Crashpoint (Kagent Series: #1)

By Mark Sarney

In the 24th century, the solar system is bustling with advanced human societies. But on poorer, balkanized Earth, towns struggle against depopulation and refugees flee from ethnic, economic, and education cleansing.

The home planet’s only bright spots are the cosmopolitan cities that trade offworld. But nonviolent terrorists called Stabilizers despise offworld influences and want to impose a slower-paced, low-stress lifestyle. They make prosperity appear suicidal by stealthily destroying a city’s economy and government with weaponized social epidemics.

Offworld Kagents project a future where the Stabilizers crash Hamilton, Illinois, and all civilization follows. With time running out, they recruit bounty hunter Nick Lincoln and his uncanny analytical abilities to find a future where Hamilton survives. But when Nick discovers how to stop the Stabilizers, he learns a secret about them, the Kagents, the projections, and himself which will change everything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Sarney
• Release date: Jan 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781941188002

Mark Sarney

Mark Sarney began writing as a geeky, contrarian kid in Rochester, NY. He created fantasy worlds while raking leaves, imagined that his elementary school was a Rebel base, and gave the pilots of his Lego spaceships their own backstories. He went on to wear a Chuck E. Cheese costume, become a Washington policy wonk, and practice the craft of arranging letters in an order that entertains others. He has been published at Daily Science Fiction.com. You can follow him at marksarney.com and on twitter.com/marksarney. Mark, his wife, and two children live in Columbia, MD.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The first bounty hunter ran into the Fresh-Pressed Business Suites Hotel gasping for breath.

Everyone in the lobby, the clerk and two businesswomen in the lounge, turned toward the noise. They all froze when they saw him.

The bounty hunter’s chest heaved under his gray armored jacket as he caught his breath; his mouth was a tense thin line beneath his black smartshades. His fingers hovered over oversized hand cannons strapped to each hip, their power indicators glowing blood red down the length of the barrels.

The man stared back at the two businesswomen gaping at him. His smartshades scanned their faces and displayed their IDs. They threat-assessed at under four percent probability.

We ask guests to use the revolving door on cold nights. Can I help you? the clerk asked, her voice attempting — and failing — to sound calm and businesslike.

He turned toward her, her ID and one percent threat probability overlaid on his smartshades. Tension melted out of his shoulders and his hands came away from the weapons.

I won’t be here long, he said tightly and hurried to the elevators.

A dozen drones the size of ping-pong balls launched from a small hardshell case on his back. With a barely audible hiss they rose to shoulder height and formed a floating perimeter around him.

The Fresh-Pressed hotel chain catered to weary business travelers needing little more than a recharge dock, a bed and complimentary dry-cleaning. The location on South Franklin Street was right in the heart of the financial district. It didn’t see many bounty hunters.

The two businesswomen watched the drones buzz around the lobby, looked at one another in horror, grabbed their coats, and left through the hotel’s revolving door.

The bounty hunter looked away and touched the arm of his smartshades. Spies on the street and lobby. Assault drones with me, he said to Cross. She was a Simon, an AI assistant who existed in the nets, and served as his assistant, number cruncher, and guardian angel.

Cross sent the drones on their pre-programmed missions. Any bounty hunter worth his license had his Simon control these multiple flying objects. A multi-tasking bounty hunter typically suffered a fatal drop in focus.

While he waited for the elevator, he flipped through the live hotel security camera feeds that Cross streamed off the Bounty Hunter Network. She posted them as thumbnail videos across the top of his smartshades.

Room number?

[437] Cross’s texted-reply appeared in the upper right-hand corner of his smartshades.

He checked the BHN video feeds for the bar, the elevators, the restaurant, and in the hallways on the fourth floor. Still nothing to worry about.

[I will alert you to threats.]

The bounty hunter snorted. Despite her eighty years of experience in law enforcement and bounty hunting, Cross sometimes had the street sense of a six-year-old.

What’s my success probability down to now? he asked. You said thirty-five percent earlier.

