay in touch?"

"Please do, Major Gresham. Have a good day!"

The LUXR sped away down the street, deeper into Fullerton, and Gresham stretched before heading to a large AI hub in the transit center.

He quickly plugged Vance's address into the machine and waited a few seconds while it calculated a route to his apartment. As it turned out, the apartment was only fifteen blocks south of the transit center, next to a large shopping center overlooking the A4.

Gresham started walking south, taking in the sights of Fullerton, which he had frequented only once before in his time in Los Angeles. It was a boring, dull, middle-class suburban city, quiet and with a noted lack of visual stimulus or engagement. He ducked around a HUVR to cross the street in front of a generic, stucco five-story apartment complex with the shopping center to his back. Vance lived on the fourth floor, according to his address, in an apartment overlooking an identical building.

He rang the buzzer to the building and an AI voice replied, "Good afternoon. Please state name and purpose of visit."

"Major John Gresham, here to see Jeffrey Vance," Gresham said, already reaching into his pocket to pull out his viral card, a tool issued to MID officers in case they needed to override simple AI functions, such as cheap apartment security. While most advanced AI could resist viral cards, the apartments here in Fullerton didn't look like they'd been upgraded in years. Gresham was thankful every day that his home in the Palisades had strong, safe security.

"Request granted. Please enter," the AI replied and the door slid open. Gresham paused. Someone had to have confirmed him from Vance's apartment to let him in the building.

Someone was in the apartment already.

Gresham walked through the apartment complex's lobby briskly and put a hand on his gun, holstered on his hip. He slowly pulled it out and gripped it tightly, staring up the stairwell to the upper floors. The last time he'd fired it somewhere other than a shooting range was in the war.

What if those Balgoshan bastards are up there? Jesus, somebody's up there waiting for me. Shit shit shit.

Gresham ascended the stairs one at a time, glancing around corners to look for possible assailants. The apartment complex was dead silent and empty. Something was not right.

"Excuse me?" a voice said from behind as he ascended the stairs from the third to the fourth floor.

Gresham spun, raising his gun instinctively and took aim at the source of the voice. A surprised-looking man stepped backward, holding his hands up.

"Don't shoot! Please, don't shoot!"

Realizing that he was aiming a gun at a civilian while in full uniform, Gresham lowered his weapon. "Jesus, you scared the shit out of me," he breathed. "I'd like you to leave the building immediately, there may be an intruder here."

"Aren't you an intruder?"

Gresham paused. "No. I work for the government. Please leave immediately, sir. For your safety."

The man nodded and quickly bolted for the stairwell and disappeared. Gresham figured that the man would soon call the police and there would be the inevitable questions as to why he was trespassing inside the building brandishing a gun.

_Though if you think about it,_ _someone_ did _let me in,_ Gresham thought wryly and quickly ascended the stairs to the fourth floor. Vance lived in apartment 408, at the end of the hall. Gresham aimed his gun straight at the closed door, before scanning the other length of the hall for any possible ambushers waiting behind him.

He turned his attention back to Vance's apartment, and he crept down the hallway towards the door, sliding along the wall with his gun firmly trained on the doorway.

He reached the door and crossed the frame quickly so that he would be on the hinged side. It was an older door with a handle, and Gresham touched the handle carefully, pressing down on it ever so slightly. It budged. The door was unlocked. He pressed down on the handle again and nudged it open with his foot. The door started to swing inwards and Gresham crouched down, waiting for something to happen. There was only silence.

I know you're in there.

Gresham peered around the doorway into the apartment. There was a short hall that ended in a door, and there was another door on the left. There was an opening into what appeared to be a kitchen on the right. He quickly stepped inside the apartment, leaving the door open in case he needed to escape. The kitchen was empty and connected with a small living room. Vance had a large screen set up and two comfortable sofas.

Gresham slowly opened the door on the left, and saw a bathroom similar to his own in the dark. He moved towards the door at the end of the hall to discover Vance's bedroom, small and messy, cluttered with paperwork and clothing.

Only it wasn't clutter. Somebody had gone through the contents of his bedroom, in a search for something.

"Lights," a voice said behind Gresham and the apartment's AI turned on the lights. Gresham was surprised and tried to turn, but the door slammed in his face.

"Drop your gun!" a female voice barked from through the door.

"I'm not dropping my gun unless you drop yours," Gresham answered. "How do I know you won't shoot me?"

There was a long pause. "I'm not a killer. Who are you?"

"A friend of Jeff Vance's. And you?"

There was an even longer pause. "An acquaintance... Wait a minute..."

The door opened without warning and Gresham raised his gun only to find the barrel of a gun pointing back. He and Lara Taylor were aiming right at each other's heads.

"Information distribution, my ass!" he cursed. "Maybe if you're stealing it! How'd you get in here?"

"You think they only give viral cards to Military Intelligence?"

Gresham was stunned. "You're SIS..."

Lara breathed out and lowered her gun so that it was pointing at Gresham's chest, not his forehead. "And I read your file, Gresham, you're Section Four. Why are you here?"

"Vance was a friend of mine."

Lara brought her gun back up, the barrel only inches from Gresham's eyes. "Bullshit. Who are you working for?"

"I'm the Junior Liaison Officer to the Commission. J-L-O-C. I work for Military Intelligence."

Lara's finger twitched. "I can protect myself, Major Gresham. Who are you working for? How much do you know?"

"I know nothing. Why else would I come down here?"

Lara stepped back slightly, heading towards the door. "Please don't try to follow me, Major... I'll shoot you, I swear to God..."

"I'm not here to pick fights, Ms. Taylor," Gresham said calmly and stepped out into the hallway. "Please calm down."

"Sam, now!" Taylor barked and Gresham turned to his left to see a shadow flash out of the kitchen. A violent shock struck him in the side of the neck and he gasped, collapsing against the wall, his eyes watering and the world pitching and turning as the stun-gun took its toll and he slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter Eleven: Retribution

Ankina, Planet Rukkur, Kroka System

Turka's death had noticeably changed Zurra's father. News arrived to the Akgu household in the traditional manner: a broken sword, dark violet robe and dented helmet were brought in a plain tarwood box marked with the symbol of Kurkand, the god who tended the dead in the Last World. It was delivered by an officer with as high of a rank as sharm, although that was only for soldiers of rank lower than he. All sharms and tarls had their Death Armor taken to families by a prod, and every prod was given the honor of the incumbent High Prod being the harbinger of news.

Juska had stood in the doorway hesitantly once he saw the sharm doing what he had once done himself in that position, and did not say a word.

"Prod Akgu Juska, I regret to inform you that your son, Cadet Akgu Turka, is dead. I dutifully present you with his ceremonial Death Armor, and extend the condolences of the High Prod and Emperor to you. Your son died with honor. Kurkand keep him in his mercy."

Juska wordlessly received the box and set it inside the doorway before quietly shutting the door, half-heartedly saluting the sharm as he did.

Zurra approached the box but his father raised a hand. "No, son. This is for me alone."

Later that night, Zurra and his younger sister had snuck out of their rooms as planned to see what Juska was doing. The massive prod, wearing his full armor, was sitting in a circle of red chalk he had drawn in the house's prayer room. He had lit a candle for each of the Truuknan and was bowed before a makeshift altar. The violet robe was spread across the altar, and at its center was the helmet with the noticeable piece missing. The two halves of the sword flanked the helmet, and crushed flowers and roots had been sprinkled on the display.

"Ugrand, I thank you for my son, and for the time he had. Frusrand, I beg you, show me the path I must take to avenge and honor my son. And Kurkand, keep him in your eternal and unending love and mercy."

Zurra recalled a very different scene he had observed years later, soon after he had been promoted from karp to sharm. He himself had delivered a box of Death Armor to an older krokator woman on Daruundo, where he had been stationed at the time. When she opened the door and saw the box every mother in the Empire dreaded receiving, she wailed and threw a punch at Zurra that he barely dodged.

He had put down the box as carefully and reverently as he could and had to call for a neighbor and the woman's younger son to come assist him in restraining her. Zurra had tried to recite his respectful message to her but was constantly interrupted by her screams and curses. He had been referred to as a _bunchu_ and a _hrain_ multiple times by the time he left in frustration.

_What will my sister say on the day I fail to return from an assignment?_ Zurra wondered. Barely thirty, a promotion to a tarlship remained highly unlikely for at least another few years, thus placing him directly in the line of fire in his immediate career. Especially with the kinds of assignments he was now regularly receiving.

Zurra snapped out of his thoughts as the skyrail pulled to a stop at a station in southern Ankina, near the Ankor River. He was exhausted, having slept poorly while adjusting to the seven-hour time difference between Ankina and the Krokandir.

The whole lift ride down from the top of the skyrail platform to street level, Zurra thought about his time at the Academy. Had he really learned anything he could not have gained in the field? He was a combat operative, and a good one. Often, he had grudgingly thought that the Academy was a front to give the Empire's elite bureaucratic military positions and shield them from physical harm.

A staggering percentage of goras coming out of the Academy suffered swift deaths. Those who spent most of their time focusing on academic pursuits were often unfit for combat, and they died quicker than enlisted infantry grunts who knew only field training and little else. Conversely, those who neglected their studies were often dismissed from the Academy for not withholding its standards. About a fourth of all krokator admitted to the Academy would never graduate.

Zurra left the skyrail station and walked briskly down the quiet street. The Imperial garrison was out in full force alongside hired security working at the behest of the Progressives. Southern Ankina was the city's most dangerous sector, and in the wake of the assassination of Urkus Ruskir two days prior, the tension was at a breaking point. In the eyes of the soldiers Zurra could detect a deep-seated hatred of every Progressive on the street, and the civilians in their blue and yellow sashes watched the Imperials warily, almost expecting to be beaten senseless with Obedience Sticks.

A familiar face appeared out of a crowd. It was Zurra's _sukuda_ contact, and they approached each other warily. The spy waved and indicated a nearby _gukka_ bar.

"Good evening, Sharm Zurra, I see you received my message. How are you?"

Zurra entered the bar with him. "I am fine. You have information on Dakkal for me?"

"It appears your target has left the city, but I learned more about his operations. Most of his holdings here in South Ankina are managed by a one Fakkid Rurekk." The agent showed a hint of a smile. "The name is familiar, yes?"

Zurra raised an eyebrow. "Yes, he was a _belekki_ player for Sartokken over a decade ago. They won three consecutive Crystal Crowns with him riding for them."

"And do you remember his terrible accident in the semifinals before their third championship?"

"It was my first year at the Academy. Sartokken led Brekenio by three goals when Rurekk fell off his pogo and was trampled. He was lucky to be able to walk again. It was a tragic day for the sport – he was a rising talent."

"You will be surprised to hear that he has spent most of his retirement running amateur gambling operations at various taverns here in South Ankina."

Zurra considered this information. "And he is somehow connected to Dakkal?"

"Of course. Rurekk oversees Dakkal's taverns and _gukka_ bars. Maybe even the one we are in right now. He represents Dakkal in this particular neighborhood both as business manager and as a gangland enforcer. People on the streets know and fear him."

"And how do I approach someone with such notoriety?"

"His main base of operations appears to be a tavern a few blocks south of here. It is a gambler's den, but the city official in this neighborhood turns a blind eye for a cut of the profit. His predecessor was thrown off of a skyrail for asking too many questions."

"What do you suggest I do? I can hardly walk in there, demand to see Rurekk and begin asking questions. I would never survive."

"Luckily for you, we planned ahead." The contact handed Zurra a small pocket beacon. "Carry this with you. Set the beacon off if trouble arises. Two eight-man teams of _sukuda_ are waiting, each within a hundred yards of the tavern. A third team of twelve, under my personal command, will be the reinforcement in case any situation expands out of the tavern. I trust you are armed?"

"I have a blade and an _okka_ pistol."

"Good. We have not inserted any reinforcements in the tunnel system, however. Doing so would surely have attracted scrutiny and threatened detection. If Rurekk makes his escape into the catacombs, you will need to keep the beacon so we can track your progress in your pursuit. I realize this plan has flaws, but we do not want to spook Dakkal if he is still on the planet with a massive show of force."

Zurra nodded in approval "That is a good plan."

The _sukuda_ agent paused for a long moment. "Rurekk is our only lead to finding Dakkal now that he has left Ankina. If Dakkal is in an alliance with the _Hudda Kugrall_ , he may already have fled the planet. If we are lucky, Rurekk knows where. I cannot overstate how critical this operation is."

"Do we know that Rurekk is even at the tavern?" Zurra asked as he rose. He felt that that was the most integral part of the mission.

"Yes. He was spotted entering only half an hour ago and has not been seen leaving. You had better go soon, Sharm Zurra. The building is made of blackrock with a white banner attached to the front, across the street from a butcher. There is a very crude statue of a pogo in front of it."

Zurra and his _sukuda_ contact clasped hands. "Thank you."

"Frusrand guide your path."

#

It wasn't hard to spot the _sukuda_ lookout in front of Rurekk's tavern. An old muunfi sat watching a news bulletin on his personal screen on a bench next to a statue of a roaring pogo that obscured the entrance to the nearly-derelict building sitting on the corner of a busy intersection.

Zurra paused at the entrance to the intersection, watching the tavern's dirtied banner flap in the breeze, putting a hand against his the _okka_ gun stuck into the back of the Progressive sash he had tied around his civilian tunic. To hide his officer braids, which were a terrible nuisance to remove, he had pulled a wide-brimmed peasants hat low over his face. The hat was meant to cover poorly-applied _tokkom_ knots when in public, as the lower classes of krokator society could not afford the expensive, professionally tied ones that required constant upkeep.

_Now is the time to turn back. Once you enter the tavern, it is done._ He paused, considering what his father had once told him: "A true coward takes no action, for they do not foresee what _can_ happen, only what they think _will_ happen." It was a dated adage, but Zurra understand the basic message. He wanted to believe nothing would go wrong. He had a gut feeling, however, that his life was about to change for the worse.

And with that thought gnawing at the back of his mind, he ambled across the street to the tavern door and entered without acknowledging the lookout.

Rurekk's tavern was a mix of _gukka_ bar, beastwine emporium and fetish house. Barely-clad males and females of all four major species that lived in the Empire were chained to posts and walls throughout the establishment, subject to humiliation and the whims of perverted customers. At the heart of this tavern was a massive ring for hittik fights. The hittiks were small but aggressively vicious tripedal herbivores that sported a pair of massive claws meant to hack through foliage, but were perfect for tearing deep into soft flesh.

Zurra approached the ring, where five hittiks were enlocked in a thrashing ball of red skin as they hacked away at each other, bluish blood splattering across the already saturated floor. Tall, brawny krokator stood on a platform above the fighting ring itself, collecting bets.

"You want to make a bet?" a thin, sickly old krokator asked Zurra. He smiled, showing two poorly-filed and rotting tusks in a mouth with few other teeth.

"I have very little money," Zurra replied. "I just want to watch a good fight."

"Well, I have four friends over there who think you should make a bet," the old krokator said, indicating four krokator as large as Zurra sitting at a nearby table. One of them stroked a crude bludgeon placed casually on the table while another took a long drink of beastwine, staring straight at Zurra as drops of the brackish red liquor rolled down his neck. All four had knives clearly tucked into their boots.

Zurra turned to face the enforcer. "I already told you. I just want to watch the fight and have a drink."

The old krokator revealed that he too was wielding a knife, subtly pulling it from his belt. "Do you know who we are? You make a bet or leave. Stay without paying and you join Haldroi in the Origin World, _hrain_."

"Put the knife away and step aside," Zurra growled, clenching one fist while grabbing the handle to his own blade, in a sheath strapped to the inside of his shirt, with his other hand.

"As you wish," the old enforcer sneered and lunged forward with the knife.

Zurra brought his elbow down on his attacker's forearm, pinning it against the railing as he stepped aside to avoid the knife. He heard a crack as the bone broke before he threw a hard punch to the enforcer's face.

Two thugs moved against Zurra instantly. Grabbing the screaming old enforcer with one hand, he stepped into their approach, driving his shoulder into one while shoving the old krokator into the other. His knife was out in an instant, and he cut a deep gash into the arm of the first thug.

He ducked to avoid the business end of a sharp white blade and backed up, seeing the alarmed crowd move away from the brawl with a panicked look of apprehension.

"Enough!" he heard a voice bellow just as he sidestepped another jab and struck his attacker with force in the jaw.

The room went silent and the cumulative attention turned to a figure standing above the commotion on a second floor balcony. Fakkid Rurekk was a lean but intimidating green-skin, his _belekki_ tattoos colorful on his dark arms. He wore the colors of the Movement but also rich, flamboyant garb. He seemed out of place in such a seedy establishment.

Zurra bowed his head respectfully. "My apologies, sir. I defend myself when attacked. If you want me to leave, I understand."

"You fight better than any of these idiots." Rurekk licked his unfiled tusks and glared at his men. "Get out of here, cowards. My piss is worth more than your contracts." The two thugs sheepishly moved towards the door, the crowd parting to let them through. He turned his attention to Zurra. "And you, peasant, come up here and dine with me. I wish to speak to you."

Zurra saw two new enforcers approaching him from behind, both indicating a spiral staircase behind the bar where beastwine was being served out of massive barrels. He ascended the stairs with both enforcers in tow, and found Rurekk sitting at a private table removed from the other patrons on the balcony. He was being massaged by two muunfi, one male and one female.

"Sit, please," Rurekk said, looking over Zurra's physique. "You are very fit. I trained for years when I was younger to be only half your size. How do you do it?"

"I have rigorous work. I am a builder here in the city, and I have labored on the brigs of space vessels in the Outer Ring."

Rurekk nodded in approval. "Where did you learn to fight like that? You have reflexes most soldiers would envy."

Zurra paused. "I grew up in a rough neighborhood. My comrades who could not defend themselves were killed. I am sure there are places like that in Ankina."

There was a long pause. Rurekk motioned for one of his attendants to fetch him beastwine. "Would you like a drink?"

"I am fine, but thank you."

"What did you say your name was again?"

"I do not believe I gave it."

Rurekk seemed openly stunned that someone would brazenly defy him in such a way. His two thugs flanking Zurra stiffened and each took a step forward before Rurekk waved them down. He smiled with a hint of legitimacy and clear frustration. "I am impressed by how you handled those men downstairs. Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, I do. You are Fakkid Rurekk, and you used to play _belekki_ over a decade ago. Now you own this establishment... and most of the men here, by appearances."

"You did your research."

Zurra shrugged. "I like to think of it more as being prepared."

"You are awfully prepared for a builder and former ship-rat."

"I will accept that as a compliment."

Rurekk glanced at both of his thugs and took a small sip of beastwine, studying Zurra intently. "You come into my place here, refuse to bet on my hittik match, fight with my men and now you take a defiant tone with me. I have killed over less."

"I apologize, then. I came here to speak to you, and being coerced by your thugs downstairs insults me. I represent very powerful people who have a business proposition for you."

Rurekk waved his hand and one of the thugs stepped up behind Zurra and placed a knife to his throat. The other knocked his hat off, revealing his officer braids.

"If by powerful people you mean the Imperial Military, then _yes_ , I suppose you do have strong friends. I have strong friends too, though. The Progressive leadership in this city fears me. One rogue soldier comes into my bar, and they will not bat an eyelash if he ends up dead in the catacombs."

"You control nothing," Zurra replied. "Kamaan Dakkal does. That is who I am here to find. I know who your friends are, Rurekk."

Rurekk slammed his fist on the table. "I have had enough. Take him to the tunnels and kill him. I would die before betraying an ally like Dakkal to you, Imperial swine."

_Frusrand guide my path,_ Zurra thought as he grabbed the _okka_ gun in the back of his sash and drew it out. He twisted it backwards and launched two needles straight into the thug's abdomen. The knife fell to the floor as the krokator screamed in agony.

Zurra reached into the pocket of his tunic and pressed hard on the beacon. He spun around and slammed the butt of the _okka_ gun into the face of the second thug, before throwing himself out of the chair and placing three needles in a stitched pattern across the massive thug's chest.

Two more thugs materialized out of nowhere before he could turn his gun on Rurekk and slammed Zurra into the railing overlooking the hittik pit. Zurra reached back and grabbed the krokator's face, pulling him directly into the path of the other thug's knife thrust. He heard a grunt as the thug caught the knife in the arm. Zurra kicked his legs out from under him and bucked him over the edge of the railing.

The thug plunged down into the hittik pit, smashing through the bettor's platform and rolling to stop in the middle of a seven-hittik match. The throng of snarling creatures spilled over onto him, and he screamed as their scissor-like claws slashed at his face, body and neck.

Zurra spun to face his second assailant, who had grabbed a beastwine cup as a weapon. He struck the hand Zurra was holding his gun with, sending the weapon clattering across the floor. His next swing, this one aimed for the head, missed.

Sensing his brief opportunity, Zurra threw himself to the floor, rolled to avoid another deadly swing and grabbed a three-legged stool. He swung it with force, and it cracked across the assailant's upper torso and head. The dazed thug stumbled backwards, giving Zurra time to scramble over to his gun. He used the stool to deflect a misguided attack before firing a needle into the krokator's throat.

With that, the doors in the back and front flew open and large krokator in full combat armor stormed in, _okka_ guns and Obedience Sticks in hand.

The appearance of _sukuda_ commandos sent the whole tavern into a commotion. There was a rush to the door, hands clawing after stray money falling to the floor. A few brave souls even dove into the hittik pit after loose coins, jumping back out just as quickly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Zurra spotted Rurekk pressing through the crowd with three of his bodyguards towards a door behind the bar – he was making a run for the catacombs. He vaulted himself over the railing, landing uncomfortably on two gamblers in the process. He managed to stagger up, pushed two chained pleasure slaves out of his way and set off at a sprint after Rurekk.

Rurekk disappeared down through the door, two bodyguards hot on his heels. The third turned, drawing an _okka_ gun, aimed straight at Zurra. Before he could use it, he had been hit by needles from three sources – two of them _sukuda_ , the third Zurra.

Zurra pushed the teetering corpse out of his way as the two _sukuda_ pressed into the doorway to the catacombs. "We'll follow Rurekk!" they cried.

"I will too. We split up and cover more ground," Zurra said defiantly and squeezed past them both. "But I want him alive, he has information I need."

The stairway led to a lower level that included another bar, but with the arrival of _sukuda_ the patrons had already fled into the catacombs. Zurra stepped into the dimly lit, damp tunnel, trying to listen for footsteps.

To his left, he heard the distinct voice of Rurekk cry "Hurry!" to his guards. He motioned for the two _sukuda_ to follow him as he set off down the tunnel at a breakneck pace.

The two bodyguards came into view after a few twists and turns. Zurra bounded up a staircase, aware that he was quicker and stronger than both of them would be. He pounced on one, tackling him to the ground.

"Keep an eye on him!" Zurra yelled, jumping up and continuing his pursuit. He could make out two forms in the dimness ahead. They suddenly split in two different directions.

"Ukkum strike me!" the _sukuda_ agent still following Zurra cried. "I will go right, you go left!"

"Agreed," Zurra called back and veered left, almost falling down a set of slick stairs. Footsteps echoed in the distance, and he sprinted on through the dark tunnel.

The shape he was following turned right and he did likewise. The tunnels were descending now. He took a hard left, nearly tripping again. The ground was covered in water, almost up to his ankles. The splashing of his prey resonated through the catacomb up ahead.

He could hear running water somewhere nearby, and the desperate footsteps had stopped. As he turned the corner of the tunnel, he saw an underground canal running along at a fast pace, disappearing into the darkness of a sewer drain up ahead.

Rurekk stood at the edge of the canal, staring into the water, surprised that he had been trapped. He turned and saw Zurra approaching, gun aimed directly at his head. "I thought I knew these tunnels better," he finally said wearily. "Looks like I was wrong."

"Where is Dakkal?"

"I will never tell you," Rurekk said. "You will have to kill me."

Zurra fired a needle that zipped two inches from Rurekk's face. The criminal jumped in surprise, nearly losing his footing.

"You are a coward. You claim to run a portion of this city but you are merely the front of a larger operation. An operation that is part of _Hudda Kugrall_."

Rurekk shook his head. "There is nothing you can do to protect me. Dakkal is long gone, and once he learns you have been here to see me, I will be expendable. There is so much more going on than you realize. More going on than even I know about. Dakkal has been in something for years. I just run his taverns."

"The Empire will protect you."

Rurekk glanced back into the river. "The Emperor cannot even protect himself."

"I will not ask you again."

"I know nothing! Dakkal is gone, I already told you. Even if I knew where he was he would not stay long. He has powerful friends who will protect him, and guard him, and when he is ready Dakkal will give his life for their cause in repayment."

"What is their cause? Is it the cause of the _Hudda Kugrall_?"

Rurekk paused before smiling. "The Empire's days are numbered, and soon, the League of Planets will be ruled by someone, some _thing_ much more potent. The day of reckoning approaches. And I will be with Kurkand while you rot in the Origin World."

Zurra lowered the aim of his _okka_ gun. "I will count to five. One."

"It is futile. The next strike is already being prepared against your government. The masterstroke will not be long after."

"Two."

Rurekk laughed. "You will never find Dakkal!"

Zurra shot his foot. Rurekk roared in pain, bending over to clasp the needle.

Walking over to his prey, Zurra bent down close to Rurekk's face. "Who are Dakkal's friends? Where are they? You have less than a minute to live. Use it wisely."

Rurekk's eyes lost focus. "They are our greatest friends... amongst our greatest enemy... See you in the Origin World, _hrain_."

The former _belekki_ player thrust himself backwards into the river with his last ounce of strength and disappeared down the drainage pipe, and once he was gone, the water continued to flow merrily through the canal as if nothing had ever breached its brackish, foul surface.
Chapter Twelve: Lara

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

Gresham stirred as images of the Dhruiz War disturbed his sleep. He saw the horrific dhzirs, swarming over hills, through defenses and into trenches like a horde of rancid rodents. Their damp hair flailed in the wind, their beady eyes soulless, toothy jaws snapping up and down like indecisive drawbridges.

One of the ferocious, miraculously sentient animals was clawing after Gresham's ankle from below. He vividly experienced the sensation of pulling out his gun and shooting the alien right in the forehead. The dhzir shrieked as dark, almost black blood sprayed like a fountain from the hole and it toppled back.

Gresham saw fellow Marines have their heads blown off, their bowels ripped out, slaughtered by the dozens in close quarter combat and in the open field. The dhzirs were relentless, like cockroaches. When one died, two others took its place.

He was running again, carrying the dead weight of the wounded Julian Castor in his arms. Gresham dropped his friend, plunging forward, as dhzirs materialized out of the mist. The horde was endless. Gresham thrashed out, striking one, shooting another, screaming as they descended upon him, claws gleaming in the light of gunfire.

He woke up with a start, panting and sweating, lying bare-chested on a bed in a mess of navy blue sheets. The curtains to the room were drawn, yet he could make out the faint glow of twilight outside. He was wearing comfortable, civilian jeans and no socks.

From beyond a door, Gresham could hear the sound of running water. He rose out of bed, feeling weak and exhausted. He nudged the door open and was greeted by a gun barrel.

"You're up, then," Lara Taylor said. With one hand she held a towel wrapped around her body, with the other she was pointing a pistol at his face.

"Yes, I am," Gresham said and took a step back. "Don't let me interrupt your shower."

"I just finished," Lara replied curtly and flipped a strand of wet hair out of her eye. "Would you mind?"

Gresham closed the door and sat down on the bed. Where was his shirt? Where was he? And who was Lara Taylor?

The door opened a moment later and Lara emerged, wearing a white bathrobe. She was still holding the gun, but it was relaxed at her side. She glared at Gresham and angrily demanded, "Don't you know how to knock?"

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Let's go to the living room. Sam should be done with dinner."

Gresham obliged and walked out the room's other door, into a large, cozy space with plump couches and a massive screen. The home's AI turned the lights up slightly from dim to luminous as he took a seat.

Lara sat down across from Gresham, placed the gun on the table and crossed her legs. "So, let's talk. What were you doing in Jeff's apartment?"

"So he's Jeff to you now?"

"Please answer the question."

"I was looking for clues."

"Clues?"

"Yeah, clues to who attacked him. To what he was working on. His report was incomplete and there are inconsistencies in his investigation."

Lara smirked. "Tell me about it."

"There's research unaccounted for in the report filed with Section One. No revelation as to how to track the authorization for the gun removal, why he volunteered for the assignment, and what he was working on previously." Gresham paused and raised an eyebrow. "But you already know all this, don't you? Are you the agent in charge of the Evans-Vance inquiry?"

Lara bit her lip. "No. I'm not." She leaned over and picked up a pack of cigarettes by her gun, pulled one out and lit it. "Want one?"

"No thank you, I don't smoke."

Lara blew a smoke ring into the air. "How did you know I'm SIS?"

"If you weren't I'd be dead already. You want to know how much I know, because I might know something you don't already."

"You're a smart man, Gresham, clearly a good analyst. I read that report you put together analyzing the krokator military and internal Imperial politics using only budget math. I hate to say it, though; you're not a smart field agent. Why the hell would you walk into the apartment of after you were _let in the building_? There could have been an army of Balgoshans waiting up there. And in uniform, too! You should be glad I wasn't trying to kill you."

"I am glad. Thanks."

Lara shook her head. "I'm still stupefied. But yes, I am with Special Intelligence."

"Information distribution, you mean."

"It's a vague enough cover."

"Sure is," Gresham chuckled. "Think I can get a shirt?"

"Not yet, I'm not done with you."

"Alright."

A short, stocky blond-haired man came through the opening to the kitchen carrying a tray with three plates of spaghetti. "Dinner's done, Lara."

"Thank you, Sam." Lara looked at Gresham. "Major, I want you to meet Sam Troy, one of my fellow agents and most trusted friends."

Gresham waved his hand nonchalantly. "Evening."

"Here you are, Major," Troy said and set the spaghetti down. "I hope you don't mind the stun I gave you earlier... we had to be sure..."

"No harm, no foul," Gresham grunted and picked up his fork. "So, Lara Taylor, I'll play along with you – but I don't like being in the dark. What do you have to do with Vance?"

Lara took a drag of her cigarette and looked at Troy briefly before returning her attention to Gresham. "I was working on an investigation with Vance."

"So _you_ were his SIS contact."

"Exactly. Jeffrey was a consummate professional who I had met a few years ago. He asked me for help and I went to Cray. Cray was... hesitant, to say the least, but finally approved of me lending unofficial counsel to Jeff. It wasn't so much a joint effort between MID and SIS as a personal favor to a fellow agent."

"What was the investigation about?"

"The ETZ, of course. For three months SIS had been monitoring smuggling in a new effort by the government to crack down on the proliferation of alien firearms. Something was up, but we couldn't quite put our finger on what it was."

Troy interjected. "Before he died, Carl Brighton organized a sting down in the ETZ, and we were coming up dry, beyond the usual suspects. Drug movers, gun-runners, and the like. We spent three months snooping around, and still we couldn't figure out what it was that bothered us."

"Then Vance came to me out of the blue," Lara continued. "He'd caught wind of our investigation and we'd been in touch before. Said he'd been putting together a record of suspicious weapons going missing over the past six months or so. When he heard that we were looking at gun-runners, he wanted to see if anything we'd found contained what was missing. But the serial numbers on everything had been wiped."

"Then," Troy interrupted, "the depository was raided in Ventura. Not so much raided as pilfered. Someone authorized the _whole thing_. Probably a high-ranking Allied official. Who? We don't know. But someone drove up to Ventura and picked up guns that were waiting for him. Not long after that we busted two punks with machine guns and thermal grenades, and the serial numbers matched the missing stock, so we called Vance. Somebody was selling the guns in the Zone and arms theft is MID's jurisdiction."

Gresham blinked and shook his head. "What kind of Alliance official would get himself involved with Zone scum, though? It doesn't make any sense."

"It's actually not unprecedented," Troy replied. "About ten years ago there was a Commissioner who was running an alien prostitution ring out of his basement. The ETZ is the galaxy's most accessible subject pool of criminals-for-hire; the rich and powerful sometimes need assistance they can't go around talking about."

"And Carl Brighton was your expert on this 'subject pool,' wasn't he?"

Troy nodded. "That's why his death was so unfortunate. Here is a man whose career has been built on studying and cataloguing crime in the Zone. His research was thorough, and his files vast."

Gresham weighed options in his mind, debating if he should play his only real card. "What happened to those files?"

"Once Brighton died, Cray slapped a Level One security clearance on his entire database. All of Brighton's information is locked up."

"And not just outstanding cases, but everything Brighton worked on for the past two years," Lara continued. "All of Brighton's files, locked up so only Cray can access them."

"Why do you ask?" Troy said through a mouthful of spaghetti.

"Well, when I was looking into what little Vance left behind, I went to pick the brain of a smart ET I trust and he suggested I look into a particular Balgoshan named Lugrash."

"Never heard of him," Troy said. "Do you have any more information?"

"No, that's why I wanted to see if Brighton's files had anything relevant in them. I know SIS profiles all ET's upon immigration at every spaceport even if they're just visiting. Lugrash was my only real lead, but I've never set foot in the ETZ, so I wouldn't know where to start."

Lara considered what Gresham was suggesting. "Look, Vance was a friend of mine too. I respected him as a professional and I'd like to see this through. We're off the case; Cray has his 'best men' handling it. But we don't know if anything is getting done, because neither of us has Level Two clearance. We can't even see the electronic invoice filed before the theft. MID's files are restricted..."

"...and worthless," Gresham said quickly. "Cray yanked everything Vance had been working on and put it under wraps at SIS. We're more in the dark than you are."

"Exactly my point. We'll never get anywhere this way."

Troy raised his hand to regain their attention. "We know the guy who killed Evans and nearly killed Vance was Balgoshan, so we may as well follow the lead. If Lugrash turns out to be nobody of importance, we can at least say we tried."

Lara nodded. "Troy and I will go, then. We'll give you a ride to the train station so you can get back to Defense."

"Like hell you will. I'm coming."

"You're not a field agent, you'll get yourself killed," Troy started. "All we need is some idiot analyst running around in the ETZ with a gun. You know that there are races in there that _eat_ humans, right?"

Gresham shrugged. "Occupational hazard. Besides, the moment I get back to Santa Monica I plan on filing a lengthy report about how I was kidnapped by two SIS agents. That's the last thing you need."

Lara and Troy looked at each other. "We could just kill him," Troy suggested with a knowing smirk.

"Oh, stop it Sam," Lara said and got up. "I'll get changed. We can be in the ETZ in forty-five minutes if we hurry. It's already getting dark out."

She left the room after stamping out her cigarette and Gresham sat staring idly at Troy, who never once acknowledged him as he wolfed down the rest of his spaghetti.

Finally Gresham ventured, "You think I can get a shirt, maybe?"

#

As Gresham had suspected, Lara lived in Marble Heights – Beveridge's hunch had been proven right yet again. She drove a small black two-seater HUVR parked conveniently in the community courtyard shared by the old-fashioned brick townhouses on her cul-de-sac. Beyond the gates to the courtyard was a long, narrow street populated by similar brick communal living establishments.

Troy's HUVR could seat four and, as promised, he had a plain navy blue shirt for Gresham to pull on.

"We'll get on the A9 and be there in forty-five minutes or so," Troy said as they pulled out of Lara's courtyard and started heading down the street. Lights were already coming on as darkness descended upon the middle-class suburb.

"I pulled your file, Gresham. I see you live in the Palisades up in Topanga. That's a nice neighborhood," Lara commented as they reached the Marble Heights on-ramp onto the A9, which headed southeast towards the ETZ.

"Well it's in the mountains, maybe a bit remote. I'd rather live closer to the actual city."

Troy chuckled. "I live on the outskirts of San Diego, so don't complain."

High hills rolled by as the HUVR whizzed along the A9. The lights of increasingly lower-class suburbs twinkled as they drove further and further from Los Angeles proper, out into the southern Mojave Desert.

They rode in silence until they reached the Moreno Valley exit, where Troy abruptly pulled off, coming to a halt in the parking lot of a small restaurant specifically catering to the few stopping for a meal before braving the stretch of the A9 through the adjacent ETZ. A large sign announced the neighborhood of Moreno Valley as "The Friendliest Place on Terra!"

"Moreno Valley is a place for humans to stay when they come to enjoy the vices of the ETZ," Troy explained. "From here to Temecula and out to San Jacinto, however, is the biggest festering swamp of vermin the galaxy ever produced. The ETZ fills twenty square miles in the middle of this valley. You get lost in there, you never get back out."

"Don't scare him," Lara snapped as they got out of the car. "We know the owner here; we'll leave the car outside the ETZ."

"How far is the walk?" Gresham asked.

"Less than a mile." Lara indicated dim lights in the distance. "That's the northern end of the Zone. In the past, you had to show identification and go through security to get in there. Now the California government is so corrupt and bloated it could care less what goes in or out." She glanced at Gresham. "You're sure you want to do this?"

"Positive."

"Okay. I'll go ask the owner if he knows anything about Lugrash. He makes half his profit in bribes from people heading into the Zone."

She disappeared into the diner and Troy motioned for Gresham to come to the back of his HUVR. He pulled out a gun from the trunk.

"We took this from you when we stunned you at Vance's apartment. You might need that once you're in there."

"What happens if we get split up?"

Troy paused ominously. "Make sure that we don't, but in case we do, there are markers telling you how far you are from a security checkpoint. Los Angeles police usually rotates guards on six-to-eight hour shifts. They airlift them to the deepest checkpoints in shuttles or drive them in and out with armored convoys."

"And we're going in there on _foot_?"

"Hey man, you asked to come."

Gresham shook his head in near disbelief before floating a question that he had been tempted to ask since he first met Troy. "So you and Lara...?"

"No. Not in the least. I'm married with two kids."

Gresham nodded. "Good for you. I got divorced a few years back, and that was _not_ a good experience. Stick with the one you've got as long as you can, and make sure she's not a psycho."

Troy laughed. "No, Christine is definitely not a psycho. How bad was yours?"

"The devil incarnate. Probably because she wasn't too hot on moving to Terra from Solaris. I wasn't either, to be honest."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Major."

There was a silence as they continued to wait for Lara. "Well, if you and Lara aren't..."

"Don't even think about it. She'll snap your dick off." Troy scratched at his neck and smiled slightly. "She's consumed by her work. No time for men."

As if on cue, Lara emerged from the diner and approached them. "Lugrash operates a warehouse just inside the Zone. It's about a thirty minute walk if we move quickly."

They descended a hill from the diner down to a wide road below, and in the distance Gresham could make out the blurry lights of tall tenement towers. A flashing sign warned "LEAVING MORENO VALLEY – PROCEED WITH CAUTION." He shuddered as he walked past it, a cold breeze biting at the back of his neck.

The Southern California Extraterrestrial Zone was conceived and designed by government planners who assumed the North American continent would remain perpetually livable. Since its construction over a century prior, Terra's climate had rapidly altered, drowning many cities with rising seas and turning the interiors of its continents into arid deserts, and the race to secure habitable land near most major metropolises was chaotic. What was originally planned as a place to keep ETs in check temporarily to prevent illegal immigration soon became a dumping ground for aliens who needed to relocate to make room for humans. The Zone's footprint was expanded, and over twenty years the population increased tenfold.

In time, the ETZ immediately outside of Los Angeles was the planet's largest, and only one of two remaining on the continent. Because extraterrestrial labor was so important, the decrepit inhabitants of the Zone were kept close to the city, but it also caused a rapid increase in crime across the Los Angeles area, from San Ysidro in the south to Obispo in the north, and even as far east as the outskirt suburb of Barstow. The worst of the crime, of course, was inside the Zone itself, where murderous gangs ruled and some derelicts even resorted to cross-species cannibalism.

An armored transport carrying police officers zoomed past them at a high speed, disappearing into the darkness ahead. Gresham could make out the remnants of a crumbling wall as they crossed an open, barren patch of earth between the human community and the sparkling lights ahead.

"We really should come back when it's light out," Troy said to Lara.

"This might be our only chance to nab Lugrash. I don't want to mess this up," Lara replied. "The ETZ doesn't become any less dangerous during the day. Besides, it's barely nine-thirty. All the aliens in there will be out for the nightlife before it gets really nasty."

They reached the colorful, graffiti-sprayed wall. Beyond, poorly constructed and identical tenement buildings towered over the narrow, potholed pavement. The throbbing sounds of a city of its own coming alive at night echoed from the distance.

"Still want to come?" Lara asked Gresham as she paused at the very edge of the wall. "Not too late to turn back."

"Stop asking me that," Gresham replied and pushed his way past her. "I'm not changing my mind, so let's get this over with."

He glanced briefly at a massive sign that read "NOW ENTERING SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA EXTRATERRESTRIAL ZONE," and then continued forwards.

#

Deep Space, Sol System

Elijah Perry's shuttle entered the orbit of Terra. In less than twenty minutes he would land at the Malibu Spaceport, but right now he stared out of his window, watching the day-night line on the vast Pacific Ocean.

He had flown this route so many times in his career, stared out of the window of a luxury shuttle on uncountable occasions as Terra stretched beneath him. But no matter how many times he had seen this view from this angle, it never ceased to amaze him.

His father, may he rest in peace, would likely never have wanted his youngest child to have flown this way. His father was an old-fashioned, conservative Martian Catholic and one of the proudest labor activists Perry had ever known. The old man had been raised in the tough streets of eastern Pioneer City, growing up in public housing projects and defending his two younger brothers from a variety of enemies, both human and not. While his parents and siblings had drifted away from the church, Ted Perry had found strength in his faith and committed it to every aspect of his life.

His son, however, had placed his faith not in religion but in the power of negotiation. Unlike his elder brothers, as committed to the cause of organized labor as their father, Eli Perry had realized at a relatively young age that the real money lay in the white collar world. He had worked his way through college and business school, and the cutthroat mentality he had developed growing up in the same projects as his father translated surprisingly well to the banking world.

Perry blew his nose and leaned back in his chair, thinking back to a lunch he had enjoyed with Colin Hess a few months earlier.

"I need your help," Hess had said with clear desperation in his voice.

"Yes, I know, Colin," Perry replied. "I'll assume that that's why you called me."

"These allegations against my company... well, the Commission has ordered a full investigation. There's a lot of evidence. Sworn statements by employees, bank receipts, the works... I think we may have overplayed our hand."

Perry nodded slowly. They were seated in a luxurious rotating restaurant at the top of Pioneer City's tallest skyscraper, soaking in the breathtaking view of the city below. "What's a good arms salesman to do these days?"

"We need to pull the plug on the krokator now, Perry. Sooner or later the board of directors will find out what we've been up to."

"That's exactly what you _don't_ do, Colin. I know you value the opinion of your friend Bernie Rumsen, but he has no imagination. And he won't get his hands dirty." Perry leaned across the table. "And you and I are going to _need_ to get our hands dirty, Colin, if we're going to beat the Commission."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember my friends I told you about?"

"The Raptors? I thought you were kidding about that. Aren't Raptors just a spacer myth?"

Perry scowled. "Don't be ridiculous, Colin, of course I was being serious. I never joke about business partners. Anyways, my friends are getting ready to make a move, and we want to make sure we have chairs when the music stops. And to do so, we get our hands dirty. We beat the Commission, we beat the indictments, and we come out on the other side of this thing on top. Where we belong."

Hess swirled the wine in his glass and glanced around the restaurant apprehensively. "What do you think we should do?"

Perry reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slip of paper and a pen. He quickly jotted something down and slid it across the table. Hess adjusted his glasses and leaned forward to see what it said.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are now beginning orbital reentry of Terra. Please fasten your safety harnesses, as the reentry process is usually bumpy," a smooth, AI voice cooed over the shuttle.

Perry complied along with the other twenty passengers on the luxury shuttle. Even though he always flew in class, the seventeen-hour journey between Mars and Terra was still a long one. He always brought his own potent sleeping pills, feeling the more consumer-friendly doses offered by the Mars Shuttle Line were too weak to do him any good.

"This express flight with Mars Shuttle Lines has lasted sixteen hours and thirty-two minutes. We will be arriving in Los Angeles forty-six minutes ahead of schedule," the AI announced proudly.

Outside the window, the cold vastness of space disappeared as red streaks of plasma flashed past the window. Perry heard a distinct popping sound as the engines flared in the atmosphere, and the passengers were pressed back against their seats.

The descent continued until the shuttle slowed to a comfortable purr over the massive, glowing expanse of Los Angeles, which stretched for miles in each direction along the Pacific coast. The heart of humanity looked truly magnificent at night, with its lights glimmering, pulsating with life. The city's importance could be felt from the air.

The Malibu Spaceport, a gargantuan floating island of landing decks and tarmac platforms, stood out against the black water. The shuttle slowed, circling the spaceport in its descent, and the high towers of the distant city became more defined.

There was a thud and the shuttle touched down against the landing pad. The engines hummed as they cooled down, and the AI cheerfully welcomed the passengers to Los Angeles while thanking them for riding with Mars Shuttle Lines.

Perry unbuckled his safety harness and rose. He had arrived, and now he had business to attend to.
Chapter Thirteen: Our Greatest Enemy

Krokandir, Planet Rukkur, Kroka System

"It was a shame that Rurekk died," High Prod Nikkwill said slowly, "but if he was willing to kill himself, he would not have provided much information."

Zurra paused and regarded the other figures in the debriefing room in the Imperial Palace. Viceroy Aratrokk sat idly in a corner, while the newly crowned Emperor Urkus Orkann sat cross-legged on a seat, watching Zurra intently. Four _aruntuk_ were waiting outside.

"I should not have shot him. That was a mistake."

"And you are forgiven," Emperor Orkann said in his flat voice. "You executed your mission without hesitance. Getting out of that tavern alive speaks volumes of your proficiency as a soldier."

"The Emperor gives me praise I am not due. I am humble before you," Zurra replied, bowing his head reverently.

"What is the next course of action?" Aratrokk demanded in his squeaky voice. "Rurekk is dead and our leads on Dakkal and _Hudda Kugrall_ are gone. We have had no success in similar investigations here in the Krokandir. It is as if the assassins have disappeared into thin air with no trace left behind."

"Dakkal is the priority and Rurekk confirmed that he was a major player in the _Hudda Kugrall_. But where do we look?"

"Our greatest friend, among our greatest enemy," Nikkwill mused. "Can we imply that Rurekk's greatest friend is the _Hudda Kugrall_?"

"Then who is his greatest enemy? Dakkal is hardly amongst us," Aratrokk retorted.

"Perhaps he meant something broader: the greatest enemy of the krokator," Zurra suggested. "We know the _Hudda Kugrall_ has friends in foreign states. Is that not what the mission to Piskka suggested?"

There was a moment of silence until the Emperor spoke. "I leave this in your capable hands, High Prod Nikkwill. Dakkal has never been a surefire lead, but following the events in Ankina yesterday, and based on investigations by the _sukuda_ into Rurekk's affairs, it has become apparent that there is a connection there to the _Hudda Kugrall_ , and by proxy to the death of my father. I have other matters to attend to. Good day to you both."

Orkann rose and signaled for both Zurra and Nikkwill to leave. They bowed their heads reverently, praised him as was custom and were soon walking out of the Manganese Palace in silence.

In the heart of Empire Plaza, a monstrous pyre was under construction, as was custom after the death of an Emperor. Mourners would leave valuables and keepsakes on the pyre, to be burnt with their beloved leader. Zurra recalled that Dennokk's pyre had been at least three times as large as the one being prepared for his son.

"High Prod, if I may ask, what was the Emperor referring to when he spoke of the _sukuda_ and Rurekk?"

"Sharm Zurra, you are a charmed servant of the Empire, but it is time for you to go home. We have asked much of you already," Nikkwill said wearily as they neared the edge of the Plaza. "All we know is that Rurekk had off-world holdings on Piskka, as did Dakkal. After our raid there, the _sukuda_ discovered that the planet was a much larger financial safe haven than we had anticipated. Contraband sold from the world's black markets got funneled on and off the planet clandestinely."

"So why did the Emperor bring it up?"

"Rurekk was such a minor player he slipped by unnoticed, but the same cannot be said for everyone – that is, after all, why we sent you after Dakkal. We always knew that _Hudda Kugrall_ had a hand in the jar, but we turned up foreign accounts there as well. This was not just a shelter for heretics – it was a money-laundering hub. At the time, however, we overlooked this, since we were caught up in our victory. We had never struck at the Forbidden Army's wallet in such a way before."

"So foreign entities were active on Piskka after all?"

"The evidence was minimal, but someone tied to _Hudda Kugrall_ was reaping benefits, and the money was flowing somewhere outside of the Empire. Foreign companies were making the bulk of the money selling contraband and giving a cut to vermin like Rurekk, who laundered the funds for them through establishments like his tavern. The _Hudda Kugrall_ has far more meaningful sources of income."

Something about what Nikkwill was saying seemed off. Zurra rubbed his eyes. "I want to know when we find out more."

"You do not have to volunteer for anything, Sharm Zurra. The Empire thanks you enough already. Now go home and get some rest. That is an order. I will call you my personal _likala_ so you get back quicker."

Zurra breathed out and smiled. "Thank you, High Prod Nikkwill. I will report back to you in the morning."

Nikkwill laughed and patted Zurra on the shoulder. "I do not doubt that. Sleep well and give your sister my regards. That is also an order."

#

By virtue of his father's position in the Imperial military, Zurra had earned leave from his post as a garrison commander on one of Sartokken's moons shortly after his promotion to karp. His mother had fallen ill on Kenka and only his newly engaged sister Urula was there to care for her. Her fiancé had already set off for Rukkur, and Zurra wanted to make sure his mother and sister were alright.

His father was on a campaign at the behest of the Empire for six months in the Outer Ring, fighting a particularly stubborn group of heretics, but there was word that the battles were winding down and that Prod Akgu Juska's services were no longer needed. He was promised to be home within the month.

Zurra and Urula had spent the past three weeks following Zurra's return to Kenka not just tending to their ill mother, but reminiscing about their childhood. Zurra had not been back to his home since leaving for the Academy – partially due to his lasting sorrow from the death of Turka. Every tree they swung from, every river they swam in, every neighbor's house they journeyed to for company by day and mischief by night – every sight, smell and sound of their home reminded him that Turka was gone. He could envision his tall, thin brother darting between trees as they escaped a particularly cranky old neighbor whose pogo they regularly threw stones at to illicit response.

But in those three weeks, Zurra had begun to come to terms with his brother's death. Coming home had helped him move on. There was a sense of closure from confronting the source of his pain and drive.

On one of the last mornings of his leave, he was eating porridge in their home when there was a knock at the door. Urula started to rise but Zurra waved her down.

"Sit, I will answer."

Urula smiled at him, the last time she would do so for many months.

Zurra opened the door and was met with the glare of the High Prod's polished armor. Eight soldiers flanked the High Prod, each wearing the same awkward expression.

Nikkwill's predecessor as High Prod, Burann Arranko, was one of Dennokk's old stalwarts and the last living member of the late Emperor's inner circle still active in the regime. Dennokk had died only months before Zurra's graduation from the Academy, and High Prod Arranko would resign within the year, paving the way for Nikkwill to receive his appointment from Emperor Ruskir.

In Arranko's hands was a plain, wooden box.

Zurra woke up as the _likala_ pulled up to Urula's home in the 19th District. He blinked his heavy eyelids, feeling his own fatigue, and thanked the driver before disembarking. He knocked twice on the door and waited patiently for Urula to answer. The door cracked open and Mulokk, her husband, poked his head out.

"Zurra, you are alive! We thought you had been killed in the riots!"

Zurra took his brother-in-law in an embrace. "Brother Mulokk, you do not know how glad I am to see you. How is Urula?"

"She is fine. So is Niloskk. Where have you been?"

"Ankina, if you must know. On a classified assignment."

Mulokk raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Ankina, of all places?"

"Yes."

The two krokator shared a deep laugh, as equals. "I am sure I will hear of your adventures one day. Come and sit. I will let Urula know you are here."

Zurra thanked him and sat down at their table, staring into space. After the events of the past few days, it was an enormous relief to come somewhere calm like his sister's home. One night of stability would do him a world of good.

Urula stepped into the kitchen. She quickly approached Zurra, paused in front of him and then slapped him across the face. There was a momentary pause as she held back tears before she threw herself around him.

"We thought you were dead, brother. I thought... I had not heard from you..."

Zurra grabbed his sister's arms and looked into her eyes, smiling. "Do not worry, sister. I will not return home to you in a Death Box. At least not anytime soon."

They embraced again before Zurra excused himself to go wash and get rest. Urula and Mulokk knowingly obliged and went to their own quarters.

After washing, Zurra stepped out into the garden, admiring the plants Urula looked after with such care. A winged reptile fluttered out of a crack in the wall and flew away into the starry sky. Gazing up at the constellations, he spotted Lurkk, the star Kenka orbited.

There was a noise from beyond the wall and he heard someone walking up to the front door. Zurra considered going upstairs to wake his sister but thought better of it. He approached the door himself and reached it just as he heard a resounding knock.

He opened it to come face to face with an _aruntuk_ , who solemnly glared at him from under his helmet. "Sharm Akgu Zurra?" he asked, his eyes immediately falling upon Zurra's officer braids.

"That is I. How may I help you, soldier?"

"I have a guest with me who seeks a private audience. May she enter your home?"

"It is not my home, but certainly."

The _aruntuk_ stepped aside and a black-clad figure emerged out of the murky darkness of the night. She pulled aside her veil and Zurra gasped when he saw his visitor's face.

"The Honorable Lady Erenna," he said and bowed to one knee. "I do not deserve the honor of your visit."

Erenna was the youngest of Emperor Dennokk's three children, and now the only one living. Her eldest brother was dead as of two days prior, and her other brother had died years ago of disease. It was seen as a great irony that the mighty Dennokk – at one time destined to have been held in the same esteem as Oranokk and Agukkan had the human and briling fleets not defeated the krokator so soundly at Terellis – had fathered two sons who were cowardly, weak and sickly.

It was even more ironic that Erenna, the neglected female of the three, had long been considered the most capable. She was called the power behind Ruskir, and many in Dennokk's government had been shocked by the influence she held during her father's final years.

She gazed upon Zurra, her dark eyes studying his expression. She placed one of her dark-green hands on his shoulder. "Rise," she whispered in a soft, soothing voice. "Can we speak together in your garden?"

"Of course, Lady Erenna," Zurra said and led her there. The _aruntuk_ bodyguard elected to stay outside of the home.

"Lady Erenna, I ought to wake my sister, she would be so honored..."

"No," she said flatly. She adjusted her black _umrusk_ and locked eyes with Zurra. "No, absolutely not. I come here to you with a private matter."

Zurra nodded respectfully. "I understand. Would you like anything to drink or eat? I was about to prepare a meal for myself."

"I am fine, thank you. I do not expect to stay for long and I hope you allow me to ask that you postpone your meal until I leave."

"Of course, Lady Erenna."

"Good." Erenna sat down on a bench in the garden. "I have heard many things about you, Sharm Zurra. You have a reputation at the palace. You are Tarkas's favorite heretic-hunter. Nikkwill has you pegged for a promotion within the next two years if you continue at this pace."

She leaned forward. "The typical sharm runs a garrison, takes orders from the local tarl, organizes patrols, delivers Death Boxes to families, and leads operations in the field. You, however, enjoy private audiences with Tarkas, Nikkwill, and my late brother. You had a meeting tonight with my nephew so casual you may as well have been the High Prod. Do you realize what a truly charmed position you are in?"

Zurra bowed his head respectfully. "Lady Erenna, I only do my duty. The opinions of my superiors are their own, and I am grateful for the esteem they hold me in."

Erenna laughed a penetrating laugh. "Your modesty is admirable, and appropriate. Sharm Akgu Zurra, the model soldier. I suppose that is the way your father intended it to be, hmm? You know, I knew your father. I was only a few years older than he was, and before he met your mother he was quite the eligible bachelor. Of course, an Academy instructor was no fit for the daughter of the Emperor, but Juska and I always had a... casual acquaintance." She smiled aggressively, her eyes lighting up. "I loved looking at him. That was all. He was tall, handsome, and courteous. Your mother was lucky. You look like him, you know. I have seen pictures of you and your brother, Kurkand keep him. You have Juska's features."

Zurra was uncomfortable with the thrust of the conversation. "Thank you, Lady Erenna."

"I did not, however, come here to discuss my infatuation with your father, as striking as he may have been. I came here to ask you a favor as a loyal servant of the Empire. I also ask this favor as a female in grieving. My brother is dead; I know that you understand what that is like." Erenna thinned her eyes and continued. " _Hudda Kugrall_ murdered your brother. Cadet Akgu Turka was a fine soldier and they _murdered_ him. Your father was furious. I think you are too, and that you would go to the Origin World and back to find the one responsible for his death."

"I know who killed him," Zurra replied. "It was Marsa Grakko, the Scarred Tarl. Killing the son of Prod Akgu Juska earned him his first promotion, and he has risen through the ranks ever since. He is now second only to the enigmatic Black Prod."

"Zurra... have you declared _nohoken_ against Marsa Grakko?" She rose. "I do not ask this question lightly. When you learned that it was Grakko who killed your brother, did you declare _nohoken_ upon him?"

Zurra scowled. "I was the one who gave him the scar from which he earns his name, and he only left with a scar because I failed to finish him when I had the chance. But that was a mission, and I encountered him and I was young and brash and I let my emotions get in the way. That is why my father staunchly opposed _nohoken_."

_Nohoken_ was an ancient concept in krokator law stipulating that if one krokator committed a grievous crime against another, it was acceptable for the victim – or victim's family – to declare revenge upon the perpetrator and personally carry it out. If _nohoken_ was officially declared and witnessed by a priest and judge who approved of the motivations, the krokator was then free to execute the revenge killing within the strict set of rules that governed the practice.

"Your father was a traditionalist, Sharm Zurra. He was just afraid of _nohoken_. It can consume krokator. It can destroy their lives."

Zurra nodded. "He forbade me from attempting it. He knew of its power... and he was right. My rage rendered me unfocused. If the Empire grants me a mission where I gain a second opportunity to kill him, he will not walk away with his life."

"There lies your flaw. Your loyalty to the Empire clouds your judgment. Sometimes, one must do what is right, regardless of whether it is an order or not. Your moral compass is completely dictated by Admiral Tarkas and the High Prod. You have become a tool, a bludgeoning instrument. You are no less a weapon than an _okka_ gun or Obedience Stick."

Zurra considered this. "Every soldier is a tool of the Empire, Lady Erenna. We serve because the Empire needs us to."

"That is how it always has been... and yet now I must ask you to be more than an instrument. Now you must think."

"I do not understand."

