"Okay," he said slowly. "Okay."

  He found a duffel bag among the gear and started filling it. The cash went in first. He counted out thirty thousand in hundreds, enough to pay back Harris and keep him moving for months without touching any traceable accounts. The stacks felt solid in his hands, the paper crisp and new.

  Magazines for the Glock came next. He grabbed six of them, plus two boxes of nine-millimeter ammunition. Then his eyes found an AR-15 on the rack, clean and well-maintained, with a collapsible stock that would fit easily in the bag. He added the rifle and eight loaded magazines for it.

  Adam watched without comment as Evan zipped the bag closed and slung it over his shoulder. The weight—enough firepower to handle most situations he might encounter—was substantial but manageable.

  "Do you have a phone?" Adam asked as Evan turned to move toward the stairs.

  Evan hesitated, then pulled the burner from his pocket. The cheap plastic device felt inadequate in his palm.

  Adam took it, his fingers moving across the screen with practiced efficiency. A few seconds later, he handed it back. "My number," he said. "Call when you're ready. Until then, stay safe out there."

  Evan looked at the phone, then at Adam. The younger man's expression held nothing but sincerity. No hidden agenda. No manipulation. Just one soldier helping another. "Thanks," he said.

  "Thank me by surviving." Adam stepped aside, clearing the path to the stairs. "Now go. The clock's already running."

  Evan climbed back up into the mansion, the duffel bag heavy on his shoulder, the phone warm in his pocket. The Null Guard operated with military precision, the chaos of the assault settling into organized cleanup. Transforming a conquered enemy stronghold into useful resources.

  A massive structure, the garage sat at the far end of the compound, catty-corner to the stables. Evan found the door and pushed through into automotive excess. Ferraris. Lamborghinis. A Bentley that probably cost more than his sister's house. A row of Mercedes sedans in various configurations. An Aston Martin that looked like it had never been driven.

  The keys were where Adam had said they'd be, in a lockbox mounted to the wall near the entrance. Each set was labeled with the corresponding vehicle. Evan scanned the tags until he found one marked for a Range Rover, then looked across the garage to find where it sat in the far corner. Black, with windows tinted dark enough to be illegal in most states. Practical without being ostentatious. Powerful enough to handle rough terrain, comfortable enough for long distances, common enough to blend into traffic without drawing attention.

  He crossed to it and climbed behind the wheel. The engine turned over with a quiet rumble. The dashboard lit up with more displays than he'd ever seen in a civilian vehicle.

  Ten minutes, Adam had said. Evan checked the time and settled back into the leather seat to wait.

  The seconds ticked past with agonizing slowness. He watched through the tinted windows and the open garage as Null Guard operators moved across the compound, loading equipment into trucks, securing the perimeter, preparing for departure. They were nearly finished with what they'd come here to accomplish.

  At exactly ten minutes, the command center exploded.

  The blast tore through the side of the mansion like a fist through wet paper. Fire and debris erupted into the night sky, the shockwave rattling the garage doors hard enough to make Evan flinch. Secondary explosions followed as something inside caught and detonated, sending fresh plumes of flame spiraling upward.

  The surveillance network. The monitoring equipment. Every record of his movements, every database connection, every piece of intelligence that could be used to track him.

  Gone.

  Evan smiled.

  He put the Range Rover in gear and drove toward the compound's smashed main gate, the burning mansion in his rear view mirror. The Texas night stretched out ahead, dark and full of possibility.

  He had cash. He had weapons. He had a vehicle that would take him anywhere he wanted to go. The trackers were gone. And maybe, just maybe, he had found allies to help him against the most powerful empires in the galaxy.

  For the first time since he'd left Montana, he almost felt free.

  19

  The holographic star chart rotated slowly before Sarxon's command station, the Ascendant's escape vector traced in amber light across a few million kilometers of empty space. She'd run this simulation dozens of times already over the past month, adjusting variables, recalculating trajectories, searching for any detail she might have missed.

  The result was always the same. The ship had fled on a constant heading at maximum acceleration, then simply vanished, leaving no trace of where it might have gone after passing beyond the Möbius's sensor range.

  A month of searching. A month of failure.

  She'd ordered Möbius back to the area near her confrontation with Ascendant.

  She'd been back and forth to Earth multiple times since that humiliating encounter, each trip a reminder of how badly she'd underestimated Evan Marshall. Her field operatives had tracked his movements to Evansville, Indiana. They'd even identified his associate as his former squad leader from his days as an active marine. But the motel room was empty when they arrived. The two men had checked out.

  And the trail had gone cold.

  Marshall had vanished. No credit card transactions. No facial recognition hits. No digital footprint of any kind. The man had figured out that the effigy tracker was only one of their methods of finding him, and had taken effective steps to limit his exposure. The Umbral network, extensive as it was, couldn't find him.

  Here in Oridian, the situation was equally maddening. She'd returned to the scene of her confrontation with the Ascendant immediately following resupply of Möbius. The ship's advanced sensors had revealed the faint evidence of gravitic distortion that allowed them to track along the same vector. Continual identification and dissemination of similar distortions suggested a constant heading, and so far remaining on course had borne that out.

