Holding the pendant steady with one hand, he executed cuts along the symbol’s eight-sided outline then along the internal lattice.

  He heard a brief flurry of laser fire in the outside corridor as he finished the work. Connor removed the pendant and examined the detail. Perfect. It adhered to the message left behind by Cauldron assassins for centuries.

  “Beautiful,” he said, checking the time stamp.

  Connor puffed the last of his cigar and flicked it toward the panel window. It bounced off the glass with a small shower of embers.

  A relic, Estefan said of the Cauldron.

  The headlines in coming days would reflect the opposite. As for the actual Cauldron? They wouldn’t deny involvement – it would make them look weak. If anything, they’d have to embrace the “success” of the coordinated attack.

  Not every duo from Red Team walked the city wearing the hat and the trench coat, but all were meant to burnish the pendant into their victims.

  Connor met Kaz near the lift. Two former badges lay dead.

  “Done?”

  Kaz grinned ear to ear.

  “Silence is golden, Big C.”

  Connor checked the time stamp. Twenty seconds to spare.

  Perfect.

  3

  Amity Station, Harmony Sector

  Two days later

  TREVOR STALLION FLUFFED his collar, something he felt compelled to do before every meeting and public event. He never got the collars quite right on these suits. Why couldn’t they lay down like the neckless variety on the uniform he wore for sixteen years?

  That spoke to the real problem: He hated the fashion. As a Sec Admin deputy, he saw this collar as a symbol of the condescension and bias he felt from the diplomatic and political classes. Ambassador Pousson, the man who almost got Trevor fired a year ago, wore some of the most flamboyant collars. As if the bastard belonged to royalty.

  Trevor’s instinct before the swearing-in ceremony: Remain in uniform. Break the mold. Show everyone he’d be a different kind of Governor.

  The three most significant women in his life – Effie, Shireena, and President Kieran Haas – pushed back with equal force. They said the job required a less intimidating style. The job was, as they pointed out, often as ceremonial as it was administrative.

  Fine. He’d buy a rack of suits but rely on one person’s approval – his best girl.

  Trevor spent a day shopping with Ana Marie. Despite her tender age, she developed quite the fashion sense. Almost eight years surrounded by her mother’s associates in the Diplomatic Resolution Corps did the trick.

  Ana stood by his side when the President swore him in. He received ample compliments on his black ensemble with green trim.

  Sixty days later, pacing at his desk, Trevor sported a teal ensemble with a white ruffled collar. It looked nothing like the combination his predecessor wore, which is why he chose it.

  His desk chimed, to which Trevor responded.

  “Yes?”

  Shireena answered from outside the office.

  “He’s here.”

  “Early. What a shock. Give me thirty seconds then send him in.”

  Trevor pulled back his left sleeve and tapped his wrist plate.

  “It’s time,” he said. “I want to thank you for doing this. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll call you forward. Stallion out.”

  He checked his suit again, looked around the spacious office – matched in size only by the President’s – and once more could not believe fate brought him here. Elegant furniture for casual confabs and negotiations, his own kiosk and liquor supply, three-dimensional paintings of the station’s interior, and a solid wood antique desk donated by Grandfather Max. Plus an adjacent flat.

  Trevor took a casual pose near the liquor display. When the door slid open, he reached for two glasses.

  “Stallion,” the visitor said.

  “Mr. Murrill. Please, come in.”

  Rafe Murrill, once the station’s longest serving Governor, still dressed as if he were entitled to the big desk.

  “I was about to have a drink,” Trevor said. “Join me?”

  “Straightaway with the mock charity, are you? I see your game, Stallion. And no, I don’t care for a drink.”

  Neither did Trevor, but he thought a short whiskey might ease him through the difficulty ahead.

  “Actually, Rafe, I’m Governor now. If you don’t mind.”

  Murrill waved off Trevor’s obvious scorn and settled into a high-backed leather chair.

  “You wear it poorly, Stallion. And you won’t wear it much longer, as you’re about to discover.”

