Graveyard of Empires - Chapter 2

The revolver thundered in the courtyard below.

Argus could taste bile in his throat. It tasted like jealousy. Below, one of the First Citizen's Shields was putting on a demonstration for the Ministry's wealthy students—and doing it with the casual excellence that made Argus shrink back from the glass. The marksman hit target after impossible target while children cheered.

Argus turned away from the window. He was good with numbers, not guns. Numbers were safe, even if they didn't impress anyone.

"Patrick is an excellent shot," the quartermaster offered, stepping up beside Argus to look out at the courtyard.

They were standing in a glass walkway, ammonia-tinted amber light filtering through the dome from the gas giant above. They'd stopped on their way to the hangar to see what the commotion was about—neither had known a Shield was visiting the Ministry today—and ended up watching for several minutes.

"He is," Wade agreed, "one of the best."

"To think: one of the First Citizen's personal defenders," the quartermaster said, reverently touching the glass as Patrick reloaded his weapon. A flick of the wrist and then he rolled the bullets gracefully into the chamber. "I once dreamed of being chosen to join the Twelve. What a foolish child I was."

What child doesn't wish for that? But there can only be twelve at any time. He turned away from the window. "You were saying?"

"I was?"

Argus waved his hand in annoyance. "About the trip. You were listing off supplies being loaded into my ship."

The quartermaster—he was short and ruddy with droopy cheeks—opened his ledger once again and ran his finger along the page. He cleared his throat:

"Twenty-two crates of foodstuffs, including sixty-eight pounds of perishables and—"

"How many days' worth?" Argus interrupted. "I don't need specifics."

The man scanned his page again. "Forty-six."

"I thought it was thirteen days?" Argus said. "When I spoke to the Minister he said it would be a normal trip."

"I haven't spoken to him," the man replied.

"How many priests will be accompanying me?"

"Only one. Jeremiah Robinson. He's been sent an itinerary and is expected to move to the Hummingbird whenever you send for him."

Argus stifled a groan. Jeremiah was annoying on his best days. An old priest, set in his ways, and angry with anything he didn't understand. That category included most things, especially the Order to which Argus belonged. The Ordo Mens Rea wasn't discussed openly in the Ministry. Only a handful of people even knew it existed, let alone what it was for. Jeremiah didn't rank highly enough to be trusted, so he resorted instead to distrusting any and all priests he knew were members.

And that list included Argus.

The worst part was that Jeremiah wouldn't like that Argus was in charge. He would be quick to report any wrongdoings to the Minister.

But there was nothing Argus could do about it now. He pushed the concern away. "Very well. We will be leaving for Sector Three—"

"Six," the quartermaster interrupted, closing his ledger. "You'll be going to Sector Six."

"Six?" Argus echoed, excitement creeping into his voice. That changes everything. "You are certain?"

"Quite."

"Sector Six is outside Republican territory. It's an unclassified sector."

"Yet human occupied," the quartermaster replied. "Therefore, they should hear the word of the lord and receive His blessing."

"We haven't traveled past sector four in hundreds of years," Argus said. "They don't know of the Ministry."

"Only for now," the man replied. "But by the grace of the First Citizen we will bring the heathens into the fold within the next few years. The legacy of such integration will belong to those men and women brave enough to face the savagery beyond our borders and spread the word of our Lord."

Shameless ass-kissing, Argus thought, isn't necessary.

Another gunshot sounded from below, but it barely registered. His mind was in motion now, doing what it did best: sifting the muddy water to find the gold.

I suggested traveling to Sector Six years ago, but I never expected the Minister to agree. Sector Six is dangerous, but their technology is at least thirty years behind ours. Maybe more. The money I could make selling even the most modest equipment...

"I'll need protection," he said.

The quartermaster looked at his clipboard: "You will have thirty soldiers from the Capital Cruiser Denigen's Fist. Two pilots: Jack Lane and Michael Grant—"

"I have someone particular in mind."

The man lowered the clipboard and raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Vivian Drowel."

"Not possible," the man replied. "She is not sanctioned to leave—"

"I don't care if she's sanctioned. She's the one I want. She has clearance, correct?"

"That was revoked when she returned from the Capital two years ago."

Argus groaned internally. "Well then un-revoke it. If I'm going out into dangerous territory I want someone with me I can trust."

