Clay worked at a small table in the Maguro’s passenger lounge, uplinking his datapad to the ship’s network and skimming Notosian newsfeeds for signs a local faction might be preparing for a game-changing newtech weapon. Ness sat on a sofa facing the docking spoke and ordered a bourbon.
“I don’t know what you expect to find,” she said, amused.
“I’m not sure either. At minimum, I can get a feel for the climate down there.”
“It’s winter in Nakano City,” Ness said dryly. “They’re notoriously brutal.”
Clay ignored her and paged through half a dozen feeds, most running the same stories. He sorted them into four piles: praise of Supreme Chancellor Prevo; boasts about the Notosian economy compared to other independent systems; triumphant reports of authorities crushing “mentally disturbed” anti-government forces; and pieces sowing distrust of other systems—especially the Sol Directorate, Thurin’s president, and the King of Auria.
His stomach turned. “Fascist playbook 101. No wonder your Supreme Chancellor has held on for almost a decade. Looks like he has everything firmly locked down.”
“Technically, if you believe the rumors and your memory, ‘this Prevo’ is a substitute they made six years ago, so he’s in second place,” Ness said. “Rumor has it the founders lasted almost eight before the first resistance groups formed. Maybe it’s a rumor. You won’t find much about them in Notosian histories.”
“How do news agencies allow this?”
“They don’t get a choice. The public networks are owned by the Office of Communications, which can kill or edit whatever it disapproves of. If you’re a journalist, you learn to only pitch stories ‘of interest to the public.’ Otherwise, you get branded a troublemaker and replaced.”
“The people though? They accept this? Do they believe it?”
“There’s never been what you’d call a free press on Notosia, Clay. Truth is what the government says it is. People don’t know any different, and Mother Eye gives them a truth that’s more comfortable and easier to digest than reality. She’s very good at controlling those masses.”
Clay nodded. “I read about Prevo’s propaganda SI in the brief. I should’ve guessed it runs the newsnets.”
“Not just the newsnets; art, music, literature, vidfilms, everything. All creative work goes through guilds that report to OffComm. If it doesn’t glorify Notosia, the government, or Prevo, the guild and Mother Eye marginalize it.”
“It still sounds unbelievable. You can’t just gaslight an SI into abandoning ethics. It’s built into the root code. What happened?”
“No idea, but the control’s absolute. Did you bring any personal reading?”
“I keep a few books on the pad for trips.”
“Open one you know.”
Clay pulled up a nineteenth-century U.S. frontier story. Three paragraphs in, his jaw dropped. He jumped to the middle. It got worse. “This isn’t the same book. It’s similar, but the names and places have changed.”
“To make it Notosian-focused,” Ness said. “Once you synced your pad to the public network to check newsfeeds, you became part of her truth.”
“So, Mother Eye not only influences the present, she can rewrite the past?” He stared at the screen.
A rumble ran through the cabin. Outside the lounge windows, the docking arm retracted and the Maguro slowly drifted away from the station. The captain’s image appeared on the holodisplays; after a bit of ceremony, he ordered the ship out. The trip from the Gate Station, four AU above the system plane, “down” to Notosia orbiting Iota Excipio at roughly 160 million kilometers would take slightly less than two days.
“Is that why Notosia only has one gate and no backup?” Clay asked. “Prevo sees outside commerce and tourism as a threat to his version of the truth?”
“Maybe. There are rumors he’s building new gates in secret to push into the frontier. Of course, it’s decades before the other end reaches even the nearest stars, and decades more to terraform anything. But what tyrant doesn’t expect to live forever?”
“Notosia isn’t the be-all, end-all of the Excipio system, though, surely.”
“The other settlements are small corporate colonies on the outer moons of a couple of the gas giants. They co-own the Gate Station but mostly tolerate Notosia. To Prevo, they’re too small to matter as long as they stay out of his hair.”
Clay almost joked about a tyrant’s need to find new enemies, then remembered he didn’t actually know where Ness’s loyalties lay. Buying off an enemy to act as a temporary ally is sometimes cheaper and more-relaible than trust. His brief hadn’t said they’d bought Ness, but Division 5 often “need to know.”
“What about off-book gates?” he said. “I’m surprised Locke is traveling openly. Surely smugglers, or some oligarch, have built a private gate.”
“They found one of the Sol Directorate’s a years decades back and blew it up. Cerberus could have one and Prevo may have a back door out if his empire falls, but those would be tightly held secrets and rarely used. Locke made a show of parking his luxury yacht at Gate Station. Either he hasn’t cut a deal with the government or Cerberus yet, or he’s playing them against each other.”
Clay nodded.
“On the other hand,” Ness murmured, lowering her voice, “see the two by the exit?”
