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  “I will take that up with Liaison Sourn,” she said, letting a small smile appear on her face. “I’m heading back to the field, Director. My hounds believe they have located the temporal anomaly near the Mist Isle. Give me what I need, and we will be off your hands soon enough.”

  Young sighed. “Very well. This is the last time, Kuo.”

  She finished the rest of her wine and stood. No use in letting it go to waste. It was an excellent twenty-third-century Triton vintage. She placed the glass on his desk and nodded. “Valta reinforcements are arriving in three days. Please see to it that they are transferred to my location. As soon as I receive both, I can finish this project.”

  Kuo left Young’s office and passed by several agency personnel as she exited the building. She ignored them, but was aware that all their eyes were glued to her as she passed. Every single one of them would probably stab her in the back, given the chance. She was, without a doubt, hated by everyone in ChronoCom. The trial of Levin Javier-Oberon, one of the more popular planetary high auditors in recent memory, had seen to that.

  That was all fine by Kuo. The little agency, for now, was nothing more than a tool, a subcontractor the megacorporation leveraged to accomplish its goals. Their opinions meant nothing to her. The only ones that mattered were those of her superiors and of Valta’s Board of Directors.

  In the end, no matter what anyone else said, Kuo knew that she was on the side of good. She followed the highest calling in the solar system: profit, market share, and, ultimately, the survival of mankind. Many of the ignorant might think Valta was only looking out for its own interests, and they wouldn’t be mistaken. What they didn’t realize was that greater good and corporate interests had to be aligned in order to accomplish the monumental tasks humanity needed to stave off extinction.

  Corporations just needed the proper incentives. They were the key to saving the species from itself, and the way to engage and encourage them to do so was to make saving humanity profitable, because in the end, companies were owned by shareholders and short-term gains were what mattered to them, not long-term intangible needs.

  Some called it greed, others selfishness. Kuo considered it leveraging humanity’s greatest strength. The drive for wealth and success was the one virtue humanity had exhibited throughout history, and the one trait that had consistently pushed humanity to excel. The origins of the collective needs must begin with innate base self-desires. It was this desire to accumulate wealth and power that would save all of mankind.

  In the past, humanity had tried to be altruistic in accomplishing its goals; it had rarely been successful. From common interests to religious righteousness to philosophical logic, humans throughout history had rarely ever accomplished anything worthwhile without significant self-interest as their source of motivation. Now, in these dire times, it was humanity’s greatest advocates—the megacorporations that specialized in accumulating wealth—that would lead them from the brink of extinction.

  A few minutes later, Kuo arrived at the Geras Towers at the south side of Earth Central’s campus, which housed corporate dignitaries and guests. She noted the four troopers manning the entrance and the additional one at the lift. Neither the agency nor the megacorp was taking any chances with the Valta delegation residing here.

  Ever since the trial several months back, tensions between the two camps had been high. Reports from Boston had only worsened relationships between the rank and file. It had gotten to the point that Sourn had insisted all ChronoCom personnel be banned from Geras Tower unless expressly invited, thus replacing the monitors with Valta’s troopers.

  She found Sourn in the top-floor suite and waited respectfully at the entrance. The vice president of Earth operations and liaison to the Board of Directors stood in the middle of an open room, surrounded by a dozen giant floating heads. She recognized four from the Board of Directors: Camminsol, the vice president of Jupiter operations; Bodard, the transit chief; Meadors, the second-fleet admiral; Damian, the inner-region finance master.

  The last was the one to worry about. At the end of the day, no matter the position, it was always the finance lords of the corporation who dictated policy. The news she brought with her was not going to help matters any. Sourn glanced her way and acknowledged her with a slight nod.

  Kuo walked down to the end of the hall and waited. The view from this window was of the massive lake just east of the city. In the distance, a never-ending storm brewed over the brown waters, sucking up the muck until it created funnels that randomly meandered the breadth of the lake’s surface. She saw easily seven or eight of those funnels just writhing within eye-shot.

  Lightning came down intermittently, several bolts striking one of the many rods dispersed across the lake that harnessed nature’s destructive energy to power the city. She followed the path of one of the brown funnels as it headed toward land. It reached approximately a hundred meters from shore before a sonic boom dispersed it.

  She had asked about these land defenses when she first arrived. The sonic emitters spanned the entire length of the shore. At first, these funnels, a product of the planet’s increasingly violent weather patterns, were thought to be anomalies. Over time, though, they became regular occurrences. Prior to the sonic emitters’ installation, the funnels were wreaking havoc along every coastal city on the planet, to the point that several of the smaller cities were abandoned.

  Kuo shook her head. So many checks and balances. Nature had turned on her own children, choking its remnants in this cesspool. Everywhere humans lived, they fought a high-cost battle to survive. It should be a clue for those remaining on this planet—somewhere around two billion—that they were no longer welcome. It was foolish to think otherwise.

  The intelligent and efficient thing to do would be to start over. Recategorize the planet as a hostile environment and outlaw habitation. Eliminate the local denizens and transfer the ones worth saving to the efficient and highly-regulated colonies throughout the rest of the solar system. Then, the megacorporations should harvest the remaining resources—Earth was still the greatest repository in the solar system—to ensure humanity’s survival.

