Judas Unchained

CHAPTER SEVEN

Patricia Kantil and Daniel Alster left the Senate Hall together and shared the express to Kerensk. McClain Gilbert was waiting at the gateway station to escort them. The three of them took a navy shuttle over to Babuyan Atoll, a twenty-minute flight.

“Even after all the preparatory work we’ve done, I can’t believe we’ve reached this stage,” Patricia said. “I don’t mind telling you, the President is very anxious about this.”

“We all are,” Mac said. “This could well be the turning point.”

“Does the Admiral think we have enough ships?” Daniel asked.

“He’ll tell you himself,” Mac said. He gestured at the thick windows set into the cabin’s ceiling. “As you can see, we haven’t been slacking.”

Space around the High Angel was getting crowded. There were now three free-flying ports linked back to Kerensk, delivering passengers and small cargo pods to the shuttles that flew them on to the new navy facilities as well as the archipelago’s industrial stations. The nine warship assembly platforms were much larger than the original models used to construct the first generation of scoutships. Each one had five giant malmetal fabrication spheres arranged around a central gateway section that had a wormhole leading back to Kerensk. Hull sections and components were now conveyed directly to the advanced cybernetic systems that would put them together.

A malmetal ball on platform four was open, revealing one of the new Moscow-class warships as it prepared to disengage. The London was a hundred fifty meters long, its rust-red hull a double sphere, with the forward globe smaller than the rear, and seven rapier-blade thermal radiators protruding from its waist. There was no allusion to aerodynamics this time; the Moscow-class was designed purely as a weapons-delivery ship.

“They look imposing,” Patricia said.

“There’s enough weaponry in one of those to destroy every planet in Earth’s solar system, including Jupiter,” Mac told her. “For once, we have the firepower advantage.”

“I hope you’ve got fail-safes to prevent unauthorized launches,” Daniel said.

Mac gave him a funny look. “The Douvoir missiles have tripartite arming codes. Three members of the crew have to authorize a launch.”

“What if a ship is damaged, and you’ve only got two crew left?” Patricia asked.

“Not going to happen,” Mac assured her. “Anything powerful enough to get through the force field which shields a Moscow-class ship will destroy the entire ship.”

“Ah, I see.” Patricia turned back to the massive alien starship that the shuttle was approaching.

Admiral Kime gave his guests a warm welcome as they arrived in his office at the top of Pentagon II. It was night in Babuyan Atoll, leaving the vast crystal dome clear. Icalanise was a slender cadmium-yellow crescent sinking toward the parkland rim. The rest of space visible overhead was packed with the bright silver shapes of the archipelago, whose research labs and shimmering macrohubs were now complemented by all the new navy stations and platforms. Hundreds of shuttles swarmed between them, their ion rockets creating tenuous electric-blue nebula streaks across the void.

After greeting both Kime and Columbia, Patricia sat beside Oscar. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He gave her a wan smile. “Sorry for not getting up. Gravity makes me feel very weak and dizzy right now.”

“Please, don’t apologize.”

“The annoying thing is, I stuck to the exercise schedule we were given, and took all the biogenics. It doesn’t make the slightest difference. Damn, I hate freefall.”

“The President asked me to convey her personal thanks to you and your crew. Discovering the opening to Hell’s Gateway is the vital element which could turn this whole campaign around.”

“Just doing our job,” Oscar mumbled.

Mac came up behind his old friend. “Modesty is also a by-product of freefall exposure. Don’t worry, he’ll be cured by the time we reach the medal-giving ceremony. Do you think the Vice President will award Oscar personally?” he asked with a straight face.

Patricia laughed. “Now I think about it, our good Vice President Bicklu wasn’t his usual joyful self in cabinet when your name was mentioned.”

Oscar managed to smile at that.

Wilson called everyone to order. Dimitri Leopoldovich, who had been talking quietly to Rafael, took a seat next to Anna, while Mac sat on the other side of Daniel. Technically this was the Navy Strategic Review Council, but Wilson thought of it as simply a meeting between his best advisors and the Executive, as represented by Patricia and Daniel. Its job was to come up with policy to forward to the War Cabinet.

“We’ll open with the obvious,” Wilson said. “The location of Hell’s Gateway.” A hologram portal on his desk projected a simple star map. The star system where Oscar had detected the giant wormhole was about three hundred light-years beyond Elan.

“You’ve all seen the sensor log,” Oscar said. “There is no mistake; it’s them.”

“Low possibility,” Dimitri said, “but we have to consider if this is a decoy.”

“An enormously expensive one,” Mac said. “We know the Primes don’t have economics the way we do, but in terms of resources it would be a considerable investment in machinery to duplicate Hell’s Gateway. And for what purpose? At best it would gain them a couple of months’ respite.”

“Or they’ve built a second giant wormhole,” Dimitri said cheerfully. “More than one? We know they are quadralactric; it would be prudent to assume the worst.”

“You always do,” Patricia said in a low voice.

Dimitri’s pale face lifted in a regretful smile. “My job.”

“Are you suggesting we postpone the attack?” Rafael asked.

“No, sir. What I, and the Strategic Studies Institute, are recommending is that the scout flights should continue. In fact, we ought to take another flyby of Dyson Alpha. That would tell us for sure if there are any more giant wormholes operating there.”

“Risky,” Wilson said.

“The same risk as attacking Hell’s Gateway,” Dimitri countered. “Whatever defenses the Primes have developed, you can be sure they won’t be restricted to their home system. Hell’s Gateway is vital to them. It will be defended with the best they’ve got.”

“We’ll certainly fly reconnaissance missions afterward,” Wilson said. “We need as much intelligence about their intent as we can gather.”

“Intent is their one continuing unknown,” Dimitri said. “As Captain Gilbert said, their economic model doesn’t follow any we understand. However you look at it, invading the Commonwealth is simply not cost-effective. Our conclusion is that they are mounting some kind of religious crusade against us.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Daniel said.

“Excuse me, sir, but it is not. Obviously we don’t even know if they have gods or religion, but the fundamental principle stands. They are not doing this out of logic, therefore a degree of fanaticism is involved. Crusades are the human equivalent, whether they have religion or ideology as their starting point. We have had a great many during our history.”

“Is this relevant to considering our assault strategy on Hell’s Gateway?” Patricia asked.

“The implications should be considered,” Dimitri said. “We are striking what we hope will be a significant blow against an enormously powerful enemy. If their motivation for invading the Commonwealth is based on an illogical premise, that their ‘God’ or political leader has decided humans must be swept from the galaxy, they will not be deterred. It will be a setback, not an end to their campaign. They will hit back. We must be prepared for that eventuality.”

“Without Hell’s Gateway it would take them a long time to rebuild and strike at us,” Rafael said. “Every ship orbiting the Lost23, every installation they’ve built in the Commonwealth will be vulnerable to us. We can eliminate them completely before any reinforcements arrive.”

“Pardon me, Admiral,” Dimitri said, “but those Lost23 planets have been well named by the media. They are indeed lost to us, permanently. Right now the troops we have deployed there are absorbing a great deal of the Primes’ resources; but in the event we succeed in destroying Hell’s Gateway the Lost23 become an irrelevance. We should not deploy our ships in battles that will result in any attrition.”

“I’m all for that,” Mac said sarcastically. “We only go in slugging when we know we won’t get hurt in the process.” He gave Dimitri a tight, almost pitying smile. “This is war, man; it gets dirty and we are going to take losses. You have to accept that.”

“We are in the process of developing weapons that will guarantee victory,” Dimitri said. “Wait until they have been built, then use them. Don’t try and knock the Primes down one tiny piece at a time. They are too big. We can’t do it.”

Nobody replied. Wilson took a look around their troubled faces. Everyone here knew about the Seattle quantumbuster, but it was the last resort, the doomsday weapon that you prayed to whatever God you believed in that you’d never have to use. It certainly wasn’t the first thing you reached for. “The only way the Seattle weapon can be deployed to get us that guarantee is if we use it to genocide the Primes,” he said.

