"If you're in some kind of trouble, there are better ways to handle it than this." His voice had shifted slightly, taking on the measured tone of someone trying to establish rapport without appearing weak. "Money, a place to stay. Whatever you need. You don't have to do this."

  "I wish it was that simple." Evan split his attention between driving and monitoring his passenger. "I am in trouble. I'm trying to fix it. All I need is a ride out to the Hill Country. Something that won't draw attention. Once we get where I'm going, I walk away. That's the truth."

  "Why not just call an Uber? Seems like a lot of risk for a car service."

  "Because bad people are tracking my credit card use. The second I make a transaction, they'll know exactly where I am." Evan glanced over at the older man. "I know that probably sounds crazy."

  "It does sound crazy." The man's tone remained neutral, neither believing nor disbelieving. "But I've been around long enough to know that crazy things happen to people all the time."

  He paused, and Evan could almost see the calculations running behind his eyes. Sizing up the situation. Weighing options.

  "Name's Logan Travis," the man said finally. "Master Sergeant, United States Army, Retired."

  The introduction felt deliberate. Tactical. Humanizing himself, maybe. Or testing to see how Evan would respond to the military connection.

  Evan processed the information without reacting visibly. Twenty or thirty years in the Army explained the controlled response, the lack of panic. Logan Travis had probably been in situations far worse than being carjacked by a guy in a mask.

  "That explains why you haven't done anything stupid," Evan said. "But you didn't even try to fight me."

  "I'm sixty-four years old with a bad knee and thirty extra pounds I've been meaning to lose for the last decade. You move like someone who knows what he's doing. I'd be dead before I got my hands up."

  The assessment was accurate. Brutally so.

  "Smart," Evan said.

  "Practical." Logan shifted slightly in his seat, getting more comfortable despite the circumstances. "You're clearly military," he said. "Which branch?"

  "How did you know I was in the military?" Evan replied.

  "Your eyes. That haunted look at the edges, the center filled with confidence and pride." He turned to Evan, pointing past him. "You see that?"

  Evan didn't turn his head. "I'm not letting you distract me."

  "No, of course you aren't." Logan chuckled. "Had to try, right?"

  "If you just let me drive where I want to go, neither one of us has to get hurt. If you don't…" He trailed off, the truth self-evident.

  "I hear you. Let me guess. Marines?"

  "Yeah," Evan admitted.

  "Rangers?"

  "Force Recon."

  Logan's eyebrows rose a fraction before he nodded slowly. "That explains a few things. Also makes me wonder. You running from this trouble, or toward it?"

  Evan watched the Hill Country rise in dark waves against the fading sky, the highway cutting through terrain that was starting to look familiar from the satellite photos.

  "Toward," he admitted.

  "Kill it before it kills you."

  "Something like that."

  Logan was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his voice carried a different quality. Not friendly, exactly. More like the professional respect one soldier might show another, even under circumstances like these.

  "I was headed out to Hill Country anyway," he said. "Got a spot at a campground near Lake Travis. Fishing trip."

  Evan glanced at him, trying to read the angle. "Why tell me that?"

  "Because if you're going to shoot me, you're going to shoot me. Nothing I say will change that." Logan met his eyes without flinching. "But if you're telling the truth about letting me go, then you should know I would've driven you most of the way regardless. Might have even taken you the whole distance if you'd asked nicely instead of putting a gun in my back."

  The words hung in the air between them. Evan couldn't tell if it was a reproach, an observation, or an offer of something else entirely.

  "It's about an hour, maybe an hour and a half out to where you're headed," Logan continued. "Long time to drive holding a gun on me and your eyes split between me and the road." He paused. "Care to put the gun down and swap war stories to pass the time? You know, since we're apparently going to be traveling companions anyway."

  The offer felt calculated. But there was something else beneath it, too. The bone-deep pragmatism of a man who'd learned to make the best of bad situations.

