“I’m sure you will.” Michael dissolved the holo. “By now, you should be an expert on the subject. More than most Aeternans.”

  “War is a good teacher.”

  “It is. Before I crossed the divide, I was a skinny boy who wouldn’t harm a damn fly; but I killed a man because he gave me no choice. It tore me apart inside. Thought I’d never go to that place again. A year later, I became an assassin. Each time was easier. Down the road, I killed hundreds of people. Then thousands. My weapons killed millions. They were strangers, and most were light-years away, but I killed them, nonetheless.

  “I don’t look back, and I sleep like a baby. I kill to protect my people and my family. Death is overrated, Exeter. Or maybe that’s just an immortal talking. Fuck. Who knows? Well, I’ll let you to it. Busy days coming up.”

  Michael started away. Before he reached the door, Exeter brought up a topic he’d been holding off.

  “Minister, one question. You talked about killing everyone on Scylla. What about Ryllen Jee? If he survives, would you consider bringing him to Aeterna?”

  Michael delivered a nice chuckle.

  “That lunatic? From what you describe, I doubt Ryllen would fit in. I think he’d have a problem with our ‘Learn to Love’ bit. Don’t you?”

  Exeter did not disagree.

  31

  5 standard days before the arrival

  Arakaat Crater Shipyards, Euphrates

  A NGELA POUSSARD SUBMITTED HER formal request, which the administrative council now reviewed. She intended her entire team to watch the maiden flights of the warships from their command decks. She would team with Siobhan Morrow on Hermes. Peter Montana would lead the others on Charybdis. They’d be quiet and respectful observers, watching the Persian engineers at their proudest hour. They’d wait until contact was made with the nearby merchant vessels. They’d do the rest with precision and discipline.

  “It’s a fair request,” she told the council. “After the fiasco with Scylla, we believe it’s important that Chancellors have a prominent place in the final act of a venture we funded. And, on a personal note, I’ve never taken part in a maiden voyage. They are literally one of a kind.”

  Chairman Aziz Hussein asked the council for comments, of which they had none. He acknowledged David Bendi, the lead Zwahili observer who would watch from Hermes and now raised his hand.

  “The cruise is important, of course, but it is hardly a voyage,” David said. “One hour to test the engine array and primary systems. Even the Worm drive will be limited to intrasolar range, Angela.”

  “Semantics, David. Do you have a concern?”

  “Not at this time. Chancellor Hussein, I support a vote.”

  Six hands showed unanimous agreement.

  “Thank you,” Angela told the council. “And all the workers – Persian, Damascene, or Iraqan – for their remarkable effort.”

  Angela stood at attention, her shoulders firm and aligned, and snapped off a quick bow. The administrators were traditionalists who enjoyed overt signs of respect.

  She retreated to her office, where her team waited for the good news. She knew these developments would comfort Rear Admiral Constantin Tramel, who was toiling near the system Nexus.

  Aziz Hussein saw nothing but contempt in Angela. She wore the Chancellor veil his people knew so well from centuries of exploitation. She might not have had direct connection to the massive profits diverted to the Carriers off the deadly refinement of eurphadite, but she had their genes and she would have gladly repositioned the Chancellory for a repeat role as the dominant caste.

  He didn’t want to believe the accusation against her at first, but the scandalous behavior of the last envoy, Hermann Crise, opened eyes once clouded by a wave of idealism. When the council meeting ended, he remained in silent reflection about how to deal with this new traitor. Aziz soon realized he was not alone.

  David Bendi took the closest seat.

  “Why did you allow this farce to play out?” The Zwahili asked.

  “She must remain unaware, David. If I detain her, Angela will not tell me how she plans to complete the theft. She and her staff cannot do it alone.”

  David made his accusation about Angela’s motives four days earlier, following intel he received from contacts in the Kingdom. He did not disclose his source, saying only that a coordinated effort to pirate the warships was well under way.