  That’s what I thought you’d say.

  Especially since Murrill had repeated the threat several times after Trevor took the job.

  “Sorry you feel that way,” he said, pouring the whiskey. “Your message said you wanted to end this amicably and quietly, for the good of the station. I assume you have a specific threat you’d like to make this time.”

  Trevor chose a facing leather chair. Playing this out with a little theatrical flair wasn’t the worst choice.

  “You’re a disaster, Stallion. The station’s reputation will take a devastating blow when the public learns the truth about you.”

  “Unless I resign and leave Amity without explanation. Yes?”

  Murrill tapped the chair’s arms.

  “You see the shape of it. Before I force your resignation, my curiosity demands I ask: Have you enjoyed your brief term in this hallowed sanctum?”

  Hallowed sanctum! No one talks like this guy, except for Nexus.

  Trevor had not heard from the galactic know-it-all since a brief congratulatory call shortly after his swearing-in.

  Might as well answer truthfully, Trevor thought. That will be enough to crawl under the bastard’s skin.

  “I’ll admit, it was awkward at first. The suits didn’t fit well, and I missed carrying a sidearm. I’m a badge by trade. But I’ve had sixty days, each one better than the last. Actually, I received some great advice from the President. She told me to make the job my own. Now it fits me, like the clothes.”

  Murrill studied Trevor with the apparent relish of a man about to spring his trap.

  “Actually, I will have a drink. Stay where you are, Stallion. I’ll fix it.”

  Yep. This guy was a piece of work. Everyone in the administrative class brought a certain element of drama to their role, as Trevor discovered – especially when he reorganized Central top-down.

  “Fortunately,” Murrill said after pouring his drink, “you haven’t crippled CA so badly I can’t restore my previous order within three or four days. I’ll have to review the master ledgers, of course. The way you’ve redistributed the budget is outrageous.”

  He waited for Murrill to sit.

  “All I’ve done is refocus Central on its primary mission: Protecting this station. More UCVs for deputies, surveillance tech, and Shadow Gambit. Customs will be next.”

  Murrill sipped liquor, crossed his legs, and brushed something off his shoes.

  “You always hated men like me, Stallion. But the truth is, you’re more power hungry than anyone who’s ever sat behind that desk.”

  “How so?”

  “Eliminating the Executive Board? A brazen move and clearly against the Amity Charter.”

  If anything, Murrill should have been glad to see them go. The majority turned against him after months of Presidential cajoling.

  “Not according to Central’s Superior Judge. I’m accountable directly to the President now. She can fire me on a whim. If she loses the next election, her successor can replace me. One screwup, and I’m gone. I didn’t make it easy for myself.”

  “Fortunately, I will. Stallion, you are going to be the shortest-lived Governor in Amity’s history.”

  “Twenty-one years,” Trevor reminded. “Only six Governors. Not a huge sample size.”

  “Oh, you’re a funny man, aren’t you? Let’s see you laugh your way out of this.”

  Murrill raised a holo from his pom. He opened three screens.

  “It took me some time to compile the entire inventory. Fortunately, I had just enough markers to call in. First, to the easy ones. You violated thirteen regulations when you secretly handed over Hoshi Oda and Bien Thet to then-SI Director Lana Devonshire.

  “You violated their civil rights under the Collectorate Criminal Code. Neither one has been heard from since. And after Devonshire’s recent retirement, she’s not likely to discuss SI’s role unless forced by a Congressional investigation.

  “Let’s see here. You withheld vital information about the true nature of Mau Ping’s condition and how specifically it affected you and a group of other station residents. Moreover, you failed to report the true reason why the kidnapping four months ago ended without loss of life. You used residual energy – perhaps something similar to Ping – to overwhelm the terrorists. In the process, you put the station at risk.”

  Trevor suspected Murrill knew, so he didn’t act shocked or launch into a disingenuous denial. Only a handful of people could have leaked it. Trevor focused on the same asshole who likely sent an anonymous message to Murrill warning of a conspiracy led by Trevor.

