The Viridian Path

By Steve Kuehn

2083 AD
From the ashes of Earth to the terrifying murk of Cygnus Space, there is no escaping the Viridian Path. In a time of exploration and human ingenuity, mankind languishes captive to the Path's galactic web of tyranny, trapped behind Walls built as much from scorn as from synthetic concrete. To flee the enforced collective is to be hunted to the end of the Galaxy by the Federal Government's coldblooded Reclamation Army.
On New America, while the Galaxy's ruling family plays god, their cloned son, Alex Halder, risks everything to bring an end to the Path's ruthless control. Employing the help of an insane Senator and an eclectic band of Freedom Fighters, Alex races to overthrow the Viridian Path even as a Chinese collection armada closes in on America's crumbling capital in search of money the establishment long ago spent.
Eternally desperate for other people's money, President Quarterback and the elites of the Path wield cyborgs, trial lawyers and other agents of evil in a bid to maintain absolute power.
As Senator Jack Wheeler fights his way back to Earth for a showdown with Washington's elite machine, Alex Halder learns the terrifying truth of the mysterious Kalban people and the sweeping Cygnus Sickness following them from the Void. A captive of his bureaucratic family and consumed by doubt for humanity's salvation, Alex Halder is haunted by the memory of a young girl he has never met
and believes he has discovered the source of all human misery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 16, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524603441

Steve Kuehn

Steve Kuehn is the author of numerous science fiction novels. Born in St. Louis, Missouri in 1970, he has travelled much of the United States and the world, making his present home deep in the heart of Texas. Over the years he has worked as a writer, editor, executive chef, fitness trainer, artist, college tutor, disc jockey and farm hand. He doesn’t own a TV, but has a couple of good dogs and a refrigerator full of beer.

Book preview

In memory of Jeffrey Alan Kester

1964-2015

The

Viridian Path

Steve Kuehn

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2016 Steve Kuehn. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/13/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-0345-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-0344-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Friday November 19, 2083

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Beyond the Fire

Live free or die: Death is not the worst of evils.

-General John Stark

Friday November 19, 2083

T he bomb blast shook Washingto n DC.

Rebounding off the city wall, echoes thundered back across the rainy spaceport, igniting desperate alarm klaxons and sending travelers running for cover. Alex Halder found himself alone at the edge of the tarmac. He wasn’t afraid of dying, but he was afraid.

Get out of sight! his bodyguard called from behind. Mr. Poole had ducked inside the terminal entrance, gun drawn, waiting for his charge to take cover.

The explosion— Alex said with forced calm —if it was going to kill us it would have done so already.

Poole swore at him and Alex hid an anxious smile.

At the tarmac’s far edge, four steely androids emerged onto the top of a grassy slope, parguns in hand. Right on time, they marched between the parked star cruisers directly towards the terminal.

Here comes trouble for you, Alex called over his shoulder, but his bodyguard had already begun shooting.

Get inside! Poole roared.

Particle beams sizzled across the tarmac, flashing off the terminal’s long windows and lingering as ribbons of steam in the steady rain. The androids were not programmed to shoot at Alex, but his bodyguard didn’t know that. With luck, one of them might actually shoot Mr. Poole dead. Alex could hope. To both the east and west security bots rose into the air and swept in on the doomed androids.

With his bodyguard finally distracted, Alex hurried away.

Briefcase in hand, he pulled down the rim of his hat against rain and hurried past the terminal wall, directly towards the tunnels opening onto the tarmac. One of them should deliver a promised limousine. Where was it? Those androids wouldn’t hold out very long against Poole.

Fifty feet ahead, a gravlimo floated into through an arched portal.

A guard hurried along the wall to cut Alex off.

This is an Elite portal. No one’s allowed... he barked.

No one? Alex smiled sardonically and the man gasped with recognition.

Y-yes of course, Mr. Halder. The guard fled back into the portal.

The limo glided to a halt and the rear window slid down. Behind Alex, particle beams crackled and banged; a rocket crashed loudly into the tarmac. Thankfully, the androids seemed to be putting up a fight. The man Reverend called Rocket poked his smiling face out the limo window, eyes big behind ancient framed glasses.

Did you like my bomb, Mr. Halder? he grinned and swept peppered hair back from his brow. Bat shit and rocket fuel this time around. Federal synthbombs have nothing on my work.

You’re bat-shit, alright, Alex said and Rocket’s smile vanished.

He stooped to peer inside the limo.

A woman sitting next to the bomb maker smiled at him. One of the High Forum’s exotic dancers; Athena she called herself. Across from her an android leaned toward the window, fixing Alex with its glowing blue eyes; rain drifting in ran unnoticed down its steel face.

Alex Halder, the Reverend sends his good wishes, sir, the android laughed, steel teeth clattering in the most annoying way. Alex couldn’t guess what such a robot’s intended function might have been, but it always seemed to be delivering bad news. Today it held an old-fashioned manila folder in its steel hand, There is Hope in All Things printed across its cover in cheerful script.

It really was the Reverend, then.

Excitement momentarily washed out Alex’s fear.

One copy for the Speaker of the House and one for the Senate, the android chuckled idiotically and lifted the folder to the window. The crystal copy is for the Chinese. Beam it to them as soon as possible—double encrypted. Then destroy it ... unless you want all the glory. Insane metallic laughter.

Alex took the folder. Heavier than he’d expected; obviously a long and thorough bill—as it should be. He felt the minute lump of a data crystal at the folder’s bottom, as well. The Reverend’s bold and brazen challenge to the all-powerful establishment of the Viridian Path had finally arrived. Alex had heard rumors that such a piece of legislation might actually exist...

And now he held it in his trembling hand.

An apprehensive glance determined the four androids were finally toast, just scrap scattered across smoking asphalt. Mr. Poole still stalked them, gun in hand, but he’d uncoiled from his cautious crouch.

Time’s up.

Alex startled Rocket as he hastily slammed the briefcase down on the limo’s open window and popped the locks open. Stuffing the folder inside, he snapped the case shut again as fast as he could.

Even the android recoiled from the suddenness.

There’s someone coming, the dancer warned.

I’ll bet there is.

Alex didn’t look back but pulled a crystal key card from the pocket of his suit and quickly handed it to the android. Only then did he notice the robot was wearing an old cowboy hat. It tipped the brim back, glanced once at the approaching figure and then at the card.

Jennifer Tasker? it asked, not laughing for once.

Yes. Make sure she gets it, where ever she’s vanished to.

The android tipped his hat, looking ridiculous.

