The mechanic walked over to a midnight-black Mercedes FX 3000p, a brand-new Hi-range saloon, with a list price of over a hundred thousand Earth dollars. That price included a superb security system; the drive array program was virtually an RI in its own right. It wouldn’t let anyone take control without the owner’s approval.

Lucius was waiting until the man tried to break the car open. That was when he would make the arrest; and he was quietly thankful there were no Stuhawks with him. An arrest swiftly followed by a successful interrogation would be the kind of proactive police work that the councillor wanted to see. Not that Lucius would get any credit; it would no doubt be filed as Marhol’s arrest.

The mechanic made a slow circle of the gleaming vehicle, regarding it with respectful approval. Lucius was amazed at the mechanic’s audacity; he wasn’t really thinking of taking the Merc, was he? Then Lucius remembered some Commonwealth-wide alert for a grade-A mechanic coming into the precinct a while back. This man was certainly A-grade, for arrogance if nothing else. He told his e-butler to find the file.

The mechanic was about to put his hand on the Merc’s front door i-spot when he froze. Lucius held his own breath. The mechanic looked around the near-empty garage until his gaze found the Ford Feisha. His lips moved up in a dry smile, and he started to walk over.

“Ohshit,” Lucius muttered. There was no way anyone could see through the Ford’s secure glass no matter how good their retinal inserts were, but somehow the mechanic had become aware of him. He drew his ion pistol and flipped the safety. It was then he realized he’d probably revealed himself by using the unisphere. Even with the police-secure encryption there had been an electronic emission from the car. In a deserted garage. In the small hours. “Oh, brilliant, Lucius,” he told himself bitterly. “Just brilliant.”

To compound the error, his e-butler delivered the requested file for him. Navy intelligence wanted to question Robin Beard, a known criminal specializing in car crime. A lot of biographical data ran across Lucius’s virtual vision. Several pictures accompanied it. With a few easy differences, they matched the man who was now three meters from the hood.

So far, Beard hadn’t drawn any kind of weapon. Lucius gripped his pistol tighter.

Beard smiled at the nonreflective black glass windshield, and put his hand on the Ford’s i-spot. His whole forearm glowed red and green as OCtattoos turned active.

Lucius jumped as a nasty clunk reverberated around the car’s interior. The locks had all engaged. Three red lights started flashing on the dashboard. There was a nasty burning smell.

“If I were you,” Beard said, “I’d be very careful what you touch in there. Your car’s superconductor batteries are malfunctioning; they’re feeding their power directly into the body frame. So don’t lay a hand on anything metallic. Oh, and anything that ionizes the air will also act as a conductor. To take an example at random: an ion pistol shot fired through the window. Whoever was holding that pistol would be fried in the discharge. Ever see somebody struck by lightning? They say their eyeballs boil and burst while their tongue chars to black meat.”

The ion pistol dropped out of Lucius’s startled fingers, clattering onto the floor. He flinched.

Robin Beard smiled at the faint sound. “Not to worry, the batteries don’t have much charge left. They should be drained by noon.” He turned on a heel and walked back to the black Merc.

A red warning flowed across Lucius’s virtual vision, telling him his connection to the unisphere had dropped out. He watched through the window as Beard put his hand on the Merc’s i-spot. He wasn’t surprised when the door opened. Less than thirty seconds later, the big sleek car slid smoothly onto the garage’s exit ramp and up into the remarkable beauty that was night on Illuminatus.

***

The day the starships were due to arrive at the star system where Hell’s Gateway was located, the navy increased its observation of the Lost23. Wilson sat in his white office reviewing the information as it came in. Anna was with him acting as communications officer; Oscar qualified for his place as senior staff officer; Rafael completed the navy contingent. Justine Burnelli was there on behalf of the Senate, sitting as far as possible from Rafael, while Patricia Kantil represented the Executive, although President Doi maintained an ultra-secure real-time link; as did Nigel Sheldon, who presumably was in touch with the other Dynasty leaders—Wilson didn’t ask. Dimitri Leopoldovich arrived a few minutes late, and took a seat next to Patricia; he ignored the cool reception he received from the navy officers.

The navy started opening wormholes above the Lost23. They were the same type that were used to communicate with the insurgency troops that were operating against Prime installations. This time, they opened a considerable distance away from the planet, several million kilometers, clear of the heavy Prime orbital defenses. Sensors slid out into spacetime, and scanned for the quantum distortion signatures of wormholes. They detected a total of eight hundred sixty-four wormholes linking the Lost23 back to the Hell’s Gateway star system.

“I thought our troops had blown up several planet-based gateways,” Patricia said.

“Twenty-seven to date,” Rafael confirmed. “On average the Primes take three days to reopen them and assemble a new gateway mechanism.”

“What are our losses?”

“A hundred seventeen reported fatalities,” Wilson said proudly. “That’s a lot better than our projected damage ratio. We’re hurting them badly.”

“We’re tying up resources,” Dimitri said. “I wouldn’t call that inflicting damage, exactly.”

Rafael gave him a very cold look.

An hour and a half before the expected attack time, seven hundred seventy-two Prime wormholes shut down.

“Holy shit!” Oscar exclaimed. He half rose from his chair, as if he could get closer to the data that the holographic portal was projecting across half the room. Wilson’s face lit up in a huge smile.

“Too early to open the champagne?” Rafael inquired lightly. He grinned at Wilson.

“We did it?” Patricia inquired delightedly.

“No,” Dimitri said firmly. He was studying the data in the big display. “There are exactly four wormholes remaining on each planet. We know the Primes use base four; so it is deliberate. They’re maintaining communications with their new colonies. Therefore they shut down the other wormholes, not us.”

“You don’t know that,” Oscar said.

“If our attack had been successful enough to knock out over seven hundred wormhole generators, it would have destroyed the remainder at the same time. This is an organized switch, not the result of a strike by Douvoir missiles.”

Wilson wanted to tell Dimitri to shut the hell up. His hopes had soared with the disappearance of the wormholes. And he needed that boost badly after the shock of realizing the navy was compromised. But what the StPetersburg strategist was saying made uncomfortable sense. Don’t shoot the messenger.

“When will we know for certain?” President Doi asked.

“Not long,” Wilson said with outward calm; it was a polite lie.

Five hours later the wormholes all reopened. A groan went around the office.

“Your interpretation?” Justine asked Dimitri.

“They beat off the attack,” the pale man said. For once he looked nervous, dabbing at the perspiration on his forehead with a handkerchief. “I did say they would use everything they could to defend the staging post.”

“So you did,” Rafael said.

“What now?” President Doi asked. She sounded confused.

“We need to find out what happened,” Wilson said.

“They beat us,” Patricia said in an angry, scared voice. An arm gestured wildly at the display. “That much is bloody obvious.”