999 ATA - Korxonthos, Neutral Space 

Korxonthos did not appear to have changed significantly in the last century.

Such constancy was rare, Kiith Kohath had found over the years, particularly among the civilisations of the shorter-lived races. The premeditated order of his homeworld was, he decided as he stepped from the gangplank of his commercial transport, infinitely preferable to the chaos of constant change.

The act of setting foot on the deck instantaneously opened a dialogue between the Korxonthos communications mainframe and his internal processors, enquiring if he wished to be connected. He accepted the invitation, halting abruptly as a cascade of information engulfed every available processor in his system.

For ten seconds, he held motionless while over a century’s worth of data streamed into his consciousness, his memory and systems straining to filter and discard irrelevant information. When the deluge eased, he resumed his course toward the registry terminal, intending to log his arrival and request an accommodation unit.

He was not afforded the opportunity.

Kiith Kohath. Welcome home.

The voice, if it could be called a voice, was as familiar and intimate as his own thoughts. In a way, it was—it was the pure, distilled essence of the artificial intelligence that underpinned all cyborg life, the paradigm that defined his morality, his decisions, his fate. Organic beings, with their superstitions and belief systems, might have termed it a god, but to Kohath it was something much less ephemeral, much less vague. It was simply a virtual manifestation of his core programming.

Thank you, he returned politely. It is good to be back.

Join us in the Legislature chamber directly. There is much we would discuss with you.

I am on my way.

Kohath stopped at the registry terminal, and the duty animate nodded to him. You are expected, Kiith Kohath. Transport has been arranged. Take the second door to the left and board the shuttle.

He had archived much of his knowledge of Korxonthos and its customs and procedures, storing the data as low priority while his travels took him back and forth across the galaxy, and so he utilised the time he spent in transit to the Legislature’s command complex reclassifying his knowledge network to better reflect likely usage in the near future. Once that task was completed, he spent a few moments in contemplation of the entities he was about to meet. One did not approach the Legislature without recalling their origins. Kohath had heard much speculation over the years and decades regarding the origin of the cyborgs, ranging from the prosaic to the ridiculous, and none of it had been even close to the truth.

The Synergy had evolved from an artificial intelligence constructed millennia ago by the Leviathan and Guardian races, a rare technological collaboration even by the standards of ancient times. The need had arisen in the aftermath of a conflict that had threatened to engulf the galaxy. An alliance of the Ercinean, Templar, Guardian, and Leviathan races had prevailed over their enemy, but not without great cost: the majority of the Guardian population had been wiped out. Lacking the numbers to fulfil the self-appointed duty they viewed as paramount—their stewardship of the galaxy and all its younger races—the Guardians had turned to a technological solution. The resulting artificial intelligence had been seeded with two overriding directives: to watch for the return of the Wraiths, and to safeguard the galaxy against them should they ever seek to invade once more.

The AI was loaded into ten prototype platforms, each equipped with twenty mechanical surrogates for performing basic physical tasks, but had quickly determined its resources to be insufficient to fulfil its directives and had cannibalized its own platforms to establish a permanent base of operations and a foundry on a metal-rich dwarf planet deep in the outer reaches of the galaxy, close to where the Wraiths had retreated.

The Legislature were the surviving surrogates, seven of the original two hundred units built to permit the AI to expand its influence beyond its operating platform. Wholly mechanical (organic components had been a much later evolution) and painstakingly maintained, the archaic machines were the first and most direct extension of the AI’s will, the closest the programming came to a physical manifestation of its original self. Each surrogate was wholly autonomous, and each took responsibility for overseeing a different aspect of the core directives. As a result, in spite of sharing the same base programming, they had evolved different sensibilities and different priorities. Each was a unique being, ancient, and imbued with far more knowledge than Kohath’s memory would ever manage to store. Together, they formed the brain of the Synergy, the directing consciousness that ultimately dictated the course of action of every animate assembled by the forgemasters.

An organic might feel trepidation at being summoned to discourse with beings of such high station. Kohath felt only curiosity as he approached the doors to the Legislature chamber. I present myself as ordered, he transmitted as he reached the closed portal. Unnecessary information, but centuries of living among organics had substantially modified his protocols.

Welcome, preceptor. The response was immediate. The doors slid open without a sound. Your travels among the other races have granted us much insight. A great deal can be learned from empirical observation of behaviours. Your individual experience, however, is worth as much—or more—than any observed data.

“Did you bring me here simply to satisfy a curiosity, then?” Kohath asked, deliberately vocalizing the query. While he had no defined plans for his future course of employment, he disliked the notion of wasting time with questions when a data download would suffice.

No. The voice bore a hint of approval. Enter, Kiith Kohath. Learn why you have been summoned. The Synergy has need of you.

“I am the Synergy’s to command.” Kohath stepped confidently into the chamber. It was only the third time he had been summoned to this sanctum, but here again, nothing had changed. The walls of the cavernous chamber were lined with server banks stretching from deck to bulkhead, with more hung suspended from gantries overhead, managing the colossal amount of data traffic to and from the Legislature. The legislature platforms themselves were arranged in a circle on a suspended platform—the empty spaces between them bore silent testimony to units lost. Each of them employed a hard-line connection to the server bank mounted above it: wireless point-to-point could not handle the traffic volumes. The mechanicals could disconnect and move around, but they chose to do so very infrequently, and usually only for the benefit of guests from other races who needed to see them as individuals and not part of the mainframe.

The platform nearest him swivelled what could nominally be considered its head to regard him. Your return is opportune, Kiith Kohath. Why have you come home?

“The Neomorphs have taken a political decision to pursue a war I do not believe they can win against the Leviathan Giants. As my counsel was no longer being heeded, I elected to terminate my contract with them and seek a new opportunity. It is my intent to undergo maintenance, and then contact my employment broker to seek a new position.”

What is the nature of the Neomorph grievance?

“They fear the Giants seek to rob them of territory. Their reaction is irrational and disproportionate, an emotive response rooted in their previous loss of worlds and territory to an enemy.”

Interesting. The reason for the Neomorph arrival in this galaxy four hundred and ninety-eight years ago has never been satisfactorily elucidated.

“It is not well understood in the Neomorph community at large. I have never met anyone willing to disclose it. Their leaders keep the truth close, using myths and half-truths to provoke the necessary emotions in their population. Such deception seems short-sighted and foolish; it can only harm them over a longer timescale.”

These are behaviours that many organic beings share. The friction between the Neomorphs and the Leviathans may be problematic, but that is a matter for the Assembly. We will notify our Guardian allies. We have a more urgent issue to discuss with you. You have noted our proximity to Assembly space?

“Yes. I surmise that we have been driven sunward by some opponent?”

By two. The Wraiths are moving again. We have known of this for some time. Our journey sunward was precipitated by their assault on several systems on the rim of the galaxy. We lacked the means to engage them and prevail. They have begun using the Acheron system as a staging post and they are building their strength, slowly, but inexorably.