Across from him, Rocket’s eyes narrowed bitterly on Alex. I bet they watch you even when you shit, he said, clearly enjoying saying so. You’ll be lucky to ever see the other side of the Wall.

Alex stared down at him, suddenly calm. Rocket, just do as you’re told. And for the rest of you— he raised his voice slightly "—get out of here."

In a whoosh of driving rain, the gravlimo backed out through the portal and sped away.

Who was that? Mr. Poole demanded, suddenly a step behind him.

Even in the rain, Alex could smell the man’s oddly putrid odor ... a stink that trailed Alex’s every move for some thirty-seven years.

A couple of Senators looking for money, he said without turning. When I told them I didn’t have any they took off in a hurry.

I wasn’t told of any Senators arriving at the spaceport, Poole rumbled, unaware it had been a joke.

The pretentiousness. Alex glared back at the bodyguard. I’m sure they don’t give a shit if you know where they are, you fucking idiot.

Poole lurched forward, seized Alex’s arm. Get on that ship, Alex, he growled dangerously. Father’s waiting for you back on New America.

The rush of adrenaline the bill had brought on was now fading and Alex only felt weary. Out by the Wall surrounding the city, rain pounded clouds of smoke rising from the hole left behind by Rocket’s bat shit bomb. Maybe Poole suspected the diversion, even if he didn't see the actual exchange take place. He wasn’t entirely stupid—just insane.

Alex faced him. Okay... let’s go.

Starting for the ship, Poole shoved him back two steps.

Who was in that limo? Poole’s eyes flashed a deadly arctic blue.

Carrying the salvation of the human race in his briefcase, today was not a good day for Alex Halder to die. Must choose his words wisely, a task one would think easy for a man who writes speeches for the President of the United States—

Girl Scouts, he tried and shook his head. They were selling cookies. I love cookies.

Poole’s face darkened.

A poor joke; Girl Scouts were illegal under Viridian Path law. So were cookies of any kind.

Leaning close, the bodyguard growled low. You know, your mother wants me to kill you.

"No doubt. She has anger issues; the woman writes for The Times, after all, Alex said trying to keep his voice even. But if you kill me, Father will have no more use for you. I am your purpose in life, dumbass. Let that sink into that petrified turd rolling around inside your head."

Alex walked around the bodyguard and headed for the ship.

After a moment, Poole followed.

Chapter One

G ray Summit spotted them immediately—huddled, half-buried at the bottom of the hole. Four or five ancient humanoid skeletons engaged in it what appeared to be a group embrace, ribcages and eye sockets filled with dark, alien soil. On closer inspection they’d been behe aded.

Summit shut off the digger.

Almost human in appearance. Almost. How they’d gotten all the way out here to the edge of the Milky Way Galaxy was anyone’s guess. A mystery unsolved until humanity decides to stop annihilating itself. At any rate, this was nothing for five year old eyes to dwell on.

Max, let’s go to the house, he told his son.

Characteristically curious, Max peered into the beginnings of his highly anticipated swimming pool. Who were they, Dad?

I don’t know, son. People from long ago. Hiding his dismay over such a ghastly find, Summit rose from the machine’s seat and took the boy by his hand. Overhead, small alien birds flitted through quicksilver trees, squawking uneasily.

Someone knocked their heads off, Max said offhandedly, then froze, voice falling into a conspiring whisper. Dad...

Yes, son?

They have fangs ....

Yes, I see. And small horns on their heads, too. Summit shrugged. Don’t worry about it, son. Come on. A soldier, not an anthropologist, Summit would return later, cover the grave and dig Max’s swimming pool on the far side of the yard. Let’s help your mother make dinner. Afterwards I’ll teach you to paint.

Max wrinkled his nose. Paint walls? That’s boring, dad. Dutifully he followed his father. Were they bad people, dad?

Summit glanced back at the fanged humanoids. No way to tell, Max. I didn’t know them.

Carlitos raced down the yard towards them, little white tail twitching. Max scooped the Chihuahua into his arms.

They have fangs like Carlitos. See!

That doesn’t make Carlitos bad, does it?

Carlitos licked Max’s face, causing the boy to giggle. "No ... but people aren’t supposed to have fangs."

With people, it’s not what’s inside their mouth, Max, but rather what comes out of it. Attitude is everything, appearance is nothing.

They started up the yard for the cottage.

I know, dad. Mom’s Mexican and you came from behind the Wall...

Summit laughed. True. I guess...

An explosion ripped through the forest, shaking trees violently and launching frantic birds into the sky. Black smoke boiled into the distant sky.

Summit touched his son’s shoulder. That came from the direction of town. Bring Carlitos. Hurry.

Something just blew up, dad. Calm like his father, Max had heard enough explosions in his short life.

His mother was a different story. Rounding the corner of the house, roses in hand, dark eyes round with horror; Angela cried for her son, dropping everything and hauled the boy into her arms. "Not here, too, dear God. Not them. Will they never give up?"

Let’s not jump to conclusions, Summit told her as she chased him into the house.

Of course, only military ordnance could shake miles of forested hills like that blast did. They were under attack. I’ll go see what the problem is. Probably a false alarm ... an equipment malfunction uptown, he assured. We’re too far from Federal space for them to have found us so soon.

Max followed him, clamored onto the sofa in the small living room. Carlitos whimpered and Summit reached for the pargun on the wall. Truthfully, Liberty 7 would need more than just rifles to repel this enemy.

I’ll be back in a few minutes.

No! Angela choked. Ten years of grief and frustration; war and fleeing.

Summit kissed her and turned, but Angela didn’t let go.

"If it is them again, she whispered urgently, —then stay with us. We can run away like before."

I have to go to town. If it’s bad, I’ll be right back. Remember we can’t just keep running. Too many people believed that would work in the past and that’s why the Feds keep stealing star-systems … people keep running scared.

Max sat up suddenly, whispering with dread. "Dad, a big shadow just passed over the house."

A brave boy, but he knew about them.

Another explosion thundered, closer this time. Carlitos yelped and buried himself in the sofa cushions.

With any attack, time is precious. Summit pulled away. I’ll be right back.

The cottage door fell shut behind him.

He could feel her anguished stare follow him to the car. Trusting Fate once too often—this time he was never coming back.

A real possibility. Another shadow passed overhead. With little militia in place and no space support against invasion ... Liberty 7 just might be the last bounce.

Rounding the flag pole, Summit leapt into his battered 2067 Pontiac GTO. Vintage red, blown-out black interior of leather and frayed aerospace tape, it was one of the last old ground cars around.

