REQUIEM

  DAY

  Book 3: Farewell Amity Station

  Frank Kennedy

  Dedicated to everyone who’s trying to keep it all together.

  c. 2024 by Frank Kennedy

  All rights reserved

  ASIN: B0D2FR9YZ4

  A note from the author:

  Farewell Amity Station is set in the universe of the Collectorate, which includes at least three other series. Reading them is not a prerequisite. However, if you want a wider look at the Collectorate, please check out those offerings. Please read the first two books in this series before jumping into Requiem Day.

  1

  Collectorate Standard Year (SY) 5394

  Standard Day 1

  Amity Station

  Trevor knew they made a mistake, but regret served no purpose. They were grownups and willing participants. They’d face the blowback head-on – assuming word ever reached Central. Their eyes spoke of this desire for weeks. And frankly, he needed the escape.

  “Ever expect you’d celebrate New Year’s in my bed?”

  He wrapped Shireena in his arms as she left the water room and planted a deep kiss. Trevor’s First Deputy was built like a soldier and performed like a warrior. Those giant moonstone eyes stared up at him with a glint of satisfaction.

  “I intended to leave after three drinks.”

  Trevor laughed. “Really? I thought we’d say goodnight after two.”

  “Oh, Trev. You’re an awful liar.”

  He nodded toward the unkempt bed.

  “How about the rest of me?”

  Shireena smirked. “A man who knows his way around. I can’t say the same for everyone I’ve ...”

  She caught herself and dislodged from his embrace.

  “You understand. Yes? This was one time only.”

  Trevor grabbed her hand as she started toward her clothes, which lay folded over a chair beside the bed.

  “If our circumstance changes, we could mean more to each other.”

  She kissed his hand and pulled away.

  “Yes. But this was unprofessional and reckless. We should have known better.”

  Trevor wisely stopped short of saying something dopey like, “Love knows what it wants.” He had no idea if these feelings bore any resemblance to love. Twenty minutes after intercourse wasn’t the best time to judge. Instead, he chose honesty.

  “I don’t care. It was the most beautiful night I’ve had in ...” He searched his memory for the last time he and Effie made meaningful love. “At least a year. And these past three months? Shireena ...”

  She reached for her clothes.

  “Don’t explain, Trev. I know what it’s been like. You’re not as good at hiding the pain as you think.”

  Was she right? Trevor prided himself on a public face that fooled everyone. Perhaps only Shireena saw the cracks. Effie showed the same skill during their honeymoon years.

  How uncomplicated were those days?

  “It’s definitely not been what I would have predicted for the life of a so-called hero.”

  Ninety standard days ago, he spaced a man and saved an entire sector from annihilation. People praised his name and slapped him on the back. Restaurants refused to accept his UCVs. A one-eighty from the fiasco that almost got him tossed out of Amity.

  Should have been the best of times, yet it wasn’t even close.

  “It will improve, Trev. You’ll see.”

  “Yeah. Just not today. Right?”

  “No. This is going to be a long one, and ugly, I fear.”

  He hoped Shireena was off the mark, but unfolding events suggested otherwise. Thousands of Amity’s residents usually celebrated the start of the Standard New Year, but today their number would be small. Oh, there’d be ample crowds in public venues: Protestors squaring off in tense gauntlets.

  “Everything’s moving so fast,” Trevor said. “It feels like we’re standing on the edge of history.”

  Shireena slipped into her pants.

  “We will be if the IC passes MR-44. It’s amazing. We’re fifty light-years from the nearest planet, but today this place finally feels like the heartbeat it was designed to be.”

  For better or worse, he thought. Maybe much worse.

  Trevor snatched his underbriefs off the floor.

  “Interstellar stream services project the most views for an IC vote since the Riyadh Declaration four years ago.”

  “Oh, yes. After President Aleksanyan was assassinated. I wasn’t here then.”

  “It was watered-down theater. Awful lot of people thought it was the final insult to the UNF.”

