Jon Silverman, ambassador of the Alliance government, paced back and forth inside his personal VIP quarters. Retu’alae, the capital world of the Retuailian Hegemony, was a hot and human place. Thankfully Jon’s rooms were conditioned to suit his needs. His security retinue had swept the room for bugs, just in case.

Why won’t he answer my calls? He wondered. That Acheron born inbred was probably doing this just to spite Jon.

He continued to pace the room, occasionally glancing out the window at the alien landscape. Jon hated jungle environments. He hated the heat—and the bugs. At least the Retuailians were a civilized race. Very civilized, though their form of government was shit. It only allowed the highborn to rule. For all intents and purposes, the Retuailian Hegemony was an oligarchy.

Jon stroked his upper lip. He didn’t have facial hair. He didn’t think he was the kind of man to have a nervous tick either, but the first obstacle to his plans had already presented itself. Jon couldn’t have refused the High Diplomat’s request to return to the capital without him.

Was the High Diplomat uninterested in this proposed treaty? Jon found it hard to believe the alien was truly regretful about not being able to go. He said he had an emergency to attend to, but that his daughter was fully qualified to make an assessment in his stead.

For what Jon needed, that was good enough. The only problem was that he was stuck on the very same shuttle that was bound for that backwater dust ball.

That brute Rork would love to hear how Jon managed this, but he wouldn’t have to know. Jon already revised what would be his official story. This was perhaps even better.

Frustration rose and Jon felt his face get hot. He tried to banish the emotion. If the man who was to be his partner didn’t answer the call, he would be in extreme danger. Not to mention this whole operation would probably go bad. Rork had orders to kill everyone on the shuttle except the High Diplomat.

He glanced at the encrypted interstellar communications device. He was allowed to have one even on Retu’alae because he was an Alliance ambassador. Trusted.

The machine was programmed to make that call to Rork every few minutes. He would leave it that way until the man answered.

Jon jerked when the local console chimed. He turned and crossed the room to check the device. It seemed the High Diplomat’s daughter was calling. He received the call and the screen on the wall flicked on, displaying Tau’ane Kolivar’s face. She wore a white hood and a necklace with green stones.

“Ambassador...”

Jon put on his best smile. “Ah, hello, Miss Kolivar. A pleasure.”

“Of course,” she said. “My father Sei’endol of Retu’alae has just informed me that I will be traveling with you to oversee negotiations on this treaty. You have been informed of this, yes?”

Jon knew the Sei’endol was the Retuailian word for High Diplomat. They never said the title in basic human. These aliens were very formal.

Jon clasped his hands together. “Of course, Miss Kolivar. I look forward to traveling with you.” Just then the IC chimed. Rork was obviously on screen, but Jon forced himself not to turn around.

“I am also excited about our journey, Ambassador. I very much want to see this capital of yours.”

Diplomat Kolivar didn’t look excited. The best word Jon could think of was predatory. It was hard to read an alien, though.

He felt impatient as he smiled, saying nothing.

“Good day, Ambassador.”

Jon nodded patiently. “And to you.” The screen flicked off and Jon lurched to the other side of the room, anger rising. “Why haven’t you answered my calls?”

Jon frowned when he realized Rork was not sitting in front of his IC unit.

A moment later the screen on Rork’s end shook and rose from the floor. It panned over to where the warlord was sitting, obviously held up by one of this lackeys. In his right hand was a pruner.

Jon suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Instead he crossed his arms. What kind of a warlord sits around trimming plants?

The tall man was bare footed and wearing black pants and a tan shirt with the sleeves ripped off. He squeezed the handles on the pruner and a small branch from a rather lush looking plant fell to the ground. “What is it?” he asked without bothering to look at Jon.

Jon usually demanded more respect from people, but Rork was an uncivilized Acheron-born prison rat! “I have decided to alter the plan.”

Rork grunted.

“The High Diplomat of Retu’alae will not be on the shuttle. He has decided to send his daughter instead, and I will be accompanying her.”

And that last part Rork turned on his chair with a frown on his face. Then he smiled. “I thought you didn’t want to get your hands dirty, Ambassador?”

Jon wanted to sneer. “It will make a more convincing story if I’m on that shuttle. The plan stays the same. Kill everyone on the shuttle except for myself and Diplomat Kolivar.”

Rork narrowed his eyes. “She is not the High Diplomat.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jon said, idly backhanding the air. “She is next to the same thing. What she decides she will recommend to her father and he will make the decision. Nothing has changed.”

Rork pointed the clippers. “If you betray me...”

“Don’t threaten me, Rork. I hold ten times the power you do.”

The warlord turned back to his plants. “There’s another problem.”

Leave it to an uneducated brute to follow instructions, Jon thought. “What’s wrong?”

Rork snipped off another branch, turned to face his screen. “The guidance system you dropped fell into the hands of the Dust Dogs.”

Jon shook his head, frustrated. “Who the hell are these ‘Dust Dogs’?”

“They are a rival clan on Acheron,” Rork said. “You will need to send another—“

“There’s no time!”

