Biran rubbed the back of his neck. “What I don’t understand is how Icarion got a chip to put in your head to begin with. No Keeper has been recorded missing in a hundred years or so. If one was unaccounted for, especially in this system, it’d be a full-out bloodbath. Prime wouldn’t stop until they got their Keeper back, they’d smash Icarion to cinders just to keep them from examining a chip. I’ve heard nothing about it. There’ve been no meetings, no talk of bringing in a new Keeper to replace the missing. Do you know who this Keeper was supposed to be?”
“His name was Rayson Kenwick.”
Biran frowned and flicked his wristpad on. “I don’t know of any Keepers by that name. Are you certain he was from Ada?”
He flicked through a roster on his wristpad. Names right-aligned by headshots slid past. “I can’t be sure where he came from, but his name was definitely Kenwick.”
Biran ran a query and, strangely, had to wait while the system dug through files to bring up any Keeper ever named Kenwick and all variations thereof. He turned so she could see the display, scrolling slowly with one finger through Kallick, Kenlick, Kenwich, and then a host of Kenwicks—first and last names. A face caught her eye.
“Stop. There, that one.” She jabbed a finger at the display. She’d never forget that face.
Biran pulled up his personnel file and frowned as he scrolled through it. “Are you sure? This man died over three hundred years ago. He was one of the first, I think. Maybe a descendant?”
“No. That was definitely him. They had his head…” She trailed off when she caught Biran’s look of utter horror. “It was him, trust me. He was very much dead, but not three-hundred-years dead.”
Biran shook his head, still reading the display. “It says here he died of natural causes, heart failure in his seventies. Young now, but not back then. The autopsy report seems in order, though I’m no expert.”
“Can you flash that to me?” Tomas asked, holding up his wristpad already in accept mode. Biran bumped the info to him.
“The Kenwick I saw couldn’t have been dead that long. Even in a pod there’d be desiccation, and we know what early cryo attempts did to a face.” Everyone cringed. “So what the fuck? Living bodies keep in pods, but dead ones can’t metabolize any of the nutrients. He’d be a mummy. A sticky one, but still.”
“There are preservation techniques for scientific specimens,” Biran said, but even he sounded like he didn’t believe it.
“No way,” she said. “Those turn your skin weird colors. This guy’s head—sorry—was suspended in NutriGel. It keeps some things fresh, but not that long, and any other long-term preservation methods would have left obvious visual deformities.”
Tomas squinted at the info on his pad. “Stolen identity, maybe? The reconstruction surgery wouldn’t take long.”
“Maybe,” Biran conceded. “But why choose someone so long dead? And how’d he get the chip in the first place?”
They fell silent, considering. Sanda was shocked her head didn’t ache at the thought, but somehow, knowing what had been done to her was alleviating the constant pressure that’d lurked behind her eyes ever since she’d opened them.
No matter what angle she looked at it, Sanda couldn’t puzzle out how Icarion got its hands on the head of a man supposedly three-hundred-years dead. Let alone in pristine condition, without tripping any frantic reactions from the Primes. Keepers were cremated, always, their chips extracted and incinerated separately to ensure complete dissolution. That’s what she’d always been told.
CHAPTER 66
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543
THE NEWS GETS THROUGH
The Taso rested at dock, throwing a heavy shadow over Biran. It seemed to him a toy now, not the intimidating monstrosity it had been when he first boarded. He told himself the change had taken place because he’d seen The Light—and no ship was that thing’s equal—but, like many of the things he told himself, it was a half-truth.
It was not the Taso that had dwarfed him that night on the dock. It had been Lavaux himself, the man’s presence projected through the edifice of his ship. A man mysterious and cunning, a man with power and privilege the likes of which Biran was just beginning to scrape the bottom of. A man who could save him—save everything he ever wanted—or destroy it all.
No, the diminishment of the Taso in Biran’s eyes had nothing at all to do with The Light.
