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“I know, my darling, I know,” he said, though he didn’t think she could hear him. Maybe that was why he said it. He boosted himself a few more centimeters from the icy stream. He’d cradled her against his chest as he lowered them into the water and then stretched himself out until the water washed over her legs and buttocks. He stopped there because he didn’t want the water to suck the remaining warmth from her heart, her brain. He’d warm her with his body heat, and he had to pray that her body would shunt blood from her arms and legs, and keep her vital organs going.

  But what was he doing? This overwhelming tenderness he felt for this woman had ambushed him, sideswiped him from . . . What? The road he was meant to travel? He was rootless, without purpose, going through the motions for a cause he no longer believed in, if he ever had. Compassion was an alien emotion. And love? He’d never known love. But he knew what he felt for Dasha. Nothing and no one was more important, nothing. He would save her even at the cost of his life. This he was strong enough to do.

  Please. His eyes burned with sudden tears. I can’t lose this. I can’t lose her because now I finally understand what it is to care about something more than myself.

  “Almost.” His lips pressed her chilled flesh. “Hang on, my love, please. I’ll get you out of here, I promise.”

  Because I choose . . . for us.

  33

  18 September 3136

  0130 hours

  Okay, he hadn’t cleared it. Why? ’Cause Crawford would’ve nixed it. But Parks was pissed. Compton made him see red. So, better to do something than sit with his thumb up his ass.

  Still, with what they’d gotten? A clusterfuck.

  Wesley Parks splashed coffee into a black mug with the DCMS logo stenciled on it in Kurita-red. He inhaled a mouthful. The coffee had been stewing all day and was rancid and sour. “Anything?”

  “A whole lot of nothing,” Buck said, his black Stetson parked back from his forehead. He smelled of dust and engine oil. He nodded when Parks offered the pot, held up his hand to say when. “I got guys in there now, but I think they caught on right quick when we blew that ridge. Rangers took some damage. Not bad. But I’d’ve loved to see their faces when we popped those tops via remote and let those Gauss rifles rip. Probably they never figured we could slave ’em to a Ranger as long as we disabled the lasers and one of our turrets to draw power—and run the whole shebang on remote.”

  “You realize you could’ve used PPCs and saved yourself the trouble of punching big rocks into little ones.”

  “I’m a tank jock. I like things that go boom. And, hell, ended up the same. Those grenades weren’t spit balls.”

  They drank coffee for a few more minutes, Buck giving Parks the rest of his report. Then Parks sent the tank commander on his way to clean up and get some shut-eye. Once Buck was gone, Parks drank more bad coffee.

  The entire exercise had been devised based on semireliable intel from a source at the spaceport that a meet was going down. Exactly where in those hills, they weren’t sure, but they figured if they ran their diversion at the same time, a recon Warrior running black might flush out just who was giving what to whom. Shadow got two solid contacts on thermal imaging: resistance fighters who broke away from the main group. Shadow had followed long enough to establish the location of the meet and even that there were four individuals, but he’d lost two. Right now, all they had to show for their trouble was one crispy critter, the ambulance driver who’d eaten his weapon before he could be captured, and one scorched ambulance. (A loaner to a civilian hospital—and how much of a pisser was that?)

  Not good news for a ploy that Parks had hoped would garner more. He wasn’t that concerned about those Rangers. They were on their last legs. Biham wasn’t even that important in the grander scheme. But couple Biham with resistance along other border worlds, and they might have serious problems, have to divert troops, and that could deter a push for Dieron.

  Biggest problem? No Fusilli, after two months of being gone. No check-ins, no nothing. Could Fusilli be dead? Sure. But maybe he got killed with his cover still intact. Might explain why his body hadn’t shown up the way that Compton’s had: her hands still cuffed, her body unceremoniously dumped along the main road leading to base. McCain said she’d been dead for about three days. No mystery about how she died: The bruises around her throat were visible despite the bloat, and her hyoid bone was broken. From the condition of her—the way the plasticuffs had sawed into her flesh—McCain thought she’d been cuffed while being strangled.

