The underground hideout was illuminated with the warm, dim light of a late sunset, so when Hideo handed me a pair of shades, I looked at him strangely. “Precaution,” he explained. “I know what eyes like yours can do, and although I’m willing to give you a tour, I’m not willing to give you all our secrets.”
“Fair enough,” I said, taking them from him and putting them on. They were immediately irritating and disorienting, limiting not only my range of vision but also my connection to the networks. I hid my discomfort and joked, “Did you have these made just for me?”
“We’ve been watching you for a long time, Amira,” Hideo said with a simple directness that made him sound worryingly ordinary.
A short, slender man dressed in worn khaki approached JP with a datacard in hand. “Moreno, the manifest for the priority incoming finally arrived. We need to sit down and plan the next stage.”
JP took the card and glanced quickly at us before saying, “Been busy, Slate. Can you give me ten minutes?”
“I think Sergeant Singh won’t mind if you leave her with me,” Hideo said. “We’ll catch up with you later.”
Shades regardless, I picked up several things. The use of my full name, a slight fluttering blink from Slate as he took in that new information, JP’s mild frown as she took the polite dismissal as . . . well . . . a dismissal, and the unspoken behavior of the entire group which told me that Accountant Hideo was indeed the man in charge, but in a somewhat mad-scientist kind of way. I’d seen it before in the Resistance and after—sometimes people were known and appreciated for getting results, but they worried you because you couldn’t guess what they’d do next, and whether or not it would be to your benefit.
JP nodded and turned to go. Slate gave me a small smile before he followed. Hideo took me gently by the arm, steering me in the opposite direction.
“Juanita Pilar Moreno. Gained quite a reputation for ruthless efficiency years ago, but some people fear she’s gone soft now. I think she’s just a little burnt out. I give her about two months or less before she starts trying to oust me. Of course, I plan to be gone by then. She could run this place better than I can, and I . . . I need to step up a bit.”
I questioned him with a look.
“New goals, new scope. Like I said, the Ships could be great, but we need to stretch ourselves more. I’ve been running the numbers, and I think it’s time to—but more of that after you decide if you want to join us.”
It was a carefully planned tour, showing just enough strength and structure without revealing everything. He showed me a fleet of ground vehicles very like the one he drove and a couple of stealth hoppers. I glanced at the ceiling, looking for a hidden hatch to the outside air, but the shades defeated me. I stood in a doorway and saw stores of weapons and ammunition, mostly sidearms, sniper rifles, and basic body armor, but so antiquated as to be almost quaint. Then, as I turned to go, I did a double take and noticed changes, adaptations, tweaks. Hideo pressed me onward before I could take a closer look.
It was a respectable accumulation of materiel, but I was sure it was only the tip of the iceberg. Given what I’d seen of Hideo, JP, and Russo, I suspected the real strength in the operation was intelligence, and the rest was for defense only in case of discovery.
Hideo brought me into a glass-walled office positioned in the center of a bustling hall—very mutually panopticon of him. I see you, you see me. He had no desk. A conference table with twelve chairs dominated the middle of the room, and there was a round, low table off to one side bearing a neatly arranged tea set and ringed with four seating cushions. He invited me to be seated on one of the cushions, then settled himself opposite me and started to make tea. I glanced at the walls, wondering if he changed the transparency levels at any time, then choked back a gasp of pure greed when I realized that the middle third of the wall, all around the office, was an input screen like Makani’s desk.
“Okay, you wanted me to impress me; I’m impressed. This Ship is obviously operational. Why do you need me at all?”
Hideo smiled. “Bismil Singh’s granddaughter—”
“I’m sure you don’t need a figurehead,” I interrupted him, “so don’t waste our time.”
He raised his hands. “Figurehead, no, but people respond to a symbol. Don’t tell me you’ve never used your name to get ahead.”
“It can also make you a target,” I replied, thinking of my parents. “It can make you try too hard and risk too much to deal with all the hopes people invest in you.”
“True, but you didn’t let me finish. Bismil Singh’s granddaughter, former member of the Resistance, now sergeant—more or less—in the CPF, has an enviable portfolio. Amira, you have fought on several fronts now: urban centers on Earth, alien and human networks, moons and asteroids and deep space. We need your experience. The Resistance must create a fleet of space-based Ships.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Who are you planning to fight? Accordance? Conglomeration?”
“That’s step two, Sergeant. The point is, you won’t even have a chance to fight if you can’t get into the ring.” He placed a cup in front of me. “Supplies are so disrupted these days, unless it’s something the Accordance can use, of course, but this is the best green tea available. It doesn’t compare to my pre-Accordance childhood memories, but does anything?”
“You’re trying to duplicate the Icarus Corps. That’s only going to create more conflict.”
“Duplicate? Are you really comparing our Ships to the space arm of the CPF?”
“You said it yourself, it’s as simple as us and them. Where do you put the CPF in that equation?”
Hideo leaned back a bit and drank his tea in temporary retreat. “It was easier,” he said finally, “when the CPF was mostly collaborators. Now they have martyrs, lots of martyrs, and a few key heroes. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what strong symbols those are.”
Heroes. I thought of Devlin, often screwing up the small things but coming through when it really mattered, principled and loyal, honor and trust together. I missed him, and I wondered whether I could find the same kind of team bond with Hideo and JP that I’d found with him and Ken.
