Most of his information about what had been happening down-planet came from the rotating shuttle crews. Rumors, hints. His people, he’d learned, had acquitted themselves well in the quetzal hunt. Had been receiving exemplary evaluations from the Corporate veterans who’d been giving them “field training.” Which was as it should be. They were his marines, after all, and their performance—in spite of Aguila—reflected on him. On his training and discipline.

When news of the IG going down in a malfunctioning shuttle broke, it shocked Turalon. How could that have happened? And the Supervisor hadn’t been on board?

Speculation had run rampant, people scurrying around, the Vixen crew half-desperate to get their under-repairs ship fixed so they could charge out and survey for the wreckage. Wasn’t going to happen with the reactors in pieces.

A second shock wave came from the announcement that the IG had been rescued. Followed within hours by the more shocking news that IG Soukup had stolen Falise Taglioni’s airtruck and left her to die somewhere in the wilderness. Say what? Left a Taglioni to die?

Unthinkable!

Creamer had been trying to get his head around what that might mean—listening to the scuttlebutt running rife among the Turalon crew—when he’d received his order from Soukup to head dirtside and resume his duties. That it had come with an order to reassemble his marines and arrest the Supervisor on grounds of negligence and incompetence had just been sweet frosting on the cake.

Until he’d stepped foot planetside, passed through the shuttle field gate, and ordered the marines on duty there to follow him. Didn’t matter that they protested that it was unwise to leave the gate unguarded. He was back in command. And he relished it, marching into the hospital, having Ituri and Firiiki load the IG onto a gurney and cart him to the admin dome.

Problem was, his marines had assembled, all right. But only eight of them. Eight! To his dismay, the rest were still spread out over half the planet. And—expressing reluctance—announced that they were going to be slow to reassemble depending on when they could book transport.

Book transport? They were Corporate marines, goddamn it! Marines gave the orders here.

As he fumed, he paced up and down the long hallway that ran from the front of the admin dome to the rear. God, he hated this place. The building had the decrepit look of age. Dingy. Common. It would have barely been adequate for ore storage on one of the Jovian moons, let alone as the center for administration on Port Authority. Calming himself, Creamer kept from reaching out and pounding a fist on the grimy walls just to see if they’d crumble.

He passed the “Corporate” office. Supposedly—along with the barracks—the only place in this benighted collection of hovels where The Corporation had any authority.