Tales from the Service: Angels at Karma

2949-12-14 – Tales from the Service: Angels at Karma

With very little movement here in Berkant, the media attention has been on Seventh Fleet for the past several days, as that fleet reported its first major offensive success. A small raiding force centered around the light carrier Trafalgar has reportedly attacked and badly damaged an Incarnation repair base in a system not far from Sagittarius Gate identified only by a catalog number in our datasphere. Apparently, the name of the planet in this system to the Incarnation is Karma, so most of the media reports have called this system the same in lieu of reporting only its numeric catalog reference code. 

While not so spectacular a victory as the destruction of the marauding cruisers which had been using this base to harry the Seventh Fleet’s position, Naval Intelligence expects that the damage to the base will severely restrict Incarnation operations in the area for at least a few months, as any damage and wear to their ships can only be repaired at the Incarnation’s home yards, estimated to be at the far side of the Sagittarius Frontier region, two hundred fifty light-years more distant. 

The strangest detail of the Trafalgar raid on the system commonly known now as Karma is one that, in all honesty, I did not expect permission to report. Nevertheless, perhaps doubting its reliability, Naval Intelligence has not restricted this account of one of the strike pilots participating in the operation. 

The first time a silver shape flitted across his peripheral vision, Rewaju Dexter thought it a stray reflection off the hull of one of his squadron mates. As the nine Tarantula strike bombers in his formation were moving in a tight formation, it wouldn’t have been unusual for one of them to come into view ahead of his cockpit as they cautiously adjusted their positions relative to their leader. The sensors revealed only the wan signatures thrown off by his eight compatriots, and those only because they were so close. 

The second time he saw the flashing movement of some foreign object, Rewaju turned his head to look hard in that direction. There was nothing there visible to his eyes or his sensors, but he felt a shiver begin to crawl up his spine. He’d heard and read plenty of accounts of spacers running into strange things in the dark of the Sagittarius Frontier even before war had come, and he certainly didn’t want to have that sort of run-in while his rig was laden with several tons of heavy ordinance. 

Frowning, Rewaju flicked on the intercom connecting him to Archie Zawski, occupying a seat four meters behind him. “Hey Zawski, take a look to port for me.” 

There was a long pause, presumably caused by the ordinance tech doing as instructed. “I don’t see anything, Dexter.” 

Rewaju frowned, calling up the hull cameras on his consoles. “Thought I saw something on visual.”  

According to the bomber’s passive sensors, there shouldn’t have been anything there to cause the flashes, and that made him worry. The Tarantulas were heading for an enemy installation at high velocity but with their drives disengaged, hoping to avoid notice until the last possible moment. If they had picked up a stealthy tail, it meant a lethal reception waited ahead. 

“It’s the dark playing tricks on you. Sure as all hells does that to me if I let it.” 

Rewaju grunted by way of reply, continuing to scan the darkness ahead of him. The only visible star was the system’s primary, already a yellow-orange disk big enough to require the smart-glass lining the inside of his viewpanels to dim its glow. Other than the symbols denoting the positions of the unseen planet ahead and target which orbited it, and the three green indicators representing the locations of the three Tarantulas ahead of his own, nothing else appeared in his view. So far from the star, something would have to be highly reflective to throw off a flash like he thought he’d seen, and anything that reflective would also show up on the sensors. 

“Hey, did I ever tell you about the-” 

“About the critter that tried to eat you at Cold Refuge? About fifty times.” Rewaju smiled. Zawski was an old hand as far as strike crew went; he’d first seen action at the Battle of Cold Refuge more than ten years previously. Most people didn’t last a decade running strike operations, even in peacetime; it was a service for young hotshots, among which Rewaju was happy to count himself. Zawski was as close to a greybeard as any squadron ever had flying; most spacers did only one or two terms as strike crew before they transferred out, washed out, or bought the plot. 

“Er... Yeah, that.” Zawski paused to recover from the perpetual shock of remembering that he’d already told his most interesting story far too many times to the same audience. “Well it started just like – woah!” 

Rewaju saw the flitting silver shape this time with more than the corner of his eye. A sleek object smaller even than his Tarantula zipped past on the port side, passing them from behind and vanishing into the darkness ahead in an instant. None of his sensors seemed to mark the object’s passage. 

“Dexter, what in all creative hells was that?” 

