Dissonance: Aurora Renegades Book Two (Aurora Rhapsody 5) Read online

“Yep.” The woman glanced at Noah a bit wryly but didn’t elaborate.

  He cleared his throat. “Understandable, after everything that asshole O’Connell did.”

  “Not only him, but…so what about you two?” The question was delivered stiltedly, as if she wasn’t accustomed to making small talk. Not surprising; it presumably wasn’t covered in spec ops training.

  Noah filled her in on the highlights while Kennedy sipped on her drink and idly observed them. Brooklyn Harper was military through-and-through, from the way her eyes were constantly taking in her environment and everyone who passed through it, to how she held herself with coiled tension in the chair and how her expression revealed nothing about her thoughts. Noah had said she was tough. Seeing her, it wasn’t difficult to believe.

  Perhaps realizing she had been monopolizing Noah’s attention, the woman shifted toward Kennedy and made a solid effort at a smile. “I suppose we have something in common, then—walking away from the Alliance, I mean.”

  Part of her still flinched at hearing it stated so bluntly, but she hid any vestige of the reaction. “It seems that’s true.” She sent a pulse to Noah.

  I think Ms. Harper needs to meet Morgan yesterday.

  His eyes lit up as if to say brilliant!

  Kennedy learned forward. “Tell me, former Captain Harper, are you finding the Soma gig fulfilling? Professionally speaking.”

  “It’s not in-the-trenches urban warfare. Not most days, anyway. But it keeps me occupied. Why do you ask?”

  “Might you be interested in more challenging work? And potentially more rewarding?”

  Harper’s focus veered from Kennedy to Noah and back again. If possible, her expression became yet harder to read. “What does that mean? I don’t care for games.”

  Oh, yes. She and Morgan would get along just fine.

  Noah watched Harper depart, then turned around to find Kennedy regarding him with a deadpan expression.

  He met it with a mask of innocence. It held for several seconds before he broke down with a roll of his eyes. “Sorry. Still a guy.”

  “Sure. Look all you want.” She took a bite of dessert to keep from laughing.

  “What?”

  “You’re not her type.”

  “I get it. I’m not a straight-laced soldier boy—which doesn’t matter, because I’m not looking. I mean I was looking, but only to look. I’m not looking.” He groaned and sank down in the chair, hands covering his face.

  “Not what I meant, but good.” She was better versed than many in dating and mating rituals, having engaged in them enthusiastically for many years. Most women all but swooned at Noah’s feet on meeting him, but Harper hadn’t regarded him with anything beyond detached interest. She had appraised Kennedy in a different, if subtle, manner.

  Eventually she took pity on him and decided to rescue him from his misery. She stood and offered him a hand. “Come on, Casanova, it’s time to get back to work. You can make your egregious relationship transgression up to me tonight.”

  His face relaxed in evident relief. “And I will. In all the ways.”

  She swallowed an aroused murmur of delight. Of this, she had no doubt.

  The door Brooklyn had been directed to by the front desk clerk was open. She took a moment to stand outside and size up its contents.

  A woman stood with her back to the doorway studying two screens above a conference table. Two men sat at the table watching the woman’s every move. Retired military by the look of them, weary and grizzled but making an effort at rigid postures.

  “So neither of you fought in the Metigen War or the Second Crux War. Did you fight in any war? Some little regional scuffle, perhaps?”

  The man on the left eked out a hesitant response. “I flew in the First Crux War.”

  “Which side—no, don’t answer that. I don’t give a shit. What I do give a shit about is this. If you were ordered to do it, could you fire on military forces from whichever side you served on in the First Crux War?”

  “If they were threatening innocent civilians, yes.”

  “See, this is the problem here. We’re not running a ‘real’ military, thus everyone thinks they don’t really have to follow orders without asking for clarification and context first.”

  The tenor of the woman’s voice had changed, and it occurred to Brooklyn the woman might be speaking to her, despite the fact she hadn’t announced her presence in any way and both the men were too flustered to have noticed her.

