People were standing in a cluster before the gate. Creamer, driven by rage, thought, What the hell? He sprinted his way across the field at the double-quick. His powered armor made quick work of it as he charged up to the woman and her two companions. Behind them—in the confines of the gate—a guy with bushy hair, a flat nose, and leather clothing stood with a rifle over his shoulder.

Creamer had studied the briefing materials, seen images of quetzal-hide clothing and chamois leather, but to see it up close, dazzling in luminous rainbow colors? Not to mention the crude cut of the clothing, the ugly technicolor boots, the oversized floppy hats. It was all he could do to keep from bursting out in laughter. Circus pirates. These two women, dressed in quetzal, with their hands on belted pistols? It was beyond comic.

To his dismay, up close Aguila’s scars were even more appalling. Like someone had taken a knife and viciously crisscrossed her face with back-and-forth slashes. Then he met those hard eyes, laser-blue, with no give in them.

Nevertheless, he barreled into her personal space, his armor giving him the advantage of height, imposing, shining, as he craned his head forward and snapped, “Do you know what you just did . . . Board Supervisor? You pulled me out of an operational situation you had no—”

“Shut the fuck up, Colonel.” Aguila lifted her chin, anything but cowed by his invasion. He would have expected her to step back, to have yielded ground. Instead, those stony eyes bored into his from mere inches away. “You are one of two things: Either you’re an incompetent who can’t locate a simple set of coordinates on the ground, or you’re incapable of understanding orders. Either way, soft meat, you’re a screw-up.”

Creamer blinked, those first fingers of doubt beginning to slip around his guts. Something about Kalico Aguila wasn’t right. During his career, he’d met Corporate Observers, Directors, and even a handful of Supervisors and a couple of Board Supervisors along the way. They might have been arrogant and puffed up with themselves, but this woman? She stirred his sense of self-preservation. And if Stanley Creamer was ever good at anything, it was saving his hide.

Heart thumping at how close he was teetering to disaster, he lowered his voice, saying, “Board Supervisor Aguila. With all due respect, to insert yourself into military decisions that you might not fully understand. That could seriously impact mission integrity. I am sure that you had the best intentions, but you need to rely on my expertise . . .”

She raised a hand in a gesture to desist. To his surprise, he could see the lacey pattern of thin white scars on her palm and fingers. What the hell?

He glanced sidelong at the woman standing off to the side. Gaped. Stared.