Shortly after Cap Silver explained the next round of drills, Michael holoed in through every soldier’s Occip. His face appeared in miniature in front of Exeter’s eyes, but he seemed no less gigantic a man.

  “I need every one of you to have your goddamn head in the game. Feel me? This is the most important mission we’ve ever undertaken in defense of Aeterna. Those ships in the wrong hands can fucking kill us. And the wrong hands are connected to Chancellors. Those assholes don’t know how to quit.

  “We’re going in there hard, but we do it by the book. Who’s writing the book? Yours truly and Admiral Kane. You follow the plan with discipline, and we’ll come out smelling sweet as a fucking rose. But listen, victory is not a guarantee. Never is. So, if you got any near-and-dears you wanna take care of, get them out of the way before we jump. What do we say, Platoon 7?”

  It happened in unison, though Exeter had to play catchup.

  “Learn to love. Prepare to kill.”

  When Michael disconnected, chatter erupted. Real talk – not through Occip. Exeter saw perhaps for the first time just how devoted Aeternans were to their Minister. They could have drilled for the next two days nonstop, and no one would have objected.

  They did, however, drill until sunset. Tomorrow, Exeter learned, they’d head into orbit. He’d see Aeterna’s Navy at last.

  And then? Combat.

  Exeter knew it better than any in Platoon 7.

  33

  6 standard hours before the arrival

  Arakaat Crater Shipyards, Euphrates

  D AVID BENDI RESENTED BEING selected as lead Zwahili observer to the Arakaat Project. The Triad sent him ninety light-years away as punishment for advocating a crusade to control the entire African quadrant. David despised the man who pushed the Triad to choose him: Francois Adobo.

  Their rivalry began when they were old enough to learn the long, bloody history between their tribes, the Huni and the Lenix. Both competed to produce and sell arms to the many far-flung militias hiding in the outlands. When the Chancellors left, Francois exploited the vacuum within days, establishing his company and guaranteeing distribution at a pace and with such quality David could not match.

  They shared the same dream when the Inventor awarded Zwahili Kingdom the miracle of three warships: Each wanted to be a captain. They tried to broker a deal to bring peace between their factions and ensure a captaincy for both. They shook on it.

  One week later, the Triad voted on the presumptive captains and their top lieutenants. Neither David nor Francois made the final cut. Triad leaders worried the men would not represent the Kingdom effectively while leading an Alliance-wide security fleet. Two months later, much to his dismay, David was nominated to be the Kingdom’s top diplomat at the shipyards. You will be held in great esteem, the Triad told him. All your family’s debts will be erased.

  Not until the last hour before he hopped onto a transport did David learn who pushed the levers. Not until months later did he learn why: A presumptive captain died in mysterious circumstances, and Francois advanced into an officer’s group. He stood likely to inherit the command seat by launch date.

  Two weeks after the Scylla fiasco, David returned home for a brief visit with family. Francois was waiting. He admitted to his earlier actions but now claimed a change of heart. The other two ships were vulnerable. Men of action needed to ensure their safety.

  “You deserve one,” Francois said. “I deserve the other.”

  David walked away. He did not learn of the Scylla’s return until weeks after the fact. Francois made him an intriguing offer.

  “I need your help, David. I have made a promise to these pirates I do not believe I can keep. I call on you to help in this matter, and I will assure we each leave Arakaat with a captaincy.”

  The request was simple: Bring the Inventor to Arakaat no later than launch day. In return?

  “I will bring armed men to commandeer the ship you wish to captain. We will hold the facility and take what is ours. The Triad will see we are strong men who deserve to represent the Kingdom.”

  “And you, Francois?”

  “I will take Scylla. If the current crew refuses to surrender the ship, my people will kill them. The Persians will not interfere if we do not harm their workers.”

  David reached a conditional deal. Though he did not tell Francois, David knew this would not work if bloodshed was required. That meant nudging Aziz Hussein to contact the Inventor. Encourage him to attend the shakedown launches.