Flags he and Angela embraced snapped overhead amidst the silver tree branches. They had come to like this place—this new home.

He roared away.

Shafts of forest sunlight flashed on the windshield. Summit spotted something huge sweeping over the field beyond and kicked in the GTO’s lift-cap on. Thrusters roared and the car’s tires lifted free of the road as screaming velocity churned a comet trail of gravel behind them.

Reaching the hilltop beyond the trees, monstrous flames shot into the sky. Summit slowed the car and stared down into the valley.

Like a family quilt spread across the floor of the valley, Liberty Town had been shot full of burning holes.

Familiar dread. The inferno at the center of town had been City Hall. Judging by the size of the crater, that was the first blast he and Max had heard. Particle beams sizzled across the city, people screamed. Folks fled down streets towards the town’s grassy edges—

—straight into a trap.

Uniformed invaders charged into town, a purple tide of murder rolling into freshly paved streets. Plasma batons and parguns were brought to bear against the helpless. Home cooked lunches, holovision tablets, family pets were trampled under Federal-issue boots. Dogs were shot. Doors were kicked in. As always, the youngest children were swept up and hauled away screaming, their resisting parents put down. Through the carnage, the town’s small militia scrambled, fighting back with parguns, picking off Federal marauders with pinpoint particle-beam sniping.

At the first sign of resistance, the invaders turned and fled, crashing headlong into their own reinforcements. Cowards.

Throttling the steering wheel, Summit’s gaze swung towards the fields.

A Federal dropship crouched at the edge of town, a steel tarantula disgorging soldiers from its mouth like a monster violently sick. This third wave of attackers consisted mostly of Federal demolition teams. Hiding behind purple masks, they used grenades to blast parked cars to pieces, showing total disregard for bystanders maimed by the sizzling shrapnel. Into the tree-lined avenues these zealous crews hurled incendiary grenades through windows, turning homes and shops into fuel for their wanton rage.

Bitter black smoke swept over Summit. He’d seen this show a hundred times before.

Federal Reclamation had come to Liberty 7.

It’s what the Federal Unity Army was bred to do—destroy other people’s property. The Feds hadn’t come to Liberty 7 merely to collect taxes—they’d come to arrest the colony’s citizenry and wipeout everything they owned. It was the will of the Viridian Path. By order of President Bruce Quarterback and his Unity Army, nature would reclaim Liberty 7 from humanity.

Ground shook as bombs destroyed Liberty Town building by building.

Summit punched the gas, raced past a barn overlooking the valley—a small group of men had hastily erected a parcannon in the yard and were blasting away at the near-distant dropship—

Oh shit.

A shadow dropped in the road before him.

Summit slammed on the brake, felt the bite of seatbelts as reverse thrusters groaned with inertia.

Not a shadow but a soldier astride a gravbike.

Dumbass.

Tires descended to earth and the GTO skidded long, throwing gravel, stopping seventy-one inches short of crushing bike and rider. Summit grabbed his pargun and leapt from the car.

You would have gone through my windshield, you fuckin’ idiot. Steely eyes followed him around the car’s nose. The helmet, the badge, the blue uniform; Federal Elite—complete with epaulets towering over each shoulder and a sidearm.

You are under arrest for violations, including but not exclusive to Tax Codes seventy-six; one-o-eight; ninety-two and thirty-two through fifty-four inclusively, the rider intoned in an odd voice. Beneath his helmet a gaunt face gleamed a neutral bronze befitting of his position. Dull eyes blinked with a randomness Summit had long associated with Federal Research and Community programming.

Android.

He glared at the machine. Arrest? You don’t even know who I am.

Synthetic eyes narrowed in a parody of disdain. Built in sensors read his biometrics. Name … it spat. Summit, Gray Swift. Born, March fourth, 2049; Camp Fly-Over, Midwest Territory, Earth. Latex lips drew back exposing molded synth-teeth. "Occupation: Pirate."

Summit sighed. Sometimes you just have to make a stand. You’ve got it all wrong, he calmly insisted. I’m just a regular guy with a kitchen that needs painting, a porch that needs new steps, and a wife and son that depend on me. He stared into those lenses. But I guess that’s why you’re here, right?

By your own admission— the android cut in —you are in possession of property that does not belong to you. Home ownership is a direct violation of Viridian Path law number thirty-eight. Summit let it rattle on. Raising children without a Federal license issued by the Department of Education finds you guilty of Viridian Path law number fourteen. You may be guilty on multiple charges, depending on how many children are found in your possession.

Bored, Summit scratched his characteristic white hair. He’s my child, he cut in, unwilling to surrender the truth. My son. I’m his father. I provide for him. That’s how it works in nature.

You are prisoner one-one-eight-four C … C as in College, P as in Pacifist, seven, zero, ni…

A quick shot from the hip, the high-density particle beam blasted through the android’s torso, dispersing fiery FRC components down the road. Gutted, gun frozen in hand, it toppled from the saddle, inert and somehow miserable-looking.

Staring up at Summit, dead as a box of old fuses, a shadow darkened its lenses.

A dropship plunged through clouds, black belly huge as cannons swiveled and bellowed red fury. Barn and parcannon exploded, showering burning bodies across the hilltop. Turning hard, it sped towards home.

Summit leapt back into the GTO, cut a U-turn and raced after it.

Time still to get off planet, but not much.

Liberty 7 had been colonized only eight years earlier, harboring a secret population somewhere between sixty and ninety thousand souls. Most of the six dozen villages scattered across the planet’s single continent knew of each other at least by name. Tucked twelve-hundred parsecs deep into the Cygnus Arm, the seventh planet of the Liberty system was still a Free State secret. Consequently, no Federal Wall contained it.

This made escape much simpler if one could just get off the planet.

Summit raced to his family, gravel swirling, cracking the Pontiac’s windshield in a half-dozen places. Most Federal Reclamation invasions measured in minutes, leaving him to curse himself for not making escape arrangements sooner. An interplanetary cruiser was docked in Ravenwing just past the dried up river. Angela and Max could escape from there … that is if the ship’s owner hadn’t panicked and bolted with his own family at the first sight of a Federal dropship.

Their flagpole appeared above the glittering trees—nostalgic stars and stripes unfurling above a timeworn yellow Gadsden flag; above all, Angela’s silky black Dos Rosas emblazed with twin crimson roses. Summit dropped the big car out of lift-cap, skidded long through shadows to a stop. Familiar white birds flitted past the family cottage, singing stridently in the sudden silence. Angela would be racing around the cottage’s interior, packing luggage with a terrible efficiency mastered through years as a refugee.

