Hoshi used a common slur that referred to Boer, Mauritania, Zwahili Kingdom, and Moroccan Prime, whose populations descended from Africans on pre-colonial Earth.

  “How can that be? The charter mandated no ethnic clusters. Amity is a counterpoint to the Chancellors’ forced migration.”

  Even as he said the words, Trevor understood the irony. His descendants were Chancellors – he traced his lineage back nine hundred years to men and women who happily cleansed Earth of those they considered “lesser.” And Effie? She hailed from Mauritania.

  A mocha-skinned ethnic married to a Chancellor was a sight to behold.

  “It sounds nice, Trev. In principle. But people are tribal by nature. They want to be surrounded by similar values and customs.”

  “I thought we were beyond that.”

  He remembered the homogeneity of Philadelphia Redux before the Chancellors lost the civil war. Even afterward, he encountered few of what his caste long referred to as “indigos.” Nineteen years in Harmony surrounded by reps from all forty worlds shifted his mindset.

  “You’ve lived here too long,” Hoshi said. “Most residents are short-timers, but they’re dozens to hundreds of light-years from home. Living near one’s own kind eases the transition.”

  “Fair enough. But that doesn’t explain how they’re able to cluster. The residential assignments are beyond their control.”

  “Not exactly. They’ve learned how to manipulate the Housing Authority. They keep track of the applicant rolls from their home worlds plus who’s about to leave Amity. When people back home win the lottery, they already know what bloc to request. Sometimes, to the specific flat.”

  “The Authority assigns at random. It’s the law.”

  She smiled with that figure-it-out-already vibe.

  “Ah.” Trevor’s idealism about Amity dropped a notch. “Bribery.”

  “Nobody cares if an engineering student from Boer ends up in Justinia bloc or Haldeman bloc. Happy citizens are peaceful.”

  Trevor thought of all he’d learned as a student to history.

  “My ancestors used to say the same about the colonies. Easy for them. They had all the guns and the ships. They could make peace happen real fast.”

  “That’s our goal in Haven. Peace today, peace tomorrow.”

  Trevor studied Hoshi with a skeptical eye.

  “Dorrit’s mantra?”

  She nodded. “Told me not ten minutes on the job.”

  “I’m all for peace, but not at the expense of tossing trouble into an airlock. How does clustering affect neighborhood behavior?”

  “Varies. In Justinia, they’re quiet. Even evasive.”

  “To us?”

  “To any outsider. They’ll smile and shake your hand. But they’re not much help in an investigation, unless they feel they’ve been wronged by assholes down the Swiftrak.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “Every bloc’s different. Speaking of, we have nineteen more.”

  “I assume Dorrit told you not to skip even one.”

  Hoshi smirked. “His exact instruction, with tongue firmly in cheek: ‘Stallion is pedantic. Drown him in the details.’ I don’t think he’s an admirer, Trev.”

  “I won’t apologize for having standards.” Trevor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Bastards like Dorrit never failed to set him off. “The details matter, Hoshi. They solve problems and save lives. We’re not uniformed babysitters and glad-handers.”

  “You don’t need to convince me.”

  Maybe he did.

  “These are dangerous times, Hoshi. It might seem like we’re protected out here. Three warships guarding the station, and the toughest Customs inspectors anywhere. It creates an illusion. I’ve seen too many people fall for it.”

  She hid her emotional cues well. Did she think him as paranoid as some of his ex-colleagues on Harmony?

  “We’re not blind to the threats. And you’re right. This uniform stands for something. But we’re also not stormtroopers and technocrats. These are regular people in Haven making the most of a great opportunity. We keep them happy, stay out of their way. Live and let live. That’s our charge, Trev. It works.”

  She grabbed his hand and added: “Trust me. I’m on your side.”

  Trevor heard sincerity in her tone, but he also spent years dealing with the best practitioners of verbal gymnastics. They knew how to telegraph sincerity yet mean not a whit.

  “I’ll remember your words the first time we’re at odds. And we will be. Trust me.”

  He had no idea just how soon.

