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Interlude One

When Melissa Sleeman entered the small comms room, the tall, broad-shouldered man didn’t turn away from the panel in front of him. However, his head shifted just enough to confirm that he had obviously heard her.

She closed the door. Which stuck, as usual. Not much worked properly at the deserted airstrip in the region that had given the Zeta Tucanae III its name: Dustbelt. But at least the price and location had been right; the only cost had been assuming the debt on the failed interface facility. And, in the years they’d been there, their only visitors had been the long-legged, eyeless herbivores that often sheltered in the lee of the facility’s single hangar. However, they were reminders of just how far from home she and the rest of the scant group were; they were a perpetually alien sight as their flowerlike full-spectrum sensor clusters swept the smaller structures and plains beyond to ensure that nothing was approaching.

Sleeman smoothly slipped an arm around the man’s waist, rested her hand on his left oblique; it was as taut as rope stretched to breaking. It wasn’t unusual—Christopher Robin had never relaxed into the role of the base’s CO—but the tension was always greatest when it was his turn to keep the lonely vigil in the comm “shack.” It had been forty months since they’d arrived on Dustbelt, and six months since Bannor and the rest of the Crewe had departed with Alnduul. And there’d been no word of them, or Caine Riordan, since.

Melissa stood on her toes to whisper one of many in-jokes into her husband’s ear. “Darling, shall I light a candle?”

Christopher “Tygg” Robin’s answering smile was strained. “You might, luv.” When she looked up at him, curious, he shrugged. “After they disappeared into the Dornaani Collective, I told myself it would be half a year, tops. After all, how long would a crowd of primitive humans be welcome there?” He sighed. “Now, that half year has run its course. But still, here we are . . . and they’re not.”

Melissa nodded, rubbed her other hand along Tygg’s arm. “At least our turn in the walkabout rota is coming up.” That was the slang label for the rotating week-long leaves that gave those few who stood watch a change of scenery: much needed after a month squatting in the featureless dry prairie. Travel to the marginally more pleasant northern regions was a risk, but with nonmetallic microsats watching the planetary approaches and almost no traffic anywhere on the surface, it had been deemed acceptable . . . especially since the alternative would have been going slowly, quietly stir-crazy.

But whereas the mention of escaping the tight quarters and unwelcome pressures of command usually brought a twinkle to Tygg’s eyes, all he could manage this time was a wan smile and faint nod.

She turned her closeness into a tight hug: always a bit comic, since the top of her head didn’t even come close to reaching his collarbone. “Talk to me, my love.”

He tensed, then sighed. She could feel his body loosen, but not relax, exactly: just surrender to gravity a bit. “When we left Turkh’saar, everything was uncertain. If we weren’t working hard, we were playing hard. And trying our damnedest not to panic by staying too busy to remember that people from our own planet would happily string us up for refusing to turn over the Lost Soldiers.

“And then, when we finally stopped running and consolidated here, it was like one long sigh of relief, yeh? Just glad to be alive, to be together, to see some hope for the future. But after all this time, I wonder: will we ever get off this bloody backwater? And if we do, will we ever get to see our family, and our friends, on Earth?” He sighed. “I’d accepted that possibility, but as I did, I came to rely more and more on others, the rest of the Crewe.”

“They’re your mates,” Melissa said simply.

“Yeh . . . or more like my family, now.” He shook his head. “We’ve been together for almost six years. Since before I had these.” He reached up, touched the silver hairs that had recently started appearing at his temples. “The only people to witness our vows, too.”

Melissa nodded. She’d had, and expressed, similar feelings, but much sooner. She’d grappled with them less than a year after arriving on Dustbelt. But the twenty-odd people who kept watch over more than three hundred cold sleepers found ways to live and love and keep their spirits up. Whether it was completing projects that Duncan Solsohn had called “optimizing activities” or long-running tournaments of outdated board games that their intermediaries on Rainbow brought back, they’d remained busy, sane, and increasingly tight-knit. Early on, there had been a poker group, but without anything of value to wager or buy with winnings, it had quickly proven to be more depressing than exciting.

It had also been helpful that a third of the watchers were already romantically involved pairs: Tina Melah and Phil Friel, Dora Veriden and Karam Tsaami, Peter Wu and Sue Philips, and of course, Tygg and her. But the team that accompanied Bannor into Dornaani space had not only split up half of those couples, but had halved the population, too. Although it hadn’t affected Melissa as profoundly as it had Tygg, it sometimes felt as though the walls were closing in, even though the complex itself felt desperately empty.

