Inside the room—the desk pushed back into the corner—and illuminated by the filthy window, Board Inspector General Soukup lay with his back elevated on the gurney. He was staring at something on a palm notebook. His face—drawn despite whatever pain medication the witch doctor over at the hospital had given him—had a pinched look, his brow furrowed.

As Creamer stopped, Soukup slapped the reader down. Rubbed his head. He glanced Creamer’s way, saying, “Do you know what it’s like? If Turnienko had cut off my legs, I would feel more whole than I am without my Four. Dear God, Colonel. I am cut in half. I am suddenly the equivalent of a legal quadriplegic. Reduced to a head . . . no, half a head, unable to utilize the entirety of my brain. I ask a question, and there is only silence for an answer.”

“My marines should appear with Supervisor Aguila, sir.” He checked his chronometer. “It’s been almost a half hour. And it’s not like this shithole is all that big. With respect, sir, what would you like me to do with the woman?”

Soukup grunted, turned his eyes toward the window with its view of the fence and landing field beyond. “Execute her on the spot?” He raised a hand in futility. “No. Tempting as that might be, she must go back and face the Board. I keep imagining her, standing at the foot of that elegant room, The Corporate Board staring down from on high as she struggles to refute the . . .”

The IG seemed to forget what he’d been saying, was staring aimlessly out at the fence just beyond the window.

“Sir?” Creamer asked.

“But there will be no evidence,” Soukup said softly. “The Second will not be there to download the files. Third will not provide the analysis and interpretation. It will only be me. My word against hers.” He seemed to flinch. “Intolerable! And I am . . . left . . . isolated.”

At the sound of feet, Creamer turned, seeing his marines—Ituri and Firiiki—as they clumped toward him. And there was . . . Yes, Supervisor Aguila, but dressed in local garb. And with her came that security officer, Perez. The one who looked like a character in an animation, given her too-thick black hair, goggling eyes, flaring cheekbones, and pointed chin.

As they walked up, Creamer pulled himself to attention, declaring, “Board Supervisor Kalico Aguila, by order of Board Appointed Inspector General Soukup, you are hereby placed under arrest for—”

“Shut the fuck up, soft meat,” Talina told him. “You’re without any authority here.”

“Arrest this woman,” Creamer told the marines. “No one barks at me like some junkyard dog. I want her . . .”

He gaped as the caricature woman seemed to shift, her arm a flash of movement. He’d seen the like with implants, but never in such a blur. The pistol might have appeared like magic, its barrel just shy of his chin.