4WE FACE EACH OTHER across the table, the white-haired doctor and I. He speaks without preamble.

“You recognize me.” Not a question.

“Yes.”

“In fact, you singled me out as a potential squatter on the evacuation shuttle yesterday.”

I shift uncomfortably under his direct gaze. Is he angry I mistook him for the enemy? His tone and face hold no expression, nothing to indicate what he’s thinking. I shrug. “I did.”

“Why?”

I hesitate, studying him for some sign of who he is or what he wants. This man’s unceremonious arrival brought no name, no introduction, nothing but a chair and these pointed questions. If not for the silent presence of the admiral in the back corner of the room, I would wonder if his questioning was even sanctioned.

Involuntarily, my eyes dart to Rosen. She inclines her head slightly, a tacit order to answer. “A gut feeling,” I finally say. “I sensed someone watching me and thought it might have been you. There was something . . . off about you.”

“Off?”

“A plain white outfit, like a uniform but not. No name tag, no insignia. Nothing to mark who you are. Which would be normal enough on a regular space station, but we were on a ScyLab—a scientific research facility doing classified work. Hardly the sort of place where they let just anyone walk around unidentified.”

A slight smile cracks his lips. “Very astute. In fact, you were right. I was watching you.”

“Why?”

He leans back in his chair and steeples his hands, gaze considering. “Because I was trying to decide whether to offer you a job.”

“A job?” My eyebrows leap halfway up my forehead. Is this guy for real? I sneak a surreptitious glance at the admiral. She waves her hand slightly, as if to say, It’s his show.

The doctor catches the exchange and snorts. “Perhaps I should start at the beginning. My name is Dr. Daedalus Angelou, and I’m the current head of Division 7.”

“Division 7?” I frown, not recognizing the designation. “Is that an Intelligence section?”

“Not exactly. Let’s just say that Division 7 is a special sector made up of both military and civilian personnel working to further the war effort.”

Further the war effort? I snort. Yeah, that’s helpful.

“One of my responsibilities as head of Division 7 is to recruit new talent. In fact, it’s the reason I was on ScyLab 185g.” The corner of Angelou’s mouth twitches ever so slightly, and it suddenly occurs to me that whomever he went there to recruit didn’t make it off. “Usually, I focus my efforts on our civilian personnel and leave others to recruit our military people. However, when I saw your impressive rescue in the courtyard during the evacuation, I took a special interest in you.”

“I—it was nothing any other guardian in my place wouldn’t have done,” I stutter, unsure how else to answer. I’d thought the meeting with the company commander surreal, but it’s nothing compared to this.

“On the contrary, it was a highly non-regulation maneuver that took quick thinking, a resourceful solution, physical acuity, and considerable daring. I think very few people in your situation would have dreamed it up, and of those, even fewer would have been able or willing to execute it. As soon as I witnessed it, I pegged you as a possible recruit for my division. The real question is: Was the rescue a simple fluke or the real thing? I watched you during the evacuation and in the shuttle to try and determine which. Your later actions in the cargo bay made me think the latter.”

“You mean after that squatter died, when I tried to fight off the released ghoul?”

“No, that was something any guardian might have done. Before that, with Anders. Two dozen soldiers in that room, and every single one of them was watching the squatter. Only you saw the true threat.”

“Anders’s kill shot,” I say slowly.

“Anders’s kill shot,” Angelou confirms with a nod. “Just like in the courtyard, you sized up the situation in a heartbeat and acted. We need people like that in Division 7. People who can think on their feet and outside the box, who can not only dream up unorthodox tactics, but actually pull them off.

“After watching you in the bay, I asked the admiral to arrange the meeting between you and your superiors today. I also covertly watched you off-duty and during your training sessions. I wanted a chance to get a feel for your character, to observe you not just in action, but as a person, so I could determine if you would be right for our section.”

“That’s what the third degree from the company commander was all about?” I ask incredulously. “I thought my career was on the line, and the whole time it was just a job interview?”

