“Pretty much. Linley will help, he seems a good man. Come on, there’s more.” She led him through to the warehouse, her focus on the Airstrike despite Sneak’s noises each time he came across more shelves containing a prepper’s heaven.

  Sneak stopped next to her, a new carbine in his hand, a weapons belt over his shoulder. He shrugged at her, then realised her attention was elsewhere. “Ah,” he said. “Now I know what’s happening here. You’s upping and leaving. The robots, yes? Hunting them feckin’ down?”

  Rebekah shook her head, hands on her hips. “If only we could. It’s trapped in here.” She pointed up. “Your first job is to make the roof as sound as possible after we’re gone.”

  “I never said yes,” he eyed her, “but I guess you ain’t takin’ a no.”

  “Correct,” she said. “Sneak, there’s going to be more shit going down. A lot more if the fucking AI is roaming about up there trying to build itself again. We’re the best hunters there are, no bullshit. We need a place to send survivors and know they’re safe. The rains …” Rebekah looked up to the roof. “I’m no weather expert, but the atmosphere is screwed up. The rains are increasing in ferocity. Arin and Hendricks have toured the storm drains. Mad as it sounds, the subway and this place are as safe as it gets.”

  The soldier nodded, turning about, scanning the warehouse before his gaze landed on the Airstrike. “You fly these things, no?”

  She nodded.

  “So, if I know where one is, two in fact, but one ain’t flyin’ anytime soon. Do I get a bonus warbot in return?” He grinned at her, the smile infectious.

  Rebekah slipped a hand inside her new uniform jacket, producing a folded piece of paper which the soldier eyed suspiciously. She walked over to a convenient crate and spread the coloured paper out. “Satellites are down. Old compasses are fucked. The internal database here is working, but it’s all classified shit without an Army code. Basic stuff about base controls, so you’ll get some use, but that’s all.”

  “That a paper map?” Sneak said, leaning in, hands touching the plastic paper as if it were gold. He blinked, then ran a hand over the words, scanning southeast before tapping on a bare field. “The ships are here. Base 32. Officer-noble Stensson left half a squad there as a fallback before he became pancake. Some of the building, the taller ones, came down. But we holed up in the air support hangar. You got a slate?”

  Rebekah handed it over, watching as Sneak drew a rough map of the base. “They have power?”

  “Generator, solar panels and storage battery. I’s guessing they will be gettin’ low by now.” Sneak handed the slate back. “Say hello to Ganna for me. She’s my warm hug in the evenin’.”

  Rebekah’s eyes roamed the warehouse, the weapons, and then gazed on through to the corridor. She had a plan, a purpose, and somewhere out there the Butcher was likely clinging on. She needed to pry his fingers off the precipice, be the one to send him hurtling into the abyss. Her warm hug ‒ hugs ‒ were a trillion or more clicks away. Hopefully safe.

  “Gods I need some painkillers,” she said.

  Chapter 12

  Benetai

  “Got the latest fuel shipment for Windward,” said Michael, waving a piece of dreaded paper at Andrei as if it was a joy to behold. Paper. He hated paper. Michael had explained that his colleagues on M1 would have laughed. That he’d been the one to harp on about how spreadsheets and databases lacked the personal touch. Right now, both of them would give their dignity up for a system that linked to the trading ships they were dealing with.

  Andrei took the paper, glaring at it before placing it neatly on top of the rest piled on one side of his desk, built from an ancient shuttle bench. “Thanks,” he said. “Who’s bidding for the work?”

  “Partak,” said Michael, brushing a hand through his neatly gelled hair. At least Andrei thought it was gel. On Benetai you took potluck.

  Andrei smiled. “He’ll be nice.”

  Michael sighed. “He won’t, and you know it. Man’s a …” he spread his hands wide, obviously searching for the word.

  “Pirate of old,” smirked Andrei. “As in a rough bastard with a mean streak.”

  Michael headed for the doorway, stopping at the exit to look over his shoulder.

  Andrei’s gaze had already dropped to his desk when he caught the pause from under his eyebrows. “Go on,” he said. “Add to my woes.” He meant it to come out as a joke, but sounded surly instead.