"My brother lies dead, assassinated by cowards. If _Hudda Kugrall_ is responsible, I do not know, but I suspect they are. I was held in high esteem at Court and Viceroy Aratrokk is spineless – if I ask him for the intelligence briefings Nikkwill gives him, he complies without question. I know what is going on." She touched his shoulder and came within inches of his face. "There is a contact in the Human Alliance who is funding _Hudda Kugrall_ , or at least assisting them. The raid on Piskka revealed a connection between Dakkal and someone on Terra who was serving as an advisor for Hessian Engineering's krokator trade sector, specifically their illicit operations."

"Dakkal was being funded by human companies?"

"Kamaan Dakkal's criminal contacts expand beyond Ankina. Hessian is a major Allied security company, and they made a good profit recycling used weaponry by selling them here in the Empire to groups such as _Hudda Kugrall_. Someone on Terra has a hand in the whole operation and it appears that Dakkal may have been their contact here on Rukkur."

Zurra considered how impressive it was that Erenna had gained all this knowledge so quickly, since the intelligence from Ankina was so recent.

"Sharm Zurra, I declare _nohoken_ upon those responsible for my brother's death. The Urkus line is one of ancient and noble blood, and the murder of one of our own, especially an Emperor, is an insult to every one of my ancestors, kin and future descendants. I _demand_ retribution, and it shall be mine." She glanced up at a constellation far above, tracing it in her mind before continuing, "I am, however, an old krokator in mourning. That is why you must be the agent of my vengeance. You will carry out my _nohoken_ as if it is a mission. Keep in mind that I am your superior and as a member of the royal family I supersede High Prod Nikkwill."

Zurra bowed his head. "It is an honor and a privilege to be chosen for such a task."

"Only a servant of the Empire as loyal as you could be trusted with such a mission. Tomorrow, two _sukuda_ agents travel to Terra to investigate this suspected connection between Dakkal and Hessian Engineering. You will go with them. I have yet to arrange the details, but Nikkwill would never dare refuse me." Erenna walked away from Zurra, and turned to face him once she was nearly at the wall to the garden. "Do you accept my mission? Will you carry out my _nohoken_ as if it were your own?"

"I shall, or die trying."

Erenna smiled. "Good. Should you find Marsa Grakko, do not hesitate to take his life. Make my _nohoken_ your own."

"I understand. Thank you."

Erenna approached him and kissed his forehead, a sign of reverence from a superior. "The Empire will forever be in your graces when this mission is complete. Frusrand guide your path, and may my vengeance strike true by your hand. Farewell."

She walked out of the house alone. He sat in the garden for many minutes after she had left and he heard her _likala_ pull away down the street beyond the thick stone wall.

_What have I gotten myself into?_ He thought, clenching his jaw as he realized his much-anticipated respite from the previous few days was about to be cut even more thin.

#

Planet Mars, Sol System

With only the stars as illumination, Colin Hess' LUXR pulled off of the rural highway and onto an unpaved road of frozen mud, floating almost silently above. Hess stared out of the windows at the dark hills barely visible through the night. As a boy, he remembered going fishing in the sparsely populated highlands southeast of Pioneer City. It had been close to twenty years since he had been out in this part of the immediate environs of the capital, and while he was unsure of the exact occasion, he suspected it was one of the rare times when he had had enough time to take his own son fishing.

The LUXR slowed down as it reached four massive black utility HUVRs parked along the side of the road, almost completely blending into the dark landscape. Hess glanced at his two bodyguards, both former Marines, who silently glared through the tinted glass at the waiting vehicles.

"Stop here, this is fine," Hess instructed his driver. The LUXR floated to a standstill and powered down, lightly landing on the hard soil of the frozen road.

The doors slid open and Hess and his bodyguards alighted, feeling the crunch of frost under their feet and watching their breaths steam in the air. The doors to two of the HUVRs opened and six large krokator emerged.

"Mr. Hess, it has been a long time," one of the krokator said. While he had a wool cap pulled low nearly to his eyes and a thick coat zipped tight around his hulking frame disguising part of his jawline, the massive scar zigzagging across the left side of his face made him instantly recognizable.

"Marsa Grakko," Hess answered with a smirk. "It has been a while. I trust the good doctor's accomodations out in the Verge have been to your liking?"

"He is a strange old man. He is... I believe it is what you humans call 'creepy.' I think you know what I mean."

Hess shrugged. "Doctor Schroeder is an esteemed scientist in his field. His focus on his work is a little single-minded, but I assure you there's not a sinister bone in his body." He glanced at the five massive krokator in equally puffy jackets scowling at him and his woefully undersized ex-Marines. "Do you think we could speak privately?"

Grakko nodded and turned to his comrades. " _Komoka, buri hakan adar!_ " Friends, wait here for a while!

Hess signaled his own bodyguards to relax and he walked down the frigid road into the dark of the night with Grakko. "So, Grakko, you wanted to talk. Is everything alright?"

"Alright? Hardly. The suggestion is laughable," Grakko growled as they moved further from the HUVRs. "I have spent the past two months hiding out with your scientist at that crumbling machine gun factory hearing him complain about how he does not have sufficient facilities for his experiments or about how the ship fuel we gave him to refine lacks the right isotopes, or some similar phrase. I escaped Piskka, barely with my life, and most of my finances there were frozen. Needless to say, many of our sympathizers have been wary after that debacle."

Hess coughed uncomfortably. "I apologize if Dr. Schroeder has made you uneasy and irritated, Grakko. We are working around the clock to get the second facility built, but for now the factory out in the Verge is the best we have. This is a project I would prefer not to attract attention to. As for Piskka, my associates and I took a hit there too. You were a fool for not realizing that Oraank was being watched by the _sukuda_. I'm up to my ass with the Commission's investigation and things were bad enough before the company's name was inexorably tied to yours. Supplying warlords and gangsters on Border Worlds with weapons looks bad enough; financing terrorist organizations in a sovereign nation is even worse."

"The Emperor and his government, they are the true 'terrorists,'" Grakko said defiantly. "And we have taken a scalp the Empire will never forget. We have assassinated the Emperor in the heart of the Krokandir on Urkuran Eve. Nothing will ever be the same. Speaking of which, what have you done? I believe that President Paine is still alive, unless I am mistaken."

"The _Hudda Kugrall_ sure as hell didn't kill the Emperor themselves, and you know it," Hess snapped. "And the bomb went off early. We're handling it. Perry said there'll be another opportunity again soon."

"Our friends are very displeased with you, Mr. Hess, and they are concerned about your commitment."

"To hell with the Raptors!" Hess bellowed, almost so loudly that the bodyguards could hear. "They can soften up the League without our help and find another lackey to do their dirty work."

"I think you are being a bit overdramatic," Grakko cautioned. "We all have similar goals. Working against each other is counterproductive. The Black Prod demands results out of me as much as you demand results out of Schroeder and Perry. Speaking of which, Perry travels to Terra soon, does he not?"

"He'll be landing there soon, if he hasn't already. Why?"

"I have a friend who has recently fled the Empire out of fear for his life. His fears were not unfounded, as his business establishments on Rukkur have been raided by the _sukuda_. His name is Kamaan Dakkal and he has dedicated himself to avenge the crimes committed against him by the Empire. He was in the military briefly when he was younger, and he is a cold-blooded killer."

"Where is he now?"

"Stuck in transit. I spoke with Jurkken, who is more than happy to put Dakkal up at his place on Terra so long as we can get him there. We were unable to utilize our own back-channels with all of the increased surveillance."

"If you give me details on which world he is trapped on, I will guarantee he gets to Terra without any hassle from immigration officials or SIS," Hess said, relieved that that was all Grakko wanted to ask him about. "Perry has a plan in the works. We'll find out more as it develops."

"And you trust Perry?"

Hess grinned. "Of course I don't. I wouldn't trust anyone who would voluntarily befriend us."

Grakko nodded in understanding, chuckling. "I admire the honesty, Hess. I must leave you now... I promised the good doctor I would see about getting him something more volatile for his machines."

Hess returned with Grakko to the HUVRs and bid him farewell. The black utility HUVRs sped off into the night, and he watched them vanish before breathing out slowly, the steam settling in the air in front of him, before returning to his LUXR.

Things were starting to get out of control.

#

Krokandir, Planet Rukkur, Kroka System

"Sharm Zurra, while this does not violate my command, I must say I am disappointed in your decision to accept the Lady Erenna's request."

Admiral Tarkas sternly added, "High Prod Nikkwill and I both wanted you to get some rest after your adventures up in Ankina. This reeks of a poorly thought out plan."

"The royal family naturally supersedes us, but the Lady Erenna does not know much about galactic policy or espionage. I have spoken with the head of the _sukuda_ and even he is reluctant. You have no formal training as a foreign agent, Sharm Zurra – you have spent your career as an agent of the military on commando operations. Counterintelligence is a completely different field."

Zurra studied both of his superiors and bowed his head. "I realize I have disappointed you, High Prod Nikkwill."

"You have. I cannot punish you, however, for something you would have been hard-pressed to refuse."

"The Lady Erenna is a difficult woman to turn down," Zurra concurred. "I doubt I will discover much in the Alliance, however."

"That is where you may be wrong. The _sukuda_ believes that there is something to the connection between Hessian and the _Hudda Kugrall_ , but they have trouble knowing where to begin. I have alerted Ambassador Orget Jerven that you are arriving. While a typical politician, Jerven is a loyal supporter of the regime. His position, however, requires a certain amount of discretion. If you should cause a mess in Los Angeles, you answer to him, and know that he will be far less forgiving for a mistake on a foreign world than I would be for one here."

Tarkas spoke again. "To put it simply, Sharm Zurra, your margin for error while on Terra will be smaller than anything you have ever encountered here, where you are operating with our blessing. If something were to go wrong, Jerven will deny any knowledge of your existence and the Empire will be unable to help."

Zurra thought about this before replying, "I understand. Does the Emperor know about Erenna's request?"

"It is best the Emperor not worry about his aunt's machinations while he has so much on his plate. If he were to find out, we should be sure it is because of our overwhelming success. He is not as lenient as his father, so it will reflect as poorly on us as on you should anything go wrong on Terra," Nikkwill explained and rose. "You have until the upcoming summit with senior League of Planets military leadership in Los Angeles to turn something up. When I leave the summit, we extract you if I am not satisfied with your performance. Your cover, along with that of the _sukuda_ , will be as part of my advance detachment. The journey between here and Terra is three days long, more than ample time for you to think about your mission."

There was a long pause before Tarkas finally said, "You are dismissed, Sharm Zurra. Frusrand guide your path."

"And make sure Kurkand does not need to keep you in his mercy," Nikkwill interjected quickly, completely serious.

Chapter Fourteen: The Zone

Southern California Extraterrestrial Zone, Planet Terra, Sol System

The Zone had risen to such a fantastical perch in popular Allied culture that only by going into the Zone itself could one get rid of the falsities associated with the place.

It was always portrayed in one of two ways – sometimes, it was depicted as a colorful interspecies melting pot of distant extrasolar cultures, home to a variety of creatures from around the Milky Way and where alien music, foods, literature, art and leisure came together to form a strange symbiotic experience unlike anything else in the galaxy. It was also portrayed as a hellish cesspool of crime, depravity and filth, drawing from humanity's traditional prejudiced attitude towards ETs. The Zone was supposedly the place that made every case for the segregation of other species.

Gresham found it to be something in between. The street lights were on at this time of night, casting pools of light against closed storefronts, barred windows and the open doors to bars and clubs along the main drag in this part of the Zone. He heard excited yipping from the canine broggs standing outside of a seedy establishment, and watched a Hunafuan slither out of one club to head to the next.

Lara turned to look at Gresham. "This is the good part of the Zone. Once we get off the beaten path a little, things will get shadier. It's about a one mile walk from here to Lugrash's, according to the guy at the diner."

"Outstanding," Gresham muttered. The crowds along the sidewalks were growing in numbers at an alarming rate. Every species Gresham could recognize, and some he didn't, were lining the streets. There were bipedal humanoids, reptilians, mammalians, amphibians and also aliens that defied any conventional classification, of every shape, size and biological composition. It was one of the most amazing sights he had ever seen.

"Something else, isn't it? Try not to stare at anyone, we're the odd ones out here," Troy said, giving Gresham a friendly smile and nudge.

"I never knew there was so much... _variety_ ," Gresham said breathlessly as a pack of reptilian silvelds moved past them.

"You'd never know living in LA. How strict are your neighborhood's ET ordnances?"

"They're pretty relaxed for a place like Topanga. We've got a family of Vegans in my building."

Troy nodded. "Interesting. Mine is pretty relaxed too. Lara's is about as segregated as they come. It's illegal for ETs to even set foot in Marble Heights after sundown."

Lara paused to watch a pair of Balgoshan street performers outside of a smoky lounge. Within the lounge, human hookah pipes were being smoked alongside the _gukka_ device imported from the Krokator Empire and an assortment of other extraterrestrial smoking products.

" _Nog washja!"_ one of the Balgoshans hissed at her. " _Nog!_ Donation? We not perform free. _Nog, nog!_ "

Lara pulled out a ten-credit bill and threw it in the top hat the street musicians were using for collections. "Tell me about Lugrash," she said calmly.

" _Iokago,"_ the other Balgoshan muttered and regarded his friend. They were both about five feet tall, the typical height for their species, although their pointy horns gave them an added two inches. Both had brown-spackled greenish flesh and observant, calculating eyes. Neither of them had washed themselves for several days, and both wore second-hand human clothes bought from one of the numerous markets in the Zone where stolen retail goods were sold at cheap profit – one of them wore a pair of women's shorts that revealed his thick, pockmarked calves.

"Lara, I don't think they'll tell us much..." Gresham said.

"Be quiet and let me negotiate with them," Lara said. She leaned closer. "Lugrash. Want more money? _Nog?_ "

The one with the women's shorts smiled, revealing that only a few of his sharp teeth remained. " _Nog! Nog washja, nog!_ "

"Knowing Balgoshan would certainly help," Gresham muttered as Lara pulled another ten credits out of her pocket. The first Balgoshan clawed after the money but she pulled it away.

"Lugrash," she repeated. "In Standard, please."

"Warehouse big," the one in shorts said in frustration. "Lugrash big warehouse, no go warehouse if human, Lugrash kill. Big trouble fuck with Lugrash. Lugrash crazy, Lugrash kill."

"Anything more?" Lara asked.

"No, fuck you human, _nog_ now! Give _nog_ before we get friends and fuck up you, fuck you!"

"This is pointless. Just ask him how we'll know that it's Lugrash's place and give him the money," Troy said.

"How will we know which warehouse is Lugrash's?" Lara tried, tossing the ten credits into the top hat. Both Balgoshans' eyes gleamed with ecstasy.

"Big runway, ships land. Cranes and ships on runway, big warehouse!" the Balgoshan said. "Now, you fuck you human. Play music, not waste fuck time."

Lara nodded and beckoned for Troy and Gresham to follow her down an alleyway. They emerged on the other side onto a similarly crowded street, this one packed with small late-night eateries serving food from around the galaxy. A large Orracowan forcibly bumped into Gresham and the nine-foot tall alien snarled at him with both his interior and exterior set of teeth when he turned in protest.

"Don't start picking fights with aliens bigger than you," Troy said and grabbed Gresham's arm. "Let's worry about getting to Lugrash's. That beast will tear your head off for sport if you give it a reason to."

Glaring one last time at the towering alien, Gresham reluctantly followed the two SIS agents through the throng and another alley. They wound their way through increasingly dwindling crowds and increasingly darker streets and alleys until only a few lights shone from the windows of the aging tenements and the only sound was the distant hubbub of the crowds now dozens of blocks behind them.

"So what's the plan here?" Gresham wondered as they crossed an empty street. Eight Fantoon eyes stared at them from the shadows as two alien derelicts picked through garbage.

"The warehouse should be right up ahead," Troy responded, ignoring Gresham's question. They walked down the street and turned the corner to see an expanse of tarmac, big enough to fit a small-sized cargo freighter. On the other side of this tarmac was a large, three-story warehouse about two hundred and fifty yards long. Four cranes protruded from the warehouse's wall.

"Well, shit, this oughta be good." Gresham looked at Lara. "What next?"

"It looks like nobody's home. Hopefully we can sneak in on the ground floor and locate Lugrash's office. If we're lucky, he's got all his shipping manifests in one place and we can get a better picture about what kind of operation he's running and who his friends are. That, of course, is if we're lucky. You can never be too careful with smugglers."

Gresham mulled this over in his mind. "And if there is anybody there? Who knows what kind of manpower Lugrash has. There's three of us against however many of them."

"We're close enough to the nearest LAPD checkpoint that we'd have backup here in five minutes if a gunfight were to start," Troy said. "Besides, if Lugrash has nothing to hide, he'll be cooperative with us. This could be a dead end, after all."

Gresham looked back at the warehouse. It was dark, but he had the feeling that the ominous building was in no way a dead end. "Yeah, we can try talking to him or something. Those clowns in the booty shorts were pretty cooperative and articulate. Who the hell taught them Standard, a freighter jockey? A Mingiclorian?"

"A professional cargo runner and smuggler interacts with a fair share of humans and needs to be able to speak Standard halfway decently," Lara said with a grimace. "Look, you didn't have to come, Gresham. In fact, I'd rather you stayed out here while Troy and I go inside. I don't need an idiot with a gun messing up my investigation."

Troy raised an eyebrow. "Lara, I'm not sure that's a good idea. The Orracowan hunting packs might turn up and he's literally dead meat if they do."

"Fine, he can come," Lara said with a frustrated, exasperated tone. She ran a hand through her hair and glared at Gresham as per usual. "Don't screw up, Major. You're not the only one at risk getting killed. Zone smugglers are dangerous, merciless animals."

"I'm a grown man, Lara, I'll be fine. You don't need to hold my hand."

Lara rolled her eyes. "Let's go. Troy, you want to take the lead?"

"Sure thing."

They hurried in a single file line along the wall running the length of the tarmac to the warehouse, guns at the ready and their eyes scanning for trouble. Any shadow that moved could be an alien ready to pounce – Gresham felt his heart beating faster than he had felt it drum in a very long time.

As they neared the warehouse, he felt an uncomfortably familiar stench seeping from the building – the stench of Balgoshans, the same putrid, dirty smell he had sensed when they were bribing the street musicians. They'd found the right place.

Lara hopped up onto a raised platform underneath one of the cranes and peered in through a window. She tapped the window to the darkened warehouse with the butt of her gun and squinted.

"This is reinforced glass, built to withstand bullets and medium-yield plasma charges. We'd need a cannon to blow through these."

"Is there a door?" Gresham asked and Lara raised a finger to signal him to be quiet. She scanned the façade of the warehouse before pointing to a steel door between the middle two cranes. They approached the door and inspected it – it was locked with an old-fashioned padlock instead of an electronic lock.

"That's cheap Zone technology for you," Lara said sarcastically.

Parts of the lock looked rusty, and Troy took the initiative of striking it twice with the butt of his gun. He swung harder with the third hit and the lock cracked. He wiggled it off, rubbing his smarting hand.

"I think I bruised it," he said, biting his lip in clear pain. "I'll be fine though."

Lara took a look at the hand and nodded after gently squeezing it with her thumb and forefinger. "I don't think anything's broken, Sam. You'll be alright." She returned her attention to Gresham. "I'll lead. Don't get yourself killed."

"I'm a Dhruiz vet, Ms. Taylor, I'm not as inept as you think," Gresham muttered. He was growing sick of her condescending insinuation that he didn't know which end of his gun was which.

Lara nudged the door open and ventured into the darkness. There was no movement as far as she could discern, and the only things she could make out were small shimmers of light from the windows and the shadows they cast.

"I don't think anybody's home," Gresham said under his breath as he followed her into the heart of the warehouse. Stacked crates lined the walls and were arranged in a clear rectangular pattern in the middle of the floor.

"Don't be so sure," Lara replied, raising a finger to her lips. She approached a solitary crate next to a pile that was five-high and opened it. A smirk played across her lips and she motioned for Gresham to approach.

"Alright, military man, can you identify these for me?"

Gresham peered into the crate to see a series of purplish carbines. He picked one up and peered down its smooth, curved, and very alien barrel.

"That's a briling Oan-40," he replied. "The Dominion's armed forces have been phasing them out in favor of the modern Oan-50 over the past four years. These tend to wind up in Border Worlds because they're cheap and are compatible with plasma cartridges for other weapons."

He primed it with gusto, and the bottom of the carbine glowed blue. "It's loaded, too. These smugglers must be idiots to put live plasma packs in Oan-40s in a _box_. Imagine if these overheated and all the guns went off simultaneously on a flight?"

" _Or_ ," Lara corrected, "what if they leave the guns out so they can see the carbine's glow in the dark in case somebody breaks in?"

A bullet ricocheted off of a crate only an inch from Gresham's head to accentuate her point. "Shit!" he cried and dove for cover, still clutching the carbine. "Where are they shooting from? Where are they?"

HV rounds and plasma beams were suddenly hurtling through the warehouse, giving a strange, brief luminescence to the space with every shot. Gresham ducked down to a crouch, trying to see which direction the shots were coming from. The _zip_ of the HV and the _phew_ of the plasma, intercut with the louder bangs from Lara and Troy's pistols, drowned out his thoughts.

He finally got a visual on the source of several high-frequency plasma shots from an upper level. He aimed his carbine carefully and fired – he was rewarded with a yelp of pain and two barks of surprise. It sounded like a brogg.

"I got one!" he cried out in the direction he believed Troy was in.

"Good for you!"

_You'll thank me later,_ Gresham thought grudgingly and scanned the room once more for enemies. In the darkness he could barely see anything – but from a momentary flash of a plasma round, he made out a breaker box on a far wall.

Gresham ducked his head and ran full tilt towards the box. Something ricocheted off the ground behind him and he ducked as hot debris flew past his head. Lara cried something out through the din.

The breakers were all, predictably, switched off. Gresham began flipping them with gusto and the lights of the warehouse hummed to life. He looked upwards towards the catwalks. There were no more than six or seven smugglers scattered around in the elevated position, but they still had a clear advantage in numbers and altitude.

"Good work Major!" Troy yelled as he aimed and took down a large, unsavory-looking Mingiclorian. "Try to find a way up to the second floor!"

Gresham hurried along the wall, bullets and plasma still hissing through the air around him. Near the far end of the wall was a small stairwell that wound up towards the second floor. He dove into it and immediately regretted it as a plasma round slashed through a metal stair three feet away.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed in surprise and rolled down the stairs as another beam seared the wall. A Balgoshan stood at the top of the stairs, training a plasma rifle straight at his face.

Gresham's instincts kicked in and his already-drawn gun discharged twice. Both bullets hit the Balgoshan, who toppled back against the wall in a haze of bluish blood.

It did not take a thorough investigation to see that the alien was dead. Gresham kicked the plasma rifle away regardless for good measure and glanced out onto the tresses of the second level. A nearby brogg noticed him but did not have time to swing his weapon around. Lara placed a perfect shot in the smuggler's throat from the bottom floor and the canine ET slammed into the wall, coughing and clawing at the mortal wound.

"Thanks!" Gresham cried out. There was a loud blare and one of the windows on the third level burst, raining reinforced glass down on the warehouse. A second window shattered as well and two medium-glare flares zipped in through the openings.

"This is the Los Angeles Police! Cease fire immediately!" a voice cried through a loudspeaker. The whine of an LAPD cruiser hovering above the warehouse reached such a high pitch that Gresham had to retreat back into the stairwell and cover his ears.

Uniformed officers in full combat gear stormed into the warehouse on the lower level and four rappelled in through the broken windows. The remaining smugglers tossed their guns aside and raised their hands in defeat.

_That's right,_ Gresham thought with a grin. He looked down towards Lara to see that, for the first time, she was smiling too.

#

"You know how to read Balgoshan, Major Gresham?" Lara asked as she rifled through paperwork in the tiny, tucked-away office no bigger than a closet.

"Not a tongue I ever practiced," Gresham chuckled. "Always found Krokam and Brili to be more applicable languages in my field."

Lara motioned for an LAPD officer to approach. "Go ahead and take these files and submit them to evidence for now, there's nothing in here we need at the moment."

"Yes, ma'am," the officer replied and picked up the box. "We'll have them transferred to the materials department so that SIS can pick them up tomorrow or the day after if anything comes up."

"Thank you, officer," Lara said before turning her attention back to Gresham. "Those files were all in Balgoshan. For now, worthless, until we find an interpreter. Besides, Cray'll have Level One placed on everything we find here once he wakes up, so we need to find something useful before we ship the whole lot off with the police."

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"Manifests, blueprints, ledgers, anything we can use to tie Lugrash to an Allied official, or to _anyone_ for that matter. This was a bigger find than I was expecting, to be honest. If the dates on some of these files are correct, we're looking at a decade of smuggling records." Lara grinned. "Not to mention, he had cutting-edge equipment in the back for wiping the digital serial codes from guns. This is the biggest trove of evidence we've found in years! Oh, if only Brighton were alive..."

"I'm sure Vance would be thrilled too," Gresham muttered and started sifting through a stack of papers, all in Balgoshan. "Lugrash must have figured it safest to write in his native language since barely any humans speak it."

"That's pretty much the norm for most Zone criminals," Lara said while trying to start up the office's database. "They operate with a paper trail so it can't be hacked and write it in their native language, sometimes even obscure regional dialects of the language, so that it takes us longer to translate and analyze. You don't suppose there's an automatic translation system on this computer, do you?"

"Do you really think he has anything on there?"

"Worth a check. Besides, Cray will wipe the hard-drive once he's downloaded everything. We need hard evidence this way."

Gresham nodded and continued going through another box of paperwork. "I get the sense you don't really like your boss."

"Cray? Who the hell would? Have you ever met the man?"

"I haven't had the pleasure."

"Let's hope you never have to." Lara smiled and pulled a small disk out of her pocket. "Perfect. I have access to his databank right now. I'll download it all onto this disk and we can read all this information later." She put it into the computer. There was a whirring noise as the download initiated.

She briefly returned her attention to Gresham. "By the way, I don't think I complimented you yet on your shooting earlier... if you hadn't gotten those lights on, we were all toast."

"Thank Los Angeles's finest," Gresham replied and cracked a smile. "I don't think those lights would have done us much good regardless had they not shown up."

"It's a shame you had to shoot Lugrash, though."

"It was me or him."

"I know. I would have done the same. Still, he would have been useful." Lara turned back to the download. "Okay, it's done. Find anything in those files?"

"Just a whole bunch of Balgoshan. There are plenty of invoices for payments, and he's using the human numerical system, but the actual words are all foreign. This guy was making a ton of money – there's a consignment here for over five hundred thousand credits. Beats me what it was for though. Or where it all went."

Troy walked into the office with a sour expression. "Lara, we have a problem."

"What is it now?"

"Evening, Agent Taylor," a dry voice purred from outside the door and a short, slightly overweight man in his early forties entered. He had sandy hair with only a few flecks of gray along his sideburns and a square jaw to match his pale green eyes, which drilled through Gresham like heavy machinery the moment he laid notice to him. "Who's your friend? LAPD?"

Lara sighed. "Hi, Daniel. You don't think you could be polite for once, do you?"

"Daniel Vosen, Special Intelligence," the man said and extended a hand. "I'm with the Alien Affairs desk."

"Major John Gresham," was the awkward response, followed by a reluctant handshake.

Vosen raised an eyebrow. "Oh is that so? I'll assume you're with Military Intelligence then. Let's see some identification."

Gresham paused. Vosen snapped his fingers and gestured with his hand for emphasis. "I won't ask again, Major. You're in my jurisdiction."

"Take it easy, Vosen," Lara muttered, but Gresham politely complied and handed his ID card over. Vosen glanced at it, raised an eyebrow and handed it back.

"You're a JLOC! That's high up. How'd you wind up down here?"

"It's a long story, Mr. Vosen."

" _Agent_ Vosen, to you. And I've got all night."

Gresham was unsure how to respond, but both Lara and Troy stepped closer. "Vosen, leave the man alone. He's collaborating with us on an ongoing investigation."

"Fair enough. Well, as I was going to say, I need you both out of this room immediately so we don't... _tamper_ with the evidence. My team's coming down in the morning to do a thorough look-through."

"We sent a few boxes off with the police."

"We'll get those in the morning. You're done here, Lara, go home." Vosen straightened his back and glared at Gresham. "A pleasure, Major. I'll see you around."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

_Was that a threat?_ Gresham wondered as he nodded in response and led the way out of the room.

Once out of the warehouse, and past the police perimeter, Gresham finally turned towards Lara. "Who the hell was that guy?"

"Dan Vosen is Brighton's replacement as section chief," she answered. "He's a real charmer, isn't he?"

Troy coughed and indicated a police cruiser hovering nearby. "The officers said they'd fly us back to our HUVR in Moreno Valley. We'll drive you back to Santa Monica so you can get your HUVR and go home, Major."

"Thank you."

The entire flight in the cruiser was completely silent. Gresham peered out the window at the sprawling darkness of the ETZ below them, peppered with the occasional twinkling light. He looked in the other direction at the endless bright expanse of Los Angeles in the distance.

_I need a drink_ , he thought, rubbed his face in his hands and leaned back in his seat as the cruiser's brakes whined to life and they circled down towards Moreno Valley.

#

It was barely six in the morning when Perry's LUXR pulled onto Crest Avenue from his hotel in downtown Los Angeles and sped away towards Shoregrove and the government district.

Perry yawned and rubbed his eyes before removing a small vial containing a green gelatin from his jacket pocket. He licked his index finger and scooped up a small speck of the stuff from the vial and placed it on his tongue. Instantly, he felt a rush of energy, his eyes bulged and the sensation reached every nerve in his body. He grabbed the side of his seat and his toes curled up in his shoes. His knuckles were white, his heart was pounding and he felt a bulge in his pants.

_Damn, that's good shit_ , he thought and blinked as the initial rush of the drug wore off. He lifted his leg gingerly to let the blood flow back into it and he breathed out deeply before capping the vial again and placing it back in his pocket. He would have to remind his personal assistant on Mars to get more of it for him.

He pressed a button next to his seat and a holographic report appeared in front of him. He scrolled through it, grimaced, and then changed to a different report. After about five minutes of skimming article after article, his LUXR slowed to a halt.

"We're here," his driver said. "Should I wait in the garage or out back?"

"I'll be a while. Go get yourself a cup of coffee or something and pick me up in two hours," Perry responded and gave the driver a hefty tip. "Thank you for your expediency."

Perry disembarked from the LUXR and watched it zoom down the road. He turned to look up at the shiny, glass façade of one of the numerous buildings housing the offices of various Commissioners and other high level bureaucrats. Due to the lack of space at Shoregrove, the upper echelons of the legislative and bureaucratic branches of Allied government had moved off of the Rotunda to these less assuming buildings along Crest Ave.

He approached the door of the building directly before him and placed his hand against a scanner on the wall. "Elijah Perry," he said flatly.

The building's AI responded, "What is your business, Mr. Perry?"

"I'm here to see Commissioner Jackson D. French," he answered. "I believe I am registered for an appointment at this time?"

"Mr. French's office has cleared your entrance," the AI said dutifully and the locking mechanism's light went from red to green. "Please enter at this time."

Perry was glad to get inside – even this early in the morning, he was feeling the heat. When had Los Angeles gotten so infernally hot? He remembered barely ten years ago it had been pleasant out this time of year.

Jack French's office was on the third floor of the building, and the windows unfortunately overlooked little else but the identical building next door. The suite included a reception room, two side offices for his chief aides, and his own personal office at the far end of a hallway.

Perry knew that there were advanced security systems built into the walls of the hallway going down to French's office. If a threat was detected, he would be pummeled by stun shots and left to lie there until the police came to retrieve him. French had installed the state-of-the-art system after Perry had seen it demonstrated at the Hessian Engineering headquarters, where it was common in almost every hallway.

As the door slid open, French glanced up at Perry and scowled. "Ah, good morning Eli. Drink?"

"No thank you."

French leaned back in his chair. "I'd like a scotch, on the rocks," he ordered and the bar built into the wall produced a glass, filled it with ice and then a squirt of the brown liquor from a nozzle, all in rapid succession.

Getting up to grab his drink, French looked at Perry. "So what's new on Mars, Eli? Heard things are getting shitty in 'Neer City."

Perry shrugged. "Nothing unusual. The weather's nasty and you can barely walk fifteen feet without some vagrant sticking his hand out for a few credits."

"Los Angeles isn't much better. If you think its hot now, wait until midday. And the aliens – Christ, there are so many ETs you can smell them from half a mile away," French muttered in disgust and sipped his scotch. "We can't even contain them in that zoo we built for them out in the desert. It'd save the government plenty of money to ship them all home and give their jobs to the destitute here."

"I doubt many humans would do ET work."

"Well, at the rate they're advancing AI these days, we might not have to soon," French remarked and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. "What's the word on the street back on Mars after the bombing?"

"After the Haimon assassination? Well, it makes the President and his cronies look bad. Someone dropped the ball."

"Yeah, you could say that. Christ, I was hoping I could at least run against the man in a general election before someone blows the old bastard up. He polls well, too, I had no idea he was so unpopular."

Perry cracked his fingers uncomfortably. "Have you considered that Haimon may have been the target, Jack?"

"You can't be serious?"

"He was very unpopular back home on Vega. His majority coalition in their government was about to collapse, there was a general election imminent. That election has been moved up by two months to next week in order to more rapidly name a successor."

French coughed. "Well, shit. How do you know these things before I do, Eli?"

"I thought that was my job?"

"Maybe. Maybe it is." French finished his scotch, regarded Perry for a moment and then set the empty glass aside. "Look, there's something I'm meaning to talk to you about..."

"Yes?"

"I'm getting worried about Hess. The way the media is portraying the man, the ruckus getting stirred up in the Commission over his business tactics..."

"Jack..."

French raised a hand. "Colin Hess is one of the best campaign contributors on Mars, probably in the Alliance, but I have a primary to run in. I have enemies within the party who will eat me alive if I'm throwing my support behind Hess while the witch hunt is on."

Perry sighed. "Jack, we've talked about this before. Colin is an extremely valuable ally. We can't alienate him."

" _We_ can't alienate him, or _you_ can't?" French growled. "Eli, I'm not running against a Martian opponent. This isn't about protecting union jobs. The Allied Socialist base will demand that I take a tougher stance on defense contractors. I can get away with opposing the reform bill as it stands now because it unfairly hurts my constituents, but can you imagine what the left-wingers would do in the primaries if we're still in bed with Hessian Engineering?"

"You have Colin Hess to thank for your seat."

"I have _you_ to thank, and your friends on Mars. I got elected as the workers' man, not management's man. What a one-eighty I've pulled, Christ." French opened his computer. "Sometimes I wonder about your relationship with Hess, Eli. How did the son of a former union boss wind up as the attack dog for the Alliance's wealthiest military contractor?"

Perry sighed and rose. "Jack, I resent your tone and mood. I'm here to help you and you owe me more than you realize. I have plenty of documents that would put you in prison for life if they ever surfaced. And even if you don't win the ASP nomination next year, you do know that you've got to defend your seat again, right?"

"Is that a threat?"

"Not at all. I'm just reminding you that the most powerful union leaders on Mars got you elected twice, just like you said. Their money, their influence, their vote."

French glared at Perry. "You wouldn't dare..."

"Don't forget your place, Jack. I _made_ you, and I can destroy you just as easily. Whether at the ballot box or in the courtroom, I have a lot more leverage than you." Perry smiled. "That being said, I wanted to let you know that Hess sends his regards. He'll be in town this coming week for the security summit. He'll want to see you on his trip, perhaps at the summit itself."

French grimaced. "I'll think about it. Foreign policy and military matters aren't exactly my strong field."

"Hess insists."

"I'll _think_ about it, Perry. I have a busy schedule, so if you would?"

He gestured towards the door with a dismissing hand. Perry nodded and left. As he walked down the hall, he smiled.

_Easier than I thought it would be_.

Chapter Fifteen: Interstellar Travel

Deep Space

"I know this may be difficult to understand," High Prod Arranko said with carefully-chosen words, "but the loss of your father represents a serious blow to the military. The Empire has seen few leaders as bright as Akgu Juska."

Zurra did not meet his superior's gaze. "You honor my father and family with your praise, High Prod."

"Praise well deserved," Arranko said. He was an aging krokator; his skin hung from his bones like drapes and his eyes were dead, hollow pits.

It had been an accident, they said. While rendezvousing with a nearby fleet, Akgu Juska's transport had sent out a distress signal before contact was completely lost. When a search-and-rescue craft reached the scene sixteen hours later, there was nothing but debris scattered through space, some pieces of the ship down on a lonely moon.

Out there, somewhere in the oblivion of space, what little remained of Akgu Juska's body was cast forever to the vastness of infinity. He was given a respectful funeral without a body – a pyre was burnt for him anyways, but something felt wrong without his remains being committed to ash like the wood.

_I suppose he was turned to ashes out in space anyways_ , Zurra had thought darkly. It was an unfitting death for his father. A prod that had spent most of his career on firm ground dying in a spaceship accident.

Zurra moved through the somber crowd at the funeral. The service was being held in a field near the Akgu home. The leafy branches of coalnut trees swayed in the light afternoon breeze and the sounds of a pogo echoed in the distance from a nearby farm.

A masked priest committed some items of Juska's to the flames. "And so we thank Ugrand for the time our departed friend Akgu Juska was given, we exonerate Frusrand for his guidance of Akgu Juska to glory and righteousness, and we accept Ukkum's wisdom in taking him when he saw fit." He bent his head low. "Kurkand keep him in his mercy."

There was a brief minute of silence. The flames licked into the sky.

The priest gazed up from behind his shroud and gestured towards a tall blue-skin. "Now, Prod Trakk Nikkwill has a few words to say about the departed."

As per tradtion, eulogies at krokator funerals were given according to social rank as opposed to relationship with the deceased. Arranko had left after delivering the Death Box due to his ailing health, but the presence of a prod as decorated as Nikkwill was a true honor.

"Prod Akgu Juska was a friend of mine," Nikkwill began as he stared into the flames. "He was a committed soldier, and a noble one. In an era that has seen many tarls and prods question the wisdom of the Empire's leadership, Juska instead followed every order given without question. His loyalty to the Emperor and his people is a trait every officer ought to emulate. Prod Juska was a stern but just leader, treating his inferiors with respect, and they did the same to him. I never once saw Juska enter an argument with a fellow officer, insult their ideas, or question their loyalty and competence. He was a kind soul, a fine warrior, and a true hero of the Empire."

Eulogies were brief matters. Nikkwill stepped aside back into the crowd of assorted officers and locals. Another prod stepped forward to speak, followed by two more of equal standing. A few tarls who had long-ago served under Juska shared anecdotes of his tenure as a garrison commander on his homeworld of Kenka.

"And finally, Karp Akgu Zurra, the departed's son, has a few words about his father to say."

#

To understand how infinitely empty space was, one had to venture onto one of the cargo haulers that relied on hyperspace engines to navigate the stars as opposed to the more convenient interstellar jump gates used by smaller vessels. Due to krokator security protocol that predated Oranokk, foreign vessels could not use jump gates directly into Imperial space from beyond systems directly on the Empire's fringes, and as a result, a teeming 'gate culture' had been born on the Border Worlds, feeding crime as cargo runners piloting smaller craft in and out of the Empire had to make stops between the jump gates in the independent systems and those across the fortified stellar border.

The other effect was that direct travel between the Empire and other nations had to be done via the gargantuan haulers that used actual hyperspace engines akin to those pioneered by the Grays – cargo ships several miles long that rocketed through folded space several times faster than the speed of light, taking days and weeks to travel distances that vessels using jump gates could do in a matter of hours. Imperial shipping companies had made a huge profit on selling passenger space aboard the haulers for anyone headed in or out of the Empire who didn't want to risk getting robbed or killed on a Border World while waiting for a charter ship to take them through a jump gate.

Not surprisingly, the space sold on a cargo hauler was about as unglamorous a method of travel as could be found in the galaxy. Passengers were often packed in cramped, zero-gravity spaces where they would float and bounce off one another for the bulk of the journey. The cabin was only given nominal heating, although the body heat in the tight quarters often negated this effect if there were enough travelers. Due to the inconvenience and discomfort involved in foreign travel, most krokator avoided leaving the Empire if at all possible, which also provided a convenient way for the Empire to keep their population at bay within their own borders.

Zurra floated through a thin opening between two passenger compartments, using the sides of the portal to pull himself through. A large civilian krokator was hanging onto one of the nearby walls for dear life.

"Hello, sharm!" he said and waved. "I'm afraid I'm still not completely used to travelling this way."

Zurra acknowledged him and grabbed ahold of the wall, pulling himself up against it. "It takes a while. What brings you to Terra?"

"I was just appointed as a go-between for one of our manufacturing companies and a buyer in the Alliance. I still have another trip to take to another planet – Man-hat-tan, I think? – after we get to Terra."

"Hopefully you get a gravity-controlled, heated charter through a jump gate," Zurra muttered.

"What about you, sharm? When did we start sending soldiers out into Allied space?"

"I am part of a diplomatic detail."

The krokator nodded approvingly. "That sounds fitting."

The clung to the wall as the side of the ship groaned. Tremors from the force of hyperspace coupled with the power of the engines caused the hauler to shake and rumble as it hurtled through oblivion.

"I still have a hard time believing this whole business with the Emperor... and on the Urkuran, no less! Do the heretics have no shame?"

"If they had any respect for the traditions of the Empire," Zurra replied coolly, "then they would not be heretics."

The passenger laughed heartily. "Yes, yes I suppose you are right." He looked around the passenger compartment, which was unusually empty for an interstellar voyage. "What world are you from?"

"Kenka. You have not seen many black-skins before, have you?"

"I come from the bluest part of Sartokken, so no. We had a green-skin family in our town when I was growing up and they received unconscious stares everywhere they went."

"I have yet to travel to Sartokken. My commanding officer when I graduated the Academy was a true blue Sartokkosh. He spoke of it as a place he never intended to return to."

"Yes, Sartokken has seen better days. We suffer the tragedy of a universally hated planetary governor. He is the one problem Progressives and traditionalists can agree upon."

Zurra asked, "Are you with the Movement?"

"I like some of their ideas, but I do not wear the colors, no," the civilian smoothly replied. "I fear that after the Emperor's death there may be some shakeups within the Movement. I hope it does not turn violent, we do not need any more bloodshed."

"I agree. But," Zurra said with a broad smile, "whatever happens is Frusrand's will."

"Aptly put, sharm. Aptly put."

#

The monotony of space travel was crushing. Zurra spent several hours at one point floating around in the cargo bays, which were freezing cold and filled with a wide variety of dull crates contained in nets tethered to the walls. After making his way through a maze of cargo clumps, he found the crew's quarters and pulled his way in.

The crew of the particular hauler he was riding was a rough assortment of humans, krokator and muunfi. The muunfi, _bunchu_ as they were, mostly kept to themselves. Zurra was a little surprised to see the humans so cordial with the krokator crewmen – they spoke Krokam with a thick accent and poor pronunciation but surprisingly accurate and modern vernacular, and showed no animosity. They played human card games as much as they collaboratively solved classic krokator puzzles.

The apparent captain of the vessel was a stocky, well-built human, with gray hair and beady eyes. Zurra had seen very few humans before – only their hair color and skin shades differentiated them. The facial features were all so similar he had a hard time discerning several of the crewmen from one another.

"Hey, big man, you want in on a hand?" the captain said in Standard after spotting him in the far corner of the room. Zurra had a limited understanding of the language but he nodded. There were only two other krokator at the table, and four humans.

"I do want to play," he said slowly. One of the krokator dealt him two cards and Zurra had to press them against the table so they would stay down.

"The game is hold-em, if you've ever played. Doubt you would have," one of the other humans said. "Your two cards are your hand. You up your bet depending on if you think your hand is strong or not. If you have a weak hand, you can stay in and try to bluff other players out. We show five other cards on the table and at the end, your two cards and three of the shown cards have to make the best hand. Simple enough?"

Zurra scratched his head. "No... I will watch, yes?"

"Sounds fine."

Zurra spent the next few hours confused, but by the end of his stay in the crew quarters he had picked up the core aspects of how the game worked. He even played two hands, although he lost badly. The human numerical system was awfully confusing, though the number of symbols on each card – strange as they were – helped enormously.

"Sharm Zurra! May I have a word?" a large, thick-armed krokator called through the door. Zurra obliged and floated back out into the cargo bay.

The krokator that had hailed him was with the diplomatic detail, wearing civilian attire. His tusks were filed so that they barely were visible under his lip and he wore plain but noticeable jewelry – two silver rings on each hand and a small nose ring.

"I want to take this time to tell you about the situation on Terra so that you are prepared for our arrival," the krokator said. Zurra instantly realized that this was one of the _sukuda_ agents, neither of whom had previously approached him on the voyage.

"We will go somewhere private," the agent said and they floated up through the seemingly endless forest of tethered cargo balls. The _sukud_ finally grabbed hold of a tether and hung, suspended, looking down at Zurra.

"There is no one watching?"

Zurra held onto a different tethered cargo net and looked around. It was hard to see with all the constantly shifting nets swaying back and forth in the cargo bay, especially since they had been pushed against while the two krokator had moved up through the hold.

"I do not think so. I doubt many passengers would follow us up this far, and the crewmen are too drunk and occupied with their game to notice I left."

"Good. This will be my only opportunity to speak with you before we arrive. We will be on Terra in seven hours. Once we disembark in Los Angeles, you will not see me again. You will never see my companion. I will not present you with my identity, and even if I did, I will be using an assumed one on Terra. If you happen to see me at the embassy, do not greet me. If you do, I will not respond."

"I understand," Zurra said. He would hate working for the _sukuda_.

"You will receive a brief at the embassy from Ambassador Orget Jerven about Hessian Engineering and the potential Piskka connection. It is confidential and you are never to share any of the information he gives you with anyone, krokator or _bunchu_. Is this understood?"

"I have handled in confidential matters before."

"Yes, but in the Empire you have jurisdiction." The agent paused before saying in the human tongue, "How's your Standard?"

Zurra was impressed; not even a hint of accent, beyond the natural baritone every krokator spoke with.

"I speak very little Standard," he replied slowly. "I am still learning."

The agent scowled. "You'll have to do better."

"I know. I am sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry. Humans don't speak formally in everyday talk. It's faster than Krokam and less formal, even when speaking to superiors. They use contractions... do you know what I'm talking about? The tongue is fast. They run small words together. They mutter, they don't always articulate, and they sometimes sound like they're making animal sounds."

Zurra blinked. "My Standard is not very good, can you speak more slowly? Please?"

The agent shook his head in disbelief and reverted to Krokam. "You will have to practice more. I will let Jerven know that you need a dialect coach to work with at the embassy for a few hours a day so you get up to speed. Have you ever left the Empire before?"

"I have gone to Border Worlds on assignment in the past, but never to another League of Planets nation."

The agent thinned his eyes. "You speak passable Standard for someone with little experience in the language. Still, a _real_ field agent would be fluent so they could deal with informants."

"We have informants on Terra already?"

"I do not know many. The ambassador will have more information as to where you can look. I think that will be all for now... you have your papers ready, yes?"

"Of course."

"Good. I wish you luck on your mission, Sharm Zurra. Be clever on Terra, it is a dangerous and forbidding planet. Frusrand guide your path."

"And may He guide yours," Zurra replied as the _sukuda_ agent flung himself away into the cargo bay and vanished among the floating cargo tethers.

#

"Please fasten your safety harnesses for the duration of our trip down to the surface of Terra," the voice of one of the ship's pilots commanded in Krokam as a human repeated the message in Standard. "We will be docking with an orbital rig in about five minutes and once secured, the passenger shuttle will disembark. We will be arriving at the Malibu Spaceport off the coast of mainland California at about three in the afternoon, local time. The current temperature in Los Angeles is 98 degrees Fahrenheit."

Zurra felt an audible lurch as the hauler's brake thrusters kicked in and it reached a slower speed in space. Outside the hull, small automated drones launched from their pod on the tip of the docking rig to secure the ship to the rig itself, which was a massive, six-mile long pole floating just within the orbit of Terra's moon. The rig had several smaller docking poles where the haulers could attach, as the massive ships were too large to enter the planet's atmosphere.

"We have successfully docked in the orbit of Terra," the ship officer announced. "Thank you for travelling with us, and please enjoy your stay in the Human Alliance."

The bay doors under the passenger vessel churned open and the magnetic locks keeping the craft in place turned off, letting the ship drift down from under the hauler. Zurra stared out the small window as the inside of the hauler's ship bay slowly vanished from view and a startling view of a blue-green planet filled the window. Terra curved away in the distance, and just beyond the orbital horizon he could make out the edge of a small, rocky moon.

The transport craft's directional engines kicked in and the vessel turned at a wide angle, letting Zurra see even more of the world beneath him. There was considerably more landmass on Terra than on Rukkur – the planet appeared to be larger, too. Two military fighter ships zipped past the hull of the vessel, their contrails crystallizing in the coldness of space. Off in the distance, a large orbital defense station floated into view, obscuring a funny looking geographical feature – a peninsula that looked like a foot kicking an island shaped almost like a ball in the heart of a small sea.

The shuttle corrected itself as it drifted further away from the hauler that had brought it to Terra. Similar docking rigs and the monstrous haulers they supported hung suspended in space all around the small craft, and as the shuttle righted itself in anticipation of its flight down to the surface, it came closer and closer to the planet, where a bevy of ships of all sizes were flying in and out of the atmosphere.

"This is your pilot," a voice announced over the claustrophobic shuttle's intercom. "The descent to Los Angeles will take about twenty to thirty minutes. Please, do not remove your safety harness for any reason."

The powerful engines on the craft flared to life and the vessel shot forward. Zurra was pressed backwards into his seat and he grabbed onto the sides of his chair. The shuttle curved like a diving bird into the atmosphere of Terra above an island chain between two massive continents and straightened itself out over the ocean. Zurra heard a massive boom as the atmosphere became thick enough for the sounds of the engines to be heard by the naked ear.

The shuttle shook violently for several minutes, the windows filled with the glow of red plasma, before stabilizing just above a patchy bank of clouds. Zurra peered out and saw nothing but ocean beneath the shuttle in between the wispy cumuli.

Soon, the clouds dissipated and Zurra was met with a stunning sight. A coastline stretched before the shuttle in both directions, and tall, glimmering towers shone in the sunlight as far as the eye could see. Off the coast of this metropolis, a multi-tiered platform the size of a small city floated in the heart of the water, ships flying in and out of its docking bays. The shuttle circled the offshore spaceport twice, allowing Zurra more time to soak in the spectacle.

The shuttle flew down to a docking bay on the spaceport's fourth level, landing skillfully between two much larger passenger craft. There was a brief thud as the ship touched down to the floor of the hangar and then a whine as the engines slowly cooled off.

"We have arrived in the city of Los Angeles on Planet Terra," the pilot announced. "It is currently 3:08 PM, local time, with an outdoor temperature of about 97 degrees Fahrenheit. Please have your immigration forms ready when you enter the spaceport itself. Thank you for flying, and welcome to Los Angeles."

Zurra unbuckled his harness and rose along with the other passengers. Due to his status as a military officer, he had been afforded a window seat near the front of the shuttle. He stepped out through the door and descended a staircase to the tarmac below.

The heat was a shock. The Krokandir rarely experienced temperatures this high even during the summer months. Zurra breathed in the heavy, hot air and blinked. The air felt dirty and polluted. He wandered towards the edge of the docking bay to get another look at the city. Along the horizon, he could make out a distinct, low lying brown cloud that seemed to hug the coastline and water.

"Hey, Crock, you can't be back here!" a human technician called from the back of a neighboring shuttle. "Get away from the edge!"

Zurra glanced at the human and nodded. "Yes, I apologize," he said slowly in Standard and moved away from the edge of the docking platform.

He heard the technician say to his colleague, "Can you believe that? Fucking Crocks. Don't have any clue."

The other krokator who had flown in with Zurra were shepherded down a long, cramped tunnel lit with fluorescent arches that stretched from wall to wall across the ceiling. They eventually arrived inside a comfortable, climate-controlled room filled with desks. Behind each desk was a grim-looking human, and a line of a variety of species from around the galaxy had formed in front of each desk.

A tall human soldier carrying a gun indicated to the krokator to line up in front of a specific desk. Zurra was allowed through the line thanks to his status, but where in the Empire he would normally have taken this deference for granted, he felt strangely uneasy about this practice here. The human clerks at each desk stared at him as he moved up through the throng. Their looks were hardly approving.

Zurra arrived at the front of the line and a dark-skinned human clerk waved him forward. "Papers, please," the clerk said with an air of detachment. Zurra complied and handed him his identification.

The clerk glanced through the documents and looked back up at Zurra. "It says here you are a military officer," he said in virtually flawless Krokam.

"Yes," Zurra replied.

"What is the business of the Imperial Military on Terra?"

"I am part of an advance diplomatic detail, here to make preparations for the High Prod's upcoming visit."

"On a civilian shuttle?"

"Yes."

The clerk paused and pressed a button on a pad next to him. "Wait one moment, please."

Two large men approached and the clerk handed them his papers. Both of the men motioned for Zurra to step aside to let some of the civilians through, before proceeding to thoroughly look through the travel documents.

"Would you please come with us, Sharm Akgu Zurra?" one of the men said in Krokam.

Zurra nodded in compliance and followed them through the immigration checkpoints and into a dimly lit side hallway.

One of the men opened a door to a cramped antechamber and pointed to three chairs surrounding a round table. "Please, have a seat. We will return shortly."

Zurra sat down as requested and the men shut the door, without returning his papers to him. About ten minutes later a new human entered, this time carrying Zurra's luggage.

"Do not touch it," he ordered sternly in Krokam and set it down in the corner.

Zurra was unsure what exactly he had done wrong, or why so many humans spoke his language so well, but he was concerned as to what would happen if he disobeyed the orders. He patiently waited for what felt like hours, staring into the wall-length mirror or straight up at the pale white ceiling.

Finally, after an eternity, the door opened and two humans, one male and one female, entered and sat down in the other two chairs.

"Sharm Akgu Zurra," the female said in Krokam with a sharp tone, looking over his papers. "You know that the Imperial Military cannot operate on human worlds."

"I know," Zurra answered. "I am part of a diplomatic detail."

"Who is your contact?" the male asked bluntly. "Who is your _sukuda_ contact in Los Angeles?"

"I have no _sukuda_ contact, for I am part of the Imperial Military. I work for High Prod Nikkwill. I am part of his advance contingent in preparation for the defense summit."

"What defense summit? There is no defense summit. Stop lying to us!" the male snarled.

The female held up a hand. "We know why you are here, Sharm Akgu Zurra. You are an agent of the _sukuda_ sent to spy on the Alliance in the wake of your Emperor's assassination. We can and will hold you here indefinitely if you do not help us."

Zurra sighed. "I am not _sukuda_. You can call Ambassador Jerven, he knows me and why I am here."

The male continued fuming but said nothing. The female ran a hand through her long, dark hair before smiling. "Very well. Ian, get a hold of the Imperial Embassy."

The male got up and left the room. The female, meanwhile, rose and approached Zurra's luggage and opened it, rummaging through the contents of the two large bags.

Zurra remained silent, his concern rising as his predicament grew seemingly stranger by the second.

#

Behind the two-way mirror, two SIS agents smoked cigarettes and watched the large, dark-black krokator stare stoically right at them. He couldn't see them, but it still unnerved them both how the alien's dark, fierce eyes seemed to lock with theirs.

"This is getting ridiculous. If he is _sukuda_ , he's too well trained to tell us anything without some serious, serious duress. Besides, I don't think anyone in the galaxy, especially a Crock officer, would be intimidated by Ian."

The other agent chuckled and dragged on his cigarette. "Yeah, true. Still. If he is _sukuda_ , we can't just release him into the city. Knowing the Crocks, if they're pissed about their Emperor dying, he could cause some serious damage if he's after revenge out there. I'm surprised we let that many civilians through immigration."

There was a beep on the panel in front of them and the second agent pressed a button to respond. The holographic head of Dan Vosen, the new head of the SIS Alien Affairs department, loomed in front of them.

"I got Agent McPhane's call. I talked to the Crock Ambassador, this guy is good," Vosen said. "We don't have any choice but to release him."

The first agent elbowed his colleague and mouthed, _Told you_. The second agent rolled his eyes and stamped out his cigarette.

"Yes, Mr. Vosen. We'll let him go."

"Keep tabs on him though, and don't let Sharm Zurra leave the Embassy without somebody tailing him. I'll talk to somebody at the ET desk about arranging it, but for the meantime, Agent Flowers, you're responsible."

"Yes, sir."

The head vanished as Vosen ended the call and both agents leaned back.

Their female colleague left the interrogation room and looked into the control room behind the mirror. "Well?"

"Let him go," the agent named Flowers said and got up. "We have nothing to hold him with and their ambassador vouched for him."

The woman nodded and returned to the interrogation room. She explained in Krokam that the krokator was free to leave, and the alien looked relieved. He rose, grabbed his luggage and walked out the door, escorted by two new SIS agents.

Chapter Sixteen: Special Intelligence

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

"Good morning, John. You have a visitor," Tiff cooed and Gresham blinked awake. His head was pounding.

"What? Oh, right. One second. Who's calling?"

"A Ms. Lara Taylor is waiting to be buzzed into the building."

"Yeah, let her in."

_Taylor... what the hell is she doing here?_ Gresham wondered and stretched. He was tangled with the sheets in his bed and the bottle of tequila he had done some serious damage with the night before was lying open on the floor, the bare remainder of its contents spilled all over the carpeting and some of his dirty clothes.

"Time, Tiff?"

"It is currently 1:31 PM, Major," Tiff replied dutifully. "SLOC Colonel Gary Moss submitted thirty pages worth of briefing at 12:30."

"Did he leave any other message?" Gresham asked. As he dragged himself out of bed, he felt vomit build in his throat from the smell. He quickly pulled a pair of clean pants on before entering the living room.

"Yes, Colonel Moss left a message: _I know you're drunk since you didn't come to the office, but here's your assignment for the week. See you soon and learn to pick up your goddamn vox._ Would you like me to repeat or delete the message, John?"

_Love you too, Gary,_ Gresham thought with a chuckle and cracked his knuckles. "Delete it, I don't need to hear that again. Anything else?"

"Commissioners Gregory Reed and Jackson French have both left messages for you. Would you like to hear them?"

"Yeah," Gresham answered and walked into the kitchen, grabbing a mug from the counter and sticking it under a nozzle. "Coffee."

