Grandmaster Martin had gathered up a small crowd along the way to see his bosses. So many of his colleagues had been trapped in the same bleak despair that had gripped him. Martin tried to help each Guild member he met. Following Father Justinian’s example, Martin asked a struggling member to confess Christ. When someone did, that broke whatever spell Legion had ensnared him with. It didn’t always work. Some people wouldn’t confess. He left those behind, unsure of what else he could do to help them.

As he traveled the Guild’s halls, Martin’s frustration grew. The Guild wasn’t supposed to be susceptible to this sort of attack. He had read the papers, attended the seminars, went to the workshops, practiced in the labs, and knew how well the Guild should have been. Everything that had happened on Rho had been carefully examined, scrutinized, pulled apart until the Guild understood how Legion had taken over. Then the Guild built fail-safes and controls into each member of the Guild to prevent the same thing from happening internally. And yet, it was happening, and the only effective tool Martin had wasn’t something the Guild had painstakingly developed, but a simple question anyone could ask. He didn’t know if he was mad, impressed, ashamed, disgusted, or what at this point. The only solid emotion he could admit to was frustration.

Martin halted in front of the tall, carved metal-and-wood doors leading into the Guild’s sanctum sanctorum—the hall where the heads of the Guild divisions met. Martin paused as years of conditioning came bearing down on him. This wasn’t a place just to waltz in, uninvited and unannounced. But the secretary normally at the desk wasn’t around. Nor were the standard armed guards. The wrench that had been thrown into the works even affected the upper echelon. He glanced back at his ragtag group of followers. Masters, Acolytes, Journeymen, and other functionaries in the Guild bureaucratic system had followed him here. All of them looked ill at ease, faces drawn with worry, wan and anxious. Even Brother Thomas was looking more sour than usual.

Martin was about to burst in with a motley collection of worried people and do what? What was his goal? Demand answers? Rally the leadership to push back against Legion? Chastise them for their failures? Well, yes. Years of conditioning and tradition be damned! He was making a bid for his soul, not casually sauntering in to make a long-shot business proposal with some small local municipality out in the sticks.

Martin took a deep breath, grasped the handle firmly, and thrust open the door. He strode inside, head held high, and stopped short, mouth agape. His followers clustered behind him, demanding to know what was going on.

The hall was in shambles. What had been a neat and orderly semi-circle arrangement of desks and plush chairs facing the speaker’s podium now looked like a bomb had gone off. The sixteen seats had been hastily dragged across the tile floor and dumped into two piles, each pile facing the other. Signs of a struggle were apparent everywhere—papers strewn about, broken pieces of furniture, bullet holes in the walls. The normal decor had been caught up in the fray. Priceless pieces of art and paintings had been tossed around like so much refuse in a storm.

“Hey!” someone shouted from the furniture pile on the left. “Are you with them?!”

“Wait, are you with the others?!” shouted someone else from the right pile.

Brother Thomas grabbed Martin while he was still trying to figure out how to respond and dragged him out of the room right before the shooting started.

“What was that?” one of Martin’s motley crew gasped, Master Lund, if Martin recalled correctly.

“Damned fools have gone bonkers,” Brother Thomas groused. “So much for the vaunted Guild.”

“Madness, that’s what’s going on,” Martin said sadly. He slumped down to the floor, the wind taken out of his sails. The Guild was immune to such things. Or should have been. His bravado from earlier drained away, leaving him wondering why he thought he could do something.

The others murmured their surprise and shock. The Guild couldn’t go mad. That was like saying the sun didn’t burn, or water wasn’t composed of oxygen and two hydrogen atoms.

“But what does that mean?” Master Lund all but whined.

“It means you fools placed your faith in the wrong thing and wound up getting burned,” Brother Thomas snorted. He waved a hand to encompass the entirety of the Guild with its wealth and technology. “All this is done for now. Legion’s got a toehold, and those devils don’t give up easily. You all will be lucky if the Supreme Commander doesn’t order a purge.”

“But what do we do?” demanded someone else.

“Do? Pray and commend your soul to God, pleading for His infinite mercy. What else is there to do?” Brother Thomas was staring down at Martin as he spoke.

The Grandmaster felt the same overwhelming despair as before. Father Justinian wasn’t here this time. He had to push past this. There were still people to save. God help him, because no one else would. Martin studied his hands for a minute, not really seeing them, as he thought. He had to admit two things and both were hard in their own way. First, the Guild had failed. Legion overwhelmed them. The Guild fell without firing a shot at humanity’s enemy. Second, he had placed all his faith and trust, he even had spent his life in service to this failed organization. No, that wasn’t completely correct. He had never seriously doubted God, his faith wasn’t at the forefront of his life in the least, but neither was it forgotten.

Could he build from here? Was that enough to recognize God and accept the Guild had fallen before Legion? Martin clenched a fist.

“Yes,” Martin muttered to no one. He had to face the truth. He had to move forward. And as long as he could draw breath he wasn’t going to give in. God willing, he’d not bend a knee to the demons. Since the Guild hadn’t been up to the task, that left one avenue, one possible way of surviving. Martin pulled himself up, determined in a way that even surprised himself.

“Alright, people, things are dire, but not all is lost!” Martin snapped. “God hasn’t abandoned us yet.” He glanced around. “We have to find a better place than this.”

“But wha—”

“Enough, man! We’ve lost an important battle but not the war!” Martin’s blood was starting to get warm. He was shaking off his morose mood and had no time for others’.

“But, but, the Guild!” whined one of the journeymen plaintively.

“We are the Guild!” declared Martin. “Bureaucracy and structure be damned! We. Are. The. Guild! And by God Almighty, we aren’t going to pass quietly in the night! Now, let’s get somewhere secured. God alone is our rock; we are but His tools.” The despair that had threatened to overwhelm him fell away like mists in the morning sun. Martin wondered why he was so wrapped up in those thoughts. Now he felt like there was a fire in his veins!

“There’s a communications center on this floor. Let’s start there,” one of the journeymen offered.

Martin nodded. Right now, everyone and everything was isolated. Getting the word out on a secure Guild channel would help.

“Everyone, grab what you can for weapons. Don’t use them unless you must, but better prepared than not.” He knew most of them had little training in firearms at this point in their careers, but he didn’t have a lot to work with now.

“What about the Division heads?” Lund asked, sounding less frightened than before.

Martin looked back at the big doors. They were designed to be soundproof. He had no idea what was going on in there, or even if anyone was still alive.

“Leave them. Hopefully we can rescue them later, but first we need to be in position to help anyone else.”

The communications room wasn’t big enough to fit everyone at once. They picked up more Guild members along the way, adding to the ranks of the worried and frightened. Martin commandeered the offices and a break room. He gave Master Lund the job of securing the area. The man seemed unsure of how, but still grateful to be doing something. It would have to do.

Martin was busy trying to figure out the comms station controls when Journeyman Fred Reed knocked on the doorframe.

“Grandmaster, we have someone who can help.”

“Oh? Who?”

“She works here.” Fred ushered in a short woman in her late 30’s.

“Georgina Sullivan,” she said with a slight drawl, holding out a hand to Martin. “I’m the Department Head Secretary.” She narrowed her green eyes as she took stock of the situation. “Looks like you could use a hand here.”

“Thank the Lord. Yes, please. I need to send out a Guild-wide message with all the official bells and whistles attached.”

“This is about our troubles, isn’t it?” It really wasn’t much of a question.

“Yes.”

“Right. About time one of you took control.” She started bustling around the room, getting systems turned on and set up.

While she worked, Martin mused about what she had said. Why hadn’t anyone else tried this? There were better men and women in the Guild than he who could have easily done the same thing he’d been doing. Martin glanced at Brother Thomas who was watching Sullivan like a hawk. Was it just the presence of Brother Thomas and Father Justinian that had made the difference? Maybe, he mused.

