She hadn’t set out to be a spy. We had that much in common.

Unlike most of the operatives in the Conglomeration Intelligence Service, I’d never served in the armed forces. I’d been a rookie cop, running down criminals in the filthy warrens of Europa’s decrepit undersea cities. I’d got mixed up in the wrong investigation—a simple alley homicide that led right back to the police commissioner’s office—and found myself bounced, and bounced hard. Three broken ribs, a shattered kneecap, four broken fingers. Two days later, a couple of suits pulled me from the backstreet clinic where the cops—my former colleagues—had dumped me, and asked me if I wanted a real challenge.

I didn’t even stop to think about it.

Joining the CIS was the single most fulfilling thing to happen in my life—and the first thing I did was go back and arrest every bastard in my old precinct. A decade later, the memory of their outraged faces still gave me a warm, satisfied feeling.

Unfortunately, little else did.

“Okay,” I said, having observed the weird, unspoken preliminaries of our relationship. “Do you want to know or not?”

Petrushka kinked an eyebrow, inviting me to continue.

“I’ve been ordered to report to the spaceport at Northfield,” I told her.

She sat up a little straighter. Northfield was halfway around the planet, on another, much chillier, continent altogether.

“Why?”

I took a breath. By sharing the information I was about to divulge, I would be committing treason—but, after all these months, I no longer thought of Laura Petrushka as an enemy. As far as I was concerned, she was the closest thing I had to a friend on this rotting ball of mud.

The ceiling fans squeaked. I took a sip of beer and cleared my throat. I felt shaky. After all these months, there might be a light at the end of the hot, dismal tunnel my life at the airstrip had become.

“There’s a ship coming. I’m going to hitch a ride to the Gallery.”

“The Gallery?”

“Yes.” My voice wavered, and I took a pull from my glass. I didn’t want her to see how shaky I was. I didn’t know if the butterflies in my chest were due to excitement, apprehension, or the barracuda weed. Perhaps they were a blend of all three. “There’s someone there they want me to find.”

Eight: Sal Konstanz

EIGHT

SAL KONSTANZ