The Silence and the Light

By Kevin McCormick

There always comes a reckoning. Weeks after Christmas Parker lifted the contents of an armored truck on the planet Eridan, the repercussions of that event have left human civilization at the edge of chaos. Struggling to deal with the humanitarian crisis following the annihilation of the city of Bellerophon, faced with a fearsome, enigmatic entity called Legion whom they know only from scant, cryptic messages, the Galactic Coalition stands perilously close to collapse. Following the recent disputed election to the chancellorship, a civil war has spread to nearly every inhabited planet and shows no signs of slowing. While the vast majority of citizens try to avoid the fighting, a few are forced to navigate the battlefields.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TheFictionWorks
• Release date: Nov 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781581245714

Book preview

Author

Prologue

Scarecrows

On a desolate two-lane highway she drives alone. But for the semi-truckers this stretch of asphalt is nearly vacant, cutting straight through this expanse of farmland for hundreds of dull, identical miles. Green fields and sprinklers and scarecrows and wind turbines and the occasional inconsequential blink-and-you-miss-it township. Over and over again. The woman in the car eyes the turbines, rotating sluggishly in the wind, creating electricity for the farms. The uncertain wind is a comfort to her. It is the breath of God, if God were holding his breath in anticipation.

The farm workers watch her car when it passes. They are on foot and on tractors and in hovering crop-dusters, and most of them can’t help but stare at the anomaly of a luxury car passing through this stretch of territory, which is accustomed only to semis, grain-trucks and worker buses. One of them raises his straw hat to her in salute but she ignores the gesture.

It is a bright day so she wears sunglasses. The music on the radio is loud and she bumps her head ever so slightly. Flicks a cigarette out the window and lights another. Two objects hang from the rearview mirror: a car freshener shaped like a little tree, and a pair of eyewear that looks like pilot safety goggles with thicker, reflective lenses.

She slows down and turns off the highway onto a dirt road. An enormous plume of dust rises behind her as the woman speeds down this road for several miles, and finally comes to a small community in the midst of the farmland. There are houses for the workers, a handful of businesses, and a dingy bar. A tall sign that says Humdingers in front of the gravel parking lot.

The woman pulls into the lot and drives past a young man sitting under an umbrella beside a wide, angled table. A sign on the table reads STRAWBERRIES $5 A PINT. The car stops and she reverses. Pulls back parallel with the boy’s table and puts it in park. A man smoking outside of the Humdingers bar watches her but does nothing, only puts out his cigarette and goes inside.

She gets out and walks around the car and leans against it. She and the boy regard each other. She takes off her sunglasses and puts them in her pocket, revealing green eyes that appear younger than the rest of her. My name’s Christmas, she says.

Okay.

What’s yours?

Nunya.

She smiles. Her gaze moves from him to the stack of scarecrows against the fence, prepped and ready for placement out in the fields. Do those keep any birds away?

No.

Then why do farmers still use them?

Lady, do you want to buy some strawberries?

Suddenly her bright green eyes are far away, like how people look when their mind was elsewhere. They still use them… because people are slow to adjust, she says. They can’t accept when things have changed, even when it’s right in front of their faces. So they cling to what used to work. Comfortable symbols of the life they used to know.

Silence falls between them. Then the boy says: So… are you going to buy some fruit, or…?

She jerks her head toward Humdingers. Your dad hang out in there?

He owns the place.

The woman nods and pulls out her wallet. How much?

Can you read?

I mean for all of them.

Lady, you’re crazy, the boy says. There’s not enough room in your car for this many strawberries.

Not your problem, she says. How much?

The boy shrugs. Two thousand bucks.

She opens her wallet and hands him twenty 100-notes. Don’t ever come back here, she says. Not for anything. Leave. Right now.

He stands up, suddenly afraid. And he runs. When he is a hundred yards away he looks back. The woman opens her trunk and pulls out an assault rifle.

She closes the trunk and throws the rifle over her shoulder and she walks into the bar. The boy doesn’t look back again.

Chapter 1

Blowback

—planets involved in the civil war now encompass sixty percent of humankind—

—death toll on Eridan soars to over three million in revised, more accurate figures… full public health crisis … medical workers unable to reach wounded past the street fights between government forces and—

—disappearance of disgraced CEO Atusa Navarro, who is now presumed dead—

—Mozhan system has inexplicably gone dark … impervious to radio signals … lose contact with any physical probes sent within a light year—

—new round of skirmishes erupted today between Galactic Coalition soldiers and the various rebel groups supporting Governor Sara Warren—

—Star Mozha no longer emitting any detectable light … region effectively a supermassive black hole … controversial plans to send a manned ship following last month’s gamma burst are ongoing—

—Kalisti remains in crisis … economy flat-lines in the wake of the government-mandated breakup of the Osiris Corporation … food riots in the streets … first Alpha planet in over a century to lose its Alpha designation—

—calls for martial law across the Alpha Planets now approaching a fever pitch … confidence in police bureau at an all-time low following the scandal on Bellerophon—

—By Chancellor Bramhall’s order … government quarantines all non-essential travel from non-Alpha planets—

—a home-made explosive in a bus on the Alpha planet of Amulius III today … wounding seven and killing four, including himself … witnesses say the man shouted the word ‘peacemaker’ before detonating—

—bounty for Governor Warren’s capture or killing raised today to two-hundred-fifty million … information leading to her capture, fifty million—

—hundreds of thousands riot in the ghettos … everywhere carrying large posters bearing the face of the so-called ‘Doctor’ … they are painting his face, drawing him with charcoal, writing his name on their bullets—

—scope and scale of the fighting has led some to christen these events as the ‘Human War…’

—Chancellor still has yet to use the term ‘civil war’ … yet the Alpha planets have spoken … by an overwhelming margin, a citizen referendum approves new War Powers Act, granting Chancellor Bramhall extensive new powers to deal with the crisis … critics claim new powers are essentially unlimited—

…essentially unlimited…

…essentially unlimited…

* * *

The bagpipers finished the final notes of Granville Woody Boatwright’s favorite song, and the eight pallbearers lifted his ornate mahogany casket by the straps and lowered it into the ground. The pallbearers and the speakers and even the chaplain were all dressed in full department regalia, which Vera Ford knew for a fact Woody would have hated. He only ever wore the formal blues at graduations. When he retired Woody had told her he was going to burn that goddamned zoot suit, though she couldn’t say whether he’d gone through with it. But tradition was tradition. She’d gotten them to not play the departmental hymns in favor of Woody’s personal music tastes—the bulk of which consisted of old drinking songs—but the Argos chief had drawn the line at uniforms. Ford stood out from the crowd in business attire, a CBI ID badge pinned to her chest.

