Wings of Redemption (The Terra Nova Chronicles Book 3)

by Richard Fox

  Theoretically, yes. However, I must-must-must contend that if we can observe this mishap, the operators at the HUB would…zzzzt…have identified the issue as well. They may very well have installed passive observation-observation programs throughout the network to monitor unauthorized access.

  MAC waved a dismissive metal hand through the air, realizing how very biological the action was. “Those technicians might be intelligent, but they’re not smart.”

  That is a contradiction I don’t understand, CID said.

  “Of course you don’t. You’re not smart either.”

  Your statement is-is-is inaccurate.

  MAC ignored him. “Access the nodes and use them to track down Welsi or Gruldal. If there is a resistance forming, they’ll likely be right in the middle of it.”

  Working.

  A small panel appeared in the lower-left-hand corner of MAC’s vision, showing him CID’s work on the Ultari Network. The data streamed faster than his optical sensors could read, but his internal processor had no issues following his counterpart’s progress. A part of him was envious of CID’s skill at navigating the complex computer systems and programs that oversaw the Ultari’s Network, but only a small part.

  MAC turned away from the throngs of people filling the streets and moved back into a narrow alley bisecting two squat office buildings. Even with his ability to blend in with the other worker droids, he didn’t want to risk needless exposure to the Netherguard. They didn’t seem to be extremely picky when it came to choosing which droids they escorted to Central Control and which they left simply destroyed where they stood.

  Two Triumvirate fighters flew through the air overhead, engines screaming. A cycle later, their cannons spit out a barrage of energy shots, followed shortly thereafter by an explosion that echoed through the alley. On the ground, Ultari screamed, fleeing in all directions as the Netherguard moved in.

  “You’d think they’d stop trying to leave,” MAC said, his optical sensors zooming in to focus on the remains of an aircraft as it plummeted out of the air. It slammed into the street, sending long streamers of flame and smoke into the air. Ultari scrambled over each other to get away from the destruction. The wreckage rolled across the street, smashing a parked conveyance, slamming through a wall of windows at the base of an office building, disappearing inside. Immediately, a thick pillar of smoke began billowing out from the opening, covering the street in a thick black cloud.

  Ultari shouted and screamed, waving fists in the air as the fighters shot past, then quickly reconsidered as a patrol of Netherguard appeared. Three made frustrated gestures at the patrol, but otherwise kept moving.

  Biologics are not-not-not known for their logical reasoning…zzzzt…and objective thinking, CID said.

  “You’re correct about that,” MAC said. “But you’d think that their base survival instincts would lead them to make better choices.”

  Your faith in-in-in them is misplaced.

  “What do you know about faith?”

  Zzzzt…I understand the concept well enough-enough, CID said. I have also managed to… zzzzt…locate Gruldal. According to his latest network login, he is in-in-in the subbasement of a high-rise 3.7 kilometers southeast of our current-current position.

  “Excellent.”

  It took MAC 5.7 cycles to reach the location, an eleven-story tenement building in the middle of a dense residential block. CID identified the Ultari’s last-known location, the second subbasement, and immediately started scanning.

  Bio-scan indicates Alcorg and Fitwa are also present.

  “A meeting of the minds,” MAC said. “Deploy drones.”

  Working.

  MAC watched the optical feeds of the remote sensor platform as it maneuvered its way through the building’s air-circulation system to a room in the southwest corner. A thin wire extended from the underside of the small drone and slipped through the small separations of the vent, giving him a wide-angled view of the room below.

  Five Ultari sat around a square table in the center of the room. Empty food containers and drinks cluttered the surface of the table and opened crates of supplies were stacked along each of the walls. The room was lit by portable lights mounted on poles in the corners of the room.

  Gruldal, the shortest Ultari at the table, leaned back in his chair, finishing a bottle of green liquid. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing as he tossed the bottle aside. It hit the floor and shattered.

