Maltby had done well.  At least six Crewmen would not see their families again, with another three that yet might not survive their wounds.  The hole had been filled, but already he felt the emptiness returning.  Satisfaction grew more elusive over the years.  Maltby would be celebrated for a few days but Valen would have to start recruiting again.  Until then, he looked forward to a few days of peace down here, far from the reach of the Crew.

He wandered his way around the damp, rusting corridors, stepping over unidentified piles better left unexamined in the dim, flickering light.  Occasionally, he came across a Compact patrol, maintaining authority over the local gangs, making sure that no lesser powers were raising up to challenge them.  It never took more than a glance to identify him, allowing him to pass with a nod of respect.

Valen continued on, passing the overflowing compartments of packed humanity.  When a deck lost life support, people migrated wherever they could find room.  With livable space steadily shrinking, there was little to be done to ease the suffering.  The Crew certainly wouldn’t give up any of their precious space, even as they occupied a quarter of the remaining decks with a tenth of the population.  So long as the Culpable labored and produced, they couldn’t care less about what went on down here.

The moans of the dying washed over him.  Nearly each compartment counted at least one dying from disease or starvation.  The food yield continued to decline, while the Crew quota remained the same.  More and more of what they grew went to the Crew, in exchange for oxygen and water.  Those that could not produce could not be fed.

Most accepted it as a simple fact of their existence.

But for some, a chance to strike back was worth their lives, and Valen would continue to provide opportunities.

Finally, Valen ran out of deck and found himself in front of his cabin.  He pushed the door open, hearing the familiar shriek of metal hinges in need of repair.  The flickering light from the hall provided just enough illumination for him to pick his way around the small stack of clothes still resting on the deck, waiting to be carried away, removing the last link to a past that could not return.  The oil lamp still rested on the table, and it fired with a click of the striker.  The ruddy glow barely pushed back the shadows, revealing a man sitting on the only chair in the room.

Valen didn’t flinch.  He had accepted death a long time ago.  Should it find him, he would be ready.  He calmly held up the lamp, casting a wider circle of light.

Resnig sat there, regarding him with a humorless smile.  The gray eyes glowered beneath the heavy brow, gathering the feeble light from the lamp and casting it back. He looked at the world through light gray eyes that seemed to reflect all the light in the room.  His lean features cut sharp angles on his face, as if he was made of folded paper.  “I hope you don’t mind.”  The voice rolled out like a stream of water.  “I have another mission to discuss.”

Valen replaced the lamp on the table, preferring to keep Resnig in the shadows.  As he did, he caught sight of another pile of clothes that Resnig had dumped on the deck, clearing the chair for himself.  Valen checked his anger.  They were just clothes.  They meant nothing now.

“Maltby did well.”

“Yes, I’ve already heard.  I have something new for you.”

“So you said.  Where’s your guard?”

Resnig shrugged.  “Do I need them here?”  The question resonated on a deeper level, and Valen heard the real question clearly.  The emptiness in him seemed to expand, and he was suddenly very tired.

“No.  Not here.”  He realized he had nothing more to say, so he simply stared at Resnig, waiting on him to continue.

Resnig nodded.  “I’m glad to hear that.  Some had their doubts.”  When Valen made no reply, Resnig continued.  “I need your resources.  We have a target that requires a certain kind of soldier.”

“Is it that difficult?”

“In a sense.  It requires a devotion that is your specialty.  We have found tools that bring the impossible within reach.”  Resnig must have noticed a reaction.  He smiled even wider.  “This is bigger than you can imagine.  Do you have the right sort of men?”

Valen stared into those steel gray eyes, trying to measure the depth of Resnig’s sanity.  The emptiness of those eyes mirrored the hole in Valen’s heart.  Why not? He nodded.  The worst that could happen was death. For the first time in many days, Valen smiled.

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Later, I wondered if the guiding hand of the Engineered God had pushed me gently into the path of fate.

The three years passed quickly, as I immersed myself in the news of the quadrant.  Nearly twenty years of backlogged reports were waiting in my queue, and I sifted them with the aggression of a man mindful of the passage of time.  Human space was so vast, and the potential for abomination equally large.  While my sector of responsibility represented nothing more than a pittance of the vast sprawl of humanity, it was enough to task me to the limits of my resources.

First, the list of worlds that had been extinguished held my attention.  An even dozen human occupied planets had been eradicated of all life in the past decade; a small number for even the best of times.  I read through the usual litany of disease, accident, and wars, scrounging the reports for any sign of interference from the Immaterium, and sign of heresy from others like Rolm.

The usual fanatical stupidity made an appearance.  The Islamo-Amish of Targus V seized control in the name of the Hidden Iman, Muhammed the Christ.  In his name, they smashed the terraforming machines and renounced any technology more advanced than an animal drawn plow.  Predictably, the Hidden Iman remained hidden and the forsaken cries of the frenzied faithful went unheeded as the entire planet perished with a year, accompanied by rapturous beheadings and torture.

Faith wasn’t enough to provide oxygen and bread.

I discovered a wonderful symmetry in the world of Secundus, where the technocratic authority embarked on a plan to engineer a viral transmission of immortality, outside of the usual accepted means of direct modification.  In their utopian dream, life extension would be available to all, merely as a consequence of breathing the air or eating the food of their world.  Predictably, but sadly not for them, the effort came to a bad end, propagating wonderfully efficient biological mechanism that could not distinguish cancer from healthy tissue.  The eternal axiom was once again proven true – Nature will always find a way to frustrate the will of man.