Always wanted better for their son, but the Federal empire was ever relentless. One either fought and died or learned to move quickly. Surrender was to lose one’s soul.

The dropship pounced onto the road before him.

For an instant, Summit believed the ship had impaled itself on their flagpole but the aluminum mast had simply crumpled beneath the steel monster. Flinging open its mandibles, a willing bunch of purple-coated marauders lunged into the road. Like angry insects, half-blind from space travel, they scattered beneath the trees.

Summit dove away just as the dropship’s forward cannon blasted his GTO to pieces.

He popped up in the ditch firing full-auto. Stuttering particle beams cut through the mob. Bloodied survivors fled screaming and Summit chased them with deadly Eagle Company precision.

The turret swung again.

Rolling away from another ear-splitting blast, Summit charged headlong through a shower of burning gravel, crashing headlong into the stunned invaders.

They fell upon him, violent and indignant. Fiery plasma batons hissed to life like a nest of burning white snakes. As they closed in, Summit swung his rifle in a vicious arc, shattering a man’s face, flicking the gun first behind himself then to the front, letting off a pair of sharp blasts. Stunned by the counterattack, their bloodlust quickly cooled to terrified dismay. Half of the soldiers attacked while the others turned tail. Summit anticipated each sloppy attack, his particle beam blasting through armored limbs as his knife flashed and vanished, cutting out throats and splitting hamstrings. Still, the angry ones came. Summit thrust his boot clear through a charging soldier’s knee, pivoted and fired point-blank into three successive attackers, blinding a fourth with the exit blast.

Panic took hold. Summit cherished the screams and curses of the undisciplined and dying. Rarely did Unity thugs meet resistance. Overwhelming a single helpless man was the Unity Army’s calling card—but Gray Summit was Eagle Company and he carved a bloody path towards his home and family.

Across the rabble, the commanding officer waited astride his gravbike, maintaining a cautious distance while watching his men die. Spinning, Summit blew the bike from beneath him. Subordinates ripped to red ribbons, somehow the screaming officer survived.

Driven by rage, the bolder brutes leapt and surrounded Summit.

He plunged into them.

A rabid little man faced him, snapping out his plasma baton. An excellent choice of weapon in such close quarters—it forced Summit to turn his rifle and swing it like a club. Plasma slashed the gun neatly in half. Summit ducked inside the soldier’s follow-up swing and buried a long knife into a seam of body armor, wrenching the blade sharply as he yanked it free. Hurling the dying man into the path of an attacker, he spun in time to lop off another baton at the wrist.

Not real soldiers, Summit knew, just angry uniformed amateurs. The Galaxy was full of them.

Screaming insanely, another soldier lunged.

Summit twisted beneath a white-hot baton thrust and snatched up a fallen pistol. At such close range the particle beam blasted through shock-armor, blinding the soldier’s backup with violent red steam.

A pack of whipped wolves, the thugs slunk back.

Bloody and stunned, the Elite officer crawled from his burning gravbike. Enforce Reclamation! Enforce … he bawled.

Summit took careful aim, filling the road with blood.

Commanding officer blown to pieces, blind insanity took hold. A tide of purple fury raced for Summit’s cottage.

Summit snatched up a fallen rifle and gave chase.

Thugs trampled over Angela’s roses, raised incendiary grenades and took aim at the cottage’s curtained windows. Pargun against shoulder, Summit snuffed them with a furious staccato sweep.

Before the first body could even drop Summit ducked and rolled, narrowly avoiding another blast from the dropship.

Instincts screamed—

Beyond the cottage, Angela ran for the woods, clutching their son in her arms. The red ribbon she’d tied her long black hair back with had come loose. Max stared back over her shoulder looking dismayed. Carlitos! he called.

The woman is getting away, bellowed another officer. Summit silenced him with a blast through the gut.

A solitary soldier drew his knife and gave chase. Summit’s shot sizzled clear through him—pitching torso face-down amidst thorny roses while his legs drummed mindlessly in the road behind.

Angela and Max vanished into the woods.

Howling mad, a soldier pounced onto Summit’s back, slamming him to the gravel road.

The tackle saved his life from the parcannon but—

He found himself at a dangerous disadvantage. Strong as hell and angry, the brute quickly went to work strangling him.

The dreaded chokehold. Day one of Liberty Army training had been hand-to-hand combat, back on Earth before Reclamation; back when Bruce Quarterback was just another ambitious asshole dreaming of becoming President. Summit had hated wrestling then, too, and a chokehold remained his worst enemy.

Black spots swam before his eyes; a giant knee pinned his back as hands of stone crushed his neck. From the corner of a watering eye Summit spotted apprehensive soldiers slowly approach.

Get ’im, one of them demanded. He’s a Bully.

A strangely childish claim for a combat soldier, but Summit understood far more about these men than most Free State folk ever would. Growing up a captive behind the Wall he knew what these soldiers were made to think. Made to fear.

Kill you, boy! Gonna kill you, the attacker grunted, trying to crush Summit’s throat. A crowd of purple-clad bystanders accumulated. Everyone wants in on the kill.

Kill him, Apples! the second captain screamed from where he lay, smoke gushing from his blasted belly.

Darkness closed as his windpipe clamped shut.

He watched the wounded captain roll over in the yard and hurl an incendiary grenade through Max’s bedroom window. The blast instantly filled the house with flames. Summit could hear Carlitos screaming inside. Go get the woman and the kid, the captain groaned. Arrest them for resisting Reclamation.

Apples tightened his grip. Through the swelling darkness, Summit watched Carlitos pawing desperately at the living room window.

A new chaos erupted.

The dropship exploded, flinging Summit and Apples into the air.

Apples lost his grip on Summit, costing him his life. Summit’s combat knife whistled around, sliding between Apple’s cervical vertebras number two and three, effectively lopping off his head.

Gasping for breath, Summit took quick survey, catching a glimpse of another ship rapidly approaching above the trees.

Terrified soldiers fled for the woods as the new arrival’s heavy plasma cannon tracked them, mercilessly burning the invaders to ash. Summit hamstrung a pair of fleeing soldiers and fled from the burning dropship.

A shiny cruiser crashed through trees and settled in the road. One of those luxury interplanetary types equipped with a luminous reflective energy shield, twin plasma cannons and undoubtedly a powerful Kalban drive. Angela and Max emerged from the woods and scrambled frantically for the safety of the ship’s open hatch. Thundering parcannons offered cover as they climbed aboard.

Angela leaned out, calling desperately to Summit.

