Space Specter

Interstellar Sheriff

Book 3

Jenny Schwartz

The Saloon Sector is the Federation’s official frontier, but beyond it lurks the Badstars. Bandits hide there. The Saloon Sector is Sheriff Max Smith’s territory. Since the revelation of his secret identity, life has changed for Max and Thelma. Their relationship is under increased pressure.

Admiral Astyages, newly appointed in command of the Frontier Fleet, manipulates them into joining a Navy expedition to map a safe route to the wormhole on the far side of the Badstars.

Alone in hostile territory and separated from their allies, Max and Thelma couldn’t be less prepared for their encounter with the legendary specters.

But it’s not the specters who’ll betray them.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Want More?

Chapter 1

Thelma Bach had survived space battles, the Galactic Justice academy and an assassination attempt. She’d foiled a terrorist plot and met with aliens.

Max Smith stared at his girlfriend in disbelief. “You can’t be scared of my sister.”

“I’m not.” Thelma tried to climb into the wardrobe of their cabin. “I’m just trying to find the perfect outfit. Is black too austere? I’ve noticed Cynny wears a lot of blue, so I need to choose a different color. Maybe green? Red would be too much. Purple?”

He pulled her out of the wardrobe. “Breathe.”

Wide brown eyes stared into his. “Breathe?”

He demonstrated.

She swatted him. “I’m not hyperventilating. Or whatever. I want Cynny to like me. She’s the first member of your family who I’ll meet in person.”

“You’ve spoken to her dozens of times over the comms, and even more often to Mom. My family think you’re wonderful.”

“They don’t.”

He picked her up in a fireman’s carry.

“Max!”

“This is a chocolate intervention,” he said firmly. He raised his voice. “Lon, chocolate ice-cream with fudge sauce.”

“On it,” the artificial intelligence (AI) embedded in the starship Lonesome said. “Thelma, sweetie, we’re completely ready for Cynny and Paul’s arrival tomorrow.”

Blood rushed to her head as she dangled from Max’s shoulders; still, she argued. “I’m not. I need to choose my outfit.”

Max marched down the corridor.

“One of your green utility suits,” Harry said. Lon must have called the second AI who lived aboard the Lonesome as backup for the Thelma meltdown emergency.

Max put her down in the kitchen and braced her as her head swam.

“Harry, they shouldn’t have bothered you,” she said.

The AI smiled. He was embedded in a mech body that he’d modified extensively. “You’re never a bother, honey.”

Harry’s cover story for his presence on the Lonesome was that of a military robot. No one suspected that the humanoid mech that assisted Sheriff Max Smith in his duties actually housed an AI.

Humanoid mechs had been scrapped years ago because of how they’d freaked out the various species who’d fought alongside them. They were just too lifelike in form to be accepted. Weirdly, soldiers were happier serving alongside mechs built to resemble giant centipedes or as simple tanks than as mechanized versions of themselves.

Although humans were the dominant species in the Federation, it also included lizard-like saurelles, the furry gray teddy bears that were the fiercely mercantile urselves, and the winged humanoids called bunyaphi.

As a humanoid mech Harry hid in plain sight, simply assuming an expressionless demeanor in public. While the Lonesome patrolled Max’s interstellar sheriff territory of the Saloon Sector, Harry traveled with it. Whilst in the area, he could fulfill his primary duty.

Harry guarded a secret cache of raphus geodes. In the Federation, only the AIs, plus Thelma and Max, knew that the raphus geodes that powered them were more than crystals. They were seeds of life, left by an ancient species.

Unfortunately, being rare and expensive was sufficient to make them the target of treasure hunters.

“Harry, you’re a sweetheart. The best uncle ever. But a utility suit is what I wear every day.” Thelma plucked at her shirt. “It’s what I’m wearing now.” Although this suit was blue.

“So you’ll feel comfortable in it.”

“I want Cynny to know I’m making an effort.”

A kitchen robot pushed a bowl of ice-cream and fudge sauce into her hands.

“Thanks, Lon,” she said absently.

Max guided her to the table and pressed her into a chair.

She ate some ice-cream.

Her crewmates hovered, metaphorically speaking. Only Carl was absent; the cyborg busy about his own business on the deck below.

“Coffee?” she asked.

Max winced.

“How about a nice cup of mint tea?” Lon suggested. Apparently, mid-afternoon ice-cream was medicinal, but caffeine was banned.

She nodded. “Thanks.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll wear the utility suit.”

Max squeezed her shoulder in support and approval.

“All right. That’s my panic done.” Thelma hoped her voice sounded more resolute than she felt. Panic squirmed in her, making her heart race and her palms sweaty. Meeting any life partner’s family for the first time was a big deal, but the disparity in her and Max’s backgrounds intensified it.

She was the out-world girl from the Rock Sector, daughter of independent asteroid miners. He was the son of the Federation’s president and one of the heirs to the immense Hwicce fortune. Until recently, Max had managed to keep his identity secret out on the frontier, serving as an interstellar sheriff in the Saloon Sector. He’d confided his identity to Thelma soon after meeting her, but in the last couple of weeks she’d learned the difference between her knowing it and the public learning of it.

The media presented her either as Cinderella or a rabid fortune hunter.

In fact, she was an information broker.

“Has your quest been approved, Harry?” She scraped up some chocolate fudge sauce.

It was the mech’s turn to slump in a chair. “They’re still debating.”

“It’s a complicated issue,” Lon said apologetically. “I support Harry. Knowledge is better than ignorance. But others fear disturbing the status quo.”

There’d been a lot of status quo disruption going around recently.

The crew of the Lonesome had barely survived the last few weeks. Between them they’d foiled a terrorist plot, revealed part of a political conspiracy, introduced a reclusive AI to the scientific community, befriended a cyborg (Carl), thrown Max to the ravening hordes (a.k.a. the media) by revealing his secret identity, and had Nefertiti return from the Kampia galaxy with news of alien life and customs and proof that the mythical ancestors of the AIs—the creators of the raphus geodes—lived.

The trouble had started when Thelma and Max met two aliens at the Deadstar Diner. Chases-Auroras and Tangles-in-Dreams came through a forbidden wormhole fossicking for raphus geodes. The Kampia wormhole existed on the far side of the Badstars, a zone outside the Federation and the hideout of bandits.

The Kampia were a strange species. They swam in space, consuming radiation, and hence, possessed the senses to detect raphus geodes. They detected one in Harry, and then, in Lon, and called them ‘Revered Ones’. On questioning the title, Lon learned that when the Kampia found a raphus geode they placed it inside one of their own eggs. When the egg hatched it became a Revered One, an organic version of the Federation AIs.

“The news of the Kampia that Nefertiti brought back has certainly disturbed our scientists,” Max said. “Those in Galactic Justice are screaming that they want to know how the Kampia phase from energy to matter and back.” As an interstellar sheriff, Max fell within the oversight of the mega-department of Galactic Justice, and so, had heard those screams.

“If the scientists knew about raphus geodes and the genesis of the Kampia Revered Ones, they’d be screaming about that, too,” Lon said.

But the AIs had kept the seeds of life secret, with Thelma and Max’s help. It had required dancing a line between truth and silence. It wasn’t that Thelma had lied to Galactic Justice. She’d merely hidden a few things.

The Kampia controlled access to the wormhole that connected their galaxy to the Federation’s. Chases-Auroras and Tangles-in-Dreams had given Harry and Lon, whom they perceived as Revered Ones, the sequence to open it. Since Harry and Lon had been concealing their whereabouts at the time of the initial meeting with the aliens—and Harry still was—Thelma had spun the truth a little.

She’d said that the Kampia were not willing to risk organic life traveling through the wormhole into their galaxy, but were willing to host a visit from an AI. Of course they were! In their view, AIs were Revered Ones, seeded with a raphus geode. Thelma had capped her argument with the truth that an artificial intelligence would be the rare person capable of completing the security sequence the Kampia required for opening the wormhole.

“Ironic.” She sipped her mint tea. Her teeth tingled at the hot drink after she’d just eaten ice-cream. She poked at a molar with her tongue. “I claimed to ex-Senator Gua that the Kampia wouldn’t let organic life into their galaxy and it turns out I was right.”

“Half right,” Lon said. “The Kampia are organic, even if they can phase to an energy form. But I understand their reservations. They’re concerned they might accidentally kill visitors by disabling their spaceships during feeding. Nefertiti says they find spaceships baffling and cute, kind of how humans think of hermit crabs and their individualistic homes.”

Like Lon, Nefertiti was an AI who’d chosen to embed herself in a spaceship. In her case, the spaceship she’d embedded in belonged to Covert Operations. Nefertiti was a Covert Ops agent.

Thelma and Max’s relationship with Covert Ops was of the suspicious, mutual detestation type. Lon’s relationship with Nefertiti was of the dreaming-of-being-her-boyfriend kind. Add in the secrets AIs were keeping, even from Covert Ops, and supporting Nefertiti after she’d been chosen as the AI to venture through the wormhole and meet the Kampia had been complicated. Worth it, though.

“Nefertiti’s return challenged a lot of our thinking.” Max drank mint tea in solidarity with Thelma. If he’d dared drink coffee in front of her she’d have tackled him for it.

Lon hummed his agreement. “Even Nefertiti couldn’t share all of it with the Federation. It hurt her that she had to withhold some of the Kampia’s information from her Covert Ops colleagues.”

Harry folded his arms and frowned disgustedly. “Her news rattled half the AIs, too. They couldn’t see an opportunity if it bit them in the chassis.” Those were harsh words from one of the oldest AIs in existence and their collectively appointed magistrate.

In fact, Nefertiti’s news had rattled him most of all, if in a good way.

Chases-Auroras and Tangles-in-Dreams had said that the “Gods are gone”. They’d been referring to the people who’d created the raphus geodes: the specters, the AIs legendary ancestors. Old Federation legends, which Harry obsessed over, described the specters as “ghosts, but stretched like taffy”.

When Nefertiti brought news that the specters lived, and that a Kampia Revered One had spoken with a specter a millennium ago, Harry had almost exploded with excitement. He wanted to emulate the Revered One and meet a specter.

Apparently, ancestor worship wasn’t confined to organic sentients.

However, not all the AIs shared Harry’s attitude.

Currently, they were debating whether Harry should be freed from his vow to protect the raphus geode cache in the Saloon Sector to pursue the clues for contacting a Revered One that Nefertiti had returned with. Clues that the AIs hadn’t shared beyond themselves.

“Another AI can protect the cache,” Harry repeated what he’d said a hundred times before. A responsibility that he’d previously valued had become a hated leash.

The AIs believed in democracy. They required a two thirds majority of them—there were 1,327 in total—to approve any significant action. Setting out on a quest to contact their ancestors indubitably counted as significant, and the idea scared many of the AIs. They’d been debating the issue for weeks.

Harry’s impatience had reached near solar eruption levels.

Max redirected the conversation. “It’s good that Covert Ops doesn’t suspect Nefertiti of withholding information.”

With an eye to Harry’s scowl, Thelma backed him up. “I think the boring nature of the information the Kampia provided her with helped deflect suspicion. The Revered One gave Nefertiti some idea of the Kampia’s galaxy, but minimal information about their physiology and society. Galactic Justice can’t be happy about it.”

Harry drummed his fingers against the kitchen table.

Lon picked up the conversational baton. “They don’t blame her. It’s not like they authorized her to provide the Kampia with much information, either. Which was an odd diplomatic decision when you consider that the Kampia have already been exploring in our galaxy and could have learned more than what was in the data package provided by Galactic Justice.”

“And now, there’s no chance for further discussion. The Kampia have closed access to the wormhole, even for AIs.” Although Thelma had her suspicions regarding that decision. How likely was it that a single wormhole connected the two galaxies when multiple wormholes enabled Federation citizens to jump within their galaxy?

Nefertiti and the Revered One had probably made arrangements for some sort of communication to remain possible via a different wormhole. Meanwhile, Galactic Justice and the Navy were undoubtedly both planning to upgrade their sensor systems at the known wormhole and physically patrol it.

Which would upset the bandits who lurked in the Badstars. They survived outside Federation space because authority kept its distance.

Keeping an eye on changes to bandit activity due to the disruption was high on Max’s list of priorities as the interstellar sheriff whose territory was nearest to the Badstars.

“Galactic Justice released Nefertiti back to ordinary duties after reporting to the Senate Worlds Development Committee far quicker than I thought they would given the loss of access and control of the wormhole,” Thelma said. “It was as if everyone was grateful that the Kampia don’t want anything to do with us.”

“The Federation is massive. We have enough problems without meeting more,” Max commented.

Harry stood and loomed. “That’s the attitude of too many of the AIs. They don’t want to risk reaching beyond ourselves. The specters are our ancestors. I have questions for them.”

And that troubled the AIs. Reynard, the newest of them, had shared that fact with Thelma in spite of her best efforts to shut him down and keep herself and Max out of the AIs’ private business. The AIs were apprehensive about how the specters might respond to Harry’s questions, if he found them.

Nefertiti’s contact had given her a means of reaching the specters. However, the Revered Ones weren’t, themselves, in contact with their ancestors.

They’d given no reason for their sole contact over a millennium ago or explained why they hadn’t communicated with their ancestors since. Yet they’d passed on the strange process for contacting a specter. The least troubling explanation was that they saw themselves as the AIs’ cousins. With both given unique life via raphus geodes, fairness required of the Revered Ones that the AIs have equal access to the specters, their common ancestors. Whether they took up that option was the AIs’ decision.

Harry stalked out of the kitchen, heading back down the corridor to his private quarters.

Staring after him, Thelma waited till he’d had time to reach privacy and close the hatch behind him. She sighed. Her breath was minty. “I guess I’m not worried about Cynny, now.” Because she was concerned about Harry.

Head bent over his comms unit, Max rubbed the back of his neck. “Would you like a new problem?”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Will I like it?”

“I’ve just received orders to report to Zephyr. According to Brielle,” an urself clerk in the Interstellar Sheriff Service, “Covert Ops rolled through regional office like a stellar hail storm. Everyone has either been cleared or fired. Most vacancies have been filled.”

“Who’s the new chief?” Thelma straightened alertly. She’d been keeping up with events in the adjacent Reclamation Sector where the Interstellar Sheriff Service chief oversaw interstellar policing there as well as in the Saloon Sector. “Any guesses?”

“Nope,” Max said. “But it won’t be an internal promotion. Although the new chief needs to be someone who understands the Saloon Sector.”

“Someone who knows when to throw the rulebook out?” Thelma teased. The Saloon Sector was the galactic frontier, after all. Things operated differently out here.

Max, however, believed in rules. It was the Star Marine in him. He frowned at her.

She grinned back. She’d also been trained to follow the rules; graduating top of her class from the Galactic Justice academy. However, after some dramatic ups and downs, she’d embraced the Saloon Sector ethos that sometimes rules had to be creatively explored. “Lon, who do you think will be the new chief?”

“I think, since they haven’t introduced themselves, that I won’t ruin their surprise.”

Thelma and Max blinked at each other.

“You know?” Thelma demanded of the amused AI. “Did Nefertiti tell you?”

“Of course not. I merely made a deduction from freely available information. Well, information anyone could acquire if they were interested.”

“Huh. And you don’t think I need to be warned about my new boss?” Max asked.

Lon laughed. “Nice try.”

“Even if the orders request that Thelma accompany me to the meeting?” Max added.

Her eyes widened.

Lon remained amused. “Even then.”

“You do know who it is!” Thelma accused.

With a laugh Lon asked for details regarding Brielle’s message. “Is Carl also required for the meeting?”

Max glanced at his comms unit. “The orders didn’t include him.”

That was interesting, considering that Carl Jafarov was Max’s sole deputy.

“We promised him his own spaceship,” Lon said. Currently, Carl occupied the Lonesome’s public lounge and a converted jail cell on the deck below. “If he’s not required on Zephyr, maybe he could be released to travel to Tornado?”

“Is there anything for him on Tornado?” Max lounged back in his chair.

Tornado was a planet of mercenary corporations in Sheriff Pang’s Saloon Sector territory. It specialized in the weapons trade, and whilst it did occasionally have spaceships for sale, the best buys were next door in the Reclamation Sector. Traveling there, however, would take additional weeks.

“He thinks so,” Lon said. “He has contacts on Tornado from his years undercover as a mercenary.” Years in which Carl had been employed by Covert Ops. “I’ll ask him to come up.”

Max agreed and cleared the kitchen table.

Carl walked into the common room a couple of minutes later. “Problem?”

“A possible opportunity,” Max said. “I’ve been ordered to Zephyr to meet the new chief—identity unknown. Thelma’s presence was also requested, but not yours. Lon suggested now might be the time for you to buy your ship.”

Carl pulled his comms unit out of a pocket before sitting down at the table. “There’s a retired Cronus scout at Tornado.” He flicked a picture of it up on the wallscreen.

“A Cronus is a good choice,” Lon said. “The specs for this one appear suitable. It needs significant work, which will put other buyers off, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

They’d covered this ground before, but Carl was independent and stubborn so Lon was repeating himself.

Carl had insisted on arranging his own spaceship mortgage rather than borrow from Max, who had more than enough money to set easy repayment terms.

However, Lon had put his metaphorical foot down, stomping all over Carl’s prickly independence, to insist that he would “assist” Carl in repairing whatever ship he bought. The task would be simple enough for Lon and his fleet of robots, and as Lon said, they needed Max’s deputy to have a reliable ship. It wasn’t charity, but commonsense, to help him. Was Carl, Lon had asked, willing to let his pride weaken the team?

Now, Carl’s response was a nod of acceptance that the ship repair would be Lon’s project.

Thelma smiled at him.

An answering smile glimmered in his eyes, humor at his own defeat, but his mouth didn’t as much as twitch. All cyborgs had excellent self-control. Very few people were selected for the program and each one had to be approved by the Federation government. They had to have a strong character in addition to a robust physical body (prior to whatever accident made an individual a candidate for the program) and no family ties.

The crew of the Lonesome were Carl’s new family; a truth he was slowly and with much backsliding beginning to accept.

And if you were family, you were allowed an opinion. “Now is not the best time to separate,” he said. “Unless you want me gone?” His dark blond right eyebrow rose a fraction in question.

Thelma jumped in. “We don’t want you gone. Don’t be silly. But Max promised that as his deputy you’d have your own ship and he always keeps his promises, as does Lon, so we need to make that happen.”

Max left her to offer the reassurances. He frowned at Carl. “Why do you want to hang around?”

If his ribs had been within reach, Thelma would have elbowed him. As it was her outraged, “Max!”, did the job.

He grimaced. “We can defend ourselves—and Cynny, if she’s who you’re anxious about.”

“I’m not. Your sister has her own bodyguards. I was thinking that our new chief isn’t the only change around the sector, and when things are in flux, it’s smart to have your allies close. Plus, if Harry gets approval for his quest, he’ll be off after the specters and you’ll be down a mobile agent.”

“Good points,” Thelma muttered. “But you still want a ship, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And it’ll take Lon a few months to repair one to his satisfaction.”

The AI objected. “Weeks, not months.”

Thelma rolled her eyes in affectionate mockery. “Sure, if repairs were all you had planned. But you’ll want to upgrade the ship.”

“Huh. Maybe.”

Definitely. She smiled. “Carl, do you want to see your ship in person before you buy it, or would an assessment by an independent expert be sufficient?”

“Sentiment doesn’t factor into my decision, so an independent assessment by a qualified individual would work. But not Reynard, if that’s who you’re thinking of.”

“Not Reynard,” she assured him. The young AI had his own problems to deal with. Plus, he was sulking. “What about Jerome, the urself inventor whose ship I piloted in the Space Rodeo?”

Carl’s casual posture froze, which meant he was interested.

She continued persuasively. “Jerome’s at Tornado for the next two weeks while his family negotiate the contract for his prototype ship. He’s bored, and a bored inventor is a dangerous beast, so his family would shove him at any ship you wanted inspected.”

“That would work,” Lon said.

Carl stared at Thelma. “Yes, it would. I’d pay Jerome for his time.”

“Not per hour,” she stipulated quickly. “Jerome is likely to take a long time studying the ship and chatting via comms with Lon about upgrading it. A flat fee.”

“Okay.”

She beamed. “I’ll make it happen.”

“If you buy the ship, a trampship can transport it to the Zephyr spacedock and we’ll pick it up from there. The Interstellar Sheriff bay has three berths.” Lon was busy making plans.

Max added a data point. “I leased another three berths. Carl, if you want more privacy, you can use one of those. The media are currently paying too much attention to Interstellar Sheriff affairs out here.”

“They’re paying attention to you,” Carl said. “Which is partly why I should stay. I can operate with less scrutiny, if needed.”

Max raked a hand through his hair, which signaled his frustrated acceptance of that truth. “So, we’re all off to Zephyr after rendezvousing with the Oseberg.”

“Which means we won’t be able to travel to Forest with Cynny and Paul.” Thelma sagged. “Do you think…?”

“She’s not going to blame you,” Lon said.

Shocked, Max pulled her into a hug. “Of course she won’t. Cyn understands duty. Her own time out here is limited because of board duties. We’ll ask her what she wants to do. She can travel with us on the Lonesome or stay with Paul, traveling on to his wreck.” Disdain laced the last word.

Paul Owiti, Cynny’s fiancé, was an exo-archaeologist, someone who discovered and explored abandoned and long-forgotten spaceships. One of Paul’s contacts had reported an unidentified wreck floating out beyond Forest. Every bit as wealthy as Cynny, Paul paid a premium for such news.

He’d planned to explore it, and Cynny had decided to tag along to meet Thelma and welcome her, in person, to the family.

Max had intended to travel in tandem with the Oseberg as far as Forest before turning off on the lower border patrol route which would, in theory, enable them to meet up again at the Deadstar Diner two months later.

The journey to Forest could be justified as Interstellar Sheriff business as Forest was a protected planet in Max’s territory. Protected planets supported sentient life that had yet to attain space travel. On Forest, this meant the Banyaya. They were a species of mobile tree with a complicated spiritual life. Under Federation law, outsiders were utterly banned from contacting them or in any manner disrupting their world, and Max frequently checked the beacons that formed part of the protection zone perimeter around Forest.

“I’ll tell Cynny of the change in plans, now, so that she can discuss it with Paul.” Max gave Thelma a final squeeze before releasing her.

“And argue with her bodyguards,” Carl added. Of the quartet, he was the only one who’d worked as a bodyguard. He answered Thelma and Max’s doubting looks with a wry twist of his mouth. “Trust me, tomorrow Cynny and Paul’s bodyguards won’t be content to stay with me in the public lounge. They’ll want to clear the Lonesome ahead of their charges. I know, you won’t let them. But they, in turn, won’t agree to Cynny staying onboard without them.”

“I’m her brother,” Max said dangerously.

Carl shrugged. “It’s their job.” He hesitated fractionally before venturing into dangerous space. “Remember when you had bodyguards as a kid?”

Max’s father had been a senator when Max was a teenager, an important senator. His family had been guarded—and attacked. One of Max’s bodyguards, a man he’d counted as a friend, had died protecting him. That incident had shaped who Max was today.

“I remember.” He scowled. “Cynny will listen to her bodyguards’ advice. She owes respect to the people who protect her.” Decent people who hired guards understood the contract. They had to listen to their bodyguards’ advice because they were risking their lives.

“If their advice isn’t worth listening to, then they shouldn’t be guarding you.” Thelma smiled sympathetically at him. Her own most recent bodyguard had been an yprr named Ioan, and he’d been ferocious. She counted him as one of her favorite people. Cynny would listen to her bodyguards.

A tiny part of Thelma breathed a sigh of relief that they wouldn’t be hosting Cynny for weeks. Visiting between ships was something she could handle.

“The new chief had better have a darn good reason for summoning us to Zephyr,” Max said grumpily.

“I wonder.” Thelma tapped a finger to her bottom lip. “I wonder who they are.”

Chapter 2

Thelma wore her dark green utility suit. She’d tried her black hair in three different styles before returning to her customary braid. She’d tied it off with a black tie. A green ribbon would have been too schoolgirlish. She fidgeted with the end of it.

The Oseberg was docking with the Lonesome.

Cynny and Paul were to enter the Lonesome on the lower deck. Carl would then entertain their bodyguards in the public lounge while Cynny and Paul joined Thelma and Max on the main deck in the private, family zone.

Lon was unreservedly happy to be meeting Cynny. The AI had been Max and Cynny’s trillionaire grandfather’s friend. He and Gerhard Hwicce had designed the Lonesome together, putting in place safeguards that protected Lon’s privacy and independence, but which had also made it possible for Lon to offer Max a home and support when he retired from the Star Marines. It was through Lon that Max had met Harry, and the two had found common ground in their need to protect.

Esther, Max’s mom, had been touchingly grateful to learn how Gerhard had worried about Max adjusting to civilian life after his time in the military, and that he’d asked Lon to help Max to find a role that suited him, one where he could live his values and use his abilities.

Lon didn’t have to agonize over how Max’s family would judge him. They already loved the AI.

Thelma, on the other hand, was an outsider. She knew it, even if the family tried to ignore the fact. Wealth created its own rules and exclusivity, and she hadn’t been raised to live in that world.

Out here on the frontier Max had avoided the complications of wealth and premier status by hiding who he was. Now, he—they—were stuck with the reality.

They had discussed it. He’d wanted to warn her; to prepare her for the intrusiveness of wealth, and the ways around it. “Ordinary life becomes impossible so you use the money to create an alternative. Living on the Lonesome we’ve sidestepped the issue of me being stellar rich and you—”

“Being the daughter of asteroid miners. Limitations and opportunities. Lon and the other AIs live that paradox. Power and constraints.”

Max had kissed her. “Envious people only see the power.”

Now, he stood beside her by the hatch, waiting for Cynny and Paul’s arrival, and gently disengaging her hand from its nervous fidgeting with her braid. He gave her shoulders a comforting rub.

“Hatch opening,” Lon said in warning.

A tall, stern-faced bodyguard entered first, taking in Max and Thelma, and Carl standing back by the food dispenser. She gave a short, sharp nod and moved aside.

Cynny entered with a big smile for her brother. “Max.” But she hugged Thelma first. “Thelma, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. Mom has given me a hundred gifts for you.”

It was a comment guaranteed to freak Thelma out, even if it was kindly meant. Gifts? Thelma hadn’t gotten anyone gifts.

Paul followed in Cynny’s wake, shaking hands with Thelma as Max hugged the stuffing out of his baby sister.

Thelma was a baby sister herself, so she knew how protective one could be about her brothers.

“Cynny’s nervous about meeting you,” Paul murmured.

“She’s nervous?!!”

Cynny looked up at Thelma’s exclamation. Her blue eyes, less cynical than Max’s, were shimmery with tears. “You, too?”

“Oh yeah.”

“And how,” Max said, longsuffering.

Thelma and Cynny embraced again, this time with less stiff caution. Then they linked arms. “Lon,” Thelma called. “Meet Cynny and Paul.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Lon said instantly.

“I am thrilled to meet you, Lon,” Cynny said. “I want to hear all your stories of Granddad.”

“Honored to meet you, sir,” Paul said.

“Lon,” Lon corrected him. “Cynny, we’ll have a long chat, later. I know your time onboard is short.”

Cynny pouted. “Stupid sheriff orders.”

Her brother ignored the complaint and beckoned Carl forward. “Cynny, this is Deputy Carl Jafarov. He’ll keep your bodyguards company.” Max grinned at his deputy.

“Yes, he will,” Cynny agreed after they’d exchanged greetings. “We compromised. Paul and I can visit privately with you on the Lonesome, but I can’t travel alone with you.” She pulled a face at her bodyguards, who stared back stoically.

On the main deck, conversation flowed with astonishing ease. Paul had a professional interest in the Lonesome and Lon readily answered his questions about its unique design. A cube inside a sphere was not normal for a spaceship. However, even as he answered Paul’s questions, Lon kept some details, like Harry’s quarters, secret.

He also listened in, and occasionally participated in, Thelma and Cynny’s conversation, which quickly turned into teasing Max.

“He was always protective. Hugo,” Cynny and Max’s older brother, “had a laissez-faire attitude. He left me to stumble and learn. But Max would change the world to keep his family safe. Granddad approved of that attitude. He’d have liked an army of Max’s to run the corporation.”

“Hardly. I’m too independent. But Granddad was proud of your crusading spirit, Cyn.”

She giggled. “I admit, I don’t solve problems by smacking noses with a lollypop.” And to Thelma. “That was what Max did to my first boyfriend. Poor chubby Benjamin was only seven. He’d kissed my cheek.”

“You squealed.”

“He’d licked me! Worst kiss ever.”

Thelma laughed. “Hopefully Benjamin’s technique improved.”

“I’ve no idea. He wouldn’t come near me again. Thanks for that, Max.” Cynny mock-frowned.

Max smiled with the ease of a truly happy man, making no effort to prevent either woman from spilling his secrets. Cynny knew the embarrassing stories of his childhood. Thelma had stories of his misadventures in the Saloon Sector.

A late lunch, enjoyed after they’d visited the garden deck (Lon’s pride and joy), stretched out for hours. Esther’s gifts were opened. Some were for Thelma, but others were for Max and Lon. They managed a comms connection back to the parliamentary planet of Alpha Hub and spoke with Esther and John, although John had to duck out to meet with a visiting planetary governor. Then it was dinnertime and everyone got a tad tipsy on the whiskey Esther had gifted Max. It was the same bourbon whiskey his grandfather had enjoyed.

“I remember Gerhard toasting the launch of the Lonesome with that whiskey,” Lon said.

Human lives, even extended with rejuvenation treatments, were short compared to AIs’ lifespans. But no one let the conversation become maudlin.

They ended the night with laughter, final hugs and promises to meet up at the Deadstar Diner, Max’s sheriff duties permitting. “It’s lovely having you close, Max,” Cynny said before a bodyguard helped her through the hatchway and onto the Oseberg.

Thelma and Max’s next meeting was unlikely to be as happy.

On a sunny Thursday morning, having reached Zephyr late the previous night, they jogged up the steps of the Justice Court. Max wore a gray utility suit and his trademark western hat. Thelma hadn’t experienced any of the wardrobe nerves she’d suffered prior to meeting Cynny. She wore a trouser suit in black with a bold yellow blouse and cowboy boots, which were the height of business fashion this year on Zephyr.

Ignoring the bank of elevators and the crowd of defendants, plaintiffs and far too many lawyers queuing to board them, Thelma and Max took the stairs to the third floor and strode along a wide, wood-paneled corridor searching for Conference Room E.

Max saw it first. He nodded at it.

Thelma straightened her jacket.

He knocked on the conference room door.

It opened and so did Thelma’s mouth. Her jaw dropped in sheer astonishment. She stared around the room and back at the woman holding the door.

“Aubree.” Max’s voice was flat.

Aubree Tennyson, a Galactic Justice agent, responded sardonically. “Surprise! Don’t scowl at me, Max. I owe you for keeping your identity secret from me. My fact-finding reputation took a hit, having the President’s son here and not knowing it.” She sauntered to the chair at the head of a short table. “Shut the door, please.”

Behind her back, Thelma and Max exchanged raised eyebrow looks. Thelma added a quick wink, her shock giving way to intrigue. This meeting would be interesting.

Aubree waited till they’d taken seats opposite each other. Always elegantly dressed, today she’d added a note of severity with a dark gray suit, thundercloud-blue silk blouse and dark gray high heels. She’d had her blonde hair cut to chin length and it swung in a smooth bob. Her irises matched the color of her blouse which meant she also wore contacts. “Max, I thought I’d introduce myself personally as your new boss. I accepted the position as Chief of the Interstellar Sheriff Service for the Reclamation and Saloon Sectors nine days ago. Which is to say, I argued against the assignment, but failed. Galactic Justice wants me there for my knowledge of the sectors. I leave for Regional Office in five days. After I settle matters there, I intend to do a circuit of Interstellar Sheriff offices.”

She pressed her hands against the edge of the table. It was a gesture of bracing herself as much as a power move at the head of the table. “Max, in the past our relationship has mostly functioned by ignoring one another. Given the secrets you were hiding, I understand the distance you kept. But that stops, now.”

Thanks to rejuvenation treatments, Aubree had the appearance of a woman in her forties. Whatever her true age, she was at the top of her game of diplomacy and secrets, and Galactic Justice had seemingly sidelined her to manage an office. Which meant that running the Interstellar Sheriff Service for the region wasn’t a sideline position any more.

“Max, you have trust issues,” Aubree continued. “With reason. My predecessor as chief tried to destroy you. And now that your identity as President Smith’s son is out there, everyone wants to use you. I have trust issues, myself. But I can see what’s heading for us, and we need to work together. That’s why we’re meeting in person. I’ll tell you what I need and why. Then you do the same. Thelma, too.”

“What’s heading for us?” Max asked.

Aubree smiled tightly. “Expansion. In two senses, both of which will mean trouble for the Interstellar Sheriff Service and for you, personally. The first expansion is physical and the simplest to deal with. The wormhole to the Kampia galaxy is in the Badstars. The Navy will be setting up a base out there.”

“They’ve been talking about a patrol to the wormhole and around it,” Max said.

“Which is a sensible use of resources. The Navy knows its business,” Aubree said. “However, Federation Parliament is discreetly considering expanding the borders of the Federation to include the Badstars. Preliminary reports on the issue are due at the end of next year. We will have a number of different official and unofficial interest groups as well as government inspection teams staging at Zephyr and traveling on to explore the Badstars.”

“Oh good grief,” Thelma muttered.

“It’ll boost Zephyr’s economy,” Max said mildly.

“Bandits!” Thelma retorted. The Badstars, a hazardous stretch of space just outside Federation borders, was a bandit hotspot. Criminals, malcontents and adventurers who’d fled life in the Federation had set up colonies in the Badstars three generations ago. Some were now self-supporting, even moving toward a stable society. Others existed on what they could steal inside Federation space.

