Across Enemy Space

by L. J. Simpson

  “Obviously not,” said the man crisply.

  No, obviously not, thought Jacob. Though whether for the right reasons or not is another matter.

  Jacob’s cell consisted of just four men, usually considered the ideal number. Jacob was the commander and Goss – a recent arrival from Tarsus Center – served as his first lieutenant. In addition there was Capper, for many years a faithful and reliable aide, and Marten, who had arrived along with Goss. There were others Jacob could call on for occasional support – generally members of the underworld who would, for a negotiated fee, supply a whole range of services including logistics, protection and even murder.

  Goss was a product of the Braga Institute, the Combine’s foremost spy academy. Young, though in many ways very capable, he’d received the very best training the institute had to offer. As a consequence, he was – among other things – completely devoted to the cause and utterly convinced of a final victory; essential qualities within the perimeter walls of the institute, but less valuable when sitting in a safe house in the centre of Tycho City. Of more import was the man’s field craft, which was admittedly excellent, but as far as Jacob was concerned, Goss just wasn’t enough of a thinker; he lacked a certain imagination – a kind that allowed you to think of yourself as both predator and prey. It would be his downfall, and Jacob’s too if he wasn’t careful.

  Jacob sat back in his chair and began reading through the background report on Staff Sergeant Powers for the fourth time, and he’d keep on reading until he was satisfied that he’d examined it from every conceivable angle.

  According to the report, Powers had been born and raised way out on one of the fringe worlds – a distant rock known as Braxia. His family had moved to Tycho when the Alliance declared the colony too remote to be adequately defended. An orphan, it seems he’d been raised by foster parents, both now dead.

  In an ideal universe, Jacob would have dispatched someone to Braxia to have a snoop around, but denied protection, Braxia had been abandoned some years since. Ironically, as the planet possessed neither natural resources nor strategic value, there was nothing worth fighting for anyway. The Combine apparently thought so too, and had left the uninhabited world unmolested.

  With Braxia a dead end, Jacob turned to an examination of Powers’ military record. One of Godoy’s contacts was able to make the necessary enquiries and Powers’ story was soon verified. It was true that he’d declined the opportunity for officer training and later been drafted into the ranks. After that, his war record had been unremarkable; a couple of tours on assault ships followed by a training assignment. He was indeed on the freighter Maximilian – a civilian ship requisitioned by the military – on a run to Ormeron when it was attacked by a Combine raider. There were only three survivors, a couple of junior ratings and Powers, who was travelling as a passenger on route to Ormeron to take up a new assignment. Goss had managed to track down one of the surviving ratings, and posing as a reporter confirmed that the man known to them as Powers was on board. After hospitalization and a period of rehabilitation, Powers had been assigned to the military liaison office at Loyola field on the outskirts of Tycho City.

  Brady’s assessment of Powers was that he was intelligent and – unlike Goss – not without imagination. In his own mind he had a very clear understanding of how the war would eventually unfold in any particular set of circumstances. In this, Jacob considered his insights to be particularly astute. What Powers evidently lacked was ambition, which illustrated the complexity of the man’s character. And of course, he was also a drunkard, though it was interesting to note that since becoming involved with the Peace Corps he had cut back on his drinking quite significantly. What did that mean? It would be convenient – even easy – to conclude that the man had finally found some purpose to his existence. On the other hand, it was just the kind of impression a counter intelligence agent might try to project.

  And that was the question at the forefront of Jacob’s mind. Could Powers be a plant? Jacob and his associates had gone through their usual, stringent vetting process and Powers had come up clean. He checked all the boxes. He had the motivation, he had the rationale. Jacob had even witnessed it at first hand, sitting in a quiet corner of the Blue Goose one evening when Powers was giving one of his virtuoso performances. There was nothing to suggest that he was anything more or less than he claimed to be. There was not a single red flag in sight…

  For all that, something just didn’t sit right. It didn’t feel right, and experience told Jacob that when something didn’t feel right, it probably wasn’t. It was nothing he could put a finger on; little more than a gut feeling. But something, somehow, didn’t quite fit… or perhaps it was that things fit together a little too easily, that things were just a little too pat.