  4

  SIX NEIGHBORHOODS LATER, Hoshi’s holobank sprang to life with a notification. She opened the InComm on her wrist plate to review the report. Trevor focused on the headshot of a man in his early twenties. Blond, tiny nose, rigid jaw, emerald green eyes.

  “Ulbrecht Hann,” he read, as Hoshi spoke the particulars.

  “Engineering student at the Maynor School on Episteme. Reported overdue by his mentor. They say he hasn’t responded to his personal comm.” She sighed with clear annoyance. “They request HVSA to check it out.”

  “Lives in Andromeda, Flat 529. Looks like we’re the closest.”

  Hoshi rolled her eyes.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing. Probably partied at the Raison Club, and now he’s sleeping it off. Likely disabled his comm. He wouldn’t be the first student to take that route.”

  Apparently, Hoshi took the “live and let live” motto seriously. The blasé approach didn’t shock Trevor anymore.

  “We’re on shift, Hoshi. Let’s do our job. The tour can wait.”

  She reset the rifter’s course.

  “I thought you said we weren’t babysitters.”

  “He’s a grown man who has other grown men worried. That means we should worry.”

  Hoshi moaned. “As you wish, First Deputy.”

  Her tone wasn’t called for. Was he imagining things? The woman lost her edge when called upon to check on a resident’s health.

  No. You’re being paranoid. They’re not all apathetic drones.

  En route to the next housing bloc, Trevor reviewed the man’s biography. Arrived from Yaniff seven months ago on an Interstellar Congress grant to study trans-wormhole shielding tech.

  “Huh. Interesting.”

  “What’s that?” She asked.

  “Trans-wormhole. Ever heard that term before?”

  “No. I’m not wired for the things they teach in Episteme.”

  Amity’s third sector, which focused on scientific research and engineering, regularly broke new ground on matters of interstellar concern. Less than one percent of applicants to its many divisions made the annual cut. That placed Ulbrecht Hann in rarefied company.

  “It’s not my forte either, Hoshi, but it’s a strange term, don’t you think? We mastered safe, mobile wormhole travel twenty-five years ago. Perhaps they’re developing a new generation of worm drives. I’ll look into it later.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  When they arrived at Andromeda bloc, Hoshi settled the rifter to a hover position outside the Level 5 Emergency Vehicle Mount. She voiced her ID Code toward the EVM’s AI interface. A platform jutted out beneath the rifter, and a portal into Level 5 pixelated open.

  “OK,” she said. “Let’s go knock on a drunk man’s door.”

  “And hope that’s all it is.”

  When Trevor hopped out onto the platform, he triggered his standard-issue wrist plate. A hologram displayed the HVSA LinkPass data spool.

  “Gradient F7. Stallion. Full access report with trend waves. Resident: Ulbrecht Hann. Haven. Andromeda bloc.”

  They rounded a corner on approach to Flat 529.

  “What are you doing, Trev?”

  “Preparing.”

  Hoshi glared at his holo with jaw agape. They passed two residents in the corridor. She didn’t speak until clear of them.

  “That’s his full LinkPass history. We’re not allowed to view it except in emergencies or suspicion of criminal ...”

  “I know the regs. I’m not violating the man’s rights.”

  “You’re being intrusive. It’s not how we do ...”

  “Please don’t say, ‘It’s not how we do things here.’”

  She grabbed Trevor by the arm and stopped him at 525.

  “Dorrit will go on a rampage. He forbids us from viewing LinkPass history without his explicit instruction.”

  Trevor found a quick end-run.

  “The Chief hasn’t said ten words to me since I arrived. And you warned me after the fact. I’ll know better next time. Right?”

  He grinned; Hoshi did not.

  “If you stow it quickly, he might not receive a system alert.”

  “Oh, I think it’s far too late for that. We’re here.”

  Hoshi didn’t wait for Trevor’s approval to press the door chime. Trevor studied the data rather than wait for a verbal reply. He reached a conclusion after Hoshi triggered the chime a second time to no effect.

  “Take a look,” he told her, flipping the holo in her direction. “Mr. Hann has not engaged with an access point in 9.2 hours.”