  He wasn’t ready to move on those suspicions quite yet. The culprit lived on a short leash.

  Trevor allowed Murrill to continue the litany of accusations – so far, each of them spot-on.

  “On that same day, you and Harmony Chief Barukh Tasqur violated security protocol by manipulating official spaceport secure cam logs as well as medical records. You eliminated visual evidence regarding the so-called ‘accident’ with Director Devonshire’s shuttle.”

  Trevor could have noted that Murrill was in the after-report briefing where Trevor explained the need for a coverup. Something both Murrill and the President agreed upon.

  Yet Trevor buttoned his lips as Murrill continued the onslaught.

  “You then violated the Charter by firing Executive Board members under rotation contract and reassigning those funds to appoint lackeys who will do your bidding. Specifically, I refer to the expansion of Shadow Gambit, which you are now illegally using to vet every soul onboard Amity. Worse, you appointed your lover, Shireena Balance, to lead that team. The conflict of interest is outrageous.

  “Trevor, any of these charges will destroy your life if made public. Your family will be shamed. Your daughter will hate you for betraying the station’s best interests. And Shireena? Whatever will become of her? She’s a collaborator in many of these charges.

  “My recommendation: Resign. Cite whatever reason. Phrase it however poetically. You’re still young enough to join the UNF and see the stars with your brother. Or perhaps you will see how Earth has changed these past twenty years. Whatever the case, I want it done. Today.”

  Trevor nodded.

  “Quick. Huh. You definitely mean business, Rafe. I never doubted your capacity to serve revenge ice cold. And ... to be honest ... I’m impressed. You brought more than idle threats this time.”

  “Then your decision should be simple.”

  Trevor stifled a laugh.

  “Yeah. Actually, it is.” Trevor pressed the comm on his wrist plate. “Please come forward, everyone.”

  Murrill sat up, his delicious smile a tad hesitant.

  “What is this?”

  Trevor didn’t need to answer.

  Three holos sprouted from his desk.

  Harmony Chief Barukh Tasqur. Episteme Chief Ilya Petrov. The newest chief: Haven’s Ramesh Suhl.

  “Thoughts on what you’ve heard?” Trevor asked.

  Murrill cut them off.

  “They’ve been listening? Stallion, I demanded a private meeting. How dare you?”

  Barukh jumped in.

  “I can’t speak for the others, Governor, but everything you’ve done has been in the service of keeping this station safe. I’ll gladly testify on your behalf against any of these accusations.”

  “Agreed,” Ilya added. “We all must bend the rules on occasion to serve the greater good.”

  “I’m the new guy,” Ramesh added with a twisted smile, “but I’ve been banging about the place for a few years. We’ve never been more prepared for a crisis thanks to the Governor.”

  The door slid open as Ramesh concluded his opening remarks. Shireena took her place alongside the holos.

  “I watched Gov. Stallion save lives more than once,” she said. “If he had followed every protocol, there might not be a functioning Amity Station. These are dangerous times, Mr. Murrill. Amity cannot operate like it used to.”

  “Says the woman he beds,” Murrill scowled.

  “Yes.” Shireena smiled, showing no sign of insult. “Trevor and I are intimate. It’s not a secret. But when we go to work, our only priority is the station. Could you say the same?”

  Murrill set down his drink. Did he sense the cage about to close around him?

  “I spent seven years in this office. What do you imply?”

  Trevor spoke for Shireena.

  “She implies nothing, Rafe. All you’ll get from us are accusations upheld by proof.”

  “Accusations of what?”

  Trevor sighed. OK. Here we go.

  “Ilya, why don’t you get us started?”

  “Happily,” the Episteme Chief said. “My predecessor, Sharif Al-Jani, frequently spoke of the pressure coming down on this office from the Corp Execs. Halifax and Atumwa, especially. When I was his First Deputy, Sharif often said we were made to serve them ahead of everyone else. We were to turn a blind eye to their misdemeanors.