“And what do you believe, Admiral, they are doing to us? I have accessed the reports from squads dropped onto the Lost23. On every single occasion when refugees and survivors encountered the Primes, they were exterminated. We cannot assign them human logic and motivation; don’t make the mistake of assuming they care about us. They want us dead and gone. Every analysis the Institute has made boils down to one simple proposition: it’s them or us.”

“Use of the Seattle Project weapons is a political decision which will be taken by the War Cabinet,” Rafael said. “That has already been agreed. It is not part of the strategy we are discussing today.”

“Then we would recommend it should be,” Dimitri said. There was a glint of sweat on his pale brow as he leaned forward in his chair to appeal directly to Wilson. “I’m not saying this lightly, but we have already shown our hand. What the Desperado did was truly magnificent; they slowed down the Prime advance and in doing so allowed millions of people to escape. But the Primes have now seen that application of hyperdrive technology. They will be able to duplicate it. And more, they will be devising countermeasures—I know we are. If we strike Hell’s Gateway with relativistic weapons there is no guarantee they will be successful.”

“Nothing in war is certain,” Wilson replied. “That doesn’t mean we give up.”

“I’m not saying we should give up. I’m saying we should have a complete victory.”

“Prime ships started leaving Dyson Alpha within an hour of the barrier coming down,” Oscar said. “They are out in the universe now, an escaped genie. We have to deal with them on that basis.”

Dimitri pushed back some of his floppy hair. “I’m sorry, we at the StPetersburg Institute do not believe that ultimately there is any other way to deal with them. Whoever encountered them before was clearly of a similar opinion, which is why the barrier was erected. We do not have that luxury.”

“Thank you, Dimitri,” Wilson said. “The Institute’s views will be brought before the War Cabinet. For now, we are planning a conventional assault against Hell’s Gateway. Anna?”

“Manufacture of Moscow-class ships is accelerating,” she said. “Now that we’re mass-producing all the hull sections and components on the Big15 it takes about a fortnight to assemble one from scratch. The process is a lot more modular than it was even with the scoutships. Currently we have twelve of them operational, but that’s due to change rapidly. Our ninth assembly platform is now complete; sections for platforms ten through fifteen are being fabricated, and should be functional within another month. Linking the platforms directly to Kerensk via wormhole has been a real boon as far as construction is concerned. We’ve trodden on Chairwoman Gall’s toes in the process, but she’s been diplomatic enough to keep quiet; she realizes that High Angel can’t insist on a monopoly in these times. Besides, most of the docking station crews are still dormitoried here.”

“How many ships can we send against Hell’s Gateway?” Patricia asked.

“By the end of this week: fifteen. If we wait another week, there will be twenty-two. If you wait a further week, we should have commissioned over forty, and after that we’ll be churning out forty-five every fortnight.”

“How many do you need for a successful strike, one that closes Hell’s Gateway?”

“We estimate a minimum of twenty,” Mac said. “They have a formidable presence in that star system. Hell’s Gateway is only a part of it. There are all the generators for the wormholes leading to the Lost23, which are still transferring a colossal amount of equipment to the Commonwealth. During the invasion, we estimate they deployed over forty-five thousand ships against us. If they’re planning a second invasion, we must assume that at least that many are currently stationed there. Probably a lot more.”

“Twenty of our ships against forty thousand?” Patricia said. She sounded worried.

“We won’t be engaging them the way we did above the Lost23,” Wilson said. “The Moscow-class will stand off and launch their Douvoir missiles from the edge of the Hell’s Gateway star system. No slower-than-light ships will ever reach them.”

“Twenty ships?” Patricia said.

“Minimum,” Mac said.

“Fair enough, another week is acceptable.”

“It must be longer,” Dimitri said. “You cannot throw everything we have at them, there has to be a reserve. The Primes will retaliate.”

Patricia gave him a fractious glance.

“Dimitri is correct,” Rafael said. “This has to be balanced correctly. Much as I hate to say it, we have to take the prospect of failure into account. As I am responsible for defending the remaining Commonwealth planets I must ask for some ships to be assigned to protective duties.”

“Wilson?” Daniel asked.

“I agree, it is the prudent course. I know people are impatient for us to retaliate, but this is not something we should lay open to political expediency. The guerrilla warfare is progressing well. We can take the opportunity to increase the number of troops on the Lost23 while we carry on building ships. We know that strategy is working well, intensifying it should keep the Primes preoccupied.”

“How long?” Patricia asked.

“A fortnight,” Anna told her. “That will give us twenty ships to cover each duty. That should be enough.”

“All right, I’ll take that to the President.”

Oscar remained in his seat as the others said their good-byes and left the office. Trepidation was making his stomach churn, a sensation far worse than any of the aftereffects of freefall exposure. He didn’t like the idea of lying to Wilson just to cover his own ass, not with something this serious. But Wilson certainly had to be told, and he’d probably figure out who else was involved.

Mac and Anna were the last to leave. Oscar caught her giving Wilson a quick little shrug before the door closed.

“Drink?” Wilson asked.

“Yeah, thanks. Whiskey, with some ice, no water.”

Wilson gave him a slightly surprised look, but walked across the white office to the spherical drinks cabinet. “Well, you’ve certainly got me curious. An official and private meeting.”

“We have a problem,” Oscar said.

Wilson gave a distant grin as he poured the whiskey into a crystal tumbler.

“Houston.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Sorry, go on.”

Oscar accepted the drink, despising himself for needing liquid courage. “A little while ago I was approached by someone who was suspicious about various aspects of the Second Chance mission.”

“You, too, huh?”

“They talked to you?” Oscar found that incredible.

“Let’s just say there’s a lot of politics going on around here. What did this someone want from you?”

“It’s easier if I show you. Here.” He told his e-butler to access the log recordings directly from the secure navy database. The portal on Wilson’s desk projected the recording from the shuttle as it started its journey to the Watchtower.

“See the main dish?” Oscar asked as he froze the image. “Someone was signaling to the Prime homeworld.”

“Son of a bitch.” Wilson dropped into his chair, staring at the picture that filled half of his office. “Are you sure?”

“We both know the dish shouldn’t be deployed at this stage in the mission. I did some rough alignment calculations, and that’s the direction it’s pointing.”

“Son of a bitch. Who the hell was it?”

“I don’t know. Our records are quite comprehensive, but whoever ordered the dish to deploy was clearly circumventing our management programs. This is about the only proof we’ve got it ever happened.”

“I don’t understand: a traitor? Why? What possible motive could there be?”

“There’s a lot of fairly wild theories floating around in the unisphere,” Oscar said carefully. “We never did understand why the barrier came down as soon as we arrived. And I think we can be pretty certain now what glitched our communications with Bose and Verbeke.”

“Someone in the crew,” Wilson whispered in shock. “But I picked them all…we picked them. You and I.”

“Yeah,” Oscar said miserably.

“Christ.” Wilson was still staring at the picture of the dish as if it were some kind of physical threat. “This doesn’t make any sense. Nobody benefits from a war. In any case nobody knew what was inside the barrier.”

“The Silfen probably did.”

“No. Not them. I don’t believe that.” He turned to Oscar, eyes narrowing.

“Who asked you to look into this?”

Oscar held his gaze. “The Guardians of Selfhood. Someone I used to know was the contact.”

“Fuck, Oscar! Those bastards tried to destroy the Second Chance.”

Oscar nodded at the picture. “They might have had good reason.”

“The Starflyer alien they believe in? You can’t be serious.”

“Maybe I’m not,” Oscar said warily. “I don’t know. But somebody on board was acting against us in the most terrifying way imaginable. We’re fighting a war because of that flight, a war we might lose, and all that entails for us as a species. As you said: Where’s the motive? It’s not political.”

“No, you’re right, it’s not. There has to be some kind of outside influence. Whoever did this is betraying us as a species. Son of a bitch, that’s just so hard to accept.”

“I know.”

“Have you told the Guardians about this yet?”

“No, of course not. Look, I’ll make this easy for you; I’ll resign.”

“Like hell! We need to find out what the fuck is going on, and do it fast. We’re about to send our fleet to Hell’s Gateway; and God help us if that goes wrong.”