  “And what kind of animal,” Parks muttered, “does something like that?”

  34

  18 September 3136

  0400 hours

  After Bridgewater finished stitching her up, Dasha hadn’t wanted pain meds. Her thigh was letting her hear about that, throbbing in time to her pulse with a liquid, searing heat. But she and Yamada had to finish this now, because everything had changed.

  She said, “If he was going to turn, that would’ve been the time. All he had to do was kill me then take the sacks. But he didn’t.”

  Yamada grunted. His eyes were puffy, but lack of sleep had energized him. He paced, jingling loose change. “Yeah, but the Dracs were right on top of you. And that was a nifty little trick, hiding those Gauss rifles on flatbeds. Maybe Shak got a message through to his Drac buddies.”

  “Tony, the Dracs aren’t stupid. They had a surveillance copter. Shakir didn’t have a clue what was what and still doesn’t.” She sighed in exhaustion and pain. “Look, we have a bigger problem. I can’t go in like this, not for a couple days. And it’s too late to tell me you told me so. I’m the only one who could verify that what we needed is what we got.”

  “And did we get it?” When she nodded, Yamada cupped the back of his neck with one palm and massaged out the kinks. “So we’re committed. You got some vacation time, sick leave you can take?”

  “Yeah. Maybe a week. I can do that. But with me out of action . . .”

  “Pierpont.”

  She nodded. “I won’t be hanging over his shoulder. You’ll have to keep up a presence, or he’s going to relax. Worse, he might tell someone. And . . . we need to bring our people into the loop. With everything that’s happened, we have to. Shakir, too.”

  “Yeah, but there’s something about that guy I just don’t like.”

  “You’ve never liked him, but if we pull this off, you’ve got him to thank. I’d be dead by now or captured—and either would kill the mission.”

  Yamada debated. “Okay, we bring people in but not all the way. No names and sure as hell no details.”

  “If you don’t want them to turn us in.” Dasha nodded. “Of course, that goes without saying.”

  * * *

  Abby finally broke the silence. “You’re sure about this guy?”

  Dasha nodded. Her eyes were smudged with fatigue. “If I were as good with computers as this guy is, I’d do it. But I’m not.”

  “This guy, this guy,” Bridgewater said, irritated. “Who’s this guy?”

  “You don’t need to know that.”

  “Why not?”

  “For the same reason that he doesn’t need to know about you.”

  “But you’re asking us to get involved in this crazy scheme—”

  “It’s not crazy,” Dasha said softly. “It’s just dangerous.”

  Bridgewater flushed. “Gee. Okay. So, since this might get us all killed, we have a right to know who he is.”

  “No, you don’t,” Dasha said. “Whether his name is Smith or Jones or Devlin Stone, it doesn’t matter. I’m not compromising an inside source.”

  “You don’t trust us?” Bridgewater asked.

  “Trust is irrelevant. If this leaks, then our entire operation grinds to a halt. I’m telling you because we do trust you—”

  “Enough to tell us when it’s too late.”

  “We trust all of you. That’s why we decided to bring you into the loop. What’s done is done. We need to move past this.”

 
“Well, okay,” Conley said. “I have a couple questions. I sure as hell never studied anything as ancient as a fission reactor. But I’m not a total idiot. You want to cut power, take out the emergency backups, then threaten to blow the reactor if the Dracs don’t back down. Well, if you cut power that could be bad, right? Like don’t these reactor rods or whatever, I mean, don’t they need water or something to keep cool?”

  “That’s true,” Dasha said. “But our primary goal would not be to totally cut power to the reactor. That would be suicide, and I have no intention of killing myself. The idea is to interrupt the power grid.”

  “How will that work, exactly?” Bridgewater asked. “I mean, this whole reactor thing?”

  “It’s complicated, and a little dangerous. A reactor works because control rods absorb energy without decaying. They control the rate and amount of decay of uranium and plutonium. In this case, the rods are graphite in vertical honeycombed columns. When they’re lifted a certain distance, a partial chain reaction occurs, the intensity of which is determined by the number of control rods lifted via magnetic field and how high.”