“There you go, Grandmaster. Everything is set up,” Georgina said brightly.

“Thank you. Do you mind sticking around, in case I need anything else?” Martin asked.

“Oh, sure.” Georgina found a chair in a corner and sat primly, and placed her hands in her lap.

Martin took his position in front of the broadcasting station. God willing, he would do what was needed. He placed his palm on the pad. The light turned green as soon as his identity was confirmed. Removing his palm, he took a calming breath and tapped the “Open Mic” button.

“This is Grandmaster Donald Martin. Sending identification packet now.” He waited for a second as the machines broadcast his Guild ID packet in a quick pulse. “The Guild is under attack. I believe Legion has slipped past our defenses, and their agents are here.” He paused for a beat to let the news sink in. “To put it bluntly, the Guild has been compromised all the way to the top. We’ve failed.” Again, he waited. “Defeated, yes. Beaten down, yes. But we are still alive! God has granted us that much. And what then should we do with this gift?” Another pause. “I say we fight Legion! Cast off their siren songs and embrace God! Confess Christ is the Son of God, the only means by which we can be saved!” Martin refrained from pounding the desk as he spoke, but it wasn’t easy. “Our trust was misplaced in something made by man. We leaned too heavily into our own powers and look where that got us. God alone is our rock. We are but His tools! Come, join us as we drive out Legion and rebuild, not for our own glory, but God’s!”

Martin closed the mic channel. He let out a long sigh. God willing, that’d reach a few people. He pushed away from the console and turned in his chair.

There was a round of applause from everyone who had squeezed in the room while Martin had been speaking.

The Grandmaster was gratified. He had hoped for a positive reaction and here it was. Still, it would matter little if others weren’t moved.

Shouting erupted outside the comms room.

“Grandmaster Martin! Come quick!” exclaimed Master Lund over the noise.

Martin didn’t waste any time; he bounced out of the chair like it was on fire, and dashed out to the hallway. He saw several Guild members in some sort of tussle, men grappling with others. Master Lund was breathing heavy and brandishing a 9mm pistol in one hand while hitting the shoulders of two combatants with a balled-up fist, shouting at both to stop. Before Martin could react to the scene before him, someone pointed at him and shouted.

“There’s the usurper!”

The words fell heavy. Everyone stopped to look at Martin. He was taken aback, of all the probable reactions he had considered, this was not one.

“Now, hold on!” Martin said, raising both hands, palms out, trying to placate the small but angry mob.

There was a guttural snarl from the attackers, eyes opened wild, faces flushed. They intensely pressed toward Martin, trying to disentangle themselves from the defenders.

“HOLD ON!” Martin shouted over the din, trying to get some sort of dialogue going.

A shot rang out.

Martin felt a stab of pain in his left shoulder.

I’ve been shot! flashed through his mind before he dropped to his knees in pain, right hand clutching the wound, gasping. He regulated his breathing quickly, blocked the pain using his mental conditioning, rerouted the blood flow to stop from bleeding out, and got into a crouch. One round in his shoulder wasn’t going to put him down, but he wasn’t eager for another one.

“Over here!” hissed Brother Thomas, waving to Martin as he held open a door. “We got to go!”

Martin didn’t need any more encouragement. He kept low behind whatever he could find and dashed the dozen feet to the monk. More shots rang out, and things erupted into pandemonium.

“Come on! Come on!” Brother Thomas started marching Martin through the interconnected offices and doorways as if he knew the layout by heart. “Your gambit to reclaim the Guild has failed, Martin,” Thomas muttered, as he walked as fast as Martin could keep up. “We were lucky to get out of there alive.”

“We can’t leave the others!” Martin declared, stopping his tracks.

Brother Thomas looked back the way they had come. The sounds of fighting had died down. “They’ll be fine. You were the target, not them. But you’ll be hunted for sure now.”

“Hunted? Here? But why?”

“Think Grandmaster! Think! Here, sit down on this chair while I grab something to dress that wound. But we have maybe five minutes.”

“Best I could find on short notice.” The monk carefully peeled off Martin’s robe. “Looks like a through-and-through. Pretty big caliber. Can’t tell if it nicked a bone or anything. Huh, not a lot of blood. This’ll sting.” He poured the alcohol liberally over the wound. Martin winced without saying a word. “There. Patched up.”

Martin stood and carefully shrugged on his robes, feeling better already. The gunshot pain had softened to angry throbbing. “Thank you. No, the round missed bone, thank God.”

“So do you know what happened?” Brother Thomas asked Martin while looking him directly in the eyes.

Martin felt like he was in front of a teacher and giving an oral report.

“Yes. Cascading worldview collapse with CogDis feedback loops producing emotional unstable response cycles.”

“What?” Brother Thomas asked blankly.

“Er, suddenly having what you thought was unyielding and eternal knocked out from underneath you without warning did a number on people’s psyche. People want to blame someone for the mess, and I inadvertently painted myself as a target.” Martin shook his head. “What a diaster. We’re probably looking at a complete community collapse and different factions are going to emerge.” He rubbed his forehead with his good hand. “We have to rescue the people following me and get another message out.”

“Are you daft? They’ll kill you if they see you.”

Martin shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. They trusted me, and I left them behind.” He took a deep breath, held it for a beat, then exhaled loudly. “Besides, now that I know what’s going on, I can be better prepared.”

Brother Thomas shrugged, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed as he weighed the other man’s conviction. “Alright. If that’s how you feel, let’s go.”

Martin didn’t say it out loud, but he was grateful for Brother Thomas’s assistance. The dour monk had grown on him, and having anyone with him was better than being alone. They didn’t speak much as they walked back through the Guild building. Martin was busy thinking about what had gone so wrong in such a short amount of time. The monk didn’t seem to mind. Whatever was on his mind, he held close to himself.

They cautiously made their way back to where they had started. Seeing no one and hearing nothing set Martin on edge. Between his aching shoulder and his nerves wound tight, he was ready to call it a day. Too bad those easy days were behind him, he thought grimly as he peered around a corner. Nothing.

No one was there when they finally reached their goal. The signs of the previous struggle were everywhere, but everyone was gone. Not even a body left behind. Martin was grateful for that. Their capture held hope for all involved.

“Well, now what?” Brother Thomas asked as he prodded at some broken office furniture with his boot.

Martin paused and leaned against a wall, thinking for a minute, not really seeing anything in front of him. He snapped his fingers as soon as an idea hit him. He darted back into the communications room. Everything was a mess in here, too. Martin unfocused his eyes and replayed all the steps Georgina took, following them exactly as his memory had recorded. The equipment hummed to life. Praying silently that God would help him not screw this up more, Martin toggled the mic.

“This is Grandmaster Martin again.” He paused, feeling something tugging at him. “No, that’s foolish. I’m just Donald Martin. Our titles belonged to something that has just passed away.” Martin sighed. “I thought we could reclaim the Guild. In my hubris, I thought I could be the linchpin, the center that held. That Guild is gone. We know it, we all felt it. Legion swept it away without so much as a peep from us. I made myself a target thinking I could restore it.” Martin paused again, trying to find the right words here. “If you place any value in the Guild, let it die. Give it up. We failed.” He waited a beat. “And so what?! It’s not like we were the first in history to find our greatness reduced to ash! Repent, my former Guildmates! Repent, turn to God, and we can forge something new! Rebuild? I was wrong! We’d just make the same mistakes. There are materials here, but instead of making a new version of the old guild, we have a chance to do something different. What that is, what that’ll look like, I don’t know! Let’s find out together! I can’t do it myself. I don’t want to, anyway. Let’s do this together.” He took a shuddering breath. “I know I already said this, but it bears repeating: confess Christ is Lord, the Son of God! Let our glories go, because they were not anything of eternal value. Let’s join together and walk into our new future!”