  The suspicion was confirmed when the woman casually gazed over her shoulder with an appraising—and startlingly bright amethyst—eye.

  “Marine. Interesting.”

  “Fighter jock. Less interesting.”

  “Can’t help it if Marines get jealous. Alliance? Obviously Alliance. You’d be the one Terrage mentioned, then.”

  She didn’t suppress a smirk. “Commander Lekkas, I assume. To answer your questions: yes, yes and yes—so long as I’m the one giving the order.”

  Lekkas turned to more closely inspect her with those artificial irises. Were they literally Artificial? She grunted. “You two, thank you for coming. I’ll be in touch.” Her chin dipped minutely at Brooklyn. “You can stay.”

  The two men skittered out the door before further blood could be shed, and Lekkas closed the door behind them. “So why are you here? Realized you needed the regular adrenaline fix after all?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Hell, no. It’s certainly why I’m here. Terrage said you weren’t merely a Marine, but a damn good one—but I’m not convinced he’s seen enough Marines to know the difference, and since you’re a blonde he was probably too busy ogling you to notice anyway. Why did you leave the military?”

  “I was on the Akagi.”

  “Oh.” Lekkas’ face contorted, and for a split-second she looked almost genuinely sympathetic. “That would do it.” She gestured to the table. “Have a seat.”

  “After you.”

  “Ha. Okay, have it your way. This time.” She pulled out a chair and flopped down in it with dramatic flair. “How much do you know about what we’re doing here?”

  Brooklyn sat down next to—not across from—Lekkas. Outside of the battlefield, authority was measured by different rules.

  “Noah didn’t tell me any specifics, but it’s not hard to figure out. Independent colonies are falling to the forces of chaos: pirates, mercs, revolutionaries, whoever. OTS terrorists are striking at major corporations on multiple worlds, including pretty much anyone running an Artificial, of which I suspect there are quite a few here on Romane.

  “The Alliance and Federation are squabbling like children in sore need of a nap, but they’re also boasting impressive new weaponry and ships. Oh, and let’s not forget the Zelones cartel, which is making a hard play to become the third trans-stellar galactic superpower.

  “Sooner or later, one of those threats will target Romane, and possibly all of them. Recognizing neither of the superpowers are apt to defend them this time and might be the ones attacking, the government has decided it had better be ready to defend itself. That about cover it?”

  An unreadable expression crossed Lekkas’ face; she remained silent for several long seconds. “It does. I’ve got aerial defense handled—fighter jock and all—and others are working on bolstering the existing orbital and electronic defense network. But while we’ll try to avoid it, we’ll need some ground forces from time to time. Most likely due to an OTS or Zelones attack—because let’s be honest, if the Alliance or Federation launches an outright invasion, we’re screwed.

  “So what I’m looking for is not infantry so much as heavily armed emergency response teams. Now, this sort of work seems right up your alley…interested?”

  “To join it?”

  “To lead it.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. She’d planned to leave all this behind, dammit. She was done with teammates being assassinated and assassinating insane superiors, with cowards who called themselves champi
ons until a worthy adversary appeared.

  But in truth she did miss it—the adrenaline rush, yes, but also the work. The fear driving you to be faster and smarter, the belief you were fighting to protect something important, even if it was a single, simple human life.

  O’Connell had destroyed the mission and everything it meant to her…but maybe she could find it again. Here.

  She nodded, not bothering to ask why Lekkas would offer her a high-ranking position when they’d only just met. She was more than qualified; more than able to do the job. “I am.”

  “Good.” Lekkas’ lips twitched. “Aren’t you going to ask about the eyes?”

  “I figured whatever you were into was your business.”

  “It is. Now, I should pretend I’m some kind of legitimate supervisor, so I will need at least one professional reference.”

  “Federation Intelligence Agent Caleb Marano.” She figured since Noah had directed her here, the man was likely connected to the endeavor in some greater or lesser way.

