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twenties.”
    Ricimer controlled his annoyance at the request as best he could. “Very well. What’s going on . . . Companion Crossgrain?”
    Crossgrain picked up the NH 4 nebulizer, gave himself another squirt.
    “That’s better,” he said. “You can be a stiff-necked fool, Arid. But I want you to know that I had nothing— nothing whatsoever —to do with what your . . . with what happened to your family.”
    Ricimer stiffened. “All right,” he said. “I can only take you at your word. Companion Crossgrain.”
    “I swear it.”
    “Very well, I believe you,” Ricimer replied. “Can we get on with this now?”
    But Milt wanted to have his full say, and he continued. “I got wind of the move on your Agaric sector just as it was happening. I tried to put a stop to the whole operation. Called in all the favors I could. But there was nothing I could do, because . . .”
    “Because,” said Ricimer, with resignation. “Because.”
    “She really was a Mutualist, Arid!” Milt spat the words out as if they were scorching to his nostrils. “Didn’t you know that? How could you not have known?”
    Ricimer was quiet for a moment, gathering himself. He needed to remain composed now. This was battle, of a sort. He was a warrior. He was staring into danger, even if it only appeared as the puffed-up face of a mid-level DDCM operative.
    “It doesn’t matter now what I suspected or did not suspect. What do the Craft Orders say, Companion Crossgrain?” Ricimer asked calmly. “I suppose you saw them back in port.”
    Now it was Milt’s turn to be taken aback. He leaned back with a canny expression. He was smiling again. Not the friendly smile of friend. More the nasty flare of a predator.
    “I can’t tell you that.”
    “You’ve just told me the gist of them. I suppose I’m to be arrested?”
    “No.”
    “What then?”
    “Relieved of immediate command.” Milt straightened. “Placed under my direct authority for the duration of the mission. I . . . negotiated for that option.”
    “I suppose I should thank you, then.”
    “You should. But I was right. You’re the best we have, Arid,” said Milt. He leaned across the table imploringly once again. “We need commanders like you for the completion of the Sol operation—and for all the campaigns of the future.”
    “So, you and I will return to Sol.”
    “No, you didn’t guess right this time, Arid,” said Milt. He was almost laughing. “Our mission is suppression of insurrection. We’re going to finish the Mutualists once and for all. We’re going to destroy the Agaric.”
    Ricimer breathed in, breathed out in a wordless hiss. His neighborhood. Yes, the birthplace of Mutualism. But also an arm of the Shiro that housed almost one hundred million souls.
    For a moment, he couldn’t remember where his children were.
    Then it came to him.
    “Agaric Mutualist Conspiracy Terror,” the official INFO-STREAM called it. The walls of his apartment spread inward as if poked by a giant stick. Exploded furnishings turned to shrapnel. His wife’s chest cavity bisected by a cabinet door. His son near the initial blast, seemingly untouched. His interior turned to an undifferentiated gel.
    His daughter. Four cycles old.
    Alive for a momentia , maybe longer.
    Crawling toward her mother.
    Leaving a trail of blood that told of her passage.
    Her little hand stretching out to touch her mother’s body.
    Not close enough.
    Dying alone.
    Unconsoled.
    A mistake, said the in-government report he’d been shown. The report he’d been allowed to see by old Admiral Brand, who’d personally met him at port and conveyed the Sporata’s condolences. Faulty intelligence provided by a Mutualist double agent.
    Nobody’s fault, really. Except the Mutualist slime.
    Administrative error.
    “What do you mean ‘destroy’?” Ricimer finally said. “It’s already been cleansed of reactionaries.” He took another breath. Clenched a hand until his palm hurt. Hold course. “There