It was a perfect, clear breezy morning on Antara, the grass still sparkling with dew. Identical white obelisk headstones stretched in every direction for miles. Hundreds had gathered to pay their final respects to Woody Boatwright, mostly family, former coworkers and old students. Agent Ford had expected a crowd for the beloved old professor, the man who had raised her since she was a girl. But the sheer size of the turnout had still surprised her.

Ford was in a godawful mood, in no place to properly say goodbye to the man she regarded as her true father. She’d spent the entire previous day dealing with the Internal Affairs Review Board on Antara, trying to untangle the disaster of their Bellerophon operation. Best of luck with that, Ford thought, with some satisfaction. She had refused to answer almost every question, hitting them with the standard smokescreens of I don’t know, I don’t recall, and, the old bureaucratic favorite, I wasn’t part of that information circle. As far as she could tell they were officially pinning the Peacemaker Operation on Horace Murchison and a man named Colin Norton, who were both dead as far as anyone knew.

As the owner of a freshly-printed and signed immunity deal, she’d nothing to gain or lose either answering their questions or not, but she’d obfuscated on behalf of the others involved—Winona Stensland, Adrian Reyes, even Weizmann, if he was alive, if they ever found him. It had been truly bizarre, sitting in front of Internal Affairs and answering their questions about Benjamin Weizmann, the man who’d taught her how to deal with the review boards if the situation ever arose.

They exist to cover the ass of somebody more important than you, Weizmann had said. When they have sufficiently covered that person’s ass, whoever he is, they will leave you alone. Make them work for it. Pretend you don’t know that that is the only reason they exist. The secretary will offer you refreshments. Under no circumstances do you accept the secretary’s offer of refreshments. They’re watching your every move in that office, waiting to see how you react. Everything you do there will end up on your psych-profile. Vera Ford had always thought that was ridiculous. But every time she’d ever been before a review board, the secretary had offered everyone refreshments—coffee, pastries, whatever else. And in all her years she’d never seen anyone accept. So she’d done as Weizmann said. She missed him terribly, she realized just then. If Boatwright was a surrogate father to her, Weizmann was somewhere between father and uncle.

The mayor of the Argos district of Antara had shown up to Woody Boatwright’s funeral, as well as a few dozen other city officials and community leaders. Perhaps ten or so bodyguards stood in the crowd near Mayor Anthony Rehnquist’s political cadre, easily identifiable by their suits, sunglasses and earpieces. The political types all stood together in their suits and long trench coats, like they were some little boys-and-girls club. Afraid of fraternizing with the cops. None of the cops went anywhere near the mayor and his fellow suits.

That was understandable, in a sense. Rehnquist had been one of Sara Warren’s earliest major supporters, and had recently expressed a willingness to negotiate with the pro-Warren rebel groups forming on Antara. The police were down in the trenches fighting those people. The union had made no secret of their disdain for what they viewed as the mayor’s capitulation. But, at the moment at least, they were making nice by studiously ignoring each other.

When the bagpipers finished, Lieutenant Colonel Jimmy Calvin approached the raised podium. There was no shortage of Woody’s formal colleagues wishing to speak at his memorial, so many that Ford had happily sacrificed her speaking time to the others. Her surrogate father had been a firm believer that public was public and private was private. Anything she had to say, she’d already said it to him.

Calvin was one of those ageless wonders who had looked just about the same for the past twenty years. He was perpetually cranky and perpetually glaring, thick-bodied and short of stature, with a bullet-shaped bald head and coal-black goatee, just beginning to go gray in the man’s only visible sign of having aged. The murmurs of conversation fell silent when he tapped the microphone.

Those of you who know me know I don’t have a whole lot to say most times, Calvin said, and there were a few chuckles of agreement. So I’m gonna keep this to the point. Woody Boatwright was a great man. One of the best I ever knew. He raised a fine cop in Vera Ford, who recently got recruited from our ranks by the Coalition Investigation Bureau. Eh, she’ll be back. Scattered laughter. Ford smiled, uncomfortable with the dozens of pairs of eyes suddenly turned to look at her. At least the moment was brief; before long the onlookers faced forward as Calvin continued speaking. ‘Hero’ isn’t a word we just toss around in this business, but he was one of them. Most of his time was before mine. I only wish we’d been in the same generation so we coulda knocked down some doors together. Most of you only knew him as the old guy on the cane farting around the academy. Most of you people probably never heard the story of how he ended up walking on that cane.

There were some more chuckles, from those in the audience who did indeed know that story. Woody was one of the toughest sons of bitches to ever put on the blues, Calvin said. "No bones about it. Stared death in the face and gave her both middle fingers. Got into death’s pants without taking her to dinner first. They don’t make men like that anymore. I always had a feeling he wasn’t gonna die in his rocking chair. Never thought it’d be some scumbag doing him outside a restaurant in a drive-by… they want to say it was just chance. The official, political reports want to say it was a random act of violence. I know exactly what Woody would say to that—horseshit. When I think about that scumbag walking free… Calvin shook his head. When I think about the leadership of my own district, the district Woody Boatwright bled for, and how they’re pissing on his memory throwing support behind the queen of the ghetto rats…"