Martin killed the mic and leaned back, wondering what he was doing. He just cast aside decades of tradition and procedure, tossing it all out the window. Those who already hated him weren’t going to change their minds, and now how many did he just anger? Then again, everything had gone so off the rails anyway, doing something had to be better than letting everything fall apart.

“Hey, Grandm—I mean, Martin, you probably should come see this,” Brother Thomas called from the doorway.

Martin let out a heavy sigh, breathed deep through his nose, and stood up, mentally preparing himself. Whatever came he’d have to roll with the punches. No use trying the usual analysis and prediction models. At least, not yet.

God willing, he’d be able to stop things from getting worse.

Father Justinian woke up in a cold sweat. He surged to a sitting position, gasping for breath, disorientated, and unsure where he was. He pushed himself out of his sleeping berth and stumbled over to his desk, the lights in the room automatically rising to an acceptable level.

Scrubbing his face with his hands and trying to blink out the grogginess, the monk cleared his throat.

“Time?” he croaked.

“Now,” responded a voice he didn’t recognize, but still knew. He didn’t even hear the ship’s response of the current time.

Justinian nodded. He tapped a command on his console and waited for the encrypted channel to be established.

“Lars. It’s happening now.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “All the reports I’ve been gathering had indicated this was in the works. Visions, dreams, omens, you name it. And now I have confirmation.

“When?”

“Now.”

“I have to do this then, Justinian.”

Justinian sighed. He didn’t want to rehash all their arguments again why he thought Lars was making a mistake. “Then God be with you, my old friend.”

“I—” Lars tried again. “Thank you,” was all he managed to say.

“I hope we see each other on the other side of this veil,” Justinian said gently.

“Me too.”

The old monk let some silent tears fall for a minute before taking a shuddering deep breath and got moving. There was a lot to do.

The Enemy’s barrier fell. Legion knew it instantly.

The Enemy always did this. For a season, humanity was protected from direct action. Legion worked behind the scenes with proxies to sow chaos and confusion while they waited. It never ceased to amaze them how often humans would betray their own kind for the most trivial things. But in the end it didn’t matter.

The war machine Legion built lurched into motion. Their agents were told to spread chaos. The dominoes were ready to be knocked down.

It didn’t matter what humanity had done to prepare.

They’d fall.

They always fell.

Throughout the system, alarms went off.

“This is Supreme Commander Lars Stockwell. This is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill. Legion has started their attack against us. All forces are to report to their commanding officers and prepare for action. All civilians are to report to their assigned locations. God be with all of us.” The pre-recorded message repeated on every frequency across the entire Eta Cancri system.

The Coalition’s networks of command structures and forces spun up into action.

Churches filled to the brim as people flocked to them. Each church handled things their own way. Some had thundering preachers, others solemn hymns were sung, some prayed as a congregation, others prayed silently. Some became a hub of activity and events, others far more subdued. There were mass baptisms according to the traditions of the denomination. Mothers wept for their children that had gone off to fight, fathers proudly sharing in the reflected glory, younger siblings swinging between extreme ends of emotions. From pulpits calls to repentance rang out, prayer for protection from the Almighty resonated, scriptures were read out loud and in groups.

The prevailing sentiment across all denominations and creeds was one that had been carefully instilled and encouraged to grow by the Coalition: God’s will be done.

Deus Vult.

Pierce felt something run down his spine. He shuddered—the hairs on the back of his neck standing up—and looked around the Enclave loading dock to see what caused it. He spotted June and gave her a wave.

June smiled at Pierce from across the loading dock. Her followers were all assembled to wait for the transports to the Coalition craft stationed close to the asteroid. Captain LeCroix had parked the Forrester as close as he could to the main docking port. The asteroid was not designed to accommodate the much larger Coalition navy craft.

After a few days of discussion and heated arguments and tears, the Enclave decided it was time to split into two groups. The Junones, led by June, would leave to set up a new home in the inner planets. The older group would stay on the asteroid and keep a close watch on Legion’s activities in the region. They promised to report any activities observed by their sensors to the Coalition.

The old Matriarch had come to see the Junones off. She moved among the Sisters, talking or laughing quietly with each one of them, still working on mending the damage she had done. She noticed Pierce watching her. She smoothed her long, black dress, folded her hands as a sign of conciliation, and approached him gracefully.

Now that she wasn’t trying to kill him, Pierce noticed she was a striking woman of austere beauty. Even after spending some time here, Pierce still didn’t know how old she really was.

“How are you feeling, Pierce?” the Matriarch asked.

Pierce rubbed his chest where she had struck him. “I almost don’t hurt.”

She nodded. “Truthfully, I’m glad to hear it. My burden is already great enough, adding you to it would have been—well, I’ll just say I’m glad I don’t.”

“Thank you, Matriarch.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Legion hasn’t contacted me for some time now. I hope we’re too insignificant to them,” the Matriarch Mother said, breaking the silence.

“Knowing Legion, they plan on scooping you all up after they destroy the other planets,” Pierce responded grimly.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” The Matriarch sounded melancholy. “This is a heavy burden I’ve brought upon myself.”

“You know, there’s one whose yoke is—” Pierce started to say when Archie burst into the room.

“Pierce! Everyone! Legion is on the move! Abacus already picked up a small fleet not more than five hours away! And Lars is mobilizing the entire Coalition!” If she had breathed, she would have been out of breath.

Pierce felt the color drain from him. Then he clenched his jaw. He looked around at his new friends and caught June’s eye again. No, he wasn’t going to let Legion have them. Any of them. A plan started to form.

“Listen up!” Pierce shouted out. “Everyone back into the asteroid. Ladies, I’m going to have to ask you to stay longer. We need to prepare for Legion, because they are coming for all of us.”

June stood up on a nearby crate. All eyes focused on her. “Youngest Sisters first! I need to see whoever had training on Enclave external defenses. We have to get those working sooner than anyone thought!”

The room surged into slightly confused motion. There would have been more concern and panic if June, the Matriarch, Pierce, and Archie hadn’t been there.

Pierce made sure the Sisters were in motion before he called Captain LeCroix, looping Archie and Lieutenant Jackobson in.

Captain, what’s the play?

There was a pause. Pierce waited the best he could, trying to keep his anger from overflowing. Just as they resolved the animosity between June and the Matriarch, now Legion attacks?

Pierce, I just received word from my commander. Given our position, he recommended we cut and run.

Cap— Pierce started to protest.

I told him no, we had innocent civilians that we couldn’t just leave.

Relief washed over Pierce.

Thank you, Captain.

Don’t thank me yet. Abacus wants you out here flying with him. He’s already worked out several plans to keep us alive. He seems eager, almost too eager, for this fight.

Pierce looked over at Archie. She nodded, if with some reluctance.

Understood, captain. I’ll be ready in thirty.

Copy that. Over.

“Archie, I—“ Pierce started to say before she wrapped him up in a hug.

“Just come back alive. Please,” Archie said into his shirt. “We’ll keep everyone here safe.”

Pierce hugged her back. “I’ll do everything I can.”

Archie squeezed him then let go. “Okay, I’m done. Get ready. Don’t leave without talking to June, Mags, and Becky.”

Pierce swallowed a lump in his throat and left to talk to those three.

Archie found herself alone with the Matriarch.

“Has humanity always been like this?” the Matriarch asked Archie, turning to study Pierce as he left the dock.

Archie grinned. “Pretty much. There’s a wide range of them, but the good ones are like this. And there’s a lot of good ones out there.”

“I think I’ve more to learn from them than I thought.” The Matriarch gazed thoughtful at the tattered remains of a place she used to reign supreme and unchallenged. “I have overestimated my own strengths, maybe I’ve overestimated their weaknesses.”