  “Senior Securitate Kuo, Liaison Sourn will see you now,” a woman’s pleasant voice chirped inside her head.

  Kuo tore her gaze from the hypnotic destruction of the lake and strolled into the next room. Sourn was still talking to one of the floating heads—Damian by the looks of it—when she came in. The image disappeared, and Sourn motioned for a hover chair to approach her.

  He gestured for her to sit. “How goes the mission to locate the temporal anomaly, Kuo?”

  Kuo bowed and sat down. “It goes, Liaison. Unfortunately, she was able to escape our grasp and disappear outside the ruins of Boston. We have expanded our search perimeters to cover the entire region.”

  She had submitted weekly statuses since the project started. However, she knew Sourn, a climber within Valta who had eyes on a board chairmanship one day, wouldn’t have bothered reading it and wanted just the condensed information. If she performed well under him, he would take her with him, hopefully straight off this backwater planet. If not, his disapproval could mean a career stranded here on Earth.

  “The director is asking for reimbursement for the requisition of five hundred extra monitors,” she continued.

  “Not an unreasonable request, especially after seeing your deployment schematics.” Sourn shook his head. “Young has already complained to me about how you are using his monitors. Really, Securitate. Did you have to be that obvious?”

  Kuo bristled. Of course the old man had. Why else would he have had the gall to outright ignore her request for more monitors? Which left one more thing …

  “Liaison, I must inquire: At what point is locating this temporal anomaly a negative return on investment for Valta? She is valuable as a scientist with subject matter expertise on the Nutris machines we’ve retrieved, yes, but the resource expenditure has been significant, and Valta having to rely on a nonprofit
entity such as ChronoCom”—Kuo clicked her tongue disapprovingly—“has been limiting and problematic. Furthermore, due to the nonprofit’s bureaucracy and inefficiency, she was allowed to escape, and we now believe she could be hidden on the Mist Isle. Locating the subject will be a costly affair. I have a difficult time estimating the feasibility and justification of continuing this project.”

  Sourn waited until she finished. He ran his index finger and thumb along his chin as if he were stroking an imaginary beard. A small smile broke on his face. “Your analysis is correct, Kuo. This project is now already a negative return for Valta, even with ChronoCom doing the brunt of the heavy lifting. Regardless, we proceed as planned. Valta considers our arrangement with this nonprofit a moral imperative.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  He pointed at her. “Let’s say the temporal anomaly—this scientist—escapes us, and we allow ChronoCom to renege or renegotiate the terms of the agreement due to their failure, and they negotiate to credit us whatever they think they owe us in salvage. What happens next time?”

  “Take the lessons learned from the experience and don’t make the same mistakes. My first recommendation would be that Valta lead the project from the outset.”

  Sourn nodded. “That lesson is already learned regardless. What happens the next time we purchase service from the agency and they fail to deliver?”

  “We just have to—”

  “There won’t be a next time,” he snapped. “Because there won’t be a ‘this time’ either. This is the problem with nonprofits. Like governments and all other inefficient public entities, they are far too often allowed to fail without consequence. Well, we are holding them accountable. I have already informed the entire board that we will deliver this temporal anomaly because it is what we’re owed. And you will deliver, Kuo. You’re not returning to Europa until this job is completed. See to it.”

  That was it right there. That was the real reason. Sourn had promised the delivery of this scientist to the board. Failure was no longer an option. Kuo involuntarily clenched a fist. “Yes, Liaison.” She bowed.

  “One more thing, Kuo,” he said as she was about to leave the room. “Even the troop distributions. I don’t want to hear another complaint from that cripple about how we’re abusing his resources. A healthy business relationship should be built on fairness and trust, after all.”

  NINE

  BREAKING POINT

  Grace Priestly had flat-out lied. James’s luck wasn’t better the next day, or the day after that. In fact, every day for the next two weeks was worse than the last as he went down the list of salvagers and doctors, begging and pleading for help. Regardless of profession, everyone was telling him no, and each time it felt like a punch in the gut.

  None of the doctors would even entertain the notion of making the trip to Earth. Some turned him down less cruelly than others, but the result was all the same. They didn’t care that it was his sister, or that she was a child and possibly dying. All they saw was how much he had to offer.

  To be honest, James didn’t blame them. He was asking a doctor to abandon his practice to come to Earth just to treat Sasha. Bringing Sasha here was out of the question. A pirate’s den was no place for a ten-year-old. He shuddered at the thought of her falling into the hands of slavers and deviants. He could have brought his sister here and stayed for her treatment, but that would have meant leaving Elise back on Earth for abyss knew how long. That was not a risk he was willing to take.

  No, he had to find a doctor who was willing to treat her on Earth, perhaps appealing to someone’s heart, or sense of adventure, or even a doctor who owed money and needed a change of scenery. By this time, James didn’t care. However, he had no such luck and hadn’t come across a generous- or desperate-enough soul to consider this sort of arrangement.