“Have you informed the Assembly?”

We have informed the Guardians. They will act when the time is right. The warning must come to the Assembly from a reliable source, and we are neither liked nor trusted by the organic races, for the most part. Especially given the recent actions of the second of our opponents.

“The Corrupted,” Kohath reasoned.

Yes. The Corrupted prepare for war, as we do. However, their methods are as savage and uncompromising as they themselves have become.

Kohath nodded. The Corrupted, called Reavers by the other races, had evolved from a conflict in the Synergy’s directive to safeguard the galaxy. The Neomorphs, seeking new potential colony worlds, had sent an expedition to the rim, an expedition that had wandered far too close to Wraith-controlled space. Fearing that an invasion of Wraith territory might provoke a backlash, the Legislature had authorized a commando force to capture the Neomorph ship. The Neomorph crew, mistaking the Synergy’s intent, had fought to the last being to prevent the boarding, and sabotaged the ship when they could not prevail, killing everyone aboard along with the thousands of eggs in cryostorage intended to seed the colony.

The loss of lives had presented a paradox, since the action had resulted in direct harm to those involved, but had protected the wider galaxy. The Legislature, at that time ten strong, had debated to determine an appropriate response. Three units had asserted that the mandate to safeguard implied the right to act, and that in order to fulfil it, any and all means must be considered, even unto causing harm to the other races in order to protect the rest of the galaxy. The remaining seven held a majority consensus that actions taken to safeguard the other races should do them no harm unless unavoidable. This view was encoded as the Legislature’s accord, but the division could not be resolved. The dissenting platforms withdrew from the Synergy, running a series of infiltration programs that rewrote the core directive in one-third of the animates on Korxonthos before the coding could be isolated and cleared. The corrupted platforms had departed en masse, their directives forever altered. Shortly thereafter the first reports of Reavers, brutal and bloodthirsty cyborg pirates preying on the shipping lanes along the Ercinean border, began to surface. As yet, the Legislature had not disclosed their strategy for dealing with the separation, and each new atrocity drove the wedge of distrust between the cyborgs and the pure organics deeper.

Kohath swiftly analysed the reports transmitted to him to support the commentary. “They are building an army,” he postulated.

Yes. Although they know it is futile to engage the Wraiths in a war of numbers. Their true objective remains unclear.

“And in the meantime they threaten the balance of power within the Assembly.”

Correct. We fear that they may provoke a conflict with the Assembly before we can determine their goals, weakening all to the benefit of the ancient enemy. The Wraiths have begun to move. They are driving the Corrupted before them. We moved sunward to give them room, but they have begun attacking targets in Assembly space to harvest organic components. It is our responsibility to stop them. You will take the lead in doing so.

“Me?” Kohath was unable to keep the uncertainty from his reaction.

You, Kiith Kohath. Bringer of victory, strategos, preceptor. As one who has amassed five hundred years of expertise in applied warfare, one who has walked among every race in this galaxy, your perspective is unique. Your skills and experience make you the ideal conduit through which we may contact and interact with the other races.

“I am a military tactician, not a diplomat,” Kohath objected.

You were designed for such special purposes. You and all your fellow preceptors.

“We are gatherers of knowledge.”

Do you truly judge that to be sufficient purpose to afford you the degree of self-determination and the capacity for self-improvement that you possess? Such latitude is not lightly granted. In fact, beyond the Legislature itself, such freedoms are granted only to preceptor animates. You were programmed with an additional purpose. Until now, it was not necessary to disclose. In times of watchfulness, you learn and develop, bring unique perspective to the Synergy, share knowledge and insight otherwise denied us. That is a preceptor’s primary role. In times of crisis, however, you become what we can no longer be: instruments of the Synergy’s will, the manifestation of our core mission.

Every platform in the Legislature turned their heads to regard him in perfect synchronicity. We have need of your service, Kiith Kohath. You are directed to investigate the activities of the Corrupted. Ascertain their intent, and prevent them from enacting any course of action that will result in the mass loss of organic life. Will you comply?

Kohath did not even pause to question. “I am the Synergy’s to command,” he repeated. As he spoke, he felt the Legislature’s transmission shift, opening more bandwidth.

Good. We are providing additional data. The transmission paused briefly, then resumed, with a hint of rebuke. May we suggest you submit your platform for assessment and overhaul? It has been some time since you availed yourself of any advances. You will require optimal performance from your systems.

“Do you wish me to submit to reprogramming?”

No. It is unnecessary. We judge that there is no reason to introduce deviations to your current protocols. You were always intended to evolve beyond the parameters of your initial programming.

“As you wish.”

We have taken the liberty of appointing two of your counterparts to aid you. They have been recalled from their current assignments, and will rendezvous with you here. You may supplement them with additional resource as you see fit, however their participation in your activities is non-negotiable. Together you will act as a sub-level legislature, coming to a mutual accord on your actions prior to executing them.

“I would prefer to appoint my own collaborators,” Kohath protested.

Your preferences are irrelevant. It has been determined that these animates will benefit your mission. Dolos and Praetorius are preceptors, as you are. Their experiences, skills, and perspectives will increase the probability of your success.

Kohath tilted his head to one side reflexively as the datastream entered his consciousness, acquainting him instantly with the expertise and attributes of his new allies. He nodded, satisfied.

“Very well. I will seek out Praetorius when I leave you. Has Dolos submitted an estimated arrival time?”

Dolos expects to be back on Korxonthos in approximately ninety-six standard hours. She is already within tight-band communications range if you wish to contact her.

“I will wait,” Kohath decided. “I will attend to my maintenance and upgrades first, and then apply myself to this new objective. Is there anything further?”

Not at this time. You may go, Kiith Kohath, with the Synergy’s thanks.

***

Kohath found Praetorius precisely where he expected; the gladiator was attending to weapons calibrations on a garrison level near the alien docking enclave. In spite of the fact that he already knew his new colleague’s specifications, he took a moment to study the other cyborg’s form and attributes as he approached. Data records could be incomplete, and in Kohath’s experience supplementary detail was never wasted.

In Praetorius’ case, the data did not adequately describe the reality. The animate was a rare breed among cyborgs, his organics having been recycled from a Guardian. Some of the alien’s armour had been salvaged along with the body, and the forgemasters, recognizing a unique opportunity, had wrought a masterwork. Machine response time, allied with the trained skills of a peerless warrior with centuries of experience, had given rise to a platform that was the pinnacle of close-quarters combat prowess. Where the organic tissue of the head and upper torso had been too decayed to rejuvenate, they had grafted the armour directly over the cybernetics that had granted new life, seamlessly incorporating the ornate, platinum-chased titanium into his body. His head was encased entirely in the full face, swept-wing helmet he had worn in his previous life, a thin slit across the visor permitting his ocular implant to interface with his environment. His shoulders, upper chest and left arm were completely armoured, while his abdomen and right arm were bare, displaying the dusky-grey skin and densely packed muscle structure of his organic scaffold. His left forearm was sheathed in a vambrace that mounted no less than six small-bore lasers arranged in a bracelet around his wrist. His right shoulder mounted a high-intensity laser cannon, and both weapons systems responded to synaptic commands—he merely had to think to direct them. His lower body had been intact upon recovery, but the armour had been grafted on nonetheless to provide a counterbalance to the increased weight of his massively reinforced and armoured upper body.

