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Time-Lock (Memory Block, pt 3)
Nick Michaels stood on the observation deck watching the
container ferry burn. Clusters of the crew that manned the aboveground portion
of Mare Frigoris did the same. The commander had ordered all off-duty personnel
to take a look, no matter their duty station. Plasma fires were rare. He wanted
his crew to get a good, long look at the cost of complacency and the necessity
of all the drills.
Michaels always monitored the base’s 1MC from his
underground lair. Unlike some of his colleagues, he saw all information as
valuable. Though he wasn’t sure exactly what had brought him to the surface.
Voyeurism wasn’t normally one of his flaws, at least outside a professional
context.
The ferry floated half a klick above the lunar surface, well
away from normal base traffic. Its gravitational drives held position on
autopilot, perhaps the ferry’s last operational system. All its command
circuits were jammed as ionized gasses flooded the electromagnetic spectrum with
exotic radiation. Industrial fire suppression robots kept station beside the
gravitic tugs that had nudged the ferry off the standard approaches, away from
the hangers and lading areas, and well clear of the habitation dome. They would
wait to see if the fire burned itself out before dispensing their
reaction-smothering sheets of lead. No need to waste resources on what amounted
to a glorified insurance claim if it didn’t threatened life or station property.
Unless the ferry’s casualty company agreed to pick up the tab. Unlikely as the
entire consignment was a total write-off by now. And such a generous gesture
could be viewed as accepting culpability. Better to let the lawyers sort it
out.
Michaels stood mesmerized by the interplay of light and
shadow as one container after another was consumed. There was something
meditative about watching the rippling neon colors flare, swirl, dance and
spread, something primal. No one on the observation deck spoke above a whisper,
as if reverently observing the ancient rite of marking someone else’s misfortune
with a silent prayer that it wouldn’t become your own. Everyone knew that
entire careers would be consumed before this fire burned itself out.
Unlike the technicians and station specialists, Michaels couldn’t
help but puzzle out cause and effect. The basics were fairly simple. A fusion
generator, probably well beyond its annually forged safety calibration, had
broken loose from a wobbly containment field, sending an arc-welding stream of
particles jetting toward the cargo space. The likely underspeced firewall
should have at least damped it, if not contained it, but hadn’t. Somewhere in
the stacked containers, an oxidizer had been waiting to be freed. Since, by
construction and design, that wasn’t in the containers themselves, it pointed
to the cargo. With an oxidizer, the incident would have quickly escalated to a
cascading failure.
Fire, fuel and a stream of exotic particles would have
blended into a witch’s brew of superheated plasma that quickly ascended from
kilo- to mega- on Kelvin scale, initiating a self-sustaining reaction as
molecular bonds dissolved. A Townsend avalanche. Dissociative recombination. Mare
Frigoris’s private little star.
But it wasn’t the physics that fascinated Michaels so much
as the politics. That’s where the final report would get interesting. The
oxidizer must have been undeclared or the cargo would have required special
placement and handling just to avoid such a catastrophic accident. That meant a
smuggling operation. He started ticking through the possibilities of whose it
might have been. Those he knew, and those he suspected. Those which were run by
allies and those run by rivals. And those whose exposure might profit him most
if he wanted to shift the blame.
His mind latched onto and discarded scenario after scenario
as he spun them out in a fugue state, an old trick to distract himself from a more
pressing problem long enough to allow an intuitive solution to emerge. Like a lesser
intellect playing solitaire, this was his mindless game.
Suddenly, the knots of even this simple problem began to
tangle. The nape of his neck tingled. He was no longer alone. Why hadn’t the
proximity alarm of his integrated assistant flashed a warning? Better yet, who
was so socially inept as to dare violate his crafted aura of solitude?
He turned to fix his deadest stare on the offending
individual, only to find Yan Kanu standing at his shoulder. Micah Aaronson’s
self-appointed guardian angel. He should have known. He’d long suspected she
had some sort of proximity suppression upgrade installed. But why would she
choose to reveal it now? He’d think about it later. Better not to react.
Michaels barely acknowledged her by glancing down. She
remained as still and unmoving as a porcelain doll, and just as pretty if you
were open to such distractions, which he wasn’t. He puzzled over her genetics
to see if he could tease out any new information on her background, though he’d
tried and failed before. She was small, downright diminutive, yet perfectly
proportioned. A short black ponytail that bordered on indigo offset her near
perfect, pale skin. Her facial features betrayed her as Asian, not so much a
particular flavor as a trendy fusion of cuisine. Put her in a plaid mini-skirt
and she could pass for a Japanese schoolgirl. What better disguise for a ninja?
He was almost envious. Yet, he suspected the effect was carefully calculated.
She had mirrored his posture and position, staring out at
container ferry still burning as merrily as a Dawali decoration. Where had that
reference come from? He filed it in another mental compartment. All he knew was
that if Yan was aligning herself to him physically, she wanted something.
He didn’t want to reveal anything by guessing, so he settled
in to wait.
“Plants or live animals?” she finally asked.
Not the question Michaels had expected. “Excuse me?”
“Plants or live animals?” she repeated, still taking in the
scene below. “The odds on favorites for smuggling ops up from Earth.”
Yan always did see events as black or white. A lack of
imagination. “Are you setting up an office pool?”
She laughed, high and sparkling, like fine leaded crystal
tapped with the back side of a silver knife. He wondered if she practiced it or
whether it came as a feature in whatever genetic modification upgrade her parents
had chosen.
Of course, her assessment was correct, but there were so
much more interesting possibilities. He chose one at random. “Vacuum rounds.”
That might get her chasing her tail. “Either that or the next shipment of rush
for the starport workers.”
Yan raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit cynical.”
“I prefer ironic poetry.” Michaels smiled.
“Rumor has it that shipment was marked as Humanitarian Aid.”
Michaels replied with a noncommittal “Mmm.” He found that
bit of information quite intriguing, both in substance and in Yan revealing it.
He wondered if it was true. He also wondered if Yan had expanded her
operational network into smuggling as a cover for moving assets and information
undetected. He filed that snippet with the other to investigate later.
“I’m surprised to see you up here.” She turned to face him
now. “It’s so rare you come up from the dark.” And so it began.
“Were you looking for me?” he asked innocently. “I’m really not
that hard to find.”
She cut straight to it, direct as usual, “Micah is anxious
to put a bow on your latest operation.”
So it was Micah, now? Like she’d been there from the
beginning. Like they were as close as siblings. “You can tell him I’m tying off
the loose ends now.”
“That edge seems ragged,” she observed.
“Four strings in an operation this complex is hardly
ragged.” He didn’t bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice at being
second-guessed by some tiger mom’s fresh-weaned kitten.
“Pull any one and the whole tapestry unwinds,” she noted.
He shook his head. “Only one, really. And I have her under
control.”
“Oh? How’s that?”
He smiled enigmatically. “I can give her what she wants.”
Yan smiled back like a predator. “I’m not sure you really
understand what any woman wants.”
“Care to enlighten me?” He raised an eyebrow, still smiling.
“Rumor has it you’re quite the seductress.”
“Just a tip, Michaels: It’s hard to seduce a woman when you
don’t know where she is.”
“Finding her is trivial.” He waved a hand. “Convincing her
to do what I want is where the real skill lies.”
“One woman in sixty billion, hiding out on the Fringe?” Yan
crossed her arms beneath her chest. “Long odds even for you.”
“The wrong odds. And I always thought you Asians were good
at math.” He threw the barb just to see if she’d react.
She betrayed nothing as she waited for him to continue.
He obliged. “When I was in school, you didn’t approach the
campus beauty directly; you tracked her through her friends. One of hers is
quite a rare commodity.”