  He sent his last transmission to Francois two standard days ago, reaffirming the Inventor’s plans. Now, he waited.

  David couldn’t sleep. Normally an early riser, he found himself on the viewing platform at the hour of the wolf, sipping café. The facility was at peace. How many workers dreamed of the moment when their creations broke mooring three hours after sunrise? From the platform, he stared up toward the enormous drydocks, where spotlights cast a glow upon the Charybdis and Hermes.

  He wanted Charybdis for himself.

  He wished for clear skies, perfect timing, and no casualties.

  David heard the sound of a lift creaking somewhere distant. Perhaps the workers’ town? He doubted anyone else stirred in the diplomatic zone. Then he heard a second lift.

  Something stirred at the far end of the drydocks.

  Movement. There they were! One lift rising to each warship.

  Last second utility crews? The final maintenance check wasn’t scheduled to begin for three hours.

  “Interesting.”

  He thought of heading back to his office and double-checking the launch day manifest. That’s when he heard voices far below. He leaned over the railing.

  “What?”

  Chairman Aziz Hussein huddled with a group of Persian engineers. David heard incoherent smatterings before two pairs of engineers started for the drydocks.

  “This does not register.”

  Aziz sent away the rest of his team and watched them advance toward the ships. He started to pivot but looked up. David thought to step back. Too late. He spilled his café.

  Aziz did not look away. David waved, but to no response.

  “Something here is not right.”

  He decided to take his suspicions back to his office. Yet when he turned, David saw three ships on final approach to the quays. They were so close he should have heard the hum of their Carbedyne nacelles. They ran silent as they disappeared beneath the diplomatic quarters into the transport zone.

  Angela Poussard had no trouble sleeping, but her dreams weren’t as satisfying as she might have hoped. Her imagination often led her to Aeterna, where she dined with the ghosts of admirals who ruined her career following The Last Day’s War. A cornucopia graced the center of the table. She wanted to replace it with Michael Cooper’s head, but her subconscious never cooperated.

  “Give it time,” she’d say over morning tea.

  Tonight, the dream was reaching its usual wondrous climax when she felt it slipping away. Something was distracting her.

  Too much damn noise.

  She rolled over once, twice.

  Her eyes opened.

  She waited a few seconds to make sure the scream was real. She threw on a light and checked the time.

  What?

  Her door buzzed as she slipped into her bodysuit, her hair a frazzled red mess. She ordered the door to open.

  Siobhan Morrow raced in with eyes bearing dread.

  “Contact the fleet, Angela. They have to come now. I don’t understand how this happ …”

  “Slow down. Tell me.”

  “They betrayed us. Angela. They’re preparing to launch the warships. I saw Hussein leading a team up to Hermes.”

  She froze. What is that indigo bastard doing?

  “Come with me,” she told Siobhan. “We’ll see what’s really going on. We’ll …”

  “Angela. It’s too late. Three ships arrived. I don’t know who they are, but there are soldiers moving in. We can’t get to him.”

  “Soldiers?”

  She dashed out to a wide corridor that offered a grand view of the drydocks. People were waking, a few mumbling confusion, and others running.

  Hermes and Charybdis donned their running lights. A shuttle passed overhead, approaching the Hermes landing bay. The translucent roof above the drydocks began a slow, methodical retraction.

  Peter was out of sorts.

  “Cudfrucker, Angela! What do we do now?”

  “First, we need to round up the diplomatic corps. Everyone we can find and then we’ll demand Hussein hold off until …”

  David Bendi rounded the corner along with the other two Zwahili observers. Wait … if they aren’t part of this …

  She saw the shock and awe in his eyes before he said a word.

  “David, what is this madness?”

  He pointed over her shoulder. Angela swung about.

  Two hulking soldiers approached in shimmering armor carrying blast rifles, their weapons tight against their chest. She did not recognize the armor, either by color, metal, or structure.

  A shadowy voice rang out.