Rork crossed his arms as he sat back in his chair. “If I can’t defend against Cerberus Station, our whole plan might get wrecked.”

“I’m well aware of what could happen.”

“Then we will have to take the risk.”

“No,” Jon said, shaking his head. “You,” he pointed a finger at his screen, “are going to get that guidance system back!”

Rork raised an eyebrow. “I might have an idea.”

“Good.”

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “I’ve made arrangements. No doubt the Alliance authorities will attempt to rescue Diplomat Kolivar. I’ve taken steps to ensure one of my men is with them.”

Rork cocked his head. “Why?”

“To make sure everything goes to plan. I don’t trust you to get it right. Just do your part and let me do mine.”

Rork turned back to his stupid plants. “Fine”

“I’ve just sent you some data. Review it.” With that, Jon shut off his IC unit, a weight lifted from his shoulders. He smiled. Now things were back on track and soon Jon would be a very, very rich man.

* * *

After that prick, Silverman ended the communication—even the man’s name was prickish—Blake Halls opened the data attachment. Silverman’s man was an ugly bastard, with a military haircut, grey-blue eyes and a long pale scar running across his face. The scar started under his left eye and went over his lips to the right side of his chin.

There was a message attached to the file that read: Rork, I’ve made sure my man, Shane Threscher, will be on the ground with any rescue team sent to Acheron. His job is to make sure things proceed smoothly.

Let him do his Job!

Silverman didn’t sign the message for obvious reasons. Blake decided to show Rork the data attachment later and shut off the IC unit.

“Are you certain the surface to orbit missiles will even launch?”

Rork was testing a branch that had split partially from the main stalk of one of his Retuailian water fruit trees. He put some pressure on the branch to see the extent of the split. The plants were surprisingly resilient.

He pointed toward the gauze designed for repairing such damage and Blake moved to grab the product. It had been made on Acheron. Rork was diligent when it came to acquiring new drop-offs who had the sort of skills he found valuable.

On many occasions Blake had to trade for such individuals who already belonged to other clans. He was good at it, buying and trading.

Rork began wrapping the stem back to the main body of the tree. “They will launch,” he said thoughtfully.

Rork wasn’t the kind of man to get angry when questioned, though he demanded respect from his men. “But can you be certain?”

Blake wondered how many people were on Cerberus Station. Probably thousands.

“Most of the missiles remain locked inside their silos to this day. And there are dozens. They will launch.”

Unless Blake was able to negotiate a trade for the guidance system, the surface to orbit missiles wouldn’t get passed the planet’s surface. Blake wasn’t even sure he wanted that to happen. He felt excited at the idea of freedom, but to kill so many people to get it...

“I have faith in your abilities, Mr. Halls. You will get me that guidance system.” Rork got up and moved several of the trees into direct sunlight. They couldn’t stay there long or they would start to wilt. Rork said the trees would be able to withstand the heat and the sun once they got larger.

If he failed getting that guidance system from the Dust Dogs, Blake probably wouldn’t even be punished if he put real effort into the acquisition. Rork wasn’t a cruel or illogical man, but he still made Blake feel nervous. The warlord had a certain smoldering solemnity about him that Blake couldn’t get used to. He felt Rork could go off any time. But in his five years on Acheron, Blake Halls had never seen that happen—not once.

Blake smoothed the hair on his head as a breeze blew in. They were on the roof of Rork’s compound and this is where he did most of his botanical work. It was also the only place to get an IC signal out of the compound because of the thick lead bulkheads.

“The Alliance will rain hell on us for this, won’t they? A lot of people could be killed.” Blake didn’t care about Rork’s warriors; he cared about the people in the surrounding city. An Alliance assault would probably turn the whole place into rubble.

“Let me do the thinking, Mr. Halls.”

“But aren’t you concerned for the city?”

Rork grunted thoughtfully. “Silverman has assured me that the Alliance won’t do anything until they have an idea where the diplomat is being held.”

Blake scratched his head. “Do you trust him?”

Rork chuckled as he dragged another tree into direct sunlight. “Of course not. Our success is his success. It’s in his own best interest. You can trust a greedy man to be greedy. So long as our goals are his goals, Silverman will continue to be on our side.”

“And when his goals are no longer the same as—as yours?” Blake was going to say ours, but he didn’t know how the warlord would like that.

“Then we discard him.”

Would Rork discard Blake when he decided he was no longer useful? “What if the diplomat catches on to your plans?”

Rork started shoveling a pile of dirt, mixing in natural fertilizers. “She won’t.”

“But—“

“Enough,” Rork said sternly. He wasn’t angry, but Blake was asking too many questions. “Don’t you have a guidance system to acquire?”

“Of course,” Blake said, then he turned and went down the steps into the compound. Blake felt uneasy about this whole situation. He could be a free man very soon. Or he could be dead, along with a lot of other innocent people.

Innocent.

He hated that word. It always reminded him of what he did—of what he had lost. Could he continue to be the same selfish bastard he’d always been?

Blake wondered how far Rork would go to get what he wanted.