“Times change, Michaels,” Yan chided. “That’s called
stalking now.”
“And here I thought that was what Micah paid us both to do,”
he replied sweetly, a thumb under his chin, a finger tapping against his cheek.
“Then I suggest you get to it. Because once he turns over this
mess to me, I won’t be as sweet on her as you.”
“Which is why he never will,” Michaels countered. “This
situation calls for subtly, not the Chooser of the Slain. Micah lets me run my
own operations without interference because I always give him something he
wants, even if he doesn’t recognize it immediately.”
“There’s always a first time,” Yan said. She turned to walk
away.
He watched her go, her ponytail swinging furiously, keeping time
with her narrow hips. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see her skip. It would
have completed the illusion of innocence. Women had used the same weapons since
time immemorial. He had to admire the ingenuity of their arsenal. Yet he
remained immune. Too often beauty concealed danger just as straightforwardness
masked deception. Yan tried so hard to be taken seriously despite her stature
that he suspected it was a ruse.
He turned back to the plasma fire just in time to see the
container ferry slowly settle to the surface, its final failsafe kicking in.
The fire suppression robots rushed into position with their sheets of lead. A
moment later, the star winked out. The incident was over but the excitement had
just begun, first with the cleanup and then an investigation. He toyed with the
idea of influencing the direction it took but decided that Yan would now be
looking for his fingerprints. It wasn’t one of his smuggling networks, so he
saw no advantage in changing the outcome. And if by chance it was one of hers,
well, letting the truth slip through might serve as a cautionary tale. Probably
one too subtle for Yan to pick up, but Micah wouldn’t miss it.
As he turned to descend back into the tunnels toward his underground
lair, his mind returned to his original problem: Gigi Gagnant. Without the
constraints of his bargain with the Grey ambassador, he might have favored
Yan’s solution. But getting Gagnant onboard in the first place had required a
secret marriage, one he was hesitant to annul. He saw too many advantages in
that alliance now. Gagnant was only a pawn to him but the ambassador saw her as
a potential queen. It might be worth his time and patience to find out why.
That translated into keeping her healthy for the foreseeable future.
Despite his obfuscation, Michaels knew exactly where Gagnant
was, at least as of a month ago, the delay in interstellar communications. Home.
He’d received the information through a contact on Obsession and confirmed it
through independent sources. Saddling Gagnant with a CuFF had been inspired.
But it wouldn’t take long for Yan to begin tracking her by the same method.
CuFFs on detached duty from the Navy numbered only in the hundreds. Their
specialized transport was much easier to trace.
Yet his conversation with Yan might mean that Micah
suspected he had entered into an unsanctioned agreement and sought to reel him
in. He and Micah might be as close as brothers, but all siblings had their
rivalries. And older brothers always thought they were right, regardless of the
facts. It was divine law.
That meant fieldwork, which Michaels loathed. He had assets
on Home he would contact immediately, but he either had to oversee them himself
or risk the situation devolving into a proxy war. That would be good for no
one. Maybe he could manipulate Fagerstrom into covering his absence. The man
was beyond duplicity. No one would question the big oaf. But he’d have to be
careful. There was a reason Micah called Fagerstrom the Hammer.
As Michaels approached the office without a nameplate on the
door deep within the lunar maze, his mind buzzed contentedly with contingencies
and options, the framework of a plan. He’d have to move fast to catch Yan off-guard.
And if he meant to keep his promises to the ambassador, he had light-years to go
before he’d sleep.
---
Yan tried not to bounce as she strode away from Michaels.
The IAI darkware module had done its job, first electronically anesthetizing
Michaels’ proximity detector then performing exploratory surgery. She hadn’t
come away with much data, nothing he would miss if his implant security software
didn’t notice the tiny scars across its memory. But enough that she would be
able figure out what game he was running and formulate a plan.
Micah wanted him back on task. That meant this Gagnant woman
had to be shut down. She’d served her purpose. Michaels seemed unable to part
with his operatives, collecting them like a hoarder. They were loose ends and
that meant exposure. Exposure none of them could afford. Their reputation had
suffered enough after their failure to predict or prevent the Green Revolution.
Micah had made it clear there was no room for private
operations. They all had to sing from same hymnal now. The sooner Michaels
understood that, the better.
And she now possessed the final piece she needed to reinforce
that message. She’d see to it personally. A chance for her to get back in the
field. That meant finding a way to smuggle herself onsite under Michaels’
radar. Fortunately, by instigating the container fire, she had just the right
leverage with the people who could pull it off.
---
The Interdiction skimmer hovered above the Stack Maze, its
beam slicing through the darkness, illuminating the rooftops four pi meters squared
at a time, glimpsing but never quite focusing on the illegal activity teeming
around its edges. The weak and slow, sometimes the foolish, might find their
fifteen seconds of infamy within that circle of light, fifteen minutes if Interdiction
had the resources to make a raid in force rather than follow their usual
procedure of ID and fine for violating curfew. Their usual catch was a tourist who
didn’t have an untraceable account or a low-end courier who didn’t have the
credits to pay.
Like most wars from the air, this was a futile exercise in
feel-good politics that lacked a strong ground presence willing to break a few
heads. Though occasionally, a skimmer would perform an outright assassination.
Interdiction wasn’t above smoking the random innocent now and then, if such a
person could be said to exist this deep in the warren of refugees and illegal
immigrants. That’s what had her worried.
Carissa Anderson knew that the spotlight wasn’t Interdictions
only or even primary sensor. Skimmers were equipped with IR, LI, x-rays,
passives, actives, transmitter tags, behavior analysis routines, databases and,
most importantly, snipers. One could have his weapon trained on her right now.
Wouldn’t that be irony? Dying at the hands of the people she worked for?
The Stack Maze rose above the street, a hive of laissez
faire capitalism rivaled only by the Freedom Hall on Liberty,
or the entirety of Anarchy, only more accessible than either. It was a virtual
red zone for Interdiction personnel, at least without drone support and a
triplicate of prior authorization. The last lone trooper who had dared enter
had to be rescued by twenty of his fellow officers who found him zip-tied and
stuffed into a cabinet. Every year Home threatened to crack down on the
problem, yet every year the acreage of the Stack Maze grew. With the impending
amnesty for all Darwin refugees, it
was hard for her to imagine the problem ever being resolved or dismantled.
Moving between the shielded cargo containers that comprised
the Stack Maze in such a way as to confuse the algorithms was the key. Home’s
mirror of the reverse-engineered counter-surveillance site from Anarchy had proven
quite useful once she’d acquired access. It paid to have friends in low places.
Especially for transactions that required face to face contact.
This should be a simple exchange: cash for a favor, in this
case coerced. Technically, solars were still traceable. It was just required
more resources to follow a physical rather than purely electronic trail. The
advantage to solars was they could be held until people lost interest. Or
cycled through enough legitimate transactions that their buffers were
overwritten. Not quite as safe as a quid pro quo exchange. But she needed money
to reinforce her niece’s new identity as she played a shell game with the Interdiction
databases. Even three centuries of the Age of Credit hadn’t changed a
fundamental business axiom. Cash was still king.
The entrance she wanted was just ahead.
Carissa swerved beneath the threshold of the overhead
container, down the tunnel it created, only pausing after two quick corners to
get her bearings. The dim, haphazard cold lights created more shadows than they
dispelled. Branching corridors split off left and right, some masking recessed doorways.
The containers had once been various colors, some bright, but now were coated in
a patchwork camouflage of dun, smoke and gray with the occasional flash of
composite where the grime had been scraped to its underlying bone. The air
stank of moisture and mold, though thankfully not of sewage which was too
valuable to waste.