  Lekkas raised an eyebrow. “Caleb—Mr. Marano—is no longer an intelligence agent. He’s also not currently available to give a recommendation, though the fact you both know and chose him does say…something. Not sure what. Second choice?”

  Well, that was all very odd and indecipherable. She shrugged. “Alliance Colonel Malcolm Jenner.”

  16

  SPACE, NORTHWEST QUADRANT

  ORELLAN STELLAR SYSTEM

  * * *

  THERE WAS ALMOST NO BLOOD, but all six members of the cargo transport crew were dead nonetheless.

  They hadn’t even gotten off a distress call. Odd, given they were boarded. There would have been time. A single crew member managed to send out a garbled personal message to a friend at the base on Orellan, else it would have taken days before anyone located the transport. The ship’s transponder and secure location signal had been ripped out; if the ELT had ever activated, it sat dormant now.

  Colonel Malcolm Jenner studied the scene. The hold was empty, the attackers having made off with its contents. Pirates was the easy assumption—this was what they did. Except pirates didn’t typically kill everyone on board one of their marks. While hardly upstanding citizens, most pirates didn’t kill unless forced.

  But wouldn’t they have been forced here? This was a military ship. The crew assuredly did fight back, at the cost of their lives.

  He knelt down beside the medic examining one of the bodies. “Any early ideas on cause of death?”

  “Stroke of some kind. All of them. Forensics will need to do brain scans at the lab to determine anything more specific.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He clapped the man on the shoulder and stood. He didn’t want to draw too many conclusions until the facts were in, but strokes suggested a cybernetic-targeted weapon.

  “The MP detachment from Arcadia is ten minutes out, Colonel.”

  “Good. Grenier, Devore, stay on board as guards until they take command. Paredes, get me a copy of the manifest, then let’s head back to the Gambier.”

  Despite all his efforts to the contrary over the previous months, Malcolm stood on the bridge of a ship once again. It wasn’t a cruiser and he wasn’t its captain, as such—well, he supposed he technically was, to the limited extent it needed one.

  His job hadn’t so much changed as gained a more defined focus—one which sent his team into space with increasing regularity. A few weeks ago they traded in their transport for a hybrid recon-interdiction vessel.

  He stowed his Daemon in the armory and departed the hold for the main cabin, where he sat in a chair that was in no way whatsoever the captain’s chair.

  When the manifest came in he scanned the contents. EME grenades, new model micro-bombs and a variety of crowd-control tools: gas bombs, area stun grenades. Also a small shipment of new military transponders…. With a silent groan he realized he knew who ordered the ambush.

  Which meant it was his fault.

  He’d failed to achieve his secondary objective on New Babel, and because of that the Zelones cartel was now brutalizing the galaxy.

  No one had placed the blame at his feet, of course. He’d accomplished the impossible in infiltrating New Babel, something none had done and lived to talk about in two decades. Then he’d infiltrated Zelones headquarters, rescued Dr. Canivon and brought her and his entire team out alive.

  Hell, he’d shot Montegreu point-blank between the eyes; it just hadn’t made a difference.

  Zelones was suspected of orchestrating the alleged uprisings on Andromeda, Argo Navis and Cosenti. Montegreu had personally taken credit for swiping Itero out from under everyone. This theft indicated she not only had no plans to stop the infiltrations, she likely planned to start hitting Alliance colonies.

  He consoled himself with the knowledge there was one positive consequence to her presumed involvement in the attack. Those colonies resided far from Alliance space, but this attack had occurred a stone’s throw from two Alliance worlds and involved classified Alliance military hardware. That meant he was now going to be able to hunt Montegreu with the blessing of military leadership instead of chasing digital trails during off hours and under the radar.

  Now he needed to find her. Interstellar travel had never been faster, but this worked both ways, and she was inevitably hours gone by the time he arrived on the scene.

