Moon had smoked his cigar to a nub.

  Huh. Faster than usual. He was chomping at the bit.

  “We should level this place,” he mumbled.

  “Without Alain?”

  “He’s here. I feel it. He’s playing games.”

  “Men like him were born for games, my friend. He ain’t an empty suit or anydamnbody’s fool. You heard the coit. He’ll crow on his own terms. We need line of sight on all these assholes before we strike. A wise man once said, ‘When the laundry’s done, make sure you don’t leave a sock behind.’”

  Moon dropped the cigar to his side and glared at me. Damn, he was a frightening son of a bitch no matter his shape. Mass murder was never far from his thoughts.

  “That’s supposed to be wise, Royal?”

  I bristled. “Mikkel. The name is Mikkel. And yeah. It’s wise.”

  “How so?”

  “Because a wise man said it. That’s what they do.”

  “What in the stars does it mean, Mikkel?”

  I sipped my limp wine.

  “Verbal wisdom is an interpretive artform, Rudolph. If I paraphrased, the metaphor would lose its value. It’s like explaining the nuance of a good joke or revealing the technique behind a conjuror's magic trick. You’re too goddamn literal, my friend. Chill your syneth.”

  Moon grunted. “And you’re a condescending jackass.”

  I smirked. “From day one.”

  “Balls like nobody else.”

  “Trust me. We’ll take out the whole damn nest soon enough and return a nice chunk of intel to the Prez. I reckon she’ll up the ante on our next commission. Patience, my friend.”

  I shared a knowing glance with both Henri and Leonidas Bosch, who were Alain’s top fixers. They were fraternal twins, as suave as they were handsome. Henri was definitely my type, but I long ago drew a red line: Don’t lay a man before killing him. Rude, even by my problematic standards.

  The Bosches were also stone cold assassins. In that regard, I hated having to put them down. See, humans got no trouble killing each other. Everyone that’s ever been born has the ability; they just need to be primed. But there’s a small group of us for whom it came natural – and without remorse. We understood each other.

  I wondered what would happen if like minds teamed up to form our own guild. No conscience allowed.

  Think of it. A hundred thousand like Moon and I joined at the hip. There wouldn’t be an army big enough.

  Eh. Pipe dreams.

  “I understand the meaning but not the reference,” Moon said. “Why a sock?”

  Sometimes, Moon couldn’t let shit go.

  “He’s dense, for a god,” Theo quipped inside my head.

  “Lay off the man, Theo. You know what he’s been through.”

  “Oh, tell me about it! The stories I hear from Addis.”

  Among their many talents, D’ru-shayas communicated without their hosts’ knowledge. Theo insisted he and Addis limited their dialogue to essential data sharing and “emotional support.” Not a month ago, Theo said Addis carried so much baggage, she “moaned like a foghorn and cried like an oversaturated sponge.”

  I reckon existing inside Moon would be a challenge for any not-quite-AI. It wasn’t a battle I deemed worthy of my time.

  “The reference,” I told Moon with a sigh, “apparently is a few centuries old. Or maybe it wandered over from another universe. I forget. At any rate, people used to dry their laundry in rotating barrels. A sock would get stuck in a cranny where they couldn’t see it, so they’d remove their clothes none the wiser. Then they’d go into a hissy-fit when they discovered a sock was missing.”

  He responded with a predictably empty stare.

  “I warned you, my friend. Once the art has to be explained, its value falls over a cliff. Don’t fight the current. Follow the stream. Feel me?”

  Moon grunted. Somedays, that’s all he mustered.

  Hard to blame him for the sour attitude. Playing by human rules often felt like a bridge too damn far.

  Yet here we were, searching for fun and excitement wherever we could find them.

  Judging by a sudden shift in the Bosch brothers’ body language, our quest for thrills was about to reach its final destination. Henri tapped his right ear, nodded to Leonidas, and started toward a door I had earlier pegged as our final passageway to Matisse Alain.