[It dropped to twenty-eight percent while you argued about taking this job. It’s up to forty-seven percent now because you arrived here first.]

First. The job had been posted thirty-one minutes ago. With a reward this high, every bounty hunter in downtown Chicago should be converging on this hotel right now. He was first only because he was so close. He figured he was also the most desperate.

The elevator chimed and two intoxicated couples stumbled out. Once the elevator began to rise, the bounty hunter unholstered Bruiser, a disabler pistol made of scuffed dark blue steel.

[You don’t need Bruiser; this job’s amoeba is a middle-aged woman.]

The bounty hunter winced. "I don’t want to know anything about the amoeba. No sex, no age, no name, no voyeuristic bullshit psyche profiles. The Bounty Hunter doesn’t need to know."

If The Bounty Hunter had to do something horrible, like, say, shoot a mother of two in the spine for skipping out on her child support payments, distancing himself from The Bounty Hunter helped him cope. Calling a job’s target an amoeba — a brainless, ignorant blob — also helped.

[My point is she is most likely unarmed.]

Like Pedro Matsui was? the bounty hunter shot back.

[The chance of a quadriplegic having a tongue-fired shotgun welded to the bottom of his wheelchair was less than one tenth of a percent]

It only takes one outlier to kill me, the bounty hunter chided.

He stepped out on Four and switched his smartshades to tactical. An infrared overlay combined with echo location pinpointed the location of every person on the floor.

He walked down the hall, checking human heat signatures in each room he passed. People watched videos on their netpads, ate, copulated, crapped. A low threat probability floated above each head; no one was poised to jump out and shoot him.

The human heat signature in Room 437 was bent over the bed. He placed his hand on the door handle.

[Unlocking the door in 3… 2… 1]

The lock clicked and the bounty hunter burst in.

In quick succession he saw a queen-sized bed, a desk, and a naked woman with dark, wet hair. She was in the middle of pulling underwear out of a suitcase.

The woman looked up in shock at the bounty hunter, at Bruiser, and at the drones hovering off of her freckled shoulders.

Moist air coming from the bathroom tickled the bounty hunter’s nose. You’re coming with me, he said. Get dressed.

She straightened and quickly covered her breasts.

Oh my God! Nick Lincoln!

The bounty hunter froze. He wasn’t famous like Borbola or even well known. Mostly because he wasn’t even very good at bounty hunting. How the hell do you know who I am?

I’m Kelly Sekma, she said simply. I’m your aunt.

CHAPTER TWO

"I don’t have an Aunt Kelly," Nick said as he closed the door behind him.

The blue stopwatch on his smartshades that had been ticking away since the job appeared on the BHN passed thirty-five minutes. The success probability dropped to twenty-four percent. Another bounty hunter would arrive any minute to kill him, grab the amoeba, and get the reward.

Get dressed, he said. We have to leave. Cross, run her damn profile.

[I did, when the job posted. But it didn’t mention anything like that.]

Nick checked the feed from the drone outside. The drone had attached itself to a streetlight to withstand the wind gusts and could see several blocks in both directions. No sign of trouble — yet.

I’m your mother’s step-sister, the amoeba said.

He turned to her. My mother only has a step-sister named Alicia. Now let’s go.

I wish I could say I’m shocked that she never mentioned me, the woman said wistfully, shaking her head. My maiden name is Hernandez. Kelly Maria Hernandez.

Cross posted the information she downloaded from the BHN for one Kelly Maria Hernandez living at his grandmother’s address in Harrisburg. Her yearbook pictures, transcripts of calls, text messages, and medical records scrolled down his smartshades.

[The records stop after she reached age eighteen. Which makes sense if she went offworld. Look at her senior year portrait.]

Nick super-imposed that school picture over the face of the woman standing in front of him. It lined up perfectly, from the shape of her eyelids to the structure of her cheekbones. The only differences were thirty years of aging and a different hairstyle.

The woman standing in front of him was his aunt.

Shit.

