“You asked for the details, Mikkel.” He flipped open the device. “First, an important caveat. Certain elements of the scheme are compartmentalized. No one group knows the entire picture.”

  “Not even Q6?”

  My question felt logical, but I might have jumped the gun. Matisse closed the pom and held it against his body. I rattled the guy. Judging from the other gasps, he wasn’t the only one.

  “Sorry? Did I speak out of turn?”

  Matisse gritted his teeth.

  “How do you know about Q6?”

  I wasn’t good at playing dumb, but I gave it a go.

  “Dunno. Came up in conversation.”

  I avoided eye contact with Hari Sidras, who had dropped that moniker with ease in the reception hall. Matisse and the Bosch brothers turned on her without hesitating.

  “We’ve discussed your loose lips before, Madame Sidras.”

  Matisse sounded like a teacher scolding a student in front of class. I’d know. Happened to me more often than I could count when I was a wee piece of shit growing up on Hokkaido. If I’d known about my immortality back then, I might have had the spine to cause a stir that the school would never forget.

  The woman with the duck hat painted her cheeks red.

  “My apologies, Matisse. I was probing our prospective new members to determine their suitability. I went too far in trying to make them feel at home.”

  He brushed her off with a wave.

  “You’re becoming a liability. We’ll resume this conversation later.”

  Suddenly, Madame Fancypants didn’t seem fit for a throne. I gave her too much credit. My bad.

  Just as well. What Moon and I planned to do to her wasn’t gonna be nearly as painful or lengthy as whatever Matisse had in mind.

  “Hey, Theo,” I told my D’ru-shaya. “Consider yourself triggered.”

  My brain itched.

  “About damn time. I’ll spool up your pistols.”

  “Nah. Just one. Left hand oughta do the trick.”

  Theo grumbled (his normal state of being).

  “Yeah, I get your meaning. Numbers are slim. I was hoping for a larger crowd, Royal. This will be over in a flash.”

  I’m not sure when Theo developed a taste for bloodbaths, but I blame myself. He used to be a pacifist before he started to take after his host.

  This bit about Q6 produced an interesting turn of events. No sense finishing these people off without learning more.

  “I’ll let you sort out your internal squabbles later. So, back to Q6. I gather it’s a top secret group, but now that the horse has broken from the stable, I believe Rudolph and I are entitled to know.”

  Matisse shifted in his chair and tucked away his pom. We had stumbled onto something bigger than expected. I was prepared to wait him out.

  “Mikkel, certain elements of our organization are restricted to an as-need basis. As passive investors, you don’t need to know about Q6.”

  “With all due respect, Rudolph and I have five million reasons to know. If this Q6 is a classified group, then it seems to me you have a leaky ship. I question your ability to navigate that ship to victory. I’m afraid our investment will be contingent on this knowledge.”

  Matisse glared long and hard at the Bosch brothers, who sat on either side of us. Henri nodded first. Leonidas followed suit.

  “Fair enough, Mikkel. But what I tell you must not leave this room. Your investor group will remain in the dark.”

  “Done.”

  “Thank you, Mikkel. Q6 is not a group. It’s a person. The one who oversees the entire network.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Unknown. Q6 started the network many years ago. My Qasi compatriots and I are a relatively new addition but critical to the success of the plan.”

  “So, one person is organizing all the factions, setting the rules, staging each phase of the scheme?”

  “It’s not quite that simple, but accurate for the sake of argument.”

  “You have no idea who?”

  “Suspicions. Speculation. I think it best we remain in the dark. If SI or the UNF knew one person was pulling the strings, they’d have a much easier time tearing it all down. We have three thousand well-placed members on Qasi. Our network grows daily, but no one outside this room knows about Q6.” Matisse glared at Hari. “I think.”

  Oh, yeah. The Prez was gonna love this intel.

  “Truth be told, Matisse, I feel better knowing there’s someone at the top of the mountain. Rogue factions and individual planets have tried to break up the Collectorate on their own, but it never worked. You don’t bring down an empire without effective coordination. So, give us the broad strokes. What’s your role in the grand scheme?”