Ford watched Calvin speak like it was a slow-motion plane crash. Nobody made a sound. Mayor Rehnquist stood there staring, his mouth hanging open. His guards were straight-faced and stock-still, but Ford could see the tension in their stance. Every one of them was ready for a gunfight. "Well, Mister Mayor, on behalf of myself, Woody Boatwright, and so many others who have fought for the citizens of the Argos district, the district you—and I use this term loosely—lead, I am here to put you on notice, Calvin said. We’re not gonna put up with it. You can only push us so far. I know what you’re thinking, cops got families, they gotta toe my line if they want their paychecks, yada yada yada… Calvin pointed a finger at the mayor. You test that theory. See how far it gets you. Am I getting through to you, you no-good paper-pushing son-of-a-bitch? Is this—"

Finally, mercifully, somebody thought to cut Jimmy’s microphone. The chief himself was one of the five cops who went to the podium to usher Jimmy away, in the opposite direction as the mayor. The chief stopped at the podium, and whoever had cut off Jimmy Calvin was quick enough on the draw that the microphone was back on by the time the chief began to speak. He cleared his throat first. It might go without saying, but the department does not support in any way, shape or form the preceding remarks of Lieutenant Colonel Calvin—

Speak for yourself! One of the cops shouted. A few other men cheered. The mayor’s security guards turned their heads in the direction of the shouts.

All right, knock it off! The chief adopted the tone of a scolding father, or a teacher. You are officers in the Galactic Coalition Police Department. I expect you to conduct yourselves as such. We are here to honor one of our own. The crowd fell silent, and the chief, trying to salvage the situation, launched into his own speech. Now, I knew Woody Boatwright well…

No other speaker caused an incident, though Ford felt a simmering undercurrent that had been well-submerged before Jimmy Calvin’s speech, and lurked just beneath the surface directly after it. Scanning the faces around her, Ford wondered how many of them Calvin had spoken for.

About an hour later Ford was walking back down the line of cars towards her own, accepting hugs and handshakes and sympathies from anyone passing by that happened to recognize her. Agent Ford? said a man beside her. She didn’t recognize the man leaning against a black limousine. Fiftyish, close-cropped black-and-white hair and mustache. Friendly smile. Brown trench coat and suit and a government badge around his neck that read QUINN. Ten minutes of your time?

Yeah, sure, Ford said. She almost laughed—these guys always asked if they could talk with you, as if you had a choice in the matter. Where you from?

Downtown, he said. Get in.

He opened the door to the limo’s rear compartment. Ford got inside and he climbed in after her and shut the door behind them. My dad’s funeral, Ford said. You guys always do have the best timing.

Quinn smiled tightly. You have my condolences, he said, though his voice was oddly dispassionate. You’ve probably been on the job long enough to know the spooks won’t wait on some things.

You one of the spooks? Quinn chuckled and set his briefcase on the floor and opened it. So what’s this about?

He pulled out a stack of papers and set them on his lap. "Are you familiar with the term blowback, Agent Ford? She nodded. How would you explain your understanding of that word?"

Unintended consequences of an intelligence operation.

Unintended consequences, Quinn repeated, nodding. That’s as good a description as any. It’s like that old game whack-a-mole. You knock one problem down and two more of ‘em just… pop up. It’s impossible to know all the variables ahead of time.

No disrespect, Mr. Quinn, Ford said, But it’s my job to know the variables.

Quinn regarded her. Would it surprise you to know your father was assassinated as part of an intelligence operation?

Ford’s neck tensed. How would you know something like that?

Because it was my operation. Ford stared at him. He had spoken those words with strangely calm neutrality. "Agent Ford, I know what you’re thinking. I’m pretty sure you’re considering whether you can get away with killing me. But I’m also pretty sure you’re a realist. Smart enough to know it wasn’t personal. At the time Operation Peacemaker wasn’t public knowledge. The upper echelon of Central Intelligence directed us to keep it that way by any means necessary. We were trying to prevent– well, exactly what’s happened since Peacemaker became public knowledge. We were trying to prevent more bloodshed. I am truly sorry that Benjamin Weizmann told your father about Peacemaker. But the fact remains that he did. And that left us no other recourse."

If you have a point to make, make it, Ford said. And then get the fuck away from me.

Quinn cleared his throat and read off the first paper in his stack. According to your file, you’ve acquired an expertise fairly unique among field agents, he said. "Tenth level certification in both field operations and computer tech. Software engineering and applied network and security systems. According to your covert file, you designed the money laundering program Detective Weizmann used for his illegal investigation. His and your illegal investigation, that is. He looked up at her. That’s an interesting combination of skills. Makes you kind of distinctly qualified for a very specific sort of investigation."

I’ve got a full plate just now, Ford said. I’m primary on two open investigations and secondary on another.

Your schedule just opened up, said Quinn, handing her a data crystal. We received this encoded message two days ago. Ford took out her light screen computer and swept the data crystal across the screen. A brief message appeared:

We are in control now. The plan is in motion and the creators are awakening.

There is a place for you in the new world. We will only harm you if we must. It is in your interest not to interfere.

None shall ever again look on man’s works and despair.

Legion

Deus penitus machina.

Quinn watched her when she finished. So?

It doesn’t even make sense, Ford said. It’s just a prank.

So I thought, Quinn replied. Until I found out how it was delivered.

Ford raised her eyebrows. It didn’t come over the superluminal?

Quinn shook his head. It was two different data crystals, handed directly to agents in the Intelligence Bureau, simultaneously on different planets, he said. The encoding was such that each of them contained half of the message’s content. It wasn’t legible until they were combined. He handed Ford a black-and-white photograph split into two panels. Each showed the lobby of a different nondescript office, all rows of desks and cubicles. In both sections of the photograph the focus was on a particular desk in the office, and a woman stood in front of each desk. Do you recognize the two women in those photographs?

Ford studied the photo, and the back of her neck felt a chill. Ford pointed to the tall blond woman in the frame. The one on the left is Zafra Kamarov, she said.

And the right?

The one on the right is Christmas Parker. Ford said, indicating the short dark-haired woman, and handing him back the photograph.