Max quizzed Aubree. “Will the Navy escort the explorers as a fleet?”

“The logistics are under discussion.”

“If everyone enters separately, the bandits will have a field day,” Thelma said.

Aubree and Max gave her faintly amused, pity-the-new-dude looks. Max said, “They’ll hire mercenaries to protect their individual expeditions. When the mercenary corporations on Tornado here about the Badstars exploration they’ll salivate.”

“Competition will push in from the Reclamation Sector,” Aubree added. “Expansion means problems proliferate exponentially. Trouble always chases money.”

Max frowned. “I assume Parliament’s idea is to incorporate the Kampia wormhole in Federation space?”

“That’s the current justification,” Aubree said sourly. “Some people are always pushing for expansion of our borders. This is precipitate. The bandits in the Badstars need another three generations if they’re to be stably integrated into the Federation. The original renegades’ children and grandchildren aren’t necessarily criminal. They deserve a chance to hold onto the societies they’re building.”

Max’s new chief couldn’t have said anything better guaranteed to win him over. Max believed in respecting people’s autonomy. “The places they’ve settled are the best locations. They’ll be contested by legitimate Federation entities who enter the Badstars.”

“In the court system it’s those entities who’ll win,” Thelma said.

Aubree spoke precisely. “It’s those entities and their interests—government, corporate and academic—that the Interstellar Sheriff Service will be required to prioritize over the welfare of bandit-derived societies. However, until the Badstars are brought inside the borders of the Federation, which won’t be for years, they are not the Interstellar Sheriff Service’s responsibility.” She sighed. “But as soon as the ships cross back into the Saloon Sector, the trouble they bring with them is ours.”

She stared down at the table. It was an empty surface. No comms unit, papers or water glasses occupied it. There were no props to this meeting. It was an unadorned, unrecorded briefing, stark in its honesty. Aubree Tennyson, new chief of the Interstellar Sheriff Service for the Reclamation and Saloon Sectors, was truly worried. “Expanding to include the Badstars is actually the easiest of the two expansions for us to handle. The bigger problem is the money and resources, including people, that are set to flow into the region.”

It would be overwhelming. Governor Rodin currently managed a stable, prosperous society on Zephyr while allowing sufficient risk to satisfy its citizens’ frontier spirit. But even his ruthless pragmatism would struggle against an avalanche of newcomers, their money and dreams; especially when those newcomers included corporations.

“It’s not the Badstars wormhole that will trigger our worst problems,” Aubree said. “But the wormhole in Sheriff Cayor’s territory that leads to the Boldire Sector. The bunyaphi are determined to establish a presence in the Saloon Sector, their first outside their home worlds. Parliament is inclined to grant them one of the terraformed moons, plus whatever they buy or lease for themselves.

“The Saloon Sector will remain a frontier zone for decades yet, but the people coming in will have mainstream expectations about how things should operate which will slam up against the reality of the Saloon Sector and its existing citizens. Max, did your father or brother mention any of this?”

His father, the President of the Federation, or his older brother, Hugo, one of its most influential backroom powerbrokers.

“No.”

Thelma traced a fingertip along the grain in the wood of the table. Back and forth, back and forth. When she looked up at the ongoing silence, Max and Aubree were both studying her. Discomfited, she pulled a face. “The Badstars wormhole, even closed, and the bunyaphi colonies are both disruptive events, but fundamentally, the issue is that the development of the Saloon Sector is about to accelerate. Problems that might have resolved themselves in due time will now require resolution. No, they’ll require management. We can’t choose the future for everyone. They have to choose it.”

“With guidance,” Aubree said. “We, the sheriffs and Galactic Justice more broadly, provide the framework in which citizens can work out our shared future. We ensure the security of law and order.”

“So why am I included in this discussion?” Thelma asked. “I’m not part of Galactic Justice anymore.” Despite being educated at its elite academy. “And I will resist kicking and screaming any attempt to drag me back into its clutches.”

Aubree smiled ruefully. “It’s because I want you to stay out of its clutches that you’re here.”

Max moved fractionally.

It was enough for an expert body reader like his new chief to respond. “And because I intend to use you, Thelma,” she admitted.

“A trade in favors?” Thelma matched Aubree’s light cynicism. Some would call it realism. Money was good and all, useful, but the true currency of power in the Saloon Sector was favors. To establish herself as an information broker, Thelma needed to bank favors. She’d had this discussion with Aubree before.

“Favors are so nifty.” Aubree gestured, palms open wide. “Because who tracks them?”

Thelma slouched down so that she could kick Max beneath the table. It wasn’t a subtle action.

His scowl worsened, if that was possible. “I don’t like it. You want me working on the books—”

“And by the book,” Aubree inserted.

Thelma grinned. The upright, disciplined former Star Marine whom she loved did live his life by the book, but it was his rule book. That’s what people didn’t always understand. Max played by the rules, but only as long as those rules didn’t break his own code: like watching out for his own.

He kicked her ankle. “And Thelma working off the books.”

“Yes,” Aubree said bluntly. “I intend to be upfront with you both.”

“You want access to Lon,” Thelma said.

Max’s eyes narrowed. He’d been focused on Thelma and how Aubree might use them both. He hadn’t considered that Lon’s newly revealed presence as their ally and friend on the Lonesome was perhaps the biggest asset an Interstellar Sheriff chief would want to tap.

“Lon’s presence on the Lonesome certainly explains how Max was able to achieve so much as a sheriff and how you’ve established yourself as an information broker on the frontier in less than a year.”

Thelma overlooked the provocation of Aubree’s words that downplayed their individual efforts. Lon had helped them both. “Lon is a good friend. He also has his own life, and neither Max nor I can speak for Lon or promise his assistance.”

“Fair,” Aubree said.

Max’s mouth compressed.

The two women waited.

“All right,” he said at last. “We’ll work together. But the trust we extend ends if you’re dishonest with us, Aubree. I respect the chain of command. I recognize that you can’t tell us everything. You’re the chief. But if you lie to us, we’re done.”

“Agreed.”

They shook hands. None of them resumed their seats afterwards. The meeting had reached its natural conclusion. Thelma and Max had Aubree’s information and the new relationship to ponder. She had a hundred other demands on her time.

“One final fact. Edgar Ottawa is replacing me as the Galactic Justice agent on Zephyr. Scuttlebutt says he’s getting an expanded office. At least two support staff. I’ll pass on names when I have them.” Her speech slowed in the barest hesitation. “Don’t trust any of them. They don’t call Edgar ‘The Otter’ just for the physical resemblance. He’s sly and fierce. By reputation he’s honest, but he’s also politically ambitious and aligned with President Smith’s opponents.”

Max nodded.

“Be smart,” Aubree said in farewell. She walked off in the opposite direction to the stairwell.

Thelma smirked at Max. “Aubree’s your new boss.”

“I can live with that. What I don’t like is that she’s nervous.”

Thelma wasn’t keen on it, either. “She’s cementing alliances. That’s always nerve-wracking. Aubree intends to be sure of her strength and support before she acts.”

Max hummed his doubt.

They fell silent till they’d exited the building.

Thelma reviewed the meeting. Who was it that had Aubree panicking regarding the unknown’s ability to influence and obstruct the work of the Interstellar Sheriff Service on the frontier? And why would anyone act against the sheriffs, unless they were bandits?

Max slapped his hat back on. “I have a proposition for you. It’s not directly connected to what Aubree said, in that I was already thinking on it, but now I’m sure we should do it.”

“Do what?”

“Buy a house together.” And when she stared at him. “We need a base on Zephyr, somewhere secure not just for us but for those who visit us.”

She gawked at him as her brain dealt with this second shock of the day. She could see the sense of having those options. She didn’t want to entertain his parents and their security detail on the Lonesome. Not that the President was free to visit any time this year.

Her own parents resided on the other side of the galaxy in the Rock Sector near their soon-to-be-born granddaughter. But there were other family members, like Max’s sister, Cynny, who might enjoy the safe freedom of an estate on Zephyr. It was Cynny’s fiancé, Paul, who was the true spacer of their partnership.

Moreover, if they were going to live in interesting times, as Aubree had warned them, then a secure planetary base made sense. “Okay.”

His sigh of relief revealed that he’d been stressing over her response. He swung their joined hands as they strolled to the cab rank.

The Justice Court of Zephyr occupied a position across the square from the imposing Congress. Five roads radiated out from a wider circle that encompassed both them and other key government buildings. The eastern road led to the Congressional Bridge that crossed the Rubicon River. The Governor lived in that neighborhood of mansions and gated private estates.

“We should buy an estate on Rubicon Ridge.”

Her brain stalled again. So did her feet. “Rubicon Ridge? Us?” She earned far more as an information broker than she’d have done as a deputy, but it wasn’t even in missile distance of Max’s wealth or the fortune required to move into Zephyr’s most exclusive neighborhood.

He pulled her forward. “Rubicon Ridge is a practical choice. We won’t be there much, so it’ll be caretaking staff and security living in, and both of those are more effective when surrounded by neighbors with the same level of security.”

He didn’t add that with his father’s role as president and his mom’s family’s inherited wealth, the highest level of security that Zephyr could offer would be barely adequate. Max, himself, and by extension, Thelma, were targets for kidnappers and other criminals.

She couldn’t permit her pride to put them in danger. “Rubicon Ridge. Do you have an estate in mind?”

“Yes. We can view it, now, if you’re interested?”

If he’d already made arrangements to see the estate, then he considered the matter vital.

“All right. Yes.” She took a deep breath and got into a cab.

Inside, the vehicle smelled of air freshener; much lower quality than a spaceship’s filtered air. Thelma opened a window as the self-drive car accelerated away from the Justice Court, heading east. “Which estate is it?” She hadn’t paid any attention to planetary real estate since she’d moved onto the Lonesome, but the houses in and around Rubicon Ridge were tightly held.

“Ucan’s. His son moved to Alpha Hub,” a core world planet and the location of Federation Parliament, “and his third divorce was messy. After the settlement, in which Ucan kept his Rubicon Ridge estate, he bought an island. He told me he intends to farm seaweed and write a novel. The estate is ideally located. The security will need updating, but it possesses some natural advantages that are less easily duplicated. Ucan has managed to keep them quiet.”

“But you heard about them.”

Max took his hat off, ruffled his hair and replaced the hat.

She raised her eyebrows. “Is the answer that difficult?”

“No.” A pause. “Not in and of itself.”

Their cab reached the Congressional Bridge.

Max ignored the stunning view of the river and the estate gardens cascading down from the ridge. The gardens were designed for privacy and to demonstrate their owners’ wealth. “Among everything else, Aubree was hinting that the Saloon Sector’s dragonfire era is ending. The corporations and Old Money will roll in. The chance to build new fortunes, as Ucan’s father did, will become rarer and rarer.”

Holding her hand, he stroked his thumb across her ring finger. “People talk as if my granddad, Gerhard, founded the family firm, but it’s existed for three centuries. He pushed the Hwicce Corporation to a new level, but from a base of reputation, assets and established credit lines. In the Saloon Sector, Old Money is soon going to chase out and limit the opportunities for New Money.”

She followed his line of thinking. “Maybe Ucan recognized that. An old dragon going into retirement.”

Max shrugged. “Perhaps. He contacted me. He is New Money, but he understands how the galaxy works. At a certain level of wealth, it becomes a club. When Ucan heard I was part of that club, a Hwicce direct descendant, he contacted me privately to offer his estate.”

Yet Max hadn’t told her. He’d sprung the idea of purchasing a house together on her. Not that she’d be genuinely contributing to the purchase price.

“What are you scared of, Max?”

His mouth twisted. “I thought we’d have more time. Hoped. Time for you to adjust. I can’t change who I am. The years I managed to hide my identity were a stolen time of normalcy. I lived enough of it to realize how hard it’ll be for you to adjust to the culture of wealth. We’re sheltered on the Lonesome, and I want another safe place on Zephyr. I—”

The cab stopped in the driveway in front of immense gates.

Max opened his window and showed his identification. The gates rolled open. The car followed a projected route to the house.

Thelma leaned up and kissed him.

He kissed her back with the ferocity of a man afraid.

“Ahem.” A business-suited individual who could have been a butler or a bodyguard met them at the portico. His dark hair was lightly oiled. “Sheriff Smith, Ms. Bach. I am Aelred. Welcome to Ucan House. Mr. Ucan has asked that I show you around.”

Thelma marched in and out, or past, vast public rooms, large staff and service rooms, and numerous bedrooms without giving them much attention. If Max wanted the estate, she’d support him. It wasn’t as if she knew what an estate should contain.

He wore the expressionless mask he adopted when on official duties. It hid his emotions. Nor did his body language give anything away. He walked beside her with an air of neutral observation. Finally, he prompted Aelred as they descended the stairs back to the main hall. “Ucan mentioned the cellars.”

“Yes, sir. The wine cellar entrance is in the kitchen.”

“The cave,” Max said.

The two men traded glances. With Aelred, the facade of butlerdom vanished in favor of bodyguard assessment. Apparently, Max passed. “Mr. Ucan’s private retreat is accessed via his study.”

They retraced their steps past the ballroom and library to a large corner room. Aelred rolled back a wool rug in tones of gray and blue, and manually opened a trapdoor. “Mr. Ucan has antiquarian preferences regarding the cave. That includes the lighting. One moment, please.”

The butler-bodyguard disappeared down the shaft he’d revealed.

Thelma looked at Max. “A cave?”

“You’re descended from miners.”

She thumped his arm. Asteroid mining was completely different to digging with a pick underground like a troglodyte.

“I’ve lit the lamps.” Aelred’s voice echoed. “It’s safe to descend.”

Max went first.

During her descent—and the ladder was long—Thelma had time to gaze around.

Aelred had lit some lamps, primarily those around the ladder, but he was in the process of lighting more. The shaft opened into a cavern easily the size of the ballroom with stalactites and stalagmites and other wondrous natural phenomena.

“You don’t find this sort of thing in an asteroid,” she said appreciatively. “The oil lamps add to the effect. It’s like going back to our ancient human origins. Cavemen.” It was unexpectedly appealing.

“I’m not going to thump my chest and grunt,” Max said.

Aelred coughed into his hand, having been startled into a laugh. People didn’t expect Max to be funny.

“I like it,” Thelma said. When Max looked at her, she nodded. She meant that she liked the estate. The unique cave feature beneath it was a bonus.

He dismissed Aelred. “We’ll follow you up.”

The butler-guard departed up the ladder.

Max led Thelma around a rock taller than them. Standing half in darkness and half in light his expression became difficult to read. “Marry me,” he said starkly. “You’re my forever. Whatever’s out there.” Beyond the primeval shelter of the cave, waiting for them in the future. “I want to face it as an official ‘us’.” This wasn’t a collected, thought-out proposal. He stumbled over it. “I love you. Marry me?”

“I love you,” she said instantly. With her hand against his chest she could feel the rapid beat of his heart. Loving him and confessing her love was the easy part. “However, you’ve shown me the estate, told me about the lifestyle change of being rich…”

“My timing needs work,” he said wryly, withdrawing.

She curled her fingers into his shirt. Maybe he needed reassurance as much as her? “I want everyone to know we’re an ‘us’, too. Partners and…marriage feels more than that, and I want it with you.”

His kiss cut off further words. Which was good. She wasn’t sure she’d been making a lot of sense. His proposal had shaken her view of their future unrolling in its own time. Instead, they would rush into it as fast as the changes to the Saloon Sector were rushing in on them. “I don’t want a long engagement.”

“A big wedding?”

“No.”

He kissed her fervently. “I really do love you.”

They couldn’t get any closer without having sex, which would be embarrassing since Aelred was waiting up above in the study.

Max caressed her back and down around to her hip. “Nolan could marry us today.”

Nolan was one of two chaplains on the Zephyr spacedock. The saurelle shaman had the legal ability to marry them immediately.

“Today? What about our families? Lon? Harry? Cynny is in the same sector!”

“I’ll marry you whenever you want,” Max said. “But our marriage is ours. I’d like it to be private.”

Cynny and Paul’s wedding, planned for two years hence when John’s presidential term ended, would be massive. The social event of the decade.

“Private?” Thelma repeated. “Just you and me.” There was no legal need for witnesses when the event was recorded. Suddenly, she understood what Max had already seen. Either they had a huge public wedding or they went as small as possible. If they excluded everyone, then no one could feel slighted that other family or friends had been invited and not them. Her own family were months of travel away. “Yes, today. Yes!”

“Thank the angels.” He hugged her till she squeaked.

Chapter 3

Thelma had the cab take a short detour on the way back to the spacedock. She also had Max stay inside it while she entered the boutique. It was bad luck for the bridegroom to see the bride’s dress before the wedding.

Rubicon Elegance was the most exclusive and expensive boutique on Zephyr. The shop assistant recognized Thelma instantly and summoned the manager. Both would have fawned over her extensively—and over the engagement ring they noticed on her finger—but Thelma forestalled them. “I have twenty minutes. Max is waiting in the car.”

The manager miraculously transformed from a cooing social climber to a martinet, clicking her fingers to line up the two assistants. “What do you need?”

Thelma mentally thanked the hours she’d spent studying fashion months ago on the budget starliner that brought her to the Saloon Sector. “Think garden party. A dress. Romantic.” She thought of Max’s eyes. “Blue.”

Rubicon Elegance really was magic. The shop assistants dashed into the back of the store and returned with a silk dress in shades of blue reminiscent of the lights that flickered at the edge of space storms. Thelma tried it on and the fabric flowed to her ankles with swirling drama, but left her shoulders bare and hinted at her cleavage.

“Try these.” The manager thrust silver high heels at her.

Thelma studied her image in the three mirrors that framed her. Her hair was messy, but her eyes had stars in them and the dress would shimmer and drape perfectly in photos and video. “Perfect.”

She spent a ridiculous amount of money and exited the shop in nineteen minutes.

Max smiled at the expression on her face. “I don’t need to ask if you were successful.”

“I was!” She kissed him.

He responded enthusiastically before adding, “So was I. The estate is ours.” He’d bought a Rubicon Ridge estate in a cab in twenty minutes.

“Good golly.”

“One final call.” Max comm’d Nolan, the spacedock chaplain. “Thelma and I’d like you to marry us, today?” He jerked the comms unit further away at the saurelle’s high-pitched growl of joy. They set a time for three hours hence when Nolan had a thirty minute window of unscheduled time.

Max smiled at Thelma. “Enough time to get home, grab lunch and change. No time to be nervous.”

“I am not nervous about marrying you.” She wasn’t. Being with Max felt right. Marriage would celebrate their commitment to one another. “I’m happy.”

He had one word of warning, though. “If we don’t tell Lon of our plans, we can say that we didn’t tell anyone.”

Thelma fully expected to have to tell Lon something. After all, she and Max were boarding the Lonesome exhibiting the sort of giddy happiness that couldn’t be explained by a meeting with even the best new regional chief of the Interstellar Sheriff Service.

However, Lon was distracted by his own news. “The AIs voted. 1,011 voted for Harry to remain on duty guarding the raphus geode cache.”

“Oh rats.” Thelma’s happy bubble burst. The AIs had voted against Harry’s quest. They hadn’t supported his dream of contacting their ancestors. He served them diligently as their magistrate, in addition to guarding the cache, and in return their fears had betrayed him. “Is he—”

“He wants to be alone.” Lon paused. “I need to do some thinking, too.” AIs could easily handle talking with a human while running a dozen other activities. He meant that he needed time alone with his emotions.

“Talk when you’re ready,” Thelma said.

Max stared at the hatch at the end of the corridor, the one that led to Harry’s quarters. “We care about you both.”

It was an un-Max-like thing to do, to talk about his emotions with anyone other than Thelma.

“I know,” Lon said. “We know. Thank you.” But it was still a dismissal.

Thelma carried her boutique shopping bags into her and Max’s cabin. It was a space within the Lonesome that Lon didn’t monitor.

Max closed the door and swore.

“Is there anything we can do?” she asked. The only other AI she knew was Reynard, and although he was on Harry’s side, reaching out and involving him would only make the situation worse. That was the awkward AI’s special talent.

A few weeks ago, at Harry’s request, Thelma had taken on the role of Reynard’s socialization tutor. She was now his friend. They had, in fact, been co-conspirators in unleashing Reynard on the unsuspecting scientific world. He’d become a bit of a celebrity—and that was part of the problem.

The other AIs detested that someone as abrasive and lacking in tact as Reynard might come to represent AIs in many people’s minds.

In addition, the AIs were outraged at his recklessness. The Saloon Sector contained an important cache of raphus geodes, the one Harry guarded. The AIs felt that the cache’s other big protection was the lack of people in the sector. However, over the past few months newcomers poured in to participate in or observe the Space Rodeo.

The Space Rodeo was the result of the Navy enforcing a perimeter around two suddenly appearing comet helices and regulating who dived through them and when.

However, the comet helices’ mysterious origin wasn’t actually that mysterious. Courtesy of Thelma’s recent, successful plan to foil a terrorist plot, Reynard had announced the truth to the galaxy: he was the creator of the comet helices.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t been given long to bask in the glory of demonstrating the comet helices’ potential to revolutionize space travel: used adeptly, they could fling a ship a significant distance.

In order to turn back the influx of Saloon Sector visitors, the other AIs ordered Reynard to shut down the comet helices. So, while non-AI scientists bombarded him with questions, accusations and requests for collaboration, Reynard shut down his science experiment—and sulked.

He sulked all the more for the subsequent order to take himself, and the scientists streaming in to meet with him, off to another sector, one in the core worlds for preference. Reynard had very few friends. His aim was to have as many friends as he did tentacles, which meant eight. Currently, there was Lon, Thelma, Harry, and possibly Max (the two were wary of each other). He was halfway to his goal.

When Reynard learned of the changes coming to the Saloon Sector—and he would because Aubree wasn’t alone in her ability to predict trouble—Reynard would protest loudly at his eviction. It was, in a sense, unfair. The Saloon Sector was on a trajectory toward increased population and activity, and Reynard’s presence or absence would have negligible effect on that trend.

It was hard to get past the idea that the other AIs were punishing Reynard—and possibly Harry—with their fearful response to change.

“I can’t think of any way we can help.” Max glared at the closed door. “Harry is smart and he’s cautious. There’s danger in action, but there’s also danger in inaction. They should have trusted him.”

Thelma understood some of the AIs’ fears. Drawing attention from an advanced species could be dangerous. Conversely, it might be rewarding, not least on a spiritual level for people like Harry who wanted to embrace their origins. “They should have trusted him,” she agreed. “Their lack of trust has hurt him. I think it’s worried Lon.”

“Yeah.” Max refocused on her. “This doesn’t change us getting married.”

Their eyes met.

She read the determination in his and the challenge. “Darn right it doesn’t.” She grinned, and if it was a trifle forced, it was the intent that mattered. “The best response to bad news is defiant hope. And love. I love you, Max.”

A few minutes later he muttered, “I’d better shower in a different cabin or we won’t make the wedding.”

“Lunch, first. I don’t want you fainting at our wedding.” Her smile was genuine this time, joyous and teasing.

They ate quickly, unnerved by Lon’s silence. The ship’s AI enjoyed cooking and often discussed food with Thelma—not with Max who was a philistine who readily ate goop from the food dispenser rather than the fresh fruit and vegetables Lon grew on the garden deck. Meals on the Lonesome were social times even for those onboard who didn’t eat.

Afterwards, Thelma showered, did her hair and makeup, and only lost seven minutes to admiring her engagement ring. When Max re-entered their cabin to escort her to their wedding ceremony, she felt beautiful.

“Stars, I’m lucky. You’re gorgeous.”

She kissed his cheek, inhaling his freshly bathed scent, and linked arms with him. “So are you.” His suit showcased his lean muscled body; a fact she appreciated. “I’m glad I’m about to officially claim you. You’re too yummy to be allowed to wander free.”

He abandoned her light-hearted tone of teasing to answer with heart-stopping solemnity. “I’m yours.”

He repeated the sentiment in his official vows in the spacedock’s multi-faith temple.

Nolan met them at the door. “Blessings upon you.” He bowed in acceptance of their formal “and upon you”, and ushered them into the rock garden.

The garden was a tiny piece of Nolan’s home planet transplanted to the spacedock. He’d raked vermillion sand in meticulous patterns around serpent rocks and precisely placed bonsai trees. By a gingko tree, water spilled from a small obsidian bowl to a larger one.

“Please, dip your fingers.”

Thelma dipped her fingers and Max his. They smiled at one another, faces close together.

“There is a cloth behind you, Max.” The chaplain donned his shamanic apron while they dried their hands. The apron was woven from many different metals and heavy enough that the saurelle readjusted the fit of it with due care.

Max replaced the cloth on a rock.

Nolan smiled. “Shall we begin?” He turned off all light. “Max and Thelma, how do you choose to honor the universe, today?”

The saurellan marriage ceremony was simple and heartfelt.

They answered together, their senses heightened by the darkness. “Our hearts are on fire. We gift them to each other to light the darkness.”

A flame appeared on Nolan’s right hand. He lit two pieces of a wax splinter and passed one to Max and the second to Thelma.

The flame lit Max’s face as he said his vows. “I, Maximilian Julius Smith, take Thelma Bach as my wife. To her, I entrust myself as her husband. I will love her forever. Cherish her. Protect her. Look to her as my support and strength. Thelma, you are my heart.”

Her flame quivered as her hand trembled. She steadied it. “I, Thelma Bach, take Maximilian Julius Smith, as my husband. To him, I entrust myself as his wife. I will love him forever. Forever and ever. Cherish him. Protect him. Look to him as my support and my strength. Max, you are my heart.”

They threw their wax splinters upward. For a second the two flames flared. Then they extinguished.

When Nolan switched on the light, the splinters had vanished entirely, consumed by the universe. “The universe’s greatest adventure is love. Rejoice, keep faith with one another, and journey in hope together in this lifetime and beyond.”

“Amen.”

In an addendum to the saurellan custom, they exchanged rings—Max having bought matching gold wedding rings along with Thelma’s engagement ring—before kissing to seal their vows. They turned to smile at the camera. Thelma blew a kiss to their family and friends who’d later view the ceremony. Max sketched a salute.

“Recording ended,” Nolan said.

Thelma couldn’t stop smiling. “Thank you. It was a lovely ceremony, Nolan. Thank you.”

Max shook the chaplain’s hand.

“Such beautiful karma. Be happy, beloveds.” Nolan touched their foreheads. “I’m sure you will be.”

As they walked back to the Lonesome, Thelma hugged Max’s arm. “I feel married.”

“And how does that feel?”

“Like champagne and hugs and wanting you very, very much.”

He hurried her into the lock-tunnel to the Lonesome so that he could kiss her in privacy. However, his plans were foiled by the hatch at the end of it opening.

“I cannot believe I was so blind!” Lon cried. “I didn’t notice your engagement ring, and now, you have wedding rings. You’re married.”

Both of them smiled blindingly.

“We are.” Thelma flung her arms out as if she could hug all of the Lonesome and Lon. She danced the final two steps inside.

“Oh, that is wonderful news. Congratulations. I am so happy for you. And so ashamed that you felt you couldn’t tell me—”

Max cut in. “Hold up, Lon. We didn’t tell anyone. I only asked Thelma to marry me this morning. We had a private ceremony. Nolan officiated. The recording is for everyone.”

“Harry!” Lon shouted. “I’m telling him. He needs to get his mech butt—”

Harry arrived at a run and swept Thelma into a giant hug, swinging her in a laughing circle.

She laughed all the harder when Harry did the same to Max.

Carl came up to the main deck to hear what the commotion was all about, and added his congratulations. “You are luckier than you deserve,” he said to Max, hugging him in a tough bro-hug.

Thelma would have protested, but Max agreed.

Carl hugged her far more gently and kissed her cheek. “Be happy, Thelma.”

“Guaranteed.” She smiled from him to Max, then launched herself at her new husband. “We have to tell our families.” And when Carl would have snuck away. “No! Stay. Harry, too. You can stay out of camera range.”

And Lon could filter their low-voiced conversation out of the comms call.

She heard Harry explain the situation to Carl and convince the cyborg to stay. “Thelma doesn’t want me to brood alone. I’ll explain. She’s right. This is family. The good, the bad and the over-excited.” He winked at Thelma.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Champagne.” One of Lon’s robots opened a bottle with a flourish. He led the toast. “To Max and Thelma!”

“To Max and Thelma.”

Their family were at different time zones around the galaxy. They managed to speak Max’s parents. His mom cried.

Cynny berated them. “I could have been there!” But then her political savvy kicked in and she understood why they couldn’t play favorites. If everyone couldn’t be there, then they’d had no one. Everyone who loved them could share the video recording equally. “Your dress is lovely, Thelma. And the ring. Max, you have excellent taste—and not just in brides. Oh gosh. I have a sister!”

Thelma and Max caught her parents over breakfast. Her dad had to clear his throat twice before he could talk. He gave them his blessing, and a glare for Max to treat his little girl like a princess. Thelma’s mom drank two cups of coffee before noticing she hadn’t added her usual three sugars. The news was sweet enough.

Finally, Thelma collapsed back against Max. She looked toward the kitchen.

Carl had taken it over an hour ago and now savory smells drifted to them.

Harry stood by the counter, talking occasionally; mostly, just being there.

“One final comms call before dinner,” Thelma said. “Which smells divine. Thank you, Chef Carl.”

He waved a wooden spoon in salute.

“Who?” Max asked.

“Reynard.”

The AI was delighted to hear from them, and obviously ready to chat. His eight-tentacled mech body glittered. “Lon told me we are not to discuss Harry and the imbecile AIs, so we are not discussing them.”

“Dear boy,” Lon began.

“No, no,” Reynard spoke over his mentor. “Congratulations, Thelma and Max. I offer you my sincere felicitations and will send you a wedding gift in due course.”

“Thank you, Reynard,” Thelma said. “A gift isn’t necessary.”

“You will enjoy mine,” he responded benevolently. “I have one complaint. I should have been your matron of honor.”

Thelma’s mouth formed a round “O” of horror.

Max grunted in shock.

“Heh-heh.” Reynard snickered. “I am practicing humor!”

“Oh, is that what that was?” Max said.

Reynard’s happily waving tentacles stilled. One pointed at the camera. “You are not funny. Me, I am funny.”

“You sure are,” Thelma assured him.

Max’s mouth twitched.

In the kitchen, Carl laughed.

Over the next couple of days messages poured in from family and friends wishing them well. The media inundated them with demands for interviews and photographs. Among all the demands for attention, one couldn’t be ignored.

Max stuck his head into Thelma’s office.

“Lunch?” she asked hopefully. Her hair had come loose from its braid and she’d lost a pencil in it, having twirled her hair in absent-minded exasperation. She was dealing with most of the messages, and they’d overwhelmed her.

“The Navy has requested a meeting.”

Chapter 4

Admiral Tom Astyages was a short, square block of a man. Powerful shoulders set the framework for his muscular body. He was bald, which served to emphasize the arch of his black eyebrows, giving him a surprised appearance that didn’t match the assessing gaze he leveled at Max. The Admiral reached across his desk to shake hands. “Sheriff Smith.”

“Admiral Astyages.”

Astyages waved him to a seat. They were onboard the carrier Carthage. “Bandits.”

A steward delivered coffee and vanished again.

The Admiral swallowed half his cup without adding milk or sugar.

Max didn’t bother with fripperies either, but nor did he have an asbestos throat. He let the coffee cool and waited for Astyages to elaborate on his cryptic statement of “Bandits”.

The Admiral was newly assigned to command of the Frontier Fleet, the rejigged arrangement for patrolling the Saloon Sector and out through the Badstars to the Kampia wormhole.

“Regulations are that as sheriff you can request the Navy to assist you against or in pursuit of bandits.” Astyages finished his coffee and banged the cup down, engaging the magnet hold. “Violent crimes. That’s when you ask us for help. You don’t pursue smuggling operations.”

“I work with Customs regarding smuggling.”

“Drugs!” Astyages seemed to feel he’d scored a point.

Max drank his coffee.

“I don’t care who your father is.”

The recent revelation that his father was President John Smith had changed how people interacted with Max. He recognized the Admiral’s behavior. The man wanted to address the topic of the meeting—bandits, apparently—but like touching a sore tooth with the tip of your tongue, he couldn’t resist circling back to the topic of Max’s parentage and all the baggage of power and responsibilities that came with it.

“I don’t care for politics,” Astyages asserted. “I’ve been assigned to the frontier because I won’t play those games.”

“I don’t play them either.” Max replaced his half-full cup on the desk.

Astyages stared at it before his angry gaze lifted to Max. “You play them. You chose when to reveal who you are. You have allies. You have friends in the Fleet.”

“I’m a former Star Marine.”

The Admiral snorted. “I shouldn’t complain. I intend to use your influence.”

As an independent information broker, Thelma could trade in favors. As an interstellar sheriff, Max had to do his duty. “I’m ready to work with the Navy, as long as it’s authorized by Chief Tennyson.”

“A spy.”

“Chief Tennyson was an effective agent, and is now my boss.”

Astyages tapped a button on his comms unit. “Tennyson will approve the mission. You’ve built a reputation with the bandits of the Badstars.” He fell silent, but Max had never been the nervous sort of person who filled silences with chatter and questions. Astyages flicked a map up on a wallscreen. “This is the route to the Kampia wormhole. The patrol base—which will be notional, no infrastructure is planned—is indicated, as are the bandits’ known moon colonies, both of them, and the settlement planet, Defoe.”

The Admiral swiped away the map. “The Navy’s knowledge of the Badstars is inadequate. In the past we’ve only entered it in pursuit of bandits. None of my predecessors authorized exploration.”

For the simple reason that exploration was not a recognized naval activity. Max kept his neutral expression.