An incoming call flashed on his wristpad. Biran glanced at it, prepared to ignore it. His cohort had been pinging him nonstop since the news went out that the Taso was back in station. Slatter’s icon appeared most of all, a desperate attempt to establish something like a truce now that Biran was set to be well and truly famous.
The only call he would have accepted would have been from Anaia, but she was locked inside the belly of the ship awaiting trial. Trial for betraying Biran, and all the Keepers. Biran grimaced and went to swipe all the messages away, but a familiar face caught his eye. One he hadn’t expected.
Callie Mera had sent him a text from her personal account, not the news station’s. A simple line of text read:
Meet me on the docks. Important.
He swallowed and looked up from the pad, surveying the area. In expectation of the Taso’s return, General Anford had sent infantry in. People in the cyan-and-grey uniform of the fleet patrolled the docks, gently urging anyone who wasn’t essential personnel to sod off and come back another time. Mechanics were the only other people visible on the docks, deploying repair bots and scanning data readouts on tablets. There was no way a reporter could get through the cordon. No way.
A flash of red caught his eye.
Biran craned his neck, pretending to stretch on the dock. Leaning up against the cargo processing office was a woman. She wore a plain grey jumpsuit with a stripe of cyan on the breastbone, blending in with the staff that skittered here and there. Her head was down, loose brown curls hiding half her face, as she studied a tablet with the same relaxed posture as the mechanics. But Biran knew that lip gloss.
Resisting an urge to look around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered over to Callie. She didn’t so much as flick an eye his way as he leaned on the wall beside her.
“Chasing a story?” he asked.
She smiled at the tablet. “Not exactly. This isn’t about a story. Nothing I can broadcast, anyway.”
His stomach clenched. “You shouldn’t be here, Ms. Mera. It’s essential personnel only. Anford would pitch you face-first into hot water if you got caught.”
“Going to rat me out?”
“Of course not.”
“Good.” She blanked the tablet and shoved it in her pocket before meeting his eye. “B-be-because I’m here to help you.” Her lips pursed in annoyance at her stutter and she pushed hair back from her face, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s going on aboard the Taso, but I know what’s happening on this station, and something’s weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Once I heard about the celebration to honor Major Greeve, I reached out to your parents—you know, to get the happy-family angle. They’re still planetside. They can’t get through the security checks at the shuttle docks to come up to the station. Your dad—Ilan, he’s the one I talked to—thinks it’s just a bottleneck due to the chaos of Sanda coming home and the weapon being recovered, but I’m not so sure. I can’t read any of it, but there’s been a lot of correspondence coming out of the Taso since it docked. My packet sniffers think Lavaux is sending a lot of orders out.”
“You think Lavaux is keeping my parents away from the ceremony?”
“I do.”
If his parents were being waylaid, then it followed that Lavaux didn’t want them on hand for what he was about to do next—and it would definitely involve Sanda.
Did he know? It was his ship… And Biran had watched the video on board the Taso without taking any precautions. He must know. What Lavaux wanted, Biran could not allow to happen. S
anda would be no lab rat.
And that meant letting her go.
Used. She’d been used by every party that’d touched her. Even he’d used her—plastered her face across the news—in an effort to keep her safe. An effort Lavaux was co-opting. Corrupting. Biran was still making too many missteps. Still not the man Graham had urged him to be. Not the man Sanda needed him to be. But he could keep her safe, he could. He just needed to get her away. Get her on her own where she could make decisions free of the political machinery that enmeshed her. Free, too, from the scrutiny that might reveal her stolen Keeper chip, and mean her death.
Whatever he was planning, Lavaux didn’t want their parents nearby to kick up a fuss, or intervene, or be sympathetic faces on the evening news. Biran needed them. He didn’t know what for, exactly, but if Lavaux wanted them away, he wanted them as close as possible.
And they should be able to see Sanda before… Before he had to send her away.