  “So what’s dangerous about it?” Abby asked.

  “Steam. The reactor heats water to steam and this provides power. Even if you scram the reactor, there’s still heat, and so there’s more and more steam. There are backups to either vent steam or send more coolant to bring down the heat. But if these backups fail, the steam bubble gets bigger and bigger. Or if the water all boils away and there’s no more coolant, the rods melt. That’s what’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous as in the thing blows?” Abby said.

  “From the steam bubble, yes, because it will release radioactivity into the open air. But it won’t come to that,” Dasha said. “Now, Reactor Two’s next scheduled maintenance is November, and that’s good because there are fewer personnel on. We’ve got until then to get ready. We need to be on the same page when we go in. No mistakes.”

  “Speaking of same page,” Bridgewater said. “Something as big as this, we should bring in Eriksson. I’m not saying he has to be part of the actual takeover. But if he knows it’s happening, we can use him to negotiate with the Dracs. We should at least talk to the guy.”

  Yamada looked thoughtful. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. You volunteering?”

  “Sure,” Bridgewater said.

  “Attaboy.” For the first time that evening, Yamada smiled. “Then this is what I want you to tell him.”

  * * *

  Fusilli lingered after the others left, ignoring a pointed look from Yamada. Fusilli helped Dasha move to a cot and then, turning the lights very low, perched on a camp stool. Her face was very white, and her hair, fanning her pillow, was the color of dark blood. She wore a loose, black scoop-neck tee and the gold chain pooled in the hollow of her throat. He thought he’d never seen a more beautiful woman and his heart squeezed with longing. He said, “Dasha, there are things I need to know.”

  “Like?” Her voice was edged with fatigue.

  “Who you were before all this, and what you are now.”

  Her green eyes sharpened. “Why?”

  Because I’m afraid that this will get out of control. I’m afraid I’ll lose you, and I’ve already lost more than you can possibly know. “You did a background check on me, right? Turnabout’s fair play.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “This talk about reactors . . . You work at the facility?”

  “Let’s just say that I’m a nuclear engineer.”

  “And we’re to take over the facility as a sort of hostage,” Fusilli said. “A way of bargaining with the Dracs for more autonomy?”

  “Not more. Total.”

  “They’ll never give in. You don’t understand the Dracs. Biham, all this, we’re insignificant. We’ll never stop the machine that is the Combine.”

  “Well, I have to try. Our lives aren’t garbage. We’re not disposable. We have lives, desires.” She searched his face. “Are you having second thoughts?”

  Not about you. “I’m trying to help you see the reality of your situation.” He debated, then said, “Those men we met weren’t from Biham. They’re from Tikonov. I know because of the accent.” When she neither confirmed nor denied, he said, “Don’t you understand you’re being used?”

  “Everyone uses people, Shakir, just like everyone has a past. The hard part is to know what to keep of the past and what to discard. The things that seem precious now aren’t always. I don’t mind being used this way if it gets me what I want.”

  And what did he want? What kind of past was he shedding, and what was this that he rushed headlong to embrace? He’d been on the outside looking in—at the Combine, at the Fury—for years. His whole life. The Combine should have felt like home, but it didn’t. The Combine had ceased to be a home the moment he’d chosen a traitor’s name for his own, a man executed for his crimes: Fusilli’s great-grandfather.

  He wasn’t aware she’d spoken until she gently shook his arm. “Shakir?”

  He snapped back to attention. “Sorry. Just . . . thinking.”

  “You’re always thinking, Shakir.” Her eyes searched his face. “What is it? What’s troubling you?”

  “Things. What we’re about to do. Funny, but it’s almost as if this is the only reality I know. I don’t even remember what my apartment looks like.” He tried a smile. “I don’t want to talk about me. I’m boring. You’re not, and you promised me something. Do you remember?”

  Wordlessly, she nodded. “Then show me,” he said gently. “Tell me.”