“You don’t think…”

“Somebody betrayed us before while we were flying the Second Chance. If they’re still around, they can do it again, and probably will.”

“Goddamn, I hadn’t thought of that. What do you want to do?”

“Get help. Paula Myo knows everything there is to know about the Guardians. I’ll consult with her.”

***

Mellanie broke her promise. They didn’t check into a swanky LA hotel; instead she found a cheap three-room apartment just behind Venice Beach. The building was old and worn down, its ground floor given over to small ultra-bargain stores selling T-shirts, handmade jewelry, secondhand domestic bots, powerskates, and sportswear, each of them blaring out tinny music late into the night. The windows on the two floors above had wooden shutters and rows of ancient air-conditioning radiators that whistled and hissed in the sun’s glare.

The apartment next door to theirs was taken by a couple who fought every time their shifts brought them home together; upstairs a hooker who sneaked her clients up the fire escape gave them their hour’s worth of non-TSI entertainment at high volume.

In their own rooms the water supply was erratic. The fridge was stuck on its coldest setting, freezing anything they put inside. Furnishings dated back fifty years. And the purple-painted floorboards creaked badly.

The building’s landlord was only too pleased to take cash. There was no accessible record that they were living there.

Strangely, for an environment that was so unruly, Dudley was at his most relaxed since they hooked up. When she got back from her visits to the Michelangelo studio offices she’d often find him cooking elaborate meals, or sitting outside the building with a beer watching the theater of street life going past. She suspected the fact that Morton was unreachable two hundred light-years away had a lot to do with his newfound contentment.

The evening after Mellanie received the recording of Randtown’s destruction, she slipped into a simple T-shirt dress and walked down to the beach. She carried her sneakers in one hand as she walked along the sand, heading for the Santa Monica pier.

When her virtual hand activated the onetime address, Adam Elvin responded at once. “I haven’t been able to find any trace of the three lawyers from Bromley, Waterford, and Granku,” she told him. “They certainly haven’t contacted their families. The monitor programs my friend installed would have detected that.”

“Don’t be too harsh on yourself, it’s a big Commonwealth out there,” Adam said. “The whole episode proves that the Starflyer funded Bose’s observation. We don’t need to take it any further.”

“But they must have some kind of connection to Baron. I want to find it.”

“We appreciate that, but Baron is more relevant to you than us.”

“I thought you wanted in on the Starflyer’s agents and their network. Does it matter where and who?”

“Ultimately, no.”

“Well then.”

She sauntered past one of the areas marked out with volleyball courts. Overhead lights on tall masts had been switched on, casting a yellow illumination on the two games being played. One of the guys called out to her, begging her to join their team. She smiled back regretfully.

“We still can’t help you with that,” Adam said.

“Okay, how about this: my friend Morton has made contact with an alien that has Dudley Bose’s memories, the ones from his time on the Second Chance.”

“Holy shit, are you serious?”

“Very.”

“Can you get us access?”

“Not directly, no. The SI won’t help me get them off Elan, and I don’t know how to get back to Ozzie’s asteroid on my own. I don’t suppose you have a working wormhole generator?”

“No, sorry.”

“Didn’t think so. If you have any questions for Bose, I’ll be happy to pass them on.”

“I’ll get on to Johansson right away. Does the navy know about this?”

“Not yet. I asked Morty to keep this private. So far, it is.”

“You’re doing a fantastic job, Mellanie.”

“It doesn’t seem to be getting me very far. I feel like a sitting duck waiting for Baron’s people to take a shot at me.”

“I’m sure we can bring this all together before that happens. Have you talked to Myo recently?”

“No. I don’t have any information I can use to bargain with; apart from Morty, and that’s got to be illegal. I’ve been busy trying to trace the lawyers, and doing gigs for Michelangelo. Speaking of which, do you have any inside knowledge about the rich building their lifeboats, especially the Sheldons?”

“Only the rumors in the unisphere. They say the cheapest ticket will cost you a billion Earth dollars. You thinking of leaving us, Mellanie?”

A billion dollars? Christ, does Paul Cramley really think I’m worth that much? The idea was extraordinarily flattering. “Not yet,” she said. “I still want to help.”

“We appreciate it. Three more Starflyer agents you should be aware of: Isabella Halgarth, and her parents Victor and Bernadette. If you see any of them coming, duck.”

“Thanks. How do you know?”

“Bradley has been looking into the shotgun which claimed Doi was a Starflyer agent. It wasn’t one of ours. Isabella helped put it together. She’s now dropped out of sight, which is a sure sign she’s going to become more active. We’ve established small teams to observe her parents; if they spot anything that’ll help with your problems I’ll let you know immediately.”

“I appreciate that. I get…I feel lonely a lot of the time.”

“I probably understand that more than most. I’ve been living this paranoid nonlife for decades now.”

“How do you cope?”

“Not very well, I suppose; that’s the easy answer. I used to believe in what I was doing, I had a real crusade going for my ideals. These days, events have just swept me along. I’m like you, Mellanie, I’m waiting for it all to resolve. If it’s any comfort, I don’t think it will take much longer now.”

“I hope you’re right. Good night, Adam.”

“It’s almost dawn for me. Which is a shame, the night here is quite beautiful.”

Mellanie signed off with a light touch of regret. She wondered where he was that was so beautiful. Talking to Adam always made her feel less isolated. They’d never met, and probably never would, but discussing the business helped her confidence no end. He was a professional, doing what he did out of commitment and belief; he approved of her efforts, offering snippets of advice. It added up to a weird kind of friendship, but in a bizarre way she trusted him a lot more than anyone else in her life right now.

Up ahead the gaudy multicolored illuminations of the Santa Monica pier stretched out over the water as the sky darkened behind it. She gave the fun-fair rides a brief longing glance before turning around and wandering back over the sands. Dudley would start getting agitated if she was away for much longer.

Venice Beach was where LA’s offworld contract workers lived and hung out. Even though it didn’t have the wealth prevalent in the rest of Los Angeles, it was safe, providing she kept to the public spaces. Some of the clubs along the beachfront were coming alive now that the sun had fallen behind the ocean, music and holographic projections seeping out from their doorways. One little part of her mind wished she was coming home to someone like Adam Elvin. Not that she needed a man, any man. But Adam would be a lot less hard work than Dudley with his insecurities and paranoia and jealousies. Adam, she imagined, would be a lot calmer and reassuring; someone she could talk to about all her problems with the Starflyer and worrying about being exposed. He’d have answers and solutions, strategies for coping.

Dudley was sitting on the stone steps outside their apartment building. He smiled as he caught sight of her, and hurried over. “I’ve been doing some research,” he said eagerly.

“That’s good,” Mellanie replied automatically. The swirling projectors issuing out of the stores’ logo holograms sent worms of pink and amber light wriggling over his face. She frowned. “Dudley, is that a new OCtattoo?”

He grinned and stroked his ear. “Yeah. One of the parlors down by the beach etched it in for me.”

She stroked the red and gold swirls with her fingers, her inserts and programs examining the organic circuitry. The OCtattoo was a very cheap sense booster with added TSI functions, expanding his cybersphere interface with a whole range of customization software. There were no buried assets or encrypted code in the management routines. His skin was already turning red around the elaborate spirals, an infection that was the sure sign of an unprofessional application.

“Was it a verified brand? Did you see the license before it was applied?”

“Mellanie! You’re my girl, not my mother. I’ve had enough OCtattoos in my time to know what I’m doing.”

“Okay.” She headed up the stairs. “What have you been researching?”

“Spaceships.” He smiled with all the pride of a schoolkid about to hand in homework that was guaranteed to get an A-grade.

“What kind?” she asked.

He opened the apartment door and gestured her inside, but not before making a furtive glance along the empty landing. “Augusta has several orbital factories for electronics and exotic micro-gee materials. They have spaceplanes and more importantly: inter-orbit tugs.”

“Yes?”

“I looked up the specs and did some calculations. It felt good using my astronomy background for something practical. If we hired one of the inter-orbit tugs, and filled the reaction mass tanks, and carried no cargo except ourselves, it could take us to the Regulus system’s outer gas giant.”

