“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 out of the gate ferry’s airlock, one gate outside civilization, chaos hit him like a solid wave. Sean Clay paused on the departure bridge and regarded the aging craft. Once an interplanetary liner, it now shuttled the quick half-hour hop between the stations at either end of the man-made wormhole linking this gate to its entangled twin twenty light-years away at Midway Station. He sympathized with it.
Impatient passengers jostled him forward. He took his bearings from an overly bright sign that flashed directions in a dozen languages before heading for the far end of the entry bay. There, animated symbols pointed to the local Imposts counter.
As he followed, locals peeled off toward the main concourse and homebound transports. Meanwhile, in the guise of a fashionable businessman, Clay joined a short queue of half a dozen obvious lowlifes to check in with Gate Station Authority and pay the ubiquitous system entry fees.
He waited, trying to make sense of the music blaring a little too loudly from unseen speakers, eyes drifting across the ads lining the wall. They 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 holographic arrow lit up in front of him, directing him to a ring of booths in the room’s center, where a projected young man behind a waist-high counter beckoned. Five guards in green uniforms flanked the entry to the main concourse beyond, 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. Great if you were firing from the rubble at a light armored tank; disastrous on a station. Two or three stray shots from one of those bests 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 cells, they were neutered props. He caught the familiar outlines of smaller plasma-based sidearms in thigh pockets. Those would be the ones that are armed and ready.
Encouraging, at least. Excipio had a reputation as the crime-ridden, anarchic last stop on an abandoned up-north gate chain, but somebody here had common sense. With luck, Notosia would prove as toothless as this station. He could wrap things quickly and get back to Directorate space.
“Welcome to Iota Excipio,” the smiling holo said, synthetic warmth at odds with the grave, neutered military presence three meters away. The local accent was twangy compared to core Directorate systems. He could impersonate it in a pinch, but his cover required something more refined.
Clay raised his palm for the identity scan and uploaded his itinerary and bio, both agency fakes, to the Impost Synthetic Intelligence. The itinerary carried an elite transit waiver sponsored by a Sol Directorate member corporation. This guaranteed payment of any entry fees and trimmed scrutiny and bureaucracy to a tolerable minimum. It was a nice bonus for this job.
His heart skipped. Almost too late, he opened a counter-deception routine in his HUD, locking his galvanic response and pupil dilation for the interaction. He matched the holo’s expression as a chirp-beep confirmed the handoff. A close call that could have brought those burly guards, but none of them shifted or glanced his way. He chalked his lapse up to the station’s chaos rather than carelessness on his part.
The holo held his gaze throughout. The SI behind it was likely running a surface-level deceit scan. “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. The summary fit the extensive cover he’d memorized, and none of it was true. Boring, which made it believable.
More phony data orbited in the air. The concierge ignored it, studying him rather than the story. Clay guessed the SI could spot only blatant lies and was as bored as a human doing the job. He resisted a sigh when the holo nodded and killed the display.
“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. Your elite transit waiver includes access to the Green Level Passenger Lounge. Current time is 0319, so the restaurant level is not yet open. Several kiosks on the concourse offer meals for purchase, allowing you 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.” It gave one last disingenuous 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. If the SI had flagged him, they would have made it painful for him.
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 over three levels stretching nearly a kilometer. He threaded through a middle-of-the-night crowd of misfits, twice shifting his body to foil pickpockets and resisting the urge to break fingers.
Those not angling for his hard cred walked with expressionless faces and a slow, 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. His implant tagged and displayed details of the compound, along with the relevant entry in his briefing material — just a simple aerosol tranquilizer — cheaper than hiring a security team, legal under Excipio code, and pretty standard practice on the less-trafficked frontier system stations. Again, he blamed the chaos for his not expecting or catching 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. The man seemed unaffected by the suppressant, indicating either cybernetic lungs or an antitoxin. On Notosia, implants cost more than on Earth, but they weren’t unheard of. He might have gotten implants from a prior disease or accident, or he knew about the suppressant and countered it himself. Either way, the man read as wrong.
The dissonant music was a constant reminder he was in unfriendly territory, outside Sol Directorate systems, traveling offline and unarmed. First test, he decided, and welcomed a rush of adrenaline he hadn’t felt in decades. If he couldn’t handle a couple of flights and a seedy gate station, it was time to retire—much to his superiors’ delight.
He moved down the concourse 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 surveyed the concourse. Not a coincidence. Clay stepped onto the lift and rode up.
Compared to the sensory overload below, the Green Level Lounge—looking down on the chaos from several meters up—was almost comatose. A dozen passengers sat scattered at tables around the luxurious loft, enjoying a panoramic view of the sunward docking spokes where local 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 spotlighted an unassuming, late-middle-aged woman dressed in fashionable business attire at the center of the room, nursing a drink and typing on a datapad. She had silver hair, a soft build, and the kind, crinkled eyes of a grandmother, but her posture was that of a professional. She had sized him up discreetly the moment he entered and repositioned herself expectantly.
He crossed the room and stood next to her. “Excuse me,” he said, setting a small datapad on the table. “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 said, “disengage immediately.” Clay had potential responses ready to warn her of his unexpected tail in the olive suit, but he let it play for now as his way of testing her.
She activated the table’s sound suppressor; he nodded when it hummed to life. “So, you’re my handler,” he said with a thin smile as he linked his HUD to his datapad while pretending to enjoy the view 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 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 doing them a favor. No skin in your game.” She swapped datapads and set the new one next to his.
“Civilian?”
