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Across Enemy Space

Page 29

by L. J. Simpson


  Momentarily distracted from his purpose, Jacob watched the pair disappear around the corner of the building. He wondered vaguely if Statham Park was intended as a place for the injured to hide away or a place to hide away the injured, at least until they and society were ready to face each other once again. It was a question he couldn’t answer, and on reflection, one that he wished he hadn’t asked of himself. Though ostensibly his enemies, the men and women recovering in this facility had most likely served the Alliance faithfully and well, and in doing so had paid a heavy price. Not the ultimate price, to be sure, but in some ways a penalty even heavier – one that most would have to carry around with them until their dying days.

  The courage of the battlefield was mostly impulsive, instinctive. In the frenzied heat of combat, amidst all the shock and horror, it rose up from within, empowering the ordinary soldier to perform extraordinary deeds – and all without forethought or fear of consequences. In this way heroes were born and their feats became legend. They were the infantryman remaining at his post to fight a hopeless rearguard action, the medic dashing into no man’s land under fire to save a fallen comrade, the solitary grenadier charging the enemy guns…

  They spawned tales of glory, tales to inspire and astound; tales to cause lesser mortals to stand in awe. That such exploits were often fatal to the perpetrator merely added to the appeal. Citations would follow and dead or alive, the hero would find his or her acts of courage recorded in the annals of regimental history.

  The inmates of Statham Park would require a different kind of courage: it would not be impulsive or fleeting. It would be called for on a daily basis until their injuries – both to body and mind – had either been overcome or simply accepted as part of the new order.

  And after giving so much, would they not have earned the opportunity for a second chance at life – a fair chance, an even chance, one given out of recognition and respect rather than compassion and sympathy.

  Sympathy was the last thing Dan Powers had been looking for. He’d had little need for compassion either. Retribution seemed to be the name of the game but appearances could be deceptive, as could everything else about the man, despite what Goss preferred to believe. And that was why Jacob was here; Powers might be the real deal and he might not. Either way, Jacob would keep digging until he hit either pay dirt or rock bottom.

  A generation previously, a flight of exquisitely chiseled stone steps led up to the main entrance of Statham Hall. The centre portion still remained – a testament to the skills of the stonemason perhaps – but the outer sections had been replaced by wheelchair-friendly ramps. Jacob eschewed the stairs and made his way up the left hand ramp to the entrance. As he approached, the doors swished open and Jacob stepped inside to find himself in a large, airy lobby, at the far end of which stood the reception desk.

  “I wonder if you can help me,” said Jacob, approaching the desk.

  “If I can,” said the woman behind the counter.

  “I’m trying to track someone down – an old shipmate. I heard he might still be here.”

  “I can check the register if you like. What’s the name?”

  “To tell the truth I’m not exactly sure. Powers, I think. We only served together for a short time, you see.”

  “First name?”

  “Dan... Daniel, I guess.”

  “I see…. Give me a second and I’ll run a check. Powers… Powers…” She tapped away at the console for a few seconds and then gave her head a shake. “I’m sorry. There’s no-one of that name here at the present time. Do you know when was he admitted?”

  “Two or three months ago, I guess. We were on a freighter called the Maximilian. Ran into a spot of bother and… well, you know…” Jacob lowered his gaze, a pained, almost apologetic expression on his face. It was a look that the receptionist knew well, the look that told her that the man in front of her had likely seen things that he could never forget. Jacob hadn’t, but he’d endured enough personal loss to know how to play the part. “I didn’t know him well, you see. I was just a passenger. Only three of us survived – three out of twenty seven – and I wouldn’t had made it either if Dan hadn’t come back for me. We were on our way to the escape pods when there was an almighty explosion, and that’s the last thing I remember until I woke up on the rescue ship. By that time, Dan had been transferred to a med-evac and I‘ve been trying to catch up with him ever since.”

  “Can’t the fleet help?”