  Shireena pulled the sleeves through her shirt, which was inside out.

  “Good thing Black Star came along to keep them relevant.”

  “That will be a hell of an understatement if MR-44 becomes law. Either way, there’s going to be a price. Tempers will flare.”

  “You still plan to send three deputies to help Barukh’s team?”

  Trevor didn’t enjoy thinning his numbers.

  “Harmony’s bearing the brunt. It’s the least we can do. Ilya Petrov said ESA can spare three. Hopefully, that’ll suffice and we’ll see those assholes boarding liners for home by tomorrow. Capt. Graygone wants to deploy troops. What kind of message would that send?”

  Activists from thirty worlds descended on Amity in recent days, filling every guest flat on the station. Dozens without reservations slept in the green spaces, which Central allowed until the crisis passed. Many spent a personal fortune to travel here but brought few credits for food and made a mess of public water rooms.

  The challenge affected all three sectors.

  Shireena slipped into her red and silver jacket and sighed.

  “The crowds are a temporary problem. I’m more interested in the security briefing. These rumors we’ve been hearing ...”

  “Yeah. Hopefully, we’ll have some definitive answers this time.”

  The First Deputy launch a holomirror to give herself a once-over.

  “You don’t sound optimistic.”

  “I’m not. Ever since the attacks began, something’s been off. Devonshire. Haas. Whoever sits in for Admiral Woolsey. Speaking of, the man hasn’t attended a confab in two months. With so much on the line, I don’t understand why he always sends a proxy.”

  “Maybe he’ll surprise us, Trev. It’s a big day, after all. The vote will change many fortunes.”

  “One way or the other.”

  Shireena silenced the mirror.

  “If I run into anyone in the corridor, I’ll say you and I were getting an early start on today’s business. Good?”

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  Trevor wanted to kiss her, but Shireena slipped by with purpose.

  “I hoped maybe you would stay for a café.”

  “My kiosk does as good a job as yours, Trev. I’ll see you in the office at H7.” She paused near the door. “You’re right. It was beautiful. It truly was.”

  She didn’t hide the regret from Trevor, who realized he had one hour to put the euphoria behind him. Anything else would have been selfish, more than he or Shireena could afford. Gov. Murrill needed one black mark to take down Trevor like he vowed. The old bastard wouldn’t spare Shireena, just to spite a Stallion.

  “What in ten hells is wrong with me?” He muttered after the door slid shut. “She deserved better. Shit.”

  After dressing, Trevor fell onto his sofa and reviewed his wrist plate while sipping café.

  Standard reports on crowd control. Status updates from the mid-shift deputies. Nothing odd. No arrests. Amity was quiet.

  Of course it was. For now.

  Congress convened in four hours to debate MR-44. How soon they’d vote? No one knew. The Collectorate Constitution had not been altered in fifteen years. Who would have predicted they’d start with Planetary Rights of Sovereignty?

  Not Trevor. That conservative political bunch moved with the pace of a ship trying to cross the stars minus a wormdrive.

  Still, he understood why MR-44 made it to a floor vote. He also understood the outcome was beyond his control. Whatever they decided, trouble would surely follow for the Sec Admin teams.

  Time to buck up, jackass. Serve the station’s interests, not yours.

  He scrolled through feeds from the Harmony drone cams. Small crowds gathered outside the IC building and Central Administration. A few hovered near the diplomatic wing. Quiet, civil.

  For now.

  Trevor opened his pom and messaged Effie.

  “Keep Ana home today. Just in case.”

  He didn’t expect a reply. She wasn’t interested in dialogue until he signed off on her NOI. It arrived on his pom without warning six days ago.

  Since then, he regulated his anger to a low simmer. Trevor didn’t understand why Effie refused to sit down and work it out.

  NOTICE OF INTENT FOR MARRIAGE DISSOLUTION

  He never read the body text, not even her justification. Trevor closed the document and assumed the whole thing was Reginald Endowi’s idea. Her lover played diplomat much longer than Effie. He knew every negotiating trick, how to thread every needle.