  They should have caught up to Ascendant by now. Should have at least gotten the ship on sensors. But they hadn't.

  "High Commander."

  Sarxon shifted her attention to where Ensign Thrace looked up from the communications station. "What is it, Ensign?" she asked.

  "Incoming transmission from Delvran, Commander. Priority channel. General Abrelle."

  Of course. Her father, calling to remind her of all the ways she'd failed. Sarxon reached for the control surface, her fingers finding the privacy sequence. The command pod sealed around her, the hardened barriers rising from the deck to form an enclosure that blocked all sound from escaping.

  The holographic projection materialized before her, resolving into her father's features from the shoulders up. His expression carried the strain of news she suspected she wouldn't want to hear.

  "Father." She performed the inverted-hands gesture of greeting. "I assume this isn't a social call."

  "It isn't." His voice was flat, stripped of any warmth. "I wanted to provide you with an update on the fallout of your failed attempt to capture the Ascendant."

  "By your face, I know it isn't good news."

  "I'm afraid not. Our emissaries have had multiple meetings with Red Scar representatives since the incident. The negotiations are not progressing well."

  Sarxon's jaw tightened. "They're still angry about the destroyers."

  "Angry doesn't begin to describe it." Her father's eyes held hers through the holographic connection. "They're not just furious that the Möbius fired on their vessels. They're furious about the timing. Those destroyers were part of a recovery operation following a battle against the Aetherion Empire. They'd taken losses, expended resources, and were attempting to salvage what they could from the engagement. Not just equipment, but survivors. Then our ship appeared and annihilated their recovery vessels without provocation."

  "Without provocation?" Sarxon felt heat rise in her chest. "They were attempting to board the Ascendant. If they had succeeded⁠—"

  "I know what would have happened if they'd succeeded." Her father's voice cut through her protest. "That doesn't change how it looks from their perspective. We attacked them while they were vulnerable. In their eyes, it was an act of war."

  "And the Emperor? What does he think?"

  "Emperor Tellik is resisting every overture we've made. We've offered concessions. Trade agreements. Territory in the disputed sectors. He's rejected all of it." The General paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "He's demanding we surrender the officer responsible for the attack. He wants you, Sarxon. Delivered to Red Scar custody for execution."

  The flatness with which her own father delivered the news sent a chill down Sarxon's spine. While her real body was safe on Earth, her copied mirriform could still be sent to the Red Scar Emperor for punishment, or even execution. Whatever her mirriform suffered here, she would feel back on Earth.

  She could leave the ship, of course. Go back through the transfer chamber and remain on Earth for the rest of her days. But that would be an insult to the Umbral Empire. An insult to her father.

  "This is absurd," she said, fighting to keep her voice level, her composure professional. "The Emperor would never⁠—"

  "The Emperor is considering it."

  Silence stretched between them. Sarxon stared at her father's face, searching for any sign that he was exaggerating, that this was some kind of test or manipulation. She found nothing but grim certainty.

  "You're serious."

  "I am." Her father's expression didn't change. "You made a serious error in judgment, Sara. I told you as much when you returned. Now the consequences are becoming clear."

  "What would you have done differently?" Sarxon practically screamed. "Would you have preferred Red Scar gaining the Ascendant? Would the Emperor prefer that? If those destroyers had succeeded in boarding that ship, if they'd captured Marshall and claimed the effigy for themselves⁠—"

  "I would have succeeded," her father snapped back, cutting her off. "I wouldn't have let the Ascendant escape in the first place."

  "But you still would have attacked."

  "No, Sara. You had the choice to handle the situation with more finesse." Her father's voice hardened. "You had the choice to disable rather than destroy. To use the Möbius's capabilities to prevent boarding without atomizing two vessels full of Red Scar personnel. You chose annihilation because it was easier, because it was faster, because you were so focused on capturing Marshall that you didn't stop to consider the political ramifications."

  Sarxon wanted to argue. Wanted to defend herself, to explain that in the moment there hadn't been time for finesse, that the Red Scar commanders would never have backed down willingly. But her father wasn't wrong. She'd made a choice, and now she was living with the consequences.

  "What happens if His Excellency refuses to hand me over?" she asked.

  "In all likelihood? War. Open conflict between the Umbral Empire and the Red Scar Empire. Something we've avoided for generations through careful diplomacy and strategic patience."

  "Möbius can handle anything they throw at us."

  "Can she?" Her father's eyes narrowed. "Because our intelligence suggests they're considering bringing the Bastion into play."

  The name sent a chill down Sarxon's spine. The Bastion was Red Scar's relic ship, a massive vessel that had been discovered somehow still intact deep within the planetary scar from which the empire's name was derived. A scar that some legends suggested the Bastion had created in the first place. Other ancient data posited the Bastion was the target of another relic ship, which had used its firepower to create the tear in the crust of Drok, the Red Scar's home planet.

  Unlike the Möbius, which excelled at surgical strikes and overwhelming individual targets, the Bastion was designed for sustained warfare. It could absorb punishment that would destroy lesser ships and continue fighting.