“It’s never too late to change,” Archie said cheerfully.

Lieutenant Jackobson and the Templar returned as Archie and the Matriarch were musing. Both men were calm and professional. Templar Basil’s power armor gleamed under the dock’s lights.

“Ladies,” Jackobson said with a nod. “We’ve been given the clear to stay here, if you want us.”

Archie intently studied the two men, as if weighing their resolve. “I was hoping the captain would allow you. Are you sure you want to take a stand with us? Legion won’t show any restraint or mercy. We’d understand if you wanted to return to the fleet.”

The Matriarch silently nodded in agreement.

“Well, miss, here’s the thing,” Jackobson started to explain.

“Demons trump witches in the list,” Templar Basil interjected. He looked around at the last of the Sisters leaving. “As misguided as you all are, you are still human with souls to save. Legion can only be excised and thrust back into the pits of Hell.”

Jackobson grinned. “What he said. We’re ground grunts, miss. We hitch rides with the Navy until they drop us off somewhere. Here’s where the action is going to be, so I can’t think of a better time and place.”

“Alright. Let’s get to work!”

Ed and the Merchant Prince listened to the repeating message. Prince Jhon furrowed his brow as the Commander’s message played.

The Coalition forces had routed the Jackals in short order. Palace Security was reestablishing control in the hot zones. Once it was clear the Palace was back under control and the attackers killed or captured, the Prince had invited Ed to his private executive lounge.

The two men were comfortably seated with a cigar in one hand and a vintage dry port in the other, casually arguing the merits of the various craft used in the race when Command Stockwell’s announcement was broadcast over the speakers.

After the second time the message repeated, the Prince stood up with a sigh and went to the small console in the room next to the window looking out of the Palace. He placed his right palm on the surface. As soon as things were to his satisfaction, he stared out into the night and began his own broadcast.

“My dear members of the Castilla family company, I’m sure you’ve all heard the dire news. As such, this could very well be my last statement to you all. Our time of idle enjoyment and business as usual has been set aside. As CEO and Prince, I am initiating project Salazar.” Jhon paused for a beat. “Whatever happens, I want every one of you to know how proud I am of this company and its members. Our role is to support the Coalition war efforts. We won’t have our members in the front lines. We’ve suffered an attack, it’s true, but if anything that has helped us to become stronger, more unified. We will mourn for our fallen. If—no—when we get through this challenge everyone who has given his life will be memorialized in our corporate records and as long as the Castilla company exists, they will never be forgotten! Do not despair. God is with us!” He pulled his hand from the pad. The console turned off. Prince Jhon stood quietly as he kept his gaze turned outward to the moon’s surface and the stars beyond.

“So,” the Prince said to Ed, not turning away from the window. “From here on out my duties will be light. I cannot negotiate with Legion. My company has already developed a full plan for this situation. The Coalition war effort will take everything we can give, and more. At some point, resources will be low and then I’ll be needed again to strike deals with the other Princes to handle needs. But for now,” Jhon turned to face his guest, “Let me tell you a story. I know why Lars Stockwell was worried about me. I had tried to negotiate with Legion.”

Ed almost choked on his port from surprise.

Blaise was not where he wished to be when Lars made his announcement. The older man shook his head, smoothed his jacket, adjusted his cravat, squared his shoulders, and made the best of it as he always did.

“Ah, it seems we have been thrust together,” Fournier said.

John Jones chewed on his unlit cigar. He sat upright in a leather chair. Melissa partially sat on an armrest. She had several outfits delivered from home and had changed into khakis and a white t-shirt and urban camo jacket.

Melissa thought about lighting the cigar for him, but Jones didn’t seem to want to smoke it as much as he wanted to worry it like a dog with a bone.

Melissa thought about lighting it for him, but Jones didn’t seem to want to smoke it.

“Listen, Frenchie, I got to admit I do appreciate everything you’ve done, but we didn’t need help here. Jackals bugged out, and the Four-Oh-Ones decided to play nice for a reasonable fee. Your team stopped the digital robbery.” He pointed his cigar at Fournier. “Ain’t no need for you to be here. Besides, don’t you need to go fight Legion or something? Or are you looking for a rematch with me?”

Blaise sighed. Jones was on edge after everything that had happened. It wasn’t surprising he’d lash out like this. Blaise, however, had no real desire to handle Jones right now. He had many other concerns to occupy his attention, and none of them would be resolved here.

Before Fournier could say anything, Melissa rested her hand on the Flamingo’s arm and leaned in close. “John, it’s just bad timing for him. I’m sure Mr. Fournier would rather be somewhere else, too.” She knew John was running ragged. She could tell when he was tired and overworked. John was more abrasive than usual, his speech patterns reverted more to the streets of his youth, even more than when he spoke to his men.

“That’s true enough, I guess.” Jones chewed on his cigar while he glared at Blaise. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Fournier gave a small bow to Vonstone in gratitude. “I, ah, had business on the planet before your,” he waved a hand around the room, ”more, ah, recent disputes.”

“Hey, I’m in the mess because I did what Lars asked.” Jones stood and marched over to the other man, leaving Melissa behind, concern clearly showing on her face.

Blaise held up his palms. “I am not blaming you. Not in the, ah, slightest. The attack was surprisingly coordinated. We’re reasonably sure it tracks back to the same people behind the Anti-AI movement and Richard Saunders. And who those people are, ah, that’s still under some investigation.”

“Well, ain’t that just great news,” Jones growled, standing in front of Blaise. “So now what?”

Fournier smoothed his suit, not letting the bigger man’s bluster intimidate him. “Tell your people to head to the nearest shelter to at least check in. I have a lead—a code name of the ‘Bookkeeper.’ Ah, one that might shed more light on your recent woes.”

Fournier looked at them both then allowed a slight smile. “Bon! In truth, I don’t wish to be here, but since this opportunity is in our grasp, ah, it’s impossible to let it slip away. Come, let’s retire to your private office wherein I have no doubt better spirits await to better our spirits!” Chuckling at his own wit, Blaise gave Jones a small, graceful bow to indicate he should lead.

Colonel Vogel tapped his armrest in a nervous blend of worry and frustration. He was aboard the Coalition heavy frigate Pensive Pilgrim returning home when Lars’s broadcast reached him.

“Should I plot a course to the nearest Coalition base?” Hannibal asked politely over the bridge’s speaker system. He had put his cybernetic shell in the cargo hold storage and disconnected from it. The shell was on its last legs anyway.

The captain and crew waited for Vogel’s command. The heavy frigate wasn’t fully retrofitted from primarily a cargo transport to a gunship, but she had enough firepower to handle herself. She was in the middle of a training run from Iznik to Nicomedia when Vogel had used his security clearance to return to Nicomedia after finishing his assignment on Iznik.

Vogel ordered the system map to be displayed in the main holotank. Nicomedia was eighteen hours and seventeen minutes away. One of the Coalition’s deep space stations was only seven hours and forty-eight minutes away. He could check in there. Most likely, Lars would want him closer to Legion’s main force heading toward Amorium. He ran a few simulations. The base was closer to the ship but farther out to Amorium than if he departed from Nicomedia. All things being somewhat equal, Vogel decided to err on the side of family.

“No, we’re still heading back to Nicomedia.”

“Understood, Colonel.” There was relief in the captain’s voice.

Lars entered the main command center on Amorium. The HQ had always been the heart of Amorium’s military, but since the formation of the Coalition, the place had grown. It had to, in order to handle the influx of personnel and support systems.

The command center, nicknamed “The Hub,” had undergone the most changes. Scores of aides moved around, delivering messages, taking orders, bringing coffee to the men and women who manned their stations. At the front of the big room, lined with banks of consoles and equipment, sat the biggest holotank ever built on land. The Eta Cancri system was displayed with loving and high quality detail. Lars didn’t doubt they could zoom down to any planet, to any city, and count the rivets on any building.