  He must have advised her to take a hard line. No compromises. Trevor is popular on Amity; he’ll use it for leverage. You’re too flexible; don’t allow him to negotiate his way back into your bed.
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  Trevor didn’t know Reginald from an airlock (although he would’ve gladly shown the man an involuntary tour). Yet he assumed that’s how their conversation went. Effie was never this cold.

  “Not today,” he muttered between sips of café. “Not tomorrow. Not next month. And damn sure not for Endowi.”

  Trevor felt his rage elevate a notch above simmer. He stared into the bottom of his cup, fixating on a tiny black puddle, barely enough to wet the tip of his tongue.

  He and Effie always started their day sharing a cup before Ana woke and duty called. Five quiet minutes of reflection just for them.

  When did she break the routine? Was it the first time she developed feelings for Endowi? Maybe the day after their first kiss.

  What difference does it make?

  It would have been so much easier if he didn’t still love her.

  Yep. The sexual euphoria had well and truly vanished.

  “Get it together, Trevor. Station before self.”

  If only it was that easy.

  He fed the kiosk a pair of pellets to cook eggs and potato mash then retreated to the water room. The two-day stubble caught him by surprise. He leaned toward the mirror and raced his hands over his jawline.

  “Huh. Did I not shave yesterday?”

  No, no. Of course he did. Shaving was a given. He despised facial hair, a quirk he developed after arriving on Amity. For all his flaws, Trevor insisted on two constants: A clean-shaven face and short, precisely groomed hair, parted on his right. He kept his tools lined side by side in a caddy.

  He checked the settings on his thumb-size phasic razor. Cudfrucker! He did miss a day.

  Trevor ran through yesterday’s routine. Not a difficult chore, as it matched every pre-work ritual. His mind’s eye captured him reaching for the razor. It was ...

  No. He set the razor down without using it.

  Why?

  Did it matter? Of course, it did. Routines kept him grounded, organized, disciplined.

  “Let it go,” he mumbled. “One time’s not important.”

  Trevor flicked on the razor, which severed and vacuumed the hairs without ever touching skin. Twenty seconds later, he checked for any rogue stubble then applied a mint splash.

  Rather than washing his hands, Trevor held them up to his nose and sniffed. In that instant, he remembered the sequence of events.

  Yes, he was distracted when he set down the razor yesterday morn. A voice called to him. Someone was in the front room.

  No. That wasn’t possible. He had no guests. Ana hadn’t stayed overnight for a week.

  But there was no mistaking. He heard a voice.

  A voice ...

  Familiar tremors rose from the base of his brain and developed into a full-on quake until they reached his frontal lobe. Trevor grabbed the sink’s edge for support.

  Shit. Not now!

  As with every other occasion, Trevor closed his eyes and waited for the disruption to pass. And like every other time, he opened his eyes to see geometric floaters in the corners of his vision.

  They glowed like embers from a dying fire.

  “I said, not now!”

  As if in direct response, he heard a voice in the outer room.

  “Where are we?”

  He didn’t move a muscle and waited it out. Nothing else worked. The other fifteen in his support group reached the same conclusion. They began meeting in the weeks after Mau Ping infected them with the remnants of Void energy. The effect was more pronounced when everyone gathered, the floaters dominating their vision.

  They made slight progress in finding commonalities, even deciding the shapes represented a language. In lieu of a solution, all shared a common hope: In time, the effect would fade.

  So far, no such luck.

  But consecutive days? And the voice to boot?

  “This cannot be good,” Trevor whispered.

  The group last met a week ago. Perhaps it was time to call them together. No one looked forward to the gatherings, but they reminded everybody that none walked alone.

  Trevor closed his eyes, engaged in a series of deep, steady breaths – like the group had practiced – and the floaters retreated.

  “Better.”

  He finished his grooming as the kiosk signaled breakfast.

  Trevor picked at his eggs. Normally, he’d devour them.