Even with the cold lights, she barely noticed the shadow
slide from beside the doorway she had just passed before a gloved hand clamped
onto her arm and pulled her inside. Instinctively, her own hand dropped into a
pocket to grasp the retractable stun wand, while she smiled her most disarming
smile and canted her hips into a posture of not quite unwelcome surprise.
“No need for the stunner,” a synthi-voice construct said. The
figure stroked a button that sealed the container. The door slid home with an
echoing thud. A string of cold lights flickered to life.
Her assailant was concealed behind layers of blackness. Its
face was a pair of welding goggles wrapped with strips of darkness. Black-hole
cloth woven with carbon-fiber nanotubes. It absorbed almost all light and
played hell with body recognition algorithms. Perfect for the Stack Maze.
Carissa relaxed. This was not a random abduction. This creature
was her contact.
“You’re late,” the androgynous voice said. It sounded eerie.
Like listening to a ransom call for a kidnapping only in person, not over a
comm.
“I got here as soon as I could. It took time to clear the
drones.” She wished she could tell whether her contact was male or female so
she could strike the proper posture. She opted for her disinterested but to
open to reconsider pose, the one that shook out the overanxious ones in the
bars. It also worked to say she might be open to an encounter with her own
gender. A compromise, but she couldn’t do much better without more information.
“You should have built that in. Solars don’t wait.” Distortion
ranged up and down the spectrum, like an audio file recorded backwards then
played forward, speeded up and slowed down. Expensive and impossible to
analyze.
“Ten K, like we agreed,” Carissa said.
The creature pulled the solars from a pocket. The reflective
gold laminate buried beneath layers of clear plasteel was the only remaining vestige
of ancient, commodity-based monies. As the gloved hand counted out each coin
into her palm, the holographic animation of Sol flared while Terra winked in the
foreground, certifying they were genuine.
As her hand started to close, the creature grabbed her
wrist. “You’re forgetting what you owe.” The figure’s other hand appeared
offering a memory module.
Carissa eyed the module suspiciously.
“You will divert this cargo container from the Interdiction
warehouse,” her contact instructed. “My people will take possession.”
“Diverting a container under seal draws a lot of unwanted
attention,” Carissa said warily. “Especially with the limited access my
clearance provides.”
“The hard work will have been done for you. One of your
colleagues is on the payroll of the people smuggling it in.”
Great. The risk extended across both sides of the line,
Interdiction and the black market. She needed attention from neither.
“Next,” the figure continued, “you will make contact with
the listed individual and offer an introduction to provide security for the
container’s auction in the Kraal. I’ll setup the rest.”
“And if that individual refuses the contract?” Carissa asked,
already hoping she might have an out. She wished she were dealing with her
normal contact but he had sold her off to someone higher up the food chain.
“She won’t. She and her friends are fugees who need the
money.”
That promised more time in the Stack Maze which equated with
greater risk. “And she’ll trust me why?”
“You shared time on Darwin
during the Revolution. She was in Customs Enforcement, just like you. You both
fought on the winning side of the argument though not together. And you both
ended up in the Stack Maze with something to hide. Somewhere in there, you’ll
find something to talk about. ”
Whoever her new contact was, he had deep pockets of
information.
“You will be able to read the details once and then it will
self-erase,” the concealed figure said as he proffered the memory module again.
“When you remove it from the port, it will slag. Oh, and be sure you don’t have
any Interdiction programs loaded. It has a pretty paranoid security algorithm.”
“You’re asking a lot for ten grand.” Carissa weighed the
solars in her hand. They were light for their size; very light for the months
it would have taken her to acquire them in legitimate trade.
“Feel free to profit from the information in any way you
can, as long as nothing goes off before the auction has started, and nothing
involves me directly. Just make sure I get what I’ve paid for.”
That was a generous offer, perhaps worth more than the deal
itself. Which said exactly how dangerous her contact thought it was. Regardless
of the risk, Carissa knew she didn’t have a choice. She was already in too
deep.
She plucked the module from the figure’s gloved palm and
dropped it into one pocket, the coins in another. “Which way out?” she asked
knowing it was suicide to exit the way she’d come.
The figure gestured to another hatch on the opposite side of
the container. “Follow the left wall, ignoring the doors. In twenty minutes,
that will drop you into a heavily trafficked area just outside Petit Darwin.
I’ll send a decoy back the way you came.”
Perfect. Almost home. Carissa left through the hatch the
figure had indicated and began following the left wall.
---
The black clad figure waited until the hatch behind him
cycled. He retrieved another pile of solars from his pocket. Crouching down, he
divided them into two stacks on the floor. Twin cylinders grew with each flash of
the composite, reflective coins.
He rose and considered the stacks of solars. His trained,
augmented eye could see the furniture shadows nearby along with the signs of
recent cleaning. He hoped she hadn’t noticed, though it wouldn’t matter either
way.
He picked up one stack and exited the container. Within
fifteen minutes, the displaced occupants would return. Outside, he set the
second stack in the center of the hall. Clearing this section of traffic had
been costly as well.
At a shadowed crevice just beyond the door, he turned his
shoulders and disappeared inside. Now, he only had to wait.
---
Gigi stared out over Juliet from her vantage point in the
Stack Maze. Through her nightshades she searched the city shine near the
horizon for skimmers and drones. Night had settled over the city proper. Below,
the starport glowed under the arc lamps of nocturnal commerce, a planetary
restocking that never ceased. The Stack Maze lay shadowed but still teemed with
activity. Like an ocean at night, most of it was invisible from the surface.
How in God’s name had they ended up here? Patel.
She toyed with the auto-injector in her hand. This wasn’t another
of Obsession’s Immunity Boosters, a designation misnamed and misapplied. She’d
kept taking those in hopes of unraveling these memories one day. This was a
private bargain, her one remaining secret. The fulfillment of Patel’s promise
of the nano-tech that would tug the hooks seeded by the Immunity Boosters
throughout her mind and unzip all the memories that they touched. Maybe more he’d
said. Since The Farm, she felt as if she was constantly waking from a nightmare
that haunted her more with emotion than detail. A simple injection and all that
pain would disappear.
And so would the formula for Patel’s antidote to the
Immunity Boosters. She was the only one Patel would shared it with. It was their
passport off Home and to the Fringe beyond. But only if she didn’t use his
auto-injector first. A constant temptation. Before she gave in, she had to see
her team safe. At least what was left. She wondered how long she could keep
them all together.
Gigi heard the soft rattle of beads as someone stepped up
behind her. Wilmots. Gigi pocketed the auto-injector.
The two women stared out at the lights across Home’s capital.
Just across Green Line fence, Petit Darwin beckoned. Wedged beside it, Mocha
Village twinkled with nighttime
recreation, just beyond their reach. Only the dark gash of Beechfern Preserve
that crawled down the mountains like a scar completely reflected Home’s night
cycle.
“Maahes hunted us up some rats,” Wilmots said. “Real one,
not those disgusting neos. Bryce is seeing about trading them for some Aid
rations now.”
Gigi just grunted. If any of them had thought military
rations were disgusting, they’d been cured of that thought after less than a
month on Home. “How’s everyone holding up?”
“Bryce is saying Patel betrayed us,” Wilmots said.
“He got us here,” Gigi reminded her. “The rest was always up
to us.”
“He promised to get us to Anarchy,” Wilmots said. “They’re
the only ones who can distribute the antidote. That’s what we all signed on for.”
“Home’s the gateway. We have to prove ourselves here first.
We all knew that coming in.”
Wilmots shrugged. It didn’t really matter who knew what. A
month living on the edge was a long time with no end in sight. Down 2, Scorn, Obsession,
each had each taken its toll.
They both stood silent for a moment, surveying the shadows of
the Stack Maze for threats. The artificial landscape was full of dark, blind corners.