I know you were present when Zafra Kamarov… escaped, Quinn said. "And I know you were the one responsible for combining the spectral frequency she scratched into the wall and the video of Horace Murchison in the Halifax. And I am aware of the… interesting quirk, that was created in the image. So… we understand each other, I think. What do you make of Legion’s communique?"

Well the last line is disturbing, Ford said as she re-read the message. "It’s a reference to Ozymandias, which is about the decline of civilization. ‘The new world’ may be a reference to the post-Columbian expansion into North America, keeping with the declining civilization motif. The use of Latin implies either a connection to Ancient Rome or the Catholic Church, probably the latter given the use of the biblical name Legion. As far as deus penitus machina… ‘God in the machine?’ Sounds like a hacker’s handle. Wouldn’t be the first hacker with severe delusions of grandeur."

Agent Ford, your other investigations have already been transferred, said Quinn. Given the events of the past several weeks, our bosses are taking the reemergence of the two women in those photographs very seriously. Assuming Legion is some sort of hacker or cyber-terrorist, we believe a serious threat to the network could—in the worst-case scenario—pose an existential threat to the Galactic Coalition, and possibly our species at large. Given your experience in pursuing Legion’s two messengers during Ben Weizmann’s covert investigation, the government feels you are uniquely qualified to pursue this. Find out who Legion is, isolate him, and neutralize him.

I can do it, Ford said. But I’m gonna need you to do something for me.

What’s that?

Find me Winona Stensland, said Ford. I can’t do it without her.

* * *

Tareq al-Amrani Bashir yawned, again.

He sipped his coffee and looked at his watch. These police funerals seemed to go on forever when it was a regular cop. When it was a departmental luminary the likes of Granville Woody Boatwright, they went on for two forevers. Detective Bashir was respectful as all hell of those regular cops, but that didn’t mean he wanted to waste a day standing around in a cemetery. If he went down in the line, Bashir always hoped they respected him by catching the son of a bitch who did the deed, instead of listening to all his mates tell stories about him, listening to his captain tell a bunch of strangers just what a good guy he was. Jimmy Calvin had livened things up a bit when he called out Mayor Rehnquist, but that was only a brief respite. At least he was standing near the back so he’d be the first to leave.

These things were bad enough for cops that Bashir had liked. But Bashir had never much liked Woody Boatwright, who he’d always found overrated and overpraised. A flintlock musket in a world of sniper rifles. No gift for subtlety in a line of work that demanded it. People tended to forget that Boatwright had contributed nothing at all to the modern techniques officers actually used, hadn’t written a single manual. No, Boatwright had just cracked a few skulls. He was just lucky that those skulls happened to belong to two of the ten largest drug kingpins in the past fifty years. But it had been somebody else’s detective work. Boatwright did none of the mental heavy lifting; he had just been the one to go kick in their doors. That’s enough to buy a man a legendary reputation, Bashir thought.

And damn if he didn’t put that reputation to use. Bashir hadn’t liked Boatwright before the man had ruined his career. Now… hate was a strong word and Bashir didn’t just throw it around. But he hated Woody Boatwright. He didn’t know why somebody had offed Boatwright outside that diner, but he thought the son of a bitch had probably gotten what was coming to him.

I’m surprised you came. Bashir immediately recognized the deep voice of his departmental captain, James Garrison. One of Boatwright’s former students, Captain Garrison had spoken at the podium earlier. He was fifty-something, completely gray-haired from head to mustache, and dressed in full departmental regalia. Bashir felt out of place in a grey suit and sunglasses, amid the sea of navy blue. He hadn’t put that uniform on since being promoted to detective.

People notice, Bashir said. If you don’t come to these things.

Garrison chuckled silently. You’ve played this game before, he said. Even still… I know they didn’t do right by you—

I don’t want to talk about it.

The captain nodded, and they each stood in silence for a while. Up on the podium one of Boatwright’s elderly former colleagues was droning on, some personal anecdote. How is your brother’s family?

I have no idea, Bashir said.

Really? Garrison’s expression was sympathetic, which Bashir found irritating. I mean, I know they’re off the grid where they live, but—

The grid doesn’t exist where they live.

Garrison scowled in the direction of the distant podium. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. Suppose I told you there was a way we might set this thing right.

Bashir scratched his goatee. I’d tell you to quit blowing smoke up my ass and get to the fucking point. This was always how the bosses came at you. Feign concern for you. Feign interest in your personal situation. Swing the carrot in front of your face and then hit you with what they wanted from you. And yet… they did it that way because it worked. Bashir felt a small sliver of hope break through his cynicism. I’d say you’ve got my attention.

What do you know about Ben Weizmann’s Bellerophon operation?

Not much, said Bashir. Other than that it was a complete shitshow. Amateur hour from start to finish. Everyone involved is either dead, medically retired or missing. Everybody except the woman who got my promotion as part of her immunity deal.

Garrison put up a hand. Let’s just leave Ford out of this—

All due respect captain, Bashir said. But you know exactly what I was going to do with that higher security clearance. With that pay raise. Now my brother, my brother’s wife, their son and daughter, will be living in a ghetto for who knows how much longer. With this war now… Bashir half-expected Garrison to protest; government employees weren’t supposed to refer to the conflict between the Warrenists and the government as a war. But the captain was silent. Way things are going… don’t think you can tell me what to leave out.

Bashir didn’t say it outright, but he didn’t need to. Life in the ghettos being how it was since the election, Vera Ford’s immunity deal might have been their death sentence.

Listen, Garrison said. Weizmann was a friend. And he was a good cop—

Sure proved it on Eridan, didn’t he?

Garrison went on as if he hadn’t spoken. Things went sideways for him in a bad way. You know as well as I do that can happen in this business. He called me to put guards around his family a few days before it all went down. I don’t know what he fell into down there, but I know Ben. He was chasing something big. Do you know we have exactly one picture of Alexander Tabriz? Man worked for the military for fifteen years, and the only picture we have of him is from when he was eight years old. I can’t make heads or tails of that, how somebody could scrub themselves out of the entire goddamned network. That should be impossible. That tells me maybe Ben was onto something. If we can just find Ben, bring him in, we can sort all this out. I owe this guy one. Hell, more than one.

