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  From my place at the center of The Preserver’s spacious bridge, I watched a world end. The world was—had been—called New Horizons. It’d been a mining colony, meant to coax platinum and gold from the asteroid it squatted upon. But then it had turned out that the initial scans had been dead wrong. Better Suns sent in carriers to transport the colonists and all the tech to a frozen rock that was actually worth something. The colonists had demanded payment for the work they’d completed—digging out quarries, analyzing rock samples, whatever. Better Suns had refused; no profits, no pay. It was all in the contracts. The colonists threatened to revolt.

  That might’ve been an acceptable outcome, since there weren’t any Corporation officials to string up. But there was a bunch of extremely expensive mining equipment, and the colonists started to wreck that first. So I had been sent to dispose of the colonists. At the moment, I watched through the colony’s video feed—displayed over the window screen of the bridge—as the inhabitants froze to death.

  I waved a tired hand at the comms officer at my side. “Status report.”

  He (I hadn’t bothered to commit his name to memory) swiveled around in his chair. “From what I can pick up, Commander, the survivors are about to attempt to reboot life support.”

  I sighed, leaning over the flexible supports of the command console. “Can’t they see it’s destroyed?” I’d blasted the atmospheric and heating units into smithereens the second I’d come out of the wormhole gate.

  The comms officer pursed his lips, typing out a command onto his holoscreen. “They’re only getting limited data. It appears the colony AI was severely damaged during the barrage; several critical computing systems were housed alongside the life-support units. All they know is that the oxygen generators are offline.”

  My fingers drummed over my armrests, impatience pricking at my nerves. The faster the colonists died, the faster I could send in mechanics and bots to collect all the surviving equipment I’d come for. As soon as that was done, I could get back to the Better Suns headquarters.

  I didn’t like killing the labor. It felt dishonorably easy. Not that I liked challenges. But murdering a bunch of civilians—even ones stupid enough not to carefully read through their contracts—hardly gave me a sense of accomplishment. If I had to be far away from home, I’d much rather sneak into a rival clanomy’s territory and blow up a couple dreadnoughts. Or even fight one of those Independent Settler cooperatives over some raw planet.

  The AI’s voice piped up from an array of concealed speakers. “Bioscanners now report that all biological assets on the asteroid have ceased to function,” it announced, with its gentle, genderless cadence.

  “Finally.” I turned to the comms officer. “Tell the first group to get going.”

  * * *

  A week later, the metal behemoth that was The Preserver slid into one of the many docking bays of New Berkeley. The space station served as the headquarters of Better Suns: corporation, colonial polity, and, with a near monopoly on finding valuable resources on newly discovered rocky bodies, one of the Big Three clanomies.

  As commander of the vessel, I exited first. The peons would take care of running efficiency scans, submitting reports, and all of the other bureaucratic nonsense I’d left behind when I got promoted. I made my way down The Preserver’s short, wide ramp and through the crowded embarkation/exit zone. Several dreadnoughts and frigates had docked simultaneously alongside my smaller, swifter destroyer, so the space was a hive of frenzied activity. All manner of Corporation employees—officers and officials, mechanics and merchants, scientists and specialists—rushed to get to wherever they needed to be, pausing only to check their itinerary via the mindnet.

  As I headed toward the officers’ apartments, I savored the familiar taste of the recycled air, the sound of my own boots thudding over polished steel. I answered messages via my netchip as I went, mentally pulling up letters and requests and transcribing my thought-responses.

  I passed under a pair of large, tiled archways and stepped into an elevator, allowing my posture to relax as the doors closed. I had nothing—glorious nothing—to do until the debrief the next day. Until then, I could sleep and cram sugary snacks into my face and generally do whatever I pleased. The elevator gave a low chime, dropped me off, and sped onward.

  I unlocked my door with a thought and stepped inside with a soft sigh. I kicked off my boots, toed off my socks. Then, like an insect wriggling out of its chrysalis, I peeled myself out of my black uniform jumpsuit.

  My apartment was just as gorgeously boring as I’d left it, all neat gray lines and white accents. The only thing marring the monotony was a pearlescent plaque on my living room shelf, awarded to me by Nathan Bane himself—chief executive officer of Better Suns, visionary, inventor, etc. I didn’t even remember what I’d earned the damned thing for in the first place. If I had to guess, though, I got it for eliminating the competitor colony on Barafu IV. After that little stunt, a couple Conglomerate bureaucrats tried to come for the Corporation. But they’d found taking down a clanomy for doing what basically every other clanomy was doing—just faster and more ruthlessly—was nigh impossible. The idiots tried to have me executed as a consolation prize but failed spectacularly in that endeavor as well.

  A smile overtook my face as I crossed the threshold of my bedroom. Oh, my bed. My wondrous, excessively large bed, with its cloud-soft mattress and synthsilk sheets. Times like these reminded me of how much a shithole Oluwadi had been. I yanked aside the covers, flopped over, and promptly fell asleep.

