I don’t look at the wall of feeds in front of me. It’s pointless to try to track them all, as the techs’ general ambivalence just proved. Especially when you already know what or who you’re looking for. The AI can take a natural language query, so I enter Rozik’s general description. Dark hair, short and muscular, kind of ugly. The hundreds of feeds on the primary display fade into the background while three feeds leap forward. The first two are of men who have a general resemblance to Rozik but aren’t him.

  The last one is Rozik. He’s in the brig on deck one-forty, only two decks down from where I started. He’s sitting on the bed in one of the cells, feet up and hands folded over his chest. He looks like he’s asleep.

  Has he not awakened yet from the stun? Is he playing possum? Or is he really asleep? I think any of these options could be true.

  The camera in the cell doesn’t have audio, so I can’t talk to him. I have to settle for knowing where he is and being able to plan a breakout. I close the query, returning the full screen of feeds to the forefront. Then I enter a description of Amelia. Average height, brown hair, thin, bitchy face. The AI doesn’t understand the last term, and it brings back nearly two dozen feeds.

  I cycle through them all. Most of the feeds are from individual apartments, which is creepy and unnerving. Spindle didn’t have cameras in the habitation rings for obvious reasons. It speaks to the nature of this place as well as anything can.

  In any case, none of them clearly show Amelia, which means she’s outside the web of cameras watching every move the core’s occupants make. In a way it makes her easier to find. Too much of the station is being monitored. I need to find out exactly where the camera feeds are located.

  A few quick commands and the large display changes, showing me an enlarged schematic not too different from the one in the elevator cab. It’s larger and offers a slightly better level of detail. When I tap on the control board again it lights up the positions of the cameras within the central cylinder of the station.

  I’m not surprised when Deck One thirty-eight doesn’t light up. There had to be a reason the techs were so calm after the shootout below, though it does leave me wondering what kind of medical facility I was actually in. I am surprised when Deck Seventy-three remains dark. There isn’t a single camera feed active on the level, which is only seven above my current position.

  Either Amelia is dead or she’s being held there. I’m going to bet my life on it.

  I use the control board to navigate into the cameras on Deck Seventy-four, quickly cycling through them. The level is oddly bereft of anything useful. The corridors are empty, the rooms unfinished. It’s almost like it exists purely to serve as a buffer to the deck above. Maybe it does.

  I switch to the feeds on Seventy-two. As I suspect, it’s more of the same. Whatever is on Seventy-three, Amelin doesn’t want anyone to know anything about it.

  I close the feeds and enter a new query, checking on the status of the secured sections of the cylinder for doors that require a code or biometric access. Reactor control and the reactor itself, of course. Life support. Gravity generation. The usual suspects. Deck One thirty-eight is clear and unsecured despite its lack of cameras. Deck Seventy-three is locked down tighter than the AOP President’s VORN server.

  I don’t need Amelia Rocklin to go after Rozik or make a move on Naraka’s synchronizer, which I already know is on Deck One at the top of the station. I don’t really need Rozik either. My primary objective should be to reach the synchronizer and make contact with the Alliance.

  But there are other wheels in motion now. Other lives at stake. And I have this bigger picture coming into focus in the back of my mind, one that requires a little more risk for a potentially greater reward. If Spindle were okay, if Shae and the girls were still alive, I might be more hesitant to go that route.

  It isn’t like I have nothing left to lose. Joie, Bryce and Penelope are all still out there, depending on me—even if they don’t know it. My family isn’t all gone. But seeing how this place works and what might happen, I have to do a bit more. Test the limits. Push the envelope. I’m Odin Longknife. It’s what I do.

  Failure isn’t an option.

  Of course, I can’t just walk up to Deck Seventy-three and expect to get anywhere. I don’t have clearance to the area, and a quick check proves the system here doesn’t have access to unlock those doors. I have two means of getting in otherwise.

  One, hack the system. Maybe if Watkins hadn’t stunned Kratz that would still be an option.