  Aziz suspected Angela was not the only one trying to make a fool of Hussein and his people. David seemed overly confident these days, a far cry from the nervous man who worried for months that saboteurs might take down the Kingdom’s grand prize. He no longer asked about security preparations or the escort vessels. He talked only of the exciting news about Amayas Knight’s pending arrival.

  Aziz authorized his defense chief to tap into David’s personal comms. Aziz violated the charter, just as he did with the proactive investigation of Hermann Crise’s credit tables, yet he didn’t care. Hours before this meeting, he listened to a recording and realized what game was afoot.

  They have Scylla. They’re planning to take over Arakaat.

  It was all too much for Aziz.

  He retreated to his quarters and sat before the framed portraits of his family, who were scattered across New Damascus, Hallah, and Tabriz. His wife, who did not live to see the Alliance reshape Euphrates. His six children, five happily married, who soon would. His youngest daughter engaged to a Damascene, a good man who would be the first non-Persian in the Hussein lineage. His twelve grandchildren, who he missed the most. His three brothers, who oversaw his financial empire while he managed Arakaat. He wanted to return to them knowing the Alliance had evolved from a shadow consortium.

  People like Hermann Crise, Angela Poussard, and David Bendi did not deserve the Inventor’s blessings. They were corrupt, self-serving bastards. With “leaders” like them, how could the Alliance hope to flourish? David in particular was a disappointment. He at least had seen into the Splinter. He spoke once of his counterparts and their beneficial influence on his personal growth. Yet here he was, taking action on his own rather than bringing his concerns to the man closest to Amayas. If the Zwahilis were planning a reckless strike on Arakaat, how could they be trusted with three warships packing the potential to wipe out whole populations?

  He opened the private frequency to Amayas and waited. He tried not to bother the Inventor often for fear of looking incompetent. To his shock, Amayas did not replace him after the Scylla failure. He would not allow the humiliation to repeat itself.

  Twenty minutes later, a hazy holo opened from his plate.

  “Aziz,” the Inventor said. “It’s only been a few days. I hope nothing is wrong.”

  “I would not have bothered you otherwise. I think the time has come for you to take action.”

  Aziz laid out the issues. Amayas looked tired, the purple bruise on his face still unhealed after all these years. Still, he looked younger than the Hussein boys. The Inventor pondered for a bit.

  “Thank you, Aziz. I long hoped the Alliance would encourage its members to follow their better angels. I thought the Splinter might be an effective tool. The rest was clearly stated in the charter.”

  “Amayas, I know you want us to rise above our differences and unite, but we seem unable to learn. For centuries, we needed the Chancellors’ guidance. Now even they are a disaster."

  “Do they know of your suspicions?”

  “They do not. Will you execute the backup plan?”

  “Yes. We need to avoid complications. I have an excellent team in place, including a recent addition who is eager to see action.”

  “Tell me what to do, Amayas.”

  “Timing will be essential. Follow my instructions exactly.”

  Angela shared a bitter tea with her staff. She didn’t care for local beverages, but this black brew proved reasonably comfortable.

  “Five days,” she said. “We take those ships. Or we die trying.”

  They held up their cups and toasted.

  “Peter, the first two minutes will be critical. If we don’t isolate C&C, they’ll reach us before Tramel’s ships can disable the escorts and remote-transfer the Codex. You’re certain of your plan?”

  “Dead certain. I’ve simmed every scenario. We’re undefeated.”

  “What do you think, Siobhan? You spent days in Scylla C&C.”

  “Peter has every angle covered.”

  “Casualties, Peter?”

  “Fifteen tops, per ship, not including the escorts. Have we heard about the Inventor? Will he be onboard?”

  “Aziz is very protective. I doubt he’ll release the man’s arrival in advance. If we can win that prize, all the better. If not, we’ll have what we came for. And you people will make Chancellor history.”

  They toasted a second time.

  Angela opened a hand-comm and threw out a holo.

  “Nice job narrowing the band,” she told Peter. “We can’t grab a visual, but voice is easy, and these Persians are none the wiser.”

