“Of course not, Son. Only those fully committed to the path are indispensable. The rest, we remove without prejudice.”

  “Even the Stallions?”

  “Even them.”

  Shad told Malik what he wanted to hear. Yet Shad’s heart spoke otherwise: Someday soon, he would sit down with the brothers at the end of their long journey to share war stories – from the old one and the most recent.

  Shad finally visualized the moment where all his stratagems arrived at a single nexus.

  Patience, old friend. It’s coming. Patience.

  “Red Team will be on Catalan within the hour,” Malik said. “If they pull this off, the last opposition will fall.”

  The thought warmed Shad’s heart.

  “And then, my patient son, we will be one step closer to ending the rot that infects our galaxy.”

  “I hope you’re right, Father. If this move fails, we’ll be set back by years.”

  “We’re ready, Malik.”

  Shad studied the holos and switched them out to examine the scope of his shadow empire. So many years of hard work, discipline, and patience.

  His eyes came back to two images.

  “I’m so pleased you never left my life,” he whispered to the brothers. “See you on Amity Station.”

  2

  Barca City, Federal Capital of Catalan

  Standard Year 5394, Standard Day 112

  THE STREETS WERE WIDE, wet, and alive. The sloshing of shoes, the wispy clouds of cigar smoke, the blare of party horns, the liquor-induced giddiness. Above, a steady rumble from elevated trains and the muffled din of the autoways filled the night air. Lightning flashed from the just-passed storm. The metropolis was exactly like Connor imagined.

  A year ago, he would have reveled in the chaos of the Collectorate’s largest city. His fascination with the most crowded, noisy, polluted, vibrant, eclectic, innovative, and dangerous place on forty worlds would have fed his days and nights with endless adventure.

  The people dressed in bright, showy colors – and not just the prostitutes, street performers, and barkers. They walked with a swagger that all but invited trouble. Nor were they limited to the native descendants of the Basques and Moors who were forced to colonize Catalan a thousand years ago.

  Half of Barca’s sixty million residents were born off-world. Some desperately seeking a new start; others hunting a fortune they’d never find. More drawn to its nonstop energy. Together with the locals, they built this cacophony of concrete, steel, and Carbedyne. They fueled an economic powerhouse, but also burnished it with unchecked crime and seething debauchery.

  Polished Connor despised what became of the city.

  Did it not represent everything Requiem intended to cleanse? Was it not the symbol of humanity’s failures run amok?

  The miracle was that the city did not implode under the weight of its disorder, corruption, and filth.

  It needed a firm hand capable of sweeping away the Motif dealers, the cartels, the fanatics, and the perverts. Barca City could be a shining symbol for a new Collectorate, but only after the inevitable war and reconstruction.

  One step at a time.

  Reward through patience.

  The sea of humanity parted for Connor and his mate, Kaz Velky. Though Connor’s sheer bulk intimidated the rabble by itself, everyone who saw he and Kaz approach knew to give way and shade their eyes.

  Only certain men wore a brown leather bucket hat with a wide, flat brim. These men completed their ensemble with a matching trench coat and a gold necklace bearing an eight-sided pendant.

  Impersonating a member of the Cauldron invited fast death.

  Connor wasn’t worried. He’d be out of this ridiculous costume and en route to Hampton Wave in less than two hours – by then, actual members of the Cauldron might thank him and Red Team for their actions. Establishing order was a bloody business.

  Not that anyone would ever appreciate what Requiem did on their behalf.

  Connor pulled on a cigar as he moved unfettered through the crowd, tracking his route and the progress of Red Team’s other duos through tinted glasses.

  They prepped for three weeks, examined every nugget of intel for flaws, and tracked their prey with the combined help of field agents co-opted from SI as well as updates from Nexus. Requiem’s No. 1 ally did business with several of tonight’s targets.

  “Check in,” Lt. Hoshi Oda said in Connor’s ear.

  “Stallion and Velky on pace. We’ll enter the site in two minutes and ten seconds.”