“And why would we want to go there?” she asked. The couple next door was shouting at each other again. Thankfully, it was silent upstairs.

“That has to be where Ozzie Isaac’s asteroid habitat is,” Dudley said. “An asteroid that size is extremely unusual. Trust me, it is far more likely to be a small moon.”

She almost launched into her usual chastisement, but leaving him alone to work on some new obsession would actually reduce the amount of time she spent worrying about what he was up to. So instead she said: “I don’t know…” her voice cautious.

“I’m convinced it’s in the Regulus system. That would provide easy access to Augusta, which is where the construction systems must have come from. Everyone automatically assumes that CST and Augusta belongs solely to the Sheldon Dynasty; they forget that Isaacs was a cofounder, he has an equal share.”

“I suppose so. But I doubt we can afford to hire a spaceship. I don’t have that kind of money.”

“The Michelangelo show would pay. Once we reach the habitat, we can gain access to Isaac’s wormhole. We can take Morton and the motile off Elan.”

Which is what this is really all about, Mellanie knew. Ever since Dudley had heard about the strange alien motile he had been consumed with meeting it. She was thankful he despised the navy and completely distrusted Admiral Kime, otherwise he would have gone straight to them asking for the motile to be recovered. “It would have to be a really good proposal for them to come up with that kind of money,” she said. “You’d have to be very sure of the spaceship performance.”

“I am. We can do it.” Dudley stroked his ear. “A few more upgrades like this, some memory skill implants, and I’ll be able to pilot us myself.”

“All right. If you collect some figures, very detailed figures, Dudley, I’ll think about it.”

“Yes!” He punched one hand into the palm of the other, smiling broadly.

“I’ll get onto it right away.”

Mellanie slipped the T-shirt dress straps off her shoulders, and let the garment slide down onto the ancient floorboards. “I didn’t know Ozzie owned half of CST.”

“Oh, yes.” Dudley was staring at her as if he’d never seen her body before.

“They started the company together. Sheldon was always the director, the commercial half of the partnership. So he’s the one the public and the media always see making statements. It’s an association thing.”

“Interesting.” She unhooked her bra.

It was the signal for Dudley to struggle out of his own shirt, desperately trying to get it off over his head and getting badly tangled up in the hurry.

“You know, he hasn’t been seen for years.”

“Who? Ozzie?”

“Yes. I found that out when I was researching this. Not that it’s unusual—he’s always traveling through the Commonwealth. They say he’s visited every planet, and had a child on each of them.”

Mellanie stepped out of her panties and walked through into the bathroom. She turned the shower on, grateful the water was mildly warm. “If he’s so important, it’s strange he hasn’t said anything about the Primes. You know, there was a lot of pressure on the Baron show not to mention the asteroid habitat. I wonder what’s happened to him.”

“That’s Ozzie for you: one crazy dude.” Dudley was trying to get his pants off; he had to grip the door frame to stop falling over. “I’d like to be like him.”

“If he’s as rebellious as everyone says, he might let us use his wormhole anyway.”

“We’d have to find him first.”

“I’ll ask around the office. Somebody there might know where he is.”

Dudley finally got his pants off, and made for the shower.

“Wait there,” Mellanie said sharply. He came to a halt in the middle of the small bathroom.

She started to rub the thick soapy gel onto her body. “Watch me first. I’ll tell you when you can join me.”

Dudley sucked on his lower lip and whimpered.

***

Nigel followed his three bodyguards out of the wormhole gateway. It was daylight in Ozzie’s gigantic, hollowed-out asteroid, the balmy air carrying the sweet scent of flower blossom. A wide white canvas awning arched above the gateway, allowing visitors to acclimatize to the bizarre curving landscape as they moved out from under it. As he walked forward, more of the cylindrical cavern was revealed, two green wings sweeping up on either side, becoming steeper and steeper until they began to arch overhead. Sizzling white light shone out of the axis gantry, its glare obscuring the ground directly above him. Tall, impressively craggy mountains jutted out from the curving landscape at all angles around him, disorienting in their fantastical perspective. The sight coupled with the rotational gravity field produced a momentary sensation of motion sickness that made his legs weaken. One of the bodyguards actually stumbled, falling to his knees. His colleagues hauled him up, trying not to snigger.

“This way,” Nigel said, and headed down the gravel path that led away from the cliff where the gateway was embedded. Birds were singing not far away.

The interior was almost as he remembered. It was the trees that had changed; they were all mature now, adding to the elegance of the panorama. He didn’t like to think how many decades it would take to produce such a gap between his last recollection and today; judging by the height and density of the forests it could easily be a century.

Several gardenbots were busy on the grass, tending the rhododendron bushes and little spinnies of silver birch. There was no sign that several thousand people had poured through here like a runaway tide: no garbage, no trampled plants.

At the end of the path, the small bungalow was just as he remembered it. A single deck chair was sitting in the garden underneath a broad copper beech tree, waiting for its owner to return.

Daniel Alster’s call icon popped into Nigel’s virtual vision. He sighed, and opened a connection.

“Sorry, sir,” Daniel said. “There’s a development I thought you should know about.”

“Go ahead,” he said, knowing it would be important. He trusted Daniel to filter most of the output from the Dynasty’s political office.

“The Halgarths have just gone nuclear against the Burnellis in committee.”

“Hmm, which committee?”

“Security Oversight.”

“Really?” As always, Daniel had been right. The Security Oversight Committee was normally immune to the usual political maneuvering and squabbling between Senate factions; and at this time it should have been completely sacrosanct. For any kind of spat to have spilled over into its sessions was serious indeed. “What happened?”

“Valetta Halgarth tried to bump Paula Myo out of Senate Security this morning.”

Nigel was suddenly very interested. The Dynasty had been indebted to the Investigator on more than one occasion; after one case he’d even thanked her personally. Not that she pursued anyone for political reasons. He’d almost intervened himself when the political office told him Rafael Columbia had engineered her removal from navy intelligence; then Gore had stepped in, and there’d been no need. “What’s she done to annoy the Halgarths now?”

“We’re not quite sure, it’s probably ongoing. The Burnellis are worried about the Halgarths increasing their power base within the navy hierarchy.”

“They’re not alone. Go on.”

“The reason Valetta gave was Myo interfering in navy intelligence operations. Apparently Myo made an official request to her old Paris office to put Alessandra Baron under observation.”

“What does Myo think Baron has done?”

“We don’t know.”

“It’s probably not relevant to the Halgarths; as you say, this is a direct power struggle. I’ll talk to Jessica. I think we need to start keeping a closer eye on the Halgarths and their plans for the navy.”

“Yes, sir.”

The call ended, and Nigel came to a halt, considering what he’d just been told. The bodyguards waited respectfully. If there was one thing he knew about Paula Myo it was her honesty; she wouldn’t put Baron under observation on purely political grounds no matter how hard the Burnellis insisted. Then there was Thompson’s shocking murder, which remained completely unsolved. The assassin’s reappearance at LA Galactic was also something that hadn’t been satisfactorily explained. Something was going on at a level that affected the Dynasties and Grand Families, and to his considerable annoyance, he didn’t know what. That was almost unheard of. His virtual hand reached out and touched Nelson’s icon. “Got an information collection job for you,” he told the Dynasty security chief.

Nigel knew the bungalow was deserted before he stepped through the open archway that was its entrance. There was something about an unoccupied home that spoke directly to the human subconscious. Nonetheless, he called out: “Ozzie, you about, dude?” as he wandered through into the lounge.

After an extensive investigation to locate Ozzie, Nelson had drawn a complete blank. Nigel had been girding himself for the news that Ozzie had set up home on one of the Lost23 worlds. But no, the last trace Nelson’s department could find was a ticket to Silvergalde. A team of Dynasty security agents had descended on Lyddington to find out what they could. The town was in chaos from the number of refugees flooding to Silvergalde in the belief that the Silfen would defend their world from the Primes. And there were no electronic records to review. That left money and alcohol to liberate tongues and unreliable memories. Ozzie had been in town; a stable owner claimed to have sold him a horse and a lontras. He hadn’t stayed long. A tavern landlord said he’d set out to walk the Silfen’s deep paths in the woods. No one in Lyddington had seen him come back.