Blind faith in technology had given us the Accidental God, and we were still paying the price for that error.

I spent much of my leisure time, as it were, in prayer.  The close brush with Rolm suggested that I may have been neglecting my absolution, and I did not want to see a repeat of that incident.  For six months, I begged for forgiveness from the God which had abandoned us, followed by condemnation of the Accidental God, and finally a rededication to the Engineered God which will someday be.  The requisite rights were followed to the letter, and I held many a Mass for my entourage, resulting in the completely acceptable death of only three.

Three months from our arrival at Cicadia Minor, Pron came to see me.  I had expected the meeting for over a year, but Pron can be surprisingly taciturn when confronted with a problem he didn’t quite know how to solve.  Even as he entered my chamber, I could see the questions on his placid face, yet I knew it would still be several hours of conversation before he would broach the subject that had brought him here.

I received him warmly, closing down my link to the ship’s computer and buffering my workstation for later.  The agricultural data of Saladucia would wait for another time.  “And how is my chief technica?”

Pron bowed slightly before sitting down in the chair before my desk.  “Well, as always.  I have completed the equipment inventory and repair manifest from our last engagement, and am ready to transmit it to the Chapter House.”

An icon flashed in my eye, indicating the receipt of a file.  I placed it in the queue and nodded.  “I will review it promptly and authorize the transmission.”  Curiosity itched within.  I wanted to see how Pron had handled the ‘loss’ of my armor.  Instead, I leaned back casually, breaking the formality of our interview.

Pron did the same.  “Have you received our next assignment, or are you going to chose on your own?”

I shook my head.  “There are certainly enough possibilities to keep us busy for another lifetime, but since we are going to be seeing the Bishop anyway, I am going to abstain and see if he has anything particular in mind.  It would do us well to permit him a little sway over our agenda, even if he has little opinion.”

“The political game then.  You haven’t had much interest in that for many years, Grunner.”

“And I still don’t.  Promotion doesn’t interest me as it does others in my Order.  But the Bishop is rising in the Church, and it would do us well to foster his friendship. Otherwise we might find ourselves without the flexibility we currently enjoy.”

“Are promotions pending then?”

I shrugged.  “Rumors and heresy are the two great constants of our age.  Word comes that the College of Cardinals might cycle soon, and as those worthies pass through to carry the struggle in death, openings might occur.  Returning the dead is never a certain thing, and at such advanced age…some of those Cardinals actually remember a living Earth.”

“Besides,” I continued, “Bishop Remy is a fellow Effectivist.  We share many beliefs, and it would do us well to remind him of that in person every few decades.  Effectivism is in decline, and I’m afraid the damned Fatalists will be coming into power, with their silly sense of the inevitable clouding every judgment.”

Long ago, Pron himself was a Fatalist.  Even I had a touch of it in my ancient youth.  But time burns away our organic perceptions of life and death, and at some point, the endless stretch of years seems as sweet as the passions of a finite youth.  Most outgrew Fatalism.

Those that didn’t seemed destined to control the Church, at least in this century.

As it was, and as it will be again.  The wheel turned, and I increasingly felt the similarities of each age.  Youth still believed they were the unique carriers of truth.

Pron took no offense at my words.  I think he was no longer capable of feeling a slight.  “The Bishop continues to hold you in favor then?”

“As far as I know.  That was three hundred years ago.  He’s had ample opportunity to express displeasure with me if he felt it.”  The Remy Affair had resulted in the burning of an even dozen of the Bishop’s entourage after heresy had taken root within his own court.  A particular acolyte had strayed down a common path, enlisting segments of the Immaterium to our struggle in a misguided attempt to fight fire with fire, as the old saying goes.  The Affair had not implicated Remy, but it did cause some embarrassment none the less.  My investigation was swift and efficient, my techniques heavy and exhaustive, and my list of suspects had included the Bishop himself.  Had I not been so vigorous in my work, the Bishop may not have been so convincingly absolved from blame.

“We have to talk about the suit, Grunner.”

The words pulled me out of my thoughts.  The subject had been broached faster than I had expected.  I stared into Pron’s prosthetic eyes, wondering what was going on there.

“Do we?”

“We do.  You’ll see in the report that I scrapped it due to battle damages, assigning it to a faulty AI system.  Viral corruption consistent with some of the techniques Rolm was known to use.  But it might arouse further investigation of the Chapter House begins to question the security of the AI interface.  I can probably befuddle an investigation long enough to have this written off as a fluke, but I need to know some things.”

I smiled.  “Purely in your capacity as a technica, not out of any concern about my well being?”

“I’ll leave you to answer that in whatever way you please, provided you are a little more forthcoming with me.”  Pron had cast aside our official relationship with the tone of that question, but I did not object.  Friends have certain allowances in the way they can address me, and it was good, from time to time, to set aside the mantle of fear that can be felt by those addressing a Priest of the Chapter House.

“All right.  I’ll speak to you as my friend, and don’t ever doubt the value I place in that relationship, Pron.  But there are some elements of what happened that I am not ready to discuss.  But I will tell you as much as I can.”

And with that, I began to describe the events leading up to the moment when the abomination touched me.  I admit to some surprise at how much difference there was between the words I uttered and the official report I had transmitted to my superiors.

Perhaps the subconscious has thwarted my best efforts to bring it under control.