“No clue, Zawski.” Rewaju frowned and manipulated the cameras again. “That’s at least the third time it’s passed us.” He cursed the radio-silence order he and his fellow pilots were under; the only radio call anyone could make was the call to abort the mission, and he wasn’t sure it was time to do that quite yet. 

“Or maybe that’s the third one.” From the sound of his voice, Zawski didn’t like the implications of his own conclusion. “Nate drones?” 

“Nah, we’d have picked something up if one of their machines got that close. It’s got to be some sort of natural-” 

The explanation died in Rewaju’s throat even before it had emerged. A glinting silver object appeared almost directly dead ahead of his cockpit where nothing had been a moment before. He’d seen that teardrop shape and featureless silver hull before, but only in recorded holos and stills. 

“Are...” Zawski found his voice first. “Are we looking at what I think we’re looking at?” 

Though he could plainly see the craft, Rewaju still saw no indication his Tarantula’s sensors had detected it. Even when he pointed a camera directly ahead, its feed showed only a rectangle of empty space. Somehow, this only solidified his certainty as to what it was. “What’s an Angel want with us?” 

As if by answer, the comms section of Rewaju’s board lit up. Cautiously, he flicked open the channel and flashed his forward running lights; he couldn’t send radio transmissions, but he could listen. 

“Human vessel of war, do not take undue alarm.” The grating, electronically generated voice of the Angel pilot of the craft ahead filled Rewaju’s ears, and belatedly he connected Zawski’s station to the sound as well. “We do not intend to interfere with or participate in your efforts.” 

“I don’t like it. If they don’t want to join us, and they don’t want to stop us, why are they here?” 

Rewaju considered his tech’s question for several seconds. The only reason for several Angel craft to shadow the Tarantula formation beyond participating or interfering with their efforts he could think of was to use their attack as cover for some other activity, though what that activity might be he couldn’t begin to guess. “They want to get away with something while everyone’s looking at the pretty fireballs.” 

“Hmm. Maybe.” Zawski spent several seconds considering alternatives. “You don’t think we’re so lucky that whatever they’re doing will hurt Nate, do you?” 

“Doubt it.” The only times in recorded history the Angels had participated in military affairs, it had been to prevent Sol from being occupied by an alien force; a war between one group of humans and another probably seemed like a silly sibling squabble to them. 

In the blink of an eye, the silver teardrop shape ahead vanished once more, as if it had never been there. Still, the sensors showed nothing. 

“Bastard probably didn’t go far.” Zawski grumbled. “What business do they have on a dustball like Karma?” 

Recalling all the centuries-old stories from his own home-world of Planet at Centauri of Angel sightings in the mountains, Rewaju chuckled. “Whatever it is, our grandchildren will still be guessing.” 

“Unless we buy the plot on this run, Dexter. Then nobody’s going to be guessing.” 

Rewaju rolled his eyes and didn’t gratify the comment with a reply. He had a feeling both he and Zawski would make it back to Trafalgar alive this time. After all, the Angels didn’t show themselves unless they wanted to; having someone survive to report their presence was undoubtedly part of their scheme. 

Details

Tales from the Service: A Sovereign Entrance

2949-12-21 – Tales from the Service: A Sovereign Entrance 

As we and all the spacers and service personnel defending Berkant prepare to celebrate Emmanuel Feast this week, the members of this embed team wish all our readers a wonderful holiday, whatever incarnation of that holiday you celebrate. 

[N.T.B. - May God keep you strong in these dark and uncertain times, wherever this holiday finds you.] 

While official sources with both the company and the Navy have not confirmed this, rumors indicate that the battleship Sundiver has been seen in Sagittarius Gate in the last few days. This ship, the mobile headquarters of Sovereign Security Solutions, is a vessel of Terran-Rattanai War vintage, but its rumored current capabilities rival those of any Confederated Navy battleship. One can only speculate the absurd fee the company was paid to deploy their prestige-piece flagship to an active theater of war. 

Technician Gabriel Hackett set his cup of lukewarm coffee aside and turned back to his console when it chimed. As the third shift sensor officer aboard Philadelphia, the Seventh Fleet flagship, any time the Sagittarius Gate sensor drone network picked up the gravitic disturbances created by an incoming ship’s star drive, he was notified, but most of these incoming ships were Navy supply haulers, arriving singly or in convoy. Occasionally, Incarnation ships would arrive to lurk and spy, but even these rarely proved worth a major alert. 

