Malik frowned.

  “Amity?”

  “I’m almost as proud of him as I am of you.”

  “You gave him your Stetcode?”

  “I want him to appreciate how important he is. Now, let’s see something of greater value. Ah, here we are.”

  The next message was long and encrypted. Shad ran the translation matrix he designed and sold to the UNF twelve years ago. This data came directly from Central Command. He summarized for Malik.

  “Our loyalists are moving into position. They’ll deal with anyone who challenges the orders.”

  “The Admiralty?” Malik asked. “Are they all onboard now?”

  “Nagano believes High Admiral Woolsey might be a problem.”

  Malik grabbed his father’s arm.

  “But wait. The orders have to go through Woolsey. If he backs down, everything will fall apart.”

  “It’s OK, Son. You’ve never met Woolsey. He’s a practical man who understands these things more than most. Plus, he’s an immortal. He intends to live forever. He’ll make the right choice.”

  “I hope so. The plan was designed to work if all spears were pointed in the same direction.”

  Malik worried. Typical. He hadn’t lived long enough to understand the value of patience.

  “No worries. See? They are.”

  He showed a transmission which said all players had moved into their respective positions.

  “It’s a work of art. Coordinated over such incredible distances. After the go order, everyone will act within a standard hour. Any opposition will not have time to rally.”

  “But they’ll try. That’s when it gets dangerous. How long until it’s a go?”

  “If all the parts move into place, less than a standard day. Which means, we’ll need to leave after an early breakfast.”

  Malik rubbed his hands together as if he were freezing.

  “I wasn’t sure it would really come off.”

  Shad scrolled through his other transmissions, most of which were interesting but not mission-critical.

  Until he reached the last one. Shad mumbled.

  “Ah. I see. He replied at last.”

  “Who?”

  “The man himself. See?”

  Malik choked up.

  “Shit. Can’t we put him off?”

  “Of course not. Raul responded to the beacon. He wishes to talk. I would never refuse my old friend.”

  Black Star’s founder had gone quiet for two months. The timing struck Shad as a bit problematic but nothing to worry about. Malik expressed his usual fear.

  “You know how I feel about him. He’ll double-cross us.”

  “I wouldn’t rule it out. But as I’ve said before, he endorses our plan. He signed on to the madness long before we crossed paths. After tomorrow, he’ll want to know how we intend to proceed. It’s only fair.”

  A psychopath. A ruthless mass murderer. A man bent on destroying everything the People’s Collectorate built.

  That was the extent of what Malik knew about Raul, a man whose last name was as mysterious as his origin. Shad kept their encounters brief; he saw the effect Raul and his No. 1, The Carib, had on Malik. It would be expected with any rational human.

  Mostly, he didn’t want Malik to uncover the truth. What would be gained by learning what Raul actually was?

  Shad made a vow. Someday, after the war ended and the new order rose, he’d sit down with Malik and explain how it all fit together. What Shad learned from the Wave, how it originated, and who caused it.

  Yes. A good story. A great story.

  And much too complex for a young, impressionable mind.

  For now, best to push on with the mission at hand.

  Code Exodus stood ready.

  19

  Amity Station, Harmony Sector

  TREVOR SET UPON THE PORTMASTER’S data after finishing his one allotted morning cup of café. Harmony Spaceport’s inbounds for the next sixty standard days showed landing bays holding to a consistent seventy-five percent occupancy. Was this the normal rate?

  Trevor blamed himself for the limited information. He didn’t tell Andreas to ask for cancellations or occupancy trends. Worse, half these flights stopped at multiple planets en route. The data did not reflect reservations or transfers on the eight planets of concern.

  “Andreas, verify Portmaster Shee is on duty. Tell her to expect me in the next twenty minutes.”

  “Very good, sir. Were the schedules helpful?”

  “Not yet.”

  He wasn’t sure a deeper dive would make a difference. Yet this seemed like a reasonable strategy. If the eight delegations did not intend to return for the new Congressional session, they’d double down on vacating their leases by not booking flights. Commercial travel to Amity tended to be at its highest at two times: The start of a new session and the final debate on major legislation.

  The more he considered it, Trevor thought seventy-five percent occupancy had to be low.

  This mystery proved a healthy distraction. Trevor slept less than two hours, his mind bouncing between Connor’s aloof behavior, his last exchange with the Enzathi, and his vow to deal with Thomas today.

  Connor didn’t help.

  He left a cryptic message around H5, while Trevor slept, saying he planned a full day of reunions with old mates. Mostly coworkers from EngSec9. Maybe they’d catch lunch, Connor said.

  “I’m wired, bruv. I forgot how much I love this place.”

  End message.

  Trevor didn’t buy it. Connor sounded like the brother of old yet a total contrast to the one who yesterday insisted he found a new purpose beyond Amity. The one who spoke poorly of the Raison Club, saying he had outgrown the place.

  C’mon, jackass. You’re overthinking it. He’s conflicted. That’s all. Torn between the old world and the new.

  Trevor laughed.

  “Maybe he got stone drunk.”

  Somehow, the idea sounded like a positive development.

  Last night, long before Connor’s message, Trevor tried to explain the difference to Shireena while they laid in bed.