The man hesitated, and then jotted something on the board. "I will see what I can do."

"That's all I ask," Wade lied. A jolt of heat ran across his temporal lobe as his implant heated up. He added just enough suggestion to his words to make the man do as he asked.

Manipulating someone's mind was dangerous: if the Minister caught him, his punishment would be immediate execution. And even setting aside the political risk, Argus had never been particularly gifted at it. The implants responded to genetic compatibility—the Ministry surgeons called it neural resonance—and Argus fell squarely in the middle of the bell curve. Standard issue. Functional, but limited.

He could nudge, not command. Suggest, not compel. The quartermaster would feel a vague inclination to comply, nothing more. If the man had strong enough willpower, or if Argus pushed too hard, the suggestion would simply... fail. Stronger targets could resist entirely, sometimes without even knowing they'd been targeted.

The truly gifted—people like Darius Gray, or the Ophidian twins—operated on an entirely different level. Argus had observed Alyssa once, years ago during a training exercise. She'd walked a man off a rooftop with nothing but a thought. No heat, no headaches, no visible strain. Just perfect control, as natural as breathing. The Ministry surgeons theorized it was a combination of rare genetic markers and intensive childhood conditioning, but no one really understood why some implants worked so much better than others.

All Argus knew was that his own implant came with a price. Already the familiar throb was building behind his eyes—the first warning of the debilitating headaches that followed prolonged use. He'd pushed for maybe three seconds. That would cost him an hour of pain later tonight.

He doubted the ruddy faced man would ever know that anything untoward had happened.

The man nodded, making another notation. His expression was thoughtful.

This might not be so bad, Argus decided. If they are sending me to Sector Six, they must not have high expectations for conversions to the Ministry. I can stop at Terminus along the way to stock up on goods and spend a few weeks planet hopping. With luck, I'll leave Sector Six with an empty hull and full bank account.

Time to go find Vivian.

***

"Wade, we have a problem."

No hesitation. No greeting. Argus was irked the moment he stepped into her chambers. Come to think of it, he was always irked when Vivian was around. She wasn't exactly the friendliest person alive and she was notorious for being direct. He trusted her with his life and loved her like a sister, he just didn't enjoy talking to her.

"What sort of problem? I didn't think they would get word to you that quickly about coming with me to sector six. But don't think of it like a burden. It's an opportunity."

She looked up. "What?"

"The mission trip. I thought you would be excited to go."

"What mission trip? What are you talking about?"

"What are you talking about?"

Vivian held a datapad out to Argus. He took it and glanced at it.

"New students," he said, offering it back to Vivian.

"Look again."

Wade bit back his annoyance and glanced at the pad again. Christian Blain, Anthony Walton, Georgia Winderton. "A lot of high profile students," he said. "This is the new group coming next week, correct?"

"Number twenty-nine."

Wade scanned further down the list. Abigail Walton.

He read it again. The name hit him like a fist below the ribs.

"Oh..." he mumbled. "Oh no."

"You said they wouldn't find her."

"I didn't think... I mean..."

"And yet, there she is."

"I can't let them have her," Argus said. He clenched his fist in fear and rage. "How the hell did they find her?"

"I don't know Wade."

"She's not some chattel for them. She's my daughter!"

He hadn't meant to yell, and the words hung in the air. Vivian stared at him, her expression unreadable, and Wade took a few deep breaths. Heat crept up his neck and his shoulders were rigid.

"Are you done?"

Wade didn't know. He said: "Yeah, I'm done."

"Good, now explain what you meant."

"What?" Wade asked.

"About the trip. You said something about Sector Six."

He didn't care anymore about the stupid trip. He'd just been punched in the gut.

"We're going on a missionary trip to spread the Word. It leaves in a few hours, so pack your bags," he said, distracted.

"I'm not sanctioned to leave."

Wade waved the concern away. "It's been handled. I know you need a chance to get out of the Ministry for a while, and I need a bodyguard."

"Weapons?"

"You aren't allowed to have any," Wade replied, "per the Minister. But I am. I'll just give you my guns once we're off world."

"Fair enough," Vivian replied with a nod. "So what are you going to do about your daughter?"

"I don't know," Wade replied, biting back his fear. "But she can't stay here. She was supposed to live a normal life."