Or something more sinister lurks within my motives, hidden even from me.

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But space was not uniform, and this was more to the pity of mankind.

For three thousand years, give or take a few centuries, humanity had been passing through a pocket of thinness, a region where reality intersected with the Immaterium, the Obscurum, and that place of death known popularly as Hades (although the Church vigorously discouraged this nomenclature, maintaining that this plane of death was an aberration, and souls consigned to it were removed from the salvation of God. But Hades is a complex issue, confounding even the highest prefects in my Order).

We had enjoyed ten thousand years of peace since we last passed from an Intersection, and we discovered our freedom once again as thinking men after the Sin of Logan had consigned mankind as chattel to the will of those that had passed into our world from the Immaterium.

We won our freedom, but we did not forget. As we reclaimed our civilization, relearned our roots and spread amongst the stars, we clutched the memory of our enslavement and passed the centuries warming ourselves with the fires of determination. Never again would this happen to us.

And when the next Intersection came upon us three thousand years ago, we were ready.

Of course, I have not lived through all of this history. My birth occurred twenty three centuries ago, in the early days of this Intersection. My life span is not unusual for a Priest, but my particular assignments had made my survival an item of note to those who tracked such things. For whatever reason, I was good at what I did, and while others like me rose through the ranks and did less of the things that won them acclaim in the first place, I had little desire to follow their example.

I knew my place. I knew in what capacity I could best serve.

Burning heretics was my calling.

My history, as it bears upon the person I am today, is difficult to assess. In such a span, how many experiences can be considered formative? I am undeniably the product of my past, but which past? I no longer could be certain.

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Votum shrugged, “Sure. Resnig will continue until he gets what he wants.”

“And what’s that?” She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temples. “Maybe we can reach some sort of accommodation.”

“He isn’t going to accept a partial solution.”

Procer shook her head, “No, I’m talking about his personal goals. I don’t think he’s a true believer. Maybe he can be bought off.” She sighed as her hands moved from her temples to her eyes. “We can’t keep fighting like this.”

Votum stood up and crossed the office to the small refrigeration unit. He opened it and removed a pitcher of water. He selected two glasses from a small shelf and turned back to the desk. “May I be candid?”

Procer peeked out through her fingers and smiled, “When aren’t you?”

He smiled back. “I just wanted to be sure you were in the mood to hear it.” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “You trust Keamanan, but do you know what HE wants?” He poured a glass of water and placed it in front of Procer.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

He poured his own glass of water before answering her. “He’s smart, but he’s also cursed with his own ideas about duty. He has a tendency of creating policy in your name, and then asking for your forgiveness afterwards. Fortunately for him,” he took a sip of water, “he’s managed to make good decisions and you haven’t had to smack him yet. I wonder if he has developed an inflated opinion of his position here.”

She smiled. “You think he may decide I need to be led?”

“I think he has an unsavory collection of contacts down below, and perhaps is too sympathetic to their cause. He spent a lot of time down there. His relationship with Moirum is enough to question his loyalty.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?” she asked.

“I confess to some distaste for his company.”

She sighed as she picked up her glass and stood. She turned toward the massive window, and unbuttoned the top button of her jacket, pulling the collar away from her neck. She stared out at the planet hovering beyond the glass. The light from the sun flashed off the oceans, making it hard to stare directly at it. “How long have we known this day was coming?” she whispered.

“Ma’am?”

She shook her head, “We’ve had a lot of time to prepare for this, and I still feel like it’s happening too fast. Look at it. History is bound to repeat. Every single time this has happened, we tear ourselves to pieces. I don’t know how to stop it from happening again.”

A long silence came over her, as she stared out at the planet. Votum finally stood and walked to the window, standing next to Procer. “Why should this one be any different from all the rest?”

She looked sideways at him. “You don’t think this is it?”

“I observe the odds. What are the chances we happen to be alive to witness the end of the journey? How many generations have stood here wondering the same thing?” He took another drink of water. “We can always hope, but it’s much easier to plan for disappointment.”

“Do you want it to be the end?” she asked.

Votum frowned and hesitated. When he answered, he spoke slowly, groping for the words. “I’m not sure what I want.” He thrust his chin toward the planet. “I can’t imagine what that’s like. We all have images of some sort of paradise of open spaces and fresh air, but no one has ever experienced it outside of the ancient books. We’re answering to our ancestor’s yearning. What if it isn’t right for us anymore?”

“We can’t stay on the ship forever,” she said.

He clasped his hands behind his back and stared out at the planet. He asked her the same question. “Do you want it to be the end?”

She leaned forward and covered the image of the planet with her hand. It barely fit beneath her palm. When she pulled her hand away, a small film of condensation began to evaporate on the window. “I don’t have the luxury of wanting. My job is to keep this ship in one piece, and hand command off to my successor when the time comes.”

“Fair enough as the Captain. But what does Alantas Procer, the woman, want?”

She didn’t hesitate, “I want a worthy successor. Someone I can trust to do the right thing for the ship and the people onboard.”

She went on, “I understand your personal distaste for Keamanan, but you need to learn how to get beyond that. He’s the best tool we have to keep order on the ship. He has credibility with the Culpable that puts him in a unique position.” She placed a hand on Votum’s elbow. “You don’t cast aside a good tool without just cause. Those that serve me must have my confidence at all times. As soon as they don’t, I need to remove them.”