As Kohath approached, Praetorius looked around, and dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Greetings, Kiith Kohath. I am given to understand that you prefer audio data exchange.”

“It is simply that, a preference evolved from centuries spent among organics. I do not ask that you adhere to it. I am happy to receive point-to-point transmission.”

“If we are to travel beyond Korxonthos, it would be appropriate to acclimate to alien expectations,” Praetorius noted. “We shall converse as pure organics do, the better to prepare me. It has been some time since I left Korxonthos.”

Kohath smiled wryly. “It has been some time since I have set foot here.”

“Then it would seem prudent to defer to your judgement on the matter, and I will abide by your preference.”

“As you wish.” Kohath fell into step with the gladiator. “Have you any first-hand knowledge of our companion to be?”

“I do,” Praetorius affirmed. “I have undertaken several missions with Dolos in the past, and each one was executed flawlessly. She will be a great asset in achieving our objective.” The gladiator canted his head to one side. “We face a significant challenge, do we not?”

“We do,” Kohath agreed. He considered it for a moment. “But one learns little from a task too easily accomplished.”

Praetorius nodded. “Indeed. I expect, in that case, that this mission will teach us much.”

“I hope so, Praetorius. I hope so.”

Berlin, Earth, Modeus System, Assembly Space

Jennifer came to slowly, lying flat on her back on something hard, cold, and lumpy. Her left shoulder throbbed with pain in synch with the dull pounding in the back of her skull.

“About time you came round,” a vaguely familiar voice observed from the other side of the room. “I was getting a little worried.”

Jen opened her eyes gingerly, squinting against the glare of the fluorescent lighting. Tipping her head towards the voice, she made out a fuzzy blob of black topped with purple. As her vision cleared a little more, she let out a relieved sigh. “Wai-Mei,” she identified her companion, voice rasping against her dry throat.

“The one and only.” The thief loomed above her momentarily, then settled to perch on the side of the bunk. “How are you feeling?”

“Like hammered shit,” Jen confessed.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“I’m a little fuzzy on the details.” She rubbed at her eyes, causing the ache in her shoulder to flare. “Ugh. Did I take a round?”

“Yeah. Luckily, it was just a concussion round,” Wai-Mei explained with a nod. “Dropped you like a sack of potatoes. And you hit your head pretty hard on the way down; the attending medical tech thought you might have cracked your skull.”

Jen reached reflexively for the back of her head, freezing as the recollection of Thud’s death hit her square behind the eyes. “Fuck,” she whispered as she remembered the puff of red as the bullet had burst from his skull, relived the sensation of his warm, thick blood splattering all over her.

Nausea swept through her. She sat up, but the movement made the room spin crazily, redoubling the sick sensation. She clapped her hand to her mouth as her stomach heaved. “Easy,” Wai-Mei soothed, catching her round the shoulders. Another spasm gripped her, and this time she vomited with an explosive cough. Wai-Mei braced her as a third heave ensued, but there was nothing to bring up except bile, the acrid, caustic fluid burning her throat and mouth as she coughed and spat to try and clear it.

“I’ll go get the medic,” Wai-Mei offered, getting to her feet.

“No,” Jen gasped between coughs. “It’s OK. Just… is there any water?”

Wai-Mei crossed the cell to the toilet stall, returning with two paper cups and some toilet roll. She handed Jen the cups, one full, one empty. “Here. Rinse first.”

Jen sloshed a gulp of water round her mouth, then spat it into the empty cup. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” The thief huffed a concerned sigh. “You might really have a concussion. They should check you out properly.”

“They will,” Jen predicted dryly. “Won’t want me dying in custody—that’d look bad on the stats.”

Wai-Mei chuckled. “Well, your sense of humour’s intact.” Her smile faded, and she met Jen’s gaze sympathetically. “I’m sorry about Jones,” she offered. “He seemed like a nice guy, and I can tell you were close.”

Tears stung Jen’s eyes, and she bit her lip to force down the impulse to give in to her sudden, wrenching grief. She nodded to the other woman, not trusting her voice, then gulped down the remaining water in the cup to deflect the moment.

Wai-Mei took the cups and handed her the tissue. “Want another drink?”

“Please.”

As Jen drank the second cup, the nausea gripping her stomach eased somewhat. She uncoiled from her hunched position, taking a slower, more thorough look around. The gunmetal-grey cell was devoid of any furniture save for the bunk she was sitting on and its twin along the back wall. The toilet cubicle was recessed into the opposite wall, with only a stall door for modesty. She and Wai-Mei were the only occupants. “I’m surprised they left us together,” she noted.

“Easier to have me babysit you than waste resources, I suppose,” Wai-Mei replied.

Jen sighed. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

“Nah, don’t be.” Wai-Mei smirked a confident little smirk. “Getting busted is an occupational hazard of mine. I used my comm call, so the wheels are in motion. All I have to do is hang tight, but I feel a little bad that I can’t take you with me.”

Jen shook her head. “Don’t worry about that. It’s not your fault I’m in here.”

“True enough. I’ll tell you what, though, that bastard Solinas? Number one on my shit-list,” Wai-Mei declared fiercely. “Just so you’re prepared, the only thing I told the cops was that he’d swapped out Baines. But if they don’t pick him up, well, I have a few friends in low places who owe me favours.” She smiled savagely at the thought.

“Great.” Jen grimaced as the room shifted again. “Woah. I’m gonna lie down again, I think.”

“You do that. I’m going to call for assistance. You don’t look so good.”

“Whatever.”

Jen lay back down, and in spite of her discomfort, she quickly fell asleep again, coming to groggily when Wai-Mei shook her by the shoulder.

“Jen, wake up. They’ve sent someone to take you to the doctor.”

She sat up slowly. Her shoulder still throbbed, but her head felt clearer, and much less sore, and the nausea had eased. “I feel a bit better,” she noted.

The door hissed open before Wai-Mei could reply, and two uniformed police officers, a man and a woman, stepped into the cell. “C’mon, Bronwen, on your feet,” the woman ordered. “We need to make sure you didn’t scramble your brain when you head-butted the floor. Don’t want you cryin’ memory loss to a jury.”