  She entered a code and seconds later heard the familiar voice of Rear Admiral Tramel.

  “Report, Angela.”

  “Admiral, we have secured our place on the warships. We’ll be ready to proceed.”

  “Well done. One less hurdle. You’re confident this will work?”

  “I and my team. Your status, Admiral?”

  “We’re completing modifications. We estimate two days. EVs inside the Fulcrum are perilous at best.”

  “Have you reached the Nexus?”

  “We’re hanging off the primary transit beacon for now. Anything else to report?”

  “No, Admiral. Be safe.”

  “We’ll see you soon. Tramel out.”

  She finished her tea. It was soothing, and she wanted another.

  Five days. So close.

  32

  3 standard days before the arrival

  NTS Crowfoot

  Aeterna

  E XETER JUMPED FROM A DROPSHIP into a heavy thicket of Swarm commandos many times. He fought close-quarter battles with Force Drums and blade launchers, leaping over shredded corpses and engaging the enemy hand-to-hand when all else failed. He died three times – twice when his armor’s synaptic interface collapsed under too many high-compression energy salvos and once when the enemy rammed a spike into his back. No other scenario should have frightened him after that.

  Yet today, as he stood in the open egress of a troop dispatch ship prepared to leap into the clouds, jetpack engaged, Exeter wondered whether he might freeze at the go-order. Was it fear? Or did he not know which eyes to trust?

  He waited alongside the rest of Platoon 7 for Cap Silver to give the order. But he didn’t notice them, had no sense of their trepidation or excitement. This sort of business wasn’t new to them; nor was the place from which they gathered their strength.

  Exeter needed one set of eyes while relying on another. He thought the disorientation had passed following the second day after surgery, but here it was again. The eyes he was born with battled the eyes implanted into his cerebral cortex.

  At the center of the Occip UI, which was no bigger than a toenail, Exeter rotated atop a virtual turntable surrounded by a revolving series of oval monitors. Active in this construct at the moment: Mission status and schematics, weapons control, health diagnostic, comm-link to Cap Silver, “enemy” analysis, climatic conditions.

  “Keep it simple,” Doc Noll told him during UI training. “Always limit your access points to relevant systems. Your superiors will have link privileges. Otherwise, shut out all non-essential voices. Never access the entire UI at once.”

  “What will happen?”

  “Have you ever been in a screaming match with someone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Multiply that times a thousand.”

  She told Exeter how to command his optic nerve to allow its signal to the brain to override competing commands from Occip – and vice versa. She suggested creating a series of mental gestures that simulated how he might use body language during a verbal conversation. A wag of the finger, a clinched fist, a raised brow, a five-finger stop sign, and so on.

  “You can train Occip to learn these signals. Have a special one just for the Honeycomb. It can become overwhelming if you allow it. I recommend waiting at least a week before you throw it open.”

  The Honeycomb, accessible to all Aeternans, contained a library so vast a man could read for a century without sleep and only partake a fraction of its volumes. In the Occip construct, the Honeycomb floated beyond the monitors like a shape-shifting wall of blue and white rain.

  “You’ll get the hang of it,” the doctor insisted. “In a few days, you’ll have your own little management system.”

  “Are you dividing attention between me and Occip right now?”

  She was amused.

  “Do I look like I am?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve been processing test results for the dip corps since you walked in here. We have a group arriving from Inuit Kingdom in three days. If they don’t pass the blood screening, we don’t bring them down.”

  “So, it’s like being two people at once?”

  “Without being rude. Everything I’m doing in Occip would otherwise be completed on a phasic device. You’d be irritated if I diverted attention between you and my screen.”

  That, she said, was the true genius of the UI. When mastered, it allowed Aeternans to do twice as much in a day without the exhaustion or interpersonal breakdown. The idea excited Exeter. He never attended school – the Caribs on Everdeen wouldn’t hear of it, and Katherine Woolsey had little patience to catch him up. She allowed the AI on Artemis Station to teach fundamentals; the rest, she assumed Exeter would learn through innate curiosity. He was woefully behind his peers. The two-hour literature requirement seemed over his head. Perhaps Occip might change the equation.