He stared at her for a moment, examining her brown eyes for deeper meaning. She smiled and squeezed his elbow before releasing it. As she turned away, her tone hardened back to her formal voice. “I want you to watch Keamanan. Keep an eye on his activities and report back to me. He expects you to anyway, so you might as well.”

He finished off the water in his glass. “You want me to investigate him?”

“No. Just keep watch. If you see or hear something that strikes you as odd, bring it to me. If there’s something there, I want to know about it.” She looked at Votum, “I trust my people, but not blindly. Check into it.”

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While he waited, he passed the time staring at the Planet.

A massive window dominated the far wall of the cabin, practically replacing the entire bulkhead with transparent material. Hovering over the Captain’s shoulder, the brilliant blue crescent of the Planet tore into his eyes with the brilliance of reflected sunlight. Tufts of clouds huddled over the coastal areas, and he could barely make out the contours of rivers flowing over the landmass. They were getting closer everyday.

It was the first Planet Keamanan had ever seen, and he never grew tired of staring at it whenever he had the opportunity. Despite the growing likelihood of violence, he wished Planetfall would come faster.

The Captain interrupted his thoughts by crossing her hands over the small sheet of paper and leaning forward on the desk. “You think this was random?”

He looked at her for a moment before he answered. She was dressed in the crisp, pressed blue jacket of an officer, with her captain’s star gleaming from her tight collar. Her flat black hair, unmarred by gray that would be expected on a woman her age, framed a narrow face with high cheekbones. Even with the normally severe expression she wore while conducting ship’s business, she was quite striking;

“I don’t believe it was part of any coordinated action. They were poorly equipped and not very skilled. I think these three may have been after any target of opportunity, and I just happened to be at the wrong place when they came wandering through. With a little luck, we’ll figure out how they managed to infiltrate.”

Votum spoke up from next to Keamanan, “Your job isn’t about luck, Keamanan. I would expect you to be more precise than that.”

Keamanan looked at Votum out of the corner of his eye. While Votum wore the same insignia as Keamanan, the smaller star of a Commander; he in fact out ranked Keamanan. Votum was a big man, and he seemed uncomfortable in the metal chair. Keamanan looked at his square-jaw and bright blue eyes, and again was surprised that such an abrasive man could have such a friendly face. “Forgive me for assuming you would be familiar with a figure of speech.”

“Stop,” said Captain Procer, cutting off another argument between the two men. She looked down at the paper again, pushing her hair back from her face as she studied the report.

“Why was Morium with you?” Procer looked up from the paper and seemed to peer into his soul. Keamanan knew it was coming, but he still felt unprepared under her glare. Procer had been remarkably tolerant about his dealings with Morium, but he knew this one might have been too much.

“Rumor control. The Culpable think we’re doing this because we can, not because we need to. I wanted to show Morium the situation firsthand, so she can address the rumors. There were no secrets revealed.” Keamanan stared back at the cold eyes, knowing that she had already drawn her own conclusions. All he could do was wait for her to speak

“Do you think she was involved?”

Keamanan continued staring at her stern face. Does she know about Morium and Resnig? He hesitated a moment to collect his thoughts before speaking. “I don’t believe Morium was connected to the attack. I can’t imagine her conspiring to kill me.” He ignored a snort from Votum. “She understands her place here.”

Procer waited for Keamanan to continue. When he didn’t, she looked at Votum and back at Keamanan before speaking. “Does she? I’m not sure her loyalties are known. Why do you trust her?”

Keamanan swallowed before speaking. “Morium understands they need us. She may not like it, but she’s smart enough to see how things are.”

“Does she oppose the Compact?” said Procer.

Keamanan nodded, “I think she recognizes the Compact as a threat to everyone. She wants change, not anarchy.”

“Still, the timing of the attack…” Procer trailed off as she continued to read the report. “Trogen is leading the investigation?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She pushed the report aside. “What are you doing to prepare for Planetfall?”

Keamanan shifted in his seat, “We’ve been gaming all of the scenarios I sent you a few months ago: rioting, assassinations, breach of the Red Line, organized revolt and so on. We’re able to handle the things we can anticipate. Of course, I’m more concerned about what we can’t predict.”

“In your opinion, could Trogen run your unit on his own?”

Keamanan didn’t hesitate, “He wouldn’t be working for me if I thought he couldn’t handle it. I have a capable second in command.” Keamanan couldn’t resist glancing at Votum.

Captain Procer spoke quickly, but Keamanan could see the hint of a smile on her stern face,”Excellent. I want you on one of the landing teams when they go down.” Procer picked up a pen and made a note on the large pad in front of her.

“Thank you ma’am.” Inside, Keamanan struggled to keep his composure. Procer asked, “What’s the latest on Resnig Hanto?”

Keamanan pushed aside the euphoria and returned to the meeting. “We know he is preparing something. Planetfall is an opportunity for him, but I expect him to hold off until a decision is made about staying or moving on. He’s shrewd enough to know most of the Culpable aren’t with him. Until we know the outcome of our survey, he can’t expect much support.”

A knock at the door interrupted him. Procer responded instantly, raising her voice. “Come.”

The door opened and an Ensign stepped into the office. “Excuse me, ma’am. I have an urgent message for Commander Keamanan.” The Ensign waited until Procer waved him over.

Keamanan took the folded slip of paper and scanned the message. A familiar wave of disgust washed over him. “There’s been a bombing. One of the checkpoints on Hydroponics three. Six dead so far.” Keamanan stood and handed the note to Procer.