  “On your knees. Everyone.”

  Angela refused. Peter and Siobhan held their ground as well.

  The soldier who barked the order wasn’t pleased. He separated from his comrade, chose a delegate from Bolivar, and threw the man against the wall. He fell into a crumpled mess. If not dead, he might soon be.

  “On your knees.”

  Angela capitulated and ordered her team to do the same. She cursed under her breath. Siobhan was right. She should have contacted Tramel’s fleet. Maybe it would have taken them too long, but at least they would have had a fighting chance. At least …

  The soldiers nodded toward the far end of the corridor. Angela twisted around, now facing the drydocks. A third soldier occupied the viewing platform. A hulking figure yet different.

  The soldier wore gold plating that shimmered under the spotlights. He said nothing but looked in all directions, as if assessing the scene. He raised an armored fist to his mouth, spoke, and reached into his armor. His hand sunk inside what Angela thought was molten metal. It pulsated and for an instant, resembled a circulatory system. The soldier retrieved his own rifle.

  The armor returned to a hard-shell gold shimmer.

  Angela didn’t have time to contemplate what she witnessed. A holowindow threw open above the platform at least twenty meters across. It blurred at first then pixelated into the clear face of a man who needed no introduction. Angela always wondered what the Inventor looked like. He was much younger than she predicted.

  “Good morning, everyone. I am casting throughout Arakaat so all will see and all will understand. To my local partners: Persians, Damascenes, and Iraqans. Your work has been exemplary. You represent the best of what I believe our Alliance can be.

  “However, the same cannot be said for everyone here tonight. I am sad to report the presence of traitors who have defied the Alliance charter and threaten its very existence. We are now in the process of silencing their threat. However, in the interest of preserving your fine work, we are launching the warships ahead of schedule and will take them into protective custody until these concerning matters can be resolved. You owe a debt of gratitude to Chairman Aziz Hussein. Now, to the traitors …”

  The warships ignited their Carbedyne nacelles.

  34

  5 standard hours before the arrival

  Inside the Fulcrum

  200 kilometers off Nexus 39 transit beacon

  R EAR ADMIRAL CONSTANTIN TRAMEL hated to hide. This sort of behavior was the province of guerrilla fighters, indigos, and terrorists – all of which were the same thing, in his book. At least this nonsense would be over soon. He didn’t trust Angela Poussard and projected only a fifty percent chance of success, but she was right on the macro points. They’d never take Aeterna without superior force, and their miserable little fleet wouldn’t stand a chance against a system mined with singularity weapons and who-knew what else.

  “Major, sit-rep.”

  Maj. Dennis Crane did the heavy lifting from the outset. He supervised the retrofits to disguise these troop transports as harmless merchant vessels. Tramel sat in his quarters and drank except when he needed to show his face. Now, with zero hour approaching, he played the game and took control of the bridge.

  “Final checks completed, Admiral. The protocols have been verified authentic. Everyone will see two Boer shipping liners. Our contacts at New Damascus Control will verify our cargo when the warship captains ask for confirmation.”

  “And the backdoor will be open to transmit the NAR Codex?”

  “We’ll lock them out of their own C&C, sir. Our people should be in position to put down any resistance.”

  “We have one shot, Major. This is one of those fool tactics you can never attempt twice.”

  “It will work if they haven’t designed in countermeasures.”

  “Angela claims not, but she also thought Aeterna would fall in an hour.” He laughed. “What am I saying? It did fall in an hour. The wrong cudfrucking way. Prepare the crews, Major. We’ll take position at the Nexus.”

  “On it, Admiral.”

  For an instant, Tramel thought about his wife Enya. She often spoke of building a lovely estate overlooking the Nades River on the southern continent of Mariabella. She would have hated this tactic, although Tramel was sure she might have come to appreciate the finer points of Aeternan living. She almost made it out of the Sol system alive.

  “Admiral, we have a problem.”

  “Yes, Major. What is it?”