As if reading her mind, Tygg added, “But at least we’re still together,” along with a bear hug. But she felt the tension returning to his body even as his arms tightened around her.

“It’s hard to wait,” she sighed, “but right now, there’s little else we can do except to stay hidden and be ready to respond. With any luck, our biggest problem will be boredom.”

The traffic control bunker’s comm panel paged once, then emitted a rapid series of tones: a secure vox-only comm from Susan Philips. Unscheduled.

Sleeman rolled her eyes: Thank you so very much, Susan, for helping me soothe my darling’s frayed nerves.

Tygg had already toggled the circuit, waited for the automated authentication handshake to complete its back-and-forth confirmations. “‘Petrel’ online.”

“‘Starling’ here,” Susan Philip’s voice announced. “We have boarders without reservations.”

Sleeman discovered that now, she too was tensed. “Boarders without reservations” was code for unexpected contact made by persons of undetermined intentions. The same code which had announced the arrival of Ayana Tagawa six months ago.

“Do they have good credit?” Tygg asked: the coded query for whether or not Susan thought they should be vetted.

“They have cash in hand,” was her reply.

Which caused Melissa to exchange a surprised glance with her husband. That reply was not code.

“Say again, ‘Petrel,’” Tygg requested.

“We know these boarders,” Susan replied.

“Do we like them?”

“Maybe. Could be old chums. Could also be a major problem. Need to make special arrangements.”

“Special arrangements”: that was the code they’d never yet heard, and the contingency they had never yet had to activate. It meant bringing people up to Dustbelt without vetting them first because they represented a security emergency of the highest order. And if they did not check out, it meant terminating them.

Melissa Sleeman closed her eyes. So much for boredom being our biggest problem.

***

Missy Katano stood alongside engineer Phil Friel as they watched the atmo-interface craft bring its nose up just before its leading wheels touched the dust-strewn runway. The flaps on the back of its delta wings flicked down a few times before its fuselage straightened out and its speed began to diminish.

Phil exhaled slowly; Missy hadn’t noticed him holding his breath. “Problem with the shuttle, Phil?”

“No, Missy, and Karam is the best pilot we have. But I’ll admit that I’m a bit nervous, what with Ms. Philips herself on that shuttle.”

So, it was true: they’d pulled Susan Philips off her duty station on Rainbow. Which meant that, whatever message she’d sent was more urgent than Tygg and Melissa had let on—or anyone had guessed.

In retrospect, the writing had been on the wall. The base’s one, third-hand shuttle launched a mere hour after Philips had called in. As the group’s only available—which was to say, unburied—spacecraft, the shuttle was typically coddled and fussed over before every launch. But four days ago, it had been sent aloft with the bare minimum of preflight checks, took on just enough fuel at the automated low-orbit tankage facility, and crowded gees to reach Rainbow. There, a similarly brisk timetable had been observed; if it hadn’t, the craft wouldn’t have returned for another day or two. At least.

But here it was, with almost the full waking staff waiting within the warehouse that they used as the shuttle’s hangar, its big doors open and the sand swirling inside. Karam Tsaami had requested a direct roll-in. According to scuttlebutt among people in the know, that meant whatever or whoever was on board warranted full concealment protocols, despite the absence of any CTR observations platform overhead.

The dual-phase thrust nacelles throttled back and shut down as the craft’s nose entered the cavernous building, just in time to keep the roar from rebounding between the thin walls. There was no way to dissipate the heat from the engines, though; it kept washing over them like a perpetually opening oven door.

As the vehicle drifted to a halt and the warehouse doors began closing, the light over the combination air lock and ingress/egress hatch brightened; it had been unlocked. Standing alongside Doc Sleeman, Tygg Robin crossed his arms in impatience; apparently even he didn’t know much more than anyone else.

The hatch opened and the access ramp unfolded. Sue Philips emerged, trailed by two of her station chiefs: Joseph Capdepon and Vincent Rodriguez. Capdepon, a Lost Soldier who’d been an NCO in the Vietnam War, was her security lead. Missy had never seen him in action but, according to all reports, he’d proven profoundly unflappable in the face of just about everything, including an especially dangerous river crossing and counterattack during the battle on Turkh’saar.