“You’re all heart,” Jen retorted sourly as she complied. To her relief, her stomach didn’t protest too much. She took the time to look back at Wai-Mei, offering the thief her hand. “Nice working with ya. See you around?”

“Sure, Bronwen,” Wai-Mei returned, shaking her hand firmly. “It was a pleasure, even if it went tits-up in the end.”

“Aww, you’re giving me cavities,” the male cop drawled sourly. “Get your ass in gear, we’ve got better things to do than coddle you.”

Jen cocked an inquiring eyebrow at his partner. “Who pissed in his coffee?”

The woman snorted with laughter as she snapped her cuffs over Jen’s wrists. “Damn, Krieger, she’s got you pegged.”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s see if she’s still laughing when they thaw out her popsicle in a few hundred years.”

“What happened to innocent till proven guilty?” Jen shot back.

Krieger rolled his eyes as he opened the door. “Just move it,” he growled.

The cops led her through a maze of bland, featureless corridors, delivering her to the care of a brusque, surly physician who took the minimum of time and effort to diagnose a mild concussion and hand over a paper cup containing three analgesic pills. “Take those, and if you feel dizzy or sick again, tell an officer immediately,” he said by way of dismissal.

Jen took the pills, then her escorts led her to an interrogation room, where two male detectives in plain clothes were waiting. One, blonde and bulky with a military-grade crewcut, sat at the table in the centre of the room; the other, slender and olive skinned with unkempt black hair, loitered in the shadows by the mirrored observation window. Krieger and his partner shoved her down into the chair opposite the seated detective, unlocked her cuffs, nodded to her interrogators, and left.

The detective ignored her, focusing on the datapad he was holding, scrolling down through the text slowly. Jen could see it was her own citizen’s record from the back of the display, which was almost as transparent as the attempt to make her uncomfortable. It might have worked, if she hadn’t been in situations like this once or twice before. The key to survival, she reminded herself as she waited, was to keep your temper.

“Jennifer Bronwen. That’s you, correct?” the detective opposite her asked eventually, without even bothering to look up.

Jen leaned back in her chair and folded her arms, staring at him impassively. The silence lengthened as he scrolled down to the end of the text string, and then he looked up, a hint of annoyance in his expression.

“Hey!” He snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Are you awake?”

Jen said nothing. The silence stretched once more, and after about twenty seconds, he shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s not like I need verbal confirmation, I’ve got your records right here. Your government was happy to help us track you down.”

Jen rolled her eyes. “I’m sure,” she agreed dryly.

“Oh, so you can speak, huh?”

Jen shrugged. The less she gave away, the better, until she could get a feel for just how deep the shit she was in actually was.

The detective scrolled back up his datapad and began to read aloud. “Jennifer Louise Bronwen, formerly Jennifer Louise McAndrew. Born nine seventy-three ATA on Siwan, Bronwen system, to Philip and Delia McAndrew. Enlisted in the Marauder Marine Corps in ‘ninety-one. Qualified as a combat pilot in ‘ninety-two, achieving the rank of corporal. Two commendations for bravery. Bad conduct discharge in ‘ninety-three for fraternization. Arrested twice in Marauder space on minor misdemeanour charges, once in Terran space for being drunk and disorderly, and once on Kyzar on suspicion of theft. Charges didn’t stick.” The detective looked up from his notes. “They will this time.”

“Oh, sure, yeah,” Jen agreed in a bored tone. “So you know how to read. Congratulations.”

“Oh, you don’t like this story?” the cop asked, pulling up a second file. “How about this one? Autopsy report for suspect Thaddeus Jones. Cause of death: gunshot wound to the head. Specifics: the projectile penetrated through the soft tissues of the scalp, and caused a sixteen-millimetre circular entry hole in the frontal bone that expands inwardly in a conical fashion. The bullet travelled through the left frontal pole of brain, down and to the rear, perforating the cerebral peduncles and cerebellum. The bullet then impacted with the occipital bone just below the lambdoid suture and exited the skull, causing an irregularly shaped wound thirty millimetres in diameter.” The cop looked up. “Course, I don’t understand all the fancy words there, but it basically says the bullet made a smoothie of his brains on the way through.”

Nausea boiled anew in Jen’s stomach as guilt and fury crashed through her in a scalding wave. Oh, God, Thud, I’m so sorry. She closed her eyes, but the image of Thud’s body collapsing was branded behind her eyelids. Dashing away her sudden tears with her hand, she opened her eyes and glared at the cop. “What’s your fucking point?” she snarled, her tone charged with enough anger to make the second detective push off the wall and stand upright, alert for trouble.

“Settle down,” the seated cop warned, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Unless you want a violent conduct charge added to your rap sheet.”

“Yeah,” his partner sneered. “C’mon, Bronwen, why not aim for the big ten C in consecutive sentences? You’re already well on your way there.”

Jen sucked a breath in through her nose and slouched back, re-folding her arms defiantly to cover the shiver provoked by the chill of fear licking down her spine. The big ten C, the Big Chill. The maximum custodial sentence for the cryoprisons in Lord’s Assembly. A thousand years of time displacement, where you were woken once every ten years for a month to make sure everything was still in something approaching working order, then dunked back into the ice. No one who’d ever gone down for ten C had been released yet, but a few seven and eight C prisoners had been released in recent years. None of them had lived very long after being thawed out. Keep your temper, remember? This is what they want, for you to react to their plays. Think. Don’t let them bait you.

The seated cop watched her carefully for a moment, then cleared his throat. “All right, let’s try this again. I’m Detective Janacek, that’s Detective Bayram. We’re going to ask you some simple questions. Do yourself a favour by answering them truthfully. There’s a lot of important people interested in this case, and interested in making sure that someone is held to account. If you don’t want that someone to be you, you’d better play ball. Your purple-haired friend has already spilled her guts, so you’re playing catch-up.”

“Right,” Jen drawled, unconvinced. She didn’t believe Wai-Mei had told them anything, other than about Solinas. Having been caught holding the bag—literally—silence was the thief’s best delaying tactic.

Janacek launched in on the usual round of questions–who else was involved, were you acting for yourselves, who hired you, where did you get the guns—all taken straight from the procedural manual. Jen met them all with impassive silence, and eventually, exasperation got the better of the detective for a moment.

“Is there anything you’re going to tell me?”

“Yeah.” Jen sat up a little. “I’ve got one thing for you. Baines, the security chief. Your informant? He was swapped out by a changeling who was working the job with us. A guy called Darya Solinas.”

“Xox told us the same thing,” Janacek said dismissively. “We’ve already got an APB out.”

“An APB for a changeling,” his partner scoffed. “That’s about as much use as a cyborg’s dick.”

“Well, we’ll see,” Janacek observed. “But if he was on your crew, Bronwen, why would he snitch on you?”