Right now, the tank displayed the asteroid belt where they had built their gravity shell. Legion’s forces, marked in red, were gathering at the spot with a direct line to Amorium. It was clear from their position they were going to hit Amorium with everything they had.

Coalition forces were shown in green, and they were more scattered—forming a series of circles within circles, to cover more volume, each other, and the planets. The AIs had come up with the defensive structure. While it didn’t allow for a massive counter attack in any single place, it allowed for constant engagement from the flanks. Legion was coming in like a massive haymaker, letting everything ride in an overwhelming frontal attack. The Coalition couldn’t and wouldn’t meet Legion head-on, the losses would be catastrophic. Instead, they were going to fight a war of constant attrition and flanking action. Their biggest enemy was time. Legion wasn’t on a schedule, but the Coalition had to stop their forces before they reached Amorium.

In his gut, Lars knew Legion was really coming for him. He was sure they’d have their most overpowered monstrous hosts to house as many of them as possible to rend him limb from limb. He didn’t know how that worked. How many demons could fit inside a host? It seemed the bigger the mass, the more they gathered. Maybe because more could have their slice of flesh to control? Questions he’d have to answer some other day, if at all.

Lars checked in with various people. He didn’t spend much time with anyone in particular, mostly just to touch base and get a quick status report. The staff officers seemed to have everything well in hand.

Finally, he went over to Admiral Mendelson. The admiral had been promoted to command all the various naval forces, and the man had taken to it like a fish in water. Lars found him in one of the smaller alcoves with its own holotank surrounded by staff. They were poring over reports for all over the system.

“Admiral,” Lars said the way of a greeting.

Johann Mendelson looked up from a flat tablet. He actually grinned when he saw the Commander standing there. “Lars. The enemy has started their campaign against us.” He waved a hand at the room. “Kicked up quite a hornet’s nest, didn’t they?” He grinned wider.

Lars grunted and nodded. “How’s it looking?”

“I wish we had another year of preparation, but that’s just standard. We have a system-wide Navy at eighty percent readiness. Some sections better, some a little worse, but overall, we’re as ready as can be expected. Better than I would have dreamed when you dumped this on my lap.”

“Stop grumbling. You love it.”

“Oh, I do, I do! I can’t think of a better capstone to my life’s work than to run all of this.”

Lars grunted again. Hannibal and Iskandar had been working closely with the admiral as he forged the navies into a single command chain. Both of them assured Lars Mendelson knew what he was about.

“Johann, I think it’s time,” Lars told the admiral.

The other set down his tablet and shooed away an officer trying to talk to him. He stood up to his full height and thrust out a hand. “I’m not surprised you decided to go for broke. But I had hoped to work a little longer with you, Commander.”

The two men shook, the massive hulking war cyborg looming over the other man. It wasn’t as equals—Lars wasn’t sure how they compared—but it was as friends, even if it was just a working friendship of a short time.

“Thank you. I can count on you to see this to the end?”

“Supreme Commander Lars Stockwell, it is my greatest honor to do just that.” Mendelson saluted smartly and held it until Lars returned the honor. “You know I’m going to use those AIs for everything they got, right?”

Lars nodded. “Yes. And they know it, too.” He studied the bustling room.

“Having second thoughts?” the admiral asked quietly.

“No. But I don’t know when to announce I’m transferring command to you,” Lars said slowly.

Mendelson sat back down and picked up his tablet. “Then don’t. Issue a formal directive. Everyone loves those.”

Lars stared down at the smaller man. “Seems cold.”

Mendelson looked back up at the cyborg with a grin. “Do you really want to give a big speech?”

Lars paused, thinking. “Not really,” he admitted. “But I can’t leave without saying something.”

Mendelson shrugged. “Then make it short.”

Lars nodded once more before striding to the front of the great room. A podium rose out of the floor on his silent command. He stepped on and it rose higher until he could be seen clearly by everyone in the room. The noise dropped to a whisper as people stopped to watch the commander.

Lars took in the room and snapped a salute with machine precision, then stomped the ground with his heavy metal right foot. The lights gleamed off his metal body. He activated the broadcasting equipment, linking him to every command center in the system.

“This is Supreme Commander Lars Stockwell,” he announced gravely. “I have no doubt each member of the Coalition will do their utmost in the defense of our homes and lands. I couldn’t have asked for better soldiers. I commend you to seek God and hold fast to your faith until the end, whether that’s today or decades from now.” He snapped his final salute to his people. “Deus Vult!”

There was a pause. Then the entire room rose as one and with one voice shouted back: “Deus Vult! Deus Vult! Deus Vult!” The words thundered throughout the entire system.

Pierce slipped into the pilot’s chair and felt at home. The interceptor was a lot like the other ships he and Abacus had been flying. The control layout was similar; the performance specs weren’t too far off, either. A bit more thrust, slower yaw and pitch, but close enough he wasn’t worried they’d both have to retrain.

The seat molded around him, the data lines snaking into his head ports with a satisfying click. The screens came to life, all flat except a small holo for the map. Pierce read through the manual, skimming over most of it to focus on the things he wasn’t accustomed to before starting the ignition sequence.

“I have to admit, Abacus, I missed this.”

“Same. It was getting kind of lonely out here while you guys had all the fun in the asteroid.”

Pierce laughed, a bit ruefully. “Fun or not, we have a new job to do.”

“Deus Vult!” Abacus sounded positively giddy.

“Deus Vult!” Pierce responded with a grin.

Lars stood on the bridge of his secret project. He had tasked the AIs to design this ship from the ground up for a mission only he could do. Lars was going to make sure he had a huge bullseye painted on him and draw Legion’s ire. He had told the AIs to make the ship as resilient and as deadly as they could.

The outside design was similar to most of the Navy fleet: a bit more wedge-like, maybe the lines were longer than usual, and the odd bump-out here and there wasn’t how many would have designed it—there was a distinct lack of normal ports and exterior markings gave the craft a sleek, sparse appearance—but it didn’t look alien to the human eye. And it was big. Five hundred feet from end to end, two hundred wide and tall, and packed with every weapon system Ransom could fit on it. Even with the oversized power plants, Lars wouldn’t be able to fire all weapon systems at once due to the power draw. With Lars the sole passenger, life support was minimal.

Lars. Last test ran. All green. The ship is all yours.

Thank you, Ransom.

Wish could do more. Bloody those demons good, Lars.

Will do.

Lars shut down all comms and knelt in prayer. It wasn’t a verbalized prayer, but the outpouring of a warrior’s heart to his Creator, a flood of silent pleading emotion that God’s will be done and he was on the right path. He commended his eternal soul into the Creator’s hands. The cyborg stood and paused to appreciate the moment.

As ready as he would ever be, Lars walked to the center of the bridge. The captain’s chair opened wide, like the gaping maw of some strange beast. Lars sat back into it as it folded around him. He felt his body being disassembled as the ship melded into him. Additional processing units were connected into his cybernetic brain interface. New sensors came online. Cables only microns wide intertwined with his spinal cord, connecting his nervous system to the ship’s system networks. He fused into the ship, giving up the last remnants of his humanity, until he was one with the spacecraft.

If he survived this, Lars didn’t know if he could be restored to his former body. Then again, the chances of survival were low. Lars had made peace with that. After all, he’d been on mission after mission where success and survival were always a gamble. He’d outlived too many companions and friends. He’d outlived his own life, no matter what the old monk had said to him. If he could draw Legion’s focus to give everyone else a fighting chance, he’d gladly pay any price.