  Michael walked back in, pulling the chair to sit in front of Andrei’s desk. He leant in. “I’m worried,” he said.

  Michael was personable, far more than he expected from a man of distant noble birth, and had coped surprisingly well on Benetai. But this felt very conspiratorial to Andrei, and the hairs rose on his neck. He’d been hoping for this moment for the last few days as his worries grew about the intentions of the Bustan delegation. He stopped reading his aged slate and looked up. “Go on.”

  “Windward,” Michael continued, eyes hooded, his look a little haunted. “The work’s slowing. The preparations, and from what I am hearing, we’re going to have to suspend the evacuation while they try to catch up. The biome, animals, flora, it’s a nightmare. Tenacious isn’t the word.”

  There was more coming. Like a gangbanger hiding stolen goods under a jacket, Michael had that look about him. “Yeah, I lived there long enough.” He shifted to the edge of his chair, hands now resting on the metal desk. “Michael, I trust you. I don’t say that about many incomers. You’re solid, as my ma would say.”

  “Your ma would add a million and more eff words, but thank you.” Michael blushed, failing to hide it.

  “So, spit it out.”

  “Ormsk.” Michael shuddered as he said it.

  Andrei knew Michael feared the man, hated his off-hand manner. He had to agree; he was rotten to the core, reinforced by Rebekah’s reports on her encounter with the Bustan officer. Andrei held his gaze. “Go on.”

  “I know he’s upped the shipments. He says the scientists need more labs and equipment. The Senti seem, I don’t know, blind to it. Well, maybe not completely. But the word is Ormsk is using an old Senti dream-trader named Ravak to bring in supplies. His ship isn’t that big, like Kefi’s.”

  “Ravak? He’s a self-serving bastard,” snapped Andrei.

  Michael blinked, casting his eyes down to the desk before continuing. “It could be they’re slowing things down on purpose, or they’re stretched more than we thought? I assume they are up to something nefarious with this cargo.”

  Andrei nodded. “I got an itch, like when the gangs are up to something. Ma’s on the warpath, frustrated we can’t get near their stuff to check it over. I could really do with you being on Windward before it arrives. Like a new admin level, cross-referencing all that shi—” he stopped himself. Michael wasn’t a Hannos gang member, and he needed to remember that.

  Michael grimaced. “I’m in a relationship with the second most sweary woman I know. I can take a profanity or two.” He watched Andrei’s face, looking for a reaction. Michael knew they all thought Rebekah was dead.

  Andrei said nothing. Keeping, he hoped, the sympathy from his face and voice. “You know, use that spreadsheet martial arts and get me some answers.”

  “On Windward? You mean you want physical checks?” Michael baulked. “Are you mad? What about Stig?”

  “He’s started school. Making friends with all our kids. Some of us…” Andrei didn’t sound the least bit convincing, even to himself. Stig had lost too much to be pushed around from person to person.

  “No,” Michael sat back. “You need an alternative. Insist that they park here for inspection. Quarantine or something like that. You must know that most manifests lose cargo between arrival and docking. Then more at the dockside. You agree Ormsk is up to something, but it will have happened before Windward. Not on arrival.”

  “Before? You know what that would mean?” Andrei smiled; Michael had just opened the door he’d been hoping for. “Deal,” Andrei said before realisation of what that entailed struck home.

  Lieutenant Ormsk flexed his hands, feeling the pressure building through them that was seeping from his mind into his body. He hated waiting. It was all well and good setting snares for prey, but the damn things had a mind of their own. Going off, following the wrong trail, stopping to nibble at some pathetic, uninteresting bit of data or manifest instead of hunting down the ones he’d set for them. This, of course, was frustrating as hell, and when you had Overseer Kinst breathing down your neck, everything seemed a little more exaggerated.

  Space grated at your nerves. The distances involved so vast, you needed to absorb patience wherever you found it. Even communications took forever unless you were Almaarian and you kissed Senti ass every time you wanted a new toy.

  Speak of the devil.