In the month they’d been downside, they’d managed to carve themselves out a
small space, one container and a rooftop which meant solar, a little water but
no steady food. Mostly on sufferance from Patel’s contacts, though having their
own cache of smuggled equipment and weapons to defend it didn’t hurt.
“I scrounged up an offer today,” Wilmots said. “Security for
an auction. A Humanitarian Aid container.”
Gigi turned to face the other woman. “Legit?”
“I think so. It came through an Interdiction officer who
used to work Customs on Darwin.”
“You trust this contact?”
“The name’s familiar but I never met her,” Wilmots said. “Word
is she’s got something to hide. Something in the Stack Maze.”
“Everyone in the Stack Maze has something to hide,” Gigi
said. “She the seller?”
Wilmots shook her head. Her beaded hair rattled. “She just
provides an introduction and relays the word.”
Which was pretty much how everything in the Stack Maze
worked. “What do the other two think?”
“Maahes is up for anything. He doesn’t really mind it here.”
“And Bryce?” Gigi watched Wilmots’ reaction.
The other woman didn’t hedge. “The sooner we get him out of
here, the better. He’s riding the hairy edge. My contact needs an answer by
tomorrow.”
Gigi turned to watch the lights crawling around the starport.
Like the Stack Maze, it was a city that never slept. One of the transports down
there could be hauling that container now. Auction security was easy duty, just
stand around and look serious, and seriously armed. As long as it wasn’t an
Interdiction sting. Relentless forward progress. No risk, no reward.
“Ok,” Gigi said. “Let’s hash out the details over dinner.
Maybe the boys will have traded up for something decent.”
Wilmots rolled her eyes. They both knew how likely that was.
---
After discussing it over an improvised dinner of grilled
mystery meat, a few Aid rations and a sprinkling rooftop organics, Gigi put it
to a vote. They all agreed to accept the contract despite the risk. Anything
that would get them closer to leaving Home.
Later that night, after Bryce left to stand watch and
Wilmots was asleep, Gigi pulled Maahes outside and set him to a confidential task.
The CuFF had developed an independent intelligence network. Few people in the
Stack Maze suspected the genetically modified feline was anything but a normal
stray hunting the ubiquitous rats.
Something about this contract didn’t smell quite right.
Smuggling operations usually had their own security. Why exactly had someone
farmed this one out? Was someone new trying to muscle in? Or was it so high profile
no one wanted the exposure? Any way she sliced it, it came up with a high
risk-reward ratio. But she couldn’t afford to veto it, not just on a feeling. Her
team was restive. They needed discernable progress soon or they’d all fly
apart.
Maahes eyed her with an inscrutable expression as she confided
her concerns. When she finished, he just said, “I’m on it,” and disappeared
into the shadows, gray on gray, like fog seeping through an outcropping of
tumbledown rocks.
The inkling of a memory that image evoked made Gigi shudder.
She fingered the auto-injector in her pocket. She was once again tempted by the
forgetfulness it offered. Instead, she returned to the relative safety of the plasteel
container.
---
In the morning, Maahes was nowhere in sight before Wilmots had
to leave with their answer. Gigi wasn’t too concerned. She could always back
out if Maahes uncovered anything critical. He knew the timetable so if he’d
found something crucial, he would have scrambled right back.
Maahes returned just seconds after Wilmots. He met Gigi’s
eye then slowly blinked and looked away. His report could wait.
Wilmots laid out the details. The auction was slated for three
days from now in a place called the Kraal, just this side of the fence with
Petit Darwin. That was barely enough time for recon. They were lucky they didn’t
need to acquire weapons.
They could only scout the location once before the auction.
Wilmots’ contact had setup a rendezvous with the seller later that same day.
Only two of them, Gigi and one other, both unarmed. She opted for Maahes. He
had a predator’s instinct for spotting traps. Plus, he could bring her up to
speed on the intel he’d collected.
While Maahes caught a catnap, Gigi reviewed the route to the
rendezvous on her nightshades. They were headed deep into smuggling country,
the darkest recesses of the Stack Maze where the black market tunnels from
Petit Darwin were rumored to emerge.
She decided to leave Patel’s auto-injector behind. Up to
now, she’d treated it as her failsafe to guard the formula. But she couldn’t
afford to have it confiscated if she was searched. So, she hid it with the only
other personal possession she didn’t want any of the others to find: a Pocket
Jesus she’d carried since The Farm. She wasn’t sure why she’d kept it. But every
time she’d tried to get rid of it, she found that she couldn’t. She wasn’t
religious but some buried attachment made her reluctant to let it go. So, she’d
hidden it like shame.
Once Maahes awoke, munched and groomed, they headed into the
Stack Maze.
At the rendezvous, they met their guide, a young boy between
ten and thirteen depending on how much malnutrition had stunted his growth. He
was armed with an old assault rifle that was almost as big as he was. But he
carried it in a casual way that spoke of a long relationship, like a better
adjusted child might have with an imaginary friend. His hard, vacant eyes
scared Gigi more than any Green she’d ever met. Adults, even fanatics,
generally understood the complex tradeoffs of social interactions that could
turn enemies into allies of convenience. Children were not noted for their
nuanced reasoning. They killed like sociopaths, casually and with very little
provocation.
Everyone in the Stack Maze knew she and her team were former
LOW OrbIT. Gigi assumed most suspected some of them had fought against the
Greens. Neither side brought up the past. The only protection her team had was
under the umbrella of Patel’s reputation. Right now that felt about as sturdy
as a rice paper parasol her father had once brought her back from a cheap tourist
shop on Blue. She was keenly aware she didn’t have so much as a sidearm.
Through a rough-cut floor of a container, they were lowered
into the smuggling tunnel by a hand-winched crane. Gigi held Maahes in her
arms. She took the opportunity to have him update her over a secure comm
channel. Maahes had an inductive CuFF comm unit strapped to his back. Gigi used
the visual interface of her nightshades to avoid her half of their conversation
being overhead.
“Intel on the container?” she flicked out with her eyes as
they slowly descended, the click-click-click of the winch timed with each tiny
drop. The walls of the tunnel were hard packed dirt shored up with mismatched
odds and ends of castoff building materials, corrugated roofing, scraps of synthetic
lumber, rebar reinforcement and chainlink fencing. None of the jury-rigging
looked close to passing an occupational safety inspection. People died in these
tunnels every day.
“I haven’t been able to pin down what’s in it,” his
synthesized voice whispered in her ear. “But whatever’s in there, it’s hot.
Most of the drones over the Stack Maze are searching for it.”
Great. She knew the deal was too good to be true. She only
wondered if her team was being set up to take the fall. “Who’s looking?”
“Officially, Interdiction. But there’s some sort of
factionalized shadow war going on. A lot of LOW OrbIT contacts are being tapped
for information. With all that attention, the Greens have perked up their ears.
Plus a couple independents out of Anarchy are sniffing around, now, too.”
They reached the bottom of the shaft. Gigi set Maahes down.
Their guide impatiently motioned for them to catch up. While the boy could fully
stand, Gigi had to stoop. The tunnel looked like a cross between an improvised
prison escape passage and a nature holo of the interior of a rabbit warren. A
string of cold-lights ran along the ceiling. Gigi tried not to touch the walls
afraid the slightest brush might trigger a collapse.
“You sure this tunnel’s safe?” she called up to their guide,
eyeing the haphazard reinforcements.
He turned his head to face her, his eyes dull in the dim,
overhead light. “We reopened it this morning,” he said in a heavy Darwin
accent. “My brother died in here last week.”
Gigi let the subject drop.