  Jacob realized that it wasn’t so much Powers that was worrying him. It was Franklin… or a possible connection between the two. Franklin had been sent on a six week inspection tour. Not especially unusual, but Jacob disliked change. It raised suspicions. He was suspicious about the timing, and suspicious about the fact that Franklin had been transferred out of his old job just as soon as he’d got back. Now why would you sent someone off on an inspection tour and then give them a new assignment the moment they returned? Was that the way they did things? The way the military worked he supposed anything was possible, and to be fair, the information Franklin had passed on since his return had proved valuable. Good, solid data that had been verified through other sources. But in an incessant game of bluff and double bluff, it would be, wouldn’t it… one way or the other?

  And then Powers had entered the equation, wandering into one of Franklin’s old haunts… It could be a coincidence. Contrary to popular belief, coincidences did happen – the laws of probability dictated so. On the other hand, the same equations also decreed that ‘random chance’ was, on occasion, neither random nor chance.

  All Jacob could do was balance the risk against possible gain. There was an equation for that too. Powers could turn out to be even more valuable than Franklin. His assignment in the signals office in fleet liaison put him within reach of all kinds of treasure, and with hostilities entering a new phase, could they really afford to pass up such a golden opportunity? No, they couldn’t. But Jacob would do all he could to mitigate the risks

  “We make contact,” he said finally. “Is Powers keeping to routine?”

  “As far as we can ascertain,” said Goss. “We’ve had no direct contact since Brady left. As a consequence, we’re unsure of his shift rotation. He still goes off base two or three evenings a week, sometimes to attend a Peace Corps meeting over in Wheelhouse, but mostly to visit the Blue Goose and Lazy Sue’s on the east side.”

  “Is he being followed?”

  “Not by human agents, though he might well be tagged. We have no way of knowing.”

  “Well, we can find that out easily enough. Next time he ventures out onto the east side, take Capper and Marten and bring him in. Protocol 2.”

  “Understood,” said Goss.

  * * *

  Fleet Intel, Trinity Base

  “Can we be sure this communication is genuine?” asked Torrance, looking down at the file on his desk.

  “Sig-Int believes that it’s authentic,” said Faulkner. “The message was sent in a high density burst on a very narrow sub-space carrier wave – aimed straight at Tycho. That in itself isn’t particularly unusual but the signal appears to have originated from within Northern Territories space. From their capital, to be precise.”

  “Could it have been faked?”

  “Almost impossible, according to Sig-Int. Sub-space carrier waves have frequency variances that are dependent on the distance from the signal source. We know of no way to replicate these variations artificially. That aside, the message was transmitted in a forty year old NT diplomatic code. One of the senior cryptanalysts picked it up. Mrs. Temperance Greenbow. Ever heard of her?”

  Torrance shook his head.

  “She’s something
of a living legend – worked in cryptanalysis for almost fifty years. Quite brilliant if a little eccentric, and no respecter of rank or position. She’s a law unto herself and also a hopeless inebriate.”

  “Rather ironic for someone called Temperance.”

  “Yes, but the lady does get results, which is the important thing,” said Faulkner. “If not for her, the communiqué might still be sitting on a shelf somewhere in Sig-Int, buried amongst all the other undecipherable flotsam and jetsam. Considering the contents of the message, it would have been the biggest oversight of the war, not to mention the biggest blunder. Have you thought about how we should respond to the message?”

  “It’ll have to go before the First Minister and the War Council but I will recommend giving them everything them are asking for – a full military alliance. I don’t see how we can give them any immediate material assistance but we can start collaborating on tactical and strategic planning almost immediately.”

  “It will mean going on the offensive. Are we ready?”