Procer accepted the note but didn’t look at it. “You’re dismissed, of course.” She didn’t have to say anything else. Keamanan would have a detailed report for her as soon as possible.

Keamanan hesitated just long enough to take another look at the Planet. It represented their greatest hopes, but at the same time, its presence could destroy them all. He took a deep breath and turned to go, already thinking about possible reprisals for the bombing.

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I returned to my quarters to rest and escape from the reminder of the sullying touch of the Immaterium. I trusted Pron to take care of matters, but in time I owed him an explanation.

Whether to provide the truth was something I had not yet decided.

I was sure of myself, despite the need of the override circuits to rescue me from that touch. The idea of surrendering to the Immaterium, for any base reason as power, was foreign to both my nature and the foundation of my training as a Priest. If we could not be counted upon to stand firm, then what hope was there for humanity as we passed through another ten millennia of Intersection?

And such stakes required the Church to cast a cold eye upon any of Her minions that might bring doubt upon themselves.

My record was good, but no man was beyond reproach.

I dismissed the servants and sealed my private bedchamber, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I had not taken to bed in months, and while I could pass many more without ill-effect, I decided that old fashioned sleep would be useful. It was good to periodically surrender our highly controlled consciousness to the unpredictable chaos of natural dreams.

But first, I turned to the obligatory painting of the Matriarch and bowed. The invocations rolled from my tongue, lubricated by centuries of practice, and the vault opened in the floor in front of me. In the present era, some would consider it ostentatious in its simplicity, with sharp angles and abstract designs devoid of the fashionable gargoyles leering from every cornice. The plain style evoked memories of an era long past, when I knew the woman represented by this little monument in my bedroom. The marble lid, salvaged from an old temple on Terra, slid aside and revealed a small chamber.

I kneeled and grasped the small jeweled orb with my organic hand, feeling the warmth of the containment system. A green telltale flashed in time with my heart. Her name was engraved on the outside, and I ran my fingers over the etching.

I needed her strength. But I could not bring myself to visit her. It would be cruel to visit her and let her see the truth of how much time had passed since we last lay together in corporeal form. My heart ached to access the memories of us together, but the body I knew had faded to dust in the centuries since I had last seen her alive.

I was keenly aware of the millennia still to pass before I could see her again. For Priests cannot marry.

And I was a Priest until my duty was discharged.

I replaced the vessel in the vault and retired to bed, only to struggle through eternal dreams filled with the weary weight of time.

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I hadn’t failed to notice this fact.

However, my responsibilities could not be set aside while I puzzled out the odd behavior of a dead heretic. Once his corporal body had been handed over to the Mortis Vinculum of my Order, my responsibility ended. The matter of Rolm was now in the hands of those who pursued such things in the realm of the dead. Should Rolm find his way back to the living, then I would be recalled.

It had happened before, and I guessed it might happen again. It wasn’t a sin to admit that I admired Rolm’s determination, even if it was misapplied.

It wasn’t until later that things became more apparent to me.

But I am getting ahead in my story.

I returned to the Expiscor in orbit around Solaris III and retired to my chambers while the rest of my entourage was recalled from the surface. Rolm’s ship would be berthed aboard for the time being, for later study at my leisure. But first, I tended to my equipment.

Many priests left the care and maintenance of their gear to the Technica, and while I had no qualms about their skills, I chose to do as much as I could to my own gear. Encounters such as I had today took a toll, well beyond my capabilities. I passed through the antechamber of my quarters and diverted to the maintenance bay annex. The Expiscor was a vast ship, and my status accorded me nearly a third of the vessel as my own private domain, sacrosanct and beyond the reach of even the Captain. My entourage and personal army consumed the resources of the primary armory, but I had my own personal maintenance section devoted to my needs.

My Primus met me at the bay, already summoned by the hurt radiated from my armor. Pron had been a faithful comrade for three centuries. His entangled dreadlocks writhed around his skull, sniffing the electromagnetic spectrum. Both eyes had been replaced long before I had ever made his acquaintance, yet I had learned to read emotion in the active matrix lenses. Today, it was genuine concern that grew as he looked at the deep claw marks on my chest.

“Well met, Lord Ragnusen. I trust the damage does not reach beyond that exquisite shell.”

I unclamped my outer skull and let the lifter take the weight from my shoulders. The world faded for a moment as the various neural sockets withdrew from my brain, leaving my completely within my body for the first time in days. I waited for the skull to lift out of the way before I answered him. My voice was dry from disuse. “I grant you that it is quite exquisite. My complements to the designer.”

Pron nodded from the waist in that peculiar manner I had grown to understand as a replacement for his lack of a flexible neck. He had been modified to handle unshielded acceleration as a hazard of his work, and inconvenient joints such as his neck had been excised. “It pleases me that my design has preserved you today. I have not seen marks like that in many years, Grunner. Are you well?”

Pron had earned the use of my first name, and I admit to enjoying our familiarity. A Priest did not have what most people would call friends. I waited as the rest of the armor unfolded and disengaged the various unpleasant, but necessary, hookups. The antiseptic mist rained down over the open wounds left from the couplings, moistening the raw flesh until the nanites restored me.

The stigmata of my office.