Biran hadn’t grown up the son of a smuggler for nothing. He took his wristpad off, shivering as air currents washed over flesh that was naked pretty much only in the shower. He rolled it up, turning the microscopic microphones inward so that the fabric of the pad itself muffled them, then crammed it into his pocket and faced it toward the meat of his thigh. It wouldn’t be perfect, but if anyone was listening, they’d have to use some fancy software to puzzle out what it was he said. And that, Biran determined, would ultimately be a waste of their time.
He pulled the small notebook Sanda had given him out and wrote a quick note—You’re being stalled, get through at all costs—then ripped the paper out and folded it over a few times to get the creases tight.
The Taso’s door to the gangway opened. A few forward crew sauntered out to check the perimeter and make sure everything was secure for the departure of their honored guest, Sanda. Biran held his breath. They didn’t look his way.
“Can you do me a favor?” he asked.
Callie Mera gave him a droll, what-do-you-think-I’m-doing-here expression. “Didn’t slip out here for my health.”
“But… Why?”
She looked at her feet. “Because something felt wrong. And I thought you should know.”
“Thank… Thank you.” He blinked back a sudden stinging sensation in his eyes.
After discovering betrayal lurking under every good spot in his life, he wanted nothing more than to believe this woman. This woman he didn’t even really know. She could be here hoping for a story. Could be here trying to wind him up to see what happened. But somehow, he didn’t think so. He’d spoken with her almost every morning for the past two years, and though their conversations had been carefully scripted, he didn’t think she was reading him a script now.
He had to trust someone. He chose to trust her.
“Take this to Graham, please.” He extended the folded piece of paper to her. She took it, pretending not to notice the shake in his hands, and slipped it into her pocket without giving it a second glance.
“I’ll get it to him. Don’t worry.”
Not worrying seemed impossible, but he gave her a brave smile anyway. A smile she’d know was fake. “Be careful, Callie.”
She pushed to her toes and pecked a kiss on his cheek. “You, t-too.”
Callie Mera turned on her heel and strode off while Biran was still busy trying to get his brain processes to catch up with what had just happened.
Forcing himself to pretend at normalcy, he waved after her as she made her way to the elevators down to the planetside transport shuttles. The second she was out of sight, he let loose with a long, chest-aching breath, then jogged back over to the Taso.
He had to believe she’d get through, that she’d find his dads and they’d figure out how to get to him. He’d done all he could. In the meantime, he had a sister to welcome home. The weight of the shuttle key in his pocket dragged his spirits down.
And to say goodbye to.
CHAPTER 67
PRIME STANDARD YEAR 3543
HOMECOMING
Sleep evaded her. Every time her head touched the pillow Sanda wondered what, exactly, was rattling around inside it. But the thing about running on empty was, no matter how uncomfortable your mind was, your body would eventually give up the ghost.
She jolted awake. The ship shuddered with the soft sounds of coming into dock, magnetic clamps latching on to the massive vessel in rhythmic sequence. In the dark, for just a moment, she thought herself back on Bero. But then the lights came back up, and with them, reality. Pesky thing, reality. It had a nasty way of ruining her mood.
By the time she’d fumbled her way through a hasty shower and dragged a clean jumpsuit on, the docking tremors had stopped. Big ship like the Taso took a while to settle into port, so she figured they’d been in station maybe a half hour at best. Someone knocked on her door.
“Come in,” she called.
The door dilated, and there was Lavaux, looking like he’d had a solid eight hours and an extra hour to spare for hairstyling. Sanda was beginning to resent the Keeper’s innate ability to never show a thread out of place.
“I hope you rested well, Major. I’m sure your ordeal was tiring.”
So that was how it was going to be. Sanda mustered up a cordial smile as she caught sight of two strange faces hovering behind Lavaux in the hallway. “Slept like the dead,” she said, and watched a ripple of doubt crinkle up the corner of his eye. “But you seem positively sunny in comparison.”