Clay glanced. Two men in clean coveralls: one with dark red hair and a full beard; the other was heavyset, with longer hair and a cybernetic arm. “That arm’s out of place for a working-class costume. Nice brasswork inlays. Looks more antique than practical. Otherwise, they read normally.”
“The fat one is Markus Klein, head of Jade Shield—half crime family, half fringe cult. A minor player overall, but recent wins gave him a small fortune and a few hundred new followers. Discretion isn’t his strength, obviously.”
The pair got up and left. No one one paid any notice except for two men in matching blue suits who sat at the bar.
“Who are they?” Clay asked, tipping his head.
“Tokusha. Prevo’s elite government police squad. They get free rein to harass anyone who looks wrong. Best practice is to stay small and stay clear.”
Clay rose.
Ness arched a brow. “You disagree?”
“You’ve made Klein sound fascinating. I should meet him.” Clay smiled. “I doubt he and Locke are here at the same time by chance.”
“You’re going to provoke him? Here? Now?”
“We’re not going to learn anything sitting here skimming Mother Eye’s truth, and it’s best to get him off-guard like this.”
“Be careful. The Ministry of Transportation doesn’t love incidents on public flights.”
Clay nodded and left the lounge. The Tokusha talked among themselves and ignored him. He headed aft past the dining room and spotted Klein and his companion slipping into the storage hold in the aft quarter.
He waited about a minute, then followed. The hold spanned two levels and a quarter of the ship’s length. A narrow stair climbed to a catwalk around the upper level. Lockers lined the walls and ran in rows down the center—storage for passengers without cabins. The space was open to all; it looked empty.
Staying tight to the port wall, he moved toward the far end until hushed voices drifted from the next aisle. A surveillance drone, the only one in the room, apparently, sat on the floor at the end of the aisle, its diagnostic light blinking. Clay turned down the adjacent row and eased closer.
“…and we can’t spend the entire trip hiding back here,” a deep voice said.
“We?” the other man laughed. “You’re the one who insisted on accompanying me in person. You weren’t exactly subtle before, and now you’re a public figure. Of course, we were spotted.”
There was a pause. “If I’m such a fool, maybe we dissolve our agreement,” Klein said.
“I considered it dissolved the minute you ruined our plans at Gate Station.”
“Fine.” Klein snorted. “I’ll expect the money I fronted you back in the morning.”
“That won’t happen. You’re the one who ruined the deal, and now you owe me for putting me on the Tokusha’s radar and risking everything I’ve built.”
“I would watch how you talk to me.”
“You’re right. I should be more deferential. I’m no one, just some passenger you started chatting with. If those two back at the lounge stop me, I’ll answer a few questions and walk. You’ll have a harder time. In fact, maybe I should be proactive and introduce myself to them and give them a reason not to wait until we’re back on Notosia to grab you?”
There was silence.
Clay edged along the lockers. Seconds later, the red-haired man appeared at the end of the aisle end ahead of him.
“Oh, you startled me,” Clay said quickly, noting Klein had come up from behind him to cut off any retreat. “I’m lost. Looking for unit B-908.”
Klein studied him, face blank. “Common mistake. B-units are upstairs,” he said, lifting his chin toward the catwalk. His eyes never left Clay.
“That explains it.” Clay turned. The red-haired man held position, eyes still on Klein for a signal.
“Your accent,” he said. “Downwest?”
“Procyon, actually.”
The man considered, then nodded. “A bit twangy for Procyon. You’ve traveled.”
“Yes. Terraform engineer for years in my youth. A couple of decades off-world. It gets muddled.”
“Fascinating. And what do you do now, Mr.…?”
“Girard,” Clay said, adding a touch of nerves.
“Obryn,” the redhead said, smiling for the first time. “What brings you to Notosia, Mr. Girard?”
“Bonai Saigo. Our former chairman failed to close a very lucrative deal, so our new leadership sent me to plead our case and see if the partners will reconsider.”
“Partners on Notosia? There are more reliable worlds.”
“Possibly,” Clay said. “But this particular one was headed there, so now I’m headed there.”
Obryn’s smile widened. “You’re very forthcoming. Not worried someone will beat you to the prize?”
“It’s not about who gets there first. It’s about who has the best vision for the future. I’m sure you understand.” He was sure the man did. The question was how much he’d give away.
“So do your interests end with Procyon and Bonai Saigo’s margins, or is there something for Notosia?” Obryn stroked his beard. Neither he nor Klein had moved.
A third man rounded the corner and stopped behind Obryn. “Gentlemen,” he said, calm and authoritative. “Can I help you with anything?”
Obryn turned, startled but composed. “No. We were just talking.”