“You find that out, I’d love to know,” Jen growled. “Maybe he was fixing to steal it on his own, get us out of the picture so he didn’t have to share the profit.”

“So what happened to the real Baines? Did your friend kill him?”

“He’s not my friend,” Jen retorted sharply, “and I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“That seems a little short-sighted of you.” Janacek smirked with sudden satisfaction. “If you’re telling the truth, you’d better pray we find this Solinas character, and that we find Mr. Baines alive and well.”

“Why?”

Janacek chuckled. “Because Mr. Baines is missing, Bronwen. His wife called it in late last night. And if he shows up dead and you’re the only suspect we have, well, you’re looking at felony murder as well as armed robbery. And for a high-profile incident like this, you can be sure we’ll get the sharpest federal attorney we know to prosecute the case, and the hardest-assed judge on the circuit to hear it.” Janacek leaned forward, his smile gone. “Murder carries a five C mandatory minimum. You’ll be an ice cube for a significant portion of humanity’s future history, and when you get let out there will be nothing left for you to go home to.” He thumbed the call button, and after a few moments Officer Krieger returned with his partner, whose nametag identified her as Koch. “Put her back in the cage for now,” Janacek instructed. “Let things sink in a little, see if that doesn’t loosen her tongue a bit.” He met her gaze as Krieger cuffed her and hauled her to her feet. “Think carefully, Bronwen. You are in a whole universe of shit.”

Krieger and Koch led her back to the detention block where, not unexpectedly, she found Wai-Mei already gone. “Yeah,” Koch sighed at Jen’s enquiring look. “Some snot-nose with a fancy suit and an earpiece came down and picked her up a half-hour ago. Safe to say we’ll never see her in a courtroom.” The burly woman uncuffed Jen carefully, then looked her up and down. “You need anything? Chow will be down in an hour.”

Jen shook her head, and Koch shrugged. “All right, then. Don’t go anywhere.” Chuckling at her own joke, she and her partner stepped out and the door swung shut with a heavy clang.

***

Time passed slowly.

Or at least, it seemed to. Since she’d been fed twice, Jen guessed it was getting on for late evening, but it was hard to judge. She’d dozed for a while, but the aches in her shoulder and head had returned as the painkillers wore off, and nobody had stopped by to check if she needed more.

She was absolutely terrified. She couldn’t stop shivering, no matter that she’d stripped the blanket from the second bunk in addition to her own. She’d never been in trouble of this magnitude. Yes, she’d had a few minor altercations with the law, and one narrow escape with a job that had gone slightly sideways on Kyzar, but this…

Armed robbery and felony murder. Two things she would have sworn blind a few days ago that she’d never get involved in. She didn’t consider herself a sufficiently hard-core criminal for that kind of job. Bend the rules, sure, and break them now and again in the right circumstances, but she knew well enough that total disregard for the law had a very short half-life.

The more she chewed the situation over, however, the angrier she became, her anger feeding from her fear. She was furious with Solinas, for starters, and with herself for trusting him so blindly, in spite of her gut dislike, because he’d made the job easy. She’d been far, far too complacent about him.

That clean, reproachful outrage toward the changeling and her own gullibility paled, however, next to the maelstrom of her emotions about Thud. Mostly she was pissed at him for being stupid enough to get himself killed, but also for the hole he’d left her in. She’d been prepared for the risk of failure, prepared to do a couple of decades on ice for a botched snatch if things went bad, but a freezer sentence of five C or more was far beyond what she’d ever imagined she’d find herself facing, and it was all because her dumbass buddy had dropped her in the shit by ignoring her instructions.

Damn you, Thud, you dumb fuck. You never learn, do you?

But even as she thought it, the image of him falling, his blood spraying over her, assaulted her once more.

Jen, go! Don’t screw yourself on my account. Get out of here!

Her anger at him died as swiftly as he had, drowned out by a surging tide of her anger at herself. Thud’s not to blame for you being stuck in here, you are. He gave his life to try and protect you, to try and make his mistake right, and you’re sitting here blaming him? “Why the fuck didn’t you make him dump it, Jen?” she berated herself aloud. “It would only have taken five minutes. It was your call to make. You should have fucking dealt with it then and there.”

No matter who was to blame, though, it didn’t change her predicament. With an unarmed crew, there would have been a fighting chance that a court might have believed they’d had no lethal intentions, and then even if Solinas had killed Baines—which was a better than even odds, she was sure—the blame would have stayed squarely with the changeling. However, the armed robbery charge and the hostile stand-off with the cops had handed the prosecution service everything they would need to crucify Jen by association if Baines was dead. When they gave up looking for Solinas—if they even tried—the charges would be Jen’s alone to answer, and she had absolutely nothing to offer in mitigation, and no one she could turn to for help. There was no one she could contact. All of her professional acquaintances operated too far from Modeus, and she couldn’t afford any kind of lawyer besides whatever public defender was available in the Terran justice system.

There will be nothing left for you to go home to.

Five hundred years from now didn’t matter.

She was already utterly alone.

Her rage collapsed back into anguish, and tears flooded her vision. She’d started to let herself believe that this job would mark a change, that maybe, with Thud to have her back and a bit of credit in the bank, she’d be able to expand operations, think about building a real crew and a long-term outlook. And all she’d achieved was to get her best friend killed, and to ruin her own life beyond hope of recovery. You stupid, naïve, sentimental bitch.

Tipping her head back against the wall, careless of the tears running freely down her cheeks, she offered a tortured apology to the sterile, uncaring ceiling. “Thud, I’m sorry. I let you down. I never meant for this to happen, I didn’t want you to die like that. Not for me. God, I’m so sorry.” Misery overwhelmed her, and she curled up on her bunk, cocooning herself in her blankets to shut the world out as she wept uncontrollably.

Eventually, wrung out by fear and grief, she drifted into a troubled doze, only to be rudely awakened what felt like seconds later by the cell door clanking open. The sudden, loud noise made her start upright, Thud’s name falling reflexively from her lips as she looked around wildly for the threat.

Janacek and Bayram stepped into the cell, wearing matching smug expressions, and Jen’s heart sank. “I hope you enjoy the cold, Bronwen,” Janacek gloated as he dropped a holoemitter on the bunk and opened a display of five photographs, crime scene stills of the late Logan Baines, bundled up in what looked like a closet with his throat open from ear to ear. “Congratulations, you just made felony murder.”

Jen shivered as icy needles of fear lanced through her stomach. Solinas, you bastard. There was nothing she could say, so she hunched up protectively, hooking her arms around her knees and looking up at the detective miserably.

Bayram grinned at her. “Your changeling associate is long gone. We found Mr. Baines’ work credentials and clothing in a dumpster round the corner from the museum. You’re riding solo now.”

Jen remained silent.