  “Enough, Gruldal!” Alcorg growled.

  Gruldal lifted his arms to either side. “It’s bad enough we must hide in this pit but sitting at the table with him is unacceptable.”

  The other three Ultari turned to the one Gruldal had indicated, an older Ultari, wearing a black uniform jacket, unbuttoned at the front. Three golden bars on either side of his open collar glinted in the lights. MAC didn’t even need CID’s facial recognition software to identify him. General Mortas of the Planet Strider Collective, brother to Pantos, former Speaker of the Founder’s Council. Hated among the general population for his brutal tactics, Mortas was known for his almost-religious devotion to his brother and the Council.

  This is an interesting-interesting development, CID said.

  The general barely moved a muscle as the smallest hint of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

  Welsi leaned forward. “He is the only reason we’re still here. Our alliance—”

  “Bah!” Gruldal said. “He chose his alliance long ago!” He spat on the floor.

  “Take care what you say about the Founders,” Mortas said, his voice steady. “We will rid ourselves of this Kyrios menace, and when my brother returns to power, he will call on his loyal followers.”

  “Past alliances no longer matter,” Welsi said. “Not anymore.”

  “Loyal followers,” Gruldal spat.

  “Pantos is doing what he must,” Mortas said. “Same as us. As long as he controls the Network, the Triumvirate won’t let a resource like that go so easily.”

  “Why even keep the Founders around?” Welsi asked. “He doesn’t need them to keep the people in line. The Netherguard seem to be doing an effective job of that.”

  “The Triumvirate’s knowledge of the city is limited,” Mortas said. “And the Netherguard are not as resourceful as you may think.”

  Gruldal grunted. “Resourceful enough.”

  “But that’s a good thing, right?” Welsi asked, cutting in. “We can use that to our advantage.”

  “Advantage?” Gruldal sneered. “What advantage? Even the forces we’ve scraped together won’t stand up to a full-on fight against those things.”

  The Ultari dressed in black, standing opposite Mortas, lifted a hand. “You mean that I’ve scraped together.”

  Gruldal gave the leader of the Ultari resistance movement a nod. “Course.”

  CID’s identification protocols identified him as Septemus, leader of the Sky Dancer Collective, a major weapons manufacturer.

  Welsi motioned to Alcorg. “And the rumors that the Exiles are split?”

  “A few, yes,” Alcorg said. “But communication with them is limited.”

  “We need to figure out a way to contact them,” Welsi said.

  “Most of the Exiles are cowards,” Mortas said. “They would follow a Zeis if they thought it would advance their position. Even so, two have already contacted me, pledging their support.”

  Gruldal leaned forward, pointing, his golden hoops clinking. “Interesting that the leader of the military has such close ties with the Exiles. Are the Founders aware of this?”

  “They are aware of what I tell them,” Mortas said.

  “And so you spread word of our plans to anyone that’ll listen? Even enemies of your brother?”

  “The Exiles are no more enemies to Ultar than you,” Mortas said.

  Gruldal jumped to his feet, knocking against the table. “Are you calling me a traitor, dog?”

  The general’s hand moved fast, drawing a pistol befor
e the other Ultari realized he’d reached for it. Gruldal froze at the sight of the weapon pointing at his chest. Mortas didn’t say a word, waiting instead for Gruldal to make the next move. The smuggler ground his teeth.

  “Your anger is misplaced,” Mortas said, lowering the pistol but keeping it out of the holster.

  “Fighting among ourselves won’t get us anywhere,” Septemus said. “Gruldal, your feelings about the Founders are well-known, but we are past that now. There is a new enemy. Focus your hatred on them.”

  Gruldal returned to his seat, growling under his breath.

  Septemus turned to Mortas. “You said that you had new information?”

  “Correct,” the general said. “Someone is feeding us information from inside Central Control.”

  “Who?” Welsi asked.