[37 minutes, 21% success probability.]

Nick groaned. We have to get out of here. The reward on your head is so high my competition should already be lined up in the hall.

His aunt grabbed clothes and hustled into the bathroom. He sent drones after her to sweep the bathroom for any hidden weapons. There were none, and he left her alone to change in private.

Nick busied himself tossing her crap into her handbag. Assuming we get away, then what? he muttered to himself.

[Is that a rhetorical question?]

He couldn’t toss his own aunt in jail. But could The Bounty Hunter do it? It seemed like the Bounty Hunter had snuck out and left Nick to struggle with moral dilemmas.

Aunt Kelly came out of the bathroom dressed in regular Earth clothes, thank God. He didn’t want to drag a flamboyant offworlder onto the L.

We’re leaving, he said, tossing her the handbag, and walking towards the door.

She looked at what he had stuffed in her handbag and frowned. She pulled some things out of it and crammed clothes into it.

Impatiently, Nick flipped through the drone feeds and the hotel cameras. No one was coming. It seemed too good to be true with all the desperate bounty hunters in the Chicago metropolitan area. Maybe he really did get the jump on this job.

Why did they send you? she asked.

Nick sighed. I live really close. He opened the door to let the drones take point in the hallway.

[ALERT: Bounty hunters on the street.]

CHAPTER THREE

Nick closed the door and ran to the window. He didn’t see anything.

[You can trust me.]

Nick frowned as Cross expanded the feed from the drone outside on South Franklin.

Four bounty hunters were approaching the hotel from about a block away. They wore smartshades, armored jackets, paramilitary gear, and the best muscles that medicine could buy. None had any drones aloft, but in this wind, flying drones for any length of time would just be a waste of power.

Shit, shit, shit, Nick said. Michael Flail. We need to go, now.

His aunt raised an eyebrow. Bad guy?

We used to be partners. I got him fired. He may want to kill me when he finds out I’m here.

Wonderful, his aunt said.

Nick couldn’t win this fight. Flail’s party had more than twice as many combat drones. Plus, unlike Nick, these thugs could probably shoot straight.

On the other hand, they probably had cheaped-out on buying less intelligent Simons than Cross. And until one of Flail’s drones identified Nick and his aunt, they were just another pair of human heat signatures walking around the hotel.

He and his aunt needed to blend in to have a shot at escaping.

He ran into the bathroom and turned on the shower, as hot as it would go. Cross, hide the street drone, he ordered. Send the combat drones with me to the elevator and shut them off so they don’t show on infrared. Hopefully Flail would think the amoeba’s heat signature was masked by the hot water and come up to the room.

His aunt opened the door to let the three combat drones file out, shutting it behind them quickly, like evil was lurking a few feet away. The drones headed to the right, toward the elevator. Cross settled them on the gray carpeting where it met the baseboards and shut them down. Nick powered off the two guns that emitted EM signatures.

[They have launched drones.]

A small flock of drones rose from behind Flail and his bounty hunters, appearing as pinpricks of EM and heat on Nick’s smartshades. They were combat drones, each capable of knocking out a human. They formed into a hostile, flying V sweeping down South Franklin ahead of the bounty hunters.

Cross tucked the defenseless spy drone behind the streetlight pole to mask its energy signature.

Cross, can you control the hotel cameras? Nick asked.

[Yes, the BHN paid extra for that.]

Great. At least they didn’t have cameras installed in the rooms, he thought. On my mark, shut them all off.

[Off? Flail will definitely know a bounty hunter is in the hotel.]

He’ll figure it out anyway. Nick opened the door and headed left.

He motioned his aunt to take the stairs up. When they’d climbed two floors to Six, he said, Okay Cross, kill the cameras.

[Done. Flail noticed right away. They’re splitting up now.]

One of the muscled freaks stood guard outside the hotel entrance. Another thug loped down South Franklin to West Arcade Place, where he stationed himself between the hotel’s loading dock and the parking garage next door.