  I thought he’d go for his pom to show us details, but Matisse leaned forward, clasping his hands into a giant fist.

  “It starts with the Shipping Guilds. We’re working to foment anger regarding the intersystem tariffs. It’s been simmering for years. Congress passes more regulations each term. They eat into everyone’s UCVs. It’s a straight line across the economy from the pilots to the commodity producers. Qasi’s exports represent twelve percent of interstellar trade. We intend to shut it down.”

  “Huh. Interesting idea. You want to put the screws to Congress with work stoppages. Might have an effect, but it will hurt your people the longer it drags out.”

  For the first time since we met, Matisse smiled.

  “Not in the least. Investors like you will ensure our people continue to receive their income.”

  “I get you. Other planets in the network will join in, too. Could work. Best case, however, Congress reforms the tariffs. You don’t bring down the Collectorate.”

  “There won’t be reform. The individual governments will request UNF intervention. When they send in the navy to end the strikes, violence will be inevitable. A chain reaction will follow. In time, the President, Congress and their lofty principles will lose credibility. What happens at that stage, only Q6 knows.”

  “One human controlling our little corner of the galaxy. What I’d give to be sitting in that chair.”

  Damn, that sounded like fun. Moon and I used to play around on a bigger scale. We decided the fate of whole universes.

  The good old days.

  Oh, well. One patient step at a time.

  “I’ve disclosed more than I should have, Mikkel, but we need your support. You’re still in, I trust?”

  The man was angling hard for our money. The minute he confirmed transfer of our five million credits would be our last. Or so he believed.

  Dumbass couldn’t kill us if he tried, but it would make for one hell of a spectacle.

  Time to wrap our business. I tapped my fingers against the table as if playing piano, my signal to Moon. I imagined how excited he was.

  “We’re prepared to invest,” I told Mikkel. “But in light of these developments, I’d like to offer a counterproposal.”

  “Now, Theo. I’m ready.”

  In the time it took these Huguenots to realize I might be changing the terms, my left hand – hidden in my lap – grew an appendage. The syneth matrix that comprised more than ninety percent of my so-called human body generated a Mark 12 Skyrex pistol.

  The Skyrex was a sleek little jewel; it weighed three ounces but packed a wallop. I’d seen it shred a man’s gut as effectively as a standard-issue military blast rifle. Even better, it offered state of the art suppression mechanics. High impact laser pegs delivered a whisper soft death. Perfect for the discriminating assassin.

  Naturally, it was outlawed on all forty planets.

  I shared two meditative seconds with Moon. He was giddy. The third I shared with Matisse Alain, who never saw me coming.

  The laser peg cut him square between the eyes off the bridge of the nose. The back of his head blew a gusher before the man realized he was dead.

  The next stage was symphonic in its rhythmic orchestration. As gods, we moved fifty times faster than the most agile human. Effective, yeah, but less than one percent of our top speed when we were maximos deos. Both the Bosch brothers fell over dead before anyone else uttered a cry of desperation or a plea for mercy.

  I gave Moon his due. He’d been patient. Wouldn’t have been fair if I’d taken out half. I settled for Matisse and Henri, while Moon leaped onto the table, landed like a gymnast, and silenced the room.

  I studied the bloody mess and crossed my fingers. That felt like it might have been a record.

  “Give it to me, Theo.”

  “2.46 seconds,” the D’ru-shaya said with a hint of joy in his voice. “Given the number of kills, effective radius, and choice of weapon, you missed by .13 seconds. No excuse from that close in, old man. You guys are losing your touch.”

  “As always, Theo, I appreciate your support. I had planned to compliment you on delivering the Skyrex pain-free. Instead, I’m gonna tell you to jump into your hole until we phase out.”

  Theo grunted. “No takebacks on compliments, Royal. You’re damn welcome!”

  Moon hopped down and pumped a fist.

  “Felt good,” he said. “How did we do for time?”

  “We’re getting there. It’s all about repetition, my friend. Now, we need to make some decisions before we beat a path off Qasi.”