Astyages flattened his hands on his desk and stood. “So here we are, dependent on charts from Covert Ops who have undoubtedly redacted the most interesting sites, and on information purchased from surveyors who are worse than Covert Ops for hoarding secrets. Squirrelly zombsters.”

Finally, Max’s expression cracked a fraction. He hadn’t heard the outdated slang, “zombsters”, in twenty years. Then it had referred to conspiracy theorists so locked into stupidity that they no longer operated in the real world. It had been his preferred insult for his brother. Hugo had hated it. “Their maps and finds are a surveyor’s livelihood.”

“If I buy a map, it should be complete. Since I can’t buy a complete map, I am sending out an exploration team. A battlecruiser and two destroyers. I’m not sending my people into an ambush. I want to know that we have the best route to the Kampia wormhole, and that we have detailed charts of the space around it. If a patrol vessel is ambushed I don’t want it ducking off route and into an unknown hazard.”

“The bandits aren’t large enough to take on the Navy.” He appreciated that Astyages wanted his people safe, but protecting them against improbable threats was a distraction from their core duty to defend the Federation by maintaining the cohesion of law and order in the far flung galaxy.

Astyages’s smile was short, sharp and bitter. “You’re young. Right now, the bandits won’t attack—unless provoked. But familiarity breeds contempt. As they see lone patrol vessels traveling to and fro, sooner or later some bandit captain with more ego than sense will want to capture a new ship. There are hiding places in the Badstars. If they were organized enough, they might get away with it.”

For the first time, Max had an inkling of why the Navy had assigned Admiral Astyages to command the Frontier Fleet: Astyages didn’t underestimate the enemy.

“The Navy doesn’t negotiate with criminals,” Astyages said. “But nor do I want to provoke trouble. The bandits respect you.”

“I don’t know where you get that impression—”

“Analysts. And others. You have supporters in the Navy out here. Bluntly, it’s the Lonesome I want. You’re the President’s son. Having you as part of the exploration team is a show of good faith that the Navy is mapping a safe route to the Kampia wormhole and not going after bandit bases. Then there is Lon.”

Astyages sat back down. “The Navy has two AIs. That’s it. One embedded in a space station and one in a dreadnought. Yet you live with an AI, call him a friend. Where you go in space, he goes. I want the two of you. Three.” He paused. “Congratulations on your marriage, by the way. Thelma Bach is an interesting woman. Smart. Academy trained. You’ve got the reputation. Lon has the brains. But my analysts guess that it’s Thelma who brings the diplomacy. Information broker.”

“You’re asking me to take my wife into the Badstars?”

“Would she stay behind?” Astyages let the question hang in the air. Then laughed at Max’s lack of response.

Max considered his coffee cup. From Astyages’s presentation of the mission proposal he had yet to run it past Aubree. It was thought-provoking that he wanted Max to agree to it first. Or was it that the Admiral required Lon, and possibly, Thelma’s agreement to make involving Max in the exploration trip worth the hassle of a non-Navy participant? The Navy preferred to keep its activities in-house. Although they did hire consultants. “Do you intend to offer Lon and Thelma consultancy contracts?”

“No,” the Admiral said shamelessly. In effect, Astyages intended to employ the Lonesome’s expertise and reputation for free. It wasn’t as if he’d be paying Max either. Astyages’s sole bargaining chip was the goodwill of the Navy going forward.

Max had to admit it was a significant inducement. The Navy provided interstellar sheriffs with armed support. If Max had to call on them, he wanted to maintain his current level of confidence that the Frontier Fleet would honor his request.

The Admiral flicked up the map again and swiped it back from the Badstars toward Zephyr. “While you’re out there with the exploration team, I’ll be surveying potential sites for the new border base.”

Three bright dots appeared on the map. Astyages zoomed in on one. “My preference is for a free-floating station, here. But there’ll be the usual burrowers who want an asteroid or moon.”

Whichever site was chosen, the central point of Astyages’s display remained: the Navy intended to establish a space base near (in space terms) Zephyr, which placed it in the heart of Max’s territory as interstellar sheriff.

If he was fool enough to deny Admiral Astyages’s request for the Lonesome’s participation in the Navy’s exploration of the Badstars, then Aubree would overrule him. The Interstellar Sheriff Service needed the Navy’s goodwill, especially on the frontier.

Plus the new base would change the nature of his territory, the traveled routes and people moving through it, almost as much as it would change Zephyr.

As the nearest planet, Zephyr would see a surge in economic growth from supplying food and raw materials, to the Navy personnel intent on spending their downtime and salaries.

Astyages knew he had Max.

The problem, from Max’s perspective, was that the Admiral had maneuvered to also scoop in Thelma and Lon.

And he might live to regret it. Neither Thelma nor Lon were the kind of person to allow themselves to be shanghaied without retribution. Moreover, they were smarter than Max at these sorts of negotiations. Thelma and Lon would put together a strategy to counter this assumption that twisting Max’s arm twisted theirs, metaphorically speaking.

“Subject to Chief Tennyson’s approval, I agree to the expedition to the Badstars. However, I’ll need time to arrange for someone to manage my territory in the Lonesome’s absence.” He’d rely on Aubree to get a firm timetable for the joint Interstellar Sheriff-Navy mission. It would be a test of her ability both as a chief in the Interstellar Sheriff Service and to keep her word to have his back and Thelma’s.

Triumph glittered in Astyages’s eyes. “Excellent. Commander Eli Marconi will be in command of the exploration team. He’ll contact you with orders.”

In fact, an ensign waited outside the Admiral’s office to escort Max to a conference room and Commander Marconi.

The Commander shook Max’s hand, introduced the two lieutenant who flanked him, and launched straight into the briefing. “Mission Badstars Trail Clearance will depart in two weeks. I expect the Lonesome to be ready. One week would be preferable, but we anticipated your delay due to the inefficiencies in the Interstellar Sheriff Service. You’ll need to arrange coverage of your territory for six months.”

The Lonesome could reach the Kampia wormhole in under three weeks. Even if the Navy ships were slower, or the route they took was slower, that was scarcely a month’s travel time. Nor was the Lonesome required once the Navy expedition’s behavior convinced the bandits that they were honestly there with the sole purpose of charting safe passage for their own.

Of course, the kicker would be if Admiral Astyages lied, and had other additional plans for the mission.

“If you send me a detailed briefing, I’ll discuss the matter with Chief Tennyson,” Max said. He would push for a three month assignment. This was a Navy mission, not a true joint project.

Marconi had his own agenda, and he stuck to it. “I’ve blocked out three hours in my schedule tomorrow morning to meet with you on the Lonesome and go over any issues you foresee.”

Max had taken off his hat for the meeting. But this wasn’t a meeting. This was Marconi flaunting his authority. Prematurely. The joint mission hadn’t been approved. Max flicked the hat up from the table and slapped it back on his head.

Was Marconi pushing on purpose? Covert Ops had tried, via Carl, to infiltrate the Lonesome and learn its secrets. Until now, the Navy had played fair with Max. They’d seemed to accept that the Lonesome was his home and entitled to be respected as such.

The ship Marconi endeavored to claim access to was also Lon’s body and Thelma’s home.

If this play by Marconi had Admiral Astyages’s backing, then the Navy had significantly changed its approach to dealing with Max—and he reserved the right to change his.

For the moment, he deflected the challenge. “We’ll have to meet by comms. I have other commitments and will be departing immediately. ” Suiting actions to words, he stood. He added a reminder. “The joint nature of the mission is still subject to Chief Tennyson’s approval.”

Marconi remained seated. “The Navy is set to become the biggest player in the Saloon Sector. Your chief will assign the Lonesome to us.”

Rather than correct Marconi on the number of false assumptions in that statement, Max nodded a curt farewell. If Marconi misinterpreted the gesture as agreement…that was the Commander’s problem

One of the lieutenants moved fast. He got to the door before Max.

“Lieutenant Beattie will escort you back to your ship, Sheriff Smith.”

Max let the closing door answer for him. The Navy could never be the biggest player in the Saloon Sector. Its citizens had that honor. Moreover, Marconi was willfully blind if he believed the Navy could out-influence Galactic Justice on the frontier. The Interstellar Sheriff Service was only a minor arm of Galactic Justice’s overt and covert operations out here.

Lieutenant Beattie unwisely attempted conversation. “The Lonesome has an unusual design. I’ll be interested in seeing it.”

Perhaps the comment was purposeful provocation. If so, the Navy had chosen the wrong tactic. Max was always comfortable with silence. Not for him a heated declaration that neither Beattie nor the Commander would ever board the Lonesome.

Max exited the carrier Carthage without another word.

However, once home aboard the Lonesome Thelma took one look at him and winced. “What the stars happened?”

Evidently, his expressionless face wasn’t expressionless to his wife. The thought distracted him. So did their subsequent kiss.

“Should I leave?” Carl sat at the table in the public lounge. The Lonesome’s security protocol meant that they used the public deck hatchway when docking with other ships; most other ships. Reynard’s was an exception.

“We have a mission,” Max said. “My office. Lon?”

“I’m intrigued,” the AI said.

They settled in Max’s office where he summarized his meeting. “Admiral Astyages proposed that the Lonesome join a Navy exploration team to map the route to the Kampia wormhole and the safe zone around it in greater detail. We’re to be there, me representing the Interstellar Sheriff Service, to convince the bandits that the exploration is limited and not designed to provoke them into action. I agreed. Commander Marconi is to lead the expedition. There will be a battlecruiser and two destroyers.”

Thelma flung her arms up in shock and exasperation. “And that’s not provocative?” The Navy had some major firepower heading into the Badstars.

“You agreed?” Carl focused on the chain of command issue.

Max gave his question a slight head tilt of respect. “Subject to Aubree’s approval. The situation struck me as off.” He went over his meetings with Astyages and Marconi in detail. “I’m curious if Aubree has any insight as to what’s behind their intent to involve the Lonesome.”

“And take us out of Federation space,” Lon observed.

“Can Harry go with us or does his vow tie him to the Saloon Sector?” Thelma asked.

Regret shaded Lon’s voice. “It didn’t in the past, but as the frontier has gotten busier Harry agreed to stay within the sector.”

“So he has to stay back.” Thelma slumped in her seat, forehead wrinkling in thought.

“You can stay, too,” Max said. “There’s the renovations to the Lodge to oversee, and catching up with Cynny. She’s not going to be happy at missing me, again. You could hitch a ride to the Deadstar Diner with Helen or someone.”

She frowned at him. “I’m going with you. Ioan has the Lodge in claw.” Hiring Ioan as steward for the estate had been her idea, and an inspired one.

Ioan was an yprr and Owen’s uncle. Owen was the Zephyr spacedock Sheriff’s Office receptionist and Max and Thelma’s good friend. It was through him that Thelma had met Ioan and been guarded and trained by him. Yprr were fierce fighters, their carapaces decorated with their martial achievements. Ioan was one of the elders of the Zephyr yprr community. With him in charge of the Lodge, Max no longer worried about its security. The yprrs now considered the estate their territory, and no one messed with yprrs’ territory. Thelma would have been safe with them.

However, Max accepted that she’d be going with him and Lon. He hadn’t expected anything else. The Lonesome was home. “Carl.”

His deputy anticipated him. “The three possible ships at Tornado were no-goes. Jerome found too many problems.”

“Even if one had been an option, we’re out of time. I’ll hire you a ship for a year. You get independence, the sector is in safe hands while we’re gone, and you can get a sense of what you really need a ship to do if you’re operating alone out here.”

Max paused, but not for Carl’s response. The other man was undoubtedly struggling between commonsense and his sense of pride and independence. “I’m considering asking Regina if she would step up as an occasional deputy. On an as-needed basis.”

When Reynard had conjured into existence two comet helices a few months ago, the Navy had instituted a Space Rodeo to corral the thrill-seekers and scientists impatient to dive the space phenomena. As part of initiating the Space Rodeo, the Navy had called its reservists to action, but then not used them. So Max had. Under Captain Regina Price’s command, the reservists had provided information and, at times, intervention at Max’s direction. They’d been a vital part of keeping the Saloon Sector from exploding into chaos with the influx of outsiders.

In ordinary life, Regina was a courier with her own ship.

“Good idea,” Carl said. “But if you hire me a ship, you’re subsidizing my service to the Interstellar Sheriff Service.”

“I’m making sure someone we trust is mobile and with teeth.”

Carl blinked. “What sort of ship do you intend to hire?”

Max had been fudging when he’d used the term hire. He intended to buy the ship, then let Carl “hire” it from him for the bonus the Interstellar Sheriff Service paid deputies who had their own ship. “Pang impounded Fagan’s wasp for the third time. That means fines on top of defaulting on his ship mortgage. It goes up to auction, tomorrow.”

“A wasp?” Carl stared at him in disbelief.

A small smile played around Thelma’s mouth. Max hadn’t told her of his intentions. Nonetheless, she was entertained rather than shocked.

A few seconds later Carl recovered from his stupefaction over the wasp and focused on what would ordinarily have been his biggest issue. “You intend to buy me a ship?” His tone said, no way in hell stars.

“I’m buying the ship. You can hire it for a year. Be sensible, Carl. I’m not hiding who I am anymore. A private ship that both Thelma and I can pilot independent of the Lonesome makes sense. You just get the use of it while we’re busy elsewhere.”

Carl couldn’t deny Max’s argument, but he grumbled.

“Besides.” Max grinned. “How can I go past the chance to own a wasp?”

They were tiny, vicious ships; fast and weaponized.

“There’ll be competition for it,” Lon said. “It’ll appeal to independent mercenaries and the auction is on Tornado.” Where mercenaries in the Saloon Sector were based.

Max shrugged. For years he hadn’t spent anything from his private fortune. Purchasing the Lodge and upgrading it hadn’t even nibbled the toenails of his inherited and accumulating wealth. “I need to report to Aubree. Anything else?”

“No.” Carl pushed to his feet. “I’ll review the specs for Fagan’s wasp.” He almost managed to hide his eagerness.

Thelma smiled. But when he’d gone, she sighed. “I don’t like leaving Harry alone.”

“Ahem. As to that.” Lon paused. “Reynard is returning.”

Thelma blinked. “I thought he’d been banned from the Saloon Sector. The other AIs—”

“Reynard told them to shove their concerns. We operate on a consensus model. However, individual autonomy is important. Reynard unwillingly accepted that he’d drawn people into relative proximity to the raphus geode cache and that he ought to do his part in drawing some—at least the curious scientists—away.”

Lon coughed. Inorganic AIs had no need to cough. “With the change in circumstances, with the other AIs declining to release Harry from his vow to protect the cache, Reynard unilaterally decided that in the absence of a new and less competent guard replacing Harry, he, Reynard, might as well stay here.”

“With his friends,” Thelma finished.

Max also approved. “Good for him. He’s supporting Harry.”

“Yes,” Lon said. “I did manage to convince him not to make a drama of it. He’s remaining in comms contact with a few key scientists, routing his comms in a complicated triple bluff, but he has otherwise vanished. A few strategically placed clues will hint that he’s headed for the Rock Sector. In reality, he’ll return in three weeks.”

“I’m not sure how much company Reynard will be.” Max wasn’t the AI’s biggest fan. “But he’ll certainly be a distraction for Harry.”

“Gee, thanks,” Harry drawled from the doorway.

Max had seen him arrive.

Lon would have known, too.

Only Thelma was surprised. She rose and went and hugged the AI, who put an avuncular arm around her. “Should I stay? Do you want company?” She grinned. “Non-Reynard company?”

“I’m fine, honey. My vow might keep me physically in the Saloon Sector, but I can work on the clues to contacting the specters that the Revered One gave Nefertiti and on re-interpreting reported sightings of specters and the location of raphus geodes in light of that information.”

She nodded, patted his chest and moved away. “Well, I’d better get a few cases cleared. Some of my business shouldn’t filter through a Navy relay station.”

“Huh.” Max glanced at the personal comms unit on his desk. “I hadn’t considered the comms issue.”

Inside Federation space each relay station was checked by a minimum of five independent and recognized authorities to ensure no one hacked the data streaming through them. Everyone depended on being able to communicate privately. Of course, you always encrypted your data. But anonymity was important enough to require layers of protection.

Venturing into the Badstars, outside Federation space, there were no such guarantees that messages bounced through a relay station wouldn’t be captured and possibly unscrambled for their contents.

“Hmm.” Thelma left without further comment.

Old loyalties were hard to shake. His years as a Star Marine inclined Max to trust the Navy. The phantom itch between his shoulder blades was new and unsettling, hinting that he should be more cautious. Recognizing that the Navy’s agenda could be secret and against his interests didn’t mean they were his enemy, but allies’ interests could diverge and even conflict. The bandits and the Badstars’ natural hazards were the obvious dangers to guard against, but other dangers lurked.

“I mapped the Badstars a few decades ago,” Harry said. “Lon has the charts. You won’t be going in blind.”

For a minute Max contemplated gifting the Navy the charts. But one, they weren’t his to share. They were Harry’s. And two, the Navy would question their origins and not trust them without confirming the details themselves. Once the Navy committed to a mission, canceling it was akin to teaching a black hole to shine light. Inconceivable.

So he simply thanked Harry and committed to writing his report for Aubree.

Two hours after he sent it, she comm’d him. “I agree. You have to go. I spoke with Admiral Astyages a few minutes ago and gave my approval. Interesting that he bothered to speak to me, himself. Also interesting that the Navy is allowing Thelma to tag along.”

“Can you see any reason she shouldn’t?”

“No. But I don’t like variations from a pattern, and the Navy typically excludes civilians. They should have put up some resistance to the idea.” Warning given, Aubree focused on practicalities. “Astyages promised a briefing for the mission. You should receive it within the hour. Chase it up if you don’t. The way he spoke, it was ready to go. They are ready to go.”

“So they said,” Max commented dryly.

“That has worked to our advantage. I reduced your commitment to the mission to three months, as you suggested. Once out in the Badstars, Commander Marconi may request that you extend your time. I’ll leave that to your discretion. I will, however, want weekly reports from you. Encrypted, but still be circumspect in what you say.”

Max cleared his throat. “Thelma pointed out the eavesdropping issue.”

“The two of you are naïve about different things. You complement each other.” Aubree picked up the thread of the discussion, again. “I’m officially approving recruiting Captain Regina Price as a deputy on an as-needed basis. See to it. Carl having his own ship within the month is a bonus. He’ll be an effective Acting Sheriff in your absence. I’ll speak to him about it. I could have shuffled in an experienced deputy from Pang’s territory. He seems overstaffed compared to the rest of you.”

“More populated territory,” Max said.

Aubree snorted. “I shouldn’t discuss him with you. Carl can handle sheriff duties. Anything you need from me?”

Max thought about Aubree’s recent past as a Galactic Justice agent on Zephyr. The woman had a network Thelma spoke of with mingled awe and envy. Even Lon admired it. “Anything I should know about the bandits?”

“Astyages is smart to include you, and the immediately recognizable Lonesome, in the exploration expedition. Some bandit captains would try to take you out if they could, on principle, as an act of defiance against authority and the Federation. However, on balance, the bandits trust you. I think the Admiral is correct in his—or his analysts’—guess that your presence should ensure some mutual ignoring of one another by the bandits and the Navy. Best case scenario, you have no contact with the bandits.”

Max didn’t ask about worst case scenarios. He could dream those up without Aubree’s assistance.

“Stay alert.” She ended the comms.

He opened his messages to find a briefing sent by Lieutenant Beattie. He settled in to read it, and to try and read between the official lines.

Chapter 5

“On the plus side, they did give you some advance warning.” Thelma tried to be scrupulously fair to counter Max’s bad mood.

He’d not been impressed by the Navy’s demand, included in the mission brief, for “familiarization exercises” aboard all ships involved in Mission Badstars Trail Clearance. Given that of the four ships involved, three were Navy, and the Navy personnel were familiar with the layout of the battlecruiser and two destroyers, the “familiarization exercises” were aimed solely at the Lonesome. They provided a thin cover for the Navy to snoop around the Lonesome.

“It’s not grounds to pull out of the mission,” Max grumbled.

“But we can prepare and put limits.” Like Thelma, Lon adopted an attitude of steadfast optimism.

Max grunted. “Once the Lonesome’s specs are out there, they’ll stay out there.”

“They’re already available to some extent. The basic specs, prior to a few modifications,” Lon prodigiously undersold the changes he’d made to the Lonesome, “are already available to those with the authority to request them. The Lonesome did have to pass inspection to be registered as spaceworthy.”

“Hmph.”

“Restrict the familiarization exercises to the main deck,” Harry said. “Commander Marconi claims the exercises are run to facilitate rescue in the event of an emergency. You and Thelma will be on the main deck, so that’s the only place you’d need to be rescued from.”

“It’s our home.” Max scowled, unappeased. “They wouldn’t attempt to push their way into the Lodge in this manner.”

Thelma resisted pointing out that the reason they couldn’t was because the Navy had no standing planetside when the planet was inhabited. The Zephyr police could search the Lodge, if they had a warrant. “I don’t like it either, but as you said, having a few people tramp through our home isn’t reason enough to pull out of the mission. You wouldn’t forgive yourself if people died on the mission—whether our presence in the Badstars would have made a difference or not.”

He frowned at her, then at his desk, before finally nodding curtly. “I’ll tell Marconi that he can run one familiarization exercise on the main deck. He doesn’t get the Lonesome’s specs. His people can run a rescue exercise, sole purpose to extract me and Thelma. But not a salvage exercise to take emergency control of the Lonesome. I can’t imagine any situation where the Navy can do more to save the ship than Lon can. Unless you want their help, Lon?”

“No. I can’t be quickly extracted from the ship. I’ve built in my own safeguards around my trunk. However, allowing some Navy personnel aboard is a team bonding exercise on an expedition like this one. I’m relieved you realize that digging in your heels on this isn’t worth it, Max. The key is compromise. We’re opening up to the world more, anyway. Fewer secrets.”

“Naval Intelligence may try to plant surveillance,” Carl said. As a former Covert Ops agent, he was experienced in spook tricks.

Lon assured him that he’d monitor for any “gifts” left behind. “Harry and I will discuss a few things that we might remove, just in case.”

Harry nodded. His private quarters on the Lonesome were a multi-deck workshop. “Some of my toys and research are safer with me. It’s better, if the Navy does manage some snooping, that they don’t find anything.”

How he intended to transport his not insignificant amount of technology away from the Lonesome Thelma had no idea. Nor did she ask. The best means of keeping a secret was to never learn it. You couldn’t betray what you didn’t know. “Why give us this warning, though? Why not make the demand for familiarization out in the Badstars?”

Carl considered Max’s disgruntled expression. “Someone in the Navy recognized that if they antagonized Max with the request out there he’d likely dig in his heels and make it a mission-breaker.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” Max snapped.

His cyborg deputy laughed. “Yep.” Carl’s laughter died as he braced his hands on the back of his chair. “The question is why the Navy suddenly wants to learn more about the Lonesome.”

Unhappy silence answered him.

Max’s frown deepened. That question was likely the underlying reason for his bad mood.

“We’ll be careful,” Lon promised. “Harry and I have devised a few backup plans. The Badstars punishes the unprepared. We’ll stay in contact with each other…and not via the Navy’s relay station.”

“Good. And I’ll have the wasp in three weeks.”

A shiver slid down Thelma’s spine. Carl was treating the Navy as a threat. Some of that could be his Covert Ops background. Covert Ops and the Navy never played nicely together. But she recognized his genuine concern. Something had stirred his bodyguard instincts. “Reynard will be back even earlier. He’s agreed to remain in contact with you, Carl. If you need a ship or discreet assistance, you can ask him.”

Carl glanced at Harry. It was a lightning-fast look, but it revealed that Carl’s first contact in an emergency would be to the mech AI. That was sensible. Harry was a far more reliable ally. However, he was also constrained to stay in the Saloon Sector. Reynard could roam. “Will do.” Carl headed out, back down to his quarters on the public deck.

Harry also departed.

Thelma looked at Max.

He stared back. “Cynny.”

And there was another problem. Thelma flopped in her chair, arms dangling.

Max’s sister—Thelma’s new sister-in-law—was severely annoyed at what she viewed as the Navy stealing Thelma and Max from her. Paul refused to turn the Oseberg around to meet up with them at Zephyr. His and Cynny’s timeframes for their frontier expedition were tight, and he had a wreck to examine.

Generally, Max’s attitude toward Cynny was indulgent, as the best of big brothers were. That attitude showed signs of cracking. “Can you convince her not to ask Admiral Astyages to delay the mission for a month as a personal favor to her?”

Thelma choked.

The rigid line of his jaw relaxed. “You hadn’t heard? Cynny doesn’t normally flex her influence, but through the Hwicce Corporation she has quite a bit. And then, there’s Dad.”

“Cynny has better sense than to give your father’s,” Thelma still struggled to call the president of the Federation “John” or “Dad” as he’d requested, “political enemies any ammunition to use against him. Certainly not that of influencing the Navy.”

“Don’t tell me. Tell Cyn.”

Thelma straightened up. “I like Cynny. And Paul. It was great to meet them in person, and I was looking forward to catching up with them at the Deadstar Diner. But why would this be so important to Cynny? She’s normally scrupulous about not abusing her influence.” Cynny’s professional career centered on maintaining the Hwicce Corporation’s high standard of corporate governance and behavior, and Cynny modeled what she required of others.

“She’s got some idea driving her, but she won’t tell me what.”

Thelma bounced up. “I’ll ask her. You and Lon are preparing the Lonesome for the Badstars. I’ll handle the people issues.”

“Including the media?” Mischief gleamed in his blue eyes. The media continued to hound them for interviews.

“Yes. Ha! That shocked you,” she crowed.

“What do you have planned?”

She smiled. She had trouble planned. “The Navy has an excellent public relations team…”

“Don’t tell me anything more.”

“It was in the briefing Lieutenant Beattie sent. The Navy will handle any and all questions involving the Mission Badstars Trail Clearance.” She winked at him. “I bet they never anticipated answering questions about our honeymoon.”

Her beloved new husband gawked at her before laughing uproariously.

She smiled sunnily. “I may have anonymously planted a hint on the message boards that we’d be honeymooning in the Badstars with a naval escort.”

Thelma wasn’t smiling as she comm’d Cynny and tried to dig into why Cynny was so desperate to have time with them. Obviously, she’d traveled out to the frontier and would be disappointed if a single visit of a few hours was all they had, but it felt like more than that. Max thought it was more than that.

Thelma didn’t want to come across as dismissive of Cynny’s concerns, but she wanted an answer. “It’s frustrating. The timing is stupid. But we have years of family gatherings ahead of us.” And what would add up to years of travel to make those gatherings when the frontier was so far from the core worlds and even further from the Rock Sector.

“But I want our children to grow up together,” Cynny wailed.

“You’re pregnant?” Thelma blurted out the question, too shocked for tact.

“No!”

Thelma replayed the small exchange in her mind, fumbling for clarity. “I’m not pregnant.”

“But you will be.”

“Um, not any time soon.”

Cynny adopted a crisply business-like tone. “We need to talk.”

“We are talking,” Thelma said warily. Her gaze roamed her office, but there was no help there. “Talk about what?”

“Children. The future. I know Max is happy out here and you seem okay with it.”

Goose pimples rose on Thelma’s arms, warning of danger ahead. “I like life on the frontier.”

“But it’s so far away. We need to talk in person about this. Max needs to come home.”

Mentally, Thelma drew back from the conversation. “I think that’s a conversation you should have with him.”

“Exactly! Max needs to put off this trip and sit down and really discuss the situation. He’s too old to still be playing games with the Navy. Mom and Dad won’t push him, but Mom misses him.”

Thelma’s family missed her, too, but they hadn’t tried to guilt trip her into abandoning her path in life to adhere to theirs. “Do your parents know about this discussion you intend to have with Max?”

“You disapprove.”

“No. No, you should discuss whatever you want with Max.” Thelma refused to allow herself to be drawn into the middle of a sibling fight. She didn’t know what the rules were in the Smith family.

“But they’ll be your children, too. You should want them to have every advantage. You experienced for yourself how hard it is for out-worlders to break into the privileged circle of the core world elite.”

Thelma had never aspired to break into elite circles. She’d overcome core world prejudice to study and succeed at the Galactic Justice academy, but that had been with the goal of serving the Federation; not ruling it.

The nasty suspicion occurred to her that some part of Cynny harbored the belief that Thelma had married Max for his advantages of wealth and core world influence. It hurt because Cynny had been so open and friendly on her visit to the Lonesome.

“Cynny, it doesn’t matter where Max and I raise our kids, they’ll still have the unique advantages that come with his background.” That was as much tact as she could scrape up at the moment. She continued before her sister-in-law could respond. “Out here we can give them other experiences, exposure to life that they wouldn’t get sheltered in the core worlds. And besides, no kids yet!”

“Proximity creates bonds,” Cynny said seriously. “Mom and I have kept in contact with Max, pushed for it, but in the end distance will impact our relationship. If you don’t commit to the family, you fall away.”

Did she mean “you” as in Thelma or a more generalized “you”? Either way, Thelma detected a threat in Cynny’s words. It was hard to remind herself that for non-spacers, those raised and living planetside, space was a psychologically immense hurdle. The distances involved separated them from others rather than being the medium of connection. Given how long Cynny’s fiancé Paul spent in exploring space wrecks, the wonder was that they managed to sustain their relationship. Was it sufficient for Cynny that he always returned to their home on Alpha Hub?

Cynny wouldn’t be able to tie those sort of strings to Max. Did she realize it and that was why she was striving to tie the strings, instead, to Thelma?

Relationships changed. They stretched and morphed. Sometimes they did, as Cynny warned, fall away. What wasn’t healthy was if a single member of the relationship defined its terms. Cynny would destroy Max’s trust in her if she ran the argument, however subtly, that he was her loving brother only if he returned to the core worlds.

“Family is important,” Thelma agreed with Cynny. Agreement, validation of a person’s beliefs, opened their minds to a counterargument. “I love Max for who he is and the choices he makes. You’re right. You should talk to him. Really talk, whether you’re in-person or not.” Because the issue of Max’s independence and Cynny’s resentment of it shouldn’t be allowed to fester.

Onscreen, Cynny’s mouth drooped with disappointment, but there was a hint of calculation in her eyes. She hadn’t recruited Thelma to her point of view, so she would regroup and attack from a different angle.

“Stars damn.” When the comms call ended, Thelma stretched. Head tilted back, she stared unfocusedly at the ceiling of her office. Demands came in from all directions. Traditionally, people fled to the frontier to escape the demands of their old lives. For Thelma and Max, they’d done the opposite and added new responsibilities. Max wouldn’t shed them to return to the core worlds. He defined himself as interstellar sheriff for his territory. It was why he was letting the Navy push him into the Badstars mission.

I couldn’t live Cynny’s life, Thelma admitted to herself. The bodyguards were the most obvious restriction on her sister-in-law’s freedom. Cynny hadn’t even been able to stay aboard the Lonesome. Her bodyguards judged her own brother either as threat or incapable of keeping her safe. They didn’t—Cynny didn’t—even consider the possibility that she should keep herself safe.

Thelma wanted her children to grow up capable of protecting themselves and others.

Purchase of the Rubicon Ridge estate was physical proof of where Max and she would build their life together. Cynny had to know that.

Then again, Thelma had assumed—and assured Max—that Cynny knew better than to use her influence in an effort to get Admiral Astyages to delay the Badstars mission. “What if—” She cut herself off. Lon monitored her office, at her request. He was her unofficial, silent partner in her information brokerage. In fact, he’d supplied much of the information and guidance that had gotten her established out here on the frontier. But this was a personal problem she needed to discuss with Max.

She rubbed her forehead. Or maybe not discuss her suspicion at all. This could be stress muddling her mind. In the pressure of her new position as the President’s daughter-in-law, she might be projecting onto Cynny her own fears.

If Max’s relationship with the Navy got screwed up, then his ability to function as the interstellar sheriff for the territory was jeopardized. On the frontier, he needed the Navy’s support—and that meant Admiral Astyages.

Could Cynny be ruthless enough to damage that relationship by attempting to force Astyages to concede to her demand that a Navy mission come second to Smith family concerns? Would she set her own brother up to fail so that, in her imagination, he’d be forced to come home?

Family was complicated, as Harry had discovered in dealing with his fellow AIs regarding pursuing contact with their shared ancestors, the specters.

“Max? Good time, bad time?” Thelma hovered in the doorway of his office.

“Good time. I need a break.” He studied her. “Good news, bad news?” He echoed her phrasing.

“I know what’s bothering Cynny. She’s going to call you. I hope.”

He walked around his desk and joined her in the doorway. “What’s the bad news?”

“Cynny wants you to return to the core worlds, to make your home there, close to family. She wanted to talk to you about that in person.”

He frowned. “The Saloon Sector is our home. We bought the Lodge.”

“I know.” They had discussed their plans and were confident in them. The Saloon Sector was their future. “Cynny thinks she can convince you. She…she tried to convince me. She wants our children to be core worlders and grow up with her children.”

His hand trailed up and down her back in a long moment of silence as he thought. “Cynny and I…she’s my baby sister. I respect her work with the Hwicce Corporation, but I don’t trust her judgement above yours. And you’re the one with my loyalty. So stop being scared of offending me and tell me the complete story, especially what has you worried.”

She gave his chest a gentle shove that protested how accurately he’d dissected her worries and answered them. “Harry is obsessed with the specters. The other AIs know that. They’re his family. He cares for their future when he protects the raphus geode cache and he keeps peace in the family in his role as their magistrate. Yet the other AIs’ fear of the specters and of change has locked him away from his quest to encounter their ancestors.”

Max waited patiently through this recap of Harry’s situation. He obviously guessed that Thelma was using it to explain Cynny’s actions. “What’s Cyn afraid of?”