This time, though, Gabriel could tell in an instant the incoming ships were not cargo carriers or Incarnation snoopers. The mass profile was all wrong for a convoy, and none of the ships matched any of the common Incarnation or Confederated Navy drive signatures he’d memorized weeks earlier. The largest of the newcomers clearly outmassed even Philadelphia herself. 

Seconds after Gabriel flagged the intruders and sent an identification challenge order to the drone network, Commander Reva Shelby appeared over his shoulder. “What have we got, Hackett?” 

Gabriel pointed to the estimated mass profiles of the incoming ships. “With one big ship and a mess of small ones, it’s not Nate, but they’re not Navy either. We’d have been told to expect a battleship, and they’re not following our protocols.” 

“Who else would be all the way out here?” Shelby pointed to the data readout for the biggest ship. “That thing’s bigger than any battleship in any fleet.” 

Gabriel tapped the display thoughtfully, calling up the first blurry raw images from the sensor drones’ telescopes. The huge ship had a wasp-waisted, organically curved profile. “Reachers?” 

“If so, that would be a first on this side of the Gap.” Shelby put her hand on Gabriel’s shoulder briefly. “Let me know if they answer the challenge. I’ll call down to the Staff.” 

Gabriel groaned. He knew it would be more than two hours before the drones’ reports on any replies to the challenge signal would filter back to Philadelphia. The admiral’s staff officers would probably want to put the better part of Seventh Fleet on alert, waking thousands, possibly tens of thousands, of spacers in the middle of their sleep cycle. As Seventh Fleet contained only three battleships, any sortie against the monster ship would probably include Philadelphia herself. 

As Commander Shelby stepped away and activated her comm earpiece, Gabriel pulled up several images of the incoming ship. Each drone in the network had a different angle, and while only a few had included visible-light and radio-telescope images in their alert signals, he had enough grainy pictures to form a decent impression of the ship’s general outline. The profile was familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember where from. He could at least rule out that it was some sort of mega-hauler, at least – no merchant hull had lines like that. 

“Mr. Hackett, send any identifying data down to CIC.” Shelby didn’t wait for her order to be carried out before pacing away down the bridge’s long, broad main walkway, deep in conversation with someone on Admiral Abarca’s staff. 

“Holzmann is hailing, Commander. High priority.” The new third-shift comms officer sounded nervous, and Gabriel didn’t blame her; she was interrupting a conversation between two officers each at least six ranks above herself. 

To her credit, Reva Shelby didn’t snap at the interruption. “Put them on display three.” 

A moment later, a holographic display near Gabriel’s station shimmered and resolved into the washed-out image of a slick man in a dark non-Navy uniform. Gabriel, knowing his image wasn’t being transmitted, allowed himself a grimace at the mercenary captain’s garish attire; the black tunics and gold braid of Sovereign Security Solutions officers was more in line with Rahl Hegemony uniform customs than those of the Confederated Navy. 

“Commander... Shelby, is it?” The slick officer’s voice oozed self-confidence in a way that Gabriel instantly disliked. “Pause your plans for a general alert.” 

Commander Shelby took a moment to reply, presumably allowing the obvious question of how a mercenary vessel not privy to the sensor stream from the picket network would know that Philadelphia was moments from issuing such an alert. When she did reply, it was with an icy coolness that Gabriel suspected hid as much distaste for the mercenary as he felt himself. “Your opinion is noted, Captain Drake, but your company does not control the command of Seventh Fleet.” 

Drake smiled rakishly, either misreading or ignoring Shelby’s tone. “Admiral Abarca will want to know that the ships that just arrived are ours, won’t he?” 

“I’ll tell his people you were expecting someone.” 

Gabriel glanced back at the images on his display, and suddenly saw the indistinct shape of the incoming monster in new light. Its vaguely familiar profile was one he’d seen in newsfeeds throughout his childhood. “Stars around, Commander. That’s Sundiver.” 

Drake must have heard Gabriel’s outburst, because he nodded. “Your man has it right. My boss told me to say that he’ll be along to talk with the Admiral’s staff as soon as possible.” 

Gabriel frowned at this claim; even if Sundiver wanted to send a tight-beam message to Holzmann as soon as it arrived, it would need to wait for the speed of light several times as IFF challenges bounced back and forth before the trajectory of such a transmission could be computed. How could the commander of the incoming battleship already be giving orders to his subordinates more than a light-hour away? 