The nozzle squirted black coffee so that the cup was about three-quarters full. The sound of Reed's voice echoed in the apartment as Tiff replayed the message.

" _Hey, John, just wanted to see how you were doing. Heard about your little adventure down in the Zone... I think I found something that might help you. Call me back later when you're available."_

"Milk," Gresham yawned, shoving the cup under a different nozzle. Tiff complied with a shot of milk into the coffee as the second message began.

" _Major Gresham, this is Jack French. I wanted to know if there was anything else you needed. I've got a friend from Mars in town, he's well-connected. Just don't ask him where he gets his information – I don't, and I don't really want to know. Call me if you're interested."_

There was a buzz at the door.

"Unlock," Gresham said and the door clicked. Lara pushed it open and entered the room, looking around at the mess.

"Well, you certainly keep this place tidy," she observed and coughed. Her gaze fell on the shirtless, droopy-eyed Gresham. "Christ, Major, you look..."

"Thank you, I know," he answered and grimaced before sipping his coffee. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine... I've been calling you. You didn't answer yesterday or this morning. I got worried."

"I was recuperating. I haven't been out in the field since the Dhruiz War. And yes, that was almost twenty years ago. Still. I barely slept after we came back from the Zone. Felt like shit all of yesterday and the day before. So I called in sick and got drunk."

He sipped his coffee again and surveyed Lara. She was dressed professionally, wearing a sleeveless black top, a pair of tight navy pants and had her hair tied back in a bun. The gun holster on her hip was glaringly obvious.

"Is it legal for you to walk around Los Angeles like that?" he asked, motioning towards her gun with his coffee cup.

"Oh, shut up," she said and rolled her eyes. "Mind if I smoke in here?"

"Tiff, open the windows please," Gresham said and all the windows in his living room slid open noiselessly. "Go right ahead."

Lara sat down on a couch and pulled her pack of cigarettes out. "Want one?"

"I'll pass. So what brings you all the way out to the Palisades?"

"I went over Lugrash's files," she said, a glint of pride in her eyes. "They were a goldmine. I've never seen such a wealth of transactions. Other smugglers, offworld buyers, suppliers here on Terra and elsewhere – it was mind-boggling."

"Anything we can use?"

"Well, plenty of arrests will be made. I translated his hard data into Standard and he had a ledger of his cash flows in there. No individual transactions – that was all on paper. But the cash itself was computerized. We don't know what he was buying or selling based on the hard-drive, but we can match it to the paperwork once it's translated and pin individuals in the Zone and outside of it."

"Does that help with Vance at all?"

Lara lit her cigarette and pulled a disk out of her bag. She inserted it into the disk reader in Gresham's table and the ledger was displayed on his screen.

Gresham leaned against the counter and studied the maze of names and numbers. "So we have payments... but these could all be fully legal."

"I doubt many are, but yes. It'll be a chore to go through every one of his files and look up every one of these transactions, especially since these are alphabetized and his hard copies were filed by date. Frustrating, right?"

"I'll say," Gresham said and approached the couch. "So we're the only people besides Cray who have this, right?"

"Right. Cray put a Level One seal on all the hard evidence as well as the information off of Lugrash's hard drive. Only Vosen and his handpicked team are allowed to look at it, at Cray's discretion."

Gresham clicked his tongue. "What exactly does Simon Cray gain by locking up all this information? It seems a little... counterproductive."

"It's not just his ego. Cray..." Lara paused and dragged on her cigarette. She seemed at unease. "Look, there may be something serious going on here. I don't just mean the weapons, I mean in the Alliance. In the whole galaxy! You're in the intelligence field, so you know all about the recent assassinations within major League worlds, right?"

"How couldn't I? Gardell, the Empire, and they tried to kill Paine when the Vegan President was knocked off."

"Exactly. It's too convenient to all be happening at the same time. Somebody is killing off heads of state around the galaxy, and it has Cray spooked. He's been spooked for weeks. I just don't know what he's sitting on or what he knows."

Gresham nodded. "I see."

Lara breathed carefully. "Look, I came over because I can't do this by myself. Troy's been keeping a low profile since we went to the warehouse... I think Vosen scared him out of collaborating with me. Either way, I know we can find out what's happening, but I've hit a wall. I'm not good at asking for help, Major, but here I am."

After a lengthy pause, Gresham grunted, "We?"

"Yes, we. You wanted to figure out what happened to Vance? Here's your opportunity. I don't have access to the resources you do, not with Cray sealing off every lead we get. Are you in or out? I need your help to get to the bottom of this."

Gresham considered this and yawned before saying, "Well before we do anything else, I'm gonna go take a quick shower. Make yourself at home."

He stumbled off down the hallway towards his bathroom. Lara breathed and buried her face in her hands. _Christ, he's difficult_ , she thought and walked over to the windowsill. She stamped out her cigarette and threw it outside.

The shower turned on down the hall. Lara removed her disk from the reader and put it back in her purse. Her gaze fell on three pictures mounted at about eye level on the far wall and she walked over to take a closer look.

One of the pictures was of Gresham and President Paine shaking hands in front of an indistinguishable building. Both were several years younger – Paine especially looked fresh and youthful. They both were grinning from ear to ear and Lara could see a group of military and government officials in the background.

She glanced at the next picture. This one was more current. Gresham and an older man who looked stunningly similar to him were smiling and sitting in casual shirts on lawn chairs. On the far left of the picture, with her hands on the shoulders of two young girls, was an elderly lady standing beside a young man with her same bright eyes. Gresham's family, perhaps?

Lara turned to the final picture. Five soldiers in fatigues stood against a fence at night, holding beers and smoking cigars. Despite their youth, she recognized two of them instantly: Gresham and Greg Reed.

"You ready?" Gresham said, coming around the corner into the room. He paused and looked at the pictures. His gaze returned to Lara and he scowled, realizing that she had been looking at them. "A friend of mine left a message and said he had something he wanted to show me. My HUVR or yours?"

#

Perry checked the time on his voxcom and leaned back, studying the street. He was sitting in an open air café that had the foresight to equip its walls with small but effective fans that blew strongly enough to help cool the patrons down from the near hundred degree heat. It was a blessing in this weather.

A LUXR pulled up alongside the café and a small, wiry man with gray-flecked hair and wire-rim glasses hopped out. He adjusted his spectacles uncomfortably and spotted Perry. He waved and closed the door to his vehicle, which sped off to wait.

"Spencer, good to see you," Perry said and rose as his friend neared.

"Eli! Have you waited long?" Spencer Chiles replied.

"Five minutes or so, don't worry."

They sat down and the Chiles glanced at a tall, slender waitress. "I'd like a lemonade, please."

Perry turned to her. "Another beer, if you would be so kind." She nodded and Perry pulled out the small metallic case of green jelly he kept in his pocket. "So, what's new in the banking world, Spencer?" he asked, dragging his finger along the top of the gelatinous substance so that a thin layer of residue was left on his fingertip.

"Nothing good, I'm afraid. Everything's going downhill and it will only get worse once all the big defense contractors get the hammer."

Perry closed the case, slipping it deftly back into his pocket. "We're working on that. There's enough discord in both parties to kill the bill. I've talked to Jack, he's onboard with fighting this thing tooth and nail."

Chiles shifted in his seat. "Look, Eli, about Jack... Maybe we ought to cut him loose soon. We're already tying up loose ends, don't you think Jack's one more liability we don't need to worry about?"

"Jack knows much less than you think. About us, and other things," Perry answered testily and licked the gelatin off his finger discreetly. He felt the energetic sensation stream through his body and he breathed deeply, grabbing his seat with both hands. He returned his attention to Chiles and smiled. "I've told you and Hess a hundred times, I have Jack under control. _You_ handle the money, I handle the dirty work."

"Here's some 'dirty work' for you then, Eli – Lugrash was killed a few nights ago."

Perry coughed and raised his eyebrows in surprise. The waitress returned to the table. "Your beer, Mr. Perry. Your lemonade, Mr. Chiles."

Chiles sipped his lemonade and smacked his lips. "Excuse me, miss, do you think I could get a little sugar with it?"

"Certainly, Mr. Chiles. Would you gentlemen like anything to eat today?"

"Turkey club sandwich," Perry answered.

"Same for me," Chiles added. "Thank you, dear."

The waitress walked off and Perry watched her leave to make sure she was out of earshot. "What happened to Lugrash?"

Chiles set his lemonade aside and studied Perry's confused expression. "I always wondered what you would look like if something didn't go according to plan. SIS must have been watching him. They raided his warehouse, the LAPD got involved, and Lugrash was killed in a shootout. Ten million credits worth of weapons and assorted contraband confiscated – and some of the guns they found in those crates were from a Marine weapons dump up in Ventura. Sound familiar, Eli?"

"The good news, Spencer," Perry said slowly, "is that Lugrash took care of Evans, and the MID investigator looking into the theft is hospitalized. Cray's more paranoid than usual after the murder of Carl Brighton, so he'll restrict all the information from the Lugrash raid. Only a handful of people will be working that case, perhaps people we can coerce." He sipped his beer. "How did you hear about all this, by the way?"

"Lugrash isn't our only friend in the Zone."

"Very true." Perry paused for a moment, considering his unexpected predicament. Was it time to tie off another loose end and get rid of Chiles as well?

"Do you think Lugrash got rid of enough evidence to keep them from looking at us?" Chiles asked, eyeing their waitress's chest as she approached from the kitchen.

"Probably not. The guns that are left were obviously traced."

"Your turkey club sandwiches, gentlemen. Enjoy," the waitress said with her typical smile. Chiles' gaze never left her ass as she walked off to take the order of another customer. "How unfortunate," he finally said once she disappeared from view.

"If Lugrash had information that can incriminate you, Spencer," Perry said quickly, "you have to get off Terra as quickly as possible."

"Leave Terra, my ass! You think I can just call in sick and leave?"

"I would if I were in your position. Banking transactions are what we call hard evidence, my friend, and money laundering is a serious crime."

Chiles bit into his sandwich and considered the proposition as he chewed. "I suppose you're right. Where would I go?"

"I own a cabana on a private island on Oceanus," Perry replied. "If you're interested, I'd be more than happy to hand you the keys. I can have you through a jump gate in a few hours."

Chiles considered the proposition. "You don't think that that's a little drastic?"

"I don't think so. Our extraterrestrial friends will probably sleep a little more soundly at night if you aren't here for SIS to pick up."

"Lugrash doesn't have anything that can go back to Jurkken, right?"

"He was usually very thorough, but one can never be too careful. After all, if Jurkken is rattled, Grakko will be soon too." Perry wiped his mouth after finishing his sandwich. "If you would excuse me, I have a few more errands to run." He put down forty credits on the table and then fished a card out of his pocket. "This is the number of a very reliable and discreet pilot. Tell him I recommended you and he might give you a discount."

Chiles grimaced. "I'll think about it."

"Please do," Perry said and rose. "Don't screw this up, Spencer, we're getting too close."

#

Gresham stared out the window of Lara's HUVR at the imposing skyline of downtown Los Angeles as they pulled off of the A3. The shimmering towers reflected the afternoon sunlight down onto the street, like giant mirrors.

"So how do you know President Paine so well?" Lara ventured as they turned south towards Santa Monica.

"Why do you ask?"

"I couldn't help but see the pictures in your apartment."

Gresham smiled lightly and continued looking out the window. "It's a good story, I'll tell you that much."

"I'd love to hear it."

"Yeah, maybe later."

They pulled to a stop outside of a mundane concrete office building near Shoregrove Hall and Lara parked the HUVR in a two-hour lot. She stared at the dull structure in surprise. "This is where Commissioner Reed's office is?"

"Not much to look at, is it? Greg's always been a penny pincher."

They entered the building and took a lift up to the fifth floor. A security panel required them to identify themselves before entering his surprisingly spacious office suite, and Reed met them in a conference room with multiple couches.

"John! Good to see you," he said and they shared a warm handshake and hug. "You got my message, I see."

"I appreciate the offer," Gresham replied and indicated Lara. "This is Lara Taylor, an associate of mine."

Lara shook Reed's hand. "Commissioner Reed, it's an honor."

Reed smiled and motioned for them to have a seat. "The same to you, Ms. Taylor. How did you come to know this grumpy bastard?"

"I work with information distribution. Major Gresham and I are collaborating..."

"So you're SIS then. Glad we got that cleared up," Reed said with a chuckle, relishing her stunned look. "And I'm glad that your end is looking into this whole mess too. I think things may be a lot more serious than we realize."

"What do you mean, Greg?"

Reed pressed his hand against a silver pad on the table in the living room and said loudly and clearly, "Gregory Bryce Reed, Commissioner." There was a click and a buzz and the office suite's AI soothingly replied, "Accepted."

A holographic display flickered to life and Reed tapped the silver circle on the table to enlarge it. "Either of you two ever heard of the Supernova program?"

Lara looked genuinely confused but Gresham nodded cautiously. "It's a government slush fund, right?"

"Not exactly. It's more like a database of government projects, armament stocks and cash transactions within the defense sector. Department of the Defense, SIS, MID, Foreign Intelligence, both the Navy and the Marines, and all defense contractors get logged in Supernova when something passes through. It's pretty outdated and not a lot of people know about it, but Defense doesn't have the budget to upgrade, or so they claim."

"I guess that makes sense."

"The problem with Supernova is the... design flaws in its execution. For example, I can log in because I'm a Commissioner. At MID, anybody with Level One clearance can use it. That means every section chief as well as every SLOC. Access codes can be given to non-clearance personnel with permission – for example, Colonel Moss or I could give either of you our unique login codes."

"There's a personal code?"

"Yes. Every login requires a personal code, which allows the user of Supernova to navigate the database completely anonymously."

Lara rubbed her eyes. "Wait, what?"

"There are no names attached to anything done on Supernova – just an eight digit personal access code. And while you can see what each user has been up to on Supernova based on these codes, you can't see a single user's history." Reed paused, realizing how confusing that sounded. "What I mean is that if I look at a certain transaction on Supernova, I can see the ID number for whoever did it – but I can't look up that ID number and see _every_ action they've taken recently on Supernova."

"A whole top-secret database for the Allied Commission and defense brass," Gresham breathed out. "I never realized it was so intricate."

"Few people do, since it's an old, almost obsolete program. I certainly didn't until I did some research. I fooled around with Supernova for a few hours. And guess what I can do?"

Reed punched in his personal ID code and the holographic display transformed into a three-dimensional web of white nodes, almost like a star-map.

"Marine Weapons Requisitions," Reed commanded and touched his finger to one of five nodes that were enlarged. "Review of active weapons depots."

"Please specify planet, colony or space station," the AI replied.

"The planet is Terra, continent is North America. Search active databases within five hundred miles of Los Angeles."

A map of the continent's coastline was displayed along the table, and little white dots glowed at the site of each depository. "Seventy-four active sites found within established parameters."

Reed ran a hand through the hologram. "Pick one, John. Doesn't matter which one."

Gresham was pensive. What was Reed trying to prove? He finally touched a shining dot located on the peninsula stretching far to the south of Los Angeles.

"Ensenada Marine Weapons Depository (P-T MWD 24) selected," the AI announced. The map vanished and in its place a thorough cataloguing of all the weapons and their serial codes started slowly crawling through the air in front of them.

"Holy shit," Gresham whispered. He placed his face in his hands. "So _that's_ how the requisition went through. On Supernova."

"Correct. Any Allied Commissioner – or anyone who has access to Supernova, for that matter – can move guns and assign projects anonymously. Obviously, there are people whose job it is to monitor this program, but there is such a bevy of activity on here that the movement of a handful of guns from one of seventy-four weapons depots in California will go unnoticed. And it's not hard to hide your tracks. Remember, ID codes, no names."

"How do we look up the ID code for whoever requisitioned the Ventura theft?" Lara asked.

"Already did that for you," Reed said. "The transaction was in the archives. I wrote the eight-digit ID code on this paper for you along with the full invoice as catalogued here. I also gave you my own code and my personal password for Supernova so you can use the program as well. Any MID office should have access."

Gresham stared at the eight digit ID number. "How do we figure out whose code this was?"

"All the ID codes for the Supernova program are locked in a security vault at the Department of Defense. The codes are randomly reassigned every six months, too. So, to put that clearly, these ID codes are only current by a month or so. Anything before June 1st is worthless. This is fine for you, though, since the theft happened after that deadline."

"In other words, we can see what people have done on Supernova – but we can't know who it was?" Lara said with an exasperated expression.

"Unfortunately, that's just the way the program is designed."

Sensing that Lara was on the verge of saying something that would embarrass them both, Gresham stood up and smiled. "Greg, thank you so much. This is... well, it's eye opening. I appreciate the help."

"No problem at all. Don't even mention it." Reed shook both of their hands. "I hope it will come in handy."

They silently left the office suite and rode the lift down to the ground floor. Once they were in the lobby, Lara breathed out. "Well, that was certainly helpful. We have a method but no firmer answers than we did before."

"I feel we learned plenty. Worst comes to worst, we at least can prove that anyone – and I mean anyone – in the Commission or upper echelons of the security services could have requisitioned those weapons."

"How do we get access to the vault matching the codes to their owners?"

"We don't, unless we get a search and seizure order approved by a high-ranking Alliance official. Howard Paine, for example."

Lara paused. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Completely. It'll take him a day or two to get it approved through the courts, though. I'll make sure to give him a call."

Lara unlocked her HUVR once they entered the lot. "It helps to have powerful friends, I guess."

"It sure does." Gresham browsed through the file Reed had given him. "We've got something else now too. A full invoice of the requisition order that Vance was wounded trying to get."

"What does that tell us?"

"On its own, not a whole lot. But we now have serial numbers for every gun that went missing out of Ventura, plus the clearance codes. We can figure out who was on shift when the theft went down this way and get a scope of exactly what was stolen."

Lara smiled. "You know, Gresham, I think you have the makings of a fine field agent."

"And I still don't think you have the makings of an analyst," Gresham chuckled back. "But we'll work on it."

"Screw you!" Lara laughed and they pulled out onto the street.

#

They parked at an open-terrace restaurant near the beach and Gresham ordered a beer while Lara went to call the Ventura Depository in private. She returned after about ten minutes and sat down.

"Good news or bad news first?"

"I assume I'm going to hear both eventually."

"The shift manager at the weapons depot who was working the day of the theft was there when I called. I had a very nice, long talk with him."

"And that's the good news?"

"Yep. The bad, unfortunately, is that the guns were picked up by a couple of guys who signed off for them with the authorization serial number given to them by whoever used Supernova. The weapons were readied in crates for them when they were supposed to show up. A couple of the shift workers and AI bots at the depot loaded it all up into a freighter that flew off after about ten minutes. The freighter pilots – there were maybe four or five, the manager said – gave him the code and he signed the paperwork and gave them the stamped and approved invoice."

"So they have an invoice... which one did Alan Evans have in that case?"

"The manager told me that one invoice gets filed at the depot, one gets sent with the requisition order itself and a _third_ invoice gets sent to the Office of Material Affairs. OMA is, obviously, the Defense branch where Evans worked, as you already know. Alliance protocol requires three copies of any transaction to be held at three different locations. With the supplier, with the acquirer and with an oversight official, and all three have to match up."

"And obviously there's an electronic, online version on Supernova."

"Exactly. Three hard-copies and a virtual one." Lara smiled. "Now this is where things get interesting. I asked the shift manager to look up the invoice in his files, and it was missing. There was an unauthorized entry into the depository's files a few days ago apparently and one of the employees hasn't come back to work since that day."

"You got a name?"

"Frank Price. And he lives in Juniper Gardens; we can be there in twenty minutes. Shift manager gave me an address and everything."

They were driving not long thereafter on the A7 and Gresham pondered the obvious question he'd had the moment Lara had mentioned Price.

"What's so valuable about the paper invoices?"

"What do you mean?"

"If there's an electronic version that SIS could access with the right clearance to look at the guns, why steal the paper copies? The authorities could still figure out what had been taken from the depository."

Lara paled and clicked her tongue. "Do you have a theory?"

"I do, but I don't know if it's something you want to think about."

They pulled off the freeway into Juniper Gardens, a low-income neighborhood in the San Fernando Valley. A large sign threatened the use of law enforcement to keep the anti-ET ordinances in effect. Low, identical bungalows stretched in every direction. Fences, most likely electrified, separated the concrete properties. Each house had a palm tree growing on the side of its driveway and potted plants hung from several doorways.

"Charming neighborhood. Looks pretty empty."

"Normal people are at work at three in the afternoon," Lara replied as they turned down another street of gray, concrete bungalows. A group of kids were throwing a football around in a small, enclosed grass lawn at the end of the street. When Lara parked her HUVR in front of the address the Ventura manager had given her, the kids stopped to watch.

Gresham got out of the car and waved at the assembled children. "Let's make this quick, Lara, this place gives me the creeps."

The eyes of the children were penetrating. Lara blinked and smiled. "You can handle the Zone at night, but you can't do Juniper Gardens in broad daylight? You're a strange, strange man, Major."

They approached the house and rang the doorbell. Gresham pressed his ear against the door and pressed the buzzer again. There was no sound inside the building.

"You sure this is the right address?"

"Positive. Why?"

"There's no AI response from ringing the buzzer. Who keeps their AI turned off?"

Lara pressed the buzzer as well. She wrinkled her eyebrows. "Maybe he turned it off."

"Maybe is a dangerous word, Lara."

"We'll check around the back, okay?"

She circled the house and picked up a loose chip of concrete from the ground. As they approached the gate to the backyard, she lightly tossed it against the chain-link fence. It clattered harmlessly off of the metal and fell to the ground.

"The electricity is off too. The power must be cut out to this house."

"That would explain why the AI doesn't work."

"Not necessarily. Most homes have the AI running on a backup generator with a battery life of one hundred and eighty hours or more. If there's a power outage, your house still works." She pushed open the gate, which was unlocked. "These houses aren't particularly outdated. Unless his generator got shut off somehow as well."

A concrete wall circled the backyard of Price's bungalow. A small concrete patio was bordered by a shallow dirt garden filled with weeds. No plants had been grown here for a long time. A lone, miniature palm tree grew from a pot on the far side of the enclosure. A pair of polished steel lawn chairs had been folded neatly against the wall nearest the gate and a wooden table was pushed up against the home itself. A glass sliding door connected the house to the backyard. It was sealed shut, but its electronic lock was shut off, not displaying the red dot that typically suggested a locked door.

"Power is definitely out," Gresham said with exasperation. He peered through the glass. "Looks messy inside."

Lara looked in as well. "That's more than a mess. This place looks ransacked."

She pulled her gun out and Gresham, instinctively, did likewise. Lara smiled before saying, "So how tight with President Paine are you?"

"Well, he invited me to his inauguration... Look, I said we'd discuss it later, why do you..."

Lara fired twice into the glass before grabbing the wood table and hurling it through the weakened door. Tiny pellets of glass rained down in every direction as the door shattered.

"Christ! You want to tell the whole neighborhood we're breaking and entering, or should I?"

"If the AI is off, it won't alert the LAPD to the break-in," Lara said with a smile. "Besides, you know President Paine."

"He could help with a search and seizure warrant, not bail."

"Every SIS agent who applies for a search and seizure has to have it signed off by Cray or one of his yes-men. We don't have time to jump through those hoops."

Lara entered the bungalow, gun high and squinting, searching for any sign of trouble. The lights were off and all the blinds securely closed, keeping the place dim. Dust hung in the air. Nobody had been here for days.

As Lara had suggested, it was also thoroughly ransacked – furniture had been overturned, all the cupboards were open and rummaged through, and debris covered the floor. Some parts of the drywall had been torn straight off. Price's screen had been shattered, and the electronic circuits behind it were a tangled, cold mess.

"It's deserted," Gresham observed.

Lara glanced over the kitchen quickly before moving slowly down the hallway. She nudged a bathroom door open with her gun. It had remained somewhat untouched, although the tile in the shower had been forcibly ripped away. She nudged open the door to what appeared to be an office. It had gotten the worst treatment, with papers and discs strewn about the cluttered room. Price's computer was gone.

The final door at the end of the hallway was closed. Lara tested the door handle. It was locked.

"That's odd," she said before raising a foot and kicking hard at the handle. The door buckled slightly. She kicked again, more firmly, and the locking mechanism snapped and the door slammed open into the near wall.

A man lay face-first down on an unmade bed. The mattress was seeped in blood and the body had been dead for quite some time. Two green barbs protruded from the back of his neck.

Lara held up a hand for Gresham to stay by the door. "You didn't touch anything in here, did you?"

"No, can't say I did."

"Okay. Good."

She inched closer to the body and put her gun gently down on a bedside table. Lara pulled a pair of thin, latex gloves from her back pocket and put them on before trying to roll the body over.

"Oh my God..." she whispered as she glanced at the underside of the body. "Why in the world..."

Gresham approached to see what she was looking at. Frank Price – at least, the body that had once belonged to anything identifiable as Frank Price – had an empty hole for a mouth where his teeth and tongue ought to have been, sockets where his eyes ought to have been, and scars where his ears and nose had once been located. There were a number of small puncture wounds on his torso, one above his collarbone and the rest across his chest and stomach.

The blare of a siren sounded outside and Gresham could make out the exhaust of an LAPD cruiser as it touched down to the street outside. _I guess it's a good thing those kids saw us,_ he thought grimly as Lara raised both hands to her mouth to hold back vomit.

#

The Special Intelligence Service was housed in a mammoth glass building about halfway between Shoregrove Hall and the Department of Defense on Crest Ave. It anchored a plaza that was also home to a series of smaller auxiliary offices for the SIS's minor sister departments and towered fifty stories tall above the sidewalk below. It encircled almost a third of the plaza like a crescent, giving the illusion that it was more imposing than it actually was.

What unnerved Gresham most about the structure, however, was the way the glass acted like a one-way mirror – staring into the reflective surface, he felt like somebody on the other side was watching him.

"Come on, Major, let's go," Lara said and nudged him. She swiped her security pass at the front door and the glass doors slid open. Gresham followed her closely in.

The main lobby at the SIS headquarters was a lofty seven-story atrium that spanned the entire front of the building. Crystal chandeliers hung every fifty yards or so from the ceiling, each a multi-colored affair glittering in the sunlight that seeped in through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows.

Something had been off about Lara the entire drive over to SIS headquarters. Was she more bothered by the encounter with Price's body than she was letting on?

"You alright, Lara?" Gresham asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks," Lara replied and checked in with an AI display at the front desk. "Put your hand on the pad and state your name, Major. You need to check in as a visitor."

Gresham complied and a small green badge popped out of a slot next to the AI display. Lara pinned it to Gresham's shirt. "There. I've given you access to all Clearance Three personnel floors."

"Thanks."

After the LAPD had determined that Gresham and Lara were not the murderers, they had contacted SIS, specifically Dan Vosen, the lovely man Gresham had encountered a few nights previous in the Zone. After getting a thorough grilling, Lara had told Gresham that they had to report to SIS headquarters immediately.

"Lara!" a voice called out across the lobby. Gresham turned first to see Troy rapidly approaching.

"Holy shit, are you guys okay?" Troy asked the minute he was within earshot. He gave Lara a tight, intimate hug and then turned to Gresham and nodded. "Major."

They shook hands. "Thanks for asking, Troy. It was pretty gruesome but we should be alright."

"I heard," Troy answered, glancing at the still silent Lara. "We don't want to keep Vosen and Cray waiting..."

Gresham stiffened. Simon _Cray_ had just called them in? This was getting unreal.

"I don't know if you guys really need me here. I'm not SIS, after all, best let the internals handle the internals, you know?"

"You should come too, Major Gresham," Troy answered slowly. "Trust me."

The lift ride up to the thirty-ninth floor was a somber one. They exited into a hallway overlooking Crest Avenue's busy traffic below. Just above the top of a neighboring building, the sparkling ocean was visible. It was an impressive view.

Lara breathed out and smiled at Troy. "You ready?"

"I should be asking you that," he grunted. He turned his gaze to Gresham. "When we get in there, don't speak unless you're spoken to. You can't get in any _real_ trouble, but Lara and I are probably in deep, deep shit. Worst case scenario, Cray will have General Godford on conference call since you're involved with this debacle too. Actually, worst case scenario is him having President Paine in on the meeting."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Do I look like I'm joking? You'll be fine if you don't let Cray boss you around. That goes for Vosen too – Daniel's the biggest prick this side of the Pacific, but just remember he doesn't actually have any authority over you."

They moved quickly down the hallway towards a simple door at the end. Lara and Troy each took a deep breath, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Simon Cray's office was a large but unimposing room, situated in the curve of the building. He enjoyed the same spectacular view Gresham had admired from the hallway, only the windows behind his desk stretched floor-to-ceiling. The walls were sparsely decorated, save photos of Cray shaking hands with all four Presidents who had been in power during his reign – Suzuki, Hayward, Clayton, and now Paine. The flag of the Alliance hung across one wall, and the flag of his homeworld, Dionysus, hung on another.

"Have a seat," the shadowy figure sitting behind a desk in the middle of the room commanded. With the sun at his back, it was hard to make out Cray's features. Vosen, less shrouded in darkness, was seated to Cray's left in an armchair.

Cray pressed a button on his desk and his windows darkened, the office AI tinting them so the glare of the sun lessened. As the windows darkened the lights in the office compensated by intensifying, brightening the entire room.

Simon Cray had a wholly unremarkable appearance. He was in his late sixties but his hair had not completely grayed yet – there were still flecks of dark brown along the sides and top of his head. He had a pockmarked, wrinkled face and inquisitive, intensely green eyes. Nothing about this man suggested that he was one of the most powerful men in the Alliance, and certainly nothing about his appearance lent suggestion to the machine-like mind in his larger-than-average head.

Cray rose. "Ms. Taylor, Mr. Troy, I'm sure you both know why you are here," he said in a flat, monotone voice. He moved around the edge of his desk so that he was standing in front of where they sat.

"Yes, Mr. Cray," they both answered dutifully.

Cray glanced at Gresham. "As for you, Major Gresham, obviously I have no means with which to discipline you as you are not an employee of the Service – I wanted you here, though, since I know of your involvement in this matter."

Gresham nodded wordlessly. Cray smiled slightly and leaned against his desk. "Well then, let us begin. Ms. Taylor, I do hope you are aware that thrice in the past week you have violated basic Allied search-and-seizure laws, correct?"

"Yes, Mr. Cray."

Cray picked up an ornate box from his desk and pulled a cigarette out. "Cigarettes, anyone?"

Lara and Vosen accepted. Cray lit his with an expensive lighter and blew a smoke ring. The room waited in expectant silence.

"I had initial concerns over your break-in at Lieutenant Jeffrey Vance's apartment, and they were affirmed when you stormed into a Zone warehouse, shot up the place without backup and then rudely dealt with the division chair when he arrived at the scene."

Vosen glowed, staring at Gresham with a smug expression.

"Not two days later, Ms. Taylor, you break into a civilian home by _shooting his door to pieces_ and then proceed to contaminate a rather gruesome crime scene by tampering with the body. Lord knows I ought to suspend you for that alone." Cray turned towards Gresham. "On top of that, collaborating with non-Service personnel without consent from either a division chair or myself is highly frowned upon. I can't punish you for taking the initiative, Ms. Taylor, but you cover your tracks poorly."

He approached Gresham and made eye contact. "Though I must say, you picked wisely. Godford's newest detective... did you figure Major Gresham here would let you in on a boundless supply of information? Did you think that a career linguist and analyst would help you do a MID field agent's job?"

"Somebody had to do it, since you certainly aren't," Gresham growled through his teeth. He was tempted to get up and stare Cray down.

"You see this, Daniel? MID's brightest and finest right here," Cray chuckled and dragged on his cigarette. His stare was riveting.

Vosen smirked. "Quite."

"Now, the _good_ news, Ms. Taylor, is that finding Price has its dividends. That leaves us Alan Evans, the bureaucrat, and Frank Price, the thief, as two men with invoices for the stolen Ventura munitions who are no longer alive. Throw in Lieutenant Vance's incapacitation alongside the goldmine of contraband we found in the Zone, and we've got a neat little story."

There was an awkward pause. Vosen finally broke it, saying, "The conclusion we've drawn is that Lugrash had a high-ranking friend within the Allied bureaucracy who scored him some guns. Lugrash, being your average paranoid Balgoshan, freaks and hunts down the records of the theft, killing Evans and then dispatching Price after, we can assume, he was bribed into acquiring the last hard copy of the transaction."

_They get their info quick_ , Gresham thought. He glanced at Lara. Had SIS already lifted the report she gave to the LAPD at the scene of the crime? Her explanation of what they were doing there had been awfully brief.

Lara and Troy stared at their feet awkwardly. Cray raised his arms triumphantly. "Cheer up, you two! You may have just wrapped up the Ventura investigation!" He looked at Gresham. "That ought to make you happy too, Major. I hear you yourself fired the shot that avenged Jeff Vance. It's over. I'll admit... the methods you three used were a tad, shall we say... unorthodox."

Vosen seemed stunned that Cray was in such a good mood and hadn't brought down a more total punishment. "Sir... Director Cray... Taylor and Troy have violated _numerous_ laws and SIS protocols over the course of the past week. Breaking and entering, assault, outside collaboration without direct permission, failure to obtain a warrant..."

"The ends justify the means, Daniel," Cray replied. "You're all dismissed. Consider the matter closed. I'm putting the whole investigation file away as a settled case." He looked at everyone in the room. "You're all free to leave. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."

As he rose, Gresham blurted, "Sir, with all due respect, I think you're wrong."

Cray stamped out his cigarette and grimaced. "Excuse me, Major?"

"I think you're wrong. I don't think Lugrash killed Price, and if he was involved, then Lugrash still has friends out there who are sitting on something big."

Cray motioned for Vosen to stay as Lara and Troy hung uncomfortably by the door. "Give us a moment, Ms. Taylor and Mr. Troy."

They obliged and closed the door as they walked out. Cray got up and approached Gresham. They were of approximately equal height and their eyes locked. Cray's good mood had completely evaporated.

"I'm fascinated by this theory of yours. Do go on."

Gresham cleared his throat. "There were two needles in the back of Price's neck. I've seen them before – _okka_ needles. Anyone in the intelligence field ought to be able to identify those." He looked at Vosen. "You know about _okka_ needles at Alien Affairs, right?"

Vosen coughed and didn't make eye contact with either Gresham or Cray. "Yes, _okka_ is a plant native to the planet of Sartokken in the Krokator Star Empire. Its sap serves as a potent toxin that when introduced to the bloodstream of most living organisms begins instantly eating blood cells." He paused. "It's one of the most lethal poisons known to man. The good news, however, is that it is only dangerous inside the bloodstream itself – you could drink a whole vat of _okka_ poison and just feel sick, because amino acids in your stomach processes and dilutes its proteins. That's why the preferred delivery system for _okka_ has always been, and still is, needles."

Cray scowled. "I don't need a science lecture from you two. What the hell are you getting at, Major Gresham?"

"Agent Vosen, would you happen to know what the black market price is for, say, a round of _okka_ needles? And the unique compression gun needed to fire them?"

"It's absurdly high. You rarely find them outside of the Empire, let alone on Terra. This would be the first time I've ever heard of a crime committed with _okka_ needles." Vosen gritted his teeth. "If there is a sudden influx of _okka_ onto the streets of Los Angeles, our crime problem has suddenly gotten a lot worse. We didn't find any _okka_ guns or needles at the warehouse after the raid, though..."

Gresham smiled and looked straight at Cray. "So unless Lugrash just happened to have a pair of _okka_ needles lying around the warehouse, I'd say you have plenty of things left to worry about."

#

"You _didn't_ ," Lara said, somewhat stunned after Gresham recollected the discussion.

Gresham grinned and cut into his steak. "You know, I kind of liked Cray. Vosen, yeah, you're right – that guy's got a stick up his ass. But Cray strikes me as a reasonable man. He and I got along fine."

"He's only pandering to you because he knows you're close to the President." Lara poked at her salad. "I also suspect that he wants to see what we do next."

"What do you mean?"

A tall, slender waiter passed their table. "More water for the two of you?"

"We're fine, thanks," Gresham replied and turned his attention back to Lara. "You were saying?"

She looked around the gourmet restaurant to make sure nobody was looking at them suspiciously before saying, "I think Cray knows we're onto something. I think he knows more than he's letting on but can't put the pieces together himself. So he's relying on us to go out and do the dirty work for him. The man was probably _the_ best field agent SIS has ever had when he was in his prime. It's what won him the Director post. Well, that and collecting dirt on Mariko Suzuki before she became President. I think sometimes Cray secretly wishes he was still out in the field, snooping and looking for answers."

"Is that why he sits on information and doesn't share it with anybody?"

"Well, that – and I think a natural sense of paranoia that comes with having been Director of the SIS for over twenty-two years."

"I think he's worried he's got a rat in his organization."

The comment caught Lara off guard. "What?"

"I didn't want to say anything up there, but don't you think it's a bit sketchy that the only version of the invoice is under lockdown on the Supernova database with only a handful of people who could access it? I mean sure, Vance could have tried to get the clearance codes to look it up, but most people don't even know what that buggy old program does. It wouldn't have been too hard to keep everything else locked up at SIS or get the hard copies taken care of."

"You think somebody's working from inside SIS?"

"SIS, or just the government bureaucracy in general. Shit, it could have been Alan Evans for all we know. I just think this whole Price business doesn't pass the sniff test. And it can't be a coincidence that Brighton, who from all appearances was a competent section head, was killed right around the time this theft happened and had an idiot like Vosen replace him. If I were Cray, I'd be worried too. But that's just what I think." Gresham surveyed the restaurant around him, soaking in the atmosphere. "You know, Lara, I think you're a lot nicer than you come off."

She smiled and sipped at her wine. "Oh? I don't come off as nice?"

"The gun to my head the first time we were properly introduced gave me a somewhat negative vibe," Gresham chuckled.

"I had to be sure, Major," she answered.

"John."

"Pardon?"

"You can call me John."

Lara laughed sincerely. "Alright then. John." She ate some of her salad and then looked back at him. "So you still haven't told how you came to be friends with the President."

"Yeah, I know. I was hoping you wouldn't bring it up. The Dhruiz War isn't something I like talking about."

"Howard Paine fought in the war?"

Gresham laughed and shook his head. "No, no, not at all. Paine's only child, Reginald, was my commanding officer on Puckshot. We were part of the 48th S-A-D – the Solaris-Aurora-Darwin. I'm sure you recognized Greg Reed in that picture, too?"

"I knew he was familiar when I met him."

"Well, he was Lieutenant Reed back then. Believe it or not, I was just Staff Sergeant Gresham. Got drafted out of high school and promoted twice on the fly after they lost a bunch of squad commanders on Charity. I was held in reserve during that campaign – then I got reassigned to the 48th for Puckshot and got thrown into the real shit for fourteen long months."

He grimaced. "War is something we need to avoid if at all possible. Obviously, the dhzirs invaded us at the behest of their Prophets with genocide on their mind and we had to defend the survival of our species. Still, the cost – well, I'm sure you remember."

"I was really little during the war," Lara replied. "I'm only twenty-nine."

"The Alliance lucked out – the bulk of the fighting was away from the major populated worlds. Once the briling and Gardellis got involved, it was over for Dhruiz – but we had to wait out over two years of war for our allies to get in on it. It could have been so much worse, but needless lives were lost. Like Lieutenant Paine's.

"We were taking a ridge outside of Avalon City on Puckshot. The dhzirs had taken control of the city, but they'd messed up their troop arrangements, so we'd caught them with their pants down. Or so we thought. We launched an artillery barrage and moved against the city core, but we had a lot of outskirts to cover first. The dhzirs had leveled all the outlying suburbs, so we were really just fighting for every burnt inch in a hell-blasted wasteland at that point."

Lara sensed Gresham's discomfort and reached out to touch his hand. "I'm sorry, John. You don't have to keep going if you don't want to."

Gresham breathed deeply and closed his eyes. "We were clearing the ridge, and we never saw the laser cannon. The dhzirs had these big laser cannons they based on the krokator model. They'd blow you right to bits if you stepped in the way of one. Our company got caught in the crosshairs of the two cannons we hadn't spotted. It was a massacre. Reed and I were at the rear, we watched twenty men walk into a literal wall of heat and plasma. Ten dead, seven wounded. The rest of us scattered and called in an aerial strike against the two nests.

"A friend of mine, Julian Castor, had his arm ripped straight off that day. I carried him to safety – I don't know how we both survived. He went and got a robotic replacement, but you could tell it changed him. They rotated him back and I never heard from him again after the war. Paine... wasn't so lucky. We found a few pieces of him and put them in a cigar box. Reed got promoted and I held on to that little cigar box. After our tour of duty was over, I flew to Aurora myself to give it to Reggie Paine's father – Howard. He always stayed in touch after, and we were pretty close. Well, at least until he became President. Don't see him much these days." Gresham smiled. "But that was a long time ago. I'm sure there's something better we have to talk about than my old war stories, right?"

Lara shrugged. "Sure. I guess. I never realized you'd..."

"Been through all that? Yeah, not many people do. Like I said, I don't really like to talk about it. Neither does Reed. Sure, he'll talk about his service record in campaign speeches but... he doesn't talk about _it_ , you know?" Gresham drank about half his glass of wine in one gulp. "So enough about me. What's your story? You're definitely not a native Terran."

"Well, no, you got that right. I'm from Manhattan originally. Went through college, didn't really have any idea what I wanted to do, and... well, an SIS man recruited me. I sort of had a crush on my recruiter and I signed a contract. I guess I hoped all SIS men were as charming as he was and thought it would be an adventurous line of work. The reality check I got at Alien Affairs was certainly a shock." Lara leaned back in her chair. "I do love my job now though. Almost thirty and I'm kicking down doors and going after bad guys."

"That doesn't leave a lot of time for you, though, does it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I think under that tough exterior of yours, you're still the pretty young girl with the crush on a smooth-talking recruiter."

Lara raised her eyebrows in amusement. "Major Gresham! Are you flirting with me?"

Gresham laughed and gave her a warm look. "Is it that obvious? I'm afraid you've caught me, Lara. Hopefully it's working."

"You're much better at it than Jeff was," Lara said with a mischievous smile before realizing she'd said too much.

"Oh, I see," Gresham said slowly. "You and Jeff..."

"We kept it professional," Lara replied coolly. Her guard was back up. Gresham had pushed too far.

They sat awkwardly for a moment before Lara placed a few credits on the table and got up. "Thank you, John, for helping me out today. And I really was impressed by the way you handled Cray – I've never seen anybody talk to him like that before and get away with it."

Gresham nodded. "Of course. Good night, Lara."

"Good night, John."

He stayed at the restaurant for almost an hour after she left, alone, slowly sipping his wine glass and staring into space, watching the scenes of the Dhruiz War unfold before him once more.

Chapter Seventeen: An Alien World

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

Zurra blinked. He had woken up, completely undisturbed, and felt just as exhausted as when he had gone to bed. It had been nightfall by the time he had arrived at the Krokator Empire's embassy in Los Angeles, and a friendly embassy employee had shown him quarters for political visitors. The room he was staying in was small and bare of any decorations beyond a small Imperial flag hanging next to the door and a small prayer shrine in the far corner from the bed.

He rolled out of bed and leaned back and forth slowly. While similar to Rukkur, he could notice a slight difference in the gravity on Terra. He was somewhat lighter here – and the way to test that newfound lightness was to go run and experience his physical abilities firsthand.

Zurra opened his luggage and found a comfortable, simple white tunic and civilian _kekkalo_ with a light green sash. Once dressed, he stretched and left his room, navigating the maze of hallways out to the compound's courtyard.

His first view of the embassy by daylight was less impressive than he had hoped. Four large, dull concrete buildings squatted in the middle of an open tarmac space, clustered together. A steel and plaster wall one hundred feet high obscured the outside world, although Zurra could make out the tops of office buildings on the other side of the wall on the far side of the compound.

Zurra checked the watch the embassy employee had provided him with. It was a digital timer, not unlike the one he used on Rukkur, but the numbering system confused him. Where were the thirty-one time names associated with common Rukkurosh animals? Cut the last seven out for the local clock and Zurra would have been just fine.

The guard at the gates held up a hand and tightened his grip on his Obedience Stick. "Good morning, Sharm Zurra, did you sleep well?"

The guards at the embassy all wore civilian clothing and had their hair in _tokkom_ knots, although Zurra could tell they had the build of well-trained soldiers. He had even spied an _aruntuk_ from afar when he arrived the night before. Recalling his distasteful experience at the spaceport the night before, he wondered what the problem was with members of the Imperial military being on Allied soil.

"I did sleep well, thank you," Zurra replied cordially and returned the courteous salute he was afforded by the gate's guard. "I was going to go for a run."

"Ambassador Jerven mentioned you might try your legs at exploring. He expects you back here for an appointment by 2 PM."

"Ukkum strike me, friend, is this human time-telling system not confusing to you as well?"

The guard shrugged and pressed a button on the panel he sat behind. The gates slid open slowly, and Zurra realized for the first time that they were several feet thick.

"Are you unarmed?" the guard ventured.

"I was discouraged from bringing my _okka_ gun with me," Zurra answered with a sardonic smile. "After my experience at the spaceport yesterday, I can see why."

The guard pulled a simple, inexpensive knife out of his sash and handed it to Zurra. "I would carry that with you whenever you are outside of the embassy grounds. Los Angeles is not known as a safe city for non-humans."

_Good to know_ , Zurra thought and accepted the knife. He bowed his head. "Thank you for the gift and the advice. I had best be going."

He slipped out through the gate and absorbed the scene before him. Three large office buildings lined the quiet street before him, and to his back the mighty walls of the embassy stretched in both directions. Beyond the office towers were an assortment of smaller buildings and shops arrayed across a series of plazas.

As he jogged along the street away from the embassy, Zurra heard the noise of cawing in the air. He looked up to see white birds circling nearby, and soon thereafter heard the noise of waves.

Intrigued, he followed the noise down a virtually empty street and came out onto a long beach that was already crowded, and the street that ran along the sand was packed with an impromptu marketplace set up like a winding snake along the pavement. Zurra had never seen so many humans in one place, and he paused for a moment to observe their behavior.

He quickly determined the males from the females – the males were generally larger, as krokator males were, and hairier than the females. They grew sparse hair on their face and torso, but tended to keep a close-cropped haircut. They were, on average, a little over or under six feet, a whole foot and a half shorter than the typical krokator. Most of the men went bare-chested, which few krokator would ever do in such a public setting, and wore strange coverings over their lower bodies that were like nothing Zurra had ever seen before. The clothing these male humans covered themselves with – assuming they were similarly equipped – was like a _kekkalo_ in purpose, but instead of being a tightly lashed garb around the waist had a slot for each leg. Some of these odd garbs extended all the way to their feet, while the majority of the males had waist-garments that only went as far down as their knees.

Zurra scratched his head as he spotted females passing him on the pavement. They had longer hair, more fragile builds and were, typically, shorter than the males. They wore even less clothing than the males, typically only an even smaller version of the waist-garb their male counterparts outfitted themselves in, or a piece of clothing not unlike a hammock between their legs. The majority of the females on the beach wore only a small piece of clothing that covered an odd pair of lumps on the fronts of their torsos – what these lumps were for, and why the males did not seem to have them, perplexed Zurra.

_What a strangely outfitted people these humans are_ , he thought to himself. The only aliens he had ever encountered in high amounts were the _bunchu_ races – muunfi, atvals or bui'toes – who all typically adhered to krokator social customs when it came to dress.

His next observation about the humans was how obnoxiously loud they were. Where on Rukkur a similar scene would have been lively, here on Terra it was mind-numbing how many noises were assaulting him. Zurra had failed to notice screens on buildings and next to booths that blared with noise as holographic advertisements flashed on them, threatening to induce a seizure from their barrage of colors, shapes and sounds. He blinked and turned away from a particularly offending screen that featured the screech of metal cords being scratched at with a small piece of plastic.

Zurra wandered away from the chaos that was the marketplace and through a line of tall, pleasant palm trees. The trees here in Los Angeles swayed pleasantly in the warm breeze and reminded him of similar but smaller plants that were native to Rukkur.

He stepped onto the beach and smiled. The warmth of the sand was apparent even through his sandals and a slightly cooler breeze from the ocean swelled in just as he began approaching the water. He could see juvenile humans playing in the waves as their mothers – all wearing that same strange two-piece outfit – chased after them to keep them from drowning. They were powerful, impressive waves. Further out in the water, he swore he saw the shape of a human coasting along a wave atop a board. What a device!

Zurra was almost to the water when something hit him in the back of the head. It was a hard object that felt like a glass container. He turned and looked down to see that he was correct – a small, empty bottle lay on the sand behind him.

As he bent to pick it up, another bottle, this one half full, sailed over his head, its contents spilling out over the back of his neck as it flew through the air. Zurra sensed the direction it had come from and instinctively crouched in an attack stance, his hand searching for his knife. Five tall and muscular human males, all wearing the ridiculous _kekkalo_ with leg-slots, stood leering about twenty yards away.

"Hey, ugly! Hey! Can't you fucking read, you dumb Crock?"

Zurra rose slightly, tightening his grip around the hilt of his knife. "Did you throw a bottle at me?" he asked slowly in Standard.

The male humans laughed and a few of them forcefully struck the hands of the others. It seemed to be some kind of sign of achievement or camaraderie.

"Yeah, we threw that at you. Can't you fucking space gorillas learn to read? We don't want you dirtying up our beaches!"

One of the males pointed to Zurra's left and he followed the gesture to see a large sign that said, in bold letters:

THIS BEACH IS FOR HUMANS ONLY

Nearby, a second sign said equally boldly:

HELP KEEP LOS ANGELES' BEACHES ET-FREE

Zurra was unsure what the second one meant, but he knew enough Standard to comprehend the first sign. He turned back to see that the five humans had been joined by several other similarly sized and likely inebriated males, all of whom slowly encircled Zurra where he stood. Two of the humans spat at his feet and one another twirled a full bottle in his hand.

"You better have a good fucking reason for coming down to this beach," one of them said. He had bright yellow hair, a ring above his eye and several rings in his ears. Zurra could tell from the way he carried himself that he was the accepted leader of the group – he was also the biggest, standing barely a foot shorter than Zurra.

"I did not see the sign, I am sorry," Zurra said. The words were like ash in his mouth. He was an officer of the Empire! Never before in his life had he been treated with such disrespect.

Zurra saw the first punch out of the corner of his eye. His hand grabbed the human's wrist and he twisted it up, hearing the resounding snap of bone and a wail of pain. Easier than expected.

Two of the humans backed off, stunned by the krokator's swift response, but two of the more inebriated ones lunged. Zurra stepped back and dragged their wailing friend into their path. One of the humans tripped, and Zurra let go of his first victim's broken wrist, settling back into a defensive stance.

The still-lunging human more or less fell forward into Zurra, who grabbed him by the shoulders as he pivoted out of the way. Using his quarry's momentum, Zurra spun the human into the air and he flew several yards before landing with a thud in the sand.

Zurra's head snapped back to the main group of humans, where he saw the big, yellow-haired leader charging, wielding a bottle in his hand like a club. Zurra sidestepped the haphazard swing of the glass bludgeon and responded by catching the human with the side of his hand in his enemy's stomach. The human flipped over twice in the air and landed with a crunch, his leg sticking out at an awkward angle as he grabbed his knee and screamed.

Zurra noticed that a large crowd of humans had assembled to watch the fight. The rest of the drunken males that had gathered to attack him were inching away, seeing two of their friends severely injured and another two groaning in lesser but no less evident pain.

"I do not want to fight anyone," Zurra said. "I will leave if you let me go in peace."

Despite having trouble understanding his accent, the humans got the message well enough to clear out of the way to allow him to leave. Zurra did not meet their glances, looking straight ahead and avoiding the short, scrawny aliens who had attacked him with such cowardice. Nowhere in the Empire would even a _bunchu_ have been treated with such dishonor.

As he approached the pavement, two strange, floating vehicles skimmed to a halt, red and blue lights atop each flashing merrily. Out of each vehicle, two humans covered in thick battle armor emerged, training their guns on Zurra. Four letters, LAPD, were written in bright yellow on their chests.

"Freeze, motherfucker!" one of the new humans said and approached Zurra. "You are under arrest!"

Zurra paused, unsure how to react. What crime had he committed? The humans on the beach had attacked him! "I have done nothing wrong," he said slowly, making sure to enunciate his words. "I am returning to the embassy."

"You're not going anywhere," one of the humans cried. "We will use force to subdue you if we have to!"

Zurra looked around, bewildered. What in the name of the Truuknan was going on? Was he being apprehended by the local security garrison?

Something struck him and he felt his limbs go limp. It must have been a stun-shot of some kind, because he collapsed to the ground and two of the humans in battle armor ran up to him and slapped a pair of reinforced magnetic cuffs around his wrists.

"You're in big trouble, space gorilla."

"I don't care if the fucking Emperor is your brother, you ain't never seeing the light of day again, Crock."

Crock. Was that really the best slur they had for krokator?

#

Orget Jerven, the Imperial Ambassador to the Human Alliance, was a heavyset krokator who was at most a few years younger than Nikkwill. He was a purple-skin, with a richly done _tokkom_ and a narrow, high-cheeked face that suggested a wealthy lineage. His eyes were deep and wise, and his tusks had been filed to the finest stubs Zurra had ever seen. He wore a dark blue tunic and _kekkalo_ with white trim.

"You know what they used to call me?" Jerven asked in Krokam as Zurra was magnetically locked to a chair in the embassy's briefing room. He glanced up at the two LAPD officers flanking Zurra and said, in Standard, "This is official territory of the Krokator Star Empire. You are already in a gray area as far as interstellar law goes. I will not ask you to leave again."

"Mr. Ambassador, he assaulted and gravely injured four humans on a public beach that is zoned with an anti-ET ordinance."

"And Sharm Akgu Zurra, unfortunately for the both of us, has been afforded diplomatic immunity," Jerven replied. He glared at Zurra. "We will handle the disciplinary measures from here, officer. Thank you for bringing this incident to my attention."

The two officers looked flustered but accepted the ambassador's request. Two _aruntuk_ outside the door fell in behind the LAPD officers to escort them out as they left the room.

Jerven returned his full attention to Zurra. "They called me Orget One-Leg. I did not even get the benefit of my personal name, just my family style and moniker." He patted his right leg. "I was in the Academy too, once. Never earned my braids though. All I got was my leg blown off in a training accident. They gave me a robotic replacement and I went into prize fighting. I was a little bit bigger and stronger in my youth, as I am sure you can imagine."

The ambassador sat down at the table in the middle of the room. "Sharm Zurra, I must say I am thoroughly impressed. In less than twenty-four hours on this planet you have been apprehended and tagged by the Special Intelligence Service upon landing, and you decided to celebrate this by beating up a group of humans on a public beach." Jerven opened a jug of beastwine and poured the liquid into one of the two cups on the table. "Now, I will explain this only once – here on Terra, the locals have a genius concept known as an 'ET ordinance.' It is possibly the most short-sighted public policy the galaxy has ever known."

"What does ET mean?" Zurra asked, speaking for the first time since arriving in the ambassador's briefing room.

"It stands for Extra-Terrestrial," Jerven replied, struggling with pronouncing the long word. "It is a human word, and it means to them what _bunchu_ means to us. It is the official name in Standard for an alien, but the humans reduce their longer word for it down to 'ET' as a pejorative. It is a slur. Much like Crock. I am sure you have been called a Crock more than once since landing here?"

"Since the moment I arrived, in fact," Zurra replied, thinking back on the technicians heckling him at the spaceport landing pad.

"That is the reality of our situation here," Jerven said and sipped the beastwine. "Few species in the galaxy _like_ other species, but I know of no alien race as xenophobic and fear-driven as the humans. You should hear the things they say. That we are a threat to their existence, that we are soaking up their livelihood on this Ukkum-blasted rock of a planet, or that we are akin to animals because we are not _them_."

Zurra was silent, sensing that Jerven was about to begin a lengthy rant. The ambassador took a bigger gulp of beastwine and breathed deeply. "The humans hate their ET's, and they hate us in particular. You and I both know that there is a lot of bad blood historically between the Empire and the Alliance. We have certainly brought a bit of it upon ourselves with some of our more... _ambitious_ reaches for conquest, but the humans are just as much the culprits. Remember, they were the ones who used the superbombs so liberally that the whole galaxy outlawed them. These aliens loathe us with every ounce in their being.

"As a result, Sharm Zurra, your behavior today is completely unacceptable. If you were my charge instead of Nikkwill's, I would have let those policemen haul you off without batting an eyelash. Assaulting _humans_ on a _human_ beach. You must be out of your mind."

Zurra stared at the floor. He could not recall the last time he had been berated so viciously by a superior. He was humiliated.

Jerven poured himself more beastwine. "The strings I have to pull around here... I am glad I have powerful friends. Serving on Terra for thirteen years affords you a certain degree of freedom. I have been friends with all their power brokers and have seen their politicians come and go. But I am curious, Zurra... do you punch citizens of the Empire on regular occasion when you are out for a run, or do you just make an exception when you are in the capital city of our people's traditional enemy?"

Zurra angrily growled, "Ambassador Jerven, I do not mean to be insolent, but I have had enough of your passive insults. High Prod Nikkwill was explicit in that I answer to you when I am on this world, so I accept any consequence you deem appropriate. You know that I provoked nobody and was unaware of exactly how dangerous this planet is for our kind." He paused and took a deep breath. "If you do not seek to deliver punishment, however, I respectfully ask that you cease questioning my intelligence or record. I am here at the behest of the Lady Erenna to attempt to fulfill her _nohoken_ , and I only ask your assistance in carrying out my assignment as best I can."

Jerven was genuinely stunned. He blinked, ran a hand along the back of his neck and sighed. "I apologize, Sharm Zurra. I was told that you spoke with your father's confidence and eloquence, and it is true."

"Thank you, it is a compliment I do not deserve. I do not mean to question your authority, Ambassador. I acknowledge my shortcomings this morning, but we are wasting time."

"I suppose we are, yes." Jerven rose and pressed a button on the side of Zurra's chair that deactivated his magnetic restraints. Zurra massaged his sore wrist and nodded in silent thanks.

"Would you like some beastwine?" the ambassador asked as he retook his seat.

"Yes, thank you," Zurra replied. He needed a drink after his tumultuous experience in the morning and day before.

Jerven filled the second cup and handed it to Zurra, studying the soldier's expression of relief. "I hope you now see exactly how alone we really are out here."

"Most definitely, yes."