Snapping up a pargun, he knocked off a pair of soldiers rounding the burning house. Angela clung to the open hatch as Summit yelled for her to get inside. She implored, voice lost beneath the roaring crossfire.

Summit sprinted for the ship.

Nearly there, Max inexplicably jumped from the safety of the cruiser and ran towards the burning house.

Carlitos.

Screaming in horror, Angela followed. Wild particle beams chased her.

Awe, shit. Summit skidded to halt and turned.

His little boy was fast.

Hurdling flower beds and bodies, Max dashed across the lawn as Carlitos howled in the window, eyes bulging with terror, paws churning desperately against the smoky glass.

One of the bodies near the porch pulled itself upright.

The officer with the gut-wound lurched up the porch steps. Summit held his fire as Max raced straight towards the man, oblivious to everything but his crying dog. Max Bravo vaulted fearlessly over the porch railing, landing with a tumble. His mom caught up to him where he rolled up against the officer’s feet.

She snatched the boy desperately into her arms. Max protested. She turned to flee but the soldier snagged a fistful of her long hair.

Heartbroken, Carlitos howled as the curtains erupted into flames.

Angela screamed—

Summit lunged.

Here’s the spanking your House Mother never gave you, Summit yelled, thrusting his knife neatly between the man and his wife. The officer staggered in shock as the blade opened his belly.

Trying to hold his spilling entrails in place, he forgot about his prize. Summit grabbed the man by his hair and hurled him face-first through the cottage’s front door. Flames roared as oxygen rushed into burning maw, nearly dragging Summit in with it.

Ears flat against his skull, Carlitos darted from the door and ran yelping after Max, leaping desperately into the boy’s outstretched arms even as Angela hauled him away.

Inside the house the officer screamed high and anguished. Mommyyyyyyyyy!

Summit rounded, sprinting away before the incendiary grenades on the officer’s belt could blow.

Boy holding dog, mother carrying son, Summit scooped all three up on the run and made a mighty leap for the ship’s hatch. The house exploded. Gravel rattled off the side of the ship as the shock wave hurled them into the safety of the interior.

One more escape.

Summit glanced back. The glittering trees everyone found so pretty upon arrival to Liberty 7 burned; the house was gone, the car, the dropship had burst open and burning soldiers tumbled from its innards. Summit found himself feeling sorry for them.

This was the way of the Viridian Path.

2

Summit sprawled atop plush carpeting, inhaling the rich aroma of imported tobacco caught in its fine weave. He’d clearly been rescued by a man of very high standards. The ship’s hatch auto-sealed. Adrenalin fled him, leaving his limbs heavy and trembling with the aftermath of combat. He rolled over onto his back and let the impossibly soft carpet embrace him. They’d landed inside an opulently appointed cabin; glowing gold tassels streamed from pillows and sofas, hand-crafted cornices edged walls and ceiling, fantastic murals spread across a ceiling of soothing grays and lavenders and jade.

Hovering over him, Angela gasped relief. She brushed back his tell-tale white hair, her whispers as gentle as her touch. Beyond the black curtain of her hair Max sat, speaking excitedly to someone nearby, clutching Carlitos.

A violin concerto filled the cabin. Beyond the baroque curtains the world suddenly flew away.

Light turned to darkness and stars winked into view as Liberty 7 was left behind. Kalban drive, indeed. Despite the obvious velocity, highly attuned grav-generators left the ship’s interior unmoved—not one crystal in the overhead chandelier tinkled as the ship raced into orbit. Personally, Summit only knew of one person with such advanced tastes.

He found that man twenty feet away speaking with his son.

Lounging comfortably in the biggest recliner Summit had ever seen, the Reverend Buddy Crow could have been in his forties but Summit knew he was closer to seventy. Slipper-clad feet perched atop a cushion; he spoke conversationally with Max as the wondrous light of the chandelier gleamed on his tan head. Smile jocular as ever, light rippled over his burgundy smoking jacket and matching silk pants. Crow idly rolled an enormous, aromatic cigar between his index finger and thumb, a glittering Rolex of unknown origin encircling his wrist. The Free States de facto leader smiled at Max, tilted back his head and blew a fabulous smoke-ring. Max cheered. Carlitos’ tail twitched cheerfully.

Charm had always gone before the man like a seventy-two piece marching band, complete with bass drums, acrobats and honor guard. Even after all these dreadful war-weary years, the twinkle hadn’t left his eyes. Summit watched him shake Max’s little hand with all the formality one reserves for foreign dignitaries. Carlitos took it upon himself to lick the Reverend’s hand in return. Everyone laughed.

The terror of the Unity Army was vanquished. For now. Such was the power of the Reverend Buddy Crow.

He spoke in a gentle voice—one rarely employed during his daily beamnet broadcasts. I’m sorry about the house and car, Gray. Those bitter bastards … More would have been said of those ‘bitter bastards’ had it not been for the presence of five-year-old ears. Summit smiled despite the day’s awful events.

We’re all still alive … and free, he replied getting himself up from the floor and walking over to the leader of the Free States. It’s good to see you, Rev. Your timing is extraordinary. Appreciate you coming for me and my family.

The Reverend shook his hand.

I’m happy I made it here in time, Gray. Luckily I was on my way to New Alaska when the distress signal found my ship. Soberly: Unfortunately, there’s not a Liberation ship within a parsec. Not that any ship short of a carrier could repel this invasion. Please, have a seat. A gold rimmed holovision sat at the Reverend’s elbow. Crow reached into a compartment beneath the circular glass top and pulled out another enormous cigar and handed it to Summit. Summit accepted gratefully but did not light it. The Reverend returned to his charm. And you, Miss Angeles, you look as beautiful as ever. Angela smiled bravely. She only tolerated El Cuervo as someone necessary but evil. Trust us, dear woman, someday we will beat these people and this will all be over … at least for a generation or two.

That knocked the smile right off Angela’s pretty brown face. Practical to a fault. Crow knew wars ended when one side concedes or is destroyed, but the conflict never really ends. The hate and the difference in beliefs carries on—waiting for a second chance, a new generation of combatants. Angela would hear none of it.

Slipping an arm around her son, she withdrew from the conversation.

Crow spoke quietly to Summit. Gray, the Feds have big problems these days. The same problems as always, you know. Nothing new.

Money.