Whether or not she understood the strangeness of this claim, Commander Shelby nodded. “I’ll pass that along.” 

Details

Tales from the Service: Grand Designs on Margaux

2949-12-28 – Tales from the Service: Grand Designs on Margaux

Last week’s account of the arrival of the mercenary warship Sundiver at Sagittarius Gate, along with similar accounts sent to other publications, has generated a great deal of datasphere activity. Much of it seems to be of the fearmongering variety, I’m sorry to say. Given the less-than-wholesome reputation the Sovereign Security Solutions company has acquired since its founding, I can’t say I’m surprised by this. Sovereign’s secrecy and close ties with Hegemony intelligence agencies, however, don’t constitute evidence that the company is preparing to betray the Seventh Fleet. In fact, it’s quite the opposite; the Hegemony has expressed interest in sending a task force to the Coreward Frontier to fight against the Incarnation ever since learning about the ties between the Incarnation and Reach-native Ladeonists.

Unfortunately, since Sundiver is the product of a Ladeonist-era building program, and also part of the legends and prophecies the Ladeonists regularly reference its twin, the much more well-known Dawnglider, I can see where the overactive imaginations started generating conspiracies.

Fortunately for us all, Sovereign has never demonstrated any Ladeonist sympathies; its leadership is a mix of Confederated Navy and Hegemony Navy veterans. Even if the organization is as liberally salted with reformed brigands as the rumors claim, most pirates aren’t particularly Ladeonist-aligned either.

Also contrary to the worst fears of some datasphere commentators, Sundiver didn’t stay long. By the time of this writing on the twenty-sixth, it has already departed Sagittarius Gate, leaving a frigate and two supply vessels from its small flotilla behind. Most likely, it’s going to be doing something similar to the raids Trafalgar and other fast, long-range capital ships have been carrying out, but I suppose we’ll hear about that in a few weeks.

Over on the Coreward Frontier, other Sovereign units have been heavily committed this week in raids on Incarnation bases near the contested system of Berkant. A small flotilla led by the large destroyer Van Praag even sortied to Margaux, though they were driven away from the orbital infrastructure around that world before any real damage could be done. Though Sovereign personnel rarely if ever leak accounts of their activities to the media, this raid was a mixed force including the regular Navy fast frigate Chloe Hightower, whose Margaux-native second-in-command was only too happy to relay their account of the assault and rapid withdrawal. The most interesting part of that account is the following.

Tom Beckett cleared his throat as Hightower’s skipper paced past his station. “Sir, do you have a moment?”

Commander Marioni whirled on Tom, his bleary eyes showing every minute of the thirteen hours the ship had been set to battle-stations. Even though nothing had happened yet, the ship and its fellows were cruising through an enemy-held system, their full-power gravitic drives announcing their presence to any enemy ships nearby. Blinking, the skipper nodded his assent.

“Permission to follow a hunch, sir.” Tom pointed into the display, where the planet of Margaux was depicted by a cyanotic sphere on the system map. “I put one of the telescopes on the planet, and something’s not right.”

Marioni frowned. “You think this is a trap?”

“Oh, no, no.” Tom shook his head. He could hardly blame his commander for focusing on the mission so tightly. “I mean, something’s not right on the planet’s surface. Might be there’s something important down there worth a missile.”

“We’re four light-hours from the planet, and you think you can pick out ground targets with a standard ship’s telescope? Beckett, that’s nonsense.”

Tom winced. “That’s not-”

“Look, I told you to keep the scopes on the planet to look for any sign of Tyrants lying cold in tight orbits. We’re here to smash orbitals, not pick off ground targets.” Marioni pointed to the screen. “If you can follow your hunch while still doing that, you have my permission, but we’re not firing on the surface.”

Tom opened his mouth to reply, but the tightly-wound commander was already gone, pacing toward the front of the bridge. With a sigh, he lowered his head and opened the data-screen he’d been hoping to show the skipper. On it, Margaux showed in twin mirrored crescents, with insets showing maximum-magnification shots of the outermost limb, where the difference was most pronounced. For some reason, the atmosphere of the planet had changed enough to visibly change color between the first image and the second, and since one was taken when he’d last departed the system three T-years ago, and the other only minutes before, it seemed a fair bet the Incarnation occupation had something to do with it.

