Terran Commonwealth, Epsilon Prime, Garipan City

  The Commonwealth government moved with terrifying efficiency. Or efficiency always showed up when there was money to be made. Jack lounged on the soft sofa in his Smai Hotel room, watching the holo-screen tick through one breaking item after another.

  [ECONOMIC PULSE] — the screen showed swarms of construction drones and colossal transport ships pouring into Epsilon II’s orbit, the space around the planet a buzzing hive. On the ground, prefabricated units were snapped together like building blocks to form new dry docks and factories. The anchor announced tax breaks, bank guarantees, and government procurement programs in a tone that could sell an empire. Corporate logos scrolled beneath like ticker tape; related stock indices shot into the green.

  “Tsk,” Jack muttered, sipping a cold synthetic beer. “Sharks smelling blood.”

  [MILITARY FRONT] — the map lit up with the insignia of a hundred-plus army divisions forming on Epsilon II, legions of mechs and armor rolling into newly built barracks. In orbit, new task-group icons had appeared beside the First and Second Combined Fleets. The commentator bristled with excitement as he declared the Commonwealth would establish the most extensive forward base the Orion Belt had ever seen.

  “Built on soldiers’ bones,” Jack said flatly, switching channels. In a matter of days, the planet that had burned a month ago had turned into the Commonwealth’s hottest investment and strategic hub. The speed was jaw-dropping — and chilling.

  For days, Jack had been running to General Carrick’s office like a man with a broken compass, trying, in indirect ways, to pry any news about Meadow out of the bureaucracy. Carrick always wore that genial fox’s face, patted Jack on the shoulder, and said, “Don’t worry. Meadow’s only on a routine assignment with the unit; we’re confirming the details.” Then he’d pivot, with a loaded smile: “Spend more time with Nova when you can.”

  Jack left each visit disappointed. Carrick’s sly look nagged at him — something didn’t add up — but he couldn’t pin down what. Still, Carrick had a point. Jack owed Nova. If it weren’t for some backstop Nova left in the AMS, the ionic blade that almost sliced Thor in half would have done the job. He needed to see her. He ran the idea through his head: he’d take a short leave to the capital.

  First things first — handoffs. He stopped by Research Division Six.

  Leo saw him and lit up like an acolyte spotting his idol; he threw himself into a clumsy, overeager hug.

  Jack’s eyebrows twisted. “What’s your problem?” He pushed Leo away with disgust.

  “Sir! You’re incredible!” Leo blurted, red-faced and shaking. “I heard (Cyril wanted you as a pupil. And you turned him down? No way!”

  Lowering his voice like he’d spilled a secret, Leo added, embarrassed: “Also… the admiral came to see me. Asked about the simulation data. He said… You told him the person who really saw through his plan was me.”

  Leo’s eyes went watery. “Sir, why would you take the credit—”

  “What credit?” Jack cut him off impatiently. “I told the truth.”

  “That old fox (Cyril coming to you shows he knows you’re only half the show. Don’t get mushy—this big lug isn’t into that stuff.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Jack watched Leo’s starry-eyed face for a beat and, with thin patience, shoved the data slate into Leo’s hands. “If you like him so much, go be his student.”

  Leo glanced down and nearly fainted — Jack’s slate was a month’s backlog of simulation tasks, long as a witch’s broom.

  Jack was already turning to leave when Colonel Parker called him back.

  “Wait, Lieutenant Harlan.” The round-faced colonel, leaning in the dim corridor, closed the distance with a smile that sat oddly in shadow. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Think about Cyril’s offer.” Then, quieter, darker: “Harlan—no matter how brilliant you are, being brilliant only gets you so far. Alone.”

  He paused, and his eyes briefly clouded. “One man can change a battle, but not a war. You understand me?”

  He gave Jack a firm pat on the shoulder and walked away.

  Jack stood there, chewing over the phrase. That smiling colonel might be sharper than he looked. Parker’s subtext was obvious — (Cyril’s olive branch was more than mentorship.

  He shook it off and headed to Lab Seven.

  Dr. Thorne was buried in a stack of blueprints and barely glanced up when Jack said he was taking leave. “School’s starting — the first postwar intake. We’re short-staffed, and I signed you up as my assistant. Don’t embarrass me, and don’t teach the rookies to be idiots. Get back quick; we’ve got work.”

  “Me? A professor?” Jack nearly choked on his own spit. “That old bastard wants the next generation of the Commonwealth to die faster?”

  He didn’t argue with the oblivious old man and moved on to Nova’s private lab. He felt complicated about her: he liked her—undeniably. Her beauty, her brilliance, even the clear way she got angry. Moreover, she was straightforward, not wrapped in deceit. Thinking of her upgrading Thor warmed him.

  He stealthily pushed the lab door open — then a shrill recording of his own voice blasted through the room: “Fatso’s here! Fatso’s here!”

  Jack jumped, and Nova stood with her arms folded against the bench, wearing that “I knew you’d do this” grin. A cheap voice-activated alarm on the console blinked red.

  “Christ,” Jack laughed, equal parts annoyed and amused. “Has the spy-versus-spy war reached high tech now?”

  “What’s with this?” He tried to look serious even though his sleazy intentions were obvious. “What if the professor walked in? Awkward, right?”

  Nova walked over and jabbed his forehead with a long, pale finger. “In this lab, who dares barge in without knocking? Only you, Fatso.”

  “Hey, I like that,” Jack said, suddenly inflated with pride.

  Thor had been rolled back onto its maintenance cradle, quiet and enormous. Seeing Nova and Thor always gave Jack an odd, steady comfort.

  “Fatso,” she said, turning back to the console and flitting through maintenance logs, “the AMS core upgrade should be done in a few days.” She scowled and looked up. “About that emergency calibration chip I gave you—Thor’s logs show some data has been altered. Not my doing. Did you touch it?”

  Jack blinked. “Chip? Oh—the gizmo that saved my life? I don’t even know what I’m doing with that stuff. A Wraith ambushed us from the side, and Thor just reacted on its own and dodged the hit.”

  He drifted closer to Nova and, curious, asked, “When did you make Thor faster than an Imperial Wraith?”

  Nova shot him a skeptical look, then dove back into the slate. Her fingers flew over the screen—query logs, diff the code, trace the timestamps.

  The modified segment wasn’t a random overclock. It was too elegant, too precise. It looked like someone had intervened at a critical moment, reaching into the AMS core from outside and, with an algorithm Nova had never seen, temporarily taken command of Thor’s reaction stack.

  It shouldn’t be possible. AMS was a closed architecture — only she and Dr. Thorne had top-level access. Unless…

  She glanced up at Jack’s goofy, fat face. He looked innocently clueless.

  “Maybe a battlefield-induced overclock,” she hedged, vague and blunt. “I’ll run another check.”

  Jack watched her bury herself in work and knew it was time to go. “I’ll be in the capital for a few days—back soon.”

  He stepped up behind her, scooped her into a sudden hug, planted a bold kiss on the smooth plane of her forehead, and ran.

  Nova froze for a beat and then, flustered, stomped and swore, “You bastard!”

  She touched her forehead where his lips had been, feeling the lingering warmth. Her mouth twitched into a reluctant smile.

  Then she turned back to the screen and the suspicious code. The smile drained away.

  “Who the hell…” she murmured, “touched my Thor?”