  “That’s all? I sleep longer than that on my days off.”

  Trevor couldn’t remember sleeping longer than five hours a day in the past seven years. His rest cycle altered forever when Ana Marie came into his life.

  “Here’s the problem.”

  He showed Hoshi trend waves derived from Hann’s daily regimen. Like all residents, the man used his gene stamp everywhere he ventured in Amity: Clubs, restaurants, other flats, the Crossway, public rifter checkout, Maynor School, even his personal kiosk for home-cooked meals.

  A life constantly tracked. The price for living in Amity.

  “With few exceptions, Ulbrecht Hann has followed the same routine for a hundred standard days. See here? His usual sleep cycle. A consistent window from H17 through 23. Last night, he entered the flat at H15. He never used his stamp after that. He’s inside.”

  She raised a brow, but Trevor knew she wasn’t sold.

  “So, he partied earlier than usual, shut off his comm, and didn’t set an alarm. A smart kid made a stupid mistake.”

  “Maybe. But I’m curious.”

  “What do you ...?”

  “Let’s check on the man.”

  “We have no probable cause to enter his flat, Trev. He’s been off the LinkPass Grid for less than ten hours.”

  Hoshi was right on one count: The law bent over backward to preserve residential privacy. So much so that obtaining a search warrant often proved a legal nightmare.

  “I intend to do this by the law, Hoshi. The Amity Charter reserves the right of security and health personnel to breach private quarters when there’s adequate suspicion of residential distress. Call me adequately suspicious.”

  He ignited his G7 credentials to access Flat 529’s entry code.

  “Worst case: He overslept. He’ll be so embarrassed at causing a stir, he’ll thank us from saving him further embarrassment.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck.

  “Unless he reports us for Improper Invasion.”

  Trevor studied everyone in his orbit to catalog their body language. He had memorized three of Hoshi’s tics.

  “Not you, Sec Deputy. Me.”

  Trevor overrode the entry sequence. The door slipped aside. Before crossing the threshold, he followed the regs:

  “Ulbrecht Hann, this is First Deputy Trevor Stallion of the Haven Security Administration. We are here to investigate a report of your absence from an intended engagement. Please verbally confirm your presence and that you understand my words.”

  It was a script, of course, and Trevor damn well knew better than to deviate from it. He made that mistake once only. When no one responded, he continued:

  “Under Statute 42-C of the Amity Charter, I hereby invoke the right to investigate residential distress. I am entering your home.”

  Someday, that Charter is going to get one of us killed.

  He didn’t intend to grab his standard-issue pistol, holstered beneath his red and silver jacket. Famously, pistols had only been fired inside Amity five times since it opened. Two were accidents. One death. Not bad considering how many millions had passed through the station. Like the warships outside, it created the illusion of a world shielded from danger.

  The front room was small and efficient, like ninety-nine percent of flats across Amity. It was also tidy. A loveseat, two chairs, vidscreen, dimmed lights on a softly padded floor. Pair of slipshoes at the loveseat’s base. Walls barren. Opposite the living space, a kitchenette with two cabinets and countertop kiosk. Didn’t appear to have been used recently.

  It spoke of a quiet, disciplined man leading an orderly life.

  Too orderly for Trevor’s taste. He steeled himself for the bedroom, at present shrouded in darkness.

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  “Feel free to join me,” he told Hoshi, who had not crossed the threshold. “Launch a snapdrone to run a BluScan.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Hedging my bets. Do it, please.”

  He didn’t wait for her objection and proceeded inward.

  The bedroom auto lit as he entered. It seemed to be owned by a different human altogether. Lunatic, more like.

  The bed linens lay disheveled everywhere but on the bed. The air mattress had deflated. A melon-sized red stain painted the wall above the headboard. The standup wardrobe lay on its side, one door unhinged, clothes strewn on the floor.

  Another red stain, similar size, plastered to the wall where the wardrobe once stood. Trevor stepped closer. He saw a crease in the wall and recognized human blood.