“So, Amira, it comes down to this. Humans must be in space. Will you bet on the Icarus Corps, or on the Resistance?” He pushed away his cup and stood up. “I’ll even help you decide.”
He went to that massive ribbon of tech that I envied so much and tapped a panel to life. A familiar face appeared. “Slate, this is Hideo. Put Rai on my channel.”
The panel switched view so quickly that I missed whether Slate had reacted at all to the request. I saw a small, brightly lit room, empty of furniture, with Mawusi Rai sitting cross-legged on the padded floor. She appeared unhurt and at ease. I felt my jaw tighten.
“Symbols aren’t hard to find, Amira. Rai is another descendant of famous leaders. Her grandfather was Mehmed Rai, founder of Ship 9, and her mother was Kira Andrushko of the Black Sea Syndicate, which provided a lot of support to the Resistance in the early days before the full blockade. Rai did indeed try too hard and risk too much, and no one would blame me if I handed her over to you. I won’t, but I doubt I could stop you if you really wanted to take her in.”
“Not another test,” I growled.
“A test, a trap, or an opportunity. Most of all, a way back into the CPF’s good graces—success covers a multitude of sins. Or, if you prefer, have your own personal revenge on Rai and take her place in my team.”
“Either way, I’d be in debt to you,” I noted.
He shrugged as if to say, That’s your problem.
I took off the shades, folded them neatly, and placed them next to my cup. “I think it’s time for me to leave, Hideo Pereira. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Here,” he said, tossing me something. I caught it on reflex, and the hard metal of a car key on a key ring stung my hand. “Take the jeep back to the hostel. It doesn’t have built-in nav, but I doubt you need it.”
“Thanks. Uh . . . how do I get out?”
Hideo put his hands behind his back and gave me a very sarcastic smile.
I shook my head. “Fine. I’ll be in touch.”
I never get lost. I followed the internal map that my tech traced as Hideo was showing me around. No one tried to stop me, and when I went up the ladder, the hatch cracked open when I was within two rungs of it. I scrambled through, closed it, and after a pause, I gave it a tug. Locked down, of course. Would I be able to find it in the dark again? I looked at it carefully, expanding the spectrum to see if there was any excess heat, any unusual radiation. Then I saw it, invisible to the unaided eye, luminescent in the ultraviolet—a thumb-sized emblem stamped into the hatch, which at first glance looked like a triangle set in a circle, but which I knew from experience to be the sail of a ship on a segment of ocean in a ring of rope. No—not rope. A ring of chain.
I walked back through the fields and past the restaurant’s gardens and greenhouses. The parking lot was almost empty. I went to the jeep and started it up. Hideo didn’t even ask if I could drive a car without autopilot or cruise control. I can, but it’s not that common these days.
I was quite sure that he knew everything about me. That’s why I decided that out of the two options he was offering, I would choose—neither.
+ + + +
The drive back was quiet and incident-free. I braced myself to face the concierge, but she wasn’t there. The desk sported a cheerful sign next to an old brass bell, inviting latecomers to ring for help checking in. I resisted giving it a spiteful flick as I passed, and went straight to my room. One roommate was already in bed, tucked in and motionless. I quietly checked Bugkiller, repacked my bag and secured it, then took a deep breath.
“You’re not asleep, Mrs. Chaudry,” I said softly. “I can tell.”
She sat up. I could faintly see her reproachful frown in the darkness.
“What?” I grumbled. My head felt heavy. I blamed the concierge and her tea.
“Yesterday, a man grabbed me, demanding to know about you.” She held out her arm, bruised below the elbow. “We stay here to be safe. If you are doing something dangerous or illegal, you should leave.”
“I am leaving.” I shifted my vision to a broader spectrum to see her face more clearly . . . and something caught my eye. A scarf lay across Karina Wilmer’s bed. It had the usual embedded tech, no surprises there, but it also had a bright ultraviolet logo. Not the 507 logo, but a similar type—a dhow with a single wind-filled sail ringed with pearls.
I took a wild guess. “I’d leave a lot faster if you’d help me with something.”
“I don’t see how—”
“You have skills. I bet you could help me break into a Ship stronghold and extract a prisoner.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I still work for the CPF. Because you value your safety. And because you had someone waiting to test me the moment I walked through that door. What’s her name, really?”
Silence, then, “Wilmer. Jody Wilmer. She’s related to Karina.” A small, proud smile. “She talks in riddles, but she rarely lies.”
“And you all belong to another Ship. I’m guessing . . . 98, based in Charlotte? Just passing through New Jacksonville?”
Still cautious. I didn’t blame her. “Do you know what Ship 507 is planning? Do you agree with them?”
“I don’t know the details. We all know how the recruits died, but I don’t think they meant to do that.”
“No one will believe that if they don’t hand over the person who did it. Not the CPF. Not the Accordance. They’ll target all the Ships.”
She breathed shakily. “What do you want me to do?”
I slung my bag over my shoulder and stood in front of her. “Get Wilmer into 507. She looks like the adventurous type. Let her make some noise, stir up some trouble, then get her out. I’ll take care of the rest. Tell her she can reach me with this.” I handed her one of my old business cards, comm tech embedded in paper.
“Where are you going?” she asked as I turned away.
“To find a place to sleep. I don’t feel safe here.”
Nowhere was safe, really, so I did the only sensible thing. I went back to 507, did a little sneaking to get in through another entrance, and slept in the backseat of one of the five hundred jeeps parked and waiting for the revolution.