“I see. May I see your travel itineraries?” He held out a hand.
“Is there a problem?” Obryn asked.
“There won’t be if you show me your itineraries.”
Obryn crossed his arms. “And you are? Last I checked, passengers aren’t restricted from this area.”
The man raised his palm, activating a holodisc that projected credentials. “Marshal Harris, Ministry of Transportation. Your itineraries.”
Clay, Obryn, and Klein complied. Harris examined each, lingering on Clay’s. “Mr. Girard … you have an elite transit waiver. Important man.”
“A perk of the job,” Clay said, knowing a marshal who hassled him on a public flight could find their life complicated by a Directorate sponsor.
“You’re free to go, sir. My apologies.” Harris nodded to Clay, then to the others. “You two will come with me. I have additional questions.”
Klein and Obryn exchanged a look and started toward the entrance. After three paces, Obryn snapped around and punched Harris in the face.
Harris had expected it. He blocked, countered, and drove a fist into Obryn’s solar plexus. Obryn folded, coughing.
Harris drew a sidearm from his waistband and aimed at Klein’s head. “Enough. Hands on your heads. On your knees. Now.”
Klein slid his left leg back and raised his hands. Clay recognized the textbook boxing stance. The cybernetic arm whirred. He lunged, the mechanical hand snapping and grabbing Harris’s wrist. Harris was faster, however, and smashed down on Klein’s clavacle his free hand. Klein released the arm and took a second blow from the pistol butt. He staggered but didn’t drop.
“You’re not the man of God you pretend to be, Mr. Klein,” Harris said, sighting the back of Klein’s head.
Clay wasn’t as eager for straight-on fights as he’d been decades ago, but surprise was still his ally. He surged forward, wrenched Harris’s gun arm up, and slammed him into the wall. A sharp knee to the groin and a judo throw headfirst into the opposite bulkhead dropped the marshal to his knees. The pistol clattered to the deck between Clay and Obryn.
Clay froze, watching Obryn. After a brief stare-down, Obryn laughed. Without looking, he safe-checked the pistol, then helped Klein up and pocketed the gun.
Klein raised the mechanical arm, palm out, and fired a quiet dart from under his wrist into the back of the unconscious marshal’s head. Harris convulsed twice and went limp.
“Put the body in my locker,” Klein said. His eyes had gone dead and his face was expressionless.
Clay flinched slightly. Summary execution on a civilian transport wasn’t justice, it was rot. He swallowed it down. “Was that wise? Surely someone is going to miss a marshal.”
Obryn smiled and shoved Harris’ body into the small storage unit. “Marshals are required to wear their credentials on their right sleeve, not carried in their pockets on a holodisc, Mr. Girard. He was Tokusha. As Tokusha are not supposed to be operating off-world, they’ll likely keep quiet about a missing man. Still, best if we all stay out of sight and not cross paths again. Agreed?”
“As you say, Mr. Obryn,” Clay said and left.
“I trust your discretion, Mr. Girard,” Obryn called. “But perhaps rethink doing business on Notosia. I doubt Bonai Saigo is prepared for the passion we bring to ‘friendly competition.’”
Clay said nothing as he exited the hold.
Five minutes later, he was back in the lounge, settling beside Ness.
“How did you and your new friends hit it off?” she asked, smirking.
“Klein’s a dangerous idiot. The friend has some brains, at least. Who was he? Says his name was Obryn.”
“Never heard of him, but I’ll do some digging.”
“I think I established we have common interests. Neither one can fight worth a damn, and both are too hot-headed to lead a rebellion. Still, I don’t doubt they’re tied to Locke. The government knows it, and the Tokusha know it. Klein confirmed it for them. We’re going to need to stay in our suites and off everyone’s radar.”
Ness studied his hands. “You’re bleeding.”
He flexed his knuckles, as if noticing for the first time. “Bulkhead has a mean hook.”
“Alright, you’re in charge,” she said. “How do you want to play it at the spaceport?”
“Your hotel-surveillance idea is a good start. I’m guessing Locke has a private transport. We’ll need a tracker on it before he leaves to meet his partner.” He thought for a beat. “You take the room and act as a lookout. I’ll slip aboard La Terreur, plant the tracker, and see what intel I can pull. I’ll need a shoulder bag with the following equipment waiting when we get off the shuttle.” He held up his datapad and beamed a file to hers.
Ness’s eyes widened. “You’re serious? A megacorp CEO’s residence? Do you know how many anti-intrusion systems that yacht probably has?”
“I have a good idea,” Clay said. “If it were easy, our SI would’ve already cracked it and moved in. After hundreds of years, no one’s found a substitute for a wet asset with ingenuity and field time. Don’t worry. I’ll make it work.”
| Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 |
