“Magnify,” Kantian orders Resgram. He wants to do nothing more than unclasp the top collar buttons and nap after his successful negotiation session.
The view screen image grows, closing the gap between the two yellow stars. In the central location, light fizzles. A flash of a cloaking shield dissipates. As the doorway rift allows entry, it disrupts the power flow. A mere three inches of sable craft appear for a half second.
The image transfers to the starless inside of the pocket reality. The nose of a dragonesque creature slips through the visible tear.
“No ship that size has cloaking capabilities.”
“Its design has no match in fleet database. Registry number indicates a neutral world alliance,” Resgram says.
“Get me every record you have on that ship,” Kantian orders.
The Silver Dragon completes its traversal through the Riftgate before disappearing behind is cloaking shields.
“Sir, it’s landing on the Independence. The diplomatic hangar bay.”
“Maxtin’s private landing port.” Advanced weapons testing. The Hardaren Cadet, Chelsie, designed a fighter. Maxtin could have others, or they could be mercenaries. I know he uses them to spy on the Mokarran.
“Find out everything going on in the Admiral’s cruiser.”
“Sir, spying on a VP Admiral is a court martial offense.”
“The duty of the Outer Dimensional Coordinator is to protect the UCP. As acting ODC, I order you to investigate any possible infiltration of the rift. An unregistered cloaked ship activates a threat level until I learn otherwise.” Kantian clarifies his stance. I need a support staff matching my goals. These Hardaren are prime candidates.
“Sir, we’ve received a high priority transmission from inside the Tri-Star Federation.”
Kantian halts his finger from selecting the accept key on the personal comm system at his desk. The incoming transmission originates from inside the Tri-Star Federation. His network of contacts all have identification codes to identify their messages. Possibilities of this source being fake increase tenfold since his rise in rank creates enemies he doesn’t know seeking to discredit him.
“Computer, security confirmation—incoming message.”
“Channel secure from source. Message directed at UCP. Message designated for Admiral Maxtin.”
His finger completes the push. Nytalyan’s face fills the monitor.
“I am Nytalyan. As part of the Tri-Star Federation command structure, I serve the Mokarran directly. Recently, my concerns with the number of non-Mokarran dismissals forced me to record and decipher religious meetings held by the Shan-goroe. I learned the horrible truth of the Mokarran’s ultimate plan for the galaxy. I implore you, Admiral Kantian, with your recent handling in liberating Summersun, to inspect and confirm my findings. With this information, you’ll have the evidence to justify a full-scale attack on the Mokarran and liberate all worlds under their rule.”
Kantian reads all of Nytalyan’s reports.
“Computer, download this transmission to a data crystal and delete all record of accepting the transmission.”
The computer beeps. “Download complete.”
Kantian pockets the crystal. “Computer, could acceptance of this transmission be found at this terminal?”
“Affirmative.”
Kantian reaches under his desk, slipping a blaster from a hidden holster mount. He fires three bolts into the computer controls.
Fire klaxons scream.
Security arrives first.
Kantian informs them, “Get a fire crew and the ship’s construction engineer. I want a diagnosis of all these newly installed computer systems.”
The guards snap to attention before bolting from the room.
The UCP command or her citizens must know none of this information.
DOZENS OF IDENTICAL gray-uniformed workers continue with the repairs and remodeling of the Dragon. Michelle slips between them.
Doug directs the identical humanoids into the chamber at the end of the main corridor. He follows them inside, and the door seals.
She races down the hall from her quarters to the lift.
The elevator crowds with synthoids. She maneuvers to the back corner in time to avoid Doug spotting her among the worker drones. She doubts he would question her. She unbuttons the top two buttons of her jumpsuit. Lacking the same endowment as Amye, she wonders if her exposure will matter to Doug. He steals a boob glance at every opportunity. He lacks the musculature and manly stature of Scott. She doesn’t care much for the reddish-blond hair he spikes up. She knows he wears it short to provide convenient access to his jacking port.
He never turns.
Her thighs cramp from the weird angle she maintains to hunch down lower than the synthoids’ shoulders in the overcrowded cubical. The three-floor drop should be over. I should be married. What if my mother did pay these pirates to kidnap me?
The doors open. She loses track of Doug as more synthoids filter on. She bumps one while working past them onto the cargo deck. Her height works to her advantage as she utilizes the stacks of crates as camouflage. An army of identical synthoids march up the landing ramp—an obstacle to overcome if she reaches it without a crewmember spotting her.
With enough tutelage under Amye, she would learn to add stealth to her combat abilities, but opportunity means grabbing this chance to escape. Even if mother paid these people—how could she?
The humanoids stack crates as if she’s not present.
No Doug.
Australia’s off ship, and Reynard left. It would be better to know where Amye was, and JC might read my panic about escaping, but the telepath’s concerns about Samantha preoccupy her. She reaches a crate five feet from the ramp. The crew trusts me. They risked themselves for me. A risk they wouldn’t have had to take if they would have allowed my marriage. Marriage mandates that my husband protect me. He wouldn’t allow me to be assassinated by the Mokarran. He would want an heir. Mother’s wrong.
Find a UCP officer. Request asylum. I’m a political dignitary requesting asylum.
She reaches the ramp in one stride, dropping through. No sign of any of the crew. Just workers off-loading supplies. Michelle quickens her pace away from the Dragon. She slows, straightening her jumpsuit. All her panic pinches her bladder. I should have peed before I left. I did. I’m not going to make it to a
