“North side of the Czar Alexander Fountain,” Manfred said. Then he kicked his chair spinning across the room, forcing the MPs to vault over it. He took the opportunity to run for the storeroom, duck inside, and slam the door. Austin heard a lock secure the heavy wood door.

He had no idea what Manfred meant, but he could figure it out later. Austin stood and started to call to the MPs, to slow them down. The one nearest him, a woman with a savage scar running the length of her left cheek, locked eyes with him. He knew in that instant Manfred had been right. They came not only for the renegade guard captain but for him, too.

The MP fumbled to draw the stunstick thrust through her broad webbed belt. Austin’s brain kicked into high gear. He saw that all the MP needed to do was activate the electric prod and fall toward him. He’d have no chance of avoiding the rod, and the lightest touch would paralyze him for several seconds.

He caught the edge of the table, straightened his legs, and heaved. The wood table upended and crashed into the woman, causing her to drop the stunstick. Austin considered fighting the MP for it, then knew he didn’t stand a chance in hand-to-hand with her.

Grabbing another chair, he flung it into the tangle of military police, then darted for the rest rooms. The MPs weren’t fools. They had to know dangerous fugitives might try to escape through windows or out back doors. Austin hoped Manfred had found some secure hidey-hole or a secret way out.

The small windows in the rest rooms opened into an alley where other MPs undoubtedly awaited a foolish exit. Austin jumped to the washbasin, caught an air vent grating in the ceiling, and used his weight to yank it down. He pulled himself up and wiggled into the tight space as the MPs burst in after him.

He had only seconds—less!—before they would notice he had chosen an aerial getaway route. Twisting like a snake, he reached a branch in the filthy ductwork and saw a way out. A fan spun sluggishly above him, pulling out stale air and sending it into the stormy night. Austin knocked away the frame on the fan and tumbled onto the roof.

Luck was with him. The flat roof was deserted. He scrambled to his feet, slipped, went to the edge, and saw his chance. He retreated a few paces, then ran for all he was worth. At the edge of the roof he launched himself outward over the street to land on the top of a truck just pulling away from the roadblock the MPs had set up. From the cab came angry shouts and the driver pulled over.

Before the driver could exit to see what had crashed down on the top of his truck, Austin slid across and jumped off the far side, using the truck to shield him from the MPs. He caught his breath, then walked quickly down an alley away from the truck. The driver shouted and heavy booted feet echoed down the street, telling him he had only a few seconds before they spotted him.

Austin ducked down behind a stack of crates as a light beam cut through the night, seeking him out. He heard the MPs arguing; then the beam vanished. Straining to hear, Austin waited for sounds that would tell him they were coming down the alley after him. After an eternity, he peered around the crate. The truck had driven off and no one was in sight patrolling the street. He brushed himself off and hurried away.

He had escaped. But now what?

Ministry of Information, Cingulum

Mirach

3 May 3133

“What went wrong?” Lady Elora asked. She fought to keep her voice level, but the man irritated her. He stood in front of her desk, smug and self-satisfied, and he had failed.

No one failed her. Twice.

“Relying on military police proved to be a mistake,” he said. The man who had been a waiter, a technician loading missiles, and an IndustrialMech pilot was still dressed in an MP uniform. “It’s only a matter of time before they are found. As angry as the MPs were at the beating they took, neither Leclerc nor Ortega will live long enough to be interrogated.”

“I know where Austin Ortega is,” Elora said. “He was observed returning to the Palace an hour ago.”

“Then I can leave this uniform on and take care of him before dawn.” The man shrugged. “With the guards Tortorelli assigned to the Palace, I could walk past them without any trouble. With this uniform, I could get them to help me slit the Baronet’s throat.”

“And how will you find Leclerc?”

“That, Lady Elora, is my secret, but I have ways to unearth anything. Anything at all.” He crossed his arms and looked at her as if this were his office and she was the menial.

Secrets, fumed Elora. What do you know of secrets?

She leaned back and considered him. He had proved useful twice. But now?

“I see you are thinking about removing me,” he said without any sign of fear in his pale blue eyes. Elora hated him for those eyes. Her mother had spent years describing the man who had fathered her, until Elora had a perfect mental image of the raping sadist. The Clansman who had sired her had eyes this color. There the resemblance ended. He had been so large and physically powerful in her mother’s fierce reminiscences of the rape. This man lacked stature, which was perfect for his job of assassin. No one remembered a man who looked like this. No one remembered ordinary.

The Clan blood flowing in her veins might be dilute, but she had vowed to make up for that while still a young girl. Her mother’s hastily arranged marriage to a young landowner from Ventrale had provided her daughter with legitimacy and nobility, but Elora still railed against her fate. Not good enough to be Clansworn? Over and over she told herself that genetic engineering could not matter as much as determination. She would show them her greatness by turning over the entire planet to Kal Radick.

Of course, she’d received no response to the communiqué she’d sent via DropShip so many weeks ago. He didn’t know who she was, but she’d show him. In a way, it didn’t matter to her if he even acknowledged such a fine gift. Conquering a world using words and carefully spun schemes would be reward enough for her. She would know she had deposed Ortega and made a fool of Tortorelli, then grabbed power.

But if Radick offered her the planetary governorship in his new order, she would not turn it down. She would show him and the Steel Wolves that even a drop of Clan blood was enough to triumph.

This nothing in front of her had failed. It troubled her that he read her so expertly, but he had survived on several worlds using his wits.

“You have to prove your worth to me,” she said. “I would be a fool to waste a valuable asset. I would be equally foolish to permit a flawed one to survive.”

“I kill to make my living. I also find out things,” he said, grinning wickedly. “You’ve worked your way up in the Ministry of Information by character assassination and double-dealing.”

“This is the best you can do? All you needed to do was ask anyone in the Ministry. They all hate me—and all could give detailed recitations of every person I stepped on as I came to my current position.” She kept her face impassive as she saw the expression on his face. He thought he held a trump card.

“You’ve contacted Prefect Radick about giving him control of Mirach,” the man said. “Reports say Radick is no longer loyal to The Republic, and you plan to take advantage of this shifting allegiance. Mirach would be a different world under Clan domination.”

“You spin fanciful tales as well as fail in what should have been simple assignments,” she said.

“Your childhood was spent battling an inferiority complex. You were a bastard child with endless ambitions to prove herself, to have someone to respect, if not love, her.” His smile broadened even more. “I like that.”