Now comes the part where you tell me why I should give a flying fuck, Bashir thought. I just want to make sure I have this right, he said. To get the promotion that I’ve already earned, you want me to go chase you down a ghost. A ghost who could be anywhere spread across a quarter of a million light years.

Tareq I’d make you CBI today if I could, Garrison said. I’d get your brother’s family a clearance this moment if I could. But you know his criminal record makes things tricky. And you know I don’t make those decisions. You wouldn’t be doing this for me, you’re doing it for you. You think the CBI’s gonna sit up and take notice if you bring in Ben Weizmann? What do you think that’s gonna do to your chances of getting that badge?

All right Captain, Bashir said. Let’s say I can get to him. I take it you wouldn’t want me dropping him at the nearest CPD processing center?

Garrison shook his head slightly. This is our deal, he said. I make sure you still get paid, and nobody looks too closely at where you are and what you’re working on. In return, when you bag Weizmann, you bring him straight to me. My sterling recommendation letter to the CBI is brief and laudatory, for what more do I need to say than that you were the lead in bringing in this century’s most notorious rogue police officer?

Detective Bashir considered it. His pride wanted him to tell Garrison to shove it. But when he closed his eyes he saw Bader. He hadn’t seen his younger brother face-to-face in fifteen years, had never met his nephews. Pride most certainly went before the fall. But it wouldn’t be his fall his pride caused, if he listened to it.

Bashir looked at the captain and took his sunglasses off. I don’t even know where to start.

It’s your investigation, Garrison said. But I’d start in Bellerophon.

* * *

Bader Bashir was awake, but his wife didn’t know it.

He had awoken at the first voice he’d heard, as he always did. Gunfire no longer woke him up, but voices always did the trick. But he lay there on his back, pretending to still be asleep. Their cedar incense was burning down, and the odors of gunsmoke and dirt and human waste began to creep back in on the night air. That incense should have lasted longer, and he had no money to get more. He was going to have to steal some.

Lorena was talking to their seven-year-old son, Luis. Their older boy, Faisal, was still fast asleep against the far wall of their single-room home.

"It’s all right, mijo, Lorena was whispering. You will have a new tooth grow in right behind it. It’s nothing to be scared about."

Will the tooth fairy come and take it?

Who told you about the tooth fairy?

Jamie, the boy downstairs, said Luis. He says that the tooth fairy comes and takes your old teeth away. Will she come, mama? Will she come, and leave us a little bit of money?

Maybe, Lorena whispered. She might come. I bet it will take a few weeks, but I bet she will come.

Why will it take so long?

Because it’s hard for the tooth fairy to get into World’s End, Lorena said. It’s hard for her to find us. But she will.

Bader Bashir did not get back to sleep that night.

* * *

Echo?

Echo Norton startled when she heard Counselor Lynn speak her name. The tone suggested it was the second or third time she’d said it. Norton was in the basement meeting hall of a church, seated under the fluorescent panel lights in one of the office chairs arranged in a circle around the room. Filling the other chairs were other ex-junkies, of varying ages and detox status. Norton had acquired a talent for determining how far an addict had come since their last hit, and the people staring back at her from around the circle were a good mix, everywhere from decades to hours.

She hadn’t been listening to whoever had been talking, and Joy Lynn could always tell when somebody wasn’t paying attention. Norton had been curious about these meetings at first, but she only came now to satisfy the court order. After she’d gotten the girls back, her dead ex-husband’s family had told the authorities about her addiction. So the judge made her spend an hour a week listening to other junkies’ troubles and pissing in a cup.

Fact was, she didn’t need any help quitting. The girls were plenty motivation enough to get clean and to stay there. She wouldn’t say it had been easy, but she was surprised it hadn’t been harder. Having them in front of her every day had turned her willpower to steel. An hour of treatment of week was an hour more than she needed. But it was a small price to pay. She never heard from anyone in the Child Services Bureau as long as she kept her appointments. Counselor Lynn was the closest she ever got, and unlike the average social worker, she wasn’t an intolerable pain in the ass.

Aside from always knowing when you weren’t paying attention.

You’ve been looking contemplative all night, Lynn said. Is there anything you’d like to share with the group? Norton stared at her. How are the girls these days?

Norton hadn’t intended to say much that night, so it surprised even her when she answered. They ask about their dad a lot.

Lynn nodded. I’m sure they miss him.

Norton was suddenly conscious that everyone in the room was staring at her. Most times that would have annoyed her but for some reason she found herself not caring. "I miss him, she said. It’s the little things you think you won’t miss, you wind up missing the most… The way he… stunk up the bathroom in the morning. Her fellow addicts laughed; Lynn smiled. The look in his eyes when he looked at our girls… I used to think that ‘father of your children’ thing was just some excuse weak little bitches used when they weren’t strong enough to stand for themselves. But… I don’t know. Your brain injects some chemical, into your body, makes you need them. Just like any drug. You feel it head to toe, you know? The… lack, of them. I thought I hated him when he was alive, but now he’s gone… It puts a hole through you. I never dreamed when I was using, never dreamed anything at all. But I dream all the time now. I dream about… him, us. Together with the girls. But that can’t happen. Because I killed him."

The room was silent.

When I think about… the people I’ve hurt… Norton shook her head. It’s like it was some other person, you know? I want to believe it was somebody else. I know that’s a copout, and in the end you gotta own it. That’s the price for moving on: seeing things for what they are. Admitting the truth of what you are.

Counselor Lynn cleared her throat. We can certainly all relate to the feeling that we’ve hurt those around us, she said. But Echo, Colin died in prison. I fully support taking responsibility… but that one’s not on you.

Norton forced a smile.

Later when they were leaving Norton found herself walking up the dim hallway to the parking lot beside Counselor Lynn. I’m proud of you, Echo, she said. That was some serious heavy lifting for you tonight. Norton ignored the compliment; she didn’t take them well. How are you holding up? Any slip-ups?