I ran my hand over my chest. While the claws had not penetrated my flesh, they had done far worse damage. “I am fine, Pron.” And I was, as far as I knew. I stepped around my armor hanging in the cradle, examining the various scorch marks accumulated through many days of chasing Rolm. The demon marks stood out as if they bled fresh on the carapace, oozing a shadow of blood trickling on the other side of reality.

“I think this shell is tainted.” I turned away and accepted the robe offered by a servitor. “See that it is destroyed.”

Pron gave one of his stiff nods. “I will pull the core and run it through the (anti-virus program that checks for possessed software) personally.”

I dismissed the servitor and waited for a moment as it retired. Pron sensed my pause and stepped closer in a conspiratorial way. “I’d rather you didn’t, Pron. Purge the whole unit.”

Pron was no fool. I could sense him thinking about the telemetry that would document all that had happened during my encounter on Solaris III. I said nothing as he stared at me. “Are you okay, Grunner?” he repeated.

I lowered my shields a bit and felt his empathy radiating around me. I reached out to let him get a sense of me, to confirm that I was intact, but not offering any more than that. “It would be better if the suit was not recovered.”

“Then that will be what happens. As you command.”

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I liked the honesty of the Floor. This was the underworld, where the derelicts and losers lived, and the ambiance reflected this truth. You knew what you were getting here, which was more than you could say about the engineered perfection of the Canopy.

Up there, threats were hidden behind plastic smiles and affidavits.

I wrapped my long coat around me and set out from the bust, walking back to the station. Uniformed police were taking Slick down for processing, and the narc team would be downloading the audio from the bust and preparing a written draft for me to sign later. Judging by Slick’s babbling after the arrest, he was more than willing to give up his whole network in exchange for some consideration in sentencing. The unit should be busy in the next few days, rounding up the new leads.

I preferred to walk. It shook out the adrenaline and gave me some time to cool off. The lights of the police cruisers faded behind me as I turned the corner to walk down the main thoroughfare. The evening was still young, and the usual crowd of carousers were milling up and down the strip, spilling out of the various bars and clubs in a motley tide of humanity, punctuated by the occasional Salucidian. I passed a clump of wild eyed kids from the Canopy; tourists from affluence, down here to gawk at the common man, hoping to return to their homes above with a good story. Their flashy clothes and naïve expressions marked them better than a sonic tag.

I walked by without a second glance. They would be a problem for Robbery at best, Homicide at worst.

Coke and Meth dealers stood on corners, barking their wares and doing a brisk business. I pushed through the line of customers and continued on my way, ignoring the calls that offered their product in exchange for non-monetary payments.

Maybe it was time for a transfer? The thought had been running through my mind for awhile now. Narc was pretty much all Bleach containment now, and that meant working with Salucidians practically full time. After ten years of dealing with the Salads, the ministrations of Slick seemed preferable in comparison.

But the work was important. The quantity of bleach seized today would have sent a thousand Salads into a killing frenzy. I’ll never understand people willing to make a buck off the slaughter of innocents. Humanity at its finest.

I turned off the main avenue and walked down a side street, leaving the garish revelry behind. Pausing long enough to slip my glasses in place, I wrapped my hand around the Sig Sauer in my pocket. The dark side street came to life in my lenses, painting the scene with a composite of infrared, ultraviolet and radar. Heat plumes illuminated a couple of derelicts passed out in a doorway to my left, while a cluster of figures played some sort of card game inside the shop to my right. I tapped the tattooed icon on my wrist and dialed up the gain, stripping away the brick and mortar wall to bring the figures into sharper detail. The computer tagged an assortment of weaponry stashed on the various participants. By the looks of things, no one had better get caught cheating.

I moved on, stepping out into the street to distance myself from the derelicts, just in case.

The work wasn’t exactly dull, but the lifestyle was getting old. I used to spend my off time down in Newnan, partying in circles that didn’t overlap my work district, enjoying the endless night and bottomless well of energy that came with youth. Now, a cup of tea and an early bedtime was just fine. I spent a moment trying to remember the name of my last date, but his face faded against the jumbled memories of too many long work assignments.

A slight flicker passed across my lenses, stopping me in my tracks. I turned my head from side to side, following a ripple in the sensor array. The patch remained centered on the right hand side of the street, outside of visible range. I refrained from staring and adjusted my shoe, hoping to cover my hesitation.

As I drew nearer, the faint outline of a limousine emerged from the darkness. The lenses refused to acknowledge the car, but there it was in visible light, such as it was. I shut off the lenses and sighed, diverting my course to approach the car. The driver side door opened and a tall man emerged. He walked around the car and opened the back door, giving me a polite nod. “Good evening, Ms. Thatcher.”

“Timothy, isn’t it?” He nodded. “He’s up a bit late, isn’t he?” Timothy gave me a half shrug. I stepped into the limo and the door closed behind me.

“Picking up a lone woman late at night in the seedy section of town isn’t wise, Senator. Voters might draw the wrong conclusions.” I settled into the plush seat and leaned back.

The man on the other side was as handsome as usual, impeccably groomed even at this late hour. His square face and firm jaw suggested strength, which translated to a few points every election day. Green eyes and black hair provided an air of youth, while the gray patches on the temples offered the perception of wisdom. On the surface, he was a man who could work a room, making friends with ease and inspiring loyalty simply by remembering your name.

He was a leader to the earnest; and a shallow politician to the cynical.

This was the only instance where my natural cynicism was displaced by virtue of the fact that I grew up with this man standing over me. The former assessment was correct.

“What are you doing down here, dad?”

