“I have a lantern. You steal my lantern. What, then, is your honor worth no more to you than the price of my lantern!” — Epictetus
The moment he stepped through the gate ferry’s airlock onto Excipio station, he could feel chaos, like a predator, lurking. The old instincts kicked in immediately. Sean Clay paused on the departure bridge and looked back at the aging ship. It was once an interplanetary starliner, regularly journeying from gate to planet on a luxurious five-day journey. Now it merely shuttled disinterested passengers on a half-hour hop between the booming hub of Midway station, 20 light-years away, to this place, Excipio Station, last stop and the proverbial end of the line. She was still a good-looking ship, and even if she was too slow and too unreliable for a planetary journey, somebody was either respectful or nostalgic enough to keep her in service and of use. He sympathized with her more than he meant to.
Impatient passengers pressed him forward down the long entryway. A few locals peeled off toward the station’s main concourse and homebound transports. A too-bright sign directed him towards the local Imposts counter in the far corner of the entry bay. He felt distinctly silly, an apparent late-middle-aged businessman in fashionable dress, joining a queue behind a half a dozen obvious lowlifes to check in with Gate Station Authority and pay the ubiquitous system entry fees. It was all part of the cover, however.
He waited, trying to make sense of the music blaring a little too loudly from unseen speakers, eyes drifting across advertisements lining the wall that had long since abandoned the pretense that Iota Excipio was a tourist haven. Sarcastic sympathy did the lifting now: When you’re done spending an afternoon exploring everything Notosia has to offer, Erlig will have dinner and drinks waiting for you. Transports depart every two hours.” Clay rolled his eyes and smiled at the passive-aggressive hostility.
A flashing arrow lit up in front of him, directing him to a station in the ring of booths, where the synthetic intelligence concierge, a holographic projection of a young man behind a waist-high counter, beckoned. Five guards in green uniforms flanked the entry to the main concourse beyond, holding military-style rifles at the ready. Clay recognized the guns as Khnum 210s, military heavy arms designed for close-quarters urban assault, capable of firing upwards of 200 plasma bolts per minute and accurate to nearly 100 meters. He smiled to himself. They were great for firing from behind rubble at a light-armored tank; potentially disastrous on a station. Two or three stray shots from one of those beasts could punch through a wall, sever a utility line, compromise life support, or melt a hole in the outer bulkhead. The 210s looked mean, but without power cells, they were nothing more than neutered props. He caught the familiar outlines of smaller plasma-based sidearms in thigh holsters. Those would be loaded and ready.
That was encouraging, at least. Excipio had a reputation as the crime-ridden, anarchic last stop on an abandoned upnorth gate chain, but somebody here had at least some common sense. With luck, Notosia may prove just as exaggerated and toothless. Maybe he could wrap things up quickly and get back to Directorate space in a couple of days.
“Welcome to Iota Excipio,” the smiling holo said with a coldly efficient warmth and charm. This seemed at odds with the grave but neutered military presence three meters away. The local accent was twangier than that of the core Directorate systems. Clay could impersonate it in a pinch, but his cover required something more refined.
He raised his palm for the identity scan and uploaded his itinerary and bio, both agency-provided fakes, to the local system. The holo said nothing but tilted his head slightly and regarded him. Clay’s heart skipped. The concierge was running a deception scan. Of course, it would — first-time visit from an off-worlder on a ticket booked only days before. He opened a counter-routine in his HUD, locking his galvanic response and pupil dilation, which he should have done before even setting foot on the station. He was fast enough to fool a human, but there was no way this SI didn’t catch it. Clay silently hoped the SI could only spot blatant lies and was just as bored with its job as a human would be.
Finally, the concierge spoke. “Mr. Alexandre Girard of Procyon, traveling to Notosia—Nakano City—on business for the Bonai Saigo Conglomerate. Correct?”
“Correct,” Clay said, keeping his breathing even and his voice pitched right. The SI paused again. The summary fit the extensive cover he’d memorized, and none of it was true, just boring, believable, and forgettable.
More phony data orbited in the air. The concierge ignored it this time and continued to study him. He kept one eye on the guards who would no doubt soon head over to ask him a few questions and prepared for the realization that he had blown his cover and ended his career before even getting the briefing for the mission.
Finally, the console chirped in acceptance, and the holo went back to checking his itinerary. He risked a glance at the guards and saw none of them had so much as shifted their weight. He resisted a sigh when the holo nodded and killed the display. He’d gotten lucky, this time.