Flail and his sidekick entered the lobby. Flail stopped, tapped his smartshades and studied the ceiling, tracking human energy signatures the same way Nick had. The sidekick summoned the elevator and unholstered his Reynolds N-50 handgun.

They didn’t know that Nick was here.

Inspiration struck Nick as he and his aunt reached the sixth floor. Cross, let’s feint towards the jack-ass in the back and escape out the front, he said.

[Freight elevator on your left goes to the ground-floor kitchen. Flail and his partner are heading up to Four where our drones can ambush him.]

Nick grabbed a room service cart full of dirty china and pushed it toward the freight elevator, hoping that the motion would make him and his aunt, the amoeba, blend in with the other mundane human energy signatures.

[They found the street drone.]

The drones flying a loose patrol between West Arcade and West Madison spotted the EM signature of Nick’s drone and attacked. Seconds later, the feed died along with the drone.

Next to him, the amoeba stabbed the freight elevator button frantically. Gears began turning and a distant whine drew closer.

Flail and his goon were in the elevator coming up to Four.

Nick said, Cross, activate the combat drones on Four. Keep them low and in front of the doors. The feeds from all three showed that they were hovering two inches above the carpet.

The elevator dinged on Four and the doors began to open.

Flail’s drones burst out of the elevator at shoulder-height, to sweep the hallway for threats before the bounty hunters stepped out.

Nick’s drones slipped by down at toe height.

His drones attacked the ankle of Flail’s sidekick as the lumbering man followed Flail’s drones out of the elevator. Each of Nick’s drones fired a blue stunner bolt into the bounty hunter’s ankle, toppling him into the hallway.

Flail’s five combat drones spun around.

Nick’s drones were on Flail before he could react. They attacked his shin and knee. Two fired stunner bolts and a third tried to sting him with knockout juice.

None of them pierced Flail’s armor. The bounty hunter dove out of the elevator and rolled to his feet.

Cross concentrated the three combat drones on Flail’s nearest drone. They blasted it with purple laser beams, popping its electronics like a cheap firework.

Before the drone’s blackened aerogel skeleton hit the floor, Nick’s drones corkscrewed through the air, firing on the remaining drones as they twisted.

Two more of Flail’s drones died and fell to the carpet. But one of Nick’s burst apart and another was heavily damaged.

Nick and Flail each had two functioning drones left in the fourth floor hallway.

On Six, a bell chimed. Kelly dragged Nick inside the freight elevator. Nick let her lead him in but kept his eyes glued to his drone feeds. He had a chance to take down Flail and possibly walk out of here.

Cross sent both drones at Flail’s knees. Flail swiped at them with his handgun, but only managed to whack himself in the kneecap, causing him to curse in Spanish.

Nick smiled; he had forgotten that the very Scandinavian Flail thought speaking Spanish made him sound tougher.

Nick’s drones flew around Flail’s body as though the blond bounty hunter exerted his own gravitational pull. Cross kept Flail’s body between Nick’s drones and Flail’s, which couldn’t fire without hitting their master. All they could do was chase. Cross kept whipping the drones around Flail, firing intermittently at the bounty hunter’s exposed skin. Flail jumped, cursed, yelped in pain, and lived up to his surname.

Flail’s drones pulled back, one behind their owner and one in front. Cross hurtled her damaged drone into the one behind Flail. Nick’s last functioning combat drone followed close behind, using it for cover.

Flail back-pedaled to give his other drone a clear shot.

The two drones shot each other into crisped shells that fell to the carpet. As his last drone’s feed died, Nick saw Flail run for room 437.

CHAPTER FOUR

The freight elevator bounced to a rough stop when it reached the ground floor. Nick unholstered Bruiser as he and his aunt raced into the kitchen. The tile and stainless steel room smelled of fried onions and fresh bread.

A young cook with short-cropped hair stopped scouring a stainless steel pot and ran over to block their way. This no guest area, no guests!

Nick wiggled Bruiser at the cook. He let them by.

