Mark Jacobson put down his paperwork with some exasperation, rubbing tired eyes and grumbling internally: “What a waste of time.”

  He’d gone into the force after doing some time in the military. While serving, he’d garnered high marks both in academics and firearm training, working his way up to the rank of Sergeant despite being only a low-grade Zeta class Enhanced. He’d have gone further were it not for the fact that every excess credit he made went to paying his mom’s medical bills. The failure to grow had frustrated him initially. He’d even considered becoming a Pioneer, but he’d eventually nixed that idea and gotten over it. After the war ended, he’d pivoted to get a job as a policeman in response to the emperor’s call to beef up the force. With this experience, and his scores at the police academy, he’d even earned a decent pay increase.

  But with above-average pay came above-average responsibility. Mark had been assigned to the 104th precinct straight out of the academy, one of the most dangerous precincts in the entire city. A part of him had been excited to make a difference, yet that part was soon to be heavily disappointed. The local criminals knew that the police were stretched thin, human resources-wise, and they took full advantage. Organized crime would often pay the city’s poor to cause trouble. Cause a disturbance, pick a few pockets, break windows, etc. They especially targeted children, like the kids of prostitutes or orphans, who would be willing to commit minor infractions for pocket change. The police couldn’t turn a blind eye to these disturbances, which often meant they were too distracted to respond quickly to the more serious stuff.

  Mark had spent many more hours arresting pickpocketing kids than he had tracking down drug traffickers and busting murderers. That’s what most of this paperwork was all about. It grated on him, though he could do little about it. As he was giving his paperwork the gimlet eye, Mark was startled by a firm pat on the shoulder. He looked up and into the serious dark eyes of his partner: “Hey, kid, we’ve got a call. Grab your gun.”

  Vincent “Vince” Rinaldi was a swarthy, heavyset man in his mid-forties, though he looked at least a decade older. He grunted this order at Mark with a smoker’s voice, though the young man knew that Vince’s wife had convinced him to quit about a year ago. Mark practically jumped out of his desk, calling out: “What’s the deal?”

  “Shots fired by the waterfront. Sounds like a cracking warzone out there.”

  Mark nodded and followed, hastily hiding his excitement. Now this was what he’d signed up for.

  …

  To Mark’s confusion, Vince seemed to take a longer route to the scene than was optimal. Maybe he expected traffic on the faster route? Anyways, when they got on the scene, the cops were shocked to find several wounded criminals tied up, but no culprits in sight. Mark recognized a couple of these guys as Sinachro men, and they didn’t say a word as the police tried to question them. No surprise there.

  The real prize was in the warehouses. There was a regular smorgasbord of stolen goods in this place, not to mention a hefty quantity of illegal drugs. Seizing all of this would at least put a dent in the Sinachros’ wallet. However, Mark knew the family and its reputation for human trafficking, and he went from one storage facility to another searching for signs of life. He found what he was looking for on his fourth try. Sort of.

  One of the warehouses was conspicuously empty, and the footprints there told Mark all he needed to know. People had been stored here, and not too long ago. Women and/or smaller men. It looked like they’d left in a hurry. Kidnapped by a rival gang? Or taken by the Sinachro themselves? No, the Sinachro probably wouldn’t have left their wounded behind if they could’ve avoided it. That would’ve lessened the chance that one of their members would squeal. The Sinachro had been driven off and forced to leave. A rival had taken these people, and a powerful one at that, judging by some of the marks in the rest of the facility. The rival must’ve had multiple Epsilon class fighters in their group. But why take the women and leave so many stolen goods behind? Did they not have enough time?

  As Mark mused on all this, he felt Vince’s hand on his shoulder again. Looking up, Mark saw the older man frowning slightly: “Look, Mark, I wouldn’t get too worked up about this one. We’ve made some good arrests and seized some important stuff. We can’t tie up every loose end.”

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  As per usual, his partner had read him like a book. Yet, Vince’s words baffled the younger man. The older cop was arguably more zealous for justice than he was. How could he tell him to let things go before they’d even started: “There were people here! They’re still out there, in some other felon’s clutches. The trail’s still warm. If we can follow it….”

  To Mark's dismay and confusion, Vince was already shaking his head. The veteran leaned back against the wall and pulled out a cigarette. Mark raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on the relapse. After he’d taken a drag, Vince spoke again: “You were in the army, right?”