  Evan felt the corner of his mouth twitch beneath the mask.

  "Sure, why not."

  12

  The Hill Country unfolded around them in gentle swells, the last light of day painting the limestone outcroppings in shades of amber and rust. Logan had been talking for the last forty minutes, his voice carrying the easy rhythm of a man who'd told these stories before but still found something in them worth telling.

  "So there I am, three days into what was supposed to be a twelve-hour patrol, with a broken radio and a private who's convinced every shadow is a sniper." Logan shook his head, a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Kid couldn't have been more than nineteen. Fresh out of basic, first deployment, and I'm watching him jump at his own echo."

  Knowing just what he was talking about, Evan found himself nodding, the Glock resting on his thigh now rather than pointed at his passenger. The tension had bled out of the cab somewhere around the thirty-minute mark, replaced by the strange camaraderie that existed between two men who'd worn uniforms and carried weapons in places and times where both had found themselves.

  "How'd you get him through it?"

  "Same way anyone gets through anything in the field. Kept him busy. Gave him tasks. Made him feel useful instead of scared." Logan's eyes drifted to the window, watching the terrain roll past. "Fear's like a virus, you know? Leave it alone and it spreads. But give a man something to focus on, something that matters, and the fear doesn't have room to grow."

  "Good advice."

  "Learned it the hard way." Logan turned back to Evan, studying his profile. "You've got that look, you know. The one that says you've seen things that don't fit neatly into conversation. Things that changed the shape of how you think."

  Evan didn't answer immediately. The highway curved ahead, signs indicating they were approaching the Lake Travis area. The satellite photos from the Skytrace laptop had shown the estate maybe ten miles southwest, tucked into a fold of the Hill Country where the terrain offered natural isolation.

  "There's a turn-off about a mile ahead," Logan said, pointing toward an approaching intersection. "Takes you down to the campground. My spot's near the water, back section."

  Evan followed the directions, the RV handling the rougher road with the stolid reliability of a vehicle built for exactly this purpose. The campground materialized from the gathering dusk, scattered sites visible through the trees. Some were occupied by similar vehicles, others empty and waiting.

  "Keep going past the first loop," Logan said. "Second right, then follow it around to the end."

  The route took them deeper into the campground, away from the occupied sites, into a section where the spaces were larger and more private. Logan's spot sat at the terminus of a gravel road, backed by a wall of cedar and live oak that screened it from neighboring areas.

  Evan brought the RV to a stop, the engine settling into silence. Through the windshield, he could see the first stars beginning to emerge in the darkening sky. Peaceful. Isolated. The kind of place where a man could disappear for a while and not be bothered.

  Logan shifted in his seat, reaching for the door handle. "Well, I appreciate the conversation, even if the circumstances were less than ideal. You need anything else before you⁠—"

  The Glock came up, barrel centering on Logan's chest.

  The older man froze, his expression shifting from relaxed to wary in the space of a heartbeat. "I thought we were past this." His hand stayed on the door handle, but he didn't pull it.

  "Almost." Evan kept his voice level, apologetic but firm. "You're retired Army. Twenty-plus years of service. A man like that doesn't go fishing without hardware."

  Logan's jaw tightened. The easy rapport they'd built over the last hour and a half evaporated, replaced by something colder. More calculating.

  "That a question or an accusation?"

  "Neither. Just a fact." Evan nodded toward the back of the RV, the living area with its fold-down table and storage compartments. "Whatever you've got back there, I need it. Where I'm going, a single weapon might not be enough."

  "And if I say no?"

  "That's why I'm pointing the gun at you."

  Logan's shoulders dropped slightly. The fight went out of him, not because he was afraid, but because he recognized the futility of resistance. The same pragmatism that had kept him alive through decades of service now told him to cut his losses.

  "Service pistol," he said finally. "Beretta M9. And a Remington 870 I use for home defense. Keep them both under the bench seat."

