Michael turned to Rosa Marteen, who was Exeter’s transition guide to city life.

  “Where’s his house?”

  “Coming up on the right, Minister. Avenue 20, Number 33.”

  “A good location,” Samantha said. “You’ll be next-door neighbor to Clement Lamb. He was a hero in The Last Day’s War.”

  “Not to mention oversight manager for the Walker project,” Michael added. “He’ll be picking your brain about wormhole tech.”

  “And maybe more,” Rosa said. “You are definitely Clem’s type.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He felt stupid asking a question with an obvious answer.

  She winked. “You’ll see when you meet him.”

  Exeter’s new home was a blank slate.

  “All this is mine?” He said when they arrived. “I’ve never had a place of my own.”

  “It’s a big planet,” Michael said. “No need for bunkmates unless you got the feels for it. But your bed sleeps three without a problem, if you get my drift.”

  He did, but that was not a conversation for today.

  “We’re set up inside,” Rosa said. “I’ll take you through all the amenities and discuss your assimilation schedule after lunch.”

  Exeter was disappointed not to look inside now, but he pushed those thoughts aside when he walked into Chow Hounds, the city’s central eatery. A feast of fresh fruits and vegetables accompanied fish, rice, and pink wine.

  “Our first vintage,” Michael said as he poured everyone’s glass. “Took us five years to get it right. Emma Dawes swears we’ll have a dry white to die for next season.”

  Exeter thought it was the best meal of his life. The food was impeccable, every bite demonstrating taste sensations even the Chancellors couldn’t match. Yet the company proved even better. Michael and Samantha talked to the others like family rather than staff. They bantered mostly in the realm of harmless gossip, made jokes with references he didn’t understand, and matched Michael’s colloquial Engleshe from another universe. His slang, his profanity, and his irreverence ran through them.

  “Are you enjoying lunch?” Samantha asked.

  “Honestly, I didn’t know food tasted this good.”

  “We hear that a lot.”

  “I named this place Chow Hounds for a reason,” Michael added. “Nobody steps in here and leaves without a full belly. It’s all part of the service. Promise has damn near everything. Good food, good friends, good homes, good sex. You know? The basics.”

  “I’m honored to be part of it. If you don’t mind me asking, where are your children today? I was hoping to meet them.”

  “Danny and Harry are off being kids. They’re at Lake Nilsson. Perhaps another day.”

  Sam grabbed her husband’s hand.

  “We don’t allow them to attend slayings. They’re too young to understand. They’ll wonder when their turn is coming.”

  “They’ll have to be made? But they’re your sons.”

  “No,” Michael said. “The boys will never be on that stage. You’ll learn from someone soon enough, so here’s the deal. Sam and I can’t die because we live outside time. It happened before we crossed the divide. The boys are our blood, but they might not be immortal. There’s only one surefire way to know if we passed down our special sauce, and we ain’t rolling those fucking dice.”

  For the first time, he felt sorry for the head Aeternans. They might have been two of the most influential humans in the galaxy, but they were living in terror. If the boys were mortal, they’d grow old and die while their parents lived on.

  “We knew we might pay this price when we decided to have children,” Samantha said. “We’ll never regret it. And the best part is, they have twenty-five hundred big brothers and sisters.”

  “Everyone here loves the boys,” Rosa said. “I’ll bet they’ve hung out in practically every home in the city.”

  Michael chuckled. “Rolling stones.”

  The levity returned until the meal’s end. Samantha joined Rosa, Ollie, and Maya in clearing the table then walked outside together, leaving Exeter alone with Michael.

  “Now that you’ve seen the city and broken bread with us,” the Minister said, “what’s on your mind?”

  “You mean, what questions do I have?”

  “No. What’s on our mind, Exeter. You were sent here for a reason. I’ve got some ideas why. I’m thinking maybe you have something you’d like to spill. Like, say, a confession.”