  Henri scratched twice beneath his chin, a signal indicating the time was at hand, but not for us Chancellors. He wanted Matisse to feel comfortable with folks he already knew. Hari Sidras and a pair of other Huguenots glided past. Hari winked at me.

  Yeah, she was proud of herself. I let her have the moment.

  Leonidas hung back, finished off the last of his wine, and sauntered over to our position.

  “He’s skeptical,” Leonidas said. “My brother and Madame Sidras will set him at ease. When Henri sends the all clear, we head in together. Don’t make a thing of it.” He studied the crowd. “These other people are club members, but not our club.”

  “They’re not expecting an audience with the great man himself?”

  Leonidas stared at me cross-eyed.

  “What? You thought all this was for …?” He chuckled. “That’s my fault. I told you it was a reception, but I omitted for whom. No, this is the Galatian Anniversary for Madame Sidris’s daughter and son-in-law.”

  “And where are they?”

  “You don’t know the tradition, Mikkel?”

  “Not a Huguenot. Sorry.”

  Leonidas sighed with a certain frustration, as if every off-worlder must be an expert in Qasi cultural life.

  “Galatian Anniversary is rare. It marks the arrival of a tenth child. The boy was born last month, their tenth in fourteen years. Other families come together to honor the achievement. They watch the kids and allow the bedraggled parents a day free of the burden.”

  I pieced it together.

  “So, these kids I see are …?”

  “Madame Sidris’s grandchildren. The newborn is in a nursery somewhere close by.”

  “These families? They’re all members of Club Moulet?”

  He nodded. “For generations. Even when your people looked down on us from those Ark Carriers.”

  “Eh, well. We might yet have the last laugh.”

  Leonidas dissolved his grin.

  “Hold that tongue if you expect to do business with Mr. Alain.”

  “Oh, please. I’m just spouting the party line. It’s puffery. So, you call it Galatian Anniversary. What does the first word mean?”

  Leonidas tapped his ear and listened to someone on the far end. It must not have been the all clear.

  “Galatians were an ancient sect among Huguenots. They started the tradition called ‘life rediscovered.’ Those who bear ten children earn the right to rediscover what they lost in their youth. The parents are far away. Rediscovering. Is that clear enough?”

  “Sure. The family friends are bedraggled for a day. The reception lasts how long?”

  “Until the morning. The parents will arrive for breakfast, share a toast, and collect their children.”

  Now, that seemed like a shitload of work to earn only one free day apart from the rodents. I told Leonidas the number felt arbitrary. Were the parents who stopped at nine kids left in the cold? He took umbrage, probably because I made sense.

  “I didn’t create the tradition or set the bar, Mikkel.”

  “Reckoned as much. So, Mr. Alain uses an event like this as cover for his activities.”

  “He subsidizes everything. His generosity is well-known.”

  Leonidas turned his attention to Moon. He pointed to the cigar.

  “You must dispose of that. Mr. Alain abhors smoking of any kind.”

  I spoke for Moon. “Not a problem. There must be a receptacle around here somewhere. I …”

  Moon stepped on my words.

  “Is there a law against it?”

  Leonidas wagged a dismissive finger. He didn’t know Moon was fast enough to bite it off and spit it out before Leonidas realized he’d become a feckless, four-fingered fool. Ah, the temptations of a god.

  “The law is what Mr. Alain decides. Don’t challenge me, Rudolph. You will not smoke in his presence.”

  At last check, I was the only one who told Moon what he would or would not do. Others tried. I remembered their screams. Moon’s victims reached a specific decibel level before they expired.

  I prepared to intervene with a verbal massage, like I did to quell an uprising against his cigar smoke on a public transport before we earned our first commission. That day, I prevented him from incinerating everyone in the second-class cabin.

  This time around, Moon didn’t need me to talk him down. He grabbed my wine glass and dropped the cigar inside.

  “Done.”

