FORT LIBERTY: VOLUME ONE (20 page)

“Moving out, sir,” He nods, winks at Petra. “Ma’am.”

And then they go.

Petra stands in the hatchway, watching Voss disappear down the corridor, catching one last look from him as he turns the corner. Not hard to read it either.
You wanted this… now don’t fuck up and die.

She nods, dropping her gaze to the assault gun he’s left her.

“Well,” she murmurs, fighting a smile. “Look what trouble we’re in now.”

FORT LIBERTY

MARS DATE: DAY 13, MONTH 10/24, YEAR 2,225

President Wexler considers the crystal glass on his desk, purses his lips in thought. He’s dressed in a black and white tuxedo, fashion that harkens back to the old glamour of Earth in ways that Voss doesn’t find significant.

The office is silent, the glitter of city lights panoramic through its windows, Fort Liberty glowing under clear night skies and dense trails of stars.

“That’s a hell of a deal,” Wexler says finally. “And it’s a risk.”

“We need intel. Petra will get that for us.”

“She already knows too much.”

“It’s a risk she’s taking as well.”

Wexler sighs. “You know she’s…unpredictable.”

Especially when she points a gun at you
. “I’m aware of that.”

“And you trust her?”

“To act in her own interests, yes.”

“To act in
our
interests?”

“As long as they’re the same.”

Wexler groans. “This is a critical point in the program. Niri must get through her introductory period here without any disturbance whatsoever.”

Voss watches the man, expecting the frustration, but reading fear too. A sheen of sweat, a restless gaze… scared shitless of something. “Sir.”

“I’ll bring you in,” Wexler promises. “I’ll show you. As my Security Chief, you’re authorized to observe some aspects of the program, know the broad strokes, but Jared… I have to know this thing with Petra—this intel gathering—is going to work. I need to know who sent those ships.”

“I need Petra in my network.”

“Then you have her,” Wexler says, looking as if he regrets it already. “I’ll forward you the contract. Everything she wants.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t thank me,” Wexler replies. “You’re the one who has to control her, and who knows if you can, or not.”

True, Voss thinks.

“That said, I’m extremely pleased with your work thus far.” Wexler adds, anxious to get back to whichever official state function he was attending before Voss requested a moment of his time. “You have a great future here and its time we started introducing you and your team. There’s a lot of interest among the chairmen, and among the higher circles.”

Voss nods. “Sir.”

The elite know everything. And what they don’t know, they find out.

“So get yourself a tuxedo.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wexler rises from his seat, offers his hand. “Good evening, Jared.”

Voss stands, accepting that weak grip. “Good evening, sir.”

The president leaves.

Voss watches him go, then frowns, looks out the window.

Lights burn under clear shielding, the halls of a thriving corporate world, too ordered, too fragile. Being introduced to these people means nothing beyond the opportunity to collect intel.

Protect them… fine. Talk to them… tedious.

The interest they have in him is not reciprocal. They have no memory of his wars, or the people who fought them. They’ve never stood on Earth, never seen that sky, never trudged through that poverty, or faced that cruelty.

To Voss, they carry nothing with them. They sort records. They count profits. They sleep through the night.

Get yourself a tuxedo.

He grimaces, thinking a noose would fit better.

The holo com in his pocket buzzes and he fishes it out, looking at the screen. A message appears in luminous text.
Got where I’m going. If you want to know where that is, you can fucking track it.

He grants her a tired smile. “Goodnight, Petra.”

M. ORENDA spent years programming before traveling abroad and getting lost, penning stories, writing on trains, buses and in between adventures.