A few dozen meters later, the tunnel expanded to where she
no longer had to crouch. Now it reminded her of an ancient catacomb like she’d
seen in the historical docudramas recreating Terran history. In place of
hollowed out tomb niches, small crates lined stacked against the wall. Their
labels read plascrete, infant formula and broad-spectrum bacteriophages, all
stamped as League of Worlds Humanitarian Aid. Gigi shook her head. It was
always gratifying to see Aid going to its designated use.
Long, unmarked, shock-proof cases were stacked along the
opposite wall. Gigi focused in on them with her nightshades. The enhancements
could just make out where the official LOW OrbIT weapons tech seals and
markings had been etched away.
“Are you seeing this, Maahes?” she flicked out with her
eyes. “There’s enough firepower here to start a war.”
“Lieutenant…” Maahes growled.
Before he could complete his warning, someone snatched
Gigi’s nightshades off her face. The boy was screaming at her, then striking
her with his rifle to force her down. In an instant she found herself lying on
her belly, hands clasped behind her neck. All she could make out through the
boy’s quick, accented stream of words were accusations of “Interdiction”
punctuated by intermittently by “spy!” The dust rising from the hard pack floor
dried her mouth and stung her eyes. She knew that she could die.
She had no idea where Maahes was. Without her nightshades,
they had no way to communicate without being heard. She suspected trying might
tip the boy into a killing rage so she stayed silent. Suddenly, the boy’s hands
roamed up and down her body, either roughly searching her or groping her, she
wasn’t sure which. He lingered over her missing breast in confusion or fascination.
She closed her eyes, relieved she’d hidden Patel’s
auto-injector before they’d left, and at the same time wishing it was still in
her pocket so she could make all this go away. Just wake up wondering why
someone was still screaming at her, wondering exactly what she’d done.
Wondering if she’d been transported back to boot camp, or back to her father’s
quarters in the contract mines on Lode.
Snap out of it, Gagnant, she thought. People are still counting
on you. Without you or Maahes, Wilmots and Bryce won’t stand a chance. Yet she
felt powerless to alter the situation. Any move would likely be taken wrong.
All she could do was keep alert in case an opportunity arose. Survival 101.
She tried to ignore the assault rifle repeatedly poking at
her back. Somewhere a metal door slammed shut. Booted feet came running.
Louder, quicker accusations were exchanged in a language she didn’t understand.
Suddenly, someone rolled her over and pulled her to her feet.
She found herself eye to eye with a pair of welding goggles. Without her
nightshades, it took her a moment to pick out the shadow of a person, his face
was wrapped blackness, his loose-fitting clothing the same.
Something about his stance and posture left Gigi with the
vague impression of him being male but she couldn’t be certain. If she analyzed
her nightshades later, she might get a better idea. But only if they’d caught a
glimpse of him. And only if she got them back.
“I must apologize.” He spoke through a synthi-voice speaker
buried near his throat in a voice not unlike Maahes’ only more distorted yet
slightly more refined. “My friend is nervous. The last tunnel through which we brought
guests was raided by Interdiction three days later.”
Gigi glanced around as she dusted herself off. She was
bruised but otherwise unharmed. She found Maahes perched atop the crates of
Humanitarian Aid. The boy, still clutching his assault weapon, glared at her
from the narrow portion of the tunnel.
The man extended a gloved hand and offered her back her
nightshades. “Perhaps you should keep these out of sight until we return to the
Stack Maze. They make my colleague… uneasy.”
Gigi accepted them and slipped them into a fatigue pocket. “And
you are?”
“Loptr,” the figure answered. “I’ll be handling the
merchandise in the Kraal. You must be Gagnant.”
“There isn’t going to be a problem getting my team in and
out, is there?” She glared at the boy sulking down the tunnel. Her ribs still
ached. “In three days, we’ll be coming through fully armed.”
“The day of the auction, we’ll bring you in a different
way.”
She tried to keep her voice and expression neutral. “Then
how are we supposed to check the security of the route?”
“Let me handle that. You were hired for onsite security.
Nothing more.”
Gigi wondered what Loptr was trying to hide. Or hide from. Not
scouting the route left her team at a serious disadvantage if anything went
wrong. This whole operation stank, like every mission since The Farm. Her
instincts told her to forget the contract and walk away. But that ding to their
reputation might poison any future opportunities. They’d have to roll with the
circumstances if they wanted to get off Home. Relentless forward progress.
“It’s your show,” she finally said. “Let’s get this over
with.”
---
They emerged from the maze of tunnels into a wide, covered
corridor with a long, descending ramp that led to a ring of dappled sunlight. They
passed through a gatehouse and an open cargo hatchway into a cross between an
amphitheater and an arena. Like the rest of the Stack Maze, the Kraal was
constructed of castoff shipping containers from the starport. The structure was
sunken to where the top of the highest vertical walls remained below ground. At
the very top of the covering dome, a roughly circular opening was shaded by smart
camo cloth. The sunlight filtering through it created a shifting, speckled
pattern on the hard-packed dirt below.
Gigi tried not to squint as she surveyed her team’s task.
Without her nightshades, she felt naked and exposed.
From a security perspective, the Kraal was a nightmare. The
bottom level was octagonal. Each of the two levels above added another
container in circumference. Archways had been cut into their outer facings.
Hundreds of people could crowd the ascending tiers each accessible through a
seemingly random, asymmetric assembly of half-concealed ladders and stairwells.
Niches and deeply shadowed crevices lurked between the joints in each
concentric ring.
As far as she could tell, there were two primary entry
points: the gatehouse and a second cargo hatchway opposite, this one sealed.
She turned to Loptr. “There is no way I can cover this place
with a four-man team.”
“Your job isn’t overall security,” he said. “The owners
ensure that guests arrive unarmed and ready for commerce. I contracted you as
insurance until a buyer is found and the exchange is made.”
“Insurance against what, exactly?” Gigi asked, as if she
couldn’t imagine several unpleasant possibilities.
“The unexpected,” he replied.
Gigi glared at her employer. “Anything more specific we
should worry about?”
“You’re the professional. You tell me.”
Gigi took an intense dislike to Loptr. He talked like a
diplomat. Or a spook. All half-answers and innuendo that provided no useful
information. She surveyed the Kraal again, desperately trying to make her unaided
eyes see into its darkest corners as she searched for a solution. If this cargo
was truly valuable to him, maybe she could use it as leverage.
“What’s behind that door?” She pointed to the closed cargo
hatch.
“That’s the staging area for the merchandise. We bring it in
before the auction through a series of secure tunnels.”
Gigi frowned. There were too many angles she couldn’t cover.
“There’s only one way I can make this work,” she said. “But the price just went
up.”
Loptr waited as if he’d expected this. That might make the
renegotiation easier.
“First,” she held the nail of her pinkie with her thumb, “my
team accompanies the container from the time it arrives to sign-off by the new
owner. That includes my driver doing all the cargo handling from the point it
comes on site.”
Loptr didn’t balk. She wished she knew what he was thinking.
“Second,” she ticked off her ring finger, “We arrive armed
and armored. We come in like Peacekeepers not contractors or security. And we
rely on our own equipment from radios to rifles.”
Still Loptr just faced her behind his goggles. She hated
playing poker where she couldn’t read her opponent’s tells.
“Third,” her thumb rested on her middle finger, “we control
the gates during the auction. They both remain closed throughout. No one in or
out until a deal is struck and the exchange is made. It’s the only way we can
control the space.”
“And finally?” he asked.
She knew that nothing she’d demanded so far had been
unreasonable or even unexpected, not if he was competent. But now she knew that
Loptr knew that, too, and was waiting for her real condition. He wasn’t quite
the fool after all.