It’s all making sense now. My feeling of being watched on the shuttle and at the shooting range, my strange meeting with the company commander. The way none of the officers seemed to know what was going on despite giving the interview. Slag, he was probably the one watching me in the bar as well! I wonder what he thought of that little dustup with Arlo. Apparently not much if he’s still offering me a job. That is . . .

“Then you are offering me a job?” I confirm.

“Oh, yes. I wouldn’t have joined you today if I wasn’t. I would have simply slipped away, a nameless ghost you’d never known was watching, and left the officers to decide if you should get a slap on the wrist for pulling such a risky maneuver, or a commendation. So, are you interested?”

Interested? That’s one way of putting it. I lean back in my chair and consider this Dr. Daedalus Angelou. He struts around a classified ScyLab without even a name badge, commands interviews from a planetary admiral, and his whole purpose and identity are kept secret even from the Guard captain. He’s neither military nor Intelligence, but something else altogether. I have no idea what, but whoever he is, he’s powerful.

And for whatever reason, he wants me.

“What’s the job?” I ask cautiously.

“Division 7 is officially classified as a Military Support Unit. It’s made up of a core group of civilians, a small unit of PsyCorp agents, and a military section made up of members from all branches—Navy, Ground Forces, Celestial Guard,” he adds with a nod at me.

I frown. Military Support? But that’s made up of mostly scut units—garbage hauling, ship detailing, waste disposal, that sort of thing. Why on earth would they go to so much trouble to recruit me for something like that?

“Upon joining, you’ll get an immediate promotion and a pay raise.” Angelou pushes a tip-pad at me. “Here are the basic details.”

I scan the pad. My eyes practically fall out of my head when I see what my raise would be. They open even wider when I see the section on hazardous duty pay. One thing’s for sure—this is some pretty high-priced support work. At least it would be if it is, in fact, support work. I eye the doctor warily. “What exactly would I be expected to do?”

“You’d still be doing much of what you already do, using the skill set you’ve acquired as a guardian. However, let’s just say your missions would be a bit more unorthodox than you’re used to.”

Unorthodox? That could mean practically anything. This guy is the king of vague, that’s for sure.

As if reading my mind, Angelou adds, “Unfortunately, there’s little more I can tell you unless you opt to join us, but I can say this: In a month with us, you’ll do more for the war effort than you would in twenty years as a guardian. Stay a guardian, and you’ll be doing riot control and station evacuation until we win the war—or lose it. Join Division 7, and you’ll be one of the few who helps determine if we win this war.”

I nod. It’s a tempting sales pitch. Still, I’m not completely oxygen-deprived. The selective recruitment process, the vague job description, the unimpressive unit classification, the high pay? This has all the earmarks of something highly classified, highly secretive, and highly dangerous.

“So just how long a life expectancy can I expect to have in this ‘Military Support’ job? I mean, compared to being a guardian?”

Angelou shrugs. “I’m not going to lie to you. If you join this unit, chances are when you leave, it’ll either be under quarantine or in a body bag.” He leans in over the table and lowers his voice. “But then, the way this war is going, chances are that may be everyone’s fate, military or not.”

Shivers run over me at his bass rumble. Like the rest of the population, I’d thought we were doing a good job containing the enemy threat. Even after a year and a half, the majority of the Expanse is still free and untouched by the war. Squatters are imprisoned with ruthless efficiency, while infected areas are quickly evacuated and quarantined. But something in Angelou’s piercing gaze and intense voice suddenly has me questioning everything I’ve been told. My mind flashes to Everest Prime, and I recall my earlier thought: If the enemy can take down Ev Prime, they can get anywhere.

I run the decision through my mind. Stay a guardian and do the expected, or take a dangerous leap into the unknown?

I don’t even need to think about it. I lean in and meet Angelou’s gaze. “I’m in.”

Angelou smiles, a sly twist of the mouth that puts me in mind of a boa constrictor grinning at a rat. “I thought you’d be. There’s just one more thing.”

“Which is?”

“Since you were only sixteen when you joined up, you had to get permission from your legal guardian before you could enlist. Normally this would be sufficient for all military duty. However, as you’re still a minor and you’re being transferred to an entirely different division, you’ll need additional signed consent.”