Lavaux inclined his head. “My stress load, as of late, has been considerably lessened. I am sure you noticed we’ve arrived at Keep Station. Many have gathered here to welcome you home, Major. I’m sure you are still exhausted and eager to return to your home, but we Keepers must impose upon you a touch further. Your brother mentioned the gathering?”
“He said something about a ceremony,” she admitted.
“Ah. Well. Singh was, as always, overeager to please, and outdid herself. I’m not one for pomp and circumstance, but that’s Singh’s specialty. She has arranged a gala in your honor, followed by a seated dinner at the Protectorate inner sanctum. A high honor. None but Keepers are allowed inside the sanctum.”
Sanda tried to disguise her shock and probably failed. “I’m honored, but I’m not the wining-and-dining type. I may be a major on paper, but to my mind I was a gunnery sergeant just over a month ago. Not sure I’d know which fork to use, you catch my meaning.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Lavaux stepped aside and waved in the two who dogged his heels. Medis, by the look of them, and one came touting a long, rectangular package. “To assist you throughout the evening. I understand these things take a great deal of time to adjust to, but we’ve spared no expense in the model. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with the results.”
The medi pulled the top off the box like he was revealing a bouquet of roses. There, in a vacuum-fit puff pack, rested a gleaming new prosthetic leg. They’d even matched the silicone sheath to her skin tone. She poked at it. It kind of creeped her out.
“I appreciate the gesture, but I’m really not down with the uncanny valley look.”
The medi’s face fell. “I understand,” he said. “We can remove the coating, if you desire, but there will be nothing but chrome underneath.”
“Chrome is just fine. Thanks.”
“They’ll get you set up now,” Lavaux said. “Then we’ll move you to the station where you will be able to relax and prepare for the gala.”
“Tomas and Biran?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“Nazca Cepko has been cleared to attend the event, though he will not be honored in the same capacity. I realize he was a help to you, but his presence is the only honor we can give him. You understand, I’m sure, why the Keepers do not wish to appear too close with the Nazca.”
She nodded. “Understood. My brother?”
“Will be there in his full capacity as Speaker for the Keepers. If you need anything else, query the ship. Its AI will be more than happy to
assist you.” He paused, half turning away from the door. “Although you may find the onboard AI lacking after your previous experiences.”
“I’m getting real sick of all the emergent personalities around me already,” she said with a cheery smile.
Lavaux laughed, then was gone, leaving her to the care of the medis. Sanda felt his leaving like a breath of fresh air, which was odd, considering that was a sensation usually reserved for doors opening, not closing.
She sat back on the edge of the bed, peeled the leg of her FitFlex suit away, and let them get to work. The man with the box probed around her thigh like it was an interesting puzzle while the woman fiddled with the leg itself.
“So,” Sanda said, determined not to be made a specimen of, “how does this thing work, exactly? I thought I’d need a coupling installed before I could get a proper prosthetic.”
The woman’s expression of intense concentration became radiant interest. “Oh no, this is new technology. It was just released for public use six months ago! I think you’re the first to try it out, actually. It’s really more of a prototype. We made it as a proof of concept, hoping to get the cost down over time. Most people who can afford something like this opt for the regrow. Ah, oh, no offense.”
“None taken. It’s not like I could afford that leg myself. This is my brother’s doing, no doubt.”
“The payment came directly from the Protectorate,” the man said.
Sanda winced as he fit the cuff of the socket over her stump and adjusted the tightness. “No powder?” she asked.
He shook his head. “The materials inside adjust to limit friction better than any powder, and if the sensors in the leg detect unusual spikes in heat—chafing—then they release healing salves and adjust accordingly. There may be some rubbing during the adjustment period, which is approximately six hours of continuous use, but you should experience no discomfort after that. Unless your salve cartridges run low, but the leg will send level alerts to your wristpad once they’re properly synced.”
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