Norton shook her head. Smoking cigarettes like they’re oxygen, but that’s it.

Lynn laughed. You know the drill, she said. Officially I have to say ‘nothing in excess.’ But off the record… I say whatever keeps you clean for now. Take it a step at a time.

Do you guys have somebody peeking in on my house?

Somebody? Lynn scowled in confusion. Like who?

I don’t know, Norton said. Anybody. Somebody’s been hanging around the street outside. Thought maybe… I don’t know, the Children’s Services Office had sent someone.

Same car?

Norton shook her head. Different cars.

Then what makes you think it’s related? Is it the same person?

Nah, Norton said. Different people each time.

So, Lynn said. Cars are parked occasionally on a busy, public street outside your house and your best theory is that it’s surveillance targeting you? I guess you think you’re pretty interesting.

I know it sounds weird, said Norton. Just a feeling I had.

Let me tell you what’s happening best I can, not being a neuroscientist, Lynn said. Parts of your brain you were killing with drugs are waking up, and in some cases growing back. Neural Highways your brain forgot it even contained have been under construction since you quit using, and are suddenly open for business. It’s part of coming to know yourself again, and you have to know yourself for this to work. But a side effect is that your brain is seeing patterns where they don’t exist. And your conscious mind is translating this as suspicion.

You’re probably right.

I am almost certainly right, said Lynn. Paranoia’s one of the most common side effects when you’re coming down. But… Lynn lowered her voice and stopped walking, waiting to speak until those behind them had passed. Given the little I know about your past, how things got with your late husband’s family… I’d also say… protect your girls.

The two of them regarded each other. Norton had come close to telling her a few times about the old days. Something like attorney-client privilege where counselors couldn’t sell you out, no matter what you said.

But she only smiled. Lynn hugged her, and clasped hands with her when they released the embrace. She had never noticed the tattoo on the back of her drug counselor’s wrist before that moment—a snake intertwined through three laurel branches. Before Norton had a chance to ask her about it, Lynn said, See you next week, and she left.

That evening Norton stood at the kitchen bay window making dinner while the girls sat outside across the lawn doing sidewalk chalk art. Amy was doing animals, but Zoey was drawing a picture of her dad. Zoey was older, so in a way it had been harder on her. Norton hadn’t seen that coming. Zoey was the sensitive one, crying herself to sleep while her younger sister comforted her.

As Norton watched them she noticed something—a car she’d never seen, parked across the street. The windows were tinted and the late evening sun reflected off the windshield just enough she couldn’t see the driver. She thought about what Lynn had told her about neural highways and manufactured patterns.

But goddammit. If you couldn’t trust your instincts what did you have left?

Norton opened the window. Girls! She called out, and Amy looked up. Come inside. It’s almost ready. The two of them gathered their chalk and came toward the house. When they were halfway across the lawn, the driver she couldn’t see started his car and drove away.

* * *

Katherine Wallace had never been in a spaceport before, and it wasn’t how she thought it would be at all. Everything was so… dirty. It was like a damp drafty hamster maze. Faces rushed past her so fast she couldn’t keep up. Her mother had a duffel bag over one shoulder, a suitcase in one hand and Katherine’s hand in the other, and she dragged them along without stopping. Katherine’s backpack bumped against people as they walked, but she was careful to protect her little brother Judah, cradled in her other arm.

They moved quickly through the hallways and the terminals, through the confusing herd of travelers and port workers and freight drones. The place was a kaleidoscope of sound and light, conversation and wall-sized digital star charts and a constant backdrop of loudspeaker announcements. They would be moving through a tight hallway so crowded Katherine felt like she would suffocate and suddenly they would come into a terminal, spacious and all windows, the big silver spaceships visible on the landing outside. Katherine thought she could see all the way to their island, but they never stood still long enough for her to be sure. Then they were back in one of the tight hallways again, shoving through the crowds in front of them.

The last several hours had flown past her like a dream. Katherine was having trouble even remembering it clearly—stuffing clothes into a backpack, sneaking out of their apartment building. Her mother had made her put her hands into a weird black box thing. This is gonna hurt, sweetheart, she had said, and holy bejesus her hands had felt like they were on fire. But Katherine hadn’t cried at all, and when she took her hands out her finger prints were totally different. Judah on the other hand had wailed like he was being murdered when it was his turn.

Katherine hadn’t cried once since she had comforted her mother on the floor, said they could be strong for each other. Her father was dead. Her best friend was probably dead. That made her really sad, but for some reason she just couldn’t cry anymore.

She remembered one thing perfectly clearly. It was burned into her memory; she didn’t think she would ever forget it. Watching her mother take down the sailboat painting and open the safe behind it and pull out a handgun. Staring at their open front door for what felt like eternity. Then the gunshot. It didn’t sound like it did in the movies; it was a lot louder. It was only a few hours ago but everything that happened before that gunshot felt like some other person now. That gunshot had split her life in two.

At last her mother approached one of the terminal desks. There was no line so they walked right up to the man at the desk and mother pulled an envelope and their passports out of her purse. Hi, she said, smiling.

Evening, the man said. Go ahead and set the bags up here. Mother took off her duffel bag and the suitcase and dropped them on the weight scale beside the terminal desk. He took mother’s tickets and began typing, looking at his screen. Hannah Stockberger, he said. He looked down at Katherine and smiled. You must be Molly Stockberger. Katherine nodded and forced a smile. And little Jeremy. Okay, Inachus to the Lyra system. Looks good. You three got in just under the wall. Government’s restricting travel from Inachus starting in… four and a half hours. Come midnight nobody’s getting on or off this planet for who-knows-how-long.

Mother smiled and shrugged. Sneaking off while we got the chance.

The clerk smiled back at her and returned to typing. Just the three of you traveling tonight, correct?

Oh, mother said, patting her pregnant belly. Three… three and a half, I guess.

The clerk looked mother up and down and suddenly his manner changed. Pregnant women are barred from interstellar travel. Travel bureau policy.

Mother scowled at him. Since when?