The other, larger man was Philips’ technical chief and Missy’s pal from over a century ago, Vincent Rodriguez. Abducted minutes after her, Vincent had started out as a tech on jet fighters but his unnerving facility with all things mechanical had made him Philips’ first choice. He was the one person who had a chance of understanding the new technology but did not have a face that security cameras would be looking for.

The next person who exited the shuttle wasn’t immediately recognizable to Missy. But by the time he began descending the ramp, she had recalled his face from her initial briefings. And so, also understood the murmurs rising and why Philips’ precautions had exceeded even her ferocious opsec SOPs.

Richard Downing trotted down toward the dirt floor of the warehouse. Seemingly oblivious to the guarded reception he smiled crookedly and, using a softly ironic tone that had evidently been patented in Britain, observed, “I understand we’re just in time.”

***

Melissa Sleeman forced herself to exhale, to shake off the paralyzing pulse of dread that persisted even after she looked away from Downing. But her initial reaction persisted: He’s lied to us in the past. What keeps him from doing so again?

Another man appeared behind Downing, just as tall but almost twice as broad. His face was familiar, but Sleeman could not immediately place it.

“Trevor!” Tygg said it so loudly it was almost a shout. He started forward, hand out—

Susan Philips held up one of her own. “A moment if you please, Captain.” She frowned, gestured to another two men who had appeared at the top of the ramp, helping a third in a wheelchair. “We can’t yet be entirely confid—”

Tygg shook his head at Philips. “Captain, I fought alongside Trevor Corcoran in Java. Whoever he trusts, I trust.” He crossed the gap and grasped Corcoran’s hand. “Bloody hell; how are you, mate?”

Melissa noticed that Trevor had his famous father’s movie-star smile. “I’m alive. And reasonably hopeful I’ll stay that way, now.” He waved toward the three men who remained back near the shuttle’s starboard wing. “I’d like to introduce you to the Three Wise Men who got us here: Larry Southard, Angus Smith, and Ryan Zimmerman.”

Tygg nodded, turned to Downing with the start of a salute.

But the Englishman waved it off. “We never stood on such formalities before, Captain. I’m not about to start now. Besides, I am no longer the Director of IRIS.” He smiled brokenly. “I’m no longer the director of anything. Including my own fate. I am here seeking asylum. And offering assistance, if I can be of any use.”

Melissa Sleeman approached, making sure her face was neutral as she met Downing’s gaze. Cautiously. “You’ll forgive me if I am a little less effusive in my greeting, Mr. Downing, but . . . how did you know where to find us?”

Downing’s answering smile was convincing. Then again, it always had been. “Mr. Southard is the one to answer that. Bannor’s messages to Caine contained locational clues, which, when subjected to numerous regression analyses, revealed how and where you must have moved after a number of you spearheaded the anti-piracy campaign in Epsilon Indi.”

Southard tilted his head at the fellow in the wheelchair. “The real wizard was Ryan. I just came up with the model. He came up with the program to sort it all out.”

Susan Philips frowned. “Not to underestimate your credentials, gentlemen, but I cannot help but wonder: if three of you could do this while you were jumping around known space, why have legions of analysts on Earth not been able to perform the same feat?”

Trevor smiled at Philips. “Because, Captain, those legions of researchers didn’t have a crucial data point: the starting coordinates that were embedded in Bannor’s earliest communiqués to Caine. And for which I was the cutout, the go-between.”

Southard nodded. “That was the cornerstone of our regression analyses. Once we knew where at least two groupings of the Lost Soldiers had been initially deposited, we were able to start working. It’s dull stuff, really. How many carriers were operating between which systems at which times, further modified by traffic in and out of Epsilon Indi in the six months following the completion of Colonel Rulaine’s operations. And we also knew that he had detected ‘enemy’ agents sniffing around one of your hiding places, which evidently triggered the reconsolidation that brought you here to Zeta Tucanae.”

Tygg frowned. “Wait a minute: so how long have you known we were in Zeta Tucanae?”

Ryan shook his head. “Only a few months, now. At first, we didn’t have much more intel than the opposition: when and where you dropped off the grid and when the colonel popped up at EpsIndi. With that, we could start eliminating places you couldn’t have been. But narrowing the places you could have been was slowgoing. We probably weren’t far ahead of the opposition.