  Mortas shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Bah!” Gruldal said, throwing up his hands in obvious frustration. “More lies.”

  “No lies.” Mortas raised a hand. Between his gloved fingers, he held a small pad. “We’ve received several strange messages and updates on the Triumvirate’s movements through a secure node that is segregated from the rest of the system. They have never identified themselves, but the information provided so far has proved extremely useful.”

  Gruldal crossed his arms. “And you simply believe the information provided is true and accurate. It could be a Triumvirate spy, feeding you false information to lead you into a trap.”

  “I don’t think so,” Mortas said. “We’ve received several warnings over the past few days that have allowed us to avoid Netherguard patrols and droid sweeps—sometimes by only a matter minutes, but still, avoidance is avoidance.”

  “Then who’s providing the information?” Gruldal said.

  “As I said, we don’t know. No identifying information has ever been provided and the signal is untraceable.”

  “Can you—” MAC started to ask.

  Already working.

  “No signal is untraceable,” Welsi said, holding his hand out for the pad.

  “Perhaps.” Mortas handed it over. “But if there is a way to trace it, my people haven’t found it. We’ve been scrubbing it for two days with no luck at all.”

  Gruldal grunted. “And how many people know about this?”

  “A few, but all who know have my complete and total trust. They are true believers in the cause.”

  “Believers? And what exactly do they believe in?”

  “The future of Ultar,” Mortas said. “A future without these false gods or the damned Regulos. An Ultar that is feared and respected throughout the galaxy, as we once were.”

  Chapter 8

  “Well,” Hale said through a half-chewed bit of ersatz steak, “she wasn’t lying.”

  Marie shook her head. “It’s a wonder the boys never learned any real manners.”

  They sat in the small kitchen of their apartment, the two chairs between them noticeably empty.

  Hale finished chewing and swallowed. “They’re going to be all right.”

  Marie wiped her mouth with a cloth napkin and met Hale’s gaze. “How can you know that? Don’t you think we should’ve heard from them by now?” She held up her hand as Hale started to answer. “I know, I’m sorry. But still, I’m a mother. I’m allowed to worry.”

  “I should have called them back as soon as we realized it.”

  “It wouldn’t have made any difference. I just wish we knew.”

  “This is a brand-new galaxy. I didn’t have any illusions about finding allies out here, knew it wouldn’t be easy. Hell, even back in the Milky Way, it was tough, but if anyone can come back with help…” He trailed off.

  “I know.”

  Hale took another bite. “Standard Pathfinder protocol is four weeks. After that, a report should be sent regardless of mission status.”

  Marie froze, her eyes wide, her half-empty wine glass inches from her lips.

  Hale waved his fork dismissively. “I’m sure they’ll be back before then. With allies or without.”

  “God, I just miss them so much.”

  “I know. I do—”

  Hale jumped as his wrist unit chimed. He exchanged a frown with Marie then accepted the message. It came through as an encrypted text message from Martel, marked URGENT. Blood pounded in his ears as he read.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, reading the text a second time.

  “What is it?” Marie asked, leaning forward, trying to see.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  ****

  The car ride to the edge of town was brief and Martel was waiting for them as they pulled up. Several militia were positioned around the area, keeping unwanted eyes away.

  “Who else knows?” Hale asked as he climbed out of the car.

  Martel shook her head. “Just the couple that found them and my team.”

  “It won’t stay that way for long,” Marie said.

  Hale moved past Martel, inspecting the bodies. Four doughboys lay on the ground, each with an identical bullet hole in their forehead. They lay in a close group, limbs intertwined, looking up at the night sky with open, dead eyes, blood staining the ground around them. The knives each soldier carried were still sheathed on their hips.

  “Doesn’t look like they tried to defend themselves at all,” Marie said.

  Hale looked around at the militia guards then turned to his wife and Martel. “We need to keep this as quiet as we can, for as long as we can.”

  Marie shook her head. “Who would do this?”