  Are we ready...? What army ever is, wondered Torrance. Whatever preparations you made, there was always more that could be done. Build more ships, enlist more troops, intensify training, gather more supplies, more reserves… There was always something else that you could do to improve your chances of victory. Perhaps the most valuable commodity you could have was time. Construction of the Shield had bought the Alliance a vital period in which to regroup, retrain and rearm, but now the Combine had rendered the Shield redundant by the simple expedient of attacking the NT. Leaving the NT to fend for themselves simply wasn’t an option. The War Council would surely see that much. The Combine would know it too. It would force the Alliance from behind the Shield and out into the open. Whether it turned out to be a masterstroke or the Combine’s greatest blunder remained to be seen.

  “Ready? We’ll have to be,” said Torrance somberly. “The NT appear to be well armed and also well trained. However, compared to the Combine, their military arm is relatively small. They’ve enjoyed a few notable victories but I don’t think they’re in any position to fight a long, drawn out campaign – they won’t be able to replace battle losses in the necessary time scale. The Combine will fight a war of attrition and grind them out of existence if we let them. After which, of course, they will turn their attention back to us – and perhaps with all the technology they will have stolen from the NT.”

  “Not a pleasant thought.”

  “No. If we are going to act, it has to be now.”

  “There is one other matter, of course…” said Faulkner slowly.

  “Admirals Monk and Stewart.”

  “Yes. If one of them is a traitor, this is the time you would expect them to make their move.”

  “It would be their ideal opportunity,” said Torrance.

  “Yes... and ours too.”

  Chapter 16: The Recruit

  The Blue Goose, Tycho City

  “Another one?” asked the barkeep.

  “Yeah, one for the road.” said Powers. He turned and looked around the bar as the barkeep filled his glass. It was a quiet night, which was only to be expected. Dead Thursday, they called it – the last Thursday before the monthly pay check came through. Half the regular clientele would be spent out and the punters still with cash in their pockets would be saving it for the weekend revelries.

  There were but half a dozen other customers scattered around the Blue Goose. Old Bernie was sitting in his usual seat near the door, staring vacantly at a glass of ale that he hardly ever touched. Though Powers had greeted him on occasion, Bernie had never lifted his head or uttered a sound. He just fixed his gaze on the glass and let the world pass on by.

  ‘Trouble at home’, the barkeep had said knowingly. When Powers had enquired what kind of trouble, the barkeep grimaced. ‘Woman trouble, the very worst kind.’ Still single, Powers thought the topic best left alone.

  Off to Powers’ right, three factory workers were playing cards, their good natured banter drifting across the room. And finally, over in the far corner, a young man and woman were whispering sweet nothings into one another’s ears. The Blue Goose was hardly noted as a venue for romantic interludes, but so captivated were they with each other’s company they either they hadn’t noticed or just didn’t care; probably the latter. Finally, the man whispered something that caused his date’s eyes to open wide in shock and indignation. Judging by the way she returned his wicked smile, the shock may have been real but the indignation likely feigned. The way they scuttled off to the exit – hand in hand and giggling as they went – just confirmed it. Good for you, thought Powers, and good to see that the war doesn’t get in the way of everything…

  Finishing his drink, he pushed the empty glass across the bar and with a nod to the barkeep he headed outside.

  It had been several weeks since he’d last seen Dan Brady at the private party at the Equinox Hotel. His talk with Brady and Godoy had left him in no doubt that he was being groomed. By now, he also knew that enquiries about his past had subsequently been made; Brigadier Faulkner had alerted him to the fact, though how Faulkner himself had come by the information was anyone’s guess. All Powers knew was that he had been investigated and that it wasn’t by any agency belonging to the Alliance. After that it had just been a matter of waiting for some kind of contact from the opposition – perhaps Franklin’s handler, perhaps someone else. But then… nothing.