  As he prepared to jump into the clouds, Exeter closed his eyes and ran through his hand signals with the UI.

  “When I open them again, you go blind for ten seconds,” he told Occip. “I don’t want to know you’re there until I show you this.” He flashed a V with his right index and middle fingers. “When I blink twice, scale only relevant data in each iris.”

  He heard Occip confirm its understanding, though the UI did not speak. A half-second pinch sent certainty through the optic nerve.

  Exeter breathed easier. Mission data, comms, and weapons control leaped into his irises but did not impede his primary vision. He double-blinked. Now he was ready. He could launch a holo at any second.

  “Shields down,” Cap Silver announced from the bridge. “Go on pack. Assault stance. Acquire enemy. On my mark. Launch.”

  Exeter flew into the clouds alongside fifteen soldiers of Platoon 7. The first hundred meters, he gave the jetpack too much directional control. He swerved dangerously close to his brothers and sisters. Then he settled in, pushing forward a holo of weapons control. He mapped the range of the approaching “enemy” craft and told the jetpack to chart a smooth intercept course. He veered down beneath the white puffy clouds until the approaching vessel reached its firing range. The platoon expanded out to flank the ship and force its cannons into a wide spread.

  Hot-red spears ejected from the craft’s anterior cannons, spitting across the sky in a winding pattern. Chatter accelerated across the platoon. Exeter remembered his briefing: Allow Occip to engage the jetpack directly to adjust attack formation in response to the enemy’s firing solution. He did. A second later, he rolled over.

  He snaked through the opening barrage of enemy spears.

  When the weapons failed to strike anyone, the ship reversed course. Per orders, Platoon 7 unleashed a volley from their rifles. Mission schematics recorded three impacts, none crippling to the ship’s armor. It recommended concentrating all fire on the dorsal Carbedyne nacelles.

  Exeter fired. Others followed.

  Did that do the trick? Did it matter?

  The enemy ship remained in one piece though the data suggested one nacelle was crippled. However, missiles approached from the surface. Hundreds of cannons. Where did they come from? This wasn’t in the mission report. It was …

  Too late.

  The glittering bursts shot vertical through the platoon, hitting two soldiers and knocking out their jetpack. They hurled end-over-end toward the ground. Not even the body armor could save them from this height. Exeter hoped their death was instantaneous. That was the best kind.

  “Recall,” Cap Silver said. “Set course for Crowfoot.”

  The mission assessment uploaded to Occip before they returned safely to Crowfoot. A solid effort, Cap Silver said. The drill was focused on maneuverability and formation-setting. The ground defenses were added as a surprise to remind soldiers that the enemy was not always limited to the one they saw. He preferred no casualties, but two of sixteen was well within acceptable range.

  “Minister Cooper and Admiral Kane monitored the drill,” Cap said when all were onboard – including the casualties who regenerated soon after smashing into the planet. “They agree it’s a strong start. We anticipate the Arakaat facility will be shooting at you from fixed positions. We expect gun towers guarding the drydocks and an extensive array of missiles launched from the crater’s perimeter.

  “Our spearhead wave should eliminate the threat from the outer network, but you need to be cognizant of the ground beneath you. Remember, Platoon 7’s goal is to take down the internal security apparatus, not destroy the infrastructure. We will hold the facility while the Minister’s flash team interrogates key personnel and ensures the data spools containing the designs are destroyed. We’ll secure the warships and add them to our navy if possible. Time will be short. The Minister says most of his sims predict we’ll have to destroy the ships.”

  Caleb was a charismatic Platoon Captain, more emphatic and hard-nosed than the man who made love to Exeter on consecutive nights. Exeter knew he’d have to find his own style if he was to command a platoon of his own someday, as Michael expected. He never had the chance to lead anyone in any context. He was nothing but a soldier and a killer. Such qualities often did not equate to leadership.