In his tilted cabin, Ishikawa crossed his arms and glared at the relics on his bunk; the suicide’s USNE helmet and FOG dog tags. That was when everything went to hell.
Riley, the surviving guard, was a stupid man; he ran. Reye’s people tackled him and beat the story out of him. Then Reyes lost control of his team. Most of them were still AWOL, scouring the port for foggers. The reliable crew were in the city laying out bodies for ID and decontaminating. Those with the skill directed noncons; the rest worked suited up—hot, heavy, horrible work. None of them knew what he’d seen on long range lidar; a FOG mother ship with two pursuit craft in a high orbit, killing anyone who tried to escape.
“Excuse me, sir.”
“What is it, Culver?”
“The guys from Pallas want to go home. Threeworld is toast—meaning no disrespect, sir. We have our families and homes to think about. Everybody talks about revolt; they could hit us next.”