“A swift victory,” repeated Hoga. “How many times have we heard that promise? I fought in the sixth war. They said we’d disable the enemy fleet and secure their surrender within three days at the most. But there was no master plan, only four years of meaningless hardship, of watching our vessels torn to shreds, crewmen flowing like blood through ruined hulls to drift in the void, forgotten. I served on the Spirit of Harka. Three hundred froze to death when our generators failed. Only four survived.
“By the time of the seventh war, I was a general. I sat back while others died. Soldiers like my Jiri … lost in the snow drifts of a foreign world. Her body gone, nothing to mourn…”
Hunter was surprised to see Hoga’s eyes glistening with tears. She felt a pang of guilt at her initial reaction to him, and reminded herself that there was a world of difference between a War Minister and a warmonger.
Safri placed a comforting hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Let your tears flow, my friend. ‘The stronger the heart, the swifter flows the blood’ they say, and you have iron in your chest. Captain, let’s hear your proposal.”
Hunter nodded gratefully. He seems a decent man. What a shame that the fragments we need are on Anasade and not here.
Hopefully there are sane voices to be heard over there too.
* * *
“… so then, Zokan or Zarka or whichever one it was just laughed in my face, grabbed the bottle from outta my hands and shoved me out into the corridor!” concluded Annie.
“Oh dear,” said Gypsy, once she realised that a comment was expected.
“Yeah! Next thing I know the door’s slamming shut an inch from my nose.”
“Oh, that does seem a little harsh, maybe. Do you think it might be a cultural thing?”
Annie sighed in affectionate exasperation. She’d exaggerated the story a little to try and make the timid mathematician angry on her behalf, but it didn’t seem to have had the desired effect. Or maybe this was as mad as Gypsy got?
“Culture, schmulture! I know bad manners when I see it. They hadta know I’d made an effort where no-one else was. Had on my best dress, too. Blue, green, strapless, slit thigh-high on one side … I mean, I looked great, you can imagine.”
“I am,” said Gypsy absently. Then she reddened abruptly. “I mean, I am, I’m sure, sure that you looked, erm, diplomatic.”
“Darned straight. They were way outta line. Different culture or not, we ain’t gotta put up with that.”
“Sorry, you’re right, yes.” Gypsy seemed to belatedly realise what was expected of her. She clenched her fists. “Just wait till I get my hands on them. Grrr…”
Annie laughed. “It’s the thought that counts, G-Moth. Reckon you might be better off whackin’ folks with your brain than your fists though. Leave the ass kickin’ to me.”
“Ah, yes, that might be better.”
They were sitting together on a bench overlooking a national park, just as they had been on Kerin a few weeks back. No need for umbrellas this time, though, not with summer rays bathing all about them. They were on ground level this time, at the edge of a paved pavilion overlooking the gardens. Based on the tables littered about behind them, Annie guessed that this was usually a restaurant, but the only Monosadans currently present were a pair of guards standing watch where a path led back towards the main government complex.
Gypsy had her quantum goggles hung about her neck, as she claimed that the gardens spread before them caused interesting ephemeral patterns; Annie herself had taken a look and seen only chaos. The gardens themselves were floral in nature, with blooms of all colours laid out in pretty arcs. Just like home, thought Annie with a frown. Well, I’ll see it soon enough. Let’s say, one month for the skipper to sort these guys out, one more to zip back over to Kerin and get Vitana’s thingamabob put together. Then Chitana clicks its fingers and we’re back in time for spring. A cinch.
“No, that’s disgusting,” muttered Gypsy.
Annie frowned. “What is?”
“What? Sorry, did I say that out loud. I didn’t mean, erm, I was just, just…” Gypsy flicked her hands in annoyance. “I was talking to myself. I do that sometimes. It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”
“Nah, I talk to my spider all the time. It’s healthy. Shows we’re bursting with ideas, or somethin’.”
