But lows could be highs in disguise, he had learned. The arrival of the Drenardian girl had seemed to spell trouble, bringing the threat of peace between their race and the Humans, but just when things seemed to be dipping, they soared again. Here he was, walking alongside that cursed piece of paper, that peace treaty, and escorting his fat Admiral through the antechamber of the GU president himself. He was strolling with them on the eve of a successful invasion of their galaxy, and all mere moments away from their personal destruction.
What better way, Robinson thought to himself, to sow discord through this mutant empire than by lopping off its head right as the fight begins? What better way to usher the rest of the body toward its violent demise?
Robinson watched Saunders go through the security gauntlet first, once again waving his pass and vouching for the rest. That gesture was coming for the third time, and the nicety was pissing off Robinson. He wanted to be scanned. He wanted his credentials registered. He wanted his people and higher-ups to know he had been there, that it was he who did this. Let Byrne, that blasted agent, take credit for opening some trifling door, he would be the agent to go down in Bern lore, passed from one universe to the next, remembered forever as the man who began the war, the one who assassinated the President of a race grown notorious for their insolence, for their inability to just go away.
Saunders waved Sharee through the scanner next, her flanking gender somehow more important to protocol than Robinson’s rank.
Robinson smiled. Soon, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing on the entire residential wing of that building would survive the blast he was about to unleash. Not that piece of paper, that treaty promising peace. It would burn no less righteously than all else.
The Secretary of Galaxy waved him through the security screen next, and Robinson stepped forward between the scanning walls, smiling at the officials on the other side of the viewing ports. The barred gates ahead of him remained closed as he stood still, letting their futile scanners have their fun. His augmented innards were designed to pass the most detailed of scans. Security agents would see cybernetic lungs, rather than bombs and chemical agents mixing together.
“Credentials, please,” a voice said through the security corridor’s speakers.
Robinson smiled. Finally, he thought.
He reached for his pass, using the movement to hide the complex motions necessary to arm himself. His fingers became a blur, twitching in just the right pattern and at just the precise timing to activate the once-inert gels, now hardened into furious potential. His hand came away from his damp, mud-speckled flightsuit bearing his badge, his body now little more than a potent bomb.
Robinson held the badge up in front of the viewing port, turned to the side, and smiled at the Secretary of Galaxy, who nodded back.
“Pass it in front of the scanner, please.”
“Gladly,” Robinson said. He looked the other way toward Saunders, that fat fool, only to see Saunders flashing a smile. The Admiral was grinning like something delicious had just passed through his flabby gullet. Joy on that man’s face brought a frown to Robinson’s. He could see the GU President beyond the Admiral and Sharee, coming out of his suite with his arm extended. Robinson thought about doing it right then, scanning his pass and blowing the serpent’s head clear off, taking that nest of vipers with him—
But then the scanner beeped as his badge was registered. And it beeped again, the beep echoing louder. And louder. The initial acknowledgment seemed to morph into an alarm.
Robinson froze, but every other mechanical thing around him whirred into action. Ports slammed shut. Blast walls thundered down from the ceiling. The acoustics of his surrounding space altered as the dull press of thick steel shrouded him on all sides, swallowing even the now-distant sirens.
Looking down, Robinson saw the scanner’s laser array hashed across his credentials, reading the black squiggles of information. He looked at his badge, the apparent trigger for the sudden lock-down.
He saw his face. His name.
But not his ID number.
Not, he could even tell at a glance, his barcode.
Something in Robinson’s internal database, his perfect memory of Navy secrets, signaled a match. Relays sent that information from one module of his computer-like being to another. It registered in his consciousness, accompanied by red blips and the alarm of his Navy persona. It was the warning flashes of a C-15 Object of Interest.
According to his badge, Robinson was the most wanted man in the galaxy. But how could that—?
No, he realized, as the rest of the file came just nanoseconds later: He was the most wanted female in the galaxy.
The name belonging to the barcode flashed through his mind, remaining there as his fury and confusion tripped the hair-triggered bomb he’d just concocted. Robinson looked up, searching for Saunders and that infernal smile on his flabby face. But everything around him was gone, sealed off by thick blast walls that had long waited for just such a contingency. The barriers left Robinson alone with that name, the one that went with the barcode. It existed for a brief eternity, a fleeting thought amid a contained cloud of explosive and expanding debris, much like a star in the center of a fiery nebula:
Molly Fyde.
50 · Reunions
Byrne’s sleek command ship touched down on Lok, its cargo door already hanging open. With a matching atmosphere outside, Molly was finally able to open the cockpit door manually, the safety overrides having become disengaged. With her wrists still bound and her lifeless Wadi nestled in the crook of her arms, she stumbled out of the death-filled cockpit, past the tangle of wires hanging from the bulkhead, through the cargo bay, and out into the bright day and dry grasses. She had landed a stone’s throw from the downed ship from hyperspace, but only a handful of faces turned her way—everyone was too busy or in too much shock to care about her arrival.
“Cole?” Molly stumbled toward the horrific scene.
The large Bern ship lay in a bent heap. Survivors staggered around it, walking among and carrying the bodies of those less fortunate. Still mounds were laid out in a neat line across the trampled prairie. Some were being tended to; a hand with life still in it clutched to someone’s shirt. Scant covering hid another’s face, knelt over by someone sobbing. Molly passed through the outer edge of the dead and wounded, so many alien races present, as she looked for recognizable features, dreading finding them in case those she loved were amongst the still.
“Cole?”
A girl with hair like fire caught Molly’s attention, her bright green eyes tracking her. Molly didn’t see Cole at first, not until the girl grabbed someone’s arm, directing a man’s attention—
Cole.
Molly ran to him. She clutched her Wadi and weaved her way through the crowd. Cole moved to stand, winced as if in pain, then sank back down. Molly threw herself into his arms.
“Cole!”
He didn’t respond.
His arms went limply across her back and felt heavy with fatigue. Molly kissed his shoulder, his neck, his skin scented like smoke and grease. She sat back, placed the Wadi on the grass like so many other dead, and went to throw her manacled hands over his neck.