  Two, break the system. I’m going to need something with a lot of punch to bust through one of those doors.

  I send a new query to the AI. It returns the feed a moment later, showing me the door to the main armory on Deck Sixty-eight. A pair of guards are stationed outside the hardened, secured blast door. No surprise there. I’ll need them anyway if I’m going to get in.

  I check some of the cameras close to the armory, making sure I don’t spot any other guards or soldiers. A handful of men and women in black uniforms move purposefully past the cameras, but it’s nothing that overly concerns me. They’re not running.

  Only a couple of things left to check and I’ll be ready to go. I enter one final query, searching for starships. Nearly a dozen feeds pop up, most of them positioned in space and showing the ships docked immediately outside the core. The sight of a Commune corvette positioned beneath the fourth habitation ring is unexpected, as are the sheer number of weaponized craft clinging to the docking arms that extend from the cylinder.

  The one interior camera feed is from the hangar—a top-down, wide-angle fisheye view that fits the entire massive space in its view. The ships at the fringes of the hangar are distorted, but I can make out the faded and worn yellow paint of about a dozen more Yellowjackets, as well as four Skirmishers tucked behind them. Does Amelin have pilots to fly them all? There are other ships in the hangar. Boxy personnel transports, a few cargo transfer ships. Even a small tug.

  My eyes are drawn to a dark shape in the corner, barely peeking out from the shadows. I use the control board to tilt and zoom the camera, bringing it closer in to confirm my suspicion. It seems Rocklin collects Commune starfighters. He has nearly fifty of them packed into the corner of the hangar, all of them in pristine condition and painted a solid black. It’s a nice-sized squadron in the hands of the right pilot. More than enough than should ever be needed to defend the station.

  But that isn’t his ultimate goal, is it?

  The good news is that the accumulated firepower firms my belief that Amelin Rocklin is a potential threat to the Alliance and needs to be neutralized.

  The bad news is that he’s built his own armada.

  Maybe that isn’t bad news after all.

  I’m reaching for the control board to complete my last task when the door to the room slides open behind me.

  Chapter 22

  I whirl around, grabbing the pulse rifle and bringing it up. My opponent charges me, grabbing the barrel and covering the muzzle with his hand. I squeeze the trigger, thinking it’ll numb his whole arm and make him let go, only to realize his hand is no hand at all but a two-pronged robotic claw.

  He pulls the gun out of my hand and throws his human fist at my unprotected head. I somehow manage to duck away and get to the side of the terminal. His momentum carries him forward, and he slams his side into the terminal. I back up, hitting the rear wall as he pivots. We make eye contact, then stop and stare at each other for a moment, each of us taking full measure of the other.

  He’s big—nearly ten centimeters taller than me—and as solid as Rozik, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. His light body armor doesn’t offer as much protection as the hardened armor used by the other guards, but he doesn’t seem like he needs it, especially now. He throws his prosthetic out at me and I duck away again as it hits the bulkhead, the fingers sparking against it.

  “Come on, Odin,” he says. “Stand still.”

  I swing around to his side and throw a punch into his abdomen. It’s like hitting the bulkhead, the blow leaving my knuckles bruised and my wrist sore. The behemoth barely notices the hit, and he turns and lunges at me, the confines of the room making it hard for me to maneuver away.

  I duck low, getting under his grab and driving my shoulder up and into his groin. I can’t put enough muscle into his armor to hurt him, but I manage to knock him back a step. I use the opportunity to throw a cross into his cheek, again striking what feels like cement. His head turns slightly at the impact, and he grins at me as he reaches out with his prosthetic. The clawed hand grabs hold of the front of my suit, and he pulls me to a sudden stop, the claw twisting around at the wrist and the jacket tightening around me.

  The giant laughs at my unexpected predicament, but I don’t panic. I put all my weight into jerking around until I hear the material tear. The jacket twists over in his claw and comes off my back. I catch a sleeve up in my right hand and yank back, all of my strength and body weight barely enough to off-balance the man, but it’s enough for me to shoot a hard uppercut into his jaw. The hit splits his chin and sends him stumbling backwards.