“You have a first-class berth on local transport, Maguro, departing from Green Level, Dock 19, at 0730 Gate Network Time. Boarding begins in about 2 hours. Your baggage is en route from the gate ferry to your room there. The elite transit waiver from Sol Directorate Division of Commerce includes complimentary beverages at the Green Level Passenger Lounge and early boarding for the Maguro.”
An elite transit waiver, Clay thought. That’s why the concierge had expedited him through. The waiver eliminated all fees and bureaucracy. It still didn’t explain how he passed scrutiny. The DoC endorsement meant the guards would be more polite when interrogating him, but they should still have at least come over and asked a few questions. More than that, he was certain the waiver wasn’t there at Midway Station when he boarded the ferry, and Division’s SI infiltration teams weren’t good enough to hack a foreign gate station. If they were, they wouldn’t have sent him in as a wet asset. He was already getting a bad feeling about the mission. He hated having this many questions before even finding out what the mission was.
“Current time is 0319,” the concierge continued, “so the restaurant level is not yet open. Several kiosks on the concourse offer meals for purchase, if you wish to sample the local fare. The lounge provides finger foods and hors d’oeuvres. All lounge food is rated safe for unadapted off-worlders. We make no claims about the safety or quality of purchases from independent merchants on the concourse, however.” It gave one last smile and gestured toward the guards and concourse entrance. “Enjoy your trip.”
Clay slid his hands into his jacket pockets and strode through the entry doors, giving the guards an amused smile as he passed. They watched him but didn’t move. It was obvious they were trained, definitely not military, though sharper than typical payroll security.
A haze of incense and narcotic smoke enveloped him the moment he stepped onto the main concourse. Signs flickered and flashed, luring the unwary toward a hundred shops, kiosks, and bars spread upward over three levels and stretching outward for nearly three kilometers. He threaded his way through a middle-of-the-night crowd of misfits, twice shifting his body to foil pickpockets and resisting the urge to break fingers in response.
Those not angling for his hard cred walked with expressionless faces and a slow, slightly slouched gait. A warning in his ocular implant’s HUD explained why: a mood suppressant in the local air supply. A second message confirmed that filters in his lungs were scrubbing it before it hit his bloodstream. Below that were details of the compound, along with the relevant entry in his briefing material. It was just a simple aerosol tranquilizer, cheaper than hiring a full security team for the concourse, legal under Excipio code, and pretty standard practice on the less-trafficked frontier system stations. Again, he blamed the chaos for his failure to anticipate or catch it sooner.
He paused at a kiosk that sold local art and pretended to admire the handiwork. A wiry man in an olive suit stopped at a similar booth to his right seconds later. The suit was too formal and ill-fitting for the hour, making him stand out instantly. The man seemed unaffected by the suppressant, indicating he either had cybernetic implants or was using an antitoxin. On Notosia, implants cost considerably more than on Earth, but they weren’t unheard of, and antitoxin implied foreknowledge of the exact compound used. Either way, the man read as wrong.
He moved through a crowd of travelers and stopped at the lift to the Green Level Passenger Lounge to check a wall display. In the reflection, the same man paused, leaned on a support column, and pretended to be glancing around as if looking for someone. Not a coincidence. Clay stepped onto the lift platform and rode up.
Compared to the sensory overload of the concourse, the Green Level Lounge—which looked down on it from above—was practically comatose. A dozen passengers sat scattered at tables around the luxurious loft, enjoying a panoramic view of the sunward docking spokes as transports prepped to depart across the Excipio system. Sound suppressors over each table kept the room eerily quiet. The first peace he’d found since arriving on the station. The concourse roar was little more than a soft hiss through fog and lights.
His HUD highlighted an unassuming, late-middle-aged woman dressed in business attire comparable to his own, seated at a table in the center of the room. She was nursing a drink and typing on a datapad. Her hair was silver, her build soft, and her eyes had the kind crinkles of a grandmother. He crossed the room and stood next to her, setting his datapad on the table. “Excuse me, I just arrived. Do you know what time it is in Nakano City?”
The woman didn’t even look up. “It’s later than you’d think,” she said offhandedly. That vague response was part of a prearranged code that indicated she was under no duress and had observed no surveillance beyond standard station security. A more direct answer would have meant “proceed with caution,” and an exact time would have said, “disengage immediately.” Clay had potential responses ready to warn her of his unexpected tail in the olive suit, but he decided to let that one play itself out for now as his way of testing her.