Gypsy shook her head. “But I do it when other people can hear. I know it makes me look strange, because I’ve seen people smiling about it when they think I’m not looking. I don’t mean to, it’s just … I get locked up in my thoughts sometimes and forget there’s a world outside, and I’m in it whether I’m thinking about it or not.”
Annie regarded her friend thoughtfully. “Look, Gypsy. As long as you’re with me, you don’t need to apologise for being weird or strange. Where I come from, those’re virtues. Yeah, I’ve heard you talking to yourself before, but you know what? I like it. Reminds me of something from my girlhood, actually.
“Back around fourth grade, my folks got me a radio kit. Guess they knew I had something of the techie in me even then. I hadta put that thing together myself from scratch – still got it, back home in Oklahoma. I’ll never forget that first time when I turned the dial and voices started fading in and out from all over the world. And you’re just like that. When you talk that way, it’s like I’m tuned into you for a split second. My very own broadcast from Radio Gypsy.”
The mathematician looked across at her for a moment and smiled. Say, we’re the same height. Always thought Gypsy was shorter. Maybe she’s sitting up a little straighter today.
“I can count on you,” Annie decided. “Plenty of women on board are acting no better than those Kerin guys lately – there’s been some short fuses, bad communication. Have you noticed?”
“Well, no, not really. Who do you mean?”
“Lorna snapped at me yesterday for being, like, thirty seconds late for a shift. Evi’s been staring off into the distance in our team meetings – I had to ask her the same question three times to get an answer a few days back. Worrying about whether we get back home, I guess. But you’re not like that. You’re stable.”
Gypsy’s eyes widened incredulously.
“I mean it! Whatever’s going on in your head, you don’t let it affect how you deal with people. That’s precious. Y’know, when we get home, there’s lots that…” Annie trailed off at the sounds of footsteps. Boots on the paving.
Half-turning, she saw a Matan in a green military uniform striding through the tables, arms swinging easily at his sides. One of the guards. He loped over to stand in front of them, gangly but powerful.
“The good morning,” he said, in barely intelligible English.
“The good morning to you too, Buddy. Patha ropor?”
The man seemed grateful for the invitation to slip into his own language. “Mo-Hunter sava prosta la. Geli Mo-Gypsy os rama reti garalij?”
“Can you understand him?” whispered Gypsy.
Annie frowned. “Think so, yeah. He says that Hunter’s asking for you. He’s here to escort you to the meeting place.”
“Oh, okay.” Gypsy clambered to her feet, but Annie found herself stretching out a restraining hand. There was something off about the uniformed man’s manner – a trifle too loose, too casual. And … yes, his boots! Everyone else in the government complex was bare-footed. Why not this one?
“Wait a second, Gypsy.” Rising, Annie risked the quickest of peripheral glances back at where their guards had been stationed.
No-one there.
“I’d just like to check something with the skipper,” she said, avoiding the man’s gaze. Despite her best efforts, she couldn’t keep the faintest of quavers from creeping into her voice. Whether that passing weakness made a difference she would never know, but the rangy Matan drew back his fist the instant she began to reach for her wristband.
Bala had taught Annie basic self-defence some months ago, and taught her well. She automatically threw up a forearm, aiming to deflect the blow up and outward
s.
For all the effect it had, she might as well have been trying to block a bulldozer. The meaty four-fingered fist burst straight through her guard, smashing her arm aside like a twig and catching her right between the eyes. Annie was barely aware of the second impact as she struck the bench and slid to the floor. A scream echoed in her ears; hers or Gypsy’s, real or imagined, she could not have said.
The only certainty she took with her into the encroaching void was that she had failed.
III
A liar will steal and a thief will kill.
– African-American proverb
“…unforgivable security lapse, but I assure you…”
“…those Ana-worms have overstepped this time; think how Ramira will react! This changes everything…”
“…Private Medo is conscious, now for some answers…”
“…those responsible will be flogged for their part in this, Captain, be it treachery or indiscipline…”
Hunter shook her head and held up both hands to ward off the gaggle of high-ranking Monosadans. “I don’t care whether you fire every guard in this complex out of a cannon. My woman’s been taken, I want her back!”