"This morning was just the tip of the iceberg. The local police brought you here because you were so close to the embassy and I know their superiors relatively well. Next time, you will be in prison. If you get in _real_ trouble, you will either be dead or the Krokator Empire will never have heard of you." He shook his head. "I feel like _sukuda_ get told this all the time, and yet they disappear at a rate of at least one to two per year. This year has been the worst. Five _sukuda_ lost. Two of them were found... the other three were not."

"Who do you think killed them?"

"Overzealous humans, perhaps. Maybe something worse. It is no secret that ET criminal groups wield a lot more power in Los Angeles than the humans want to admit. And it all converges in a place the locals call the Zone. It is described as a special area specifically set aside for ETs to live in, but is really a city-sized prison where the humans can keep all the undesirables in one place."

Zurra grimaced. "I have a hard time believing that. Why would anyone ever...?"

"You assume that the humans think the same way we do," Jerven said testily. He swirled his beastwine in the cup. "We have a rigid order of superior-inferior relationships. They have an assumed one. We have a system of government that has been in place for over a thousand years and has flourished when applied to multiple solar systems. The humans elect self-serving politicians who pander to conglomerates to get money so they can get elected again. And to think the Progressives want to _emulate_ the Alliance model."

"What does this Zone have to do with the assassination of the Emperor?"

Jerven laughed audibly and shook his head, amused. "Sharm Zurra, you are funnier than most soldiers. Much funnier. If I knew the answer to that, you would not be here."

"The High Prod suggested there may be a connection between a Rukkurosh criminal named Kamaan Dakkal and a human company that operated a contraband market on Piskka."

"I do not know how that is connected exactly to the _Hudda Kugrall_ , Sharm Zurra. I have heard a thing or two about the Piskka incident though. There is a company that operates in the Alliance called Hessian Engineering. They are one of numerous private military contractors – more or less a mercenary army and weapons manufacturer that sells its services to the government. Or the highest bidder."

"And you think there is a new employer for this company?"

"Hessian Engineering is run by a man named Colin Hess. He is an influential man in the military-industrial field and has friends throughout the human bureaucracy."

Zurra considered this information. "The name of the company is familiar."

"Now, I do not want to insinuate that Hessian Engineering is directly funding the _Hudda Kugrall_ , but our _sukuda_ chief here has different ideas. At the very least, somebody was cutting a profit that should not have been."

"And Dakkal? He escaped us in Ankina, but we think he may be here."

Jerven shrugged. "I have no idea. That name is unfamiliar to me. I am sure there are a variety of criminals in the Zone with whom _Hudda Kugrall_ would associate and Hessian Engineering would love to have distributing guns for them. Naturally, Hess would never directly sponsor that kind of operation – he would want a middle man, someone who can deal with the dirty work of the business while handling the payoffs to the politicians."

"Do you believe that this conspiracy is that complex?"

"Sharm Zurra, you have a lot to learn about the Alliance and how entrenched these criminals are. The gangsters running drugs on the street are just as powerful as the ones running the government." Jerven checked his clock. "I have a meeting I need to attend. I want you to stay at the embassy tonight, but I will let you go out and explore tomorrow. The _sukuda_ chair will give me a brief on potential leads for you."

Zurra rose and saluted Jerven. "Thank you, ambassador."

"Just do not cause any more trouble. The SIS and police know who you are now. Soon, our enemies will know too."

#

Three krokator sat huddled around a _gukka_ pipe in a dimly lit concrete room. One of them struck a match and held it under the bowl of the metal pipe, listening to the molasses-like blue substance inside the bowl crackle as it slowly cooked.

A large blue-skin entered through a bead curtain. "Jurkken, sir, you have a visitor."

The krokator in the middle, a short, rotund tan-skin, grimaced and shifted his considerable weight on his pillowed seat. "Who is it?"

"Grakko's human friend," the blue-skin answered. "Perry."

"Ukkum strike me, what does that _hrain_ want this time?" Jurkken asked and grabbed the pipe away from the other krokator. "Tell him he can come in. Unarmed."

The blue-skin complied. Jurkken sucked on the pipe and felt the taste of the _gukka_ smoke in his mouth. He felt light-headed and smiled broadly as he exhaled.

"What do you think Perry wants this time?" one of the other two krokator asked as Jurkken passed him the pipe.

"Probably wants me to do him another favor. I have done that man enough favors, no?"

Both krokator nodded as Perry entered the room through the beads and waved. " _Do gara, komok._ " Good evening, friend.

Jurkken smiled and replied in Standard, "Your pronunciation is getting better, Eli."

"I have business to discuss with you. Can we go somewhere private?"

Jurkken glanced at both of his friends before handing the _gukka_ pipe to the krokator on the left. "Very well. Follow me."

They slipped out of the private lounge and stepped out into a large _gukka_ bar. Dozens of krokator sat on large pillows, smoking out of a myriad of devices. The distinctive tangy aroma of _gukka_ hung in the air like a fog and had attached itself to every surface in the room.

"I do love coming down here," Perry commented dryly. "Remind me, how many in here are actually your customers and how many of them are your employees?"

"Who said there was a difference?" Jurkken answered and pushed aside another bead curtain to a back hallway. At the end of the hallway, a broad-shouldered and tattooed purple-skin sat on a chair in front of a cold, iron door. As they approached, the guard rose and unlocked the door.

"Lock it behind us," Jurkken said in Krokam as he opened the portal and turned to smile at Perry. "After you, _komok_."

Perry regarded Jurkken warily before complying, grabbing onto a handrail to guide himself down the dark staircase beyond the door.

He reached the bottom of the stairwell and heard Jurkken loudly say, " _Godaka!"_ The basement's AI responded by flipping on high-powered fluorescent lights. Jurkken stepped in front of Perry. "Impressed? I did not think Hess's contractors could do such a good job."

"Yes, Hess, I was going to mention him – he'll be here in a few days for the security summit."

Jurkken sighed. "Yes, I heard they moved it up a few weeks. No luck in postponing it?"

"French has no weight in military matters, so it isn't my fault. Do we have something to work with in the meantime?"

"That is your problem!" Jurkken said with a laugh and turned to walk down the stale metal hallway. "I have my own people to answer to. Do not even _ask_ me to start worrying about your overlords."

"I don't have any 'overlords' or whatever you want to call them," Perry snapped and followed Jurkken. "You wouldn't be here without me, without my contacts."

"Oh, right, your contacts. Your contacts certainly worked out well for me and Dakkal on Piskka," Jurkken grunted. "We lost millions after that debacle. Grakko and the Black Prod almost strung me up by my own tusks!"

Perry rolled his eyes. "Look, I need a favor..."

Jurkken beckoned for Perry to follow him into an adjoining room. Crates lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The portly krokator grabbed one of the crates off of a smaller stack and opened it. It was filled with _okka_ needles, individually shrink-wrapped in plastic.

"Do you have any idea how much I can sell these for here? In Los Angeles? A hundred credits _a needle._ Nobody else has these. Nobody. I have made sure of it."

"We have other things to worry about."

" _You_ have other things to worry about, Eli. I have a business to run, and it just got harder without Lugrash."

"Lugrash's death is just a setback. There are plenty of other smugglers."

"I know several, and they are all good. But Lugrash was the best. He had a great processing warehouse, gave the right people a cut, kept a low profile, and he never got greedy." Jurkken pointed one of his stubby fingers in Perry's face. "And then _you_ , getting spooked like always, ask him to go kill a bureaucrat for you. And a well-liked MID agent gets injured in the process. Suddenly, people know who Lugrash is and want to find him. It is your fault we are in this mess to begin with."

"I was covering my tracks. Christ, Jurkken, I asked Lugrash to take care of Evans. I never thought he would do it personally."

"I have my business to attend to, at least what is left of it. Your little plot is not my problem anymore."

"This is your 'problem' as long as Grakko says it is."

Beaten, Jurkken closed the crate and lowered his head. "What was the favor you needed?"

"Spencer Chiles is getting problematic."

"I have a feeling that one day you may decide to get rid of me as well."

"I'm the one who hired Chiles, I'm the one who figured out this _whole fucking arrangement_. Get it? Without me, without Hess, and without Chiles, your precious Forbidden Army's gun money runs low."

Jurkken threw his hands up in exasperation. "When will you hire your own men to do dirty work for you?"

"Never hire a human to do a krokator's job. The number you did on Price was... impressive."

"I am glad you approve," Jurkken said with a frown. "Just give me a time and place and I will have some of my associates handle it."

Perry pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Jurkken. "His address. Chiles doesn't get out much."

Jurkken looked at the slip. "I am not surprised. Consider it taken care of."

"I knew I could rely on you."

Chapter Eighteen: The Plot Thickens

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

General Godford ran a hand through his short beard and sighed. "Moss? Anything?"

"Yes, General," Moss answered and shuffled through his notes. "Police reports indicate that the explosive used in the bomb attack was MV5."

"Mining explosives?"

Moss nodded. "You've heard of it then. Very potent stuff. The iktathol developed it for their calcium mines. It's illegal on pretty much every world in the League of Planets outside of the Federation."

Godford and Gresham both glanced at Paine, who was sitting behind his desk silently considering the information before finally speaking. "So based on what Major Gresham told us about the _okka_ needles, and now this MV5 stuff... sounds like a lot of illegal alien weapons are turning up in Los Angeles as of late."

"There is no evidence to indicate a connection between a pair of _okka_ needles in a corpse and the explosion that killed President Haimon," Moss quickly interjected. "MV5 is an extremely expensive compound. A contact of mine in the Federation tells me that the black market value is nearly five thousand credits per gram."

"How much would be needed for the explosion we were attacked by?" Godford asked.

"A hundred grams or so, which pencils out to five hundred thousand credits. My contact didn't know of anyone who carries one hundred grams on them at a time. The idea behind MV5 is to be small and concentrated, because calcium mining requires precision."

After a brief silence, Paine rose. "Gentlemen, I hope we are on top of the security situation. It's what, Tuesday today? The security summit is Friday night. You have four days to make sure nobody tries to blow us up again."

Godford shook his head. "Howard, I think we should postpone the summit by at least another week. This soon after the assassination attempt and after Emperor Urkus Ruskir was killed..."

"No," Paine answered flatly. "This is the time to look strong. We will be there, as well as High Prod Nikkwill from the Empire and Prime Juyeawae from the Dominion. I'm not sure who the iktathol or prees are sending yet, and we probably won't know until they arrive."

"Me, you, and the High Prod all in one room. That is too good of a target to pass up, Howard. We really ought to reconsider," Godford urged.

"We're showing on our own soil that we are stronger than these terrorists. We will send them a message that the galaxy is united against them."

"Let's invite the Secretary General of the League of Planets while we're at it," Godford said mockingly. "He'll make a great target too."

Paine scowled. "Enough, Richard! I don't need this right now. You're dismissed. Although, John, I'd like for you to stay a minute."

Godford and Moss obliged and Gresham rose out of respect, but lingered in the office as they left. Once the door was closed, Paine approached Gresham and put his hands on his shoulders. "So, John, how are you? How is your investigation going?"

"You know, I'm really not sure. I don't know that what I'm doing has anything to do with who tried to kill you. I feel like I'm getting closer to what Vance was onto but... well, it's not paying dividends now."

"These things take time, John. Try passing legislation through the Commission. Sometimes important jobs are thankless."

Gresham nodded. "Yeah, I suppose your right." He paused. "You know, though, you _could_ help me out..."

"How?"

"I need a search and seizure order for the Supernova database. I think somebody's been using it to requisition weapons from various arms depots here in California. The Ventura theft Vance was looking into had the transaction logged on Supernova."

Paine was clearly intrigued. "Interesting. To be honest, I've never used Supernova, it wouldn't be appropriate..."

"And whoever is using it to steal our military's weapons and sell them on the streets isn't using Supernova appropriately either," Gresham said with conviction. "We have the thief's ID code, but we don't have access to a database that matches names with the codes."

"I'll see what I can do. I can't just hand out search and seizure orders, unfortunately. Imagine the abuses that would allow for. There're a few judges that I've appointed, though, who owe me a favor. I could possibly have a search and seizure warrant ready for you by tomorrow morning, but no guarantees, John."

"That would be great, Mr. President," Gresham said with a broad smile. "I really appreciate it."

Paine checked his watch. "I have to get going, I'm afraid. Let me know if you need anything else, John, I'm more than happy to help."

Gresham thanked Paine and shook the President's hand. He took the hyperlift back down to the bottom floor of Shoregrove Hall and was almost to the parking garage when he realized who he had to go see.

Ten minutes and an excruciating walk in the heat later, Gresham entered the luxurious suite complex on Crest Ave where Jack French kept his office. The AI asked for identification and for Gresham to leave his gun at the main desk before letting him in.

French rose from behind his desk as Gresham entered and extended a hand warmly. "Major Gresham! Or can I call you John? You've caught me at a great time, no appointments all afternoon. Figured you'd call first, though."

"Sorry to drop in unannounced." Gresham accepted French's hand with a firm grip. "I was in the neighborhood and I remembered your offer."

French shrugged. "I'm always happy to help. Have a seat. Drink? Coffee?"

"I'll have coffee."

French's AI responded accordingly, producing a small, steaming cup. "Cream?"

"Please."

A nozzle complied and French handed Gresham the cup. "Best automated coffee on Terra. I had a guy flown in from Africa to customize her for me."

"Your AI is a she too?"

"Yeah, male AIs give me the creeps," French answered. "But you're not here to talk about coffee."

"Well, I've had some changes in my life since we last spoke. I got in a shootout with Zone smugglers, I entered a home without a warrant only to find a corpse and I was interrogated by Simon Cray. Now I've hit a wall in my investigation and could use a fresh set of ideas."

"You've had one hell of a week." French ordered the AI to pour him a coffee as well. "Well, the good news is that I have a friend – but he's kind of a sketchy friend, if you know what I mean. Not exactly a guy I like to be seen around in public."

"What's his name?"

"Elijah Perry," French answered and seemed surprised that Gresham didn't recognize the name. "You don't know of him."

"Name doesn't ring any bells."

"Well, he's a pretty big deal on Mars... in certain circles. I got my start as a legal aide in the Martian local government, so when I decided to run for elected office I wasn't exactly a champion of the working class. I managed to get close to Mr. Perry, though. Despite his relative youth, he knew the ins and outs of the union scene in 'Neer and other cities and got me connected to the right people. Next thing I knew, I was doing speaking engagements and fundraisers at synagogues on the Southside and at Catholic parishes in East 'Neer and I was the frontrunner for my district's Commission seat."

"Sounds like a good friend to have."

"Well, sort of... Perry makes some people uneasy because of his connections to Colin Hess. That's how Hess became a campaign contributor of mine – Perry was on the board at Hessian at one point and his influence with the unions resulted in one of the most favorable collective labor agreements in Martian history. Eli is a real string-puller, knows how to get things done."

_No kidding. He's probably pulling your strings too,_ Gresham thought. "So you think Perry would know anything about _okka_ needles or iktathol mining explosives getting sold out of the Zone? Or why two men are dead and one is fighting for his life because of stolen guns out of the Ventura depository?"

French seemed taken aback. "Eli? I doubt it. I was thinking he could give you some leverage in tackling Cray. Eli has friends everywhere, including SIS."

"I have two friends over there too. They're working with me as we speak."

"Well then, maybe I have nothing to offer. Just thought I'd bring it up, you know, since Perry's in town on some business."

"Oh yeah? What kind of business is he in?"

"He runs the political advocacy arm of a major union as his day job, but he invests in ET companies here in the Alliance, actually. Venture capital, public stock offerings, the whole deal. Used to work at a bank or investment firm or whatever it was."

"Mind if I get a card or some contact info?"

French nodded and rummaged through his desk. "Yeah, I should have it somewhere... Here we are! Elijah J. Perry, Pacific Capital: Pioneer City, Mars."

Gresham looked the card over. "I doubt I'll need it, but thank you anyways."

"No problem, glad I could help." French rocked in his chair slowly and sipped his coffee. "So I'm guessing you're going to the security summit Friday?"

"Maybe. The sentiment I get is that it's on a need-to-attend basis only. You?"

"Well to be honest, I don't want to go, but Colin Hess asked me to introduce him personally to prospective new clients. I figure I'd risk losing my biggest contributor if I refuse."

"Hess will be there?"

"Yes. Hessian Engineering will probably try to market its services to foreign governments, now that the Commission wants to crack down on them."

"How do the unions feel about you backing Hessian in the Commission? They must be wary of their man in Los Angeles cozying up to big business."

"On the contrary! Imagine how many jobs get lost if the Alliance kneecaps one of the biggest military contractors in the galaxy. I am helping my constituents keep their jobs, and if I have to stand up for big business to do so, then so be it. It all trickles down."

Gresham smiled. "I'm sure it does. Well, I'd best get going. Thank you for your time, Commissioner."

"Seriously, John, don't even mention it."

#

Thestran Verge, Planet Mars, Sol System

Klaus Schroeder exited his portable office on the grounds of the isolated facility as he heard the whine of a transport outside. He pulled his winter coat tight and his teeth chattered as cold air and debris blew into his face by the exhaust pipes of the transport.

A curious worker approached. "Who's that? I thought we weren't getting visitors for a few more weeks."

The transport touched down, a door on the side of the small craft opened and Colin Hess stepped out. The industrial magnate pushed his glasses back up his nose, wrinkled his brow and zipped up his warm leather jacket.

"Dr. Schroeder!" he called out over the noise of the transport.

Schroeder smiled from ear to ear and approached his employer in a hurry. " _Herr_ Hess! It is good to see you!"

"You too," Hess replied and they quickly moved into Schroeder's cramped, tiny office. He waved to his pilot to turn off the engines and wait from the window before sitting down, his cheeks flush from the cold.

"Thank God for a job I can do inside in this kind of weather," Schroeder chuckled. "I am surprised to see you out here so early. The first refining phase is nearly complete."

"Good. Because you'll be happy to know that we're moving you to the main site once you are done with the first part of refinement. Grakko has guaranteed me that it will be up and running within a week."

Schroeder drummed his fingers against his desk and played with a small, toy model of an atom. "Mr. Hess, I don't know what you want me to tell you... I need more fissile material. Taking cargo ship fuel like we've been doing takes too long to enrich. The current deadline is a little unmanageable."

"With what I'm paying you, you little Prussian shit, I expect some goddamn results..." Hess growled, thinning his eyes for effect.

"I realize this, _Herr_ Hess, but I simply don't have what I asked for. You tell me I was going to have a state-of-the-art enrichment facility here on Mars and I get a converted machine gun factory. I need better cooling vats, modern centrifuges, and I need something stronger than ship fuel! I need something raw and unstable straight out of the ground that I can have enriched in a few weeks. I won't have ready material, especially working from here, for at least another two months, and then the time it would take to assemble..."

"Do you or do you not have anything ready for me?"

Schroeder threw up his hands in exasperation. "You are a frustrating employer, _Herr_ Hess, but you pay the bills. Come, I'll show you what I have for you!"

They braved the elements beyond the office once more and walked briskly across a wide-open stretch of Mars' iron-ore laced dirt. Hess felt the cold, familiar crunch of the reddish soil under his feet as they hurried into a large, concrete building.

Schroeder spoke quickly to a pair of scientists in his native Prussian tongue and then glanced back at Hess. "You asked me for something useful that you can use by Friday. Well, I have something you will love."

"Oh?"

The scientist nodded excitedly. " _Ja_ , _Herr_ Hess, I do. Refining the ship fuel and the early enrichment process has left us with some spare waste. Very high-yield waste."

Hess paused and smiled. "Keep going."

"The waste from the reactor is very strong. You pack it around some explosives and it will have a massive contamination radius."

"Five miles or so?"

" _Ja!_ Just imagine it, _Herr_ Hess. Pandemonium and confusion, all that fallout floating in the air. This is about as potent as you can get without _proper_ enrichment."

Hess smiled as Schroeder pulled out a small silver box with a radiation label stamped on the top. "You spoil me, Doctor, you really do."

#

Soon thereafter, Hess's transport cleared the atmosphere of Mars and arrived in orbit. The ship's pilot activated the small craft's intercom. "Mr. Hess, we'll be docking with the _Persephone_ in about ten minutes."

"Thank you, Sam," Hess replied and turned the intercom off. He stared out the window at the planet shrinking away below. The blue-green world reflected the distant sun and its lone sea sparkled in the dim light through the glow of the atmosphere.

With Mars now receding away behind the ship, a silvery object just within its orbit grew closer and closer. Hess's private star yacht, the _Persephone_ , was a long, thin cruiser with three sublight engines and was retrofitted to park in a planetary orbit without the need of a rig thanks to a powerful onboard magnet.

The transport slid into its bay on the _Persephone_ 's starboard side and the docking magnets hummed to life. Hess detached his safety harness and floated through the cramped cabin towards the airlock door. The pilot joined Hess in the airlock as the transport's doors closed behind them, and a second door opened into the _Persephone_ herself. Hess propelled himself up through a passageway into the cruiser's main module.

The _Persephone_ was richly decorated with a variety of artwork, all of which was magnetically locked to the walls. The central module of the cruiser contained a dining room where Hess had struck numerous deals, and sleeping quarters for Hess and his crew. There was even an exercise chamber at the very back end of the ship, just above the engines, housing gym machines and a tennis court.

Hess found his way to a communications console near the front of the module and strapped himself into a chair in front of three large screens. He turned them all on as the ship's engines hummed to life.

"We will be departing for Terra in thirty minutes, Mr. Hess. Engaging gravity now."

The ship's mighty onboard magnets hummed to life and the artificial gravity field turned on, righting the ship and pulling Hess firmly into his seat. He smiled and unbuckled the top of his harness, but left the belt across his lap on.

One of the screens flashed bright red and he accepted the incoming message. Perry's face filled the screen.

"Hello, Eli," Hess grimaced. He personally harbored a deep distaste for Perry, but the man was useful.

"Colin, it's good to see you," Perry said with a coy smile. "How are things on Mars?"

"Same as usual. You caught me just as I came aboard, Eli. If you've gone to all this trouble it must be urgent..."

"It is. It's time to tie off the last loose ends. I spoke to Jurkken and he's going to take care of Spencer Chiles. We need to make sure the money is all hidden."

"I thought we had that covered."

"We dodged a huge bullet on Piskka. We can't dodge another like that again. We are _this_ close, Colin."

"You don't think killing Chiles will cause greater suspicion?"

"It's a risk we have to take. Sooner or later somebody will trace the arms requisitions back to Supernova, and they'll trace that back to us. Every base needs to be covered."

"Perry, neither of us officially has any access to Supernova..."

"I know, but that's not a risk I'm taking. Do you really want to trust our future on the assumption that French is as dumb as we think he is?"

Hess sighed. "Fine. Do what you have to. Friday can't come soon enough."

"I know. I'll see you when you arrive on Terra."

Perry ended the communiqué and Hess opened up a bank account remotely on one of his other screens. He narrowed his eyes.

It's all worth it, Colin. You know what happens if you don't go through with this. You know who gets blamed. After Friday, it'll all be over.

#

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

"... _no new information on the body found by LAPD officials in Juniper Gardens, in the home of a man named Frank Price. Police suspect that the body belongs to the homeowner, but his face and hands are brutally vandalized beyond recognition and no positive identification has been made..."_

Spencer Chiles turned off the radio. Frank Price. Why was that a familiar name? Had he been a customer?

He continued out of Malibu onto the coastal highway. He could see offshore vessels and platforms glowing against the dark ocean in the twilight. It was getting late and he hadn't left the office as early as he'd been hoping.

Chiles glanced at the contact information for the pilot Perry had recommended him. Could he even trust Perry? The man was a chronic, compulsive liar and a master manipulator. He was probably being played.

_Ah, what the hell. Eli's always been full of shit. Just lie low for a few days_ , Chiles thought and went through a long turn in the road. _This isn't your problem anymore_.

Something struck his HUVR violently from the side and his vehicle went careening into the guardrail along the highway. The sound of snapping metal gave way to breaking glass and Chiles saw the beach racing towards him before the HUVR smashed into the ground below, almost flipping over.

There was a hiss and he smelt smoke. Chiles clawed for the buckle of his safety harness but realized he was sandwiched between a sheet of metal and the seat itself. He tried pushing against the seat to dislodge himself but could barely feel his arms.

_He betrayed me,_ was the first thought to come to his mind as he tried to come to terms with his predicament. _Perry_ fucking _betrayed me and he's trying to have me killed._

Smoke filled the interior of the HUVR as Chiles managed to untangle himself from the harness and slide out of the window. One of his legs was obviously broken – it was unbearably painful and he felt a bone coming through his skin, scratching against the hot metal of the HUVR's canopy.

With his uninjured arm, Chiles pulled himself out of the burning HUVR and onto the cold sand of the beach. Waves crashed not twenty yards away and he blinked, trying to clear the sting of the smoke out of his eyes. He gingerly rolled himself onto his side to look back at his car. It was a crumpled mess of metal and nascent flames. Soon, the whole vehicle would be engulfed in the conflagration.

Chiles crawled further away from the wreckage only to hear noise from the top of the cliff. Looking up in dread, he saw two figures moving down the bluff towards him.

_No, no, no!_ He was a dead man. It was obvious now. Nothing could save him.

The two silhouettes revealed themselves to be a pair of large, tattooed krokator. Chiles breathed out, resigned to his fate. Jurkken had signed off on his death warrant. Most likely at the behest of Perry, but it was telling that the krokator were still doing all of the dirty work.

"Do your worst," Chiles said and spat out blood onto the sand. One of the krokator grabbed him by the throat and hurled him back into the wreckage of the HUVR.

Chiles closed his eyes as the flames engulfed him, not even trying to free himself.

#

"That'll be Troy," Lara said and got up, heading for the door to her apartment. She was right; Troy entered the living room a few moments later carrying two bags of takeout.

"I can't stay long, but I figured I'd bring something to eat," he said with a smile. "Major Gresham, you like beef or chicken?"

"No preference," Gresham answered and accepted a box filled with beef, rice, and steamed vegetables marinated in barbecue sauce. "This is really good," he commented after a few bites. "Where'd you get this?"

"Just a few blocks from here. You like it?"

"Love it."

Lara set her box of food aside. "So, Sam... we've been going over some of the information from Lugrash's computer and a few things don't add up."

Troy rolled his eyes. "Not this again. Cray told us it's a closed case. I thought we were here to talk about filing our report on the Zone raid."

"Not quite yet. There's something off about the money trail. I downloaded a Balgoshan translation tool today and went over his files. The money for shipping transactions is all there, but a lot of it is missing."

"But you just said..."

"I _know_ ," Lara said and fished a cigarette out of a fresh pack lying on the table. "That's just the thing. There are millions of credits that just seem to go from paper to vanishing into thin air, and balances that appear out of nowhere."

There was a long awkward pause. Troy finally ventured, "So where did it go?"

"It looks like Lugrash had bank accounts all over the place and was distributing funds into additional accounts under all sorts of different names. They're all alien, but I spotted one that's familiar: Kalenn Jurkken."

Troy raised an eyebrow. "Jurkken? Lugrash was in with that scum?"

"That name sounds like a krokator," Gresham contributed.

"It is. Jurkken's a bit of a minor celebrity at Alien Affairs, or at least he was. He served prison time in the Empire and came here claiming asylum after he was released. He spilled to SIS about krokator criminals operating in the Alliance and his application was moved to the top of the pile. This was what – six, seven years ago?"

Troy nodded. "That's about right. Brighton was ecstatic. It was a goldmine of information. After that, we were happy to let Jurkken sink away into obscurity in the Zone and peddle his _gukka_."

"What exactly is that?"

" _Gukka?_ It's a mild stimulant similar to tobacco. It has a far greater effect on krokator than on us, but humans smoke it nonetheless. Plenty of krokator around the galaxy import it cheaply thanks to contacts in the Empire and then sell it at hugely marked up rates in _gukka_ bars by convincing idiots that it's therapeutic. They make a killing."

Gresham considered this information. "Do you think that Jurkken may be bringing in _okka_ needles on the side?"

Troy shrugged. "Possibly. It would explain the Lugrash connection, wouldn't it? Jurkken hires Lugrash to bring in weapons for him and then transfers Lugrash's cut from his own account electronically."

"That could explain how Lugrash had some _okka_ needles to take care of Price with," Lara continued. "Jurkken provides the means. Christ, maybe Cray was right... I just feel like we're missing the big picture here."

Troy finished up his meal. "I wish I could stay longer, but I need to go pick up my kid. I'll swing by the office tomorrow morning and dig up some more info on Jurkken, if it hasn't been confiscated yet. I haven't heard that name in ages; he may not even be on the planet anymore."

"Who knows!" Lara exclaimed and threw her hands in the air.

Troy gave Lara a conciliatory hug and then shook Gresham's hand. "I'll talk to you both tomorrow. Need a ride, Major?"

"I have my HUVR. Thanks though."

After Troy had left, Lara sank back into her couch, rubbing her eyes. "This is so frustrating. We're running in circles, John. I don't know how we're going to crack this." She paused and looked at him. "You do still think there's something to crack, right?"

"Of course I do. I might be able to get us a search and seizure order to look into Supernova. We do need to prosecute the actual thief, after all."

Lara smiled and breathed out. "Finally. That's what's holding us back."

Gresham regarded at the piles of paperwork on her living room table as she stamped out her cigarette. "So where were all these accounts Lugrash was transacting in?"

"Bank accounts spread out across Terra, the Alliance, and the galaxy. Most of it is untraceable, but Lugrash seemed to be pouring a lot of his legit cash into accounts here on Terra. He _was_ also a legal cargo pilot, after all."

"Did he use any specific bank?"

"Not really, but most of the suspicious accounts were with Pacific Capital or one of their affiliates," Lara replied with a breath. "It's a large company that owns numerous small banks throughout the Alliance and numerous Border Worlds. The right guy at the right desk can work a lot of magic with calculations, if you know what I mean, and they're one of those financial institutions that seem to be perpetually under investigation."

Gresham thought about the name. It was familiar – he had heard it recently. But where? "Was Jurkken's account with Pacific Capital?"

Lara nodded. "Yes. They operate Zone Bank, the largest ET-exclusive bank in the Alliance. Numerous accounts Lugrash accessed are at Zone Bank – and he had ties to two other Pacific Capital-run banks, but those were offworld."

Gresham clicked his tongue. "Something's not right about that. You'd think the Financial Oversight Bureau would look into something like this..."

"Nobody gives a shit about what ET's do with their money and the regulators have other problems. Pacific Capital is allegedly a party to tax fraud by Hessian Engineering, whom it has a very close relationship with, and may get slapped with money laundering charges. Compared to big fish like that, an ET smuggler moving around illicit cash is small fry."

Gresham shook his head. "Oh Christ. Well, I'm feeling tired... I should get going. We'll figure out where to go next tomorrow once we have that search-and-seizure warrant."

Lara nodded without saying anything and Gresham hesitated. "Were you about to say something?"

"No, no, not at all," Lara exhaled nervously and straightened her back. "I just wanted to say... well, I wanted to thank you. For all your help. I know I've been a little abrasive this week, and I hope you won't hold it against me."

Gresham laughed. "Don't worry, Lara. It's fine."

She smiled. "I'm glad you accept my apology. I really didn't mean to be so rude earlier. And last night, leaving like that... I'm sorry. It's just... well, Vance and I..."

"I know. I understand."

"They don't have guys at SIS like they do at MID," Lara said with a laugh. "You have no idea. Take Vosen, for example."

Gresham raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You and Vosen...?"

Lara shrugged. "I hadn't been in the Service for very long. I had just transferred over to his division and found out later that he was married and just wanted an easy screw. Figured I'd be easy since I was the rookie and he was Brighton's right-hand man."

"I knew he was an asshole."

"You don't know the half of it. Whatever, it was years ago. Don't get involved on the job. I kept myself from getting involved with Vance, don't worry. I did like him though. He was such a nice man... well, _is_ a nice man. I owe it to him."

Gresham regarded Lara for a moment before scooting closer to her and smiling. "You don't have to be so formal with me, Lara." He leaned forward and kissed her. She stiffened initially, unsure how to react, before letting out a breath and running her fingers around Gresham's neck.

After a long moment, she pulled back somewhat, blushing and trying to contain her smile. Gresham ran his hand along her forehead and cheek, brushing some of her brown hair out of her face. "Something wrong?"

Lara was clearly suppressing a pleased expression, her eyes giving her true emotions away with a twinkle even as she tried to keep a straight face. "Major Gresham, I don't think this is a good idea...You're with Military Intelligence... we're professionals..."

"Lara, please – call me John," Gresham answered and kissed her again. This time, she didn't even try to resist and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer.

Chapter Nineteen: Convergence

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

"Karp Zurra, do you have a moment?"

Zurra turned to see then-Prod Nikkwill approaching him. In the distance, his father's funeral pyre was still smoldering as the flames finished consuming the very last of its fuel.

"Prod Nikkwill," Zurra breathed, surprised that the high-ranking officer was personally approaching him. He immediately bowed his head.

Nikkwill captured Zurra in a surprisingly personal embrace and then relented, patting the junior officer on the shoulders. "I considered your father a close friend. I understand this is a very difficult time for you and your family, especially your mother."

"We will manage. Your sympathy is greatly appreciated, Prod Nikkwill."

Nikkwill chuckled and observed, "You even talk like Juska."

"So I am told, Prod Nikkwill."

"I have followed your career closely, Karp Zurra. They tell me you graduated at the top of your class in field exercises while at the Academy, but that your classwork was less than inspired. Not poor, I would never imply that – it merely kept you from graduating in the top fifth of your class. A shame, really, it would have brought you under our wing in the Krokandir."

Zurra bowed his head again. "I would be honored to receive a position with the military in the Krokandir, but at this time I must respectfully decline. I could not in good conscience accept without knowing if I could commit myself fully to such work."

"I am not offering you anything in the Krokandir now. You are not a bureaucrat. You are a weapon of the Empire. There are _aruntuk_ who never receive as high of marks as you had at the Academy. Certain circles were very impressed."

Zurra understood what Nikkwill meant. "I suppose so, Prod Nikkwill. Are you offering me a transfer into the _aruntuk_ order?"

"No, you are too valuable an asset, and far too old at this point. _Aruntuk_ are selected at a young age." The prod grabbed a scroll of paper from his belt and handed it to Zurra. "Karp Zurra, what I am about to request of you is a matter of extreme delicacy."

"I understand."

"I realize that this may be an inappropriate time for you to accept such a mission, and I give you permission to decline. However, due to certain... _elements_ of this assignment, it was only fair of me to give you the opportunity to consider the offer, and the High Prod agreed."

Zurra was surprised. Nikkwill and the High Prod had both conferred about an individual mission for him? What could be so important? He opened the document and discovered a detailed reconnaissance report about a minor moon in the Outer Ring with diagrams of a large structure on the satellite's southern pole.

"These are schematics to a _Hudda Kugrall_ base on a remote moon in the Atangi System," Nikkwill explained. "The Forbidden Army uses it as a weapons cache. While it is not a major target in its own respect, the facility is dug into the mountains at such an angle that an orbital attack would prove ineffective in wiping out the entire installation. The atmosphere of the moon is breathable, so knocking out the airlocks will not do much damage."

Zurra glanced at the schematics. "This is a very large facility for being a simple weapons cache, Prod Nikkwill."

"It serves another purpose – we believe that it is one of many hideouts for top Forbidden Army brass. Including, of course, the Red Prod and Marsa Grakko."

The name sent flames of hate through Zurra's veins. "Grakko is at this base?"

"Our intelligence suggests that following his string of recent victories, Marsa Grakko has been granted the rank of Tarl within the _Hudda Kugrall_ , which is a joke and insult to the real military's honor of such a rank. The _sukuda_ has confirmed that he has been to this moon at least twice in the past month, and likely is there now."

Zurra nearly wadded the schematics up in anger. "Grakko... that _hrain_ ..."

"You see, Karp Zurra, why I felt that I needed I inform you of our surgical strike first. You may not have been on many heretic hunts before, but your marks from the Academy are impressive. And while I know your father disapproved of _nohoken_ , Grakko is a krokator you do not want to see alive much longer."

"When do I start, Prod Nikkwill?"

The future High Prod smiled, revealing both of his oiled, gleaming tusks in their entirety. "I knew I could rely on you, Karp Zurra."

#

Zurra rubbed his eyes and shifted his weight uncomfortably, feeling sandwiched between two of the other passengers on the high-speed monorail he was aboard. The buildings of downtown Los Angeles flashed past him as he hurtled above a busy city street, gridlocked with the same floating vehicles he had seen before.

The monorail cab he was riding in was reserved for non-humans, hot and crowded with very little sitting room. Zurra had managed to board the train at the station nearest the embassy before most of the passengers had gotten onboard and was lucky to even have a seat. Had this been the Empire, he would have been riding in a private skyrail reserved for military personnel.

What a different place this was.

"The _sukuda_ have recommended you speak to one of their contacts with the Los Angeles police," Ambassador Jerven had suggested earlier in the morning.

"Is he trustworthy?"

"He is not a racist and we have been paying him for years," Jerven replied. "His name is Lieutenant Dean Quigley, and he is at the LAPD Extraterrestrial Affairs desk. His line of work and personal expertise means he works closely with the Special Intelligence Service – the Alliance's answer to the _sukuda_ domestic branch."

"Do they not know he is helping us?"

"From what we have discerned in the past, Quigley is not being monitored by the SIS. That could have changed in light of the recent assassination of the Vegan President, of course."

Zurra nodded. "Thank you, ambassador. What will be the content of this meeting?"

"If you think Kamaan Dakkal is on Terra, Quigley is the one human who may know how to hunt him down. LAPD has a thorough database of low-rate criminals, while SIS generally only focuses on serious offenders and major security threats."

"These humans have such strange names for their security services."

"That is beside the point. You had best be going. Quigley is not a patient contact."

There was a chime on the monorail that snapped Zurra back to the present. He had reached his stop, so he squeezed his way out of the cramped car onto the transit platform immediately outside.

At first glance, the Los Angeles transit system's infrastructure was considerably more up to date than that of the Krokandir – the station was small but well kept, and there were few loiterers or vagrants. Zurra moved quickly down a crowded stairway to the street level.

The streets of Los Angeles' central district were packed, swarming with people from one side to the next. The floating vehicles tried to make their way through the throng of people, creating what must have been an abhorrent traffic gridlock. Massive video boards along buildings screamed and howled, and Zurra covered his ears from the overload of ambient, synthetic noise.

He checked the directions in his hand, trying to figure out where to go from the transit station to reach Quigley. He decided to venture to the north and set off in that direction, his eyes fixated on the gyrating displays visually and aurally assaulting the pedestrians below.

#

Gresham blinked and stretched, yawning. There was a faint light streaming through the blinds on Lara's windows. He rolled over slightly to check the time. It was almost noon.

_Christ,_ he thought to himself and glanced back to the other side of the bed, where Lara was curled up into a little ball, the sheets tangled in her legs and around her waist, her bare back exposed towards him.

Gresham hauled himself out of bed and found sheets on the floor that had probably gotten thrown off the bed at some point during the night. Unable to locate his clothing, he wrapped the sheets around his waist and proceeded into Lara's living room.

_Need to find something to eat,_ he thought to himself and managed to secure a bagel from her kitchen. Her AI had yet to turn on that morning and hadn't automatically provided Gresham with sustenance, requiring him to physically retrieve it from the refrigerator.

He sat down on one of the couches and his eye landed on a stack of files next to the table's flip-out screen. He activated the screen out of curiosity, surprised to find that it was unlocked.

Interesting...

Gresham noticed several tabs along the bottom of her screen, most of them files from the Lugrash investigation. However, he spotted a personnel file in the far corner of the screen and enhanced it.

ALLIED PERSONNEL SERVICE

CLEARANCE: 981174-4337

DOSSIER REQUESTED:

Maj. Gresham, John Stephen

JLOC-MID, Section-IV (Foreign Relations)

DOB: 11/24/04 (aged 37)

Race: C

Origin: Trinity Park, Trinity Province, Solaris

Current Residence: Topanga, California, USA, Terra

Marital Status: Single (Div)

SERVICE HISTORY

Active Service, Allied Marine Corps

6/18/23 – First Enlistment

11/6/23 – Promoted to Corporal

5/9/24 – Promoted to Staff Sergeant

3/23/25 – Honorable Discharge

4/15/30 – Application/Admittance to MID, Section-IV

4/20/30 – Promoted to Lieutenant

6/3/31 – Admission to MID Central Staff, Transfer to Terra

11/8/32 – Promoted to Captain

9/6/37 – Promoted to Major

9/8/37 – Assumption of Basic Duties of JLOC

APPRAISAL OF SERVICE

Linguistics: Fluent Krokam (Kr); Partial Brili (Bi)

Analyses: Expertise in Chair Nation (LOPJSC-CN) relations

Most Recent Biannual Evaluation:

6/22/42 – 93(100)

Evaluation determines that subject [Gresham, John Stephen] is fit for duty and produces excellent work as desired and fulfills his duties for JLOC, Section-IV.

END PERSONNEL FILE FOR SUBJECT [Gresham, John Stephen]

Gresham rubbed his eyes, trying to figure out what Lara had been doing with his personnel file – or how she had retrieved it, for that matter. As JLOC his personnel file was under relatively high clearance.

He thought about what had been confusing him the day prior and opened the screen's query to type in:

PACIFIC CAPITAL

In return, the screen displayed a number of results, including an official-looking page that Gresham selected.

Welcome to Pacific Capital!

We are a human-owned investment bank proud of our seventy years of service in the Human Alliance, Briling Dominion, Vegan Union, Princeship of the Gardell, and a number of sovereign, unaligned systems.

PacCap offers generous interest rates at a number of satellite banks owned by our company on over 83 worlds. PacCap also offers portfolio management for select clients, business advice and financial auditing for corporate accounts.

Our company enjoys a healthy working relationship with a number of major galactic companies, and our multistellar attitude is inclusive towards all species, everywhere.

Your financial future is in good hands... with Pacific Capital.

Gresham studied the informational page more thoroughly. There were a number of links to their satellite banks and their investment opportunities seemed solid. He looked up the board of directors and found no familiar or relevant names. They were all stodgy old men and women from Mars. He scrolled down to a recent news article concerning PacCap.

7/9/42

Allied News Service

PIONEER CITY (ANS) – Jim Bernal, CEO and Chairman of the Board of Directors of Martian investment bank Pacific Capital, today announced that his company will disassociate itself from the ongoing negotiations involving the purchase and division of assets of Tyson Incorporated, a major Diocletian-based defense contractor, by its competitors Markstone and Hessian Engineering.

Bernal explains in his statement this morning that while Hessian is one of Pacific Capital's largest clients, he finds it unhealthy in the current political climate to be brokering such a large and consequential transaction for Hessian, due mainly to allegations of illegal gun trafficking and funding organizations classified by the Commission as terrorist groups by the defense conglomerate.

Pacific Capital itself is accused by the Department of Justice of facilitating money laundering through many of its subsidiaries, including LMS Holdings on Piskka, whose assets were seized last month by the Krokator Star Empire, and Black Tiger Financial Group, a bank through which government investigators have claimed Hessian Engineering accepted gun-money from notorious silveld warlord Svidenth Harala. The company has denied all allegations and has refused to voluntarily testify, and Special Prosecutor for the Alliance Melanie West has threatened to issue subpoenas for Bernal and other high-ranking Pacific Capital officials.

Gresham clicked on a link to Hessian and the ANS ticker selected a new story for him to read, this one from two days before:

LOS ANGELES (ANS) – Today, Commissioner Ali Sharif (ASP, Terra) denied plans for the Commission to subpoena the heads of five different private military contractors prior to the passage of what would be a landmark oversight bill on such companies.

Sharif, regarded as a major player for the Allied Socialist Presidential nomination next year, explained, "At this time, it is more important for us to focus on changing the law so that these companies can no longer profit illicitly off of violence beyond our jurisdiction."

The bill has earned a great deal of bipartisan support, even from senior Galactic Democrats with connections to the industry. However, after revelations last November of atrocities committed on the unaligned world of Anderon allegedly perpetrated with weapons sold to a violent warlord directly by Hessian Engineering, calls to punish the company intensified.

Colin Hess, the CEO and majority stakeholder of Hessian, was unable to be reached for comment for this article. He has stated in previous releases that he believes the whole bill to be a politically motivated witch hunt by both parties with the election looming next September and that he has committed no crime.

Gresham rubbed his eyes. What a mess.

_Could there be a connection, though?_ He drummed his fingers against his chin. Hessian Engineering was a major Martian company and Pacific Capital was a Mars-based firm with whom Lugrash had stashed a good deal of his money, and his income was based on gun-trafficking and moving his dirty money around using dubious accounting, the same crime Hessian stood accused of.

He was about to click on another Pacific Capital link when Lara walked into the room in her bathrobe, smiling when she saw him. "Morning."

"Hey you," Gresham said and slid over on the couch so she could sit. "I was just doing some research."

"Oh yeah?"

He explained what he discovered, which made Lara raise an eyebrow. "It's an interesting theory, and it makes perfect sense. Hessian Engineering owns about a third of Pacific Capital. It's more or less the banking arm of the conglomerate."

"So all the banks where Lugrash stashed his money have a direct tie to Hessian Engineering. That can't be a coincidence, considering what the company is accused of doing."

"I'm making eggs. You want some?"

"Sure."

Lara entered her kitchen and announced, " _Richmond!"_ The apartment's AI hummed to life and she turned to Gresham briefly and shrugged. "It was my hometown on Manhattan. A little piece of home."

"Makes perfect sense."

Lara's AI quickly cooked up a full meal of scrambled eggs, bacon and topped it off with two tall glasses of pomegranate juice and two hot coffees. Soon, they were both digging in and going over the mess of papers in front of them.

"So let me make a brief conjecture here," Gresham said and cleared his throat. "Lugrash is running stolen guns to shady characters. The money from his sales goes into Pacific Capital, where it can easily be transferred to... to whom? To Hessian, maybe?"

"Probably. Pacific Capital can't declare interest to the government on illegal money without coming under scrutiny. Their shareholders would never stand for a scandal like that. That's one of the reasons they're in such hot water right now, along with Hessian."

"Isn't Hessian a private company?"

"Colin Hess's controlling interest is about sixty-two percent, making him the majority shareholder. I'm honestly stunned that he would let his company risk illegal activities like selling weapons to terrorists... Hess is gambling his personal fortune on what really amounts to pocket change."

"Do you think Lugrash was one of Hessian's arms dealers?"

"Maybe. The company is accused of having trafficked heavy and light weaponry for years, all over the galaxy. Lugrash seems too local, though. It'd be far too bold for Hessian to be selling inside the Alliance, let alone on Terra."

"Besides, I don't think Hess would have a hand in stealing weapons. He manufactures his own for Christ's sake!" Gresham exclaimed. "I read the _Financial Magazine_ special on him a few weeks ago. Facilities on seven Alliance worlds, almost a million employees galaxy-wide... He's an industrial titan."

"I think we're getting distracted talking about Hess without more proof," Lara said. "Though the deposits at PacCap do look suspicious... especially since some of Lugrah's money was deposited with LMS Holdings and Black Tiger, the offworld slush funds specifically named in the Commission findings. I say we keep the Hessian connection in the back of our minds as a distinct possibility, but nothing more."

Gresham nodded. "Agreed. In the meantime, we should check to see if that search-and-seizure warrant I requested is in yet."

Lara nodded in agreement. "Good idea. I think it'll answer a lot of questions." She rose and walked over to the bedroom, untying her bathrobe. "I'm going to take a shower."

She let the robe drop to the floor and turned to lean against the doorframe, completely naked. "Care to join me?"

#

Zurra entered the Glory Road Mall, grateful to get out of the heat and into the climate-controlled shopping center. Nowhere in the Empire had he ever seen such a place – it was a marketplace, but several stories tall and filled with the same screeching video boards that seemed to pepper every square inch of Los Angeles. Massive holographic displays hurtled through the air above the heads of shoppers as a loudspeaker alternated between obnoxiously repetitive noise masquerading as music and a soothing, cooing voice suggesting various shopping destinations.

Zurra approached a lift in the far corner of the mall and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He glanced at the other two passengers, a pair of humans eyeing him suspiciously and with clear contempt. He debated addressing them, but thought better of it and disembarked on the fourth floor of the atrium, jostled by a crowd of shoppers packing into the elevator. A store in front of him sold a variety of footwear, and Zurra had never seen so many strange things to put on ones feet. Everyone in the Empire wore simple sandals or boots.

The store he was looking for was a busy coffee shop snuggled between a store selling multicolored video boards and what appeared to be a place to buy a variety of dried common plants and weeds. Why anyone would spend money to purchase something they could probably find in their garden or in street cracks was beyond Zurra.

As he entered the store, a tall, dark-skinned human rose to acknowledge him and motioned for the krokator to join him at a corner table. He stuck his hand out as Zurra approached. "Dean Quigley! A pleasure, Mr. Sukkom."

Zurra creased his eyebrows before he understood. "Yes, I am glad to meet you," he replied slowly, unsure what to do with the outstretched hand. He chose to ignore it and had a seat.

The human seemed a bit upset that his greeting was refused, but shrugged it off and had a seat. "I ordered you a cup of coffee. You take it black?"

"Coffee?"

"It's the hot beverage everybody in here is drinking."

A young waitress brought them their coffees and Zurra took a sip of his. It was a brackish, bitter substance, and he grimaced as it coursed over his two tongues.

"Don't like it, huh? Well, I tried."

"I appreciate the offer," Zurra said and bowed his head. "I am sorry I am late. The skyrail in this city..."

"You mean the monorail? Yeah, the public transit is a bitch. Must be especially bad for you, alien and all..."

"So the Ambassador said you had information for me," Zurra queried, trying to get back on subject.

Quigley's eyes widened and he gestured discreetly. "Hey, man, keep it down, okay? We don't know who's watching you. Were you followed?"

"I do not believe so."

"Okay, that's good. I don't think I was either, but I've had the spooks recently. Some bad shit's going down. Somebody blew up the President of another star nation just last week and here you see people shopping as usual. It's stunning. You'd think they'd have reacted a little more to something of that magnitude..."

"Yes, you should see the Empire now," Zurra concurred. "The country is at a standstill after the Emperor was murdered."

"Yeah see but that's different," Quigley said. "You guys usually seem to give a shit about these kinds of things." The police officer cleared his throat. "So the _sukuda_ chair at your embassy mentioned you're looking into shady krokator here on Terra?"

"Well, yes," Zurra said. "I have reason to believe that somebody on this world, krokator or otherwise, is channeling money into the _Hudda Kugrall_."

"The what-again?"

"The _Hudda Kugrall_. The Forbidden Army. A rogue sect of heretics, committed to taking down the Empire and installing their own fanatical regime. They are by far the most powerful of all the heretic groups and the most secretive. We know nothing of their leader, a notorious gangster who calls himself the Black Prod, and we only have parcels of information on their other high-ranking officers."

Quigley nodded. "Okay, I follow. They're a crime group?"

"They use common criminals for support and finances, but they have training camps, hideouts, weapons caches, and vehicles for moving around undetected. They even give their officers military ranks."

"Well, there are a few crime groups in and around the Zone, but I doubt that's anything you'd be interested in looking into."

"Why is that?"

"The big Zone gangs usually aren't Cro- err, I mean krokator. Trust me bud, I deal with these shit-for-brains thugs every day. The Balgoshans, the Kringians, silvelds, the yuun... all those bastards are the really dangerous ones. For the most part, we know there's a krokator racket or two down in the ETZ but they mostly stay out of our way. I've arrested a krokator once, maybe twice, in my twelve years at the ET desk. However... birds of a feather flock together, right?"

"I do not understand."

Quigley clicked his tongue. "What I mean to say is that there are _plenty_ of scum down in the Zone who would love to have the kind of muscle that this Forgotten Army or whatever has backing them up."

"Forbidden Army."

"Right."

"My superiors believe that the _Hudda Kugrall_ could also have human financiers. A large company, perhaps. The name 'Hessian Engineering' was suggested."

"Hessian? Well, they've certainly gotten bad press lately. Maybe they're even shadier than I thought, and the things they're accused of is pretty shady." Quigley pulled a card out of his pocket and slid it across the table to Zurra. "Here's an ET card. Makes you look like a perm-res – a permanent resident – and also, you won't be eyeballed carrying this. I'm glad you lost your officer braids and got one of those ponytails instead."

Zurra grimaced. It was an embarrassment to his rank that he had been forced to remove his hard-earned braids and wear a civilian _tokkom_ , but he was at ease knowing that all the humans would sneer at him regardless, soldier or not.

He looked at the card. "Kurtrekk Sukkom. I am impressed, that is a very common name in the Empire."

"We do a good job. That's a forgery, sure, but it'll check out almost anywhere."

Zurra pocketed the new identification card. "So where do I find this Zone you refer to?"

"Oh, there's no way in hell I'm taking you to the Zone, and I better not hear of you making your way down there alone. A wide-eyed, fresh-off-the-ship guy like you won't survive ten seconds in that hellhole."

"I have been in dangerous places before," Zurra opined. "I am an experienced soldier of the Krokator Star Empire."

"Good for you. I can give you a name, though – Kalenn Jurkken. He's a piece of shit _gukka_ proprietor but he knows his way around the Zone and knows all the krokator who are worth knowing on this half of the continent."

"Would he know Kamaan Dakkal?"

"Who is that?"

"He is a Rukkurosh criminal who has been masquerading as a patron of the Progessives for years. In reality he is _Hudda Kugrall,_ and brings sympathizers into the city of Ankina in order to fanaticize the Movement."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Zurra sighed. "He is a criminal, and he is working with the Forbidden Army. He had offworld business contacts and is no longer on Rukkur. We believe he has friends on Terra and may be here now."

Quigley scratched his neck. "I can check the immigration records, see if anybody by that name has come through the spaceports. If he's that shady, though, I doubt anything will turn up. Again, Jurkken might know who that character is."

Zurra sighed. "Well, it is a start. I appreciate your help."

"Not a problem. Let the ambassador know that I'm always happy to do him and his boys a favor. I'd be careful sniffing up the wrong trees though, my friend, a lot of you _sukuda_ types have shown up dead or never show up again at all, if you follow."

"I will use caution. I have already come into trouble with your police in my time here."

"Wait a minute – are you the krokator that beat the shit out of those meatheads on Redondo Beach yesterday?"

"I was not aware of how strict your laws against non-humans were. I apologize."

"Don't! I know exactly the type of drunken prick that likes to hang out down there. A bunch of us on the force were talking about it yesterday and we wish we'd been there to see it."

Zurra laughed along with Quigley and grasped his forearm in a traditional krokator sign of friendship. "I am glad you are on my side, Quigley."

"Don't mention it."

Zurra was almost out of the coffee shop when Quigley called out his alias and beckoned for him to return. "I actually almost forgot; I was watching the news last night, it turns out that Colin Hess, the guy that runs Hessian, will be in town this week. There's a big security summit on Friday night that's been scooted up by a week and he's going to attend."

"How do I reach this Hess?"

"Yeah I dunno about that, he's been avoiding everyone and anyone for a few months since the press started digging into his business in the Border Worlds, but... you know, I think I know where you could start."

"What do you mean?"

"There's a Commissioner – Jack French – who is really close to Hess. Beats the shit out of me why he hasn't jumped ship yet, but people in this town know who kisses which ass, you know? Anyways, French's mouth is glued to Hess's asshole and we all know it, though maybe French doesn't want anybody to."

"Can I meet this French?"

Quigley laughed. "A krokator doesn't just waltz into the Commission and ask to see a sitting member! Although... well, I have a favor a guy owes me up at Shoregrove and I'm not sure when else I would use it. Besides, maybe your ambassador could set something up..."

Zurra smiled. "This is progress, friend. When will I know if you have succeeded or not in securing me an audience with this French?"

"All in good time. I'll make a few calls and you just hang tight around this mall for a bit, go window shopping or something. Meet me back here in half an hour." He tapped his wrist-mounted clock. "You have one of these, right?"

Zurra sighed. "Yes, but... Ukkum-strike me, those _hrain_ -blasted devices are hard to use!"

Quigley laughed and patted Zurra's shoulder. "Come find me in thirty minutes and I'll let you know what I've dug up. But be careful if you do wind up going over there; you're on our world now."

#

Gresham steered his HUVR into one of the subterranean garages near the Department of Defense and turned off the engine. He was shaking in anticipation.

Lara pulled up next to him in her own vehicle and glanced over. "You alright, John?"

The focus was back in her eyes; she was no longer the passionate creature she had been the night before. Gresham was still sore and a little worn out from the encounter.

"Yeah, I'm good. Just a little anxious I guess. We'll know soon who the bastard who put Vance in the hospital is. It feels good to almost be through with this."

They took the lift up to the main floor of the Department of Defense building, arriving in a spacious lobby that overlooked Crest Ave through a large, colorful stained glass façade.

Gresham approached an AI console and placed his hand on it. "Major John S. Gresham, Military Intelligence," he said clearly and the AI unlocked a nearby door for him. With Lara in tow, he approached a human clerk sitting inside a large room with a domed ceiling, bureaucrats bustling around him.

"Good afternoon, Major," the clerk said, noticing Gresham's casual but official khaki uniform and having read the notice alerting him to the identity of his guest. "How can I help you today?"

Gresham handed him an official file stamped with the seal of the President's office. "This is a search-and-seizure warrant requested by President Howard Paine and authorized by Judge Sarah Pierce of the Allied 9th Circuit Court, which is to be executed by myself and Lara Taylor of the Special Intelligence Service, and only us."

The clerk glanced over the file and inspected the pages inside. "Understood, Major. What is this warrant for?"

"We have reason to suspect that the Supernova operating system has been compromised and used as the means to commit high-profile theft. We are here to check on the records and user database for Supernova to identify the perpetrator."

The clerk clicked away at his console for a few moments before producing two security passes. "These give you clearance to the archives and expire every twelve hours, at which time you need to renew them. Regardless, you have unhindered access to our archives for as long as the warrant is active and valid. Good luck with your investigation, Major."

Gresham and Lara thanked the clerk before entering the secured lift and swiping their passes. The lift's AI recognized their destination and the lift sank low into the ground, probably lower than the garage they had entered through, before stopping with a hiss.

"Department of Defense archives," the lift's AI proudly announced and the doors slid open to a long, thin hallway.

Gresham led the way down the hallway and glanced at different doors lining the sides, trying to determine which adjoining room housed Supernova.

"Here," Lara said and indicated a door marked SUPERNOVA in massive letters. They swiped their clearance passes again and entered a nondescript, clammy concrete room with large computer consoles lining the walls.