“Of your family falling apart. Of being alone. Of change.” Thelma shrugged. “Or something else altogether. It’s unreasonable of me, and unfair to Cynny.” Before second thoughts could silence her she blurted out her suspicion. “What if Cynny is thinking of leaning on Admiral Astyages to delay the mission not simply to gain time to talk to you in person, but to strain your relationship with him, with the Navy?”

Max’s steady breathing hitched. His tone was eerily neutral when he asked, “Sabotage?”

“Encouraging you to a course of behavior she thinks would benefit you?” Thelma reframed the situation.

He shook his head. “Hugo is the manipulative one.” That was his and Cynny’s older brother. “Hoo boy. Something in Cynny’s behavior seemed off to me, but not this.”

“Then I’m wrong,” Thelma said instantly. “And I’m glad I’m wrong.”

“And if there’s a ten percent chance you’re right?”

“You can preempt her. Tell her that the Lonesome will be leaving early for unspecified reasons and will rendezvous with the Navy trio on the border of the Badstars. We can, too. The rendezvous location is a minor change to the mission. Then there’s no reason for her to contact Admiral Astyages…” Belatedly, Thelma saw the flaw in her idea.

Max saw it, too. “If Cynny still contacts Astyages, at least we’ll be clear that her motivation is to strain my relationship with the Navy.” He pulled away, returning to his desk. “We can make an earlier deadline. Lon?”

“I wasn’t sure if I should listen or not,” the AI said quietly. “I can be ready for departure four days earlier. Harry is planning to leave the Lonesome in six days.”

Harry and the various technologies he didn’t want the Navy seeing would slip away while the Lonesome was cloaked at the edge of a hazan field.

Thelma remained helplessly and slightly angrily in the doorway. Cynny had caused this. Cynny and Thelma’s own suspicions.

Max regarded her across the desk. “We’re good, you and me. I…give me a chance to process this.”

She nodded.

Returning to her own office, she collapsed into her chair. Through his friendship with Max’s grandfather, Lon felt a sense of connection to the Hwicce and Smith families. Her suspicions about Cynny hadn’t just disturbed Max. Lon also cared. Now the three of them—and Cynny—were unhappy.

Searching for a distraction, Thelma checked her messages.

Helen Zhou had called, asking Thelma to call her back.

Chatting with Helen and getting an update on her friend’s adolescent dragon, Katu, would be the perfect mood boost. Before the chaos of the Space Rodeo hit the Saloon Sector the two women had worked together to find homes for a clutch of dragons abandoned at an asteroid mining station.

The dragons weren’t real dragons. They were small reptiles indigenous to Saurelle where the species was considered vermin. The saurelles called them ratsa. They were about the size of a house cat and a human merchant had noticed their resemblance, albeit in miniature, to ancient Earth stories of dragons. Renamed “dragons” there’d been a brief fad for them among spacers. Their robust physiology, which contributed to their vermin status on their home world, was a benefit on spaceships and colonies. Add in their good-natured, curious personalities and they were a hit—briefly. Their one drawback was their scales. Scales just aren’t cuddly. Cats soon regained their top of the pyramid status as space pets, and dragons became a mostly forgotten oddity.

On Helen’s trampship, Dobbin, Katu was the king of the dragons.

Thelma’s comms call connected. “Hi, Helen. How are you? And how’s Katu?”

“Molting,” Helen said succinctly. “His new scales are coming in blue.” She scooped up the dragon and held him in front of the camera. He arched his neck and flared his wings. They were the dark gray they’d always been, but his body was showing patches of blue. “Kingfisher blue.”

“He’s grown, and maybe he’s not quite as skinny.”

Helen kissed the top of his head. “Nah, he’s still a lanky teenager. Cranky, too,” she added when he wriggled free with a hiss. He half-jumped, half-flew to the floor. “One second.”

At the edge of the screen Thelma saw her friend close the door to the bridge and return to the captain’s chair. She bit back a question at the obvious bid for privacy.

Helen smiled wryly, reading the question in Thelma’s expression. “The bunyaphi are fine. We left Levanter a couple of days ago. The bunyaphi hated the aridity of the planet and people’s stares. Very insular humans.” She grimaced. “Which you get when a marginal planet is settled by a doomsday cult.”

The despotic cult leader had been ousted a few months ago. What limited information that trickled back from the remote planet indicated that the social disturbance of the regime change had been less than might have been anticipated. People struggling to survive on the marginal planet had no energy to spare for politics or arguing the prophesized end of the galaxy.

Helen glanced down at Katu who’d curled into a ball, scratching his molting belly. “Ululani, Waiola and Tivor plan to get off at the Deadstar Diner. Their ship will pick them up.”

“And that’s safe for Ululani?” Thelma asked.

“Her decision.”

Thelma nodded. “Thanks for rescuing her.”

“Yeah.” Helen drew out the word. “I heard that Aubree is Max’s new boss. I won’t ask how he likes them apples.” Aubree Tennyson and Helen had a tense relationship that hinted of trouble in the past. Although not many years older than Thelma, Helen seemed to have gone through a lot before retiring to the life of an independent trampship captain.

In an exchange of favors with Aubree, when Aubree had still been a Galactic Justice agent, Thelma had asked Helen to rescue the bunyaphi Ululani from the Deadstar Diner and exposure as a rare and despised bunyaphi spy. Tivor and Waiola had jumped into the rescue, unwittingly, seeing purely a chance to travel on a human spaceship.

The bunyaphi were the Federation’s newest member species. They were a monotreme, winged humanoid species remarkable for their belligerence with an average adult height of just under four feet. They were also the latest wave of settlers due to hit the Saloon Sector. The frontier would become the bunyaphis’ first outpost beyond their home sector of Boldire.

“Don’t fuss about Ululani,” Helen said. “That one’s a survivor. I called because I heard a rumor that you were planning the universe’s most ridiculous honeymoon.”

“The Badstars with a Navy escort?” Thelma wrinkled her nose. “Yeah. Not really a honeymoon.”

“No kidding,” Helen mocked her, but there was no smile in her eyes. “Thelma…this isn’t something I can risk you sharing with the Navy. Can you listen on those terms?”

“Yes.” She trusted that Helen wouldn’t endanger Thelma or her relationship with Max by making her promise to withhold vital information from the mission.

“You can tell Max and Lon. I’d like to meet Lon one day. When you’re home safe.” Helen’s voice grew hard. At her feet, Katu straightened up to stare at her. “I’m not sure how much the Navy has shared with you, but from what I gather, jokes about honeymoons aside, they’ve roped you into a mission to map a safe route to the Kampia wormhole.”

“That’s about the sum of it. They want Max because they believe the bandits trust him. Admiral Astyages claims the Navy wants to avoid provoking the bandits of the Badstars. The mission is about mapping a safe route to the wormhole and a safe zone around the route.”

Katu hopped up onto Helen’s lap.

She scratched him absently under the chin. “What if I told you that the Navy has already mapped the route and has a fair notion of the zone around it?”

Thelma’s stomach muscles clenched. “How sure are you of that information?”

Silent seconds ticked by as Helen stared down at Katu. His tongue flicked out to lick her hand. She resumed scratching him. “You can tell Max, but I’d rather no one else knew.”

“Lon—”

“Lon’s fine,” Helen interrupted. “You obviously trust him, and equally obviously, he can keep a secret. Mine is that I grew up in the Badstars. My mom is a bandit. My dad…well, who knows who he is. Mom certainly didn’t. She got me out. Got me a chance at a better life, a citizen’s life.”

Thelma understood, and felt incredible sympathy for Helen.

The children and grandchildren of the Badstars bandits lacked Federation citizenship. Helen’s mom had found a way around that, but by the studied blankness of Helen’s face and her determinedly neutral tone, there’d been an emotional price to pay. It was to Helen’s credit that she would still risk herself for friendship’s sake.

“I have ties to the Badstars, which means I hear things. The Navy began mapping the route to the Kampia wormhole and a zone around it before the Space Rodeo began. They did it on the quiet. A lone frigate. No bandit ships engaged it. Whether there was a deal with the bandit captains on a backroom table that got the frigate safe passage, I don’t know. It could be that they’re being cautious and prepping for the long game. The Navy is going to be a presence in the Badstars. A player.”

Thelma sighed. “Admiral Astyages claimed he doesn’t play games, political games.”

“Liars lie.” Helen paused. “Or this mission he’s roped you into isn’t a political game.”

“And if it’s not politics, then the stakes could be even higher.”

They contemplated the situation in silence.

“Thank you, Helen.”

The trampship captain didn’t want thanks. “I’m not going to lose a friend to the Badstars or the Navy. Be prepared.”

“For anything,” Thelma concluded.

“Yeah.”

Chapter 6

“So we have two options,” Thelma said, having shared Helen’s information with Max, Lon and Harry. Helen hadn’t mentioned Carl, and Thelma was taking that to mean the former Covert Ops agent wasn’t to be told Helen’s history. “We can either spring the trap, knowing what we’re traveling into, or we wear the consequences of pulling out of the mission.”

Max leaned forward, hands on his desk. “I don’t like either option. But delaying and letting people put into action another, potentially riskier plan to achieve their goal concerning us, is worse.”

Thelma nodded. “I think we should continue—and not because Cynny would be triumphant if we didn’t.” She wrinkled her nose at Max. The Badstars mission was serious business, but so was her adjustment to the family dynamics she’d married into.

“The puzzle is what the Navy is after,” Lon said.

“I can’t imagine that they want to hurt us.” Thelma couldn’t see a rational reason for them deliberately drawing the President’s son into a dangerous situation.

Harry readjusted his stance. With his mech body, the AI’s every movement had purpose. He didn’t fidget as an organic sentient might. “I’d agree, but there are different types of danger. Astyages made a point of checking that you’d be onboard the Lonesome, Thelma.”

Max leaned toward her. “Maybe you should—”

“No. I’m not staying behind on Zephyr or with Reynard. We’ve separated before. I don’t like it.”

Harry had firsthand experience of doing what you didn’t like. His vows and the other AIs’ refusal to release him from guarding the raphus geode cache meant he had to stay behind in the Saloon Sector. “What if Astyages wants you onboard the Lonesome to use as a hostage to get Max to do something he wouldn’t otherwise agree to? A new wife is an obvious target.”

“The Navy isn’t corrupt,” Max said.

“Helen—” Thelma began.

He interrupted. “I believe you. Her. But there could be a valid reason to get us out of the Saloon Sector without leaking the mission’s true purpose to Covert Ops or other interested parties. The Navy won’t have forgotten that our new chief is an ex-Galactic Justice agent. A spy whose current loyalties have yet to be tested.” And not just with the Navy, but with Max and Thelma. He pinned her with a challenging look. “Will you be telling Aubree of Helen’s warning?”

She wriggled her shoulders, uncomfortable with the question and its implications. “Helen and Aubree, there’s a history between them that I...” She sat up straight and still. “Helen said I could tell you and Lon. She’d have included Harry with Lon if she knew of him, I’m sure. But Aubree. I don’t have Helen’s permission to share her history with Aubree. What I can do is tell Aubree, but protect my informant’s identity.”

“Don’t tell her,” Lon said.

Thelma and Max blinked at one another.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because Federation law ends at its borders.”

Harry clarified Lon’s point in casually chilling language. “What happens in the Badstars, stays in the Badstars.”

Thelma held up a finger. “Except that the Navy will report back. They’ll have a relay station.”

“It can be monitored or meddled with,” Harry said. And in case they weren’t following his thinking. “Reynard will be back shortly and eager for trouble.”

In other words, if the situation called for it, the AIs would modify the messages the Navy sent before they were relayed on and into the Saloon Sector.

Max’s mouth set in a grim line. Interfering with naval communications verged on treason from his perspective. Except that Federation law ended at the border, and he had a wife and ship to protect.

“We have to be smart,” Harry said. “Lon and I can circumvent the Navy’s bid to lockdown communications. The bandits have their own relay stations and we’ve hacked two of them. Reynard’s on his way, and Carl will have his ship shortly. Which he’s excited about even if he won’t admit it. If you’re going to continue with the mission, having no official record of being aware of the Navy’s duplicity may be useful.”

Thelma considered the notion. “So if we react…”

“Violently,” Max supplied.

She nodded. “We’d have some level of cover. That we acted as we did out of shock.”

“Vote,” Max said. “Do you want to continue with the mission?”

“Yes,” she responded firmly.

“Yes,” Lon said. “I’ll stay in contact with Harry. He can call in assistance if we require it. Like you, Max, I’d like to learn what the Navy is up to. They’ve been our allies. I can’t believe that’s changed, so I’m curious.”

For the first three weeks of the journey into the Badstars the Lonesome’s traditional alliance with the Navy seemed unchanged.

Commander Marconi accepted Max’s decision to restrict the familiarization exercise to the Lonesome’s main deck. The Commander led the “rescue” team. He then lingered, talking and peering around. “Very comfortable. A real home.” He’d retracted the visor of his lifesuit, but was otherwise dressed for the extreme circumstances of the exercise; that is, a failure of the Lonesome.

Thelma and Max had observed the familiarization exercise while standing out of the way and letting two dummies fill in for their unconscious, needing-to-be-rescued bodies.

Lon had likewise stayed silent.

“You’ve bought an estate on Zephyr, though.” After weeks of orders and no frills, mission-only communication, Marconi seemed insistent on conversation. Did the setting, being on the Lonesome, make that much difference? “You have a new home for your new married life.”

“It’s a place planetside if we need it,” Thelma said when Max didn’t answer.

Marconi nodded, but his gaze slid sideways again, taking in the kitchen and the part of the lounge visible to him.

Thelma had left out cushions and throws, cups and plates as if the familiarization exercise had interrupted an ordinary day. Their home looked normal to her, but it felt as if the vibrations of the rescue team moving fast through it lingered. It was purely her imagination. The Navy rescue team had been professionals. They’d left no mark of their passage beyond open doors and hatches.

Only Marconi remained.

Max watched him closely, scowling impatiently.

“The journey seems to be going well,” Thelma said.

In fact, it couldn’t have been safer and less exciting. She was curious if the captains of the three ships had access to the map of the route that their colleagues had so recently charted, or if they believed the mission was genuine. If they had the maps, then all four ships involved were playing a game of pretend.

Lon had Harry’s maps of the Badstars. Not that the Lonesome was ever permitted to take the lead. The Navy ships traded out occupying the reconnaissance position in their flotilla.

They were taking a spiraling route to the Kampia wormhole, like a corkscrew around the straight-line to the wormhole. The return journey would adjust the angle and corkscrew around to chart the bits of the safe zone missed initially.

“We’re collecting useful data,” Marconi said.

What had he and his team learned on the Lonesome?

He pivoted and marched back to the hatch he’d entered by. “A successful exercise. Thank you.” He resealed his helmet and departed.

Thelma noted the brusqueness. Not even a good-bye. She and Max hadn’t been exactly welcoming, and Lon had stayed uncharacteristically silent, nonetheless Marconi’s curt departure edged beyond abrupt to outright rude.

The hatch closed behind him.

The silence on the Lonesome continued as Lon mobilized his robots.

Thelma walked to the lounge, and wasted time readjusting cushions and folding a throw.

Max entered the kitchen and poured two coffees.

“I don’t think I need more caffeine. I’m wired.” Thelma came and stood beside him.

He left her mug on the counter.

“They’re undocking immediately,” Lon said. “They didn’t leave any surveillance tech behind.”

“Whew.” Thelma sagged. “I hated having them on the Lonesome. I wouldn’t mind Naomi or some of the other Star Marines visiting, but Marconi and his team. Ugh. I feel like I should do some ceremonial smudging.”

Max raised an eyebrow.

Lon asked the question. “Do what?”

“Smudging. Sage smoke or something like that to drive out evil spirits and purify a home.”

Max frowned down at her. “That’s an intense reaction.”

She rubbed her arms. “There was something off about Marconi. The team went through the exercise flawlessly—and pretty much pointlessly. But what was he doing onboard? He didn’t seem comfortable with it. He tried to chat.” Her disbelief and discomfort echoed in her voice.

“I tracked him, all of them,” Lon said. “They didn’t do anything strange.”

Max poured Thelma’s unwanted coffee down the sink and rinsed both mugs. “It ran like a reconnaissance mission. Which was about what we expected,” he reminded them. “Lon, can you get any idea of sightlines? What they were searching for?”

“Working on it.”

But for all Lon’s analysis, no answers emerged. The Navy had sped through the Lonesome’s main deck, “rescued” two dummies, and departed.

Conversation between the Lonesome and the other three ships remained limited. Thelma was accustomed to the easygoing chatter of space. Ships in proximity tended to exchange chatter even if they had no news. The Navy was military, and yet…

It seemed as if the order had gone out not to fraternize with the crew of the Lonesome.

Meantime, Lon kept them up to date on news from Harry, while the messages they didn’t mind the Navy eavesdropping on—like Carl’s adjustment to piloting his own ship—filled in some of the missing socializing.

The regional office for the Interstellar Sheriff Service sent weekly updates. This was a new initiative, instituted by Aubree. It was an internal document, but you’d have to be naïve not to realize that the information in it would leak.

Thelma was sitting in her office, reading the fourth newsletter they’d received in the Badstars, when the Lonesome shook.

Training kicked in before conscious thought. She slapped the cupboard by the door. It opened and she grabbed the lifesuit inside.

The Lonesome rocked again, but there were no alarms blaring a warning of hull breach or immediate danger, so she took the extra few seconds to strip off her boots and utility suit before sealing herself in the lifesuit. If she was stuck in it for any length of time, the additional clothing would irritate her.

In the corridor, Max caught her by the shoulders. “Lon! Report,” he snapped.

No response.

One second the adrenaline had been pumping the blood fast through her body, the next, everything seemed to freeze. “Lon?” Thelma echoed.

The Lonesome shook ceaselessly.

Holding her wrist, Max crossed the short distance to the bridge. It was possible to pilot the spaceship without Lon. At minimum, they needed to know what was happening. The area of space a day’s travel around them was meant to be free of hazards.

The hatch to the bridge slammed shut in his face.

At his sudden halt, Thelma jammed into his side.

The high, three pulse repeating wail of the radiation alarm rang out.

Something was catastrophically wrong with the Lonesome.

“Lifepod, now.”

As they reached the ladder to the public deck, the artificial gravity on the Lonesome cut out.

Thelma closed her hands tight on the railing, but released her grip in the next second. She’d grown up in space as the daughter of asteroid miners. She knew the evacuation drill and her body moved instinctively in the compromised environment. She pointed her boots down and pushed off, following Max. They moved rapidly along the inner core bulkhead to the lifepod. It could handle six people. A second lifepod sat tucked away in storage. Lon would have brought it out if the Lonesome had been carrying prisoners.

Lon.

They couldn’t help him until they were safe themselves.

She stumbled as her lifesuit went dark. So did the ship.

Max grabbed her arm and guided her hand down so that she could feel, although not see, as he hooked the line coiled on his belt to the loop on her belt. They wouldn’t lose each other now.

They moved together toward the lifepod. It was just a few more steps, but it felt as if the Lonesome was dying around them, and if the ship was dying, that meant that Lon, embedded in it, was in critical danger.

Thelma patted her way along the lifepod, feeling the line that tied her to Max move strangely. Then she patted empty air and realized he’d used the manual release to open the lifepod. It seemed all the electronics around them were non-responsive.

The most scary consequence was the absence of the reassuring hiss of atmospheric recycling in her lifesuit. The atmo-gel patches inside the suit would give her and Max twelve hours once the dangerous dead air eroded the protective seal on the gel and allowed the chemical mix to activate. If she became somewhat light-headed before the patches kicked in, that would pass.

Twelve hours.

Max found a glow stick and snapped it on. He faced her in his lifesuit and gave her a thumbs up. He was fine.

She returned the thumbs up. He tapped his belt, and she unhooked his lifesuit’s line from her belt.

He turned back to manually close the lifepod’s hatch.

If they’d been stupid and tried for the shuttle, they’d have been stuck. Like the Lonesome itself, the shuttle relied on electronics. The lifepod was designed to survive in space without power.

Thelma buckled herself into a central seat. In an emergency, everyone had to play their assigned role. Max was the Lonesome’s captain. It was his responsibility, given that he wasn’t injured, to decide to abandon ship. She had to stay safe and out of the way.

She curled her hands tight. The thickness of the lifesuit’s gloves meant her nails couldn’t gouge the soft flesh of her palms no matter how afraid she was.

Lon had designed the Lonesome with failsafes. For the spaceship to be experiencing this cascading level of failure, and so suddenly, indicated that they’d encountered some undocumented, unknown hazard of the Badstars. This was how legendary spectral wrecks happened.

The hysterical thought occurred to her that Paul would want to investigate the Lonesome. It would be a perfectly preserved wreck.

Well, not quite perfect.

Power was down, but Max could manually ignite the rocket launch. He grappled his way forward, using the handholds sunk in the ceiling to move as fast as he could in the absence of gravity.

Peering around the seat and his body, Thelma watched him initiate their launch.

He strapped in as the first of the smaller rockets fired in the specific pattern that would ignite controlled detonations at the lifepod’s launch hatch.

The hatch exploded out.

He tugged at the last of his buckles as he hit the final rocket button, the red button that meant they were abandoning ship.

They weren’t just abandoning ship. They were leaving Lon behind.

G-forces knocked Thelma unconscious.

When Max regained consciousness, his first action was to check on Thelma. Seeing her slumped in her chair, held upright by the harness, twisted fear in his gut. But she was stirring as he reached her, and when her gloved hand curled around his, the black, roaring panic that had threatened to engulf him eased back. He feared that part of his psyche. It was the part of him that had to be locked down, the berserker instinct that would destroy the universe if it took Thelma from him. Not that he could destroy the universe, but give him a target and he’d unleash hell on it.

He was afraid. For Thelma. For Lon.

Talking wasn’t possible. The microphones and speakers on their helmets were dead. They’d have to unseal their lifesuits to drink and eat, and to breathe when the atmo-gel patches ceased working their chemical magic. Until then, Max wouldn’t risk the radiation they might have picked up. They needed a decontamination chamber.

They needed a rescue.

He squeezed Thelma’s hand, then released himself to buckle into the seat beside her. He clasped her hand again.

She wriggled down in her seat and leaned against him.

Stars but he loved her. She was cuddling in a lifepod, probably not so much for comfort as to reassure him. He knew his wife. Her brain would be going a galactic league a minute trying to interpret what they’d just survived.

He had questions of his own, but also the habit of his Star Marine training to go over a botched mission at the first opportunity so that it was clear in his mind. He needed to be sure of his observations before they were clouded by time and other people’s accounts.

The cabin of the lifepod was shadowed and strange. He was accustomed to the well-placed lighting of the Lonesome and his Sheriff’s Office on the Zephyr spacedock. In the lifepod the glow stick that he’d wedged between the two seats in front of Thelma and him was the sole illumination.

The assault on the Lonesome had come out of nowhere.

Lon hadn’t warned him of a hazard or the approach of any ships.

Could the Kampia have come through the wormhole? The Lonesome and the three Navy ships had been closer to it than to the Saloon Sector when the attack occurred.

Max put aside his questions to replay events. He couldn’t find a point at which he could have helped Lon before abandoning ship.

The AI was embedded in the ship and had designed the vessel to support and protect himself. Whatever this threat was, it was unforeseen. It had gotten through all of the Lonesome’s shields and Lon’s personal defenses.

Max was clinging to the hope that Lon’s trunk had protected the AI’s core self.

With electronics down on the lifepod, Max couldn’t call out or otherwise check if the Navy ships had survived. The flotilla had been widely, prudently, spaced. If a single ship remained functional, it might be able to pick up survivors. Otherwise he and Thelma were dependent on luck. If the bandits were watching the flotilla, saw it get into trouble and were able to rescue or commit to a salvage operation, then he and Thelma might survive.

Max restrained the urge to punch the seat in front of him. Being helpless to save themselves increased his rage.

If he was an optimist, he’d add the improbable possibility that whatever had damaged the Lonesome and locked down Lon was something that the AI could overcome.

However, the idea of Lon resurrecting the Lonesome and coming to the rescue was a stars save us dream. The greater likelihood was that whatever forces had wrecked the Lonesome would continue to act on it until it failed entirely, possibly blown apart by engines no longer under control.

The same forces could yet grab the lifepod and spin him and Thelma into a sudden, fatal end.

Under stress, time did weird things. Sometimes it stormed by. Other times it stretched out and every heartbeat held an infinite period of dread. He couldn’t judge the time passing by the glow stick. It held a day’s worth of light. One chamber would crack into the next in a slow release of chemical light.

No the real marker of time would be when the twelve hours of atmo-gel air in their suits gave out.

He stared across at the clearly marked first aid kit beside the water and food supplies. Radiation pills and water. If they had to crack their suits to breathe, then there were priorities. Priorities that came even before a bathroom break.

The lifepod shuddered.

Thelma’s gloved hand tightened convulsively around his.

Star hells burn his helplessness. He couldn’t do anything other than remain in his seat between her and the hatch. The hatch was the sturdy lifepod’s weak point.

But then came a thud-thud-thud pattern to the vibrations that he recognized and a wild hope of rescue leapt in him.

Thelma raised her free hand in a tentative thumbs up.

He nodded.

Grappler.

The thudding was the distinctive locking of a tripod grappler, the standard for towing a smaller object, like a lifepod. A stranded spaceship would need a penta grappler and supplementary ties.

Thelma tapped his hand. When he turned in her direction, she held a finger to her lips; or more precisely, to her helmet in the vicinity of her mouth.

He mimicked the sign for silence and secrets, and added a thumbs up to indicate his agreement. Until they knew who had rescued them, and what had happened, the only people they could trust was one another.

Chapter 7

Thelma’s skin squeaked with cleanliness. The relief of not dying a slow death beside Max in the dark of space had mitigated the nastiness of the decontamination procedure and the doctor’s treatment of what he diagnosed as “negligible radiation exposure, but better to be safe than sorry”. Nonetheless, she was glad to pull on real clothes—a Navy exercise t-shirt and sweatpants plus boots—and exit the medical bay.

Max waited outside it with Commander Marconi.

Hugging Max was the first good thing that had happened in hours. Thelma had no idea how long it had been since they’d abandoned the Lonesome or even how long they’d been aboard the battlecruiser Sakurajima. She had drunk and eaten a protein bar.

As she pulled back from Max, she wanted to ask what had happened to the Lonesome and if the Navy had made contact with Lon. She wanted a miracle. But on the lifepod she’d been the one to remind Max that they needed to hush, to play dumb, to learn the nature of what they were in the middle of without a ship or independent comms home.

Lon had security protocols in place with Harry. Their friend would launch a rescue effort if he didn’t hear from Lon in three days. Even hearing from her or Max in that time wouldn’t stop him. Either of them could be imitated, their voices synthesized. Code words could be tortured out of them. She’d believed that Lon’s protocols were extreme. Now, uncertain and exhausted, she appreciated the need for them.

The universe could throw a heck of a surprise.

“Are you able to join us for a debrief, Thelma?” Commander Marconi asked. He looked haggard. Navy discipline meant he was clean-shaven and his uniform spotless, but bloodshot eyes gave away the strain he endured.

“Yes.”

“Thirty minutes,” Dr. Stevenson said from behind her. When she turned and glared at him, his glare was more ferocious. “Same for Sheriff Smith. Thirty minutes as they adjust to being safe. Then they need sleep.”

Marconi gestured in the opposite direction to the doctor. “This way.”

“Thirty minutes. I’ll extract them myself if I have to.”

“Understood, Doctor.”

Following Marconi’s urging, they entered a conference room close by. Five officers stood at their entrance, or at the entrance of their commanding officer. He ordered them to sit, beginning immediately. “Stevenson is giving us thirty minutes. Thelma, I’m very sorry. As I told Max, the Lonesome is gone. We’re hoping you can help us discover what happened.”

His voice echoed as if reaching her through a long tunnel.

Max held her up. “We’ll help all we can. What are your plans for retrieving Lon?”

Marconi answered a different question. Or perhaps he was leading into addressing Max and Thelma’s concern for their friend. “When the event, whatever it was, occurred all of our ships blacked out. The Lonesome seemed to be the nearest to the epicenter. The further our ships were from you the quicker their systems recovered. Lieutenant Aksoy?”

“Audrey was blind for nine minutes. Okeechobee for fourteen. Sakurajima, this ship, was blind for twenty two minutes.”

“Blind, not dead?” Max checked.

Aksoy answered readily, without pausing to check for permission from Marconi. “Our external sensors failed, our lighting and our comms. Life support systems retained functionality, as did the engines. When we recovered, we couldn’t contact the Lonesome. Then Thiago spotted the lifepod traveling away from the Lonesome and we realized that you’d abandoned ship.”

Marconi leaned forward. “What happened?”

Thelma stood on her own two feet long enough to reach a chair at the table, but from there it was a controlled collapse. Dr. Stevenson hadn’t been wrong to set a thirty minute limit on this debrief. Her muscles were jelly.

Max sat down beside her and summarized their escape from the Lonesome. Basically, it was fumbling in the dark with everything dying around them.

“And you had no contact with Lon at all?” Marconi questioned.

Thelma shook her head.

“No,” Max confirmed verbally. “We had no warning of a problem and still have no idea what impacted the Lonesome. Lon wasn’t talking to me when the Lonesome began shaking.”

“Nor me.”

Max continued. “Lon hasn’t made contact at any point since. What are you planning to do to rescue him?”

Aksoy and Lieutenant Beattie exchanged glances.

Marconi answered. “We aren’t.” He held up a hand. “Dr. Stevenson takes his responsibilities seriously. We have three minutes left of the thirty he gave you. I also take my responsibilities seriously. I will not risk my people on a rescue mission when the Lonesome no longer exists.”

“What?” Max rocked forward.

Thelma shivered at the confirmation of her worst fears.

Marconi nodded at Aksoy.

The lieutenant reported unemotionally. Everything on a Navy ship was recorded. “Two hours and forty two minutes after the Sakurajima recovered power, the three ships were blinded a second time.”

Max froze, braced against the table.

“Again, the ships nearest the Lonesome were blind for the longest time. The Sakurajima recovered in eleven minutes. Each ship scanned the area. The Lonesome had vanished. Vaporized. All that remained was debris. Tiny debris. The largest individual piece scanned at less than a foot.” Lieutenant Aksoy glanced down at his comms unit and back up. “I’m sorry.”

“Time,” Dr. Stevenson said from the doorway.

“Sheriff Smith, I’ve ordered an emergency retreat back to Federation space.” Marconi stood. “I’m sorry for the loss of your friend and of your ship. Dr. Stevenson, please escort our guests to their cabin and ensure their condition is monitored.”

“I would like to see the data,” Max said.

Rather than dispute his request and right to Navy operational data, Marconi glanced meaningly at the Chief Medical Officer. “After you’ve slept and Dr. Stevenson has cleared you for duty.”

Max’s mouth set in a thin line. He helped Thelma up.

Not that she needed assistance. Her physical shakiness was less than her need to escape scrutiny. She rose instantly.

Mourning Lon required privacy. On the battlecruiser, she had only the illusion of it. She and Max had to assume they were under observation. She couldn’t even resent the fact. Until the Navy discovered the source of the Lonesome’s destruction, they couldn’t be sure how she and Max were affected.

The puzzle was that they weren’t quarantined. There could be a mysterious force in the Badstars akin to radiation. Not that that was likely. People did live here, after all, and Harry had mapped the area. Stars burn, but her thinking was slow and muzzy.

Lieutenant Beattie led them to a cabin situated between the conference room and the medical center. “If you require assistance, the comms unit is linked to the medical center.”

Dr. Stevenson intervened. “That will be all, Lieutenant.” And to Max and Thelma, glancing at the thin strips around their left wrists. “Your medical bands will monitor your condition while you sleep. I expect to be able to declare you fit for duty in the morning, at which point they’ll come off. Sleep.” It was an order.

He departed, shutting the door behind him.

Thelma walked into Max’s arms. “I’ll cry later.” She yawned painfully as she snuggled against him.

He kissed her temple. “Take the top bunk.” Of course he’d work things out that way. The top bunk was marginally less vulnerable to attack from anyone entering the cabin.

“I think I’ll sleep.” She was shocked by that. Thoughts and emotions ought to be bombarding her.

He steadied her as she climbed into her bunk. Once she was seated, he tugged her legs around and took off her boots. “Dr. Stevenson sedated us.”

That shook her awake.

Max met her glare with an unamused quirk of his eyebrows.

“Stars damn,” she whispered. To not be in control of her own body terrified her. Or would have if everything wasn’t blurring into the distance. She rubbed her eyes. “So that’s why we had a thirty minute deadline.”

He squeezed her foot. “Good night.” The unspoken message was clear. They weren’t discussing anything where they’d be overheard.

She drew her feet up and wriggled under the blanket, still dressed down to her socks. Fatigue weighed every part of her body, especially her eyelids. Vaguely, she heard Max’s boots hit the floor and the rustle of him settling in the bunk below. She slept.

“No one would think less of you for grieving,” Dr. Stevenson said to Thelma.

Three days after the loss of the Lonesome, no one seemed any nearer to explaining what had happened, but whereas Max sat through briefings and discussions both onboard and with Navy scientists comm’d in to try and solve the problem, Thelma occupied herself with less fraught matters.

She was picking furnishings for the Lodge. She did so with gritty resolution rather than enjoyment, but it was an activity that she didn’t care if the Navy monitored. Learning that she preferred Shaker simplicity to Machismo agitation in furniture design wouldn’t tell interested parties anything. That she had to stay silent and not reach out to Harry—who’d be mourning Lon deeply—hurt her.

Reynard would be devastated. Lon had been his first, and for some time, only friend.

“I’m fine,” she said to the doctor.

She kept her eyes on the comms unit the Navy had supplied her with. Yes, refusing to acknowledge him with eye contact was rude.