“I’ve accessed our security logs, Safri,” came the gruff voice of Hoga from a nearby workstation. “We’ll soon trace them.”
Hunter strode over to join the War Minister. Her heart was pounding; sickness churned in her gut. Not another one lost, not like this…
The screen before them showed an overhead view of the pavilion Gypsy had been snatched from. As Hoga rewound the recording to the key moment, Safri, Hunter and most of the Bona Dea’s contingent crowded around. Only Dr. Little was elsewhere, treating Annie at the other side of the semi-cylindrical security centre. It was windowless and treeless – highly unusual around here. A dark place for dark business.
Hoga located the moment when the stranger had appeared. He approached the two guards on duty and spoke to them, pointing back the way he’d come. One of the guards walked away in that direction. The newcomer acted as soon as he was out of view, slipping behind the remaining guard and placing a hand over his mouth.
The guard collapsed at once; something like chloroform at work, Hunter guessed.
Safri spat disgustedly. “Claimed to be relieving one of them, probably. Any deviations from the security programme should be cleared with the Duty Captain; they ought to have radioed at once. You!” He clicked his fingers at a uniformed woman. “Search our military files for that man. He was wearing a colonel’s uniform.”
“Stolen, surely,” remarked Treja from close behind.
“Not necessarily…”
As the two debated the matter, Hunter’s gaze remained fixed on the screen. She was experiencing unwanted flashbacks to Gatari, watching helplessly as Krikili claimed her crew one by one. At least this footage showed no deaths. The intruder spoke briefly with Gypsy and Annie, then abruptly slugged the technician. Gypsy threw herself protectively over the body of her friend, and the man placed a hand over her mouth, doubtless administering another dose of the knockout drug. In the same motion, he swung the now-limp body of Gypsy over his shoulder and strode forth into the gardens.
“Could he escape the grounds that way?” asked Hunter.
“No,” said Hoga firmly. “The perimeter’s crawling with guards. Colonel or not, he could never bluff his way through while he has your officer with him. Either he doubled back or he’s still out there.”
Small chance of the latter, thought Hunter bitterly. This has been too smooth an operation for there to be no escape plan.
So it proved. As Hoga moved from camera to camera, switching to infra-red to track their quarry through the trees, his trail skirted the edge of the complex before ending up in a hangar full of small aircraft, like fighter jets. He skipped agilely up a ladder and boarded one through a side door, still bearing his burden. The cockpit was currently opaque, but Hunter could imagine him settling into place, switching on viewscreens, firing up the engines…
The jet began to move.
“We have him,” said the Prime Minister confidently. As the screen showed the jet taking off, he spoke into a handheld radio. “Air Security, this is Safri, code 22531-sunset. Have any unauthorised Hamano jets recently left the government complex?”
“Yes,” came the response instantly. “One, unscheduled, radio silent. We’ve already dispatched fighters to bring it down.”
“Good work, but it’s vital the occupants not be harmed – the War Minister will co-ordinate operations from here.” As Hoga’s screens changed to show the views from the pursuing fighters, Safri turned to Hunter. “Our profound apologies again, Captain, but I assure you, there is no escape. His vessel is less powerful and less manoeuvrable. We’ll force him down.”
“I won’t relax until I’ve got Gypsy back. What if he takes her as a hostage?”
“We have snipers capable of bringing down the smallest gnat as it weaves on the horizon. If he threatens her it will be his last act.”
That’s assuming he’s standing out in the open when he does the threatening, thought Hunter. But she kept quiet, not wishing to distract Hoga from his task. The War Minister had now donned a radio headset and brought up a 3D radar image of the chase. The fleeing craft was a single red dot caught in a rapidly closing net of blue ones.
“Good,” he said, in response to a barely audible crackle from his headset. “Two and four, make close passes. Warning shots only, and those only if fired upon.”