  Slowly, her fingers found the pendant locket, the gold reflecting in a nimbus at her throat. She slid the edge of a thumbnail into a thin gap and popped open the gold case. The light was behind Fusilli, and he sank to his knees at the head of the bed. He squinted, bringing the two pictures, one snugged into either half, into focus. What he saw made his throat constrict in sudden, anguished understanding.

  One child, perhaps five years old, had a head of flaxen curls lit by a setting sun; the other, older girl had her mother’s hair and the fine cast of her jaw, and a haunted expression that hinted at tragedy.

  He didn’t have to ask who the girls were. Instead, he asked, “When? How?”

  Her eyes were very bright. “I can’t. Not . . . yet. Maybe not ever. I just can’t.”

  He had no right to expect any more. Instead, he smoothed hair from her forehead. “I’m so sorry for your pain, Dasha.”

  She tried a smile that failed. “It scares me sometimes, but I have trouble remembering what my girls looked like. I don’t know why. You always think there’s a tomorrow, and then there isn’t.”

  “And now?” he asked hoarsely. “What about now?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t plan anymore. I learned not to, except . . .” Her fingers traced Fusilli’s left cheek. “Now I’m not so sure I wouldn’t like to.”

  Just that slight touch made his mouth go dry, and a hunger in his soul roar to life. It was as if all the barriers melted away, or perhaps he simply ceased caring. Without thinking—because he’d moved past that the instant he’d lowered them both into a freezing stream and held her close—he held himself above her, their faces only centimeters apart. The moment lengthened like the elastic strand of a spider’s web, and still he couldn’t move, didn’t dare.

  I’m on the brink, but it’s not too late. Only a fool leaps into the abyss.

  “Yes,” Dasha whispered. Reaching for him, her fingers in his hair. Gingerly tracing the line of stitches Bridgewater had sewn to close his wound . . . And he burned with longing just short of true pain. “Please,” she said.

  And so he fell, willingly. He gathered her in his arms and felt her body arch, and then the hunger took over, because there was this, there was only this: this moment, this woman. The feel of her mouth, the tear-stained hollow of her throat and the tender domes of her breasts . . .

  He fell, drowning in sensation. And he didn’t care. He didn’t.

  35
r />   DCMS Headquarters

  Copenwald, Halstead Station

  28 September 3136

  “Ahhhh . . .” The MP, a sho-sa, looked unhappy. “I can’t authorize this.”

  “Why not?” Loveland asked testily. “Everything points to someone in uniform or attached to the DCMS.”

  “Well,” the sho-sa drawled, “coulda been a civilian hire. We’ve got all kinds of positions here on base filled with civilian hires. Chow, hospital, garbage dump. This couldn’t be one of ours. You’re wasting your time.”

  “That’s okay,” Thereon said. Unlike Loveland, he seemed genuinely relaxed. “Ours to waste, right?”

  Now the MP looked annoyed. “Listen, this is DCMS territory. You’re subject to our rules. Any criminal investigation has to coordinate with ISF.”

  “We’re not interested in that,” Thereon said easily. “I don’t think you’re really interested in that, especially if we’re right. Besides, commit a crime off base, it’s ours even if the unsub’s one of your boys. Now, you can stall us. You can talk circles. You can pick your nose. I can wait.” Thereon glanced at Loveland. “Can you wait?”

  No. “I can wait,” Loveland said.

  “We can wait,” Thereon said. “While we wait, we’ll make calls, see a coupla newsies. Maybe you’ll get free advertising.”

  “Look, look.” The MP held up both hands. “I got to go through channels, get authorization. That’ll take time.”

  “But you can expedite, right?” Loveland grated.

  “Depends.”

  On what? Loveland hooked a thumb at Thereon. “Then it’s like he said. We’ll pay local law a visit, and the news guys, show ’em what we got.”

  “They don’t have jurisdiction.”

  “I don’t give a flip. Word is gonna get out that one of your boys likes chopping up women, and you guys are protecting . . .”

  “We’ll deny it.”

  “Yeah, well, judging from the news bullets coming out of here, you guys are just beloved.” Loveland put up a hand. “I know, I know. I feel for you. You want to see justice done, Major, I know. You want to see justice done, right, Thereon?”