First of this year, he said, and he shrugged apologetically. Too many lawsuits. I’m sorry. He handed the tickets back to her. Mother stared at them for a long time before taking them. I’m really sorry, he said again.

Her mother picked up their bags and walked away from the terminal desk. She stopped next to a big digital map of the spaceport and she set the bags down. She folded her arms and began rubbing her forehead, and Katherine thought she saw her eyes tearing up. A security officer walked past on his patrol, and mother warily watched him pass. Mama, Katherine said. What does that mean? Mama?

Something changed in her eyes, and the tears disappeared. Katherine realized she was counting. Thirty… thirty-four… she muttered to herself. Thirty-six weeks. I’m at thirty-six weeks. She turned to face the computerized map. Inachus spaceport search hospital.

The map began to move, showing first where they were, and then tracking the route to the spaceport’s medical center. Hospital, said a computerized voice. Would you like me to send you a guide drone for your baggage, Mrs. Stockberger?

No thank you, mother said. She grabbed Katherine’s hand and dragged off her off on the route the computer had shown them.

* * *

It seemed as if the Athenia system got busier every time Special Agent Will Albright had cause to visit it, an occurrence he avoided whenever possible. Albright hated the Galactic Coalition’s capital system with a passion. Constant construction and traffic jams and crowds everywhere you went. The government and the media’s propaganda painted it as a utopian ideal, a utopia against which every other system in the Galactic Coalition would be judged, an ideal for which they should strive. Albright supposed that in a way it was, only because the government poured more resources and energy into making it so than any official would dare to publicly acknowledge. In government work, Albright thought cynically, crap rolls downhill while the loot rolls uphill.

From the window where he presently stood on the hundred-fifty-first floor of a Coalition office tower, Albright looked out on skyscrapers and floating sky-cities and choked airborne traffic lanes. The sky was filled with the lights of ships and satellites and small stations, but he was still able to pick out the tell-tale pentagon of blinking lights that marked out Unity Station. The steel jungle stretched to the horizon and well beyond. Every planet in the capitol system was entirely urbanized, from the mountaintops to the ocean floors. He’d been thinking often of his houseboat, of fishing off the back of it and drinking a beer with the sun going down through the trees. Lately he’d done the math almost compulsively, calculating exactly what he and Miranda would have to sacrifice to get by on his early retirement pension.

Mister Albright? He turned back to the secretary, sitting behind a desk in the colossal waste of space that comprised the lobby of Vincent Wellstone’s office. The room was about a fifth of a football field and contained only the secretary’s desk, a few plants, a small waterfall and a few couches. Albright had always laughed about how in the crowded tangle of the capital, the ability to use square footage to know good purpose was a status symbol. The young woman smiled. Mister Wellstone can see you now.

Albright went through the glass doors to Wellstone’s office, which was a mirror of the lobby in size, though it contained surrealist artwork instead of plants. The stream from the waterfall went underneath the wall and through Wellstone’s office, the rear wall of which was open onto a never-ending pool. Wellstone stood up from his desk and smiled when Albright approached. Agent Albright, he said. Always good to see you. Have a seat. Albright sat across from him. You want anything? Coffee? Tea? Irish coffee?

No thanks, Albright said, looking around. He paused on the artwork, fire-blown steel. You moved on up, didn’t you?

Wellstone sat back in his chair and grinned and put up his hands. Business is booming, amigo, he said, sitting back forward. Once renting, now buying, am I right? I’m glad you stopped by, I been meaning to call you. The General Fund Council voted us some serious extra scratch after those Warrenist shitheads started going all Che Guevara on everybody. Long and the short of that is, you and your guys got bonuses coming at you. I want to make you sure you guys know you backed the right horse. So I’m gonna get you as much as I can swing. You especially, by the way. That was some seriously clean work, Will, bringing in Colin Norton without an incident. Wellstone grinned. So I’m gonna say thanks with some green. How’s that sound?

Well actually, that’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about, said Albright.

Lay it on me, Wellstone said. Open door with you guys, you know that.

Albright looked at his shoes a moment to gather his thoughts. I’m not one to question things it isn’t my place to question, he said. I get that I’m just a small cog in a big machine. But, as I understood it… We were liquidating anyone with knowledge of Operation Peacemaker with the expressed mission of keeping Peacemaker from going public.

Wellstone nodded. So far, so good.

So now it’s public.

So you want to know why the hell you’re still working a kill list.

Albright nodded. Well… yeah, he said. I got agents sticking their necks out for this. Parker killed one and Atusa Navarro iced another… So what the hell are we doing, boss? I just want to know where our goalpost is. Because it feels like it moved when I wasn’t looking.

Wellstone studied him for a long moment. You know, you said something that was absolutely correct, said Wellstone. You’re a small cog in a big machine. The biggest machine ever devised in fact. So, by the way… am I. I don’t know everything, I don’t pretend to know everything. My need-to-know bubble is bigger than yours, but it’s not that much bigger. You know Robert Quinn?

Yeah, Albright said. "I know of him."

He tells me what to do, Wellstone said. And he doesn’t stay on the phone long enough for me to ask him why. So—and Will, you know I would never blow you off—the short answer is, you’re still working that list because Robert Quinn wants you working that list. For the moment. When that changes, I’ll be the first to know. And you, my friend, will be the second.

Albright took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Look, I don’t really know how to bring this up, so I’m just gonna come out with it. He retrieved from his coat pocket two folded computer printouts. I hope this is a measure of my loyalty that nobody knows about this except me and one other agent. He unfolded the first printout and handed it to Wellstone. This is a copy of your phone records from the office annex where you were working, early morning of September seventeenth. You and the janitors and the night security were clocked in, at the time. Sixth number on the list… It’s highlighted… That’s a departmental line for the Sinalora Cartel in Bellerophon.

He fell silent and they stared at each other. Wellstone grinned, a painfully forced gesture. Are you going somewhere with this, Will? I would choose your next words extraordinarily carefully.

Why would someone in that office place a call to the New Town Ghetto? Albright unfolded the other printout, a shipping manifest. He handed it across the desk. "And why would somebody with a government ID ship them a nuclear detonator four hours later?"