"They will implant her within a month. And then the training will start."

Wade winced, unconsciously touching the long scar under his chin. It was long since healed over, leaving very little trace. It was the only scar his clothes didn't hide, a slip of his teacher. The installation process had improved since his time—fewer candidates died on the table now—but the training afterward remained brutal. Breaking down the mind to build it back up. Teaching the brain to interface with the neural mesh they'd woven through the cortex.

No child deserved to go through that.

Especially his.

"I'll send her away."

"Where?"

"I don't know," Wade said.

"The Minister won't allow it, not if he knows she is yours."

That was the truth. If she exhibited the genetic traits sought by the Ordo Mens Rea, than she would be kept because of her value. And if the Minister knew who her father was, then she would be kept out of spite. Argus Wade and the Minister didn't really see eye to eye on a lot of things.

"One problem at a time," Wade decided. "I still have a few hours before we have to go. I'll think of something."

"What about Darius?"

Wade furrowed his brow. "What about him?"

"I heard he gave a speech on Tellus. Riled up the population to start a rebellion. He wants to bring down the government."

"He's a rabble rouser."

"You know as much as I do what he's capable of," Vivian said. "Especially with Maven and Alyssa working with him. Those two are dangerous."

Wade shrugged. "It isn't my problem."

"The Minister thinks you helped them escape."

"Then the Minister is wrong," Wade said. "I warned Darius against leaving. And I sure as hell didn't want him to start his own private war. What does he think he can accomplish? There are always rebellions. At least four were started last week."

"Not like this," Vivian said.

"Exactly like this," Wade countered. "They crop up, fester, and are crushed. One Capital Ship can bring down an entire Sector, and the Republic has hundreds of them patrolling from Kassala to the Core. There is no chance of Darius succeeding."

"So you aren't planning on joining them?"

Argus hesitated. "So that's what this is about?"

"I know you."

Heat rose in his cheeks. "You think you know me," he replied, "because we're friends. But don't pretend like you understand my mind."

"You were close with him," she said. "You helped and taught him."

"That doesn't mean I'll make his mistakes," Wade said. "I know my place, and I'm content with my lot. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some actual problems to deal with without you lecturing me."

Vivian nodded. "I'll gather my things and be at your ship in three hours."

Wade didn't reply, but instead walked away. His hands were clenched and his jaw tight. But the anger was only a surface layer—underneath it, his pulse hammered and his throat had gone dry. What would happen to his daughter? What would happen to him when the Minister found out he'd been hiding her?

Best case scenario, they would just kill him.

Most likely, it would be far worse.

***

Two hours had passed and Wade had nothing to show for it.

He sat in his study—a plain gray room with a desk stacked with forms and datapads—and listened to the silence. Amber light from the gas giant pooled like honey across the desk, turning the white marble walls the color of old bone. His palms were sweaty and he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. Since Vivian's news, the room had tilted and refused to right itself.

It was an intractable problem, something he'd always known was possible but believed couldn't happen. Nausea threaded through him and panic crept in at the edges as he worked through possible solutions.

Potentially, he could refuse his daughter admission to the Ministry. He had that authority. She would be sent home, but that would generate a report directly to the Minister and it would have Argus signing off on it. That would be as big a red flag as Wade could manage to raise, and the Minister could easily overrule his decision and recall Abigail.

He could also fabricate an illness for her, which would have her sent to the hospital for treatment, but that would be just as ill advised. Best case scenario it would buy him a few days respite while they ran tests on the young girl. She would end up here anyway and the Minister would again have a report on his desk when they found out she was fine.

In fact, virtually anything he did would generate a report that would get him killed.

He pushed the worry aside, trying to calm his mind down. He turned to the stack of minor problems on his desk that had been piling up over the last few days. Forms he had to sign, requests to fill, hundreds of little problems that were easier to manage. Flowers for the funeral of an important Aristocrat, coronation ceremonies for new buildings that were requesting Ministry presence at their coronation. He signed a few forms and let out a deep sigh.

"I don't know what to do," he mumbled, rubbing his face with his hands.

As if on cue, there was a ping on his communicator.

"Yes?" he asked, clicking it on.

"The Hummingbird is ready," a mechanic said on the other end.

"Okay," Wade replied. "I'm on my way."