“Can’t I check up on my girl?” He turned his panel around to show me an enhanced still frame. I was looking down at myself slipping on my glasses just a few moments ago. The drone image was sharper than anything produced by police gear. Of course the limo would be outfitted with the best military hardware available. Somewhere overhead, a couple of security details were circulating in a parking orbit, keeping watch over the Senator.

I turned the panel back around. “Shouldn’t you be in Washington? Congress is in session.”

“I’m just down for the night. Forgive me for snooping on you, but I couldn’t wait for you to get home, and I didn’t want to interfere with your work. This seemed like a good place.”

I nodded. “I appreciate you being discrete.” The Senator’s daughter shtick never really went away, but I had done the best I could to stamp it down at work. People didn’t forget something like that, but they at least had stopped thinking about it whenever I walked into the office. “How’s Amanda?”

To his credit, he never tried to get me to call her ‘mom’, but I could still see the unease in his face whenever I asked about her. It had nothing to do with disapproval of dad remarrying after mom died, but I simply didn’t like Amanda. It had nothing to do with feelings of a strange woman replacing mom, or moving in on my childhood memories, or whatever else a shrink would try to tell me. I just didn’t like the bitch, but I tried to suppress it for dad’s sake. He deserved to be happy.

“She’s well. She’s up in New York for the next week, prosecuting a case.”

“That’s right. I saw that on the news. That’s next week?” It all blurred together lately. The only thing keeping my days separate was the time stamp on my email.

A soft chime proceeded Timothy’s voice filling the compartment. “Excuse me, Senator, but the detail is insisting we move. They don’t like us sitting still this long.”

Dad looked at me and I nodded. He could always drop me around the corner from the station. “Go ahead, Timothy. Drive around for a while.”

The car rumbled once before the vibration damping kicked in. I glanced out of the window to see the ground fall away as we rose and slipped into the traffic stream a hundred meters above the Floor. The traffic AI buffered out the flow, leaving us in a two hundred meter isolation zone, embedded in the flow of cars while the security detail joined us in formation. It looked like we were heading out toward Stone Mountain.

“So what’s up?”

“Your last email suggested some dissatisfaction in your work. Needless to say, I wanted to follow up.”

Dad hated my job more than I did, but he had the decency to let me make my own choices. “I’m going through a rough patch. Chasing down bleach dealers is starting to get old. It seems like we stop the flow for a time, but someone always fills the gap and we’re right back to the previous volumes. I’m starting to believe that interdiction isn’t the way to go.”

Dad smiled. “Still subscribing to the Weed Killer view?”

“Not quite,” I smiled back at the suggestion. A Senator’s daughter lining up with a Salad-phobic hate group would make for juicy media. “I can’t stand the Salads, but I’m not ready for genocide. It would just be a lot easier on everyone if they weren’t so damn weak when it came to bleach abuse. Killing humans while in a psychotropic rage doesn’t make for good inter-species relations.”

“That’s why I flew down here. I have a proposal for you if you are interested.”

I sighed. “Not another desk job in DC…”

He held his hand up. “No, hear me out. This could be meaningful work, and I need someone I can trust. You wouldn’t even have to leave Atlanta unless you want to.” He pulled a thin file out of a pouch and handed it over. “National intelligence suggests the various bleach cartels are about to organize on the East Coast, from Miami to Atlanta, all the way up to New York. The center of the organization attempt is here in Atlanta. You’ll find a list of names and aliases there that might be familiar to you. The cartels are ready to put aside the competition and parcel out the available business. They are going to go Corporate, and are already stamping out the resistors in New York and Jersey. In a couple of years, you aren’t going to be able to deal unless you own a franchise and take orders from the top.”

I flipped open the file and scanned the list. A few of the names did jump out at me. “Why doesn’t the Atlanta PD know about this?”

“The intel is black. We can’t reveal any of this without compromising our sources and technique. It’s better if the bad guys don’t know we are watching.”

I looked up from the list. “That sensitive? This is Bureau data?” The page had been sanitized of all logos or department mastheads.

“No.”

I felt my eyebrows climb under my bangs. “Domestic intelligence is exclusively Bureau turf.” I said it without thinking, like I was responding to my freshmen Civics teacher.

He stared at me with a slight smile, waiting on me to put it together. Dad always believed in making me work to figure things out. “If it isn’t Bureau, it has to be CIA or DoD. That means foreign involvement.”

He nodded. “There are a number of possible sources, but the cartels are getting a lot of funding and data from foreign powers. Obviously, someone is trying to destabilize the US by stirring up the Salicudian population. The list of possible nations is short, but spectacularly worrisome.”

He went on. “If you are interested in more, you’ll have to take the job. I’ve already crossed a few lines by handing you that list. Speaking abstractly, foreign meddling on our soil is something we take very seriously. It requires a response, but we need to know more before any appropriate action can be taken. God help us if we don’t have airtight proof for the current administration. He won’t blow his nose without UN approval.”

“Unfortunately, the wheels are turning slower than I like. The President is unwilling to do anything ‘extreme’.” Scorn dripped from the word. “The DEA Director refuses to act without direct Presidential orders, so we are left working with whatever informal authority we can put together. I have a dozen Senators and a bunch of Congressmen lined up to pull whatever strings they can, but we need something more substantial to put in front of the President.”

“Is it really that bad?” I knew the government was dysfunctional, but this was silly.