  “Perfect. Continue forward unless you hear otherwise.”

  “Yes, mam.”

  Hoshi checked in with the three other pairs, two of which included relatively new members to Red Team. The disaster at Kartuffe four months ago left them weakened. Capt. Felt integrated soldiers who were not as far along in their respective Dyson arcs but proved capable in field work.

  For a few weeks, Connor feared Hoshi would be replaced as team leader given the three deaths. Yet he and others made a point of pleading with Felt to keep her at the helm. Connor’s recent promotion to First Lieutenant might have signaled a change. Instead, Felt pointed to the likely expansion of Requiem operations in the coming weeks.

  “You’ll soon have your own team, Lieutenant,” Felt said from his executive office. “You’re on as fast a track as anyone I’ve ever seen. Someday, you’ll be commanding a battalion, if not your own ship.”

  Someday.

  As in, after the declared war began.

  Their hopes were dashed when the idiots in Congress lacked the spine to change the Constitution. Yet MR-44 was always one maneuver among many.

  Tonight’s mission, if successful, would set in motion a series of events not even the IC could derail.

  One step at a time.

  He and Kaz entered the lobby of the Festiva Morada, a century-old high-rise and one of the last built in Barca with a stone facade. Its grand murals on the high-banked walls and the echoes of feet clomping on marble floors gave an old-world sensation that pleased Connor.

  Was it the attention to detail? Was it the reminder of a time when Catalan society appreciated tradition and simple values of a clean life? A time when the Chancellory and its Unification Guard made sure neither this colony nor any other strayed from the fold.

  That time would return, with all castes to share in the new order.

  One step at a time.

  Connor and Kaz approached the lifts, where a crowd waited. When the central door opened, a few eager folks stepped forward – tenants, most likely – until Connor grunted.

  “Out of the way.”

  No one dared object.

  They entered the lift alone and glared at the crowd as the doors slid shut.

  “I could get used to this, bruv,” Connor said with a chuckle.

  “That, Big C, is a perfect combination of fear and respect.”

  They did their homework on the history of the Cauldron, founded five hundred years ago. It was a secret society at first, born out of collusion with the Chancellor Regional Sanctums, to perpetuate a connection to pre-history Basque traditions on Earth. It acted as an imperial proxy, gained a firm hold on the planet’s underworld, and spread its public footprint through philanthropy.

  When the old Collectorate fell in 5358, the Cauldon’s Legion of Ministers created a provisional federal government. They acted out of apparent charity during tumultuous times then freely gave up power when the People’s Collectorate formed. Intel suggested they numbered less than two thousand members yet influenced almost every lever of power.

  Almost being the operative word.

  Two enemies refused to bow. Black Star, of course. Also the Madi, a populist political party which filled thirty percent of the seats in the federal government. The Madi advocated for individual sovereignty. It wanted to globalize all industry and distribute that wealth across the marginalized classes.

  Nexus claimed Madi’s leadership was firmly on Black Star’s pay stamp. If it achieved enough power to form coalitions, it would try to sink the federal government and allow Black Star’s agents to walk in through the front door. The wealthiest, most industrial planet in the Collectorate would fall into chaos.

  This was unacceptable.

  Catalan needed to lead in the wake of Congress’s failure. Tonight’s coordinated action, combined with the inevitable fallout, would cement power for the leaders Requiem sought.

  As they neared the penthouse level, Connor tweaked his left fingers to alter his glasses’ interface. He hunted for human heat signatures.

  In a perfect world, his superflex armor would have extended neck up, hidden behind a shifter projection. Alas, the technology’s flaws rendered it unusable for certain disguises. Testing proved it could not sustain the wide bucket hat without ‘holo-fog,’ frayed edges that betrayed the disguise.

  Connor appreciated entering a danger zone knowing a laser bolt could blow his brains out. Superflex made for beautiful head armor, but it created complacency. He needed to muster faster reaction time under these conditions. Good field training.

  “Three,” Connor said.