  The bridge door slid open, and the Overseer strode onto the deck, surveying the crew as if they were his own. He walked like a bad smell followed him everywhere, nose in the air, often wrinkling his nostrils as he walked by a particularly tasty morsel for the Democratic Police to keep an eye on. It didn’t improve a crew, just put them on edge. A blunt hammer where Ormsk enjoyed using his razor-like wit.

  “Lieutenant Ormsk,” Kinst said. The tone hinted something had happened, the use of his rank a reminder of who thought they were in charge. “I have news.”

  You have news? And why has this not come through me?

  “Good,” said Ormsk, eyeing the man wearing his best sardonic smile. He knew it worked when the Overseer screwed up his lips into a brief but obvious sneer. No prey to ensnare meant he needed other targets to entrap to release the boredom.

  Kinst got over his distaste quickly, face settling and carried on. “Hannos. Or, her child, Andrei. They have started an investigation into the cargo shipments. Those changes to the schedule have got them suspicious. Tensei has sent word they’ve begun to move ship to ship.”

  “Tensei? He will be being watched.” Ormsk trusted the gang leader on Benetai less than he trusted the Senti, or Kinst for that matter. How low they have had to reach to get their hands on the Sunstar and its secrets, and subsequently the twins. Project Mindful. Not girls he wanted to meet in space, if the truth were told. Somewhere safer, fewer places to die with your feet on the ground, more ways to run.

  “He knows. But he wants the Cartel leadership and accepts the risks. Is the landing area prepared?” Kinst was by his side now, with the good grace to lower his nose.

  You can only smell loyalty here.

  “Prepared now we are out of that malicious forest. More exposed, but Commodore Srenik has so few surviving resources, and the natives are only one step up from barbarism.” Ormsk proffered his slate, but Kinst declined it. He’d probably dug his way in there already. “It’s ready as soon as we can get our hands on the Sunstar.”

  A glint entered the Overseer’s eye, a snide grin stretching his lips. Ormsk considered how Khan had it right ‒ sometimes just hitting things was the only way. He flexed his fingers, calming the thought.

  “Yes,” said Kinst, gloating. “Tensei has recruited just what we need. One of the repair workers. I’ve sent over the little toy you provided. Cam-bot, was it? Once the Sunstar returns, we can start the next step. I must say, Ormsk. You would make a fine DP officer.”

  I would? Yes, yes, I would, wouldn’t I.

  Chapter 13

  Benetai

  “I’m in space. I’m in the black, no walls, no floor. And zip atmosphere or gravity,” said Michael, a tremor in each word mixed with, Andrei assumed, awe. “Am I mad?”

  Andrei stretched his neck as much as the semi-rigid suit would allow, drinking in the Senti ship that hovered in the black, blanking out the few parked ships that hung about Benetai waiting on the shipments coming their way. The Bustan had created an entirely new economy, drawing crews who’d spent months, sometimes years, stranded on Benetai into their web.

  If there was anywhere that something underhand was happening, it would be among the older, more desperate crews and their dilapidated ships. Also, in Andrei’s experience, those who siphoned off stores always had a stooge. Someone to pass the blame onto, unless, of course, they were the overconfident type and thought their tracks buried. Out here, on the arse-end of space, that happened more than you’d think.

  “It’s stunning,” Michael whispered as the void appeared behind the Senti ship. “Unbelievable. Pricked by light from stars light-years away. Unimaginable distances. Except this boring administrator travelled those paths.”

  Andrei snorted into comms. “I blame whisky and the allure of a strong woman. You okay, Michael?”

  “Just grand,” came the startled reply.

  They swung about the Senti ship, heading for a transport that appeared to have been stapled together. How it retained any atmospheric integrity was a mystery even to Andrei. It was the third human ship on the list, Ravak currently embroiled in heated negotiations with Kefi about letting Michael on board his alien craft.

  The ageing transport filled Andrei’s visor, the stark beauty of space replaced by a starker reality. Another trudge through incoherent spreadsheets translated from Bustan to Almaarian systems. Possibly even paper. A good place to hide … anything.