As Ozzie legends went it was credible, suitably mythic and epic. Nigel wasn’t so certain. Ozzie had feigned disinterest in the Dyson Alpha barrier, but that was the usual Ozzie bullshit. Nigel had checked: it was the only time Ozzie had ever turned up at an ExoProtectorate Council meeting. His friend was interested, all right; enigmatic alien Big Dumb Objects were the kind of thing Ozzie loved. For him to then vanish off into a forest full of elves was difficult to understand.

Nigel’s inserts sensed several arrays activating in the lounge. A holographic portal projected a life-size image of Ozzie right in front of him, dressed in a shabby yellow T-shirt and creased shorts; from his bleary eyes it looked like he’d just woken up with a hangover. “Hi, Nige,” it said. “Sorry you’re here. I guess I must have been gone awhile and you’ve started worrying. Well, this is a recording I made to reassure you I’m okay. I love the idea you’re gonna build a starship, man, that’s gonna be so coolio. Hey, I bet you wind up going on the voyage in the end, you’ll find some excuse.”

“Wrong,” Nigel whispered at the image of his friend.

“I’ve gone the other way to find out what’s there. You know me, huh. The whole Dyson sphere thing is really weird, you know? And the Silfen have got to know something about it. I never did fall for all that mystic guru shit. They’re smart and they’ve been around a long time. So I’m doing a bit of exploring myself. I’m gonna track down those paths of theirs, and find out what’s at the center of their forests. I’m betting it’s something like our own slippy tricky little SI. Hopefully it’ll have some answers for me. So don’t go worrying about me, and I’ll see you when I get back. Double sorry if you needed me to solve a biggo problem, just like the old days. You stay chill, now.”

The image switched off.

“Oh, shit, Ozzie,” Nigel said in a pained voice. “You dickhead.”

***

Paula took a brief look around the large opulent office; as far as she could see, nothing had changed. Every piece of big gold-brown furniture was where she remembered. Even the aides were the same. Which made it all the stranger that it was Justine sitting behind the big desk, framed by a window looking out over Washington’s skyline.

“Thanks for finding the time to see me,” Paula said as the Senator rose to greet her. There was something in Justine’s movements that made Paula study her a little longer than was strictly polite.

“No problem. I bet you got a few stares on your way up.”

“A few,” Paula admitted.

They sat on one of the big leather couches. An aide had already set out a silver coffee service for them. Justine poured a cup of nonmodified Jamaican gold for Paula. Her own drink was water.

“Your father has uncovered a huge amount of financial irregularities in Bromley, Waterford, and Granku’s accounts. The company seems to be a distribution point for a number of individuals and organizations which have no verifiable existence. A lot of money comes in through various unlisted client accounts, and promptly vanishes. There also seems to be an equal amount of illegitimate activity at Denman Manhattan who run the accounts for Bromley, Waterford, and Granku.”

“Excellent. This sort of thing is easy for Gore, he was doing it before I was born, for God’s sake. So what’s your next move?”

“Our preliminary analysis is that Bromley, Waterford, and Granku was acting as a financial distribution center for the Starflyer agent network. They know it’s been compromised, of course. that’s why Seaton, Daltra, and Pomanskie have all vanished. The network funding will have been switched to another distribution center. However, Gore is going to inform the Financial Regulation Directorate; apparently he has a lot of contacts there. The Directorate will subject both Bromley, Waterford, and Granku, and the Denman Manhattan bank, to a forensic accounting evaluation. It’ll be considerably more thorough than anything Senate Security can run. There’s a chance that they might identify both the source of all this dark money, and some of the illusive individuals it was channeled to. It will be difficult; whoever set this up knew what they were doing, and of course onetime accounts remain the bane of law enforcement.”

“I’m sure Bromley, Waterford, and Granku has been shut down, but I know the FRD—they’ll take months if not years to complete their investigation.”

“I am of the same opinion,” Paula said. “But that aspect of the investigation may well soon be irrelevant, which is why I’m here in person.”

“You don’t trust encrypted calls?”

“I was on the East Coast anyway to see your father, and this is extremely important. Wilson Kime has been in touch with me. He’s asked me to visit the High Angel to review some information. His message was very short, but it seems as though he’s uncovered some kind of abnormality which occurred during the Second Chance mission.”

“I’ll be damned, that’s a surprise,” Justine muttered.

“Exactly. Convincing Wilson Kime that something is wrong could well be a turning point for us. In which case we’d need to know how strong our political support is. Are you making any progress?”

“Better than I’d expected. I can certainly defeat the vote against you in committee whenever Valetta Halgarth gets it onto the agenda again. But a full Senate vote is another matter. If we’re to launch an official investigation into the Starflyer, I’ve got to have rock-solid proof not just that it exists, but that it is manipulating human politicians exactly as the Guardians claim. And we both know my fellow senators won’t take kindly to that allegation, especially the Halgarths.”

“What about the Sheldons?”

“I haven’t determined their intent yet. I’m sorry.”

“I’d like to suggest a strategy,” Paula said warily. The idea was one that she and Gore had discussed at their meeting. It wasn’t quite the kind of tactic she approved of, maneuvering someone into a precarious position. Especially given what she suspected about the Senator’s current physical situation. But these were unusual times, Paula reflected, and there was no illegality on their part, which was the one line she would never cross—not even to challenge the Starflyer. Though it is a very blurred line these days. “According to the Guardians, the Starflyer will return to Far Away when the Commonwealth has been destroyed.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“It’s been mentioned in several of their shotguns. I have studied their content intensively over the decades; Johansson seems quite convinced by this. In fact, I suspect that has a lot to do with the unusual equipment they have been trying to smuggle to Far Away recently.”

“All right, so it wants to go back to Far Away; how does that help us?”

“That whole elaborate double wormhole connection to Far Away is massively subsidized by the Commonwealth. You should suggest withdrawing the funding, effectively shutting down the wormholes, and preventing the Starflyer from returning.”

“Ouch.” Justine smiled roguishly into her glass. “That’s going to annoy people.”

“It is intended to, especially the Halgarths and the Sheldons. Their reaction would be informative. It would certainly expose their political allies to us.”

“I could possibly include it as a rider on the navy finance bill that’s coming up next week. It’s justifiable as it would divert money from Far Away to the navy. Let me talk to Crispin. He always has been against subsidizing Far Away.”

“Thank you. I should add there might be some considerable risk in it for yourself personally. Your brother Thompson was killed because he interfered with the transport arrangements to Far Away. You might want to consider asking Senator Goldreich to propose the rider for you, given your…condition.” She couldn’t help the light flush rising on her cheeks, though she held Justine’s stare levelly.

“What condition is that?”

“I believe you’re pregnant, Senator. There are certain signs in evidence. And you did tell me you were going to give Kazimir the one gift still within your ability to grant. I suppose that was the real reason the body was taken to your family clinic in New York.”

Justine looked down. “Yes. You’re right on all counts. If you could keep that to yourself, please.”

“Of course, Senator. But the risk—you would effectively be bait.”

“I assume you and my father had taken that into account.”

“Your personal security would be upgraded and in place before the Far Away proposal is made. Senate Security has several operatives wetwired at a level capable of dealing with the Starflyer assassin.”

“Walk in the park, then.”

“Hardly.”

“I’ll schedule an appointment with Crispin. You can start upgrading my security.”

“Thank you, Senator.”

***

Justine sat on the couch for a long while after the Investigator had left. The prospect that Kime could come around to accepting the Starflyer was a phenomenal breakthrough. The more she considered the implications, the more worried she became. At the moment she was completely alone in the Senate in her belief, which made her extremely vulnerable. By introducing the prospect that the Starflyer was real she would expose herself to political destruction by the Halgarths, possibly in conjunction with the Sheldons. They really did need undeniable proof before going public.

But then that’s always been the problem.

