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the fail-safes and trip-alarms likely were, knowing how the files would be structured. Gregor had improvised, customized over the years. But academy training was hard to undo.
    Sully brought a steaming, spicy bright-apple and mug of tea while I worked, watched over my shoulder for a while, then left again.
    It felt good to have a soluble problem to solve. Hayden’s lab was a cipher; our informant on Narfial an equal unknown. Repercussions from Thad’s arrest were still unfolding. But digging out Gregor’s transmits was something I could do.
    The uncoded, general transmits were the easiest and, logically, the most innocuous: confirmations of personal supplies ordered for pickup on Ferrin’s or Dock Five or one of the other rim-world depots Sully felt fairly safe in frequenting. Even so, I read all seven he’d sent or received in the past ten days and then backdated a week and read four more, scanning for hidden codes. A purchase order for a zippered jacket might be just that, or it might be something more.
    Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. I cross-referenced his few purchases with withdrawals made through the ship’s crew funds. Both Dorsie and Sully had signed off on all items as required. I’d double check by confirming with Dorsie’s logs, but seeing Sully’s approval codes made me feel more certain nothing here was forged.
    It took me longer to get into Gregor’s personal transmits. Fleet had several fail-safes that destroyed the content of a transmit if tampering was detected—adaptations of which could be bought from any number of backdoor techies on Dock Five. Smugglers loved to use Fleet’s own programs against them.
    Gregor had three different transmit accounts, very uncreatively labeled One, Two, and Three. Or perhaps not so uncreatively. Open the wrong one first and the other two go poof.
    A sound at the doorway made me look up.
    “You’re frowning,” Sully said, ducking his head slightly as he entered.
    I waited until the door closed behind him before answering. “I’m trying to remind myself not to underestimate Gregor.”
    Sully crossed the cabin’s soft gray carpeting then perched a hip on the edge of the desk. He studied the databoxes on my screen. “Aidanar’s Triptych.”
    I’d recognized it too. “Gregor strikes me as more secretive than clever. But a triptych fail-safe is fairly elementary-level Fleet methodology. Do you know how long he was with Fleet, and where?”
    Sully nodded. “Not quite five years as a transport pilot for Imperial Fleet Security Forces, working Ferrin’s and the ass-end of Baris. He doesn’t know I know, of course. He told me he worked for ImpSec on Port Sapphire on Aldan Prime. He did, but only for a month near the end of the war.”
    Ferrin’s Starport was about as ass-end as you could get without being on the rim. “So he never actually worked for ImpSec?”
    “Never earned the coveted blue beret. His charming personality held him back. Shame, because he had all the makings of a top security officer. He ended up being a glorified taxi driver.”
    “You’ve seen his personnel file?”
    “I have.”
    I didn’t miss the smug tone of his voice. Fleet personnel records—especially ImpSec’s—were supposedly sacrosanct. But this was Gabriel Sullivan. And he’d quoted mine almost verbatim when he’d found me on Moabar. “His name’s really Gregor?”
    “Meevel Gregoran. He doesn’t know I know that either.”
    “Meevel? As in Meevel Peevel Goes to School ? I hated those books when I was a kid.” The Meevel Peevel series had been around for years. Soppy, preachy children’s stories. No wonder Gregor was always in such a foul mood. He even looked like an adult version of Meevel Peevel—lanky and sharp-faced.
    “I guess his parents were fans.”
    “What did he tell you his name was?”
    “His ID docs—decent forgeries, by the way—state Gregor Verrill.”
    “The books, again.” T. Alston Verrill was the author of the Meevel