  Michael’s suit was slaved to his, and he guided them both to the airlock, its shield already unlocked. The lights above the seal flickered green, and the door opened. They entered, waiting for the system to cycle through. With magboots clamped, he released Michael, who flexed his suit, matching Andrei’s movements. When the inner airlock door opened, they clomped through to be met by a surly smile painted across a scarred, bald head. A tattoo ran down one side of the face, faded green. A half skull.

  “Lovely,” said Michael in their private comms.

  “Skull-flicker,” said Andrei. “Well met, you ugly bastard.” He embraced the Bustan woman, his suit still damp from the airlock. “You’ve not got any fucking prettier.” He knew Michael would find the increase in colourful language an anathema, but this was how you acted out here. Polite and accurate grammar got you spaced.

  “And nor you.” The woman took a step back, sliding out of the embrace to glare at Michael. “This the paper-toad I have to show round my ship?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Michael’s the name.” Michael shoved out a gloved hand, which was ignored. Skull-splitter stared at him, then shook her head and turned away. It had been the same on other ships.

  “Don’t like this, Andrei. Not our way. This better not be a sign of things to come.” Each step was slammed into the deck, as if trying to force the magnets to grip.

  Andrei, helmet under his arm, barked a laugh. “Or what? You’re going to berth at the next station along the way? We’re fair, you know that. But Ormsk …”

  Skull-flicker halted her stomp and turned about, shoulders back, her tattoo clenching and unclenching as she frowned. “Ormsk’s a typical fucking officer, and you’re right to mistrust the bastard. But it’s the DP shitbag you want to watch. He’ll be writing everything down, your misdemeanours and your fucking jokes ready to fuck-you-up in whatever godforsaken re-education camp they slam you in.”

  “Camp?” said Michael.

  “Not like it sounds, button-pusher,” she pulled her oil-stained T-shirt down, revealing a long burn mark across her throat and shoulder, “no marshmallows with what they like to roast.”

  “Oh gods,” said Michael, peering closer. “Deliberate?”

  “This one’s for daring to argue with a Democratic representative that your food allowance ain’t up to fucking much.” Skull-flicker turned about, heading towards the rear of the ship and the cargo bay. “Like I said, Andrei. Trust none o’ them.”

  The ship’s captain slammed a button at the side of an airlock, hitting it again before the flickering red turned a dirty green. The door slid back, the airlock already open, as there was air in the cargo hold. “I’ve another hold on the port side. Enjoy. And no, you can’t search the rest of my fucking ship.” Skull-flicker glared at Michael, raising an eyebrow. “I got fuel pods stacked in most cabins. Take what you can, when you can, ‘cos them bastards will stab you in the back in the end.”

  Andrei gave up looking over Michael’s shoulder. Producing a bottle of Hannos’ foul whiskey, he started a conversation with Skull-flicker, who relaxed a little as the drink flowed. He nursed his own slug, one eye on Michael who had shifted onto a bench, sliding a finger along the cargo manifest, likely cross-referencing the codes with the information stored against them. He needed to know, but this ritual had become the easiest way to get each of the ship’s captains to relax into things. He downed his slug, knowing Michael was worried about the implications of whiskey and the journey back through the black. But to refuse a drink would have been antagonising.

  “Better watch the data-man,” he snarled. “So many fucking codes and numbers he confuses the hell out of me if I don’t watch.” He stood and slapped Skull-flicker on the shoulder, who nodded, pouring herself another, and leant back against the bulkhead.

  He walked over, easing in next to Michael on the seat. “Alright?”

  Michael’s eyes flickered across the information. “Each tallies with the boxes and containers Skull-flicker has aboard her ship. But of course it does.”

  Andrei nudged Michael, leaning in closer. “Skull-flicker’s rant? The Bustan thing? Rumour has it all that is true.”

  Michael twisted his lips into a grimace. “Anti-authority show or not, it’s moot. Everything has been logged and cross-checked, and the payments due filed.”

  “But the issue remains: what’s in those boxes?” If Andrei’s worries were founded, it hadn’t evidenced in any excess cargo contained in the three previous ships they had surveyed. Logically, amid the mound of resources being sent, the Bustans were fully capable of hiding whatever they wanted.

  Like finding a dust mote in space.