  "Show me."

  They moved into the living area together, Evan keeping enough distance to react if Logan tried anything. The older man knelt beside one of the bench seats that lined the small dining space, lifting the cushion to reveal a storage compartment beneath.

  The weapons lay nestled in foam cutouts, clearly custom-fitted for exactly this purpose. The Beretta gleamed dully in the dim light, well-maintained despite its age. The shotgun beside it was newer, its pump action showing signs of regular use.

  "Ammunition?"

  Logan reached deeper into the compartment, producing two boxes. "Fifty rounds for the nine. Twenty-five shells for the twelve-gauge. Mix of buckshot and slugs."

  Evan holstered the Glock and transferred the ammunition to his backpack, conscious of Logan watching his every move. The Beretta went into his waistband at the small of his back. The shotgun he'd have to carry openly.

  As Evan secured the boxes in the main compartment, Logan's eyes fixed on something else inside the bag. "Why do you have a model starship in there?"

  Evan paused, following the older man's gaze. The effigy sat nestled among his spare clothes and the laptop, its white hull and orange bands visible. The question was reasonable. A grown man carrying what looked like a child's plaything into a combat situation definitely didn't make sense.

  "That's what the bad guys are after."

  Logan's eyebrows rose. "A toy?"

  "It's not a toy."

  "Is it filled with drugs? Something you're smuggling? Diamonds or gold maybe."

  "No." Evan zipped the backpack closed, slinging it over his shoulder. The shotgun felt solid in his hands, the weight familiar and reassuring. "It's an effigy. When I activate it, my consciousness transfers to a real starship in another galaxy that looks just like it. The people hunting me want control of that ship. They've killed a lot of people trying to get it."

  Logan stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed, the sound sharp and humorless.

  "Fine. Don't tell me." He gestured toward the door with barely concealed frustration. "Can you just get the hell out of here now? I'd like to salvage what's left of my fishing trip."

  Evan moved toward the exit, pausing at the threshold. "For what it's worth, I am sorry about all this. The guns. The ride. Everything."

  "Save it." Logan's voice carried the weariness of a man who'd had enough surprises for one evening. "Just go do whatever you need to do and leave me out of it."

  Evan nodded once, then stepped out into the Texas twilight.

  He hit the ground running.

  The campground fell away behind him as he sprinted through the cedar breaks, the shotgun clutched across his chest, muzzle up, the backpack bouncing with each stride. His feet found purchase on the uneven terrain through instinct more than sight.

  Three miles. That was the minimum safe distance. Far enough that even if Logan called the cops or park rangers the moment Evan disappeared, they'd be searching in the wrong direction. The RV, the campground, the fishing spot, all of it would draw attention away from his actual destination.

  The burner phone's GPS guided him through the Hill Country's folds and rises, a glowing arrow on a dark screen pointing toward the coordinates he'd memorized from the satellite photos. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs began to protest, then he kept running, because stopping meant giving his enemies time to reposition, to adapt, to prepare.

  Three miles later, he finally slowed. The terrain here was wilder, less touched by human development. Limestone outcroppings jutted from the earth like broken teeth, and the cedar grew thick enough to occasionally block the stars. Evan checked his position against the estate's location, made a slight course correction to the southwest, and resumed his approach at a more sustainable pace.

  The next three hours passed in a blur of careful movement and constant vigilance. He crossed dry creek beds and skirted the boundaries of ranches, avoiding the occasional distant light that indicated human habitation. The shotgun stayed in his hands, ready for trouble that never materialized. The backpack grew heavier with each passing mile, the straps digging into his shoulders, but he didn't stop to rest. By the time he reached the tree line overlooking the estate, early evening had nearly settled into full nighttime darkness.

