“She said she was going to her berth,” Abumwe said. “Lieutenant Wilson didn’t ask for her to be here, so I didn’t ask her to come.”

“We should probably have someone get her,” Wilson said, but Coloma was already on her PDA, ordering someone to get her.

Coloma’s PDA pinged almost immediately thereafter; it was Neva Balla. Coloma put her executive officer on the speaker so everyone in the room could hear. “We have a problem,” Balla said. “There’s someone in the portside maintenance airlock. It looks like one of the Earth people.”

“Send me the image,” Coloma said. When she got it, she bounced it to the PDAs of everyone else in the room.

It was Luiza Carvalho.

“What is she doing?” Lowen asked.

“Lock out the airlock,” Coloma said.

“It’s too late,” Balla said. “She’s already started the purge cycle.”

“She must have been listening in somehow,” Abumwe said.

“How the hell did she get in there?” Coloma asked, angry.

“The same way she got Meyer and Bourkou to help her kill Liu,” Wilson said.

“But why did she do it?” Meyer said. “Who is she working with? Who is she working for?”

“We’re not going to get an answer to that,” Wilson said.

“Well, we know one thing, at least,” Lowen said.

“What’s that?” Wilson asked.

“Whoever’s been sabotaging you up here, it looks like they’re on the job down there on Earth,” Lowen said.

“Almost got away with it, too,” Wilson said. “If we didn’t have that scanner, it would have looked like the Colonial Union killed him. By the time it was cleared up, it would have been too late to fix it.”

No one said anything to that.

In the video feed, Carvalho looked up to where the camera was, as if looking at the group in the medical bay.

She waved.

The air purged out of the airlock. Carvalho exhaled and kept exhaling long enough to stay conscious until the hull lock opened.

She let herself out.

“Dani,” Wilson said.

“Yeah, Harry,” Lowen said.

“You still have the Laphroaig?” Wilson asked.

“I do,” Lowen said.

“Good,” Wilson said. “Because right now, I think we all need a drink.”

EPISODE TEN

This Must Be the Place

Hart Schmidt took the shuttle from the Clarketo Phoenix Station and an interstation tram to the station’s main commuter bay, and then he caught one of the ferries that arrived at and departed from Phoenix Station every fifteen minutes. The ferry headed down to the Phoenix Station Terminal at the Phoenix City Hub, which aggregated most of the civilian mass transportation for the oldest and most populous city of the oldest and most populous human interstellar colony planet.

Upon exiting the ferry, Hart walked through spaceport terminal C and boarded the interterminal tram for the PCH main terminal. Three minutes later, Hart exited the tram, went from the platform to the immensely long escalator and emerged in the main terminal. It was one of the largest single buildings humans had ever built, a vast domed structure that housed stores, shops, offices, hotels and even apartments for those who worked at the hub, schools for their children, hospitals and even a jail, although Hart had no personal experience with the last two.

Hart smiled as he came out into the main terminal and stepped onto the terminal floor. In his mind, as always, he imagined the mass of humanity bustling through suddenly grabbing the hands of the people next to them and waltzing in unison. He was pretty sure he’d seen a scene like that in a movie once, either here in the main terminal or in a terminal or station much like it. It never happened, of course. It didn’t mean that Hart didn’t keep wishing for it.

His first stop was the PCH Campbell Main Terminal Hotel. Hart checked into a one-step-above-standard-sized room, dropped his bag at the foot of the queen-sized bed and then immediately gloried, after months of sharing his broom-closet-sized “officer quarters” on the Clarkewith another diplomat, in having nearly forty square meters of no one else in his living space.

Hart sighed contentedly and immediately fell into a nap. Three hours later he awoke, took a shower that was indecently hot and indecently long and ordered room service, not neglecting a hot fudge sundae. He tipped the room service delivery person exorbitantly, ate until he felt he would explode, switched the entertainment display to the classic movies channel and watched hundred-year-old stories of early colonial drama and adventure, starring actors long dead, until his eyes snapped shut seemingly of their own accord. He slept dreamlessly, the display on, for close to ten hours.

Late the next morning, Hart checked out of the Campbell, took another interterminal tram to train terminal A and hopped on train 311, with travel to Catahoula, Lafourche, Feliciana and Terrebonne. Schmidt stayed on the train all the way to Terrebonne and then had to run to connect with the Tangipahopa express, which he caught as the doors were closing. At Tangipahopa, he boarded the Iberia local and got off at the third stop, Crowley. A car was waiting for him there. He smiled as he recognized Broussard Kueltzo, the driver.

“Brous!” he said, giving the man a hug. “Happy Harvest.”

“Long time, Hart,” Brous said. “Happy Harvest to you, too.”

“How are you doing?” Hart asked.

“The same as always,” he said. “Working for your dad, hauling his ass from place to place. Keeping up the Kueltzo family tradition of being the power behind the Schmidt family throne.”

“Come on,” Hart said. “We’re not thathelpless.”

“It’s okay for you to think that,” Brous said. “But I have to tell you that one day last month I had to take Mom into the hospital for tests, and your mother was out at one of her organization meetings. Your dad called my mom’s PDA, asking how to work the coffee machine. She’s getting blood drawn and she’s walking him through pressing buttons. Your dad is one of the most powerful people on Phoenix, Hart, but he’d starve in a day if he was left on his own.”

“Fair enough,” Hart said. “How is your mother?” Magda Kueltzo might or might not actually be the power behind the Schmidt throne, but there was no doubt most of the family was deeply fond of her.

“Much better,” Brous said. “In fact, she’s busy working the meal you’re going to be stuffing down your throat in just a few hours, so we better get you to it.” He took Hart’s bag and swung it into the car’s backseat. The two men hopped into the front; Brous punched in the destination and the car drove itself.

“It’s not a very demanding job,” Hart ventured as the car pulled itself away from the station.

“That’s sort of the point,” Brous said. “In my quote unquote spare time, I get to work on the poetry, which incidentally has been doing very well, thanks for asking. That is insofar as poetry does well, which you understand is a highly relative thing and has been for centuries. I am an established poet now, and I make almost nothing for it.”

“Sorry about that,” Hart said.

Brous shrugged. “It’s not so bad. Your dad has been generous in that way of his. You know how he is. Always thumping on about people having to make their own way in the world and the value of an honest day’s labor. He’d rather die than fund a grant. But he gives me a ridiculously easy job and pays me well enough that I can work on my words.”

“He likes being the patron,” Hart said.

“Right,” Brous said. “I won the Nova Acadia Poetry medal last year for my book and he was more proud of it than I was. I let him put the medal in his office.”

“That’s Dad,” Hart said.

Brous nodded. “He did the same thing with Lisa,” he said, mentioning his sister. “Had her scrub toilets at the house for a year, then paid her enough for it to survive grad school in virology. Went to her doctoral ceremony. Insisted on getting a picture. It’s on his desk.”