  Every time he beat back the floaters, Trevor’s heart broke. He thought of Sharif Al-Jani, the former ESA Chief who also fell victim to Mau Ping. If only Sharif hadn’t been so rash.

  If only ...

  “I miss you, friend.”

  Sharif put a pistol to his head five days after Trevor spaced Ping. No one could believe it. Sharif never suggested he couldn’t handle the pain. Trevor’s paranoia said there had to be more to the story.

  Yet a week later, another of Ping’s victims killed herself. A third ended his rotation on Amity and returned home. Trevor did not follow up with the man, per his request to be “left the fuck alone.”

  Yes. They needed to meet.

  Trevor opened his pom and messaged the fifteen. Like always, they’d have to arrange around work schedules. Finding common ground often took a while.

  “Take your time,” he told them. “My plate is full today.”

  More like spilling over, as Trevor would soon discover.

  2

  FIRST DEPUTY THOMAS QUINLAN took his breakfast at J’Wan Bistro’s outside bar in Haven grid C-3, the edge of the shopping district. The manager, Huelle Lin from Indonesia Prime, sliced fifty percent off his bill. It was a gentlemen’s agreement Lin made under perceived duress.

  The matter arose off-handedly while Thomas feasted one morning several weeks ago. He and Lin bantered about the political state of the galaxy, as people did over a meal. Thomas mentioned the latest arrests and expulsions of suspected Black Star associates.

  “All three were from the Perseus Cluster,” Thomas said. “One hailed from Indy Prime. And what a coincidence. The guy came straight here from the Maleewi Province. Why, aren’t you from Maleewi, too?”

  Lin didn’t ask for a name, nor did Thomas volunteer one. Rather, the humble shift manager wiped down the bar with extra vigor and made a nervous proclamation.

  “Tell you what, Deputy Quinlan. It is high time we reward your people for keeping our station safe. Tell everyone in Sec Admin: Half off breakfast. Every day. You tell them?”

  He never said a word. Just like Thomas never told Mr. Lin he’d been thoroughly vetted by Shadow Gambit and cleared. The detailed audits profiled every resident from the four worlds where Black Star held the greatest influence.

  Thomas enjoyed eating outside, as foot traffic filled the nearest swiftrak, and rifters came and went from the public docks across the avenue. Menu was nice, too. Tasty items. Some even cooked without a kiosk. Why ruin the atmosphere by eating alongside his skinflint colleagues?

  Especially Ramesh. What was the deal with that friend-starved fool and his barrage of jokes ending in childish punchlines?

  Thomas rose early this morning and plopped on his favorite stool two hours before reporting to Sec Admin. An associate of Lin’s greeted Thomas with his usual: Hot spring noodles in coconut milk. The small woman waited with eyes shaded until he slurped from the bowl and nodded approval.

  “Perfect.”

  “And next, Deputy?”

  “I’d like to go off menu. Do you have fresh oorta eel?”

  Her cheeks fell. Was it because he wanted a taste of their most exotic, expensive item? Or because she feared delivering bad news?

  “I ... I must check with Mr. Lin. It is so rarely ordered.”

  Thomas smirked.

  “Because it’s dreadful?”

  “No, no. Oorta, you see ... it must be marinated and then prepared with great care. Very delicate, you see. Is there nothing else we can offer, Deputy?”

  Others along the bar ate simple fare, mostly rice bowls. Boring.

  “Tell me.” Thomas leaned forward. “You resemble Lin. Are you by chance related?”

  “No, Deputy.”

  “But you’re from Indy Prime. Yes?”

  She tried to stretch a smile.

  “Oorta eel. Of course. I’ll get Mr. Lin right on it. Should I tell him to make it a rush order?”

  “Not at all. I enjoy watching the sector pass by.”

  “Very good.” She nodded, almost bowed. “Very good.”

  As she scrambled into the back, ignoring another patron’s wave, Thomas slurped his noodles with glee.