“I know that, man, believe me, I know. This is what CST faces every time we open a wormhole to anywhere new. People don’t pay us any attention these days because they think that after three centuries, encounter scenarios are routine, and maybe even boring. Me, I don’t sleep much, I know that one day we’ll come across some virus or bug that gets right past our biomedical screening, or an alien race that is the opposite of the Silfen. Every year we go farther out, I add another safety procedure and ignore my staff screaming about what a monster bureaucrat I’ve become. All I do is pray that new procedure is going to be good enough for the one seriously badass encounter that nobody’s thought of before. Take a look at our exploration division’s operational guidelines some time, they should reassure you.”

“Okay, we understand each other then.”

“I hope so, Wilson, because this could well be that one encounter I’ve been dreading all these centuries.”

“So why are you pushing so hard for this mission?”

“We can’t hide in the dark just because of something we don’t understand. As a species, we’ve evolved a hell of a lot these last centuries, we are Homo galactic now. It might be arrogance on my part, but I believe we’re now capable of facing something this big. And don’t try to kid yourself: this is big, even if all you find is a deserted barrier generator. We have to come to terms with truly alien aliens, and the Silfen have never been that.”

“I thought you said us true romantics were few and far between?”

“We are. But look who we are.”

Wilson finally laughed. He tilted his head to take in the massive bulk of the ship. “So how come you haven’t named it yet?”

“You’re the captain, that’s your prerogative.”

“Are you bullshitting me?”

“No, man, I figure I owe you that much. Any ideas?”

“Sure. She’s called Second Chance.” It wasn’t something he had to think about.

Nigel grinned. “Not bad. I guess we’ll have a proper ceremony sometime. But first you’ve got to start putting your crew together. I can keep the politicians off your back for a while, but the quicker you make the selection the better. Man, I thought I was used to political horse trading, but this has got them all riled up. Every president, king, queen, first minister, prime minister, chairman, chief secretary, and grand emperor wants their world represented.”

“You’ve left room for a big science complement, that’s good, I would have insisted on that anyway. The actual crew, the engineers who’ll keep the ship running, I want to keep to a minimum. This is a science mission, after all. So I expect they’ll be drawn from the teams working here.”

“Okay, I have no problem passing the buck to you on this one. But be warned, there’s going to be pressure.”

“I’ll handle it. I don’t suppose you tracked down any more of my old crew, did you? I know Commander Lewis never made it to a rejuvenation. The rest of us drifted apart.”

“I’ll get on to it,” Alster said.

…

Paula Myo could actually see the Eiffel Tower from her office window. A century ago the Senior Investigator Office of the Intersolar Serious Crimes Directorate had taken over a lovely old five-story building just three streets away from the Seine, refurbishing the interior while leaving the Napoleonic facade intact. If she pushed her chair back from the desk and craned her neck, the ancient iron tower was visible over the rooftops. In the ninety-two years since she made Chief Investigator she probably hadn’t looked at it more than a dozen times. Today was one of those rare days when she succumbed, and gazed out at the panorama. The ant-size tourists were just visible on the top, while the lifts ran smoothly up and down the center of the ancient iron pinnacle. A timeless sight, which if anything had actually improved over the last two centuries as Parisians had gradually pushed the skyscrapers and modern apartment blocks farther and farther away from the ancient heart of their city.

While she watched, the office array was running cargo and transport files through specialist analysis programs, searching for the patterns that always seemed to elude her. It was the reason for her mood. Those patterns had escaped her for a couple of months now, and there were only so many ways you could search the data, even with modern smartware.

She knew Elvin had begun shipping the arms to Far Away. He would do that the only way possible: break them down into innocuous components, and incorporate them in other cargoes. Every time he bought an arms shipment this was the endgame that resulted. She would have cargoes pulled at random by CST security staff at Boongate’s gateway; they would be broken apart and evaluated for any discrepancy. Only three times in the last twenty years had they found components that the manufacturer couldn’t explain. She was sure that if every cargo was taken apart in the same way the results would be a lot better. But CST security had made it quite clear they didn’t have the resources to handle that kind of operation. Besides, she would inconvenience everybody on Far Away who was legitimately importing machinery, and without much just cause other than her own determination. Like all of his predecessors, Mel Rees, her immediate boss, had made it quite clear that the Intersolar Serious Crimes Directorate wasn’t going to support or fund that kind of interception procedure. It was an infuriating policy that she had argued against for decades, to no avail. So while she kept on filing official requests and applying what pressure she could through political contacts she had to make do with the occasional, random raid on likely cargo cases of equipment.

In an attempt to swing the odds in her favor, she’d initiated the data analysis. Every piece of cargo arriving at the Boongate CST station came with a full complement of files on shipping details, purchase invoices, payment confirmation, packaging companies, handling agents. Adam Elvin would send the arms via a multitude of different routes over a period of time that probably stretched into years. It was a physical encryption, you just had to have the key, the knowledge of which cargo hid which components, and when it would be arriving; if you had that you could slot the whole lot together. So her programs searched routes for crates that had shared a warehouse six months ago on a planet a hundred light-years away, payments that came from the same bank, a freighting company that was used by different agents, bills paid from an account that was only used once. Every time, she drew a blank. It didn’t help that eighty percent of cargo destined for Far Away belonged to individuals or families who were emigrating there, and took all their personal belongings with them, along with an amazing list of items they considered necessary for their survival and well-being.

“Now that’s something I don’t see every day,” Mel Rees said. “You loafing on the job.”

Paula gave him a silent, contemptuous glance and turned back to the Eiffel Tower. Mel Rees had only been with the Directorate for forty years, reaching his current position as one of its numerous deputy directors because of his family. But then that was always the way with Earth-based Commonwealth institutions; if senior appointees didn’t come from a Grand Family, they were inevitably part of an Intersolar Dynasty. Of course, had she gone gunning for a directorship she would probably have got it; but again, ironically, that would have been because of who she was, not to mention the amount of seniority gathered from one hundred forty-seven straight years of employment in the Directorate. But then, because of who she was, she didn’t want a post that would take her away from actual investigative work.

Mel Rees studied the data running through the desk portals. “No luck, huh?”

“Not with the budget you give me.”

“I’ve got something else for you.” Mel Rees never quite had the courage to summon Paula to his office if he wanted to discuss anything, he always visited her in person.