Now what? Kelly asked.

Two junior cooks had propped open a battered back door. They were on the loading dock sneaking gels, oblivious to everything. Beyond it was the twenty-story parking garage.

Nick’s smartshades showed a man-sized infrared signature with a hand howitzer standing within view of the hotel’s rear entrance, thirty-five yards away. On the smartshades’ EM overlay, half a dozen drones circled the thug’s head like electromagnetic sprites. The thug was looking the other way, focused on the hotel’s actual rear entrance.

Cross, how many of these cars have alarms?

[62%]

Nick smiled. This would be totally iron, if it worked. He leaned outside between the gelled cooks, who stared at Bruiser like wide-eyed worshippers of a religious idol.

Flush me, you tool, what’s with the weaponry? one of the cooks said.

Nick winked at him and powered up Bruiser. He needed Cross’ assistance to line up the shot. He only had one chance at this. He put his arm against the hotel’s wall, steadying himself. When the crosshairs blinked green, he fired Bruiser with a dull hiss.

The blast straight-lined over a dumpster and caught the thug in the side. He slumped to the ground.

The drones swooped around their fallen master, then banked and accelerated toward Nick. A Simon must be operating them.

[32 yards and closing.]

Great, Nick muttered. He exchanged Bruiser for the even bigger white hand-cannon he called Thunker. As his partner Mica once said, sometimes you just need to blow a big, fucking hole in the wall. That was Thunker’s job.

Sweet, the older cook said when he saw Thunker. The younger cook backed up a yard. Nick, annoyed, shooed them both inside.

[20 yards.]

He dialed Thunker’s power setting all the way up to max. A deep bass thrumming began to increase in tempo inside the gun. Nick back-pedaled until he was just inside the kitchen and braced himself.

No, don’t do it, Kelly said as Thunker’s whine became a high-pitched keening.

Whatever you think this weapon does, I can assure you it’s much worse, Nick said.

[10 yards.]

He pulled the trigger.

CHAPTER FIVE

In the small courtyard behind the hotel, Thunker’s detonation charge boomed and created a shock wave that scattered the incoming drones like cellophane wrappers in a hurricane.

Nick felt a brief moment of glee before the roaring shock wave picked him up and tossed him like a rag doll.

He slammed into a freezer door, the smell of burned plastic rushing up his nose. He could see car alarms flashing in the parking garage and pots and pans hitting the floor as he slumped to the brown hexagonal tile floor. But he heard nothing.

He stood slowly, despite his inner ear insisting that he was standing on the wall.

Sound returned with a moist, painful pop.

Two dozen car alarms screeched, honked, and bleated outside. He could hear a rumble as the explosion’s thunder echoed between the hotel and parking garage, and rolled down the glass canyons for blocks around.

Are you okay? Kelly yelled in his ear.

He winced and jerked his head away. He found his smartshades and put them back on.

Yeah.

He swiveled his head around, looking for Flail. A weapon’s heat signature was on the third floor, coming down the stairs fast.

Nick deactivated Bruiser and Thunker to snuff their power signatures. Hopefully with other people roaming the first floor, Flail wouldn’t spot him immediately.

Nick guided his aunt out of the kitchen. Kelly wound up to run, but he placed a hand on her arm, forcing her to walk normally. They turned up the hallway that led to the front entrance. As he passed a fire alarm on the wall, he pulled it. Lights strobed along the hallway and a klaxon blatted.

He pulled out Slugger, a dark green projectile gun. It didn’t have an energy signature and would keep them anonymous a little longer.

They were halfway to the lobby, Nick could see the front desk, when his netpad rang.

[Rob] Cross texted.

Nick sighed and answered it. I’m busy with the job you forced on me, he whispered.

Oh yeah, is everything okay? Rob asked. I hear a fire alarm.

Nick and his aunt ran for the lobby. People poured into the hallway behind them, some walking quickly, others running. Perfect, they could slip out with the crowd.

Flail’s weapon signature was fighting its way toward the lobby through people pouring into the stairwell from the second floor.