  My slumber, like always, was peaceful.

  * * *

  I was picking slivers of dried cyanfruit out of my lunch—some sort of protein-vegetable stir-fry that my netchip assumed, based on previous meals, I’d like (I didn’t)—when the news came. There was a tiny yellow exclamation point at the corner of my vision; I opened the notification. Normally I ignored notices until after my scheduled free hours, but I’d color-coded all my alerts, and yellow was reserved for breaking news about the Conglomerate. The holorecording visuals would be better on my omnipad. Once activated, the image of a popular anchorman flickered to life above the small black screen.

  “… After picking up strange energy readings from that sector, one of the Conglomerate’s exploratory flyby probes has uncovered a habitable planet,” he said. “Councilor Mirovich is here with me now, to discuss what this monumental discovery means for the Conglomerate.”

  A woman in a sharp blue suit materialized beside the anchor, her lips stretched into a thin smile. Pinned over her heart was the golden sunburst of the Supreme Council of the Worthy Few. “KT-63 is the first exoplanet our species has found that can undoubtedly support human life. We will once again live unassisted on a planetary surface, as our ancestors did before the Envirofall. Imagine: fresh air, as much clean water as we’ll ever need. A sky.

  “The millions of business clans comprising the United Collaborative Conglomerate of Earth have an extraordinary opportunity before them. We have the chance to gain unimaginable profit: not only financial gains but intellectual, cultural, and philosophical wealth. Friends, we’ve found a new homeworld for humanity.” She gave the anchor another of her narrow smiles. “Now, I love my homestation as much as the next Orbiter, but I wouldn’t mind a little fresh air, and I’m sure the deserving people of the Conglomerate would too.”

  Polite, simulated laughter. I stood up with a groan and dumped my lunch into the organics recycler. In the privacy of my bedroom, I paced while Mirovich went on about security drones and sanctions. When Conglomerate probes uncovered a new terrestrial asset, there was normally a bloodbath. Every clanomy was part of the Conglomerate, so every clanomy technically had the right to lay claim to whatever the Conglomerate discovered. And of course they all did lay claim, all the time. Some people said that the Conglomerate encouraged the conflict between clanomies as a way to control them. Some people were now fewer people, as they had a terrible habit of turning up dismembered at the bottom of asteroid mines.

  Given my track record, I’d almost certainly get drafted for the Corporation’s first military effort to secure KT-63, which was a problem. I took no issue with violently settling proprietary disputes; the bonus pay was excellent and there were (normally) fewer civilian casualties, which always stirred up bad press. But according to the three-dimensional map now displayed over my omnipad, KT-63 was at the very edge of huma n-explored space. Right in the galactic boondocks, twenty-five light-years away from anywhere worth being. Two hundred trillion kilometers away from my apartment. From my bed.

  * * *

  I dreamt of shaved ice smothered in fruit syrup. The sort of Oluwadin delicacy we’d have on feast days before everyone went and died. As far as cryodreams went, it was pleasant. Until a man’s wretched scream ripped into my semi-artificial unconsciousness.

  My training took over immediately. Without opening my eyes, without breathing, I dragged my left hand through the gelatinous preservation fluid surrounding me and slammed it into the pod’s internal printpad.

  I sucked in my first breaths in nearly a year as the door swung open, laying bare the once-pristine whiteness of the cryochamber. Crimson emergency lights flashed to the blaring beat of an alarm.

  A cryotech popped out of nowhere and darted to my side, just avoiding the puddle of fluid pooling at my feet.

  “Commander—”

  “Shut up.”

  I pinched my lips together as sudden waves of dizziness slammed through me. I squinted, gazing about the room. Some of the other pods were already open. Already empty. Most still held their peacefully slumbering occupants. Others hosted crew members just beginning to recover from the aftereffects of abrupt revival. They scrunched up, puking in their pods. One man, perhaps the one who’d screamed, murmured garbled nonsense as another cryotech tried to wrestle him onto a medcot.

  “You should have woken me first,” I growled, turning back to the man at my side.

  “We did our best, Commander,” he squeaked. He lifted an arm and pointed at the biocontrols on the walls.

  Deep gouges marred the metal and plastic, sending sparks dancing to the floor. Fixbots swarmed the walls, sleek magjets working hard against the standard Earth gravity, but from the pattern of their movements around the damage, I could tell they were still assessing how best to begin repairs.

  “Someone took an axe to the controls,” I said.

  “No, Commander. The emergency tools register no crew utilization since takeoff.” The cryotech tried to offer me a hand as I stepped out of the pod; I ignored it.

  I did take the white robe he proffered, wrapping it around my soaking black sleepsuit. “How many dead?”

  “Fifty-three, Commander.”

  A breath of relief rushed out of me. “Oh, good. Just send a report to the whole crew. And tell the comms officer to summon everyone to the mess hall in ten minutes.”