When Lars opened his eyes, he looked out through the ship’s sensor arrays feeding into his newly augmented data processing units before being transformed into something his human brain could understand. The inky blackness surrounded him on all sides. He could see the small shuttle that had brought him to the ship, his new body. It took a few minutes to adjust being able to see in all directions, but slowly Lars mastered his new sense of sight. He could only focus on one direction at a time, but his field of view was almost one hundred and twenty degrees. The cast of debris from the ship construction suddenly jumped into his view. He practiced learning how to focus on one item and zoom in on it. Next, he experimented with his different sensor arrays, honing his response times to be able to see anything along the spectrum he had sensors for. He shoved down any feelings of uneasiness or doubt. He didn’t have the time for such things.

Finally, he moved his new body deeper into the black, learning how to walk all over again. Pitch, yaw, thrust, counter-thrust. Slowly, he mastered the skills needed to be effective in battle.

Lars orientated himself toward where Legion had massed their ships. He laid in a course and started up his main engines. He brought them up to thirty-Gs to get out of any possible gravitation fields. He’d start skipping in three hours. When en route, Lars would bring online the various Expert Systems that handled weapons, threat assessment and tracking, damage control, and a host of other subsystems to help keep him in combat for as long as possible. His goal was to be battle ready long before he encountered Legion’s forces.

Stockwell pointed every communications device he had at the center of Legion’s ships, turned up the power and tightened the beams. He had one message he wanted to send—one message he wanted those demons to hear.

“Legion, I’m coming.”

Grand Admiral Mendelson was on his third or fourth pot of coffee for the day. Or was it evening? He made one last review of the overall battle strategy. It was as good as it was going to get. He looked up from his notes and surveyed the planning room. Legion had struck early, punching through the gravity shell and annihilating the automated first response craft. The AI’s original plan to harass Legion while keeping the main fleets out of direct harm had already begun to collapse when Legion quickly crushed the asteroid defense fleet in a fraction of the estimated time, shattering their assumptions about Legion’s strength. New projections showed Legion attacking Amorium months earlier than the original estimations.

Mendelson and his staff scrambled to rethink, reconsider, and redesign the Coalition battle plan. The long conference table was scattered with tablets, paper, notebooks with printed data sheets, coffee cups, coffee pots, the remains of various meals. Staff officers, aides, and secretaries were still able to move, if just.

“Bill, what are your thoughts?”

William “Bill” Traves was the Admiral’s right-hand man. He had gathered the input from all the fleets, worked with each leader above the battalion level, and presented the data to Mendelson and team. The multi-day planning session wouldn’t have gone as smoothly without his expertise. He looked forty years older than the Admiral’s sixty. “Sir, this is best we can do. Since Hannibal and Iskandar are off-world and skipping, I applied every Expert System I could to crunch the numbers. It’ll have to do.”

Mendelson nodded. He pressed his thumb on his tablet to authorize the plan. The orders went out. The combined naval might of the Coalition began to sort themselves out.

The First through the Fifth Fleets headed toward Legion’s obvious route. After studying what happened on Rho through direct interviews with the surviving team, the AIs had calculated with ninety-four percent confidence with a margin of error of no more than three percent that Legion would come down on the system with all they had. Mendelson worked his own research and came to a similar conclusion. Legion wanted to wipe them out in a massive show of force. No hope, no mercy, only despair and ruin.

Mendelson sipped his now lukewarm coffee. Legion might do all that, but he’d be flogged before he’d roll over. Legion was going to pay every step of the way.

The Sixth and Seventh Fleets were held in reserve for anything that folded around the main battle. The spacecraft weren’t ships-of-the-line, but they’d do in a pinch. The personnel, however, were by and large untried. Still, the AI-designed training program would at least give them a fighting chance. That was the theory, at least.

“Alright, everyone. Go home, get some rest. We’re on standby for—” Mendelson checked his tablet “—seven days and nine hours, with a twenty-minute window of uncertainty, before we make contact with Legion. Don’t forget Sunday is in four days. Go to church. That’s an order. Dismissed.”

The room cleared out of people too tired to do more than mutter some half-heard formalities as they stumbled out.

Mendelson waited until everyone had left before digging out a couple of No-doze pills. He washed them down with the tepid coffee. “Now we start on the next phase, Bill. What do we do when our first three plans fall completely apart?”

“Sir. Let me get more coffee.”

“Link up Ransom and Vesta. They don’t need to attend, but I want a full report sent to them. We have to ramp up unmanned craft production.” He rubbed his temples, waiting for the pills to kick in. “I’m going to order them to take full control of all production throughout the entire system. We have a week to let them at everything.”

“The Council isn’t going to like that.”

“Oh, Lord, how I know that, Bill. I’d better start drafting an apology and my resignation letter.”

“I’ll submit the resignation if we lose,” Bill deadpanned.

“Good man! I knew I could count on you. Well, no use crying about milk we haven’t spilled yet.”

It was going to be a long couple of days.

The city had emptied itself of common, sensible people, leaving the uncommon behind.

This suited Fournier and Jones just fine.

To follow up on the Frenchman’s lead, they had started out in Jones’s armored ground car. Melissa drove while the two men went over possible scenarios.

“Okay, to recap,” Jones said, leaning back in his upholstered seat, drink in hand from the vehicle’s dry bar, ”the best your AIs could do was trace a lot of random data pipes back to this apartment complex. We have the city plans, but the power draw don’t match what the building’s rated for. Like I said, that ain’t all that unusual. Higher power capacity means higher taxes, so building owners declare lower capacity to get the tax breaks. Paying a city inspector a little bit under the table saves a lot.”

“Ah, yet another example of secondary causation. Even in our more enlightened times, such things do occur with distressing regularity.”

Jones gave the other man a side glance. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

Fournier smoothed the lapels of his suit. “Ah. I joke in all seriousness. Human folly in politics is a given.”

Jones shook his head. “I ain’t never gonna get you, Frenchie.”

“Well, as long as we agree on spirits, it smooths over differences of spirit.”

Jones narrowed his eyes. “I don’t—”

“Just clink glasses, dear,” Melissa called from the driver’s seat. “Our Frenchman is fond of jokes about drinks. It’s his fourth drink joke today. So, smile, and clink.”

“You wound me, Miss Vonstone,” Blaise sniffed.

“I can do a toast,” said Jones, shrugging in resignation.

They toasted each other’s good health.

“Now, back to, ah, business,” Fournier said, after he took a sip of the overly floral wine from the dry bar. He sighed, wishing he had brought along something from the club.

“So how likely is this guy to still be there?” Jones asked.

Fournier shrugged. “Ah, it’s likely he’s gone to ground. Then again, if our intel is solid, he might be too afraid to leave his apartment lest what it contains falls into the wrong hands.”

“Like, oh, someone like us?”

“Precisely, mon ami.”

Jones nodded.

“AI support?”

“Alas, none. They are all tied up with fighting Legion.”

Jones cursed.

“Sadly, it cannot be helped.”

Jones snorted and thought for a minute, sipping his whiskey.

“Best chance I see of catching our rabbit is if you and I come in through the front. There are two possible exits; Melissa can cover the farthest. If your lead bolts, we bolt after him.”

“Ah, haha! Very good. Yes, we can do that.”

“I’ll handle the more kinetic side of things if you handle the rest.”

“But of course!”

“I wish we could go in with a full crew,” Jones grumbled after a minute.

“I, ah, as well, but we don’t want our rabbit spooked until it is too late, if he’s there at all. And, besides, your men are seeing to their families. Far more important for them.”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” He stared out the window and watched the empty city slip by. “This is weird.”

“Indeed. Our efforts, God willing, will correct this.”

“Listen, about that, why would any of our efforts do anything for the war?”

“Ah, mon ami, that’s a fine question. Let me try to put it this way. Do either of you garden?”