The Reverend nodded, tapping ash into a golden ashtray. They never have enough of it, he spoke with a wry smile. Those bureaucrats don’t have a clue as to a dollar’s value. They only know that money can be spent and their job is to keep spending it before anyone else can. The smile vanished. "Except the Chinese. Now they have money. The Viridian Path and all of its tenets concerning the evils of wealth don’t apply to the Chinese—not anymore. And ultimately that’s where all the money ends up. Hell, the Chinese have added another forty-five interplanetary carriers to their fleet just this year."

Summit shifted uneasily, massaged his bruised throat. That’s an awful lot of firepower. You know if the US and its colonies end up under Chinese rule we might never win those planets back.

I don’t think the Chinese are bent on military victory, Crow quietly insisted. They don’t need firepower to win—they have another advantage. Last year the Emperor ordered Halder to quit printing money to pay the US debts. The inflation was making the stuff worthless…

He told Halder and not the President?

Of course he did. No one’s allowed to talk to the President ...Quarterback’s an idiot, Crow smiled and shook his head. "But Halder didn’t listen. Never does. The Fed’s printed so much money it really is worthless now. Upon delivery the Chinese just shred the stuff for their New Year’s celebrations. And so the debt grows. Never truly paid."

Summit gave the Reverend an uneasy look. How much?

Crow shrugged. Who knows … what comes after an octillion?

Nonillion.

Crow’s eyes widened. Seriously? You know that? What … did you study economics at the Noble? he joked. "But look, Gray, the debt is huge and the Chinese are coming to collect. The Emperor has dispatched his agents to the Noble aboard the battleship Shengli. They’re on their way to confront Jean Halder, as we speak. There’s nothing we can do about that, but there is something else the Chinese are going to want to talk about …"

Surrender? Summit suggested. Technically, the Chinese were not at war with the US. In truth, the conflict went back more than 130 years—back to the 1950’s.

Reverend Crow seemed surprised. Well, yes. Actually, in so many terms, surrender is exactly what the Chinese want from Halder. One of the provisions of the debt negotiations will be for Hald … I mean the President to repeal The Viridian Path.

Beyond the windows, Liberty 7 shrank like a small blue-green balloon.

Halder will never do that, Summit insisted. The Chinese would never endorse such a repeal, either. Remember, the Chinese fully endorsed The Viridian Path upon its inception in 2043. They would never shame themselves by condemning something they once spoke so highly of. China is run by unyielding idealists.

"They will never condemn the Path publically... Crow shook his head and fixed the other with a sharp stare. But the proposal will be on the table first thing this week. Congress will vote to repeal the Path."

Summit shook his head. Pain lanced through his bruised neck. The President will veto any ruling against his beloved Path.

The Chinese won’t let him, Crow promised with a grin. Now, Gray, you’re supposed to ask me how this bill proposing to outlaw The Viridian Path is going to magically appear before the House of Representatives tomorrow.

Summit smiled tiredly. No, he folded his hands before himself. I know who the Chinese hired to do their dirty work, Rev. Crow smiled expectantly. "They got you to draw up the bill and bring it before the House."

Crow raised his cigar in triumph. Yes, I knew you would sniff this one out, Gray. He tapped his temple for effect. I’ve already written the draft and had it delivered to Alex Halder on Earth, Crow carried on. The Viridian Path has caused so much grief across the Galaxy that most of the representatives will jump at any opportunity presented to them to rid themselves of this religion. Even members of the Federal Party will vote it down without fear of punishment from the Feds; there’ll be too many of them to punish them all.

If you say so, Rev. The furry of jilted bureaucrats …

Summit sat back, wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. He shook his head. But the Senate will be another story, Rev. Totally different. Senators are absent of rational intellect, they can’t be reasoned with.

Reluctantly, the Reverend Crow subdued his optimism. Yes. Senators are … difficult.

"They put the cult into difficult, Rev."

Crow’s eyebrows rose. That’s good, Gray. Can I use that on my show? Placidly, he tapped ash into his shiny ashtray. But you are right—US Senator is the highest station of achievement any individual can hope to attain while remaining completely useless to society in every imaginable way. Senators don’t produce anything of value and their services are only onto themselves. Worthless—while an overinflated sense of self-importance obfuscates any evidence to the contrary. The whole US Senate is nothing but a country club for idealistic dumb-asses.

Max giggled with glee. "He said dumb-asses, mom!"

Shhh. Angela shot Crow a hard glance.

Sorry, he apologized sincerely. I do get caught up in my showmanship sometimes.

Frowning unhappily, Angela said nothing.

The cockpit’s paneled door whisked open and a uniformed officer stepped into the cabin. Too young for such an utterly calculating man. He spoke: Reverend, a Federal ship, destroyer class, is moving into this sector to intercept us. They’ve hailed us on the radio.

Calmly, Crow examined his smoldering cigar. And what did you tell them, Captain?

I gave their commanding officer Option Seven, sir.

You told him to go to hell?

Yes, sir.

Crow thought for a moment and said: Captain, you’d better go ahead and execute the full option.

Yes, sir. The Captain turned heel and marched back into the darkened cockpit. Before the door closed, Summit caught a glimpse of the massive destroyer lurching into their path.

Summit gave the Reverend an expectant glance. Primarily, Federal destroyers combed the Galaxy in search of rogue interplanetary ships they could blast into vapor. Considering how many Federal soldiers the Reverend’s ship had just blasted, they were more than rogue—they were wanted. Nothing new for the Rev.

Tense moments passed as the ship’s blast-shields dropped silently over the exterior windows. Despite the cabin’s elegant lighting an impression of smothering darkness enclosed them.

Full option? Summit finally enquired.

A ten megaton fish, Crow replied in a sober voice. We have two of them loaded. There will be no response from the Feds.

Cold silence of deep space seeped into the elegant ship, stretching the minutes. No response. A bucking shockwave abruptly whooshed over the ship, causing the chandelier to tinkle anxiously. And then there was calm again.

Summit knew without the blast-shields over the windows the flash of the Federal destroyer exploding would have blinded them. Nothing was as bright as a nuclear blast, not even staring at a sun.

Money, the Reverend spoke quietly to the cabin, —some people earn it, while others will kill for it. And some die trying to get it. He turned his sharp stare onto Summit. They have to be stopped, Gray.

Carlitos squirmed restlessly in Max’s arms while Summit waited for an explanation.

The Feds came here, to Liberty 7, searching for quick cash, Crow said finally. "Anything they can drum up as payment to the Chinese. Halder and the Feds don’t know about the bill yet. But they’re desperate. To counter this, I’ve ordered much of the prosperity of the Free States onto bank ships where the wealth can be hidden in the depths of space until the bill is signed into law and The Viridian Path is lifted. Until then, the remaining Liberation Army needs fuel to keep its fleet moving as the Federal invasions increase. One of those bank ships is your old haunt, The Patriot. Your favorite Senator Jack Wheeler is onboard."