  Trevor knew what he was about to find, either on the other side of the deflated bed or in the water room. He’d studied the literature and crime-scene scans from every world where these things occurred. The pattern was unmistakable.

  He stepped gingerly through the evolving crime scene. When the water room’s light flickered on, his eyes caught two things: Shattered glass and a disjointed arm on the floor.

  Only when he stepped into the threshold did Trevor see what was left of Ulbrecht Hann. The former engineering student lay in a pool of his own blood, but that wasn’t the interesting bit.

  “I warned them this would happen,” he whispered. “Cudfrucker.”

  The dead man’s eyes were wide open with joy, his smile frozen in unbridled ecstasy. However, his jaw was broken – the bone visible near the base of his left ear. His forehead was battered and caked in a red soup that filled his hair like an off-brand gel.

  He was naked and twisted. His arms and legs contorted at the joints in manners not allowed by nature. His penis was hard and purple, and his right scrotum had burst.

  “What happened in here?” Hoshi asked at the bedroom door.

  “Call it in. Better for Dorrit to hear from you.”

  “Call in what?”

  “MOD.”

  Trevor pointed into the bathroom. Hoshi shook her head.

  “You can’t be serious, Trev. There’s no way he could ...”

  She slapped a hand over her mouth upon seeing the remains and turned away.

  “OK, fine,” Trevor said. “I’ll notify Dorrit.”

  Hoshi squeezed his arm.

  “No. You can’t report an MOD. W-we don’t have proof.”

  “Sure we do. Should I show you the case scans from thirty-two planets? This is Motif.”

  “No. He could have lost his mind on any number of drugs. Maybe something they developed in Episteme. We ...”

  “Have to report this for what it is. I understand the implications, Hoshi. But we can’t hide it: There’s Motif on Amity.”

  She backed away and begged Trevor to hold off.

  “Yes. We have to report it. Of course. But not as an MOD. We call it a Case 10.”

  She couldn’t be serious.

  “Unexplained death? Hoshi, the man broke every limb and smashed his head into the wall in at least three locations. Yet, he was laughing to his final breath. This is a Motif overdose.”

  He pointed out the snapdrone now flying through the bedroom.

  “I guarantee the BluScan will pick up K3 residue.”

  Kerasunehyde Trilucin (K3) was the unique active ingredient inside the drug, making it susceptible to calibrated sensors.

  “Trev, you’re getting ahead of yourself. There’s not one reported case of Motif passing through Customs.”

  “Reported. The sensors aren’t foolproof, and certain metals are known to camouflage it. Smugglers are good at what they do. There are ninety-two thousand potential customers on Amity. I doubt Ulbrecht Hann was the only one who wanted to fly.”

  Trevor opened InComm on his wrist plate and made the call. First day on the job, and it was about to get worse.

  Much worse.

  5

  EFFIE OFFERED SOUND ADVICE before Trevor left Harmony Sector for his new job. “If you do make a stink, at least wait until you’ve built trust equity.” Fine for her to say; she was a diplomat. She doled out her opinions in measured doses.

  Trevor knew everyone she worked with in the DRC; couldn’t stand the lot of them. He smiled at social events, shook hands, engaged in pleasantries, and sedated himself with multiple trips to the bar.

  “Nice concept,” he told his wife while packing. “I’d prefer they earn my trust first.”

  She lingered in the bedroom doorway.

  “You weren’t a cynic when we married, Trevor.”

  “Back then, you called me an old soul. It’s more or less the same.”

  Effie frowned at the assessment.

  “You never fail to make my case. Trevor, you’ll be threading a needle over there. Avoid any incidents, and I think another door will open in six months, give or take. Memories are short.”

  That was her go-to line, but Trevor didn’t buy it. Memories and grudges lingered in the political world.

  “Six months with my head down and my mouth shut will not turn me into a new man. I’m well past the point of no return.”

  Her cheery outlook dissipated.

  “What am I to do with you?”

  He chuckled. “I gave you seven years to plot a solution. Me? I got nothing.”

  She glanced into the common room, where Ana napped on the sofa. Effie closed the door.