Jeweler’s men dropped off Veer in a corner of the outskirts of Asmute, the capital city of the planet Janus. Veer bid the ragtag air buccaneers adieu and waited until their ship had departed the area before he began his trek.

The cover story he and Jeweler had cooked up to account for the governor’s absence for a few days was that he’d gone for a private drive and wrecked his two-wheeler, then became disoriented. Veer would walk out of the deserted area.

“What if they look for the missing vehicle that I allegedly wrecked?” Veer was looking for holes in the cover story they’d created. The last thing he wanted was to be discovered as a fraud. He’d be arrested. He’d probably be taken to Zama and tried for treason. The death penalty would follow, if he were found guilty. And knowing his luck, that’s exactly how the jury would find.

Jeweler had smiled. “Taken care of, my friend. One of the two-wheelers is missing from the governor’s garage. And should anyone look for it, it will be near where you will be dropped off by my men.”

Veer had nodded. The story sounded solid enough.

So now, in dirty and torn clothing, straight from Dab—according to Jeweler—Veer walked away from a thicket of trees toward the underdeveloped part of Asmute.

He surveyed the area before him.

Underdeveloped, my ass. That’s just another word for dirt-poor.

And indeed, the urchins that played in the unpaved streets could be categorized as deprived.

Veer approached. He’d find his way through this area and get to a place where he could contact someone from the governor’s office and tell them he’d had a wreck. Then he’d begin his, hopefully, short-lived career as the governor of Janus.

Then back to his life.

Life.

He smirked inwardly as he plodded forward, walking slowly and pretending to be dazed from a wreck and a couple days of wandering.

What life did he have exactly? Veer did more than make ends meet. He specialized in weaponry. No, he didn’t use many weapons personally, though he knew his way around them. He provided armaments to paying clientele. The clientele’s purposes and intentions were not his to question.

He filled orders, collecting merchandise from those on the black market and making sure it wound up in the hands of the one willing to pay not only for the merchandise, but also for Veer’s middleman fee.

Far from a glamorous job, it paid well enough to keep Veer in the lifestyle he wanted.

He trudged across the dusty surface, approaching the curious street children.

“Hey, mister.” On his left, a young boy approached. Dirt-smeared face split by a gap-toothed grin.

“Hey, yourself, kid.”

“Why are you wandering around in this area? What happened to your clothes?”

Veer glanced at his attire. Torn and dirty, it definitely filled the role of a man who had wrecked and been wandering about.

“I had an accident, son. I need to get to a communicator.”

The kid ran the fabric of Veer’s shirt between grimy fingers. “A man with this kind of shirt would be able to afford a communicator of his own.”

Veer cocked his head. “What do you know about fabric and what a man can afford?”

“My daddy was a tailor…” The boy looked down. “Until…”

“Until what?”

“Until he was found guilty and never seen again.” He clamped his lips shut, as though he’d said too much.

“And your mother?”

This garnered Veer an enthusiastic nod from the youngster, as though he were happy not to be discussing his father anymore. “At home.”

“What’s your name?”

“Morson.” The kid puffed out his chest. “Morson Grabal.”

“Well, Morson Grabal, will you be taking me to a communicator?”

“Yes.” The kid’s gaze turned shifty as he glanced at his peers still playing at sword fighting with sticks that doubled as sabers. “For a coin.” He raised his brows expectantly.

“Is that the going price for assistance?”

“It is.” Morson’s smile was opportunistic and toothy. “Mister… say you didn’t tell me your name.”

“Dabveer.”

“That’s the same name as our governor.” He frowned. “You can’t be him. He wouldn’t talk to someone like me.”

“What do you mean, someone like you?”

“He doesn’t talk to anyone that isn’t—”

Veer waited.

“Isn’t like him.” Morson finished lamely as the air released from his lungs.

“He’s that bad?”

“Look around you. Do you think he cares about us? Does it look like we have anything?”

Veer raised a brow. “He’s not been governor that long, has he?”

“I guess not. Maybe a week. Maybe two.” Morson started walking.

Veer joined him. “Seems it’d be hard for him to make changes that quickly.”

“And the one before him? And the one before that one?”

“Where are you taking me, Morson?”

“I thought maybe you should get cleaned up a little, mister. You don’t want to go too much further into town looking like that. You’ll be detained.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those of us from the Eleventh Zone aren’t allowed into Proper.”

“What are you talking about? Proper?”

Morson stopped mid-step and stared at Veer. “You must have hit your head, mister. How can you live here and not know what Proper is?”

“I did hit my head.” Veer rubbed his scalp for effect. “So, what are you talking about?”

“I’ll show you. After you clean up.” Morson picked up the pace.

Veer fished around in his pocket and palmed a coin, then another, for the boy.

* * *

Cleaned up, to the best of his ability, in a hovel that Morson shared with his mother and aunt, Veer straightened his shirt.

“That’s the best I can do,” Morson’s mother said, a frown playing between her brows. She turned to her son. “Don’t go into Proper. If he—just because he feels like he belongs in Proper doesn’t mean you do. To the boundary, then directly home. Got it?”

“Yes, Mother.” Morson nodded eagerly, rushing Veer out of the door that wasn’t even a door. It was an opening covered with thick curtain material.

As they made their way down the path that could hardly be called a street, Veer looked around them. “How far to the boundary, to Proper?”

Morson turned to walk backward while looking at Veer. “Shhh. Not yet.” He whirled forward and walked in silence.

A few minutes later, Morson stepped closer to Veer. “Proper. That’s where the ones who aren’t like us live. You know, the Cardinal Few and those who work for and with them.”

“So, let me get this straight. There’s a boundary where you can’t cross?”

A grimace came from Morson. “Absolutely. And if you do, you’re detained.”

“Then what happens?”

“Don’t know. Never seen someone who was detained again.” The grimace turned sad. “My father was detained.”

Veer frowned. What the hell was this about? He had some questions to ask his cabinet. When he was in his position as governor. “You’ve never seen your father since he crossed the boundary?”

“Three years ago.”

“Why do people live in Eleventh Zone then? Why not leave?”

“Only option is to go to the desert lands. Not allowed in Proper.”

What kind of city was this? As soon as he was positioned in his new role, by damn, he’d find out what the hell happened to Morson’s father. And why the planet was set up like this.