Angela tensed at the dreaded Senator’s name.

Gray understood. The Senator will need to return to Earth soon, if he is to vote in favor of overturning the Viridian Path.

Crow nodded. Yes. But you’ll have one important stop before returning the Senator to Earth.

Me?

"Yes. I’ll be returning you all to the Patriot. It’s the safest place in the Galaxy, right now, he promised. Johnny Idler is in command of the ship."

We’re going on a ship? Max chirped excitedly. His mother looked on with dread.

Yes, Crow nodded to the boy and smiled. It’s a big ship … over a mile long.

Wow!

Where is she, now? Summit demanded. I want my family as far from this Federal round-up as possible.

You’ll all be far, Crow insisted. "The Patriot is headed into the River of Kalb."

What?

Gray, what is this River? Angela immediately wanted to know.

Crow glittered with charm. It’s a safe place beyond the Milky Way Galaxy. It’s only for a few days—one stop—and then back to one of the more secure Free States … New Arizona, probably.

Summit came half off the sofa. "Rev, there is nothing out in the River. Its dead space."

Crow was taken aback. Oh there’s plenty out there, Gray. He hesitated, It’s just that there’s no … light.

And ..? Summit prompted his old boss.

Dead planets, Crow said awkwardly. Some of them are rich in liquid hydrogen and Kalban crystals. One in particular.

And this planet’s name is?

Crow reopened the compartment below the holovision and took out two items. "None of those planets out there have names, you know that. Just numbers and coordinates. There’s no one out there to name anything." He handed over a bundle of cash. At a glance, Summit figured it was a quarter of a million dollars. Enough to replace everything they’d lost that morning and plenty more. They’d never lived anywhere long enough to be sentimental. The other item was a phone. Small and shiny, probably titanium. Considering the giver, it was probably filthy expensive and did things that needed seeing to believe. Summit put the money and the phone into his shirt pocket.

And the Feds don’t know about this secret planet of yours, Rev?

Crow smiled devilishly. "They don’t know where it is? I’ve arranged that."

Summit sighed and turned to his family. Well, we’ll be getting far away from things for a while, at least.

Angela nodded solemn acceptance.

Max remained animated with curiosity, staring straight at the Reverend.

So, Reverend Crow, what did you name your secret planet?

Crow smiled and blew another fabulous smoke-ring; this one swallowed the chandelier. Smart kid … and brave, like his father, he observed. I call this planet ... El Dorado.

The Reverend and Max smiled while his parents sat in disbelief.

The faith of a child, Crow mused. It’s powerful, isn’t it?

Chapter Two

B eyond the Milky Way galaxy exists only the frigid eternal darkness of deep s pace.

It is a terrible place to die.

Adrift in the void, Captain Idler fished an ancient match from his pocket and struck it on the ship’s dead command consol. Amazingly it flared—likely it came from Earth long ago, stowed aboard the Riot’s half-frozen store of outdated supplies. First he lit the cigarette, dragging deeply, then he lit the candle.

Diver, set more candles around the bridge, Idler instructed. We will be having company shortly. I can’t see a thing.

Yes, sir.

Captain Idler paced the deep shadows as the first mate lit candles brought up from the cargo bays. A tall, brooding shadow himself, Idler ignored the banks of black windows, instead turning his remaining eye to the common area below. There, at least signs of life were in evidence, people stumbling around a darkened galley, scraping chairs on the steel floor, nibbling cold cuts in doomed silence. A few voices drifted up; judging by the sound of them something was wrong … something more than the accepted fate distressing them all for the past twenty-four hours. A new danger percolated up from the ship’s sub-decks.

Idler ran a restless hand through his neglected hair and waited.

Confrontation loomed. Conflict in the midst of inevitable death could turn ugly in a hurry. The crew had nothing left to live for save for the desperate hope of being rescued.

The confrontation would take place in darkness, as there were no lights …very few, anyway. With the Riot running on a single emergency generator, precious little power remained. Life support drained much of the generated energy—that with only fifteen percent of the ship occupied. The galley’s freezers still ran, holding the food; Idler ordered the heated areas of the ship be kept warm. Deep space was dead cold; if the ship turned cold, folks might panic believing the oxygen would vanish next.

Which was true, actually. It would.

Everyone would be dead in seventy-two hours, anyway.

Captain Idler would keep the peace until then.

They were all victims of sabotage. But by who was anyone’s guess. Unfathomable, someone had intentionally stranded them in the void of the River of Kalb. The culprit still onboard, stranded and facing death like everyone else. Idler had his men scouring the ship, asking questions, trying to determine who might be insane enough to commit such an act.

Intrepid footfalls rang on the stairs leading up from the galley.

Idler turned. Emerging onto the darkened deck, the spectral shadow of Senator Jack Wheeler. A generic shadow outline of himself—overly large cowboy hat, huge over-under pargun couched easily over a shoulder, candlelight flickering sinisterly over the black scales of his shock armor.

If we’re a gonna die here in space, then so be it, he drawled easily. But let’s not go a killin each other. Right, Captain?

Senator, Idler shook the other’s powerful hand. We are not dead, yet.

Jack Wheeler grinned, a hapless toothpick trapped in his teeth. You always were the cool one, Johnny. Back on Earth fightin’ those crazy Pathers and survivin’ … who’d a thought it’d come to this? Are you sure you know what you’re doing here? This seems a bit dangerous. I could lock them contractors down in the holds … keep ’em out of the way. You know some of ’em are those damn Threes. Wheeler plucked the crushed toothpick from his teeth and gesticulated ominously—a curious gesture he’d developed since adventuring into politics. You know, Captain … keep people safe.

Captain’s long face broke into a rare smile and his remaining eye gleamed. There are many ways to keep people safe, Senator. Hiding them behind walls is a sure sign that you are going about it in the wrong way. Trust me.

The Senator tipped back his huge hat. Call me Jack, Captain. I trust ya. Sure as shit. I even trusted you back in the Nicaragua days.

Yes … It was mutual, the Captain said easily. But put that gun out of sight … for now, Jack. We shouldn’t need it. Trust me.

Sure thing.

Jack Wheeler laid the gun across the dead command console. Cold black space glinted in his eyes. One of the few times Idler had seen the man without his trademark mirrored glasses. His eyes glowed with dreadful anticipation. Some men just live for the fight … and little else.

Did you message Summit? Is he comin’?