  An incoming message from an unknown and unidentified sender distracted him from formulating a new plan of pursuit. It shouldn’t have pinged to the front of his awareness without matching a cleared signature or authorization. Yet there it was, blinking insistently on his whisper virtual screen.

  His eVi sanitized the message to ensure it wouldn’t blow up his cybernetics, then he opened it. A moment’s consideration led to him sending a livecomm request to the contact.

  “Before I ask why you want a recommendation with respect to Brooklyn Harper, I’ll ask who you are and why you’re actively hiding your identity.”

  “You’re far more feisty than I’d been led to believe. I don’t have to reveal who I represent on the grounds of employee confidentiality.”

  “I didn’t ask you who you represented, though I’d be interested to learn that as well. I asked who you were. And who led you to believe anything at all about me?”

  “The recommendation—or lack thereof—please, Colonel.”

  Who was he talking to? He frowned, because he didn’t like it one bit. But on the other hand, it wasn’t as if the information she requested was classified or could harm anyone.

  “Very well. Brooklyn Harper was an excellent officer and a top-notch Marine. The military lost a valuable asset and a talented individual when she resigned. Does that suffice?”

  “Would you say she exhibited good moral fiber?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, it seemed like something I’d be expected to ask. Guess not. Thank you, Colonel.”

  “Wait a minute. I think highly of Harper, and I want to know where she ended up. Tell me who you are.”

  A pause preceded a quiet sound of exasperation. “Fine. I guess I can tell you a little, on account of both Alex and Mia liking you for some reason or other, though this conversation has done nothing to illuminate what those reasons might be. This is Morgan Lekkas, and your Captain Harper is on Romane, safe and sound. Now—”

  He knew where Alex was, in a general sense—or least where she had gone. Mia Requelme was a different story. He double-checked the name she’d given.

  Prevo.

  Everything quickly fell into place. “Is Mia on Romane as well? She is, isn’t she? I’m requesting for you to put me in touch with her, or provide me a way to contact her.” He worried about what had happened to her since the events on Anesi Arch—during which he’d been too confounded to think to ask for her personal comm address—but he simply didn’t feel comfortable pressing Admiral Solovy on the matter.

  Another sigh followed. “I’ll see what I can do. Good day, Colonel.”

  He allowed himself
twenty or so seconds to ponder the exchange before returning to the mission at hand. He’d developed a sudden, intense curiosity as to what was happening on Romane these days, but he also had an exceptionally dangerous sociopath to track.

  17

  SENECA

  CAVARE

  * * *

  THE GAPING CRATER where the Hemiska Research building had stood hours earlier triggered a heavy sickness in the pit of Graham’s stomach. Terrorist attacks were the worst, in most if not all the ways.

  Richard Navick and Will Sutton were on the scene when he arrived, and they looked as though they’d been there for a while. As he reached them, the graffiti scorched into the street in front of the crater became readable.

  Death to False Souls. Arise, True Sentients.

  “So, OTS then.”

  Richard ran a hand through unkempt hair. “They’re not exactly hiding it.”

  One of the emergency personnel ran up to give a status report—to Richard. When the EMT departed Graham raised an eyebrow at him.

  Richard grimaced. “We were two of the first to arrive and were helping until more rescuers got here.”

  “Thank you for doing that. Did OTS succeed in its goal?”

  “Destroying Hemiska’s Artificial? Can’t say for certain, but from what we saw when crawling around in the rubble, it’s likely.”

  “Terrific. It’ll embolden them.”

  Will looked incredulous. “Even if it was at the cost of so many lives?”

  “I suspect OTS doesn’t concern itself with body counts—unless the bodies belong to warenuts, in which case the higher the better.”

  Graham needed a shower; his clothes reeked of soot, of gore and violence. But first he needed a drink.

  He’d just finished pouring a scotch when the door beeped. It was Tessa Ferguson from Division’s Strategic Development group requesting entry.

  It was late, and he needn’t be in the office…but as Director, he was never truly off the clock. He took a quick sip and allowed the door to open while he went to his desk.