  He had even less luck tracking down a willing salvager. Every single one was a hardened mercenary. None cared a whit about his quest to cure Earth and openly scoffed at what he could offer. By this time, Grace had earned enough to pay for a couple of salvages, but not enough to make a real difference to the Elfreth.

  Grace had already told him what she would do with the rest of their funds if he failed to recruit a salvager. If it came down to supplying the Elfreth or finding Sasha a doctor, he knew which direction she would choose. She had already earmarked large portions for supplies to last the tribe through the winter, and the rest to purchase much-needed equipment for their research to cure the Earth Plague. All this just made him more desperate.

  James was returning from his latest rejection, the last on the list of salvagers. He was at a dead end, having exhausted all his options in Bulk’s Head. He was frustrated and had given up on this colony of assholes. He wasn’t giving up on Sasha, though, and was already formulating another plan. If he couldn’t bring a doctor to her, perhaps he could smuggle her to one of the more civilized colonies, like Titan or Europa or Ganymede, or even that dump Rhea. He would have to abandon her there, but at least she would be seen to. Corporate-owned colonies didn’t starve children. He could find her again in a few years. The very thought of this plan broke his heart and made him want to throw up, but he was running out of options.

  “James,” Grace’s voice popped into his head. “Any luck with the Festa Triad’s salvager?”

  “No.” That one word must have conveyed how defeated he felt.

  Grace, however, did not coddle people. “I can tell you’re moping, so stop it. I think I have something. Sending the information to you now.”

  A message appeared in his AI band, pointing to an address in a run-down, industrial lower section on the fringe of the colony. He pulled up the data: Roft Hess-Mimas. Supposedly a Tier-4.

  “I’ve never heard of this guy,” he thought to Grace. “Where did you come by this information? Who is he?”

  “I was brokering a batch of tach blades when one of my partners asked if you were looking for a cheap salvager. Said he heard secondhand of a man dropping in for a week to pick up a miasma regimen shipment. Said he’s hard up for work and willing to operate on the low.”

  James stopped in the middle of the hallway and stared at the message floating inside his head. “Have you verified the information?”

  “Not much to verify. The man is due to depart on a shuttle first thing tomorrow. That I did check out.”

  James cursed. He hated going in blind. He was a long-lived chronman exactly because he didn’t jump into situations without vetting every detail. However, if this ex-chronman really was willing to work for cheap and was leaving the next day, then he had to risk it.

  “I’m on my way.” James turned down a side hallway and made his way toward the main stairwells leading to the lower levels. He checked his bands, noting that his exo was powered just under 50 percent. That should be sufficient if a problem arose.

  Bulk’s Head’s constabulary was surprisingly professional and efficient, considering they were policing a pirates’ den. Perhaps especially because they were policing a pirates’ den.

  Firearms were illegal in all of the Wreck colonies. Discharging a weapon in a hundreds-years-old spaceship was extremely dangerous. An unlucky shot could cause a terrible explosion or leak precious air, water, or some other life-sustaining resource. This made melee weapons—knives, clubs, and other undetectable weapons—popular choices. James himself carried an old-fashioned retractable baton in his back pocket.

  The crowds became sparser the lower he got, until he was the only person continuing down a dimly-lit stairwell. He continued down a narrow hallway that became so dark, many of the tributary corridors faded to black. Only a few lonely flickering white lights kept the complete blackness at bay.

  The air was thinning, too. He must be reaching the edge of the colony. James activated his atmos and took a full breath. He had to be careful. One wrong turn, one mistakenly opened door, and he could be sucked into space.

  The address to the residence was a run-down respiratory chamber, o
ne of the many complex automated courier systems used throughout the ship. The Core Planets had liked to model their ship terminology after human physiology for some reason. That practice had begun and died with them. The room was long and narrow, with just enough space for two people to stand back-to-back to work and long enough he couldn’t see the wall on the other end. There were two dozen small orange lights scattered on both walls, illuminating the room like candles. He took a step inside.

  “State your name.” The voice came from the far end of the room.

  “James Griffin-Mars. You’re Roft Hess-Mimas, a Tier-4? What year at the Academy? Where were you stationed?”

  There were fewer than four thousand chronmen in the solar system. James didn’t know all of them, especially the newer ones, but it was a small community.

  “I’m asking the questions here. You need me. I don’t need you. What job are you after?”

  “That’s not what I heard,” James said. He took a step forward. “Let’s discuss this. It’s a series of jobs—”

  “Stay right there. Release your bands and we’ll talk. You can put them back on after we’re done here.

  James hesitated. No chronman worth his salt, former or not, would ever tell another to release his bands unless they were fighting. Before he could activate his exo, a flash and a shock struck him, binding a reddish string of energy around his waist. James found himself unable to activate his exo.

  The exo-chain’s glow illuminated the rest of the room, revealing three figures on the far end—one sitting in a chair, and two standing to his side. One of the three figures charged and clocked him across the side of the face with a hard object. Fortunately, James had a split second to react and rolled with the hit. It spun him around, and he crashed to the floor.

  “Release your bands or I’ll bash your head in,” she snarled, swinging a metal pipe downward.

  “Don’t kill him,” a voice said behind her. “We can’t get the bands then.”