  “I don’t …”

  “Stop right there, bud. I told you yesterday we’d have this little powwow. Nobody except me knows you were sent here to spy. Hell, I don’t know it for a fact, but I’m also not as dumb as I look. People underestimated my ass for a long time, and nearabout every one of those fuckers is dead. Tell you what, Exeter. I’ll make it easy for you. We were planning to take off that prosthetic arm and replace it. But here’s a helluva twist: We can’t do it without incinerating you and everyone else within a ten-meter radius.”

  Exeter grabbed his left arm.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s a goddamn incendiary. We didn’t see the synthetic powders at first because they’re hidden inside brontinium-plated joints. Took some research to match up the chemical composition. It’s called Phalyotrax. Invented centuries ago. Terrorists had some fun with it. If we try to remove the arm, we trigger the Phalyotrax.”

  Can’t be. Angela said the joints contained a transmitter. She demonstrated how to use it. She said a Chancellor ship hiding in the Fulcrum close enough to the Nexus point would pick up the signal.

  “That can’t be right, Michael. It makes no sense. Why would anyone do that?”

  “Well, let’s see. It’s Chancellor tech, and the Chancellors tend to be angry, evil motherfuckers. They don’t send me Christmas cards. Give me a name, Exeter. You tell me who’s behind it, and you’ll walk out of here with Rosa Marteen. She’ll get you started on a new life.”

  Why would Angela do this? She needs my intel. Did she send me here to be a martyr?

  If true, it would have been simpler had Dayton Romilius torn him apart on Scylla and thrown his body parts into space. Why send him here? Why allow him to see others of his kind? To see a world where he might have friends and a chance for happiness.

  The immortals needed him, too. He knew the truth about Amayas Knight, the Splinters, and the Chancellor Swarm. He knew the Bouchet immortals were in serious danger.

  “Michael, are you saying you won’t be able to remove my arm?”

  “We’ll keep up the good fight, but the odds are stiff. Now, if I were to hook up with folks who built this fucker, I might sweet-talk them into doing the right thing. I won’t kill them until it’s off. But none of that shit’s gonna happen unless you give me a name.”

  “If I betray someone else, how can you ever trust me?”

  Michael grabbed his pipe.

  “I shouldn’t, but I will. Why? Because you chose the right side when it mattered. A man is due some credit when he sees the light.”

  It seemed too easy.

  Am I being played again? They always play me.

  “What will happen after I give you the name?”

  “Great question. Here’s a great answer. You, Exeter, are going to do exactly what they sent you here to do. Fun, huh? So, give me a name and let’s get this show on the road. I hope she’s a redhead.”

  24

  Chancellor Transport Yasima

  Arakaat Crater Shipyards, Euphrates

  A NGELA POUSSARD SAW the first red flag when ground control at Arakaat delayed clearance for landing. Her navigator provided credentials for all five onboard plus the transport’s protocols. GC responded with three minutes of silence; the missile defense network remained on alert status. Angela did not travel seven days by Fulcrum to be turned away. She wasn’t leaving Euphrates without the warships’ NAR Codex flight sequences. Still, she fended off her crew’s suggestions to take an aggressive stance with Arakaat.

  She studied the shipyards on holo. Built into the vast Arakaat Crater five hundred kilometers from the nearest town, the primary structure resembled an open-air stadium with a retractable roof. She made out three massive, covered bays beneath the translucent roof. A small city ringed the shipyards. Thousands of duplicate square homes in a tight grid sat amid a carpet of green and long garden rows. Twenty defense platforms, each housing a battery of ground-to-air missiles, dotted the outer edge of the crater.

  Beyond Arakaat, the land was orange and desolate, with no evidence of other life. Huge rock columns rose from the desert like unsculpted monuments.

  “They won’t fire if we approach at half speed,” Siobhan Morrow said. “The last thing they want is an incident.”

  “I don’t believe it’s down to the Persian administrators.”

  “Who then? Zwahilis?”

  “They have good reason, but no. We’re up against a master player surveying his final move.”

  Siobhan was incredulous.