The icon that represented the code Kazimir had sent her as he died was still a glowing azure point at the edge of her virtual vision. A constant temptation. Her virtual finger reached out and touched it. She blamed hormones.

As befitted the leader of the African caucus, Ramon DB’s office was actually larger than Thompson’s. The walls were hung with ancient shields and skins; holographic portraits showed vast landscapes from every African world. Right in the middle, the largest picture showed a panoramic view of Kilimanjaro, taken a century ago, when the glaciers on the top had expanded again, returning the colossal mountain to its former glory. There was a smaller picture beside it, featuring Ramon at the top of the volcano, dressed in thick thermal walking clothes, standing beside the glacier’s edge, smiling proudly at the camera.

Justine tilted her head to one side as she looked at it. “You know, I could have sworn I was standing next to you when that was taken. How strange, you must have walked up there again without me. And in the same clothes, too.”

“I…er. This is a political office,” he said sheepishly. “Everything in here has to be symbolic of my constituency, those who I represent, who need my help.”

“And what could be more symbolic than you taking a white wife? A union between two cultures and races. Building a bridge. A loving partnership. Showing that we are all above the conflicts of the past. Creating a Commonwealth of equality and fairness. A Commonwealth where skin color simply doesn’t—”

“All right, all right! I take the point. Dear God, woman.”

“So you’ll change it back? You’ll stop me from being an unperson.” Somehow she managed to keep a straight face. It was difficult, he looked so guilty, which brought out that vulnerable aspect she’d adored. She’d always had fun teasing Rammy.

“I will take it under advisement, certainly,” he said with mock dignity.

“Why, thank you, Senator. You can rely on my vote.”

“Was there a reason you came here other than to taunt me?”

The humor faded from her face. “Yes. I need some serious advice.”

“And you came to me? I’m flattered. Is this serious advice political, or personal? I know it can’t be corporate; I remember Gore’s opinions on my ideology. What was it he used to call me?”

“ ‘A whining pinko illiberal without a clue how the real world works,’ is probably the only one I can repeat in an office as symbolic as this.”

Ramon laughed, and kissed her cheek. She was disturbed by how cold his skin was, the little layer of perspiration on his forehead.

“So you needn’t worry, this is definitely political advice I’m after,” she said as they sat on a long teak bench carved with antelope figures. She felt her stomach churn again, and clenched her throat. There was nothing she could do to stop the shiver running down her body.

“Are you all right?” Ramon asked, his face creased in genuine concern.

“Better shape than you.” She gave him a weak smile. “A lot better.” Her hand went to her mouth as her stomach rebelled again.

Ramon was studying her intently. He leaned in a little closer, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “Dear God, you’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“I…That’s…Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Rammy.” She was worried she was going to start crying. Damn hormones.

“You’re really pregnant. He must be quite something. You didn’t even do that for me. Our child was grown in a womb tank.”

There was nothing she could do to stop it. The tears just came pouring out. “He’s dead,” she sobbed. “Really dead, Rammy. And it’s all my fault.”

“Dead?” His arms had gone around her, slipping easily into the comfy old position, her head on his shoulder, cheek pressed to his neck. “Are you talking about that boy at LA Galactic?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So you’re punishing yourself like this.”

“No. It’s our baby, I want it to be safe. This way I can be sure.”

“I know you,” he said soothingly. “This is the penance you’ve given yourself.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“He must have been very special.”

“He was. And I was stupid to ever get involved.” She drew back, and sniffed, wiping her hands across her eyes. “It’s all so goddamn complicated.”

“He was a young man with a cause he believed in. Everybody over a century old envies that. We might be able to buy youthful bodies with rejuvenation, but the integrity and intensity of youth, that is only ever a fading memory.”

“You don’t understand. He really was killed by the Starflyer.”

Ramon stiffened slightly, giving her a keen glance. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do. That’s why I’m here. Some of us are convinced that it does exist, that the Guardians are right.”

“Oh, Justine, no. You mustn’t do this. It’s a reaction to the loss, just like the pregnancy. You want to believe in what he believed.”

“It’s not just me, Rammy. A lot of us are of the same opinion; and we’re about to be joined by a very major player.”

“You should talk this through with your father. He’ll soon cut through all the bullshit. It’s what he does.”

“Gore believed before I did.”

“Gore believes this?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God. So this is what you wanted advice about?”

“Of course. Exactly how do I go about introducing the notion to the Senate that some of its own members are traitors to the human species?”

Ramon sat back, a slow amused smile spreading across his face. “Carefully. Very, very carefully. So this is the actual issue surrounding Paula Myo? The fight between you and the Halgarths.”

“Yes.”

“I see. Are you going to share any of the proof with me?”

“A lot of it is circumstantial. You have to be on the receiving end to appreciate it properly.” As she said it, she realized how weak it sounded. “I should have absolute proof in a couple of days. That’s why I’m preparing the groundwork now.”

“They accused Doi of being a Starflyer agent. The President herself.”

“She’s not.” Justine recalled the conversation she’d just had with Bradley Johansson. “That was part of a disinformation campaign to discredit the Guardians.”

He clicked his fingers. “Your interest in revisiting the Sorbonne Wood weekend. That’s a part of this as well.”

“We were being manipulated.”

“Preparing us for war. Yes, I see now. Just as the Guardians claim.”

“You say it with such skepticism.”

“And did you blindly follow your father’s belief?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Then kindly allow me to judge the facts for myself. And so far you have provided me with none.”

“If I do, if I show you proof that cannot be argued with, will you help me in the Senate?”

“Justine. Dearest of all my wives. I hate to see you suffer like this. First the shock of Thompson. Now the guilt of your lover being killed. You were there and think you are responsible.”

“I am responsible.”

“All this leaves you so emotionally vulnerable. In such times you cling to the wildest hope of redemption. People like the Guardians know how to exploit that. Cults have refined their recruitment operations down the centuries until they have become masters of extracting devotion and money from their damaged followers in exchange for their own vision of salvation.”

“Well, thank you, my darling; I would never have worked that out for myself.” She gave him an exasperated glare. “Rammy, I was dodging fortune hunters and investment shysters before your great-grandparents ever met. There is no money to be made from this. It is not a scam. It is not a warped religion. It is the most dangerous threat the human species has ever faced, and the most elusive.”

“I could never resist when you were cross with me.”

“Stop that!”

He pouted.

“Rammy, it doesn’t matter if you think I’ve gone right off the deep end with grief.” Her hand slipped down to her belly. “Given my state, that’s perfectly excusable. The least you could do is humor me. It’ll be good therapy. You do want me to recover, don’t you?”

“You diabolical woman. I can never win with you, can I?”

“Marriage was your victory. The greatest.”

“Arrgh, how I hate you.”

“Rammy, focus, please; if this proof does exist, will you help me?”

“I would have to see it before I even consider answering that question. And, Justine, it would have to be absolute proof. I need to see this Starflyer knocking up the Pope’s illegitimate underage daughter; the full in flagrante TSI recording. Nothing else will do. Even then I’m not guaranteeing anything.”

She grinned back at him. “Is she another tall blonde, then?”

“Evil woman!” He held her gently again. “Now I want you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“If this proof is not forthcoming, you will see someone who can help with the grief.”

“You’re kidding. A shrink? Me?”

His gaze remained steady. “An easy promise, surely? You know you are right, therefore you will never have to do it.”

“I taught you well, didn’t I?”

He gave a modest shrug. “Your word?”

“My word.”

“Thank you.” He bent forward and kissed her on the forehead. “And if you need someone there at the birth…”

“Oh, Rammy.” The tears were threatening to return. “It couldn’t be anyone else.”

***

Justine had just reached the elevators at the end of the Senate Hall’s long east wing when the alarm went off. She turned around to see doors opening all along the wide corridor, staffers looking around in puzzlement. A bright amber strobe was flashing above the door to Ramon DB’s suite of offices. “No,” she breathed. Shock turned her muscles to ice; she couldn’t move. It’s him! The assassin. He’s here.

“Priority call from Senator Ramon DB,” her e-butler told her.

“Authorized,” she gasped through tightened throat muscles.