She activated the table’s sound suppressor. He waited three seconds to ensure it was working properly, then nodded. “So, you’re my handler,” he said with a thin smile as he linked his HUD to his datapad and watched the gate ferry pull away from its berth outside the large windowed walls.
“Marte Ness,” she said, businesslike. “Welcome to Iota Excipio.”
“Charming place.”
“Oh, wait until you see Notosia. This is the pretty part they put in the brochure.” She thumbed at the hedonism in the concourse below.
“Can’t wait. Been in-country long?”
“We’re an independent system,” she reminded him. “Division 5 doesn’t keep assets out here. I’m a local contractor.” She swapped her datapad for another, sliding it next to his.
“Civilian?”
She chuckled. “There are no civilians here either. I’m a PI. The kind you hire to see if your spouse is cheating or your partner’s cooking the books and hiding assets off-world.” She looked him over and powered the new pad. “You’re the professional.” She typed. Clay’s datapad beeped and synced; he let the stream route to his implant. A holo and bio of a well-dressed, middle-aged businessman filled his vision. “Your man,” Ness said. “Sylvester Locke. Runs one of the larger, more powerful member corps in the Sol Directorate.”
“I know the name.”
She nodded and pushed more files. A series of nearly identical headlines scrolled in his vision. “Locke’s visited almost a dozen independent systems in two months, meeting executives from companies who are usually his competitors. In each case, the person he meets suffers a fatal ‘accident’ a few days after he leaves.”
Ness’s eyes cut past him. He’d already clocked the reflection of the olive-suited man sitting down behind him. Ness noticed him immediately as well. Good. He revised his opinion of her competence up a couple of notches.
He let the silence sit, then nodded for her to continue. “No one’s picked him up yet?”
“No evidence. The ‘accidents’ happen after he’s gone. Besides, who’s going to haul in someone that high in the Directorate for questioning?”
“So why does division care?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” She tapped again. “Division 5 has been watching Locke, ever since one of his orbital factories around Titan exploded four months ago. Two hundred dead. The company said the reactor was faulty. The Directorate Oversight Committee agreed. Locke paid generous damages to the families of those lost. Then, a few weeks later, a follow-up audit showed that the station had a budget about ten times what was normal for building ‘off-world farming habitats,’ so the Directorate commissioned Division 5 to put together your little operation here.”
“So, Titan was a front,” Clay said. “For what?”
“Division sent an SI infiltration team to crack Locke Industries’ network. They only got the outer layers but came up with a trace of a name: Project Keraunos.”
Clay glanced at the glass. The tail had repositioned himself. Ness shifted again in her seat. Either she was afraid to say anything in case she was wrong, or the suit was working for her, possibly as a protector or bodyguard. Clay kept his posture loose, ready to move if the situation called for it, and went back to the briefing. “Locke built something off-book and is visiting competitors in the independent systems. Why? To sell it? Take it to production off-world?”
“Doesn’t matter. Locke Industries is a Directorate member corporation. Hell, Locke is on the Directorate Council. He has to declare it and give Sol Directorate first rights. If he develops it out here without their blessing, it’s treason. He might be powerful enough to escape prison, but he’d at least forfeit his company and position.”
Clay whistled. “That’s a lot to risk. It must be big.”
Ness shrugged. “There were no unusual production gear or energy signatures in the Titan wreckage. Conveniently, the only people who know for sure what they were building died in the blast.”
“The people designing and building it die, the facility blows up, now everybody who turns down a partnership dies? Locke is bold, I’ll say that for him.” Clay considered. “If he develops Keraunos out here, independently, he could potentially make more money, but he’s already Chairman of his own company and a sitting Council member. What’s out here for him?”
“What do you know about Notosia?” Ness asked.
He smirked. “A shit-pit world. Last stop at the far end of an upnorth gate chain. A war zone with a new terrorist government every couple of years. So bad that it’s the only system the Sol Directorate voluntarily decolonized and granted independence to just to get it off the books. The only gate in the system leads to Midway Station in Directorate space, so there’s no real interstellar relationships, trade, or commerce—not that it has much of value anyway.”
Ness nodded. “Governments and resistance movements rise and fall. What persists are four major crime syndicates and a handful of little fish. They supply and finance both the government and the revolutionary forces, as well as a portfolio of legitimate industries and vices. If Keraunos is newtech, Locke could partner with any one of them. They get production and distribution rights, while he skims royalties as a silent partner.”