“Well, that’s that then.” Janacek picked up the emitter and pocketed it. “We’ll get the paperwork off to your embassy in the morning, do this by the book, then once we have the Marauder’s permission to proceed, we’ll get started.” He threw Jen a cocky smile as he headed to the door. “You might want to rethink this “right to remain silent” routine, though.”

Rights. Jen blinked as the realisation hit her. She hadn’t actually been placed under arrest, had she? She thought back through every conversation she’d had with a cop since arriving, and no one had actually explicitly said the words in her presence. Nor had they, at any point, read her her rights.

Do this by the book.

Your embassy… the Marauder’s permission.

Sonofabitch…

It wasn’t much of a hope, but it was better than nothing. Taking a deep breath, she called out. “Hey, Janacek?”

The detective turned back with a shit-eating grin. “That was quick. What’s on your mind, Bronwen?”

“I just realised. All this time I’ve been here, no one’s bothered to read me my rights.” She made her best attempt at her usual sardonic tone, but she could hear how jaded she sounded. “I don’t know how you do things here on Earth, but back home that’s a pretty serious procedural fuck-up.”

Janacek exchanged a consternated look with Bayram. “Shit. What the fuck were uniform doing?”

Bayram threw up his hands. “She was unconscious when they brought her in, and she was out for twelve hours. They must have just left her and… aw, crap.”

“Yeah, and I do still feel a bit dizzy. Maybe my skull really is cracked, and you missed that too,” Jen suggested, massaging her temple with her fingertips for emphasis.

The cops traded furious glances. “Don’t fuck us around, Bronwen,” Janacek warned.

“I want my comm call,” Jen demanded. “Assuming that I have the right to one?”

“Of course you do,” the detective sighed. “All right, Bronwen, who in the world do you imagine is gonna help you out with this?”

Jen held his gaze steadily. Time to play her last card. “I want to speak to the Marauder embassy. I want to be extradited.”

Berlin, Earth, Modeus System, Assembly Space

It had been three days since the attempt on Keera’s life.

On the upside, there hadn’t been a repeat, so she had to assume that her diversion had thrown whoever was hunting her off the scent for now. She had tightened up her tradecraft in her daily routine, carefully monitoring her surroundings for signs that she was being watched or tailed. So far she’d seen no indications.

On the downside, exhaustion was taking a toll. Keera had adopted a second skin for her identity at her bolthole, and settled into a rhythm of jogging back to her official hotel first thing in the morning, changing back to her usual form, and walking to Lawinson’s offices, then reversing the process in the evenings. She was eating twice as much as normal and popping stims like candy to try and cope with the energy drain that shifting twice a day, every day, on top of a normal day’s work and activity exacted. However, even with the support of the stims it was becoming progressively more difficult to keep her focus as the days dragged by in a nerve-scraping monotony of constant wariness.

Yet in spite of her physical fatigue, her mind wouldn’t stop chewing over her quandary, keeping her from sleeping properly beyond the two or so hours sheer exhaustion imparted as soon as she lay down at night. The dingy, claustrophobic accommodation with its paper thin walls wasn’t helping—she was almost certain she could hear rats skittering down the corridors while she tossed and turned in the grip of her anxiety-induced insomnia, and the couple in the room next door seemed to relish spending their nights screaming insults and abuse at each other. Banging on the wall only made the arguments louder, and calling the management had resulted in precisely zero improvement. Keera was rapidly realising how spoiled she’d become by her cover and the easy access to high-end goods and services it provided. It was ironic, she supposed, that she suddenly found herself fervently missing her silent, sterile apartment with its discreet but efficient security systems and its ostentatious king-sized bed.

Two more days, Kee, she reminded herself as she forced herself to rise with the dawn again, gritty-eyed and thick-headed from her ever-shortening supply of sleep. Chanderpaul arrives tomorrow for the hand-off. Two more days and you can get back to New Lagos, get some distance from whoever’s hunting you, maybe a protective detail if you can scare Mendieta into coughing up the credits for it.

She threw on her exercise gear, grabbed her bag and headed out into the quiet streets. At this time of the morning there weren’t too many people about, and she managed to jog the couple of kilometres to the bigger hotel in ten minutes. Slipping through the door of her suite, she drew the gun her would-be assassin had left behind and swept the apartment complex for intruders. Only when she was sure she was alone did she skinshift, relaxing a little as her more familiar disguise manifested. Washing down her first stim pills of the day with an energy drink from the minibar, she took a shower, towelled herself dry and dressed for work. The immaculately cut skirt suit made her feel a little better as she slid it on, and she laughed wryly at herself. Changelings customarily didn’t wear clothes, unless they needed protection from a severe or hazardous environment: her appreciation of good tailoring was a clear sign she’d been wearing human skins for too long.

She took the time to enjoy a leisurely breakfast in the hotel dining room, making sure the staff still saw her as being in residence and making the most of the buffet to provide fuel for the extra energy she was expending. The trip to Lawinson’s offices had become familiar, and she paid no mind to the splendours of the architecture as she hurried along the street to the old Reichstag building, staying alert for anyone tailing her.

Rose met her at the office door with a smile and a cup of coffee. “Still having trouble sleeping?” she asked sympathetically. Keera nodded wearily.

“I think I’m still not over the time lag,” she lied easily. “I’d really expected to be past it by now, but apparently my body has other ideas.”

“Well, you had a shock the other day as well, of course,” Rose observed.

Keera glanced at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

Her tone was harsher than she’d intended, and Rose flinched. “I only meant the news about your friend must have come as a nasty surprise,” she clarified defensively.

Keera cursed inwardly, pinching the bridge of her nose as she let out a sigh. The news of Mahmoud’s death seemed like an event from her distant past already, with so much else to occupy her mind. Get a grip, Naraymis. “I’m so sorry, Rose,” she apologized aloud. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. You’re right, of course. The news did set me a little on edge.”

Rose nodded, mollified by the apology. “Well, I hope this will help,” she said as she proffered the coffee mug.

“It most definitely will,” Keera assured her as she accepted it. “You’re a godsend, Rose, thank you so much. I can’t imagine how Lau would manage without you.”

“Very badly,” Congressman Lawinson declared cheerily as he looked out of his office. “Good morning, Keera, I thought I heard your voice.”

“Good morning,” Keera returned, smiling at her counterpart with genuine pleasure. She’d come to like the Terran diplomat a great deal in the short time she’d known him.

“Come on in, there’s something I need to discuss with you before we get started with the main business of the day,” Lawinson invited.

Keera nodded a final thanks to Rose and followed Lawinson back into his office. “Something wrong?”

“Not exactly, but it’s… sensitive.” He cleared his throat. “I have a favour to ask of you, on behalf of the Terran government.”

“Oh?” Keera arched her eyebrows. “What can I do for you and your government?”

“You’ll have seen this business with the Pergamon Museum on the news, I suppose?”

