“What’s happening here? Boss, please, don’t kill me. I can cut you in, if that’s what you want,” Terry Goodman said.

  He kept his voice steady, but his nerves were already braced for impact. The muzzle pressed into his temple. If Terry flinched, it was over. If Terry tried to act brave, it was over too. He bought time the only way he could, like a man bargaining with someone who preferred quick endings.

  Remy Kalt smirked.

  “No. Risk isn’t my thing,” Kalt said.

  He exhaled as if that settled it. Then his expression shifted for a heartbeat, not fear, more like sudden awareness of something behind him.

  Kalt tried to turn.

  He couldn’t.

  His body snapped hard. His knees buckled. The gun slipped from his hand. He hit the floor on his side, scraping at the concrete with his palm like he could stop himself from collapsing.

  Goodman stepped away and looked back.

  Tomos Goff stood behind him.

  A shiv gleamed in his fist. His eyes were cold. Not frantic, not messy. Just the focused anger of a man who cut for a reason.

  Kalt rasped something and went still. His head struck the concrete with a dull knock.

  Goff wiped the blade on his sleeve.

  “Cap, you walked into it like a sucker,” Tomos said. “People don’t get second chances for that.”

  Goodman let out a long breath.

  “I wanted to learn who’s backing this,” he said. “Now we lost the one man who might have talked.”

  “Still learn it,” the senior security mate muttered. “Just not with please and cut me in. Around here, those words get you buried.”

  Goodman glanced at the body.

  “The female inquisitor could have forced answers,” he said. “Now…”

  Goff shrugged once.

  “Now we’ve got a corpse and a stockpile. And we’re out of time.”

  The captain nodded.

  “We report to Wilt Norcutt. The riot’s closer than we thought. Move.”

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He tipped his head toward the corridor.

  “Fast.”

  They reached the director’s office through a back passage reserved for senior staff. A guard at the door started to speak when he saw the captain in uniform, then swallowed the question and stepped aside.

  Inside were Stanford Minton, the inquisitor, Lothar, and Jekka.

  The colony warden rose too quickly, like the chair had burned him.

  “What is this mess? Where is Kalt?” he demanded.

  Goodman answered without waiting.

  “Kalt had a weapons cache,” he said. “He put a gun to my head. Tomos dropped him.”

  Minton’s color drained.

  “A cache?”

  The inquisitor stepped closer.

  “Where?” the female inquisitor asked.

  “An old drift they call the Bug Pit. Rifles, armor, chain blades, magazines. Enough for a whole squad,” Goodman said. Then he met her eyes. “That isn’t for an escape. That’s for war.”

  Lothar sat against the wall, one hand pressed to his throat, watching through pain.

  “So Kalt was the link,” he rasped. “Through rations. Through stores.”

  Wilt’s face hardened.

  “Good,” Norcutt said. “Nobody runs. We watch the cache. No raid. Surveillance. I need to see who comes to collect the weapons, and where they carry them.”

  Minton opened his mouth, but she looked at him and he shut it again.

  Without raising her voice, she said, “You want them to finish you? Then sound the alarm. If you want to live, you stay quiet and listen.”

  Stanford’s hands curled.

  “Fine,” he said. “Do what you want. Just keep it clean.”

  Her answer came flat.

  “It won’t stay clean if we botch this.”

  A sharp crack sounded outside.

  Then another.

  A shout followed, distant but clear.

  Wilt froze.

  Another crack came closer.

  No siren. Someone was choking the alarm. Either Voss, or whoever owned Voss.

  Minton lunged to the window. His face went gray.

  “No,” he breathed.

  Wilt leaned toward the door and listened. Running feet. Cursing. And the sound of metal being yanked loose, passed hand to hand.

  “We’re late,” Wilt said. “It’s started.”

  More shouting rolled up from below, a crowd now, not a single voice.

  Minton crossed to a cabinet and tore it open. A case sat inside. His hands shook as he popped the latches.

  Plasma hardware. Heavy, factory-made, meant for suppression, not routine guard duty.

  He lifted it like it was the last thing left in his world.

  “I warned you,” Stanford said. “I knew someone wanted me dead. I knew it.”

  Wilt cut him off.

  “Where is command?”

  “Guardroom,” he said, then hesitated. “If it’s still ours.”

  Terry looked at Wilt.

  “We’re not ready for a full push,” he said. “Finsterherz can barely hold a word. You’re running thin too.”

  Wilt nodded once.

  “I know.”

  The door opened fast.

  A man filled the doorway in powered armor, full suit, heavy. The motors hummed softly under the plating. Dust and soot streaked the helmet.

  Minton blinked.

  “Koop Bivin,” he said.

  Wilt didn’t ask who. She saw armor that could hold a corridor.

  Bivin took off his helmet. His face was exhausted, but his eyes were clear.

  “They yanked me from the outer sector,” he said. “Guardroom is dead. Ration depot is burning. Someone in the mine is handing out guns.”

  He looked at Wilt.

  “Inquisitor, do you have a plan?”

  Norcutt drew one measured breath.

  “We will,” she said. “Now. Terry, with me. Tomos, take us through the lower routes. Lothar, stay close and save your throat. Jekka, behind me.”

  Another crack echoed from below, closer still.

  The colony warden raised the plasma weapon and set his jaw.

  “This is my colony,” he said. “I’m not giving it up.”

  Terry watched him and thought he would anyway, and it would not be his choice.

  Wilt opened the door wide.

  “Move,” Wilt said.

  They stepped into the corridor, where the air already smelled of smoke and blood.