“But then Captain Corcoran caught up with us at Delta Pavonis. He gave us all the seemingly casual locational data Colonel Rulaine had embedded in his messages to Caine, as well as two other systems where he knew you’d been and when. The computer chewed on the timing restrictions of the shift-carrier schedules both before and after, and in less than a day showed there was only one place you could have reconsolidated: Zeta Tucanae.”

Philips laughed: a musical sound. “Two centuries on, and the game is still played the same way. No way around it, of course. But I understand you made the journey out here in just twenty-four weeks? That’s less than half of the sixty it took just a few years ago.”

Trevor smiled. “It would have been a lot longer than sixty if we weren’t living in the brave new world of reverse-engineered exosapient technology. The shell game that Mr. Downing and his Wise Men were playing with the cryocells was like taking two steps forward and one step back, but the data from Bannor changed all that. And with the best carriers now making nine-point-four-light-year shifts with only three weeks of pre-acceleration”—Corcoran made an expansive gesture that took in all the arrivals—“here we are.”

“Still,” Melissa objected, “even if you were not tracked here, that doesn’t mean we are safe. Once the Developing World Coalition finds your trail—which is only a matter of time—their agents will follow it here.”

The quietest of the Three Wise Men, Angus, nodded. “That’s why, if we hadn’t found you, we’d have had to keep running, beyond the borders. Mix into the land grab.”

Tina Melah, the Crewe’s other engineer, shook her head. “Naw, if you never found us, what could anyone charge you with? You could just give up. But we can’t, not if we want to stay alive.”

Angus shook his head. “Nope. We’re in the same boat. Worse, actually.”

In response to Tina’s frown, Downing shrugged apologetically. “If our pursuers find us, they will learn about the intelligence cell that these three men were working for prior to running. That would lead to its termination. And that, in turn, would leave the CTR deaf, dumb, and blind to the threats that are being missed by its other intelligence organizations. Its very compromised other intelligence organizations.”

Angus turned his palms upwards in resignation. “So we’ve got to run as fast and as far as we can. We were figuring you’d been working on that yourself, had maybe found a way to get over the border, into the frontier?”

Melissa heard Angus’ coy concluding tone, discovered her suspicions were abating. Angus wasn’t much of an actor: if Downing had anything to hide, he wouldn’t have let this fellow talk so much and so openly. She folded her arms. “So it seems Captain Philips told you about Alnduul’s visit and his intent to extract us from CTR space.”

“Nah, that was me,” Karam drawled from the hatchway. “Breaking rules again. And Doc, I never thought I’d say this, but we’ve gotta give Downing all our situational data ASAP. I’m not a fan”—Tsaami and the former director traded assessing looks—“but I know a first-class spook-chief when I see and hear one. If there’s a way to head off into some other sunset, he’ll find it.”

“Yeah, but which sun?” muttered Tina Melah. “All this talking is fine, but we need action.” She cut her eyes at the newcomers. “I’m not gonna bet the farm that Alnduul comes back, so how about it? Any ideas for getting us to someplace safe?”

Downing shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Ms. Melah. And I must say that the one plan I have learned that some of you are considering is . . . well, it’s bloody near suicide.”

Melissa suppressed a sigh of relief. “I take it you mean the notion of seizing a shift-carrier to cross over into the frontier.”

Downing nodded. “Madness. Although I understand the reason many of you may have fixed your hopes upon that scheme.”

“Yeah!” Tina yelled indignantly. “It’s called necessity. Like the doc said, it’s only a matter of time before they find us here. So we’ve got to go someplace they can’t find us. That means not just another system, but over the border—and there’s no way to do that legally. Or on the sly.”

Her chin came out in response to the gathering frowns. “The one thing on our side is that there are almost twice as many shift-carriers runnin’ as there were before the war. Upwards of one hundred twenty, last I heard. So the odds are better that we’d be able to grab one from its berth, shift to a good hideout in the frontier, and then send the ship into the star.” She folded her arms. “No path to follow, no traces to find.”

Ryan Zimmerman leaned so far forward that Sleeman feared he might topple out of his wheelchair. “Almost half of all shift hulls are CTR naval assets, so that plan means you might as well hoist the Jolly Roger and paint a bull’s-eye on our backs.”