  Evan dropped to a crouch behind a massive live oak, its gnarled branches providing cover while he assessed the target. A perimeter wall of pale limestone encircled the property, maybe ten feet high, topped with what looked like wrought-iron spikes. Beyond it, the mansion—three stories of limestone and glass surrounded by manicured grounds—rose from the Hill Country like something out of a magazine spread. Outbuildings—a stable to the south, what looked like a guest house to the east, and a large garage structure near the main entrance—dotted the interior.

  All the buildings still stood. No scorch marks. No shattered windows. No signs of the assault Skytrace was preparing for.

  He'd beat them here.

  Evan checked the time on his thrift-store wristwatch on his wrist. 6:07. Twenty-three minutes until the guard rotation he'd identified in the surveillance photos. Twenty-three minutes until a thirty-second window opened in the security coverage. He used the time to study the defenses.

  The gatehouse sat at the main entrance, a small structure with tinted windows that probably concealed monitoring equipment and at least one armed guard. More guards patrolled the perimeter, their routes taking them along the wall in opposite directions before they turned around and passed one another at the midpoint.

  The pattern matched the target materials exactly. Whoever had compiled that intelligence had done their homework.

  At 6:28, the guards began their rotation. The one on the south side—a broad-shouldered man in a dark jacket—started toward the corner, his route taking him away from the section of wall Evan had chosen as his entry point. The second guard, visible only as a distant figure on the north side, mirrored the movement.

  Evan rose from his crouch, muscles tensing.

  His watch counted down the seconds. 6:29. The guards continued their choreographed routine, creating a gap in coverage that would last exactly as long as it took for them to reach the gate as it opened and the new guards to take their places. No doubt whoever ran security for the place knew about the gap, but they had chosen to minimize the time the gate was open over having constant coverage on the walls. And why would they? Ten feet was high.

  Evan had scaled higher.

  6:29 and forty-five seconds.

  Fifty seconds.

  Fifty-five.

  The watch hit 6:30.

  He exploded from the tree line.

  13

  Sarxon Abrelle, Earth High Commander of the Umbral Empire, sat restlessly in the command pod of the Möbius, her dark eyes fixed on the viewscreen without truly seeing it, her thoughts forced back to her encounter with the Ascendant now that she was nearly home.

  The bridge of the powerful Makership stretched around her in a sweeping arc. Twelve stations ringed the outer curve, each manned by Empire personnel in their slate-gray uniforms, the glow of holographic displays illuminating their faces. Flanking her own command pod, two secondary stations sat slightly lower. The ship's commanding and executive officers occupied those seats. They were in charge of the vessel when she wasn't present on this side of the universe through use of the effigy.

  Like all of the Maker's former personal ships, the Möbius wasn't a warship in the conventional sense. She was a statement. A declaration of Empire capability that few in the Oridian Galaxy had ever witnessed and lived to describe. Its twisted geometry, that impossible ribbon of hull curving in ways that defied ordinary physics, housed enough firepower to reduce entire fleets to expanding clouds of vapor and minute debris.

  And yet one small ship had slipped through her fingers.

  Sarxon's jaw tightened at the memory. The Ascendant, the Key-ship, threading through the hollow center of the Möbius loop like a needle through fabric, its Earther mirriform executing a maneuver that shouldn't have been possible. She'd had him. The hangar bay open, weapons tracking, his power reserves depleted to the point where such hard acceleration should have been impossible.

  She'd refrained from activating the central gravitic fields. That was the decision she questioned. She'd promised the Earther that if he didn't comply he would be destroyed. That it was worth destroying the most valuable starship in existence to keep it out of the hands of the other factions that shared control of the galaxy. A single command would have crushed the Ascendant like paper in a fist, the intersecting gravitational forces at the heart of the Möbius loop more than sufficient to tear any vessel apart regardless of its construction.

  Sarxon had never seen it, but she'd heard tales from prior Earth High Commanders about the pleasure of trapping smaller vessels within that invisible maw, watching them being ripped open slowly at first, then all at once, with nothing left but particles of matter that were left in a cloud behind them.