Gresham inserted his clearance pass into one of the consoles and it hummed to life. "Welcome," a female AI said with a soothing voice. "Please select function."

"We want a list of users," Gresham answered. The computer hummed for a moment as it processed the request before displaying a scrolling list of names and numbers.

"Christ," Gresham muttered under his breath, trying to find an interface through which he could manually enter the ID code he was looking for.

"That was impressive upstairs," Lara commented as he looked around.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you spoke with such... authority."

"I've been around the DoD more than a few times, usually to do research." Gresham finally located a holographic keyboard and activated it. "Manual interface enabled," the AI cooed and the scroll of names and numbers halted.

Lara pulled out the document Reed had supplied from Gresham's briefcase. "You ready?" she asked.

Gresham took the sheet and glanced at the eight digit number. "You realize how close we are, don't you?"

Lara nodded, smiled and then leaned forward to kiss Gresham. "Imagine how happy Jeff will be when we figure it all out."

Gresham punched in the eight digit code and the computer hummed momentarily before it displayed the name of the person the code was assigned to.

Lara read it first and her jaw dropped. " _No..."_

Gresham balled up his fists and crumpled the paper in his hand. Rage was building in his chest. "That slimy son of a bitch... Let's go."

#

"So Hess will be at the security summit, I'm assuming?"

"Briefly, yes. He and I have an important meeting to attend with some financiers up north in San Francisco, however, and will have to leave early."

French raised an eyebrow and sipped his scotch, regarding Perry carefully. "San Fran? Awfully late to be flying up the coast."

"Hess has asked me to represent him in front of a very important bank," Perry replied. "He wants my legal and financial expertise."

"Christ, Eli, what aren't you telling me?" French wondered.

"Nothing, Jack. The less you worry about my business, the better."

"Then don't make my business your business! It's as easy as that. Why the hell do you need me at that summit, anyways? I'm not on the Military Oversight Committee. Can't you recruit Rachel Fox or Greg Reed or somebody to talk instead?"

"Mrs. Fox and Mr. Reed will already be in attendance, and they're both Galactic Democrats who have signed on to that odious anti-contractor bill Howard Paine wants to pass," Perry said with a frustrated tone. "Jack, this is important to Hess. He may be subpoenaed within a week to appear in front of the Commission."

"And it'll look great for my election campaign to be seen representing an alleged criminal in front of some of the most powerful people in the galaxy," French muttered. "Perry, I need to think about it. And before you go off about how I owe you, remember that I owe _you_ , not Hess, and that I won't stick my neck out for him just because you're too stubborn to not go down on the ship. You're a savvy businessman; you ought to know at this stage in your career what a bad investment looks like when you see one."

"It isn't that simple, Jack."

"Actually, Eli, it is. I've stuck by you even when there were whispers on Mars that you were shady and I've always taken your advice, but I can't let my political career go up in flames for the sake of one campaign contributor. I will fight the anti-Hessian bill on principle and for my constituents, but I won't have Hess's back if he's indicted for war crimes. If you're smart, you should get as far away from him as you can before they pin you with something too."

Perry rose. "I really hope you reconsider. Hess wants a proper, friendly introduction at the summit, and I don't want to send the affidavit from George Baumann I have sitting in my safe to the press."

"B-Baumann?"

Perry smiled wickedly. "Ah, a familiar name. Yes, if I recall correctly, it was our mutual friend George who organized the PFL's little 'Get-out-the-vote' campaign seven years ago. It was George, wasn't it?"

"You goddamn prick..."

"What was that, Jack? What did you call me?"

French was fuming. He drank the rest of his scotch in a single, furious gulp and growled, "Nothing. You should get going. I have an appointment in fifteen minutes."

"Oh? An appointment more important than me?"

"There's a member of the krokator diplomatic detail coming to arrange a meeting between me and a high-ranking Crock the day after the security summit," French said. "I have no idea why everyone suddenly seems to think I have any say on military policy, but apparently their ambassador vouched for this guy."

"Ambassador Jerven is not a Crock I would personally turn down. Enjoy your meeting, Jack. I'll talk to you later."

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"And I'll see you Friday night at the summit."

"Right."

Perry glared at French. "I _will_ see you Friday night at the summit, or the press _will_ see the financial statements from Baumann and the union leadership."

"Fuck off."

Perry took the lift down to the ground level and strode out of the lobby confidently, smiling to himself. Even after the setbacks the week before and now with the Lugrash debacle, he was tying off his loose ends nicely.

He passed an angry-looking military officer in his casual uniform, giving him a quick once-over. Their eyes met momentarily and Perry sensed a livid, driven sense of purpose behind the stare of the officer. It unnerved him.

Perry quickly looked away, but was nonetheless unable not to notice the attractive brunette following the officer up the stairs to French's office building.

#

Gresham blinked after passing the tall, dark-haired stranger. Why was there something off about the man's look?

"John, please take a moment to relax," Lara said once they were directly outside the building's doors. "You don't know what you're doing."

"Oh, really? You don't think I know _exactly_ what I'm doing? That weasel has been using his position on the Commission to sell guns on the street! We all thought he could be dirty but so help me God, I've got the bastard by the balls now..."

"I know the law, John, and you need to be very careful here. Jack French is a sitting Allied Commissioner. He has very powerful friends in the government and private sector. Confronting him when you're angry like this won't help anyone and will only get you in more trouble than you want to be in right now."

"Oh, try me, Lara."

Lara grasped Gresham by the shoulders to try to calm him down. "John, I saw the Supernova readout too. It's his name next to the access code. That's called evidence. We submit evidence and wait for him to get arrested."

"Right, because Simon Cray is exactly the proactive go-getter we need in this situation."

"Let me call Troy or Vosen. We'll figure out how to do this correctly, okay? We have the proof. Jack French authorized the requisition."

"And then he went and had Alan Evans and Frank Price killed, and put Jeff in the hospital! There's probably a body count from here to Tijuana!"

"If French walks, we have to deal with his influential allies. We're talking about Colin Hess and his business and government contacts. They will make your life living hell."

"Yeah? Well I have a powerful ally too, and his name is Howard Paine."

Lara threw her hands up in the air. "Christ, John, how stubborn can you be? You're not thinking straight. If you walk in there, you will be making the biggest mistake of your career."

Gresham sighed. "Go call Troy or whoever you need to contact. I'm going to make sure French doesn't go anywhere."

"I will call Troy. But if you get fucked you're on your own, Major," Lara hissed and stormed off. "Goddamn men, they're all the same..."

There was a slight pang of remorse, and for a moment Gresham felt regret for speaking so harshly to Lara. But she had already vanished around the corner before he could call out to her, and he resolved himself to what he had to do. He pressed the button to get let in.

"Major John S. Gresham, Military Intelligence, here to see Jack French," he said into the speaker.

There was a moment while the AI processed the request before he heard French's voice call out, "John! Come on in."

Gresham stormed into the building and balled his fists in the lift up to the third floor, breathing heavily as he anticipated what was coming. He wondered if he should throw a right hook to French's face before or after he revealed the smoking gun.

He entered French's office suite. The AI automatically requested that he relinquish his sidearm and Gresham complied. Shaking and heart pounding, Gresham walked with his head held high into French's personal office, knowing that he could be stunned on the way out by the security system in the walls.

French was sitting behind his desk, tanned, grinning and full of shit as usual. He waved casually and got up to extend his hand. "John! I wasn't expecting you. I'm afraid I haven't long to talk."

Gresham stopped in the middle of the floor as French came around the desk, smiled and then drilled his fist squarely into French's nose.

The Commissioner fell to the floor, stunned, grabbing his face. Blood was squirting from between his fingers. "What the fuck!"

Gresham stood over French, glaring down. "You little _shit_. I thought for a moment that you were on my side. Guess I was wrong. You were just trying to keep tabs on me. See how much I knew. Well, I know now."

"What the hell are you talking about? Are you insane? You _punched_ me, you asshole!" French howled, trying to contain the bleeding. "You probably broke my fucking nose!"

"I saw your name on the Supernova database. You ordered the weapons requisition. For what? For your friend Hess? For your buddies down in the Zone? What did they promise you, huh? A cut of the profits?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" French screamed in legitimate fear. He staggered back against his desk as Gresham came within inches of him. The despair in the Commissioner's eyes was unmistakable. Gresham couldn't think of another time he had ever caused such anguish in another person, if ever.

"You'll hang for this, you bastard," Gresham muttered under his breath. "You realize that what you've done isn't just a felony, but treason. Stealing from a Marine depository using an Allied military database? Did you really think you wouldn't get caught?"

"I don't know what you're talking about! Please, Major, don't kill me!"

Gresham paused. "I'm not going to kill you. But you better start talking, or I'll do a lot more to you than just break your nose."

French spat out blood and took his hand away from his face to steady himself against the desk. His face was completely red and his nose was gushing merrily.

"Major Gresham, I really don't know what you're talking about... I swear to God... I swear... Please don't kill me... I swear..."

"Who had access to your Supernova account?"

"I don't know! I don't know anything!"

"Stop lying to me!" Gresham roared and grabbed a glass from the desk, hurling it across the room for effect. "This isn't a game, French. People have died. Who are you working for?"

"I'm not working for anyone!"

"Bullshit!"

French was nearly sobbing. "No, I swear, please John, I swear, I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know what Supernova is and I don't know anything about Marines or their guns or anything. I'm on the Labor Committee, for Christ's sake!"

There was a chime and the AI proudly announced, "A Kurtrekk Sukkom from the Krokator Star Empire's advance delegation is here to see you, Mr. French."

French wheezed and laughed, "Send him in." He glanced up at Gresham. "Well, Major Gresham, looks like you're stuck now. There's a witness coming up here who'll see exactly what you've done to me."

"The police will be here soon, if they aren't already."

"I haven't done anything wrong, Gresham," French spat again and wiped blood from his nose with his sleeve. "You have to trust me, someone's setting me up."

"Next you're going to say that someone stole your Supernova ID codes and has had access without anyone knowing."

French's expression was desperate. "Stranger things have happened, haven't they?"

Something about French's broken, defeated demeanor led Gresham to believe that he was right. There was a noise from outside the office as the lift reached the third floor.

"Assault and battery is a nasty offense."

"And stealing from the military isn't?"

"I haven't stolen anything."

"Then who did?" Gresham demanded. "This is critical, French. This is bigger than you or me. Who do you know who's close to you that would want access to military-grade weapons?"

"Christ, I don't know! I employ a dozen staffers... and you're lucky that they're out to lunch, by the way."

"Focus! If someone's framing you, I can help you."

There was another chime. Somebody had entered the outer office.

"You think I want your help? You fucking punched me in the face," French muttered. There was a noise from outside and both men glanced through the window. There were two police HUVRs, sirens blaring, pulling up to the front of the building.

"If I'm getting arrested, you are too," French said with a vicious smirk.

"And I can say you tried to escape and I apprehended you. Who are they going to believe, me or a criminal?"

French's eyes were darting around the room, his mind racing, before they suddenly shot behind Gresham and widened.

Gresham turned his head to see that the massive frame of a dark black krokator was filling the doorway. Even in his limited encounters with krokator, he could tell that this was an exceptionally well-built specimen, whose natural height was complimented by thick muscles and wide shoulders. His hair was tied back in a traditional krokator knot, but the tusks and sheer size of the creature was a dead giveaway.

This krokator was not part of any diplomatic detail – he was likely from the _sukuda_ , and he was probably here for the same reasons as Gresham.

French seized this moment of hesitation to grab one of the other glasses on the table and smash it into Gresham's face. It shattered, cutting a thin gash into Gresham's temple while the other pieces hurtled around the room.

The Commissioner ducked around the reeling Gresham and charged straight for the krokator. "Out of my way, animal!"

As French passed him, the massive alien stuck out his arm suddenly, clothes-lining the human and flipping him through the air. French slammed into the wall and crumpled like a rag doll.

The krokator glanced back at Gresham, who was pressing his hand against his bleeding head and staring in wide eyed shock. "Are you... Jack French?" the alien asked in heavy, slow Standard.

"No, you idiot, you just punched out Jack French!" Gresham answered, laughing anxiously. "Christ, I hope you didn't kill him..."

The bulky alien paused. "You think he is dead?"

Gresham checked French's pulse. "No, he's fine."

The Commissioner grunted and moved his head ever so slightly. He was coming around.

"Quick, we gotta get out of here," Gresham said and wiped more of his blood off onto his sleeve.

"This man needs a physician," the alien said slowly in his baritone voice. "He looks frail."

"Compared to you, maybe," Gresham muttered and grabbed the alien's forearm. "We have to leave, _now_. The police are already here."

The krokator slapped away Gresham's hand. "Do not touch me, _bunchu_ , my patience with your kind is growing thin."

"Do you whatever you want, but it won't look good if the LAPD comes up here and there's a towering alien standing over an unconscious Commissioner."

Gresham could tell that the wheels were spinning behind the krokator's dark, oceanic eyes. The alien regarded French, who twitched slightly and rolled his head to the side, struggling to regain consciousness.

"Look, it's now or never. I don't know what you're doing here but we can help each other if you come with me. Or you can stay here, and you're on your own."

The krokator straightened his back. "I will follow you. But know this, human: if you lead me into a trap, I will break your spine."

"You'd be doing me a favor," Gresham snapped back and they hurried down the hall back into the outer office. He grabbed his gun from where he had checked it in with the AI and stormed out into the building's central atrium. He heard the doors slide open with a wail as the LAPD overrode the building's security system and the lights all went red.

"Oh Christ," Gresham muttered. "The building is going into lockdown. Here, follow me. There must be an emergency staircase somewhere."

They hurried down a side hallway and found an emergency staircase. The door, however, had been sealed off thanks to the lockdown.

"We are trapped," the krokator observed in his same deadpan tone. "Is there another way out?"

Gresham raised his gun and fired three shots directly into the locking mechanism, which sparked as the wiring was shredded. He kicked the weakened lock twice and on the third kick the door swung open, slamming the wall.

The krokator turned to head downstairs before Gresham grabbed him by the arm and pointed upwards. "They'll be down there. We go this way, and see if we can get down on the fire escape."

"I will trust you," the krokator grunted begrudgingly and they hurried up two flights of steps, past the fifth floor and to a door providing roof access. Gresham shot off an even weaker lock to the roof and they burst out into the bright Los Angeles afternoon.

"Crouch for a second," Gresham said as his mind raced for options. He scanned the bare rooftop. If an airborne LAPD cruiser arrived, there would be nowhere to hide. For now, it seemed as if the police had only shown up with a token force, but once they discovered French in his condition...

"Here! Follow me."

There was a fire escape on the backside of the building, and it was adjacent to the fire escape of the building's neighbor, a similarly dull structure containing office suites. Gresham hopped down onto the cold metallic rungs of the fire escape and peered into the alley below. It was empty.

"Here, climb down a bit and we'll figure out where to go from here."

"That is your plan? Hang from this ladder until you invent an escape?"

"Hey, you wanna go back downstairs and risk the LAPD, you go right ahead," Gresham barked. _What the hell are you doing, John? Running from the police, and with a Crock in tow no less! What a week..._

The krokator muttered some indistinguishable profanity in Krokam under his breath and obliged, climbing to just above Gresham. They hung there in silence for a few moments, their hearts racing.

"Okay, I have an idea. It might not work, but it's our best shot."

"I am listening."

_He understands a lot of Standard,_ Gresham thought, impressed. "We jump from this fire escape to that one a few meters away. That way, we can enter that building and leave through its front door. The police are only here for French and won't have the block surrounded."

"That is a foolish plan."

"You have a better idea, big man?"

The krokator sighed and clicked his tongues. "Very well, _bunchu_ , I will jump first. I weigh more than you and do not want to shake that ladder if you are on it first."

"Watch what you call me. I know what that word means."

"Do you?" the krokator asked before flinging himself across the open space between the two buildings. He caught the fire escape surprisingly nimbly for an alien of his size and the metal ladder shook furiously. He climbed down to a stable platform and beckoned for Gresham to join him.

"Jump, human!"

Gresham pressed his feet against the metal rungs of the fire escape, closed his eyes, whispered a quick prayer and then launched himself with all his might across the space. He floated for what felt like an eternity before hitting the adjacent ladder hard. He clawed at the nearest rung and when he had it in his hand wrapped his whole body around the structure and clung for dear life.

"Oh Christ," he muttered under his breath and glanced down at the krokator. "You alright?"

"I should ask the same of you, human," the krokator said sternly and indicated a door. "This leads into the building, correct?"

"Yes," Gresham replied and slid down the fire escape to the krokator's platform. "Let's hope it's unlocked."

Surprisingly, it was, and they stole down a nondescript office hallway once inside. They passed a few of the tenants, who gave them surprised stares as they passed.

"Afternoon, ma'am," Gresham said to a wide-eyed woman. "We just got lost, that's all."

They hurried down the staircase in the building's atrium and were soon out on a street running parallel to Crest Ave. Gresham breathed out and put his hands on his knees, looking around to check for LAPD officers. "Christ, that was a close one," he wheezed and looked at his new compatriot. "What's your name, by the way?"

The krokator clearly weighed his options before he replied, "I am Sharm Akgu Zurra."

"Not Kurtrekk Sukkom?"

"No," Zurra said. "That is an alias."

"You speak really good Standard."

"Thank you, human," Zurra replied. "Do you speak Krokam?"

"Yeah, fluently. Speak pretty good Brili too, and three other tongues partially," he said before adding, "I analyze foreign communication for Military Intelligence, that's why."

"How does someone like you wind up here?" Zurra wondered with genuine curiosity.

"Great question," Gresham answered and cracked his back. He looked Zurra over once more. "By the way, my name's Gresham. John Gresham."

"What is your rank? Sharm? Tarl?"

"Major."

Zurra looked confused but chose not to pursue the matter. He had an amused smile as he said, "We should get going, cooker of foods."

"Yeah we should... wait, what?"

"You said your name is Gresham. You know then that _grishemm_ means 'cooker of foods' in Krokam, yes?"

"I didn't... those phrases don't exactly appear in the Military Intelligence training programs."

"They should."

"Yeah, well... whatever. My HUVR is parked about fifteen blocks west of here at the Department of Defense. Christ, I haven't thought about how we'll get that out..."

Zurra started walking in the direction Gresham indicated and asked with a condescending snort, "So why were you fighting Jack French when I arrived?"

"Because he's a lying son of a bitch," Gresham replied and touched the spot where his temple had been slashed. It burned. "Turns out he's got a lot more to do with my investigation than I ever imagined." He stopped and looked at Zurra. "Speaking of which, why were _you_ at French's office?"

"I wanted to see if I could learn more about a human named Colin Hess through him. I believe he may be involved in my own investigation."

Gresham smiled. "You know, Sharm Zurra, I think you and I might be able to help each other out."

#

Perry pushed his way past two distracted LAPD officers to approach the ambulance where French was being treated for his injuries. The Commissioner had a bandaged nose and there was black swelling around his left eye.

"How is he?" Perry asked one of the paramedics as a hovering medicine drone injected French with an antibiotic.

"Broken nose and cheekbone from the scans we took, but we'll want to get him to the hospital for more tests. He suffered a nasty concussion too, doesn't remember much except for a big, black Crock being in his office."

Perry scowled. "ETs, huh? Think they can do whatever they want."

"Yeah, no kidding. I think we should ship all the bastards back to where they came from. Taking our jobs, making our cities dangerous, and now beating up government officials!"

"Thank you for your work, doctor," Perry said and patted the shoulder of the paramedic. "Can I speak with Mr. French?"

"No, I think it's best you didn't. He probably wouldn't say much of use anyways."

After giving the battered Commissioner one last look-over, Perry cursed under his breath and turned to discover a female SIS agent was glaring at him.

"Can I help you, ma'am?" Perry asked and approached her, smiling courteously.

"You sure can," the SIS agent replied. "Isn't it awfully convenient, sir, that someone comes up here to knock the lights out of Commissioner French just as we're showing up to arrest him? You seem close to Mr. French. Know anything?"

"It's tragic, not 'convenient,'" Perry answered. "I don't appreciate your accusations, Ms...?"

"Taylor."

"Do you have a first name, Ms. Taylor?"

"Yeah. Agent."

Perry flared his upper lip. It had been a long time since someone refused him and he recalled how much he hated the feeling. "Well, Agent Taylor, I have a very close relationship with the ownership of this building, and I guarantee that I'll be sure to let you know what I find out when I go over the security footage."

"Please do, Mr. ...?"

"I decline to comment without my attorneys present," Perry answered and turned to leave. "I had best be going, Agent Taylor. I'll see you around."

Lara grimaced uncomfortably. There was something about the man she didn't like. But what was it?
Chapter Twenty: Collaboration

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

"... _doctors have announced that while severely injured in the assassination attempt, Commissioner French is stable and will make a full recovery."_

Hess scowled and turned off the _Persephone_ 's news system as he floated towards the airlock on the ship's underbelly. This was an unforeseen development. A krokator had tried to kill French in his office in broad daylight? What was the galaxy coming to?

_Could it have been Grakko's thugs?_ Hess wondered. The Forbidden Army had always been a little trigger happy, but this was ridiculous. Especially when it was somebody as inherently useful as Jack French.

Hess floated through the airlock into his private shuttle and pulled on his seat's harness. He pressed the button on the side of his chair to activate the intercom.

"Is my entire luggage loaded?" he asked the shuttle pilot.

"Yes, sir. We'll commence landing sequence in ninety seconds. Please strap yourself in."

The airlock hissed shut and Hess leaned back in his chair. He turned a knob on his other armrest and a classic string orchestra reverberated through the shuttle.

Hess closed his eyes and thought about his childhood and the times his father had taken him to see the Pioneer City Symphonic. He thought about the times the sweet strings had echoed through their estate while the little Colin Hess had played with his toy spaceships, imagining battles from the past. Images of all the times he had visited the dying Albrecht Hess at the hospital as a boy washed over him like the notes of the cellos and violas, the fierce eyes of that living corpse of a man as riveting as the clarinet solo.

It was an opera. The orchestra gave way to the soprano as the shuttle detached from the _Persephone_ above Terra and floated peacefully through space before righting itself towards the planet. The soloist's voice was joined by a male voice, a tenor, who sang slower, more soothingly, more hauntingly.

Johannes Hess was screaming at Claudia Hess, throwing something across the kitchen of their summer home on Genesis. An old briling housekeeper approached little Colin Hess, grabbing him by the hand, but the boy wanted to see what was happening, wanted to understand.

The tenor took over completely, the soprano now silenced. Claudia Hess was throwing clothes into a bag, weeping and hurling curses at Johannes Hess, who stood silently and with his back to her, staring out a window at the skyline of Pioneer City in the distance. Little Colin Hess looked at a table in their foyer. There were signed documents on it, and he picked it up, now old enough to read.

_Divorce Settlement_.

The chorus erupted, at least fifty singers, as the shuttle's engines kicked in. Colin Hess wasn't little anymore, he was graduating university with his business degree. But his father wasn't at the graduation, because business had come up that day.

The soprano and the tenor were trying to sing over the chorus, but they couldn't; the sheer volume and numbers of the chorus were too great to drown out. Colin Hess was standing at his wedding reception with the new Mrs. Julia Hess, cutting into the cake. Colin looked around, trying to spot his friends from school or childhood in the crowd. There weren't many – he could count them on two hands. The rest of the sizable crowd was either an acquaintance of Julia's or his father's. Every important businessman, politician or power broker from Mars was at the wedding, even some Commissioners from other worlds.

The baritone began singing and the chorus drew back to give him center stage, the orchestra droned out ominous notes, and the soprano sang with worry in her throat. Johannes Hess's face filled the video screen aboard the private shuttle whisking Colin away to his honeymoon. This was the moment father and son had waited to seize for years – the chance to take Hessian Engineering to the top of the market. Another private military contractor, Blackwood, was going into bankruptcy. Johannes was felt ill and needed his son at the meeting to finalize the merger in two weeks. The Blackwood executives needed to know the family was still in control of the deal and the company.

Colin couldn't say no. Julia's eyes filled with anger and she demanded Colin choose between her and the company. Their honeymoon was for a month's trip all around the galaxy.

The soprano softened her tone, drowned out by the baritone and his vicious chorus. Colin stuck his hand out and shook the hand of every Blackwood executive on the other side of the table as his lawyers and board members applauded him.

There was an audible boom that drowned out even the sounds of the opera as the shuttle hurtled through Terra's atmosphere. A china plate hurtled past Colin and smashed into the wall behind him at his vacation home on Diocletian. Julia was screaming while a Gardelli nanny pulled two twin crying girls away. She was followed closely by a human butler, who was holding an infant boy in his arms. The boy was staring back at his father. Would he too be the next heir to the dynasty?

The soprano shrieked and hit notes Hess would have otherwise found impossible. The papers, the papers titled _Divorce Settlement_ , were strewn about his study. Colin was drunk and angry. A business deal had exploded in his face and now these _Divorce Settlement_ papers were on his desk. The tenor howled and the baritone sung deliciously as the chorus enveloped everything. The portraits of Albrecht and Johannes Hess, side by side, leered down at Colin as he sank into his grandfather's favorite armchair in the study.

The coffin of Johannes Hess was lowered into the red earth of Mars, on the same plot of land that Albrecht was buried in. Both men were buried alone, their wives long since laid to rest elsewhere. Colin knew that he too would be buried near the previous two generations of men in his family, and that he too would be buried alone.

The tenor hit sweet but sad notes. Colin studied the face of his son, now a grown man, introducing him to his fiancée. She was lovely, lovelier than Julia. Had his son lived a better, happier life because he was not consumed by the company?

Colin watched his son take his wedding vows against the backdrop of the famed orchards of Olympus Mons. The soprano was soft but audible. The chorus was gone. His twin daughters danced with attractive young suitors and Colin invited Julia up for a dance, for old time's sake. She was tense, and her new husband initially looked disapproving, but he and Colin were on good terms after all these years.

His son was standing in front of him in his office, wondering if he could learn his way around the family business. Benjamin looked so much like Johannes Hess – he could well have been the deceased patriarch come alive from the portrait behind the massive armchair.

The baritone's serpentine notes slithered back onto the stage. Colin and his son were having casual drinks at the shareholder's meeting, laughing and shaking hands. His son was following his father's lead like an obedient student, asking who everyone was and making sure to approach the right people.

The soprano wailed and the tenor shrunk back. Colin turned on a news report to discover his face on the screen, and that there were serious allegations with substantial evidence suggesting that Hessian Engineering had, for years, been selling weapons in the unstable, unaligned Border Worlds.

His son put a hand on his weary father's shoulder. His son said that he was more than happy to face the press, that he was ready to protect the company. That he would discuss it with his wife and face the consequences.

The tenor suddenly erupted with power and force. The baritone's next stanza of notes was filled with awe and surprise as he was beat back.

Colin stood up out of his chair, looked his son in the eyes and said one word: _No._

The tenor and the soprano began a beautiful duet. Colin waited until the emergency board meeting had ended, until all the profit charts were gone and the doomsday scenarios about a Commission crackdown and subpoenas and hearings and indictments and convictions and prison sentences were over.

As he had been many times in his life, Colin was alone. His only company in the office was the oil-canvas gaze of his father and grandfather. The soprano closed out the song with a flowery, soft and lovely finish. Colin picked up his voxcom and contacted the one person he knew could help.

Perry's voice filled the other end of the line, pleasantly surprised that Colin Hess was calling.

"We're here, sir," the pilot announced as the shuttle touched down to the tarmac of Hess's private seaside villa on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

Hess disembarked from the shuttle, staring over the sunset on the ocean, the sound of crashing waves filling his ears. He closed his eyes, smelt the salt-spackled air and listened to cawing seagulls in the sky above him.

"Sir?" He turned and saw two large men holding a large metal box. "What should we do with this?"

"Put it somewhere safe," Hess replied and adjusted his glasses. "And let Perry know that I'm here."

"Will do, sir." They picked the box up and carried it into the house. Hess watched them every step of the way.

If he had to be buried, at least he wouldn't be alone.

#

Zurra stuck a cup under a nozzle and said, "Water." Tiff complied and his eyes widened with amazement. He quickly emptied his glass and made the same command again.

"Neat, isn't it?" Gresham grinned and pulled a fresh T-shirt on. "I take it you don't have those in the Empire?"

"No, we do not," Zurra replied and sipped the water. "This is very impressive. I did not realize you humans were so technologically advanced."

"Well, it's the galactic age, we try our best," Gresham said and stuck a cup under a different spout. "Coffee, Tiff." His AI complied and Gresham glanced over at Zurra. "You want some too?"

"Ukkum strike me, never," Zurra recoiled. They had been speaking back and forth in mixed Krokam and Standard since locating Gresham's HUVR at the Department of Defense and driving to Topanga. It was night outside now and Zurra seemed fascinated by the alien constellations Gresham had pointed out to him.

"You've never seen new constellations before?"

"Well, no, I have – but I have spent most of my life on Rukkur or Kenka, so I have learned the sky maps of those worlds. Whenever I travel elsewhere, I do not have time to gaze at the heavens."

Gresham nodded. "I understand. Well, gaze away. They'll be here 'til morning and we live far enough from the city where the lights don't fade them out."

They both sat down on Gresham's couch after Gresham requested Tiff make them each a plate of spaghetti and meatballs. They sat awkwardly before Gresham ventured, "So you're from the Imperial City, huh?"

"No, but I live there now, with my sister and her husband. I am from Kenka originally. Have you heard of it?"

"I haven't."

"It is a farming world in the Middle Ring. I am not surprised you have not heard of it; I doubt any Kenkosh has had a real effect on Imperial policy in centuries. We tend to stay out of the main view."

"I see."

"You are from Terra, yes?"

Gresham shook his head. "No, we're both transplants. I'm from Solaris. It's a world a few light years away from here. Honestly, I hate this place. If I could leave Terra I would, in a heartbeat."

"But your work makes it impossible. I know what you mean," Zurra said sympathetically and looked around. "Is there a place I can bathe? I feel very unclean."

"There's a shower. Would that work?"

"I do not know what a shower is; you will have to show me."

Gresham led Zurra to his shower and instructed him on how to use it. The krokator seemed fascinated by the mechanics of the shower and then paused uncomfortably while he waited for Gresham to leave the room so that he could disrobe.

Once he heard that the shower was turned on, Gresham pulled out his voxcom and contacted Lara.

"Gresham! What the hell! I've been trying to reach you for hours."

"I've been tied down, I'm sorry. I need you to do a favor for me."

"Which is?"

"I need the immigration records for a Sharm Akgu Zurra, and see if you can pull any information on him from other sources."

Lara's pause was lengthy and telling. "Are you saying you found the assassin from earlier today?"

"Assassin? What are you talking about?"

"You don't watch the news much, do you?"

"Just send me the records, it's urgent. And come over here as quickly as possible."

"Okay, I'm just at the office so I'll see you soon."

"Great," Gresham said and disconnected. He opened his screen and punched in his password quickly, listening carefully to make sure that the shower was still running. He opened the MID database at his clearance level and typed in the name Sharm Akgu Zurra.

The database searched and produced three results, all from diplomatic chatter Section 4 had received over the past few months.

The first item read: _Krokator Military Operative, Sharm Akgu Zurra, believed to be receiving awards from High Prod Trakk Nikkwill himself for the completion of a successful, undetermined covert operation outside of Imperial space._

The second item: _Dedication of Prod Akgu Juska Scholarship to benefit poor families with capable officer candidates who otherwise cannot afford costs at the [Academy]. In attendance, the late Juska's children – Sharm Akgu Zurra and Ardas Urula._

Gresham grimaced and rubbed his eyes. This was mostly worthless. He glanced at the final item and his eyebrow rose.

The decorated Sharm Akgu Zurra, the son of the late Prod Akgu Juska, was reportedly one of the final krokator to see Emperor Urkus Ruskir before his assassination. The Imperial Military has ruled out Zurra as a suspect, and even privately commemorated him for attempting to stop the attack from occurring. Sources cannot verify the accuracy of this information.

_Well that's odd_ , Gresham thought and typed the name in again, on the unofficial wires. Maybe something had appeared in the Prime Network that they hadn't caught about his new guest.

Nothing. That was somewhat surprising; even Gresham had found mentions of himself, at least mention of his title, when scouring the Alliance's chatter from remote installations during security checks.

The shower turned off and Gresham quickly exited the page. As he did, the immigration records he had requested appeared on his screen, and they appeared initially mundane. Zurra had arrived on Monday and been flagged due to his military credentials, but released after a five hour holding period. Apparently, he had also been involved in an altercation on Redondo Beach early Tuesday morning.

_This guy gets in trouble easy,_ Gresham thought. He typed a quick thank you in a message to Lara and sent the immigration records back after making a copy for his own files.

Zurra emerged, toweling himself off. "Is the food ready?"

"Go ahead and grab a plate. Tiff makes good spaghetti."

"Who is Tiff?"

Gresham pointed upwards and twirled his finger. Zurra nodded. "Oh. I understand."

They both started eating and Zurra looked like he was in heaven, mulching down the food as quickly as possible and smacking his lips.

"You want to watch some TV?" Gresham asked.

"What is that?"

"Well... here, I'll turn it on and you just tell Tiff what channel you want. Any number between 1 and 999. I think there's a Krokam-language channel on there somewhere."

Zurra nodded. "Thank you, cooker of foods."

"Don't mention it. I'm going to step outside for a minute, I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

"Where would I go?"

"Exactly. Just hang tight."

Gresham hurried out of his apartment, subtly locking the door behind him, and walked down to the main drag of the Palisades apartment complex, glancing around at the neighboring stucco buildings to make sure nobody was watching. Lara's HUVR appeared at the top of the road about five minutes later and she parked it in the street.

Lara did not look pleased to see Gresham. "I cannot _believe_ you were so stupid, John. You're lucky Jack French is alive, and we can only cross our fingers to hope he doesn't wind up with brain damage. I should have you arrested for this."

"Is French pressing charges?"

"He can't even remember his own name let alone yours, but it's only a matter of time before somebody gets a hold of the security footage from the building. We have a few hours at best."

Gresham waved her concerns off. "Paine will postpone any investigation until after Friday's security summit. That gives us a few days of wiggle room."

"Simon Cray is furious," Lara said. "He's considered filing a motion to suspend all charges against French due to illegal methods of arrest."

"You arrested him just fine. It's not like I have jurisdiction anyways."

"How are you so blasé about this? Cray can and wants to get an arrest warrant for you. Do you really think Paine can protect you?"

Gresham sighed. "Look, Lara, I don't have time for this right now. Will you or won't you help me?"

"Help you with what?"

"He might be under arrest, but I don't think French requisitioned the weapons."

"Did you find this out before or after you beat the shit out of him?"

"I only punched him the one time... Sharm Zurra clothes-lined him the second time."

"Wait, who? Isn't that the name on the immigration records? I thought the assassin's name was Kurtrekk Sukkom..."

"An alias," Gresham said carefully. "An alias for what I believe is a _sukuda_ agent operating on Terra. He hasn't told me much, but I think that the krokator are under the impression that we have something to do with the Emperor's assassination last week. Or at least that somebody on Terra has information."

"Oh Jesus. Somebody? On a planet of twelve billion? _Somebody_ out of twelve billion goddamn people might know _something_? You have a knack for specifics, Major." The old, snappy, aggressive Lara was back.

Gresham threw his hands up in the air. "What do you want me to say? I'm voicing my suspicion. I think he has a point, too."

"Wait wait, did you say... he hasn't _told_ you much?" Lara's eyes widened. "Oh no, Major, what have you gotten yourself into? He's upstairs, isn't he?"

"That's why I called you... I didn't know how else to proceed. I'm not exactly an experienced interrogator."

"I bet Jack French and his broken face think you're a great interrogator."

They ascended the stairs back to Gresham's apartment, but before they entered, Gresham paused. "He's a little quiet, but he's friendly. Very solemn and formal."

"So like every krokator, in other words."

"Well, yes. Just let him warm up to you. He's a nice guy."

They entered the apartment and found Zurra riveted by a program about the history of the Alliance. He glanced at Gresham.

"It is interesting to see the lies your screen tells," Zurra remarked. "They purport that we krokator were the aggressors in the Third Human-Krokator War!"

He noticed Lara and immediately stood up, snapping to attention.

Lara laughed. " _Kura go bundo, komok?"_ How are you, friend?

Zurra relaxed a little and looked warily at Gresham before replying formally and courteously, " _Do anga, kundingo._ " I am fine, thank you.

Lara sat down. "I'm afraid that's all the Krokam I know. Do you speak Standard? _Rupungo Standard?_ "

Zurra nodded. " _Na. Pungur rupundo._ " Yes. I speak a little.

Gresham indicated Zurra. "Lara, this is Sharm Akgu Zurra with the Imperial Military. He's a member of the advance diplomatic detail for Friday's summit. Zurra, this is Lara Taylor, Special Intelligence Service."

Lara extended her hand and Zurra eyed it suspiciously. Finally, he gingerly tapped it with his palm, raising an eyebrow to see if that was the appropriate greeting.

Gresham smiled knowingly. "He's not up to speed on human customs, as you can see."

"Clearly. So what brings you to Terra, Sharm Zurra?"

"I do not know if I can speak of it," Zurra replied cautiously, glancing away to avoid eye contact. "I do not know that I can trust either of you yet."

"Zurra, I got you out of French's office alive, didn't I?" Gresham ventured.

"You mean the man who would have posed me no threat had you not been fighting him when I arrived," Zurra replied. Lara smirked, shooting Gresham a dirty look.

"What would it take for you to trust me?" Gresham asked. "I've opened my home to you and hidden you from the authorities, who I guarantee are out looking for you."

"Oh, believe me, they are," Lara muttered.

"Easy on the snark, Lara," Gresham hissed back. "Antagonizing him isn't helping."

"Oh? Since when are you a diplomat?"

"I'm not a diplomat, I'm an analyst, and in my field of specialization is the krokator military, amongst other subjects. You said yourself that you read my published report." He turned his attention back to Zurra. "Ask me anything you need to know to be at ease. I'm not trying to hide anything from you."

"Alright. What were you doing in French's office?"

"I was interrogating him."

"Successfully, it appeared," Zurra grunted with a sharp snort.

Lara laughed. "I like this one, he's got an edge."

"We've been looking into a weapons theft recently. It's not really my field, to be honest, but we turned up a lot more than we expected."

Lara stepped in. "We found a very intricate network of cash payments and gun smuggling out of the ETZ – it's a community for aliens on the outskirts of the city."

"It's a slum for the undesirables," Gresham corrected, "and you would be appalled at the conditions in there. But I digress. We found a massive weapons cache in the Zone and a series of bank accounts spread out across Los Angeles, the Alliance and even the galaxy. All of these accounts have one thing in common – they're all connected somehow to a parent company called Pacific Capital, a bank that's been under a lot of international scrutiny lately. You and your government may be familiar with that name – they owned LMS Holdings on Piskka."

"So our assumption, based on the nature of these accounts and the firm they're held with, is that these gun smugglers had the backing of a very powerful organization," Lara said. "Likely Hessian Engineering. And Colin Hess, the head of Hessian, is very close with Jack French, who it turns out is the same man who authorized the weapons theft in the first place."

"The pieces fall together pretty neatly when you think about it that way," Gresham said, "except we have no evidence to tie anything back to Hess, besides his company's stake in Pacific Capital, and we have no way to explain the _okka_ needles or MV5."

Zurra's eyes lit up with concern. " _Okka_ needles?"

"Yes. We found a dead body full of _okka_ needles. His eyes and tongue were ripped out too, just for good measure."

" _Gurumoken_."

"What was that?"

Zurra cleared his throat. " _Gurumoken._ It is a style of killing common to the krokator underworld in which one desecrates the corpse after it is killed. The idea is to embarrass the victim both in this world and the next, and to send a message to any friends who have survived him. It is forbidden by law to commit _gurumoken_ , as it is a cruel and barbaric practice."

"So I guess that settles it. Lugrash wasn't acting alone. Unless Balgoshans started performing krokator ritual killings."

"I doubt it," Zurra said. " _Gurumoken_ is a phenomenon whose motivations and execution are very unique to my culture."

Something piqued Lara's attention. "Wait, you said that it's a krokator mob practice?"

"I do not know what you mean by mob, but yes."

Lara smiled. "Lugrash had a friend we found through the bank records – Kalenn Jurkken. He was some kind of escaped criminal from the Empire who apparently turned in a bunch of his associates for political asylum. He's in the Zone now."

"Yes, our contact mentioned him," Zurra said before realizing his mistake.

"Your _contact_?" Lara demanded. "So the _sukuda_ has an informer here in Los Angeles? Who?"

"I cannot divulge his identity."

"You sure as hell can, or I'm turning your ass in the second I leave."

Gresham threw his hands up. "Quiet, both of you! Jesus. Zurra is trying to help us, Lara. Let's be a little more polite."

Zurra glared at Lara for a moment before looking back at Gresham. "I think I would be more comfortable, cooker of foods, if she were not here."

Lara rolled her eyes. "Great. Fine. I'll leave."

"Lara, please...."

"No, really, it's fine."

She stormed out into the hall and Gresham motioned to Zurra to give him a moment to sort things out before following Lara out the door. "What's wrong, Lara? Be a little flexible."

"John, you're asking me to look the other way when you've assaulted a Commissioner and started harboring a _sukuda_ spy in your home. And now you're taking his side when you _know_ that Allied law requires that informers for foreign spies be uncovered."

"Lara, imagine what Zurra can do for us. He has information from his own investigation that might go along nicely with our own. He wound up at Jack French's office too somehow, and we need to find out how that happened. Turning anyone in until we're done doesn't help anyone, least of all ourselves."

"You're asking too much of me, John."

Gresham sighed and gently grabbed her wrist. "Lara, where's that tough-talking, door-kicking field agent who threatened to shoot me in the face? Did our meeting with Cray really shake you up that much?"

"No, but..."

"Okay. Then trust me. I think I know what I'm doing."

"This is serious shit, Major. You don't just learn how to play the bureaucracy as you go. And the President will only protect you for so long."

"I know. That's why I need to keep working Zurra so we can figure out where to go from here. If he knows something – anything – that might help us, we can't let it slip away."

Lara was silent for a long time, staring down at the floor. "Okay. I guess you're right. Call me tomorrow and we'll talk about what you find out."

"Will do."

"What do you plan on doing with Zurra once you're done? He could very well have been sent by Jurkken and the krokator gangs to assassinate French. Or to find out what we know."

"I doubt it. He was fascinated that my apartment can talk, after all. I'm pretty sure he's telling the truth and that he's never set foot in the Alliance before."

"Don't be wrong."

Gresham watched Lara walk down the hallway and disappear around the corner before reentering the apartment. Zurra was watching his TV program again.

"Okay, Sharm Zurra. Tell me how you wound up in French's office, and start from the beginning. I need to know everything if you and I are going to work together."

Zurra sighed, nodded reluctantly and began his story.

#

The transport circled once again over the bog and all seven soldiers jumped out. Six were _aruntuk_ , and the seventh was Zurra. They landed in the swamp, knee-high in brackish water, and the quiet was broken only by the whine of the transport's engines.

"Hold position," Zurra ordered. The _aruntuk_ were obedient, following the orders of a mere karp who was not of their order. There was an eerie silence after the transport floated away and blew the mist out of the eyes of the soldiers crouching in the marsh.

Up ahead, the black silhouettes of craggy mountain peaks were visible through the low-hanging clouds. The moon they had landed on was covered in marshes and wetlands with only the occasional rocky outcrops breaking up the humid desolation. Zurra raised his _okka_ rifle to eye height and turned on the infrared scope, scanning the swamp ahead of him. The infrared could detect no life forms within a thousand yards. Satisfied, Zurra motioned for three of the _aruntuk_ to move forward.

There was a buzz from the communicator in his ear and Zurra pressed down on it. "Team Two in place," a voice said on the other end of the line. "Taking position at five hundred yards from target."

There was another buzz. "Team One on the move," a gruffer voice announced. "One hundred yards from holding point."

Zurra raised his wrist-mounted communicator to his mouth. "Team Three a thousand yards from holding point. No contacts."

The seven-krokator team, one of three such squads, moved forward. Ten minutes later, they reached a twisted tree trunk sticking at an awkward angle out of the marsh and took up a position behind an adjacent boulder.

"Team Three in place," Zurra announced. "Holding position at five hundred yards from target."

"Confirmed. Team One at holding position."

There was a long silence before a new voice echoed over the channel. "This is Orbit One. Commencing surgical orbital strike. Thirty seconds to bombardment. Stand fast."

"This is Aerial One. Gas torpedo launch in ninety seconds."

"Aerial Two. Gas torpedo ready, ninety seconds to fire."

Zurra detached the gas mask from his belt and pulled it over his face. The other _aruntuk_ did likewise, hearing a telltale screech in the distance.

The dark hills before them suddenly exploded as orbital missiles hammered the mountains, spewing black clouds of dirt into the air. The sound of the blasts rumbled and the water in the bog shook along with the earth.

Zurra motioned forward and the _aruntuk_ surged over the boulder and sprinted through the shallow pools of water towards the billowing clouds of soot and debris, clutching their _okka_ rifles close to their chests.

"Aerial One, thirty seconds to gas torpedo delivery."

"Aerial Two, thirty seconds to delivery confirmed."

Zurra barreled through a thicket of foliage, charging into the floating cloud of debris.

"Torpedoes away."

Eight small missiles detonated in the heart of the settling dust cloud, spraying gas down into the now-exposed entrances of the subterranean heretic base. Zurra and the _aruntuk_ had nearly reached the closest tunnel down into the mountain by the time the heavy gas had fallen down into the gaping hole.

"Team Three, fifty yards from target," Zurra announced through his gas mask. "Engaging contacts now."

The coughing sentries sent out to investigate the explosions were quickly taken out with _okka_ needles and the other two _aruntuk_ teams converged on the secondary entrances to the base.

Zurra vaulted over the fallen corpse of a heretic and ran into the tunnel, rifle raised and ready. He knew what awaited him on the other side of the tunnel: Grakko would be down there.
Chapter Twenty-One: The Businessman

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

Gresham yawned and stretched, cracking his neck. It was almost nine and the sun was streaming directly into his eyes. He rolled off the couch and turned on his screen.

" _Good morning Los Angeles! It is currently 8:55 AM on another beautiful July day here in Southern California. Highs for today are expected to be about 112 degrees Fahrenheit and we will experience a night-time low for this month all the way down at a cool evening 55."_

He heard stirring from the bedroom and walked down the hall to see Zurra climbing out of his bed. Gresham had decided to lend Zurra the use of his room for the time being and had slept on the couch the night before after they had finished discussing the many mutual leads their investigations shared.

"How'd you sleep?" Gresham asked, tossing Zurra a towel. "That's yours if you want to shower, I have plenty of other ones."

Zurra grimaced and rubbed his eyes. "Do you ever dream of moments from your past? Vividly?"

"More than you know," Gresham replied. "I dream about the Dhruiz War all the time. Pretty regularly as of recently actually."

"You fought the dhzirs?" Zurra asked, genuinely impressed.

Gresham chuckled. "Yeah, I was a little bit younger back then but I slogged through the shit back in the day. Here, check this out." He pivoted his leg to reveal a scar on his left thigh. "Got that in hand-to-hand action on Puckshot. They overran our trench and our whole unit almost got wiped out."

Zurra bent down to inspect the scar. "That is impressive." He rose up and pulled up his own loose-fitting shirt to show a similarly nasty scar on his back. "I received that in the Academy during field exercises. Spent a day in the medic ward and then competed in the same exercise the following afternoon. I would not be the soldier I am today without it."

Gresham nodded, equally impressed. "Good work. That's a real deep one. So I was doing some thinking, and I decided that our best bet right now is to see what we can dig up on Jurkken."

"Agreed."

"And if we're lucky, Jurkken knows something about Kamaan Dakkal. We're kind of crossing our fingers here that he does though... Dakkal could, of course, be anywhere."

"I know he is here."

"I have a friend who knows the Zone backwards and forwards, so I'm gonna go visit him today. I'll have Lara look up a few leads if we need. You gonna be okay here?"

"I want to come with you."

"No, no that's a bad idea. I'm already in deep shit after yesterday, and you'll be in even bigger trouble. Stay here and lie low, I'll try to work something out with the right people. Let me handle it, I know which wheels to grease."

Zurra shrugged. "I will trust you and stay here."

"Thanks. You can go for a jog if you have to or walk around if you start getting cabin fever, but don't leave the community. I'll be back in a few hours."

Gresham ordered Tiff to make them both breakfast before hopping in the shower. _I'm doing the right thing here, right?_

Once he was out of the shower he let Zurra take a turn, and as always the massive krokator was fascinated by the device and took a lengthy shower.

Gresham started collecting his things before heading out, and in his hurry knocked his wallet off the table, spilling its contents.

"Ah, shit," he swore and stooped down to pick up his various cards. His attention fell on a business card lying to the side of all the others on the floor, and he picked it up to study it closer.

Elijah J. Perry, Executive Director of Acquisitions, Pacific Capital. It was the business card French had given him a few days prior.

Gresham immediately turned his screen on and typed the name Elijah Perry into the query bar. Multiple results appeared.

Elijah J. Perry

Honorary Associate Director, Pioneer Federation of Labor

Mr. Elijah Perry's family has a long history with the strongest labor union in the Martian capital and this friendship was recognized last year with an honorary seat on the union's board of directors. Mr. Perry has spent the better part of nine years working to improve relations between all Mars' labor unions and the management of the planet's largest corporations.

Mr. Perry's own relationship with the PFL largely stems from his efforts to avert a major labor strike using his influence with the union and Hessian Engineering. Mr. Perry recently left a lucrative senior position with Pacific Capital to become Vice-Chairman of the PFL-associated Pioneer Labor Advocates, for which he has in the past served as a paid consultant and been a generous supporter of and donor to.

Another news story:

6/28/42

Allied News Service

LOS ANGELES (ANS): Mr. George Baumann, Chairman of the PFL, announced that the PFL would be donating over ten million credits from its union fund to the general campaign fund of Commissioner Jackson French, who is expected to run for the Allied Socialist Party nomination in next fall's Presidential election. The move comes shortly after Mr. Elijah Perry, a longtime French ally, left Martian financial firm Pacific Capital to become Vice-Chairman of the PFL's political arm.

Gresham clicked on another link, his curiosity piqued.

Elijah J. Perry

Executive Director of Acquisitions (resigned 3/13/42)

Pacific Capital: Pioneer City, Mars

Mr. Perry has, for six years, served as Executive Director of Acquisitions and as a voting member of the Pacific Capital Board of Directors, and resigned from both positions on 3/13/42 to pursue a new opportunity. Mr. Perry, aged 40, is best known at PacCap for having negotiated Pacific Capital's assumption of responsibility as the banker and insurer of the Pioneer Federation of Labor's assets. Perry also helped negotiate Hessian's purchase of a fifth of Pacific Capital's shares during a turbulent period for the bank and the friendship of Pacific Capital with Hessian has paid dividends for both parties.

Mr. Perry has also been named an honorary non-voting board member of the PFL itself, where he currently serves as the vice-chairman of its political advocacy affiliate, and briefly served in an informal consultancy role for Hessian Engineering. Mr. Perry is currently also a paid consultant for Commissioner Jackson French's (ASP-Mars 03) Presidential Exploratory Committee and served as Mr. French's Assistant Fundraising Director during last year's midterm elections.

Gresham ran his fingers along his jaw, contemplating the new information. Here was a man who had a relationship with Hessian Engineering, Pacific Capital, and Jack French all at once. He stared at the picture provided by Pacific Capital. Perry was a tall, handsome man with dark hair, focused eyes and a professional, white-toothed smile. His attire looked exorbitantly expensive, almost repulsively so.

It took a moment for Gresham to figure it out, but he realized that this was the man he had seen leaving French's office the day before.

Zurra emerged from the bathroom. "You are still here?"

"I was just leaving," Gresham said. "I let Tiff know that you are a guest and that your fingerprint will unlock the door. I'll see you tonight."

"Very well, cooker of foods."

Ten minutes later, Gresham was steering his car out onto the A10 between Malibu and Los Angeles, programming in his destination and leaning back as the HUVR merged onto the freeway.

He dialed Lara's number and plugged in his vox. Lara's voice echoed through the HUVR's interior.

"Morning, John. How'd last night go?"

"Good, and I have a lead. I need you to see what files SIS might have on a one Elijah J. Perry," Gresham said. "I found his business card in my wallet; French gave it to me a few days ago. Get this – Perry has served on the board of Pacific Capital, has worked as a consultant for Hessian Engineering _and_ French's campaigns, and he helped negotiate labor deals for the Pioneer Federation of Labor."

Lara clicked her tongue. "The PFL is the second-biggest union on Mars."

"Right. You see the connection here, don't you? Perry knows French, Hess, and the power players at Pacific Capital. He's on Terra now too, I swear I saw him at French's office yesterday."

"Okay, but I don't get what PFL has to do with anything."

"There have always been suspicions that French fudged the vote. Let's say French needs an opening in his first race and so he gets close to a man with high-level connections through the unions and Hessian Engineering. French now has friends at the PFL's political arm and he has access to the financial and political resources of Colin Hess, all through this Elijah Perry."

"That's a lot of conjecture."

"I know, but it's a start. See if you can find anything more on this guy, I'm looking into Jurkken."

"John, you're not going to the Zone, are you...?"

"Hell no! I'm going to see my friend Fust."

Gresham ended the call and watched the monoliths of downtown Los Angeles zip by in the distance as his HUVR hurtled south. He finally arrived in the Inglewood neighborhood, reassuming manual control of his vehicle and steering through the winding streets between the centuries-old buildings until he found his destination.

Gresham parked his HUVR outside of a large yard that was filled with broken HUVRs and peered through the electrified chain-link fence. He caught the attention of a dirt-covered yuun, who hurried over to see what was going on.

"Can I help you?"

"John Gresham here to see Mr. Fust. He'll know who I am."

The yuun nodded and jogged back towards one of the low buildings along the edges of the yard. He finally returned with Fust, grinning as always, in tow.

"Johnnie! Long time no see!"

"I know, Fust, I'm sorry. That information you got for me at the Dragonfly helped out a lot though."

"Did it? I heard someone went after Lugrash, never coulda dreamed it was you." Fust opened the gate and motioned for Gresham to enter his yard. "You haven't been by the office lately, have you?"

"I'm afraid not. I've been real busy."

Fust nodded knowingly. "I got a new shop put up on the yard, so I have capacity to fix twenty HUVRs simultaneously now. I've got three new robots too. Business is looking up here, Johnnie."

"That's good."

Fust navigated around a HUVR having its fusion-core engine being torn out by a pair of atvals and showed Gresham to his tiny, cramped little office. On one wall was a map of Terra above a map of his ancestral homeworld of Mingiclor, and on the other wall was a gigantic nude pinup poster of a popular actress whom Gresham could place but not name.

"Classy office," Gresham commented as he squeezed into a tiny chair across from Fust.

"Thanks," the Mingiclorian replied. "So what can I do you for?"

"Well, last time I came to you for help, I struck gold. Lugrash was in deeper shit than we thought. He was running guns stolen from the Marine depository and it turns out his operations were more complicated than we imagined. It might go all the way through Zone Bank to Pacific Capital, maybe even Hessian Engineering."

"Damn, Johnnie, you gotta be careful who you mention this to," Fust observed and pulled a short, poorly-rolled cigar out of his desk. "Want one?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

Fust lit his cigar and puffed on it. It smelled awful. "So you have proof that Lugrash and Hessian were in league?"

"Well, no, not directly."

"So what's this suspicion based on?"

"Lugrash had connections with krokator gangsters in the Zone. I've come across an operative of the krokator military, though he might be _sukuda_ , and he believes that Hessian is helping fund a heretic faction within the Empire."

" _Hudda Kugrall?_ "

"You know the name?"

Fust nodded. "Yeah, see, it's not easy hiding your loyalties from me. People come by my shop here and they talk. I hear everything."

"It's what makes you the best."

"Who are you looking for?"

"A Zone gangster named Kalenn Jurkken at the moment, but my contact's real target is another krokator, Kamaan Dakkal."

"See, right there you've got a real problem. Jurkken's part of the 'not-fucking-around' crew. He'll rip your eyeballs out if you look at him the wrong way."

"That bad?"

"Well, he's not an aggressor. That's why he's not as dangerous as some of the other scumbags in the Zone. Jurkken won't go looking for fights, but if you threaten him... well, you can figure out how that story ends, I'm sure."

"SIS apparently set him up as an informer years ago."

"That's right, they gave him asylum. But Jurkken also doesn't act like a criminal. Selling _gukka_ is totally legal on Terra and he has a license – at least he did last I heard – for all three of his bars. Besides, nobody has proof that his side businesses actually exist."

"What do you mean?"

"Rumor has it that he's been peddling highly-illegal ET weapons lately. And not illegal as in unlicensed guns or stolen military shit, I mean _really_ dangerous stuff. _Okka_ needles, organic bombs, weaponized hepatitis..."

"Christ," Gresham said and rubbed his eyes. "That explains where the needles came from. How do I find him?"

"He's got a few different _gukka_ bars in the Zone, but I haven't been to that part of the ETZ in years. It's a krokator neighborhood near the heart of the place called Crocktown, and nobody in their right of mind goes that deep into the shit. Place is a refugee gangland."

"Crocktown. Sounds lovely."

"To get to Jurkken's place, you first need to go through turf run by Orracowans. You ever seen them?"

"Yeah... nine feet tall, eight eyes, two mouths, built like oxen, right?"

"You don't fuck with Orracowans. They'll tear you to pieces. Literally, they'll rip your flesh off and eat your guts while you're still alive." The Mingiclorian watched a smoke ring waft towards the ceiling. "Haven't heard that other name, though. But if he's a Crock criminal and he's in LA, he probably knows Jurkken."

"Who, as you've pointed out, lives in the middle of a practical warzone surrounded by Orracowan cannibals."

Fust grinned and flicked ash from his cigar. "You ask, I answer. Look on the bright side, at least you won't go running in there now without armored cavalry."

"That doesn't help with my investigation."

"Guess not." Fust checked his watch and grimaced. "I gotta get back to work, these retards I've got working for me start playing with their balls if I don't yell at them every five minutes. You find me one ET who gets off his ass long enough to do his fucking job and I'll show you that beachfront property in Barstow I've been trying to sell."

Gresham got up, shaking Fust's hand. "Thanks for the advice, I appreciate your help. I'll see if SIS or the police can get a lead on Jurkken's whereabouts so we can go in protected."