I’m here, Captain, Gray Summit replied, detaching himself from the shadows, startling the others. Telltale white hair and blue eyes glowed in the candlelight; his scaled chameleon shock armor faded into the gloom. A soldier to the end, like Wheeler—but an all together different type of man.

Disguised as cigarette smoke, the Captain sighed relief.

I should have known you were close at hand, he said. Even when you are far away, you seem to be only a heartbeat away if I need you.

The Senator chuckled darkly. My goodness, just scare us all to death.

"I’d rather observe than be observed, Summit said, sleek face breaking into a weathered grin. They are coming up from below. Some of the Threes have been fighting amongst each other. I think one of them is dead."

Well, don’t that just figure? Lousy bastards, Wheeler cursed.

Idler adjusted his black eye patch, hiding his distress. They don’t know any better, Jack. Poor fools. He shook his head. Isn’t that right, Gray?

They’re not conditioned to respond to adversity, sir, said Summit. Where they came from it’s not included in their indoctrination.

But they can learn?

Yes, Captain, anyone can change if they really want to …

A loud clanging rose from the commons—power doors being manhandled in the absence of electricity. People yelling, cursing.

Well, Captain, Wheeler tipped back his big hat, "—this is it, buddy. State your case and make it good … and quick. These folks are gonna rip this ship apart."

Idler turned to his first mate. Mikey, hit the emergency lights for the bridge and commons. The bridge generator should handle the extra pull.

Scattered candles fluttered and went still as the airflow stopped and power was routed into the lights. An immediate chill rolled across the deck as the heaters stalled. One by one watery lamps ignited below, trickling dregs of light across the gloomy cafeteria.

Idler stared down from the command bridge.

A couple dozen investors huddled around the cafeteria tables, sipping coffee, nervously eyeing the doors leading to the bunk levels. Many of them had brought fine coats with them to ward off the growing cold. Others carried battery powered lamps they’d brought from Texas 2, New Alaska, or Havenall—any number of Free States that hadn’t fallen under Federal rule yet.

Most of them have brought their luggage up from their cabins, Captain, observed Summit.

Like refugees, clinging to what little they have. Which is precious little out here in space, Idler said, dropped his cigarette and ground it under boot. How many times have we seen this?

Worried over theft, Wheeler quickly suggested. It’s those damn Threes … steel anything that’s not hammered down. Can’t let your valuables outta sight.

No, Idler disagreed. All the valuables are locked up in a vacuum hold in the fore. What do they have in those bags down there, Summit?

The Screamin’ Eagle scrutinized the innocuous assemblage of doctors, orthodontists, anesthesiologists, surgeons, podiatrists, dentists, chief executives, pharmacists, petroleum engineers and marketing managers. Not golf clubs, for sure … or at least not too many, he calculated. You’re going to want a talk with them, Captain. Many of those folks have guns in those bags. We cleared them to bring them on board at Havenall 4 … but not to use against each other.

We’re all in this together damnit, Wheeler swore.

Heads turned at a fierce banging at one of the cafeteria’s slide doors.

There is no reason for them to pry those doors open, sir. There are stairwells open, Summit said. It would appear the contractors have perceived a line of division between themselves and the investors. We know where this perceived line supposedly lies, but hearing the evidence of its existence should be interesting. I’m sure both sides will have accusations against the other. Fear breeds paranoia—and everyone is plenty afraid right now.

No guns, people, Captain Idler called down to the investors. We have to calm these people down. Does anyone know what the contractors are upset about? …Other than the obvious?

One white haired man Idler recognized as Dr. George Mann stood and spread his arms haplessly. "Does anyone ever know what upsets these miserable people?

Come now, Doctor, insisted Idler. We have to reason with these people. You know that.

Grim faced, several investors shook their heads and drew their bags close to themselves.

Dr. Mann scowled up at Idler. That will not happen, Captain. We will gun them down like dogs if they threaten us. Keep the peace, Captain. Keep it well.

The Doctor retook his seat and waited with the others.

Idler whispered to Summit. If there is some kind of mutiny afoot with the contractors, then there must be a leader.

Gray Summit appeared much younger under the lights, rapier thin yet sturdy and well into his thirties. One persuasive man can turn fear and frustration into an insurrection with just a few emotionally charged words. We will have to find out who this person is and more importantly—what their motive is.

The Captain agreed with Summit. He usually did.

Who is first among the contractors? Idler shouted down to the investors.

Oblivious glances circulated the crowd. Finally a well-groomed young man whispered briefly to Dr. Mann and the elder nodded.

A steely grating shrieked across the commons as one frozen door was forced open a few inches.

Don’t they know there are other doors … older style ones with knobs and hinges, a woman in the cafeteria complained. Why do they try to open the electric doors when there is no electricity?

They’re barbarians, that’s why, Idler heard the Senator mutter.

Who is the leader among the contractors? Captain Idler raised his voice again, impatient now.

Dr. Mann yelled up at the Captain. We think he is a pilot … at least that’s what he claims to be. He calls himself Donkey … if you can imagine that. All the contractors—at least all of the laborers—hang on his words.

"Mule, Idler muttered. He goes by the name Mule … has for many years. He is … ambitious."

I didn’t clear Mule to join the Operation, Summit insisted, eyes grave. I don’t trust mercenaries. They’re only loyal to themselves, and often don’t grasp the principals behind the given mission. You know this, Captain.

Wheeler nodded agreement and tapped the Screamin Eagle sigil on his breastplate for emphasis. They don’t understand commitment. Mercs are suspect at best.

Gentlemen, I cleared his application on Havenall 4, said the Captain. Mercenaries have a right to earn a living just like the rest of us. I was planning on him handling one of the dropships over Four-thirty-five.

Wheeler was incredulous. You’d trust ’im with heavy hardware? Struggling to keep his voice low. He’s worked with the Feds more times than I can recollect. Remember the Perseus job? Him flyin’ all that gear in for those Fed bastards after the trouble we had blowin’ their supply ships.

"But now he’s two full kiloparsecs from the nearest Federal base … here on the Riot without his own ship, the Captain placated. We own him for now."

The other two men looked doubtful.

Trust me.

I do, Johnny, bemoaned Wheeler. Its Mule I don’t trust.

The Captain’s right, Jack—what harm can he do here? If its mutiny Mule’s stirring up, we can put it down ... right now, Summit explained.

Okay— Wheeler said uneasily. I believe you guys.

Idler turner to his first mate. "Redirect more power to the commons, Mikey. Let’s see if we can get those doors open before these folks tear them all