“No.”

“Oh, hmm. Ah! Let’s say you are moving arms.”

“I never have done that and you have no proof!” Jones bristled.

“Calm, calm. This is a thought experiment.”

Jones looked back at the Frenchman and narrowed his eyes. “Let’s go with that as being a hypothetical.”

“Bon! In order to move arms from one place to another, what is the most important thing to have?”

“Trust all the pieces will work.”

“Excellent! One piece of the mechanism isn’t more import than others, no?”

“No.”

“Runners, overwatch, the money men, couriers, your contacts in the police and so forth. If a piece is missing or fails?”

“Things go south. Smaller the piece don’t matter all that much. A lookout paid for one night’s service failing to notice authorities approaching can scuttle the whole thing as much as the arms not at the pickup or the money not at the drop-off. Hypothetically.”

“Correct! And while there is a clearly understood plan, not all the parts know all the plan, no?”

“No. Compartmentalization is best for all. No one wants to be swept up in a dragnet if someone squeals.”

“And so, while we labor in the vineyard, we find ourselves somewhat analogous to our hypothetical. Small, ah, pieces in play. Roles to fill, even though we don’t know all the ends and wherewithal. What we do now will have negligible effect, if any, on the grand war. If we survive Legion, we will have great need of your organization. The less tattered and torn the better.”

“Hmm,” Jones mused and went back to watching out the window, lost in thought.

“We’re here,” Melissa announced a short time later. “I’ll drop you boys off here and circle around back to cover that exit.”

“Thanks, babe. If all goes well, we’ll met you back there. Stay sharp.”

“Always!” She flashed a smile at Jones.

The apartment complex was large, imposing, and mostly dark despite it being well past sunset. The sidewalk was smooth, parting at times to flow around fenced-in trees and small beds of well-kept flowers. It looked like a nice, quiet neighborhood—one you could find almost anywhere in the system. The stillness was unnerving.

“Ah, the front doors are bound to be locked.”

“No sweat.” Jones mounted the steps to the main entrance as he pulled out a small kit. The lock was a standard encryption model used in most public buildings. Jones slapped a small, spindly thing on the outside of the lock. The device looked partly like a Nymphon leptocheles but with a black-and-yellow box where the body would have been. The legs slid into cracks as the thing settled in. A light on the box started blinking, red, then yellow, and finally green. The doors popped open. The lock-picking device dropped to the ground, legs curling up, and started smoldering. Jones paid it no mind as he pushed the doors open and headed inside, handgun out and gleaming in the hallway lights.

Fournier passed by the ashes that blew away in the light breeze, leaving no evidence behind. He nodded at the efficiency. No way to pin the break-in to the user. He drew his handgun, stalking after the retreating back of the Flamingo.

At the elevators, Jones pointed out the security vidcams, pushed the call button, and waited until the car opened. He stepped in, and as soon as Fournier entered, he selected the ninth floor, the floor above their target. He then stepped out as the doors closed, leaving Blaise to ride alone.

Jones used the stairwell, mounting the steps two at a time. He reached the ninth without encountering anyone. He peeked out the stairwell, saw nothing, then took a minute to slow his breathing. He walked down to the elevator bank where Fournier waited calmly.

“Anything?” Fournier inquired.

Jones shook his head.

“Ah. Shall we?” Fournier asked as they walked to the other stairwell.

The eighth floor was still as a graveyard. They halted in front of the target’s apartment. The door was plain looking, with just the apartment number plate on the wood.

“Gotta be the right place,” Jones muttered. “No guards, though.”

“Ah. I suspect such an asset would never be surprised by visitors, and is already alerted to our presence.”

“Good point.” Jones aimed his handgun at the lock.

“Non! Such a mechanism would be impervious to small arms,” Fournier interrupted him before he could fire.

“I hate it when you’re right,” Jones grumbled. He pounded on the door instead. “Open up, you little weasel!”

Fournier sighed. “Honey and flies, Jones, honey and flies.”

Jones shushed him as he pressed an ear to the door. “Nothing.”

“Do you not have one more of those clever devices?”

“One-time use for a specific type of lock. Wouldn’t work here.”

“Ah. Pity.”

Jones stepped back and stared at the door, realizing something felt off when he was pounding on it with his fist. He tapped it with the butt of his gun, eliciting a metallic ring. While it looked wooden like the other apartment doors, it was metal.

“This place is buttoned up tight,” Jones grunted.

Jones strode to the apartment on the right. He pounded on the door—wood—and listened. Nothing. Stepping back, the big man raised his right leg and stomp-kicked the lock, shattering the door frame.

“Come on.” Jones entered the other apartment, ignoring the contents, until he stood about six feet inside the family room. He faced the wall that adjoined the apartments. “We go in through there.” He pointed at the wall.

“Ah, well, that would be a softer point, assuming the other side isn’t where another wall starts,” Blaise commented as he followed Jones.

Jones pointed out the support beams in the ceiling. “Can’t be much on the other side, maybe a bookcase at most. All these places follow the same basic floor plan, so you couldn’t attach an interior wall to anything to support it. Anything would be a few feet in either direction.”

“I leave this to your experience, but open it with what? We carry no explosives, and just what are you doing?!”

Jones grabbed a chef’s knife from the kitchen, wrapped a dish towel to pad the handle better, and used the rest of the towel to tie it to his hand as he gripped it. He approached the wall and struck hard into the material. The knife punched through and he worked his weight as leverage and partially sawed, partially brute-forced the cut almost to the floor. He made another gash in the wall, mostly parallel to the other.

“Bon, I’m sure we can have the Coalition pay for repairs later,” Fournier sighed.

Jones tossed the knife aside, grabbed a kitchen stool, and smashed it into the space between the gashes.

“This—“ smash “—would be—” smash “—easier—” crash “—with that—” the stool started to crack “—that cyborg!”

The wall material cracked and crumbled until the other side was exposed. Jones kept up his assault until he chucked the shattered stool and picked up another one to finish the job.

There was a gaping hole into the target’s apartment. Lights were on. Jones drew Fournier aside. He wiped off the sweat and dust from his forehead, barely breathing hard.

“Here’s the deal, I’ve made enough noise to wake the dead. Whoever is on the other side—if anyone—is going to be ready for us. As soon as one of us goes through, he’ll act.”

Fournier nodded. “But of course. I will handle this part.”

Jones grunted and then nodded after appraising the smaller man.

Fournier holstered his handgun and called into the gaping hole.

“I’m afraid I must beg your pardon, but I will be entering your domicile in an unusual manner. We have questions we seek your expertise on.” He waited a bit, then shoved his smaller frame through the hole, grimacing as his suit was covered in dust.

Entering the apartment, two details struck him. First, it had a decidedly unpleasant odor, as if the occupant never opened a window or aired it out. Second, the place was tidy to the point it didn’t look lived in. The two facts didn’t quite fit, heightening Fournier’s unease.

He thought he heard a noise farther in, toward the main bedroom. He trod cautiously, casting about for anything that could be a tripwire or pressure plate. Fournier reached the bedroom door and listened. It sounded like breathing from other the side. Steeling himself for a possible fight, Fournier flung open the door.

A scrawny, pale man in a black wetsuit was floating in a transparent sensory deprivation tank. A complicated headset, almost a full helmet, cut off his vision and, given the number of protruding neural jacks, most likely all his other senses. A bundle of cords ran from the headset back to a bank of machinery, including what Blaise took for an oxygen tube. The man hung mostly motionless, just his digits twitching sporadically. The tank and support equipment took up most of the large room.

“Well!” Fournier exclaimed in surprise. “I had no idea people still engaged with this ancient technology.”

He noticed there were security vidcams in the room. The man in the tank had to be aware of his presence, despite giving no indication.

“Jones! All clear for the moment!”