Fust escorted Gresham to the gate and shook his head in disdain upon seeing the HUVR parked outside. "That's what you're still driving? Let me get you a new, nice F5 series, true luxury, a third of the market price. Least I can do for a friend."

Gresham had no illusions about where Fust would acquire a HUVR of that quality and price. "I'll think about. I'll see you around, Fust."

"Later, Johnnie."

#

Perry leaned back in his chair and stared out over the street beyond the hotel's lobby windows. He returned his attention to the clerk after she returned from an employee office in the back.

"Here's the package you requested, Mr. Perry."

"Thank you."

He headed to the restaurant, was shown a table in the back corner and brought a menu shortly thereafter.

"I'd like your house special beer, please," he said and reviewed his dining options. The hotel had a surprisingly exotic offering. Perry set the menu aside when he spotted a balding, thin-faced man approaching him from across the restaurant out of his peripheral vision.

"Mr. Barkley," Perry said when the man reached his table. "I'm glad you could join me."

The man identified as Barkley nodded and sat down wordlessly.

"Find the hotel alright?"

"Yes, Mr. Perry."

"Good," Perry said and thanked the waiter who arrived with his beer, handing him the menu and asking for the chef's choice. He sipped his beer, savored its darkness and set it aside, studying the craters in the foam. Finally he glanced back at Barkley. "I'd ask if you have what we discussed earlier, but only an idiot shows up to an arranged meeting without his end of the bargain."

Barkley looked around. "No, I wouldn't come here otherwise."

"Good. Well, I'm a man of my word, Mr. Barkley, and my promise was that you would be paid." Perry handed him the package he had claimed at the front desk under the table. "I haven't counted it but it should all be there."

Barkley nodded and handed Perry a thin beige envelope under the table in return. "Everything you needed."

Perry slid out one of the pages inside and glanced over its contents. "How current are these?"

"A day old, but I doubt they'll change the security arrangements unless there are some serious threats. I think the President and his people are stressed about this as it is. I'll keep you updated on the ground once your people are in place."

With a grimace, Perry slid the paper back into the envelope and placed the file into his briefcase. "Well, Mr. Barkley, in case I don't see you again in person before tomorrow night, it has been a pleasure. We'll be in touch tonight to go over the final details."

Barkley nodded and was about to say something when Perry spotted the same SIS agent who had confronted him at the scene of Jack French's attack the day before. His heart leaped into his throat and he acknowledged her tacitly.

"You'd best be going, Barkley. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thank you, Mr. Perry."

The female agent reached the table. "Mr. Elijah Perry, I presume?" She glanced at Barkley. "And you are?"

"Leaving," the man replied and got up, nodding courteously. "Have a good day, Mr. Perry."

The female agent, the one named Taylor, sat down. "So, funny running into you again, Mr. Perry."

"The same to you, Agent Taylor." He dabbed at his lips with a napkin and smiled politely. "I didn't know I'd be having the honor of you joining me for lunch today. Let me get you a drink or a salad or something."

"I'm fine, thank you though," Lara said warily. He was clearly sizing her up, trying to interpret her facial expressions.

"I see you know how to conduct research over at SIS if you tracked me down based off of just a chance encounter."

"Your hotel is only fifteen blocks from my office, Mr. Perry, and I actually stumbled across your name through a completely different vein of inquiry than you would expect."

Perry smirked. "Oh? Well, then, Agent Taylor, you didn't come all this way for nothing. I suppose you have something to talk about."

"Your relationship with Jack French, specifically."

"Alright, then. My relationship with Commissioner French."

"You're not his campaign manager or on his staff, but yet you seem to be very intimate with his political life," Lara continued. "What's your role?"

"I am an informal business partner of Jack's," Perry replied smoothly and swirled his beer in his glass. "I've built my career on knowing what goes on in Pioneer City back home on Mars and Jack can always use some objective, analytical advice from someone living in his constituency who knows the issues."

"Issues like the labor deals between the Pioneer Federation of Labor and the management at Hessian Engineering."

"You did your homework, Miss Taylor. Well, yes, my father was a senior member of PFL when I was younger and I think I broke the old man's heart when I threw my lot in with the banking crowd. He was an old-fashioned, blue-collar type of man, went to church every Sunday and the union meeting every Monday."

Lara riveted Perry with her gaze. "Then you wound up with Hessian and Pacific Capital."

"I think my role at Hessian is a bit overplayed. I was there for about three months on an interim basis. Colin – well, Mr. Hess – offered me an advisory position after the resignation of his VP of Labor. I helped run things while he appointed a successor and I returned to Pacific Capital thereafter."

"Why didn't you lobby for a permanent position? A spot on the board at Hessian must be an eight figure job annually."

"The timing wasn't right, that sort of thing."

Lara clicked her tongue. "Well, I'm not here about your business achievements, Mr. Perry, although I must say they are impressive."

"Thank you. Why are you here, then?"

"I'm here about Jack French."

Perry smiled confidently. "Well, Ms. Taylor, if I may call you that, I did some research of my own. I have a few friends over at SIS who told me that you are with Alien Affairs. A noble line of work, and a necessary one, but hardly one that has anything to do with internal investigations of the Commission or the financial industry... at least it wasn't last I checked."

"I get involved when people like French start using the Supernova database to move Alliance property into the Zone to cut a profit. Very under the radar, very well thought out way of beating the system."

Perry's expression said everything Lara needed to know, and his response was predictably dismissive. "I've heard about Supernova. It's a real shame when those we entrust with its privileges abuse that right for financial gain."

"I agree. Which is exactly why French will be going to jail soon."

"And I suppose you have hard, indisputable evidence of his involvement in gun trafficking?"

"I didn't say he was trafficking guns," Lara said coyly. "I said he was moving Alliance property. Could be anything. Bullets, grenades, body armor."

Perry attempted to hide his slip-up with a cough. "Well, I just assumed."

"To answer your question, we do. French's login information is there set in stone at the Department of Defense. You wouldn't happen to know anything about this side business of his, would you?"

"I don't answer loaded questions like that without my lawyers present," Perry replied, visibly angered. "I've already told you, my expertise is with Martian affairs. That is where my home is and that is where I conduct my business."

"I understand that, Mr. Perry, but that doesn't explain why you're here in Los Angeles right now."

"I am here on business for Pacific Capital."

"Which you resigned from four months ago to work for the PFL's political advocacy arm, which has donated millions of credits to Jack French's campaign fund – a campaign fund for which you've served as a fundraiser in the past."

Perry's meal arrived. It was a lush seafood menagerie with tossed spaghetti and salad. As he dug in, he remarked, "Ms. Taylor, I sense the insinuation that I am in some way involved in the alleged criminal activities of Commissioner French. I'm not his lawyer, nor am I close enough to him to know if he is guilty. If he is, it would come as a surprise to me."

He tried a scallop and closed his eyes, savoring the taste. "As for myself, Agent Taylor, I resent your attempts to implicate me in any of this. I'm sure you have all my financial information at SIS or Financial Oversight, everything you need to learn about my income is there for you to see. I'll send you my statements from last year if you need."

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Perry."

He leaned forward aggressively, scowling. "Well in that case, we are done here. Unless you have a warrant to obtain information from me, you will hear from my lawyers next time I'm harassed in this fashion."

Lara nodded respectfully. "Very well, Mr. Perry. Enjoy your lunch."

As she got up to leave, Perry raised a hand. "By the way, Miss Taylor, I studied the security tapes from Jack's office. I'm wondering: is your friend Major Gresham aware that assaulting a sitting Commissioner is a crime?"

Lara glared at Perry, infuriated by his smug expression, before turning away and leaving the restaurant in a huff.

Perry returned his attention to his food, but not before watching her well-shaped rear the entire way out of the restaurant. It was a shame she was so fit and attractive. A true waste.

_It appears I have some more loose ends to tie off,_ he thought and bit into a particularly succulent shrimp.

#

"I don't think the investigation will last long," Moss said to Gresham as they rode the lift up to Godford's office. "There's no security footage from _inside_ French's personal office to imply that you actually attacked him first. We can easily deny your involvement and run with the assassination story."

"You don't think that's a little extreme?" Gresham asked. "I don't think the krokator meant any harm. French attacked him first..."

"You burn or the Crock does. French didn't break his own face, that's for sure. When he remembers enough to actually testify, he'll be saying he got attacked. There's not a long list of suspects."

The lift doors opened and they exited. Moss chuckled. "A shame you let the Crock get away though. Must have been one hell of a pursuit. Wish I'd been there to see you running after one of those space gorillas and jumping from rooftop to rooftop."

"Yeah..." Gresham coughed. Moss knocked on Godford's door and the general buzzed them in.

Godford shook both their hands and motioned for them to have a seat on an L-shaped couch that ran the entirety of one of the walls. "Glad you both could make it. We have a lot to talk about."

They relaxed and Godford poured them both drinks. "In hindsight, I'm glad I put Gresham on this job. Look what he turned up! The biggest political scandal in a decade. A sitting member of the Commission peddling guns. The media will have a field day when we announce the charges next week."

Gresham raised an eyebrow. "Next week?"

"That's right," Godford said and sat back down behind his desk. "Right now, it's tomorrow's security summit. We've got some big names coming in. You guys ever heard of Rommel? He's one of the top iktathol generals and will likely take over their military once the Mother Harvester decides on the late supreme commander's successor. We've also got a who's who of big names from the briling, the prees, the Gardelli, the works." He handed them both briefings and Gresham skimmed through it. "The big prize, of course, is High Prod Nikkwill."

Gresham glanced up. "Nikkwill is actually coming?"

"His ship arrives tomorrow morning," Godford said with a broad smile. "Shows how important this summit is. When was the last time a High Prod personally visited a sovereign nation for a conference? Especially _us_?"

"It's been decades. Probably before Dennokk's reign, to be honest."

"That's why security is of utmost importance, especially in light of all these recent assassinations. We have probably the best opportunity in years of demonstrating galactic unity and it will happen _here_ , in Los Angeles, tomorrow night."

Moss flipped through his briefing. "You're putting it out on Catalina? At the convention center?"

"We were going to do it at Shoregrove, but after Haimon's assassination we felt it inappropriate to stage it there so soon. The Catalina site is much smaller, so we cut down on the Commissioners and bureaucrats invited. There'll be no more than three hundred people there, tops." Godford indicated their briefings. "You are both cleared to attend the pre-summit dinner event Friday evening along with the media and assorted delegations, but you both have full itineraries of the weekend's events."

"Three days out on an island," Moss said in disbelief. "What will security be like?"

"Around the clock. That convention center is being turned into a fortress as we speak," Godford explained. "Those security clearances are current, as are the itineraries. I'll get you both updates in case of major changes."

Godford turned his attention to Gresham. "Now, I realize that you may be a little disappointed about my decision to hold charges until Monday, but this is delicate. The most powerful member of the krokator military will be here tomorrow and a member of his race, unaffiliated or not, just attacked the centerpiece of a major investigation two days before the summit. French wasn't expected to attend the summit, at least he wasn't last I checked, but this is still sensitive. Once the High Prod is gone, we resume our hunt for French's assailant and then proceed with the indictment."

"What's your gauge on the success of trying French?" Moss asked, setting his drink aside.

"Well, the indictment is inevitable at this point and his political career is as good as dead even if he escapes conviction. I'm proud of you, John, this is a big deal and it's your baby."

Gresham glanced away. "I couldn't have done it without Lara, sir."

"Lara?"

"Lara Taylor with SIS. Her help was invaluable."

Godford nodded. "Due credit will be given."

"I think Major Gresham has some concerns about his own legal status," Moss volunteered. "Will charges be filed against John?"

"The President will likely pardon any charges raised by Cray and the usual suspects," Godford muttered with a look of disdain. "In the end, nobody can prove that John attacked French. Finding the krokator who attacked French is equally unlikely, so the investigation will solely focus on the extent of French's gun-running involvement. This could be potentially huge. French was expected to announce a Presidential campaign within the next few weeks."

"Any leads on the krokator I chased after?" Gresham asked after a momentary pause.

"Well, no, not at this time. He's probably some gun-for-hire that French's partners sent out to cover their tracks. He'll be back in the Zone by now."

"The Zone, mm?"

Godford sat forward. "You have a thought, Major Gresham?"

"Well, during my investigation a name came up – Kalenn Jurkken. He seems to have had a business relationship with Lugrash down in the Zone and may have been part of the gun-running operation. The _okka_ needles used to kill Frank Price may hint at a more sinister connection. Could it be that Jurkken was the seller and Lugrash a hired hand?"

"What do you mean?"

"Suppose gun sales go through Jurkken or an associate of his, but you need someone to ship them off the planet or bring them here from somewhere else, right? Lugrash just didn't seem like he was selling guns out of his warehouse. Literally everything in there was boxed up."

"So Jurkken's the real bastard we want to look for," Godford said, stroking his jaw. "Do you have a way of finding him?"

"Well, no, that's the problem. He's dropped off the map at SIS, they haven't seen or heard from him in years, and apparently the only record he exists are licenses to sell _gukka_ recreationally. I talked to a friend of mine who knows the Zone pretty well and he doesn't know where exactly Jurkken's _gukka_ bars are at, he just knows that they're in the part of the Zone you don't want to go to."

"Sounds like every part of the Zone."

"No kidding."

Godford glanced at his watch. "Well, Gresham, I'm intrigued to hear what more you come up with on this matter. You're both dismissed."

Gresham shook the general's hand. "Thank you, sir."

Moss followed him out of the office. "John, I wanted to say something real quick."

"Yes, Gary?"

"I know I expressed serious doubts about this assignment, but you've shown a certain knack for field work. I know that you enjoy being an analyst, so this is just a suggestion..."

Gresham's interest was piqued. "What's going on?"

"I drafted a glowing recommendation if you were to request a transfer to Section One, to do field work permanently. It's still on my hard drive, but after the summit, if you want to move over to work for Beveridge, I would approve."

"But Gary, I've been in Section Four since I came to Terra... we've worked together for years."

Moss laughed. "John, I'm not demoting you or firing you. It's just a thought I had. I haven't even talked to Godford or Beveridge about it yet."

Gresham was stunned. "Wow, I'm not sure what to say. Field work is a really different line and all."

"You're not even forty yet, you're still young. Mull it over and let me know what you want to do. I think you're wasting a natural talent in my office, John, but I can't force you." Moss extended his hand. "In the meantime, there _is_ some paperwork I need you to take care of since you do still work for me."

Gresham laughed and shook it. "I'll get on it. Thanks, Gary."

"Don't mention it."

#

Zurra yawned and woke up from his nap. He was still exhausted despite having spent several hours on the human soldier's couch. It took him a few moments to remember how to get the massive screen on the wall to turn on, but when he did, he was met with a fascinating array of colors accompanied by blasting, screeching music. He covered his ears in surprise, wincing. What a terrible noise!

He quickly shouted out a random number and lucked out with a display of running waterfalls and soothing voice detailing the wonders of the untainted wildernesses found on the jungle world of Fannindrax. A massive, purple-hued winged beast circled over the steaming lake beneath the cataract, screeching audibly alongside the narrator's description of the perfection of the ecosystem.

Zurra was amazed at the idiotic types of entertainment that were available on the thousand channels Gresham had at his disposal. The humans played a variety of sports, each with rules that he had trouble discerning, including one that seemed to revolve around hitting a ball with a stick and then catching it, and another where men kicked a ball at each other for extended periods of time, and the strangest of all, where men in battle armor rammed into one another at terrifyingly high speeds.

There was a multitude of programming Zurra could never imagine in the Empire, where the broadcasts were typically newscasts, of a religious nature or adaptations of classical works. There were dozens of channels centered solely around cooking food, buying goods, making the strange floating vehicles the humans piloted work, and endless assaults of hellishly agitating music. Zurra was a little overwhelmed and elected to turn the screen off after his eyes began to hurt.

The heat grew more and more intense as the day wore on and he found himself trying to figure out how to obtain water from the automated kitchen in Gresham's apartment more and more often. The lunch he ate was excellent, and he was continuously in awe of whatever strange mechanism powered the complexity of it.

With the temperature at its worst in the early afternoon, Zurra retrieved his towel and made his way down to the communal pool he had spotted earlier in the day. Tenants of the Palisades community were gathered in and around the pool, and some had brought out barbecues. Little children splashed in the water as their parents stood around grinning and joking with one another.

After a moment's pause before entering, Zurra pushed open the gate and stepped through, and he immediately felt the searing distaste from all the residents pour over him like a wave. Two men who had moments before been amicably sharing stories fell completely silent and looked in his direction with hate in their eyes.

"Oh you can't be serious..."

"Don't they have ordinances against this sort of thing?"

Zurra decided against politely acknowledging them and moved on, finding a lawn chair that he gingerly put his towel down on and he removed his shirt, revealing to the assorted crowd his honors tattooed to his back and chest, their white color stark against his dark skin.

The crowd was still watching him carefully. He saw one female shoot him a look of disgust as she pulled her child from the pool. "Well, I never thought..."

Two juvenile humans approached Zurra as he tightened his _kekkalo_ around his waist and stopped directly in front of him.

"Crock!" one of them screamed and threw a plastic bottle at his head. Zurra instinctively dodged it.

"Yeah, get out of here, you stupid Crock!" the other child said and stepped down hard on Zurra's foot before running away.

A woman that appeared to be somewhat older than the rest tapped Zurra on the shoulder and gave him a look that nearly froze his veins. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. There are children here, families trying to enjoy their afternoon without you ruining it for them! Who even let you in here?"

Zurra spotted two of the community's security robots rolling along over the pavement and approaching the pool, with a human wearing an official-looking shirt close behind them.

"I am sorry, I do not mean any harm," Zurra said. This was almost as bad as the beach. What was it with humans and recreational swimming?

"We ought to be able to come to the pool without dirty ETs like you here scaring the children and contaminating the water. Thank the Lord you didn't get in!"

The security robots pulled up outside the gate and the human entered, stopping about ten yards away and placing his hands on his hips. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?" the human barked. "Here, come with me. Now."

Zurra gathered his things and obliged. He heard a chorus of insults as he walked out of the gate and a plastic cup bounced off of his back.

The security robots were dismissed by the human as they walked away from the pool. "What were you thinking walking in there like that?" the human asked.

"I did not know that the pool was for humans only," Zurra answered genuinely. "My friend that I am staying with, he said other... well, other non-humans reside here."

"They do, but they're not dumb enough to go barging in on barbecues while the other tenants are all out. They go to ET pools in the city or the ET part of the beach down in Malibu. None of those people want to have you around them when they're bathing or enjoying their afternoon."

Zurra was legitimately frustrated, although he appreciated the reasoned tone of what he assumed was a security officer. "But _why_? That is what I do not understand. I was not bothering anyone or causing trouble."

"Because they don't like aliens and don't want your kind around. Look, I have some good friends who work at my company who are ETs, and I'm not a bigot of any kind but... well, it's just the way it works. I'm sorry. You're not in trouble, and nobody's going to beat you up."

Zurra stoically replied, "I would have liked to see them attempt it."

"Who are you staying with?"

"I am staying with cooker of – I am staying with John Gresham."

"I know John. I'll let him know what happened when he gets home, but for now, just go relax in his apartment, watch some TV or whatever. Just please don't cause me anymore trouble, okay?"

Zurra nodded reluctantly. "Very well."

He was growing tired of this planet. When was he actually going to get something done without having another racist human stepping in his way?

#

Jurkken blew a perfect smoke ring into the air and watched the expanding circle hover over his head. He handed the _gukka_ pipe to a friend of his when a large krokator with a horrific overbite entered his private lounge.

"Elijah Perry is here," he announced. "Should I show him in, sir?"

Jurkken scowled and rubbed his eyes. What the hell did Perry want? He turned to look back at the two nude females, one human and the other a Fantoon, who were massaging him.

"Get out of here," he said in Standard and pulled out ten credits for each of them. "I'll pay you the rest later."

They pulled on robes and slid out of the room. Jurkken turned his attention back to his cohort. "Show Mr. Perry in."

"This had better be good," a lean, muscular blue-skin said from a pillow a few feet away.

"You will like Perry as much as I do. He always has something new he wants me to do for him."

Perry pushed his way through the glittering array of beads blocking off the entrance to Jurkken's lounge and sat down on the nearest unoccupied pillow.

"What can I do for you this afternoon, _komok?_ " Jurkken asked in Standard. "I took care of Chiles, just like you asked. It was in the news. They said it was an accident. He drove off a cliff and burnt up all on his own."

"Excellent work," Perry said. "Now I need a few more favors from you before we move tomorrow night."

"I thought you might," Jurkken grimaced and loaded a fresh scoop of _gukka_ into the pipe's bowl. "I assume another assassination of some kind. Do you have any idea the risks I take every time you ask me to kill someone for you? You clearly have the knack yourself for getting your hands dirty. Sending a krokator to take out French... I get the sense you are trying to get leverage on me by making it look like something I did?"

"I would never incriminate or blackmail you, Jurkken. We're business partners."

Jurkken spat on the floor, _gukka_ residue mixed with his saliva. "Us, partners? Never. Our superiors are aligned and that makes this a marriage of convenience. Nothing more."

Perry glanced at the other three krokator watching him intently. "May we speak in private?"

"No. We speak here. Two of them do not even understand a word of Standard. This part of the Zone is like the Empire, everyone speaks my language. I have had enough of your secrets. If you want me to do a favor for you, you can tell the men I often send out to do your bidding."

Frustrated rage passed over Perry's face momentarily before he smiled courteously. "As you say, Jurkken. I have some new loose ends to tie up that I hadn't anticipated. A krokator from the _sukuda_ attacked French yesterday afternoon and I need him found. This is what he looks like. Maybe you or an associate will recognize him."

He handed Jurkken the photograph he had taken from the security footage at French's office. The krokator glanced at it and smiled. "I know this face."

"Who is it?"

The lean, fit blueskin in the corner took one look at the photograph and looked up. "That is Sharm Akgu Zurra. He is not _sukuda_ ; he is the personal assassin of the High Prod himself."

Perry paused. "Do I know you?"

"It appears an introduction needs to be made," Jurkken said. "Eli, this is Kamaan Dakkal, the friend of mine from the Empire we talked about earlier."

Perry regarded the intimidating krokator before looking back at Jurkken. "So you know this Sharm Akgu Zurra?"

"Not personally. He is a military man, one of the best. You rarely find killers more cold-blooded than this one."

"So why would he come after Jack French? Any ideas?"

"You think he was there to kill French?" Dakkal interjected.

"It looks like it, doesn't it?"

Dakkal gave a toothy smile. "Looks can be deceiving. Zurra, he is a dangerous one. He tore a tavern I own back in the Empire to shreds looking for me."

Jurkken nodded. "I would suspect that if he is here, it is to find us. A shame we missed this earlier."

Perry thought about this new information. "You think he knows where to find you?"

"My existence is an open secret in the krokator community. I am sure the ambassador knows my name or one of his contacts does. You can only kill off so many _sukuda_ ," Jurkken opined and sampled his latest _gukka_ bowl.

"Well, then, that solves that. We need to kill him."

Dakkal roared and bared his tusks at Perry, who nearly fell off of his chair in alarm. Jurkken guffawed through a billow of smoke and his two bodyguards joined in the merriment.

For the first time since his first journey down to Jurkken's lair in the Zone, Perry was genuinely afraid for his life. He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his suddenly sweaty hair. "So? Will you kill him or not?"

"No. You do not understand, Perry, what Akgu Zurra represents. He is the son of a very influential prod who passed away a few years ago. Our friend Grakko began his rise to power when he and the current Black Prod killed Zurra's brother, Akgu Turka. It was quite the prize – the son of one of the Emperor's most trusted lapdogs. Zurra and Grakko have something of a testy relationship since then."

Dakkal glanced at Jurkken. " _Nohoken?"_

"Perhaps. It would not surprise me." Jurkken passed the pipe along and cleared his throat. "Zurra led an expedition to assassinate Grakko shortly after his father died. He failed, but left Grakko with that now-famous scar. If Zurra is on Terra, our duty to our allies is to capture him alive and hand him over."

Perry breathed heavily and wiped his forehead. "Do what you want with him, Jurkken. I just need him out of the way."

Jurkken gestured amicably with his hands. "The chance to capture a specimen such as Akgu Zurra is hardly a favor. My best will take care of it, granted we can find him. Was there anything else you wanted?"

"Yes," Perry said and put two additional photographs on the table. "I think I know where Akgu Zurra will be."

#

"Section One? Moss actually offered you a transfer?" Lara asked, in genuine shock. "Well, you've come a long way."

"You're telling me," Gresham replied and studied her expression. For the first time in public, she was wearing her hair down and seemed completely at ease. It was surprising how quickly she had grown on him.

They were at a little Manchurian restaurant near the beach in Santa Monica and both had ordered a medley of sweet and sour pork mixed in with broccoli and tossed noodles.

Lara savored a bite of broccoli and then returned her attention back to Gresham. "So you know who I ran into today?"

"Simon Cray?"

"Nope. Elijah Perry."

Gresham leaned back in his chair. "Was it a dead end or was my hunch right?"

"I think your hunch is right, something is definitely off about him, but we have no proof that he's done anything illegal or that he has _anything_ at all to do with the Supernova operation."

Gresham took a sip of water and considered the information. "It's still too convenient. There's something there, I just know it."

"He was at Hessian for three months. I looked it up, and it checks out. And at first glance his record is squeaky clean. He _does_ have bank accounts on unaligned worlds that don't report interest to the Allied government, obviously, but he works at a bank."

"Too bad we can't arrest people on gut instinct, right?"

Lara shrugged. "Guess not. How's your houseguest doing?"

"Zurra? You know, I kind of like him. He's very soft-spoken and I don't think he's really too fond of Los Angeles, or humankind for that matter, but he's well-meaning. Very dedicated to his mission."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"He's here to find a guy named Kamaan Dakkal who he believes is connected to _Hudda Kugrall_."

"The name's familiar."

"In Standard, it translates to 'Forbidden Army.' It's a krokator extremist group with very strong connections to the criminal underworld."

"So Kalenn Jurkken might be connected?"

"Exactly. According to Zurra, Jurkken fits the profile of a _Hudda Kugrall_ bankroller. He's a strong, independent-minded criminal who hates the Imperial government and has no qualms about aligning with heretics in order to get some extra muscle for fighting rival gangsters. The strongest criminals in the krokator community are the ones who have the strongest friends."

"But Jurkken operates out of the Zone, right?"

Gresham nodded. "He operates out of a part of the Zone called Crocktown. Do you know of it?"

"Yeah, and we're _not_ going there at night without a platoon of LAPD special operations officers. Are you out of your mind?"

"I'm not suggesting anything. I was going to suggest we go down there tomorrow with Troy, maybe some other agents too. My friend Fust says that Jurkken may or may not be selling illegal alien weapons. _Okka_ needles, for instance."

"Christ. Well, Crocktown is one of the most dangerous parts of the Zone even by day. The Orracowans have a couple of nests around there. And if Jurkken has friends in the Forbidden Army, he probably holds a lot of clout in his neighborhood."

"Of course he does. Very few people sell out _Hudda Kugrall_ -backed kingpins, from what Zurra says."

"Do you know if his target is on Terra?"

"Who, Dakkal? I'm not sure. Fust didn't know."

"I can check his name on immigration records, but I doubt it'll show up."

They ate in silence for a moment before Lara ventured, "So I heard Vance might be out of the hospital next week. He woke up today."

"Really? We should get over there tonight, see how he is!"

"He's still very weak, no visitors allowed. But this weekend?"

Gresham nodded and smiled. "Definitely."

"So I heard you're divorced?"

"Did Troy tell you or did you look it up in my personnel file?"

Gresham could tell that he had surprised her with the comment. She blushed and ran a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to spy on you..."

"I'm giving you a hard time. Well, let's just say Nicole wasn't too hot on Terra. Born and raised on Solaris, business major in college, worked for the marketing department at a huge biomedical company back home. When I relocated here, she took a steep dive in pay and back then I wasn't making the money I am today, so we lived out in a neighborhood with all sorts of trouble. It wasn't where she wanted to raise a family, so a few years ago she got fed up and left."

Gresham thumbed the edge of the table. "I got served papers while coming out of a briefing at Shoregrove. The whole thing was very clean, very amicable. She was reengaged within a week of the finalization of the divorce and she's got three kids now, and she's only three years younger than me."

"I'm sorry, John."

"We were young and stupid. And we had different goals I guess. I'm happy for her, but we haven't exactly stayed in touch. Not something I want to dwell on."

Lara looked away and then waved a waiter over to request a box. "Well, I should get going. Thank you for dinner, John. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you then." Her meal was packaged and she was out the door before he could wave goodbye.

The passion was gone. Was she trying to protect herself from him and not get attached? He finished his water and got a box of his own to put his dinner in. Women. He'd never understand them.

He drove back roads all the way back to Topanga as opposed to the A10, watching the sunset the entire way. His mind was racing, one moment thinking about Zurra, the next about the whole French debacle, but mainly about Lara. Why was he growing so attracted to her? They'd had one incredible night of passion, but she was so frustrating!

_When all this is over, will she really hang around?_ Gresham wondered. This seemed like a marriage of convenience. He had no doubts that she'd get another all-consuming assignment once the case was closed. Troy was right – Lara Taylor was devoted to her work.

Gresham steered his HUVR up the mountain road leading from Malibu to the Palisades, mulling over the various romantic flings he had held throughout his life. Lara was not wife material by any means, but he needed something a little more serious than the occasional two-week tryst with some high-energy beach blonde.

As he turned onto the road down into the Palisades, Gresham laid notice to three large sports utility HUVRs parked just inside the entrance. He slowed down to a near standstill to regard the mysterious vehicles before continuing. Something felt wrong.

He pulled into the parking garage and stopped in his usual spot, turning off his HUVR and hopping out before it had even touched down. Gresham immediately stiffened and his hand went to his gun when he realized what was off.

The security robot in his garage wasn't approaching him.

Gresham pulled his gun out and flicked off the safety, sliding up next to the wall and looking around the dim garage. Where was the security robot? It should have been wheeling up to him by now, asking for identification. He circumvented the entire garage before finally finding it, torn in half with its circuitry a tangled mess, wedged between a parked HUVR and the wall.

Shit.

Gresham trained his gun towards the door to the elevator. If he took the elevator he would be a sitting duck if somebody was waiting for him upstairs. Would the same happen if he used the staircase? He then remembered the emergency stairwell at the back of his building that nobody ever used. Perfect.

Gresham hurried across the pavement of the Palisades' primary road and carefully approached the back stairwell and pressed his fingerprint against the door to enter. It was likely that whoever had broken the security robot had overridden the security system on the building with a viral card, but the scanner at the back door worked just fine.

The back stairwell was unlit and Gresham carefully moved up every flight towards the fourth floor. The only light came from the red glow of the Exit signs above each door.

Gresham reached his floor and took a deep breath. The only sounds he could hear were the air conditioner and the pounding of his heart. He nudged the door to the hallway open and aimed his gun straight down the hallway, looking for any sign of trouble.

The hallway was completely dark. Somebody had cut the power.

_I'm dead. They're going to kill me,_ Gresham thought. But who? Perry's men? Jurkken? Maybe French had some friends Gresham hadn't even thought about. Was Zurra even alive anymore?

_Get out of here, before you get killed,_ his intelligent side told him. Maybe Lara was in danger too. If they were after him, why not her?

"Oh, what the hell," Gresham grunted. He could only run for so long. He moved quickly down the hall to where it turned to the right. He carefully glanced around the corner. There was nobody in this hallway either. Was he freaking out over nothing?

No, remember the security bot. Somebody broke that thing.

Gresham approached his apartment door and saw it was closed. He debated calling out Zurra's name but decided against it.

_Last chance to turn away, John_.

Gresham pressed his finger against the scanner to unlock the door and stepped back to the side with the hinge and nudged the door open with his foot. The apartment was dark except for the screen, which cast an eerie illumination over the apparently empty living room and kitchen.

As he stepped slowly through the door, he realized that Tiff wasn't turning the light on as he entered. Somebody had shut down the AI manually.

He had just cleared the doorway when the door slammed shut behind him and he was grabbed forcefully from behind. Gresham tried to shake free but a powerful pair of hands twisted his arm to pop the gun out of his hand and then threw him forcefully to the floor.

Gresham rolled over and kicked his assailant in the jaw, hearing an audible roar of pain as a towering creature grabbed its face.

It was a krokator! _Zurra betrayed me. That asshole was working for Jurkken the whole time!_

Gresham's assumption was short lived as he rolled over to crawl towards his gun. Zurra was tied up with a bag over his head on the kitchen floor, obviously unconscious. Two pairs of large feet materialized in front of Gresham and he was pinned to the floor as a cloth was forced into his mouth by a third assailant.

"This _bunchu_ kicked me in the mouth! We should kill him!" one of the krokator exclaimed in Krokam.

"No! Our orders were to bring Jurkken live prisoners," a different voice protested. "Tie and bag him like Zurra."

Gresham's face was pressed into the floor as he tried in vain to shake off the hands holding him down. His wrists and ankles were tied with thick rope as he thrashed.

"Hold still!" one of the krokator roared and struck his head forcefully against the floor. Gresham's world swam as he drifted on the edge of consciousness, passing out just as a bag was pulled over his head.

Chapter Twenty-Two: Crocktown

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

"Good morning, Mr. Hess," the iktathol said through its mounted translator and closed his HUVR's door. Hess regarded the massive ant-like alien as it twitched briefly before sticking out its claw for him to shake.

"Thank you for joining me, Mr....?"

"Just call me Gabriel," the iktathol answered. It was common for iktathol to be referred to by local names from the planet they were on, as their native language was indecipherable to the other vertebrate species of the galaxy.

"Very well, Gabriel, please follow me."

Hess led the iktathol through the foyer. "You found the place alright?"

"Yes, no troubles at all. This is very early though," Gabriel buzzed. "I was hoping we could do this later in the day."

Hess coughed. "Yes, well, my time is precious. Things to do, people to see... anyways, the patio is set up for your demonstration."

Gabriel followed Hess out onto the patio overlooking the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean, shimmering in the California dawn, and set his two suitcases down next to a large table.

"Perry said you were the best," Hess observed and glanced at a wiry, balding man approaching him from across the patio. "That detonation at Shoregrove last week turned some heads."

"I can imagine," the iktathol replied and took an assorted chemistry set out of his suitcase. "I can make an identical bomb if that's what you need."

Hess shook his head. "Not today. You need to teach me and my associate Mr. Winchell here how to assemble an MV5 bomb independently."

Gabriel looked up at Hess. "How big of a bomb?"

"Two thousand grams, as was arranged."

"Are you planning on changing this planet's orbit or are you using what you humans call humor? That much MV5 will be quite expensive."

"Money is not an issue."

Gabriel shrugged. "You're the customer, Mr. Hess. If you would like to observe?"

Hess and his associate, Winchell, approached and watched Gabriel pour a fine white powder into a beaker.

"This is the base. You add some of this black compound here, and you have ten grams of MV5."

Winchell raised his eyebrows in surprise. "That simple?"

"Well, next you add water. Observe."

The iktathol poured a small amount of the liquid into the beaker and mixed the powders together into a gray putty-like substance.

"There you have it, gentlemen. Ten grams of MV5. You need to be careful to make sure you even out the compound so that there's an equal amount down to the exact half a gram." Gabriel indicated his other suitcase. "The compounds are in there. I would make sure you have the right amounts _before_ you assemble the bomb. As I am sure you are already aware, MV5 needs to be assembled at or near the detonation site."

Hess looked at the substance in the beaker. "So this is the explosive? What's the catalyst?"

"These little black rocks here," Gabriel said and revealed a vial of small crystals.

Winchell laughed and inspected the vial. "You're kidding. Those little things?"

"One or two crystals will be enough to trigger a chain reaction. MV5 is malleable and can be fit in any crevice or on any surface. Once the crystals are added to the solution, you will have about ten minutes before the reactants combust."

Hess looked over at Winchell. "We've seen the footage of what this stuff can do at a twentieth of the amount we're using."

Gabriel coughed. "Seeing the... _liberal_ amounts of MV5 you are buying, I would have a means of transport to escape the blast site quickly. This is the most potent conventional explosive in the galaxy. Two thousand grams practically applied will probably destroy everything in a one-mile radius. Especially if detonated underground."

Hess smirked. "You read my mind. Winchell, see Mr. Gabriel out. We will wire the money to your account within the hour."

The iktathol buzzed and extended a claw. "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Hess."

#

Gresham swam in and out of consciousness. He was woozy and every time he breathed he felt the filth of the rag in his mouth fill his throat and the sweat-soaked bag over his head fasten to his nostrils.

Where the hell am I? What happened to Zurra? Are they going to kill us?

It occurred to Gresham, however, that if he hadn't been killed already, it probably wouldn't happen anytime soon. For whatever reason, his captors wanted him alive.

How many hours had he spent tied to this chair? He had come to when he was being dragged down a staircase and had struggled in vain when his wrists and ankles were lashed to the steel chair. He'd been struck across his bagged face and heard chuckles in Krokam. The only conclusion he could reach was that Jurkken had found him before he could find Jurkken. The krokator must not have been pleased to learn that he was being searched for.

During one interval of clarity, Gresham had clawed behind his chair with one of his free fingers and brushed against a wrist. He had immediately leaned his head back and felt his own head come into contact with somebody else's.

Was Zurra down here with him? Gresham's attempts at screaming or pushing the rag out of his mouth with his tongue had failed miserably, and he became lightheaded and passed out from his exertions.

The silence was the worst part. The only sound was of an air cooling system somewhere, but it didn't do much good, because Gresham was drenched in a cold, clammy sweat.

What's happened to Lara? Are they after her too? Hopefully she realizes I never called her this morning and she'll come looking for us.

It was wishful thinking. She was probably dead by now.

Gresham's grasp of time was limited to how often he was actually able to maintain consciousness. He was drifting in and out of exhaustion blackouts. Was it the morning? Was it still the night? Maybe he'd only been down here for an hour.

Gresham struggled with his bonds again but, as the other dozen or so times he had unsuccessfully tried to shake free, he wasn't able to loosen them one bit. He lowered his head and felt the darkness envelop him once again.

#

The noise of the transport's engines drowned out all other sound on the topmost, restricted platform at Malibu Spaceport. Ambassador Jerven covered his ears and turned away to avoid getting debris blown in his eyes.

His attention instead focused on the rock-jawed human officer accompanying him. "You seem distracted!" Jerven observed as the transport touched down and gave off the distinctive whine of its cool-down stage.

Colonel Moss nodded. "Yeah, sort of. I've got a guy in my department who's an expert on the Empire and your military, so I figured he'd want to come down here to welcome the High Prod but he wasn't in the office this morning. He gives reports on Mr. Nikkwill almost every week, after all. I think he's a fan."

Jerven smiled and conceded, "High Prod Nikkwill is an inspiring figure." Moss's concern reminded Jerven of his own pressing issues. He hadn't heard from Zurra in two days. Nikkwill would be furious that his prized soldier had gone missing.

A ramp opened out of the bottom of the transport and seven _aruntuk_ emerged, surrounding High Prod Nikkwill, who was dressed plainly in civilian attire with a cloth cover tied around his braids. General Godford approached and greeted Nikkwill in the krokator fashion – they clasped each other's forearms just below the elbow and took turns kissing one another on the forehead. Nikkwill next turned to Jerven and they exchanged the same formalities as the small press contingent took their obligatory pictures.

"It is a great honor to welcome you to Terra personally," Godford said to Nikkwill as they moved towards a second transport on the other end of the platform.

"Thank you, General Godford," Nikkwill answered slowly in limited Standard. He indicated for Jerven and whispered something in his ear.

The ambassador turned to Godford. "The High Prod apologizes; he does not know much of your tongue. He appreciates your hospitality and would like to extend the gratitude of Emperor Urkus Orkann and the whole Empire for this warm welcome."

Godford smiled as they entered the low-altitude transport. "We want to afford every courtesy during your stay. I guarantee the friendship between the humans and the krokator will improve thanks to what we accomplish here."

Jerven relayed this sentiment to Nikkwill, who nodded approvingly. The human and krokator delegations segregated themselves on the transport and the door closed. The hum of the craft's engines shook the interior of the fuselage and the transport picked up off the landing pad.

Nikkwill checked to make sure the humans were out of earshot before quietly saying to Jerven, "So, Ambassador, what is the situation here?"

"Bad. Your favorite pet got himself into trouble. More than once."

"I will handle him personally."

"Good luck. He vanished two local days ago. No word of him since."

Nikkwill clicked his tongues. "That is unusual. Zurra is very reliable."

"All we know is that he went to go meet an informant of ours in the city. The informant told me that Zurra went off to follow a lead and that is the last confirmed contact."

The aging High Prod sighed. "Sharm Zurra is too good to lose. Have you heard the accounts of his achievements?"

"In passing."

The transport started circling. Jerven peered out of the window at the krokator embassy below. "Here, this is our enclave. Follow me."

Once the krokator delegation had disembarked, the transport took off towards Crest Ave. Moss looked out the window at the glowing silhouette of Malibu Spaceport, scratching at his unshaven chin before stating, "I think those Crocks are up to something."

"Of course you do," Godford replied dismissively and leaned back in his seat. "Any idea why Gresham wasn't here? I thought he would be excited to meet Nikkwill."

"You'd think he'd be out of bed by now," Moss said with distaste. "He would normally have taken the day off if he planned on being a lazy shit."

The transport approached the Department of Defense and Godford stretched. "No matter, we've got other things to worry about. Are you coming tonight?"

"Oh, why the hell not. I need to get out more."

#

"Wake up!" a voice roared in Standard and the bag was yanked forcefully off of Gresham's head. He blinked and received a vicious slap across the face. He spat blood out on the floor along with the rag and looked up to get a feel of his surroundings.

He was in a windowless concrete room, barren of anything but the pipes on the walls and a plasma ceiling light that illuminated the small cell. A green-skinned krokator towered over him, and out of his peripheral Gresham could see at least two more similarly massive aliens by the door. There was a groan from behind him and Gresham craned his neck around to see who his fellow captive was. The back of Zurra's head was unmistakable.

" _Good afternoon,"_ a new voice said from behind the towering thugs in Krokam and a short, overweight tan-skin entered the room. He sat down on an empty chair so that he was only a few feet from Gresham, who coughed after breathing in the krokator's stench.

"Do you two know who I am?" he asked in Standard, relishing Gresham's fear.

"I'll take a guess," Gresham said. "Kalenn Jurkken. I've heard a lot about you."

Jurkken smiled and nodded as several new krokator came in through the door. "A pleasure, I'm sure. I should have you know that I _don't_ like having SIS looking into my business. Or having the _sukuda_ out after one of my good friends." He turned his attention to Zurra. "But you two aren't SIS or _sukuda_ , are you? No, didn't think so. You're both in over your heads."

"We are after scum like you," Zurra said in Krokam. "We are here to kill you so that you cannot continue your heresy against the Emperor."

"Standard!" Jurkken screamed and slapped Zurra in the head. "This is Terra, _bunchu_ , learn to speak it!" He looked at Gresham. "You, Major Gresham, made the wrong people angry. If you hadn't run into French's office throwing punches, none of this would have happened. You wouldn't be down here and your little girlfriend would still be alive."

_Lara!_ "You motherfucker, what did you do to her?"

Jurkken put on a mock face of surprise. "Me? I didn't do anything! Why are you looking at me? I can't speak for my men, though. Pretty thing she was. A shame."

Gresham growled under his breath, feeling anger building. "Bastard..."

"Cooker of foods, he just wants you to react. Pay him no heed," Zurra warned. "This is what they do."

"Cute nickname," Jurkken chortled. "Anyways! You're alive for a reason, Major Gresham. I have a friend who wants to talk to you. That goes for you too, Sharm Zurra."

A lean blue-skin and a human entered. Gresham recognized the dark-haired human immediately from the pictures he had seen. "Perry!"

"I don't believe we've had a proper introduction yet," Perry said before punching Gresham square in the face. Stars erupted in his eyes and his head swam.

"A simple hello would have sufficed..."

Perry crouched down in front of Gresham. "Who else have you told?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Perry rose and removed his jacket. "I don't play games, Major Gresham. Who else have you told?"

Gresham glared up at him. "Told what? That you've been playing Jack French for a fool just as much as everyone else? That you broke into Supernova using his access codes to funnel guns to your buddy Lugrash for some quick profit?"

Perry massaged the hand he had struck Gresham with. "You're smarter than I thought, Gresham. Tell me who you've told, I won't ask again."

"Nobody. Nobody knows. I don't have any proof. Turns out it was true, but I'm dead anyways, right?"

Perry looked at Jurkken. "He's lying."

"Tell me something, Perry," Gresham said as he spit more blood out of his mouth. One of his teeth felt loose. "Did you really think that you would get away with this? Somebody was bound to track you down eventually."

"Oh? You really believe that SIS was just going to _stumble_ across Lugrash? Keep in mind that it was _you_ who suggested that lead to Agent Taylor. Her blood is on _your_ hands."

"What did you do to her?"

Perry smirked. "Oh, nothing you need to worry about." He glanced at Jurkken again. "Find out what else they know and who they've told. When they crack, give me a call."

Gresham watched Perry pull his jacket back on and leave the room. He glared at Jurkken, who was grinning from tusk to tusk. "What has he promised you, huh?"

"Please don't make the assumption that I actually like Mr. Perry," Jurkken said with a chuckle. "However, I have friends who ally themselves with him. Friends who keep me in business here and help my friends in the Empire. Speaking of which, I believe you know my friend here, Sharm Zurra!"

Jurkken indicated the blue-skin who had entered with Perry and Zurra sighed. "You must be Kamaan Dakkal."

"You wanted to find me, and here I am," Dakkal sneered in Zurra's face. "When I heard about what you did to my operation in Ankina, I was at first furious, but not now. My duties to the cause are more important. I have no score with you to settle."

"The same cannot be said for our friend the Scarred Tarl," Jurkken said with a vicious sneer. "Grakko will be very pleased to hear that we've got our hands on you, Sharm Zurra."

Gresham craned his neck to get Jurkken's attention again. "Your feud is with Zurra, so why does Perry want me? If he's that worried about going to jail, he should have stuck to banking and stayed out of arms trafficking."

"He's not, and I wasn't either. If you had come down here, even with a warrant, you would have found nothing. We are deep underground at the moment, Major Gresham, and we are very secure. Our friend Perry is worried, though, that after tonight somebody will put the pieces together and come after him or Hess."

"So Hess really is involved then," Zurra said. "He was your contact in the Alliance."

"Not quite. Perry's the contact and moneyman. A go-between for us and Mr. Hess, who was more than happy to support us financially in return for strong-arming Border World clients who needed to pay up. We are... _valuable_ friends to have," Dakkal explained.

Gresham took a deep breath. "It all makes sense now. Lugrash brings in exotic weapons for you to peddle here on Earth and then ships away whatever you've lifted from Allied depositories using French's Supernova access codes – without French's knowledge, I assume?"

"I was never directly involved in that," Jurkken admitted. "Perry handled Lugrash and the export of arms. We wouldn't have started stealing from the Marines had Hessian not come under scrutiny from your government. We had arrangements to honor with some very dangerous people and had to find a new supply of weapons. We clearly didn't cover our trail very well."

"You all split the money from illegal weapons sales, the Forbidden Army has a reliable source of support in the Alliance and Perry's knowledge of the banking system helped you hide the money throughout the galaxy." Gresham shook his head in disbelief. "What a scheme. You bastards must have been making millions."

"Every credit helps," Jurkken said with a cruel smile and nodded at Dakkal. "You should go get ready. It'll be time soon."

He returned his attention to Gresham and Zurra, placing his hands on his hips. "I'll be back later for you two, and you had better be ready to tell me who else you told."

The krokator all filed out of the room and slammed the door shut. After hearing a heavy-sounding bolt slide into place, Gresham and Zurra were left staring at the blank concrete walls, listening to the sound of their pounding hearts.

#

Hess opened a beer bottle without the help of his home's AI, and he thought about how good it felt to do it with his own two hands. For so long he'd relied on technology to perform simple tasks, but today Hess would be doing everything on his own. It was fitting, really, to do it this way.

He relaxed in the armchair of his study and studied the portrait of his father on the wall. Even almost two decades after his death, Johannes Hess's presence was felt every day at the company he had helped build and operate. The hard stare was just as real on canvas as it had been in real life.

Turning away from the portrait, Hess sat forward and looked at his wedding photograph, taking in his expression of joy and that of his ex-wife. They had been so happy that day, so young and stupid, unaware of what lay ahead. The next picture over was that of his son barely a few days old, clasped tightly in his ex-wife's arms.

Hess rubbed his eyes and realized who he needed to call. He needed to make a few calls, to be precise, but one of them was the most critical in case he ran out of time.

He dialed a number and the screen on the far side of the office hummed to life. Hess rose out of his chair and approached the screen, sitting down against the edge of his desk as his son's happy, optimistic face appeared.

"Dad! I wasn't expecting a call. I thought you were on Terra?"

"Benjamin," Hess said with a smile. "I am on Terra; I'm calling from the house there. How are you?"

"I'm good," Ben Hess answered pensively. He had his mother's smile. "How about you? How's Terra?"

"Hot, you know how it is." Hess could feel tears welling up behind his eyes. "Look, Ben, I was meaning to talk to you about something..."

"What's wrong?"

"There are going to be a lot of things about me in the news, and I just want you to know that many of those things aren't true."

"I wouldn't think that, Dad..."

Hess nodded. "I know, Benjamin, I know. I just want you to be ready. I love you, son. You know that, right?"

"Dad, you're worrying me. What aren't you telling me?"

For a split second, Hess debated admitting to his son what was about to happen, but decided against it. He knew his son would never betray him but treason was treason, after all.

"I just... haven't talked to you in a long while. That's all. Tell you what, when I get back from my trip here, you and me, we'll go do something. Maybe go fishing."

There was genuine shock on his son's face. Ben had never spent substantial one-on-one time with his father growing up. This was unusual.

"Yeah, sure Dad... I'd like that. I'd like that a lot."

"So, anyways. How's your mother? Have you talked to her lately?"

"The other day, actually. She's doing well. You two don't talk often anymore, do you?"

"Jesus, Ben, we've been divorced twenty-three years," Hess chuckled and sipped his beer. "You and Lydia doing alright?"

"We're doing great. I'll let her know you said hi."

"When are you two going to get me some grandchildren, mm?" Hess's eyes shone. His son laughed and shook his head.

"Come on, Dad, you sound like Mom. You'll be at Jen's wedding, right?"

"I wouldn't miss it," Hess lied and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, Ben, I need to make some more calls, but I love you. Okay?"

"I love you too, Dad."

Hess choked back tears. "I miss you, son. I'll see you when I get back."

Ben waved goodbye and then cut the feed.

The image of his son's smile was permanently burned into Hess's mind. He breathed deeply and then dialed another number.

It took a little longer, but soon the face of Bernie Rumsen, his longtime business partner, filled the screen. There were noticeable rings under the eyes of his confidant.

"Colin? Christ, do you have any idea what time it is here...?"

"It's afternoon on Terra," Hess said with a smile. "I have a big favor to ask of you, Bernie. This stays between us."

"Yeah, sure. What's up?"

"Monday morning, you call a press conference and announce my immediate resignation. You'll succeed me as CEO and chairman and my shares will be divided amongst you, the other members of the board and senior executives equally."

"Christ, Colin, you've gotta be kidding..."

"No, Bernie, I'm serious. You've got one of the most competent boards in the galaxy at your disposal. If it comes down to subpoenas and hearings, I am the last man you will want at Hessian."

Rumsen shook his head. "I can't believe this. What about Benjamin? How many of your shares go to him?"

"I've spent my entire life living for this company; I won't let him do the same. He's a smart kid and he'll be a great asset to Hessian if you choose to retain him, but this can't be a family business anymore. The company's buried three men in my family, and it won't bury Benjamin."

"Look, Colin, we'll talk about this when you get back from Terra..."

Hess shook his head. "I've made up my mind, Bernie. I love this company and I won't let it go down with me. One day you'll realize that this was the only decision."

He ended the call before Rumsen could protest again. His old friend would never understand exactly how difficult this decision was. Rumsen and Hess had gone to hell and back together, whether in courts, in board rooms or over negotiating tables. If there was any man who could move the company forward in Hess's absence, it was him.

Hess turned off his screen and drafted a brief resignation letter to send to every member of his board. He made sure that his AI would not send the letter before Monday morning. After he finished, Hess breathed out.

It was done.

"Mr. Hess?" One of the myriad of nameless faces Hess employed was peering through the door to his study. "Mr. Perry just called. He'll be here soon."

Hess nodded in acknowledgement. "Thank you. I'll get ready."

His employee left down the hallway and Hess looked up at his father's portrait again, meeting the painted gaze.

Unlike Johannes Hess, he would _not_ be buried alone.

#

The smoke and debris from the collapsing caves obscured Zurra's vision as he plowed forward through the underground complex, his rifle raised to eye height and his gas mask protecting him from the fumes hanging low to the ground. He could hear screams and shouts over the explosions, but he barely laid notice. Somewhere down here, Grakko was waiting. Zurra wondered if he knew he was coming for him. In a way, he preferred that scenario. That gave Grakko more time to fear him.

He pushed a flailing figure out of his way, firing a single _okka_ needle into the silhouette's abdomen and moving on. His focus was complete. He had never declared _nohoken_ but his brother was still about to be avenged, and his father could rest in peace.

A heretic was trying to right himself against the wall and Zurra grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. "Where is Grakko? Tell me now!"

The heretic howled as he clawed at his burnt face, but indicated a tunnel leading down deeper into the complex. Zurra had a split second to consider his options. Would he make it out alive if he continued that far down into the depths?

He threw caution to the wind, quickly breaking his prisoner's neck and hurrying down into the smoky blackness. The geothermal lights flickered on and off. There was another rumble as an explosion went off on a higher level and Zurra barely dodged a stone dislodged from the ceiling. The base was on the verge of collapse.

He came out into a large reinforced cavern that was illuminated by sunlight, which could only mean one thing: he had found an escape route out of the complex. Another explosion and the ground shook again. He was running out of time.

Zurra sprinted through the cavern and started ascending a concrete ramp towards daylight, where the tunnel opened up onto a large platform overlooking the bog. Scattered heretics were fleeing the base and Zurra pursued, briefly pausing to take out two of them with _okka_ needles before continuing.

The fighter pilots circling the base had apparently caught on to this leak and alerted the gunship in orbit, because an orbital missile exploded a few hundred yards behind Zurra, closing the escape tunnel and its force propelling him through the air. The earth shook and all the heretics fell to the ground.

Zurra picked himself back up and dispatched a silhouette he could make out through the swirling dust, hearing only his enemy's brief yelp of surprise as one of the six-inch needles pierced his upper back.

_He is close,_ Zurra thought and continued forward, splashing through the grimy water. Retribution was at hand.

And then, he appeared, like a ghost in the mist.

Zurra had never seen Marsa Grakko before in person, but he had memorized every photograph down the details of his posture and the exact purple tone of his skin. Zurra knew it was Grakko. He debated ending him with an _okka_ needle, but he knew he had to kill the murderer of his brother with his bare hands.

"Grakko!" Zurra roared like his feral ancestors and found new speed in his feet. His quarry turned around and his hand went for his _okka_ gun, but he could not reach it in time, and Zurra was upon him.

"Hey!" Gresham yelled and Zurra snapped out of his memories. He blinked, feeling a cold sweat on his brow.

"Focus, buddy, we need to figure out how we're going to get out of here before Jurkken comes back," Gresham said angrily. "You sure know how to space out."

"I am sorry," Zurra replied, embarrassed. "I was... I was reliving a memory."

"Was it relevant to our current situation?"

"In a way. The krokator Jurkken plans to deliver me to is a high-ranking _Hudda Kugrall_ officer named Marsa Grakko, and I have encountered him once before."

Gresham tried wiggling his wrists again to no avail. "Yeah? What happened?"

Zurra paused for a long time. "It is of no importance to us right now. I am sorry I brought this evil upon you, cooker of foods. The _Hudda Kugrall_ will kill us both for sport."

"I figured."

"These ropes are very tight to these chairs. I do not think we can escape."

Gresham breathed out heavily. "No, I don't think so either."

They sat in silence for a long time before Zurra ventured, "Do you suppose any of your friends will come looking for you?"

"Like who? Nobody knows we've been kidnapped. My superiors are all at the summit and anybody who knows Jurkken exists is likely dead now too. They said they'd taken care of Lara. I hope they haven't..."

"She is your mate?"

Gresham laughed. "No, no she isn't. I had a mate... err, a wife, but we got divorced years ago."

"I am sorry. At least you have mated in your life."

"You haven't?"

Zurra shook his head. "I did not have the luxury. I have lived my life as a dutiful servant of the Empire."

"And that means you're not allowed to have a little fun?"

"Not with my father. He always preferred my elder brother Turka, and when my brother was killed it became my duty to complete my brother's work twofold. When my father died some years later, it then became my duty to honor my father's name."

"Is that what you want?"

"It is what is right."

Gresham shrugged. "Fair enough. How did your father pass away?"

"A space accident. There was a malfunction with the ship he was onboard."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"I wonder what he would think if he saw me here now."

"What do you mean?"

"I have lived my life to honor my ancestors. The Akgu name is a fine one on my homeworld, one afforded much respect. I wonder if he would be proud."

Gresham wasn't sure how to respond, so instead he ventured, "Um... do you see any sharp objects in this room? Anything we can use to cut these ropes with?"

"Do you really think they would leave cutting devices in a room with two prisoners?" Zurra said flatly. His tone was uncharacteristically derisive.

"No, I suppose you're right. Well what's the plan then?"

"We will improvise, cooker of foods."

They sat in silence for a long time before Zurra finally ventured the question that Gresham had also been pondering. "What do you think they meant by 'after tonight,' cooker of foods?"

Before Gresham could answer with his suspicion, two huge green-skins barged in, both reeking of beastwine and grinning like idiots.

"Look at these _bunchu_!"

"This should be fun, _komok_."

Gresham came up with an insane idea, his eye falling on the _okka_ gun slung by a strap over the larger of the two's shoulder. He would most likely wind up with his skull bashed in, but wasn't that already the alternative?

The large krokator bent over so that he was inches from Gresham's face, collected a substantial ball of saliva in his mouth and aimed it right into the human's eye with both of his tongues. "How does that feel, _bunchu_?"

The other krokator struck Gresham hard across the cheek. "The mighty humans! So self-important! Telling us where we can and cannot go, where we can and cannot sit, when we can and cannot speak! Well, here in Crocktown, you play by our rules!"