  "The Möbius can defeat the Bastion," Sarxon said, but even she could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

  "Perhaps. Perhaps not." Her father's expression grew distant. "The truth is, no one knows what would happen if those two ships met in direct combat. They've never faced each other. And I have no desire to find out, especially not over a situation that should never have escalated this far."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Find the Ascendant." The words came with the force of fatherly desperation to save his child. "Find it, or find its effigy, and do it soon. If we can present Marshall and his ship to the Emperor as a prize, it might be enough to justify your actions. Might be enough to convince His Excellency that the incident was worth the cost. And, with you in charge of Ascendant, he won't dare turn your mirriform over to Tellik." He paused. "The emissaries are doing what they can, but diplomatic solutions have limits. You need to deliver results, Sara. For both our sakes. And soon."

  "I believe I'm getting closer." The claim felt hollow even as she made it. "I'm tracking Ascendant's escape vector. Running every scan and calculation available. The ship has to be somewhere along our current trajectory."

  "Then find it." Her father's voice carried a gentle firmness she recognized from childhood. "Because if you don't, if this situation spirals further, I won't be able to protect you from what comes next."

  The projection flickered and died, leaving Sarxon alone in the sealed command pod.

  She sat there for a long moment, processing the conversation. War with Red Scar. The Bastion brought into play. Her own potential sacrifice to appease an angry emperor. The stakes had risen far beyond what she'd anticipated when she'd pulled that trigger.

  Find the Ascendant. Find Marshall. Solve the problem before it bit her in the butt. Or took her head.

  The barriers lowered around her, and she rose to her feet. Commander Ashe looked up from his station, his expression carefully neutral.

  "High Commander, is everything⁠—"

  "Fine." The word came out clipped. "Everything is fine."

  Before Ashe could respond, Ensign Thrace's voice cut through the bridge.

  "High Commander, we're receiving another incoming transmission. One-way secure channel, Umbral encryption. The source is..." She paused, checking her display. "Deep Reach Station."

  Deep Reach. A Solmarch facility near the edge of their territory, officially a trading outpost for traffic moving through the region to explore beyond settled space. Of course, the Umbral Empire maintained operatives there, as did all of the empires at most installations throughout Oridian.

  "Put it through to my station."

  The message materialized as text on her personal display, the encryption protocols stripping away any identifying markers from the sender. Sarxon read the contents twice, her pulse quickening with each word.

  Intercepted communique between station operators and Solmarch Military Command. Object registered passing station two standard days ago. Constant velocity, constant course. Velocity too great to achieve identifying visual. No thruster trail detected. No heat signature detected. Initial classification: wayward asteroid. Analysis suggests anomalous characteristics inconsistent with natural debris. Solmarch command dispatching investigation team. Recommend parallel inquiry.

  An object. Moving on a constant vector at constant velocity. Passing close enough to Deep Reach Station to be detected but far and fast enough to avoid triggering defensive responses.

  The Ascendant had been traveling on exactly such a course when it escaped her.

  "Lieutenant Torek." Sarxon's voice cut through the bridge. "Check our current course in relation to Deep Reach Station."

  The navigation officer bent over his console. His fingers moved across the control surface, calling up star charts and trajectory calculations. "We're due to bypass Deep Reach within twelve hours at our current heading, High Commander."

  "The object that passed the station. Assume it maintained constant vector and velocity from the time of detection. Calculate its current position."

  More calculations. More data flowed across the display. Torek's face remained tight in concentration as he worked through the equations.

  "Based on the reported trajectory and assuming no course corrections are made...the object should be approximately here." A point of light materialized on the star chart, marking a position in empty space.

  Sarxon studied the projection. The location meant nothing in isolation. Empty space between stars, unremarkable by any standard measure. But if that object was the Ascendant, if Marshall had simply set a course and let the ship travel on autopilot while he dealt with matters on Earth...

  "Set a jump point one hour ahead of that position. Along its projected trajectory. We'll decelerate to eighty percent its speed, let it pass us by, and then catch up and bring it into the hangar bay."

  "Yes, High Commander." Torek's fingers moved across the controls. "Course plotted and locked. Ready to execute on your command."

  Sarxon turned to face the main viewscreen, where the star field floated in peaceful indifference to the drama unfolding aboard the Möbius. She thought of her father's warning. Of the Red Scar Emperor's demands. Of the consequences that awaited her if she failed again.

  Not this time.

  "Execute jump."

  The Möbius responded instantly. Space itself seemed to shudder around the impossible geometry of the ship's hull, reality bending to accommodate the vessel's passage. Through the viewscreen, Sarxon watched as a cone of brilliant light formed at the bow, the fabric of spacetime folding in on itself to create a tunnel through the void. Behind them, gravity expanded in their wake, pushing against the universe like a wave rolling backwards from a stone dropped in still water.

  Sarxon didn't wait for the jump to complete.

  "Communications, open a channel to the hangar bay."

  "Channel open, High Commander."

  "Flight operations, this is the bridge." Her voice carried across the ship's internal network with cold authority. "Ready all fighter squadrons. Prepare boarding teams for potential hostile action. Full combat readiness."