Fournier busied himself in the room while he waited for his companion to join him. Soon enough, he could hear the heavy tread of the other man. Shortly, Jones strode into the room, handgun drawn.

“What in the—?”

“Oui! My sentiments precisely!”

Jones gave a low whistle. “What’s up with this ancient junk?”

“This, ah, explains quite a bit. Even the AIs had a hard time tracking him down, and seeing this, this, mess, it would have been quite a feat for even them to deal with such ancient protocols and hardware. This is how the Bookkeeper has remained off the radar so well.” Blaise poked at some switches. Blinking lights changed patterns. He rubbed his hand against his pants as if he had touched something soiled.

“Yeah, I kinda get that, but why hasn’t he done anything since we barged in?”

“Ah, that is what I am still trying to determine. See here and here? These readouts look to be his vitals; this one for brain activity, heart rate here, and so forth. Everything is elevated, as if he is under moderate to high levels of stress.”

“What if we yank him out?”

“Ah, that I do not know. Given all his preparation in here, I would hazard a guess nothing good would come from such an action. And we don’t know why his readings are so high. Death is a possibility, or a lesser end, but still not optimal for us, is that he wipes all records of his transactions, leaving us with nothing.”

Jones grunted in disappointment.

“So what? We just leave him in that tank?”

“I think not. I’m assuming there’s a way to safely expulse him from here.”

Jones and Fournier moved around the room, trying to decipher what all the various stacks of equipment could mean.

Melissa came in through the breached wall, since neither man could open the apartment’s door from the inside.

“Gee, John, you sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she laughed as she lightly punched him in the shoulder.

“It gets better, babe.” Jones led her to the room that housed their target.

She poked around like the other two had.

“Yeah, I can sort of make head or tails of this mess. Some of this equipment is clearly life support and monitoring, this looks to be all networking—I’m guessing he has firewalls and rerouting to make small governments jealous—but then there’s things like this.” She pointed at a rack of equipment. “It looks like old computer hardware for number crunching, but no one with all this other stuff would use something that old when you can pick up better, cheaper equipment anywhere.”

“Now you see our quandary.” Blaise shook his head. “The man, he is under some stress, and while we dally, he suffers, but I have no idea on how to release him.”

“Can’t you do your, you know, thing?” Jones growled at Fournier.

“Ah, yes. I didn’t want to dive in without knowing something about our target, but it looks like I have no other option,” Fournier sighed. “This sort of thing is, ah, tricky even when prepared.”

“You’ve had no problem with my men,” Jones grunted.

“Mon ami, your men were using standard cybernetics and were singular of mind and focus, I knew my targets well. This,” Blaise gestured dramatically toward the tank, “this is all unknown!”

“So you can’t do it, Frenchie?”

“Non, non, I did not say that! I just cannot guarantee success.”

Jones shrugged. “At this point, I’m tired of it. If this doesn’t pan out, I’m sure I’ll be attacked again, and we’ll have another shot at tracing things back to them. Go for it.”

“Bon. Give me a second…”

Fournier’s eyes unfocused as he pushed out his senses into the tank, trying to find something to latch on to. The cybernetic kit was a washout, none of the frequencies he tried ellicted an ACK response. He reached deeper, trying to find the man’s mind.

Blaise crumpled to the floor. Before he hit, Jones caught him, and gently lowered him down.

The big man cursed fluently in several languages.

“Now what is going on?” Jones demanded.

Melissa checked the Bookkeeper’s vitals. Spikes were happening all over.

“Make him comfortable, because something’s happening.”

Jones grumbled as he went searching the apartment. He gave up and went to the one next door and brought back a pillow and throw blanket. Melissa thanked him and fussed over the Frenchman to get him settled with the pillow under his head and the blanket lightly covering him. Fournier’s breath was steady and even.

“How long do you think this’ll take?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, John.”

They sat in silence for a bit.

“He actually looks a little peaceful. Do you think he’s alright?” Melissa asked with a small frown.

Jones barked a short laugh. “The old goat isn’t going to be done in by some weirdo with tech older than him! He’ll be fine.” He wished he had brought a cigar. Instead, his hand found his Cross, almost on its own volition.

With a long gasp, Fournier sat up, looking pale and disoriented.

“Well?” Jones demanded gruffly.

“Ah, give me but a moment to recover. Do we have, perhaps, something to drink?”

“No,” Jones said curtly.

“Alas. Help this old man to his feet, if you’d be so kind.”

Jones brusquely hauled Fournier to his feet where the other swayed a little before getting back his land legs.

“What in God’s name happened, man? You look like a stiff breeze would knock you over!” Jones placed a hand on Fournier’s shoulder to steady him.

“A passing weariness, mon amis, a passing weariness.” Blaise took a shuddering deep breath and held for a slow count of ten before releasing it. “Bon. I am ready. Our friend here is in a predicament. Legion launched an all-out attack on him. This assortment of junk has proven to be, if nothing else, a formidable barrier, albeit an imperfect one.”

“Did you rescue him?” Melissa asked.

“I was unable. The howling maelstrom around him almost bested me. But I was able to learn something.”

What?” Jones wanted to shake the man for his delivery pace.

Lights flashed, and the complex headset opened like a metal flower until the pale and drawn face of the Bookkeeper could be seen. The headset retracted out of the water and onto a wall-mounted cradle above the tank. The Bookkeeper thrashed about, clawing off his transparent oxygen mask, and pulled himself to the tank’s exit as he gasped for air.

“Jones, our guest?”

“Don’t order me, Frenchie!” Jones growled, moving anyway. He leaned over the top of the tank, grabbed the Bookkeeper by his wetsuit and yanked him out, setting him on the floor where he stood, dripping wet and shivering. Jones scowled at Fournier as he shook the water off his hands. “There.”

“Thank you.” Blaise turned to the shivering man. “Monsieur Bookkeeper, I know you have gone through an, ah, ordeal. I apologize for my tone and sense of urgency. But seeing how we saved you from certain doom, how can I say this bluntly? You owe us and we want answers.”

“I-I-I-”

The man collapsed to the floor. This time, Jones didn’t lift a finger as the man dropped into an unconscious heap.

“Great,” the big man grumbled. “What is up with you people dropping to the floor?”

Fournier checked the Bookkeeper’s pulse and pried open his eyes. Standing up, Fournier brushed his hands off. “He’s in some sort of shock. I can’t do more than touch lightly against his mind, and what I can see is fragmented.”

“Can’t you dive in deeper?” Melissa asked.

“No, not without significant risk to myself. The unconscious mind swings around dream logic and rules, I could easily be pulled under, like a ship pulled into a gravitation well too strong to handle, and then never resurface.”

“So what do we do with him?” Jones asked.

“We, ah, take him back.”

“Is there anything here worth taking, Blaise,” Melissa asked as she looked over the stack of random equipment.

“No. Wait, there was one, ah, impression of a memory that seemed important to him. If you all give me but a moment?”

Jones waved his dissatisfied consent.

Fournier trotted off back to the apartment.

“He’s surprisingly spry for such an old guy,” Melissa pointed out.

“Yeah, catches me off guard now and then.”

There was a crash.

They waited. Melissa checked the pulse of their prize, such as it was. It was steady.

Fournier came bustling back, a triumphant look on his face, holding something in his hand. “Bon! Well, of a sort! An older datacube, packed, I have no, ah, doubt with information he rather not come to light! Come, let us take our sleeping Bookkeeper and return to our base of operations.”

Jones snorted. “I suppose you want me to carry our new friend here?” He prodded the unconscious man with his boot.

“Oui, if you’d be so kind!”

Jones grunted a little as he threw the other over his shoulder. “Let’s get going. Been lucky nobody’s poked their noses into this mess so far. Let’s not push it.”