Ignoring Marioni’s disdain, Tom set the ship’s main computer to examining the spectrographic profile of Margaux’s atmosphere and called up what the databanks said the composition should be. Using the computer for such things during a battle alert was theoretically discouraged, but with no enemy ships on the board and hours left until the computer would be needed to plot firing solutions, it seemed likely this would go unnoticed. The skipper had, after all, technically given him permission to follow his hunch.

When the spectrographic analysis came back, Tom spotted the difference immediately. “Hellfire. Look at that.”

Marioni, hearing Tom’s muttered exclamation, was back in an instant. “What is it, Beckett? Enemy activity?”

“None yet.” Tom pointed to the pair of spectrographic readouts on his display. “It’s the planet, sir. Archive data says its atmosphere is this, but this is what it is today. See these extra lines? Those elements are in the soil down there, but not the air. The battle would have thrown some up, but it would have all settled months ago.”

Marioni was silent for a few seconds, probably working on how this was relevant to detecting the enemy ambush he clearly expected.

“It means they’re doing something on the surface big enough to churn up dust on a global scale. Something that might just be worth a missile, sir, if I can find it.”

Marioni stared at Tom for a moment, then nodded. “Do what you can, Beckett, and if you do find it, you have your missile.”

Details

Tales from the Service: A Plugged Leak

2950-01-04 – Tales from the Service: A Plugged Leak

This week, Fifth Fleet is finally in motion here in Berkant. After a major attack on the picket line on the last day of the year was defeated, Admiral Zahariev ordered the fleet to form up for a push away from Berkant toward occupied Hallman. 

While this movement across the open system has not (as of this entry being submitted late on the second) yet resulted in a major fleet action, I can’t see how it can be avoided at this point. If the Incarnation fleet at Hallman does not run or come out to fight a maneuver battle by mid-day (fleet shipboard time) on the fourth, the day this post is being ingested into the feed distribution system, they’ll be forced to fight a defensive battle in orbit to protect their groundside installations. 

By all estimates Fifth Fleet has the numeric and tonnage advantage; almost none of the dozen-odd enemy cruisers observed retiring after being damaged in the numerous skirmishes here have been seen returning. 

While we are waiting to see what the result of Zahariev’s offensive will be, I am bringing you a unique account. Unlike most, which are sent to Cosmic Background and then fed to Naval Intelligence for review, this account comes directly from Naval Intelligence, and is about the activity of an agent of one of its subordinate organizations, the Bureau of Counter-Intelligence. In interests of full disclosure, they did not pressure me into editing it for the text feed; they submitted it last month with a request to treat it exactly like any other candidate for the Tales from the Inbox series. Their interest seems to be mainly to remind the public that the terror campaigns waged by Immortal agents like Horus are not the only variety of Incarnation espionage within the Confederated Worlds. 

Just to avoid the inevitable flood of questions to this effect, the name of the BCI agent used here is almost certainly a pseudonym, and though the submission claimed this took place on Madurai, I doubt highly that that is true.

[N.T.B. - If we’re not missing something – and I rather think we are – I expect Nate to run rather than fight here. Hallman hardly seems worth protecting, and at this point Berkant is nothing but a fortress.] 

Duana stared hard at the bouncer at the nightclub entrance as the man made a show of scrutinizing her holo-badge and credentials. Most likely, the oaf normally saw such things as forgeries created in a vain attempt to allow those not on the sleazy establishment’s curiously exclusive guest list to enjoy the party. 

The man's vain search for subtle signs of falsification increasingly creased his broad forehead, but Duana didn’t move a muscle, knowing even the least motion would be analyzed both by the guard and whoever was watching behind the cold eye of the security camera behind him. She had already cataloged the extensive list of illicit body-modifications which the club’s door-man kept concealed under his ill-fitting uniform, and her folded arms concealed one hand already beginning to work an electromagnetic stun-wand out of its hiding-place in her sleeve. 

“This ain’t real, sis.” The man flipped Duana’s badge back to her.  

She pretended to be surprised and deliberately failed to catch it, then stooped to pick it up. “I assure you, it is very real. This is a matter of the utmost-” 

The man half-turned away to focus on a slouched, shifty-eyed man approaching the club entrance. It was just enough of an opening for Duana to leap up and jam the shiny studs on the stun-wand into the side of his neck. With a surprised gurgle, the bouncer crumpled to the ground, all of his concealed cybernetics scrambled. For his sake, she hoped none of those newly defective components were hooked into the vital processes of his body; an EM wand could put a grown man on the floor for a few minutes, but against the cybernetically corrupted, it was a lethal weapon. 