“Odds-on favorite?”
“Cerberus Syndicate is the biggest and smartest. They have the largest, most advanced production facilities and are known to produce weaponry, among other things, so they can pay the most. They also have the most to lose, so they’ll at least want a say in whatever Locke intends. In fact, if Keraunos is as big as it seems, and Cerberus doesn’t control it, things could get dicey. The balance of power could shift, and maps would start getting redrawn on Notosia, and maybe beyond.”
“Might be good, given the planet’s history. What are my orders?”
“Learn what Keraunos is and what Locke plans, assess the legality and threat to Sol Directorate interests. Report for further instructions.”
“Just that? We could’ve done this on the other side of the gate when he passed through Midway Station still in Directorate Space.” Clay watched ships glide past the windows. “Why spend the money and risk a diplomatic mess by putting wet assets on foreign soil?”
“Interpretation is above my pay grade. I advise and get you gear in the field.” She smiled. “You guys pay well. I’m calling it a hell of a last mission before I retire.”
“Vague orders on a crazy world like Notosia? I’ll be lucky to retire. Where’s Locke now?” He bit down on the negativity.
Ness squinted at the docks and pointed to a personal yacht almost as big as the gate ferry, berthed at a service hub. “La Terreur. His residence.”
Clay nodded. “Heard of it. Atmospheric, landing-capable, submersible. I’m surprised he docked with the common folk.” He scanned his itinerary. La Terreur was docked for a minor maintenance issue—no doubt courtesy of a Division 5 SI. It was scheduled to depart thirty minutes after Maguro, also heading for Nakano spaceport. The last of the data referenced a portable scanning station and one balcony room at a nearby hotel—likely with a view of all berths, including Locke’s.
“You know, it’s interesting,” Ness said, a bit sheepish. She looked out the window and subtly gestured behind Clay. “The olive suit followed you in and hasn’t taken his eyes off us since I pointed out La Terreur.”
“I saw him earlier. Overdressed for the hour. Who do you think he works for?”
“Hard to say. I’m legitimate, registered, and everyone knows I’m an independent. He could be an unrelated tail from one of the factions, just here to see who I meet with.”
“Or he could work for Locke, tailing behind and murdering uncooperative potential partners?” Clay arched one eyebrow. The mission couldn’t be that easy.
“I doubt it. He’s not very good. He stares too much. I spotted him instantly.”
“Maybe he’s just an admirer.”
“Don’t flatter me, Clay. I know I’m decades past using that tactic ever again.”
“Well, we need to handle it.” He smiled. “Split up. See who he follows, then ask his intentions.” He was asking a lot from a handler, but as a local PI, he knew she could take care of herself.
Ness downed her drink and stood. Clay rose too and headed the other way. As he passed, the man made eye contact—too long for a professional. He considered that he might be jumping at shadows and that it could be a sales pitch. When he heard the noise suppression field snap off and a chair slide back, however, he knew it was more sinister than that. At least he controlled the pace for the moment.
He drifted toward the men’s lavatory and was relieved to find it empty. A maintenance room or supply closet would have been preferable, but there was a good chance security would have locked and monitored them, so this was his best option under the circumstances. Clay punched a sequence on his datapad that activated a short-range jamming signal, blinding any hidden surveillance. Even if security noticed it immediately, it would take several minutes for them to alert and redirect maintenance to investigate. He chose a basin in the middle of the row. He was fully visible from the entrance, but he decided this was better than being trapped in a corner if things turned physical.
Clay pretended to wash his hands and adjust his hair for less than thirty seconds until the tail stepped in, surprised to find his target already alert, watching him in the mirror.
“Good evening,” Clay said.
The man nodded, eyes sliding away. “Morning, I suppose.” He managed a thin smile, moved to the basin two down from Clay, and activated the faucet.
Aware that he was unarmed, Clay took stock of the room. The man’s demeanor suggested the same—no weapon, and already regretting the chase into a secluded space. Something still felt wrong, however.
“So,” Clay said, “you want to tell me what you find so fascinating about my traveling companion and me?”
“I… I’m sorry?”
“You took quite an interest in her in the lounge. Then you followed me in here.”
“I’m sure it’s a coincidence,” the man stammered. “If I was staring, I apologize. I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m … just a nervous traveler, I guess.”