  “The change in him is too drastic,” he said. “Connor was a wild child who never grew up. He couldn’t abide rules or a straitjacketed life. I assumed the military would round the corners and narrow his focus. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “He’s distant and hard. Even in those moments when he sounds like the brother I knew, the rhythm is off somehow. He looks through me rather than at me. If that makes sense.”

  Shireena tried to dissuade Trevor from jumping to conclusions. He didn’t share the Enzathi’s warnings and vowed not to until he had grounds to believe them.

  “Did Connor say much about what he experienced out there?”

  Trevor sighed.

  “One bit I can’t shake. He claimed he’s been fighting a war.”

  Shireena sat up.

  “What war?”

  “My question exactly. The only wars have been between Black Star and the cartels. Officially.”

  He let the idea sink in until the alternative dawned on her.

  “You don’t think he’s talking about ...? No. Can’t be.”

  Trevor tried not to believe it. Sure, Connor might’ve embellished just to add excitement to his tale. But why?

  “I think Lana Devonshire was right about Requiem. She said their aim was to create a larger war as a preamble to military rule. They tried to silence her. For all anyone knows, she’s been dead for months. If Requiem is behind what’s been happening out there, it needs soldiers on the ground. Close to a million people have died on those eight planets. If he ...”

  She laid her head on his chest.

  “Be careful. There’s no proof he’s part of it.”

  Trevor snapped together more pieces.

  “No, but there’s evidence. Maybe he tried to tell me. Connor said he volunteered for something called special training. A fast road to advancement. Best unit in the UNF, he called it.”

  “He’s a Lieutenant now, so that tracks. But there’s any number of ways he might have risen through the ranks. The UNF has been expanding. They need more officers. He proved himself.”

  “So he said. I can’t wrap my head around it. If Requiem is behind everything, they’ve killed ... no, murdered ... tens of thousands of civilians. At least. I refuse to believe Connor would ...”

  Shireena switched positions until he rested his head on her chest.

  “Your brother is a good man. You mustn’t go there, love. Give him time and ample space.”

  “I’ll try my best.”

  Trevor intended to uphold his promise, but the early-morning message clouded his judgement. He pushed the dilemma to one side en route to Harmony Spaceport Master Control. Another piece in a maddening puzzle to sort.

  HSMC rose above one end of the port like a control tower. In the old days of Ark Carriers, this facility oversaw a fleet of Unification Guard capital ships, Scramjets, and transports. Thousands of soldiers served on each Carrier while it orbited above a colony world.

  Today, a team of fifteen – only six of whom were on duty during this shift – supervised the comings and goings of civilian liners and private shuttles. The controllers occupied large stations with wide berths, their voices echoing through the oversized chamber.

  Liv Shee, a Cairns native with long shocks of fire red hair and large-rimmed decorative eyeglasses, greeted Trevor.

  “A personal visit from the Governor.” She extended a hand. “Consider me floored.”

  “Lonely up here, is it?”

  “Peaceful is our preferred term. How are you, Trevor?”

  They shared a few nights out when he was a young deputy and she worked in Central Accounting. Might have been more had she not rotated out.

  “At the moment, Liv, I’m swamped. I’d love to catch up, but I need help with a logistical matter then my duties are ...”

  She rubbed his arm in a familiar way and interjected.

  “I know, I know. You’ll leave me high and dry again.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She cackled. “Bad joke. Sorry. I was the one who left.” She moved on from the flippant remark. “Your Chief of Staff implied the schedules were insufficient.”

  “Not anything you did wrong. I’m curious about certain routes, cancellations, occupancy numbers.”

  Liv twirled her lips.

  “Odd. Yesterday your man said this related to staffing levels. You were looking into increasing our budget. Yet the new request sounds unrelated. Am I on to your game?”

  “You are, but I’m not at liberty to play fair. You’ll have to trust me. Can we talk in private?”

  She led them into an office surrounded by glass walls. It reminded him of Haven Sec Admin. Two holos hovered above her desk.

  “I called up the schedules you asked for. Assuming they’re still relevant, what data will meet your fancy?”

  Hmm. Might as well start big.

  “The Intersystem Commercial Registry.”

  She scoffed. “Oh, I see. The macro view. That little old thing.”

  Liz opened another holo and scrolled through options.

  “How many ships are listed altogether?” He asked.

  “Sixty-one hundred and seventeen.”

  Shit.

  “Guess all the talk about regulating worm drive ownership made no difference.”

  “Not in the least. Luckily, it’s no problem here. Between us and Episteme, we only have thirty-six landing zones, and we’re not a trading port. But terrestrial port controllers constantly thread a needle. It’s getting out of hand. I worked three years at Barca Intersystem on Catalan. I medicated daily.”

  Trevor didn’t come here for an analysis of interstellar traffic problems. However, Liv’s mention of one of her postings before she returned to Amity gave Trevor an idea.

  “Catalan. Right. You also worked Yaniff and ... I forget.”

  “Inuit Kingdom. Ugh. Worst two months of my life. Dreadful little black hole called Tivvian Town. If you’ve never heard of it, be thankful, and pray you never will.”