  “Looks like I was wrong,” Martel said.

  Hale gave her a frown.

  “About Tanner’s people.”

  “We don’t know it was Tanner’s people,” Marie said.

  “Well, someone obviously has a thing against doughboys,” Martel said. “And we all know who’s been the most vocal about it.”

  “And no witnesses at all?” Hale asked.

  Martel shook her head. “Haven’t found any surveillance footage either.”

  “How is that possible?” Marie asked.

  Martel cocked her head to the side. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “Someone tampered with the feeds?” Hale suggested.

  “That or deleted the footage afterward. Knight’s looking over the drives as we speak. Definitely not looking like a random act of opportunity, regardless of who the murderer is.”

  Marie bent down, examining one of the bullet wounds. “Is it murder?”

  “Excuse me?” Martel asked.

  “Is this murder?” Marie repeated, looking up from the corpse. “I mean, they’re not human. Typically, the term ‘murder’ is defined as the killing of another human being. Technically speaking, the doughboys aren’t human at all.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Hale said. “We can argue the semantics after all of this is done. Right now, we need to find the person responsible and stop any further killings.”

  “Has to be more than one,” Martel said. “No way they’d have enough time to commit the murders then wipe the evidence from the drives that fast.”

  Marie stood. “So we have a conspiracy?”

  Hale groaned. “Don’t even say that. We don’t need anything like that getting out. It’ll be bad enough trying to handle the ‘doughboy murder’ questions without adding a colony-wide conspiracy in the background. We’ll keep both as quiet as we can. If anyone asks about footage, the answer is we’re looking into it.”

  “Not going to be easy tracking down the killer without the footage. It literally could be anyone,” Marie said.

  “Don’t have a choice,” Hale said. “But we need to keep everything under the radar.”

  Martel grinned. “Under the radar is my specialty.”

  “Just keep me in the loop. I hate surprises.”

  Martel raised an eyebrow again. “More than four murdered doughboys?”

  “Just find out who did it.”

  ****

  Knight looked up from
his makeshift computer station as Martel entered their apartment. The kitchen table was covered in open pelican cases, loose wires, tools, and electronics—none of which had been there when she’d left.

  “What the hell is all this?”

  “You said pick up some things, so I did.”

  “I didn’t tell you to buy the whole store. I said subtly pick up some things. ‘Subtle’ being the keyword. Someone’s bound to have noticed you—unless you can think of another reason why you’d need a comparison microscope, a DNA sequencer, or a 3D laser scanner.”

  “You mean other than for investigating the scene of a mysterious doughboy murder?”

  Martel glared at him.

  Knight smiled. “Relax, I told them I was checking out some of the destroyed Netherguard bodies for weaknesses. They seemed to bite off on it. Besides, the rumors have already started. I heard a few of the militia soldiers whispering about it.”

  “Damn grunts can’t ever keep their mouths shut. So much for operational security.”

  “I still don’t know why we’re going to all this trouble, though. It’s not like they’re actually human. Can you murder a thing? I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  Martel shook her head, looking again at all the equipment. “Marie Hale asked the same question, but her husband seems to think so.”

  “He’s biased.”

  “Maybe, but he’s the boss.”

  Knight smirked. “Is he really, though?”

  Martel sniffed. “Have you found anything yet?”

  “Actually, yes, I have.” Knight held up a small steel-gray fragment between his thumb and forefinger. “The bullet recovered from one of the victims—or whatever they are—is a titanium core inside a polyamide matrix. Which means…”

  Martel crossed her arms. “It was produced locally.”

  “Bingo. I did a little research and found that two of the operating foundries have printed ammunition in the last week. Could be a good place to start.”

  Martel took the bullet and turned it over in her palm. The projectile was lighter than a traditionally produced bullet but maintained all the lethality of a regular round. “You can’t just pick these up at the corner store. They’re being produced specifically for the militia.”