“I see.” Clay straightened. “So nervous you forgot to take a piss before washing your hands?”
The man went pale and blank. He was an amateur after all. That involuntary tell had saved his life. Clay stepped in and pushed his head into the mirror—hard, but not enough to crack the plastene. Had the mirror been glass, it would have shattered, raised a racket, and left a noticeable scar. As it was, the man only stumbled around, trying to regain his bearings. Clay searched him, scattering pocket contents across the counter. As soon as the man started to come to his senses again, Clay twisted his wrist downward, locked his arm behind his back, and pressed his torso over the counter with his right elbow while his left hand continued the frisk.
There were no weapons, just a datapad, identicard, some currency, and a small box with a mid-grade, commercially available tracking kit. Clay increased pressure; the man hissed.
“Start talking,” Clay said.
“Okay… okay. My name’s Karim. I’m an information broker.”
“Broker?”
“Yes. You’re Alexandre Girard of the Bonai Saigo Corporation on Procyon. The woman is Marte Ness, a private detective and one of my competitors on Notosia. Interesting pairing. You both looked interested in La Terreur, owned by Directorate board member Sylvester Locke. I thought there might be something to it.” He groaned. “Obviously, I was mistaken. My apologies.”
“Who hired you to spy on us?” Clay asked quickly, giving him no time to fabricate a story.
“Nobody. I’m a freelancer. I recognized Ness but didn’t know you until I ran your profile. Ness meeting an off-world client in sight of one of the most powerful men in the galaxy felt like an opportunity. I figured I could get your plan and sell it to Locke.”
Amateur, but competent enough. He’d pulled Division’s cover story in minutes and probably knew as much about “Girard” as Clay did. Nothing on the counter could have made the facial scan needed to make the lookup, however. Clay grimaced. He hated this part. “Which is the implant—right or left?”
Karim sagged. “Left.”
Clay released the hold, slammed him against the wall, gripped his throat with his left hand, and with his right plucked out the artificial eye in one swift motion.
Karim shrieked—more surprise than pain. Clay pocketed the eyeball and everything from the counter except the ID chip, which he handed back. “Unfortunately, a man in my position has to travel discreetly, and I don’t trust you to delete those scans you made simply because I asked,” he said. He waved Karim toward the exit. “Consider retiring. You’re not very good at this.”
“You can’t! How am I supposed to get off the station with no money?”
“You’re lucky I’m letting you off the station at all.” Clay shoved him back into the wall again and turned to wash his hands. Artificial or not, he hated handling the eyeball.
“Wait!” Karim’s voice was urgent now. “I’m a broker. I could be useful to you in your dealings.”
“What could you have that I need?”
“The woman you met, Marte Ness. She’s not what she seems. It would be smart for you to—”
His voice cut off with a wet gurgle. Clay spun. Ness had slipped in, ghost-quiet, and planted a flickblade at the base of Karim’s neck. His face had already gone blank, staring at nothing, as he took his last breaths, oblivious to the artistry.
“What were you thinking, Clay?” Ness hissed, catching and easing Karim’s body to the floor. “You were going to let him go?”
“He’s an amateur. Unarmed. Curiosity got the better of him.”
She retracted the blade, dropped it calmly into her pocket, and started dragging Karim’s body toward the nearest stall, being careful to keep the oozing blood flowing into his jacket and not onto the floor. “He knew too much. If he’d gotten even your cover name to one of the factions, they’d pull your entry from station logs, and we’d have ten more like him tailing us and your cover blown across Notosia before we hit atmosphere. You can’t leave loose ends.”
“I don’t kill civilians, Ness.”
“I told you: there are no civilians on Notosia. Everyone’s taken a side. The smart ones don’t advertise who they play for until they have to. The rules are different here, Clay. Loyalty doesn’t exist, right and wrong are outdated, and your sentimentality will get you killed. Forget what you know and adapt if you want to leave this system alive.” She propped the body against the back of the stall, closed the door, and turned immediately for the concourse.
“I’m running this mission, not you,” Clay said calmly, assuming her sudden intensity was just adrenaline. “Leaving a trail of bodies behind creates more complications than it solves.”
Ness ignored the rebuke as they descended down a wide walkway to the main concourse. She scanned the crowd and cut toward a uniformed technician, palming a stack of hard cred as she approached. Clay watched her whisper to the man as she passed the money. The tech nodded and headed for the restroom, brushing past Clay without a glance.
Ness smirked. “Complication averted.”
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