  He hits the control board, looks at me, and reaches up, wiping away the line of blood. “Not bad,” he says. “Maybe you really are Odin, eh?” He laughs, not really believing his own statement.

  I use the short break to locate the pulse rifle. It’s on the floor beside the terminal. All I have to do is get to it before he gets to me.

  “Go ahead,” he says, thinking the same thing. “Try it. You’re lucky the boss wants you alive. Just in case you are who you say you are.” He smiles. “You’re worth a slagging fortune if you are Odin.”

  I stare at him, watching his hands, feet and eyes, waiting for him to make his move when I make mine. I hesitate a moment when I see the AI has flagged another feed and moved it to one of the tech’s terminals. A young girl in a dirty but still-sparkly suit is in one of the corridors on Deck One eighteen.

  Yari.

  The big guy sees me looking at something. The reality of the situation leaves my expression sincere enough that it piques his curiosity, and he flicks his eyes back to see what I’m looking at. Idiot. Just because I’m not trying to trick him doesn’t mean I’m not prepared to take advantage.

  I dive backward at the same time he realizes his mistake and swipes at me with his prosthetic hand, the jacket still caught up in it. One his claws catches my cheek and cuts me but I make it to the rifle, picking it up as I roll over it. He tries to tackle me before I can bring the rifle to bear.

  Too slow.

  I swing the barrel up and pull the trigger, shooting him nearly point-blank in the face. The energy pulse is powerful at such close range and burns into him. He lands on top of me, awake but stunned. I shove him off me, onto his back. His hands cover his eyes as I scramble to my feet.

  “My eyes. Damn it, my eyes!” His cry is pained as he rolls back and forth on the deck, holding his face. “I can’t see, you son of a bitch,” he curses. “I’ll kill you!” he screams, his prosthetic going for my ankle.

  I’m done messing with him. I shoot him again, and then a third time for good measure. He shuts up and falls still.

  I kick his hand away, shaken from the encounter, and stumble back to the control board. I don’t have access to any of the critical systems from here, but I do have access to a few lesser controls. I access them now, entering commands. My hands are shaking, my breath ragged, but I’m focused on my work. A prompt appears on the display:

  ARE YOU SURE?

  I confirm the order.

  All of the primary lights in the core go out, leaving only the dim emergency LEDs.

  All of the cameras go offline.

  The blast doors between the central cylinder and the habitation rings begin to seal.

  I turn away from the terminal, quickly searching the dead behemoth. He’s got a plasma pistol on his hip and I don’t hesitate to lift it from him, reclaiming my discarded suit jacket and putting it back on. I tuck the gun into the jacket’s built-in holster before grabbing up the rifle. Then I’m out the door and running for the stairs, unconvinced the big goon is alone.

  I make it back down the corridors to the elevator. Slowing as I get close, I stop to peer around the final corner. Three guards are standing there, probably waiting for the giant to come back. I can tell by their posture they aren’t experienced soldiers. They’re practically shaking in their boots. Amelin’s been doing a lot of recruiting for his war, and it seems like he’s taking any warm body he can find. The pirates that jumped Valhalla weren’t exactly crack fighters either.

  I grab the pistol from under my jacket and rush the trio, not slowing as I start shooting. Blasts of plasma launch across the distance, each shot aimed well enough to catch them in their helmet faceplates. The plasma can’t penetrate the faceplates with one shot, but it starts eating into the dark material and making it hard to see. Their confusion and fear costs them their lives as my next two shots break through their protection and dig into their skulls.

  The bodies are still falling as I run past them, heading for the stairs behind the elevator. The door opens ahead of me, another guard coming out in response to my assault. I shoot his gun arm without slowing, and then jump at him, leading with my elbow. It slams him in the face and knocks him into the wall. It gives me time to bring the pistol up under the bottom of his helmet and fire.

  He slumps against the wall while I stop to listen for boots on the metal stairs. Nothing.