He clicked off the communicator and leaned back in his chair. He was out of time, and there was nothing he could do except wait it out. Maybe the Minister wouldn't find out that Argus was Abigail's father. What they would do to her here at the Ministry sickened him, but there was no way he could stop it without making it worse.

He grabbed a few datapads off his desk—the pressing issues that couldn't wait while he was away—and headed out the door. The halls were empty. Most of the students were in class this time of day, learning about the galaxy or their place in the universe. With their rich and important parents, that place was high on the food chain.

Most of them didn't even know Argus Wade or the Ordo Mens Rea even existed. They didn't know about the beatings or the implants or the ones who didn't survive training. They didn't know about the odd manifestations members of the Order could create that couldn't be explained. They saw the Keepers, sure, but they had their own stories for them. Bad students who angered the Ministry, heinous criminals being given a second—albeit brief—chance at life. Those children didn't have a clue that some of their students wandering these halls were different.

Argus hated them.

He passed a group of girls clustered around a classroom, giggling to themselves.

The sound of a choir singing hymns spilled out of another doorway. Argus couldn't help but grind his teeth.

The hangar swallowed him before he registered the transition—vaulted ceiling, the tang of engine grease, and beyond the open bay doors the gas giant's storm bands churning in slow amber waves against the dome-glass. He was usually good at compartmentalizing, but this was too much. He could do his job and pretend he was happy. He could blend in, pretend to be normal. But this was the first time he had to face the idea that he might be out of time. This might be the end of everything.

He pulled out his communicator and dialed a number. It wasn't saved. The call was answered almost immediately on the other end.

"What do we do?" a woman asked immediately. Wade winced. Samantha's voice was raw, cracking between words.

"I don't know," Wade said. "I wish I knew, Sam. How did they find her?"

"The tests," Samantha replied. "They administered them at her school. I didn't know or I would have kept her home that day."

Wade sighed. "Do they know?"

"About us? No. They never even asked any questions. They just came and took her. I... I would have called but..."

"I know," Wade said. If she had communicated with him on an unsecured line the Ministry would have discovered the relationship immediately.

Samantha's breath hitched, then broke into a sob. "Wade..."

"I'll look after her, I promise."

"Will they... Will they hurt...?" she couldn't complete the question, but Wade understood. She'd seen his scars.

"Yes," he replied. "It's part of the training."

The Hummingbird ramp was open and waiting. A mechanic appeared at the top, a rag in hand. The man waved and started walking toward Argus.

"Listen, I have to go."

"Wait? Can't you just send her home? Or away? Anywhere but there."

"I can't. If I do, they will know, and they will find her and bring her back to the Ministry."

"Then send her somewhere outside their reach!"

"Nothing is outside their reach," Wade replied.

"Sir," the mechanic said, nodding as he approached.

"Listen, I really have to go. I'll call you as soon as I can," he said. Then, lower he added: "I love you."

He hung up.

"Not now," Argus said to the mechanic. "Just tell me—is the ship ready?"

"Yes sir. Pilots are aboard. Soldiers need picked up from Denigen's Fist."

"They aren't being dropped off here?" Argus asked. Protocol dictated that the warship deliver them to the Hummingbird personally, not the other way around.

"Captain Schmidt died this morning. Denigen's Fist closed all operations until after his funeral."

"Dead?" Argus said, frowning. "He was fifty-eight, wasn't he?"

"Seventy-three, sir. Sickly for years."

Seventy? I remember his inauguration ceremony. I didn't realize he was so old. Argus swallowed and shook his head. I didn't realize I was that old. "God grant him mercy," he prayed.

"God already did. Went peaceful in his sleep."

"He was a good man." Argus paused. "Wonder who will get sent up as the new Envoy."

"The Envoy aboard Denigen's Fist is Sister Portia Nace," the mechanic said. "Thought Envoys served for life."

"Sometimes. If the Captain and Minister die in battle then the new Captain sends out a request. Hell, once a Captain sent his onboard Minister into combat to die just so he could get a new one. Kind of barbaric, so they made a new dispensation to get around that in unusual situations."

"So they could kick Portia out if they wanted to?"

"Well, not exactly. Portia would need to be dead, and she's only in her forties. Or they have to ask."

"And that looks bad on the Captain, since the Envoy is the spiritual leader of the ship."