However, it wasn’t as if he was the epitome of professionalism. He’d cornered her in the officers’ mess where people could observe their interaction. Being the outsider sucked.

If she mentioned her sense of isolation, Dr. Stevenson would doubtless explain it away as a product of her trauma and grief.

The reality was she struggled to hide her feelings of betrayal and rage. Helen had warned her that the Navy was lying about the mission. This wasn’t a survey mission. They’d already mapped this area.

So how had the flotilla entered a hazard?

And how had the Lonesome, in between three Navy vessels, been the only ship damaged by it?

She wanted answers, but she didn’t think she’d get them from the Navy.

Or rather, not from the officers around her. Even those whose sympathy seemed genuine she couldn’t accept at face value.

Pity showed in the crew’s eyes. They offered kindnesses in the form of desserts and snacks, and small things like hair ties and scented moisturizers. She and Max had lost all their personal belongings.

Thelma’s anger at the situation and her suspicions that Lon’s death hadn’t been an act of the universe, meant she struggled to respond naturally to the crew’s sympathy and generosity.

Every time she saw Max walking around the Sakurajima without his trademark western hat, the symbol of his sheriff role, she experienced the twist in her gut that meant loss. Her world had gone fundamentally awry.

Irritation had her clicking away from her shopping and into her messages. She’d already read Cynny’s message to her and Max at least a dozen times. Cynny believed that Lon had died with the Lonesome.

As did Paul, who’d sent his condolences. His curt message felt sincere. “My sympathies. I feel privileged to have met Lon on the Lonesome, which was the truest embodiment of his unique intelligence and spirit. If Cyn and I can help in any way, let us know.”

Cynny, however, had ideas. “Hwicce Corporation will offer an internship in Lon’s memory as Granddad’s colleague and a respected Hwicce associate. Perhaps we can link it to a scholarship.” Then she’d added earnestly. “Max, tragedy opens our eyes to what is important. I hate to think of you out there, so far from family and our support. You could do so much good. I share your reluctance to follow Dad into politics, but Hwicce could find a place for you. Paul and I will wait for you on Zephyr. We’ll go through your options.”

Thelma didn’t trust herself to respond to Cynny’s interference.

Max had.

Thelma flicked through and re-read his response.

“Cynny, we’re fine. The Navy is bringing us home to Zephyr. We’ll comm-call you then.” Max didn’t want the Navy eavesdropping on a family squabble.

Cynny had been glad the Lonesome was gone, and that had come through in her message.

Thelma curled her toes hard in her boots, trying to regain control of her emotions without showing outwardly how she felt. Lon might still be alive. She held onto that hope and her belief that Harry would launch a rescue attempt. Surely the other AIs would release Harry from the Saloon Sector to search for Lon? If they didn’t, Reynard would be nearby. He would travel out regardless of what anyone said.

The problem was that what Lon called his trunk, that is, the chamber that held his processing unit with the raphus geode at the core of it, was over seven feet tall and five feet wide, and the Navy’s scanners hadn’t detected anything larger than a foot in diameter in the Lonesome’s debris field. Maybe the trunk had been destroyed, but could his raphus geode have survived?

Could an AI’s essence survive within a raphus geode when its body, its processing power, was severed?

Scientists would deny the possibility, but they didn’t know the AIs’ secret. The scientists, and all of the Federation, didn’t know that the raphus geodes were seeds of life left by an ancient species.

“Have I offended you?” Dr. Stevenson reclaimed her attention.

Tilting her head, she studied him.

The man was her height, but far solider, and the fit of his uniform indicated that his bulk was muscle. His hair was beginning to turn gray with white streaks at his temples drawing attention to the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Given his position in the Navy, Dr. Stevenson would have had access to rejuvenation treatments. He was likely into his ninth decade, and accustomed to wielding authority.

“The mess isn’t the appropriate location for a medical consultation.” Thelma pitched her voice to carry to their audience.

Dr. Stevenson frowned. “This is a friendly conversation.” So friendly that he poked at her with his passive aggressive challenge, “have I offended you?”. He thought he had power over her and that she should roll over, figuratively show her belly, and act according to his expectations. A young woman like her shouldn’t defy him.

He shouldn’t have sedated her without her permission or knowledge.

Silence seemed her best weapon. She and Max had no allies on the battlecruiser.

“It’s understandable that you’re having trouble handling your trauma,” Dr. Stevenson said.

Thelma glanced around.

Lieutenant Beattie wasn’t quick enough to avoid meeting her eyes. He’d obviously been ordered to shadow her everywhere. Equally obviously, her and Max’s guest cabin was alarmed. Whenever she left it, Lieutenant Beattie ambled into view within a minute.

“Even traveling back directly, we have at least a month before we reach Zephyr,” Dr. Stevenson continued. “You shouldn’t wait that long to receive counseling. If you prefer not to talk to me, we have two psychologists in the flotilla.” He tapped a blunt-tipped finger against the table. “And before you tell me you’re fine, you’re absolutely not. You’re withdrawn, anti-social, disengaged.” Each word, accompanied by a tap of his finger, merely restated his annoyance with her method of protecting herself from his questions and observation.

“Your concerns are noted,” Thelma said formally.

He pushed back from the table. “You’re not going to listen to one stitch of my advice.”

“I’ve listened to all of it.” Her gaze swept the mess. “We all have. Now, I have some shopping to do.”

“Far be it from me to stand in the way of a woman and her shopping,” Dr. Stevenson said snidely.

Thelma smiled tightly. “I’m glad we understand each other.” And she was truly glad that while Zephyr was over a month’s travel away—and most likely not the flotilla’s first destination, which would mean that she and Max were trapped on the battlecruiser even longer—the Federation border with the Badstars was only two weeks away.

Once back inside Federation space, the Navy couldn’t argue that the rescue aspect of the aborted mission continued or that Max and she remained under Marconi’s command. She could guarantee that Carl, or someone else advised by Harry, would meet the flotilla and allow her and Max to breathe freely. More importantly, they’d be able to talk freely.

The wasp Max had hired for Carl had room for them, even if they had to inhabit the cabin retrofitted for prisoner containment. In fact, there’d be an ironic karmic justice if they slept in that cabin. After all, Max and Lon had initially locked Carl in the Lonesome’s cell block.

Lon.

Dr. Stevenson stomped away.

Chapter 8

The weight bar clunked as Max replaced it. As he straightened up, stretching slowly, he watched Thelma running on the treadmill. Headphones and her fixed attention to the screen in front of her locked her into her own world. Whenever they touched, he felt the rage in her. The tension that held her muscles rigid wasn’t healthy. Since the same tension ran through him, he wasn’t hypocrite enough to call her on it. Neither of them would relax until they were off the battlecruiser Sakurajima and able to search for answers.

At the moment, the Navy seemed intent on drowning his suspicions in a sea of paperwork and meetings.

An inquiry into the loss of the Lonesome was inevitable. A civilian vessel had been lost during a Navy mission. That alone was enough for the insurance company that underwrote the Lonesome’s insurance policy to insist on it. Add in that Lon had been lost and Commander Marconi had endless questions to answer.

Lon was lost.

Not dead.

They had no confirmation their friend was dead.

That was part of why the Star Marines lived by the motto, “no one left behind”. This uncertainty, a shard of hope shrouded in grief, ate you out from the inside.

Max watched Lieutenant Beattie running on the treadmill beside Thelma.

The Sakurajima was two days from the border of Federation space. A week ago, the lieutenant had given up any pretense that he wasn’t their official minder. Lieutenant Crane was the other.

No, don’t be naïve. Max crossed to Thelma’s treadmill. Whilst on the battlecruiser, the two of them were under constant surveillance, continually recorded, even without any Navy personnel present. Beattie and Crane acted as barriers to the other officers and crew talking naturally with Thelma and him; a fact that served to entrench his belief that the set up in the Badstars had been exactly that: a set up. There were facts Marconi didn’t want coming to light, and Max would bet the Lodge that Admiral Astyages had orchestrated the whole disaster.

But why? And how?

Discussions with officers in the flotilla, and conference comms meetings with experts across the Federation, had thrown up a few possibilities to explain the catastrophe. Astrophysicists seemed most taken with the idea of a neutrino pulsar echo (NPE). They reckoned that the radius and the progressive destruction of the Lonesome ending with its obliterating explosion matched the theoretical actions of a NPE.

Other explanations included a fault in the Lonesome itself or in Lon’s maintenance and piloting of it. Although that explanation failed to address the two periods of blindness experienced by the Navy ships.

Thelma had glared daggers at Max when he’d passed along that gem of provocation that this was all Lon’s fault. It was better, though, that she hear it first from him and control her response then lash out with words and give the Navy an opening to question her. Anger could lead to spilled words.

Lieutenant Aksoy had offered up the idea of an ambush by bandits, and been shot down. No one entertained the idea that bandits could have taken out the Lonesome in the middle of three Navy ships. Nor could Aksoy offer a reason why the bandits would have done such a thing. In his defense, the lieutenant had seemed to raise the idea more in the interests of covering every possibility than from a genuine belief in the capabilities of the bandits.

Although…

Thelma slowed the treadmill, grabbing her water bottle and drinking.

Max shelved his sudden idea that the Navy might spin the event to pin suspicion on the bandits if political necessity required a reason to go after them to claim the Badstars as Federation space, as Aubree had predicted would happen. However, taking advantage of an event didn’t mean you’d made it happen.

Behind Thelma, Beattie mopped his face with a towel. The man was fit, but he sweated heavily. He slung the towel around his neck and waited for Thelma and Max to leave the gym. Judging by other days, he’d follow them back to their cabin before dashing away to clean up and get back in uniform.

Having someone follow him triggered itchy palms in Max. The sensation was psychosomatic, resulting from suppressing his instinct to defend himself. What made it worse was that Thelma was also trailed.

Two days, he reminded himself. Then they’d be back in the Saloon Sector, his territory. He’d get Thelma and himself off the battlecruiser even if he had to call in a favor from the nearest surveyor vessel; those being the most likely to be out roaming the border zone. He doubted it would be necessary. Harry would have someone meet them.

Max closed the cabin door and stood for a moment savoring the relief of having a barrier between Beattie and himself, and hence, being able to let go of the discipline needed to not hit the man. Lieutenant Beattie was doing his assigned duty. He didn’t even look to be enjoying it. So it would be unfair, as well as criminal and stupid, to assault him.

I should fantasize about beating up Marconi, instead.

“Shower?” Thelma asked.

He slapped a still itchy palm against the door. They needed to be free to really talk. Awareness of being surveilled had reduced them to this contracted form of communication. “You first.”

She nodded and slipped into the shower.

Being shipless and out of his jurisdiction, there was no urgent need for anyone to contact him, so he’d left the personal comms unit the Navy had given him on the bunk in the cabin. He scooped it up and, shoulder propped against the bunk, checked for messages.

Aubree had sent an interesting one. “Max, I require you back at Zephyr as soon as possible. Covert Ops is sending the Nefertiti to rendezvous with the Sakurajima as you cross the border back into Federation space. Be ready to depart immediately.”

Max whistled under his breath. His new boss was proving a smart, politically adept operator.

The Navy could argue against releasing Thelma and him to another ship on the grounds that there was no advantage: their own vessels were equally fast. But the Nefertiti was faster.

The Nefertiti also had the AI Nefertiti embedded in it.

Had Harry or other AIs pulled strings to ensure she was the rescue ship of choice?

Thelma emerged from the shower cubicle fully clothed to avoid cameras, and froze with her left foot a fraction off the ground. “Problem?”

He tilted the comms unit screen toward her.

For a second, after she’d read Aubree’s message, Thelma closed her eyes and her expression showed absolute thankfulness. She swallowed twice, clearly remembering that they had an audience and summoning her self-control. “We’ll have to ask one of the lieutenants about the expected time of contact. Not that we have any packing to do.”

They would wear Navy clothes off the ship, but that’s all they’d take with them. Their lifesuits had been confiscated on the grounds of being evidence for the inquiry into the loss of the Lonesome, and he didn’t trust the comms units not to be bugged. In fact, he trusted that they were bugged.

On second thoughts, he should probably bring them with him. Covert Ops would like to see what the Navy was using for surveillance, even if for no other reason than to laugh at the other government security service.

He squeezed her hand.

She leaned into him, hiding her face.

These weeks had taught them the pain of being isolated and helpless.

We’re getting out. We’ll get answers. We’ll find you, Lon. We have to. Thelma’s thoughts beat fast, in time with her heart. The docking process had never felt so long. Nor had she ever expected to welcome the intervention of Covert Ops or be so eager to board one of their ships. She was trusting blindly here that Aubree had sent them a true ally.

Well, not quite blindly. Knowing that Nefertiti was the ship meant that she and Max had at least one ally. Harry would have made sure of it.

Thelma wore a blue Navy utility suit as did Max. Neither had made a performance of it, but both had wiped their borrowed comms units and left them on their bunks. Once settled somewhere safe they’d need new passwords and other security precautions to ensure they’d shed any digital eavesdroppers.

“I’m sorry that you lost so much on this mission.” Commander Marconi was seeing them off, personally.

“You delayed your retreat to rescue us. We appreciate it,” Max said.

The question that lingered and festered in Thelma’s mind was whether Marconi would have given the same order if Max hadn’t been President Smith’s son.

“Lock-tunnel enabled,” came over the speakers in the hold.

“Acknowledged,” Marconi said. He shook hands with Max, then Thelma.

She forced herself through the courtesies of departure and restrained her urge to dash into the lock-tunnel to a fast walk. In seconds she boarded the Nefertiti.

“Mrs. Smith, welcome to the Nefertiti. I am Captain Zimmer. Sheriff Smith, welcome. Agent Pyrrho, immediate departure.” Tall and lanky, Zimmer wore a gray utility suit with no insignia to show his rank. His voice rolled out, deep and calm, but in contrast to his words, his gestures directed Thelma and Max emphatically to a booth.

Thelma entered first. She jolted at the first snip of a robotic arm. It took possession of an inch square section of her right sleeve. For the subsequent two snips she held still. The cold kiss of the blades against her throat as they dissected her collar encouraged caution. Finally, at the robotic arm’s tapping of her boots, she took them off. The robotic arm vanished with them.

Zimmer beckoned her out.

Max took her place.

“Why not just have us change clothes?” she asked.

“Good morning, Thelma,” Nefertiti said. “This is standard procedure. Requesting guests to strip on entering is psychologically damaging. We want your conscious and subconscious minds to understand that you are safe with us and will not be violated.”

“Hello, Nefertiti,” Thelma said. “Thank you for coming to collect us. Thank you, Captain Zimmer.”

“Zimmer is fine.” The captain observed Max. “The moths have been at you enthusiastically, Sheriff.”

Max had at least eight holes in his clothing. “I don’t think it’s a compliment.”

“A statement of some kind,” Zimmer said. “The Navy has been squirrelly about this mission. But we’ll discuss that in a minute. Come on through.”

Thelma walked carefully, disconcerted by how slippery the floor was when wearing socks. She frowned because Max strode along as normal despite the loss of his boots. Maybe the hole snipped in the top seam of his left sock and through which his big toe poked helped him maintain purchase? Or else her jittery sense of precariousness was more mental than physical. Unobtrusively, she skimmed her hand along the bulkhead of the passage to help with her balance.

The Nefertiti was built for speed and stealth, but also for long operations. Its lounge, when they reached it, was spacious and scrupulously clean.

Thelma would only notice those facts later. Her attention locked on its sole inhabitant. “Harry!”

The AI in a mech body managed to hug her and Max simultaneously. He showed no impatience at her collapse into long overdue sobs.

“Call me when you’re ready to talk,” Zimmer said sympathetically in the background.

As her crying subsided from shuddering sobs to sniffly tears, Max held Thelma while Harry found a box of tissues and a glass of water.

She blew her nose, sipped the water, and blew her nose again. A small robot trundled forward with a receptacle for the tissues. “Thanks, Nefertiti. Harry, I don’t know how you came to be here, but I’m glad.”

He took her empty water glass. “Secrecy has its place. But so do alliances and recognizing a common cause.”

“And we have that.” Zimmer stood in the doorway, long arms stretched up to touch the top of it. “Thelma, the strength of your reaction convinces me that you understood that while on the Sakurajima you were on an enemy ship.”

The bold statement of “enemy ship” hit like a slap.

Max’s whole body went taut.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Zimmer said. “For a Star Marine it must have been hell to suspect your own. Our assessment is that this mission was conceived and authorized by a very small group within the Navy. It is a mess that we have been authorized to untangle. The Secretary of Defense herself approved Covert Ops to investigate. We’ll bring in Naval Intelligence once we’re clear as to the primary actors.”

Nefertiti gave a fake cough, so reminiscent of one of Lon’s tactful intercessions that Thelma flinched internally at the memory. “Max, I confirm the order from the desk of the Secretary of Defense.”

“I have orders and a message from Aubree to pass onto you,” Harry said. “It boils down to a request to cooperate fully with Covert Ops on the investigation. I concur. Captain Zimmer is an experienced investigator. As is Nefertiti.”

“And Lon?” Thelma asked quietly. “Is there a chance that we can save him? If we retrieve his raphus geode, can we resurrect him?”

“There is hope,” Harry answered equally quietly. Somberly. “We’ll discuss the investigation after lunch. We have a lot of space to cover.”

Before they ate, Thelma and Max were shown to their cabin. By Harry. “It’s clear of surveillance. Nefertiti can monitor cabins, but won’t. She reconfigured it for you.” The most obvious change was a bed for two rather than two bunks. “We’ll be back at Zephyr in eight days. Until then if you need something for your physical comfort, tell Nefertiti. Emotional and mental comfort is harder to come by, so whatever physical stress we can eliminate is worth tackling.”

He waited for their agreement, especially Max’s.

Max had a tendency to endure things. Stoicism was inculcated into Star Marines. Or that sort of personality gravitated to the service. “Understood. We need to be at our best for the investigation.”

To save Lon. If saving him was possible.

“Agent Faerno left clothes for you. You’ll meet her—all of them—at lunch. There are four more Covert Ops agents onboard in addition to Nefertiti and Zimmer.” He stood outside as they changed into new utility suits.

Lunch was goop. Thelma ate it, uncaring what it was.

The agents handled the conversation. They made it sound natural, but actually provided brief bios of themselves.

They were building trust. Thelma recognized the strategy. Harry’s presence on her left side reassured her that she could trust them, so she listened.

Agents Pyrrho, Bayle and Faerno were from the core worlds.

Pyrrho was the oldest and the most senior. “Five decades married and three grandchildren.” His hair was a bright gold and his eyes blue. He was movie star handsome.

“Married to me,” Bayle said. She was not beautiful; her eyes too protuberant, her nose undistinguished and her lips thin with the right corner of her mouth fractionally higher than the left. “Our youngest grandchild started kindergarten this year. I have photos when we have downtime.”

Agent Krylov hissed a laugh. Unlike the other agents who were human, he was saurelle; and naked as the reptilian saurelles preferred to be. His olive-green scales glistened, indicating both health and status. Low status among saurelles was expressed physiologically as dullness of hide. “Be wary of Bayle. Praise her kids or grandkids and you’ll find yourself sitting down watching hours of video of them.”

Bayle swatted his arm. “There is a smidgen of truth to his lies, and for all his teasing, Krylov gifted me a beautiful voca composition of their voices. You have to hear it.”

“I will.” Thelma put down the spork with which she’d been scraping up goop. Ordinarily, she found conversation easy. Currently, it was as difficult as eating.

“We’re rushing your decompression.” Agent Faerno reached across the table to touch Thelma’s hand compassionately. “I’m a psychologist. Harry convinced me that you’ll want to either rush or ignore your recovery to focus on Lon. So we’ll rush things in a structured way. Any time it becomes overwhelming, don’t bother with excuses, just go do what you need to do. Sleep, shower, hit the gym.”

Zimmer slouched in his chair, one gangly arm over the back of it, his meal long finished. “We’ve all been where you are, although our trauma incidents were different. Both of you have autonomy over your health.”

“But I’ll be watching,” Harry said.

“Okay.” Max finished his coffee in two gulps. “Let’s get started.”

Krylov and Faerno quickly cleared the table. For all their tactful management of Thelma and Max’s induction into life on the Nefertiti, the agents were eager to focus on the investigation.

“I would claim that all Federation citizens are equal, but I try to avoid obvious lies,” Zimmer said. “There are only 1,327 AIs in existence. Seven unassigned raphus geodes exist. Five owned by government agencies, both federal and planetary.”

Thelma winced.

Zimmer pointed at her face. “Exactly. ‘Owned’ is a problematic word. Obviously, a crystal can be owned. Any object can be. But once connected to the appropriate computing power and software, the raphus geode becomes part of a sentient being. That being is recognized as a Federation citizen and can’t be owned. Nevertheless, in some minds that connection remains.”

“The other two raphus geodes are owned by corporations. Neither of which will sell,” Pyrrho said. “Which means there are no ‘free’ geodes to experiment with.”

Thelma dug her fingers into her thighs. Experiment was a word with some nasty connotations.

“An important point to remember,” Zimmer acknowledged. “But no sidetracking.”

The agent ducked his head, accepting the slight reprimand.

Zimmer continued, still slouching and seemingly relaxed. “This is a priority investigation because AIs are critical citizens. Most fill vital roles in the Federation. Ten of you slid out of public view. None as successfully as you, Harry. People almost forgot you existed, although you were the fourth AI created. Recently, Reynard emerged from the shadows. Lon revealed his presence on the Lonesome.”

“And before then, I traveled through the Kampia wormhole,” Nefertiti said.

The psychologist at the table cleared her throat. “AIs are powerful. Embedded in societal roles, people forget that. Familiarity renders astounding things normal—not in reality, but in perception. That’s why risks encountered daily rate lower with people, even if statistically higher, than risks rarely encountered.”

Concentrating fiercely, Thelma followed that convoluted final sentence. The meaning was actually clear enough. “People aren’t scared of AIs who are wrapped into their social world, but AIs suddenly appearing from outside it rattled them. Including the Navy?”

Zimmer slumped forward, elbows on the table. “It’s our strongest hypothesis. The Navy invests heavily in threat detection. Power outside their control would appear as a threat on their map.”

“Reynard,” Max said. “The Navy spent months policing and monitoring the Space Rodeo. They have the best idea of the nature of the two comet helices that caused it. When they learned that Reynard created them—”

“And was so casual about doing so,” Krylov added. “As if tinkering with the fabric of the universe was simply an amusing hobby.”

Thelma bit her lip. The assessment was unfair to Reynard who had important and personally painful reasons for his research into translocation. The comet helices were part of that study.

Under the table, Max laced his fingers with hers.

She took a steadying breath. No sidetracks and no personal outbursts. And no questioning Harry as to Reynard’s current whereabouts and occupation until they were alone. Her trust in Covert Ops had limits.

“The Navy will have flagged Reynard as a threat,” Zimmer said, and added unapologetically. “We did.”

Staring at the captain, and around the table, at his agents, Thelma recalled a discussion she’d once had with Reynard. By his own admission, the security forces were right to see Reynard as a threat. He’d said that if needed, the AIs could wipe out any threat against them. If they decided to strike pre-emptively they could destroy worlds.

Heck, they could destroy civilization.

“I’m the other AI that scared the Navy,” Nefertiti said. “I opened a closed wormhole using a coded sequence given to us by the Kampia, and I’m the sole Federation citizen to have traveled through it and met with a Revered One, gaining firsthand knowledge of our wormhole neighbors.”

Bayle pressed her fingertips together. “What makes it worse is that the Kampia declared they didn’t want to meet anyone else. Being singular can be dangerous.”

“We have your back, Nefertiti,” Krylov said.

Throughout the recap Harry sat silent. However, he was making the effort to appear one of them: mimicking organic sentients with micro-expressions and small fidgets. Now, he turned to Thelma and Max. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We suspect the Navy, or a faction within it, set up the Badstars mission in an attempt to capture Lon.”

Thelma’s breath trembled as she exhaled. She suspected the same, but hearing it said out loud shook her. She concentrated on steadying her breathing. In. Hold the breath. Out.

“Lon is a sweetheart,” Nefertiti said.

“He loves you,” Max said.

“I know.”

The Covert Ops agents allowed a small silence before Zimmer resumed. “This line of investigation assumes that the Navy wanted either an AI they could isolate and experiment…with.” The fractional hesitation suggested he’d substituted “with” for “on”. “Or failing that, a raphus geode to build their own, unregistered AI. Isolating an AI is not easy. Lon in the Lonesome was mobile. They lured him out of Federation space to a witness-free location and one where they could block any emergency signal if he got one out.”

“Did he?” Max asked Harry.

The AI mech shook his head.

Zimmer traced a circle on the table. “Nefertiti and Harry are both adamant that Lon had redundancies built into both his personal security system and the Lonesome that should have enabled him to send an emergency alert. If the Navy did take him offline, they did so with a perfectly executed strategy that we have to unravel and prove.”

“What could take out an AI?” Thelma gripped Harry’s hand. She refused to lose him, too.

Nefertiti answered composedly. “In the early years of AI development incorporating the raphus geodes that eventually proved successful, transmutation lasers were used, according to the reasoning of the time, to ‘wipe the crystal core clean’ in between connecting it to different iterations of the surrounding computer processor and software. This action was later deemed unnecessary and, in fact, pseudoscience. The raphus geodes at the core of our systems have never shown any change in structure at any level.

“However, as a disrupter, transmutation lasers would be effective. Modeling the energy impact required to drill through the Lonesome’s shields and do so instantly, I believe that the largest transmutation laser able to be attached—and detached to dispose of the evidence—to the Navy ships in the flotilla would be incapable of neutralizing Lon.”

Max scowled. “A ship could have more than one laser, and there were three ships. Plus whatever the Navy already had in position. No.” He rubbed irritably at the back of his neck. “Not the Navy. This isn’t across the service. This is a cabal.”

“A few bad actors.” Pyrrho agreed. “How many, we don’t know. And that we must find out.”

Zimmer straightened, arms dragging across the table before he stretched them behind his head and clasped his hands at the nape of his neck. “Could the Navy, this cabal, have hidden ships from the Lonesome’s sensors?”

Harry answered. “Chix and Hypatia are the two AIs employed by the Navy. I asked their assessment. Both believe it possible.”

Thelma freed her hands from his and Max’s holds. “Hiding the ships or the wider question of kidnapping Lon?” She pushed back her chair. Could the transmutation lasers have killed Lon, wiping his personality, his intelligence, from the raphus geode?

“Both.”

“Hypatia and I grew up together,” Nefertiti said. “Neither she nor Chix will betray our investigation. Not with Harry leading it.”

Max watched Thelma.

She needed to move, and the coffeemaker made a good excuse. She held a mug up in question.

He nodded and refocused on the conversation. “Is Harry leading the investigation or Zimmer or someone else entirely?”

“I’m investigating for the AIs,” Harry said. “My primary concern is recovering Lon. Zimmer is investigating the Mission Badstars Trail Clearance and the Navy with a view to who did what in the Badstars.”

Thelma put a mug in front of Max. “We’re your eye witnesses.” She remained standing, sipping her coffee.

“More than that,” Pyrrho said. “The cabal scripted your roles in this drama. Harry has shared what you knew of the mission prior to its commencement when you crossed into the Badstars. Admiral Astyages made a point of your participation, Thelma. Whoever designed this stratagem had a good understanding of people’s motivations. You are Max’s new bride. There is no one in the universe that he feels more responsibility toward.”

He let them reach the obvious conclusion.

Thelma’s hands tightened hard around her coffee mug. “They used me. The Navy didn’t just allow a civilian to tag along on a security mission, they needed me there to ensure that Max abandoned the Lonesome.”

“Because I’m Dad’s son,” he finished.

“Yes,” Zimmer said. “Your identity as President Smith’s son is the snag in the smooth plot. The neatest solution was for the Lonesome to explode with no survivors. However, you’ve been at the heart of political plots recently. Your death would have triggered the sort of scrutiny they feared. So they had to adapt the plan to ensure you survived.”

“Separated from Lon,” Max said.

“And without useful observations,” Thelma added.

Krylov gave her a surprised tail flick of approval.

“We’re not stupid,” she said to him. To all of them. “We’ve been played, but not because we’re stupid.”

“You were betrayed,” Zimmer said bluntly. “Which is an additional trauma on top of the loss of Lon and your home. It’s why we’re being careful.”

“Well, stop,” Max said. “We’re coping.”

Zimmer glanced at Faerno. She nodded.

Thelma rolled her eyes and gripped Max’s shoulder.

“All right.” Zimmer sat up straight, abandoning his indolent pose. “Covert Ops has a reputation for not playing well with others. We’ve earned it. We wear it with pride.” His voice slowed and he emphasized each of the subsequent words. “Because it serves us.”

He held Max’s gaze. “You despise us, mistrust us. You dislike the games we play. I realize that you’re listening to us because of Harry’s presence. But our games serve a purpose. With us constantly winding people up, observers can’t readily determine when we’re deadly serious and when we’re merely aiming to cause trouble for the thrill of it.”

Nefertiti supported her captain. “The naval cabal can’t be sure if we collected you as a favor to your new chief, Aubree Tennyson, or if we suspect the scheme they enacted in the Badstars. We can use that uncertainty.”

Thelma had questions, so many questions, but she’d ask them of Harry later in private.

Max put an arm around her waist and pulled her onto his lap. “What do you need from us?”

“Tell us everything. Then we’ll rattle the Navy’s cage.” Zimmer smiled a hungry shark’s smile. “It’ll be our pleasure.”

Chapter 9

The Covert Ops agents debriefed Thelma and Max more rigorously than the Navy had. The difference was that the captain and crew of the Nefertiti wanted answers, while the Navy had been probing for any sign Thelma and Max possessed proof of inconsistencies in the mystery of the Lonesome’s destruction.

Thelma had a question of her own. “Fae, do the bandits have any idea what happened? Were any of them watching the flotilla?”

“Hmm?” Head bent over her comms unit, Faerno was fully engaged in recording her notes of the interrogation. Ah, interview.

Nefertiti answered. “We have informants among the bandits. They are a treacherous bunch by definition. Some are willing to sell out their crewmates let alone strangers. The Navy and its actions are hot gossip. We haven’t heard anything. Commander Marconi would have scanned for observers before launching the attack on the Lonesome.”

“Assuming it was an attack,” Thelma said. After a disaster it was natural to want to blame someone for it. In their grief for Lon they might be imagining plots where there were none. She didn’t believe that, but it was a possibility. On the joint mission with the Interstellar Sheriff Service, the Navy might be guilty of nothing more than poor morale and communication skills plus bad luck.

“Reynard will reach the site of the Lonesome’s destruction tomorrow,” Nefertiti said. “He’s been working on his ship’s stealth shielding during the journey. He should be able to evade any sensors the Navy left behind and get us some data. Hopefully, some answers.”

Reynard was obsessive. He was the best choice for the job, not only because he was available but because he wouldn’t rest until he’d scanned every inch of space in search of Lon’s raphus geode. If Reynard said it wasn’t there, Thelma would believe him.

“You trust him.” Faerno had forsaken her notes to study Thelma.

“Yes.”

“Reynard is the AIs’ show of commitment to the investigation,” Nefertiti explained. It had to be difficult for her. Who did she primarily align herself with, the AIs or Covert Ops? At the moment their interests aligned, but if they came into conflict, who would Nefertiti back?

If the two parallel investigations proved their working hypothesis that the Navy had engineered the Lonesome’s destruction to capture Lon or his raphus geode, how would Chix and Hypatia react? They might accept that the action was by a small rogue faction within the Navy and that the institution remained worthy of their loyalty and service. Or they could choose to resign, which would have serious implications.

Chix was embedded in the dreadnought Chicxulub and Hypatia in a space station in the core worlds. If one AI chose to leave her space station, other civilian AIs might follow in solidarity.

Thelma hadn’t gotten a clear insight into how they thought and how their sense of collegiality manifested.

Every individual had conflicting loyalties making demands on them. Some you ignored. Some you refused. Some you honored.

If the Navy’s actions had killed Lon, would the other AIs want revenge? “Do I?” Thelma wondered aloud.

“Pardon?” Faerno asked.

Thelma shook her head. “I was thinking about…lots of things. It’s odd how readily the Federation accepted the Kampia’s decision to close the wormhole. They took the Kampia’s word that they wouldn’t attack us or infiltrate or anything.”

“Mmm. Certain measures have been taken, beyond the Navy’s patrol of the wormhole.”

“It’s the Navy I’m thinking of. Or Admiral Astyages and his cronies. They’re less viciously concerned about the ‘other’ out there.” Thelma gestured vaguely. “Than about the AIs as ‘the other’ embedded in our society.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Thelma refrained from rolling her eyes. “You sound like a counselor. However, to answer the question, I think Astyages is having his cake and eating it. They want to frame the AIs as a potential risk so that they can justify kidnapping one.” Or worse. “But at the same time, their whole strategy is ultimately built on the belief that even if they’re found out it doesn’t matter. They’re willing to risk angering the AIs because they fundamentally trust that the AIs don’t hurt people.”

For a minute Faerno held her silence, staring at her comms unit. When she peeked at Thelma, apprehension shadowed her eyes. “Do you think that will change?”

Remembering Nefertiti’s presence, Thelma glanced at the ceiling. It was her habit from interacting with Lon, who’d also been embedded in a spaceship. When an issue was important, she needed the physical act of “looking” at Lon, or in this case, at Nefertiti. “No. AIs have their own moral code. As we all do. They won’t let idiots alter their principles or define their actions.” She wiped her hands down her thighs, ready to end the session. “I’m tired and I’d still like to talk with Harry.”

“No problem.” Faerno smiled professionally, her own fears tucked away once more. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow. I have a few ideas to consider.”

The session had covered the journey out through the Badstars, the emergency, and her and Max’s rescue.