She chuckled. “There are no civilians out here. 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 only professional at this table.”
“Contractors are for surveillance reports and factbook updates. Didn’t think we tapped you guys for fieldwork.”
“Chaotic world, chaotic times.” 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. “He’s visited almost a dozen independent systems in two months, meeting executives who are usually competitors. In each case, the person he met suffered a fatal ‘accident’ a few days after he left.”
Ness’s eyes cut past him. He’d already heard the olive-suited man walk past and caught the reflection of the man taking a seat behind him. Knowing that she tagged him as well confirmed his suspicions and raised his opinion of her skills a couple of notches.
He let the silence sit, then nodded for her to continue. “Why haven’t locals picked him up?”
“No evidence. The ‘accidents’ happen after he’s gone. And do you think an independent world is going to haul in someone that high in the Directorate?”
“I presume Division was watching and spotted the pattern?”
“That’s where it gets interesting.” She tapped again. “Division 5 has been watching him ever since one of his orbital factories around Titan exploded four months ago. Two hundred dead. Company said faulty reactor. Directorate oversight committee agreed. Locked paid generous damages to the families of those lost. Story closed. A few weeks later, a follow-up audit showed that the station had a budget about ten times what was normal for building “off-work farming habitats,” so the Directorate commissioned Division to start your little operation here.
“So, Titan was a front,” Clay said. “For what?”
“Division sent and 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. Ness shifted again as if she were deciding whether to say something. The tail had repositioned. Clay kept his posture loose, ready to move if the situation called for it.
“He built something off-book and is visiting competitors in the independent systems. Why? To sell it? Take it to production offworld?”
“Doesn’t matter. Locke Industries is a Directorate member corp, and Locke’s a board member. He must declare it and give other members first rights. If he develops it out here without their blessing, it’s treason. He forfeits the company and his seat.”
Clay whistled. “That’s a lot to risk. What could make him that confident?”
“Has to be something empire-building.” She shrugged. “No unusual production gear or energy signatures in the wreckage. Most people who’d have worked on it died in the blast, so it must be ready to take to production.”
“Now, he’s also killing everyone who turns down a partnership to keep it quiet? That’s even more risky than going against the Directorate.” Clay considered. “If he can develop it on his terms, he’s free and clear. The more refusals, the more desperate he gets. He has to assume we’ve noticed the bodies. Odds he finds partners here?”
“What do you know about Notosia?”
He smirked. “A shit-pit world. Last stop at the far end of an up-north gate chain. A war zone with a new terrorist government every couple of years. So bad it’s the only system the Sol Directorate voluntarily decolonized to get it off the books. The only gate leads to Midway Station in Directorate space. No other routes means no real interstellar 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 smaller outfits who supply and finance both the government and the revolutionary forces. Each of the syndicates controls a particular industry or vice. If Keraunos is newtech, Locke could partner with one of them. They get production and distribution, and he skims royalties as a silent partner.”
“Odds-on favorite?”
“Cerberus Syndicate is the biggest and smartest. They’re run a business mogul, a former military strategist, and, oddly, one of our top entertainers. They control the largest, most advanced production facilities and supply arms to both government and resistance, so they can pay him the most. They also have the most to lose, so they’ll want a say in whatever Locke intends. If Keraunos is as big as it looks, and Cerberus doesn’t control it, that’s when things get dicey. It could shift the balance of power and start redrawing maps 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 threat to the Sol Directorate, report for further instructions.”
“Just that? We could’ve done this on the other side of the gate when he passed through Midway Station and was still in Directorate Space.” Clay watched ships glide past the windows. “Why spend the money and risk a diplomatic mess by putting assets on foreign soil when you could’ve seized it a few hours ago?”
“Interpretation’s above my pay grade. I advise and get you gear in the field.” She smiled. “You 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 in port for a minor maintenance issue—no doubt courtesy of a Division 5 SI. It was set to depart thirty minutes behind Maguro, carrying them both to Nakano spaceport minutes apart. 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.
“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.”
“Yes, I saw him. Overdressed for the hour. You think he works for Locke?”
“Hard to say. I’m legitimately registered; everyone knows I’m independent. He could be an unrelated tail from a faction, seeing who I came to meet.”
“Or a psychopath shadowing Locke and murdering anyone curious.” Clay arched one eyebrow. The mission couldn’t be that easy, could it?
“I doubt it. He’s not very good. I clocked him instantly, and he stares too much. Just creepy.”
“Maybe an admirer.”
“Don’t flatter me, Clay. I know I’m decades past using that tactic ever again.”
“So, it’s either nothing, or we’re done for if we don’t handle it.” He smiled. “We split up, see who he follows, then ask his intentions.” Ness was a handler, not an agent, 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 olive-suited man made eye contact—too long for a professional. He considered he might be jumping at shadows, and 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 locked and monitored those, so this was his best option under the circumstances. Clay punched a sequence on his datapad that activated a jamming signal. Even if security noticed it immediately, it would be several minutes before they could alert and redirect maintenance to investigate. He chose a basin in the middle of the row. He was fully visible from the entrance, but 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 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 off, 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 began to regain his balance, 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.
The man carried no weapons, just a datapad, identicard, some currency, and a case 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 fast, giving him no time to fabricate.
“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 in minutes and probably knew as much about “Girard” as Clay did. Nothing on the counter could have made a scan for the lookup, however. Clay grimaced. He hated this part. “Which implant—right or left?”
Karim sagged. “Right.”
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 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. She’s actually—”
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 are you playing at, 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 the 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.
| Front Matter | Chapter 2 |