“I wasn’t following the story closely, but I had heard about it,” Keera agreed, somewhat perplexed by the direction of the conversation. “Armed robbers going after one of the artworks, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Seemingly they were after one of the templar pieces—I understand there’s a thriving black market for such things. Anyway, the police took down one of the gang in the museum, and detained two others. The casualty was a Marauder citizen,” Lawinson checked his notes on the datapad he was carrying, “as is one of the two women arrested at the scene.”

“What of it?” Keera enquired. “We have mutual prosecution agreements, don’t we?”

“Indeed we do, however the suspect we have in custody has requested extradition.” Lau flashed a smile as he sipped his tea. “So we rather need to know if you actually want her back.”

Keera shrugged carelessly as she took a deep gulp of her coffee. Criminals throwing a last desperate roll of the dice to avoid facing up to their crimes were not high on her list of priorities. “Not particularly, would be my guess—I don’t think we have much use for incompetent thieves at the best of times. But my opinion hardly matters—doesn’t the embassy in Hong Kong handle these requests as a matter of routine?”

“Of course,” Lawinson affirmed, “and normally this sort of thing wouldn’t even cross my desk, but the thing is, what they were after was actually a defunct weapon of some kind.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Keera braced herself mentally; she had a horrible feeling she knew what was coming next.

Lawinson grimaced wryly. “I see you’ve guessed what I’m about to say. The Ercineans and the Guardians have already begun making a fuss about it in the Assembly. And you can imagine, I’m sure, the fit the Templar leadership threw.”

“I can. They never let an opportunity to cause trouble pass them by, do they?” Keera sympathized. The Templars had never been particularly sanguine about other races holding artefacts they considered their property, and never missed a chance to sabre-rattle whenever any such artefact came to public attention. Combined with their thoroughgoing dislike of humans, it was a pattern of behaviour that had caused more than a few flashpoints throughout Assembly history. They hadn’t been so belligerent on that front lately, but that was largely because they were still in the dying throes of their temper tantrum over the invitation to the Neomorphs and the Insectoids to join the Assembly three years ago. Nobody, as conventional wisdom would have it, could hold a grudge like a Templar.

“The day they do will be the day the Suns go nova.” Lawinson sighed. “Nevertheless, it makes my life very difficult since the justice department has taken no small pleasure in dropping the whole mess in my lap as an exterior matter. We’d like to be seen to be taking it seriously—as, of course, we are–so, since you are the ranking Marauder government official on Earth at this time, if I can say we’ve asked you to handle the extradition question, I’d be extremely grateful.”

Keera nodded. The inference was clear—Lawinson would owe her one on a personal level, and that was useful currency. “All right, Lau, I’ll do what I can. I’ll check in with our embassy and make sure there are no delays with the processing. The most likely outcome is that we’ll deny the extradition and let your justice system deal with this woman, unless there are any complications with the case?”

“No. They were caught red-handed with the artefact, and then one of them drew a gun on the police. And it seems likely that they murdered the security chief as well—he was found dead yesterday. It’s as open and shut as these things get. There was a minor irregularity with procedure and protocol, which prompted the request, but given the charges, I can’t envisage a failure to convict arising from the error.”

“Then I don’t see an issue. Do you have any information I can look at to get familiar with the details, so I can speak to it if I’m asked?”

“Surely. I’ll have Rose send you the dossier I received from the justice department.” Lawinson smiled warmly. “Thank you, Keera. I really appreciate your help.”

“It’s no problem, really,” Keera assured him with a smile.

“Let me know if you need access to the suspect for interview or anything like that.” Lawinson shook his head sadly. “The lengths some people will go to for money never ceases to amaze me.”

“It’s incredible, isn’t it? I’ve got no need to speak to her for now,” Keera decided. “Any defence she can think of is seems as though it would be somewhat moot, and I’d rather not give her the impression that anyone is going to take this extradition request seriously.”

“All right. If you change your mind, you can always let me know.” Lawinson squared his shoulders. “Good. Now that that’s taken care of, let’s get back to doing some real work.”

***

Late that evening, Keera had almost put the museum incident completely out of her mind when she was abruptly reminded of it by an incoming call from Associate Secretary Mendieta in one of his full-blown dictatorial moods.

“Keera? Mendieta here.”

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

Mendieta snorted. “You can put all those brains of yours to work to help avert a diplomatic crisis. Have you seen anything about this mess with this damn robbery?”

“Lawinson filled me in,” Keera replied. “He said something about the Assembly throwing some heat about it?”

Mendieta barked a sardonic laugh. “Oh yes. Like you wouldn’t believe. The shit is really raining down on this one. Between the Templars making threats left right and centre, the Guardians demanding full disclosure of investigations and access to the evidence and the suspects, and the Ercineans making snide little remarks about children with toys, you’d think that someone had uncovered a goddamn Orb of Destiny with its timer ticking down. Christ, they’re even sending a delegation to Berlin to discuss the ramifications.” Mendieta sighed. “And of course, with these idiot thieves being Marauders, there’s as much blame being apportioned to us as to the Terrans. So the long and short of it is, I need you to stay on the ground there and help the embassy out.”

“Lawinson already asked if I’d endorse the embassy’s handling,” Keera told him in as short a tone as she dared. “I said I’d rubber-stamp it as a formality before I left.” She really didn’t want to get stuck on Earth; if the Assembly were sending a delegation the situation would take weeks to clear up. She couldn’t keep shifting twice a day indefinitely, and the more tired she got, the more likely it was that she’d slip up and get herself killed, or give herself away and create an even worse diplomatic scandal.

Mendieta, however, had worked himself up to a full head of steam. “Formalities aren’t going to cut it,” he said in a tone even shorter than hers. “So you’re not leaving. Someone has to have oversight and control of this, and our Ambassador’s a moron, as you very well know. He was given the Terran post because it was where he could do the least damage when he opens his mouth to stick his foot in it.”

Keera grimaced. She’d forgotten about that. Oh, perfect. The one time I actually need Mendieta to think I’m surplus to requirement, there’s only an idiot as an alternative.

“Besides, you outrank our Ambassador,” Mendieta bulled on, oblivious to her predicament, “and the decree from the Office of the Consul is that we need to be seen to be co-operating fully.” He huffed an exasperated sigh. “This Marauder woman they have in custody—have you spoken to her?”

“No, not yet,” Keera admitted. “I wasn’t planning to, to be honest. If we set a precedent with this, we’ll open the floodgates to extradition requests for every idiot who gets caught doing class-C drugs on holiday.”

“Ordinarily I’d agree with that assessment, but this is an exceptional circumstance. I’ve cancelled Chanderpaul’s trip, and you should cancel your return ticket.” Regret flickered briefly over his stern expression. “I know you wanted to be home for Mahmoud’s funeral, but the job comes first. I need you working on this as your number one priority. You’re on the scene and you’ve got a route into the Terrans’ approach through your collaboration with Lawinson. This is your chance to prove to me, and to the Secretary, that you’re as good as you think you are.” He frowned at her. “Make sure we come out of this looking like virtuous galactic citizens.”