Wellstone stared across the desk at him. Boss, I’m not making any accusations—

Yes you are.

No, Albright said. I want to make that clear. I’m absolutely not accusing anyone of anything. Whatever happened… I’m sure there were reasons. I’m just bringing this to your attention because somebody is going to discover it. It’s only a matter of time. We’re lucky that I found it first.

Who’s the other agent? Albright didn’t say anything. Wellstone shook his head. First name collateral, last name insurance?

"I covered my ass, Albright said. I’m only telling you this so you can cover yours. I’m warning you boss, not threatening you—"

Wellstone stood up abruptly and extended his hand. Hey, I appreciate it, he said. Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll get some people right on it. Albright looked up at his boss. Wellstone’s manner had gone from friendly to threatening and back to friendly in a heartbeat. Whatever, Albright thought. I’ve done my part. He stood up and shook Wellstone’s hand. So we’ll be in touch about those bonuses. Until then, just keep doing what you’re doing.

Take care of yourself, Vince. Albright turned to leave. On the way out he noticed an inscription on the side of one of the burnt-steel sculptures. The twisted piece of metal was taller than he was and the writing was a little heat-distorted, but if he squinted he could make it out. BELLEROPHON SKY-CITY D, it read, followed by a serial number denoting a bridge designation.

The realization sunk in, and Albright suddenly felt nauseous. His eyes flicked around at the other twisted, burnt metal sculptures in the office. His hand almost went to his mouth but he stopped it at the last moment.

Yeah, Wellstone said. Same to you, Will.

Albright drove away from the government tower in a daze. He could have loaded the car in a ferry and rested a while, but he didn’t want to see, talk to or look at anybody. So he settled in for the seven-hour drive back to the spaceport. He just kept remembering Wellstone’s face as he walked out of the office. Cold, dead eyes. Standing there amidst the wreckage of Bellerophon. Albright tried to put those eyes out of his head but he couldn’t.

Will Albright was not a man to quail or look away when faced with violence. Hell, he had as much blood on his hands as just about anybody. Sometimes people needed to die for the greater good. Sometimes they weren’t even bad people, just wrong-place-wrong-time people. That was the simple, honest reality of it. But there was just something repulsive about trophy-taking. Vincent Wellstone had decorated his office with the blood of innocents, essentially. There was doing what had to be done, and there was reveling in it. Something broke inside people, sometimes, when they were in this line of work. When it broke there was no retrieving them, and they simply had to be stopped.

Albright was driving through a light rain in an industrial district, stopped in traffic, when he decided that Vince Wellstone was somebody who had to be stopped. He plugged his phone into his car’s extended antenna deck and pulled up the message he had recorded earlier that week.

He had lied when he said the other agent already knew about it. Albright hadn’t told him yet. He had it set to send only if something happened to him. But now, after seeing Wellstone’s office, after confirming his responsibility, Albright had changed his mind. He needed someone else to know. His thumb hovering over the SEND button, he hoped the man he’d chosen as his accomplice agreed to help him.

A crash like an explosion. The passenger door of his car caved in.

For an instant everything went dark, but the shock wore off almost immediately. The only sound was a high-pitched ringing, shrill and constant. The side of his head was wet and warm, and Albright realized it had gone through the driver-side window. He couldn’t see from his left eye, but with his right eye he could see a pickup truck had pinned his car against a garbage diesel. Two men brandishing submachine guns jumped out of the pickup’s bed and jogged around to Albright’s car in opposite directions.

Two shots. You can get them both. Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. One round for each of them.

Albright reached for his glove compartment, but he couldn’t open it. That was odd. He looked down at his right hand; the pinky and ring finger pointed at a 45 degree angle from the others, and the middle finger and thumb both hung limp. His hand had been crushed between the phone deck and the imploding car door. Desperately he wondered if he could still use a pistol with only one proper finger, and the thought amused him. Wellstone’s two assassins raised their weapons. One man aimed his gun through the rear passenger window and the other aimed his through the windshield. Albright could hear nothing but the shrill ringing as the two of them opened fire.

* * *

The screams of her mother’s labor echoed, blending with the roar of the giant spaceships lifting off nearby. Katherine Wallace walked her brother back and forth in the waiting room, trying not to attract attention or look at anybody. After a while she sat down and watched the television, but the old lady next to her looked like she might start talking to her, so she got back up and started pacing again.

Katherine hadn’t known that doctors could make a baby come out before it was ready, but apparently it wasn’t that difficult. She was having trouble not staring at the clock. She didn’t know how long she had taken to be born, but when Judah was born it had taken eleven hours. And they only had four. But three hours after they got there, she heard a woman say Molly? She almost forgot to look up when she heard the name. The nurse standing there smiled at her. You can come in and see them now.

The room was quiet, and the doctors were gone when Katherine came in. Mother, her face sweaty and flushed, was resting in the bed with an infant in her arms. Katherine’s new little sister.

Mother smiled when she saw them, and she beckoned them over with a shake of her head. Katherine approached carefully, quietly. Her first name’s Eden, mother said. That was what your dad wanted. Do you want to pick her middle name?

Katherine stared at her sister. So peaceful and perfect. Stardust, she said.

Mother laughed. Perfect, she said. Eden Stardust Wallace. I love it.

Abruptly mother looked up at the door across the hospital room, and Katherine followed her eyes. Livia Marquette stood in the open doorway. Straight-faced, cold eyes. Hanging loose in her right hand was the gun Katherine’s mother had used to kill Amanda Marquette.

* * *

Echo Norton opened her eyes. She never slept peacefully through a night so that was no surprise. But this was different. Something was different.

What though? Everything in her bedroom was exactly where it should be. The world was silent except for her ceiling fan and the distant hum of commuter trains. The digital clock read 2 20 hours. It was never that dark on Vahska IV; the system lay in a crowded stellar neighborhood so even the average night was still about a fifth as bright as daylight. Looking around her bedroom just then she thought it was just a little darker than it should have been. Something in