  Succinct. Very nice. I’d have to give him high marks during the mission debrief. For now, it was enough to ensure entry into the back room. Leonidas received the all clear.

  “My brother will make the formal introduction. Wait until Mr. Alain acknowledges you. Then you’re free to speak.”

  A true Chancellor would’ve been insulted by the indignity, but I figured these assholes hadn’t dealt with Chancellors in decades. Leonidas didn’t suspect a thing when we agreed to the terms.

  I expected to see our primary target behind the door, but it opened into a long corridor flanked by a wide bank of windows. I glanced outside. Sure enough, Theo was right. We passed the golf course on our way in. Two idiots stood near a tee box, dressed in two-piece, pastel uniforms. The third took a huge swing, blasting that speckled little ball in a line drive down the fairway.

  Stupid game.

  Leonidas led us into a room where Henri waited.

  “My brother briefed you on protocol?”

  “He did. We’ll play nice.”

  Henri studied Moon with an overlong glance. We’d been negotiating with these brothers for a week; I suspect they sensed Moon’s appetite for slaughter. But what were they to do? We and our credits came as a package deal.

  “Time to meet the boss,” Henri said.

  A half-dozen folks sat around a narrow table on what appeared to be cheap folding chairs. Boxes and crates lined one wall. Damned if this wasn’t a storage room. Might not have been my first choice if I was a wealthy conspirator looking to bring down the galactic government. Or maybe that was the point.

  “Mr. Alain,” Henri said. “Our final guests. May I introduce Mikkel Jorgensen and Rudolph Hartman from Elric Province on Brasilia Major.”

  Up rose the most uninteresting man in the room.

  Seriously. This guy?

  Couldn’t have been more than five-six, bald, pudgy in the gut, thick-frame glasses, three-day stubble, dressed like those men on the tee.

  This guy? Sure enough.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. I am Matisse Alaine.” OK, so the voice fit: Stylish, cultured, upper crust for damn sure. “Please join us.”

  The Bosches unfolded a pair of metal chairs, which squeaked against the bare floor as we slid into place across from Matisse. We towered over these Huguenots. Eight sets of eyes bore into us with more than a little suspicion.

  Matisse folded his hands and leaned forward.

  “As those in my circle know, I do not mince words. I do not hide behind obfuscation or euphemism. I do, however, take great stock in who hears my words. Bringing you into our network is a high-risk proposition. Either you will convince me of your allegiance to our cause, or you will not leave this room alive.”

  I admired a man who spoke plain.

  But this guy? Oh, if he only knew the irony.

  4

  S TRICTLY SPEAKING, WE COULD HAVE killed them right then. All the major players in one room, including the puppet master himself. I know how Moon would have voted. Yet I had to consider the bottom line. We earned a nice chest of credits with every commission, but that particular faucet was gonna shut off before long. A healthy trove of verifiable intel would net an extra ten to fifteen percent for this job.

  Yep. I needed to milk this cow till he was bone dry.

  I knew how to respond to the man’s threat.

  “I say this as a compliment, Mr. Alaine, although you might not take it as such. You have the heart of a Chancellor.”

  The other seven Huguenots tensed, but Matisse twisted his lips into a crooked smile.

  “The ones who walked over us for a thousand years?”

  “The very same.”

  “If given the chance, would your people do it again?”

  “Only in our dreams. Truth is, we’ll never have the numbers or the will. Most of my people gave up on resurrecting the Chancellory. The ones who didn’t? They have big mouths and small cocks. Look, any empire that replaces the People’s Collectorate won’t resemble the past. But everyone who spearheads the change will build a legacy that lasts centuries. That’s a true Chancellor mindset, and it’s why we’re here. Allow me to show you the first proof of our allegiance.”

  I reached into my breast pocket and retrieved a golden pom. Moon and I each bought one after our first commission. I laid the button-sized device on the table. It flipped open like an ancient pocket watch, and up jumped a holo spouting financial data. I slid the pom toward Matisse so he’d have a closeup view.

