At two-thirty in the morning, the queue of hopefuls stretched halfway along the narrow unsanitary alley. The glamorous, the important, the famous, and the merely rich all shuffled their feet together, bitched about the cold and the indignity, ingested, inhaled, and infused a variety of narcotic substances, peed against the walls, and waited for some small miracle to grant them entrance. They weren’t going to get it. The unremarkable gray door was guarded by two huge bouncers, stripped to the waist so they could show off the stylish bulbous chrome scabs of their metallic muscle boost implants, like retro-futuristic cyborgs.

Paula walked straight up the alley to the front of the queue, eliciting murmurs of amazement and hostility in equal measure. One of the bouncers smiled politely, and lifted the velvet rope for her. “Have a good evening, Ms. Myo,” he said in a thunderstorm whisper.

“Thank you, Petch,” she told him as she slipped past. He was nearly twice her height.

Music so loud it was on the threshold of pain; black walls, floor, and ceiling producing a darkness that made you squint, until the rig above the mastermix DJ flared with blindingly intense holographic pulses; bodies crunched up so tight you could feel other people’s sweat rub off on you as you squeezed past; Sahara heat; drinks priced contemptuously high; a dance floor so crowded that all you could do was wriggle in imitation sex—apart from the five people in the middle who weren’t imitating anything. Nobody looked over twenty-five; boys dressed in chic suits; girls in wisps of designer cloth.

Paula shoved her way aggressively to the bar. Thankfully, she didn’t have to shout herself hoarse for a drink. The barkeeper nodded welcome and immediately mixed her a peach sunset.

She sipped it, and stood on tiptoes to look out over the outlandish and expensive hairstyles. In among all the high fashion, Tarlo’s navy uniform was instantly noticeable. Two minutes’ more shoving and she was at his side.

“Hi!” she screeched.

The tall black girl he was grinding up against gave Paula a serial-killer sneer. It didn’t look right on a face so staggeringly beautiful.

“Boss!” Tarlo grinned in surprised delight.

“Need to talk to you.”

He gave the black girl a dirty kiss, and shouted something directly into her ear. She nodded reluctant agreement, shot Paula a final blood-vendetta glare before wobbling off on high heels.

Together they made their way over to the end of the bar. Paula took another peach sunset; she could almost feel herself dehydrating. It was always hellishly hot in here.

“How are you doing?” Tarlo shouted.

“I’m annoying Admiral Columbia.”

Tarlo raised an iced bottle of Brazilian beer, and put it to his smiling lips.

“Best job in the galaxy.”

“Just about. I need a small favor.”

“You don’t even have to ask, Boss, you know that.”

“There’s an old case I want you to look into for me. You remember the Dudley Bose burglary? It was before the Second Chance flight.”

“Vaguely.”

“We checked it out at the time and it seemed to be nothing. Now I’m not so sure. There was a charity involved, Cox Educational, which might be a front for illegal money laundering. I think it was used by a politically connected crime syndicate.”

“Are you sure?”

“Three of its trustees vanished when we started investigating. Could you review the accounts on file in the Paris office for me?”

“What am I looking for?”

“Any form of discrepancy. I have an outside finance expert going over their current files, but I need to know how far back this goes. There might have been some tampering with official records. If that’s right, then the ones on file in Paris will be our only evidence.”

“Okay. I’ll get on it tomorrow for you.”

“Thanks.”

“What put you on to this after so long?”

“I had a tip-off from an informant; it’s also why we’re focusing on Baron.”

“She’s involved?”

“My informer claims she was part of the cover-up. We’re not sure. Not yet. And, Tarlo, keep this from Hogan and the rest of them. Columbia has tried to block me once on this already; I need to get the proof without interference.”

“Hogan hasn’t got a clue what goes on in the office. Don’t worry, you can rely on me.”

She gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek. “Thanks. I think you’d better get back to your friend now. That way I might manage to survive until morning.”

Paula watched him slither back into the sweaty embrace of the crowd where the girl was waiting with edgy impatience. Inside she felt a knot of tension slacken off. He seemed to have swallowed the old favor routine. Either that or he was a superb actor. It wouldn’t be long now before she knew for certain.

Paula had used just about every kind of transport system the human race had ever invented, but the travel pods in the High Angel always unnerved her. The way they turned transparent from the inside, the high speed, the perfectly maintained gravity field, all that combined into an insidious roller coaster disorientation. Nowadays she knew to keep eyes firmly closed from the moment she got in until a quiet ping announced they’d reached her destination.

Two armored navy security guards were standing outside the pod as she climbed out. They saluted sharply. “The Admiral’s expecting you, Investigator,” one said.

Paula nodded and looked up. She was standing at the base of the Pentagon II. Overhead the dome was completely opaque, diffused with a creamy light. The High Angel was in major conjunction above Icalanise, with Babuyan Atoll pointing directly at the local star. She couldn’t see anything outside at all.

The security guards escorted her into the elevator. Anna was waiting outside when it arrived on the top floor. “Good to see you again,” she said.

“Thanks. How’s married life?”

“Busy.” She held her hand out showing off her rings.

“Lovely,” Paula conceded.

“He’s waiting for you. Oscar’s in there with him.”

Paula hadn’t expected that. “Okay.”

With the dome’s uniform white light outside, it was difficult to tell if the windows in Wilson’s office were clear or not. Given this was supposed to be an ultra-secure meeting, she supposed they were sealed. It wasn’t something she asked; it was fairly obvious she’d walked right into the middle of an argument.

Wilson was standing behind his desk, his long features drawn tight by antagonism. Oscar stood opposite, hands on hips, staring him down.

“Problem?” Paula asked.

“A huge one, actually,” Oscar said. The anger fled from him, and he slumped back into the nearest chair. “Fucking hell!”

“What’s going on?” Paula asked.

“I asked you here because we had proof of some very serious treachery on the Second Chance flight,” Wilson said. He still looked furious, fingers rapping on the desktop. “I needed your advice on the Guardians. Jesus, if they’re right…”

“Had proof?” Paula asked. She didn’t like the way Wilson had made the emphasis.

“Let me show you,” Oscar said.

A wide section of the office wall began to project the shuttle flight between the starship and the Watchtower. Oscar gave a commentary as the little craft left its hangar bay, explaining the dish deployment, where it was pointing. Paula watched it all in fascination. It really was concrete evidence, rather than circumstantial, that someone was actively working against the interest of the human race. One of the Starflyer’s agents had to have been on board the Second Chance.

“Thank you,” she said with quiet sincerity. “This is exactly what I needed.” The emotional reaction to the revelation was stronger than she’d expected; it was almost like being mildly inebriated.