“Justine.”

“Rammy! Rammy, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, shit, it hurts.”

“What does? Has he shot you?”

“Shot me? It’s my chest. Dear God. I hit my head when I fell. I can see blood.”

“Your chest?”

“Yes. Mitchan is trying to get me to drink water. Damn fool.”

“Let him help.”

“Not if he starts bringing out defibrillator paddles, I won’t.”

Justine started to run, pushing past the interminable number of people flooding out into the corridor. She was halfway there when three paramedics emerged from the freight elevator and shouted at everyone to get out of the way. An automated crash cart sped after them, followed by two nursebots.

“The emergency team is here, Rammy. They’re coming.”

“Oh, good; finally, some decent drugs.”

“How could you let it get this far? I told you, I warned you to watch your diet. Why don’t you ever listen?”

“Nag nag nag. It’s not so bad. At least I remembered to back up my memorycell this morning.”

The paramedics rushed through the door leading to Ramon’s office suite. Justine followed them in, hurrying through the anterooms where apprehensive junior aides and interns stood transfixed in their doorways, their faces locked in to frightened expressions.

Ramon was on the floor in front of the teak bench they’d just been sitting on. He had caught his head on the arm as he fell. Blood from a bruised gash just below his eye was soaking into the carpet. Mitchan, his chief aide, was kneeling beside him, eyes damp with anxious tears. A glass had been knocked over, water diluting the patch of blood.

One of the paramedics propelled the aide aside. Ramon’s robes were loosened. The paramedics began to apply plastic modules to his skin. Small arms unwound from the nursebots and began to press nozzles and needles into Ramon’s flesh.

Justine stood behind the crash cart, trying her damnedest not to look apprehensive. She could see how difficult it was for him to breathe. Every time his chest rose in shallow judders he winced. Bubbly drool was running down his cheek. Their eyes met.

“Toniea Gall will take over as head of the African caucus,” he wheezed painfully.

“Don’t talk, Senator,” one of the paramedics said. She covered his face with an oxygen mask. He pushed it aside. “Watch out for her,” he said, staring intently at Justine.

The oxygen mask was pressed back insistently. The paramedic held his hands down. “Senator, you’ve had another heart attack.”

“Another!” Justine squawked. She was furious with him, and frightened.

Ramon gave her a sorrowful look above the mask.

“We’re going to sedate you, Senator,” the paramedic said. “You will have to undergo rejuvenation this time. Your heart cannot sustain you any longer. Your doctor told you that.”

Text appeared in Justine’s virtual vision. GALL IS NOT AN ALLY. NOT FOR YOU. SHE WANTS THE PRESIDENCY. SHE WILL NOT INVOLVE HERSELF IN CONTROVERSY, NOT ON THIS SCALE.

“I understand,” she said softly.

I’M SORRY, JUSTINE. I WOULD HAVE HELPED, YOU KNOW THAT. GO TO CRISPIN, BUT BE CAREFUL, HE’S A WILY OLD SWINE.

“Yes. I will, Rammy.”

One of the nursebots slid a needle into his carotid artery. He blinked rapidly.

COME AND VISIT ME WHEN I’M YOUNG AGAIN.

“Every day, I promise.”

Ramon gave his office a last confused glance, and closed his eyes. SEE YOU IN EIGHTEEN MONTHS.

***

He spent a day and a half infiltrating the arrays of the huge Park Avenue apartment block. By himself he would never have managed it; he had to use several cohorts who were more adept at manipulating human electronic systems. Rich humans took their security very seriously indeed, using the most advanced and sophisticated arrays to guard themselves.

With the false data in place, he arrived by taxi at the block. Two doormen stood outside the wide entrance with its gull-wing canopy, wearing traditional uniforms of long coats with brass buttons, and white gloves tucked into their epaulets. They saluted as he went through the revolving door into the vast marbled art deco lobby. The stern-faced concierge behind the curving reception desk was not so accepting. He had to tell the man his current identity and who he was supposed to be visiting, which was checked against today’s list. With his legitimacy confirmed, the concierge permitted a brief smile before escorting him to one of the elevators.

Once the mirror-inlaid doors closed, he quickly placed his hand on the i-spot and changed the elevator’s instructions. It took him all the way up to the fortieth floor.

The door to Senator Justine Burnelli’s apartment had been the most difficult for the cohorts to infiltrate. Her Grand Family had installed their own systems in the apartment, which were even more secure than those of the block. He stood in front of it, waiting patiently for the sensor to scan him. The door clicked, and swung open.

He wandered through the vast rooms with their museum horde of furniture and art. While he was in the dark dining room with its five-hundred-year-old mahogany table the maidbots began their daily cleaning routine. Dozens of them emerged from their alcoves in the utility room just off the kitchen, and started to vacuum, polish, and sanitize. They ignored him, moving around his feet as he continued his inspection. There were no staff in residence to supervise them; the Senator always brought them in with her from their family’s Rye country mansion. Often she would stay overnight by herself.

When she did return, there would be some bodyguards with her, either the family’s or Senate Security. They would be watching for an external threat. He simply had to wait until they had all settled for the night.

Eventually he decided on the Senator’s own bedroom as the best place to wait for her. He sat on the bed to begin his vigil.

He’d been waiting for over twenty-four hours when the apartment management array received an encrypted order from the Senator to permit access to a technical support team from Senate Security. They arrived two hours later, three of them with a pair of cases each, which were full of additional security equipment. He watched them through the apartment block’s sensors as they parked in the underground garage, then took the service elevator.

As they rose up to the fortieth floor he walked into the kitchen. The refrigerator was built into the wall, a metal cabinet two meters tall with double doors. He opened them and swiftly took all the food out, then removed the shelving, leaning it against one side. The food packets were piled together on the bottom. Even then, there was easily enough room to accommodate him. He activated his force field at its lowest level to maintain his body temperature, and sat on the pile of food, closing the doors behind him.

He heard the team enter the apartment, their cases trundling along behind them.

“Christ, will you look at this place,” one said. “It’s like something old royalty would have.”

“Check out the view.”

“Hell, man, I can’t even afford TSIs of anything like this place.”

“Rich bastards, they’re all the same.”

“Come on, guys, we’re here for a job, okay. Less moral superiority, more work.”

“You sound like one of them.”

“One of their aides, more like. The senators I’ve actually met aren’t too bad.”

“They all make me sick. You know Piallani gets through four girls a week? Hookers with like these freaky reprofiled kinks, she ships them in from phase three space. They’re even down on her schedule as an entertainment expense. Taxpayer foots the bill.”

“You’re kidding.”

“The self-righteous ones are worse. Have you seen the way Danwal treats his staff?”

The team moved off deeper into the apartment, making assessments and working out an installation scheme. It took them seven hours to strengthen the apartment’s security. Additional arrays were aligned with the existing ones, and supplementary sensors wired into the apartment’s net. Software was updated.

He couldn’t use his own active sensors to determine the specific nature of the hardware they set up, but he heard enough to understand the basic system parameters. Anyone who used the elevators would immediately have their data files scrutinized by Senate Security. Birds that flew past outside would be examined. Even guests would be constantly observed as they moved around inside the apartment.

The new scanners were all active models; it was only the metal shell of the refrigerator that was shielding him from them. If he climbed out, the alarm would sound immediately. He couldn’t connect to a cybersphere node to tell his cohorts what had happened. The system would detect the emission, and the new software would route any call through Senate Security’s RI.

All he could do was stay in the refrigerator. He didn’t mind, he was in place and concealed, he had food for several days. The person who used to be Bruce McFoster settled down to wait for his target.

***

That morning, most of the news shows carried the item about Senator Ramon DB unexpectedly going into rejuvenation. Alic Hogan put Alessandra Baron on one of his desktop screens, keeping the sound low. She had three Washington-based analysts in the studio, talking about the political implications. They were being cagy; with the Senate more or less unified in its response to the Prime threat, social and economic policy had essentially been sidelined. The main speculation was on who would take over leadership of the African caucus. Toniea Gall was clearly the front-runner, although the Mandela Dynasty hadn’t publicly come out in her favor.