I blink as his words sink in. So in order to transfer to this highly classified, extremely dangerous “Military Support” unit, I first have to get my grandma’s permission?

Perfect.

“Michael!” The holo is grainy and pale, the reception poor, but I can still see Gran’s eyes positively light up at the sight of me.

“Hey, Gran.”

“Where are you? How are you? Michael, you don’t hmail enough.”

I grin as her expression morphs from joy to curiosity to annoyance at my lack of communication skills. “It’s good to see you too, Gran.”

Her face softens. “I worry about you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

For a moment, I drink in her face. Gran is more than just my grandmother. She raised my sister and me for a good three years or so, after the war for New Earth started and our parents were reassigned. Warships—no children allowed. It’s funny. At the time, I was less than thrilled to be packed off to live with a grandma I barely knew, but now that those years are over, I find myself missing that short time on New Sol Station.

Before Lia came back and signaled the beginning of the end.

My breath catches slightly, and I quickly push the thought away, asking Gran, “So how’s the new station? Have you gotten to move back into your apartment yet?”

She nods. “Two weeks ago. They got the new hub built and fitted into the station a few months earlier, but they wanted to do a bunch of tests before they let anyone back on. Plus, they needed to outfit the habitat rings with all the new tech—force fences and such. Luckily, with my job as an air specialist for the rings, I was one of the first people they let back on.” Gran laughs. “You know, the hub has that ‘new station smell’ now? All I have to do is close my eyes and I feel like a little girl again, coming onto the station for the first time.”

I smile slightly at her reminiscences. Apparently, I’m not the only one missing better days. She chats a bit more about the new station, then suddenly says, “I ran into PsyLieutenant Rowan the other day. He asked about you.”

My shoulders tense at the name. It was Rowan who’d let me out of the holding cell they threw me in when I refused to leave the SlipStream station. Rowan who’d tried to calm me when what I already knew in my heart was confirmed: that the station hub full of Specs had been blown to kingdom come.

With Lia on it.

I howled like a banshee when I found out; Rowan must have thought I was out of my fragging mind. I let out a bitter snort. No wonder he asked about me.

“I told him you’d joined the service,” Gran continues. “That you were a guardian now and doing well. He said good for you.”

Yeah, I’ll bet he did.

Gran pauses. “He also asked about Teal.”

My fists clench, nostrils flaring at the sound of my little sister’s name. I level Gran with my coldest stare. “Gran, don’t.”

Gran, being Gran, completely ignores the warning. “Michael, this is ridiculous! It’s been over a year. Don’t you think it’s time you got ov—”

“Teal knew. Teal knew what Lia was, what she was going to do, and she let her get off that SlipStream anyway. She lied to me! If she had only told me—”

“But she didn’t, Michael,” Gran interrupts, “and whether she was right or wrong, what’s done is done. There’s nothing you or I or Teal can do to change it now. All we can do is move forward. Lia cared about you and Teal both. The last thing she would have wanted was to come between you.”

“Lia. Is. Dead.”

We stare at each other, gazes deadlocked, until finally Gran looks away. It’s not the first time we’ve had this argument, and I doubt it’ll be the last. She’s determined to fix things between Teal and me, while I know that’ll never happen. It’s one of the reasons I don’t call or hmail her much. I wouldn’t have called her now, but Mom is on a warship who-knows-where, and Dad is on another ship who-knows-where-else, and they’ll only get to their hmail the-hell-if-I-know-when. With Angelou leaving tomorrow, Gran is the only one in range who can grant permission in time for me to shove off with him.

If only I’d been born a month earlier.

I sigh. “Listen, Gran. There’s another reason I’m calling you. I’ve been offered a promotion, but I need signed consent to accept it.”

“A promotion? Already?” Gran brightens up slightly at the news. “Michael, I’m so proud of you!”

“I linked you the form, if you could sign it. The division head wants me to leave tomorrow.”

I wait patiently while she pulls up her hmail and finds the form. My stomach clenches as she starts reading the document. I try to hurry her along.

“You don’t have to read it all, Gran. It’s just a lot of boring military red tape.”

