Ciro threw down the last tablet as the consume code flashed red. A run of figures began filling and refilling the screen. He limped up to the cockpit to check the state of the ship.

It was ready.

He put his hand up on the switch above him…but stopped.

Holding that bar of metal in his hand was like grabbing onto one of his own ribs, intending to pull it back until it broke.

His nerves were screaming that he needed to leave. The peacekeepers were already on their way—he didn’t have time for sentimentality.

He yanked down on the switch.

The red lights that had been flashing from every corner of the ship were gone, leaving the whole vessel dark. The only light left was the illumination coming in the open ramp. It was barely enough for him to make out the pile of things on the edge of the middle bench. He staggered down, stuffed the nan-cards into one pocket, the Tranomine into the other, and tucked everything else under his arm.

As he walked away, he made sure he didn’t look back. There was a squad of uniforms already standing at Port Controls, searching for every runner they could find.

At least I don’t have to force myself to walk slowly. He winced. The nonchalance might be a bit harder.

His leg ached so badly, he wished he could cut it off. Dr. Mullen had warned him not to walk on it for at least two weeks—but she was only an experienced doctor and surgeon with over twenty-five years in her field. What did she know?

His dismal sense of humor couldn’t make a dent in his grim mood. The pain didn’t think he was funny. Ciro briefly wondered if this was what Reyer felt like all the time. Then he wondered how she did it.

“You!”

Ciro kept walking—well, limping. There were lots of “yous” around. They might be talking to someone else.

“Hey, you!”

He stopped and turned.

The man was wearing a uniform, but he wasn’t a peacekeeper, and he wasn’t in the military. Ciro’s eyes moved from patch to patch, trying to place him. When at last Ciro figured it out, he had to stop himself from groaning.

The man was a port guard. A port guard.

“Didn’t you hear me, buddy?” the guard said.

Ciro had learned long ago that someone who was willing to use the term “buddy” was not likely to have many friends. Old hackles he thought he’d left back on the school playground started rising.

“I’m sorry,” Ciro said, “I didn’t know you were talking to me.”

“You see anyone else around?”

Ciro didn’t have to turn his head far to find five other pilots or copilots standing by their ships. It took a lot to suppress his smart-ass instincts, but these were dire circumstances. “I guess not nearby.”

“You were given orders to stay with your ship.” The guard’s hand drifted down to his belt.

Ah, yes. You think you’re a big man with that taser, and I’ll bet you’re itching to use it. It was almost sad.

Out loud, Ciro said, “That’ll be hard, sir. I’m not with a ship.”

“Then what are you doing in the port?”

Vas held up his equipment. “I’m a computer repair man.”

“Come here.”

Ciro pulled out his ID and passed it over. Then he submitted to the retinal scan.

“Antonio Banderas,” the guard said. For a horrible second, all he did was stare at the readout. Then he handed the card back. “It’s about damn time! Why are you people always late?”

Ciro mumbled his ingrained reaction while his brain whirled to catch up: “We get here when we can, sir.”

Of course there was work. In a place this size there would always be work. And now he’d be forced to relive all his worst memories of working IT. Because he wasn’t suffering enough already.

“It’s been three days!”

“There are a lot of computers to take care of.”

The guard motioned for Ciro to follow him. “You’d think that a major hub of the Supremacy port system would rate a little higher on the priority scale, don’t you? Are you sure you people aren’t dicking around? You do get paid by the hour, don’t you?”

Ciro decided to pretend the guard had been joking and faked a laugh. “Yeah, but there’s more than enough work to keep me busy.”

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“What happened to your leg?”

“I was in the war.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Slimy, selfish rebel bastards, aren’t they? I tried to get in to the military. They wouldn’t take me. They said I wasn’t suited for it.”

Ciro’s opinion of the Supremacy’s military rose a notch.

“I’m surprised they took you,” the guard said.

“Computers will get you in anywhere,” Ciro said.

“You’re right there. I wish I’d had the chance at an education. Where did you go to school?”

“I’m self-taught.”

“Really?” The guard sniffed. “At least we’ll know who to blame if the thing breaks down again.”

The guard led him to a small office. It had a row of six lockers and two console-desks devoid of any personal effects. The only real human touch in the room was the handwritten sign taped over one of the monitors, informing the world that the computer was broken. The guard yanked off the paper, unlocked the machine, and turned away.

“All yours, buddy.”

“Whoa! Whoa!” Ciro cried.

The guard turned back.

“You can’t leave,” Ciro said. “I need you here. Security.”

“Yeah. Security. In case you didn’t notice, there’s a manhunt out there. They’re going to need me.”

Ciro shrugged. “I’m sorry, but fixing this means I’m going to have to restart the machine—maybe several times.”

“I’ll give you the damn passcode.”

Ciro shook his head. “I’ll need an authorized ID. This is your personal console, isn’t it?”

The guard squirmed. “Not my personal console, no. I have to share it—”

“Could you send in someone else?”