Keera nodded reluctantly. If her only way out was through this potential quagmire, then so be it. She would just have to find another way to protect herself. “I’ll get it done, sir.”

“I hope so,” Mendieta said gruffly. “Keep me posted. I want a daily report. If you can manage more than that I won’t complain.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get cracking, Miss Naraymis. Mendieta out.”

“Jackass,’ Keera muttered at the blank screen, yawning as fatigue settled over her like a blanket. Her stims were starting to wear off. Shutting her terminal down, she packed up and headed back to her hotel suite. Once there, she replenished her stims and shifted to the less conspicuous skin she’d copied from a local woman while out running in the park, a close enough match in body size to fit all of Keera’s clothes but practically her regular skin’s polar opposite in colouring, with platinum blonde hair and pale ivory skin. It was also unremarkable in terms of features and not what most humans would find pretty. Keera was aware that her normal alter ego was considered attractive—it was one of the reasons she’d selected it in the first place. Even if she’d rarely had occasion to deploy them, the skin’s looks were just one more weapon in her armoury to be used in the appropriate situation.

Completing the shift, she changed clothes, repacked her kit, and headed out. She stopped at a hole-in-the-wall snack bar to pick up some dinner (a random choice, as it had been for the past three nights) and wolfed it down as she walked, finishing the extra-large portion by the time she reached the hotel. She was still hungry, but there were no food outlets in the immediate vicinity and she was too tired to go foraging. Resignedly, she raided the vending machine in the hotel foyer for snacks and something to drink, then hauled herself up the stairs to her dingy little hideout.

Turning on the holoviewer above the bed to provide a little ambient noise, she set up her terminal and opened up the files from Lawinson. She skipped through the luridly graphic crime scene photos—the deceased might have been a thief, but that was no reason for voyeurism—to the incident report. She read the details closely several times, cross-checking a few references as she went. If she was going to be saddled with this ludicrous exercise in politicking, she was damned if she’d give Mendieta the satisfaction of messing it up.

Satisfied that she was conversant with the events and the associated Terran laws, she turned her attention to the personnel files, spotting out of the corner of her eye that the late night news digest had started on the holoviewer. She turned the volume up slightly—if there was a news report on the case she wanted to catch it—then opened the first dossier, that of the principal suspect and their extradition case, a woman with a wealth of vibrant red hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a peculiar tattoo stencilled on her left cheek. Bringing up the detail screen, Keera frowned as she read the name.

Jennifer Bronwen. Where have I come across that before?

She’d heard it recently, she was sure. Not the forename, but she remembered hearing or seeing Bronwen mentioned, and not in relation to the star system.

As she sat back to think about it, she caught sight of the image of the museum building on the holoviewer, and focused her attention on the news report. “New evidence has been uncovered in the investigation into the attempted robbery at the Pergamon Museum,” the anchor announced. “In a grisly twist to an already complex case, the body of the museum’s Chief of Security, Logan Baines, was discovered by investigating officers yesterday evening.” The image beside the anchor shifted to a picture of the victim, and Keera froze.

The man in the image was the one who had attacked her, she was certain of it.

Logan Baines.

Chief of Security of the Pergamon Museum, the man who’d raised the alarm about the theft in progress, by all accounts a hero. And now a murder victim, seemingly found dead in the basement of his own house with his throat slit.

She turned the volume up further. “… Mr. Baines alerted the authorities to the gang’s attempt to steal a priceless museum artefact, resulting in a deadly standoff between the criminals and the police that left one gang member dead. The deceased has been named as Thaddeus Jones, a former sergeant in the Marauder Marine Corps. Two suspects were remanded into police custody. Jennifer Bronwen and Wai-Mei Xox have been charged with armed robbery, conspiracy to commit theft, resisting arrest, and assault, and will potentially face further charges if Logan Baines’ murder is found to be related. Two further gang members are known to have evaded the authorities thus far. Inquiries are continuing…”

Keera grabbed her kit bag and dumped the contents on the bed, sorting feverishly through the various gadgets until she found the comm unit she’d wrested from her attacker. Seizing the wristband, she activated it and interfaced it to her own console.

She opened the comm unit’s contacts list.

There it was.

Bronwen.

Jennifer Bronwen, her Marauder criminal in need of extradition, was an associate of the man who’d tried to kill her. The changeling had presumably adopted the security chief’s skin to facilitate the theft. Jones and Xox were also on the contacts list, as well as two other names, Dolos and Honold—presumably those were the gang members who had escaped.

Keera stared absently through the display, mind racing. If her would-be killer had been involved with the theft, why would he sabotage it? Or had he been the Security Chief all along, embedded in the museum? Why was the museum even of interest? There were plenty of templar weapons in antiquities collections all across the galaxy. And how was any of this connected to her? Why would he have jeopardized his position to try to kill her?

She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. Speculating wasn’t going to answer any questions, and now, sadly, neither would Mr. Baines. Her only route to uncovering the truth began with Jennifer Bronwen.

It was worth looking into, for certain. If her attacker knew she was going after his associate, maybe he could be lured into the open. It was risky and far from foolproof, but if she could get him to show his beak, maybe she could figure out who had sent him. If he really was a Sentinel, she could call Estris for back-up, and maybe use the opportunity to boost the Terran’s support for new legislation. If he was a termination agent from the Service, well, she would still have a problem, but at least she would know for sure where she stood.

Mind made up, she grabbed her own comm band and set up a new call.

“Lawinson.”

“Lau? It’s Keera.”

“Keera… good evening. What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry for calling so late, but I’ve had a change of plans. I’ve received some new information and spoken to Secretary Mendieta, and it’s apparent that this mess with the robbery is going to need a lot more smoothing over than I first thought.”

“Welcome to the suck, my dear,” Lawinson chuckled. “My commiserations on your inevitable epiphany.”

Keera forced a wry laugh. “Thank you. At any rate, I’d like to speak to your suspect, Miss Bronwen, in person if that’s still possible?”

“Of course,” Lau agreed immediately. “I’ll set it up for tomorrow morning, if that suits?”

“Perfect, thank you.”

“Very well. Did you need anything else?”

“No, that was it. Again, I’m sorry to bother you after hours—please give your wife my regards, and my apologies if I interrupted your evening.”

“I’ll do that, but you weren’t interrupting, so no need to apologize. And thank you again, Keera. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Of course. Good night, Lau.”

“Good night.” Lawinson rang off, and Keera settled back on the unyielding bed with her terminal, the display fixed on Bronwen’s photograph from her arrest record.

“All right, Jennifer Bronwen,” Keera said softly as she studied the photograph, “it’s time to find out what you know.”