Gresham looked up and spit blood and two of his teeth out onto the floor. "Yeah? Okay, you drunk space gorillas, untie me so we can settle this like men."

The two krokator howled like monkeys. "You hear this, _komok_? He wants to fight us!"

"We had better be careful so he does not call the police to arrest us for touching him! The poor _bunchu_ may have breathed our germs!"

They continued laughing and the larger one pulled out a wickedly curved knife and slashed Gresham's ankles free. "Very well, _bunchu_ , we will settle this the correct way. You will have your wish." He cut the binds around Gresham's wrists and with a heave flung the hapless human like a rag doll across the floor.

The two krokator laughed as Gresham staggered up to his hands and knees. The smaller one ran over and kicked him in the gut, collapsing Gresham to the ground again.

"Cooker of foods, you cannot win this fight!" Zurra cried from his seat.

"And _you_ ," the smaller of the two green-skins growled in Krokam, pointing a long, crooked finger at Zurra, "You are lucky Jurkken told us you are not to be touched or we'd be ripping your tusks out."

The larger krokator pulled Gresham to his feet and pinned him against the wall, pressing the blade of the knife right up against his throat. "I don't like _bunchu_. I don't like this planet. But I especially don't like you."

"The feeling is mutual," Gresham huffed and suddenly kicked out his feet, dropping his weight to slide down the wall at an awkward angle, catching the green-skin off guard. He grabbed the _okka_ gun, turned it inwards and pressed its barrel into his attacker's side, pulling down hard on the trigger and hearing several pops as the needles were driven deep into the hapless krokator's side.

"Ukkum strike me!" the smaller krokator screamed, grabbing for his own gun. Gresham spun the corpse of the first alien around, twisting the _okka_ gun on its strap and firing wildly at the second krokator. Two needles embedded themselves in the green-skin's torso and he pitched back, wailing in pain as he tried to dig the viciously long spikes out of his chest to no avail.

Gresham panted and let go of his krokator shield, letting it hit the floor with a resounding thud. He untangled the _okka_ gun's strap from the carcass's arm and picked up the discarded knife from the ground.

"Are you out of your mind, cooker of foods?" Zurra said with a hesitant breath, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

"Hey, you told me to improvise," Gresham replied and cut Zurra loose. The large krokator rubbed his wrists to regain circulation and then yanked the _okka_ gun away.

"You should be careful with this, it is very dangerous," Zurra said sternly. Then he smiled. "But where in the name of the Truuknan did you learn to do that?"

"I'm full of surprises. Let's find a way out of here."

They carefully moved out into the hallway, looking around for any sign of trouble. The underground bunker's silence unnerved them both.

"You realize, cooker of foods, that Jurkken probably has a small army waiting for us upstairs."

Gresham considered this. "We do have the element of surprise. He most likely doesn't realize we've escaped yet, but we should arm ourselves if we're going up there."

"Do you think there will be weapons down here?"

"I guarantee it. These are gun traffickers we're talking about."

They opened a door and Gresham's prediction was proven correct. There were a number of AG-111 automatic assault rifles in an otherwise empty gun rack, as well as standard-issue sidearm pistols in a crate.

"This must be a leftover from the Ventura theft," Gresham whispered, picking up a Triple-One and glancing down its barrel, feeling the familiarity of its grip.

"You have used one before, I hope."

"Yeah, Triple-Ones were standard issue during the Dhruiz War. They're a bit outdated but it'll do the trick." A quick search of the room revealed ammunition for both the sidearm and the assault rifle and Gresham slung the Triple-One over his shoulder. "You ready?"

"You look like quite the warrior."

"I'm getting there."

They moved back out into the hallway, Gresham tucking the sidearm into the back of his belt. They spotted another closed door and checked inside. This room was filled with opened crates containing thousands of individually shrink-wrapped _okka_ needles, as well as two empty gun racks outfitted for rapid-fire _okka_ rifles.

"Christ, his ET weapons business is either booming or he's moving something big soon," Gresham said before it dawned on him. "Shit. The conference."

"What?"

"The security summit! It's tonight! They're going to attack it!"

Zurra shook his head. "No, cooker of foods, they are not that stupid. Imagine the security they would have to fight their way through to get there."

"And yet," Gresham said slowly, "they murdered your Emperor on Urkuran Eve, the holiest of sacred holidays for your faith, in the heart of the Imperial City."

There was a long pause before Zurra grabbed three readied clips of _okka_ darts. "You are right. What do we do?"

"First, we get out of here. Then we try to reach Moss, or better yet Godford, to warn them."

They stepped back out into the hallway and found the staircase, ascending it slowly with their guns trained towards the door at the very top.

They inched up to the last stair and Zurra breathed out, placing his hand on the door handle. "You realize, cooker of foods, that this will be a very hard fight."

Gresham considered what his life had been like just two weeks ago. An exciting day involved getting home early and catching a good movie on the screen.

"Well, you only live once," Gresham said and tested the handle. It was unlocked. He pressed down and stepped out, bringing his gun up to eye level.

They were in the middle of a crowded _gukka_ bar, and immediately the heads of dozens of krokator and patrons of every imaginable species turned in shock. Gresham aimed his gun straight at the ceiling and fired a warning shot. "Everyone out!" he roared and lowered his weapon. There were screams and a number of patrons dropped their pipes, charging for the doors. Two _okka_ needles embedded themselves in the wall next to Gresham's head as the remaining krokator in the lounge revealed themselves to be Jurkken's enforcers.

"Take cover!" Gresham called out to Zurra before diving behind plush seating pillows. Needles peppered the cushions, leaving behind a little forest of death only inches from Gresham's prone body. Zurra moved behind a large marble pillar, not taking a single shot.

"Help me out here, Zurra!" Gresham called out as three needles ricocheted above his head.

Zurra stepped out from behind the pillar and lined up a flawless shot, striking a blue-skin in the side of the neck. He pivoted back behind the pillar to dodge return fire and then emerged on other side, hitting a second blue-skin in stride with three needles in quick succession as he moved deftly and in an almost fluid motion behind the bar itself.

Gresham pulled out his sidearm and fired blindly in the direction he hoped one of his attackers was in. He heard a yelp of pain and saw a krokator stumble backwards through a door, clutching his leg in pain. His target's flight was short-lived, as an _okka_ needle bloomed from the wounded alien's knee like a lethal flower.

The remaining four krokator drew closer together, crouching behind pillows and seats and taking their shots more carefully. Gresham crawled carefully over spent _okka_ darts lying on the floor lest he be scratched by one and lay flat on his stomach, taking careful aim with his sidearm. His shot flew wild, missing the exposed krokator he was aiming at but still managed to strike a _gukka_ pipe, knocking it over and causing its flaming contents to spill onto the surrounding pillows.

The surprisingly flammable cushions erupted into a merry conflagration and the krokator stared at it in surprise. Their momentary pause would cost them. Zurra leapt up onto the bar, deftly moving along it and working the trigger of his _okka_ gun with surprising quickness. One, two, three needles zipped through the air, and one, two, three krokator were felled.

The last krokator stood up to fire at his prone enemy, but Gresham managed to finally score a hit. The tan-skin dropped to the floor with a wound to the chest, and Zurra leapt down from the bar to finish him off with two needles to the throat.

Gresham ran a hand through his hair as he got up. "Damn. That was... well, damn."

Zurra indicated a hallway "I saw Jurkken escape through there. Come on."

They hurried down the hall and through a bead curtain. An _okka_ needle buried itself in the ground in front of Gresham's feet and he threw himself out of the way behind a large sofa in what was clearly Jurkken's office. The portly tan-skin was cowering behind his desk, gripping an _okka_ pistol for dear life and peering gingerly over the edge.

Zurra moved into the center of the room, unprotected, his gun relaxed at his side. "Come out, heretic coward, and face me."

"I spit on your name and ancestors, _hrain_!"

"You are cornered. Even if you could kill me, cooker of foods has a perfect shot at you. There is no escape, Jurkken."

Gresham crawled closer to the desk, tucking away his sidearm and making sure he had plenty of bullets in his Triple-One. If Jurkken were to kill Zurra, he would have to respond quickly and with a lot of gunfire.

"You are too late," the gangster hissed from his hiding place. "You think we are afraid to die? Dakkal is more than willing to give his life for the Black Prod."

"I do not doubt that, and Dakkal _will_ give his life, for I will take it."

Gresham's heart was racing. Jurkken stirred behind the desk. Zurra remained still as a rock. How could he be so calm?

"I am not foolish enough to think that Dakkal will assault a League of Planets security summit in the human capital with only a token platoon of heretics," Zurra continued.

"And you are correct. Once again, you underestimate us. You cannot even begin to fathom how alone you really are, Sharm Zurra." Gresham saw Jurkken's shadow on the wall tense up, like a predator readying to pounce on an unsuspecting prey.

"Look around, you are the one who is alone," Zurra said, twitching ever so slightly in anticipation. "You are the one looking death in the face."

"Damn you to the Origin World, _hrain_!" Jurkken cried and stood up, bringing around his _okka_ gun. Gresham raised his Triple-One instinctively, trying to see his target more clearly.

Zurra was faster than either of them, however. He swung the pistol up from his side with lightning quickness and fired a single needle straight into Jurkken's eye. The krokator didn't even have a chance to instinctively grab after it, the little dart of death burying almost its entire length in his head. His body pitched backwards, hit the wall and slid down, one eye still open and the other punctured like a balloon.

Zurra lowered the gun nonchalantly and looked at Gresham. "We should go."

They walked back through the carnage they had left behind in the main lounge, the fire now a full-on conflagration that had consumed most of the room, finding new cushions and _gukka_ pipes to feed upon. They skirted the flames, pushed through another bead curtain and emerged out into a cool Los Angeles evening in the middle of a street that could have been any busy intersection in the Empire. Every building was built out of blackrock and every sign was in Krokam. Zurra felt right at home.

A crowd was gathering as smoke started billowing out of the _gukka_ bar's windows and front door. Gresham tugged on Zurra's wrist and they slipped away between a pair of surprised civilians, pushing their way discreetly through the throngs of krokator and finally emerging out behind the crowd.

"What now, cooker of foods?"

Gresham looked around. "Great question." They were in the heart of the Zone and he genuinely had no idea where they were.

He peered upwards at the sky and saw the sun hanging low to his left. "Okay, it must be in the later afternoon, so... that direction is north, to Los Angeles. Let's go."

They jogged at a brisk pace for several blocks before they realized that they were both catching several second glances from various passersby, and Gresham looked down to realize that in all the excitement he was still running around with a loaded machine gun hanging from his shoulder and a pistol tucked in his belt.

"We should find a ride," he said sheepishly, looking around for a serviceable HUVR. His eye finally fell on one parked haphazardly in a cluttered garage. A fat old krokator was asleep on a lawn chair about ten yards away.

Gresham approached the krokator and nudged him. "Sir, please wake up."

The krokator stirred and blinked. "Who? What?"

His eye fell upon the Triple-One barrel pointing straight at his face and he gulped. Gresham stuck his hand out and wiggled his fingers for emphasis.

A few moments later they were barreling down the road in the most beat-up, junk HUVR Gresham had ever suffered the displeasure of driving.

"How do you plan to return this vehicle to its owner?" Zurra asked over the rattling of the vehicle's ancient engine.

Gresham glared at Zurra. "I don't. I just instigated a _gukka_ bar gunfight in the middle of the Zone and watched you shoot a krokator point blank in the face. The last thing in the galaxy I care about right now is whether or not that old bum gets his piece-of-shit HUVR back."

An obstruction came into view up ahead and Gresham pulled to a stop, leaning out the window to inspect further. Zurra squinted at the pile of rubble lying in the middle of what had just a few blocks south been a busy road. "What is the meaning of this, cooker of foods?"

Gresham scratched at the back of his neck when he heard a noise from behind the HUVR. He turned around to see a large, sinister shape moving into the street about twenty-five yards away. "Uh oh. Zurra, you still have some needles, right?"

"Several. Why?"

There was a loud hissing noise and Gresham looked to the left. Two Orracowans were climbing out through the door to a boarded-up building, both their interior and exterior mouths salivating. Gresham turned his attention to their rear again. There were now three of the towering, muscular, multi-limbed beasts approaching the HUVR.

"It's a trap."

An Orracowan neither of them had noticed pounced from the top of the debris pile blocking their way forward, landing on the roof of the old HUVR and placing a huge dent in it, almost so much that the thin metal ceiling touched Gresham's head.

Gresham pressed his foot down on the gas pedal as hard as possible and put the vehicle into reverse, careening backwards towards the three charging, snarling Orracowans.

"Shoot them!" he bellowed and fired his Triple-One straight up into the air, the recoil sending tremors through his whole arm and upper body and causing him to lose control of the HUVR's steering wheel. The vehicle spun out and slammed sideways into a large dumpster. One of the Orracowans leapt up onto the driver's side, snapping its two mouths in anticipation, its clawed arms ripping away at the door. Gresham peppered the beast with bullets only to hear the smashing of glass as one of the aliens leapt onto the back of the HUVR and kicked through its rear window with one of its powerful, sinewy legs. Zurra deposited two needles into the monster's calf and the alien let off a hideous screech, toppling off the vehicle in its death throes.

Two more landed with a _thud_ on top of the HUVR, their fangs and claws tearing through the thin metal of its canopy like a knife through paper. A hole large enough to fit their mouths opened, and the creature's snout poked into the interior of the HUVR, foul-smelling and acidic saliva drenching the two occupants. An _okka_ needle right into the flared nostrils ended the roaring beast's attempts to get into the vehicle and Gresham fired blindly into the roof above his head, hoping to hit the other shrieking Orracowan. He heard a thump and saw a hissing form fall past his window, hitting the ground next to his door.

Gresham put the HUVR back into regular drive and rammed into an Orracowan that was stampeding at full tilt towards them. The creature clawed at the windshield, leaving deep scratches in the glass. Gresham sped up and then hit the brakes, sending the alien soaring through the air into the debris pile. It rose briefly, hissing in anger, only to receive a needle right between two of its five eyes.

"Are there any more?" Gresham wheezed as he started driving back the way they had come, frantically looking around.

He was answered by the head of one final Orracowan bursting through his open window, its mouths gnashing and all five of its eyes searching wildly for a soft spot in its prey's anatomy. A clawed limb managed to find a fistful of the upholstery millimeters from Gresham's throat and a fountain of green spittle sprayed all over Gresham's hands and clothing.

There was a succinct _zip_ and the Orracowan's flailing tongue was pierced with one of the long green needles from Zurra's gun. Gresham glanced out at the twitching body and nodded in approval. "You're pretty good with one of those, Sharm Zurra."

"I have had a lot of practice, cooker of foods."

"I bet."

Zurra grimaced. "As appalling as I find your non-human policies, I think you should find an exception in the case of these _things_ and make them even stricter. Why exactly do you let them immigrate?"

"Preaching to the choir, big guy. Come on, let's find the A9 and get out of here."
Chapter Twenty-Three: Summit

Planet Terra, Sol System

"...so the reporters will sit over here," the tall event planner told a half-interested Colonel Moss, who was busy inspecting the shapely legs emerging from her delightfully short dress.

"Fascinating," he answered and acknowledged her with a smile. "So how is your staff planning on segueing from the cordial dinner to the top-secret security summit? A challenging transition, I would imagine."

"No, not really. When the reception ends, President Paine will thank all the guests for coming, and the VIPs well retire to the meeting room in the back," the planner replied, indicating two doors behind the raised main stage.

"And you have everything checked out with security?"

The event planner laughed. "Yes, Colonel. General Godford's given me and my caterers a full itinerary for tonight. As long as the security information I got this morning is still current...?"

"Shit, I got mine yesterday, so I hope so."

The event planner guided Moss out of the reception room, where staffers were busy setting up tables and chairs, into the spacious lobby outside. Marble pillars supported the high ceiling of the Catalina Convention Center and a huge glass atrium formed the far wall, displaying a view of the city Avalon on the right and the Catalina Bridge, the longest suspension bridge in the Alliance, on the far left.

"I can't imagine living out here," Moss said with a sigh. "The bridge alone is a twenty-five minute ordeal without traffic. I don't see how people can do it on this rock."

The event planner smiled and tapped something on her portable screen. "Oh, it's not that bad. I've lived on Catalina for years."

Moss saw Godford approaching from afar and thanked the event planner for showing him around, stealing a glance at her flawless legs one last time.

"Well, what do you think, Gary?" Godford asked with a broad smile.

"I think that that atrium is a shooting gallery," Moss said, indicating the wall of glass overlooking the water. "The event staff seems to have everything under control though. They're good at what they do."

"That they are," Godford commented and checked his watch. Unlike Moss, he was dressed in his formal uniform, pressed and bleached to a perfect, crisp whiteness. He had even shaved off his characteristic beard. The general glanced back up. "You heard from Major Gresham at all?"

"No, sir. Not a word. Rang up his apartment and everything, but his AI was turned off."

"Christ. I wonder if Gresham is okay."

"When it comes to John, it's hard to tell," Moss said with a knowing smile. "It isn't like him to just not answer, though."

A man appeared from behind a pillar and motioned for them to come over. "General Godford! Good to see you again."

"Ah, Mr. Barkley, a pleasure," Godford said and shook the balding man's hand. "Colonel, this is Kevin Barkley, he's handling security."

"What department are you with?"

"I'm with Special Intelligence," Barkley replied. "We've got a number of fine men and women from SIS fanned out across the complex. I have the latest security briefing and schematic, if you need to make any changes..."

Godford waved him off. "No, no, I think you've got it under control, Mr. Barkley. Just make sure the event planning staff is up to date and that you've touched base with them."

"Yes, sir. When do you believe the first dignitaries will be arriving?"

Godford consulted his watch again. "Probably sixty to ninety minutes. Paine will arrive last, and he'll arrive by armored airborne transport."

"I still can't shake the feeling that we're sitting ducks out here," Moss muttered, studying Barkley's face. The little SIS man bothered him for reasons other than his general dislike of the agency.

"Well, yes, neither can I," Godford said, grimacing. "But that's what security is for. You've done one hell of a job, Mr. Barkley."

"I tried my best. Oh, I forgot to mention, but there's been a last minute change to the dessert caterer."

"Oh? Does the event staff know?"

"Yes, we've discussed it. Just wanted you to know in case it came up."

"Of course. Thank you, Mr. Barkley."

Barkley took his leave of them and Godford smiled at Moss. "Oh, stop wearing that scowl, Gary. Go change into something more appropriate."

#

The small transport touched down on the roof of a warehouse in San Pedro. Not far away, the Catalina Bridge loomed, the dominant feature of the local skyline. Seagulls cawed and the distinct sounds of crashing waves from the nearby seaport were audible.

Hess disembarked from the transport along with Perry and a half dozen of Hess's men. The sun was low in the sky but it was not quite yet sunset. He checked his watch. It was almost seven.

"We should get going," Perry suggested and indicated a staircase leading down into the warehouse itself.

"Yeah, sure," Hess said. "After you."

Perry nodded and adjusted his bowtie. Both men were attired in expensive tuxedos and wore their finest watches and shoes. Hess had combed his thinning hair back while Perry wore his usual short-cropped style.

Hess reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded photograph. It was his son's wedding picture, his gorgeous daughter-in-law's smile leaping off the paper.

"What do you have there?" Perry inquired, glancing back. Hess quickly stuffed the picture back into his pocket.

"Nothing."

"You alright, Colin? You look a little uneasy."

"We're about to commit high treason, Eli, can you blame me?"

"Think about your company," Perry said soothingly as they descended the stairs. "Think about why you're doing all this."

"I'm not doing this for the company," Hess said flatly. He rubbed the photograph in his pocket between his fingers. "I'm not doing it for the company," he said again, this time under his breath.

Perry raised an eyebrow as if to inquire further, but they had arrived down in the large central storage space of the warehouse. Sixteen krokator and fifteen humans were loading and assembling _okka_ rifles and pistols, checking to make sure their ammo clips were full. The humans were all attired in white caterer's tuxedos sans four of them, who wore coveralls with _Paradise Desserts_ stitched into their breasts.

In the back end of the warehouse, three SHIPRs were parked in front of a pair of rolling doors. Their white sides had _Paradise Desserts_ painted in massive letters. Behind the white SHIPRs, two additional, unmarked blue SHIPRs of an older model were stationed to the side. In the very rear, Hess's LUXR was parked perpendicular to the other vehicles.

Hess regarded the scene before him. So this was it – he was past the point of no return.

Perry nudged Hess. "May I present Kamaan Dakkal, the krokator in charge of these lovely soldiers from the _Hudda Kugrall_?"

A lean, blue krokator who exceeded seven and a half feet approached Hess and extended his hand. "Mr. Hess, my warriors and I will follow you, to victory or death."

Hess was taken aback by the krokator's warlike getup: Streaks of paint across his face, spiked hair, and numerous sparkling rings in his nose and ears, not to mention his imposing, tattooed build. His comrades were all attired likewise.

"Has Grakko discussed the stakes with you?" Perry asked, snapping Hess out of his stunned amazement.

"We will gladly die for our cause," Dakkal said with a sneer, revealing that he had sharpened his tusks to potentially lethal points. "Sixteen of us in exchange for the death of the High Prod – it is a fair trade."

Perry smiled. "Good. I'm glad we're on the same page." He turned to Hess. "Colin, I feel it is most appropriate if you address your men."

Hess squeezed the picture in his pocket and stepped up onto a box. Dakkal roared to get the attention of the room and everyone gathered around Hess's box.

For a moment, he thought about all the board meetings he had sat in, all the negotiations he had conquered, the number of speaker's fees he had received for giving lectures at universities, conferences or seminars, and the court rooms he had waltzed through in his corporate career. All his experiences would pale in comparison to tonight.

"Gentlemen, many of you don't know me beyond what you've heard about me on the news or in the papers," Hess said slowly, scanning the expectant eyes in the room. He coughed and paused before adding, "I know that it must be difficult to go along with a stranger who asks you to commit what is universally considered an act of terrorism or treason. What I ask of you tonight is easily hardest task any of you will ever embark upon. But when we look back on this night decades from now, we will recognize it for what it represented to each of us – an opportunity to shape the galaxy in our vision."

Unsure of exactly what the assembled men knew, Hess decided to avoid the darker realities of their situation and smiled. "As you all know, in a few short minutes we will leave this warehouse and head to the Catalina Convention Center. We have an inside man with the summit, who is personally in charge of tonight's security. He knows exactly what is going on. When we arrive at the defense summit, we will have very little time or flexibility. The goal here is to maximize casualties. When I send the word out, we will have exactly ten minutes to head to airborne transports I have arranged to pick us up nearby. Do _not_ miss the flight."

He indicated the assembled krokator. "We will be using _okka_ rifles due to their high kill ratio and their stealth. These fine members of the _Hudda Kugrall_ will join us and be on standby to combat any significant threat to our operation."

The krokator pounded their chests, roaring in an excited fury. Hess was beaming. "And when we are done, gentlemen, we will have struck a blow these pampered politicians and bureaucrats will never forget!"

And you, Colin, will be not be buried alone.

Ten minutes later, the bay doors opened and three white SHIPRs floated out, followed closely by a lone LUXR. Not five minutes later, two unmarked SHIPRs slid out, the weight of the eight krokator in the back of each barely weighing them down.

#

Gresham returned to manual drive as his commandeered HUVR pulled off of the A9 at the Marble Heights exit. He almost knew the roads to Lara's apartment instinctively, driving well over the speed limit and praying under his breath that they weren't too late.

"Where is this?" Zurra asked, blinking and waking after having dozed off briefly. They were both exhausted and starving after almost twenty-four hours without food or water.

"Marble Heights," Gresham replied, going fifty miles an hour through a sharp turn. "Lara lives a few blocks away."

Shortly thereafter he pulled into the courtyard of Lara's apartment complex and barreled up the stairs to her apartment, with Zurra in tow. He reached her floor and knocked furiously on the locked door.

Zurra put a hand on Gresham's shoulder. "Cooker of foods, she is likely not home. Jurkken would not imply she was gone had he done nothing with her."

Gresham grunted in frustration and rammed his shoulder into the door twice, unable to budge it. Zurra motioned for him to step aside and with one single, sharp kick broke it off of its hinges.

There was no protest from inside. Gresham peered through the open doorway to see that the apartment had been ransacked. Both couches in Lara's living room were overturned and there was a crack running the length of her screen. Every cupboard in the kitchen appeared to have been rummaged through.

Gresham pulled his sidearm out of the back of his pants and stepped into the apartment. Maybe he should have brought the machine gun with him from the HUVR?

"Lara!" he called out, raising the handgun to eye level and quickly moving across the kitchen into the living room. He glanced to the right at the door to the bathroom, which was ajar and the room beyond unlit.

"Cooker of foods, this does not look good," Zurra said, indicating a blood stain next to the living room window. There were droplets of blood across the floor and scuff marks in the carpet.

Gresham lowered the gun after looking more carefully at the blood. "This is dried. Whatever happened here happened hours ago, if not yesterday."

He breathed out deeply as he approached the bedroom door and carefully nudged it open with the end of his gun. Only a few nights before he'd been enthusiastically disrobing as he followed Lara through this door. How quickly things had changed.

The bedroom was empty, but there had clearly been a struggle. The nightstand had been knocked over and there was a large amount of blood on the sheets. One of the lamps was completely smashed and the door into the bathroom had been kicked in violently, barely hanging off of its hinge.

Gresham glanced into the bathroom. The mirror was cracked and covered with what was certainly not the blood of a human. He nudged the door open somewhat more and saw more evidence of a violent encounter. The blood of both a human and what he assumed was a krokator was splattered across the shower walls, and its glass door was smashed to pieces.

"Jesus..." he muttered under his breath.

Zurra was respectfully waiting outside of the bedroom when Gresham returned, leaning against a kitchen counter. "I am sorry, cooker of foods. I know you were fond of the female."

Gresham turned a chair upright and sat down. "I feel like all of this is my fault, Zurra. If I hadn't gone running after French then Jurkken and his thugs would never have learned our identities, and if I hadn't given Perry's name to Lara then he wouldn't have been spooked enough to try to kill us."

"This is a war, cooker of foods," Zurra said sternly. "Did you really think there would be no casualties? _Hudda Kugrall_ is ruthless. They have murdered the entire families of their enemies in the past just to send a message."

"It's not our war! The Alliance doesn't have a bone to pick with your Forbidden Army," Gresham barked.

"I know that, cooker of foods, but obviously _Hudda Kugrall_ has friends who hold a grudge against the Alliance."

"I still don't get why Perry, or Hess for that matter, have thrown their lot in with krokator terrorists. Or what they are doing on Terra in such powerful numbers."

Zurra shrugged and looked at a bowl on the counter, reaching down to grab something from it. "What do you think this is?"

He was holding a small folded scrap of paper in his fingers. Gresham got up to take a closer look. "Where'd you find that?"

"It was stuck between these two fruits in the bowl," Zurra replied and handed Gresham the paper. There was a message scrawled on the scrap that read _"A Little Piece of Home."_

"What do you suppose it means?" Zurra said as Gresham smiled from ear to ear.

"It means that Lara's still looking out for us. _Richmond!"_

The apartment's AI did not respond, as it had likely been damaged during the attack. Gresham stuck the paper in his pocket. "That's what Lara referred to her password as – a little piece of her home. It was the name of her hometown. It's a message for me, Zurra. She hid it here in case something was to happen to her. There must be something Lara wanted us to see."

Zurra moved another fruit and uncovered a set of HUVR keys. "What are these for?"

"They're for us. Here, grab a few fruits for the road and anything you need to eat from the fridge, you're probably hungrier than I am."

"Where are we going?"

"To Lara's office at SIS headquarters. Hopefully, this password works there too."

#

Perry picked up his vibrating voxcom. It was displaying an unknown contact. He put the phone to his ear and heard a familiar voice.

"Jurkken's dead," Grakko hissed angrily. "His whole _gukka_ bar burned to the ground about an hour ago. Some of my men were in the neighborhood and went through the wreckage. It took the firemen forty minutes to get there and the whole block nearly went up in flames."

Perry's stomach churned. _Gresham._ He breathed in deeply and checked his watch. It was seven thirty.

"The summit starts in thirty minutes," he replied. "We should be done by nine, if all goes well. Are you in Los Angeles?"

"We need to call the operation off," Grakko snapped. "If someone has found anything at Jurkken's bunker that could incriminate us or indicate that the attack is coming, we are all doomed. Better we retreat before we're committed and continue with the next phase."

Perry glanced at Hess, who was looking out the window of the LUXR at vehicles whizzing by on the Catalina Bridge. The massive suspension towers loomed above them as they hurtled along on the top deck of the triple-deck bridge.

"No," he replied. "We proceed as planned. I'll see you in a few hours."

Hess looked over once Perry had hung up. "Who was that?"

"Don't worry about it, Colin. Just some last-minute business."

"Don't lie to me, Eli."

Perry held both hands up. "Easy there, Colin. When have I ever lied to you?"

"Can't think of a specific example, but knowing you, there's never a bad time to start," Hess muttered and looked out the window again. "You wouldn't be leading me into a trap here, would you?"

"Of course not. I consider you a good friend."

_Can't really say the same,_ Hess thought with a smirk. Deep down, he hated Perry. He thought he was a smug, pretentious creature who manipulated people weaker and poorer than him to compensate for his own insecurities. To Hess, Perry was a snake-oil salesman, amoebic in the lowness of his methods and deserved what he didn't know was coming to him.

The LUXR began tilting forward as it entered the decline of the Catalina Bridge less than a mile from the shore. Hess's two bodyguards sitting near the front of the vehicle were studying the two men they were assigned to protect.

Hess's own voxcom buzzed. He answered, "Colin Hess speaking."

"Mr. Hess, this is Dexter," a voice said quickly. "We're in position and ready to move when you give the word."

"Good. I'll alert you when the time is right. You have Barkley's number?"

"Yes, sir."

"Perfect. He's the man to speak to. I'll see you soon."

Hess hung up and glanced at Perry. "The caterers are in position."

"Excellent, looks like everything's going according to plan," Perry lied. He debated telling Hess about the revelation of Jurkken's death, but what could Gresham and Zurra do in time? Who would ever believe that Colin Hess, of all people, was about to murder the galaxy's military heavyweights?

The LUXR exited the Catalina Bridge and turned left off of the superhighway that the bridge supported. Apartment buildings dotted the sides of the roads and lined the street snaking up to the mountains.

Hess looked out the window to see the convention center looming in the distance atop a hill. His heart began pounding and he felt a single drop of sweat roll down the side of his face.

He touched the picture in his pocket as if it were a lucky charm. The time was approaching.

#

Gresham dialed another number into the built-in voxcom in Lara's HUVR. The response was another long series of dial tones followed by another voicemail.

"Is _nobody_ answering?" he snarled and hung up. "Paine, Godford, Moss, everyone! Even Reed isn't answering his vox."

"They must all be at the security summit," Zurra reminded Gresham. "It would be rude to answer the communicator there."

"Yeah, that's the scary part," Gresham muttered. He found Sam Troy's number programmed into the voxcom's memory. "Yes! Troy! Perfect."

After a few dials, Troy picked up. "Lara! Finally, you called me back. Where the hell have you been? I've been calling you for hours!"

"Sam, this is Gresham. I think Lara's dead. Listen, I don't have time to explain, I need you to meet me at SIS headquarters immediately."

Troy sounded confused. "Gresham, wait, I can't do that..."

"Colin Hess and the _Hudda Kugrall_ are about to attack the security summit," Gresham yelled. "I'm almost to SIS headquarters right now; I'm pulling off of the A4 onto Crest Ave. Can you meet us? We'll be there in a few minutes."

"Gresham, you don't understand. I'm on Aurora on an assignment. Cray gave me the job personally, fancy that! I got here a few hours ago."

"What? You must be shitting me Troy, you can't be gone tonight of all nights..."

"No, I'm not shitting you, Major Gresham. I'm in the middle of Buckingham City right now in my hotel. We're talking over the Prime Network, that's why the reception is so bad."

Gresham's mind was racing. _Cray?_ "Okay, here, who at SIS can I call that I can trust? I think Lara's been killed by krokator gangsters but there may be something on her computer that can clue us into what happened to her or what they're planning."

"Wait, did you say Colin _Hess_ is going to attack the security summit?"

"Damnit Troy, I don't have time for this!"

Troy's voice sounded jilted. "Okay, I know, I'm sorry. You can call Vosen."

"Vosen! Fuck no!"

"I know he's an ass but he'd take something like this seriously and help you out. And if there are krokator involved, he is the guy to ask. Don't forget that Vosen is the head of Alien Affairs now."

"True. Thanks, Troy."

"Yeah no problem. Good lu –"

Gresham hung up and looked up Vosen's number as he pulled off of the A4 onto Crest Ave and started barreling westwards towards downtown Santa Monica.

"You are driving awfully fast," Zurra observed, gripping his seat as they zoomed past surprised pedestrians and the various buildings of the Allied bureaucracy.

After only one dial Vosen responded. "This is Dan Vosen, Alien Affairs."

"Vosen! This is Major Gresham."

"Oh, good evening, Major," Vosen said with his silky voice. "And to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"One of your agents is dead and the security summit is about to get attacked by the most ferocious heretic faction in the Krokator Empire."

There was a long pause. "Who else knows about this?"

"I haven't been able to reach anyone. We need to tell Cray immediately or contact the summit or something!"

"Most definitely, I agree. When can you be at SIS headquarters?"

Gresham swung the HUVR over the curb and drove it right into the middle of the courtyard in front of the SIS building. He looked up at the towering reflective structure.

"Just pulled in, Vosen."

#

A LUXR pulled up to the front of the convention center and a tall, regally dressed briling emerged, his robes trailing behind him as he disembarked. He was outfitted with a variety of expensive jewelry and even wore a gilded fitting on his large, impressive head crest. The briling's pale white eyes locked with Godford's.

"Prime Juyeawae," the human general said courteously, bowing in the customary briling fashion and motioning with his hand from his forehead. The briling responded likewise, touching his own six-fingered hand to the base of his crest and gesturing outwards.

"General Godford. The Teacher smiles," the Prime said with a guttural, near-indecipherable accent. "I have long wished to grace your world."

"Terra? Beats the hell out of me why you would," Godford chuckled and extended a hand. The briling shook it with a firm grip, aware of the customary human greeting.

They turned and walked back inside the convention center. Juyeawae nodded courteously at guests who acknowledged him, but stayed close to Godford's side.

"When does the President Paine greet me?"

"Soon. He will be arriving in ten to fifteen minutes. We wanted to keep him out of harm's way as long as possible."

"Yes, I understand. Our own Arch-Prime Piyeaion has kept himself secluded in the weeks following the tragic assassination of the Council Hand Subiuyai. The most senseless of all is this business in the Empire, however. I had the honor of meeting the late Emperor Ruskir, and he was a well-spoken, articulate creature, and his death is mourned within our own government."

"Well, we're certainly mourning Ruskir a lot more than his father," Godford said with a knowing smile. "Prime Juyeawae, I would like you to meet General Rommel of the Iktathol Federation."

He indicated a large iktathol of the soldier genus, who had contained his carbon-reinforced fiber wings within a stitched cotton black robe, which while seeming somewhat simple to the human eye, was a sign of extravagance to the iktathol, who rarely wore clothing of any kind.

The briling and iktathol shook hands, the six-fingered bluish-purple hand of the former having trouble interlocking comfortably with the exoskeletal claw of the latter. But they were cordial, Juyeawae smiling and Rommel clicking his mandibles together politely and chirping an amicable hello through his neck-mounted translator.

"I was just speaking to the Prime here about the recent spate of unfortunate assassinations around the galaxy," Godford said, putting a friendly hand on Rommel's chitin shoulder. "We offer similar condolences in lieu of the death of General Antonius. I knew him personally."

"Thank you," the computerized voice of Rommel's translator replied. "The soldier Antonius will be missed, but the Mother Harvester will select a worthy replacement soon."

There was a hushed tone among the gathered humans and assorted aliens in the room as twelve krokator in full ceremonial armor entered, High Prod Nikkwill leading the way. In his platinum armor and decorated helmet, he struck a fearsome figure. The High Prod stopped within a few yards of the doorway and removed his helmet respectfully, letting his newly oiled officer braids fall comfortably down the side and back of his head onto his shoulders.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Godford said loudly so those around him could here, "it is a true and rare honor for us to welcome the _Akumaprod_ himself, Trakk Nikkwill!"

There was tepid response and Nikkwill scanned the room, scowling as usual. Godford approached and extended his hand warmly. "High Prod Nikkwill, may I just say again how delighted we are to have you here?"

"The honor is ours, as we are your humble guests," Nikkwill muttered disinterestedly. "This is quite the banquet hall."

"We call them convention centers," Godford replied, checking the time. "President Paine should be here soon. Have you met the Prime Juyeawae from the Briling Dominion or General Rommel of the Iktathol Federation, by any chance?"

Nikkwill followed him closely and joined into the standard diplomatic pleasantries with his foreign counterparts. Moss, now changed into his formal uniform, watched from a distance, chuckling and shaking his head.

"Typical political ass-kissing," he observed to a nearby pree, who nodded in agreement. "Just wait until the krokator start their usual antics at the beginning of the summit. Godford's smile will evaporate faster than water in the Mojave."

Ambassador Jerven slid up next to Moss and extended his hand. "Colonel, I believe we met this morning?"

"Ambassador! Good to see you. Have you tried the champagne?"

"No, thank you colonel, but I have no taste for it. Beastwine is the only vice I allow myself." The krokator adjusted the sash on his formal _kekkalo_ and grimaced. "This is what I hate about diplomacy the most: all these fancy meetings and conferences and the onslaught of dignitaries who want to be your friend while clubbing you in the knees."

"Tell me about it," Moss muttered and downed half of his champagne glass in a single gulp. "The sooner this is over with the better."

Jerven nudged the colonel and pointed in Nikkwill's direction. "This ought to be interesting. The High Prod is not a diplomat in any way, shape or form. I really should chaperone him, make sure he avoids any significant gaffes."

"Oh? Are you the designated Imperial Babysitter tonight?"

"You are not nearly as amusing as you think you are, Colonel Moss," Jerven said angrily. "Nikkwill's experience with these other generals is via conference by hologram. This is a serious matter."

"Well, it's your serious matter. I'm going to go find some more champagne."

"I am sure our paths will cross again, Colonel Moss."

Moss took his leave of Jerven and moved about the large lobby. He heard a loud, ringing chime and the building's intercom sounded. "Everyone, if you would please move into the reception room, dinner will be served shortly."

The crowd started pushing towards the doors to recede further into the convention center and Moss followed along like a log adrift in a stream. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Colin Hess moving through the crowd, followed by two massive men whom he could only assume to be bodyguards.

_What the hell is Hess doing here?_ Moss wondered and began to approach the industrial magnate, but Hess and his entourage were lost to view before he could get any closer.

#

Vosen was waiting outside of his office door on the twentieth floor of the SIS building after remotely clearing Gresham and Zurra through security.

"Major," he said, extending his hand in an unusual gesture of solidarity.

"It's good to see someone sane for once," Gresham sighed with relief and shook Vosen's hand gratefully. "You'll never believe what we've been through."

Vosen regarded Zurra with a measure of distrust. "I don't suppose you realize how questionable it is to be consorting with the _sukuda_ , do you?"

"We don't have time for your conspiracies, Vosen," Gresham snapped. "Would it make you feel better if he waited outside?"

"It wasn't going to, but I'll accept the offer," Vosen replied. He gave Zurra a one-over and clicked his tongue. "I knew I shouldn't have authorized your release from detainment, Sharm Zurra."

Gresham smirked. "At least you're smart enough to see through his alias."

"I've been at this game for the better part of two decades, Major," Vosen replied. "I'd say we're contemporaries in different fields. Did I ever tell you that I worked in code breaking during the Dhruiz War? It's what got me into the intelligence field to begin with."

"Fascinating. Zurra, can you wait outside a moment?"

"Yes, cooker of foods," the krokator replied, clearly unhappy with the arrangement. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, frowning.

Vosen closed the door to his spacious office and motioned for Gresham to have a seat. "We should make this quick, Gresham, I was going to head home soon. The basketball game is on."

"Really, Vosen? That's all you can think about? _Basketball?_ Do you have any idea what's going on?"

"We haven't gotten any word of a substantial domestic threat beyond the typical crazies who want to cause a stir," Vosen answered and studied Gresham's haggard appearance. "Do you want anything to eat? The fridge in the hall should have something."

Gresham grabbed meals for him and Zurra and then brought his food out back into Vosen's spacious office. He dove into the shrink-wrapped SynthMart pre-prepared meal.

"So what's this about an attack against the summit?"

"Does the name _Hudda Kugrall_ mean anything to you?"

"Sure. It's a rebel group that uses tactics we'd label as terrorism. The krokator use the word _nuganki –_ heretic – which I personally find has a classical ring to it. However, this 'Forbidden Army,' as it translates to, is a domestic issue for the krokator. There has been zero evidence that there is a _Hudda Kugrall_ presence on Terra."

"Well, you're wrong. Zurra and I just torched a _Hudda Kugrall_ stronghold in the Zone," Gresham said, glaring at Vosen and putting down his fork. "They had a weapons cache hidden in a bunker in the basement of a _gukka_ bar operated by a krokator that SIS cleared years ago. Does the name Kalenn Jurkken ring a bell?"

An expression of concern crossed Vosen's face. "And you and Zurra killed this Jurkken, I suppose?"

"Our good friend the sharm is quite the marksman. Hit him with an _okka_ needle through the eye."

"Poor bastard."

"That monster kept us in his basement for almost twenty-four hours," Gresham said, noticeably raising his voice. "He kept us imprisoned while his goons murdered Lara Taylor, an agent in your department, and there were enough _okka_ guns and needles down there to supply a small army. I heard him directly mention some sort of plan concerning tonight, and it doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. Maybe you haven't heard who's at the summit, but he's a target they can't afford to miss."

Vosen shifted his glasses on his nose. "You'd best start from the beginning, Major Gresham, and tell me everything."

#

"Everyone, if you could please have your seats," Godford said into the microphone at the podium. "There, thank you. I would like to thank everyone for joining us tonight. This is arguably the largest security summit ever arranged on such short notice, and we apologize for the hassle this has caused any visitors. We felt it best that we immediately gather to discuss relevant concerns in lieu of multiple assassinations of prominent politicians and high-ranking military officials throughout the League of Planets."

He gestured towards the panel of assorted species sitting with him on the raised dais. "So tonight, in an effort to show solidarity, we welcome delegates from fourteen assorted star nations. Every Chair Nation is represented, along with second-tier military powers such as Gardell, Ceis, Hippakkest, and others. Please join me in a round of applause to warmly welcome these guests to Los Angeles!"

The delegates rose to acknowledge the crowd and there was booming applause. Godford indicated a far door. "And now, the President of the Human Alliance, Howard Paine!"

There was even more raucous applause as Paine entered, led and flanked by tall security officers. Paine waved, stepped up to the podium with a lighthearted hop and shook Godford's hand, accepting a position behind the podium with a broad smile. He was in his element.

"Please, thank you," he said, motioning for his audience to cease applauding. "I have something more sophisticated prepared, but opportunities to welcome guests of this caliber to our lovely city don't come often, so without much further ado, I present to you a _true_ Los Angeles welcome!"

Curtains at the far side of the large room rose to reveal a live band nearly the size of half an orchestra, composed of a variety of species including a yuun drummer and a briling singer. There were a series of cheers and several of the delegates laughed and applauded as the band dove into an upbeat song.

"What do you think, Richard? A little surprise I snuck in with the event staff," Paine whispered to Godford as he took his seat.

"I think you're out of your mind," Godford replied. "But you sure do have a taste for the theatrics, Mr. President."

"Oh come on, Richard, have some fun for once. It's something for our visiting dignitaries to enjoy and it scores me some political points, shows I'm more than a boring, stodgy old Auroran."

"The Alliance needs a leader right now, not somebody who knows how to have fun," Godford said with clear disdain. "I don't think the High Prod is enjoying this."

Both men glanced in Nikkwill's direction, and the krokator was indeed wearing a grouchy, uncomfortable expression.

"Be as it may, I'm not here to cater to one person."

"I hope you haven't scheduled their set for too long."

"Just three songs. We'll be moving right along into the dinner soon enough. It's not even eight, Richard, lighten up!"

"That's what worries me."

Down at his table, Hess checked his watch and realized that it was time to move. He excused himself and moved towards the doors to the hall. With everyone distracted, he stepped outside into the lobby and pulled out his voxcom, quickly finding the contact he was after.

"It's time."

#

Vosen rubbed his eyes and tried to make sense of what Gresham was saying. "So, based on pure conjecture and circumstantial evidence, you believe that Colin Hess – one of the richest, most powerful men in the galaxy – is bankrolling the _Hudda Kugrall_ and that with the help of a go-between named Elijah Perry, who is little more than a glorified accountant and corporate bagman, plans to assault a heavily-guarded security summit that he himself is attending?"

"I think Perry is the key player," Gresham said. "He has connections to Hessian Engineering and the offworld accounts of Pacific Capital, where he could move around illegal arms sale proceeds to shitholes like Piskka. He also had access to Jack French, which explains how missing guns requisitioned under French's name wound up in the hands of Jurkken."

"This all sounds rather speculative, Major Gresham."

"I told you, I saw him with my own eyes down in that basement. A basement where, if SIS doesn't cock up the investigation, you ought to find the weapons cache matching the guns lifted from Ventura."

"Have you considered the major factor behind every crime, Major?"

"What do you mean?"

"Motive." Vosen paused and repeated himself for emphasis. "Motive. What is the motive here? Why would Hess gamble his billions on cooking up something this ludicrous and insane, Major?"

"I've given it some thought, and I have a theory. Hess is under investigation for selling arms illegally on foreign worlds, in particular to terrorist groups and violent warlords. The krokator are accusing him of partnering with the Forbidden Army to use as muscle in return for financial support. At least that's what they claimed after their Piskka raid."

"Yes, Gresham, but we can't forcibly retrieve funds that aren't property of the Alliance, and it's not like we can prosecute the _Hudda Kugrall_ in court."

"Right, but you _can_ prosecute Hess and his company. The Commission has subpoena power last I checked and Greg Reed himself made it sound like they were prepared to use it."

Vosen nodded warily. "Look, Gresham, what you're trying to suggest is ridiculous..."

"Not so fast. If Hess attacks the summit, he could potentially wipe out a large percentage of the people trying to prosecute him, maybe even Howard Paine. An attack like the one he and his krokator army are planning would not only indefinitely stall the investigation into his business, it would probably also kill the efforts of the Commission to pass the defense contracting bill they've been discussing, a bill that would strictly regulate companies like Hessian Engineering in the future. Combined with subpoenas, indictments and public hearings, the bill would likely mark the end of Hessian Engineering, not to mention the billions it would cost some very influential people."

"And obviously, the _Hudda Kugrall_ jumps on the opportunity to go along because the High Prod of the Empire is at the very same summit, and Hess has leverage on them since he controls their gun money," Vosen finished. "This all sounds rather far-fetched, Gresham, but I do follow your logic. One problem: what would Perry gain from all this?"

"Money? Who knows? Maybe he's worried he might go to prison if the Commission digs deep enough and slaughtering hundreds of innocent people is his way out. Either way, I just know he's the glue that holds the whole house of cards together. Perry's the key."

"So what's the plan, then?"

"We see what's on Lara's backup drive and then we go to the summit and stop Hess. We don't have evidence to arrest him, but if Perry is there we can take him on murder and kidnapping charges. Hopefully, we get there before they can carry out the attack. It's what, eight right now? We can be on Catalina in less than an hour."

Vosen shook his head. "We can't go on Agent Taylor's hard drive, the access is restricted. Without her fingerprint and password, it'll be locked and we'd be wasting valuable time."

"I have her password and there was something on there she wanted me to see. There might be evidence incriminating Hess!"

"If you're right, we have to stop Hess and the _Hudda Kugrall_ before they make their move," Vosen said calmly. "So we'll talk to Cray. Besides, he's the only person authorized to remotely access her hard drive from his office."

"Perfect, lead the way."

Vosen coughed and nodded towards the sidearm Gresham had placed on the desk. "You'll have to leave your gun here, Major, we don't allow them on the Director's floor."

"Certainly, I understand."

They stepped out into the hallway and found Zurra sitting on the floor, studying cracks in the ceiling. "Come on," Gresham said and they followed Vosen into the same lift Gresham had ridden a few days prior.

"Now you'll have to tell Cray everything you just told me," Vosen reminded Gresham. "I think you impressed him last time you were up here, it actually inspired him to reopen the investigation and look over all of Agent Taylor's notes personally." The lift stopped at the thirty-ninth floor and Vosen gestured. "After you," he said with a smug smile.

They reached the end of the hallway, Vosen verified his identity with his fingerprint and Gresham and Zurra pushed open the door into the dark office. Motion sensors detected their presence and the lights hummed to life, revealing a macabre scene. Cray was lying on his side next to his desk, a thick pool of blood spilled several hours earlier darkening the carpet. The gunshot wound to his head was evident from where they stood.

"If you would, gentlemen," Vosen sneered from behind them and both Gresham and Zurra turned to see the SIS agent brandishing a gun.

"Of course," Gresham said and motioned for Zurra to follow him into the office. They stood at a distance from Cray's body as Vosen closed and locked the door before circling around so that he stood next to the desk. "How long, Vosen?"

"Have I been working with Perry? Months, but I've known him for years."

"And Hess?"

"Never met the man, honestly. You were right, Major – Eli sort of is what holds all of us scattered, lost souls together."

Gresham glanced at the body on the floor. "You didn't really have to kill old Simon Cray, did you?"

"Cray picked up on the fact that something was wrong weeks ago, before you or Vance or anyone became involved. When he decided to download all the translated information from Lugrash's computer and the analysis from Lara's own hard drive, whatever was left of the old field agent put the pieces together."

"That's why you brought us up here. There's something on Lara's computer you can't let us see."

"Well, only evidence that directly incriminates myself and a number of other SIS agents," Vosen said with a smile. "I knew you'd try to reach Troy, so I suggested to Cray a wild goose chase for Sam to go off on. I'll need agents like Sam in the coming weeks."

"So you didn't need Lara, then? She was just an old flame? A piece of ass?"

"Ah, she told you. Perhaps in another life we could have swapped notes over Ms. Taylor's proficiency in bed. Don't act surprised, Gresham, I don't miss much. I'd never seen her that happy the next morning at the office."

Gresham felt bile building up in his throat, but he was at the mercy of Vosen's gun. "So what's the plan here, Vosen? Shoot us and make it look like we killed Cray?"

"Precisely! Your deductive skills continue to amaze me, but I wonder if you can piece together everything. You're missing a few parts."

"Like what?"

Vosen's eye twitched slightly as he kept the gun steady. "Well, for example, you didn't catch on to why my predecessor was murdered. Brighton's stings in the Zone triggered this whole mess. He hit the wrong people hard and they came to me, through Perry. I was useful to them; my subsequent promotion lent me considerably more control here at SIS and allowed me to cover things up from the inside. Files go missing all the time, things get redacted... Not even Cray was smart enough to spot that one."

"Clever bastard," Gresham muttered. He noticed that Zurra had been inching further and further away from his side, having not said a word the entire time.

"You also never caught on to the assassination of the bureaucrat, the same attack that got your friend Vance in the hospital. He was getting too interested in Supernova and other mysterious transactions under the same ID code, so we arranged for Evans, another friend of ours, to lure him in with a hard-copy of the invoice. Said there was something he wanted to show him. Turns out Vance wasn't as bright as everyone thought."

"Lugrash was waiting for him when he got there."

"Well, yes, we needed to silence Evans too. He was a worthless pawn. We didn't foresee Lugrash going down there personally, however, or Vance surviving the stab wounds. That complicated things." Vosen lowered the gun slightly, his finger twitching dangerously against the trigger. "I hate to say this, Gresham, but you would actually have made a pretty decent field agent." He noticed Zurra now standing only a few feet away. "How did you get over there?"

Gresham suddenly lunged sideways and Vosen brought the gun back up instinctively, pointing it in his direction. Zurra leapt through the air like a feral predator and caught Vosen from the side, getting a hand around the bottom of his chin. He twisted his wrist in a single move, turning the human's head at an impossible angle. There was a resounding snap and Gresham threw himself at the floor as Vosen fired the gun twice in his death throes, both bullets sailing wildly into the wall.

"Holy shit!" Gresham exclaimed as Vosen hit the floor, his lifeless eyes staring off into space, his limbs sprawled out like the wings of a dead bird.

Zurra sunk to one knee and nudged the body with his hand, nodding. "He is dead."

"You think?" Gresham breathed heavily and rose. "We need to get going. Nobody here can help us now." He picked up Vosen's gun and checked the magazine. "There's almost a full clip here. Remind me to save one for Eli Perry."
Chapter Twenty-Four: To Be Buried Alone

Catalina Island, Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

Hess peered into the kitchen of the Catalina Convention Center, scanning for trouble. The kitchen staff barely noticed he was there and he moved briskly through. A cook walked up to him and stopped inches from his face.

"Hey! You can't be back here!"

"Relax, I'm with the event staff," Hess replied and pulled out a fake business card for Paradise Desserts. "My people will be arriving shortly."

"Christ, you're breaking my fucking balls here, man!" the cook swore in frustration. "It's almost eight thirty and the dessert isn't even here yet!"

"They're pulling into the back, just you wait," Hess said. "I'll go get them myself."

"Okay, but don't slow me down!"

"Oh, I won't," Hess said with a grimace and continued. He emerged into a back hallway and pulled out his holographic blueprints of the structure along with his voxcom.

"Barkley, I'm in the rear corridor heading to the loading docks," Hess said into his voxcom. "Is everything in place like you said?"

"It should be," the voice replied quietly. "I'll divert security to north end of the building. Your men will have only five minutes or so to neutralize security once they return to their posts."

"And they'll be at the exact posts you assigned?"

"They've been told not to leave their stations unless otherwise ordered. You'll have your five minutes, Hess, so don't dawdle."

"I'll see you soon. Thanks."

Hess reached a large pipe running from floor to ceiling and stuck his hand behind it. There was a small _okka_ pistol taped to the back of it, wedged between the concrete wall and the metal – just like Barkley had promised. After removing the tape and dislodging it, Hess checked to make sure it was amply loaded before proceeding out onto the loading dock.

A security guard standing watch over the three dessert SHIPRs turned in surprise. "Hey, you can't be back here!"

A moment later, he was twitching on the ground, trying to pull the poison needle out of his throat while its venom coursed through his veins. Hess kicked him off the dock down to the pavement below and one of the SHIPRs pulled up directly over the body.

The backs of the SHIPRs lowered like drawbridges and touched down against the lip of the dock. The assorted mercenaries attired as caterers and security personnel emerged and Hess looked at his watch.

"Eight nineteen. We're running ahead of schedule, perfect."

One of the men looked at Hess's expression. "Something wrong, Mr. Hess?"

"I'm fine."

The mercenary looked down at the foot visible from under the nearest SHIPR. "You're not really used to taking a life, are you Mr. Hess?"

"No, Mr. Dexter, I am not. Does that surprise you?" Hess growled and motioned for them to head inside. "We have five minutes at most to neutralize security. Is everyone ready?"

Dexter and his mercenaries nodded and primed their _okka_ guns. One of the men dressed in Paradise Dessert coveralls handed Hess a regular, human-made gun.

"Barkley, we're in position. Whenever you're ready."

There was an ensuing buzz over his voxcom. "Confirmed. Dakkal, you're free to move at will."

Hess checked his blueprints again and glanced back at the mercenaries in coveralls. "Winchell, you and your friends bring those big boxes and follow me."

They continued back down the hallway from whence they came as the other mercenaries split up to head to their assigned positions. Hess breathed out. This was really happening now. He glanced back at one of the large, stainless steel boxes they were rolling down the concrete corridor, knowing exactly what was inside.

The cook who had confronted Hess earlier stepped out into the hallway. "Well finally you cocksuckers decided to show up!"

Hess found his second kill much easier. The cook coughed and collapsed to the concrete floor as three needles seemed to magically sprout from his chest.

The entourage moved on towards a back stairwell and Hess got in touch with Barkley once again. "This stairwell should lead down to the basement, correct?"

"That's right. Get a move on, Hess, I'm disabling the security cameras and I can only have them out for two minutes without arousing suspicion."

"I hear you."

Hess raised a hand to indicate for his detail to wait. Moments later, he heard Barkley give the command over the voxcom.

"Cameras are out and security is back in position. You have two minutes, gentlemen."

They pushed open the door to the stairwell and hurriedly carried the two large stainless steel crates down into the basement, Hess helping with the heavier of the two. The five men continued on down through the concrete corridor that ran through the foundations of the convention center, ducking around pipes and squinting to see in the grimy darkness, the only illumination from a handful of red small bulbs.

"Barkley, we're in the basement heading north. When will we be in place?"

"There's a turn in the corridor at one of the major pipes. Turn right there, and then follow the stairs down, and you'll reach a dead end. That'll be almost directly under the reception room and the conference chamber behind it. You have forty-five seconds."

They hurried down the corridor and hung a hard right, hauling the two boxes into the small antechamber, which had various heating equipment hooked up to pipes.

"Okay, cameras are back. You guys down there?"

"We're here. How does security look?"

"We're in control of the building."

Hess breathed out and looked at the four men who had accompanied him down into the depths of the convention center.

"Start unpacking. We've got half an hour."

#

The event staff brought the dinner out right as the band finished their final tune, a roller coaster of percussion, trumpets, electric guitars and a variety of alien synthesizers. The audience rose to applaud, and the lead singer took a bow.

Godford stepped back to the podium. "Enjoy your dinner, ladies and gentlemen. In a few minutes, President Paine will say a few words before we begin the summit itself."

Perry felt his voxcom buzzing in his pocket and he checked it. Barkley was calling.

_Shit,_ he thought and looked around at the other guests at his table. "If you'll excuse me, I need to use the restroom before I eat." He slid out towards the edge, and noticed that the security guard who acknowledged him at the door was one of the mercenaries from the warehouse.

Good.

Perry moved briskly through the marble-floored lobby, seeing another mercenary playing the role of an SIS agent perfectly near the far door. They smiled at one another and tacitly nodded in turn, both aware that a camera feeding images to the convention center's security room and SIS headquarters was right above them.

Once inside the men's room, Perry entered one of the stalls and sat down, calling Barkley back. "What's wrong?"

"SIS headquarters just called. We have a serious problem, Mr. Perry."

"Which is what?"