"Basically," Argus said. "We can't really refuse, because Capital Ships are essentially sovereign planets, apart from the rest of the government. If they request someone, then that person ceases to be a part of the Ministry and can do whatever they..."

Argus trailed off.

"...want?" the mechanic offered helpfully. Argus didn't hear him.

"I need to go," he said suddenly.

"What's the rush?"

"I have to send a message," he said. "A very, very important message."

He didn't wait for a response, but took off for the ramp to his ship. He could send the message from his Captain's quarters.

There is precedence for it, he told himself. Captains have complete and total authority over their ship, so if the Captain wants something it happens.

Captains didn't usually last very long. It was a cutthroat world with a lot of competition and high stakes, but the reward was almost inscrutable power. They were autonomous entities, capable of enacting justice on behalf of the entire galaxy with few repercussions. A great many of them were trigger happy lunatics, bordering on paranoid, desperate to prove their value to the ruling Aristocracy and First Citizen.

Captain Schmidt hadn't been like that. He was a good man, fair and honest. A good peacetime leader. He chose Portia Nace as his Envoy, making her the religious leader of his ship. That made her the embodiment of the Ministry, and thus God, equal even to the Minister himself while aboard Denigen's Fist. Portia was friendly and matronly, prone to overindulgence and long-winded sermons.

If the Captain did want to remove Portia without killing her, there was a special request that had to be made. It was, essentially, a wartime edict, but one which Argus could fulfill. They would send Portia home and request a new Envoy.

And the only catch...the only requirement, was that the new Envoy was a member of the Ministry.

Like his daughter.

It was unheard of, but not entirely. One of the greatest Ministerial Envoys in history, credited with spreading the word to over two thousand worlds across six sectors, became a ship's Envoy when he was seventeen years old. His life was shrouded in rumor and exaggeration, but the root facts were incontrovertible. It happened a thousand years ago, and he also wasn't six years old like Abigail, but it meant it was possible.

Argus could sell the idea to the new Captain by saying he would have the opportunity to groom a new Envoy to the position. Acclimate her to the ship over time and have a true champion of the faith that the crew would come to treasure.

Argus pressed the button to open the door to his chambers at least thirty times in his haste. He dropped into the chair in front of his terminal and it flickered to life. He didn't know which Captain was slated to inherit Denigen's Fist now that Schmidt was gone, but he could worry about that later.

He began composing a message, addressing it simply 'Captain':

It is with the greatest pleasure that I am able to offer my congratulations on your promotion. I regret, however, that I must be so blunt and direct, as befits your position and rank.

I am aware that the current Envoy onboard the Denigen's Fist is Sister Portia Nace, an excellent and superannuated woman. However, it is my duty to ensure that the continued operation of Denigen's Fist is both satisfactory and beneficial to the Ministry as well as yourself. I would also like to inform you that, should you wish to discuss a possible replacement for the Sister, I might have a more than adequate option...

He finished drafting the message on his communication terminal. He let out a long breath of air and leaned back in his chair, torn. If he sent this, he would be committed to following it through. There was no going back. If the Captain decided to take the message straight to the Minister, then Argus would be murdered and his daughter would likely be tortured anyway.

But if the Captain liked his proposal...

Argus reached out gingerly and hit the 'send' key on his terminal. This is either the cleverest decision I've ever made.

Or the worst.

***

The reply came forty-seven minutes later.

Argus was pacing the narrow quarters aboard the Hummingbird, unable to sit still. He'd reviewed cargo manifests, read dispatches, tried anything to occupy his mind. Nothing worked. Every few seconds his gaze snapped to the terminal's message indicator—a small amber light that would turn green when a response arrived.

Forty-seven minutes of imagining every possible outcome. The Captain forwarding his message to the Minister. Armed guards storming the Hummingbird. Samantha receiving word that both her daughter and the father she'd never been allowed to acknowledge were dead.

When the light turned green, his legs almost gave out.

He crossed the room in two strides and opened the message. It was brief—brutally so. Three lines from Captain Kristi Grove, whose name he didn't recognize:

Your proposal is noted and accepted. Submit the transfer documentation through standard channels. I expect the Envoy aboard within the month.

