“Stop, in the name of the IC!”

Status Three Agent Clay Taylor-Davis shouted the warning as he snaked through the overcrowded streets of Central City. His optical upgrades created a path through the shoppers who blocked his pursuit. Didn’t they have anywhere else to be in the middle of the day?

The four-armed Deltazoid, with a frame like a tank, sprinted through the crowd ahead of him with surprising agility. His broad shoulders knocked several individuals into Clay’s path. The tactic kept him from executing a clean shot before the Deltazoid scrambled down the stairs of the nearest mag-train station. Clay’s enhanced legs vaulted him over the stairs to the platform. Mid-air, the helmet of his uniform auto answered his captain’s call just as he dropped into a perfect landing.

“This isn’t your jurisdiction, Agent!”

“Sir, I’ve got him,” Clay said as he dashed out onto the station’s platform. He aimed his multi-shot taser and fired. The Deltazoid dropped to the ground on his face with a thud. The commotion scattered nearby passengers, clearing the deck.

Clay slapped two sets of mag-cuffs over the crim’s wrists. It would take two people to lift him, so he’d have to wait for backup.

“Wake up,” the crim mumbled between numb lips. “Find the Brotherhood.”

His words didn’t make any sense. “Relax,” Clay said. The stunner must have scrambled his brains.

“No!” The Deltazoid’s eyes cleared. His large pupils focused on Clay. “They’re lying to you, Clay. You’ll forget.”

“Do I know you?”

The sound of IC sirens grew closer as backup arrived. 

“Yes, but there’s no time. In my pocket, quick!”

Clay dug into the indicated pocket and pulled out a thumbnail sized memory chip. He palmed it when six agents in all-white uniforms stepped between him and the Deltazoid.

Alphas.

In the academy, they’d been at the head of their class. In the field, they were legendary. Clay, like every other cadet, had revered them. He never dreamed he’d see them up close.

They injected something into the crim’s thick neck, rendering him unconscious, then hauled him off. Before Clay could protest, a hand gripped his shoulder. The man bore his rank over the left breast of his gray uniform.

Clay placed a fist over his chest in salute. “Major Croft Adams.” 

“Good work, Status Three. We’ll take it from here.” The major’s expression remained unreadable behind the helmet.

“Yes, sir,” Clay said, choking on the words, grateful he could hide behind his own helmet.

A Status Three with tenacity wasn’t enough. If he wanted on a ship, or space station posting off Red Moon, he’d need more arrests.

His backup arrived, out of breath. “The Alphas get all the credit. Why do we bother? Right, brother?”

Clay didn’t feel a kinship with other Status Threes. He was a Status Three for one reason: He was horrible at following the rules. 

Instead of responding, he stalked back toward his transport. Clay glanced down at the memory chip in his palm once more before slipping it into his jacket pocket. 

Whatever was on the chip would probably get him demoted or fired, so why had he risked taking it?