  “Phase 2, Royal. You promised.”

  I chuckled. “And when have I ever broken a promise to you?”

  Moon’s eager-beaver smile disappeared.

  “The first time or the most recent?”

  “OK. I see your point. Look, it ain’t like I try to flip the script. Sometimes, you’re a handful. I have to improvise.” I studied the bloody corpses and the artistic wall splatters. “You did good today. Truth is, we can’t leave these assholes behind for inspection. Not to mention the witnesses that saw two Chancellors hanging about.”

  Moon opened his right hand to reveal one of his bombs, shaped like an ice cream cone and newly fashioned from syneth.

  “A pair of T8s will level this place, Royal. There won’t be anything left to inspect.”

  Before I gave Moon the green light on Phase 2, I reviewed our handiwork one more time and realized we weren’t quite done with these Huguenots.

  5

  W E RECOVERED THEIR PERSONAL DEVICES. Just our luck: Nothing but poms. Those little suckers might have held a bottomless pit of sweet intel, but retrieving it would be nearabout impossible. Some poms contained an entire life – private, professional, and otherwise – but hidden behind the owner’s unique gene stamp. The data was tamper-proof. I would’ve crushed that security in my prime. Now? Shit.

  I stuffed them in my pockets. They’d make a nice accessory with our mission report. I suspected the President had contacts in SI who knew a backdoor. Truth is, I didn’t give a damn so long as our bank account expanded.

  I settled my fedora on Matisse Alain’s head. Except for the huge dark hole between his eyes, he looked more stylish.

  “You see, Moon, if you’re gonna be a proper mastermind, at least dress the part. Golf clothes? Really? This guy.”

  Moon, who was growing a second T8, fitted his panama hat on Leonidas Bosch, whose head tilted left at a forty-five degree angle. A laser peg had blown open the right side of his skull.

  “Stylish. I see what you mean, Royal.”

  These eight Huguenots were a pitiful lot.

  “I’d gladly kill assholes like this for free. Look at them. They lived to pull other people’s strings. They were gonna take our creds and shoot us in the head. The brothers would have dropped us in a couple of those crates and hauled us off. Then they’d put out feelers for other investors. In the meantime, business as usual.

  “Wine. Parties. Golf. Admired wherever they traveled. Pillars of the community. Too suave, too cultured, and too connected for anyone to touch them. They’re the kind who wake up in the morning and ask, ‘Who can I screw today?’

  “But think about this, Moon. What would happen if a gang of ordinary folks – the kind with a real grievance, the kind that get screwed by this sorry lot – took to the streets protesting or tried to overthrow the government? Those kind of folks are willing to die for a cause. And sure enough, they’d be put down before lunch.”

  Moon held up the second bomb.

  “We’re ready. Time for fireworks.”

  “So we are. What did you think about my observation?”

  “A lot of words, Royal. Sounds like you’re going soft.”

  I expected such an insult from Theo. This hurt, albeit just a little.

  “Not soft, my friend. Practical. It’s important to tell the difference between humans who are willing to die, and those who ought to die. The first group usually deserves benefit of the doubt. The second don’t get hit often enough.”

  “They did today, Royal. Can we finish this now?”

  Morality wasn’t Moon’s specialty. Hell, it wasn’t even on the last page of his philosophical playbook. I was something of an amateur myself. Maybe it was my old age talking.

  Enough pontificating.

  “Let’s do it, my friend.”

  Moon planted the flat end of the cone-shaped T8 against the wall next to the door. We retreated along the corridor. I glanced out the windows and saw another threesome on the closest tee box.

  We entered the reception hall, where the Galatian Anniversary celebration continued. The chamber music played, wine flowed, and kids behaved not like kids. But all eyes tracked us. Their tongues would wag about the Chancellors who showed up out of the blue.

  Yeah, no. They were gonna have to keep the secret. Sorry.

  We approached the lobby, where a gracious older gentleman in a staff uniform stood in our way.

  “Leaving, sirs?”

  “We are,” I said. “It’s been fun.”