  “That’s five million UCVs ready for transfer, Mr. Alain. It’s yours after I’m satisfied with the details of your scheme. I have six other investors who can triple that number. They’ll be silent partners.”

  He shoved the pom back toward me.

  “The ones with big mouths and small cocks?”

  “To a man.”

  “What of yours, Mr. Jorgensen?”

  “A sight to behold, Mr. Alain. You might say it’s made for a god.”

  It was a clever line, even though I’d used it many times before. Matisse turned to my partner.

  “And you, Mr. Hartman. Are you equally endowed?”

  I hoped Moon didn’t confuse the subtext. His language blocks weren’t limited to metaphors.

  “I’m bigger, better, and more committed than Mikkel.”

  Nice.

  “You two possess the arrogance of your forebears. My closest advisors have studied your biography. They’re convinced you have the fortitude and the resources to see this through. I am not yet sold.”

  I saw that coming. He wasn’t dumb enough to hand over equity just because I showed him the treasure. He needed investment, for sure, but the quality of the partnership mattered more.

  “Fair enough,” I said. “What do you want from us?”

  “Alignment. You spoke of building a legacy. That is a self-indulgent pursuit. Your people’s obsession with family descendancy led in part to your downfall. Fame and fortune are not relevant to the people seated around you. We already possess ample fortune. We intend to pull the levers while others press their case in a public forum. When the galaxy is upended and the Collectorate dissolved, history will write about the ordinary patriots who gave everything, including their lives. This group will remain invisible.”

  Cowards in the shadows.

  “Understood. You’re the bankers. Every good revolution needs positive cash flow.”

  “The credits will fund the process, but the process is rooted in larger principles. We seek a new destiny for our people, freed from empire, bureaucracy, and off-world regulation. We’re not unique. We have quiet partners on many planets who seek the same outcome for their people. Wealth and legacy are beside the point.”

  Eh. That’s what they all say.

  I rapped the table twice.

  “I see your concern. As Chancellors, Mr. Hartman and I lack a planet to manipulate. We’re not invested in the success of others, let alone you indigos.”

  His shoulders tensed. Others squirmed. I’d wager they hadn’t heard that Chancellor slur in decades. When Chancellors lorded over the Collectorate and orbited the planets in Ark Carriers, they looked down on the ethnics who they forced to leave Earth.

  Inferior. Dependent. Submissive.

  Indigos.

  I continued. “That’s what it boils down to. Yes? You think we’re in it to demand an unreasonable cut of whatever you achieve. Just like our forebears.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Do we want a cut? Absolutely. You say wealth is beside the point. Well, I take your word for it, but we both know when credits rain from the sky, you’ll grab a bucket. My investor group will ask for a fivefold return within two years of your independence. When that obligation is satisfied, we part company. Go off and build your own damn empire. We couldn’t care less. We’re in this for the short-term ROI. Our goals are in alignment, Mr. Alain. You win, we win.”

  Matisse appeared to have moved on from the ethnic slur.

  “Our plan is intricate. We project ultimate victory in three standard years. How patient are your investors?”

  “Soon as they hand over the credits, they lose leverage. They’ll have to sit back and wait.”

  “That sounds out of character for Chancellors.”

  “You mistake us for the old guard. We’re not the masters anymore. We’re …” I thought of a term he’d find humorous. “Middle class.”

  A few nodded. Others grinned with relish. I gave these dumbasses the humble confession they wanted to hear.

  Not that they were ever going to walk away from a potential fifteen million credits. They’d consider it a tiny percentage of the reparations owed to their people. Matisse had no intention of making good on our return. I’d bet our commission that his victims could fill a graveyard.

  He walked around the table to extend his hand, which I accepted.

  “I never thought I’d see the day,” he said. “Call me Matisse.”

  “Mikkel. My partner, Rudolph.”

  Matisse shook Moon’s hand and returned to his chair. He glanced around the table to make sure everyone was onboard then revealed his own pom.