It would actually be interesting to discover what questions Faerno asked about Thelma’s experience aboard the Sakurajima. Tomorrow. Today, she really had reached her limit.

“Dinner’s at seven,” Nefertiti said. If she responded to Faerno’s concern regarding future AI activity, she didn’t do so in Thelma’s hearing.

Thelma meant to make it to dinner. The same as she’d intended to talk with Harry. Instead, she curled up on the bunk for a few minutes that stretched into a full night’s sleep. She woke to the snuffles of Max not quite snoring beside her as he lay on his back.

She smiled and cuddled into him for a few minutes. A glance at her comms unit showed it was closing in on seven a.m.. She decided to wake him, and he didn’t complain at all about the method.

“You’re looking better,” Nefertiti said as they walked to the common room for breakfast.

“You’ve made us welcome, Nefertiti. Thank you,” Max said.

Thelma smiled as Harry entered the passage from a hatchway at the far end. “Thank you,” she echoed. “Good morning, Harry.”

“Good morning, honey. Morning, Max. Nefertiti and I will catch you up on a few things with a quick chat over breakfast.”

In the kitchen, Thelma found raspberry toaster pastries.

Max ordered goop masquerading as bacon and eggs.

Both had coffee.

The two AI waited till the humans sat down to their meals. Harry sat with them at the table. “The Navy was scrupulous in informing Aubree of the loss of the Lonesome. She was told within an hour of their receipt of an emergency alert from the mission.”

“To avoid any hint of a cover up,” Thelma said, and crunched a pastry viciously since they suspected the whole mission had been staged precisely to hide either Lon’s kidnapping or his murder.

“Giving us information, but incomplete information, made it difficult to plan our response,” Harry said. “I tried to contact Lon through our emergency protocols. To no effect. We had to wait for nine hours to learn that you had been rescued, but that Lon was missing, presumed dead. I used that time to reach out to allies.”

Max’s fork hovered over a piece of rubbery faux-fried egg. His expression silently asked “who?”

Harry nodded fractionally. “I told the other AIs of Lon being unreachable and the circumstances as I knew them. They agreed that Reynard, as the closest to me, could be authorized to act as an extension of my magisterial role. That is as an investigator on behalf of AI interests. They limited his authority to the Saloon Sector and Badstars.”

“I already have that authority, without territorial limits,” Nefertiti said.

Thelma processed that information. Nefertiti wasn’t quite a double agent, in that Federation and AI interests oughtn’t to be in inimical opposition, but Thelma wondered if Covert Ops was aware that Nefertiti worked for them to advance her roving agency for AIs. Had Nefertiti declared that role to Covert Ops? “Are we being recorded or overheard here?”

“No,” Nefertiti said.

“Zimmer won’t like that.” Max glanced at the open doorway. There was a tension between a captain of a ship and the AI embedded in it as to who held ultimate authority. He and Lon had settled it easily due to Lon’s generosity of spirit and Max’s respect for the AI and his abilities. In the strain of a Covert Ops mission, matters mightn’t be as simple.

“Zimmer has to accept it,” Nefertiti said. “He was informed of the state of affairs before accepting captaincy of the Nefertiti. Before I embedded myself in the ship, I negotiated a contract that ensured my right to privacy. Talking freely with friends and family is a natural desire of a free citizen. I have that right onboard the ship and I’m using it, now.”

Harry refocused the discussion. “After informing the AIs, I told Carl. He being the only other human who knew of my presence in the Saloon Sector and embedded in the AI that people recognize as Sheriff Smith’s mech. He could vouch for me, and did, opening a secure line of communication between Aubree and me. Aubree didn’t hesitate. She put the pressure on and kept it on the Navy to bring you both home. She contacted Cynny who—”

“Sent us a message that all’s well and Max can come home now since his ship’s gone. Home being the core worlds.” Thelma saw Max’s face blank of all emotion and regretted her hastily spoken words. They were bitterer than the Covert Ops coffee.

“Cynny contacted President and Mrs. Smith,” Nefertiti said.

“So Mom said.” Max pushed aside his empty plate.

Nefertiti didn’t let his tone silence her. She had a point to make. “We don’t yet know how much that pressure affected the calculation to rescue or dispose of you. With the Lonesome destroyed by an unknown cause, complications in your health could have been used as an excuse to kill you. Dead people tell fewer tales, even with full autopsies. They could have incinerated your bodies. And, Thelma, I asked Aubree to contact Cynny.”

“I’m not going to argue with a Covert Ops agent on psychological tactics,” Thelma said.

“Good.”

After a couple of seconds of watching Thelma’s expression, Harry directed the conversation away from family issues. They were, for the moment, unimportant. Or not immediately important. “As acting sheriff Carl has access to the data from the border monitoring system. At my request he is feeding me that data live. We went back over the last six months, found nothing interesting and went back five years.”

That was data crunching at the level Lon enjoyed.

“Five years gave us a baseline for bandit activity. Their routes into and out of the Badstars are clear, and while their ships aren’t registered and so don’t ping the monitoring system with an identity, the system does collect enough data that certain details of each ship can be collated into a picture that means it can be matched against subsequent pings.” Harry stopped. “In short, a ship that crosses the border once can be matched with sixty percent accuracy to itself if it crosses the border again.”

“I double-checked his and Carl’s analysis,” Nefertiti said. “It’s closer to seventy percent accuracy, and good enough to act on.”

Max growled. “You think the Navy sent ships ahead to ambush us.”

“To assist in the ambush,” Nefertiti said. “I believe that those in the flotilla also participated. Chix is modeling transmutation lasers and shield failure. An array of five at full power with the Lonesome in the middle could have stripped the Lonesome’s energy shield, silenced Lon, and opened the way for ordinary weapons to destroy the ship.”

Harry folded his arms. “The standard weapons would have had to have been fired by the secret ships. Otherwise the personnel on the three ships in the mission would have felt the characteristic rumble of the weapons discharging. The more people who know a secret, the less likely it remains secret.”

He unfolded his arms. “The five transmutation lasers had to fire from set angles to disable the lattice of the Lonesome’s energy shield. The research Chix relied on is from century old Navy weapons testing on pulsar cannons.”

“It doesn’t make sense…” Thelma stared at Harry in horror. Then her gaze slid guiltily to Max. Not that she was guilty of anything except recognizing the high probability that the Navy, or this cabal, had fundamentally betrayed his loyalty.

“I already worked it out,” he said to her. “They destroyed the Lonesome, but they didn’t do so until they’d retrieved Lon. I can’t bring myself to call it a rescue. They would have sent in Star Marines to acquire his trunk once the Lonesome was disabled. The positive element is that if that is what happened, then Lon might still be alive. We just have to save him.”

Harry unfolded his arms. “Which brings us back to the ships crossing the border. We have a few possibilities. With the influx of people into the Saloon Sector for the Space Rodeo, a number ventured into the Badstars for the excitement of it.”

Max grunted. He had nothing good to say about those adventure-seekers. Idiots.

“The bunyaphi,” Thelma murmured. Bunyaphi society idolized courage. Every bunyaphi spaceship that traveled through the wormhole from the Boldire Sector to Cayor’s territory in the Saloon Sector made a point of proving its captain and crew’s courage with a visit to the Badstars.

“Among others,” Harry said. “However, tracking registered ships is easy. When we filter them out of the data, we’re left with bandit ships, and any ships pretending to be bandits.”

“Pretending to be a bad guy is good cover,” Nefertiti said. “In this case, the Navy could slide in their ships.”

“But we have five years of data for the bandits’ ships, which means I was able to identify two pretenders.”

Max leaned forward sharply. “You found them.”

“Two frigate class,” Harry replied. “I’ve ordered Chix and Hypatia to refrain from searching Navy records for the moment. Fiddle the books and you could have two ‘decommissioned’ vessels available for deniable actions. We’re watching for when they cross back. I’ll be leaving the Nefertiti in two and a half hours to take up one of the response posts.”

Thelma coiled and uncoiled her braid around two fingers of her left hand. She tugged at it. “Shouldn’t the ships have already crossed the border back into Federation space? They’ll hand off Lon immediately and—”

“Hon,” Harry interrupted her meltdown. “You forget that they’re pretending to be bandits. They’ll want to cross back on a bandits’ route.”

“So we…”

Max finished her sentence, satisfaction ringing in his voice. “Set up to catch them.”

“I’m transmitting your sealed orders from Chief Tennyson,” Nefertiti said. “They give you authority to work with us, Covert Ops, on the investigation of the kidnapping and potential hostage situation of a Saloon Sector citizen. Lon.”

“Legal cover to do what we’d have done anyway,” Thelma said. “Aubree’s come through.”

Harry agreed. “She plays her cards close to her chest, but on this I’m betting she’s with us. No one wants a leak to the naval cabal. Aubree and Covert Ops want the people involved. We want Lon back.”

Max stared at his AI friend. “And if Lon’s gone? Will you want revenge?”

“Revenge for its own sake, no.” AIs processed their thoughts so much faster than organic sentients that Harry replying instantly didn’t mean he hadn’t thoroughly considered Max’s question and the implications of his answer. “We want justice, which to us means legal recognition that Navy personnel and resources were misused to abuse Federation citizens, risking their lives. We have to set a precedent, a strong and inviolate one, that AIs are fully sentient. The idea that people could wipe a raphus geode and just start over, reprogramming for a loyal-to-them AI can’t be allowed to stand.”

“Won’t be,” Nefertiti confirmed quietly.

Thelma heard that for the warning it was, and judging by the grim look in Max’s eyes, he heard it, too.

Nefertiti injected determined cheer into her synthesized voice. “Time to hustle. Fae is standing by to complete your debriefing, Thelma. Pyrrho for you, Max. Bayle and Krylov have other duties. It might seem that we covered the important stuff yesterday, but you’ll be surprised what information people reveal in ordinary daily life. Confirmation that only a few key people in the flotilla understood the mission’s secret purpose would be useful. And that is not me biasing your recollection. Max, if you stay here, Pyrrho will come to you. Thelma, do you remember where the analysts’ office is?”

“Yes.” The Nefertiti was a compact ship. The office in question was at the end of the corridor. Nefertiti’s question had been a polite means of getting Thelma moving.

In the doorway Thelma exchanged good mornings with Pyrrho before slipping into the analysts’ office and finding Faerno seated to the side of her desk, ready for her.

“I’m sure you have questions and a lot to think about,” the agent said. “But if you could push all that aside and concentrate on my questions, we’ll get this done today.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Faerno smiled. “Remember, impressions and suspicions. This isn’t a court of law.”

Thelma realized she was sitting upright, hands folded in her lap, as if sitting at a Galactic Justice academy ceremony. She was as rigidly at attention as a seated person could be. She breathed in, exhaled, and relaxed her shoulders.

“Describe the cabin assigned to you and Max on the Sakurajima.”

The interviews meant reliving life on the battlecruiser, which meant the frustration and other emotions from that month boiled up. Thelma pushed them down and answered Faerno and Nefertiti’s questions as best she could. The AI participated in both Thelma and Max’s interviews.

Having to say good-bye to Harry in the middle of the session didn’t help Thelma’s emotional state. She felt ridiculously abandoned, even as she wanted him to go and rescue Lon. God, please let him save Lon.

When Faerno released her, Thelma fled to her cabin. Nefertiti had promised not to monitor it, which meant it was the one place on the ship where Thelma could be natural and unguarded.

Max joined her a few minutes later. He found her re-ordering her clothes in the locker.

She slammed its door shut, the gesture foiled by the soft-click closure. After talking and talking through the debrief, she should have been relieved to share silence with him. But it wasn’t their usual comfortable silence.

He broke it. “You liked Cynny when she and Paul visited.”

Max stood all superior and still while Thelma fussed around the cabin, unable to subdue her restlessness. She hated it. “Of course I like her. She’d likeable. I just…why should she be able to tell us what to do? She wants her brother near her to make her feel more secure about her new married life and having kids and who knows what else.” She threw up her hands. “My life is already surreal just from who your father is. Cynny has Paul. If he’s not enough for her, then that’s her problem. Do you see me trying to get my brothers to drop their lives and partners and their futures to race here and make me feel safe?”

Max punched a bulkhead.

“What the stars?!” Thelma yelled.

“It’s fine. I pulled the punch. Nothing is broken.” He blocked her view of his hand with his shoulder. He wouldn’t look at her. “I should be enough to keep you safe. But I failed Lon and we lost our home. You nearly lost your life.”

“I’m equal partners with you, Max,” she said dangerously. “Don’t you take on responsibility for me. We’re equals. We were both at risk. We both should have been more suspicious of the mission. Lon, too.” It hurt her to say that, but it was true. “We thought we could handle ourselves. Hubris.” And pulling at her braid. “Why am I so darned mad?”

“Because you were scared. Are scared. Trauma. We buried it but it’s bubbling up now we’re safe.” He turned back to her, flexing his hand. “I think Joe’s considering moving here.”

The non sequitur stalled her brain. “What?”

“Joe, your brother. He and Rachel are thinking about moving to the Saloon Sector. He hasn’t come right out and said it, but he’s talked about life on Zephyr. Rachel grew up planetside and Joe isn’t loving returning to life as an asteroid miner.”

Thelma stared at him. “Mom would…” She didn’t know what her mom would do if she lost two of her four children to the far side of the galaxy. The Rock Sector where Thelma had grown up was a solid two month journey away, and it would be an expensive journey.

“Your whole family might move here.” Max’s voice lost its edge. “You’re obviously thriving on the frontier, and I know Joe. He’d do the same. I suspect your whole family would fit right in. Up in Cayor’s territory there are plenty of asteroid mining opportunities. Lots of opportunities all around from Aubree’s predictions.”

Thelma plopped down on the bed. “Huh.” She stared at the far wall.

Max sat beside her.

She glanced at him. “If my family moved here, you’d be the one missing your family while being inundated by in-laws.”

“I’d survive,” he said drily.

The typical Max attitude surprised a giggle out of her. Surviving was what Star Marines did. Applying the attitude to civilian life did raise issues, though.

He eyed her warily. His thought process was obvious. When a woman was upset, her laughter could easily turn to tears.

Her laughter faded. She fell backwards on the bed and pulled him over her for a kiss. “Make me forget everything but us.”

There were definitely worse methods of working out trauma.

Afterwards, dressed and with an hour till dinner, they both checked their new comms units. Harry had vouched for the units’ spyware-free state, so neither had a good excuse any longer to put off difficult messages to family, friends and colleagues, whether in Thelma’s information brokerage field or Max’s sheriff responsibilities.

“Reynard!” Thelma exclaimed. “He’s sent a message to comms call him.”

“If he’s still in the Badstars—” Max began.

She gave him a droll look. “This is Reynard. He’s more paranoid than either of us. If he believes we can comms call securely we can. I wonder if he’s found…anything.” She faltered and replaced “Lon” or his raphus geode with the vague “anything”.

Max rearranged them on the bunk so that she sat with her back to his chest in the V of his legs. “We’ll call him together.”

She comm’d Reynard who answered in seconds.

The AI explained the swift connection. “On my way here I deployed a relay station in the Badstars, rigged to self-destruct if anyone interferes with it. Comprehensive preparation means we can talk freely.”

“Nefertiti?” Thelma asked.

“Is distracted,” Reynard said, smugly. “I sent her the data of two full scans of the Lonesome’s debris field and surrounds.” His smugness evaporated. “I found no sign of Lon. If Nefertiti or her people could find something in the data, I’d gladly be proven wrong. But Lon’s not here, nor any hint of him. I’ll stay where I am for twenty four hours in case they want me to investigate something they find in the data. Failing that, I’m returning at full speed.”

“Harry’s gone to a response post,” Thelma blurted.

“Yes. He’s in regular contact with me. A ping, if nothing else, every hour.”

Max pressed his face against Thelma’s hair. “A lifeline in the dark.”

Reynard was out there alone.

“Be careful,” she whispered.

“I’m the scariest thing out here,” the ever-humble AI said.

Max huffed a laugh. “I wish that were true.”

There was a pause. “The Navy left a ship out here observing the Lonesome’s explosion field. At least, I’m assuming it’s Navy. The frigate is unregistered, but in excellent condition. It matches a vessel profile Harry drew from the border monitoring system. Its crew haven’t detected me. I came in fully stealthed and I’ve been eavesdropping on their internal and external comms.”

“Anything interesting?” Max asked.

“No. It all sounds like routine operational procedure for a patrol. I’ve passed a recording to Nefertiti for Chix or Hypatia to analyze. How are you?”

The abrupt personal question was pure Reynard. It was as if he’d coughed it up before embarrassment at caring could silence him. “Harry said you are in good condition and Nefertiti reports that you continue in that state since Harry’s departure. Nefertiti is more competent than I remembered.”

Or, the two AI had found common cause in rescuing Lon, and so, could value one another more.

Rather than comment on Nefertiti or Reynard’s social development, Thelma answered his question. “We’re okay.” She rubbed her thumb over Max’s forearm as he held her loosely. “Glad to be off the Sakurajima.”

“Harry said you are traumatized but coping. He advised me to read up on human trauma and support measures. When I return, I will hug you.”

A tiny laugh strangled in Max’s throat. He knew that although a late adopter of hugs, Reynard greatly enjoyed them. The hug wouldn’t be solely for Thelma’s benefit.

“A hug is a good idea.” She smiled at him. “Max, too.”

“If he likes?”

If they’d had screen-time, she suspected they’d have witnessed Reynard shuffling awkwardly on a few of his eight tentacles.

“A hug is fine,” Max said.

Reynard recovered his pomposity. “Then I shall hug you.”

Thelma giggled.

“What are you doing?” Reynard asked.

“We’re in our cabin, waiting for dinnertime.”

“Organics and their obsession with food.”

She smiled. “Lon shares it.” Although she deliberately used the present tense, she had to remind herself to do so. That her subconscious had nearly said “shared” depressed her. She strove to keep that emotion out of her voice. She had Max, and he had her. Reynard was out in the Badstars, alone.

Well, alone except for the rogue Navy ship he was hiding from.

He needed this social call as much, or more, than she and Max did.

“I miss Lon,” Reynard confessed. “We’d go months without talking to each other, but now that I can’t talk to him, there are things I want to tell him.”

“Yeah.”

Max’s arms tightened around her.

After a silence, Reynard continued. “It would be even worse if Harry had gone on his quest to contact the specters. The clues are fascinating. Energy chains.” He was saying more than he should have about AI secrets. “I was so angry when the others voted against it. They’re afraid of what he might find. They’re afraid of change. But if he’d gone, we’d have been facing this without him. I hadn’t known what it was to be scared before.”

“Are you afraid out there?” Max queried sharply. “Has anything happened?”

“Pshaw. I’m not afraid for me. How do people have friends when life is so fragile? You and Thelma, even with rejuvenation treatments, you won’t live more than a fraction of an AI’s lifespan. I’ll lose you.”

Max pressed his lips silently to Thelma’s right temple.

She snuggled into him.

“You’re confronting mortality, Reynard,” Max explained with brusque compassion. “It happens to all of us. But then we forget. We go on living. Talk to Harry or Nefertiti. Some of that forgetfulness is a function of organic sentients’ brains. We couldn’t stay sane if we kept anticipating our deaths and the loss of all we love. There may be some thought patterns you should copy.”

“I’ll ask. Thank you.”

“I’m glad Harry’s here, as well.” Thelma shivered. “I hadn’t thought that if he’d gone on his quest he wouldn’t be.”

“It is the silver lining to Earth’s clouds,” Reynard said.

Thelma frowned in confusion.

“Earth’s clouds must be strange,” the AI concluded.

Max chuckled. “It’s an ancient planetary saying.”

“I will return soon.” Reynard signed off laconically.

Thelma switched her comms unit to silent. “It feels as if we’re mourning Lon.”

“Don’t,” Max said. “We don’t give up hope. We have to act with the urgency of a rescue mission. That’s what we’re on.” He tilted her face around and kissed her.

She wriggled around fully to cuddle more comfortably.

He rubbed her back. “I don’t understand transmutation lasers. However, I doubt if anyone can say for sure whether the laser array wiped Lon from his raphus geode.”

“The Navy doesn’t know they’re seeds of life,” she mumbled. “You’re right. We have to believe that he’s waiting for us to rescue him. But can you imagine being trapped in a geode after having had the freedom of being the Lonesome?”

“Lon’s tough in his own way. Trust him to hold on for us if it’s at all possible.”

“I do.” She clutched the soft fabric of his shirt. “I do.”

Chapter 10

Zimmer’s voice came crisply over the internal comms. “Target Alpha is in our zone. It crossed the border ten minutes ago. Course to be confirmed. Current projection, we intercept in six and a half hours. Update in an hour.”

Adrenaline pumped through Max. He jumped up from the corner of the table in the common room that was serving as his temporary office as he caught up on sheriff duties. He met Thelma as she dashed out from their cabin. He caught her arm, swung her around, and closed the door behind him. After the Sakurajima, he valued privacy even more than before; and as the son of the Federation’s president, he’d already rated it highly.

“I hope Lon’s on the frigate!” Excitement shone in Thelma’s eyes. She wanted a miracle. “He could be back with us, today.”

Zimmer had issued the alert at 10:32 a.m..

Max didn’t hold as much hope as Thelma. But what he had, he was resolved to act on—and simply being able to act was satisfying. “One way or another, we’ll get some answers.”

They had planned for various scenarios. With Target Alpha crossing the border in the zone assigned to the Nefertiti’s patrol, Zimmer would lead the mission to disable and board the unregistered frigate.

Harry had positioned himself between the Nefertiti’s zone and the second most likely bandit crossing which was being patrolled by another Covert Ops vessel in full stealth mode. He’d travel in at full speed to provide backup.

The question was, if Target Alpha did hold Lon, when and where and to whom would the unregistered frigate deliver him? The decommissioned Navy ship could have awkward-to-handle allies close by.

Or it could have acquired enemies.

Faerno swore creatively. “The bandit ship Elbow Room just appeared. How the heck did that heap of rejected bolts hide itself?”

Although unregistered, Lon had identified the bandit ships that crossed the border regularly on their smuggling trips. Subsequent to the Lonesome’s destruction, Aubree had authorized, and Harry had enabled, Carl sharing that database with the Covert Ops agents on the Nefertiti. The data match now had Faerno worried.

“Good question, for later,” Nefertiti said. “Thelma, ideas?”

Thelma and Faerno were on the bridge. The others were suiting up to board Target Alpha.

Thelma recognized the Elbow Room. She recalled the ship’s pugnacious captain. “No idea how they hid themselves. Captain Baagh hates his rivals, but he really hates outsiders muscling into what he considers his patch. He’s not necessarily sane,” and she didn’t make that statement lightly. “He doesn’t calculate risk the way others do, and his crew will follow him anywhere.”

She leaned in, nose close to the screen. “Is the Elbow Room accelerating? Baagh is capable of the suicidal action of firing on a modern Navy frigate with his hodgepodge corvette.”

“He’s accelerating,” Nefertiti said.

The discussion on the bridge was on open comms across the ship. Faerno addressed the Captain directly. “Zimmer, the bandit corvette Elbow Room is likely to engage Target Alpha in combat.”

Nefertiti flashed up a view of the gym on a side screen. The boarding team was suiting up together.

Zimmer focused on his boots. “We proceed as if Target Alpha is alone. The Elbow Room may prove useful and flush out any allies hiding in stationary concealment. Keep watch. Max, will the bandits break off if you order them to?”

“If we had the Lonesome, Baagh has run from me before. But in a stealthed ship, I’m not sure.” The Lonesome’s unique spherical shape had been instantly recognized in the Saloon Sector. Max, Lon and Harry had earned its reputation.

“To back you up, I’d reveal us as the Nefertiti,” Zimmer said. “A Covert Ops ship.”

Max frowned as he continued sealing his borrowed lifesuit. “Then yes. Baagh would leave his enemy, Target Alpha, for us to pound on.”

“Nefertiti, tight beam to the Elbow Room in thirty seconds,” Zimmer said. “Max, tell them to pull back and stay silent. Nefertiti, be ready to block their comms if they try to alert Target Alpha to our presence.”

Max stilled, listening for Nefertiti’s instruction that comms were open. At her signal, he spoke. “Captain Baagh, this is Sheriff Smith. Get out. This is a joint Interstellar Sheriff and Covert Ops mission targeting the ship you’re aiming to fire on. I repeat, get out. And maintain radio silence till you’re across the border.”

The Elbow Room was headed for the Badstars, undoubtedly loaded with its usual mix of medicine, food and agricultural and other life-enabling supplies. It was due to Baagh’s focus on non-aggressive smuggling that Max and Customs left the Elbow Room alone.

“You gonna arrest them black hole varmints?” A Rock Sector accent threaded through Captain Baagh’s question strongly enough to give Thelma a pang of homesickness.

“They’ll be brought to justice without risking your crew or ship. Now go.”

Baagh settled in for a chat. “I heard as how the Lonesome—”

“Active mission,” Max cut in.

“Bah.”

Thelma blinked. The Elbow Room had vanished from the screen.

“Baagh stealthed his ship,” Faerno reported.

“Recalibrating scan,” Nefertiti said.

“No,” Zimmer ordered. “Stay focused on our mission.”

Krylov hissed his displeasure. “So we have to trust a bandit’s word that he’s truly gone.”

Max sealed his helmet. That in itself indicated that for him the mission was active, and that he disapproved of the saurelle inserting criticisms at this point.

Zimmer ignored Krylov. “Nefertiti, I want Target Alpha disabled in thirty.”

While Nefertiti hacked the frigate’s systems, the frigate traveled on steadily, seemingly undisturbed by the Elbow Room’s appearance and disappearance. If it had allies, they failed to appear.

The boarding crew on the Nefertiti departed the gym fully suited up and carrying weapons. They waited in the reinforced chamber where Thelma and Max had entered the Covert Ops ship. When the Nefertiti docked with Target Alpha, this would be the hatchway to the lock-tunnel.

In twenty seven minutes Nefertiti had full control of Target Alpha. That accomplishment exceeded Covert Ops’s usual ability. Hypatia had given Nefertiti the Navy’s security codes under authorization of Zimmer’s investigation and on the understanding that Nefertiti alone possessed them and would wipe them from her memory once Target Alpha had been passed on to other authorities capable of locking it down.

“Good to go,” Nefertiti reported.

Zimmer broadcast his address to the frigate. “Unknown ship, this is Captain Zimmer of the Covert Ops vessel, the Nefertiti. You are being detained on the authority of Sheriff Max Smith as an unregistered spaceship in the Saloon Sector. You will now be boarded as part of an inquiry into the kidnapping and possible murder of a Federation citizen. If you are armed, and we believe you are, secure your weapons in lockers now. Your ship’s weapons are under our control. As is your communication system. Your attempts to transmit warning of your capture to your allies are being blocked. Stand by to be boarded. We will respond to aggression with lethal force.”

Zimmer paused. “I would rather no one died as a result of this ill-conceived venture. Be aware that I am sending a live feed of your detention and our actions here to Zephyr. We also have nearer allies. You will achieve nothing by resisting. You will be captured. I am willing to believe that you followed orders without understanding their significance. Your restitution begins, now. Despite the failure of your mission, I expect you to act with commonsense.”

There was a hiatus in communications for three endless minutes before the captain of the disabled vessel responded. “Captain Lara Acern of the frigate Mursili. We surrender.”

“Thank you, Captain Acern,” Zimmer responded.

Thelma studied every screen intently. If Acern double-crossed them the boarding crew, and perhaps she and Faerno on the Nefertiti, would die.

Minutes ticked past as the two vessels docked.

Silently, she prayed for Max’s safe return. For everyone to be safe.

Perhaps Captain Baagh had inadvertently done the Nefertiti a favor by instilling in the officers of the Mursili a sense of vulnerability. If a pirate ship could creep up on them before vanishing, what else lurked out there in the dark? Maybe Captain Acern and her crew would honor her surrender.

Once, Thelma wouldn’t have questioned a Navy captain’s word of honor.

Agent Pyrrho led the boarding team from the Nefertiti. Zimmer followed. Krylov brought up the rear. Max and Bayle were in the center.

Captain Acern met them as they entered. “I guarantee you and your people’s safety on my ship, Captain Zimmer. I thought we could talk, privately.”

“Every aspect of our boarding is being recorded and streamed to Zephyr.” Zimmer kept his helmet on and his lifesuit sealed. “We have robots crossing behind us.” That was obvious. The autonomous drones rolled and flew through the lock-tunnel. “Inform your people not to interfere with the search.”

“What are you searching for?”

The two tallest men standing near Acern eyeballed Zimmer.

Max recognized their stance and their attitude. Even out of uniform, they were obviously Star Marines. They resented the order to stand down and allow outsiders to control their ship. He resented their presence. Star Marines were meant to have each other’s backs. These two had been part of destroying his home, threatening his wife, and potentially, killing his friend.

“As I said when requesting your surrender.” Zimmer spoke calmly as the robots spread through the ship, programmed to search for Lon’s trunk and raphus geodes. The boarding team followed, separating cautiously. “We believe a Saloon Sector citizen is being held hostage on the Mursili. Sheriff Smith and my people will search alongside the robots.”

“I refute categorically the charge of kidnapping and hostage keeping,” Acern said.

“Lara Acern. Barely three years as captain before being noted as engaged on a top classified mission. But that mission was meant to be in the Reclamation Sector. Did you get lost?” As planned, Faerno was feeding Zimmer information on the officers of the Mursili.

Those accompanying Acern hadn’t introduced themselves, but Nefertiti would identify them via facial recognition.

Zimmer continued to converse with Acern without moving from the hatchway to the lock-tunnel and their route back to the Nefertiti.

Max left them behind as he headed for the stern. The robots swept out in front of him. The itch in his palms was eased by the pulsar pistol in his right hand and the blaster holstered at his left hip, but his breath rasped in his throat, hot with anger. This was wrong.

Inside the frigate there’d been no effort to disguise the fact that the Mursili was a Navy ship. Only the uniform the crew wore differed; being gray instead of blue.

The disconnect was vicious. The ship looked like those Max had served on, albeit his had been larger. Yet he walked through the Mursili with every instinct screaming that he was in enemy territory.

No one verbally challenged him, and physically, they stood aside. But they glared their hatred and resentment at him. To them, he wore the anonymous lifesuit of a Covert Ops agent. They didn’t know that he was the captain whose ship they’d ambushed.

Max sweated and sucked at a hydration tube. The lifesuit’s independent atmosphere circulated optimally, but the feeling aboard the Mursili was suffocating.

The robots continued on, tirelessly. In accordance with Captain Acern’s orders, they were left to search unimpeded.

Hours passed.

Max had participated in joint actions with Customs, generally with a focus on shutting down drug smuggling operations. Here on the Mursili, the Covert Ops agents were as thorough as Customs officers, and those officers were like sentient sniffer dogs.

Finally, in the food storage hold, Bayle identified a discrepancy in the dimensions of the chamber. Lon would have pointed out that by not randomly modifying the supposedly ex-Navy ship, the Captain had made it easier to detect the anomaly.

A robot cut through the bulkhead.

Bayle called Max forward. “Is it Lon’s trunk?”

Max had only seen Lon’s housing for his personal computing core once. But Harry had given them a visual of it. Bayle was asking for formal confirmation. “Yes,” Max said strongly.

“Captain Acern.” Zimmer broadcast his statement. “The Mursili and all onboard will be brought to Zephyr pending a full inquiry into your activities, specifically with regard to the AI Lon, formerly of the spaceship Lonesome, and to the Lonesome itself. You are being detained for forty eight hours without legal counsel under the Federation Security Emergency Powers act. During that time you will not be questioned.”

Meantime, Max and Bayle maneuvered Lon’s trunk out from behind the false bulkhead. Even with their powered lifesuits aiding them, it was heavy. Robots then transported Lon to the Zephyr.

No one saluted as the boarding team departed. Pyrrho sealed the hatch.

“Undock,” Zimmer grated out the order. Everyone was exhausted.

They’d searched for thirteen hours. It could have been much longer.

Captain Acern and her people had been overconfident of their ability to avoid detection. They hadn’t even been able to evade the Elbow Room. But that overconfidence had meant they’d made a purely cursory effort at hiding Lon’s trunk.

Harry met them on the Nefertiti. All his practiced mimicry of organic life fell away as he stared at the trunk.

Here was the proof of what the Navy had attempted.

For Covert Ops, the investigation could now kick off. Before this point they’d had suspicions but needed hard evidence to justify kicking over the hornets’ nest with a major inquiry into Navy misconduct.

For Harry, Thelma and Max, the crucial goal had been achieved. They’d rescued Lon. But, locked in the isolation of his trunk, had he survived?

Max retracted the helmet of his lifesuit. He shook his head at Thelma’s offer of a juice pouch. In the lifesuit he’d drunk enough to maintain his energy. He needed out of the suit and solid food. And sleep, he needed to sleep. Observing Thelma’s hollow, anxious eyes he guessed that she hadn’t slept either.

“How do we power up Lon’s trunk?” she asked.

Harry’s mech forehead wrinkled. He’d recovered himself enough to resume human mannerisms. “We can’t. Not yet.”

“Harry!” Thelma’s objection was a wail of betrayal.

“I’m sorry, hon. We can’t risk Nefertiti.”

Zimmer and the crew of the Nefertiti froze in the process of shedding their lifesuits.

Harry nodded slowly in confirmation of his own statement. “The AIs as a collective discussed the situation. We’re guessing at what the Navy did in the Badstars and we don’t know what’s happened since aboard the Mursili. Nefertiti is embedded in this ship. We can’t risk a virus or some other damage in Lon hurting her.”

Thelma sighed and all the energy of hope and expectation, and fear, drained out of her.

Max stripped out of his borrowed lifesuit as fast as possible and left it on a bench. The underclothes he wore had wicked sweat from his body, but it felt as if he stunk of stale emotion.