  “Our own envoy? Why? Surely, he knows you’re legitimate.”

  “There’s the conundrum. He knows who I am, so he must suspect why I’m here. Hermann Crise is a corporate savage. He grabbed this post before the foundation was laid. Hermann likely demanded assurances if he saw this project through to completion.”

  “Sweeteners?”

  “Enough to guarantee prime real estate for his family anywhere in the Alliance. I doubt he knew what Dayton Romilius was planning. He won’t let his guard down this time. Too much to lose.”

  Angela turned to her crew.

  “Until I remove Hermann from office, we do not deviate from our cover. We are a transition team designated to oversee the safe completion and delivery of the warships to Zwahili Kingdom. We have been appointed to negotiate with the regional governor regarding future projects for Arakaat. We make no moves until we have diplomatic access to the system core. Is that understood?”

  Angela’s most loyal crewman, Peter Montana, had the technical acumen to steal the Codex sequence. He cut a strapping figure despite having lost much of his body weight fleeing the civil war. In seven days since leaving the Fourth Fleet, Peter ate, slept, and designed a program to skirt them around Arakaat security.

  “How long do we wait before shifting to my backup?” He asked.

  “Time is with us, Peter, and this mission calls for subtlety. Your code drops a heavy hammer, though it’s also genius. I’ll know how to proceed after I spend some time with Hermann.”

  Angela got to know her tiny crew well over the past week. They shared the stories of their descendencies, their struggles after the Fall of the Chancellory, and the reasons for joining the rogue fleet. Two lost a friend or relative in The Last Day’s War; another on an Ark Carrier decimated by singularity weapons. Yet a common theme circled through every conversation: They did not want to be the first generation of Chancellors to surrender their status as humanity’s superior caste. Three millennia worth of ancestors deserved better.

  By the time they arrived in the Euphrates system, Angela knew they were willing to martyr themselves to advance the cause of establishing a new home world on Aeterna. Once she gave the order, they’d kill anyone who stood between them and their dual prizes.

  Those warships, identical in almost every way to their template, Scylla, were called Charybdis and Hermes. Angela thought it fair that Zwahilis had no role in naming them. After all, Chancellor credits made them possible. She wondered whether Hermann Crise did the honors, as he was a student of pre-history. Like many of his ilk, he relished the old Earth mythologies.

  She did not, however, exclude the possibility of Amayas Knight playing a role. If so, it strengthened her growing conviction that the Inventor was born on Earth. Many like Angela believed his early contacts with hardline Chancellors offered a clue. To some among the fleet, his motives were fuzzy beyond lofty words of unity, economic strength, and a new hope for the defeated. His choice of Artemis Station, once an important but secret manufacturer of brontinium extract, indicated familiarity with off-book Chancellor facilities.

  Yet Amayas was shrewd. He never gave up his true identity. Even Exeter Woolsey, who spent years at the man’s side, said he knew nothing of the Inventor’s backstory. Angela hoped to meet him in person someday and wring the truth out of him.

  Ground control responded seven minutes after Yasima’s request for clearance. A copper-skinned Persian woman flashed in the navigation circle via holo.

  “We apologize for the delay, Yasima. The Chancellor diplomatic office had concerns. You have been granted provisional landing status at Quay 17. You are advised to remain onboard, egress closed, until further instructions.”

  Her wide-eyed navigator started to object to the conditions, but Angela raised a submissive hand and offered a generous smile.

  “Thank you, Arakaat GC. We appreciate your diligence. We will land and await further orders. Yasima out.” To the navigator she added: “Bite your lip and land this ship.”

  On final approach, they glanced inside the bays that rose several levels high and saw the stern of each warship, which was held aloft on vertical and horizontal moorings. The hexagonal Carbedyne nacelles represented a breakthrough design. Only Siobhan Morrow, who participated in Scylla’s theft under Dayton Romilius, did not study them in awe.

  They docked in the quay and waited, bags at their feet.