  “I asked why he did not defer to Central Administration for help. Sharif said, ‘Because the orders come from Central. If I disobey the Governor, I will lose my job.’ I saw the pressure weigh on Sharif.”

  Murrill scoffed.

  “Hearsay. Pointless. Will you now blame me for the man’s suicide?”

  “No need,” Ilya said.

  Trevor followed up.

  “When I took over this office, I instructed Accounting to open the master ledgers. I’m good at seeing discrepancies in details. It’s a quality I learned from Grandfather Max. My instinct – I’d call it paranoia – usually leads me down an interesting path. Halifax and Atumwa paid twice the mandatory Station Finance Fees during most of your term. But I couldn’t track the additional UCVs. That many creds would hire additional deputies, Customs agents, screening tech. You name it.”

  He nodded toward Shireena.

  “When I opened the Shadow Gambit office, with Shireena in charge of the team, I asked her to vet top down. We began with you, Rafe.”

  Murrill must have felt the door slam in his face. He shot up from his comfy chair, jaws steeled for a fight.

  “You had the gall to run me through Shadow Gambit? The Governor of this station?”

  He walked right into it.

  “Ex-Governor. Maybe if you had done the honorable thing and taken the first liner home, we wouldn’t be here today.”

  Shireena added another holo to further complicate Murrill’s life.

  “Here,” she said. “The final report. Take a look.” Shireena tossed him the projection. “I highlighted the key bits for you.”

  Murrill shifted his eyes away, his face pallid.

  “These ... these are my private financial records. You had no legal cause to request them.”

  “Under Shadow Gambit,” Trevor said, “anyone deemed a threat to the well-being of Amity Station or its residents can be subject to an incursion of their personal accounts, both local and terrestrial. Since the missing UCVs denied Amity some necessary services, I instructed Shadow Gambit’s team to vet everyone with access to those funds.”

  “I’ll save you some time.” Shireena piled on. “You have personally enriched yourself by nine hundred thousand UCVs. Eighty percent came directly from Halifax and Atumwa, but the rest were smaller, forced donations from a wide variety of business and political interests across the station. If there was a bribe to be had, you took it. If the opportunity to extort arose, you jumped on it. You were a busy man.”

  And now, a cornered animal. Trevor wondered how Murrill would try to talk himself out of it. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “What you have here proves nothing,” Murrill said. He directed his ire at everyone present, holo or otherwise. “I gave my life for this station. I left a thriving financial enterprise on Qasi Ransome behind. You people might not approve of how I conducted business, but I washed away this station’s dirt. If I received a few bonuses, so what? This,” he tossed the financial report back at Shireena, “will never stand up to scrutiny. You people are out of your league.”

  Trevor appreciated the bluster. The justification, on the other hand?

  “Rafe,” he said, “you should sit. There’s more.” Naturally, Murrill refused. “Suit yourself. We have collected thirteen certified testimonials from residents past and present. They will testify to your extortion schemes. Barukh, how many did you collect?”

  Harmony’s Chief beamed.

  “Seven. Half were diplomats, and one owned my favorite restaurant. They were thrilled to cooperate.”

  “And what of you, Ilya?”

  “Four, including our chief Customs supervisor.”

  Ramesh added:

  “I only managed one, but I’m new. I chalk up the difference to inexperience. Give me time, I’ll find a few more.”

  “And I,” Trevor concluded, “hold the thirteenth. Last month, I contacted my predecessor, Hannibal Dorrit. He loves retirement. We talked for an hour – easily the most expensive deepstream I’ve ever made. I understand now why he’d become so apathetic.

  “Four years ago, he discovered you were extorting from two Haven business owners – including the former manager of Raison Club. He confronted you rather than take his evidence to the Executive Board. He said if you made restitution, he’d see to it the evidence disappeared.

  “Dorrit gave you a chance. In return, you asked him to name his price. Make it go away, leave well enough alone, and you’d add a healthy dose of credits to his Pension Deposit every standard month. Moreover, you wouldn’t negate his contract at his next rotation. You knew Dorrit had financial troubles back home.”