  Maj. Crane pointed to unusual movement on the far side of Nexus 39. Sometimes, the Fulcrum played havoc with navigation systems.

  “A ship, Major?”

  “Not large enough, sir. Wait … it’s dividing. Is this for real?”

  The pulses moved at the speed of a rifter and appeared no larger. They held a steady course tracking past the Nexus and onward down the line.

  “Open a comm, Major. If this is a …”

  “Oh, shit.”

  No one had to say a word. The objects hyper-accelerated and changed course. They splintered into a wide field. Twenty. Forty.

  The ship’s proximity alarms blared.

  Tramel grabbed the comm, but there was nothing he could say.

  It was over.

  Blue fire consumed him.

  Tramel joined his wife in the abyss.

  4 standard hours before the arrival

  Cruiser Persephone

  Chancellor Fourth Fleet

  Joakim Barter became something of a classroom celebrity after he joined Angela Poussard for her rousing speech many weeks ago. Chancellor boys and girls developed a keen interest in the man, which was surprising since Joakim assumed the children had already been taught to revere him.

  Had he not saved these families from misery in exile? Had he not provided them with a hope to reconstruct the true Chancellory from scratch? Their parents gave Joakim the bulk of their wealth, which they could no longer use on Ark Carriers or that most wretched place, Earth. Joakim delivered.

  Yes, living in uninhabited systems until the Alliance was formally enshrined wasn’t easy. He admired his people for their patience.

  Joakim traveled between the fleets, visiting the classrooms and lecturing on all manner of topics. Sometimes, he simply joined in with the youngest children at playtime and helped them build their crafts. He hoped he was making memories they would pass down to their descendants, long after Joakim was gone.

  He didn’t want monuments, and he kept none of their wealth for himself – a considerable departure from his Collectorate methods of doing business. All Joakim wanted was a nice lake house with a small garden and a view of the sun rising above the far shore. He heard Aeterna had thousands of prospective lakes.

  When did the dream turn from the colonial settlement to a single, isolated home world? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the fancy of an old man who visited every colony in his lifetime and wanted to live out his days in the most unexpected place.

  Today, he spoke to Tier I students. They wanted to know if the rumors were true about Aeterna no longer being an option. He changed the subject and indulged them with tales of his youth. They were too young to have lived in the Carriers, so he fascinated them with stories of a world inside a world, where an artificial sun heated the city park, and children bathed in the waters beneath artificial falls. Where brontinium statues of the Chancellory’s founders kept a watchful eye over their descendants.

  He was dining on a light evening meal and preparing his lesson plan for the next day when his aide streamed into his amp.

  “Mr. Barter, I’ve received an encoded transmission for your stack. Hypername: Selene.”

  His daughter. She served with valor but her unit was outmatched.

  “Send to my stack, Randolph.”

  He opened the message with a combination of excitement and dread. He gave the encode designator to Amayas three years ago.

  “Hello, my friend,” the Inventor said. “I trust you’re doing well. The moment we’ve been waiting for is rapidly approaching. I’ll give you permission to announce it to the fleet at your earliest convenience. The Alliance will be publicly codified on Standard Day 1, 5357, per our original plans. I hope this update will prove to be a soothing salve for what is to come.”

  Amayas dropped the smile. His lips downturned.

  “I thought our bond was unshakeable, Joakim. We discussed the sanctity of Aeterna many times. I am disappointed in your actions. You know how hard I have worked to bring about this Alliance. You know what it means for the future. I won’t ask why you did it.

  “The warships are in my custody. Angela Poussard will answer for her treason. Tramel is dead. His ships have been vaporized.”

  No. How did you … ? Amayas, you wouldn’t.

  “I suppose I should stop there. Unfortunately, your pawns could not have done this without your blessing. I need you to understand fully my unshakeable commitment to the Alliance. I’m sorry for what has to happen now, but I hope you’ll have time to reflect. Goodbye, Joakim. I’ll see you next year.”