The cold gray locker felt like a gravestone. Sam’s uniform, adorned with the service medals he’d received during his time in the Union’s service, hung lifelessly from a hanger. Subdivision agents had already begun leaving simple messages and prayers inside the locker. Colonel Taylor read several of them and then straightened the collar of Sam’s uniform. He noted the small photograph of Jessica tucked back into one of the dark corners of the missing timeslinger’s locker. The colonel’s shoulders sagged.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispered.
Taylor glanced down at Jessica, who had laid down in Sam’s cot, her arms smothering her lover’s pillow. After hours of sobbing, she’d fallen asleep. They had no way of knowing whether or not Sam was still alive, but their hope was slowly fading. Even without a teleportation drive, Sam could contact the Subdivision, but he hadn’t. His last communication had reported that mercenaries had entered the bunker. After that, communication had gone dark. Even if Sam was alive, they couldn’t go back. Not yet. Once a wormhole was closed, it couldn’t be opened again for months—sometimes even years. Two hours ago Sam Rhythm had been declared missing in action, but most of the Subdivision understood that he was probably dead.
Taylor lifted Sam’s blanket off the cot and gently pulled it up over Jessica’s shoulders. As he stood back up his datapad buzzed—incoming message from Brigadier General Ethan Falko. Taylor grimaced and left the barracks.
He answered the call. “Sir?”
“Meet me in the briefing room.”
Click. The line went dead. An unannounced Falko visit meant trouble. Taylor picked up his pace. A former president—assassinated. Apollo 13—aborted. Apollo 14’s crew—murdered. Sam Rhythm—left behind, MIA. Hector Salazar—AWOL. Between XLS successes and Union insubordination, the Subdivision was in shambles. Taylor reached the briefing room. Falko stood over a stack of schematics and reports.
Ethan Falko. A Union insider with connections to multiple covert agencies. Tough and politically savvy, Falko toed the line between military general and elected official. As a former special agent himself, he knew how critical the Subdivision was to the Union’s military and political infrastructure.
His piercing blue eyes locked onto the colonel.
“Nukes, Bill. And we have no idea what they’re planning to do with them.” Falko slammed his fist into the table. “What happened? A Class 4 Breach? A dead agent—possibly two? This is a mess!”
“I take full responsibility, sir.”
“That’s why I’m here. I’m taking command of the Subdivision,” said Falko. The words hung in the air. Taylor clenched his jaw as if someone were removing a bullet from his chest. He managed a weak nod. Falko continued, “Tell me we’ve got something to work with.”
Taylor sighed. “Hector was pursuing a theory about Fra Ma–”
“I don’t care what Salaz–” Falko halted. “What did you say?”
“Fra Mauro. On the moon. Hector thought the XLS was–”
Falko didn’t wait for him to finish. He darted for the emergency alarm while engaging his communicator. The siren shrieked.
“Connect me to Division Headquarters!” Falko commanded the datapad. The color drained from his face. He pursed his lips. “God help us, Bill. They found it.”