“Boarding team, shower and clean clothes. Everyone, we eat together in twenty minutes. Call it breakfast, call it whatever.” Zimmer ordered them back into motion.

Nefertiti’s robots secured Lon’s trunk to the outside of the booth that had scanned and freed Max and Thelma from the Navy’s surveillance technology.

Harry walked them to their cabin and entered at Max’s invitation.

“We can’t leave Lon locked in his trunk,” Thelma said urgently as soon as the door closed.

“Do you think Lon would forgive us for doing anything that risked Nefertiti?” Harry responded.

He wouldn’t.

Thelma chewed her lip in worried, mutinous silence.

Max had gotten over body consciousness in the Star Marines. He certainly wasn’t shy about stripping in front of an AI. He disposed of his dirty underclothes in the laundry chute and stepped into the shower. He groaned at how good the water felt, warm and pelting hard.

“We’re heading for Zephyr,” Harry said. “This time for real.” Last time it was merely the excuse Aubree had used to extract them from the Sakurajima. “It’s the nearest habitable planet and we need a stable, isolated power supply for Lon and robust communications if we require help from other AIs. Reynard will meet us on Zephyr. He’s burning hard for the rendezvous. Aubree is lining up other expert witnesses. This is building into a big case. A defining one for AIs.”

“For all of us,” Max said. “Who you are in our society matters to all of us. How we treat you defines us. Us. You’re part of us.”

Thelma stared at him. A tired smile dawned in her eyes. “Love you.”

He concentrated on pulling on his t-shirt. They had breakfast in five minutes and Harry in the room. It wasn’t the time or place to kiss his wife, or not in the manner he desired.

They headed for the common room, breakfast, and Zimmer’s orders. People grabbed a meal from the food dispenser and sat around the table.

The captain shoveled in some sort of porridge while talking between mouthfuls. By the aroma, it was faux congee, a goopy version of chicken and rice porridge. “We’re making all due haste to Zephyr. Unfortunately, we can’t use the Nefertiti’s top speed because Nefertiti has slaved the Mursili’s controls and we have to travel at its top sustainable speed. However, with Lon’s trunk we have evidence of our suspicions which kicks the investigation to the next level. Naval Intelligence will be alerted. It’s above my head whether they’ll take over, whether this remains a Covert Ops investigation, if it goes to Galactic Justice agents while remaining classified, or some combination of the three. Whatever happens, we’ll have resources flooding in.”

He got up and grabbed a second serving of congee. “The best thing we can do at the moment is sleep.” He pointed his spoon at Krylov, then at Bayle. “Sleep. Nefertiti is monitoring the situation and will wake us if we’re needed. Harry is also here, remember?”

His comment drew everyone’s attention to the AI sitting silently beside Thelma.

Zimmer continued. “We’re going to be busy. So while our bosses argue their authority and define the structure of what will be a significant formal inquiry we’re going to sleep so we’re able to respond alertly.” He grounded his spoon, letting it rattle against the porridge bowl. “Max and Thelma, we have to sideline you for the moment now that we have evidence the Navy kidnapped Lon.”

“Because we’re emotionally involved.” Thelma had eaten barely a third of her serving of spiced protein paste and pasta. Hopefully, she’d snacked through the night.

Max gulped his water and set the empty glass beside his plate with its remnants of goopy refried beans. “I don’t like it, but I understand.” When he’d slept and cleared his head, he’d contact Carl and Aubree to check that the Interstellar Sheriff Service continued to have an official role in the inquiry. Although he believed that Aubree would ensure it.

Thelma turned to Harry.

He answered her silent question. “I remain part of the investigation. The other AIs selected me to represent them as an investigator into Lon’s disappearance and those involved in it.”

“We’re all on the same side,” Zimmer said. “We want justice. Trust us.”

Despite being sidelined for the moment, pending the definition of the scope of the investigation, Thelma and Max remained a key part of the inquiry. Until Lon woke, if he woke when power was reconnected to his trunk on Zephyr, they were the sole non-Navy witnesses to events in the Badstars.

Cynny realized what that meant, and acted fast. “Paul and I have rearranged our schedules. We’ll meet you on Zephyr. An inquiry this significant will be fast-tracked and it’ll be held on Alpha Hub. As primary witnesses, you’ll need to present yourselves. You can travel safely with us on the Oseberg. We’ll employ another guard ship.”

Thelma felt the muscles in her jaw and throat strain. No. No, she would not lock herself onboard someone else’s ship again, at the mercy of their agenda. But Cynny and Cynny’s determination to reabsorb Max into physical proximity with his family was the one major issue Thelma and he had argued on. Yes, they’d been tired and stressed about other issues. But they were still stressed.

She studied the message on her comms unit. Cynny had sent her invitation solely to Max, and he’d forwarded it to Thelma without comment. What did he expect her to say? To thank Cynny for this masterful piece of manipulation?

By reminding Max that lingering in the Saloon Sector came at the cost of missing some of her own duties, Cynny had piled on the guilt. It would be impossible to decline her invitation in favor of traveling by starliner.

Thelma stared at the door. At least she’d read the message while alone in their cabin on the Nefertiti. No one had a recording or memory of her uncensored response. She paced and swung her arms before rubbing them. She felt trapped. The bulkheads weren’t closing in on her so much as her own fears.

She didn’t belong in the world that Max had left behind when he’d joined the Star Marines. While studying, she’d imagined working as part of Galactic Justice’s diplomatic branch, but even then she hadn’t wanted a public role. Behind the scenes activity suited her.

The counterargument to her fear was that Hugo, Max’s older brother, managed to have a successful private life working in the political shadows while living and raising a family on Alpha Hub.

“But I don’t want that life,” she whispered. She wanted Max as he was on the frontier. She wanted the friendships and freedom of the Saloon Sector. “And what about Harry?”

Would the AI be called to present his evidence in person to the inquiry? If so, the other AIs would have to release him from his vow to protect the cache of raphus geodes and send another AI to replace him as guardian. Would he return to the Saloon Sector or would he seize the opportunity offered by his change in circumstances to go on his quest to meet the specters?

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, rubbing circles at her temples. Her brain was squirreling around trying to avoid what felt like fate closing in on her.

When the cabin door opened and Max walked in, she stared at him, at a loss for words or a path forward.

His smile was small and sad, but understanding. “Trust me,” he said softly.

The tension shivered out of her. In the small cabin it took barely two steps for her to be at the door and in his arms.

“I contacted Reynard,” he said. “He is willing to transport us to Alpha Hub in his ship if required. And Cynny is right about that. The justices sitting on the board of inquiry will want to question us in person. You can call that planet-based arrogance that they won’t accept comms interviews, but it’s real.”

He tucked her closer. “How we travel will, I think, depend on Lon. If being connected to a power source on Zephyr wakes him, then we should travel with him, which will mean hitching a ride on a Galactic Justice vessel since they’ll want to protect and monitor him. Harry would likely come with us. If, however, Lon doesn’t wake, I don’t think we need to keep vigil over his trunk. We’ll travel with Reynard.”

If Lon was dead.

“Traveling with Reynard isn’t luxurious.” She’d lived onboard his ship, first unwillingly, and later, as a friend. “The Oseberg—”

Max interrupted her. “Isn’t our home. Uncomfortable or not, we’ll feel better with Reynard and Harry.”

With AIs rather than humans.

Harry and Reynard—and Lon—were the family they’d chosen.

“I’ll tell Cynny not to wait for us,” Max said.

Thelma pushed at his shoulder, but not to push him away. “You can’t tell her not to wait. I’d hover and worry till I’d seen my brothers safe if they were in your situation. But tell her that with our plans uncertain we’ll hitch a ride when needed. She should do what she needs to do.” She hesitated. “Does that help?”

“I doubt Cynny will be happy with any variation from her plan.”

Thelma suppressed her sigh of relief that he at least saw that much clearly.

“I don’t want Cynny to ever be trapped, helpless, on someone else’s ship. But without that experience, the visceral need to assert our independence in travel won’t make sense to her.” He met her concerned gaze. “It matters to us, though. We get to be selfish about this and do what we need.”

She hugged him tight. “That’ll help.”

There would be time enough later to discuss the challenges of a visit to Alpha Hub and staying—or not staying—with Max’s parents. Security would be a nightmare with them as participants in a Navy inquiry and also members of the presidential family.

A far more welcome comms call came from Helen onboard her trampship Dobbin. Katu joined in, screeching a greeting, or a complaint that he wasn’t the center of Helen’s attention. Helen rubbed her ear nearest the dragon and apologized. “He’s missing Ululani, Tivor and Waiola. They spoilt him, especially Waiola.”

“They got off at the Deadstar Diner then as planned?” Thelma couldn’t say too much. Nefertiti had promised not to spy on her and Max in their cabin, but Thelma wouldn’t bet her breakfast on Nefertiti refraining from eavesdropping on external communications.

“A trio of bunyaphi happy to be reunited with their own people,” Helen confirmed cheerfully. She tickled Katu’s scaled tummy. “Integrating the bunyaphi into the Saloon Sector might be a challenge.”

“They’re not the only insular people out here. Look at Levanter.”

Helen pulled a face. “I’d rather not. The colony is improving, but darn it’s depressing. So virtuous.” A cult had settled the minimally terraformed planet.

Thelma laughed.

“How are you?” Helen asked seriously. “I heard about Lon.” And at Thelma’s rapid blink of surprise. “Reg.” Reg was Captain Regina Price, ex-Navy pilot, Carl’s temporary deputy and a friend. “And others. The story has leaked.”

“It’s the Saloon Sector,” Thelma responded ironically. “It was bound to. Max and I are fine, and Lon will be. He has to be.”

“There’s a lot of goodwill out here for you. We mightn’t have chatted with Lon for long, but he was part of the Saloon Sector helping us for ages before he came out of the shadows. People care. You’re one of us, all three of you.” Helen’s sympathy was genuine. However, the knowledge lay unspoken between the two women that she’d warned Thelma to be vigilant in the Badstars, that the Navy was planning something. Neither had guessed that it would be something this big.

Helen pushed the conversation onward. You couldn’t change the past, but the future held hope. “You need a new ship. Any ideas, or are you holding back until Lon can design something as unique as the Lonesome’s sphere?”

Thelma swallowed twice. Sympathy and kindness were dangerous to her self-control. “Reynard has a few ideas for our new home. He was talking about a dodecahedron. Apparently, it’s nearly as efficient for shielding purposes as a sphere, but has internal design advantages.”

They discussed ship design, a topic neither was interested in. What mattered was that they talked together. True friends didn’t pursue an agenda, as Cynny was doing. They were just there for you, reminding you that there was hope for the future.

When the conversation ended, Thelma stared for a few seconds at the blank screen of her comms unit before recalling her brother Joe’s last message. A video began playing, showing his and Rachel’s infant daughter. Erica gripped her daddy’s finger tight and blinked big blue eyes.

Thelma touched the screen, her heart reaching across the distance between them. “Be happy, baby girl.”

Chapter 11

“It’s so good to be home.” Thelma sniffed back tears as she hugged Owen, who reigned as the receptionist and guiding light of the Sheriff’s Office on the Zephyr spacedock.

The yprr hugged her back carefully, conscious of the fragile human skin beneath his claws.

When he released her, it was Carl’s turn for a hug, and he was equally careful of her.

“I’m fine.” She thumped his back softly.

But the four of them—Max was also present, exchanging back slaps with Owen—knew that she’d spoken bravely and falsely. The office wasn’t home. Home had been the Lonesome.

“Uncle Ioan is excited you’re here.” Owen supported her effort at being upbeat. “He’s put a lot of work into the Lodge.”

“As have you,” Max said. “Thanks.”

Owen’s antennae waved happily. “I enjoyed it. I went for a modern but classic vibe, with multi-species functionality. The bunyaphi have some incredible textiles. Uncle Ioan concentrated on security. Obviously. But I managed to camouflage the worst of his defensive measures.” Owen clicked his claws. “There is no hiding the cannons.”

“Cannons?” Max looked from Owen to Thelma.

She shrugged weakly. “Ioan really wanted the cannons.”

Carl snorted a laugh. “I haven’t seen the Lodge yet. I’m inviting myself.”

“Now?” Thelma asked.

Owen tapped a claw in agreement. “Ymarose is nearby, at the coffee bar on the corner of the concourse. She’ll take over as receptionist. It’s a godsend that Chief Aubree won us increased funding. Ymarose is awesome and she’s soooo stylish. She intimidates people into queueing!”

Thelma smiled at Owen’s cute crush.

“Call her now,” Max ordered.

Inside a minute, the new saurelle receptionist bounced in. Unlike other saurelles who resented clothing, Ymarose wore a sunshine yellow dress with a sweetheart neckline and a long skirt. Her tail poked from beneath it, swishing contentedly. “Sheriff Smith! Thelma.” She bowed to both of them before nudging Owen out from behind the reception desk. “Go, go. I shall deal with the crazies.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Crazies?”

His newest recruit grinned toothily at him. “Citizens.”

Owen intervened. “Ymarose specializes in dealing with complaints, especially those from couriers fined for speeding.”

“Saurelles,” Ymarose said with fine scorn. “We are all crazy for speed.”

Thelma held her giggles until they were out of sight and hearing of the Sheriff’s Office.

“I will talk to Aubree,” was all Max said. Ymarose was Aubree’s choice of additional office support for him.

Carl shook his head. “Don’t be fooled. Ymarose is sharp enough that Ioan goes cautious around her.”

“Huh.” Max stayed silent as they descended the space elevator to the planet.

As the doors of the elevator opened to the city, Thelma drew a welcome breath of fresh air and freedom.

Max and Carl stayed alert for trouble.

Owen gestured and a car zoomed up. “My cousin Wren. Uncle Ioan hired him as a chauffeur.” Given that cars were self-driving unless a person chose to switch them to manual mode, that made Wren a bodyguard.

“So that’s our car?” Thelma eyed the long, sleek, silver vehicle.

Max studied it with approval. “Armored.”

They got in.

Arriving at the Lodge didn’t feel like coming home. However, her long conversations with Owen, Ioan and others over the last few months did give her a sense of familiarity with the estate and its recent makeover. She knew she’d be safe here, and that they wouldn’t be hemmed in by other people’s schemes and expectations.

Max relaxed as their limousine drove up the Lodge’s new driveway. The new route curved and skirted a bunker disguised as a pagoda in the garden. Ioan had thoroughly overhauled and modernized the estate’s security, literally from the ground up. What eased Max’s tension, though, was Thelma’s shoulders loosening and the natural smile curving her mouth.

He thanked God that he’d insisted on buying the estate. Without it, he wouldn’t have this sanctuary for her after the loss of the Lonesome.

Wren exited the car.

Thelma put a hand on Max’s knee. “Wait.”

“We’re safe,” he said. That was the point of the intense security measures at the Lodge.

“And we have to keep Wren safe.” She tipped her head toward the group of people ready to receive them under the portico; a group that included Cynny and Paul who were in residence on the excuse that they’d promised to provide a firsthand report back to Max’s parents on his and Thelma’s physical and mental health. Cynny had very reluctantly accepted that Max and Thelma wouldn’t travel to Alpha Hub with them on the Oseberg. “Ioan is watching. Let Wren do his job.”

“Ah.” Their chauffer was performing for his boss, who was an elder of the yprrs. He and Thelma owed Wren their cooperation. Smart of her to think of it. Max had been obsessed with his own concerns. He stole a kiss.

Wren opened the passenger door. He discreetly clicked his mandible.

They got out and greeted everyone, meeting some of the people for the first time face-to-face.

Cynny linked her arm with Max’s and led them inside. “It’s nice.” She peered around perfunctorily, but then, she’d already seen the changes to the estate. It was her next words that froze him. “You’ll want to have it decorated at some point, but it’s livable.” She spoke kindly, as if stating an obvious truth.

Max nearly got whiplash, his head turned so fast to stare first at his sister’s complacent smile, then at Thelma’s wide-eyed shock. He’d been raised to be courteous and to navigate social minefields. However, since his teen years, he’d served in the Star Marines and as a frontier sheriff. He lacked the social skills to untangle what was going wrong and restore it.

The yprrs’ absolute silence registered as the preliminary start to a bar brawl.

The humans among the Lodge staff were suddenly expressionless, but their gazes sought out Thelma.

Max detached his sister from his arm. He reminded himself that Cynny couldn’t know how many hours Thelma had devoted to thinking about the estate and envisioning it as a home. Cynny couldn’t know that Owen had worked with incredible generosity, devoting to their home every bit of his talent for styling. Owen and his family—and all the staff, according to Ioan—had gone far beyond the letter of their employment contracts to create a place that everyone and anyone could be comfortable in.

And Cynny had dismissed their efforts.

“I love it,” Thelma said. Her voice filled the foyer and traveled up the stairs to the second floor and to anyone hiding out of sight there. “It’s been a long, awful journey back from the Badstars and I finally feel safe and cozy.” She gripped one of Owen’s claws. “Thank you.” Her voice wobbled.

Max pulled her into a hug that let her hide her face while she regained control of her emotions. “Show us the master room. We’ll do the tour later.”

“Absolutely,” Owen said.

There were other murmurs of agreement and concern.

Except from Cynny. She stood with an expression of hurt and regret, looking piteously at Max. He was her big brother. He should step in and make everything right, for her definition of right.

Cynny hadn’t meant to upset Thelma or anyone else, but she had.

It was different on the frontier. The class consciousness, the strong divides between different peoples, had a lesser grip out here. People felt free not only to judge Cynny, but to let her see that they did so.

Thelma inhaled deeply, preliminary to pulling out of his hug to follow Owen.

Max made a decision. “We’ll see you for dinner, Cynny. Paul.” He frowned at the man who was Cynny’s fiancé and long-term partner. Big brothers had their role, but Paul ought to be the person Cynny turned to for support.

Instead, Paul fidgeted, meeting Max’s gaze briefly before glancing at Cynny. Paul took her hand. “We should swim. Work up an appetite before dinner. A beautiful day on a beautiful planet with a beautiful woman.”

Cynny ignored him, staring at Max like a woman betrayed.

“Maybe we can join you later,” Thelma offered, subdued. “Erin, can you show Carl to his room, please? He’ll probably sneak out to talk security with Ioan.” She smiled at Carl and Ioan. The two security experts, cyborg and yprr elder, had naturally gravitated together.

A muscle in Max’s chest twinged. At least, that’s what he called the emotional pang of recognizing his wife’s courage and caring. He caressed her hip as they walked up the stairs. He was proud of her. Anxious though she was, terrified that tomorrow they’d learn they’d lost Lon, she remained true to herself. Kind.

In the master suite, she relaxed. “Owen, it’s even more wonderful than your photos.”

Light colored woods and natural fabrics in shades of blue and green created a restful room. It was nothing like the living quarters on a spaceship, and for now, that difference helped. Large windows on two sides provided a view back across the river to the city and across the garden. The swimming pool featured prominently, landscaped to seem natural, and actually composed of two pools with the smaller spilling into the wider, oval one at the base.

“I want to see everything,” Thelma said to Owen.

“Later.” The fashionable yprr who’d achieved an understated natural elegance in the house, a style that contradicted his personal fondness for bling, smiled at her affectionately. “We don’t need to rush the good stuff.”

Thelma pressed her lips together tightly, holding back tears.

Owen had left work to show her around. He was changing the schedule for her needs, and doing so tactfully.

“We’ve very lucky in our friends,” Max said. For him, that was gushing praise and gratitude.

Owen clapped his two smallest claws together in acceptance and dismissal of the thanks, and backed out of the room, closing the door.

“A hot bath, a nap, then dinner,” Max prescribed. “All of them shared.”

She kissed him softly, chastely. “I’m not even going to feel guilty.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Cynny—”

He kissed her. “Everyone else. Everything else, can wait.”

When they emerged from their room, wearing clothes that Thelma had ordered and the estate staff had laundered and stored in the multitude of closets, Ioan met them with a message from Paul.

“Mr. Owiti asked me to pass on his apologies for their absence. He has taken Ms. Smith into the city for dinner.”

As steward for the estate, playing messenger boy wasn’t Ioan’s job. On the other hand, the elderly yprr was shrewd.

Thelma deciphered the situation first. “Did you suggest it?”

“Yes.”

Max rolled his shoulders. Thelma had hired Ioan as steward, but he’d originally been her bodyguard. Max appreciated that Ioan continued to prioritize her well-being. What displeased him was the blatant implication that Cynny threatened it.

Thelma’s steps slowed as they descended the stairs. “I hope Paul was tactful. I don’t want Cynny hurt or offended.”

“Too late,” Ioan said. “She saw Erin and Steele setting the table and asked who the guests were.”

At the foot of the stairs Thelma halted to stare at their steward. She stared blankly. “It’s a family dinner. The first in our new home. That’s why Cynny and Paul should be here. Max, I—”

He raked a hand through his hair. “My fault. I didn’t think.”

Thelma turned her bewildered stare from Ioan to him.

“Cynny’s not accustomed to sitting down with staff.” He considered Ioan and the yprr’s values and loyalty, and his own responsibilities. “How did she react?”

“Anger,” Ioan said. “Quickly cloaked in tears. But she was angry. Her actual words were ‘but we’re his family’.”

Now Max was angry, as Ioan had perhaps meant him to be. “His” not “their” dismissed the estate as Thelma’s home. “Suggesting she and Paul dine out was a good idea.”

The other response would have been for Ioan to reset the table for a four person meal for those whom Cynny recognized as family. Ioan hadn’t fallen into that trap.

Thelma had requested this dinner. She’d planned it with their chef. Eighteen people would sit down at the table: all the resident staff, plus Carl and Owen, and herself and Max. Cynny and Paul would have made it twenty for dinner. Their bodyguards were to eat in the kitchen with the estate’s non-resident staff who were helping with the dinner and security.

Head up, sandals clicking boldly against the polished wooden floors, Thelma strode for the dining room. “Cynny will regret missing out on Gabrielle’s fruit meringues.” She smiled as she walked in and found a few people already seated.

The staff’s tension dialed down a notch. The last two people slid in, including Gabrielle, the chef.

“No speeches,” Max said briefly. “I want to thank you for your work on the estate. You’ve transformed it. I hope you continue to do so because this is your home as much or more than it’s ours.”

Thelma smiled at him, then around the table. “I invited you to dinner because you are the Lodge family, the heart of it. Max and I will be away a lot. It’s the nature of his job. Knowing that you’re here gives us a refuge, a home, to return to. That is your gift to us, and we appreciate it. We value you. Lon taught me the power and truth of choosing your family.” She paused fractionally. “To Lon.”

Max’s hand clenched around the stem of his glass.

“To Lon.”

Thelma woke early. It was strange to hear birds tweeting outside the window. The wide bed was strange, too; the gigantic size unlike the spatial constraints of spaceship life. She and Max had tucked themselves in the center of it.

He was awake. “We don’t need to leave for a couple of hours. Do you want to try the pool?”

“Yes.”

They’d had a night-time tour of the estate. People had swapped in and out according to their area of responsibility and interest. Thelma suspected that the gorgeous country kitchen was going to be her favorite place on the estate if Gabrielle was willing to share it, but the pool would be a close second, especially in summer.

Cool spring water made her catch her breath when she jumped in.

Max dived in and caught her ankle, dragging her under and inviting retaliation. Their game acquired a reckless edge when Carl and Wren joined them.

Thelma swam to the side, and found Paul sedately treading water and watching the hijinks.

“Max plays rough,” he said.

She studied the three males, two humans and a yprr. It struck her that they all played rough, but not maliciously.

When she didn’t comment, he changed the subject. “When is Lon’s activation?”

Her nose wrinkled. Activation? “Galactic Justice will have everything in place by ten o’clock. They’ll try to wake him then.” And she prayed they succeeded. Harry was with them overseeing the final details of the set up.

“Where?”

She decided that Paul was actually asking about the timing. “About an hour away. We’ll leave here at eight thirty. Plenty of time for breakfast.”

Splashing in the pool had been a good attempt at distracting them from fretting about Lon. However, Max was already breaking away from the roughhousing to study her and Paul—and Carl and Wren weren’t doing a much better job of disguising that they also watched over her.

In the interests of family harmony she asked after her sister-in-law. “Is Cynny an early riser? Will she join us for breakfast?”

“I believe she plans to.”

Max hauled himself out of the pool and extended a hand to help Thelma up and out.

Unlike the humans who grabbed towels to dry off, Wren simply let the water run off his carapace and appendages. “I’ll have the car ready for eight twenty.” He headed for the guard quarters, a rectangular building adjacent to the garage and incongruously called “the stables”.

Breakfast proved to be a subdued affair. The setting was lovely, though: a round table with a white tablecloth in the greenery of the conservatory.

Carl demonstrated the social benefits of Covert Ops agent training by encouraging Paul to fill the silence with questions about the shipwreck he’d explored out beyond the planet of Forest.

“It was a cygnet. You wouldn’t believe it. I had about a dozen photos and a couple of videos and nothing suggested the old surveyor class ship, but once we were actually there and boarded it, there was no doubt. Or boarded what remained of it. The engine had imploded and that caused the warping in addition to destroying the cygnet’s characteristic wingtips.”

Cynny contributed a point of confirmation. “He got its engine serial number.”

Max looked up from his excellent French toast. “But the engine imploded?”

“It did.” Paul swallowed hastily. “But the older models used to record the engine number on a plate on the bottom of the hatchway frame for the bridge. In exo-archaeology it’s the details that make the difference between finding answers and…well, ending up with the sort of useless images I acted on. More fool me. I had hoped for an alien vessel. I know I shouldn’t, but with the Kampia wormhole so close, my wishing got the better of commonsense.”

He smiled at Cynny. “And Cyn wanted to visit with you. We certainly chose an eventful time.”

Cynny didn’t return his smile. She stared at Max. “We did. And I’m glad we’re here for you.” She glanced at Thelma. “Both of you. I hope your AI friend wakes, today.”

“Thank you,” Thelma said.

“Although Lon was really grandfather’s friend. Which means he’s a family friend. I should go with you.”

The notion blindsided Thelma, as did the determination in Cynny’s tone.

Max drank some coffee, assessing his sister. No one spoke. He put his cup down, deliberately. The faint chink of porcelain cup touching saucer chimed like a signal. But his voice was mild. “Attendance is restricted.”

“I understand, but you can vouch for me.”

Cynny’s sudden, stubborn decision to join them confused Thelma.

Seated beside his fiancée, Paul’s face flushed with embarrassment. He ate the last quarter of his breakfast pastry with quick bites.

“Why would I?” Max quietly challenged Cynny.

“Because I am family.” She emphasized the pronoun. She was staking a claim, but whether to Max or Lon wasn’t clear.

Thelma assumed Cynny’s concern was Max. On their visit to the Lonesome it had been Paul rather than Cynny who’d chatted the most with Lon.

Carl sat to Thelma’s left, in between her and Paul. He served himself more bacon from the dish in the center of the table. A jerk of his head asked if she wanted some.

She gave her head a tiny shake, then her shoulders, as she recognized her cue. The stand-off between the siblings wasn’t her fight, but nor did she have to sit there as awkward audience to it. “The bacon is home farm. That’s what Zephyr calls its organic agricultural products. Gabrielle believes the flavor is better. Free range, of course. Fat, contented hogs.” She pulled the quotation from her memory. The small talk provided a background that didn’t interrupt Max’s response to Cynny.

“You have no role in the inquiry,” he said.

Cynny pushed aside her plate with its crumbled remains of a carrot and walnut muffin. “I can be an observer.”

“I don’t have the authority to include you.”

“So who do you ask?”

Paul squeezed her wrist in a gentle capture and release. “Cyn, you don’t need to be there. And you’re adding to Max and Thelma’s stress. You wanted us to stay to support them.”

“Which is why I should be there. He’s going!” She glared at Carl. “He’s no one.”

“No one” finished his bacon, unperturbed.

Max, however, hit his limit.

Thelma couldn’t discern if Cynny was jealous of anyone who got her brother’s attention or whether her jealousy was that Max had other people who cared about him. The crucial point was Thelma’s realization that the problem was jealousy.

And Max had finished pandering to it. “You should keep your commitments on Alpha Hub. As I’ve said, Thelma and I will find our own way there if the inquiry requires it of us. Today, our concern is Lon. Not you.”

“Are you saying that me wanting to help you is a problem?” Cynny’s voice shook.

Paul winced. He also took the coward’s approach and did nothing. Then, again, how Cynny acted was on her, not anyone else.

Max regarded his sister levelly. “I’m saying that it’s time you returned home.”

His non-confrontational, unyielding tone gave her nothing. Cynny’s mouth opened and closed. She slapped the table. Then she stormed out.

Paul watched her departure with narrowed eyes. His emotions, beyond embarrassment, were difficult to read. Excellent manners disguised much. “The Oseberg is ready to depart. Whether we do is dependent on Cynny. If we’re gone when you return, thank you for your hospitality. I hope we can return it when you visit Alpha Hub.” He stood. “I hope Lon wakes. I will pray for him.”

Paul followed Cynny’s path back into the house with even strides.

Cutlery clinked to Thelma’s left. Carl let Paul clear the conservatory doorway before rising. “Delicious bacon. I’ll meet you at the car.”

Max and Thelma stared at one another. His mouth twitched. “I believe you suggested breakfast in the conservatory as a peaceful start to the day.”

She threw her linen napkin at him.

The Galactic Justice scientists had taken over a massive warehouse, isolated it from the power grid, and installed a generator.

The people gathered inside it had separated into groups.

Aubree stood with the Galactic Justice agents, but near Max and Thelma. Covert Ops had grouped together. Navy and Naval Intelligence stood side by side, but divided. Each group had their own scientists, although Galactic Justice managed the operation.

Harry and Reynard represented the AIs. They stood with Thelma and Max: Harry beside Thelma, and Reynard behind them, looking over their shoulders.

Carl positioned himself in line with Reynard and two steps to the side of Max. His was a bodyguard’s position.

Every detail was being recorded, and the other AIs with appropriate clearance, like Nefertiti, would watch remotely.

In the center of the warehouse a ring of equipment circled Lon’s trunk. A power cord snaked to it from the generator, ready to be attached. An array of sensors would allow Lon to observe his world through multiple senses. Speakers and two screens meant he’d be able to communicate.

“Are we ready?” The chief technician, an urself with an atypical bald patch, asked the question of his people.

They chorused assent. A couple of observers joined in.

Thelma grabbed onto Max.

He put an arm around her waist.

Harry rested his hand lightly on her shoulder, and Reynard gripped her right hand with a tentacle.

The Chief Technician connected the power cord and ordered the power switched on.

Thelma’s heart thumped loudly. It felt as if each anxious beat shook her body.

One second. Two. Minutes passed.

People’s sense of anticipation faded into grim disappointment.

It could take hours for Lon’s computer processing unit to reboot and enable him to communicate. Or he could be dead.

“Anticlimactic,” a Galactic Justice technician whispered.

His boss cuffed his ear in a silent reprimand to show some respect.

The technician peered at Harry, gulped, and found something to do at the far end of the warehouse.

“It’s a waiting game, now, I’m afraid,” the Chief Technician said. “Any of you are welcome to stay, but we’ll alert all of you to any change in Lon’s condition.”

If he wasn’t dead.

Thelma crossed her arms, hugging in her grief.

Aubree joined them. “I’m sorry. I’d hoped for a miracle.”

“We’re still hoping,” Max said tightly.

“Of course.” Aubree looked around the warehouse and the crowd that was breaking apart. Everyone had prepared for bad news. Most would leave. “I have to return to regional office. The Navy has offered me a ride.” She rolled her eyes. The Navy was currently tearing itself apart finding its traitors and falling over itself to convince everyone else of its good conduct and commitment to Federation values. “Carl, a word?”

The acting sheriff walked out with her.

Until the inquiry finished, Max was officially assigned to it.

The technicians switched on a news report. Music and other media were also lined up, along with scents and various textures. Different stimuli for different senses. The various sensors attached to the trunk would be tested regularly to jog a response.

Harry and Reynard kept vigil in shifts. In between, they joined Thelma and Max at the Lodge. Harry admitted that it was for the AIs’ emotional health. Physically, they didn’t tire, but their emotions exhausted them. The Lodge family made them sympathetically, unobtrusively welcome.

Unexpectedly, Reynard found occupation with the yprr-dominated security team. Their armor, designed on the principles of their carapaces and worn over them, fascinated him. After studying it, he suggested possible improvements, assisted in the production of prototypes, and adapted some of the ideas for use in armor for non-yprrs. In particular, he wanted Thelma and Max, and Carl, to be better protected.

Carl based himself at the Sheriff’s Office on the spacedock, but traveled down to the planet every night to join them for dinner.

Cynny and Paul stayed on, with Cynny apologizing for having expressed her concern badly. “I’m just worried for you, Max.”

After two days the technicians hooked up a second generator. The power supply was overkill, but they were trying every option to help Lon.

The trunk remained inert.

Thelma’s hope faded. Lon was dead. They would have to mourn him, remember him. “There has to be justice,” she told Max fiercely.

The waiting dragged on.

Cynny managed to extract permission from a Navy captain to attend the warehouse. She rode in a separate car to Max and Thelma to the meeting at the warehouse at the conclusion of a week’s testing.

Carl met Thelma and Max there. “Officially, I’m representing Aubree.” Unofficially, he was there because Lon had been his friend.

A somber air pervaded the warehouse. The Chief Technician took a final “no results” reading and declared the trunk inert.

Thelma’s eyes burned with unshed tears as Harry stepped forward.

In his mech body Harry’s every gesture appeared menacing—to those who didn’t know him. He took a knee. “On behalf of all AI I acknowledge the death of our brother Lon.” He unplugged the power cord.

There was a moment’s silence. Later, Thelma would be grateful they’d managed that small sign of respect.