Nick replied. Yeah, it’s great. Did you give me this job on purpose? Remember, Cross can tell from your voice if you’re lying.

Behind Nick, someone yelled ‘Gun!’ The person was pointing at Slugger, which Nick tried to tuck inside his coat. The crowd noticed his smartshades, armored jacket, and trio of oversized weapons, and ran in the other direction.

So much for hiding in a crowd.

Rob said, This better not be an excuse, Nick—

Nick shot back, Did you set me up? Did you know who the amoeba was?

No, I have no idea, Rob retorted. I’m telling the truth, right?

[He is.]

Never mind, Rob, what do you want now?

I’ll be quick, his boss said, I’m sending you all the scut jobs.

Flail’s weapons signature was bobbing its way toward the lobby up the parallel hallway.

Really? Nick asked as he rushed Kelly into the lobby. The clerk had donned a fluorescent vest and was locking up the front desk.

Rob replied, Everyone else is in Berlin. You’re it, pal.

A gunshot boomed. The revolving door ahead of Nick exploded into a waterfall of glass shards that flew onto the sidewalk. Someone began screaming from the rear of the hotel.

Nick pulled his aunt behind the decorative wall that separated the lobby from the elevators and shoved her down behind a sofa.

"Is someone shooting?" Rob asked in his ear.

Nick hung up.

He reached around the corner and fired at Flail’s heat signature. Studs, drywall, and cheap spray-on wallpaper exploded into an expanding cloud. No return fire came.

He pulled Kelly to her feet and started for where the door used to be. They were no more than five yards away.

Lincoln! The scream was primal, feral.

Nick pointed Slugger at Flail, shielding his aunt behind him.

She kept on sprinting out the door and was gone.

Oh, shit.

Flail stepped out of the dust cloud. He looked like an angry drywall demon with a bloody right arm. No weapon signatures on infrared.

You are one dead hombre, Flail said behind clenched teeth.

His left hand reached behind his back.

Nick, remembering that his former partner kept a gas-propelled, single-shot pistol back there, did the universe a favor, and shot him in the chest.

Flail looked thoroughly surprised as he fell backward into the dust cloud and disappeared.

Nick wished he could gloat over Flail’s corpse, but his aunt had escaped. By the time he ran into the street, she was already halfway up the block.

He began to chase her.

Kelly stopped when Flail’s last thug came around the corner ahead of her. She was trapped between the two bounty hunters. Sirens whined in the distance.

Nick didn’t slow down. He wasn’t killing anyone else tonight; he holstered Slugger and drew Bruiser as he ran toward his aunt. He used her body to shield him from Flail’s thug.

The thug fidgeted, not wanting to kill the amoeba — the reward was for a live capture.

Nick fired over his aunt’s shoulder. The thug slid to the sidewalk like a rag doll.

She turned around, breathing hard, surprised to see him standing right behind her.

He sprayed her wrists with BondCuff before she could react. He didn’t stop until it looked like a purple foam python was squeezing the life out of her wrists.

Kelly glared at him. I’m okay, in case you were wondering.

Nick grunted. I know. I can read your pulse, blood pressure, heart rate, and respiration.

She gave him an angry look.

He hurried her down the street and west on Arcade before an emergency vehicle appeared on South Franklin. Then the two turned south on Wacker Drive.

Nick didn’t fear being arrested, he feared getting tied up in documenting what happened. The Chicago police would want statements from him and his aunt. More competition might show up in the mean time and contest his capture of the amoeba.

Cross, patch in the audio feed from the emergency dispatch rebroadcast.

The rebroadcast was a ratings bonanza, allowing voyeuristic viewers to know about every domestic assault, heart attack, and rape when they were called in. Then it followed the emergency response in real time with on-the-scene reports and in-studio commentary.

Nick wanted the in-studio commentary, because it a gave a more complete picture of the situation.

