Kalico—dressed in a fresh black security uniform unpacked from one of the Turalon shipping containers, her utility belt and pistol again on her hips—had taken what few cares she could to make herself presentable. It had been three years since she’d shredded her last good suit on the Maritime Unit’s landing pad. It felt good to look moderately professional, especially since the proceedings would be recorded and played back for the Board.

As Kalico walked through the tavern doors and reached the head of the stairs, she wondered what the candy asses in the Corporate Boardroom were going to make of all of this. One thing was sure, it would be an eye-opener. Especially when they got a gander at the audience.

A cheer greeted her as she started down the long steps to the flagstones. Kalico descended with back straight, head up. From the corner of her eye, she could see the place was brim full, people standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the back.

Board Appointed Inspector General Soukup was propped in a chair just in front of the bar. A sling held his left arm immobile, given the rebroken collar bone.

Behind the bar—in Inga’s sacred domain and atop high stools—sat Captain Margo Abibi, First Officer Tadeo Chin, and, most improbably, Cinque Suharto. With Colonel Creamer currently in the process of being digested in some quetzal’s gut, Suharto had been seated by virtue of his interim appointment as Supervisor. Technically, the validity of his appointment—while Kalico remained a Board Appointed Supervisor and un-convicted of any crime—was a gray area.

Talina, Shig, and Yvette were waiting at the bottom of the stairs, Tal asking, “You sure you want that soft meat, Cinque, sitting up there?”

Kalico shot the man in black an evaluative look. He seemed to be busy with a notebook, perhaps refreshing himself on the regs.

“Yeah,” Kalico said. “It’s no different than if Creamer were here. My chances all lie with Abibi and Tadeo Chin. Those are my two votes.”

“I say we toss that piece of shit, Soukup, out into the bush!” Hofer called above the hubbub. “He got five people killed!”

“Kalico saved his ass? And now he prosecutes her? Shoot the maggot!” Sheyela Smith cried.

A chorus of “aye” and “hell yes” could be heard over the background of talk.

If any of it upset Soukup, he didn’t let it show. Instead, he hunched awkwardly in his chair, fingers on his good hand flicking over a notebook screen.

“Definitely Whitey’s lineage,” Shig—leaning close—told Kalico. “Pamlico Jones found the tracks this morning. The one that grabbed Creamer? Dragging a right leg.”

Talina’s large eyes narrowed. “Figures. What’s with that pus sucker? Where’s he been hiding? In the old days, we’d have hunted his ass down, and we’d be making boots out of his bullet-riddled hide.”