“Finally,” she held her index finger. “When the auction’s
over, you escort me and my team directly from here to Petit Darwin. You provide
everything we need to disappear anywhere in the Fringe, from identities to
transit papers.”
She watched the fingers of his left hand twitch in quick order,
almost as if he were working through calculations of his own. Either she’d
hooked him or she’d just blown the deal.
“What makes you think I can do that?” he finally asked.
She hated people who answered with a question. But she
played along, revealing just enough of what Maahes had learned to make a point.
“Your merchandise has tendrils snaked deep into Interdiction,
as does your errand girl. With connections like those and the network of
tunnels I’ve seen, smuggling four illegals across the Green Line should be
child’s play.”
While she couldn’t see his mouth behind the black-hole
wrappings, she saw his cheeks tense in what she took to be a smile. That made
her more nervous than anything she’d seen so for.
“Ms. Gagnant,” he stuck out a gloved hand. “I think we have
a deal.”
Gigi reached out and gripped it briefly. Then she and Maahes
got to work.
---
When they returned to their quarters in the Stack Maze, Gigi
found her nightshades had auto-wiped and reset. Someone had tried to hack into their
local memory and failed. She suspected it must have been Loptr. Once again, she
wondered who their employer really was. She wished she had a way to check but
her only resource had just been erased.
After retrieving Patel’s auto-injector from its hiding spot,
she stayed up late laying contingency plans with Maahes. Then she consulted
with the rest of the team.
---
As they setup for the auction, Gigi handed out assignments
and comm frequencies. Her plan called for a bi-level strategy.
Level one was visible presence. That would be her and
Wilmots standing beside the cargo container on the floor of the Kraal, fully
armed and armored. Like uniformed cops in a jewelry store, they’d serve as a
reminder that someone was guarding the merchandise. If they were lucky, the
auction attendees would assume a standard three-to-one ratio of guards you
couldn’t see to those you could.
Level two consisted of Maahes and two micro-guns they’d
smuggled off Obsession. One was posted on the top tier of the Kraal directly above
cargo door that led to the staging area. Anyone who looked hard enough would
see it. It was a natural spot for an emplacement with a field of fire that
covered the gatehouse entry, the bidding tiers, and most of the floor of the
Kraal. Doctrine dictated two micro-guns offset by sixty degrees to create an
interlocking field, but that would have required a resource they didn’t have.
The second micro-gun was down. Gigi left it in the staging
area on the stack of crates containing their personal equipment. She and Maahes
made a show of a long and painful debug before finally giving up when they’d
run out of time. In truth, Maahes had the gun locked down at his end. Gigi
figured the tunnels in the staging area were the weak point of their position.
If action came, that had been voted the direction most likely. The gun also
covered their line of retreat. She and Maahes kept that deception to
themselves. Wilmots and Bryce had no need to know. And Loptr she didn’t trust.
They setup Maahes with the remote gunnery console in the
staging area where he could also keep an eye on their stuff. Bryce would roll
the cargo container into the Kraal then retreat back inside before the auction
started. He would control the remote for both cargo doors, and act as a reserve
if things turned bad. Gigi didn’t like dividing the team but saw no workable
alternative that didn’t leave them more vulnerable.
The merchandise arrived just as they finished setting up. A
standard, three-meter cubed Humanitarian Aid container like one you’d find in
any conflict zone across LOW OrbIT space, loaded on an anti-grav transport sled.
Bryce gave the container a once over. The official seals
were intact. The League of Worlds HCR manifest simply read “relief supplies”
with no further breakdown. The only thing out of the ordinary was an energy
signature he thought might indicate an internal environmental system. Plants or
live animals. Perennial favorites of smuggling operations that Wilmots said had
the highest margins after the black market triad of weapons, drugs and vice.
Perhaps more valuable on Home with its loose social mores and tight import
controls on invasive species.
With the cargo container on site, Gigi verified that Loptr
had their transit documents. They’d meet Wilmots’ Interdiction contact in a
neutral tunnel after the auction had concluded. She would guide them into Petit
Darwin and then the starport where they had passage booked on a tramp
freighter. A circuitous route but the one that would arouse the least suspicion
with Home Security. After that, they would be bound for Anarchy where anyone
could live in absolute anonymity. At least anyone with a few solars and
something to trade. The last major refuge on a dying frontier. With the
proceeds of Patel’s formula, all four of them could disperse and disappear.
While they waited for the signal that the Kraal was ready,
Gigi learned of the first wrinkle to the plan. Loptr would be conducting the
auction remotely, not from beside the container where she could keep an eye on
him. She didn’t like it but short of canceling the contract, there was nothing
she could do.
A chime toned in the staging area.
“You ready, Ms. Gagnant?” Loptr asked.
Gigi donned her helmet and adjusted her nightshades. “Let’s
get this done.”
The cargo hatch sighed as it broke its seal then slowly ground
upwards, segmenting as it climbed along an internal track. As she and Wilmots strode
out into the Kraal, Gigi felt like a cross between a gladiator entering an
arena and an image model armed to pimp the latest technology at a paramilitary
trade show. Neither left her feeling good.
The crowd was sparse, a few dozen bidders spread out in
maybe a score of groups on the tiers above. Theirs was the only lot on the
sheet. Though what bidders lacked in numbers they seemed to make up for in
interest. There was a buzz of anticipation among the knots of people, a mix of
men and women, all professionally dressed as if this were social outing, a
place to see or be seen. High-end brokers for a simple Humanitarian Aid container.
As Gigi panned the tiers, she noted a handful security personnel clinging to
the shadows. Whatever this cargo was, apparently, its sale was a dangerous gala
to attend.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” A male voice announced
across the PA system. “Thank you for coming out. I know your time is valuable, so
let’s get right to the action. Today, we have a unique item on the catalogue. As
you can see from the listing, the winning bidder will take immediate possession
and is responsible for all transport and security.”
That voice sounded familiar. A name played along Gigi’s
memory like a word she just couldn’t come up with no matter how hard she tried.
A pressure mounted behind her eyes. Something was off but she wasn’t quite sure
what. She whispered into her comm. “Stay sharp, people. This could get dicey.”
“You’ll find all the terms and conditions in the Purchase
& Sale Agreement of the catalogue,” the announcer continued. “But before we
get bogged down in details, let’s get a preview of the merchandise.”
A set of banners unfurled around the Kraal. Smart-cloth
images flickered to life revealing the interior of the cargo container which had
been converted into a blend between a trendy studio apartment and an
institutional cell. Inside, an adolescent girl in a school uniform paced out
the minimalist, white living space. She might have been Japanese. She moved
like she’d been drugged.
As an excited murmur rippled through the Kraal, Gigi’s
aphasia receded like the water before a tsunami. The name of the announcer finally
broke free. Nick Michaels. Unwanted memories washed over her. Dead girls on The
Farm. Sennikov’s daughter. A child and an explosion on Obsession.
Gigi’s mind reeled as an inner voice began to scream. No,
no, no. The visions threatened to overwhelm her. Not again. Never
a-fucking-gain.
She gripped her assault weapon to steady herself and dropped
to a knee before she began issuing her orders.
“Wilmots, take cover,” Gigi yelled into her comm. “Bryce,
get out here. We’re coming back inside. Maahes, inform Loptr we’re voiding the
contract.” Then she shouted up at the crowd, “Ladies and Gentlemen, this
auction is now over.”
Uneasiness swept across the bidders as they realized Gigi’s
actions weren’t part of the tension building script. Kraal Security began
drifting toward new positions.
“Loptr’s gone,” Maahes replied. “He disappeared right after
you left.”
Son of a mongrel bitch. “Then get that weapon hot. Start tagging
targets for suppression fire in priority order. This just became a hostage
extraction. No one engages until I give the order. Is that clear?”