—K. Grove, Captain, Denigen's Fist

That was it. No questions about the candidate's age. No inquiries about qualifications or lineage. No suspicion. Just a Captain who found an opportunity to replace an aging Envoy with someone she could mold from scratch—someone who would never challenge her authority.

Argus read it three times. His hands were shaking so badly the words blurred.

She said yes.

He sank into the chair and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Something hot and wet leaked between his fingers. He hadn't cried since he was a boy—the Ministry beat that out of you early—but the relief was so vast and sudden that his body couldn't contain it.

His daughter would live aboard a Capital Ship. She would be the Minister's Envoy—the spiritual leader, untouchable by the Minister himself as long as she remained on board. No implants. No beatings. No training cells.

She would be safe.

The thought came with a shadow, though. He didn't know this Captain Grove. Didn't know what kind of person accepted such an unusual proposal without a single follow-up question. The speed of her reply suggested she'd already been thinking about replacing Portia—that Wade's message had merely provided a convenient solution to a problem she'd already identified.

That kind of opportunism could be useful. It could also be dangerous.

But that was a problem for another day. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that his daughter would never see the inside of a training cell.

Argus wiped his face with his sleeve, steadied his breathing, and began drafting the transfer documents. His hands still trembled, but his mind was clear. Every form had to be perfect. Every signature authentic. One mistake, one irregularity, and someone might look closer. Someone might ask questions.

He worked methodically, filling in fields and forging authorizations with the practiced hand of a man who'd spent his career navigating bureaucracy. By the time he finished, the documentation looked routine—just another administrative transfer, unremarkable and boring. Exactly the kind of paperwork that no one ever bothered to read twice.

He sealed the documents and queued them for transmission.

Then he sat in silence for a long moment, staring at the terminal's now-dark screen.

I don't know you, Captain Grove, he thought. But you just saved my daughter's life. For that, I will owe you a debt I can never repay.

What kind of person collected debts like that? The question lingered, unanswered.

***

"What now?" Vivian asked.

Wade was in a good mood. They were only an hour from receiving launch clearance and things were falling into place. The transfer documents were filed. The paperwork was clean. And Captain Grove's terse acceptance sat in his terminal like a benediction.

"Now we travel to Sector Six. We'll make a stop at Terminus along the way for supplies and we should be there within a few weeks."

"What kind of supplies?" Vivian asked. "I thought we were fully stocked?"

"Machinery and equipment. The people in Sector Six are living in the past. They will pay a fortune for new tech."

"Or they will kill us and take it," Vivian said.

"That's why you're here," Argus said. "I make deals, you keep me safe, and Jeremiah preaches on behalf of the Ministry. Everyone wins!"

"Everyone?" Vivian said coolly. "What about your daughter? What happens when you get back?"

"It's taken care of," Argus said.

Vivian narrowed her eyes.

"Don't look at me like that."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything reckless, if that's what you're worried about." He paused, weighing how much to tell her. Vivian was the only person alive he trusted completely, but some secrets were safer kept close. "The new Captain of Denigen's Fist has agreed to take Abigail as her new Envoy. The transfer papers are already filed."

Vivian stared at Wade.

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Her? The new Captain is a woman?"

"Kristi Grove. I don't know anything about her yet, but she accepted the proposal within the hour. Didn't even ask about Abi's age."

Vivian's expression shifted from surprise to something more guarded. "That's fast. Too fast. Someone who says yes that quickly either sees an obvious advantage or doesn't care about the consequences."

"I'm banking on the former," Wade said. "A six-year-old Envoy poses no threat to a Captain's authority. She can shape the girl however she wants. It's a gift, from the Captain's perspective."

"Or a weapon."

"Maybe," Wade said. "But she won't be able to hurt her. The Envoy is the embodiment of the Ministry aboard a Capital Ship. Harming her would be the same as attacking the Ministry itself. Even the most ambitious Captain wouldn't risk that."

Vivian hesitated. "And the Minister? He won't be able to reach her?"

"Not once she's aboard. Capital Ships are sovereign. The Captain's request makes it official—Abi ceases to be a Ministry student and becomes a ship's Envoy. The Minister would have to petition the Captain directly, and no Captain in history has ever returned an Envoy to the Ministry. It would set a precedent that undermines their own autonomy."

"You've thought this through."

"I've been thinking about nothing else for the last three hours," Wade said. "And I know the Minister. He'll be furious, but he won't act against a Captain over one child. It would cost him more politically than she's worth to him."