Tarlo knocked on the door and came straight in. “Something you might want to hear, Chief.”

“Thanks,” Hogan said. His e-butler muted Alessandra Baron. Ever since Senate Security had placed the observation request, Alic had taken to accessing her when she was on. Why Paula Myo wanted her watched was something he hadn’t yet fathomed. Baron’s show was actually quite excellent, with frontline investigative reporting as well as the standard society gossip, and she clearly had some very high-level political contacts. Her researchers were as tenacious as any police detective when they found the whiff of scandal or financial shenanigans. None of which gave him reason for the observation mission. Despite having the confidence of the Admiral, who had ranted about the request being a deliberate Burnelli-inspired provocation, Alic just couldn’t see that. Paula Myo wasn’t the kind of person who acted maliciously. That was one of the reasons he’d actually kept the observation going properly. Despite all the grubby politics, there might be a result at the end of the day; if so, he wanted the Paris office to share in the credit. If it did turn out to be a red herring, he couldn’t be blamed for allocating the resources.

Tarlo sat in front of the desk, a broad smile on his tanned face. “Got a result from the Shaw-Hemmings warrant. This time we may have a more substantial lead. The money came from transferable DRNG government bonds, which are like million-dollar bills; you can carry them anywhere but you need an authorization code in order to redeem them. They were hand-delivered to the finance company offices on Tolaka. According to their records, the authorization code was then downloaded to their manager’s office.”

“I didn’t know people still used methods like that.”

“Chief, the finance industry has more clandestine ways of moving money around than any black market arms dealer.”

“Why not use a onetime account?”

“They’re current, and we can access them with a warrant. So get this, those DRNG bonds were issued thirty years ago.”

“How cold is that?”

“The Guardians think it’s icy, which is a big mistake. The DRNG treasury is notoriously reluctant to grant law enforcement agencies access to its records. But in today’s climate…You’d have to apply to the treasury direct, which you can do through their finance minister. I thought the Admiral’s office could ask. We might also ask if they sold any other bonds to the same buyer.”

“Okay, I’ll get that sorted.” He glanced at the screen showing Baron. She had got Senator Lee Ki in the studio for an interview, the pair of them looking relaxed and comfy, as if they were out on a date. “How long do you think this treasure hunt is going to be?”

Tarlo gave a small shrug. “To be honest, I can’t remember ever getting past three links in the chain before. Maybe we got lucky with the bonds. Too soon to tell.”

“All right.” Alic had wanted to hear they were on the verge of breaking the case wide open, that the Guardians’ entire financial structure would be exposed, neutering them entirely. Childish, he told himself tetchily. He glanced out at the open office, trying to see the various teams at work. Over half the desks were empty. “How’s Renne behaving?”

“Come on, Chief, you know she’s the best Investigator this office has.”

“All right. I appreciate loyalty.” Alic gave the man a sympathetic smile. “So is there any progress on the Martian case?”

“Sorry, not a thing. Nobody can think what they needed that data for. We gave the whole problem to the technical panel we’d assembled to try and make sense of the equipment we intercepted at Boongate. I mean, the two have got to be connected, right? Maybe the Martian data will help them make sense of the weird force field components.”

“Good idea.”

Tarlo smiled. “Renne suggested it.”

“Okay.” Alic grinned in good-natured defeat. “Get your ass back out there to work. I’ll let you know about the DRNG treasury records by end of play today.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

The way he said “chief” almost made Alic believe he meant it.

The alley was in a run-down area of Paris. Narrow and shabby, no different from a dozen others within a square kilometer. Tall commercial buildings lined either side, inset with barred windows and secure metal rollers across the loading bays. Halfway down it there was a door, smaller than the rest, made from solid planks of walnut, and coated in gray paint, e-shielded on the inside. During the day it looked like it might open into some old shop storeroom, though it was always shut. In fact, it was the entrance to a club. There was no sign outside, nothing to say what it was. If you had to ask, you weren’t trendy enough to get in.

At two-thirty in the morning, the queue of hopefuls stretched halfway along the narrow unsanitary alley. The glamorous, the important, the famous, and the merely rich all shuffled their feet together, bitched about the cold and the indignity, ingested, inhaled, and infused a variety of narcotic substances, peed against the walls, and waited for some small miracle to grant them entrance. They weren’t going to get it. The unremarkable gray door was guarded by two huge bouncers, stripped to the waist so they could show off the stylish bulbous chrome scabs of their metallic muscle boost implants, like retro-futuristic cyborgs.

Paula walked straight up the alley to the front of the queue, eliciting murmurs of amazement and hostility in equal measure. One of the bouncers smiled politely, and lifted the velvet rope for her. “Have a good evening, Ms. Myo,” he said in a thunderstorm whisper.

“Thank you, Petch,” she told him as she slipped past. He was nearly twice her height.

Music so loud it was on the threshold of pain; black walls, floor, and ceiling producing a darkness that made you squint, until the rig above the mastermix DJ flared with blindingly intense holographic pulses; bodies crunched up so tight you could feel other people’s sweat rub off on you as you squeezed past; Sahara heat; drinks priced contemptuously high; a dance floor so crowded that all you could do was wriggle in imitation sex—apart from the five people in the middle who weren’t imitating anything. Nobody looked over twenty-five; boys dressed in chic suits; girls in wisps of designer cloth.

Paula shoved her way aggressively to the bar. Thankfully, she didn’t have to shout herself hoarse for a drink. The barkeeper nodded welcome and immediately mixed her a peach sunset.

She sipped it, and stood on tiptoes to look out over the outlandish and expensive hairstyles. In among all the high fashion, Tarlo’s navy uniform was instantly noticeable. Two minutes’ more shoving and she was at his side.

“Hi!” she screeched.

The tall black girl he was grinding up against gave Paula a serial-killer sneer. It didn’t look right on a face so staggeringly beautiful.

“Boss!” Tarlo grinned in surprised delight.

“Need to talk to you.”

He gave the black girl a dirty kiss, and shouted something directly into her ear. She nodded reluctant agreement, shot Paula a final blood-vendetta glare before wobbling off on high heels.

Together they made their way over to the end of the bar. Paula took another peach sunset; she could almost feel herself dehydrating. It was always hellishly hot in here.

“How are you doing?” Tarlo shouted.

“I’m annoying Admiral Columbia.”

Tarlo raised an iced bottle of Brazilian beer, and put it to his smiling lips.

“Best job in the galaxy.”

“Just about. I need a small favor.”

“You don’t even have to ask, Boss, you know that.”

“There’s an old case I want you to look into for me. You remember the Dudley Bose burglary? It was before the Second Chance flight.”

“Vaguely.”

“We checked it out at the time and it seemed to be nothing. Now I’m not so sure. There was a charity involved, Cox Educational, which might be a front for illegal money laundering. I think it was used by a politically connected crime syndicate.”

“Are you sure?”

“Three of its trustees vanished when we started investigating. Could you review the accounts on file in the Paris office for me?”

“What am I looking for?”

“Any form of discrepancy. I have an outside finance expert going over their current files, but I need to know how far back this goes. There might have been some tampering with official records. If that’s right, then the ones on file in Paris will be our only evidence.”

“Okay. I’ll get on it tomorrow for you.”

“Thanks.”

“What put you on to this after so long?”

“I had a tip-off from an informant; it’s also why we’re focusing on Baron.”

“She’s involved?”

“My informer claims she was part of the cover-up. We’re not sure. Not yet. And, Tarlo, keep this from Hogan and the rest of them. Columbia has tried to block me once on this already; I need to get the proof without interference.”

“Hogan hasn’t got a clue what goes on in the office. Don’t worry, you can rely on me.”

She gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek. “Thanks. I think you’d better get back to your friend now. That way I might manage to survive until morning.”

Paula watched him slither back into the sweaty embrace of the crowd where the girl was waiting with edgy impatience. Inside she felt a knot of tension slacken off. He seemed to have swallowed the old favor routine. Either that or he was a superb actor. It wouldn’t be long now before she knew for certain.