  “No,” said Jacob. “There’s a security blanket over the whole affair. Only to be expected, I suppose. The only thing I have is this...” He took a photograph from his inside pocket. It showed Jacob and Dan Powers sitting together at a table in the mess of the Maximilian. It was a fake, of course, but expertly rendered.

  “Can I see?” asked the receptionist.

  “Sure,” said Jacob, handing over the print.

  “You know, I think I have seen him before. It’s been a while, though. I can check through the releases if you like.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “No, not at all. It’ll only take a minute, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell you where he went from here.”

  “Not to worry,” said Jacob. “It’ll be a start, anyway.”

  “Okaaay…” she said, returning to the console. “That’s funny… the only Powers we have on record was discharged eighteen months ago.”

  “Can’t be him,” said Jacob. “I suppose I might have got the name wrong.”

  “Who you looking for?” asked a passing medical technician.

  “The man in the picture,” said the receptionist, holding up the print. “His old shipmate.”

  “Let’s have a look,” said the tech. “Oh, yeah, I remember him. One of mine, a lower arm amputee. Cybernetic implants didn’t take. He’s off somewhere undergoing gene therapy if I remember correctly.”

  “Do you have a name?”

  “Carter… something like that. No, no… Carver, was it? Yes, that’s it, Carver. He was a major in the marines. A fighter, one of the strong ones, and a complete pain the butt – never stopped grousing the whole time he was here.”

  “Carver?” said Jacob.

  “No mistake,” said the technician. “I remember him well. He couldn’t wait to get through rehab and back into service.”

  “Carver, you say?” the receptionist, tapping at her keyboard. “Got him.” She swiveled the screen for Jacob to see. “Is this your man?”

  “Yes, that’s him,” said Jacob, staring at the image of Dan Powers, resplendent in the uniform of a major of marines. “Not quite sure where I got the name Powers from.”

  “Well, that’s who he was. No idea where he is now, of course, but if it’s of any help, he’ll probably be back here again sometime in the future. If you want to leave a message, we’ll pass it on to him.”

  “If you’re sure it’s no trouble,” said Jacob.

  “None at all,” said the receptionist. Fishing inside a drawer, she pulled out an envelope and paper and passed them over. Jacob quickly wrote a short message, pushed it inside the envelope and sealed the flap.

  “Who shall I say it’s from,” asked the receptionist.

  “Tell him it’s from a friend,” said Jacob, “A friend from the Maximilian. He’ll know.”

  Ten minutes later, Jacob was back in his car and heading along Route 42 towards Tycho City. Engaging automatic mode, he settled back in his seat and gazed at the passing scenery through the side widow. The chimney stacks that had once rendered Statham Park undesirable had long since been replaced by air filtration units and catalytic converters. Removing the noxious gasses, dust and grime from the atmosphere had made the air easier to breathe and restored much of the view into the bargain. The forty minute ride back to the city would now give Jacob time to assess the situation and decide upon his best course of action.

  So, Staff Sergeant Powers – alias Major Carver – had been a plant all along, and deep down, Jacob had known it all along. It was more than sim
ple suspicion; it was an instinct for the truth that had served him well over the years. And now the truth was his, but how much satisfaction he could derive from the revelation remained to be seen.

  The question uppermost in his mind was how much damage Powers might have done to his operation. How much of his cell’s inner workings had he and his Alliance masters been able to discover?

  True to his self made protocols, Jacob had kept Powers at a very safe distance. Neither Jacob nor any of his operatives had revealed their faces. Voices, yes, which meant that they would need stay away from the Blue Goose, Lazy Sue’s and all their other haunts over on the east side, at least for the time being. It was unfortunate, because the east side was as fertile a place as any for gathering information and recruiting assets. But the Alliance counter intelligence apparatus would know that just as well as Jacob. It would hinder the cell’s operations in the short to middle term – something that would be sure to infuriate the ever enthusiastic Goss – but that was beyond the control of either of them.

  And apart from that, what else was there..? In all honesty, little of any real consequence. Jan Godoy had spoken to Powers but with his usual adroitness, he’d distanced himself from any acts of overt treachery. Tom Brady was more implicit but he was safely back in Combine space. The only other thing was the apartment leased to Powers, but that couldn’t be traced back to anyone within the cell.