From the guard’s reaction, Ciro knew he’d guessed right; he was already talking to the lowest man on the totem pole.

“I don’t want to sit here for hours while you do your work!” the guard said.

Ciro lifted his hands. “I don’t make the rules!”

The guard pulled out his wallet and passed Ciro his ID. “Find me on the floor when you’re done, all right?”

“If that’s the way you want to do it.”

“You have to get that back to me.”

“I promise.”

“You won’t be long?”

Ciro was already removing the front panel. “Well, I do get paid by the hour.”

The guard rolled his eyes and left.

It didn’t take Ciro long to fix the console. It took him only slightly longer to hack in and attach the guard’s picture, retinal, and DNA code to the port’s warrant. He looked down at the ID for the man formerly known as Matt Whilder.

“It hurts me to think Ciro Vas was ever this ugly,” Ciro murmured, “but it must be done.”

When he left the room, Ciro looked over the main port. By now it was crawling with peacekeepers—real uniforms with real weapons. Still, never let it be said he wasn’t a man of his word.

He walked over to Whilder and tapped him on the shoulder with the ID card.

“You’re done already?” The guard took his ID and put it back in his wallet.

“Sometimes it’s easy,” Ciro said. “Have you found him yet?”

“We found his ship. No sign of him yet. I hope you don’t need help out.”

Ciro hoped so too. The first time Whilder’s ID was scanned, his name would show up as one of Ciro Vas’s known aliases.

“We’re not on lock down, are we?” Ciro asked.

“No. But you’ll have to give them everything except a stool sample to get out of here.”

“At least they’ll let me out. You might be stuck here for a while.”

“You have no idea.”

Oh, I bet I do.

“Good luck!” Ciro said.

“Yeah.”

When Ciro made it outside, he turned his face up into the pouring rain. His chest heaved a few times, but he didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. People moved around him. None of them even glanced up to see why he’d stopped.

Ciro stayed there for only a few seconds before staggering down the sidewalk. He had to resist the urge to drop onto every bench he passed. When he finally decided he was far enough away, he turned into a café. The posted menu showed the price for cocktails that could only be ordered after a certain hour, and various coffee drinks that could, presumably, be ordered at any hour.

Ciro ordered a hot coffee and paid by coin. When the barista saw how he was walking, she offered to bring it out to him. After gratefully accepting, he went and sat down in one of the armchairs in the corner of the shop. He rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

When the young woman put the cup and saucer down on the small table by his armchair, he whispered his thanks.

The Tranomine helped. The coffee helped more.

Once Ciro found the idea of life tolerable, he took out a cord and connected the only two tablets he’d saved. The moment they were active, a cursor appeared on the monitor. It blinked at him as if it was tapping its foot, waiting impatiently to be given a task.

Ciro had put together the computer because that’s what he always did. But now that it was there, he didn’t know what he was going to do with it.

They were alive.

Probably.

But if Sipos had torn out Lynx’s power source, then the ace up their sleeve was gone. All that was left was the crew. They were unarmed. Reyer, at least, was badly injured. And they were all cuffed up and being watched by who-knew how many people.

Then there was Ciro. The wild card.

He wanted to save them. He wanted to rush out there and—well, die heroically.

He could still picture Reyer’s exact expression when she’d used that phrase.

“Rushing out to die heroically is what people do when they aren’t smart enough to think of a plan. Dying happens. Dying without accomplishing anything is a waste.”

And then there was Adan, who rushed out completely convinced he was invincible. Why Alix was in love with him was anybody’s guess, but they were probably good for balancing each other out.

The cursor flashed on and off.

There was a plan. Ciro knew exactly what he was supposed to do if something like this happened. Reyer had grilled him on it until he thought he’d scream. The one time he ventured a clever remark, the fact she’d once served as a drill sergeant was immediately and irrevocably chiseled into his brain.

She backed away from him face, but kept leaning on the mini-table between them.

In her normal voice, she said, “Ciro, you don’t understand. You’ve never been in a truly desperate situation before.”

He almost said something, but then her eyes got that flinty look. He decided to keep his joke to himself.

“There will be a time when doing your own thing seems like a good idea,” she said. “You’ll be convinced that you have to stray from the plan. That’s the most dangerous moment.”

“You always stick with the plan?” Ciro said. “Even when things go wrong?”

“No. When something comes up that you didn’t account for, being able to think on your feet is important. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the times when you have a contingency plan—when you’ve decided beforehand what you would do if something happens, then that thing happens, and your adrenaline and emotions start telling you to do something else.” She tapped her finger on the table. “Ciro, we’ll be counting on you.”

“I’m always a background boy.”

“You’re amazing, and you know how important this is. We’re trusting you.”

“But what about you guys?”

“Do you trust us?”

Now he was sitting in a coffee shop, his hands wrapped around an empty mug. He stared at the blinking cursor without seeing it. When the barista came by with the pot, he accepted the refill and burned his lips taking the first sip. He set the cup down on the table beside him and started typing.

He needed to find the nearest military base.