  The only thing of which they were certain was that Brady had disappeared without a trace. During the last two weeks, he hadn’t visited his apartment and neither had he answered any of his e-mails or messages. Furthermore, the IT guys at Fleet Intel had determined that none of his recent messages had even been opened. It could mean anything. Perhaps something had raised Brady’s suspicions and caused him to cut and run. Maybe it was be normal procedure. There was just no way of knowing. All Powers could do was keep frequenting his usual haunts, keep up his usual patter and hope for a break.

  He stopped off for a bite to eat at a grill a few doors down from the Blue Goose and then headed off to the stairs leading up to street level. He’d spend an hour in Lazy Sue’s and then call it a night.

  A steady rain was falling on 31st Street as he emerged from the stairway, the falling drops causing the few passersby to scurry along head bowed to whatever destination they were headed. Powers found the rain strangely comforting. It cushioned the harshness of the city sounds, absorbing the wail of distant police sirens and the clatter of rolling stock on the nearby railway sidings. Gazing upwards, he saw a myriad of silver streaks caught in the glare of the street lights, softening the industrial bleakness of the thoroughfare. It was almost… tranquil.

  The tranquility ended abruptly as a medium sized van jerked to a halt alongside. Two men leapt out of the side door and bundled Powers inside before he had the slightest chance to react. No sooner was he inside than the van pulled smartly away. Pinned firmly to the floor, his arms were fastened behind his back and some kind of bag was pulled down over his head.

  “Just relax,” said a voice.

  “OK, you got it,” said Powers, his tone as neutral as he could manage.

  “That’s very sensible of you, Mr. Powers,” said the voice. “Now I’ll ask you to lie still while one of my associates scans you. For your sake I hope you aren’t carrying any kind of homing device. It would be very unfortunate if you were.”

  “I’m not,” said Powers.

  “Forgive me if I don’t take your word on that. Even if you are, I’m afraid it won’t help you – the vehicle is shielded – but we’ll know soon enough in any case…”

  “He’s clean,” said another after a minute.

  “Good. Now, Mr. Powers, I’d like to suggest that you lie back and enjoy the ride, but we really don’t want to take a chance on you memorizing how many left or right turns we make along the way. A hand pushed Powers’ head to one side and he felt a small jab in the side of his neck. He needed no guesses as to what it was, but he had time eno
ugh to reflect that it was at least delivered gently.

  “We will be arriving at our destination directly,” said the voice, but by then Powers was already unconscious.

  The van continued along 31st Street and then made several random turns. Satisfied that the vehicle wasn’t being tailed, the driver turned south and fifteen minutes later they were approaching a commercial district on the edge of the suburbs. Eventually, the vehicle slowed and pulled off the road, heading down a ramp which led to a small underground parking area, a metal shutter door closing behind it.

  When Powers regained consciousness, he found himself strapped lightly into a straight backed chair. The bonds were loose enough that he could have wriggled out of them if necessary, which led him to conclude that they were less to constrain him and more to keep him from toppling onto the floor. The bag, however – one made from some kind of heavy material – was still in place over his head.

  “Are you awake, Mr. Powers?” enquired a voice. It was not one of those he had heard in the van. It was softer, almost polite.

  “Yes,” said Powers. “Where have you brought me?”

  “You are in what I believe is termed a safe location.”

  “Safe for who?”

  “Safe for all concerned.”

  “Is that so?” said Powers. “So would someone like to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I think you already know. We are friends of Dan Brady.”

  “Dan? Where is he? I’ve been trying to contact him.”

  “Alas, Dan is no longer with us.”

  “What do you mean, he’s no longer with us?”

  “He’s not dead, if that is what you were thinking. Although as far as you are concerned, he may as well be. I imagine he’s safe in Combine space right now, enjoying a well earned break and making up for lost time with his wife and family. And there he will remain until he is called upon again.”

  “And Godoy?”

  “Who?”

  “Jan Godoy. I met him at the Equinox.”