  Jacob ran things through his mind a final time. Was there anything he’d overlooked? Anything at all that could connect Powers to any of his small group? No, he decided. No there wasn’t. So where did they go from here?

  Eliminate Powers? It would be easy enough; pay some street hood to stake out the Blue Goose, wait for Powers to show up, follow him outside and then take him out. Properly orchestrated, it would appear no more than one of many such incidents over on the east side; most likely a mugging gone wrong or an argument over a wager. The police would make their enquiries but with little evidence and no witnesses, the incident would soon be shelved. And that would be that. Except that Brigadier Faulkner would know. He’d be behind it all and he would know, or at least suspect the real reason for Powers’ demise, and that could have unforeseen consequences.

  No, better to simply break contact and leave Powers hanging than infuriate his adversaries and stir them into a vengeful frenzy. It was enough that Jacob had discovered the ploy. Eventually, Faulkner would realize it too and then he and Jacob would move their pieces around the board once more and the game would begin afresh, but without Powers, of course, whose usefulness as a counter intelligence agent on Tycho would now be at an end. Well, the man was still a marine – he could just return to doing whatever it was that marines did best.

  There was, of course, another vital point to consider. What of the intelligence that Powers had delivered to date? Much of it would be chicken feed, of course – low level data which, true or false, would not affect the Combine’s prosecution of the war. But interspersed amongst the trivial had been the occasional snippet of high value intelligence. Given Powers’ status as a double, some of this would no doubt have been genuine, given simply to prove Powers’ reliability and worth. As for the rest, it would have been disinformation, which was of course Powers’ whole reason for being – to transmit false data designed to mislead, confuse and confound. The Alliance would have maintained a careful balance between the two, but how to tell one from the other? Jacob had no way of knowing – it was a call that his masters in Tarsus Centre would have to make. All Jacob knew was that those same masters had been so delighted with the intelligence Powers had provided that they’d granted him an Alpha 3 rating. It was true that he’d supplied information that had since been verified by other sources, and even given the location of a whole bank warp disrupters previously unknown to Combine intelligence. But high value intel or no, an Alpha 3 rating was not something Jacob would have granted so readily.

  And what of the most recent of Powers’ revelations, the proposed route of an Alliance courier through Combine space? Why plant that idea in the head of their enemies? As far as he was aware, the Alliance was still unable to communicate directly with the NT. Perhaps a courier was the only way, and if true, what would be the cargo? Technology? A negotiator, perhaps? Something important, definitely. And if it was that important, the Combine would no doubt be expecting such an incursion. Perhaps it was an attempt to draw Combine patrols away from the real route. But how likely was that? Despite the miracle of warp travel, Combine space was still immense. There were literally thousands of possible pathways through to the other side. Why draw attention to just one, and in any case, why advertise the existence of a courier at all? What could the Alliance possibly have to gain?

  Unless, of course… it was their intention all along that the courier be intercepted…

  Chapter 27: Relieved of Duty

  Redmayne sat back in his armchair and rubbed his eyes. He’d been feeling under the weather all day long; nothing he could put his finger on – he just felt completely out of sorts, not quite… with it.

  In the days since coming home from hospital, Ellen had looked after his every need like the loving, caring wife she’d always been. She’d spoiled him, really, allowing him to relax with his feet up while she got on with running the household. The only time she’d taxed him was late at night when the lights were turned off. The exertions had been worthwhile and he allowed himself the notion that Ellen thought so too. The previous night he’d drifted off to sleep wondering if their labors might bear fruit in the coming months, perhaps culminating in the patter of tiny feet, the sound of the next generation of Redmaynes echoing through their home.