Three affirmations echoed through her headset. She still had
her team. Now to get them out intact, along with the girl.
The micro-gun transformed confusion to outright panic as it
panned across the crowd, darting from target to target as it sorted priorities.
Bidders bolted for the stairwells. Security dove for cover. Gigi took the opportunity
to grab some herself.
“Gagnant,” Michaels called over the PA. “We each have
something the other wants. Let’s talk.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” Gigi replied. “The girl comes
with us.”
Gigi and Wilmots hugged the back corners of the container,
the only cover available deep within the bowl. They hunkered down, eyeing the
upper decks as they waited for an inevitable response. The cargo hatch behind them
sighed once more as it broke containment. The cavalry was coming.
Only a single segment rose before the hatch chunked to a
halt. The Kraal’s unspoken answer.
“They’ve taken back the door,” Bryce informed her. “I’ve got
their signal jammed but I don’t know how long it will last.”
Stalemate. No, a delaying tactic. Time was not on their
side. She could see security edging into new positions. Soon the tunnels would
be crawling with them. If they didn’t get moving soon, her team was cooked.
“Bryce, secure our line of retreat. Wilmots and I will get
the hostage.”
If they couldn’t get the container out the Kraal, they’d
have to get the girl out of the container. Gigi studied the grav-sled. A
standard model used in starports and military drop-zones throughout the human
space.
That gave her an idea. She just hoped no one had been paying
attention since Scorn. “Wilmots, can these controls issue a voice override to
the container?”
The other woman spared a glance over her shoulder. “Sure.
But it won’t do much good without an access code.”
“Set it up,” Gigi ordered. She was counting on Michaels
being unwilling to risk indiscriminate fire so close to his merchandise.
Wilmots slung her rifle and scurried back to the controls. After
a quick sequence of taps along the keypad, she said, “You’re good to go, for
what it’s worth.”
Wilmots and Gigi exchanged places. Gigi pulled off a
tactical glove. Then just like she’d remembered Meinert instructing her so long
ago, she laid her hand on the scanner and said “Lieutenant Griselda Gagnant,
LOW OrbIT Marines. Override and open this container. Military priority.”
She heard a faint click as the container unlocked and the
lading seals dropped away. Then, as if that were a pre-arranged signal, chaos
erupted throughout the Kraal.
From above, an incendiary missile slammed into the smart
camo covering the oculus in the dome. Burning tatters dropped away. A phalanx
of drones poured through.
A deep, authoritarian, male voice boomed from a skimmer
playing hide and seek above the opening. “This is Home Interdiction. Lay down
your weapons and assume a non-threatening posture. You have three seconds to
comply.”
Gigi bolted for the front of the container, sprinting low
and fast as she hugged its side. She had to get the girl.
“One.”
She flung open the hatch. The container was pristine and
white, but also completely empty. No bunk, no toilet, no desk, no girl. What
the?
“Two.”
Shit. They’d been set
up. “Maahes, fire!”
“Three.”
The Kraal exploded in a firefight. Drones darted left, right,
up, down and sideways, each according its own threat-assessment algorithm.
Kraal security returned fire, concentrating on the oculus. Maahes unleashed the
micro-gun, which chewed through drones and ammunition with a high pitched
scream. Flechettes sparked and ricocheted off the dome of the Kraal. Dead drones
rained to the ground. A second phalanx of reinforcements began to pour in.
“Everyone, pull back to the rendezvous,” Gigi yelled into
her comm.
She raced back toward the cargo hatch. A truncated scream burst
into her ear. She slid to the ground at the back corner of the container,
sweeping her barrel for targets.
Wilmots lay unmoving just outside the hatch. Flechettes buzzed
through the air like biting flies. Her armor erupted with craters like an
unshielded ship in a meteor swarm. Blood pooled beneath her.
The micro-gun swiveled in super slow-motion like those
ancient war holos where helicopter rotors crawled through their proscribed
circle while making impossibly low frequency whooping sounds. Composite
confetti drifted down like burning snow.
Gigi knew she shouldn’t stare, knew she had to get moving.
But the weight of another body paralyzed her. Another member of her command
dead. Another friend. How many did that make? And what had she done that had
been so special? Why did she continue to survive?
“Move, Lieutenant,” Maahes commanded. “I won’t have this gun
long.”
Gigi shook her head clear. Time snapped back to normal
speed. She jumped to her feet and sprinted across the open ground. Above, the
micro-gun buzzed like an angry yellow jacket nest then suddenly whirred to
silence mid-sweep.
“Jammers,” Maahes noted.
Gigi dove under partially open cargo door into the staging
area. She rolled to her feet, frantically searching for Bryce’s remote to close
the door before an ambitious drone followed. Instead she saw he had physically
wedged a rod from the floor to the manual release button. She kicked it away.
The cargo door slid back down and sealed itself in place.
She turned to Maahes, back in command. “Head for the
rendezvous. Tell Bryce to treat the comms as compromised. Go.”
He jumped to the floor but didn’t move. “Wilmots?”
“Dead.” Gigi swallowed hard, remembering her friend’s pockmarked
body. “Which is what we’ll be once Interdiction or security shows up.”
Maahes was still staring up at her. “What about the girl?”
“There is no girl. Loptr sold us out.” She snatched up
Bryce’s rod and jammed it against the manual mechanism, this time against the
emergency close button. Flood the system with a lockdown signal. Old school
jamming.
“We should stick together, Lieutenant.” His artificial voice
interface almost made him sound reluctant. She knew they were both remembering the
Geminal cones on Obsession. Dividing their forces was never a good idea.
Gigi shifted over to the interface for the micro-gun. “I
need you to make sure Bryce doesn’t leave us hanging. Without Loptr’s papers, Wilmots’
contact is the only lifeline we’ve got. If that window closes, we’ll never make
it out.”
She began working the controls. Still Maahes hesitated. A
stream of flechettes pinged the cargo door from the outside, snapping both
their heads toward the sound.
“Go,” she ordered, turning back to the gunnery interface. “I’ll
catch up. I run faster than you do, furball.”
“Ha! That’ll be the day.” The CuFF bolted down the tunnel at
a full sprint toward Bryce and the rendezvous.
Gigi erased all their signatures from the lockout of
micro-gun. That made sure it couldn’t be spoofed. It would now fire on anything.
She set its sensors to passive only and programmed it to wait until it had at
least three targets within its defined field. She moved it to a better location
and reduced its targeting range. Then she set a fifteen second delay to allow
herself to get clear. All she had to do was initiate it and the micro-gun would
become an indiscriminate ambush. It wouldn’t hold long but it might slow someone
down and provide a warning. A trick she’d borrowed from the Greens.
Now it was her turn to hesitate. She wasn’t sure why. Her
eyes kept drifting to the crates of their personal possessions, small and few. The
only remaining remnants of her team and everything that lay behind them. Down
2, Scorn, Obsession. Now Home.
Her training told her there was nothing in there that
couldn’t be replaced. Her heart said otherwise. No one would forward anything
to either her team or their next of kin. She’d always known that which was why
she carried everything she valued on her person.
She ticked off the checklist in her mind. Assault weapon,
nightshades, the auto-injector from Patel. And his formula memorized deep
within her mind. That was everything she needed.
No. There was something she’d forgotten, something she’d
dragged along through every mission. She scrambled through her personal
container looking for it, throwing all the other unnecessary junk to the
ground. Then she had it, the Pocket Jesus. A repressed memory of The Farm. She
slipped it into her fatigues.
One last check, then she engaged the micro-gun. She sprinted
for the tunnel after Maahes, hoping she wasn’t too far behind.
Several minutes later as she neared the rendezvous, she
slowed, first to a jog, then a walk, and finally a corner clearing crouch. Either
Bryce or Maahes should have been posted as a watch. Something was wrong.