As the slouching man fled down the shadowy street, Duana held her holo-badge up to the camera’s lens for several seconds, then held up the five splayed fingers of one hand. Slowly, she lowered one finger at a time. The door lock clicked open just as she reached two. Clearly, the club’s owner was not as dull as his help. It was no secret that those who obstructed Bureau of Counter-Intelligence investigations rarely stayed in business for long, especially when their business acted as a covert hub for the degenerate goings-on of the local counterhuman scene. 

In addition to a wall of thudding, discordant music, a slim young woman whose face was painted with bruise-like purple makeup slipped out of the door. Glancing nervously at the bouncer, she beckoned for Duana to follow her. Unlike the downed man, Duana’s analysis lenses didn’t detect any cybernetics installed in her body. True, her facial features bore the unmistakable signs of having been "improved” by a bargain-basement fleshsculpt procedure, but Duana didn’t have the time or the jurisdiction to worry about that. 

Duana followed her guide around the margins of a chaotic tangle of human and mostly-human revelry toward the club’s back office. Dim lighting shot with bright strobes, diaphanous curtains hanging from the rafters, and a haze of damp smoke made it hard to see any particular details, but Duana didn’t mind that double-edged sword; it also made it less likely that her quarry would notice her in time to escape. Of the few patrons close enough to look up and see her clearly, most quickly lost interest. One made a doomed, intoxicated come-hither gesture, but received only an exaggerated eye-roll in response. 

Ushered into the sound-dampened office at the back, Duana found a broad-shouldered, silver-haired man sitting behind a huge desk. She calmly set her holo-badge on that desk and waited for his eyes to return to her after examining it. 

“Got nothing to say to you or any other spook.” The club manager shook his head. “Come back with a magistrate’s warrant.” 

“Please.” Duana waved her still-active stun-wand around, and noted the way it made the man wince even before her analysis lenses identified several unknown cybernetic modules within his body. “Our style is more to come back with an extraction team, but you like your roof, so you won’t let that happen. I’m just looking for someone.” 

“Who?” 

Duana tossed a miniature holo-projector onto the desk next to her badge, and it lit up to display the head and shoulders of a dumpy-looking young man. “He probably gave the name Adam Symons. Real name doesn’t matter.” 

Even before he spoke, the man’s reaction told Duana that he’d seen her quarry. “What for?” 

“There’s been a leak on a secret project. We just need to talk to him.” 

Whether the man believed this lie or not didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know that “Symons” was a Ladeonist ideologue named K.B. Cole who had penetrated Naval security systems and was only hours from delivering the full technological specifications of the battleship Maribel and dozens of other new warships to a local Incarnation sleeper agent.  

After a long pause, the club manager nodded. “He’s in one of our private rooms, with, ah... entertainment.” 

“Which one?” Duana didn’t envy the prostitute unlucky enough to be in the process of satisfying Cole when her associates interrupted the festivities. Prostitution, too, was illegal in the Core Worlds, but once again she had neither the time or jurisdiction to be concerned with it. 

“Upper floor, third from the stairs.” 

As soon as the picocameras woven into Duana’s coat picked up these words, she knew a dozen armed agents were in motion. Smiling and nodding her thanks, she reached out to collect her badge and projector, then sat down in the chair across the desk. 

After a few seconds, the manager seemed to conclude Duana was not going to leave. “Er, you said you wanted to talk to him?” 

Duana smiled. “Oh, sure. But you said he’s busy. You have the cameras... Tell me when he’s... quite finished.” 

After a minute of glancing between the screen in his desk and his guest, the man cleared his throat and seemed likely to object. He never got the chance. The distant thudding of the music was interrupted by the resounding, tooth-rattling boom of very rapid remodeling. Duana knew the string of shaped charges used to cut open the wall of the traitor’s room would have left a two-meter-wide hole and left anyone inside insensible, and that her compatriots had stormed in through the gap to black-bag everyone inside. 

“Sounds like he’s finished.” Duana set a cred-stick worth a few thousand of the bureau’s credits on the edge of the desk and stood, extending a hand to the grey-haired man as she did so. “Thank you for your cooperation, and sorry about the mess.” 

The man didn’t take the offered handshake, so Duana turned and left. She could feel his glare on his back all the way to the front door.  

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