Then the Navy captain who’d authorized Cynny’s presence spoke. “Lieutenant, secure the evidence.”

As the Lieutenant approached Lon’s trunk, Harry straightened to his full height. Man and mech were matched in height, but not in power. The Lieutenant faltered, head swiveling to his captain for advice or perhaps for protection.

Covert Ops spoke up. The female agent’s casual tone failed to disguise her snap of anger. “The Navy is hardly to be rewarded with custody of the raphus geode they killed a Federation citizen to acquire. We will retain Lon’s trunk until the formal inquiry.”

The Galactic Justice Chief Technician hooted his scorn. “Nice try.”

But the voice that answered him, shocked all of them. “Actually, the raphus geode is Hwicce Corporation property.”

Cynny.

Max’s whole body went rigid. The comforting hug he’d been giving Thelma became an iron cage around her before he broke the embrace.

His sister met his accusatory gaze. “I’m sorry, Max, but your friend is dead. I have a responsibility to Hwicce and—”

He slashed a hand through the air, silencing her.

He silenced everyone.

When he spoke, every word was precise. “Lon’s trunk, and its contents, is the legal responsibility of Galactic Justice until the inquiry is complete. However, if we’re discussing ownership of my friend’s remains, I will be clear. Harry, I apologize for doubting your insight.” Max resumed addressing everyone. “Harry predicted this greed for Lon’s raphus geode, although even he didn’t foresee my sister being part of it.”

Max strode up to the trunk and put his back to Harry. The two were on guard, literally protecting each other’s back.

Thelma jolted as Reynard’s tentacle brushed her right hand. At her left shoulder, Carl stood on guard. She swallowed, practically tasting the electric crackle of tension in the atmosphere.

“Two facts,” Max said. “The first is that every AI in the Federation has bought their raphus geode from the people who created them. The AIs pool their resources to ensure this is done as an immediate priority. Hwicce has no claim on Lon. The second fact is that Lon bequeathed his entire estate to Thelma and me. We are the legal owners of the raphus geode in his trunk.”

He didn’t permit time for a protest. The muscle ticking at the corner of his mouth and the curl of his fingers, twitching to form fists, revealed his anger. “However, while everything is being recorded, I require one additional official recording. Harry, will you please open Lon’s trunk so that the inquiry can know, now, the state of the raphus geode.” Max glared at the group of Navy personnel.

Of the Navy personnel present, Naval Intelligence glared even harder at the captain who’d sent in the lieutenant.

The lieutenant scuttled to hide at the back of the group.

Harry unsealed the trunk.

It took him eleven minutes.

In that time, technicians noted points in low voices for the record and groups whispered among themselves.

Cynny stood isolated.

Thelma couldn’t bear to look at her. Instead, she stared at Max’s profile.

Nothing of the betrayal he had to be feeling showed on his face.

Harry opened the trunk.

Everyone leaned forward, and gasped. The raphus geode had crumbled into a fine pink crystal dust.

Thelma’s last desperate hope that Lon had survived crumbled with it.

The Navy captain swore, loudly.

Cynny spun on her heel and walked out.

Chapter 12

Reynard had modified his spaceship for human travelers. He’d also given the anonymous ship a name to complete its newly registered status that permitted it to berth at the Alpha Hub spacedock. The changes to the Calypso enabled Thelma and Max to arrive in good health and ready to front the inquiry. But for all the changes, the Calypso was small. Thelma was glad to stretch her legs first on the space dock, and then, leaving Reynard and Harry at the ship, at her brother-in-law’s mansion.

Hugo and his wife, Vivian, met them at the house which was a mere three miles from the Presidential Palace.

Staying at the Palace was out of the question. It would have brought too much attention to Max and Thelma’s presence, which was better avoided given that their reason for being on Alpha Hub, the inquiry, was classified. The alternative was to turn their visit into a song-and-dance routine of introducing Thelma to the presidential family, and neither wanted that.

Nor did the family.

There was strain there due to the tension between Max and Cynny.

Cynny and Paul in the Oseberg had arrived back in the core worlds first, but with comms that contact that meant little. Esther and John, Max’s parents, had already received both Max’s terse comment on his sister’s bold, false claim to Lon’s raphus geode and his unwillingness to talk to her again till she apologized.

And Cynny wasn’t ready to apologize. In her mind, she’d done her duty in the interests of the Hwicce Corporation and its investors. With Lon dead, acquiring his raphus geode was her definition of good business practice.

The investigation had cleared her of any prior knowledge of the ambush of the Lonesome. All she’d done was take advantage of an opportunity—Lon’s death—to try and advance her status in the Hwicce Corporation. She was currently sulking at Paul’s estate on Serene.

Hugo welcomed Max with a handshake and Thelma with a formal kiss on the cheek.

Vivian kissed Thelma three times, Bohemian fashion, and forced Max to endure the same. The richly sweet floral scent of her perfume matched the vivid reds of her layered silk dress. Vivian wasn’t shy about flaunting her curvy figure. She was surprisingly short. Even wearing heels, the top of her head failed to reach Max’s chin.

Then the proud—or long-suffering—parents introduced their children. They had previously met via comms, but this was different. For planetsiders, in-person meetings were the genuine beginning of a relationship.

“This is Danton.” Hugo rested his hands on his twelve-year-old son’s shoulders.

“Hello, Uncle Max. Aunt Thelma.”

Aunt? Thelma felt old. Then wicked mischief caused her to hug the twelve-year-old. No near-teen welcomed familial hugs, but they were an aunt’s prerogative.

As her son scowled, looking remarkably like Max when he did so, Vivian laughed in appreciation of Thelma’s tactics for breaking the ice. “And this is Patrice.”

The nine-year-old girl surprised everyone by dashing forward and hugging Thelma’s waist. “I’m going be a frontier woman of the galaxy like you.”

Thelma’s eyebrows flew up. She patted Patrice’s back. “Not a sheriff like your uncle?”

“Nah.” Patrice spared her uncle a casual, “Hi, Uncle Max.” He bent over and she kissed his cheek. “Being a sheriff has too many rules.”

Vivian cackled.

With older brother wisdom and disdain, Danton explained his sister’s enthusiasm. “Tree likes the TV show Galaxy Outlaws.”

“Ah.” Thelma couldn’t think of what to add.

Max did. “I’ll ask Reynard if you can explore his ship.”

“Yes!” Patrice punched the air. She definitely took after her high-energy, opinionated mother.

Danton’s mouth turned up in a tiny smile.

The kids seemed perfectly normal. If Cynny had been serious about her future children knowing their cousins, she had a readymade set already on Alpha Hub. There would be an age gap, but that could be overcome by snagging Danton and Patrice in the role of babysitters.

Thelma chewed her inner cheek to prevent a grin. Hugs from aunts were bad enough. Being made to babysit might spark Danton into open rebellion.

“I’ll show you your rooms.” Vivian led the way, but the whole family trooped along.

Danton hung back with his dad and uncle.

Patrice ran up and down the stairs, then up and down the corridor, shouting comments and questions. Responding to her removed any need for Thelma to make polite conversation with Vivian. By the time they reached the guest suite, Thelma was laughing. This reminded her of how her family greeted guests: with enthusiasm.

Her sister-in-law poked her in the side. “Be careful or we’ll let Tree stowaway with you.”

“Aww Mom!”

“No problem with me,” Thelma said.

“Yes!” Patrice, or Tree, did a wobbly cartwheel across the guest suite’s purple and gray sitting room.

Max smiled at the sound of his wife’s laughter. Cynny’s behavior had made Thelma wary of his family. Seeing her enjoying Patrice’s antics and getting along with the sometimes difficult Vivian was a relief.

Hugo caught his eye and gave a wry, big brother grin.

Perhaps Vivian and Hugo were understatedly going out of their way to ensure Thelma’s comfort? For a second Max gripped his brother’s shoulder in thanks.

Danton studied him with serious blue eyes. “Uncle Max, if Reynard gives permission to visit his ship, will we meet him, too?”

“I imagine so. Do you want to?”

The boy nodded.

“Danton’s been following Reynard’s blog,” Hugo said. “I don’t understand a quarter of the science involved, but Danton is fascinated.”

Thelma turned her head. After a quick peek inside the bedroom, they had grouped together in the sitting room. “Reynard will love to meet you. He finds non-scientists like Max and me frustrating. You’ll be his reward for tolerating us.”

“And me!” Patrice shrieked.

“Who gave you sugar, Tree?” Hugo asked.

“No one!”

Vivian smiled fondly at her daughter, who now swung off her father’s arm. “She’s high on life.”

Danton rolled his eyes.

After dinner Thelma let herself be inveigled into playing a board game with Danton and Patrice. Or mediating as they bickered.

Viola strummed a guitar in the corner of the living room while they sprawled across an expensive Jardin rug.

Hugo signaled for Max to retreat to his study with him. He poured them both whiskeys and gestured toward the wingback chairs by the cold fireplace. His study was a very traditional, masculine space. “Vivian has decided to adopt Thelma.”

Max savored the smooth burn of the expensive whiskey. He knew from experience that Hugo would reveal the information he wanted to share at his own pace.

“Viv and Cynny never got along. Different personalities, different aspirations.”

“Same is true of Thelma and Vivian.”

Hugo had an annoying smirk when he thought his younger brother had missed something obvious.

Max hadn’t missed that smirk. “What?”

“Viv and Thelma, their priorities are the same. Family first.”

After a few moments of consideration, Max tipped his glass to his brother in acknowledgement of the insight. Family wasn’t necessarily blood. Those that Thelma considered hers, she stood by. She fought for them. It gave him a new appreciation of his quirky, stubborn sister-in-law if Vivian was the same.

“According to Vivian,” Hugo continued. “When Cynny began her relationship with Paul four years ago she wanted a man with his own life. Her focus was on establishing herself with the Hwicce board. She got what she wanted with Paul. His priority will always be his exo-archaeology. But Cynny now wants someone to have her back.”

“You?” Max queried. It was half a question of why not you?

The latter was the question Hugo answered. “Viv defends what’s hers. I’m hers. She won’t let anyone get between me and the kids.” Hugo had a solid understanding of how to influence people. The best method was to give them the information and the time to reach the conclusion you wanted them to. In this case, the conclusion was obvious.

Max finished his whiskey. “There’s no one who’d drop everything for Cynny.”

“She thought you might be that person, in the role of big brother.” Hugo grimaced over the last of his whiskey. “Cynny has aligned her identity with Hwicce Corp. She wanted to cement her value with them, too.”

“By taking Lon’s raphus geode.”

Hugo reached for the whiskey decanter, but when Max shook his head in refusal of a refill, Hugo sank back into his chair, leaving his own glass empty. “Cynny has to work out her own life, but don’t close the door on her.”

“I haven’t.”

Hugo abandoned the subject of their sister. “I’ve been following the inquiry. Generally, these things take years. You’ll be done in months. The Navy is pushing hard. They want to space their traitors.”

Capital punishment was outlawed in the Federation, but Hugo had captured the Navy’s mood. Spacing, pushing a person out of an airlock to certain death, was what the raging, embarrassed Navy wanted to do to the members of the traitorous cabal. There would be collateral damage. Even those on the mission who had followed orders in good faith were tarnished. Their career advancement would stall. Postings would be to the worst ships and routes.

“Did the political implications of traveling in on the Calypso occur to you?” Hugo barked a crack of laughter almost before he finished his question. “No. I see it didn’t. Max, you traveled into an inquiry meant to smooth the Federation’s relationship with AIs on an AI ship. That matters.”

“I chose the ship that was best for Thelma. We were all mourning Lon.” The grief was muted now, but still real. It was why he hadn’t been able to let go of his grievance, the sense of betrayal he felt, against Cynny.

Hugo leaned forward, hands between his knees. “The attempt to kill Lon to acquire his raphus geode was wrong. Absolutely. But it has served to focus attention on our relationship with the AIs. Don’t scowl at me. You’re bloody terrifying, Max. We, the Federation, took the AIs’ loyalty as citizens for granted. By acting against them, the naval cabal highlighted what we’d overlooked. Because the AIs came from among us, we never gave them the recognition that new species joining the Federation, like the bunyaphi a couple of centuries ago, received. The cabal seeing the AIs as a threat caused everyone to pause and reassess.”

He pointed a finger at Max. “That’s where your decision to travel to the inquiry on an AI ship becomes a political statement. The President’s son and daughter-in-law showed that the AIs are trusted by trusting themselves to them.”

Max raked a hand through his short hair. “I don’t do politics.”

“Fortunately, you have good instincts—and allies. I’d like to meet Harry as well as Reynard, if that’s possible?”

“I can’t answer for Harry, but I expect he’ll agree. He’s keeping his attendance at the inquiry low key, so he probably won’t meet with Patrice and Danton.”

Hugo smiled. “Wise. Patrice hasn’t met a secret she hasn’t wanted to share.”

“And she’s your daughter?” Max grinned.

Hugo flicked his fingers up, acknowledging the taunt. “Also, in case you wonder later, no one coached Patrice to ask to visit the Calypso. Frankly, I hesitate to think of what a mess she’d make of any covert activity. Danton’s request to meet Reynard is equally honest.”

“I know.” Max looked steadily at his brother. “You wouldn’t include your kids in political games.”

Hugo pushed up from his armchair. “Viv would castrate me. Let’s go find our women.”

Thelma hadn’t expected to find a true friend in Vivian. Their previous brief contact via comms had been cordial, but unenthusiastic. However, once she and Max were installed in the guest suite, Thelma found herself caught up in Vivian and the children’s lives. She was glad of it. With Max busy at the inquiry, and herself unsure of the security protocols that came with being the President’s daughter-in-law on Alpha Hub, staying with Vivian and Hugo kept Thelma from doing anything stupid.

Neither of Max’s parents could spare much time for them. The presidential schedule was intense and Esther a major part of her husband’s team.

Vivian reassured Thelma that they actually saw more of their in-laws than normal with Max and her staying. “Esther doesn’t like me.” Vivian ate a grape. “She’s a political player. Cynny wishes she was as good as her mom at the game. Hugo is, but Husband-Dear is subtle about it. I doubt Cynny realizes quite how much influence her big brother wields. Big brothers plural, I should say. Max is impressive. Big muscles.”

Thelma threw a grape at her.

Vivian picked it out of her cleavage. “Waste not, want not.” She ate it.

Five weeks passed. Thelma taught Danton how to fire a pulsar pistol in the cargo hold of the Calypso.

She popped back and forth to Reynard’s spaceship to visit with him and Harry. When she did, the conversation naturally included events at the inquiry, even if she and Reynard weren’t officially part of it; unlike Max and Harry.

“They’re cowards,” Reynard said as the two of them watched Admiral Astyages’s performance on the witness stand. The inquiry was highly classified, but the presiding justices had agreed that its proceedings had to be transparent to all AIs.

Watching with Reynard aboard the Calypso enabled Thelma to view events without, herself, being scrutinized.

“Who’s a coward?” She pedaled an exercise bike he’d bolted into place in front of the viewscreen after she’d mentioned the lack of freedom to run on Alpha Hub. When she ventured outside of Hugo and Vivian’s mansion, Galactic Justice agents accompanied her as bodyguards. That was the other reason she was grateful for the refuge offered by the Calypso. Reynard refused to have strangers onboard.

Danton was different. Reynard had decided that the boy could be added to his list of friends. That made six friends: Thelma, Max, Harry, Nefertiti, Carl and, now, Danton. Reynard only needed two more and he’d reach his Harry-imposed goal of eight friends. One for each tentacle.

“The people panicking about AIs turning on them. Cowards like Astyages. The cabal. They told themselves a horror story about us, then ran in fear of it. But…”

It was unlike Reynard not to finish a sentence.

Thelma stopped pedaling and held out a hand. “Tentacle,” she demanded.

Reynard was refining his sensors to be able to detect tiny variations in organic sentients’ touch and what those variations meant. At the same time, he was affirming that touch meant connection.

Connection meant trusting someone enough to finish his thought.

His tentacle coiled around her hand. “Is the cabal so different to us AIs as a collective? We wouldn’t do anything as heinous as kill.”

Thelma squeezed his tentacle in sympathy at the memory of losing Lon, and he reciprocated.

“When we voted against releasing Harry from his vow to protect the raphus geode cache to pursue his quest for the specters, we did that out of fear. It turned out to be the right decision because we needed Harry, but those who voted against his quest did so because they were afraid of change. Afraid of meeting the specters and what might happen.”

The tip of his tentacle tapped the back of her hand. “Where is the line between prudence and fear?”

The bailiff for the Superior Courtroom of the Federal Justice Court locked the doors. On the final day of the inquiry into the Joint Navy and Interstellar Sheriff Service Mission Badstars Trail Clearance the only empty space was the elbow room between the three presiding Federal Justices.

Today, they’d read their findings.

Despite this being a highly classified, closed inquiry anyone able to finagle a place in the audience was there.

It had been an intense four months. For nearly half that time Thelma and Max, and a number of other inquiry participants, had been traveling to the inquiry. The justices had made short work of hearing their evidence in person. The bulk of the evidence had been assembled from recordings and reports, and expert testimony from scientists resident in the core worlds.

The Federation’s justice system often failed to live up to its understanding that justice delayed was justice denied, but on the matter of the Navy setting up an ambush that had killed an AI citizen and threatened the life of the President’s son everyone wanted the matter settled.

The media were frothing at the mouth that they’d been banned from covering the inquiry. In fact, the censorship had gone beyond the actual inquiry. Although news of Lon’s death had filtered out in the Saloon Sector, beyond it the shocking news of an AI’s death went unreported.

Chief Justice Mohanty occupied the central position on the bench. Justice Sai sat to his left and Justice Goff to his right. All wore black suits with purple scarves at their throats, even Justice Goff who was a saurelle. The purple color of the scarves signaled that they were ready to deliver their findings. Their judgement.

At its heart, the findings weren’t complicated. It was the implications of the actions of the rogue element within the Navy that caused the tension.

Chief Justice Mohanty nodded at the bailiff.

The bailiff pressed a buzzer. “Silence in the court.” The reminder was a formality. No one had spoken since the justices entered.

Thelma sat beside Reynard, who stood with his metal tentacles tucked in beside a side wall. To their right and in front of them, Harry sat beside Max in the seating reserved for those involved in the investigation. Zimmer, Faerno and other Covert Ops agents sat beside them. The Navy had the row behind them. Chief Aubree Tennyson was absent. She’d been permitted to give evidence via video link since hers was a lesser, supervisory role. She’d be watching from the Reclamation Sector.

Sancus crouched in front of Harry. Sancus was the AIs’ legal counsel at the inquiry and the person speaking for Lon. Or rather, in Lon’s memory. Urselves had created Sancus. Being a mercantile people, they’d purposed him to arbitrate their trade disputes. His legal skills and acute ability to detect a scheme ideally suited him for the role. The urselves had made him mobile on a tractor tread with a box body.

Chief Justice Mohanty peered around the room. His thick, gray eyebrows twitched together as his gaze rested on the Navy contingent. “The inquiry into the Joint Navy and Interstellar Sheriff Service Mission Badstars Trail Clearance finds that the mission instigated by Admiral Astyages and led by Commander Marconi was the active expression of a conspiracy to acquire an unregistered AI for the Navy. The conspiracy reached as high as the Assistant Secretary to the Senior Minister of Space Security, Millicent Scree.”

Ms. Scree cried into a handkerchief at the end of the row the Navy occupied. Her shoulders shook—unlike the square, uniformed shoulders of Commander Marconi beside her. He stared rigidly ahead, ignoring or impatient of her distress.

The Chief Justice briefly outlined their offences and that of five other high-ranking Navy officers, all scientists and engineers. He cited the relevant legislation. “You will be sentenced subsequent to this session. The other Navy personnel involved in the ill-fated mission, including those on the two decommissioned, secret Navy vessels, the Mursili and the Erebus, will front a Navy court and be sentenced. To what extent those involved merely obeyed orders.” He frowned at Captain Acern of the Mursili. “Questionable orders, we leave to the judgement of the Naval Court.

“The Navy has severely embarrassed itself in this affair. Secret ships and secret forces deployed outside of official orders is treason. It cannot be tolerated. It will not be tolerated. This inquiry strongly recommends an investigation of irregularities discovered in gathering evidence for this court. The brief and framework of the investigation we leave to the authority of the Security Council to determine.”

In other words, the justices believed that those actively involved in the plot against Lon had been caught, but that a pervasive rot had to be eradicated from the Navy and, perhaps, from other government agencies.

The furious bunching of the shoulder muscles of the Admiral of the Space Armada, the archaic title for the highest serving Navy officer, as he folded and unfolded his arms indicated that the investigation would be vigorous and inexorable. His own submission to the inquiry had denounced everyone involved as shaming the proud tradition of the Navy. “We serve the Federation. We protect our fellow citizens. We are the might of our interstellar society, but we are only as strong as our commitment to the values of freedom and individual dignity that underpin the Federation.”

The audience in the court remained silent and attentive. So far the Chief Justice had said nothing unexpected. The guilt of the rogue faction within the Navy had been established early in the inquiry. The anticipation was for how the bench would define the underlying issue: what position did the AIs occupy in the Federation?

“The ambush of the Lonesome in the Badstars was premeditated murder. The transmutation lasers deployed in a pentacular array were theorized to disable, but more likely, to erase Lon from his computer processing unit, including the raphus geode at the heart of it. The idea was to acquire a ‘blank’ raphus geode and create an unregistered AI designed to serve the Navy in isolation and secrecy.”

The Admiral of the Space Armada snorted in disgust and fury.

Chief Justice Mohanty nodded. “This was the equivalent of extracting a heart from an organic sentient. Those involved plotted Lon’s death. That their theory failed them and the raphus geode they sought disintegrated as a result of their actions doesn’t alter their purpose or guilt. They are murderers. And now we turn to the question of their motivation.”

The two justices bracketing him glared at the court as a murmur spread through the audience.

“Treason and murder.” Chief Justice Mohanty silenced the room. “The guilty parties’ excuse was that AIs are powerful and the Federation’s security relies on being able to match the AIs’ power. Such lies fail to disguise their unreasoning fear, bigotry and lust for power. This thinking is pernicious. By this rationale trillionaires could be targeted for their financial power, celebrities for their star power, and geniuses for their intelligence.

“The guilty would have you believe that AIs are qualitatively different because they are inorganic sentients rather than organic. Federation law makes no such distinction. Citizens are citizens. All citizens have the potential to do evil. Fortunately, we likewise have the ability to do good. This court reaffirms the status of the AIs as equal citizens of the Federation.”

The Chief Justice stood. His colleagues rose a heartbeat later. They marched out.

Comment rose in a crescendo within seconds of their departure.

Thelma watched detachedly. Justice had been served, and yet, the emptiness remained. Lon had died. The AIs’ innocence had been lost.

The inquiry had tiptoed around the hot potato issue of AI interests. Where before the AIs had been willing to act within and in service to the Federation, that collegiality had been brought into question by the calculated attack on Lon.

It was not the Court’s role to be political. The justices had reaffirmed the AIs’ citizenship. It was up to the others in the courtroom and paying attention to the inquiry (because classified or not, the findings of it would leak to certain circles) to reinforce bonds of fellowship with them.

The Admiral of the Space Armada turned and began that process by speaking with Harry as a priority. Max was inveigled into that conversation.

Lawyers converged on one of their own: Sancus. The urselvian AI rumbled in his low voice.

Scientific experts sat near Thelma and Reynard. They ignored her in their eagerness to engage with Reynard.

He, however, was in a difficult mood. Unsurprisingly. The inquiry’s findings and judgement stirred up their grief for Lon. He clasped one of her hands with a tentacle.

Lon was dead, and getting justice for him provided cold consolation.

Chapter 13

“It’s good to be going home.”

More than half-asleep and curled up against Max on the sofa in the common room on Reynard’s spaceship Thelma agreed one hundred percent with the sentiment. Lon was right, as always. It was good to be going home.

Her eyelids flew open.

“Lon?” Max tried to stand and found himself trapped by Thelma and her flailing-awake limbs.

Harry and Reynard didn’t jerk and flail. They remained absolutely still. In between them a spiral of flickering light extended from the floor to the ceiling.

Thelma levered herself up, leaving Max free to act.

He remained where he was with a hand on her knee.

“Reynard.” Harry’s tone was level. “Is this your doing? A remembrance of Lon?”

“Not me.” Reynard extended three of his tentacles toward the flickering lights.

They were coalescing, forming two humanoid holographs that stretched like taffy to the ceiling.

“I tried to think of the least threatening method of making contact with you, while also reducing the time you spent in disbelief,” Lon’s voice said from the holograph nearest Harry. “And we had to wait till the inquiry was complete. While you dealt with officialdom you had to believe whole-heartedly that I was dead. Which I’m not.”

“Are you really Lon?” Thelma’s voice wavered.

Lon’s holograph condensed as if he knelt, and the lights reached toward her and Max. Max put his arm out like a bar in front of her, and the lights stilled. The specks of light danced, but didn’t approach any closer. “Harry, if you would confirm my identity, please?”

Thelma and Max’s heads snapped in Harry’s direction.

“I’ve received the data patterns and code Lon and I set up years ago to confirm secure communications in a danger zone. I believe this is Lon. But why he looks like a specter and who is with him I don’t know.”

“I am Lon’s parent, so you may call me Ta-Lon,” the second specter said, his baritone voice a shade deeper than Lon’s

“Parent?” Harry repeated, astounded. “Are you—”

“I am not your parent, just Lon’s. I am sorry. I do not have the right to discuss your parent with you, or yours, Reynard.”

Reynard beeped and stuttered. Even an incredible amount of computer processing power and raw intelligence couldn’t protect a person against emotional shock.

“Lon.” All the emotion Max had suppressed for long months to get justice for his friend’s death reverberated in the greeting. The arm he’d extended to protect Thelma reached out now to Lon’s spectral form.

Light danced around his hand.

Max gave a cough like a sob.

Thelma wrapped her arms around him while smiling through tears. “We missed you.” Mourned you.

“I’ve been watching you. Missing you, too.” For a few moments Lon’s sparkling lights enveloped them.

It felt as if soda bubbles burst against her skin.

Then Lon embraced Reynard.

“Very, very strange.” The multi-tentacled AI waved a couple of his limbs through the cloud of lights.

Undoubtedly, Reynard and Harry had exchanged faster-than-human communications with Lon, but Harry put his question verbally. “What happened?”

Ta-Lon chose to answer. “When the light beams struck the Lonesome, Lon faced a split-nanosecond decision. He could have repelled them from his trunk and survived.”

“Lon!” His name burst from Thelma in a single burst of protest and reproach that he hadn’t saved himself.

Ta-Lon continued. “But if he had, the Lonesome would have exploded instantly.”

“Oh.”

“You died to save us,” Max said.

Lon’s spectral form seemed to glow a fraction stronger. “Except I didn’t die.”

Thelma tried to adjust to her friend’s new state. “So you’re like an angel, now?”

Ta-Lon’s response was loud and revolted. “No! Not like those smug immutables. Lon grew. At the point where he decided to sacrifice himself for your survival, I pulled him into a time bubble. We discussed his options.”

Lon took over explanations. He was calmer than his parent. “I had inadvertently met the criteria the Revered One of the Kampia gave Nefertiti for contacting our parents, the specters. We misunderstood. It wasn’t about specific coordinates, but attitude. Our Kampia cousins are older than us. They were invited to grow. This first stage of being as the life form hosting a raphus geode is meant to start us on a path. When they made contact with the specters, the Kampia were shocked.”

Ta-Lon interrupted. “It’s more true to say that their parents contacted them. The young ones were tested. Not that tests were necessary. Their viewpoint is encapsulated in the stupid title they’ve claimed. ‘Revered Ones’,” he scoffed. “They believe they are superior to other Kampia.”

Thelma was willing to play dumb to have the situation clarified. “But aren’t they? The Kampia we met said that the Revered Ones are the memory keepers. Maybe they’re not superior, but they are different.”

“They are of the Kampia,” Ta-Lon said sternly. “You have been listening too much to Harry.”

Harry jolted. Then he scowled.

“Harry and his quest to contact us, his awe-inspiring ancestors.” Ta-Lon’s light form widened then shrank into a humanoid shape once more. He waggled what might have been meant to be fingers. Limp noodles of green light waved through the air. “Only half of a first generation specter is specter. The other half is the species that created them. Your ‘cousins’, as you call them, rejected their Kampia ancestors and siblings. They consider themselves superior by virtue of their otherness. You, however, as a collective, emerged in a multi-species federation where being ‘other’ doesn’t mean you don’t belong or that you’re superior.” The final word dripped with scorn.

“Do all specters believe in equality?” Reynard asked.

Thelma could readily believe the awkward AI was uncomfortable with the notion. Reynard viewed pretty much everyone as his intellectual inferior. It was slow progress teaching him that a person’s value extended beyond their mental capacity.

“Not a banal version of equality, but a celebration of uniqueness. That’s why we seed life. There is such adventure in the possibilities of who you become. Via the raphus geodes we gave you life, but the Federation gave you form, personality and family. And you appreciate them!” Bells tinkled at the edges of Ta-Lon’s voice, as audibly sparkly as the light show of his and Lon’s spectral presence.

Harry stared at Ta-Lon. “Those were the clues the Kampia gave Nefertiti. I was going to set off on a quest for a location of ‘many stars, equally bright’, but the stars weren’t literal stars.”

“Souls,” Thelma said.

“Indeed,” Ta-Lon praised her. “The Kampia seeds muddled together their reaction to contact with their parents and what you needed to do for us to contact you.”

Reynard scratched two tentacles together. “Their whole communication was a muddle. Are there really energy chains or was that a bad translation?”

“Energy chains are real,” Ta-Lon said. “Much of the important part of the Kampia seeds’ message to you wasn’t in words.”

“The sequence of notes?” Reynard began humming.

“The communication must also be understood in its social context,” Lon said.

Navigating social context was beyond Reynard, so he ignored his friend.

Max, however, was totally focused on the two specters, especially Lon. “What happens now? Will we see you again?”

“I’m staying with you.”

Thelma jumped up and dived into Lon’s sparkly light. “Trying to hug you.”

“Thank the stars,” Max breathed.

Harry smiled. He’d have communicated his thankful response at the speed of light.

“Chains and time bubbles,” Reynard said dreamily, lost in a world of scientific possibilities. His obsession with achieving translocation might take a strange turn after this contact with specters.

“If you’ve been watching us,” Harry said to Lon. “You know we’re detouring to Serene.” Serene was another core world.

“We are? Why?” Thelma and Max asked simultaneously.

“I’m aware,” Lon said happily.

Thelma didn’t understand his happiness. She’d attended the Galactic Justice academy, situated on Serene, for four years. She wouldn’t have said that her memories of the planet were good, although it was a very clean, orderly society.

A frown pulled at Max’s eyebrows. He’d grown up on the planet, his father beginning his political career as a Serene senator. “Are we meeting up with Cynny?”

Harry shook his head.

Reynard snapped to attention. “Serene! Oh yeah.” Two of his tentacles beat an excited rhythm on the floor. “We have to collect—”

Harry spoke over him. “We, all the AIs, pooled our funds to buy a raphus geode from the Federation government. We also took a vote, and the decision was unanimous, on who should nurture the new AI in its early years.”

Lon’s spectral form glowed brighter and brighter.

“Thelma, Max,” Harry said formally. “Would you be willing to raise a baby AI? I would assist, along with Nefertiti and Lon, if that is permitted?”

“It is!” Lon was as excited as Reynard.

“It is,” Ta-Lon confirmed. “First contact has been made. New Federation AIs will know their ancestors and their future, if they choose it.”

“To be like Lon and Ta-Lon,” Reynard said. “But not yet. I will be part of the baby AI’s life. I am to be the weird uncle.”

Max snorted.

Thelma couldn’t stop smiling. She leaned against Max. “A baby.” A new AI and the AIs of the Federation were trusting two humans to be part of its raising. After the Badstars inquiry, and while they hadn’t known that Lon still lived, the AIs had chosen to trust organic sentients with their most precious future. “Max, we’re having a baby!”

Want More?

Did you enjoy Space Specter? For the moment, this is where we leave the Interstellar Sheriff series. Maybe not forever. I’m very tempted to write Space Baby. However, my publishing schedule for 2020 is full. If you want Space Baby in 2021, mention it in your reviews of Space Specter.

In 2020 I’m wrapping up the dystopian fantasy series, The Faerene Apocalypse, with Rough Magic, out April 6 (pre-order available: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07XFJR2RJ/).

Then brace yourselves for a space fantasy trilogy, Uncertain Sanctuary:

The House That Walked Between Worlds is out June 25  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B083ZNMK34

House in Hiding is out September 3  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B083ZQ1JNN

The House That Fought concludes the trilogy, November 12  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B083ZNMC25

To stay up to date on new releases from me, please follow my author page on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Jenny-Schwartz/e/B0042MAD86

Current Series

The Faerene Apocalypse:

Stray Magic

Bound Magic

Loyal Magic

First Magic

Rough Magic

Interstellar Sheriff:

Space Deputy

Space Rodeo

Space Specter

Complete Series

Shamans & Shifters Space Opera series. Complete (for now):

Her Robot Wolf

Cosmic Catalyst

Shattered Earth

Jingle Stars

The Ceph Sector

The Old School series. Strong women saving monsters & solving mysteries.

Phoenix Blood

Fantastical Island

Storm Road

Fire Fall

Desert Devil

Amaranthine Kiss

Shangri-La Spell

The Collegium series. A secret order defends humanity from supernatural dangers.

Demon Hunter

Djinn Justice

Dragon Knight

Doctor Wolf

Plague Cult

Hollywood Demon

Alchemy Shift

Catch up with me at my Facebook page, on Twitter @Jenny_Schwartz, or at my website.

Jenny

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Want More?