"The alarm in the director's office went off. Some agents went upstairs to investigate and found Cray shot in the head and Vosen with his neck broken."

"Only Gresham..." Perry muttered. "Okay, thank you. Anything else I need to know?"

"Well, obviously SIS is in complete lockdown. What a fucking mess..."

"Call it off if you can. Gresham's on his way already."

"Who?"

Perry sighed. "It's not important. I'll have Dakkal take care of it with his men. There's no way one intelligence analyst and a single krokator can take on that many commandos."

"Eli, the LAPD is going to swing by the convention center if they think there's a threat, and SIS going into lockdown certainly gives that impress–"

He hung up on Barkley and called up Dakkal instead.

"Perry," the deep voice of the krokator purred over the line. "We are standing by to assault the convention center if needed. We have already neutralized a number of security personnel off-site."

"Change of plans," Perry said. "It looks like we have control of the building and we weren't even detected. We have thirty minutes until Hess arms the bomb, which leaves your friend Sharm Zurra plenty of time to come here and disrupt our operation."

"Sharm Zurra! But he is with Jurkken, to be delivered to Grakko."

"It doesn't look like he's there anymore. Apparently, he managed to escape the Zone along with his human friend and they've already managed to kill our friend at SIS headquarters. There's only one logical place they'll come next."

"We will intercept them on the bridge, and I will send Zurra back to the Origin World where he belongs personally."

"You do that," Perry said and hung up. This would hopefully afford them more time.

He hurried back through the lobby and gracefully returned into the reception room without arousing any suspicion, checking his watch as he sat down. Twenty-six minutes left.

#

"How long do we have?" Zurra asked as Gresham weaved in and out of traffic on the southbound lanes of the Catalina Bridge. They had lucked out and gotten onto the speedier top deck and were exceeding seventy miles per hour, well over the posted speed limit.

"I have no idea. They could be storming the place with heretics as we speak, or be planting a bomb of some kind...." Gresham paused. "A bomb. That's it."

"What do you mean?"

"It makes perfect sense. Why else would Hess risk murdering hundreds of innocent people and using a hit squad of krokator unless..."

"...there was no proof left behind," Zurra finished. "They will blow up the convention center and if Dakkal or any of his men are left behind, then they have given their lives for their barbaric cause."

"Hess must have an escape route."

"Cooker of foods, something here seems wrong. I do not see why Hess would risk attending the conference if he were to be caught in the blast."

"He probably isn't at the summit unless he's confident enough that he'll get out in time. They'd want to maximize casualties, probably by putting the explosives underneath the target..."

"So maybe they have placed a bomb in the basement?"

"That has to be it." Gresham said. "So when we get there, we need to be prepared for anything. We're only ten minutes from the island, I think we'll be in time."

Zurra pointed forward along the bridge. "Cooker of foods, what are those large vehicles doing up ahead?"

Gresham slowed down. Two hundred yards away, two large, unmarked SHIPRs swerved into oncoming traffic and parked horizontally in a makeshift wall across the deck.

He screeched to a halt as an _okka_ dart ricocheted off the hood of the HUVR and a second needle punctured the windshield, embedding in the reinforced glass.

"Holy shit!"

Zurra checked his own gun. "I do not have many needles left. Only a clip and a half, cooker of foods."

Large, dark krokator were hopping out of the SHIPRs and fanning out through the stopped traffic. Civilians abandoned their cars and scattered as the needles began flying.

"They are going to kill everyone that tries to get off the bridge," Zurra said in horror. "They are here for us, cooker of foods."

Gresham threw the HUVR into reverse as needles clacked off the windshield and sides of the vehicle. A screaming civilian fell to the ground as he was struck by two of the whizzing barbs of death. The enemy krokator started taking up positions behind abandoned HUVRs, the SHIPRs forming a fallback defense to their rear.

"It is Dakkal and his heretics," Zurra muttered. "They are dressed for war."

A needle made it all the way through the windshield, falling flatly into the backseat after expending all its momentum to get through the glass. Gresham spun the HUVR sideways and pulled to a stop, hopping out of his door and crawling low to the ground. The HUVR touched down to the pavement, blocking him from harm.

Zurra hauled his way out as well and kneeled next to Gresham. "There are more than a dozen of them!"

There were screams as an explosion rumbled and a nearby HUVR went up into flames, causing a huge fireball.

"They must have buster guns, too."

"Christ," Gresham muttered under his breath and double-checked the handgun he had taken from Vosen. There were nine bullets left and the magazines he had from Jurkken's weapons cache were for a different caliber of gun.

"We have to get through there," Gresham said as the bridge shook from another exploding HUVR.

"How do you plan to achieve that, cooker of foods?"

Gresham peered over the top of the HUVR to observe the enemy. "They've got us blocked off. If we could distract them, I could maybe get down to the next deck and find a way onto the island."

"That is a task you must face alone," Zurra said. "It is me Dakkal wants, and he is my quarry, not yours. This will end here."

"You can't take on all of them on your own!" Gresham cried in shock.

"Believe me, cooker of foods, I have faced worse odds," Zurra admitted. "Open the back compartment and give me the other guns."

"You're out of your mind."

"I may be, but Frusrand guides my path, and I lay my trust in a greater power," Zurra said and gestured upwards. "You are only wasting time staying here. I will cover for you while you move down to the next deck and find a new vehicle."

Gresham crawled back to the driver's door of the HUVR and popped open the trunk for Zurra. The krokator quickly pulled both the _okka_ rifle and Triple-One out of the back and slipped his shoulder through both straps, and then tucked his _okka_ gun into his boot.

"You're one crazy son of a bitch," Gresham observed, "but it's been a pleasure, Zurra. I'll see you again."

"In this world or the next," Zurra said and extended his hand. Gresham grasped it, patted their clasped fists with his other hand and nodded in encouragement. "Now go! I will give you covering fire."

Gresham got up and darted for the nearest side of the bridge, which was only twenty yards away. Two needles bounced off the asphalt by his feet and he hurled himself behind an abandoned HUVR.

"Now!" Zurra cried and rose up, revealing that he had at some point fired a Triple-One before. Two exposed heretics cried in pain and fell with bullet wounds and the glass of several HUVRs shattered as Zurra pinned the _Hudda Kugrall_ down with his suppressing fire.

Gresham tucked his sidearm into the back of his pants and sprinted to the edge of the bridge, tossing himself around the side and holding on for dear life.

Zurra moved around to the front of Lara's HUVR and let go of the Triple-One, letting it dangle at his side. He instead brandished his pistol and carefully fired a few needles with lethal precision. The glass he had shot out no longer protected the krokator taking shelter behind the abandoned vehicles and three fell in quick succession.

_He'll be just fine,_ Gresham thought and found a footing on a metal crossbar beneath him. Reminding himself to not look down, he slowly climbed down along the crossed metal beams that ran along the sides of the second deck. There was a strong wind and he heard the chatter of the Triple-One above him. Gresham shut his eyes and clung tight to the beam as another explosion rattled the bridge and his foot nearly slipped.

_It must be at least a few hundred feet down to the water._ He felt another rattle as something right above him went hurtling over the edge of the bridge. Instinctively, he turned his head to see the flaming body of a krokator plunging down towards the water.

Gresham crawled around the beam and threw himself down onto the bridge's second deck. His heart was racing and he shook his head quickly to snap back to attention.

Did I really just do that?

Most of the HUVRs on this deck were stopped and their drivers had stepped outside of their vehicles to try to discern what the commotion above was. Gresham briskly approached a confused older man standing next to a closed-top HUVR near the edge of the stopped traffic.

"Any idea what's going on up there?"

"No, but I know what's going on right here," Gresham said and pulled his gun on the man. "I'm with Military Intelligence and I need your vehicle."

"What in the name of..."

Gresham clicked the hammer back. "You think I'm kidding?"

The old man stepped aside. "Ignition's on, just go, I don't want trouble."

Gresham tossed the gun onto the passenger seat and got in. "Come by the Catalina Convention Center to pick it up later... if there _is_ a convention center later."

He spun the wheel and zoomed off down the bridge, praying he still had enough time as he punched a number into the car's built-in voxcom.

#

Hess tapped his foot impatiently against the ground and shot a glance at his watch again. Eight forty-five.

His bomb-maker, Winchell, was still measuring out the MV5 compounds with the portable chemistry set he had brought in a black duffel bag, weighing the different components out and testing them in beakers.

"We haven't got all night," Hess said breathlessly and glanced around. "We could be discovered any minute."

"With Barkley upstairs? Doubt it," Winchell answered and poured a healthy portion of the black ingredient into a vial. "I have to measure a thousand grams exactly of both substances, so if you would give me a moment, Mr. Hess?"

Hess grimaced but said nothing. There was an uncomfortable silence down in the basement and he sensed that something was awfully wrong.

Not that it really mattered much anymore. He watched the other three men who had accompanied him down into the basement open the two steel crates and pull a long, wide cylinder out of each and carefully place it on the ground.

Winchell shot a glance at Hess. "What's in those?"

"Spent ship discharge. Highly radioactive."

"Where'd you dig that up? A cargo freighter?"

"Something along those lines. Why don't you focus on your job, mm?" Hess crouched down and put a hand on the cold metal of the containment tube. "The metal isn't too thick, is it?"

"About two and a half inches," one of the men replied. "It should do just fine with the explosives."

Winchell regarded the two cylinders as he filled another vial with MV5. "So we blow the paste here with all that radioactive waste? Is that the plan?"

"Your powers of observation are laudable," Hess muttered. "Yes, essentially. The MV5 goes off, spreading the toxic waste into the air and polluting the explosion site, killing any potential survivors. It's not as effective as frying people with _real_ radioactive waves but it'll leave a psychological imprint. Scare tactics."

Winchell shrugged. "You're the boss." He pulled a bottle of water out of his back pocket and poured a small amount into each vial. He smiled as the compounds sizzled and formed into the malleable putty. "Where do I put this, Mr. Hess?"

"Spread it on the floor over there. We want it blowing the waste upwards, right?" Hess looked at the three mercenaries hanging around. "Well don't just stand there, make yourselves useful!"

They set to work and Hess watched them work carefully. He grabbed the picture of his son in his pocket, nearly crumpling it, and placed his other hand on the gun tucked into his belt.

He was ready.

#

Zurra ducked as a buster pellet smashed through the windows of a HUVR directly over his head and exploded in midair not ten yards away, throwing him into the side of the vehicle. An _okka_ needle followed the pellet closely.

In response, Zurra threw himself sideways, seeing beyond the very front of the HUVR, and flicked the trigger of his Triple-One repeatedly, hitting the feet of his two attackers. There were two roars of pain and the painted and costumed commandos toppled to the ground.

"Kill him! It is only one soldier," he heard a voice roar, a bellow he partially recognized as Dakkal's.

_Yes, I am only one soldier,_ Zurra thought and checked the ammunition in his human gun. _But I am the only soldier like me._ He noticed a shadow out of his peripheral and saw a heretic circling around to his side. Zurra raised his _okka_ rifle and opened fire, but his new enemy ducked aside before glancing over the edge of a flipped HUVR, sizing up the distance between his target and his gun.

Before he could shoot at the exposed Zurra, however, machine gun fire tore through several of the nearby HUVRs, sending shards of glass and metal flying through the air and pelting Zurra like hot sleet. He glanced up and saw an atmospheric gunship circling above, the whine of its engine rattling the bridge. There was another burst of machine gun fire from the gunship and the HUVR his assailant was using as cover exploded in a glorious eruption of fire, the corpse of the heretic being thrown from the bridge.

Zurra then saw the gunship's weapons rotate to face him and he realized that he was just as much the target as the _Hudda Kugrall_.

He flung himself over his HUVR, rolling on the other side as a rain of sizzling metal ripped the vehicle to pieces only five yards away. Zurra ducked behind another HUVR, whose back was sliced off by another targeted flurry.

"Retreat! Fall back!" he heard Dakkal scream as two more of heretics were gunned down from the air. Zurra peered over the edge of the bridge and saw two more gunships approaching low over the water from the south.

A smoke contrail emerged from one of them and veered sharply upwards. Zurra curled up into a ball between the HUVR and concrete barrier of the top deck as the remotely-controlled rocket crested the lip of the bridge and slammed into the front of one of the parked SHIPRs. The cab of the transport vehicle detonated, sending shrapnel whizzing in every direction and the back was turned onto its side as only a crackling, flaming shell.

Zurra saw a heretic fleeing from the carnage and took him down with his Triple-One, hearing the chamber clicking in vain after only getting off a few shots. He tossed the gun over the edge of the bridge, its purpose served.

Three heretics jumped into the second SHIPR and turned it around to head towards Catalina. The new gunships gained altitude and each fired another rocket. One of the rockets detonated in midair above Zurra's head, throwing him violently to the ground. The other landed right next to the fleeing SHIPR, causing it to cartwheel high into the air and over the edge of the bridge.

Zurra was breathing heavily, pressing his _okka_ rifle tight to his chest and looking around in desperation for an escape route. He saw further along and across the width of the bridge Dakkal and two of the surviving heretics scaling a service ladder down to the second deck, apparently out of view of the gunships, which were now all three scouring the top deck for additional threats. A lone heretic tried to make a break for Dakkal but was cut in three by the violent stream of gunfire.

"Frusrand guide my path," Zurra whispered under his breath and rose, realizing that at least one if not all of the gunships would see him. He grabbed the concrete barrier and hurled himself over it, holding onto the top with one hand. There was a gap in the metal crossbeams and he aimed his body through it like a missile. Zurra landed roughly on his back, feeling pain shoot through his muscles, but for now, he was safe.

He looked up and saw the last heretic in Dakkal's detail pass on the far side of the bridge down the service ladder. Zurra cocked his _okka_ rifle and took aim, firing a single needle in his enemy's direction.

One needle was all it took. The barb struck the krokator in the shoulder and caused him to cry out in pain, lose his grip and vanish from view.

"Two to go," Zurra muttered under his breath and gave chase across the deck, arriving at the service ladder. Peering down, he could see no sign of Dakkal.

Nevertheless, he slung his rifle back over his shoulder and started climbing down the obscured ladder. It was time to end this.

#

"President Paine has a few words to say before we retire into the summit," Godford announced to the assorted crowd and waited for the applause to end before stepping back.

Paine stepped forward to the podium and smiled like always. "Ladies and gentlemen, humans and otherwise, and all friends, thank you for joining me tonight. It is encouraging to see this kind of solidarity in these dark times." He adjusted his bowtie. "I had a friend, from when I was Prime Minister on a world here in the Alliance called Aurora, who gave me sound advice. He told me that I should never judge a man based on his manner, only on his actions. Tonight, I ask myself: what is more important, our manner, or our actions?"

Perry consulted his watch. He was going to have to excuse himself soon in order to make the transport. Still, his mind couldn't help but dwell on the news Barkley had given him. Gresham and Zurra had killed Vosen and were coming. Hopefully Dakkal had taken care of them on the bridge.

"We are faced with what may be the most significant threat to the security of the galaxy we have encountered since the League charter was signed. What makes this enemy so fearsome is that it is anonymous. We don't know who they are, where they are, or what they want. Their goals could either be blind chaos or a distinct, sinister agenda. In the face of such a threat, how do we respond as a galactic community?"

Paine glanced at Godford and then at Nikkwill before continuing. "There are some who argue that new measures must be taken. That we must do anything possible to stop additional attacks, no matter the cost. But what are the costs we're ignoring here? Dignity? Freedom? Peace and prosperity? We recognize that many nations within the League are not... _democracies_ , by any means, but every government has a responsibility to its people, to protect them from enemies foreign and domestic. But in this climate of fear, who will protect us from ourselves? Who protects the people from their own government when draconian measures enforced in the name of security are enacted? _Quis custodiet ipsos custodies_ – who will watch the watchmen?"

#

Gresham slowly pulled up to the front of the Catalina Convention Center, seeing an SIS man approaching slowly and waving at him to gain his attention.

Tucking his gun into his pocket, Gresham got out of the HUVR. "Evening!"

The security agent nodded in acknowledgement. "Evening to you too, sir. Can I help you?"

"Major John S. Gresham, here for the security summit," Gresham said and held up his hands. "I know I'm late, but traffic coming over here was a _bitch_."

"Sir, I'm sorry, but the reception is nearly over. The summit is starting soon and only essential personnel are allowed."

"I know General Godford. If anyone gets in late, it's me." He stuck out his thumb. "Check me, I'm cleared."

The SIS agent muttered something into his sleeve. He touched a finger to his ear as the response came back and he suddenly smiled courteously. "Follow me, please. We'll check you in at the security center."

"Splendid."

They entered through the atrium in the lobby and Gresham looked out at the setting sun behind him. It was almost nine. He needed to find Hess or his men before something bad happened.

"So I just wanted to give you a heads-up, I think there might be a threat," Gresham said. "You mind helping me look around the building?"

"I don't think you're cleared for that."

"Then call it in," Gresham said flatly. "While you're checking me in, you need to get somebody in the basement looking for a bomb."

The SIS man sighed and ran a hand through his hair. As he did, his jacket pulled back and Gresham could see that his sidearm was not standard issue, but an _okka_ pistol.

Gresham immediately had his handgun out and stuck it into the impostor's back while grabbing him by the shoulder. "Okay, I'll make this a little simpler; take me to the basement, immediately."

The impostor spun around, grabbing Gresham's wrist in an attempt to disarm him. Gresham instinctively pulled the trigger and the bullet passed through the man's face.

He circled around the body, wiping blood from his cheeks, realizing that the sound of his gunshot had likely attracted attention to himself.

He had to find the basement, and fast.

#

The reception room went silent after the sound and everyone looked towards the doors in concern. Was that a muffled gunshot they had heard?

Two of the three security guards inside the room stepped outside and the remaining one held up a hand to Paine's personal bodyguards, advising them to stay put for the time being.

One of the security guards walked back into the room and flashed Paine a thumbs up. The President nodded and turned back his attention to the crowd.

"As I was saying, it is the responsibility of us, as a galactic body, to move forward in unity and with the security of our citizens and their leaders as our foremost priority, but in that respect, we cannot forget the ideals that led to the creation of the League of Planets in the first place. We are a young and fragile union, the likes of which the galaxy has never seen..."

Perry looked to one of the security guards, raising an eyebrow. The guard pointed his thumb towards the door. Whatever the problem was, it was being dealt with outside.

#

Gresham was running at a full-on sprint towards a Personnel Only door at the far end of the lobby. He turned around to see a single security guard in hot pursuit not far behind.

He barged through the doors and slammed them shut behind him, and then stood expectantly pressed against the wall. An _okka_ needle pierced the door's window to confirm what Gresham already suspected – Hess' men had already seized control of the convention center. It was a brilliant gambit, and he was impressed – using fake security so that everything would appear normal, and eliminating the real SIS contingent with silent _okka_ guns. They had bought themselves a lot of time.

The mercenary tore the door open and Gresham swung hard, striking his pursuer in the face. The impostor struggled to get up and received a kick to the chest to keep him down. Gresham struck twice again with the butt of his gun, knocking the mercenary out cold, and then raised it back up to eye level, proceeding forward.

On his left, he saw the open door to a stairwell leading downwards. This had to be it. He slid up along the side of the wall as he nudged the door open with his foot, peering down into the red-lit stairs.

It appeared clear. Gresham slowly moved down the stairs, his heart pounding so loud he could hear the beat and could feel each pump of blood in his shaking fingers.

#

Hess glanced up, hearing a commotion over his voxcom. "Barkley? You there? What's wrong?"

"I've got a man shot dead and another who's not answering," Barkley replied testily. "There's been a clear breach but hopefully they'll be too late. We're just about ready to move out. I'm dismissing the men outside of the reception room and I'll keep an eye on things from up here. You guys almost ready?"

"Yeah," Hess said and motioned at two of the men plastering the MV5 onto the floor to stop what they were doing. "We'll make sure nothing's gone wrong down here. I'll see you soon, Barkley. Wait for my signal." He looked at the two expectant mercenaries. "Go check around the basement, make sure everything's in the clear."

Hess looked back at Winchell and the last mercenary. "You both have something better to be doing? Get those tubes onto the paste quickly! Come on, we don't have a lot of time!"

They complied and laid the radioactive cylinders down as gently as possible. Hess fidgeted, watching Winchell reach for the jar of black crystals to catalyze the MV5 compound.

"I'll put just a few crystals in to give us the ten-minute window," Winchell said. "Too many and the reactant will catalyze instantly."

Hess coughed and raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"Yes, Mr. Hess. And we wouldn't want to miss the flight out!"

"No, we wouldn't," Hess said and pulled his gun out, shooting the confused mercenary next to him in the throat. He turned his arm immediately and shot Winchell in the forehead before he could react.

Hess crouched down next to Winchell's lifeless face. "You didn't really think that any of us were leaving here alive, did you?"

#

Zurra scanned the lowest deck of the bridge, searching for a sign of Dakkal. It was completely empty, all the civilians having abandoned their vehicles and fled. There was only an eerie maze of empty HUVRs and the whine of the gunships circling nearby.

"Where are you, Dakkal?" Zurra roared into the air.

He heard a noise behind him and he realized something was moving beneath the metal grating that ran along the edge of the concrete barrier. He crouched down to a knee on the asphalt and raised his rifle.

Two needles zipped up through the grating, one hanging near-suspended in midair before falling to the asphalt while the other's trajectory carried it out over the side of the bridge. They were down in the bridge's underbelly!

Zurra heard a whine and turned around to see one of the gunships hovering alongside the third deck to check for trouble. He heard voices yelling from far above and realized that one of the other ships had dropped off soldiers on the top deck to check for survivors and secure the bridge.

He crouched behind a HUVR and waited for the gunship to pass, which it did after about a minute. Zurra breathed a sigh of relief and looked around, trying to discern how Dakkal had descended even further down. His eye fell upon an opened hatch in the grating about twenty yards away and he moved to inspect it.

There was another short ladder that led to a narrow catwalk. Zurra lay down on his stomach and lowered himself through the hole to look for his prey. An _okka_ needle narrowly missed his upside-down head.

Surprised, Zurra lost balance and fell headfirst down through the hatch, hitting the catwalk with a thud and nearly sliding off, his _okka_ rifle coming loose and falling away. He managed to catch himself in time, his feet dangling freely over the ocean below.

The narrow catwalk was part of a grid of maintenance walkways crisscrossing the bottom of the bridge. The wind came roaring across the water and the grid shook, rattling and swaying in what would on the bridge deck be felt only as a strong breeze.

Zurra grunted and pulled himself higher, looking further along the walkway for a sign of Dakkal or his sidekick. Finally, he saw it; the red-spiked hair of a heretic beyond a wide metal crossbeam sandwiched next to a concrete support.

"Frusrand guide my path," he whispered once more under his breath and exerted all his might to pull himself up onto the walkway. Zurra flattened along the cold metal as an _okka_ needle skimmed over the top of his head. He was completely pinned down and exposed.

#

"...As long I am in office, this administration will not dishonor or remove any of the rights afforded to every citizen of the Human Alliance, and this government will never breach the pacts made in the League of Planets Charter or infringe upon the sovereignty of any member-state in the name of our own security. I invite and challenge every member of the Chair Nations to join me, united as a galaxy, in the face of this new, invisible threat."

There was a round of applause and Perry checked the time. It was almost nine. Why no word from Hess? The reception would be ending soon.

_Something's gone wrong,_ he thought, debating if he should call Barkley to check on progress. Maybe it was worth leaving to head for where the transport would meet them.

Paine pointed his finger into the air for emphasis. "Going forward, we will need the entire interstellar community to come together. This may be difficult – I know that within the League, there are a number of nations that have a... _troubled_ history, to say the least. I am personally aware that we humans have not always had the best relationship with the Krokator Star Empire, and that is an enmity I plan to mend and a friendship I look forward to building."

Nikkwill noticed that Paine was looking straight at him and nodded politely. Paine turned back to the audience. "Just look at what this summit represents! Just weeks after a string of senseless violence and assassinations, we can come together as a galaxy and amicably discuss a solution to our current challenge. That we have assembled in the same room a briling Prime, a high-ranking iktathol general, five Senators of the Pree Republic and even the krokator High Prod shows what we can and will accomplish in the days and months ahead!"

There was another round of even louder applause. Paine was one hell of an orator, Perry had to give him that. He picked at the fish fillet on his plate with his fork, staring into space. Why hadn't Hess applied the catalyst yet?

#

Gresham breathed out slowly, hearing voices up ahead in the hallway. The red lights made it difficult to discern what was in front of him but the sounds were definitely human.

There was a noise behind him and he squeezed as much of his frame into a shadowed section of the wall as he possibly could. A figure came charging down the stairs, _okka_ gun clear as day in the waxy illumination.

There were faint pops in the darkness up ahead and needles pierced the silhouette's chest. The mercenary descending the stairs cried out in pain and he fell, his gun discharging and sending a flurry of venomous barbs hurtling into the shadows ahead. Gresham heard a resounding cry and realized that two of the mercenaries had just shot one another on accident.

_Lucky me,_ he thought and raised his gun. There was still somebody else up ahead.

An _okka_ needle zipped by, clearing Gresham with several feet to spare, and Gresham saw movement near a distant blotch of red light. He fired three times. Five shots left.

There was a thump and the figure he had shot at toppled out into the light, coughing and twitching on the concrete ground. Gresham quickly moved in his direction to see if his target was dead. In doing so, he passed in front of an opening that snaked away to the right. Gresham stopped and doubled back to go down the side corridor.

He slowly inched along the wall, descending a short flight of stairs and hearing steam rattle through a pipe just above his head. Something moved up ahead and he saw a shadow along the floor, cast by not only the red lights but also by a portable lamp.

"Who's down there?" Gresham called out and reached the bottom of the stairwell, staying close to the wall to avoid revealing his position in the dim light.

There was a gunshot that bounced wildly off of the wall opposite Gresham. He closed his eyes and took a calming breath. This was it.

"You're too late!" a voice screamed from ahead. Gresham reached the end of the hallway and saw in the adjoining heating chamber a figure hunched over a jug of black powder, which he was trying to unscrew with one hand while holding the glass with the same hand with which he clutched a gun.

"You're surrounded," Gresham bluffed, slightly lowering his sidearm. "There are LAPD commandos and Marines taking back the building as we speak."

"You don't suppose I would know if that was the case?" the figure called back and spun the top of the jar off. Gresham knew enough about MV5 from what he had read in the report on the Shoregrove bombing to recognize the catalyst for the explosive compound.

Reacting fast, he brought his gun back up to eye level and pulled the trigger. What Gresham did not anticipate was his enemy standing up and doing likewise. They both squeezed hard and the pistol's recoil made it quiver in his hands. He held it steady, but his final shot went errantly into the dark as he felt a hot, searing pain in his left shoulder and a second jolt on the side of his face. He clutched his arm where he had been struck and sank towards the floor, watching his target collapse backwards like a felled tree, knocking aside the jar of crystals, spilling the crystals out over the floor away from the MV5.

Gresham dropped his gun to the floor and staggered over towards the body on the floor. He felt something warm and hot flowing down his cheek and neck, and he gingerly reached up with his right arm to touch it. He pulled back and saw blood on his fingertips and realized that he his head had also been grazed.

_Shit, I've been hit_ , he thought and supported himself against the wall, the coughing man ahead of him coming into view. It was unmistakably Colin Hess, staring up at the ceiling as he bled from three gunshot wounds to the chest and stomach. He was reaching into his pocket with a trembling hand.

Gresham took a knee next to Hess, breathing heavily and keeping his right hand clamped down where he had been hit. It didn't seem like the bullet had lodged in his arm, but the wound was deep and had clearly ruptured a vein.

"Hess... Why? Why you? You could pay someone to do this. I never thought you'd be putting together the bomb yourself." Gresham kicked away Hess's gun for good measure. "You were going to go up with the whole building, weren't you? Why?"

"Because..." Hess wheezed and hacked, blood bubbling out of his mouth like a forest spring. "Because... I didn't want... I didn't want..."

His shaking hand was clutching something. Gresham leaned closer to try to hear the words but Hess only produced indecipherable gurgling. Gresham could tell that it was a lost cause and pried open Hess's hand, meeting no resistance. It was a wadded-up wedding photograph of a smiling young man and an attractive dark-haired woman.

"Where's Perry?" Gresham demanded and Hess turned his head to spit blood out.

"He's... he's..." he feebly gestured with his other hand upwards, unable to lift his arm more than an inch off of the ground.

Gresham nodded and rose, picking up Hess's gun as he did. There were three bullets left in the magazine. Better than his own sidearm.

Tearing off his left sleeve, Gresham tied the cloth around his shoulder to create a makeshift tourniquet and wiped some of the blood from his face with his good arm. He looked back at Hess one more time before hurrying off the way he came.

Hess's final thought as death enveloped him was that he was indeed going to be buried alone.

#

It was nine o' clock and no word from Hess. The bomb should have been ready by now.

They had been discovered and Hess had been intercepted, likely killed. That was the only explanation. Perry started hyperventilating and dabbed sweat from his cheeks with his sleeve.

"You alright there?" a portly, aging colonel asked Perry from across the table.

"I'm fine, thank you," Perry replied, taking a deep breath. Paine had concluded his speech and let each delegate address the assembled audience, each struggling through thickly accented Standard. He rose. "If you'll excuse me, I'm feeling hot. I need some fresh air."

"Do what you have to do," the colonel said with a chuckle and sipped some more of his complimentary champagne.

Perry passed one of the security guards and paused just beyond the door. "Any word from Barkley?"

"None, besides to get ready to leave. Is something wrong?"

"Hess hasn't sent us a confirmation yet, so I'm going to go down there and check on him. Make sure nobody follows me."

Perry stepped out into the lobby, acknowledging another mercenary over a hundred yards away before turning to the left and briskly walking across the marble floor, his footsteps echoing in the massive, silent atrium.

_This isn't good, Eli,_ he thought. He pulled out his voxcom as he approached the entrance to the service corridor and called Barkley.

"Hello?"

"I think something's gone wrong. Have you been able to reach Dakkal?"

"Negative. The LAPD responded pretty quickly to a bunch of krokator shooting everyone in sight on the bridge. Go figure. I'd give us at most five minutes before they show up here in swarms to make sure the summit isn't in danger."

"It's your job to give them updates on the security here! That's why I'm paying you!"

"I have been, Perry."

Perry pushed through the doors to the back corridor, scowling. "Christ. Are they coming for sure?"

"Without a doubt. I'm telling the mercenaries to bail save one or two."

The good news, Perry reminded himself, was that there was no evidence to implicate him. He could always just slip out undetected, lie low for a while and then rendezvous with Grakko and their other partners at a later time. Barkley and the mercenaries would never survive a gunfight with armored police officers or similarly equipped Marines if it came to that.

He turned to head down to the basement and lowered the voxcom to hang up when the butt of a gun collided with his jaw and he fell to the floor.

Perry tried to get up but was kicked back down. He rolled over to see Gresham standing over him with a gun, looking a fearsome sight. The intelligence officer's right sleeve was torn off and tied around his shoulder, which was bleeding heavily, and the top half of his ear had been clipped off, spilling dark, dried blood all over his face and neck.

"Surprised to see me alive?" Gresham growled and bent down, grabbing Perry by the collar, fiery rage in his eyes.

#

Zurra pulled his pistol from his boot, trying to figure out the best angle to hit the distant heretic from. The red-spiked hair of his target moved slightly and Zurra seized his opportunity. He leapt to his feet, charging down the thin catwalk towards his target. The heretic appeared on the other side of the concrete support and Zurra leapt sideways onto an adjoining walkway, dodging the poisonous needle meant for his chest.

Zurra landed on his side and fired three barbs in quick succession. Two struck the heretic in the shoulder and the other disappeared into the twilight. The krokator shrieked and fell away.

Unfortunately, the heretic's gun fell with him, and Zurra was low on needles. Nevertheless, he rounded the concrete barrier to see Dakkal under fifty yards away, scampering along the catwalk and glancing back every now and then to check for pursuers.

"Face me, coward!" Zurra roared and launched a single needle. Intended to frighten Dakkal, it instead nearly hit him, splitting one of the spikes of thin hair on his head and clearly startling the heretic leader, who paused in fear.

Zurra climbed out onto the same catwalk as Dakkal and approached, gripping one of the guard wires tightly with his free hand as another gust of wind rattled the maze of platforms. " _Hrain_ , run all you want, I could kill you from here."

Dakkal revealed his own _okka_ gun and turned to face Zurra. "This is not a duel either of us will survive, Sharm Zurra. From a hundred yards away either of us can hit the other and even dodging a needle would be fatal on these walkways should one slip."

"True. But this will end here, on this platform." Zurra glanced sideways to see the rays of the setting sun reflected on the waves beneath them. It was a long way down.

"Then let us settle this the honorable way," Dakkal said and tossed his gun off the platform. Zurra watched it fall away until it had grown so small it was no longer visible.

He looked back at Dakkal and raised his own _okka_ gun. "You suppose I would hesitate to kill you, heretic?"

"Do your worst. Would you really kill me when I am unarmed?"

Zurra let a needle fly inches from Dakkal's head and he could see the heretic flinch and take a step back. He approached, getting within twenty feet of his quarry. The wind rushed through again and Zurra stopped to brace himself, grabbing hold of the wire. In his moment of hesitation, Dakkal whipped a long, wicked knife out of his own boot and crouched in an attack stance.

"Go on, shoot me," he growled, baring his tusks. "Or come closer. It does not matter to me."

Zurra glared and continued approaching, gun in hand. "I want to know who else you are working with. Who produced the weapons used to kill the Emperor and his guards?"

"You can ask me in the Origin World, _hrain_!" Dakkal roared once Zurra was within a few feet and lunged forward. Zurra fired a needle but he was surprised when Dakkal ducked and rolled perfectly on one shoulder to avoid it. Before he could get off another shot, Dakkal kicked the gun away and it went soaring onto a nearby platform, skidding to the edge.

Zurra dodged a jab and struck Dakkal in the abdomen. The heretic kneed him from his lowered position and then brought his elbow down onto Zurra's back.

He regretted the decision to give Zurra a lower position as he was plowed forward and the two krokator both fell to a larger platform nearby, each grabbing at the tusks and face of the other and trying to avoid rolling lest they both plunge from the narrow catwalk. The knife scratched a deep cut into Zurra's upper shoulder and he howled in pain, slamming Dakkal's arm into the metal, causing him to release the knife. As they both clawed after it, the sharp blade was knocked off of the platform completely.

Dakkal twisted his way out from the bottom of their tangle and slid further up to get in a better position to attack, digging his fingers into the sockets of Zurra's eyes and squeezing hard. Zurra grabbed Dakkal's left wrist with both hands, twisted with all his might and heard a resounding crunch as it broke.

With his quarry momentarily incapacitated, Zurra dove onto the next platform and reached after the _okka_ gun where it was lying only inches from his fingers. Before he could get his hand around it he was tackled from behind, and Dakkal wrapped an arm around his neck, driving a knee into his groin.

"Grakko told me about your brother," Dakkal hissed into Zurra's ear. "Told me he _squealed_. That he begged for mercy. Did you know that? Mm?"

Zurra clawed at Dakkal's arm but the grip was tight. He coughed and choked and struggled to reach the _okka_ gun.

"You want to know the funny thing about your brother? He never earned the Death Box they sent home to your father."

Zurra got a hand on the pistol and threw his shoulders sideways, twisting on the platform. Dakkal hesitated and Zurra used the opportunity to kick the krokator's legs out, causing him to fall back into the wire. Dakkal caught himself with his good arm and straightened up.

Zurra rolled over and fired a single _okka_ needle into the side of Dakkal's knee. The heretic's eyes nearly bulged out of his head as Zurra grabbed the wire near his edge of the platform to pull himself upright.

"My brother is alive?" he whispered in stunned shock. "You cannot be serious..."

Dakkal smiled from ear to ear. "See you in the Origin World, Sharm Zurra." As he lost strength from the poison, he released his grasp of the wire and dropped out over the water.

Zurra watched him fall the entire way down.

#

Gresham pressed the barrel of the gun into Perry's chest. "Blowing up a whole building of delegates? Killing the President, half the Cabinet and who knows how many members of the military and Commission? You've got some nerve, Perry."

"You're smarter than I assumed, Major," Perry said as Gresham pushed him back into the wall. "And more resilient. How's your shoulder?"

"I'll manage, you jackass." He spun Perry around and aimed the gun at the back of his head. "Start walking."

"What exactly is your plan here, Major? You don't think you'll attract attention parading me around with a gun to my head?"

Gresham considered this and lowered the weapon, discreetly burrowing the barrel into Perry's lower spine. "Point taken."

"My men are in control of this building, they will shoot you on sight the moment they see us together."

"Good for them. The place is being surrounded as we speak."

"I'm sure it is," Perry retorted dismissively. "Gresham, you can't win. You have no evidence – _none_ – that implicates me."

They pushed out into the lobby, still eerily quiet. Gresham blinked. His left arm was going numb. Nevertheless, he squeezed down on Perry's wrist and pushed him forward.

"I have powerful friends you can't even fathom," Perry said triumphantly. "Hess and I were giving all these people a mercy stroke. Something terrible is coming and the Alliance must be ready to embrace it when the day of reckoning arrives. We could have made it ready."

"Oh yeah? I don't suppose these friends of yours will save you, will they?"

"You're a fool."

"Shut up," Gresham wheezed. He shook his head, trying to stay conscious. "You know what I don't get, Perry? What's a corporate sleaze like you doing here? When guys like you break the law, its insider trading or embezzlement, not terrorism. What do you gain from blowing all these people up?"

Perry noticed the loss of strength and shook his arm free. "You wouldn't understand, Gresham. You don't know what I know. You haven't seen what I've seen. There needed to be someone left behind to pick up the pieces in the coming months and years. Someone who knows what needs to be done in the brave new world we're all going to be living in soon."

Gresham, without the support of holding onto his prisoner, collapsed against the floor, still grasping the pistol loosely in his hand.

"You're pathetic," Perry said with a mocking tone and picked Gresham up by the collar, dragged him along the floor and pushed him up against a pillar, their faces inches apart. "You have nothing to threaten me with. _Nothing._ You lost, Gresham. You went to all this trouble, went through all this pain, just so that you could bleed out while I watched."

"Are you sure?"

Perry's eyes went wide as Gresham raised the gun up with his last ounce of strength and pulled the trigger. Two bullets tore through Perry's chest and the third ripped open his throat. His body pitched sideways without a sound, his legs tangling with Gresham's.

"That's for Lara, you slimy fuck," Gresham coughed and tossed the empty gun aside, trying to focus on keeping his eyes open, while the ceiling above pitched and turned. He was going into shock and he could no longer feel his left side.

A tall, balding security guard suddenly towered over Gresham, holding an _okka_ pistol in his left hand. He bent down to grab the top of Gresham's head and tilted it up so he could get a better look at him. The stranger looked confused.

"Who the hell are you?"

Gresham struggled to form words as he began to lose consciousness. "Major John S. Gresh... Gresham... Military... Intel..."

The security guard stepped back, raising his _okka_ gun so that it was aimed right at Gresham's relaxed, blank face. "Goodbye, Major Gresham."

The sound of shattering glass echoed through the lobby and the impostor turned his head. There was the resounding crack of a rifle and his head snapped back as a bullet punctured a precise hole directly through his skull.

Gresham slid further down the pillar, trying to drag himself away from the two warm bodies with his uninjured arm. He finally collapsed about five feet away as the boot of a Marine appeared in front of his eyes.

"We've got an injured one! Get a medic!"

"All contacts are clear! Let's start to evacuate the building!"

"Is the President safe?"

_I need a vacation_ , Gresham thought as he passed out for the second time in twenty-four hours.
Epilogue

Los Angeles, Planet Terra, Sol System

"I had to pull more than a few strings," Ambassador Jerven fumed. "In the course of a week, High Prod Nikkwill, I have had to use almost every favor I have spent thirteen years accumulating here on this _hrain_ -ridden rock! And all to save your prized attack dog!"

Nikkwill scowled and rose to his full, imposing height, glaring at the ambassador. "Your lack of gratitude is alarming, Orget Jerven. Were it not for Sharm Zurra, you and I would both be dead! He and his friend... what was his name again?"

"Cooker of foods," Zurra replied dutifully, keeping his gaze cast downwards.

"Right! Cooker of – Sharm Zurra, do you mean to tell me that you and a mere _cook_ caused all this damage?"

"No, High Prod. It is my nickname for him. His name is John Gresham, and he is an officer in the equivalent of their _sukuda_."

"Nickname?"

"You have to admit, his name sounds... well, _grishemm_ , it is a cooker of foods. Sir."

Jerven was clearly not amused. "It is not my concern what he calls his boyfriend, High Prod Nikkwill! I demand that Sharm Zurra be disciplined harshly upon return to the Empire. The police here will want to arrest _us_ just for getting him out of jail!"

"I think not, ambassador. Zurra will receive the highest commendations from both the Emperor and myself upon his return, whenever he chooses for that to be."

Zurra's glanced up. "Sir?"

Nikkwill smiled. "I have made arrangements privately with the head of the Alliance military to allow you to stay here as President Paine's personal guest for as long as you wish. I know that Terra may not be the most understanding of worlds, but the humans insisted on lavishing you with every compliment in return for your heroic acts. Had you not stayed behind to battle the _Hudda Kugrall_ – outnumbered and alone, to boot – the 'cooker of foods,' as you call him, would never have reached the banquet hall to stop the attack. We would all be dead and the galaxy would be in a dangerous place."

Zurra bowed his head. "I am honored, High Prod, but I will return with you if that is your wish."

"No, I want you to stay. The human President had a lot of good things to say in his speech. If there is truly a conspiracy against the League, as the evidence suggests, then the galaxy's two mightiest nations must stand together against it. You may be an instrument of goodwill the likes of which the Empire has never seen before."

"He is not a diplomat, Nikkwill!"

"I know he is not," the High Prod responded, beaming. "He is a soldier and he will conduct himself as one. You are dismissed, ambassador."

"This is my embassy!"

"And Zurra and I have matters to discuss in private. Anything further you have to say can be said to me later. Goodbye."

Jerven's face contorted into a mask of disgust and anger, but he did not act upon it and turned away in a fury, storming away across the grounds of the Imperial embassy.

Nikkwill chuckled. "I warned you, Zurra, that he is a politician, but he means well and wants to keep our relations with the Alliance on the right path. Do not take offense at his anger, no matter how misplaced it may be."

"I do not, High Prod. I understand."

They walked through the early morning calm, listening to the distant waves of the ocean crashing and the seagulls cawing.

"High Prod, I had a question... something I was meaning to ask."

"Yes, Sharm Zurra?"

"When I was on the bridge, with Dakkal, he said something to me. He implied that my elder brother is still alive."

Nikkwill considered this. "Your father was never satisfied with the report of the raid by the Forbidden Army against the Academy. He believed that your brother survived the attack that killed twenty-one other capable young cadets. Cadet Akgu Turka did, however, perish in that raid, as far as I am concerned."

Zurra shook his head. "It is a thought I have never been able to be rid of. Do you recall the assignment you gave me at my father's funeral?"

"Yes, of course."

"When I encountered Grakko that afternoon... when I had him in my grasp, and he escaped..."

"Sharm Zurra, mistakes are made. You were forgiven."

Zurra breathed out. "He said something to me that day that has stuck with me ever since. He said, 'Your brother says hello.' It was short and simple. I took it to be a gloat of his, but the way he phrased it... I took it quite literally."

"Have you ever considered the reasons as to why your father would not declare _nohoken_ against Grakko and his compatriots?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your father obsession with the events surrounding your brother's death defined the final years of his life. Perhaps, in his quest to learn his son's fate, he realized that he was being consumed by something dark and wanted to avoid deepening his madness. Perhaps... well, Akgu Juska may have thought that it was inappropriate to declare _nohoken_ for the death of someone who had not actually died. This is just conjecture."

Zurra sighed. "I suppose."

"Now, as for what happened two days ago, I cannot commend you again. You and the intelligence officer – the 'cooker of foods' – should have songs written in your honor. You have done the Empire a great service, and you have earned something valuable in return."

"What is that, High Prod Nikkwill?"

"A friend. In my career, I have had few of them. Your friendship with Gresham could in turn help bring the Empire and Alliance closer together. If you two can work together harmoniously, our governments can too." Nikkwill turned to venture one final thought before leaving. "We have many differences, us and the humans, but I am certain in time our antagonism will be banished to the annals of history. Frusrand guide your path, Akgu Zurra."

"And may he guide yours," Zurra said and saluted his superior.

Once Nikkwill had gone back inside, Zurra found a bench on the embassy grounds to sit upon and he stared up at the early morning sky. He closed his eyes, and a rush of memories returned, almost as if upon request.

Orbital missiles detonated in the bog around him, debris and soot flying through the air as he grappled with the krokator who had killed his brother. Despite Zurra's size and strength, Grakko was a surprisingly adept fighter and he managed to wiggle his way out of Zurra's vice.

Zurra brandished a knife and lunged. An orbital missile struck not ten yards away and they were thrown, together, into a large rock. Zurra hit his head against the stone and had begun slipping into unconsciousness at that point, but before he did he had managed to swing his blade in a wide arc and catch Grakko in the face, cutting a deep wound from above his eyebrow all the way down to the bottom of his jaw, by some miracle not gouging out his eye.

Grakko's screams still echoed in Zurra's mind as he sat on the bench at the embassy. He rose, clenching his jaw and considering Grakko's final words to him.

Your brother says hello.

#

"How you doing, John?" Moss asked and took a seat on a chair by Gresham's hospital bed. Gresham had been released from critical care only an hour previously and both Colonel Moss and Sam Troy had been there to see him when he was given a bed in a private room at the Northridge Medical Center.

"I feel like I've been shot," Gresham admitted, sticking his tongue through the gaps where two of his teeth had once been. "Any word on when I get to leave this place?"

"Not anytime soon. They need to make sure the blood transfusion worked. Frankly, it's a miracle you're alive," Moss said sternly. "You're nuts, John, you know that right?"

"Hey, it's your ass that would be cinders right now if I hadn't shown up."

"Fair enough," Moss laughed. "You know it wasn't just MV5 Hess had rigged up down there, right?"

"I saw some heating tubes of some kind..."

"They were cylinders of nuclear waste. Highly radioactive," Troy interjected. "Hess had been buying them through client companies for months, as well as ordering all sorts of industrial equipment used to build ship reactors." He paused and studied Gresham, looking over his swollen lip and face, his bandaged shoulder and his half-missing ear. "I'm so sorry, John, that I wasn't here... that I couldn't help you and Lara..."

"No, Sam, don't be. If you had been, you'd be dead too. What exactly did Lara have on her computer that nobody could see?"

"Well, you know how crafty she was. She managed to trace a pretty intricate money trail. Once she could use Perry and Jurkken to tie everything through, she realized somebody at SIS was on the take as well, she just didn't know who. She forwarded those files to Cray, and well, the rest we know. Vosen must have been dirty for months, if not years."

"Three SIS agents dead thanks to that weasel," Gresham said with a scowl.

"No, actually, more than that. Turns out Vosen had an accomplice. Kevin Barkley, a career security specialist, who personally volunteered to oversee the summit's protection. He was taking even more cash than Vosen was. His goons took out all the real SIS agents working at the conference to give Hess the opening he needed."

"Do you think Vosen and Barkley helped create a security breach for Perry's boys to hit at Haimon and Paine?"

"It appears so. The summit was most likely always the big target, but I get the impression they were getting cute with that smaller attack first. They would've stood to benefit financially too – Perry had accounts for them at Pacific Capital, and they were betting short on every major galactic exchange. If that convention center had been blown up, not only does Hessian probably escape legal punishment, but those bastards would have made a killing on the ensuing stock market collapse."

Gresham leaned back in his bed. "What a mess."

"I know. But we got Barkley, that's the good news. Just before he killed you, too."

There was an awkward pause before Gresham asked the question he had been dreading since waking up. "Did you find out what happened to Lara?"

"John, she... well, they found her in the Zone. It looks like the wounds she sustained fighting off her attackers in the apartment were too severe, and she must have succumbed to them. It didn't look like anything else had happened."

"Christ," Gresham muttered under his breath.

Troy clicked his tongue. "I'm sorry, John. I know you were fond of her."

"Who takes over Alien Affairs now that Vosen is dead?" Moss asked, seeking to change the subject. "I can't imagine the new director will wait long."

"You're looking at him," Troy said with a subdued smile. "Official as of this morning. Well, anyways, I should get going. Feel better, John."

"Yeah, right."

Troy closed the door behind himself and Gresham turned to Moss. "I've done some thinking about your offer, Gary. I accept. If you'll help expedite the process, I would be honored to transfer to Section One."

"Don't do this because you feel you owe some debt to the late Ms. Taylor," Moss warned. "Field work is dangerous, John. You almost died Friday night."

"I can handle myself. I've been going to the shooting range for years," Gresham said with a pleased smile. "How'd you think I stayed so sharp?"

"I never thought about it, really."

"Look, Moss, I finished what Lara and I started. She can rest in peace knowing that Perry and all those bastards are burning in hell now."

"You seem awfully blasé about this, John. Are you psychologically fine with taking a life? This isn't like war. You shot Perry while he was inches from you. Have you even accepted that yet?"

"I don't have much going for me here. I'm almost forty and once divorced, Gary. I have a few friends, and you're one of them, but I can't sit around analyzing the budget of the krokator military anymore, not now. Not after all this."

"Okay, John, I'll sign off on your transfer, but you better rest a long time before going out looking for trouble again."

"I know. Besides, I'm in awful shape. I need to start working out if I'm going to get into another mess like this."

"I doubt you ever will. Oh, by the way, we identified the picture you found in Hess's possession. It's his only son, Benjamin, and his daughter-in-law, Lydia. Ben spoke with his father Friday morning and believed they were going fishing sometime this week. Needless to say, Ben won't be taking over the family business. All of Hess's shares were willed to be distributed amongst upper management."

Gresham smiled. "Hess was protecting his son. Maybe he wasn't as cold a bastard as we thought."

"Interesting way to go about it if he was," Moss said and tossed a package lightly onto the side of Gresham's bed. "That's a get-well gift, from me and the boys at the office. Godford went out and got a bottle of real nice scotch for you but didn't get it to me on time. He'll probably stop by later this afternoon."

"Sounds good, Gary. And thank you."

You're welcome. Now get some rest, Major! That's an order."

"Yes sir," Gresham grunted in return and gave a faux salute as Moss left.

The colonel stopped just beyond the door and glanced back inside. "Hey, John, you have another visitor."

"Oh?"

Jeff Vance floated in on an airchair, looking just as disheveled and exhausted as Gresham. He smiled as best he could. "Hey there, John."

"Christ, Vance, you're up!" Gresham said with a laugh and extended his good arm to shake his friend's hand. "How are you?"

"I feel like I've been stabbed," Vance replied dryly. Moss smiled from beyond the door and shook his head with a chuckle, walking away.

Gresham watched his superior leave and then looked back at Vance. "Jeff, it's good to see you, and to see you're okay."

"You too. They told me you finished my investigation, right when I woke up. How'd it go? Who was stealing the guns?"

Vance's expression was expectant but innocent. Gresham grinned from ear to ear and replied, "Jeff, you won't _believe_ what Lara and I dug up..."

#

Paine looked up as Godford knocked on his office door. "Ah, yes, Richard. Come in."

Godford took a seat across from Paine and looked out of the window, enjoying the view of the Pacific and its unusually peaceful waters. "You holding up alright, Howard?"

"Well, to be honest, that summit left me exhausted, the additional events notwithstanding. To imagine, Colin Hess trying to personally blow us all up with MV5 and protected by mercs with _okka_ guns? What's the galaxy coming to, Richard?"

Godford shuffled a stack of files in his hands. "Howard, that's why I'm here... I hate to tell you this, but things are a lot worse than we assumed."

"How do you mean?"

"We apprehended some of the men posing as SIS security personnel at the convention center after the Marines and LAPD stormed the place."

"Please don't remind me. It was the most politically embarrassing moment of my career."

"Yes... well, the impostors were hired mercenaries from a rogue faction called the 'Crimson Dragons.' Do you know the name?"

"No, not quite," Paine said and put his glasses on. "It sounds as if I should, however."

Godford handed Paine the two files. "The Crimson Dragons are your typical mercenary outfit. They steal guns, tanks, ships, and violent to boot. Used to dabble in the sex trade, too, and rumor has it they've wound up with Raptor technology. Whether that's true or not, though, isn't what I'm concerned about."

"It's not?"

"Under normal circumstances, it would be," Godford explained. "The Crimson Dragons are the military arm of a cult, a cult with blind, unquestioned reverence for their hypnotic leader. He calls himself 'Kataan the Visionary' and claims to receive divine commands from a mighty, god-like dragon. And, it turns out, he's an old friend."

Paine hesitated in apprehension, and then opened the top file.
Glossary of Terms

Krokam

_Hudda Kugrall_ – The Forbidden Army

_Hudda Krokatosh_ – The Army of the Krokator

_Suban Krokatosh_ – The Navy of the Krokator

_Krokator –_ Literally, 'Sun-People' or 'People of the Sun'

' _Osh'_ – suffix denoting origin or affiliation; for example, a native of Kenka is _Kenkosh_ while a native of Rukkur is _Rukkurosh._ Conjugation of suffix varies in context.

_Rukkur_ – Literally, 'Cradle;' name of the krokator homeworld

_Subanprod –_ Warlord of Navy, translates more directly into Standard as Admiral

_Subanprod Oranokkumudda –_ Warlord of Navy of the Sphere of Oranokk; commander of the entire krokator fleet

_Akumaprod_ – High Warlord; often translated as 'High Prod'

_Prod_ – Highest krokator military rank, often translated as 'warlord' or 'war chief'

_Tarl_ – Second-highest krokator military rank; the title-holder is referred to as having a 'tarlship'

_Sharm_ – the middle-tier military rank, typically given to garrison commanders

_Karp_ – the second-level military rank, given to officers directly subservient to a sharm

_Gora_ – the lowest-level officer rank, given to all graduates of the Academy or soldiers promoted due to excellent field work

_Nuganki_ – a heretic

_Nohoken_ – literally, 'revenge killing.'

_Gurumoken_ – literally, 'embarrassment killing'

_Krokandir_ – literally, 'City of the Sun,' practically translated, 'Imperial City'

_Kroka_ – Sun; specifically, the sun which the planet Rukkur orbits

Miscellaneous

_HUVR_ – Standard human planetary vehicle, named after a play on the combining of Human Utility Vehicle and the word 'hover'

_LUXR_ – a more private, luxurious and expensive variant of the HUVR

_SHIPR_ – a cargo-carrying variant of the HUVR

_Jump gate_ – most common method of interstellar travel, which smaller vessels are incapable of on their own. Jump gates are calibrated to transport spacecraft several lightyears in a short amount of time, making galactic commerce and travel possible

_AI_ \- Artificial Intelligence

_Voxcom_ – a personal communication device nearly ubiquitous through the galaxy

_Obedience Stick_ – an electrified, non-lethal bludgeoning instrument used commonly by krokator soldiers to subdue enemies

_Likala_ – a standard, three-wheeled and three-seated krokator ground vehicle

_Skyrail –_ a mode of rapid transit common within the Krokator Star Empire, using cars suspended from magnetic rods high above the ground to move rapidly above congested streets

_Galactic Democrats –_ The Galactic Democrats are one of the two major political parties in the Human Alliance, and are almost exclusively referred to by the acronym GDP (Galactic Democratic Party). Their members tend to identify with the center-right end of the political spectrum, making them the conservative party in the Alliance.

_Allied Socialists –_ The Allied Socialists are one of the two major political parties in the Human Alliance. Party membership tends to identify with the center-left end of the political spectrum, making them the social democratic party in the Alliance. They are often referred to by the acronym ASP (Allied Socialist Party), but it is not ubiquitous. Individual members are typically referred to simply as 'Socialists.'

_AG-111_ – Human-manufactured semi-automatic assault rifle. One generation older than the AG-122. Referred to colloquially as a Triple-One

_AG-122_ – Human-manufactured assault rifle. Successor of the AG-111.

_Okka_ – Venomous plant native to the planet of Sartokken. Its venom, when introduced to the bloodstream of most organic life, is nearly instantly fatal. Barbs coated with this poison are common in the Krokator Star Empire

_MV5_ – Highly concentrated putty explosive developed by the iktathol for use in calcium mining

Acknowledgements

_The Forbidden Army_ started out as a very different book, by a very different author, when I was fifteen years old. In this original, Gresham and Zurra were sent to investigate an alien world captured by a futuristic apocalyptic cult and liberate the planet's oppressed natives in an epic battle. Four hundred and ninety pages of single-spaced type in Microsoft Word later, I was nowhere close to being done and the book was virtually unreadable.

Returning to characters like Gresham, Zurra, Fust, High Prod Nikkwill and Richard Godford several years later has been an adventure in and of itself. On this adventure with me have been some very special people – my parents, Niklas and Ingegard, who did their best to work their way through the dense, confusing and unnavigable tome I produced in high school and have supported my writing since I could barely walk; Karley, who convinced me to stop sitting on a finished manuscript and actually edit it, and gave me the push I needed to give self-publishing a go; Thomas and Kathleen Moore, who read the novel as impartial observers and gave terrific feedback on which characters needed more meat, which political commentary needed to be trimmed down, and which action sequences were awesome; and to Ronnell D. Porter, for designing an awesome cover that I didn't know was the right cover until I saw it – now I can't imagine using anything else.

Over the several years I've had Gresham and Zurra running around in my head and sticking their noses where they don't belong, I've come to know them almost as well as I know some of my good friends. I hope you'll join me in finding out where their further adventures lead them in _Thus Spoke the Dragon,_ the next installment of the _League of Planets Adventure_ now available on Amazon and Smashwords.

About the Author

Henrik Rohdin lives in the Pacific Northwest and has a love for the Cold War, extraterrestrial life and Seattle Seahawks. _The Forbidden Army_ is his first finished and published novel, and also the first in the forthcoming _League of Planets Adventure_.

Keep an eye out for other work by Henrik by following him on Twitter @HenrikRohdin and "Like" _The League of Planets Adventure_ on Facebook. For news and updates you can also go to his blog, www.henrikrohdin.blogspot.com, and to go beyond the books and get additional League of Planets content, be sure to check out www.leagueofplanets.wikia.com for material on cultures, planets, species, and characters.

Henrik's second novel, _Thus Spoke the Dragon_ , is now available on Amazon and Smashwords!

Copyright © 2013 Henrik Rohdin

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely and entirely coincidental.

Cover Art and Design by Ronnell D. Porter