  Then he’d woken up this morning feeling uneasy, almost confused. He sat up with a start, as if waking from an unpleasant dream. It took him a few minutes to gather his senses, after which he spent half an hour just gazing out over the woods visible from their bedroom window. Ellen had coaxed him back to bed but sleep hadn’t come and he tossed and turned fitfully. Later that morning, Ellen telephoned Dr. Sanders who assured them that it was just another part of the healing process – disconcerting but nothing more.

  Redmayne got to his feet and gazed at the picture above the mantelpiece in his living room. A pair of shire horses was pulling a hay cart along a farm track, a farmer with pitchfork slung over one shoulder leading the horse by the halter. In the background was a thatched cottage, a mill pond with a family of ducks lying close by. It was a typical period print, pleasing to the eye and in keeping with the tone of the room. But to Redmayne it seemed somehow odd, out of place. He had a foggy recollection of another picture in another room… a room with a leather sofa, a high wing backed chair and a window overlooking a city street. He was still fumbling for the image when his wife breezed into the room bearing a tray with two cups.

  “Coffee,” she said, handing one cup over. “Oh, by the way, I bumped into Barney this morning. He said he might call round after work tonight. Is that OK?”

  “Sure,” said Redmayne, sitting back down in the armchair and sipping his drink. “No problem.”

  “He said everyone at the office is has been asking about you. They all send their best wishes and they’re looking forward to seeing you again. And someone called Melissa is getting married.”

  “Melissa?” said Redmayne. He was swaying slightly on the chair.

  “Melissa Gray, I think he said. She’s marrying a guy from City Hall. She’s–”

  She stopped as Redmayne’s head started to droop. As it did so, she reached over to take the cup from his hand before it fell to the floor. She watched him struggle for a moment before he slumped back into the chair. Lifting one of Redmayne’s eyelids, she saw the eyeball roll back in its socket. Satisfied, she pulled out her communicator.

  “He’s out,” she said.

  “Roger. We’re on our way.”

  Lieutenant Donavon switched off the device and began to make mental notes for her final report. She and Lt. Childs had already passed on the bulk of what
they had learned from the Alliance major; some of it trivial, some of it very revealing. She hoped it would be enough. Ideally, they would have spent more time with the subject – there was undoubtedly more that she and Childs could have coaxed out of him, but from the beginning they’d known that they were working within a very specific time frame. Apart from the operational considerations – which were paramount – the major’s implanted memory engrams would soon begin to degrade, after which his information would gradually become more and more unreliable.

  She sat in the opposite chair and studied Redmayne as he slept. From the start, she’d known that he was just another job, one more mission with parameters and objectives decided for her by her superiors. As a proud and loyal officer, she had, as always, carried out her mission to the very best of her ability. But as professional as she was, it was difficult to dismiss the very real and very personal connection that she and Redmayne had made in their short time together. Since their first meeting, he’d been kind and appreciative of her care, and as he’d grown into his new surroundings, he’d proved to be an interesting, intriguing, and fun person to be around. Even Lt. Childs agreed on that. Then at the end of the day when the lights had been turned out, Redmayne had shown himself to be an energetic but tender lover, anxious both to please and to satisfy. One thing was for sure – not all men were made that way, whatever side of the border they came from.

  Then the doorbell rang and brought her out of her reverie. On the way to the hallway she paused by Redmayne’s side and brushed his cheek with her fingers.

  It was a pity that he was the enemy.

  * * *

  The drive from Statham Park took in excess of two hours rather than the expected forty minutes. Half way back to Tycho City, traffic had gradually slowed and then come to a complete halt, the six southbound lanes all blocked with stationary vehicles, each separated by the regulation two meter spacing front, back, left and right. Like generations of drivers before him, all Jacob could do was curse his luck, sit back and wait for the congestion to clear, meanwhile wondering what might have caused the hold up to begin with. It was unlikely to have been a collision, for such incidents had been largely eliminated, consigned to the history books by ever more efficient artificial intelligences. Unfortunately, those same intelligences had been unable to prevent a multi-wheeler shedding its load of machine parts over the whole six lanes of Route 42 South. The AIs in every following vehicle had deemed the highway impassable brought their charges to a safe and timely halt.

 

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