The woman who Safri had tasked with identifying the kidnapper reappeared. “Sir, we have confirmed that the man matches the appearance of Colonel Matha, a 7th War veteran currently on leave.”
“A sleeper agent,” said Treja with spite. “Anasade must have planted him years ago. How many stolen secrets, how many leaked plans? For all we know, he cost us a clean victory in the last war.”
For once, Safri seemed in agreement with his ally. “I’ve feared something like this, but not from such a high-ranking officer. If we can take him alive, we might uncover a whole nest of parasites. I can’t believe that he managed this without help.”
Two of the Monosadan fighters completed close passes that must have buffeted the fleeing jet hard with turbulence. Hunter looked for any sign of either Gypsy or the devious Colonel Matha, but the jet’s cockpit was still opaque. Below them lay a green carpet of trees.
Matha showed little interest in being forced down towards the jungle. His craft banked, albeit rather clumsily, and fire flashed at its nose – artillery in use, though the shots came nowhere near any of the fighters.
Panicking? Hunter wondered. That’s not good.
In contrast to the graceless movement of Matha’s craft, the fighters bobbed and weaved elegantly as they maintained a cohesive net about their prey. At Hoga’s command, a blue beam sprang from one of them and struck the jet’s nose. “Fusing the weaponry without risking an explosion,” explained Safri economically. Hunter nodded, barely hearing his words over the growing hubbub of voices and the pounding of her own heart. What now? Surely Matha would surrender? But if he didn’t what could they do – fire on the plane with Gypsy aboard?
“Five, make a strafing run. Fire warning shots as you go.” As Hoga gave the order, number five’s camera showed her pilot sweeping in for another close pass, this time on a rising trajectory.
The jet’s response was instantaneous. Its nose tilting down, it thrust straight at the approaching fighter. A suicide run.
No.
The jet sprang towards number five at a frightening speed, blotting out the blue of the sky almost instantly. But the fighter pilot had excellent reflexes; the view on the screen spun wildly for a moment then steadied. No collision.
Hunter’s gaze switched to the 3D master screen. The red dot was falling, spiralling to earth.
No.
She searched the screens of the other fighters for a proper look at the plunging jet. It had to be a ruse. Had to be. Matha would pull out of the spiral at the las
t moment.
Then the watchers were bathed in the light of an explosion that bloomed on twenty screens at once. The emerald carpet of the jungle was defaced by smoke and angry flames.
No.
* * *
Five hours later, Annabelle Grace stood in the heart of a rainbow and saw only grey. Gypsy’s technicolour wardrobe had no meaning without her there to wear it.
Red for passion, Annie remembered. Orange for ambivalence, yellow for fear. Peaceful green, sombre blue, indomitable indigo, vulnerable violet. The colours, as she knew, were chosen to reflect Gypsy’s feelings about the day ahead – one of her longest-standing rituals.
Now she had made her last choice. The yellow outfit was gone, save for the slippers and socks that Annie had retrieved from the bench they’d shared. Guess it’s appropriate. She was always so afraid – now she’s somewhere fears ‘n tears can never find her. Hope she wasn’t awake before the crash. Hope Matha was…
Matha. Annie had never really hated anyone before. She’d badmouthed more than her share over the years, of course, including Hunter and Barbara Young on this very voyage. But hatred? Her anger, like her love, had always been superficial, the flames swift to ignite, swift to be doused.
But that bastard Matha. His arrogance disgusted her: to presume he had the right to just walk into her life and steal Gypsy away for his own stupid reasons. Annie hadn’t given much thought as to why the kidnapping had taken place. It would be something to do with the war, of course: a hostage to pressure Hunter into giving up the secrets of Earth’s weapons tech or something.
And she’d never get the chance to pay him back. He’d probably gone out thinking he was a martyr. If I could just have five minutes alone with that guy. Smash his face in…
The savage turn of her thoughts disturbed Annie. She’d never been brought to this before. Without realising it, her hands had clenched into fists; she forced them to relax. Kneeling, she laid a hand on the cotton fabric of a green dress and stroked it affectionately.
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