  By the time everyone was gathered, I’d scrounged up one of the standard condolence speeches Better Suns provided all its officers. A disheveled appearance would make the whole farce more authentic, so I hadn’t bothered to change. Preservation fluid dripped behind me in a gleaming line as I took my place at the center of the mess hall.

  “We’ve suffered the greatest of tragedies,” I recited, hands clasped behind my back. “In the darkness of space, all we have is each other.” I went on to say some empty, perfunctory platitude about each of the corpses currently being spaced—funny how I’d only learned their names when they were dead. I’d forget them again in a week, tops. “They’ll be deeply missed,” I concluded, pressing a hand to my chest. “But we have work to do. We can’t let this devastating misfortune become a disaster. I know they would want us to find strength in our sorrow and move on.”

  Move on, and find out whatever the hells had happened to my ship.

  * * *

  My door chimed just as a narrow face appeared on the viewscreen beside it. I recognized her from the ship manifest corporate had downloaded onto my netchip just before I had hopped in my cryopod. She was my assigned co-captain, whom I hadn’t met in person. Until now.

  I gave the mindnet my approval and the door slid open.

  “May I come in?” she asked. Her expression was stoic; I couldn’t get a read on her.

  “It’d be odd if I said no now.” I waved her in.

  She sat down on the only free seat that wasn’t the bed, a small white couch. She crossed her legs at the ankle and said flatly, “We should go back.”

  I smiled. Then I realized she was serious. “No. We can’t.”

  “The Sufficient Loss Protocol clearly states that if one hundred people on any mission go missing or are confirmed dead, then the entire area of space must be declared forbidden.”

  So she was one of those. “Only fifty people are dead. I’d say we have some wiggle room.”

  “Fifty-three,” she corrected. She brushed a dark wisp of hair out of her vision, revealing eyes that were such a light blue they were almost white. “We have no idea what caused the damage to the biocontrols in the cryochamber—”

  “It probably wasn’t a gone-civ trap.”

  “And how are you so certain?”

  I arched a brow. “Gone-civ traps don’t rip up circuit boards. They blow them up in one go, along with the rest of the vessel. Whatever happened was internal.”

  Her blue-white eyes narrowed. “We don’t know that. We don’t know what any of the gone-civs’ tech is capable of, because anyone that runs into some gets their intestines ripped out.” She crossed her bony arms. “We need to go back, before we lose the whole ship.”

  I stared at her. “If we run back now, then the whole quadrant will be blocked off while some other clanomy sacks whatever’s on that planet,” I said. And I’d lose the likely promotion waiting for me, along with all the material perks that would come with it. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard what happens to officers who disappoint Bane.”

  Her face was so carefully controlled it was unreadable. “Three weeks. And if anything happens, we turn back.”

  “Look. This is my ship, and at the end of the day, I decide what happens. I don’t care if we’re co-captains on screen.”

  “You should, because I’ve already sent a missive to the Conglomerate saying that if there are any further … misfortunes, they’re your fault.” She smirked. “You better hope you don’t survive the next, ah, tragedy.” She plopped her chin into her palm. “I liked your speech, by the way. So creative.”

  I gritted my teeth together. Damn the gone-civs. What sort of society decides to booby-trap half the galaxy in the first place? And damn this woman.

  “What’s your name?” I demanded.

  “Huijari Sahtekaar.”

  I nodded. “Uzoma Ifiok.”

  “I know. Your reputation precedes you, and I actually read the manifest,” she said, standing. “It’s not quite a pleasure to meet you, but I’m glad I have.”

  I grinned. “You’re welcome.”

  She stopped by the door. “I didn’t thank you.”

  “I mean, you’re welcome here. In my quarters. If you need company.”

  Sahtekaar huffed out a laugh. The door slid open, and she stepped out.

  * * *

  One week passed uneventfully, save for our investigation into the mass cryopod malfunction. So did the next. Then, the third week after my little chat with Sahtekaar, someone exploded in the electrical room.

  Blood and viscera painted the walls and tile beneath the body, as if it had just—popped. The charred remains of the surveillance cameras lay about the corpse, steel funerary flowers with scorched petals. The body’s chest had ruptured, the rib cage blown open. Or perhaps the chest had been pried apart instead; the face was slashed with three parallel jagged cuts that went down through the bone. As ridiculous as it was, I couldn’t get the image of claws out of my head. Claws sharp enough to cut through the biocontrols like a plasma blade through synthsilk.

  Our scans indicated no foul play on the crew’s part. The AI suggested a particularly high-energy solar particle event had hit the ship unnoticed, weakening a fuse array in the cryochamber. Pushed to their limit, the fuses burst, blowing apart the plastic and metal casing. Bullshit. I remembered what the damage looked like: controlled. Intentional. With the body, I was certain now. Something was on my ship. Or someone. The worst part was that Sahtekaar was right; some strange gone-civ tech must have snuck aboard The Preserver.

  … Or perhaps the gone-civs themselves weren’t as dead as we thought.

 

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