She spun through the filters on her nightshades. That’s when
she spotted the drops of blood. Human or feline, she couldn’t tell which.
She dropped low against the wall. She interfaced her
nightshades to the assault weapon and slowly poked it around the corner. As it
panned across the space, there he was, sitting by the outlet door, one hand
looped through Maahes harness, the other pointing a pistol at his head. Nick
Michaels, his face unwrapped from behind his Loptr disguise. She should have known. His pistol arm
trailed blood from a set of long, deep, parallel scratches. At least Maahes had
scored a hit.
“You may as well drop the rifle and come out, Gagnant,” he called
out, looking right into the camera. “Once again, we each have something the
other wants.”
Gigi knew exactly what he wanted. And she knew she would
never trade it, not even for Maahes’ life. But she knew she didn’t have a clean
shot unless she moved the rifle. The moment she did, Maahes would definitely be
dead. That was price she couldn’t bear.
She widened the field of view to fisheye through her
nightshades. Bryce’s body lay just beyond Michaels along the wall. His chest
had been ripped apart like he’d stumbled into a tiny, directional mine. The
kind spooks liked. Blood congealed around him. How many did that make, Gigi
wondered. Nguyen, Meinert, Baidu, Okoronkwo, Sagnol, Wilmots. Twenty-two others
on The Farm. Everyone under her command came up dead.
Michaels pulled tighter on the harness. A strangled growl
emerged from Maahes’ throat. “Now, Gagnant.”
Gigi slowly set the rifle down. As she stood, she retrieved
the auto-injector from her fatigues and held it to her throat. Then she stepped
around the corner.
Michaels laughed. “Is that supposed to be a threat? Let the
CuFF go, or I get it? I’m afraid you don’t understand how this situation works.”
“You spooks never were that smart,” Gigi replied. “You
remember that hellhole you sent us to called Obsession? Remember the Immunity
Boosters they gave us? Well, a mutual friend told me this auto-injector will
self-erase all those nasty memories for as long as I’ve been taking them.
Including the one where I memorized the formula for his antidote. So, yeah, let
the CuFF go.”
Michaels stared at her for several long seconds. “And if I
think you’re bluffing?”
“Try me.” She adjusted her grip on the auto-injector, pressing
it into her neck until she could feel her pulse flickering against it. “You
have no idea how long I’ve wanted to forget. Since before I ever met you.”
Michaels licked his lips. Then he slowly lowered Maahes to
the ground. But he kept the pistol.
Maahes turned and hissed at him. He raised a paw. Michaels’
pistol twitched.
“Uh-uh, Michaels,” Gigi said. Michaels froze. The CuFF let
his paw drop. “Maahes, I want you to vanish into the city. Signal me when
you’re clear.”
“And you?” the CuFF asked. His artificial voice remained
neutral.
“I’ll give him what he wants and do the same. Don’t look for
me. And don’t go back to the Stack Maze.”
Maahes eyed her as if trying to read her true intentions,
his expression alien and unreadable. “Lieutenant,” he finally said, “serving under
you has been a privilege I won’t forget.”
She wanted to say she wouldn’t either. But she knew that
wasn’t true. So she said nothing. He slowly blinked and turned away. His gray
fur faded into the plascrete background, as if he’d never been a part of her
life at all.
“We don’t have long before someone finds us,” Michaels said.
“This tunnel is no longer secure.”
“We wait here or nowhere, Michaels,” Gigi replied. “Once I confirm
he’s safe, we’ll go anywhere you want.”
Michaels scowled, but didn’t press. He slowly drew out a
handkerchief.
Gigi glared at him a few seconds before curiosity overcame
her caution and she asked. “Who was she, anyway? Just some random schoolgirl
you snatched?”
“A colleague.” Michaels dabbed the cloth against the ragged
wounds Maahes had inflicted. Gigi hoped they left a scar. “Don’t worry, she’s
safe. I just needed something to trade, something you could never pass up. She
fit the bill perfectly, even if unwillingly.”
“You son of a bitch,” Gigi growled, “you’ve been
manipulating me all along by triggering my memories.” If it was possible, she
hated Michaels more. She would have killed him if she had a weapon. Hell, she
just might try with her bare hands.
Michaels must have seen the murder in her eye. His pistol moved.
Gigi stopped and jammed the auto-injector a little deeper under her jaw. He
relaxed his hand and let the barrel drop. Their standoff resumed.
“If you’d only stored the formula in your nightshades,” he
said, almost wistful, “you’d all be on your way to Anarchy by now.”
Gigi snorted her disbelief.
Michaels shrugged. “I don’t like seeing people killed
unnecessarily. Someone jumped the gun.”
“And Bryce?” She nodded to her companion’s body. “Why did he
have to die?”
Michaels returned to tending his arm as if Bryce were just
another piece of scenery. “He was dead when I got here.”
Gigi thought about interrogating Michaels further, but
decided she couldn’t take any more of his lies. So they waited in silence.
A few minutes later, an artificial voice whispered in her
ear. “Lt. Thomas Maahes 17 signing off TacNet. Relentless forward progress. Predator,
not prey.”
When the comm link went dead, Gigi knew she was truly alone.
The last of her team was gone. She had nothing left to lose. Suddenly, she let
out belated laugh. Only Maahes would put that spin on her Marine motto. His way
of telling her a CuFF would go out swinging.
“He say something funny, Gagnant?” Michaels asked.
“Something you’d care to share?”
Gigi smiled, thinking how much she’d miss the little
furball, even if he technically outranked her. “Maahes just reminded me that it’s
better to hunt than be the hunted.”
Michaels just looked at her quizzically, not quite sure he
got the joke.
“Unlike humans,” she explained, “CuFFs know they aren’t apex
predators.” She was certain Maahes had worked out her plan and given his
approval. Patel would have to find another way. Her smile turned cold and malevolent.
“But, then again, neither are you.”
Michaels reacted almost instantaneously. His eyes dilated.
The barrel of his pistol started up, too late. It didn’t reach level before Gigi
squeezed the trigger.
The chill of the serum shot into her vein, numbing it like
ice. She released the auto-injector. Spots of shadow began blinking along her
peripherals like antiphoton fireflies. Something clattered to the floor.
A micro-gun burst to life, sustained fire then nothing. Gigi
slumped against the wall. She was tired, so very tired. Someone would be coming
soon. She knew that was probably bad but could no longer remember exactly why. She
could no longer force one thought to follow another.
Nearby, a man started yelling. Her father? He was angry,
always angry. Someone slung her over a shoulder as if she’d been wounded. She
didn’t feel anything. She wondered where he was taking her. Back to base on The
Farm?
Suddenly a pressure she didn’t know existed squeezed into
release somewhere deep inside her head. Darkness swarmed to fill in her vision until
her consciousness finally winked out. Awash with relief, she no longer cared. For
the first time in a year, she was at peace.
---
Gigi Gagnant awoke in coffin quarters of a cheap starport hotel
unable to remember how she’d gotten there. When she checked the storage cubby,
she found only her nightshades, military discharge papers she didn’t remember
signing, a medical report saying she’d suffered dissociative mental recombination
as the result of service related trauma, and a pre-paid ticket on a tramp
freighter bound for Anarchy.
Tucked behind them she discovered a well-worn Pocket Jesus,
like one she hadn’t seen since Lode. As she turned the small book over in her
hands, she wondered who might have left it. There was no inscription inside the
cover, no mark of ownership or donation. The single dog-eared page contained a
familiar but otherwise meaningless Psalm. So she gathered up the rest of her
belongings and left it behind, hoping someone else might one day draw comfort
from it.
© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III