  “Got ’em,” Kaz answered.

  “We follow the script. If they cooperate, they live.”

  For now.

  He and Kaz recited the mantras which guided them to Catalan:

  “I am whole and true to myself. My purpose cannot be denied. They will see my grace and be misled. When the truth is known, I will show no mercy to my enemies.”

  The best mates shared a smile as the door slid open.

  Three suites lay before them. Left, center, right. They already knew which one was unoccupied tonight, which one would have to be silenced after the fact, and where their targets resided.

  Straight ahead.

  Three men disguised as Barca City badges waited with Mark 12 blast rifles against their chest. Only one held his ground. The others’ eyes ballooned at the sight of Cauldron agents.

  “Stop,” the steadfast guard said. “You have no business here.”

  His warning did not make an impression. Connor and Kaz advanced to within the butt of their rifles. Connor pulled on his cigar with a theatrical flourish and blew a steady stream of smoke at the one least intimidated.

  “We have business everywhere,” Connor said. “Allow us to pass. We intend to meet with Estefan and his family.”

  “You may not, sir. Lord Estefan requires an appointment. That applies even to Cauldron emissaries.”

  Connor gave the man credit. He was earning his pay.

  Nonetheless, Connor pushed the rifle down.

  “Tagged them?” He asked Kaz, who answered according to plan.

  “Done.”

  “Then I’ll be blunt, dutiful senors. The Cauldron has tagged you.” He tapped the edge of his glasses. “If you stand in our way, you will be dead by the morning. After the ghosts take you, they will move on to your families. Be smart. Allow us to pass.”

  Two guards backed away, each with a lump in their throat and beads of forehead sweat. Mr. Steadfast stared at them with obvious disdain but did not raise his rifle.

  “You will not enter unannounced,” he said. “You will wait here until I speak with Lord Estefan.”

  He expected the guards to fold, but this wasn’t much of a snag.

  “I’ll give you sixty seconds to report back. Otherwise, your friends die, and you’ll follow. Good?”

  Not much of a choice.

  “Who should I say is calling?”

  “An emissary of Almando Bache. Tell Estefan the news I bring will change the future of Catalan.”

  If the guard was impressed, he didn’t show it.

  “And what is your name?”

  “I’m not important. Only the message. Tell him now, or the three of you and your families will be dead before sunrise.”

  The guard wasn’t an idiot, so he complied. Yet he never turned his back while retreating through the door. His compatriots took a now-familiar stance and lowered their eyes.

  The cowed behavior surprised Connor. The Cauldron’s influence had waned since Black Star and other cartels moved into many of Catalan’s most profitable districts. The guards’ surrender felt almost pro forma – like something taught to them since early childhood.

  Was it the mystery of who these people were? How they reached this lofty status? Was it wonderment about what they carried inside the trench coat? Perhaps it was the insane confidence they exuded.

  Cauldron agents followed an ages-old practice of never drawing first. Legends told of agents who, when surrounded by well-armed enemies, somehow survived hails of gunfire and crushed their enemy.

  Legends. Myths. Propaganda.

  All Connor and Kaz knew: Had they exited the lift with pistols drawn, the guards would’ve known they were frauds.

  Stick to the script.

  Mr. Steadfast returned less than a minute later.

  “Lord Estefan will see you. Please follow me.”

  “No,” Connor said. “You remain here. We’ll find him.”

  The guard shook his head but held his tongue.

  Kaz opened the double doors inward. They entered a dimly-lit suite with panel windows that allowed in the ambient nightlights of the city. Private sedans and shuttles crowded the autoways, their Carbedyne fins casting streams of green and blue stars.

  One table lamp provided the only internal light. Next to it, Lord Estefan Guiro sat on a couch wrapped in a satin robe.

  “The future of Catalan?” He asked in a mocking tone. “What game is the Cauldron playing now?”

  Estefan – political commentator, author, raconteur – crossed his legs with a not-so-subtle flair that screamed, “You’re wasting my time.” He scratched his full beard and added:

  “Speak your piece and leave.”