Dad shrugged. “Its paralyses. Typical bureaucracy. People are more interested in the ‘process’ than results, so long as they can remain part of the process. It’s all a bunch of ass covering, and the worst comes down from the top. But we’ll do what we can with whatever we can put together. If we get proof , they’ll have to act on it.”

“So, that’s why I’m here. The problem seems to be centered here, and I need people I can trust to start looking into it. I’d like to pull a few strings and get you into the DEA desk locally. I know nepotism horrifies you, but the situation has changed here dramatically. This isn’t for the sake of your career; it’s for the good of the nation.”

Dad was one of the only people I knew who could say ‘the good of the nation’ and make you feel like he was sincere. I considered the ‘Senator’s Daughter’ syndrome again. I suppose I could handle it, and it would be a change of pace having DEA resources available. “I’m not saying no yet.”

Dad nodded. “I get you transferred and you use your contacts and informants to head up a small task force reporting to me. You focus more on information gathering than enforcement, and you’ll carry authorization that’ll give you significant legal room to maneuver. The local DEA branch head (title?) is an old friend, and he’ll give you plenty of room to work. When this is over, you’ll be in a position to pick whatever job you would like, and it won’t be because of me.”

I closed the file and laid it on my lap. The job was still bleach work, but it seemed more meaningful. Instead of sticking my finger into a leaking dam, it would be a serious effort to break up the organized cartels. The bleach would always flow, but at least it would be left to the local thugs, which meant a higher concentration of stupidity. It was always easier to take down the stupid.

I loved Atlanta, but working a national job held a lot of appeal. Dad’s position would always earn me the murmurings behind my back, but a job like this would go a long way toward making people see me for my ability rather than parentage. And I could get out of bleach work.

“I need a night to think about it.” I handed the file back.

He smiled. I hate it that he knew my answer before I did. He must have been confident to say what he said next. “There is one more thing. You’ll be working with a Salad.”

I don’t enjoy making my dad uncomfortable, but he deserved the torrent of profanity. I was still muttering curses when he dropped me off a few minutes later.

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She balled her shaking hands into fists and fought against the impulse to run. The tremor moved up her arms. Keamanan had thought he was the target, but she wasn’t so certain.

She knew one of the men.

She had seen him before, down below. The image returned without effort, and she saw Resnig meeting with a rival leader, working to negotiate a consolidation against the Crew. The assassin stood with the rival, and she remembered their eyes meeting for an instant, a mutual gaze at the same moment, pausing just long enough to acknowledge one another before moving on. The memory left her with another shiver.

She couldn’t tell Keamanan. He wouldn’t be surprised if she admitted her association with the Compact, but despite all that he had done to her, she couldn’t bring herself to force him to lie for her. Angrily, she shoved the thought aside, disgusted at her own weakness. In the end, she knew she couldn’t do it, and she refused to accept the reason why.

Damn him for all of his honesty. And damn him for being truthful to her, despite what that meant.

She rounded a corner and passed by a clump of people heading the opposite direction. Crew, not people. Keamanan’s words bit into her, and she resented the truth behind his taunting. She had grown too comfortable up here, living with the Crew. But what else could she do? She was the representative, and that meant she had to be close to those that held the power.

And Resnig hated it. He hadn’t said it openly, but she could tell by the way he grew cold whenever she had to leave him, to return to the upper decks. Their relationship was built on a foundation of exploitation, but there was some small core of emotion beneath the politics and power. She needed him as a conduit to those that would fight the Crew, and he needed her for her access to those he fought. It made too much sense for either of them to ignore, and they carried too much respect for one another to pretend that each was unaware of the needs of the other. Whatever emotion had initiated the relationship had been crushed beneath the needs of the Cuplable, but she suspected enough of it remained to cast doubt on the idea that Resnig could ever wish her harm.

Whether that doubt stemmed from pure emotion or naked utility was not entirely clear to her, and she was surprised to find herself wishing for the emotional reason.

But Resnig would kill Keamanan if he ever had the opportunity. Despite the harm it would bring to the cause, Resnig would give in to his irrational side to take his vengeance. Maybe this was a simple attempt, and her worries were unfounded.

But either way, the incident required attention. It could easily spark the conflagration she had worked so hard to avoid. Planetfall would be announced soon, and with it, the Riots were inevitable. History would be repeated, and people would die.

Morium arrived at the door to her cabin. This part of the Crew sector was relatively empty, since most Crew would consider a berth assignment near her as an insult. The cluster of four cabins provided housing for her and her three aides, as well as a small office for her work. She paused at her door. Is she was indeed the target, then a second attempt would be likely. However, if whoever had initiated the attack had the power to touch her here, well within the Green Zone, then there would be little she could do to prevent the attack.

She took a deep breath. Death didn’t frighten her, but she hated the idea that her death might be used to further someone else’s agenda. She intended to use her death to her own ends, just as she lived her life.

The door slid open at her command, revealing a figure seated at her table.

Morium recognized Sasha immediately. The older woman sat on the edge of the seat, as if the seat back bristled with spikes. Her tattered robes enfolded her frail body, and her graying hair framed her tired face in a halo of dignity. Sasha was her longest serving assistant, and one of the few that had not been dismissed due to Keamanan’s constant security sweeps.

Morium stepped into her cabin and the door slid shut behind her. She glanced around the small room, not really expecting to see anyone else. Sasha seemed to wait for Morium to satisfy herself before she spoke. “Resnig wants to see you. Now.”

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