“Besides,” Southard added, “they’d know where it was taken. That gives them a fixed position from which to start a search.”

Vincent Rodriguez spoke up from behind Philips. “Don’t mean to dogpile on you, Tina, but we couldn’t even run the ship. We’ve got only five qualified personnel, six, if you count me.”

Tina’s nod was grudging but genuine. “You’d do in a pinch. I guess.”

“Thanks, but I’m not so sure. And even the most advanced shift-carriers still require a skeleton crew of thirty. You’d need a lot more if you’re crewing an older, less automated class. And the more shorthanded you run, the more dangerous and slower your operations become.”

Tina’s chin came out even further as she launched a stubborn riposte. “Maybe all that’s true. But if we have to get out of this system and over the border, what other options do we have?”

“That, Ms. Melah,” Downing conceded with a somber nod, “is what we have to figure out, and these Three Wise Men are specialists at coming up with solutions to that kind of problem.”

Melah humphed. “So that’s why you said your arrival was ‘just in time’?”

Downing’s smile was lopsided. “Actually, I was hoping that Alnduul might have sent a message indicating he would soon be extracting everyone here. But since he hasn’t, we’ve no choice but to take matters into our own hands.”

“Never thought I’d say this,” Karam muttered, “but I’m with you, Mr. Downing. As long as you don’t piss off Tygg.”

Tygg shook his head. “I’m not the bloke in charge anymore.” He nodded toward Downing. “We have the head of an intel organization here.”

Downing’s smile was faint. “I repeat, Major Robin: I am the ex-director. Not part of any command structure, here or there.”

Tygg frowned. “Well, then command falls upon Trevor—er, Captain Corcoran.”

Grinning evilly, Trevor snapped a salute at him. “Major Robin, you are incorrect, sir!”

It looked as though Tygg was starting to sweat. “With all due respect, sir, that’s bollocks. I’m not even a real major; I was breveted to fill in for Bannor. Last I heard, you were an O5, and that was five years ago.”

Trevor’s grin widened. “That would mean something if I was still active duty and if this was a regular unit. But I’m not and it’s not. But I’ll sign on as a private contractor. Pro bono, of course. Hell, I’ll even agree to be your XO, if you’ll have me.”

Robin nodded. “You’re hired, mate, on one condition: if you’re still employed after three months, you replace me”—he grinned—“and I get my life back. So, XO, ready to head up the troops?” Sleeman saw the hesitation on Corcoran’s face a moment before her husband did. “Now, sir, don’t play coy; I remember you in Java.”

Trevor’s grin became both painful and fond. “I remember Java, too, Tygg, but given current needs, I think I might do most good overseeing your spaceside assets. And from what I’ve heard, Mr. Tsaami is the natural choice for lead officer on flight ops.”

Karam nodded. “I’m your guy.”

Sleeman touched Tygg’s arm, discovered it was less tense than it had been in . . . well, a very long time. It relaxed further as he glanced toward Downing. “Sir”—old habits die hard, apparently—“you are hereby appointed as our ops coordinator. Recommendations?”

The tall Englishman’s faint smile returned. “Intelligence stays with the supremely competent Captain Philips. I strongly urge that these Three Wise Men be detailed to her for data analysis and operational projection. We will also need a staff coordinator and chief of training.”

Tygg glanced at Missy Katano. “Ready for a new challenge?”

“Always, sir!” Katano answered with a big, bright smile.

Downing inclined his head slightly. “Mind you, Miss Katano, the job will be almost nonexistent as long as the Lost Soldiers remain in cryogenic suspension. But if that should change, you may very well be the most overworked and under-slept of the lot of us.”

“That pretty much describes my whole work history, Mr. Downing.”

“Hey!” a new voice called from the doorway.

All faces turned in that direction: Dr. Ike Franklin, ghostly grey with dust, was leaning into the hangar. “Guess who I’ve got on the tight-beam?”

Melissa was the first to break the tense, fearfully hopeful silence. “Alnduul?”

“The one and only.”

Tygg cleared his throat: a sure sign that he was ensuring his voice would sound fully composed and resolute. “Any word regarding his . . . status?”

“Well, he was more interested in ours.”

Tygg frowned. “Our status?”

Ike grinned broadly. “Yeah: he wants to know if we are ‘still resolved to leave Terran space.’”

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