  “Be your best Chancellor,” Angela told the crew. “Shield yourself behind a mask. We are diplomats and accountants. No more.”

  Permission to open the egress came soon thereafter.

  A party of five greeted them. Two Persians, two Zwahilis, fully armed. In the middle, an aging Chancellor with the girth that comes from easy living and meal portions too large, towered over the guards. The lines beneath his crystal blue eyes were deep, and his hair trended silver.

  “Envoy Hermann Crise, I presume?” Angela said.

  “Welcome, Angela Poussard. Or would Admiral still be an appropriate honorific?”

  “It would not, as I’m sure you know. I am here in a diplomatic capacity to relieve you of your post. Your welcome committee is aggressive and frankly, unflattering.”

  Hermann nodded in clear amusement.

  “I allowed you to land out of courtesy to your long service in the Guard. Do not expect any greater honors.”

  “Do I need to show you Rear Admiral Tramel’s orders?”

  “If you wish to remain here another five minutes. Yes.”

  She tapped her stream amp, threw open a holo, and tossed it toward Hermann, who caught it and spun it around. He read without visible reaction.

  “Seems unlikely Tramel had the Admiralty’s blessing.”

  “He didn’t need it. He has Joakim Barter’s blessing.”

  “Impressive. I suppose you have Joakim’s approval in writing?”

  “You know he doesn’t oversee such pedestrian matters. Joakim is a figurehead.”

  “With the weight of the future on his shoulders. What future does he see by allowing you to remove me at this late date?”

  “He is positioning the Chancellory for the next phase. He expects the Alliance will be publicly announced very soon.”

  “Very is a weak word. I prefer to deal in exactitudes.”

  “On that point, we agree. Enough with the semantics, Hermann. I am the duly appointed envoy to the Arakaat project. Allow me and my staff to enter the facility.”

  He whispered into a Persian’s ear. The guard nodded.

  “You will come with me, Angela. The others will stay onboard. Please do not challenge me.”

  She faced her frustrated crew.

  “Another delay. That’s all. I suggest you relax. Eat a light meal. This might be time-consuming. Yes?”

  She left Siobhan in charge and followed the current envoy. The guard detachment remained outside the transport but for one. Hermann said nothing en route to the office complex two levels above the quays, but he sighed often. They passed a diverse collection of bureaucrats, accountants, engineers, and observers. Most were Persian or Zwahili, but each “miracle” allowed a minimal observation team from every Alliance world. No one looked at Angela directly.

  Hermann spoke when they entered a group of offices designated as Chancellory-owned.

  “You’ll be interested to know the guards were not mine by choice. After Scylla was stolen, I negotiated for our office to remain. The locals were certain we were guilty, even though they couldn’t prove a thing. I pleaded our case for days. We agreed to a compromise. I go nowhere now without an indigo guard. All teams protecting secure platforms consist of equal parts Zwahili and Persian.”

  He smiled at the Persian who kept a fair distance behind.

  “I was planetside when Scylla was taken. I did not even have a role in planning her shakedown cruise.”

  Outside his office, he added:

  “Yet I do see the administrative council’s concern. They need this project to finish properly. They’re concerned if they lose Charybdis and Hermes, they’ll also lose out on what is being constructed at Kassaire in the Kingdom. The clans cannot bear more defeat. They still wear the scars of Port Baghdad.”

  They entered his office, which was tiny but decorated with dozens of framed photos from throughout the former Collectorate. He pointed to the one behind his desk. Angela recognized it: A wasteland that was once the jewel of commerce on Euphrates.

  “I remember when the first reports arrived at the GPM,” she said. “I think it was the first time we took Salvation seriously. It’s been what? Twelve years now?”

  “Nuclear detonations have a way of grabbing the attention. Salvation killed seventy thousand Persians, a hundred thousand Iraqans, and twelve thousand Damascenes. The only reason we maintain friendly relations with the government is because these people will never do business with the Aeternans. Their minister made several failed attempts at outreach.”