  They had heard Estefan liked to cut people short. A fan of his own voice; it made him wealthy, after all.

  “We bring a message,” Connor said.

  “Oh? What nonsense could Lord Bache not say himself?”

  Connor saw no point in delay. Hoshi’s sudden interruption confirmed his decision.

  “All teams in position. Execute your function.”

  He heard raised voices elsewhere in the suite. As expected.

  “Lord Bache has a message. Effective tonight, your party will end its opposition to Code Exodus.”

  Estefan’s cheeks dropped. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, rage in his eyes.

  “He sent you here for that? He knows we are unmovable. What is this actually about?”

  “Your family,” Kaz said. “You love them?”

  Estefan’s anger abated. He dropped the cool demeanor which greeted the emissaries.

  “No. You wouldn’t. Leave them out of this.”

  “It’s too late,” Connor said. “Code Exodus will benefit every family on Catalan. Your kind are fighting the future. We won’t allow it.”

  Estefan rose to his feet and revealed a pistol which he aimed at Connor then Kaz then back again.

  “Leave my home. And tell Lord Bache: We are coming for him. The Cauldron is a relic. You will never drag us into the past.”

  “He expected you to respond this way,” Connor replied. “Please accept his reply.”

  Kaz heard Connor’s trigger word. He moved with lightning speed. A green laser bolt cut into Estefan above his left temple. One of the most influential wordsmiths of Barca City yelped then fell into the couch on his side. Steam drifted from the hole in his head.

  “I love the theatrics, bruv,” Connor said.

  “I’m with you. Brings some flair to the job.”

  “It does. OK, we have four minutes and ten seconds.”

  “Should be enough time. Inside?”

  Connor studied his glasses, which showed nine heat signatures gathered in what appeared to be a kitchen. The rest of the suite was empty.

  “I have to finish Estefan, but yes. Let’s get this out of the way. Just be on alert: Those three animals outside will be coming in from our flank.”

  “Assuming they haven’t already taken a runner. They actually believe we tagged them.”

  Connor retrieved his pistol.

  “I’ll take the left. You finish the right.”

  “On it, mate. On it.”

  A light seeped through a door at the suite’s far end. Laughter and singing erupted from within.

  At least they’ll have a happy ending.

  The soldiers left nothing to chance. No hesitation. No observation.

  Only targets to be eliminated.

  After Connor threw open the door, they fired.

  The cheers turned to silent shock before any victim had a chance to understand fate’s tragic kiss. They fell in orderly fashion. From teen girls to grandparents, most holding wine glasses.

  They were collaborators, even the ones who didn’t know. Families like theirs were bringing chaos and death in the name of sovereignty. People like Lord Estefan could never have achieved their status without Black Star’s pay stamp.

  They deserved to die. All of them.

  Connor and Kaz quickly checked for survivors, finished off a pair with additional head shots, and prepared to face an armed response.

  The moment they emerged into the living area where lamplight and a dead man were the stars, a barrage of white projectiles hit them from a Mark 12.

  Just one rifle.

  Mr. Steadfast greeted them.

  Several bolts burnt holes through the trench coats only to be absorbed by the superflex. The rest was simple.

  Their enemy did not equip himself with the same defense. They dropped him with ease and waited for his buddies to join the fight. When no one else entered the double doors, Connor grunted.

  “Cowards, too.”

  “I’ll take them out,” Kaz said. “Finish Estefan.”

  “On it. Gas the other suite when you’re done.”

  “Pleasure.”

  Connor stood over Lord Estefan and shook his head at the pitiful creature, eyes staring into forever. He repositioned the body to sit upright on the couch. Connor opened the man’s robe and shredded the thin shirt beneath. Then he set his bucket hat aside.

  Connor removed the necklace bearing the Cauldron’s centuries-old symbol and placed the pendant against the center of Estefan’s chest. He retrieved a phasic knife from inside the coat and ignited its slicing flame.