  I start to climb.

  Chapter 23

  I pause at Deck Seventy-three to try the door, but of course it’s locked. There are no windows on the stairwell doors and no way to see inside. There’s a draft coming around the frame and a light smell of sweetness, like perfume or flowers. The scent makes me more curious about what the Rocklins are using the level for.

  More climbing, and less than a minute later I reach Deck Sixty-eight. I pull up the images from the cameras in my mind, hopeful the guards haven’t changed position in the last few minutes. What are the odds Amelin will guess I’m headed for the armory instead of the exit, or maybe the hangar? That wouldn’t be a bad assumption. If I could get to a Yellowjacket I could fly it out to the freighter and try to escape.

  What are the odds he’ll think I plan to help his sister at all? She was going to use me and Rozik, and we were going to use her back, which is fair. Now though? There’s little reason for him to suspect I care what happens to her. I doubt he realizes that I aim to prevent him from gaining control of the station and maybe make a longer-term ally in the process.

  I emerge onto Deck Sixty-eight, pulse rifle ready to fire. Clear. I come around to the front of the elevator. Still clear. My assumption is right. Amelin has no idea where I’m going, and with the cameras offline he has no way to track me.

  I make my way through the corridors. The people I saw milling around earlier are in the passages, confused and nervous. I walk right past them without trying to be sneaky. If I were anywhere in the AOP I would be out of place. Here, I look important and powerful in a suit—like I belong—carrying a rifle. I move with such intense purpose they scurry to get out of my way.

  It doesn’t take long to reach the armory, but once there, I run into a problem. Guards from other floors are arriving to arm themselves.

  Remaining well back from the now open blast doors, I lean against the bulkhead, hiding the pulse rifle behind me while I watch the guards verify their identities by tapping the minicomputers in their wrists to those of the armory watch.

  They don’t notice me in the rush, and I spend the next few minutes watching nearly fifty men and women enter in black utilities and leave in light body armor, carrying either pulse or plasma rifles. It’s a big force to have to get through alone, but in some ways it’s easier to manage flying solo. I know how to stay unnoticed, how to sneak, how to get on my target’s six and take them by surprise. How to dodge, roll, and maneuver. In or out of the cockpit, the basic principles are the same. Use your head. Don’t think in a straight line.

  It’s just another obstacle to overcome. I’m good at that.

  The last few people enter the armory. According to my count, there are six still inside. I wait for three more to leave, giving them a minute to get wherever they’ve been assigned, and then I make my move.

  I don’t approach with any sense of tension or panic. I keep those emotions contained, instead putting on a casual expression. The guards see me coming, and my attitude keeps them at ease.

  “Mr. Rocklin sent me down,” I say. “He wants me equipped with something a little more powerful than this.” Smirking like I’m a big deal, I hold the rifle up.

  “Do I know you?” one of the guards asks.

  “Nah, Rocklin hired me yesterday.” I chuckle. “Can you believe this? I no sooner get here and all hell breaks loose. Look…” I get serious now. “...the boss wants me back Deck One-eighteen ASAP, so if you don’t mind.” I start for the open door. Of course, the guard gets in front of me.

  “Wait a second,” he says, holding out his wrist for me to touch mine to his.

  “Oh. I don’t have the augment yet,” I say. “Scheduled to get it this afternoon. Guess I’ll have to reschedule.”

  I laugh, and the guard laughs with me as he moves aside. “I guess it’s fine,” he says. “Go ahead.”

  “Thanks…” I trail off, waiting for his name.

  “Jessefs,” he says.

  “Thanks, Jessefs. I’ll be sure to mention your cooperation to Mr. Rocklin. Maybe you’ll get a benny out of it.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He grins. “I appreciate that.”

  I nod and walk right past him into the armory. It’s big and simple—racks of guns, crates of ammo, suits of different strength armor. It’s all an assortment of Alliance and Commune designs, either stolen or purchased through corrupt military channels on both sides of the conflict.