  Mark nodded. Vince continued: “So was I. 1522nd Army Division. Didn’t see too much action, as we were at peace at the time, but we did have officers who’d been Pioneers in the 862nd and 1201st Pioneer Divisions. Many of them were old enough to tell us stories from their time in the 2nd war of Gadobra.”

  Vince took another drag: “Their Divisions were involved in the disaster on D1529. A scuffle with some Republicans over some 630. You heard of it?”

  Mark had. It was a famous conflict that the Imperium tried to paint in a favorable light, but which had undoubtedly been the most disastrous venture of the war. The Admiral responsible remained anonymous in the public eye, indirectly revealing how the Imperium felt about the event. When he nodded, Vince continued: “If there was one worthwhile thing that came out of that fight, it was its heroes. My CO at the time once told me about how his unit had been saved by a boy no older than 18. Apparently, he fought so viciously that he earned the nickname Noxera, after one of the predators from his homeland. The Noxera of Gadobra saved more than a few lives.”

  Vince scrutinized his cigarette, then let it fall to the floor, before stamping it out: “I don’t know about you, but I trust a man like that implicitly. Anyone who fights that hard to save the men beside him is worth that. My old CO agrees with me; he also happens to be a higher-up in the Ankaran police. He actually helped get me this job.”

  Mark’s eyes widened: “You-“

  Vince cut him off, placing a hand on the younger man’s shoulder: “I don’t know what’s going on right now, kid, but I don’t think we’re looking at an ordinary gangland attack. Best to just let it go and take the win.”

  Mark looked into his superior's sincere and otherwise righteous eyes for a long moment, trying to detect any deceit and thinking over their conversation.

  Then, he slowly nodded.

  …

  Approximately one month earlier

  Finlo Toshak definitely was not fast asleep at her desk. Some who saw her might be tempted to think she was. They might even believe that the illustrious scientist was drooling a bit as she gently snored, tuckered out from trying to do her job as one of the Imperium’s top scientists while juggling her responsibilities as a new mother. But they would be mistaken. Finlo was merely inspecting her desk and its safety qualities extremely carefully. As any loyal son of the Imperium should know, the Empire’s top minds worked tirelessly for their sake. They could never have a silly moment of weakness like falling asleep on the job. Of course.

  Finlo jumped up as her Codex beeped, citrine eyes blinking wearily as she scrutinized a file that had just been sent her way. She tried in vain to smooth down the frizzy blonde hair atop her head as she read. After wiping at her mouth absentmindedly, Finlo frowned: “Roman!”

  Roman Lazario, her tall, dark-haired assistant, peeked inside her office: “You rang, boss.”

  “What’s this?”

  “It looks like a comprehensive report on the Xenos known as the Kharnidd, ma’am.”

  Finlo rubbed the bridge of her nose in exasperation. The higher-ups had decided that the Kharnidd would be a serious threat to the Imperium. So, they’d enlisted her help in assessing their biology—strengths, weaknesses, important attributes, etc. After some around-the-clock work, she had put together a pretty decent report with the limited information she had, based on samples from the Pioneers in the field.

  This thing blew her dinky little report out of the water.

  It talked about Kharnidd that she had no data on whatsoever, giving her a litany of details and facts that she would’ve had no way of gathering. Its section on the Hunter was totally accurate and more detailed than her own, helping authenticate the document. Whoever had written this report wasn’t just guessing, unless they’d somehow stolen her report, which had only been seen by the Duceps and a select few higher-ups. This was either the most elaborate prank ever, or someone brilliant was working with info she didn’t have.

  Lazario was the one responsible for checking and managing her mailbox. He was the one who’d opened this, validated it, and sent it over. Finlo now stared at him fiercely, curiosity waking her up more thoroughly than any stimulant: “Who sent this?”

  He shrugged: “Anonymous. Someone using some dummy mail account. I’ve already sent it to our tech people to see if they can crack it. But at a glance, I doubt they’ll find ‘em. The encryption looks good. It didn’t come with any viruses or anything else that could compromise us. It’s just info. Info literally no one should have. I only sent it to you because it lined up so well with what we already have. How do you think Mr. Anonymous got all this stuff?”

  Finlo shook her head: “You’re asking me, but who am I supposed to ask?’

  Then, she took a breath: “Contact Gornir. Try Hahkta as well. We need to get intelligence in on this.”

  In the meantime, she’d begin putting together another report, this time with the new information in it. She’d need to vet and examine this information further before presenting it as fact, but if it was real, this would be a massive breakthrough.

  She just wished she knew where it came from.