  “By chance, did you check your hats?”

  This guy was observant. Nice.

  “Great catch. We were going to leave without them.”

  “Not a problem, sir. Names?”

  “Jorgensen and Hartman.”

  “Perfect. Give me one moment.”

  Sad. Those might have been the last words he ever uttered.

  “How long?” I asked Moon as we proceeded to the front entrance.

  “Eighteen seconds.”

  “We don’t want to miss it.”

  I hadn’t seen Moon plant the second T8, but speed and dexterity were not his shortcomings. Once outside, we ran. No one would have seen us. We covered a hundred meters in two seconds flat. Years of practice proved we could sprint short distances and not tax our syneth core functions. Anything over a kilometer without short breaks was another matter.

  We found a nice spot under a stand of cypress trees up a hillside. A comprehensive view.

  “Will the collateral damage piss off the Prez?” Moon said.

  “She’ll get over it. She did the last time. This will be clean.”

  “And beautiful.”

  Moon smiled ear to ear before Club Moulet exploded into an eye-catching fireball. Debris rocketed in every direction. A few pieces whizzed past our position. Moon pumped his fists.

  T8s produced enough heat to effectively vaporize everyone in their vicinity. The best genetic scanners would struggle to identify remains.

  Like our other commissions, the finale was quick. They paid us to kill, not torture. I preferred it when my victims didn’t see the end coming. Let them smile and be happy right up to the final second. I figured it was a fair deal.

  “Theo, signal Bart. Bring it down to the exit coordinates.” He didn’t confirm. “Theo?”

  “Give me a minute, old man. I’m soaking in the beauty. Addis says Moon’s kinetic vitals are chart toppers!”

  “I can see. He’s giddy. But we need to leave Qasi. Now.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t grow a hard one. I’m on it.”

  Theo used to be a well-mannered D’ru-shaya. The first few weeks after we landed on Azteca, he even called me “sir.” I think it was a ploy to gain favor while we negotiated his rights. When I started playing hardball, he dropped the honorific and queued up a whole range of ugly substitutes.

  I handed him remote control over our Ladybug-class ship. A risky move, but if I was ever unable to give voice authorization, he could take matters into his own hands. The chance of that happening was eight thousand to one; I ran a few years’ worth of simulations. Those odds were more dangerous than a god should expect.

  Moon studied the disaster scene with prideful eyes. I’d known him for two thousand years, and he had rounded into a full-on monster – humans would call him evil incarnate. I watched him destroy whole planets with the joy of a kid on a rollercoaster. A single building like this? A few hundred people inside? It paled by comparison, but not to Moon. He appreciated the little things.

  “What say we take off, my friend? Bart’s on the way.”

  “Yeah. Sure, Royal. Think she’ll give us another job soon?”

  “Eh. Who’s to say? These assholes are gone, but Q6 and the rest of that network are out there plotting.”

  “We might return to Qasi before you know it. He said there’s three thousand active members down here.”

  I sighed. “Hell, you’ll find insurgents on every planet if you look hard enough. Let’s take our victory, polish it off, and return to the fort.”

  At fifty times human speed, we raced across the countryside, stopping for a twenty-second break at the one-kilometer mark. Managing our syneth core was a fulltime job. Bart landed in a forest clearing a few seconds ahead of us.

  Bart was a beautiful creature in cerulean blue: Five meters bow to stern, designed as a luxury sedan for terrestrial travel and orbital excursions, engineered with the signature Ladybug dome and retractable Carbedyne propulsion fins. We modified it for stellar travel and added a stealth wormhole drive to avoid the intersystem trackers. Inside that bad boy, Moon and I journeyed the galaxy in the smallest vessel other than the UNF’s Hornet-class one-man fighters.

  We purchased Bart the first time we shapeshifted into Mikkel and Rudolph. Nobody blinked an eye when a pair of Chancellors dropped two hundred thousand UCVs to snatch one. The name was Moon’s idea; it was an anagram of the manufacturer. He had a clever moment on an otherwise unstable day; I let the name stick.