Vivian was quiet for a long moment. "No, he won't act against the Captain," she said finally. "But he will act against you."

"The documentation doesn't have my name on it. The request came from Captain Grove. I'm just the administrator who processed it."

"The Minister isn't stupid, Wade."

"No," Wade agreed. "But he's patient. And right now he has bigger problems than one missing student. Darius is starting a war. The Minister can't afford to waste resources hunting for a six-year-old girl when he has an entire rebellion to crush."

Vivian shrugged. "No one ever does."

"Does what?"

"Plans on dying because of their clever schemes."

Wade smirked despite himself. "I'm not planning on dying."

"Have you spoken to the new pilot yet?"

"Not yet." Vivian replied.

Wade nodded and headed out the door. The ship was sleek and compact and impeccably clean. He'd purchased it a few months ago using Ministry funds for these sort of missions, and he was careful to ensure it was only assigned to missions he was participating in. He technically didn't own the ship, but he'd be damned if anyone else was going to be allowed to use it.

"Something else," Wade said. "Do you mind bringing the Cudgel as well?"

"My ship?" Vivian asked. "Why?"

"We are bringing a lot of soldiers because its new territory and I want to be sure—"

"You want more cargo space," she said, making a tsking sound and shaking her head. "It's all about profit to you."

He raised an eyebrow. "Would you prefer I lie? I'll give almost all of the money we make to the Ministry, so it's for the benefit of everyone."

"You're something else."

"Does that mean you'll do it?"

"Fine."

He nodded. "Good, I'll send one of the pilots over—"

"No way," she said. "I'll fly my own ship."

"Fair enough," he said. He clicked open the door to the cockpit. A man in his late twenties to early thirties sat at the controls. He had wavy brown hair and round cheeks.

"Oh," the man said, jumping up from the chair and standing at attention. "Uh...sir."

Argus laughed. He couldn't help it. "Sir? No one calls me sir. Call me Argus."

"Alright," the man said.

"And you are?"

"Jack Lane. I'm the pilot."

"Are you ready to fly this thing?"

"I believe so. I've never flown anything this advanced, but I think I understand the controls. The autopilot will do most of the work, I'm just here in case of a malfunction or anomaly."

"And our guide? You grew up in Sector Six before moving to the Core."

"Yes," Jack said. "But it's been many years."

"What should we expect?"

"There are about a dozen planets, loosely connected under a Royal Family. Geid and Eldun are farming planets, but Eldun isn't politically stable. Silvent and Noria are mining worlds—ore and rare metals, mostly. Geid is where I grew up. Most of the crops are shipped off world to feed the Capital Planet, Jaril."

"Where would you recommend we start?"

"Jaril might not let us land. They don't like the Republic, and they sure as hell don't like outside Religions. They will probably attack on sight if they know you are with the Ministry. But if you go somewhere else without at least checking in at Jaril then there could be consequences."

"Is there much travel between Jaril and Sector Four?"

"Almost none," Jack replied. "But the warp routes are fickle and many ships are lost each year. Too many stars in close proximity, so every few years the gravity changes and routes need to be adjusted. Most people just don't risk it."

Argus nodded. It was what he was expecting. His government had never bothered to expand into Sector Six, marking it simply 'uncharted territory' on regional maps. It wasn't worth the risk. Terminus was a small planet at the farthest edge of Sector Four, butting up against Sector Six.

The problem was, they would need to fly close to Tellus if they were going to make it to Terminus. Tellus was where Darius was starting his little rebellion, and even though it wouldn't pose a threat to the galaxy, it would certainly be a problem for Argus's little ship.

He doubted they would notice, though. Tellus was a backwater planet, rundown and old. They probably wouldn't even have radars capable of detecting ships this small.

"In general," Jack said, "they pretty much hate the Republic back home. Especially on Jaril and Eldun. They consider us to be an Empire, expanding and stealing as we go. If they know where we come from..."

Argus thought about it and then shrugged. "So we don't tell them we're from here. We'll say we're traders from Terminus. Won't be a hard cover to pull off."

"Sounds good," Jack agreed.

"Alright then," Argus said, smiling in excitement. He slapped Jack on the shoulder. "Let's head to Sector Six!"

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