“Nonsense! My grandson’s been promoted. I want to read all about it.”

“Really, I don’t have a lot of time for this call.”

Gran gives me a look. “Michael, I’m not signing something I haven’t read. If you have to go, I can link it to you later.”

Damn! I was afraid she’d say that. “Just try to hurry,” I finally mutter.

My fingers twitch as I watch her read through the form. I’ve seen it already. It’s amazingly vague—much like Angelou himself—but to someone with a late husband, daughter, son-in-law, and grandson in the military, it’s clear enough. As soon as she lifts her gaze, I can tell Gran has read between every line of that consent form.

“Michael, what exactly have you gotten yourself into?”

“Like it says, it’s a Military Support Unit,” I reply evenly.

“The unusually high raise, the hazardous duty pay, the fact that this form takes seven pages to tell me basically nothing . . . whatever this is, it’s not Military Support. At least, not any Military Support I know of. Michael, I can’t sign this without talking to your parents first. Even then, I’m not sure I’d want to sign it.”

“I don’t have time to wait for them,” I tell her. “They made you my legal guardian when they took off five years ago. You don’t have to tell them anything.”

“Michael!”

“Gran, you’re the one who talked them into letting me enlist in the first place. You remember that?”

She reluctantly nods. “Even after two months, you were still distraught over Lia’s death. When you said you wanted to join up, I thought it was a good sign. I hoped the discipline would do you good.”

“And it has, Gran. You were right to let me come. Now you need to let me keep going. You need to trust that I know what I’m doing. Besides, I’ll be eighteen soon. All you’ll do by refusing to sign is delaying the inevitable, because no matter what you do, I’m going.”

Gran stares at me for a long moment. “Why do you want this so badly? Is it the pay? The promotion?” When I don’t answer, she adds softly, “You can’t keep running away from her memory forever, Michael. One day you’re going to have to stand fast and face it.”

I look away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

Just that one word, hanging in the air. I dare a glance back at her. Like a bolt out of the black, it suddenly occurs to me that in the eleven months since I’ve been gone, Gran has aged. The lines in her face are more pronounced, the threads of white in her hair more numerous. Her eyes look tired. While the rest of us have scattered to the winds, she alone has stayed behind. She alone has stood guard over the memories no one else can bear. I wonder how she has the strength to do it.

She shakes her head. “Your parents—”

“You can explain it to them, I know you can,” I say, seizing the change of subject like a drifting man a space line. “Tell them I want to advance up the ranks—that’ll make them happy. Tell them I’m doing my duty.”

My lips twist slightly on the word. It was what Dad told me when he sent me off to live with Gran after being reassigned four years ago. That it was his duty to go. From the expression on her face, Gran apparently remembers, too.

She snorts derisively, expression grim and set. Finally, she sighs. “It’s your life. It’s not my job to make your decisions for you, much as I may want to. All right, I’ll sign on one condition.”

I frown. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll call your sister.”

Call Teal? “Like hell I will!”

The words are out before I can stop them, but I refuse to take them back.

Gran shrugs. “Okay. Then you can explain to your CO why you can’t accept.”

Sorry, Angelou. I’d love to join your super-secret, ultra-dangerous Military Support Unit, but my granny refused to sign because I wouldn’t call my traitorous baby sister. Yeah, that’ll go over real well.

I scowl. Gran has me over a barrel, and she knows it. Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Fine.”

“Fine what?”

I glare at her. “Fine, I promise to link Teal.”

“During daytime hours on Iolanthe, and not in the middle of the night when she’s sleeping.”

Damn! Gran knows me too well.

“Fine. I promise to call Teal during daytime hours. Happy?”

She signs.

Just before she links off, Gran leaves me with one last parting shot. “Michael, whatever happens when you call . . .” She hesitates, as though suddenly unable to find the words to say what she wants to say, and finally shakes her head. “Just don’t forget who the real enemy is.”

And then she’s gone.

The next morning, 0800 on the dot, I meet Angelou at Docking Ring 3A and board the Arandora, a Colt Crawler bound for parts unknown. I don’t bother to tell anyone goodbye.