  Whatever. Trevor moved on.

  “You’re in regular touch with every intersystem port. Yes?”

  “Have to be. I’m good friends with many a portmaster.”

  “I’m curious. Have you – or they – noticed any recent shifts in transport patterns?”

  She raised a skeptical brow.

  “None I’ve heard of. What’s your angle, Trevor?”

  “How many private vessels in the registry?”

  She glanced at the statistics.

  “Seventeen hundred and ninety-five.”

  “OK. Thirteen percent of the whole. How does that compare to Amity arrivals?”

  “Goodness. Three out of ten in our landing zones are private. Most of the IC reps, a third of the ambassadors, and a few other dignitaries. Episteme is majority private. Corporate vessels.”

  He didn’t want to go too far into the weeds, but better the numbers added up before he jumped to conclusions.

  “Forget about Episteme.” He pointed outside. “What’s your average zone occupancy?”

  “While the IC’s in session? Ninety-five percent. Until they return, it fluctuates but hovers near seventy-five.”

  Yeah, something was off. He approached it with discipline.

  “The IC begins a new session in forty days. The Constitution requires the reps to select the next President within five days of the opening gavel. They already know the candidates. They’ll arrive, listen to speeches, form voting blocs, and make it a done deal.”

  “Your point, Trevor?”

  “They’re legally required to be here. Yet when I look at those schedules, I calculate no better than a seventy-five percent zone occupancy up to and during the first twenty days of the session. How far out do reps and their staff book arrivals?”

  Liv removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

  “Oh. Well. It varies. As I said, many arrive on private vessels. Most of the lesser staff can only afford commercial, of course. Plus, many of them aren’t hired until the last minute, leaving them little choice.”

  “How far out do the private vessels typically book?”

  “Fifty standard days at minimum. We demand it. Most landing zones are reserved for commercial liners on scheduled routes; they’re confirmed several months out. Private vessels compete for slots. They pay an enormous premium. Some daily, others by the hour.”

  “So, a newly elected IC rep wouldn’t be able to book private far enough in advance. He’d have to fly commercial.”

  “Those types hitch a ride with senior members of their delegation.”

  Made sense. Trevor laid out his plan.

  “I want to compare inbound numbers for eight specific planets. Break it down by commercial and private. The first travel window involved the opening of the IC’s last session.”

  “Late last year?”

  “Yes. SD 220 to 240. That’s five days prior to opening gavel plus the first fifteen of the session. I want to see how that stacks up against this year: SD 150 to 170.”

  “And the planets?”

  He named the eight delegations that did not plan to renew their leases. Liv entered the data with a long frown.

  “I can make this work with the private vessels, but commercial numbers require variables. Are you looking solely for flights that originated on these eight, or multisystem journeys with stops on your specified planets?”

  Trevor hadn’t factored for the variable.

  “Can you filter those journeys by planetary bookings?”

  “Sure. Won’t take long.”

  Liv set the parameters for the analysis. Trevor studied the five others who appeared to be keeping themselves busy. On the way in, he made note of the master schedule, which showed no inbound or outbound for another two hours. Only a few people milled about near Customs.

  “Still don’t care to tell me what you’re on about, Trevor?”

  “Would if I could. Might be a black hole.”

  “So, I gather you’re not planning to increase our budget.”

  Trevor stifled a laugh.

  “You need an increase?”

  “More warm bodies brings more peace.”

  “Right. Submit a request. I’ll see what I can do. No promises.”

  She touched him again with a familiar rub.

  “You said the same thing after we slept together.”

  “As I recall, you rotated out two days later.”

  Liv tossed a hand through her red mane.

  “So I did.” She pointed to the holo, where a new set of graphics emerged. “And here we are.”

  She parsed the data faster than Trevor, who saw a sudden, somber shift in her demeanor.

  “What?”

  She pointed to the private bookings.

  “There’s a ninety percent falloff from these eight planets. It accounts for almost the entire occupancy downturn during the next window. I’ve seen anomalous travel trends before, but this simply cannot be right. What aren’t you telling me?”

  Trevor wasn’t shocked. He focused on the other data, which was twice as expansive.

  “Commercial bookings are down more than sixty percent. But those would be a mix of civilians and the political class. The numbers track.”

  “Track toward what?”

  He hated this part.

  “Liv, I need to ask a favor. Do not share this information with anyone. Especially other portmasters.”

  “I need a reason. This falloff has financial implications. Our port fees, the worm drive tariffs. I can go on.”

  Yeah, she could. Trevor remembered the old days. She loved to squeeze people’s ears.

  “This may be a political stunt,” he said. “Hopefully, I can head it off. In the meantime, I need your silence.”

  Liv rolled her eyes.

  “Politics? This?”

  “Just for a few days. I promise.”

  She squashed the new holo and leaned back in her chair.

  “My port might lose seasonal credits because politicians are playing games. Sure, Trevor. I won’t shout the news across a deepstream, if it makes you feel better.”

  “It will. If you need anything, my door is open.”

  Trevor extended his hand, which she reluctantly accepted.

  “Again you disrupt my life, and then you’re gone,” she quipped. “The men in my life are all the same.”