His ear piece crackled. Shots fired, fire alarm activated on South Franklin. Reports of an explosion or fire. Public safety units are responding. Possible bounty hunter activity, the dispatcher said.

Now, drawled the announcer’s voice, a developing story in the financial district. The police have cordoned off the Fresh-Pressed Suites Hotel, says our reporter on the scene, Boone Frye. There are bounty hunters in the area, but the action appears to be over.

Nick wasn’t concerned about Chicago’s finest pursuing him. Bounty hunters could operate freely in the city as long as they were working a legitimate job from the BHN.

He was worried about second-rate bounty hunters hanging around the hotel, hoping a lucky break would put the amoeba within easy reach. Without any drones, Nick would lose any fight against a bounty hunter with drones, like sending an infantry grunt against a squadron of fighter planes.

Nick and Kelly ran across the gray, carbon-fiber Adams Bridge, then walked briskly another block. Nick kept his head on a swivel, sweeping the street up ahead, and behind them for drones or weapon signatures. It was clear both ways. They stopped to catch their breath under a pharmacy’s brightly lit windows.

The street was nearly empty, with a few couples huddling together against the wind gusts, and half a dozen business-types coming out of Union Station wearing high-end overcoats.

Nick checked the emergency dispatch coverage again. The police were still sweeping through the building and a reporter had unconfirmed reports of a shootout.

He looked up and down the street for weapons signatures or drones. We’re clear, he announced.

His aunt stood up and held out her BondCuffed wrists. Now let me go.

CHAPTER SIX

Nick scowled; he almost forgotten that he had a choice over his aunt’s fate.

If I let you go, I lose my job, and have to start my entire life over, Nick said. I’ll have to go back to my parents’ Stabilized Community. I’ll have a miserable life there, the example people will point out: there’s the snobby punk who left to make it in the world and failed horribly.

Kelly looked entirely unconvinced. I could get you set up better than you are now. She held out her hands.

He looked at her purple-coated wrists. If he entertained her offer at all, he needed to see if she was on the level. I don’t know you at all. Where have you been all these years, Aunt Kelly?

She lowered her hands. Just call me Kelly. I went offworld, she said. I went to university in the Belt, worked my way out to Neptune and back, traveled the system. I’m married, have two children, and live on a Venusian hab.

On the smartshades, her biochem telltales said she was telling the truth.

How come I never met you? Nick asked.

She sighed. I left before you learned to sit up. Your mother and I, well, we never got along.

His mother. Anna Hernandez Lincoln famously put family above all other considerations. Nick had found out the hard way that any relative who left the nest was dead to her. Even when he took a bounty hunter job in Chicago, he still came home every Thanksgiving, but was ignored by everyone but his four-year-old niece.

So if I let you go, do I keep any chance of reconciling with my parents?

Kelly made a face. Probably not. No matter what you do.

She was telling the truth, at least in her opinion.

I don’t agree. If I keep my job, I still have a chance to make this work. To convince them I still can be part of the family.

He had Cross call for a taxi and then replied, You’ll stay in prison a few months, or pay an early release fine if you can afford it. Either way you’ll walk eventually. If I let you go, I lose my job. I don’t have a choice.

His aunt squared her shoulders. Come with me and join the Kagents. I know you’ve always wanted to.

Nick smiled. I get offworld offers all the time. Own a diamond mine in the Belt, be a Jovian porn star.

I’m a Kagent, she said.

Kagents were elite offworld data analysts who protected privacy and used aggregated data to advance knowledge and understanding. Nick laughed. No, you’re desperate to avoid jail.

A desperate Kagent then.

Prove it, he demanded.

I was staying in a hotel right near where you live, Kelly replied. Tomorrow I planned to visit you. To recruit you.

Her biochem telltales indicated she was telling the truth. He motioned her across the street to Union Station.

You want more proof? his aunt asked. Tell me what the charges against me are.

Cross had to retrieve the list of charges — Nick never bothered looking at them. Political interference, cultural trespassing, info-terrorism, economic-terrorism, and so on.

His